#this will NOT be the last time he talks about violently tonguing things such as Reese's cups.

[alchemistc]

Robbie slaps a glossy looking flyer on the table. Palm down, eyes narrowed, pretending like hell the slap of her hand against the wood grain didn't sting as she squares up, all four-feet-three-inches of her, like she's preparing for battle.

Tommy's slumped in his chair and still half a head taller than her.

He doesn't quite cower, at her glare, but at thirteen she's just about ready to explode at any given moment.

They don't talk about the time he sat on the floor with the bathroom door at his back and read the instructions for inserting a tampon in the calm, cool tones of a man so far out of his depth he might as well have turned into pressurized meat juice mist while Robbie had a panic attack just inside.

They don't talk about the massive argument they'd had in the middle of TJ's the first time Robbie back talked Evan with all the angst of a girl about to experience the pimpliest, testosterone fueled ragiest few years of her life. (Evan had gotten a kick out of it and Tommy had spent a week listening to his deep dives into the Beauty Of Puberty with the skepticism of an only child who never shared a bathroom).

Robbie rolls her jaw. Grabs the flyer and shakes it in Tommy's face. It's a riot of color, and Tommy has to squint to make out the words. Fuck, he does need those reading glasses.

"Why is the paper making you look homicidal?"

"We never go to Pride, dad!"

Ah.

Well.

That.

Tommy slumps further in his seat, which puts Robbie at eye level, and boy howdy is she gonna make his life a living hell until the hormones settle in...a decade or so. The glare is all Evan, emotions unchecked and just out there for the world to see. He's so fucking grateful neither of his kids took to his 'repress until you pancake yourself' way of handling a single emotion.

Tommy never bought into the rainbow crap, couldn't ever push himself into participating in a world he'd denied himself so long. Nothing against it, himself, just - a line he kept somewhere off behind and to the left where he couldn't look it in the eye.

And Evan...

Well. Being an 'ally' switched to throwing up the Bi Flag in his Instagram profile and he never really shifted any further than that.

"Are you trying to tell me something?" Tommy asks, because last week she'd spent an hour in the yard yanking weeds with the ferociousness of a terrier with a nest of rats over some kid in her class named Michael and to this point hasn't shown that her interests stray farther than that. Fuck. Has he missed something?

"Uh, yeah, that my gay dads are quiet homophobes who won't take their kids to a fuckin' parade."

Oh well that's a lot of different things to put in check, right there.

It's his own damn fault for laughing hysterically every time their toddler dropped an F bomb.

It's his own damn fault for blowing off the drag queens with petitions outside the library a month ago.

"Your father is a Kinsey two-and-a-half on a good day, and don't say fuck."

"Internalized homophobia is still homophobia, dad." She rolls her tongue over her teeth. Sends him a challenging look. "Fuck." She pronounces it like it has seven syllables.

"If you're gonna challenge me you better be able to use it in a sentence properly."

"I want to fucking go to fucking Pride with my fucked up not straight dads but they're both fucking repressed fucking losers."

"You kiss your mother with that mouth?" Tommy jokes, and the flyer crumples in his daughters fist. And - yep, there's the shriek.

Evan's gonna be pissed that he isn't curbing the language a little more.

Which he absolutely will do. Later. Once Robbie isn't a good leap away from the knife block.

His kids aren't violent people, by nature. Robbie has a mean left hook and an eye for taking people out at the ankles he encouraged far too much before she hit ten. Danny cradles spiders in the cup of his hands on the way out the door while giving Tommy a wide-eyed and judgemental berth.

Robbie crumples up the flyer a little more. Stares at him like she's wishing there was enough weight to it to cause damage to his thick fucking skull if she were to throw it.

She blinks, and those are - yep, those are tears.

"Sweetheart," Tommy starts, and Robbie launches herself forward, embraces Tommy just in time for some sobs to really kick in, nonsensical phrases leaking out of her as she cries, and cries, and cries.

He's good at this part. The part where they can't see his face, where he can cradle them to him and rub their back and murmur nonsense back while they do a better job feeling, and then regulating their emotions than he had until his late thirties.

"Ms. Frankie said she'd take me but I don't wanna go with Ms. Frankie," he gets, as another wave breaks, and he has to shift his weight against the onslaught of two sharp ass knees heading straight for his belly. "Ms. Frankie has a crush on Dad and I hate her."

Ms. Frankie absolutely has the hots for Evan. Ms. Frankie's son is a bully who thinks he's better than everyone else by virtue of accepting and picking on everyone equal-opportunity style.

Ms. Frankie is definitely not taking his kid to her first Pride.

Shit.

God damnit.

The tears dry up, eventually.

Tommy tries not to think about the fact that he's not gonna be allowed to comfort his pre-teen like this for much longer. Tries not to think about the fact that she's gonna stop asking for it, soon enough, and he'll have to make do with words from the other side of a slammed door.

"I'm not wearing rainbow anything," he says, like he's surrendering a crucial air base, and Robbie leans back with narrowed eyes.

"I have that face paint Jee gave me for Christmas."

"You get one cheek to work with," he negotiates, even though he's well aware he's gonna leave the house with more color than he's worn in twenty-five years.

"Dad let me do his whole face for New Years," she wheedles.

"Dad has better coloring than I do. Those jewel tones make his eyes pop. And Dad doesn't have to know how many times you dropped an F-bomb on me ten minutes ago."

He's fucking up his kids. Teaching an almost teenager how to properly blackmail someone is just one of many ways he's doing it while he digs his own grave.

At least they're not fucking scared of him.

"Two cheeks, and we post a picture on Dad's Insta because Ms. Frankie stalks him there and she'll be so jealous."

"You're diabolical," Tommy tells her, and her wet, snotty, lopsided grin makes something in his heart swoop. She's all Evan, and he loves her so fucking much he stopped trying to figure out where to put it the first time she latched a tiny little hand around his pointer finger and burst into the exhausted tears of something new to this world. "If you ever teach Danny how to manipulate someone like this I'm gonna start reporting you for war crimes."

"Danny's too nice, it would hurt his feelings to even think about it."

Yeah. Not sure where the fuck he got that from.

"You watch out for him, don't you?"

He's aware there's a dynamic at play here that he shouldn't overly encourage. Doesn't want her feeling like she's gotta parent her younger brother, it's just -

"He doesn't need it. Sometimes when he says nice things to people I think he destroys their whole world for a few days."

Tommy takes her out for ice cream and broaches the subject of the parade before Evan realizes Tommy's spoiled her dinner.

Danny's eyes go bright and gleaming and he sends a look at his sister that Tommy is absolutely certain he should be worried about, because they've clearly been plotting and scheming for days.

When June sixth rolls around Danny wakes up early, pounces on the bed, and hands Tommy the ugliest fucking shirt Tommy's ever seen, bright and lurid and awful, and Robbie doesn't even have the decency to hide her smug look when she stumbles blearily into the kitchen, following the smell of scrambled eggs Tommy spends an extra ten minutes dyeing with the organic shit Evan brought home last week.

[habitual-creatures]

HABIT….

Never change okay? Haha

WHAT? I CAN VIOLENTLY TONGUE A REESE'S CUP IF I WANT TO...

AND YOU DON'T EVEN HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT ME CHANGIN'... YOU'RE STUCK WITH ME FOREVER.

[ REGARDS, HABIT ]

[deathbxnny]

Arcane characters when someone flirts with you. | Viktor, Jayce, Vi, Caitlyn, Jinx, Sevika x Gn!Reader

I am the brain rot. The brain rot is me.✨️

Content: pre season 2 Viktor/Jayce!, Jealousy, pitfighter Vi, established romantic relationships, angst, threats of violence/death threats, sfw

Reader has no set pronouns.

((Not proofread))

》VIKTOR

He always struggled with self-esteem issues, mainly due to his sickness and disability that made it difficult for him to do much. A part of him forever will believe that you could easily do better than him, yet that doesn't stop him from getting terribly jealous anytime someone gets too friendly with you. Especially when they can see him standing next to you clearly being your partner as well.

But despite his insecurities, he doesn't allow anyone to harass you either on his watch. He lets you defend yourself for the most part until he has enough and lets his more sassy side handle the flirtatious person for you. He may not be able to do anything in a physical way, something he very much would rather avoid. But his tongue is sharp, and it takes little to make them quickly scurry away with a nervous apology for the disturbance.

He'll never admit to being jealous, however, and denies any teasing accusations you send his way. But he'll secretly ask for reassurance as he starts feeling embarrassed over his insecurities rather quickly after. A couple of hugs and kisses from your side will fix that right up, though.

》JAYCE

He has a reputation to keep up. And so, technically, he should always handle things professionally no matter what. People are watching him after all, and his public image can not be tarnished under any circumstance... or so he says. Things change in his mind when they are about you. In general, people know who you are and who you belong to since he rarely shuts up about it.

But every now and then, someone who is somehow unfamiliar with this concept will come up to you and attempt to woo you right in front of his very eyes. Now, Jayce tries to let you handle yourself, but doesn't hesitate to step in either if the person doesn't get the hint. His rather intimidating frame and position as a councilor help him out Immensely with this. He chases them away with a tight smile and a kiss to your head, as he casually asks how he can oh so graciously help them.

Once they leave, he'll pretend not to hear you, of you teasingly asking him if he was jealous. Him? Jealous? Hah! Impossible... okay, maybe a little. But don't tell anyone that.

》VI

As a pitfighter, Vi doesn't hesitate to get violent with anyone who comes close to the only good thing she has left in her life, which happens to be you. She's extremely protective and makes sure everyone gets the hint regarding who you belong to. But alas, there are always the couple strays that refuse to comprehend that fact and therefore attempt to "steal" you away from her. Something that never ends well for anyone.

Her temper is shorter than it used to be, and that becomes quite clear when she's quick to loom over the person that was pestering you. She knows that you can handle yourself just fine, too. But that doesn't stop her from grabbing their shoulder and asking them if she can help them out instead. Or maybe they want to talk it out in the pit? All the same to her, but the message is clear. She'll win if it comes to you every time, and that's enough to make the person scurry away in terror.

You'll definitely have to calm her down and reassure that you had everything handled. She's just looking out for you, though, and doesn't want you to get hurt, too, like everyone else in her life. The last thing she wants is to mess up again, so her overprotective tendencies will probably never lessen. Not that you kind anyways.

》CAITLYN

Your role as her partner is crystal clear to absolutely everyone in Piltover, especially after she takes over the troops as their new ruler. She's much more cutthroat and cold than she used to be before her mothers death, which made her extremely overprotective of you and your safety. She may even be suffocating at times with her security measures, but she finds it absolutely necessary. This also means, however, that those who try becoming a bit too friendly with you are always at risk of facing her wrath.

She doesn't hold back with her dismay and is quick to stand before you with a dark, stern glare directed at whoever was flirting with you beforehand. Caitlyn doesn't care if you can take care of yourself or not either. She'll take full advantage of her new position and power too, not hesitating to give the person that was pestering you a professionally worded threat that leaves them as pale as a ghost.

Admittedly, it's hard to tell if she's jealous or just worried in her own way. Before her mother's death, it may very well just be her being a bit jealous... but with her current position, she may also just be afraid to lose you too deep down. And she couldn't handle that.

》JINX

After Silco's death, Jinx's temper is milder than before due to her deteriorating mental health (if there was anything left of it to begin with). She's a lot calmer when handling situations and seeming more calculated than before, but that certainly doesn't quell the extreme abandonment issues in her at any rate. If anything, they've become much worse than before. This means that she'll cling to you and snap at anyone who nears you. No one is allowed to steal your attention away from her. No one can take you away from her. She just won't allow it when you're all she has left.

And so, she won't hesitate to use her gun on anyone who is pestering you. A death threat or two usually gets the point across anyway. Jinx will also let you handle yourself first, however though, knowing you can easily do that. But if things do get out of hand, she will step right to scare them away at best. She'd never kill anyone infront of you after all. She doesn't want to scare you away.

You'll have to reassure her of your loyalty a lot afterward, however, as her insecurities and issues can make her spiral fairly easily. Giving her a lot of attention and love makes everything go away, though, luckily.

》SEVIKA

She's very secure in your relationship and trusts you perfectly fine, which is why she rarely ever gets jealous. Why should she, anyway, when you'll always come back to her at the end of the day? Besides, people in the lanes know who you are and who you belong to, and most importantly, what will happen to their faces once she bashes them in if they ever harass you too much.

With that said, though, she typically lets you do your own thing and chase the person away yourself first before bothering to step in. If things get out of hand, then she'll suddenly be right behind you and tower over whoever it is that's not getting the hint. Blowing smoke right into their faces, she'll ask them if they have a problem, and if yes, then they should take it up with her outside. Although everyone knows she's the only one back afterwards. This usually does the trick.

Don't expect her to ever say that she is jealous, though, and hopes you know better, too. She knows you're loyal, as she certainly is for life and therefore doesn't worry about a thing regarding the strength of your relationship.

No one is better than her anyway.

[edenarchives]

♯┆𝐒𝐏𝐎𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝟐 .ᐟ — 𝐍𝐀𝐍𝐀𝐌𝐈 𝐊𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐎

𝐒𝐔𝐌𝐌𝐀𝐑𝐘: You tried to move on. Tried to pretend it didn’t happen. But then he walked back into the classroom like nothing changed. Now there’s a new guy in your seat, your professor won’t look at you, and someone way too powerful is watching it all unfold. You thought things were bad before—turns out, they’re just getting started.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒: professor x student, age gap, power imbalance, jealousy, possessive behavior, rough sex, public/semi-public sex, blackmail, manipulation, toxic dynamics, dirty talk, regret, and a whole lot of bad decisions.

𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐃𝐂𝐎𝐔𝐍𝐓: 𝟖𝐤

PART 3

You don’t move. Don’t breathe. You’re frozen in place, heart pounding so violently it echoes in your ears. The classroom hums around you—shuffling papers, murmured whispers, chairs creaking against the floor—but it’s all underwater. Distant. Meaningless.

Because Nanami Kento is standing at the front of the room. In a suit. With a laptop. And a lecture.

And you’re sitting in his class.

You watch him, eyes locked on his every move like he might suddenly vanish. Like this could all still be some sick dream. But no—he’s there. Very real. Very calm. Clicking through a PowerPoint on literary ethics while your stomach churns with dread.

He doesn’t look at you again.

Not once.

Not when he walks back and forth during his lecture. Not when he pauses to take questions. Not when he says the word integrity and your face nearly catches fire. He’s good. Too good. So composed, so detached, like the weekend didn’t happen. Like he didn’t have his tongue inside you. Like he didn’t whisper your name over and over while his cum dripped out of you onto hotel sheets.

You try not to fidget, but your hands shake every time you shift in your seat.

Your friends don’t notice—not really. Nobara’s too busy texting under the desk and Maki’s halfway asleep, chin resting in her palm. They don’t know. They still think it was a joke. That you made the profile on a dare and laughed about it later. They don’t know that you met someone. That it wasn’t just a laugh—that it became something else. That it became him.

And now it’s this.

The moment class ends, you bolt. You don’t say goodbye. You don’t wait for the girls. You grab your bag with trembling fingers and push out the door like the building’s on fire, like the oxygen in the room was running out and the only way to survive is to move.

But you don’t make it far.

“Y/N,” he says, not quite looking at you. “Stay behind, please.”

It’s not a question. His voice is calm—too calm—but his eyes don’t meet yours. And that alone makes your chest ache.

Nobara throws you a teasing glance as she gathers her things. “Oooo, someone’s in trouble.”

You force a smile. “Probably forgot to submit something.”

She shrugs and heads out, Maki trailing behind her. The rest of the students follow, murmuring and rustling, chairs scraping back against the floor. You sit still, fingers tight around your pen until you’re the only one left. Until the door shuts quietly behind the last student.

Only then does he look at you.

His expression doesn’t match his suit. It’s not polished, or smooth, or put together. It’s wrecked in that perfectly quiet Nanami way—just a shift of his jaw, just the flicker of something wild behind his glasses.

You stand slowly, your heart thudding so hard you feel it in your fingertips. Neither of you says anything at first.

And then, finally—

“I didn’t know,” he says. Low. Strained. “I swear to you, I didn’t know.”

“I didn’t either,” you say quietly. “Not until you walked in.”

He lets out a breath—short, shaky. Runs a hand through his hair and looks away, jaw flexing like he’s holding something in. You’ve never seen him look uncertain before. But now he does. Like he’s fighting with himself. Like he hasn’t stopped fighting since the moment he saw you sitting in that chair.

“I should have checked the student list,” he mutters. “I should have made sure you weren’t a student.”

Your stomach flips.

His eyes close for a moment. “It wasn’t just sex to me.”

“No,” you whisper. “It wasn’t to me either.”

And that’s the worst part.

You don’t regret it. Not even a little. You’d go back to that hotel again in a heartbeat if you could. You’d let him ruin you all over again. But now?

Now he’s your professor.

And you’re just another student sitting in his lecture hall, pretending you haven’t already memorized the way he sounds when he’s close to coming.

He scrubs a hand over his face, stepping back. “We can’t.”

“I know.”

“If anyone found out—”

“I know, Nanami.”

Your voice cracks, and it’s enough to make him stop. He watches you carefully, like he wants to reach out and hold your hand but knows better.

The silence between you stretches thin. Heavy. Full of everything you’re both trying to bury.

Then finally, you nod.

“I’ll stay out of your way,” you say. “We’ll pretend it never happened.”

And even though it hurts, even though it feels like someone’s cutting you open from the inside out—you turn around and walk out the door.

And he lets you.

The next few days pass in a blur.

You go to class. You do your readings. You turn in your assignments. You smile when your friends tease you about nothing. You sit through Nanami’s lectures and pretend like your skin doesn’t burn under the weight of his silence.

He doesn’t call on you. Doesn’t look at you. Doesn’t even say your name again.

And maybe it’s what you agreed to. Maybe it’s safer this way.

But it fucking hurts.

Your appetite is gone. Your phone stays quiet. The rush of opening that app, the thrill of his messages—Good girl, Take your panties off, I’m thinking about you—they’re just… gone. You try not to think about it. You try not to remember the weight of his hands, the way he kissed you after, slow and sweet like he didn’t want to leave.

You just keep going. Numb. Hollow.

Until Thursday.

“Sorry I’m late.”

The voice cuts in from the back of the classroom, smooth and casual, like the guy speaking couldn’t be less concerned about the fact that class started ten minutes ago. The heads of half the room turn toward him, but you barely glance up at first—still stuck in your own head, floating somewhere between exhaustion and regret. That dull ache in your chest hasn’t eased up since Monday, and honestly, you didn’t think anything could drag you out of it.

Until you do look up.

He’s tall. Lean. A little cocky in the way he walks, but not obnoxiously so. Just relaxed. Loose-limbed. His hoodie is black and a little oversized, the sleeves pushed up, his dark hair falling over his forehead in messy layers. The lanyard clipped to his jeans confirms it—new student. Transfer.

He doesn’t seem rushed. Doesn’t even look slightly embarrassed for barging in late. Just strolls to the front like he belongs here and hands a slip of paper to Nanami.

“Transfer student,” he says, tone bored, like he’s already over it.

Nanami takes the paper from him without looking up. His voice, normally calm and smooth as ever, is clipped around the edges. “Sit wherever you’d like.”

The new guy turns without a word, eyes scanning the room. You expect him to aim for the back, maybe the empty cluster near the window. Somewhere out of the way.

But no.

He walks straight down the middle aisle. And sits next to you.

Drops his bag at his feet, pulls his hoodie sleeve up slightly, and leans over without hesitation.

“Hey,” he says. His voice is low. Deep enough that you feel it before you fully register the sound. “I’m Megumi.”

You blink. He’s close. Closer than you were expecting, and somehow already fully settled in like this is just another normal day in his very chill, probably way-too-cool life.

“Y/N,” you reply, unsure if you’re annoyed or intrigued.

“Cute name,” he murmurs, his eyes flicking down—just briefly—to your mouth. Then back up. “You always sit front and center?”

You nod, giving a shrug that’s meant to come off indifferent, but the corner of your mouth betrays you with the tiniest twitch of a smirk. “Only when I’m trying to impress the professor.”

That makes him laugh—low and amused, the sound warm and lazy like he doesn’t take anything too seriously. “Guess I have to try harder.”

You snort quietly, and you hate the way it feels… nice. Talking. Laughing. Having someone pay attention to you without a storm of guilt and restraint hanging over every glance. Megumi’s nothing like Nanami. There’s no weight to this. No baggage. Just a cute boy with sharp eyes and a smart mouth and absolutely no idea what kind of mess you’re crawling out of.

And yet—

From the front of the room, you feel it.

The shift in air. The burn on the back of your neck.

You glance up and catch him.

Nanami is watching you.

Just for a second. But it’s enough.

His hand stills mid-slide across his laptop trackpad. His eyes flick between you and Megumi—sharp, cold, unreadable behind his glasses—and something inside you jolts. It’s not anger in his face. It’s not disapproval, exactly. It’s something quieter. More dangerous.

Jealousy.

And that? That makes your stomach flip.

Because he doesn’t get to look at you like that. Not after he told you it couldn’t happen again. Not after he let you walk out of his office without fighting for a single thing.

But still—he’s watching.

Watching the way Megumi leans close again. The way his shoulder brushes yours. The way he whispers something under his breath that makes you smile without meaning to. And you know it’s petty, but god, it feels good to be seen. To be looked at like you’re still there, not just some shameful secret he’s trying to forget.

“So,” Megumi says, “tell me something.”

You arch a brow, glancing sideways. “Like what?”

He grins. “Something that’ll convince me this class was worth showing up for.”

You hum, pretending to think. “We read a really depressing short story last week. Everyone dies.”

He fake-winces. “Hot.”

You snort again, stifling a laugh behind your hand.

Nanami clears his throat.

Loudly.

Megumi looks up, and you do too.

Nanami’s back to the lecture. But his knuckles are white where they grip the edge of the podium, and when he moves the next slide forward, it’s with a little more force than necessary.

You feel your smile widen.

Not because you’re trying to make him jealous.

But because you already have.

The next day, Megumi drops into the seat beside you like he’s been sitting there all semester.

No hesitation. No asking. No room for you to stop him even if you wanted to—which, honestly, you don’t.

“Morning,” he says, leaning back in his chair, stretching until the hem of his hoodie rides up just enough to flash a sliver of toned stomach.

You glance over, trying not to make it obvious. “You’re late again.”

“Fashionably,” he says with a grin, propping his ankle up on one knee. “I get bored easily.”

“Already?” you tease. “You’ve been in this class, like, twelve minutes total.”

He shrugs. “I like the view.”

It takes a second to hit you.

When it does, you roll your eyes and look away—too late to stop the smile from creeping onto your face.

Megumi laughs softly under his breath. “There it is.”

“There what?”

“That smile,” he says. “You were kinda dead in the eyes the other day. I was starting to worry.”

You blink. That actually catches you off guard.

You weren’t trying to be obvious. You thought you were doing a good job playing it cool—sitting through lectures, nodding in the right places, texting your friends like you didn’t spend the last week spiraling. But Megumi’s eyes are sharper than you gave him credit for.

You glance up at the front of the room, where Nanami is pulling up the day’s slide deck. His suit is perfect, as always. Tie neatly in place. Expression calm. Detached. The perfect professor. But his gaze—when it lifts from the screen and slides across the room—lingers on you for just a moment too long.

You look away before he can catch you staring.

Megumi taps your shoe under the desk with his own, pulling your attention back.

“So what’s the deal?” he asks. “You dating anyone?”

You snort. “That’s blunt.”

“I don’t like wasting time.”

Your heart kicks a little harder. You glance over at him—he’s watching you now, leaning forward just slightly, elbow on the desk, chin in his hand like he’s trying to decide what kind of game this is.

You don’t answer right away.

You don’t have to.

Because from the corner of your eye, you feel the shift at the front of the room again. Not big. Barely noticeable to anyone else. But Nanami’s hand clenches just slightly where it rests against the edge of the podium. His lips press tighter. His eyes drop to the screen like he’s reading something—except he’s not flipping to the next slide.

Megumi’s voice drops lower. “I’m just saying. If you’re not taken, I might have to shoot my shot.”

You raise a brow. “And what would that look like?”

He grins. “Wouldn’t be subtle.”

You open your mouth to fire back—but Nanami cuts in from the front, sharp and sudden.

“Eyes on the presentation, please.”

It’s not harsh. But it’s enough to turn a few heads.

Enough to make Megumi lean back with a smirk and raise both hands in mock surrender.

“Relax, professor,” he says under his breath. “Just getting to know the locals.”

You nearly choke trying not to laugh.

Nanami doesn’t respond.

Doesn’t even look at you again for the rest of the class.

But his hand doesn’t stop gripping the podium.

And you swear the vein in his temple looks just a little more visible than it did at the start of the hour.

By the end of the week, it’s routine.

Megumi slides into the seat beside you before the second hand hits the top of the hour. Always late, always casual, always with some smug little quip as he leans back in his chair like he owns it. Like this isn’t a lecture hall filled with thirty other people. Like he doesn’t give a single fuck about the way Nanami glares at him every time he interrupts class with a whisper aimed at you.

And you? You play right into it.

Because what else are you supposed to do? Sit there and stare at your notebook while the man who kissed your thighs and called you his good girl acts like you’re invisible?

You’re done pretending it didn’t matter.

You’re done pretending you don’t still feel it in your chest every time Nanami glances your way and immediately looks past you like you’re nothing but another face in the room.

So you smile at Megumi. You lean in when he whispers things under his breath. You let your thigh brush his under the desk and you don’t pull away when it lingers.

And every time you do, you feel it.

The weight of Nanami’s stare.

Heavy. Silent. Controlled. Until it isn’t.

“—so if we consider Kant’s theory of moral duty—”

Nanami’s voice cuts through the air, crisp and focused as always. He’s standing near the front row today, arms folded, pointer clicking slowly through slides like he’s not one second away from cracking that damn clicker in half.

But you’re barely listening.

Megumi’s fingers brush against your hand on the desk. A slow slide of knuckles, testing. Teasing. His knee bumps yours again. He doesn’t even look at you when he does it—just keeps pretending to take notes while your skin lights up like a live wire.

You don’t stop him.

Nanami definitely notices.

You glance up.

His eyes are on you, mid-sentence. Locked in.

And something in his gaze shifts.

It’s subtle—just the barest flicker in his expression—but it’s there. His jaw tightens. His hand drops to his side. He clicks to the next slide without looking.

You stare back, mouth dry.

You want him to do something.

Say something.

Claim you.

But he doesn’t.

He just keeps teaching.

After class, Megumi lingers.

He leans against the edge of your desk like it’s his, elbow propped casually, body half-turned toward you as you zip your bag with shaky fingers. He’s close again—always too close—but today there’s a different energy clinging to him. Sharper. A little darker around the edges. Like he’s been holding something back, and he’s finally getting bored of waiting.

“You wanna get coffee or something?” he asks, voice low, a little rougher than usual.

You blink up at him. “Now?”

He shrugs. “Or later. Or whenever you’re done pretending to be shy.”

You scoff, biting back a grin, trying to play it off, but your pulse kicks up anyway. You glance at the front of the classroom, where Nanami is very deliberately not looking at either of you. He’s organizing papers that don’t need organizing, jaw tight behind his perfectly blank expression.

You lean a little closer to Megumi. Just enough.

“You’re real confident for someone who hasn’t even asked me out properly.”

Megumi’s eyes flick down to your lips—just for a second. Then he hums, amused.

“I’m kind of over all this under-the-desk touching,” he says, and the words are soft, just for you, heat curling through every syllable. “Maybe I should drag you into the janitor’s closet next time. Real quick. Just like we’re back in high school.”

Your breath catches.

You laugh—quiet and sharp and a little shocked. But the worst part? The part that makes your stomach twist?

You don’t hate the idea.

You don’t hate it at all.

From the front of the room, there’s a loud snap.

The sound echoes like a gunshot in the quiet classroom.

You and Megumi both glance up.

Nanami is standing behind the podium, arm frozen mid-motion, a broken pen clutched tight in his fist. Ink is leaking between his fingers, staining his palm, dripping in thin lines onto the wood below.

His eyes are locked on Megumi.

His voice doesn’t come. Not right away.

Just that silence.

Tense. Dangerous.

Then—calm as ever, but brittle around the edges—he says, “Class is over.”

Nothing else.

No acknowledgment. No glance in your direction.

Just those three words, delivered like a warning.

Megumi straightens, stretching slightly, like the tension doesn’t touch him at all.

“I’ll see you next class,” he says to you, voice light again. Like he didn’t just say something filthy five seconds ago.

You give him a small nod. Lips twitching.

And when he walks out—Nanami still doesn’t look at you.

But he doesn’t move either.

He just stands there, jaw clenched, hand still dripping blue ink onto the podium, eyes burning a hole into the door Megumi just walked through.

And for the first time all week—

you wonder how close he is to snapping.

You don’t do anything wrong the next day.

You wear a skirt. Not on purpose. Not for attention. Just because it’s hot out and it’s clean and you didn’t have the energy to overthink it. But the second you step into the lecture hall, you feel it—his eyes on you like gravity, heavy and sharp, dragging across the bare skin of your thighs with practiced precision.

Nanami doesn’t say anything. Doesn’t flinch. Just glances once and looks away like it didn’t shake him.

But it did.

You know it did.

And Megumi doesn’t help.

He’s already in your seat before you get there, backpack slung low, one arm tossed over the back of your chair like he’s saving it for you. Like it’s his. His leg is already stretched out under the desk, his knee knocking into the empty space where yours will be.

“New look,” he says as you sit. “I like it.”

You glance at him. “It’s just a skirt.”

“Uh-huh,” he says, his eyes dragging a little too slowly up your legs. “Still like it.”

You roll your eyes, but your mouth betrays you with the smallest smile.

He grins. Leans in like he’s sharing a secret. “Tell me the truth… you wear this for me?”

You scoff under your breath. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“Yeah, but I’m not wrong,” he murmurs, tapping his foot against yours beneath the desk. “You know, I still haven’t forgotten what I said yesterday.”

You freeze for a half second.

“About what?” you ask, already knowing.

“The janitor’s closet,” he says casually. “Bet you’d sound real pretty pressed up against a mop sink.”

You nearly choke.

Your head jerks up, eyes wide—but before you can say a damn thing, Nanami slams a book down on the front desk.

Hard.

Everyone in the room flinches.

The conversation dies instantly.

And when you look up—

He’s already looking at you.

Not Megumi.

You.

And it’s not blank anymore.

It’s not distant.

It’s heat. Fury. Possession, thinly veiled behind a professional mask that’s already slipping off its hinges.

“Y/N,” he says, sharp. Cold. “Stay after class.”

Your whole body goes still.

Megumi raises a brow, leaning back in his chair, completely unfazed. “She in trouble?”

Nanami doesn’t answer him.

He just turns back to the board and starts the lecture like nothing happened, but his tone is off. His words clipped, his movements tight. He doesn’t pace like usual. He doesn’t ask questions. He just talks, flat and fast and pissed, like he needs to get through the material before something inside him snaps in half.

Your heart doesn’t stop pounding the entire time.

The moment class ends, Nanami doesn’t wait for the room to clear.

“Y/N. Now.”

He turns and disappears out the door before you can respond.

You feel eyes on you—Megumi’s included—but you don’t stop. You grab your bag and follow him like you’re on autopilot, like there’s a leash wrapped tight around your neck and he’s the only one holding it.

You barely make it two steps into his office before the door shuts behind you and he grabs you.

No words.

No hesitation.

He presses you back against the wall with both hands, crowding into your space so fast it steals your breath. His mouth finds yours like it never left—rough, desperate, furious. His hands slide up under your skirt, palms dragging along your thighs, yanking you flush against his body like he’s trying to fuse you to him.

“Don’t,” he growls against your lips, “ever let him fucking touch you again.”

You gasp, grabbing at his shirt, yanking him closer. “You told me it was over.”

“It was.”

“Then why—”

“Because I saw his hands on you,” he snarls. “I heard what he said. You think I don’t know what he wants? You think I don’t know what that smug little shit would do to you if I let him?”

You’re shaking.

Not from fear.

From want.

From the heat in his voice, the pure need pouring out of him now that he’s finally stopped pretending.

“Tell me to stop,” he says, dragging your panties down your thighs, voice wrecked. “Tell me right now and I’ll let go.”

You don’t.

You can’t.

You grab the front of his shirt, fingers curling tight, and whisper, “Lock the door.”

And he does.

The second the lock clicks behind him, he’s on you.

He crowds you back into the wall, lips crashing against yours in a way that makes your head spin, teeth clashing, tongues tangling. There’s nothing careful about it—this isn’t the man who once asked permission before every kiss, every touch. This is all fury and frustration and weeks of biting his tongue until it bled.

His hands are already on your thighs, pushing them apart as he kisses you like he’s starving for it. Like the sight of you laughing at Megumi’s stupid fucking jokes lit something inside him he can’t put out. You barely have time to catch your breath before his hand slides up, yanks your panties down in one hard pull and tosses them somewhere behind him.

He breaks the kiss only to press his forehead against yours, panting.

“You’ve been walking around,” he grits out, “in that fucking skirt—letting him look at you like that—letting him touch you under the desk—”

“Nanami—”

“You wanted me to snap, didn’t you?”

“No—”

“You didn’t?” he breathes, lips dragging along your cheek to your jaw. “You didn’t want me to lose it? You didn’t moan when he said he’d drag you into the janitor’s closet?”

Your breath hitches.

His lips curl.

“You did,” he says, low and filthy and far too pleased. “You like driving me crazy.”

You don’t deny it.

You can’t. His thigh is already between your legs, pushing up against your aching core, and your back is hitting the office wall like he wants you pinned, helpless, owned.

“Take it out,” you breathe, hands already at his belt, fumbling.

He growls when your fingers touch him, helping only long enough to shove his pants and briefs low. His cock is hard, flushed and heavy, already leaking from how wound up he is.

He grips your hips and lifts you, setting your ass on the edge of his desk, shoving books, papers, and a laptop off with one sweep of his arm. The crash is loud. The mess spreads everywhere.

You don’t care.

“Spread your legs,” he growls.

You do. You’re already shaking, already soaked, thighs trembling from how fast everything’s happening—but he doesn’t stop to tease. Doesn’t touch. Just lines himself up and pushes in.

You bite back a scream the second he slides inside.

No warm up. No patience.

Just a hard, thick stretch that has your nails digging into his shoulders and your jaw going slack.

“Oh my god—”

“Too much?” he hisses, gripping your thighs as he buries himself to the hilt.

“No—don’t stop—don’t stop—”

He growls, low and wrecked, and starts fucking you like he means to ruin you.

Every thrust slams you back against the desk, your hands scrambling for something to hold onto. You grab his tie. His jacket. His shoulders. Nothing’s enough. He’s so deep, so hard, filling you over and over, the sound of skin slapping against skin echoing off the walls.

And it’s loud.

Too loud.

You try to stay quiet, you really do, but you can’t hold it in—your moans keep slipping out, high and broken and desperate, and every time he hears one, he thrusts harder.

“You gonna let the whole building hear how much you like this?” he pants. “Gonna let them hear how wet you get when I fuck you like you’re mine?”

You whimper, grabbing the edge of the desk, head falling back.

He grabs your face and forces you to look at him.

“You are mine,” he growls. “Say it.”

“I-I’m yours—fuck—I’m yours—”

“That’s right.”

His thumb finds your clit and starts circling, hard and fast, and it’s too much—the stretch, the pace, the heat curling through you like wildfire. You’re trying to keep quiet but your whole body is shaking and the words just pour out of you—

“Please, Nanami—oh my god—I’m gonna cum—”

“Do it,” he snarls. “Cum on my cock. Right here, right now. I want you shaking when I fill you.”

You don’t stand a chance.

It slams into you—hot and hard and violent. Your thighs clamp around him, your nails rake down his back, your moan breaks into something strangled as you cum so hard your vision goes black at the edges.

He doesn’t stop.

Doesn’t slow down.

He fucks you through it, chasing his own high now, both hands gripping your hips hard enough to bruise as he uses your body like it’s the only thing keeping him alive.

“I should’ve never stopped,” he growls. “You’re mine. Always have been.”

He slams into you one last time and groans, deep and low, as he spills inside you.

You can feel it. Every pulse. Every twitch.

Hot. Thick. Claiming.

His forehead drops to your shoulder as his hips slow. Both of you panting. Sweating. Spent.

He doesn’t pull out right away.

Doesn’t let you go.

Just stands there, breathing hard, still buried inside you, as if letting go would make it less real.

“Fuck,” he finally whispers. “What have we done?”

You don’t answer.

Because if you open your mouth right now, you’ll fall apart.

You stay quiet, eyes staring at nothing, mind racing and blank at the same time. His cum is still warm inside you, starting to drip out with every breath, and your body is still twitching from the aftershocks of what he just did to you. What you let him do. The heat of it hasn’t left your skin, but the guilt is already curling cold around your ribs, pressing down, squeezing tighter by the second.

This wasn’t supposed to happen.

He told you it couldn’t happen.

And then he looked at you like that, touched you like that, fucked you like that—and now here you are: half dressed, trembling, sitting on his desk with the taste of him still in your mouth and the sound of your own moans echoing off the walls.

His hands drop from your waist like they’ve burned him.

He steps back.

The sudden space between you makes your heart twist.

You glance at him—slowly, afraid of what you’ll see.

He looks wrecked.

Hair messy. Shirt untucked. The front of it stained with ink and sweat. His tie is still slung loosely around his neck. His pants are halfway zipped. And his eyes—his eyes are dark, glassy, so full of regret it guts you.

“I shouldn’t have…” he trails off, swallowing hard. “That should never have happened.”

You nod, even though it hurts to agree. “I know.”

“I wasn’t thinking.”

“You were jealous.”

His eyes snap to yours.

You hold his gaze, even though your throat’s tight. “That’s why you snapped.”

He doesn’t deny it. Doesn’t argue. Just closes his eyes for a second and exhales like the air’s been knocked out of him.

“I let this go too far,” he murmurs. “I thought I could handle it. That we could stay away. That I could—”

“You can’t,” you say. “Neither can I.”

There’s a beat of silence between you. Long. Thick. Unbearable.

“But we have to,” he says eventually.

You nod again, slower this time. You hate it. Every part of you is still begging for him to grab you again, to kiss you, to tell you he doesn’t give a fuck about rules or consequences. But that moment passed the second he came inside you. The second he whispered mine against your neck.

It’s done now.

You slide off the desk, legs shaky, heart even shakier.

There’s a mess between your thighs—hot and sticky and unmistakable—and you fumble for the tissues on his desk as quietly as you can, avoiding his eyes while you clean yourself up. Your panties are ruined. Your skirt is wrinkled. You feel used and full and fucked in every sense of the word.

And still you’d do it again.

You pull yourself back together in silence. He does the same.

The room feels too small. Too quiet. The walls are closing in.

“I’m sorry,” he says, after a long pause. “I—”

“I know,” you say quickly. “You don’t have to…”

You wave a hand, unsure what you’re trying to say. What would even make it better.

Nothing does.

You move to the door.

Hand on the handle.

And then—

A knock.

Your entire body goes stiff.

You and Nanami both freeze.

The knock comes again, and then a voice follows. Calm. Casual. Way too familiar.

“You guys done in there?”

Your heart fucking drops.

You open the door.

Megumi’s leaning against the wall, hands in his hoodie pockets, expression cool and far too satisfied. His eyes drag over you first—your flushed face, your swollen lips, the visible heat still clinging to your skin—and then flick to Nanami behind you, who’s just stepped into view, his shirt still rumpled, his tie still loose.

Megumi hums under his breath. Like he’s impressed.

“Wow,” he says, drawing the word out. “Didn’t think you’d actually do it in the office. Ballsy.”

You stare at him, mouth parted, but no sound comes out.

He pushes off the wall, steps closer, real slow. “My dad wants to see you both.”

Nanami tenses beside you.

“Your… dad?”

Megumi smiles at you. Sharp. Icy.

“Toji Fushiguro,” he says. “Vice Chancellor.”

You feel the blood drain from your face.

Nanami doesn’t say anything.

Megumi turns, starting down the hall like it’s just another day.

“You’re so fucked,” he calls back over his shoulder, with a little grin.

And then he’s gone.

You stand in the doorway, frozen. The hallway feels too bright. Too open. Your legs are shaking and your panties are still damp and twisted beneath your skirt. You haven’t fixed your hair. Your lipstick is smeared. Your skin is flushed and hot and you can still feel Nanami’s cum dripping out of you.

You want to sink into the floor.

Behind you, Nanami’s voice is low. Tight. “We need to go.”

You don’t answer. You just nod, because if you speak, your voice might crack.

The walk to Toji Fushiguro’s office feels like a death march.

Nanami stays half a step ahead of you, silent and rigid. His tie is still crooked. His hands are still stained with ink. And your own body betrays you with every step—heat trapped under your clothes, your skin sticky where his touch still lingers. You try to breathe through it. To steel yourself.

But nothing prepares you for the moment you walk into that office.

The first thing you notice is the scent—cologne and something smoky. Leather. Expensive whiskey. The window blinds are drawn, the overhead light off, the room lit only by the soft golden glow of a desk lamp. It feels more like someone’s apartment than a professional space. There’s a half-empty tumbler of bourbon on the desk. Papers pushed to the side. A jacket thrown over a chair.

And him.

Toji Fushiguro.

Leaning back in his chair like he owns the building. Broad. Relaxed. Black shirt stretched tight across his chest, sleeves rolled up over tattooed forearms, the top few buttons undone like he couldn’t be bothered to make himself decent. Hair messy, jaw sharp, a lazy little smirk tugging at his mouth like this is the most fun he’s had all week.

You stop breathing for a second.

Because—what the fuck.

This is the vice-chancellor?

Your gut twists. Something awful and anxious and shameful. Because you should be terrified. You are. But also…

Holy shit.

He’s—god. He’s hot.

Wrong. Older. Dangerous. And hot.

And it makes you want to scream.

Toji glances up from a manila folder he clearly hasn’t read. Then—casual as anything—he whistles.

“Well,” he says, slow and amused. “Now this is a surprise.”

Nanami doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t move. He stands tall beside you, his expression unreadable.

Toji leans forward, folds his hands together on the desk. “You wanna explain what the fuck you two were doing in that office?”

No one answers.

Toji smiles wider. “No? Okay. I’ll help you out.”

He flips the file shut and tosses it to the side. “Let’s see. Anonymous report. Third floor. Loud enough for someone to stop and record audio through the door.”

Your blood runs cold.

“Megumi,” Toji adds, smirk deepening. “Of course. Always the little snitch.”

You clench your fists. Your mouth is dry.

Toji’s eyes drift lazily to Nanami, then back to you.

“You wanna guess what the board’s gonna say when they hear their clean-cut, tight-ass literature professor got caught raw-dogging one of his students in the middle of a workday?”

You look at Nanami. He doesn’t move.

Toji waits a second. Then lets out a soft chuckle. “Relax. I haven’t sent anything in yet.”

You blink. “Why?”

He shrugs. “I don’t like paperwork.”

Then, to Nanami— “But I do like leverage.”

The air leaves your lungs.

And that’s when it hits you.

He’s not here to report anything.

He wants something.

Nanami’s voice is quiet. Controlled. “You’re blackmailing us.”

Toji tilts his head. “Big word. I’d say I’m offering a solution.”

“What do you want?” you ask, finally finding your voice.

Toji looks at you now. Fully. Slowly. His gaze drags from your flushed face to the curve of your hips, the shake in your knees, the wrinkled hem of your skirt—and lingers there.

You fight the urge to pull it down.

“I think you already know,” he says, voice dropping.

Your stomach drops with it.

Nanami steps forward. “She’s not involved.”

Toji raises a brow. “She’s all that’s involved.”

You’re frozen. Your heart’s pounding so hard you can feel it in your ears. Your skin prickles, throat tight, vision blurring a little around the edges because none of this feels real.

And yet—

The part that makes your shame twist deeper is the part you can’t ignore.

Because even as your body goes cold and sick with panic, something hot sparks low in your stomach. A tiny flicker. A pulse. That same awful ache you’ve been trying to ignore since the moment you saw Toji’s sleeves rolled up and that scar on his lip and the way he looked at you like he could ruin you without lifting a finger.

It’s fucked up.

You hate it.

You can feel it.

The heat between your legs, the damp cling of your ruined panties, the sick twist in your gut that only burns hotter when Toji tilts his head and smirks. Like he can smell it on you. Like he knows exactly what’s happening under your skirt.

And he hasn’t even touched you.

You try to hide it. Try to shift your weight, squeeze your thighs together, do something to regain control of yourself—but the second you move, his eyes drop to your legs, and his smile deepens.

Like confirmation.

Like he knows.

Nanami’s voice is tight behind you. “Whatever you’re thinking—drop it.”

Toji looks at him, eyes bored. “What I’m thinking is, it’s funny how quick your morals collapsed the second she moaned your name.”

Nanami steps forward. You flinch, instinctively reaching back—hand finding his jacket, fingers curling into it like you need the anchor. He doesn’t react, but you feel his chest rise sharply against your shoulder.

“I take full responsibility,” he says through gritted teeth. “File whatever you want. But leave her out of it.”

Toji laughs—short and sharp. “You really think I’m gonna waste this kind of leverage on you?”

His eyes flick back to you.

Slow. Hungry.

“You’re the only interesting thing in this whole fucking building.”

Your stomach drops. A mix of fear and something darker, stickier, that won’t go away no matter how hard you try to fight it.

Toji leans forward now, forearms resting on the desk, giving you his full attention. He speaks slowly—like every word is deliberate. A warning. A threat. A promise.

“I could report it,” he says. “Write it up. Submit the audio. Get your professor fired. Get you kicked out. Maybe expelled, depending on how dirty the recording is.”

You’re shaking.

He keeps going.

“Or…” His voice dips. “I make it disappear. And in return… you be smart. Play nice.”

Nanami grabs your wrist gently, pulling you back a step, positioning himself slightly in front of you. “Don’t even think about it.”

You barely hear him.

Because Toji’s eyes are locked on you—and it’s working.

Your heart is hammering. Your throat is dry. Your thighs are clenched and trembling, your body betraying you with every passing second. You hate him. You hate this. But your brain is fogging over and your panties are wet and you can’t stop.

And Toji can tell.

He hums. Soft. Like he’s amused by how fast you’re unraveling.

But he doesn’t say anything else.

He doesn’t call you out. Doesn’t make a show of it. He doesn’t have to.

Because he sees everything.

The way your chest rises too fast. The way your hand twitches at your side. The way your gaze keeps flicking to the buttons of his shirt and the dark ink curling down his forearm like it’s trying to distract you. Like it’s working.

You’re trying to stand still. Keep your spine straight. Face blank.

But your body keeps giving you away.

And Toji watches every twitch. Every flicker.

He knows.

But he keeps it quiet.

He leans back in his chair again, all easy confidence and lazy dominance, like he’s already decided how this ends. Like this is just the beginning of the game. His arms stretch along the backrest, his knee tilts slightly open, and his eyes cut toward Nanami without so much as a change in tone.

“Let me guess,” he drawls. “You thought no one would find out.”

Nanami doesn’t answer.

Toji smirks. “Bet you thought you could sneak her in and out of hotel rooms and still come to work on Monday like nothing happened.”

He says it so casually, like he’s listing off the weather. But every word lands like a slap. You flinch—barely—but enough for Toji to catch it. His gaze flickers back to you. Lingers.

Then flicks away again, like it meant nothing.

“I’ll give you one chance,” he says, addressing Nanami again, bored now. “You want this to disappear? Fine. I’ll bury it. Deep. No one ever hears a thing.”

Nanami stares at him, eyes sharp.

“What do you want in return?”

Toji grins.

“Oh, nothing now. I’ll think of something later.”

Nanami’s fists clench. “That’s not how this works.”

“It is if I’m the one holding the match over your entire fucking career.”

The room goes silent.

You feel it in your throat. That thick, tight pressure of everything spiraling too fast. You didn’t want this. You didn’t ask for any of it. But somehow you’re in the middle of two men, one trying to protect you, and the other—bored and beautiful and terrifying—just watching you burn.

You want to hate him.

But your pulse is still racing.

And the worst part?

Toji doesn’t say a word about it.

Not to you.

Not to Nanami.

He just smiles again, slow and lazy, and taps the desk once like he’s closing a deal.

“That’ll be all,” he says. “Unless you two wanna give me another show.”

You don’t say anything.

Nanami turns first, reaching for the door, holding it open with a tight jaw and an unreadable expression. You follow—silent, shaky, your whole body buzzing with something awful you can’t quite name.

But as you step out, you feel it—

Toji’s eyes on your back.

Warm. Heavy.

Knowing.

And he doesn’t say a word.

The walk back to his office is silent.

The hallway feels too long, too bright, too empty. Your footsteps echo alongside Nanami’s, but he stays a pace ahead of you, like putting distance between you might somehow undo the mess you just left behind. You don’t speak. You don’t dare. His shoulders are squared, jaw locked, fists clenched so tight his knuckles have gone white.

He doesn’t look at you once.

When he unlocks his office door, it swings open too hard, slamming against the wall. He doesn’t flinch. Just walks in, drops his briefcase on the desk, and turns to face you with something wild behind his eyes.

“I’m fucked.”

You blink. “Nanami—”

“No,” he snaps. “Don’t.”

The door clicks shut behind you, and you feel the tension press in like a wall. You step back, slowly, because you’ve never heard his voice like that—sharp, bitter, cracked at the edges.

He rakes a hand through his hair, pacing like he doesn’t trust himself to stay still. “It’s done. My career is over. Toji has enough to ruin everything. The audio alone—Jesus.”

You fold your arms tightly across your chest, throat burning. “We didn’t ask for any of that. You think I wanted this?”

“I think we were stupid,” he says, voice rising. “I think I let my guard down and now I’m going to lose everything I’ve worked for because I couldn’t keep my hands off a student.”

You flinch, like he slapped you.

The words hit harder than they should.

“I’m not just some—”

“I know,” he says immediately, softer, pained. “I know. That’s the problem.”

He turns away from you, leaning forward over his desk, both hands braced like the weight of it is the only thing holding him up. You watch his back rise and fall with each breath. Tight. Unsteady. Broken.

Then—

“We can’t be seen together again,” he says quietly. “Not in class. Not on campus. Not anywhere.”

You open your mouth. Close it. Your chest tightens.

“And if we are,” he adds, voice lower now, “I won’t speak to you. I won’t look at you. I don’t even want to know you exist.”

That’s what breaks it.

Your heart stutters. Your face flushes—not with sadness, not with guilt—but rage.

“Are you fucking serious?”

His head lifts.

“You don’t even want to know I exist?” you repeat, stepping forward, furious. “After everything? After the hotel, after the way you touched me, talked to me, looked at me?”

“I’m trying to protect you,” he says, tired.

“No. You’re protecting yourself,” you snap. “You don’t get to fuck me in your office, promise to take care of me, make me feel like I meant something, and then throw me away because you’re scared.”

“It’s not that simple.”

“It was simple, until you made it ugly.”

You’re breathing hard now, standing just inside the door with your hands clenched at your sides, trying not to cry, trying not to scream. You stare at him for a long moment, heart racing, blood boiling.

And then—

“Fuck this.”

You turn on your heel and leave before he can say another word.

You don’t go to class the next morning.

You don’t even consider it.

Because there’s no way in hell you’re going to sit in that room and pretend to be invisible. To pretend Nanami’s words didn’t crack open something inside you, to pretend like he didn’t spend the last twenty-four hours fucking you and then throwing you away like you were the mistake and not the best goddamn thing that ever happened to him.

“I don’t even want to know you exist.”

The words play on a loop in your head.

You skip his class. You don’t text your friends. You don’t check the group chat. You walk across campus like you’re on fire, hoodie sleeves pulled over your fists, heart pounding in your chest—not just with hurt.

With rage.

Because Toji started all of this.

And you’re going to make sure he fucking knows it.

The admin building is quiet this early—half the staff hasn’t even shown up yet. The hallway smells like floor cleaner and old coffee, and you don’t knock. You don’t hesitate.

You walk straight to Toji Fushiguro’s office and shove the door open like it owes you something.

He’s there.

Feet on the desk. Coffee in hand. Same cocky grin.

“Well,” he says slowly, gaze dragging up and down your body. “Didn’t expect to see you this early.”

You slam the door behind you.

“I have something to say,” you snap.

He leans back in his chair, sips his coffee, and raises a brow.

“Oh, sweetheart,” he drawls. “I was counting on it.”

-

TAGS: @rissaaaaaa @mikrh-lizzie @t4naiis (sorry if I forgot anyone. These are the only ones I could find who asked to be tagged!)

[fic-dumpster]

Hate is such a strong word

Pairing: Bully!Ran Haitani x F!Reader

Word count: 860

Warnings: MDNI, hate fuck sort of, very confused and obsessed Ran, degradation, corruption kink, bullying, mean Ran, noncon, tongue kissing, PiV, cunnilingus, fingering, words such as cock/pussy/cunt/whore/bitch/slut, headcanon-ish format. Idk… let me know if I missed anything!

Bully!Ran who hates your guts. He sees you walking around all pristine and clean. Not a single hair was out of place. He hates that. Not even makeup he could imagine running down your face when he eventually makes you cry.

Bully!Ran who can’t stand your voice when you speak in class. He hates your laughter when you’re talking with your friends at lunch and above all, he despises your humming when you’re standing in front of your locker. His locker is in the same row and has to stand your shitty voice every damn time.

Bully!Ran who can’t even stand being near you so he makes Rindou throw your books to the floor, send your phone flying, and pull your well-kept hair. Ran sickly enjoys watching you on your knees after his brother trips you.

Bully!Ran who got tired of you. Tired of you not noticing all the things you made him feel.

Bully!Ran who one morning snatched you up from your last class, cornering you in the gym closet. Oh, how he relished in your begging. You were gonna lose your perfect attendance? He couldn’t care less. You were gonna miss an important class? Fuck that.

Bully!Ran who clamped your face in one hand, wishing that you at least wore some eyeliner or lipgloss so he could smear it all over your pretty face he so much despised. He has to make do with what he has, right? Your tears and his cum would decorate your skin so well.

Bully!Ran who has you squirming like the worm you are in his hold. His other hand quickly wrenched away your white shirt, buttons flying everywhere and a constricted scream interrupted your begging.

Bully!Ran who despite your clearly terrified eyes and shaking hands, didn’t feel an ounce of guilt. On the contrary, he felt euphoric. Your trashing subsided, you couldn’t fight him, you couldn’t get away and nobody was coming to save you. Once you realized that, you became more pliant in his grasp.

Bully!Ran who squeezed your chest to his heart’s content. Pulling one mound out of your frilly white undergarments. He squeezed until you gave a pained whimper, and he wanted more of that. The frenzy he didn’t even notice he had— tenfold.

Bully!Ran who saw things clearer now. Amid the craze, he had an epiphany as his eyes focused on your face and the little inhuman sounds you were making. He didn’t hate those… no… he didn’t hate you at all. He just hated you for not doing all those things to him. Not to your friends, not your teachers and especially not any male in the vicinity. They didn’t deserve to even be in your presence. This… all this he was witnessing belongs to him.

Bully!Ran who with a frustrated growl violently crashed his mouth with yours, swallowing your gasp of surprise.

Bully!Ran who felt his whole body ignite as his tongue commanded yours to comply. Pulling your tongue out, his teeth gripped it harshly. a quiet wail from you and he was instantly bending your neck back and licking. His tongue traveled all the way down to the crease of your chest to your lips, lapping at your mouth and you had no say in whether you like it or not.

Bully!Ran who had you inconsolably crying on the cold floor as he buried his face in your cunt. Your hands desperately tried to get him away but it was all a game to him— you weren’t moving him an inch.

Bully!Ran who kept your legs wrapped around his head, resting on his wide shoulders as he called you a messy needy slut for being so wet for someone you supposedly didn’t care about. Every word from him was a slap to your swollen pussy.

Bully!Ran who pushed his fingers in your cunt, telling you how you sounded like a bitch in heat, calling you a liar and a whore for him. The squelching sound of his fingers violently moving inside you had him feeling sick. So sick that he stirred his long fingers deeper, feeling that spongy spot that had you yelling out his name for the first time as his stomach felt a sudden gut punch and bursting sensation.

Bully!Ran who cursed once he realized he came in his pants. He was fuming. And just as fast, he had you on your back with your shredded panties in your mouth.

Bully!Ran who takes your writhing body in between his arms as your abused hole warmed his cock.

“Stay— fuck… stay fucking still, damn it.”

Oh, Ran was going to burst again at any moment if your warmth kept squeezing him like that. Slow, deep thrust left you out of breath. Ran stretching out your little tight cunt around him, and just like that he kept pounding into your creamy insides.

“Such a good girl, taking what she’s given,” he grunted against your temple, “I’m gonna mess you up so good— fuck… you like that? You want me to ruin you?” His hoarse laugh reverberated through your bodies. “You’re tightening down there. ‘m taking that as a yes.”

A.N: damnnnnm… the first thing I write for tr after my drought of two years is debauchery. Ta-da? 🤗 ✨ I still feel so out of touch with my words N E WAY! enjoy K bye 💋

[rememberwren]

A Dichotomy of Thought || 10

Prior and future chapters here.

A visitor in the park.

CW: domestic violence, rape, ableist language, homophobic slurs (f-word), internalized ableism, suicidal ideation, mention of burning.

-

It seems cruel that such terrible things must happen at moments when you are your happiest. There’s logic in it, sure—there can be no joy without pain, and happiness is bracketed on either side by sadness—but logic and cruelty don’t have to live apart from each other. In fact, you would often say they are married. 

Your boyfriend stands over you, blotting out the sun like a raincloud come to pour down on the briefest moment of peace you have felt in the last several days. Everything about him is innocuous: his clothes, his posture, hands shoved deep into his pockets as he stares down at you with unspeakable fondness in his eyes. 

“Hi honey,” he says. “How was work?” 

Johnny goes to stand, but your boyfriend is quicker, banging his shin violently against Johnny’s knee. Johnny sucks in a breath as the pain winds him, body bowing over to protect his most vulnerable areas. 

“Don’t stand on my account,” your boyfriend says to his crumpled figure. “Did I get the right knee? I did, didn’t I? I wasn’t sure if it was the right or the left—“

“Hey!” you bellow, the volume of your own voice surprising you. You stand between them, put both hands against your boyfriend’s chest, and push. He nearly goes sprawling on the sidewalk, only barely managing to get his feet under him in time. You point a shaking finger in his face. “You don’t fucking touch him!”

“An accident,” he laughs, lifting his hands. “I stumbled into him. It could have happened to anybody.” 

“Yer a fucking cunt,” Johnny groans, both hands gripping his thigh above his knee, knuckles pale. “And so’s yer mother. Syphilis-infected-cocksucking bitch.”

“Not nice,” your boyfriend says mildly, shoving his hands back into his pocket. “Do you kiss my fiancé with that mouth?” 

“You don’t even know what you’re talking about,” you hiss. All three of you quiet down as an older couple inches by, hand in weathered hand. When they are a safe distance away, you ask: “How did you know I was here? Were you following me?”

“I can’t reveal all my secrets,” he says, lowering his voice to a dangerous timber, one that promises violence. “The same way you’re not willing to give up all of yours. You thought I wouldn’t notice you coming home late all the time? Do I look stupid?” 

Johnny makes a sound, some kind of wounded laugh that only serves to put you on edge even more. You can imagine his answer—but he doesn’t know your boyfriend. He doesn’t know the kind of grim, intelligent cruelty that is wielded against you every day. Johnny is hot headed and craving violence, but he’s in no condition to experience it. 

You have to protect him. 

“We can talk about it at home,” you mutter, making sure to keep between the two men who seem eager for each other’s blood. Your boyfriend tongues his cheek, eyeing Johnny, weighing his options. 

“Come on,” you say, louder. Reaching out, you grip his arm, nails digging into his skin. He doesn’t even flinch. But after an endless moment of waiting for further provocation from Johnny, he decides Johnny isn’t worth his time. He laces his fingers in yours and pulls you along, further away from the bench, from Johnny, from the sunlight. 

“Get in the car,” he says, walking to the driver’s side. 

“You’re not supposed to drive.” 

“I won’t say it again.” 

He won’t, either. You know him. So instead you slip into the passenger seat. There’s no worse feeling than being in an enclosed space with him. The air feels heavy and oppressive, weighing you down. At the same time, your body buzzes with adrenalin, preparing for pain. You numbly buckle your seatbelt while he starts the car. 

“How long have you been cheating on me with that cripple next door?” he asks calmly. 

“I’m not.”

The calm snaps, nothing but a thin sheet of icy veneer over a deep, dark lake of fury. 

“Don’t—lie—to—me,” he says through his teeth. He holds out a hand and wiggles his fingers. “Phone. Hand it over. You’ve lost your privileges.” 

“I don’t have it,” you lie. “It’s at work.” 

“You really do,” he says, staring at you with borderline awe. “You think I’m a fucking idiot, don’t you? Oh, baby. Oh, honey. You’re in for it. How do you think I fucking found you? Give me the goddamn phone.” 

You shake your head. You can’t give it up. Not when it’s the only safe way for Simon to contact you. 

He reaches for your hand. The two of you struggle as you try to avoid his touch, briefly banging your knuckles on the car window, but then he has your hand in his grasp, and he takes your smallest finger and wrenches it back, back—you feel the pop, pain lancing through your hand all the way to your wrist. 

You screech. 

“Give me the phone,” he says, letting you cradle the misshapen hand against your breast. You grit your teeth, tears dripping off your chin. When he reaches for your hand again, you break and turn out your pockets, handing over your last lifeline. He takes the phone and beats it against the dashboard, again and again and again until the screen is a spider’s web of cracks, glass littering your knees. 

He hands you back the broken phone. 

“You broke my fucking finger,” you cry, voice warbling embarrassingly. 

“You broke your own finger by not listening to me the first time,” he says, tossing the phone in your lap when you don’t take it. He puts the car in reverse. “Don’t blame me for your mistakes, baby.” 

-

The two of you spend five hours in the emergency room together. This is an integral part of the experience; when he hurts you, he has to heal you. 

Your pinky isn’t broken, only dislocated. They set it and splint it and warn you that it could take months to feel normal again, like you know at all what that word means. Beneath the tinny lights of the exam room, your makeup job must be failing, because the nurse asks your boyfriend to step out so that she can ask you a few questions alone. 

This isn’t your first time in the emergency room, and you know the rules. You stick to your story (the one he had stitched together on the drive to the ER) even without your boyfriend’s oppressive presence looming over your shoulder. The nurse gives you a look that is both professional and pitying. You spend the rest of the visit refusing to meet her eyes, chewing on the nails of your good hand. 

“Could you be any more suspicious?” your boyfriend asks mildly while the two of you leave. He waves to one of the nurses, who gives back a cheerful little salute. 

Making friends wherever he goes; that’s your boyfriend. 

-

Walking into your apartment is like walking into another world. 

Everything has been upended: the couch cushions, the silverware drawers, the chairs at the table. DVD’s have been removed from their boxes. Even the fucking lamps have had their lampshades removed. The bathroom and bedroom doors have been taken off their hinges and laid neatly against one another in the bedroom. 

“You weren’t the only one busy today,” he says, relishing in your grim expression. “You know the drill. Clean up. Then we’ll go to bed.” 

This is an old trick of his that you know well. He tore the place apart searching for contraband—but he knows that even he isn’t all-powerful. Now he waits to see where you will rush to clean up first, where your anxious mind will take you, desperate to find out if he’s found whatever you’ve been hiding. Once it was money. Another time, a business card for a lawyer. 

This time, a lighter that’s not your own. 

You’re smarter now, though. You don’t go straight for your sock drawer where the lighter is hidden. You begin at the northernmost point of the apartment and clean north to south, east to west, methodical, your hand throbbing as the anesthetic wears off. 

It is deeply late by the time you make it to the bedroom to find your clothes strewn across the bed. Your eyes burn with exhaustion, body aching from a long day at work (and a longer day after work). You can’t help but think of Johnny as you clean, tucking clothes back into their drawers, putting clothes back on their hangers. Did he make it home safely? Did he finally message Simon? Did he try to walk home? Thinking about Johnny out alone in the dark makes your stomach turn unpleasantly. 

Sock drawer now. Most of these are still in the dresser, though some have been pushed out into the floor in your boyfriend’s search for ammunition to use against you. You pick up the few outliers and stuff them back into the drawer. 

No lighter. 

It’s not there. You know even as you continue to search without hope, rifling through your paired socks as subtly as you can. This is all just another game. He’s found the lighter and has just been waiting for you to notice it’s gone so that he can torment you with it. Maybe he’ll flick the spark wheel (the way Johnny can’t—God, Johnny, please be okay—) and hold the flame to your skin or your hair—

You touch something hard, plastic. Your breath catches. It’s there. It’s still there, tucked inside a pair of socks. He hadn’t found it. Relief rises up in you so poignantly that tears fill your eyes, even as you force yourself to shut the drawer and move on to another part of the room, feeling your boyfriend’s presence at the door, watching. 

The lighter was so little, but it meant so much. You couldn’t even put into words why. Because it was Johnny’s, maybe. Because it was yours, now. Because it was one thing your boyfriend hadn’t put his hands on and destroyed or claimed as his own. Nothing belonged to you—not your money, not your body, nothing. Except maybe that silly lighter. 

You wait until after he fucks you to speak, stubbornly maintaining your silence even through the pain and humiliation he inflicts on you. There’s something even worse about the way he draws your body against his afterwards, an arm looped possessively over your waist, the imitation of a loving cuddle. 

“I want to break up,” you say. 

He gives a long-suffering sigh, breath rustling your hair. “Keep dreaming, baby.” 

The words won’t stop tripping out of your mouth. 

“I mean it. I hate you—and you hate me. All we do is fight and hurt each other. Why…” you get choked up, swallow past the lump in your throat. “We don’t have to do this anymore. You can’t possibly be happy. Is this really how you want to live the rest of your life? Tormenting me?” 

He is quiet for longer than you expect. You hold your breath, tears dripping from your eyes and over the bridge of your nose, down into your pillowcase. Maybe he’s thinking about it. Maybe he’s really considering it. 

At last, he says: “Don’t ever think that there’s anywhere else in the world…anything else I’d rather be, than right where I am.”

Your heart plummets.

“Now go to sleep,” he says, kissing your neck. “You work in the morning.”

-

The sun goes down before Simon finds him. Johnny sits shivering on the bench where you left him, his eyes red rimmed and unseeing even when he hears the familiar footsteps of his lover against the pavement. 

Simon sits next to him where you once sat, and for a long time, neither of them speaks. When Johnny finally breaks the silence, his voice is rough from hours of crying and disuse. 

“I brought her here,” he says. 

Simon nods. He knows. Of course he knows. 

“I think she liked it,” Johnny adds, trying to find any brightness in the dark that encompasses him. 

But all at once the tears come back, his throat burning, head throbbing. He bends at the waist, elbow on his thigh, and shakes, trying to keep his crying quiet, still clinging to the remnants of a dignity that God tears more from his grasp every day. When Simon’s warm arm wraps around him, it just makes him cry harder, even as he leans into the heat of the other man like a flower bends toward the sun. 

“I’m useless,” Johnny weeps. “Fuckin’ useless. He showed up and just—took her, and I couldn’t do a thing to stop him. Even you think I’m useless—druggin’ me to keep me from getting in your way. I can’t dress myself, can’t tie my own shoes. What fucking good am I, as a human being? What’s the good in being alive if I have to live like this?”

Simon says nothing. Johnny leans up, letting the moonlight wash over his tear-soaked face. He wipes at his cheeks. 

“You can’t be happy, either,” he says, taking in the solemn lines of Simon’s face, the shadows under his eyes. Simon looks older than his age, and Johnny knows who is responsible, who has aged him. Terrified to know the answer, he asks: “Is this how you want to live? With an overgrown child as your lover? One who can’t remember where he took off his shoes? Who needs you to, to cut up his food and button his shirts?” 

“If that’s how it’s going to be,” says Simon simply. “If that’s how I get to be with you. Then yeah, Johnny. I’m solid.” 

Johnny shakes his head. He can’t even find the energy within him to be angry. All that’s left is disbelief. “You can’t mean that.” 

“I mean it. I—“ Simon ducks his head. “—I never should have put those pills in your juice. I should have trusted you. I wish I could take that back.” 

Johnny sniffs wetly. It’s as close to an apology as he’s ever heard Simon give, and it makes no small amount of guilt bloom in Johnny’s aching chest. 

“You were right not to trust me,” says Johnny. “I was lying.”

“I know,” says Simon. He reaches down and laces his fingers with Johnny’s one hand. “But I want to be a man who trusts you, even if I’m wrong.” 

Johnny is quiet for a long time, turning those words over in his head. A painful longing rises up in his chest, one he hasn’t felt since the days when he was still in the 141, days when he could barely breathe for wanting the man beside him so badly. When they’d had to love each other in secret, and it felt like he would happily have given anything if it meant they didn’t have to hide anymore. 

I miss you, he thinks. I miss myself. Leaning in, he lays his cheek against Simon’s shoulder. 

“Are we gonna make it?” he wonders quietly, watching the last of the fireflies twinkle around the dim park. Soon it will be too cold for them. Soon it will be too cold for Johnny. 

“Whatever we do, we’ll do it together,” Simon promises, laying his temple against Johnny’s head. 

-

He waits until you are asleep to creep out of the bed. There is no rest for him—not when he gets in these restless, paranoid moods. Not when he has a hunch to follow. 

Quietly, he drifts through the apartment like a ghost. Everything is back in its place, but he tries to think of anywhere he might have missed to search. You are hiding something; he knows it. He knows you. You’re see-through to him, predictable in a way that used to thrill him but now just irritates. 

“Where is it?” he mutters, standing in the living room, turning a slow circle. 

Was the lighter really all you’d been hiding? That stupid piece of plastic and metal? He’d found it easily and decided it served him better left in its place. Let you think that he had missed it. Let you think that he was slipping. 

“I’m sharper than ever, baby,” he mutters to himself in the darkness. 

Halfheartedly, he searches a few places that he had already gone through: checking some of the mugs on the top shelf in the kitchen, feeling beneath the table in the foyer for anything taped beneath it. 

He thinks about the cripple next door while he does it. Johnny. A problem, if he’s ever seen one. Him and his boyfriend both. What two faggots want with you, he can’t imagine—good Samaritans, perhaps? Well they would find out in good time what happened to people who put their noses where they didn’t belong. 

Regardless, he doesn’t like it. It leaves a sour taste in his mouth. 

Sighing, he braces his hands against the table, resting his weight against it. If he’d known that this building would cause so much trouble, he never would have moved you in here. Not that the two of you had been swimming in options. 

Your keys on the table catch his eye, but he doesn’t know why. He nudges them with his hand, metal dragging over the wood. On a whim, he counts them. 

There is an extra key. 

His brows lift. He picks up the keys and goes through them one by one, wracking his brain to remember what each one is for. At last he’s left with a single unfamiliar key. One that looks identical to the key to their apartment. A duplicate? he wonders. For when she’s locked out? 

But no, the keys are different. Just similar. 

An idea tickles at the back of his brain, but he’s never been the kind of man to ignore his instincts. He goes to the door without bothering to slip on his shoes, and steps silently out into the hallway. At this time of night, there is no one out and about, no one peeking at him from their doors.  On silent feet, he pads to his neighbor’s door and grips the knob. Locked. 

He slips the key into the lock—and it opens. 

Oh that little bitch. Fury rises up in him until he can taste it in the back of his throat. He wants to go and wake you, take a fistful of your hair and drag you out into the hallway for all your nosy neighbors to see, wants to hear that shriek of pain you give when he hurts you so unexpectedly—

But no. He has to be smart. 

He locks 5C’s door again, checks the handle, then slips back into his apartment. There will be no rest for him tonight. Not when there is so much to think about. 

[biteyoubiteme]

with wings of wax and thread

angel!huening kai x demon!fem!reader

‧₊˚ ⋅ synopsis: In the kingdom of Aethera, an angel is pushed from the heavens. Wings torn and feathers spilling, he finds himself in the den of a demon who wishes to have never been found. Long having lived with your own fall from grace, wingless and bloody just as he is now, you help stitch back up what once was. Can nurtured understanding be crueler than nature? ⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝⸝ warnings: 🔞!!!demon fem!reader, angel!huening kai, angst, blood, depression, mentions of death and gore, reader talks about being violently attacked, cpr performed, slight open ending that could lead to mc/member death if interpreted that way, unprotected sex, no pull out mention, prob forgot some sorry

⊹₊ ݁ . wc: 19.6k . ݁₊ ⊹

𓅪 ⸝⸝⸝ now playing: I, carrion (icarian) - hozier an: im so in love with this event, the work that all these amzing writers put into this is so astonishing- it’s so wild to participate in something like this when I still feel like a baby writer with so much to learn but thats always the fun bit I guess lol im so happy we could all stretch our creative abilities to come together and make this work <333 thank you for reading!!

[m.list] [aethera!event m.list]

ONCE UPON A TIME… In a land far far away, where the treetops touched the soft clouds of the sky, and the water sparkled under the glowing sun. Where mountains rose high and in which long, deep caves ran. Where the sea met shore in a collision of tall waves. Where the undead walked among the living. Where the winged flew above the finned. In a land where things beyond any reason and rhyme existed. And amongst those very beings, within the veils of Aethera, there was… 

Feathers, soft and white, twisted in the golden glow from the slow-setting sun. Raining down like a thrown stone, sinking and littering the waiting ground. 

The fall from grace had been sickly sweet. The shock of that first second of flightlessness was frightening enough to cause Kai to sink his teeth into his tongue. Holding back the staggered scream he wanted to let out, still protecting the ones who wronged him. Who had sent a blistering pain down his back, the cracking of cartilage ringing in his ears as he screwed his mouth shut, pleading with glistening eyes, forgiving them the second that his foot had met nothing but air. 

His mouth had filled with blood, the ichor more sugar than iron, his stomach turning from the flavor, or maybe it was the feeling of falling. Flying had been something like this, the air rippling in his hair, every strand kissed with the soft hands of the north wind, a mother's touch. Flying had felt so close to life that even in falling he understood what it meant to have all your memories rush in front of you one last time. Because falling was like the memory of flying, the echo of it so close it was like a shout right in his ear. 

And he laughed, the sound a strangled choke, fighting its way out from between his lips, teeth stained and heart sinking. He had never felt heavy, not when lifting off the ground was second nature. Kai had imagined his bones had been hollow like a bird's, but plummeting only showed him how led he was lined. Heavy, too much for even the mother's air to carry him, slipping through fingers, through feathers. 

He didn't think that having a wing ripped right from his back would have made so many of his feathers come free, whirling around him, in a thick plume. Maybe it was his wing's way of bleeding. He had witnessed the damaged appendages before on others and they never bled, not unless wounded at the base, right at the shoulder blade. But even his feathers now were dotted with thick spots of blood, the droplets rising instead of falling with him, lighter than his lead bones. He reached out, trying to catch any feathers he could, trying to grasp them as if they would be the edge of a cliff he could pull himself back up from. But he came away with nothing but understanding. 

This was a brutal way to make a grave but it was the hand he had been dealt, the cards pushed into his waiting palms without question. He only hoped the ground wouldn’t damage his wings worse than they already were. Half hanging on by tender threads of pink life, he hoped to tuck whatever was left around him like he had when he was a child, creating a small cave for him and him alone. 

Kai was thinking in full circle thoughts, that crippling adult understanding washing away to childlike hope as he counted the seconds down to when someone would realize he wasn’t catching air, their rush to reach him deterred by the weight of him hurtling towards the waiting dirt. If his bones were not lead-lined they had been made of magnets, his ruined wings having kept him from the realization sooner; the grave always called the body. 

The carrion had made the decent look appealing. Kai had grown up seeing the demons sore up only to tuck their tar-colored wings close to their bodies, looking freer than when Kai stretched his out, the span of his shadow over the sea. If they could feel the thrill of descent he could find it in him to enjoy the last of his sorry life. 

The wind picked up, spinning him, round and round, dizzying and giggling. It was his twinkling laugh that made you look up. The jagged rocks circling his falling form, the ceiling of your cave the perfect opening for him to find himself invading. The sun was setting just enough so that the shadow of him cut deep into you, palms slick as you pushed up from where you sat at the edge of the moon pool, sand coating your fingers as you pressed a hand to your racing heart. Blood rushing in your ears, serpentine fear wrapping around your limbs running a chill down your spine. 

They had come, found your hiding spot, and planned to finish you off, that laugh was only the start. It had not yet turned cruel as it was that day, the parroting of the group still ingrained right behind your ears, following you around no matter how you tried to shake the thoughts. And now they were coming down like a meteor into the only safe space you had ever known. The entrance was hard to maneuver with wings; it only made sense they would have a rough time with landing except there was a giant splash, the water in the moonpool lapping up, the crashing sound like the waves hitting the rocks only now echoing in the carved out cave. 

Everything was getting wet, the water cold to your skin as it dotted your legs, feeling like a burn when you were so shocked. Because as the water settled, the churning sound still worked its way through your skull and it began to rain. The soft white feathers swung down billowing side to side, drifting as if they were a newborn butterfly, always knowing flying was in their bones but never knowing they could do it alone. Drifting to a final stop on water starting to calm. And there sinking to the bottom, face up and eyes closed, was an angel. 

His white wings torn and weighed him down lower and lower to the sandy floor of the pool, the plume of derby shadowing him as he hit the bottom. Hands out on either side of him like someone welcoming in the sun after a long winter, the look you saw before a much needed embrace, not as if you had ever seen it before. 

Stepping to the edge where sand turned to rock you looked back up at the sky, the fading light of the day slipping into hazy darkness, the blue hour working its way over the land before the moon fully made its appearance. But you could only see the slow falling feathers, catching wind and making way in other directions far from where you stood now. If he had been pushed by a demon they would have been on their kill without a second thought, they tracked them without mercy, like the hunters who aimed to play with their food instead of showing it the grace of kindness. If they had hit to watch him run they would have chased until it was over not let him sink in this water so far from home. They would have wanted the angels to see what they had done to such a pretty face. 

Because he was pretty, even in dying. The last bubbling breaths fluttered to the surface until they broke through the tension. You trembled, cold all over from the moment's rush of fear that was still coursing through you, hands clenching and unclenching as you thought over what to do with him. In the water he could rot without much worry to you, the fish would pick him over but it wasn't as if you got many swimming around anymore. The sea folk had warned of swimming too close to your pool, for the first couple months of you finding shelter in the hollow cave, the fish had been your only source of sustenance. But the sea folk kept to their own, even the lowest of the food chain, warning them about you had been easy enough. So his body would rise unless his wings found themselves lodged under a rock. 

You were ready to turn, find company in him even if he was at the bottom of the water until a single lone feather caught your attention. Eyes tracing the swaying descent like a cat following the trail of a mouse. Bleached white like a bone, pearlescent once it landed on the now still water, cupped like a curved leaf or petal. And there, dotted like a heart, was a single spot of blood. You could remember the way your own feathers looked, black enough for the blood to seep in and disappear like it had never existed. 

It had felt like drowning the day you found yourself here. Falling from where they had dropped you had hurt, the salt water burning your open wounds like a quick scratch from a cat. Your mouth full of the ocean, choking and suffocating you as you claw for anything to grasp. They had left you, the rain of black feathers not unlike this angel's white ones now. Only you had been still fighting, ripping at the hold that death had on you because in death you would have to go back to some kind of hell and you wouldn't be able to survive an eternity with your worst moments, not when at that peak they felt that excruciating. 

The angel now had given up, his twitching hand slowing to a stop. If the day you had found yourself drowning in this very pool had been your worst you would not let the same death kill someone else when you knew that it had been survivable. You would not take the name of your brethren as a brand but only the burden as it was, this action a shoulder shake to lessen its hold. So you dove in. 

You had reached the bottom before, the sandy ground only six feet deep, a proper grave for when your arrow rang true on the rare fish that came in. They sank from how heavy the weight of their death hit them. But they had never been truly heavy and you still felt weak in comparison to the other demons you should have taken after. It wasn't until you reached him that you realized you would have to touch him to take him to the surface. 

Your hands slid around his wrist, trying to lift him just enough to get your arms under his. Legs kicked behind you as you struggled to keep yourself in the right position, lungs constricting. He was lighter than you imagined and it was mostly because of the water's help, but his wings, broken, bent, and barely hanging on, weighed him down, hanging behind him like a sheet torn to bits. 

Kicking and kicking you went, feet pushing against the rocky walls lined with coral, sharp enough to cut into your feet. Blood was darkening the small space, his and yours, mixing as you went. The need to breathe begged at your aching lungs, throat tight with the need. He was so limp, no help as you finally broke the surface, gasping air by the mouthful as you reached an arm out for the edge. 

It hasn't crossed your mind how you would pull him out only that it was better to have his head above the water than below it. But you tried, not caring if he got scratched up as you pushed him needing to get him halfway out of the water so he was easier to pull out. Your grunts turned into near cries, he was heavier and heavier the more you pushed him out of the water, sopping body, wings, and clothes adding on to the bricks piled up you felt you were pushing out. When he was halfway up when your arms weak, you pulled yourself out of the water. No time to take a breather as you wrapped both your hands around his wrists. You groaned, putting all your weight back, tugging and tugging until he was just feet resting in the bloody water. 

Your arms are trembling, half limp only held up with the adrenaline crossing through you from the fear that was still making its way through your veins. Pushing him onto his back his partially open mouth looked as if he had already gone and died, effort wasted if you gave up now. You had never been taught the art of saving anyone but you knew what you would want if someone had been kind enough to lift a hand to help you. Fingers locked together you press on his chest, shoulders burning with the effort. Dripping water fell from your chin as you went, the droplets sliding down his cheeks like tears as you cursed. “Don't,” it was all you could make out from your clenched teeth, a demand that he not die right here, right now. Sand digging into your legs, grains between each feather pressed under him, turning them golden as the fading light hit in just right. 

You pressed so hard you felt your arms out snap, elbows locked, chest heaving in the way you wanted him to and then he coughed. The strangled choke like a morning bell, that slim chance of promise of another day. His body jerked to life, shocked like lightning he bolted, turning to the side and vomiting a mess of sea. Your nose scrunching as you sat back,  joints electrified and shot, you fell back into the sand, watching the high mouth of the cave as you listened to him continue his fit. 

In the time you had spent in the Moolpools cave it was easy to only make small movements, you hardly went out unless you were truly hungry enough to risk it. This had been the most motion you had done in a long time, and now you knew exactly why it was easy for them to target you. You felt weak, you were weak, this was only proof enough. But you had saved him, if even for a second, and they would have thought you weak for that too. 

You could hear their laughs right behind your ears. You had not been facing the sky then, but you had hoped, their hands forcing your face into the dirt. Childish demon cruelty taken a step too far even in the eyes of the elders. It had taken you a long time to catch your breath then, your lungs never obeying you but it's another reason why they had believed you dead, the sudden stillness that had taken over your body as the pain made its way through you. You wondered if your angel felt that way now. Only you had been kind enough to let him see the sky before he slipped into unconsciousness. 

Because he had, as you regained your strength to look at him, eyes closed, breathing rapid and uneven. You had given him a chance and now you didn't know what to do with him. His wings were bent and broken. Hardly any feathers clinging to the frail bones they had been attached to. It would be hell to fix them, pain unimaginable to bind and snap them back into place, stitch them together, and pray for some way to make them better again. You stood over him, the white shirt that had once been billowing in the wind was now transparent and clinging to his skin, the thread strong and fine. 

When they had ripped your wings off you had nothing left to attach, not that you haven't tried, but alone with no help there was no way to reattach wings with your hands. No way to reach behind yourself except to feel the spots they had once been, the jagged scars still there now, the ghost pain of that day still shooting down your back every time you dreamt of that day. And on the worst days, you could imagine them still behind you, heavy and protective, enough to curl yourself into your personal space, alone in the dark velvet home you had been born with already built in. Wishing they were back was worse than knowing the pain of them being taken away. And even as a demon, you would not be so cruel as your brethren had been to leave you without so much as the one thing that should never be taken from a person, angel or not. 

You still had your embroidery kit, the soft bag had been tied to your finger the day they had ruined you. The thread was dark, dyed to match the rocky mountains you had been sewing into the fabric. You wonder if they had burned your work after you were gone. All the hard hours doing the thing that you had hoped would get you by in the underworld. People loved to be flashy, spend on extravagant things, and there had been nothing more extravagant than the garments you had embroidered. 

Tucked in the bottom of the small pouch was a thin sharp pair of scissors, the handle shaped like a bird, wings laid back with its beak glossed in gold. They had been a gift when you started to learn, your needles next to them clicking around, silver and all different sizes. Everything was so small, your only weapon that day as if it would hurt them. They Had been useless but they would be put to work now. He would need to be wiped of the sand before you went in and started to clean the wounds enough to see where you would have to help sew him back together. 

You had collected a fair amount of things having lived in the cave for so long, your stash that was similar to a magpies, pretty but never something you used. Sometimes you would find things and keep them just because you might want them because it was better having something over nothing. The crate of glass bottles filled with alcohol is one of those things. It had washed up on the beach after a ship had hit the rocks, too close during a storm to leave anyone alive in the mess. You had picked over the wreckage just as the carrion you were nicknamed after. Someone would have wanted it and so you had taken it just because of that fact, if the gold meant nothing to you but everything to another you would have it, as was your nature. Now you could use it, uncork the bottle, and pour it over his back if you could get him to roll over again. 

Kai did not see you move to the dark corner where your stash was hidden when he blinked himself awake. In his confusion his lungs still felt full, his throat constricting as if he was waking in the water and not beside it, choking because his mind was trying to catch up to his reality. He hurt all over, his chest and stomach scratched and burning, heavy with an ache of bruised ribs. His back was on fire, screaming at him, begging him to scratch and rip at the pain. It made him whimper, the only sound that could come out from his raw throat. 

He could not think past anything but the look of the sky above him and not behind him as he fell. And when you showed yourself, a bottle of clear liquor in one hand and a small pouch in the other, he believed you to be a human stumbling upon him on a lone beach. He had not seen many humans, accustomed to staying up in the heavens with his brethren. And how could he have known what you really were when you were wingless? You had not grown the horns that most of the demons possessed, you could feel the spot they must have wanted to sprout through if they had been given the chance, the area always colder than the rest of your scalp. It had been one of the things they had picked at when taking their dues. 

To them, you had been no demon without the markers they had been so used to seeing, your wings the only thing tying you down to their depths. Even your power had been faint, strong enough to only wave a candle's flame to life, no roaring forest fires and destruction.  To Kai, in that moment you were nothing more than a girl who looked like the saving grace he had been begging so fiercely for when falling. 

For an angel, his dark eyes cut through you like knives. You had not been looked at so intensely since the attack, people who caught a glance had known to keep going and turn away. This gaze was a line of glimmering hope that he had thrown around your shoulders tightening until it was nothing but a collar of expectations tugging you forward. You had been taught to crush looks that felt suffocating, praise broken bonds, and burnt bridges before ever letting someone take you for a helping hand and honest heart. “Do not look at me like I'm something to be thankful for,” 

It was not the first thing that he had expected you to say to him. Not when he was so close to thinking you to be some sort of angel like him without the matching wings. Your voice cut through him, sharp and demanding, nearly as painful as it had been to wake up like this. Everything was falling apart; his body, his grip, which he had believed to be tight, around his good faith in people. But you had pulled him out of the water and maybe he had come to expect too much from people. A package deal that had been wrapped up in the warped expectations of the angels. Not that most of them followed the rules, but it was better to hide behind the guise of kindness than the truth of wrongdoing and instinctual indifference. 

The fallen angel only blinked back at your words instead of taking them in, eyes softening at the realization that it had been you alone to pull him out, your chin still dripping with the saltwater that stung the open wounds on his back. He could not do anything but look at you thankfully because it was the only thing he could focus on feeling without turning back into a pit of despair that had let him give up the second he had hit the water. Thinking even about that second of thought that would have led to forever was nothing but crushing rocks landing on his back heavier than the wings still trying to hang on by nothing but thin ribbons of flesh. 

And in truth what the look did was make you nervous. Like some lone schoolgirl who couldn't be under the pressure of her class watching a presentation. It frustrated you to no end, twisting a bloody knuckled hand around your insides and tugging them down to your knees. He was in no way able to make a move to hurt you that you wouldn't see coming first. You knew the small cave better than anyone alive and he was weak, his hands opening and closing limply like the steady wings of a butterfly resting. And all his feeble voice could muster up in response was, “Thank you,” 

The words strung together felt like thrown stones hitting you one after the other. You had been kicked out of your home and told you were no more demon than the humans roaming the castles pretending to play ruler and kingdom. To be told thank you for saving anyone, or even more specifically an angel’s, life was the final nail in your coffin. Every last thing they had said to you as they ripped your wings from your shoulders buried deep enough to burn, those two words sprouting from the grave to show the fruits of your tormentor's labor. The final stamp to seal the truth of your wrongfulness. 

It would have been easier to kill him then, easier than having to hold him down as you tried to help him, and easier than pulling him up from the depths of the moon pool. But they had been right to call you a sympathizer, right in calling you weak because looking at him needing you it was impossible to turn him away. “I'm going to hurt you,” it was a warning bell, the echo of your voice mimicking the sound of some faint prophetic truth. It was not your intention to cause pain on him but the only way that you could help him. It was easier to confess to that than to say you would try and fix him. 

But Kai did not listen, he did not care if you hurt him so long as it made his mind stop working over his last thoughts. The blinking of tears the second he had been pushed had made him feel little again, a child wondering why bad things happened at all. Why would someone push him, why would someone rip his wings until they were nothing but dead weight trying and failing to hold on to their last breath, drowning him, pulling him under into nothing but darkness? He had been wronged more than he thought would ever happen to him and if those who claimed to be honest, kind people,were the ones who hurt him, what was there to believe when those claiming to hurt him had done nothing but pull him free from death? It was a mess of contradictions and his gut was not helping him pick sides. He was a mix of emotions that felt hollow like a long dead tree waiting for a victim to fall into and perish just the same. Being hurt meant nothing to a newly found desolate creature, betrayed, and seeking grace. 

And so he would let you hurt him because he had nothing to lose, no more to give but turn over and let you try whatever it was that you had planned to help fix him. It was like a mutual understanding had fallen over the two of you like a blanket. He saw the bottle in your hand and knew, watched your fingers as they pulled out the needle, watched the way the metal turned red and you started to heat it enough to sterilize it. It was then that he knew what you were. 

It did not make him cringe, not when he knew that to have a demon at his back was akin to death incarnate welcoming themselves to twist a knife right into his spine. He knew that there were hardly enough people on this island who would have helped him enough to the point that they wouldn’t have gotten ill at the sight of his blood. Demons had steady hands; they did not tremble and they did not cower away from gore. To have been stumbled upon by a demon as generous as you were was a blessing he could not fight back against. 

So he let you turn him over, your warm hands working to take off his shirt, cutting it away until it was nothing but scraps, his face pressed into the sand, the grains catching in his lashes. You were gentle with him, laying out his wings that had lost most of their feelings, numb all the way up until they hit the spots right where they were supposed to be connected. It was the only place he could feel the pain anymore, his lungs and throat secondary to the pain he was feeling right there at the root of him. If everyone else had worn their hearts on their sleeves angels had found a way to wear their hearts on their back, their life source, and now it was screaming at him. 

You picked over the scraps of his shirt, peeling away the thread in long stands, looping the thread around your fingers, and making a small ball for you to pull from as you worked. He kept his eyes closed, lashes laying so peacefully across his cheeks as if he was dreaming in the moonlight and not waiting for you to put him back together. There was no going back the second you started, not unless you picked him apart again just to see the way he looked again while hurt. The thought made you feel a bit sick. The intrusion of it is either your mind trying to work around the situation or your faint demon instinct kicking in, playing with the idea until you fall into the trap of it. 

But it was still enticing even if it was sickening. You were so alone and bored, with nothing to do and no one to see. You had been hurt and had not yet found the outlet for that pain even years later, this was the perfect opportunity and yet you could not bring yourself to do anything but cringe the second you straddled his back. Holding him down with the weight of you as you poured the liquor over his wounds and watched him writhe from the pain. There was little enjoyment to find here. 

Kai tried to keep his mouth shut nearly as tight as his eyes but the second the first wave of the anesthetic washed over him he could not help himself from screaming. It echoed around the cave, loud enough to find itself spilling from the cave's top entrance. If anyone had been walking around they would have run, believing some wolf had gotten too far from the woods and taken a victim. You did not try to shush him, just placed your warm palm in the center of his back and pushed him back down, trying to keep him still even if it was an impossible task at that point. 

Then the first stitch came. It was easier to hold back, easier to try and focus on anything else but the blinding pain he was feeling, it was something other than the emptiness settling over him. He could not think of anything good coming from this, could not see himself going home again, to see his friends, the ones who had pushed him, his mother, his sisters. There was nothing but shame and treachery. They would have welcomed him back even wingless but there was no way for him to ever feel at home again, not when he knew what it was like to be nothing but air and death. 

He did not care if he did not move from that spot, the sand the only thing grounding him as he sunk his fingers in curling them until he could feel nothing but his mind trying to work and count every grain he could imagine on his skin. It was nothing but a tactic to let the pain wash away for even a second. He didn't even realize he was crying until the wetness was making more sand stick to his cheek. The soft rumbling of his whimpers mixed in with the faint groans he would release after a particularly tender part of the stitching. 

“You are very lucky to have me, when they took my wings I had nothing to do but bury the one they had left hanging. I don't know what it had looked like but I do know that it felt like this,” you were muttering, talking to yourself and letting the words come out without a filter just as you did when he hadn't been here. “I would have wanted even the one to be stitched back but I remember the pain and I'm-” The word sorry was not one that came from you often or at all, there was little you could do but say it now but still your throat caught. “I would not wish it on anyone,” 

Your fingers worked fluently, picking up the memory of the old stitches you had perfected long ago in a life you did not care to remember. This was nothing but an old way of passing time that you had practiced over and over again. You had never stitched up flesh and blood but it was no different now than it had been then. In a way, it was a comfort you should not have found in the task but it was impossible not to. 

“I do not know how well this will work but I will try,” his wings, covered in sparse feathers, twitched every once in a while as you carefully threaded your needles, tightening the stitches and watching the way the wings came back to life like a marionette doll pulled at its strings. It was hope and nothing more. 

Kai couldn't grit out any more words, the sound of your voice washing over him like a balm but nothing more. He wanted to hate you but knew it was necessary to feel this way when it came to pain. They had told him never to bite the hand that fed him but this was a forceful hand coming out to get him, twisting its fingers in his hair and pushing his face in the dirt until it was nothing but a given that he had to eat whatever it was that was handed to him. But he listened, taking in each word and trying to keep them as close as he could get them. 

Tried to imagine you with dark wings at your back. The silky feathers always shined so nicely in comparison to his white ones. His wings had looked plush and downy, nothing like the oily temptation of the demons. But he could not get the image around his head, could not see what it looked like any more than what it would look like to go home again. It was with you in his mind that he passed out, eyes closing until there was nothing but peaceful darkness where he had no reason to think of hurtful homecomings and angels dressed as death. 

You noticed almost as soon as he fell into the pain. Body going slack underneath you, all of his muscles loosening before he was nothing but twitching nerve ends from each insertion of the needle. It was not delightful work but clean and concise, the expert precision of a fiber works artist long since skilled in their field. Every so often your fingers struggled to keep hold of the slipping needle, the tips of each digit dipped in crimson as you went on with your task. And even as he lay there you went on with your muttering. “We will have to look for more feathers, only a few fell in here, I still have a couple but I don't know how well you will feel looking spotted like a pigeon,” 

For a long time, you had been sick at the sight of the clutch of feathers that you had kept from your wings long gone. It had been nothing but pain to see them, the sight cutting into you like a knife just sharpened on a whetstone. You had wanted to bury them right along with the wing you had put to rest, ripped the rest of the way from your back from your own hands, and yet you couldn't part with them just as you couldn't let go of the needles from your past life. 

Helping him right now, pinching skin to pierce through and thread, felt like it was somehow stitching up a bit of yourself. You acted fast almost as soon as he was out of the water because it was the way you would have wanted someone to help you. Without discrimination, just understanding. They had given you no chance and if you could not give it to yourself you would give it to someone not far off from you. Because you knew what it was like to live here stuck wingless with nothing to do but try not to rot like some discarded apple. It had taken everything in you to help yourself once you had let go of your past life. The feeling was nothing like you had ever felt before. 

It was emptiness, no more and no less, just an expanse of nothingness that unraveled the farther and farther you went into the recesses of your mind. To pull yourself from that pit and find some kind of routine was nothing short of a miracle. But if someone had been waiting here, even if they didn't pull you out of the water but took the wing you had and gave you the hope to live with that once comfort would have been better than nothing. Even if he didn't have full control over his wings like before he would still have his childhood home still there right at his back protecting him when no one else had. If you could give him that it was enough. 

But then when the sewing was done there was nothing to do but let him rest. The work you had done was as neat as it could be, the prickling skin around the base of each wing would hold steady and let the skin heal. You stood looking over him, sleeping with his soft cheek on the sand, his hair once wet now dry and resting against his sleeping brow. Angelic was the only word that would surface and it felt silly to attach something so obvious to him. He was nothing but angelic down to the bone; to his blood. But even still freckled in dried blood and his half-feathered wings you could tell it was written all over him fallen or not. 

You had seen little of the angels when growing up but occasionally they made a pass over the moonpool's mouth. Their bell-like laughter twinkled like the stars in the night that they flew with. They had seemed so far off and distant. But what you had been told about them was that they were nothing but selfish and self-righteous. Underneath the beauty was callous arrogance, they helped others but only if they had already achieved more and found that they could take the last step without them. Take help but never give credit unless it is beneficial to them to say, drop everything to look good, or fend for themselves. 

They had said all demons had shared blood with the angels, until one was banished, the bitterness infecting their souls until their wings turned ebony with rage and the promise of revenge. The story had been on your mind the second they had picked on you for being weak, wondering if somehow your blood had run thin and showed assets of your long since dead ancestors who had seen the heavens and walked with wings of ivory at their backs. Because although you found yourself thinking cruel things you did not dream to be a cruel person. 

So you cleaned him up as best you could, cleaning the blood from your hands and his back, taking the time to take your wet cloth over his feathers to try and clean them as best as you could. You watched his wings twitch in response every so often but he did not stir, there was little you could do in terms of his pain, little more you could do if he found himself with an infection. You could hardly keep yourself alive in the space, you don't get many fish unless you make it out to the beach at night, or find a rabbit in the woods easy enough to catch with a trap. Two mouths to feed was a limit you would have to push yourself to reach. 

But it was something you would think about in the morning, not when the sun was gone and the cave was dark enough that the only thing you could see was the faint glow of the moonpool. The water reflected onto the walls of the cave, washing everything in an eerie blue hue that minced what it would have looked like if you plunged in and swam with the sea folk. It was one of the few beautiful things you could indulge in and yet now you could add to the list because you had him to look at. 

Without turning your back to him you found your usual spot against the wall, the perfect place so that it was just hidden in the dark with the view to see the ceiling's entrance. There was nowhere else to look with him blocking the water as you lay down, back pressed up against the smooth stone wall, washing your heated skin with the faint coolness it had been seeking. You traced the lines of his sleeping face, scared to fall asleep with him so close. Wishing that in that moment you had your own wings to wrap you up, block you from the fear of waking up with him so near with nothing but questions and demands. 

You curled up with your small blanket, tucking it under your chin keeping the angel in sight. It was only when your lashes were fluttering closed that you noticed his eyes start to peek open. He only blinked faintly, a tremble starting in his arms but he was unable to move them. Kai felt weak, drained of everything, vision blurry with the sight of you lying down in the blue darkness. 

Whatever fear you had before was slowly washing away with the look of pain written all over him. He had no way of hurting you when he could hardly breathe properly from the pain. “What is your name?” you could not keep calling him the angel in your head or out loud. 

Your whisper carried in the room and he closed his eyes at the sound, it had been what he had heard before he passed out and it only made his mind feel at ease, something to grab onto in the pain. “Huening kai,” it was low and the only thing in the whole room besides the two of you. 

“You need to rest Kai, tomorrow we have to look for any feathers that may have dropped around the beach or the woods,” but Kai didn't care about that, not when he was still trying to find more of you to hold onto. 

“What’s-” he couldn't think of the rest of the sentence, not until it was tumbling into him like the rocks off the side of a cliff. He wanted to know your name and hold onto it so he could attach it to the thoughts and memories he was building of you in his head. “What's your name?” He was looking through his lashes only able to keep his eyes open the smallest bit because even that had felt like it took too much energy, the small twitches of his fingers taking most of the rest of his will. 

For a second you could not remember what you had been called before you were just you, because in here, alone, no one asked and no one cared. But it came back to you like the moon had come back each night, there was no forgetting it even if it sounded foreign on your tongue after so many years. Saying it, Kai could hear how unsure you felt until you repeated it again for him. 

So that's how he said it in his head, the slight second between the two the repentance following the state of his mind, that question lingering at the last syllable, and the sigh of content following the tail end when he said it again. So he let it go over and over in his head, counted the letters like sheep jumping over him, letting the thought of you lull him back to sleep instead of the pain. And you followed right after him, sleeping fitfully because every time you heard a small hitch in his breathing you had to make sure he was still alive. Make sure that your effort has not gone to waste. 

And he did live through the night and with your aid you helped him sit up in the morning. Watching him ball his fist and rub at his cheek to rid it of the sand that had built up. He looked like a cherub fallen to the stone and looking up in the foreground of the painting waiting for someone to notice his absence. Because all he could think about was if anyone missed him, if they knew what had happened to him and how he had been pushed instead of just caught in some wind he could not find control in as if he was little and learning to use his wing again. They must have said something, maybe they had blamed a demon for what had happened. 

But now with your eyes on him, watching him as you made to clean his back again, checking if in the night there was no more redness or sign of illness, he could not think to see a demon the same again. Here you were being a complete contradiction to everything he had ever been told in his life. Demons were nothing but troublemakers who thought nothing about others. They kept to themselves and made fun by bringing people down. There was no room for him to think about how good a demon could be to anyone let alone an angel like him. 

Sitting up, letting your warm hands look over his back, he wanted to lean into the touch, let you care for him until he could find a way to fly right out of here. There was no way that he could repay you for something like this, nothing for him to do but sit in the silence you had built around you. But he wanted to break it, crack against the hold that the stillness had over him, and scream at the top of his lungs and curse the heavens even if he had forgiven them for so much already. 

He did not know if he deserved what had happened to him but he understood that it had happened and there was nothing for him to do but take it. Cursing and screaming would do nothing but make him bitter and bitterness took too much from the soul, it drained people and he needed all the energy he could get. “Thank you,” it was again the only thing that he could think to say. 

“I told you it would hurt,” because every brush of your fingers to check your work was making him suck in the air between his clenched teeth, the sound fast and snakelike. 

“Would there have been another way to do it without pain?” it was nothing but a question to poke fun. Kai wanted to lighten the mood but it did not help the situation. 

“Do you think my kind would have taken it if so?” you didn't care to look at his blinking reaction, because as much as he knew you were his only option he still held some kind of grudge against demons. It was written all over his face and you didn't even have to see it to know. It shut kai up in a slip second of shame for thinking the instant no. 

“You're helping me nonetheless,” his hand reached across his body to press at his shoulder, delicate fingers so close to the torn flesh. 

You waved his hand away, “don't touch it, the worst thing would be an infection,” 

“The worst thing would be to lose them all together,” he did not say it to be mean or pick at you, he was not like your kind in that way where they know the thing that would tear you down and pick that option every time. No, he was just stating his truth and he was not lying. Infection could be helped but losing them would be closer to death. It was nothing but words but it made your back burn. 

You had heard of ghost limbs, the feeling of a hand still being there after it had been cut clean off. People believed they could scratch the limb if they thought hard enough to get rid of the feeling. You didn't know how real the feeling would be until you were there with your wing buried in the woods, the other long lost and tossed in a fire if you knew how any of them would have cleaned up the mess they made. If anything was to tear into you it was that first night where everything ached. Your back where the scabs started to turn to scars began to itch and the feeling traveled down to where there was nothingness but the hope of where your wings would resprout if that was ever an option. You wanted to wrap them around you and wished if you felt the ghost of anything it would be the home they had helped you feel but all you had felt was pain. A pain you could not help because there was nothing to do but let it work its way through your system. The pain was not an itch; not so easily taken care of. 

“That would be horrible and if you don't listen to me they will be gone, keep your hand away,” you left no room for argument in your tone and Kai listened. He curled his hand into a fist and sat it in his lap. “Today we will let the area breathe and while I’m out we can get whatever we need to make a salve to help the healing process,” Kai nodded knowing that you were right. He didn't even have the first thought of where to start to find out how to help himself. 

“Can you try and pull your wing in,” you didn't want to push him so early but you needed to know if it was worth the trip to even go out and look for feathers if he could not use them. 

For Kai, it felt like an impossible question to answer. He felt distant from his heart back, like he was cut in half but then he felt your fingertips, the feeling of them dragging along the edge of his wings, tracing the span of them and following the curve. “Can you feel that?” This was easier because it was the only thing he could focus on. The heat of you was constant, radiating from your body onto his like a blanket he wished he could pull in closer. 

“Yes,” it was shallow as he followed the feeling in his mind. He had never been sensitive to touch on his wings, he knew others could feel any brush of their feathers but he felt nothing until now. If he had lost the ability to fly he had gained the ability to have sensation right along the spot he feared he would lose anyway. 

You curled your fingers around the top of his wings slowly following the natural way they folded into themselves and helped him push them close to his back. Kai groaned but it was not as horrible as he expected it to be. With your help, he found whatever connection he had lost because now he could keep them pulled in without your help. But you still helped to tuck the other one close just as neatly, checking around his stitches to make sure they could handle the movement without being impossibly stiff. 

The sight made you clench your jaw. Jealousy had not been a familiar feeling here but it was alive and well now. But it did not matter, you could be jealous and still help him. But you had to get up and turn away, busy yourself with finding your own feathers, the ones you kept at the bottom of your stash of things, making sure they didn't accidentally get seen by you when you didn't want the reminder. 

It had felt easy to say you would give them to him in the moment but the second you pushed aside the spare clothes you had and laid eyes on them it was like saying you would clip off your fingers and let him use them on his own hands. You let the stack of clothes fall right back into place, picking up the loose shirt you could find that would button over him. He would have to wear it backwards because it was not made with wings in mind but there was nothing else for you to do unless he wanted to walk around shirtless. 

But Kai was thankful pushing his arms through the sleeves and leaving the buttons for you to do up for him. You made sure to keep yourself from brushing him accidentally, no need to touch him more than you needed to as you secured the fabric around him. But Kai instantly missed your warmth the second you pulled away. 

“The only way out is up but it's nothing too bad, you only need to raise your arms about this high,” you demonstrated, “it's mostly leg work,” 

“You want me to leave?” he didn't know why it was the first thing he would think, you had just told him about collecting materials to help him but as soon as the words left your mouth all he could think was no don't kick me out don't push me like them, as if you could hear him you shook your head. 

“Do angels only sit around when faced with adversity or do they get up and work?” you slung your bag over your shoulder, slipping both arms in to have it securely against your back. When going out it was the only thing that felt comfortable enough to have at your back when you had little else. “If you want to stay, I say we work together to make sure that we can keep you here for a bit longer, but I cannot do everything and you cannot stay forever. Tonight we only need a few things,” 

“Okay,” Kai stumbled to stand, feeling unstable and wobbly enough to reach out for the walls to hold him up. 

“You can stay here for tonight, rest more if you're not up for it,” 

“No,” it was a slight snap back against the way he was feeling. It was not only because he was feeling weak but because he did not like to sit around doing nothing, he did not want to wait for you to come back or worse wait and think that you were never coming back for him. He's sure that is something a demon would do, leave him here without help just to see how long he would stay without the help. But he was thinking badly because he didn't want to face his own truth, “I need to do something,” anything would be better than sitting around and thinking up ways to hate you over nothing at all. Because there was nothing to hate you over, you had done nothing that would make him hate you but the longer he stayed up with his thoughts they seemed to poison the image of you slowly. And he could not do that to his savior. 

“Fine, you can go first so that I can make sure you don't fall back,” and you had been telling the truth about the way out, the grooves of the walls made perfect spaces for his feet to fit. Only after a few steps up did he have to raise his arms to try and hold himself steady as he kicked his feet out the top of the opening. It was only possible because the side you had set him to get out of was shorter than the rest of the jagged ring of rocks forming the entrance of the cave. And as soon as he was out it was easy to sit and rest with his legs dangling into the open mouth as if he would just jump right into the water he had nearly died in. 

You had no trouble pulling yourself up and out, the rock smoothed down from the amount of time that you had made the trip up even if you avoided it most times. “There is no other way in or out?” Kai asked as you showed him the way down to the grassy underbrush. 

“You could swim in and out, it's not very practical but it's better that way if you want to make sure no one sees you coming in. But I don't think that would be good for you and you have to hold your breath for a long while,” Kai could not think about what it would be like to go back into the water after yesterday, he's sure he would instantly imagine himself drowning again. 

Instead, he focused on following you and your steps through the thick mess of trees surrounding the spot where you had made your home. Distantly he could hear the sea, the soft crashing of waves on the shore lightening as the two of you went until he saw the first blood-dotted feather. 

His wings twitched at the sight, the soft white tucked in between the branches and leaves of a tree. He was silent as he watched you pluck it between your fingers, reaching it like you were picking up a gold coin found on heads for luck. “You will tell me eventually why it is you fell from the heavens won't you?” he watched you twist the feather, examining the dark dried crimson stains. 

“There is little of a story there,” he was clenched all over, fists and jaw tight as you held the feather out for him to take, “you hold it,” he jutted his chin out, the only movement he could bring himself to make or else he would fall apart. 

Kai had gone through many feathers of different sizes growing up. Preening them and feeling grateful to have grown fully so that they did not fall out as often as they had when growing from downy softness to strong enough to let him fly. But it was different to see them like this. He knew they should not be in your hand, or even his. They should not be spread around the woods like bunches of snow that had not yet melted with the coming spring. But it was as if the longer he looked out over the expanse of woods in front of the two of you the more speckles of white he caught mixed in with all the green. 

He was frozen in his spot, stuck just looking out at all the pieces of himself spread out like nothing more than a chess board thrown to the ground, with no intention of being picked up after a soiled game. You could see in him the same kind of evil that was in you twisting itself around your brain the second you moved that stack of clothes and saw your own feathers. When you were young they meant nothing because they had always been there but once it started to go away, once it was nothing more than a pile in front of you it made you feel small and insignificant. 

“When they first ripped my wing it didn't hurt like I had imagined it would have,” you had been frozen, stuck like a kitten who had been picked up by the scruff of its neck. You had looked up with eyes that nearly rolled in your skull the second you realized what had happened. How could you not have felt something so huge? Maybe it was because you could not see it, your mind not catching up with your body until seconds later and it was all you could think to feel. There had been blood, slick down your back and on your fingers as you reached to try and hold onto anything that was left. “For a second you almost think you can fly away from the pain,” 

Kai watched your eyes go unfocused, lost in a thought that had been his reality just the day before. It was almost as if he could feel that foot pressed right into his back again. His ‘friend’ with the heel of his boot cutting into Kai’s spine. He had asked him to look out over the edge of the last cliff, claiming to have seen carrion flying around too close for comfort. It was only a second, looking over the edge so high up he knew that if he flew down and caught the wind that it would be a rush he could never replicate. 

The boot had been nothing but a second before his hands had been on his wings pulling them back until that sickening crunch and tear. It had happened so fast kai had felt nothing until it was all too late. 

“There is always a story and you don't have to tell me yours but know that if I could get revenge on the ones who took my ability to fly, I wouldn't hold back from repeating over and over the same pain they inflicted on me,” you tucked his feather into your bag, “they wouldn't think twice about you so don't give them the grace of never speaking up for what they did to you,” 

“You’d think that because you're a demon,” and for the first time Kai saw you crack a smile, a twisted tarnished thing. 

“We are not too different, the only thing that sets us apart is you thinking you are any better than me. You forget we both woke up in that cave only I was alone and you had me, and how lucky for you that I'm nice and don't just build you up to pull you right back down again,” you turned walking because you needed the distance, “go back if you can't see that we are the same,” 

“My first thought wouldn't have been to hurt someone I helped,” Kai kept pace with you, watching you pick up each one of his feathers as you went. 

“Just because I say I resist hurting you physically does not mean that what you say or think cannot hurt me. You want to freely throw your judgment around and stick a label onto me, reducing me to nothing but blood I did not ask to be born with and still you cannot see how we are exactly the same. We are only doing the same thing in different seasons, only one of us is plain as day and the other is hidden behind some thick smokescreen allowed in whatever game we have found ourselves,”  he could tell there was no room for argument with you. Set in some demon way that made you want to burn instead of heal. But even he knew he was just being bitter, proving you right even if he didn't say it out loud. 

He was grateful and he was upset, he had been a pot of water his whole life and it had never been set above a fire until right now and the bubbling was unwelcome and made him itch all over. He didn't see the reason for revenge when there was no way for him to get back up to the heavens without walking up the stairs and that would feel more shameful than coming back wingless. The only thing he could feel about the topic was that if it had been him or you he's not too sure that it would have been him you would have picked to help. But even he couldn't hide from the truth of wanting to pick himself every time. 

So he kept his mouth shut knowing there was nothing he could say that would make him look better and nothing he could say to make you look worse because faintly you were right about the both of you being so similar. He followed you like a lost puppy, watching you pick over the brush, collecting pieces of him until you found every part of the set to make enough of a picture. You were careful with them, fitting them all together in a neat stack and wrapping a loose string of thread around them to keep them from spilling all over again. 

By the time you two had combed most of the area, the sun was setting into nothing but stars. Two handfuls of feathers and a pit in Kai’s stomach made for little conversation. Keeping his eyes on his footfalls he did not see what it was that made you tense up until it was right there burning in the distance. 

A little ball of fire, dancing seemingly above nothing but the air. A Willo-the–wisp, bright enough to feel like a beacon one could not turn to look away from. But you hissed at the thing, reaching down to pick up a rock, smooth in your palm before you threw it. “Hey!” Kai's voice echoed in empty woods, previously the only sound heard was his crunching footsteps. Your years of walking down here had taught you how to keep yourself light as you made a journey this far out from your home. “See only proving my point, hurting things without reason, what did they ever do to you?” 

But you didn’t feel like explaining yourself to him, it felt silly to believe in rumors about the little creatures but it was impossible not to feel conflicted about bad signs when your life had been full of misfortune.  “Its bad luck to see them,” 

“Well it showed up there was no need to throw a rock at it, bad luck or not it was given the second it popped up,” his statement made you roll your eyes. What was there to do but watch the flame snuff out? It felt better to make the flame extinguish the second you saw it as if they were the thing that leached luck from you the longer they stayed around.  

“I'm not going to sit and let the death promiser dance around and curse me, or you for that matter, I don't know how I would pull your corpse from the cave if you were to die from the infection they wanted to warn you about,” you watched his face pale, your eyebrows lifting letting it known that you had seen that you had won written on him, “see, so let me throw stones, I'm doing it for both of us even if you don't believe it,” 

“It's only an omen, it doesn't mean anything real,” but he was trying to convince himself to fear the little flame, small and weak enough to be taken out by nothing but a pebble. 

“You know we have people who read the stars? Creatures deep in the sea, the woods, the kingdom, even your precious sky. They all have stories and folklore that came from some kind of truth,” you picked up another stone in case you saw another little flame lingering around not wanting to risk a sighting even if you could help it. 

“How are you planning on getting the feathers back on?” Kai wanted anything else but to talk about being the same or not, about folklore and truth. He was tired and didn't want to think about anything else besides what was supposed to come next. 

“Wax, I have lots of candles stored up that will do, if I get the layers thin enough it shouldn't weigh you down. It's also soft enough so that it won’t restrict any growth when they start to grow back,” it felt far away to think about having to go through the process of aging all over again, he had been through the phase of watching his feathers transition he did not want to wait again. The wax would give him an option, anything that would help to keep him from feeling as if he fell so far back from everything he had ever known. 

He wonders if you had thought through the same things with your wings before it was too late. If the idea for the wax had come before or after you buried your last option. He did not think it would be okay to ask that, not when you were helping him already. Demons being fickle was not uncommon; he wouldn't be surprised that you tossed him aside for something new to tinker with if given the option. Rather he gets as much information for you on how to help himself before you leave him with nothing at all. 

You showed him the way back up and down into the cave and for a sickening second, he thought you would push him while he looked for a way to make it down without landing in the water. Your hand had been on his back to steady him and yourself on the edge together. His flinching from your touch only registered as pain and not fear. You jumped down angeling yourself so that you landed right at the edge of the water and you looked up, stepping out of the way waiting for him to follow your lead. 

Kai pushed himself down feeling nothing but air for only a second but it was a second too long. He stumbled as soon as his legs hit the ground, leaning back and looking at you for a sickening moment before he was ready to accept falling back into the water, but you reached out making a fist in his shirt as his arms waved trying to find something to hold onto. The heels of his feet almost tipped him into the water, his wings shuddering and trying to pull in closer, hiding back away as if they could when this damaged. The buttons on the back started to pop with the strain of his weight and he had to reach out for you, hands wrapped around your forearm as you pulled him back to the safety of the sand. 

“You're very clumsy on your feet,” you muttered, pulling yourself away from him and his tight grasp. He was embarrassed but only because he was washed in fear and being caught for it on his face. 

“There was not one time you fell while jumping down?” he waved at the short distance that was available for him to land. 

“Once or twice but you get used to the angle and learn,” you don't put your bag down, not when you have to turn around to look for your candles, keeping your back covered even if now you knew he would do little to hurt you physically. Everything you had picked up from your conversations and just watching him walk around made you realize just how his label fits him so well. He had been more upset over the will-o-the-wisp than his own ruining. But it still didn't make you drop your guard. 

Finding your stack of candles you tucked them under your arm and turned to find Kai sitting in the sand all over again, looking out at the water and watching the way it swayed. He traced the dark outline of the opening leading out to the sea, hardly noticeable if you hadn't said there was a way out before. He would have believed there was only the two of you and not the world's ocean just a few feet away from him. So much just inches away from his tomb that he believed he would have been stuck in until someone found his heavy lead-lined bones. 

“We don't have to do it tonight if you don't want to,” your voice was soft as if you knew he was stuck in some darkness in his mind, struggling against the hold of some blanket of depression he had thrown over himself and couldn't find his way out of. “It would be better too because we need the light and I can hardly make a fire big enough to produce enough,” 

Light, once so easy to produce on the edge of his fingertips, wasted power on his childhood innocence trying to find ways to light up his bedroom when he was supposed to be sleeping. It had been easy back then and now sitting here wanting to get it all over with he couldn't get up enough energy to heat his skin. He was cold all over, blood leached, and hollow. Lifting his palm he focused in on his hands, the soft ridges tracing around the center supposed to be the lifeline or so he had been told. That was where he had always watched the light come from first, starting right at his wrist and working its way up curving between his thumb and pointer finger before it was nothing but light held in his hand like he had caught a star. 

Now it was nothing. Not a flicker of illumination nor a hum of warmth. He balled his fist clenching until he felt his nails digging into his supposed lifeline wishing that if he squeezed hard enough he could find a single drop of anything left in him. And still nothing. Not even enough to help him now when he wanted it, needed it most. “Tomorrow,” the word was a bitter thing, in his chest and making it sound rough with hatred. 

“It takes a bit to get back,” you tried not knowing why you didn't just curl up in your spot and wait for the rest of the sun to set so that you could sleep. Ignore him and his well-deserved mood. But you had done the same thing, sitting in the dark trying to make even the smallest flame and nothing would come, “I was never the best at lighting anything on fire, not even the blades of dry grass they let the little ones practice with,” 

Kai listened, watching you from the corner of his eye as you took a seat next to him, legs crossed just like his, your knee so close to hitting against him he could feel the heat from it. “I should have known then that I wasn't like the rest of them, tailless, hornless, powerless,” you gave a dry humorless laugh, fiddling with the candle sticks you had, letting them spill into your lap picking one only one up and examining the wick. He traced the side of your face, following the bridge of your nose right till the end and watching you blow so softly it wouldn't have taken down the light of a birthday candle. 

But a flame bloomed, catching on the wick, and dancing in the coming darkness. It lit up the features of your face, your eyes shining in the light as you watched the small reflection of your power. You had little to give, children had been playing with fire long since they were learning to crawl and you had only come to master a few tricks. “The only thing that had labeled me a demon were my wings, and they had been…” the edge of your lips wobbled, your jaw clenching closed at the itching in your throat as if this was even too much to say to him. “They had been beautiful,” it was said just as softly as the exhale you had done to light the candle, hardly there and weak. 

“I didn't even care about the fire, anyone can light a match or strike flint and create a spark. But…” 

“Not everyone can fly,” he could feel the way you struggled to say it as if it was traveling from his mind to yours. In the firelight he watched the tear fall, tacking down your cheek faster than you could wipe it away. But you caught it erasing it as if that would take your feelings away from you as if it would keep those intrusive memories from surfacing. Because no one would know how it felt to be that high, physically and mentally, unless they had been up there with you catching air with a laugh bubbling up from your chest like it was coming from a faucet that could never be turned off. 

You blew out the candle, sticking it in the sand and pushing yourself to stand, letting the rest of the candlesticks stay laid out for tomorrow. “Don't worry about what you don't have just yet and be thankful for what you're still holding onto. I'm going to bed.” No more was needed to be said when the two of you both knew it hurt too much to find yourself in the mix of confessions and shared sympathy. So you tossed your bag to the side, turning your back to the wall and closing your eyes so that you couldn't look at the blessing you had given him and hadn't received from anyone else. 

But it was incredibly hard, there was nowhere to look except him or the back of your eyelids and all you could see when you closed your eyes was the vision of you in the sky. It ached to remember and the pain was fresh looking at his new stitches that you had done even with his wings pulled in and sparse of feathers. Because he sat there at the edge of the water trying and failing to open his wings up again without your help this time. 

He could tell they were stiff and he was unfamiliar with the feeling. Before it had been second nature, his wings moving as his lungs did without the need for his mind but now that he focused on them it was like they couldn't work and wouldn't unless he focused on not paying any mind to them. But it was hard to do that when his healing stitches were itching and he was told over and over again by you not to touch them. So he sat there watching the water with his back to you as if that would keep him accountable for not messing up your hard work. 

All that was keeping him up was the promise of tomorrow when the sun would come out and you would help him put his feathers back even if he felt that it wouldn't work. In a way he worried it was too unnatural to work, that somehow it would just fail because it was not right, the wind would not agree and still, if it did work he had no intentions of going home. To go back with wings made of nothing but wax and thread felt like a lie of himself. Some imposter trying to pass as himself to fit back into the same life he had before. But with his wings stuck together like a forged abomination felt like he was never going to find himself comfortable there again. 

He didn't care if they took him in as he was, whispered behind his back, because he knew they would, and let him pretend that everything was the same when it so clearly was not. He knew little of the world below and even less of the world below that one from where you came from, leaving home would be an adjustment but necessary. He just needed his wings healed enough to hide them back inside of him wherever it was they unfurled from when he wanted them. It had been uncomfortable back in the heavens because there was no need to hide who you were. He would have to get used to the feeling but it would not be something as horrible as this ache was now. 

It wasn't until the morning, the sun just peeking over the edge of the cave's mouth that he realized he had not gotten any sleep at all. He listened to the water, the chitter of the animals in the distant woods, and the sound of your easy breathing while you dreamt. He wondered if you would have dreams of flying, if they hurt just as bad as the pain of knowing you never would fly again but he knew they must have been tethered feelings; unable to have one without the other. 

He pictured you over and over again in his head. Imagined you with your wings of night in the air next to him, that laugh you had turned his way unlike the one he heard but one he wished you would give him so that he would know something in his dream would be real. This laugh was somewhere caught between a giggle and a sprinkle of light from his fingertips. He locked in on thinking of the laugh over the feeling of flying because it was impossible to not hurt when thinking of the air. But you, thinking of you, felt safe even if it was some kind of hope caught in a dream. 

Because you would never fly again he knew that much because you were so certain of it. He had known of people who wanted to mimic the feeling of flight. Making things out of clockwork and magic as if it would help them but that felt worse than having to go home stitched up. To walk in with wings not even close to the ones you owned, or were born with, felt like the worst kind of death. You wouldn't have even known that you had died, that the only thing keeping your body animated and moving were the strings of your delusion tied so tight around your joints that you never got a chance to look down and realize this was not you at all. 

So he tried to grasp that laugh because it was the only thing that felt close to real; the only thing that felt close to happening at all even with all the distant hope he was supposed to be having. And when you woke you could see it all over him, the failure written on every inch of him. It fueled an anger you had not felt in years, the simmering pot inside you turned up to boiling over nothing more than an empty glance. 

You kept to yourself, let him stay seated by the water, and went about to find the two of you food. And it wasn't until the two of you had eaten that you set into getting yourself ready for the long days work waiting for you. Candle in hand you watched him look back out over the water and you couldn't take it anymore. Kicking at the sand you watched the grains puff up in a plume around his legs his hands waving away the dust, brows scrunched as he scowled at you, “Stop looking as if I'm a failure already,” 

“I didn't say anything,” but he knows what you're talking about, the thought had infected him and was spreading as rapidly as the infection you had warned him would happen if he touched his back. 

“You didn't have to say anything, trust me if saving your life meant little to me I wouldn't have done it in the first place, I wouldn't waste my time,” you grab the handfuls of feathers, his eyes locking in on them in hand. 

“You have nothing better to do,” he didn't mean to say it but it was true he felt it and it made him believe it was the only reason why you were helping him. Because you were bored here, sitting in a cave doing nothing that he could see because there was nothing to do but sit. He had made it so that you had something to do. In a moment you would turn him away and tell him not to come back, to find someone else willing to help him. But you wouldn't let him give up on you. 

“No, I don't but I could have done anything else besides this. Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,” but Kai’s scowl was back and it was better than seeing him feel nothing at all. 

“Why would you say that? You know what it's like-” 

“Exactly why would I help you for nothing at all but boredom? I wouldn't help if I didn't want to see you succeed, I wouldn't be doing this at all I would have let you die. So stop wasting my limited kindness and accept my effort without believing it will lead to nothing but failure,” 

“You would do that, wouldn't you?” because it had caught on him, the idea of being watched as he fell again by someone who would enjoy it. Unlike the first time, it would be worse, he would never come back from that fall, because even if he had forgiven the person who had pushed him he had known the second he felt their foot on his spine that it had been out of pure evil, if it were you doing all this just to watch him fail again it would be worse and there would be no forgiveness. “Build me up only to prove I should never fly again,” 

“You are incredibly cynical,” you blow on your candle, watching the flame heat the ivory colored wax so close to matching the color of his feathers. “Did you ever think that maybe I want you to succeed? That it would help me see you make it out of here more yourself than I ever would have left this place?” you stand behind him, pushing back the first row of feathers as gently as you can before placing the feather over the node you knew a new one would find to grow. You tilt the candle just enough until the wax drips, translucent dots pattering around the area as you watch the way they dry the color blending in perfectly. You let the feather go watching the way it sticks and stayed in place, right where it looked like it had never been gone. 

Kai could not feel the process, not when he was lost in his thoughts. He tried to separate the knowledge of you being a demon away from the proof he had of you being nothing more than someone who was lost. The two could be synonymous is what he reminds himself over again. He had his back to you and was hoping you wouldn't shove a knife right through him but that didn't mean he wasn't worried. 

He did not bring up his thoughts again, he let you work and passed himself off as being hopeful when it was the last thing he felt he was. He was grateful that you cared enough to try even if he believed you had ulterior motives but he would not say out loud that he had any hope when it was not true and if it was it felt wrong to jinx it. 

And so you worked, the slow repetitive motions evening out your heartbeat. And even when the wax fell to your fingers you did not flinch, taking the slight burn and continuing. Even Kai did not back away from the fallen wax when the sparse drops landed on his back. Anything was better than the pain he had felt before and now this felt pleasant, trembling from the shock the first time and accepting any other spot that made itself known to him. 

Then the two of you began to talk, small things that felt so insignificant when you were alone. His first question filled up the silence, “What's your favorite color?” you had not been asked in years something so lighthearted, there was no need to have a favorite when you wouldn't seek it out. 

“I don't know,” you had shrugged, dripping the wax over the next feather in the lineup. By midday, you had done one whole wing. The way the feathers overlapped made it so that you never even saw the wax since most of the top feathers had stayed in place. 

“You don't know? How could you not know your favorite color?” It was hard to explain to him how it didn't matter because Kai would take nothing short of an answer he saw as being good enough. He asked again, asked what it had been like when you were a child, and he listened as you tried to explain.  Answering his own questions and trying to take everything off his mind besides you and who you were. 

He asked you everything and anything he could think of until it was too late and the only thing he could think about was the fact you had stopped and were looking over his stitches again. “Is it bad?” 

“No,” it was the opposite of bad, he healed exceedingly fast because of his angel blood, the once torn flesh already looking a day away from having the stitches removed. “It's doing well, but I ran out of feathers for your right wing,” 

“Oh,” he felt like he had been deflated, his shoulders already bent forward so that you could have the best access to his back and he did not think he could sag anymore, yet he did. Periodically as you added more feathers in you would tap your wax-coated fingertip against his spine asking him to stretch his wings out. In the length of a day, he felt stronger and more like himself as the time passed. He could hold the weight of his wings up fine even with the thread still pulling him together bit by bit. And now he couldn't even finish what had been started. 

You had not thought before you spoke up next, the words spilling out as easily as the continued answers to his constant questions, “I still have a few from my wings if you don't mind the color,” but once it was said it felt right. You had no need for the feathers anymore, the only thing they did was bring you pain. They should have been buried right along with the rest of your wing and now you knew that there was some reason out there why you had kept them besides the reminder of a painful past. If they could help it felt right just as it felt right the second you pulled him out of the moon pool. You could give them up because in some way healing him was healing you. What better than to let your feathers fly again when you could not? 

And Kai did not mind, not when now he was itching to fly again, the hope somehow filtering into him the second you had told him to stretch his wings out again, to try. He let you put the feathers on, looked at the glossy ink color, and had not turned away because now he was tying the strings of his delusion on and he could not bring himself to stop. 

You did not feel loss this time around when seeing your past spilled out in a heap in your lap as you took wax to each one, fastening it to the angel boy's wing to give him one last chance that you wish you could have had. It felt cathartic, watching the way the colors contrasted and blended so well together. Your fingers ran over the line of them the second you had finished. A soft sad smile on your lips as you told Kai to stretch one final time before trying to fly. 

It felt so sudden, so soon from the last time he had taken flight. He hadn't even realized it was his last time at least before the fall. He wondered if you remembered your last time, what it had been like, and if it felt just as insignificant to you as it had to him. Wondered what you would have preferred your last flight to have felt like, where you would have gone. But the thoughts were a distraction to him trying to fly now. 

Kai stretched his wings, the white expanse only broken up by the tip of black at the end of his right wing. He couldn't remember what it felt like to lift off the ground instead of hurtling towards it but then he felt it, his heels lifting first, and the soft beat of his wings echoing in the small space. You stood back watching with a blank expression, tingling all over because you couldn't believe you had done it. He was up, the tips of his shoes just hitting the stirring sand before he felt his wings give out.

Shouting he fell, the distance nothing but a foot but feeling like he had come crashing all the way back down the side of a mountain. His back ached but not from pain but the strain of weakness. “You can try again tomorrow, we just have to keep at it even if it's a little bit every day,” Kai had fallen to his knees, looking up at you with his slumped shoulders and puppy dog eyes. 

“Thank you,” the words still tumbled into you, but it was easier to accept when the fruits of your labor were still right at the forefront of your mind. He had flown even if it was just a foot, it had been more than what either of you had expected. You had worried of his stitches ripping, worried of the feathers falling with only a few beats of wind and they had not, both holding stronger than your conviction. 

Your smile could not be contained, the edges of your mouth trying to hold it back like a stranger at the door because it had been far too long since the last time you felt this happy about anything. “It worked,” disbelief made itself known in your tone but Kai was just as surprised. He did not care at that moment if he got any higher off the ground, only that he did not have to lose so much of himself. “It worked,” he mimicked his smile wobbling as he fought back his tears, “it worked,” 

It was the way he said it last that hit home. You did not think about it hurting so bad to see him succeed, jealousy thick and alive in your blood. You wanted that feeling, you wanted those words to come from you not just from being an aid but from being the project. The words were felt all throughout you as he whispered them, just enough to watch the stress of never again flying dissipate into nothing but happiness. He had been empty and you had tipped in a bucket of everything you had to give, he had gained so much and you lost more than you had to offer him. 

There was nothing more to call it besides envy; sickening jealousy. If you could rip the wings right off his back and give them to yourself in that split second you would have. It was not productive but it was the only thing you could see when you looked at him. But you shook your head as if you had been caught in the rain and needed to get the water from your hair, pushing the thoughts to the side. You would never have what he did, no way for you to have given yourself the chance in the way that you had given it to him. 

So you squashed the feeling, talked yourself out of the need to cry once the two of you had laid down. Your back to the wall again as you look at him with that faint smile on his lips because he was getting to sleep peacefully since the first time he had come here without the aid of his pain. The outline of his wings in the darkness made them look just like a shadow behind him. And it was so hard not to cry as soon as you knew he was asleep. Wanted to turn and face the wall to give yourself the illusion of privacy in your struggle to keep the burn in your throat from turning into a sob you had fallen into to fitful sleep. 

What had awoken Kai was the strain in your voice, the way you muttered, again and again, the word no, the noise of it getting louder and louder until it was impossible to ignore the sound as if it was nothing more than the hum of a mourning bird's song. He opened his eyes and there you were on your makeshift bed, your face pressed into the blanket, your back turned to the sky and you reached back trying to scratch at your shoulder blades. But even in sleep, he could see the way it pained you, hands only just brushing over your shoulders when you found yourself pinned down in sleep. You were whining, crying in your sleep, and it was full of pain. 

Because in your sleep you had dreamt of that first night without your wings. You could not lay on your side, could not lay any other way but with your face to the ground like they were pulling your wings from you all over again. Back facing the sky praying that they didn't come in because you had no strength to turn over, no strength in you except to try and restrain yourself from scratching at the healing wounds, unaided by careful stitches. 

It had been a long time since you had felt the dream so real that it made you believe there was something wrong with your back. Because you were somewhere on the edge of your dream telling yourself it was real, that the pain was right there at the surface and you didn't know it unless you woke up. If only you could just wake up instead of struggling as you had back then. And when you looked to your side there was no kai, just the outline of that wing, the one you had to pull off there dead and waiting for its burial. 

But Kai would not let you sleep through it, not let you scratch at your shoulders and wade through the dreamscape colored in nothing but the shade of a nightmare. He grasped your sleeping hand, the one fluttering at your back like a moth to a flame and curled his fingers between yours. Your hands fit neatly against his, locking in place as if you had been reaching out for him the whole time. His free hand was at your lower back, keeping away from the top where he knew you were trying to reach. And when your eyes opened your gasp followed the way you shot up, back pressed back to the wall and you tried to cure the burning. 

You knew this feeling, the momentary ghost wings pretending they still had feelings for which could be hurt. Everything about you felt as if it was shaking, like a rattling cabinet of glass in an earthquake because your world was shaking at your feet telling you something was wrong but you couldn't tell what it was. “It's okay it was only a nightmare,” Kai tried to sooth, thumb running over the back of your hand that he held in both of his. 

In your dream you had been alone, so much of it had been like it always was. Pain circling around everything you had come to know. But now there had been pain but the faint hurt that Kai had not been there to help you. As if he could go back in time and do what you had for him even if it was no use you had just wanted him to be there next to you. But he hadn't been and in the mix of the sobs you had found his name and prayed he would hear because if they were your dreams you should have been able to grab them by the neck and control them, not follow them down the dark hall that felt neverending. 

But waking up to know he had been here the whole time, knowing that if he had been there he would have helped just the same, settled something inside you that had been overrun with worry. You unfurled your arms from around yourself, throwing them around Kai’s neck and pulling him into a hug. 

He did not freeze up under your hold but melted into you, sliding his hands around your back and pulling you closer to him, your face pressed into the space between his throat and his collarbone. He hadn't known how much a hug would have helped him just as it was helping you. You were warm and clinging to him in a way no one had ever needed him. 

Kai could have sat like that with you in his arms until the sun came up and you would have let him because you needed to be closer and needed something that only he could give you. Your fingers ran through his hair, his hands sliding down your lower back pulling you to straddle his hips because he needed you chest to chest, needed to feel the weight of you against them to make sure that he knew it was real just the same as you did. “You're okay,” he whispered the words, a hammer against the dam you had walled up in place to keep you from ever getting close to anyone ever again. 

It was so quick you are unsure why it was your instant reaction. Your lips kissed over the mole he had right along the column of his throat. The feeling of his words pressed right to your mouth when he hummed your name. Everything was so much easier to do in the half dark, the room alight in that blue glow of the water, the moon still high in the sky as he slipped his hands under your shirt, cool against your heated skin and only making you arch further into him, hips sinking as you kissed up his neck. 

Neither of you stopped the other from the exploration, you curled your fingers in his hair right at the base of his neck and he found any expanse of skin that he could let his fingers touch. And when you finally made your kisses stop right at the edge of his lips he couldn't help but turn his head, chasing after your mouth with his desperate desire to get lost in you. Because once you started neither of you could pull yourself away from stopping. 

He tasted like nothing short of twinkling light filling the darkness that you had let wash over you for far too long. His soft moans caught in your mouth with each drag of your hips now perfectly placed over him and his wanting need. It was the only way to describe the way he was feeling, he did not just want you, he needed you, so hard from just a few devouring kisses that you couldn’t resist. 

You pulled away for only a second standing so that you could take the few clothes you had on off. Kai sitting there watching in awe as you peeled off your shirt, his hands itching to have you back on him with no layers between the two of you, chest to chest but closer now being skin to skin. He reached out for your hips pulling you closer to him so that he could rest his chin on your stomach, looking at you like the fallen angel he was, like you were the only savior he had written in his stars. 

He let his lips pepper over you, your hands brushing the hair from his brow, his fingers dipping into your waistband holding the fabric in a way that asked you for permission to tug them down and off. “Please,” he whispered check pressed to your hip, “I need you,” and you would give him everything he asked for if he continued looking at you in that way as if nothing in the world mattered but you at this moment, not your blood or cruel words, just a boy and a girl seeking out the pleasure of another. 

You let him take your pants off just as easily as he had let you tug him free from his. And when you sank onto him, took all of him in with a gasp at the stretch working its way through you, nothing had felt more right. Because he was curving into you, your lips were his only salvation as you slowly rocked your hips back and forth on him. His face washed in the pleasure of having you his hands growing warmer and warmer as they held your back. You did your best to avoid his stitches, ignoring his wings that twitched along with his body every time you found a new slow rhythm to move to. 

The angle the two of you had was grinding against your pleasure point, your moans so sweet and rumbling against him. He traced up the line of your spine with one hand, keeping the other wrapped around your back to make sure you stayed in the circle of space the two of you had created. You whimpered when he brushed over the scars on your back but did not pull away, letting him have a part of you that you would never give to anyone else because he knew what it was like, he knew what it meant, this level of trust rushing into you almost as fast as your coming orgasm. And right behind him the soft blue light of a will-o-the-wisp on the water, gone as quickly as it had come into your field of vision but you would not have cared in that moment anyway. 

Both of you neared the end, and when you came, the feeling in your belly took all the space to think because it had been reduced to feeling only him and the pleasure he was giving you. His hands felt hot and alive with the power he had believed had been lost to him as you trembled in his hold, swallowing down each little noise you made. He guided you down to the blanket stretched out on the sand, rocking his hips now chasing after his own high watching the hazy look wash over your face as you held onto his shoulders. And behind him his wings spread covering the two of you in that safe space you had craved more than anything, his panting breaths pressed to your neck as he spilled all he had into you. 

You could only focus on him and the way he brought you the closest you had ever felt to being whole again. Wrapped up in nothing but him was close to being saved because you both knew how similar you were and to be seen like this, to be understood, was healing all on its own and you welcomed everything he had to offer. You would let him take you again and again because you felt linked, the jealousy washed away because being held like this was enough to sedate the torment you had found yourself subjected to being here alone for so long. 

And in the morning, when the sun came in on the new day you never felt as excited to see the light as you did in that moment. Because Kai was grinning looking over at you knowing what it meant. He would go out and try again and again until he knew that he could fly even if it took time but here starting today would be the beginning and he would be starting it all with you at his side. 

He did not need help out of the cave's mouth this time, pulling himself up as easily as if he had been doing it his whole life. And he stood, looking out over the water below him and knowing that if he fell he had you there willing to pull him out if he needed it. He looked to the sky the second you pulled yourself up next to him, his wings spreading out and beating softly enough to draw your attention. “We don't have to start so high up. I know it's a short distance to the ground and it won't hurt much if you fall but just in case it might be better to go to the beach,” 

He should have listened to you but he was too excited to think about where he was when all he wanted to do was fly. “Just this once and we can go to the beach and try again if not,” he reached his hand out at his side, low enough to find yours and your welcome squeeze in support. 

“It's okay if you don't get up too high so long as they can carry your weight that's the main issue at the moment because of the stitches,” Kai nodded along half listening as he focused in on the clouds. He pulled your hand to his mouth, kissing the back of it before letting it go once more before trying. 

Both of you held your breath, the seconds passing slowly as you waited for his heels to lift again only this time it was so much higher, Kai was rising, each beat of his wings only raising him and widening your smile. You had done it, you had made him fly again and it didn't hurt but made you elated. 

Kai could feel the wind welcoming him, pushing him up and up until he could see nothing but the expanse of blue and you were gone. It was that thought that had him going back. He could have spent all day up there if he could, if he knew that it wouldn't hurt him if he pushed himself so far but thinking of you watching him without being able to feel it tore into him. He flew back down landing right where he had started and laughed like it had caught him by surprise. 

And he looked at you, his arms open enough for you to run into them, that smile you wore was going to be tattooed along the insides of his eyelids because it was the only thing we wanted to see. Because you had done this for him, you had given him his flight back, his hope, and wrapped in nothing but sarcasm and truth because it was your way. So he hugged you tight, kissed you until your arms were locked around him just right and he took you with him. 

It had only been in dreams that you felt the faint feeling of being weightless. The wind hits your face as you let the laugh bask in the morning sun with you. It had been everything Kai had wanted, his dreams coming to reality as he caught the wind to carry the two of you higher and higher, until it felt as if you both would be made of nothing but clouds and happiness. He knew what it meant to be up in the sky like this again for you and knew that it would never be much of a thank you in return for what you have given back to him. 

And when he found a place to be steady, beating wings behind him, no pain in sight as the two of you looked out over the green and blue land and water below you. He held you close, arms keeping you up and in place even with your dangling feet picking up the memory of what it had been like before when you were a child with nothing to be scared of because you had not been wronged yet, you had only been a girl with wings happy to be in the air. 

Kai pressed his forehead to yours, nose dipping and bumping your cheek as he kissed the edge of your smile. And it didn't matter anymore if you felt weak, or had been told it was all that you had ever been because you had saved someone worthy of being saved, picking up yourself along the way and flying through him when flying was only a word thrown around to hurt you. You had put his wings back when they had been nothing but torn flesh and nothing made you feel this good, only the knowledge that you knew he would take you again if you asked. 

The trail of your fingers did not cross your mind when you felt this good, your subconscious working over the thoughts you were having and putting together the puzzle you had made by following the seam of his stitches. You could feel the knot you had tied to secure the wing in place, the spot you would have to cut away when pulling the thread free after you had checked again that his fast healing had done its job. 

But the ghosting of your touch on the closed wound was akin to you pushing him into a frozen lake, the ice breaking beneath him and reminding him just how heavy he had been when he had nothing behind him to support his body. It was the fear mixed with your words that you had said what felt like ages ago, as if when the two of you had shared then you had been different people. But here at his core, he felt it, that foreboding and gut-turning maggots wiggling into his skin and poisoning his already made-up mind. ‘Hell it might be more fun watching you fall again than it would be to watch you actually fly but I guess we won't know unless we try,’ you had said those words, he had rolled them over in his head over and over again because it had not sit right with him, but he could not remember the rest of the conversation, not when your fingers were messing with the stitches right on his back like you were fulfilling a promise. 

It had been quick, the intrusive thought taking over because all he could think again was that you two were similar. He would have helped you yes but if it had been him or you at the bottom of the water and both of you had to pick who got their wings back he would not hesitate to make sure he felt this feeling again. And having you here, threat alive in his mind he could not help himself from leaning into the cruelty if it meant saving this. 

And so he let you go. 

When in his arms it had been the illusion of flying, still grounded to him just by holding on but falling from this height was even closer to the feeling of flying. The wind rippled around you as you fell in slow motion, his sweet angelic face washed in shock at what he had done and all you could do was think about how you would forgive him because you knew that if it had been you in his place, demon or angel, you would have done the same. 

You did not feel heavy, you felt free and the laughter echoed around Kai as he realized his mistake. His fear had control over him in ways he had not expected it to and his shouting did nothing to make it any closer to you as he tried to catch up to your falling form hurtling closer to a waiting grave that had once had a tombstone with his name written on it. You had missed this feeling of freefall and descent, missed the open arms of the wing kissing your skin in the same way Kai’s hands had only the night before. 

And then the feathers started to rain. A few white tumbled down along with you as you looked up at him, wax melting from being so close to the sun for only a short time. The edge of his right wing was still tipped in black as if your feathers had infected his mind and thoughts as if they had been the cause of the drop and not the sickening worry he had of losing everything that had just been returned to him. But you could not stop yourself from thinking again of the story you had been told as a child. That demons had been the same as angels, cast out for the bitterness lingering in their near-empty hearts. You two were the same, cast out, and only now did he truly see it. 

The last of his feathers started to come free, his control over his wings lessening as the two of you fell, the sky a perfect image of just you and him with feathers all around as it had always been. The spotting of inky black feathers floating around you, finally ready to be buried alongside the body they had come from. You reached out, Kai’s hand already trying to find anything on you to grasp but was just far enough to miss by the brush of his fingertips. The expanse of blue widens around you and is impossible to tell if you were rising in the sky or sinking closer to the waiting ocean. 

If falling felt like flying you would welcome the feeling because anything was better than nothing at all. 

<333 thank you to @beomiracles who wrote the opening paragraph that is italicized for this event so that we could all start on the same page- taglist 🏷: @kissmekissykissme @bts-txt-ateez @apeachty @seungfl0wer @lunesdesire @no1likemybbgcharlie @chasingthatjjunie @taegyutomorrow @izzyy-stuff @yeoningz @filmnings @jellymochii @dawngyu @bamgyuuuri @lickingan0rchid @felixleftchickennugget @thetxtdevil @luvsicktyun @hyukascampfire @prince-jjae @liverspaghett want to be added to the taglist? check out my rules to see how to join!want to be taken off the taglist? send an ask!

[thatbloodymuggle]

MASTERMIND (iii)

THREE - COLOR THEORY

SUMMARY: A child of light and dark, you are the Night Court’s best kept secret. After decades spent in hiding, you yearn to stretch your wings. But you quickly learn that freedom comes with a price, as you find yourself trying to outfox the fox in his own den.

PAIRING: eris vanserra x reader

WORD COUNT: 11.5k

SERIES MASTERLIST

WARNINGS: language, descriptions of violence, smut, oral (m receiving), thigh humping, fingering

You have always wondered if being born from Light and Dark was a blessing, or a curse. On one hand, it has granted you the ability to navigate life’s morally gray areas; to question everything and listen to opposing thoughts and ideologies. But on the other hand, your existence was born from a violent affair—and you can’t help but wonder if that Dark inevitably lives within you, shielded by the Light. 

Right now, more than ever, you believe the latter may be true. 

It’s been three days. Three days since you woke up to an empty bed beneath you and guilt weighing heavy atop. Three days since you self-sabotaged your entire mission. Three days since you reveled in the comfort of your enemy’s arms.

You thought the regret would be at its worst the morning after; you figured it would pass with time. But with each day, each hour, each minute that ticks by, breathing becomes just a little bit harder. You can’t even find peace in sleep; not when you are kept awake by images of Eris’s lust-filled gaze and the inevitable heartbreak on Mor’s face. If your own self-stirred panic isn’t enough, you also have the note that Eris left atop his empty pillow to worry about:

I apologize for leaving so soon, Little Bird, but I have some business to attend to. Do write back when you’d like to take a tour of the library. Don’t miss me too much.

The bastard left the proverbial ball in your court. Typically, you like being in control. But with your current frenzied mental state, the last thing you need is yet another convoluted layer to worry about.

Needless to say, you are about one misstep from exploding.

The crackling embers of the fireplace in your cabin stare back at you tauntingly. You hover your hands over the orange flames, letting the heat tickle your skin until the burning becomes too much, and you are forced to pull away. You wait a beat, before raising your shaky hands over the fire once again. Albeit brief, the pain seems to be the only escape from the assault of your traitorous thoughts. Yet, with each retreat of your hands, the empty paper and pen sitting on your bedside table glare at you expectantly. They seem to radiate a cruel impatience—as if Eris is slinking in the shadows, watching you.

Your hands begin to burn again, and you abruptly pull them away. Before you can raise them over the flames once again, you feel the scraping of talons against the cobblestone barrier of your mind.

You want nothing less than to talk to Rhys right now. But you know that if you leave him hanging, he will worry. Reluctantly, you let your walls crumble down, and a shiver runs up your spine as you feel his aura creep in.

Everything okay? His voice sings across your mental connection.

You gnaw on your bottom lip until you wince, swiping your tongue across the droplet of blood.

I don’t know, you relent.

He doesn’t respond immediately. But you can picture the cinch between his brows as he mulls over your answer. Be honest with me. I won’t share with the others, if you don’t want me to. Promise.

Your fingers dance over the flames once more. You can’t possibly divulge what has transpired thus far. But you certainly can’t hold it all in without going mad. The fire burns your skin, and you jolt back before responding.

Promise?

He replies instantly, Yes.

You start talking before you can convince yourself otherwise. I think I may be getting a little too close.

Your response is simple, straight to the point. But something about it feels…heavy. 

What do you mean ‘too close’?

You’re careful not to let your thoughts, your memories of what happened in that cottage, to breach your mental connection with Rhys. You stare into the orange flames, admiring how intertwine, before replying.

The ‘seduction from afar’ plan may need to be revised. I’m in too deep to keep my distance for three weeks.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you wait for his response. You subconsciously twirl the silver ring on your thumb, never peeling your eyes away from the blazing fire. Rhys doesn’t say anything for a while. Just as fear begins to creep in, his voice sounds through your mind.

That’s fine. You jolt at his response, and he continues. Between you and me, I don’t care what you have to do. Make him fall in love with you, break his heart, it doesn’t matter. Once you’re out of there, you’ll never have to see him again.

You physically flinch as the reality of your situation hits you like a truck. Three weeks, and you’ll never see him again. Three weeks, and it’ll all be done—there will be no witness to whatever fling you have, no one left to tell the tale. No one ever has to know. Mor never has to know.

Okay, you finally respond simply.

Just tread carefully, you can hear the strain in his voice.

You nod robotically, even though he can’t see you. With a quick farewell, you put up your mental barriers. You stare into the flames for a few minutes longer, until the mere sight burns your irises.

“Compartmentalization,” you mumble to no one in particular.

Finally, you peel yourself off the dust-covered floor in front of the fire. Your legs are wobbly as you take methodical steps towards your bedside table. The empty paper and pen are quivering in anticipation as you approach. Your hand moves with a mind of its own as you pick up the waiting pen and scribble onto the paper.

Does the offer still stand?

The second you set the pen back down onto the table, the paper vanishes into thin air from your fingertips. You wring your hands together as you sit down on the side of your bed and wait. You’re not sure what you’re waiting for exactly, but you wait. 

“Compartmentalization,” you say it again. And you say it a few more times. Enough to trick your mind into believing it and slow the frantic beat of your heart. Enough to don a mask of apathy as a crack sounds outside the front door followed by a sharp knock. 

You twist the silver ring around your thumb once more before standing, this time on steady legs. Your steps are calm and calculated as you tread towards the door. You take one last deep breath, ridding your body and mind of any residual apprehension. With your lips curled into a beguiling grin, you swing the door open.

Eris’s smile is almost as wicked as yours as he scans you from head to toe, drinking in your appearance.

“I was beginning to think you were avoiding me, Little Bird,” he smirks.

You pick at your nails nonchalantly, “I’m flattered I’ve been on your mind, but I’m not sure I can say the same.”

His vicious grin only widens, “You wound me, Birdie. But I must admit,” he dips down and lowers his voice to a whisper, “I quite like your bite today.”

You arch a brow and don’t so much as flinch at his proximity, “Are you a masochist, Eris Vanserra? Or does chasing after disinterested females turn you on?”

Your thinly veiled insult only eggs him on. It takes everything in you not to shrink back as he lowers his lips so they graze the shell of your ear.

“Are you sure you want to go down this road? Because last I remembered, you were a whimpering little mess—”

His sentence is abruptly halted by your fingers pinching his lips shut. His eyes widen in incredulity at your childish action, and a giggle bubbles in your throat at the sight. You release him and walk briskly past, leaving him dumbfounded behind you.

“Well, are we going or not?” you snark over your shoulder.

He falls into step beside you, and you jolt as he places his hand on the small of your back. His touch gentle, but commanding. You don’t dare look at him as he warns, “I’ll let this one slide, Little Bird. But don’t forget that my teeth are much sharper than yours,” he wraps his arm tightly around your waist, “And I’m not afraid to use them.”

Your rebuttal is cut short as he pulls you to his chest before winnowing you both out of the woods.

The Forest House is just as remarkable as you remembered it—even more so in the sunlight. The tangles of ivy enveloping the red-brick walls are a vibrant green, and the intricate details of the gate itself seem to glisten underneath the sun’s rays. However, unlike your last visit, this time sentries line nearly every inch of the expansive walls. Their taut faces and intimidating steeds exude a sense of savagery that makes your skin prickle.

Eris’s hand retreats to its spot on the small of your back, and you jump slightly as you are reminded of your purpose for being here. Reluctantly, you peel your eyes away from the curvature of the golden gates and cock your head towards his. The corners of his eyes crinkle in amusement, and you can tell he’s holding back a comment from the twitch in his lips.

“Spit it out,” you feign annoyance.

He shakes his head with an airy laugh, “It’s nothing. I just like the way you look at the world—all wide-eyed and bushy-tailed, like you’re experiencing life for the first time. It’s cute.”

You frown. 

His comment, while innocent, puts you on edge for two reasons. The first, and the one that really makes your skin crawl, is his incessant ability to unknowingly point out parts of yourself that belong to you, rather than Athena Ellesmere. With each destination he takes you to, you do feel like you’re experiencing the world for the first time. But that’s not Athena—and with each of your quirks he reveals, he’s one step closer to sniffing you out entirely.

The second, well…

“Cute?” you deadpan.

His teeth flash as his grin widens, “Cute.”

You’re not cute. You’re supposed to be sexy, confident, untouchable—a femme fatale. Not fucking cute.

You know your bubbling frustration is futile, so you simply narrow your eyes into a warning glare and march towards the golden gates. You know that the pout on your face isn’t helping your case—but you can’t seem to wipe it off. The sentries shift on their steeds as you approach but return to their stationed positions when Eris falls into step beside you. They don’t so much as look in your direction as you pass through the gates.

“Once you are formally welcomed inside the gates, you are free to come and go as you please,” Eris’s fingers brush yours as he speaks, “So if you are in further need of the library after today, you can return.”

Your ears perk up at this, but you nod coolly. He leads you around the side of the large mansion, away from the front door, and lowers his voice to a murmur, “But I would prefer if you’d let me accompany you, if you should visit again.”

“Why? Want me all to yourself?” you snort.

He wears a playful grin, but his eyes are vapid.

“You know I do,” he teases, “But the beauty of this place is deceptive. Darkness lurks behind these walls, Little Bird.”

A shiver crawls up your spine, but you swiftly retort, “I’m not afraid of the dark.”

“I know,” his voice is thick with trepidation.

You bristle at the way he speaks about you like he knows you. Yet again.

His hand returns to the small of your back as he leads you towards a small door, almost completely covered by thick ropes of vine. If he wasn’t guiding you, you would’ve completely missed the hidden entrance. You suck in a breath in anticipation as he pushes it open, wood creaking against rusted hinges. You hide your curiosity as you take in the burgundy carpet lining a hallway so long, you can’t see its end. The walls are built of centuries-old limestone, the darkness illuminated by flame torches.

You peel your eyes away from the hallway as Eris leads you to the left, down a steep, spiral staircase. Just like the hallway, it is built entirely of dark stone which holds a red hue thanks to the flickering flames of torches lining the walls. He steps in front of you, and you follow his lead silently as he leads you down the stairs. The steep wind of the steps is dizzying as you descend downwards, deep into the ground below, and into the heart of the tunnels of the Forest House. With each floor you pass, you picture Azriel’s map of the house. Finally, Eris takes a turn at the ninth floor you’ve descended. You follow closely behind and note the change in architecture. Gone are the limestone walls, and in their place, deep mahogany wood lined with a variety of paintings: family portraits, Autumn Court landscapes, still life’s. This hallway is also dimly lit with torches, but it holds a peculiar warmth unlike the others.

“How big is this place?” you voice echoes down the expansive hallway.

You know exactly how big it is. But you can’t stand the eerie silence. 

Eris’s voice rumbles lowly, “Miles long. It would take you half the morning to walk from one end to the other.”

Your eyes widen in mock astonishment—as if you don’t know that it is exactly 4.2 miles long.

“And you don’t get lost?” you ask.

“You forget I’ve had centuries of practice, darling,” he chuckles.

You open your mouth to fire another question, but a squeal escapes instead as you feel something wet bump against your right hand. You snatch your hand to your chest and look down to find a pair of beady, vermillion eyes staring back at you. You instinctively inch closer to Eris as you stare down at the creature in awe.

You know what smokehounds are. And you know that Eris owns a whopping twelve. But you weren’t quite prepared for the predator standing before you. Its fur is gray and sleek like smoke, and its eyes are the color of blood. Your initial fear fades as you realize, despite their crimson hue, its eyes are not filled with malice—but rather, curiosity. You cautiously lower the hand clutched to your chest back to your side, and slowly stretch your fingers apart. Its wet nose bumps your hand again, and you shiver at the tickling sensation as it sniffs you. A giggle bubbles in your throat as it sticks its tongue out and licks between your fingers. You tentatively stroke the side of its face with your knuckles.

“She likes you,” Eris hums beside you.

The smokehound nuzzles into your side, and you stroke the top of her head with your full hand. You know they are vicious creatures—you’ve read about how they can race as fast as the wind to sniff out any prey. But the creature standing below you seems as harmless as a fly.

“What’s her name?” you ask as you scratch softly between her ears. 

“Sage. She’s my oldest,” his hand joins yours as he strokes the back of her neck.

“I never pictured smokehounds to be so…affectionate,” you wonder aloud, curiosity piqued as she licks your hand again.

Eris laughs softly, “They aren’t. She must be drawn to you—the same way I am.”

You can feel his gaze on you but refuse to look in his direction as you fight the blush crawling up your neck. He withdraws his hand, and you follow suit as you continue your walk down the hallway, this time with Sage by your side. She trots beside you, close enough that your fingertips brush the silken fur on her back and her side rubs against your dress. Even as you continue down the dimly lit hallway, you can’t take your eyes off the elegant creature walking alongside you.

You nearly slam into Eris as he halts abruptly in front of two large oak doors. Just as you regain your footing, you nearly lose it again at the sight before you.

There are seemingly endless rows of books reaching at least fifty feet tall. An ornate rug of red and gold covers the stone floor, and hundreds of flickering candles are suspended in midair. Vibrant green ivy, much like the kind you’ve seen outside, wraps around each shelf. To top it all off, the ceiling is a mosaic of crystalline windows shining golden rays of sunlight down below—some kind of enchantment, you presume, given that you are at nine floors underground.

“Wow,” you breathe. With your mouth agape and your eyes wide with wonder, you know that you are proving Eris’s earlier point. But right now, you couldn’t care less. 

You wander towards the shelves, Sage trailing behind you, and run your fingers gently along the spines of the books. The smell of parchment and wood is intoxicating, and your heart swells with joy as you scan the collection of classics. Some are so old; you presume they must be original prints. Others look brand new, completely untouched. 

One binding in particular catches you attention—well, ‘binding’ is generous, considering the book is barely hanging together by a thread. You carefully pull out the amethyst-colored cover and turn it over. Shattered Realms. 

“Is this an original copy?” you question, unable to peel your eyes away from the novel.

Eris looks over your shoulder, “Yes. It’s been passed down in my family for generations—although it originally belonged to the Night Court.”

Your lips twitch with amusement, but you force down a laugh at the irony. You glance at him over your shoulder, “How did it end up here?”

He takes a step closer to you, his chest inches away from pressing up against your back, and runs a finger over the binding of the book in your hands. His scent of sandalwood and nutmeg invades your senses.

“Many centuries ago, my grandfather was in a bit of a tiff with the Night Court High Lord at the time. He stole it during their feud.”

You smile softly and make a mental note to retrieve the book before you return to Velaris as a little souvenir for Rhys. You carefully place the book back in its spot before continuing your exploration. Eris follows closely behind, whereas Sage has found comfort in front of the fireplace. 

“Do you have any favorites?” you wonder aloud as you come to the end of the aisle.

“I have many,” his hand brushes yours.

You hook your pinky finger over his, “Care to share?”

“Any particular genre you’re interested in?” he curls his finger against yours.

You bite your bottom lip in thought as you mull over the options. Asking you to pick a favorite genre is like asking a mother to pick her favorite child. 

“I’ve recently been on a bit of a reading kick of philosophical essays,” you tap a finger to your chin in thought, “Mind-body dualism, introspection, all the good stuff,” you drawl.

Eris’s brows raise in surprise, “I never would’ve thought that philosophy pairs well with filthy little romance novels.”

Your eyes narrow into a glare, and you move to snatch your pinky away from his, but he swiftly intertwines your fingers. He’s dragging you down the aisle before you can protest, and you stumble to keep up with his swift feet. Eris leads you past rows of bookshelves, up a spiral staircase, and past even more rows of books. He doesn’t give you a chance to admire the collection of literature as he tugs you along. Finally, you halt at a small alcove decorated with stained glass windows.

Your eyes widen as you take in the collection of books written by countless ancient philosophers. But you force on a façade of indifference, careful not to fuel his already bursting ego even more. You hold your breath as he leans over you and pulls a book at least six inches out of your reach. The binding is tattered—not as badly as the original copy of Shattered Realms, but enough that you can tell it’s at least a few centuries old. He holds it out expectantly, and you tentatively grab it from his waiting hands. 

“I think you might find this to your liking,” he grins, “A collection of Tydeus’s correspondences with Lady Baldwin. It’s not an original copy, but surely the closest to it.”

He releases your other hand, and you clench your jaw to conceal your excitement. You’ve been searching for a copy of this for years now—ever since you stumbled across the collection of the ancient philosopher Tydeus’s works in the Velaris library. Your mother used to love reading the copy of his correspondences in the Day Court libraries, but that feels like a lifetime ago now.

“Tydeus’s ideologies are a bit archaic for my taste. But I suppose this will do,” you lie through your teeth. Eris chuckles lightly, observing the curious glint in your eyes and the way you hold the book with a delicate reverence.  

“There are wards around the house which prevent these books from leaving the premises, so unfortunately, I cannot loan it to you. And given your past thieving tendencies, I’m not sure I would want to,” he teases as he leans against the shelve of books.

Well, there goes Rhys’s solstice gift.

Your lips dip into a frown, “I know Vanserras are cruel, but I never imagined you’d be this twisted—dangling one-of-a-kind copies of ancient literature over my head only to pull them away.”

“Don’t fret, Little Bird,” he purrs, tucking a loose strand of hair behind your ear, “You can read to your heart’s desire—inside the house, of course. I’ll show you to a place with a bit more…privacy.”

You gulp as his fingers linger against your cheekbone. His touch is electrifying, and you fight the instinct to chase after it as he pulls away.

“Okay,” you whisper, “Is it alright if I pick out a few more?”

His teeth flash as he observes the effect he has over you.

“Take your time. I’ll be keeping Sage company.”

He brushes past you, and you remain frozen in place for a moment. Get it together, you scold yourself internally. You will your mind to empty as you continue your stroll down hundreds of rows of books. You try your very best not to pick up everything that catches your eye—only those which really pique your interest. But even so, you quickly find yourself with a stack of books so high they nearly reach your chin. Your arms tremble underneath the weight, but still, you add a couple of atlases to your stack for good measure. You have no intention of reading them—but Athena Ellesmere would. 

Finally satisfied with your collection, you walk slowly back towards the front of the library. You rest your chin on the top of the stack, careful not to topple the tower of books. The winding staircase proves to be a challenge, and you nearly stumble twice. But by some miracle, you make it down unscathed, and approach the blazing fireplace.

Eris lounges on a couch with Sage on the ground beneath him. He scratches her ears nonchalantly as he flips through his own book. His neck cranes at the sound of your uneven footsteps, and a roaring laugh fills the room when he lays eyes on you.

It’s a sight he wishes will be forever imprinted in his memory—your arms wobbling underneath a stack of books nearly as tall as you, and your flushed cheeks peeking out on top.

“Some help would be appreciated,” you hiss.

He sets his book down and glides over, taking half the stack from your arms. You nearly moan in relief at the literal weight lifted off your shoulders. 

“A few more, huh?” he taunts with a wily smirk.

“A few means a small number. Comparative to your collection, yes. A few,” you grit your teeth.

“Whatever you say, Little Bird. Although I except a thorough review of each,” he sings.

Eris balances his half of the stack in one arm and wraps his other around your waist, pulling you tight to his chest. You save your own stack from nearly tipping over with a stumble. You aren’t afforded a chance to protest as he winnows you both away, leaving Sage sleeping peacefully in front of the fire.   

This time, you aren’t able to save the stack from spilling out of your arms as you land in a new room. Much to your displeasure, Eris’s pile of books is fully intact in his arms. You drop to your knees with a huff and begin collecting the books strewn about a patterned, crimson carpet.

“You’re a clumsy one, aren’t you?” he taunts from above you.

Your head snaps upwards and you open your mouth to retort but pause as you take in the new surroundings. Much like the library, this room holds a golden glow highlighted by swirling patterns of golds and reds along the walls. You can feel another fire blazing behind you, and just past the deep-seated sofa in front of you lies an enormous canopy bed. It suddenly clicks—you are in Eris’s private chambers. 

You cock a brow at the sight and a smirk tugs at your lips, “You know, if you wanted to get me in your bed all you had to do was ask.”

He sets down his stack of books on a small, wooden table in front of the couch and reaches a hand down to you expectantly. You tentatively place your hand in his, and he raises you up from the ground, pulling you to his chest with a sultry smile. 

“Is that an offer, darling?” his breath tickles your neck as he dips down to your ear.

Your cheeks flush as he caresses your jawline with his thumb. You clench your thighs as you are reminded of how his fingers felt inside you, dripping in your arousal. But before you can melt into his touch, you raise your lips to his ear and croon, “I’m not that easy. You’ll have to work harder than that, Fox.”

He presses his nose against your temple and groans, the vibration of it sending a tantalizing chill up your spine. Just as easily as he’s able to get you flustered, so are you able to drive him up the wall. 

You pull away from him, ignoring his whine of protest. He is absolutely shameless in his desire for you, and the thought alone makes your gut churn with delight.

You gather your stack of books from the ground and carefully place them beside the other half on the wooden table. You sift through the titles before finally settling on the Tydeus copy Eris recommended. You don’t so much as glance in his direction as you take a seat on the couch and kick off your heavy boots. The fire is just close enough that the flames warm your skin, and you all but sink into its comfort. You can feel Eris’s eyes on you, but you continue to ignore him as you stretch your legs out across the velvet expanse and open the ancient book. You aren’t even through the first page when you feel Eris’s hands on your calves.

You squeal as he raises your legs, giving himself space to sit beside you, before lowering them again so they are draped over his lap. You glare at him over your book, but he ignores your malice as he leans forward and picks his own book from the pile on the table. He leans back in his seat, his legs spread beneath yours, as he opens the book—a rare biography of one of the original Valkyries. Your own book sits limply in your hands as you study his profile—the plump of his lips, the shift of his jaw. You can’t help but admire the freckles dusted across the bridge of his nose. He is incredibly handsome, which simultaneously makes your job easier, and all the more difficult.

“I know I’m gorgeous but try not to drool on my centuries-old book,” he hums nonchalantly, a knowing smirk tugging at his lips.

You raise your leg to kick him, but he firmly grips your ankle and sets it back onto his lap without so much as a glance in your direction. He doesn’t remove his hand, letting it rest on your leg. With a huff, you return to your book. You are halted, once again, this time by his wandering hand. He teasingly pushes up the skirt of your long dress, just below your knees, so he can rest his hand on your shin. Your breath hitches as he rubs circles into your calf with his thumb, massaging it gently.

Reluctantly, you succumb to the comfort of his touch and return to your book once more. You page through Tydeus’s correspondences with Lady Baldwin. Their letters begin simply enough. But you quickly find yourself immersed in their debate over morality. Whereas the Lady takes a relative stance, Tydeus takes on an absolutist one. As their back-and-forth shifts to the dichotomy of good and evil, you are eerily reminded of your own inner turmoil earlier that morning.

“Anything good so far?” you jump as Eris’s gravelly voice cuts through the comfortable silence.

You meet his inquisitive gaze and note how the flame of the fire reflects in the amber of his eyes.

“My mother would have loved this,” you reply.

She did love it. You remember how she used to read it constantly in the Day Court—you never thought you’d be able to get your hands on a copy of it again. 

“Why is that?” he asks, curiosity laced in his tone.

You lower the book onto your lap, “She loved all of Tydeus’s works. She was a strong believer in the dichotomous division between ‘good’ and ‘evil’.”

Eris sets his own book down and rubs your leg with both of his hands. 

“And what do you think?” he challenges thoughtfully.

You shrug, “I’m not sure. On the one hand, I think morality is relative—that individuals are not uniform, and thus form their own ideas about what is ‘good’ and what is ‘evil’. But then on the other, I used to believe that there are some things we universally categorize as one or the other.”

“You don’t anymore?” he counters

You bite your lip and avert your gaze to the fire. The anxiety you managed to dispel earlier that day starts creeping in. Your gut twists uncomfortably as you reply simply, “I’m not sure.”

His hands slow, noticing your shift in demeanor. He studies the furrow of your brows as you stare into the fire.

“I think it is not morality that dominates the situation, but the situation that dominates morality,” he counters after a few beats of silence.

“A moral relativist?”

“I don’t like labels,” he shrugs.

The vibrancy of the fire is burning your eyes, but you keep them trained on the flames as you reply, “I suppose I agree with that—the problem is, it’s not the answer I’m seeking.”

“And what answer are you seeking?”

You long to reach your hands out over the flames until the heat sears your skin. The déjà vu makes your stomach churn.

“It’s not so much an answer as a direction,” you speak softly to hide the quiver of your voice, “I wish there was some way to know if I’m moving in the right direction.”

He chuckles, “Which brings us back to the question of absolutism versus relativism.”

You peel your eyes away from the flame, and your eyes lock with his. They hold a certain understanding, as if he can see straight through you and into your soul. Your body moves with a mind of its own as you sit up and subconsciously inch closer.

 “I suppose all we can really do is justify our actions for ourselves—and hope that others will agree with our division of morality,” you whisper.

His gaze darkens, and he bows his head towards you, “I think life is full of gray areas, and we can’t be faulted for how we choose to navigate them.”

His response strikes a chord deep within you. Your eyes flick down to his pink lips, just inches away from yours.

Compartmentalization be damned.

You lurch forward to close the gap, and he meets you halfway. 

The moment your lips meet his, every ounce of worry is swept away from your mind. You barely register the thump of your book hitting the ground as his lips glide against yours. His taste is addictive—a sweet peppermint that you can’t seem to get enough of. Your nose bumps against his as you climb on top of him, your legs straddling his lap. You cup the side of his face with your hands, deepening the kiss. He grips the small of your waist, pulling you impossibly closer. He runs his tongue along your bottom lip: a question. Your mouth parts: an answer. 

You snake one hand behind his neck and run your fingers through his crimson locks, tugging sharply. He groans, and just as he moves to deepen the kiss, you abruptly pull away.

His sounds of protest are silenced by your lips against the sensitive skin of his neck. You move tentatively at first, remembering how it felt to have his lips against your neck, and mimic his maneuvers. He tangles a hand in the hair at the nape of your neck, pushing you closer as a sign of encouragement. You become bolder, alternating between open-mouthed kisses, small nips, and swipes of your tongue. His groan of approval spurs you on, and you fiddle with the bottom of his tunic, pulling it up his chest. You draw back briefly to peel the shirt completely off his body before resuming your work.

“Who taught you how to do that?” Eris hisses as you suck harshly at the apex of his collarbone. 

  You grin at the blossoming purple hue on his pale skin and run your tongue over the spot soothingly, “A wily fox too clever for his own good.”

He pulls you back up, abruptly cutting your abuse of his neck short. You eagerly smash your lips against his once more and trail your hands down the expanse of his chest, dragging your nails lightly along his rigid abdomen. His hands loop around you and he swiftly yanks down the zipper of your dress. You eagerly shed the suffocating material, so it pools at your waist, exposing your bare chest to him. Eris moans at the sight of your peaked nipples and doesn’t hesitate to massage your breasts with his large hands. His lips trail down your neck, but before he has a chance to carry out the same treatment you’d given him, you slip from his grasp entirely.

Eris watches, stunned, as you slip off his lap and sink down onto your knees before him. His lips part as you nudge his knees apart, and lurch forward to trail open-mouthed kisses down his chest, to his abdomen, until you finally reach the waistband of his bottoms. He jolts as you brush your hand over the very obvious, and large, tent in his pants.

“Little Bird,” he mumbles as you palm over him, “You don’t have to do this.”

Your eyes flick up to his and you speak with conviction, “I want to.”

His Adam’s apple bobs as he gulps and you all but drool at the sight. He nods once, and you begin fiddling with his belt buckle. His hands move to help you, but you swat them away. You make quick work of the fastenings, and slowly drag the material down his legs, inch by inch. You know he’s growing impatient by the clenching of his abdomen. You flash him a sultry smile as you finally pull the material from his legs, leaving him in his underwear. His hands move to the waistband, but you swat them away again. 

 “Patience is a virtue,” you muse before nipping the skin of his inner thigh. He inhales sharply, and shudders as you run your tongue over the same spot, soothing the ache.

“Using my own moves against me,” he croons, but the strain is evident in his voice, “I’m impressed, Little Bird.”

Your heart thumps in your chest as you graze your hands along the waistband of his underwear. You dip your fingers underneath, and your confidence falters slightly. He runs a hand through your hair soothingly, coaxing you to continue. Your keep your eyes trained on his as you inch the fabric down his thighs. He raises his hips and releases a sigh of relief as his erection slaps up against his stomach, free from the confining material. You toss the garment aside haphazardly and take in the sight of his complete bareness.

The first thing you notice is that he’s big—well, you think so, at least, considering you have nothing to compare him to. His dick is much thicker than you’d imagined, with veins branching upwards towards the tip which is a shade darker than the pink of his lips. You can’t help but wonder how it could possibly fit inside you. A blush paints the apples of your cheeks at the thought.

Eris notices your apprehension, and he curls a finger underneath your chin so your eyes meet his. 

“Would you like me to talk you through it?” his voice is soft.

The amber of his eyes is warm, like honey. You nod shyly.

“Okay, darling. Can you wrap your hand around my cock?” the sweetness of his voice is a stark contrast to the dirtiness of the words tumbling from his lips. 

You rest your left hand on his thigh and raise your right hand, delicately wrapping your fingers around his girth at its base. You hold him loosely, and he releases a pleasured sigh at your tentative touch. 

“You can hold it a bit tighter, love,” he hums while stroking the shell of your ear.

You follow his direction with a nod.

“Now move your hand—”

You don’t give him a chance to finish as you slowly begin moving your hand over his cock, from the base to the tip. His lips part and he shudders at the motion.

“Good,” he rasps, “Now can you spit on it? Get it a little wet for me?”

Your cheeks flare, but you follow his request. You timidly lean forward and dribble over his tip, captivated by the way it mixes with the bead of precum before sliding down. You use your hand to spread it around, and the friction eases as your hand slides more freely. 

“I think you’re a natural, Birdie,” he praises through a gasp, “Can you twist your hand for me a bit?”

You twist your hand in time with your strokes, and admire the way his face scrunches with pleasure. You squeeze a bit harder when you reach his base, and his hips twitch. Testing the waters, you slowly lean forward and stick your tongue out, licking over his tip. Eris grunts at the action, and you feel a bit more confident as you wrap your lips completely around the head. 

A guttural moan escapes his lips as you suckle on the head, your hand continuously pumping his shaft. You pull off his tip, and your gut twists with desire at the string of saliva between the head of his cock and your lips. You lurch forward, flattening your tongue against the base and dragging it upwards, before wrapping your lips around the tip again in a teasing maneuver.  

“Fuck,” he groans, “Can you take me a bit deeper?”

You nod, pupils blown. Your hand resumes its stroking movement as you slowly, tentatively, slide downwards. Your mouth burns from the stretch of his girth, but you breathe through your nose steadily. You take him in, inch by inch, until his tip hits the back of your throat, bringing tears to the corners of your eyes. You keep your hand around the base of his shaft, pumping and twisting the length you can’t fit.

“So good for me, Little Bird,” he moans. His right-hand digs into the fabric of the couch until his knuckles turn white, and his left brushes the hair out of your face. “Can you move your pretty little mouth for me?”

You slowly bob your head up and down, timing the strokes of your hand with the rise and fall of your lips. Tears spring to your eyes each time his tip hits the back of your throat and spit dribbles down the sides of your mouth, but any ounce of insecurity is washed away by the sinful noises tumbling from Eris’s lips.

“Can you use your tongue for me?” his voice is strained.

You flatten your tongue against his length as you bob up and down, swirling it around his length to the best of your ability.

“Look at me, love,” he gasps through an animalistic groan.

Your eyes flick up and you peer at him through your lashes. His pupils are blown and his lips parted, brows scrunched with a vulnerability you never imagined you’d see.

“You look so pretty with your lips wrapped around my cock,” he rasps, “Wish I could keep you like this forever.”

You hum around him, and he shudders at the vibration. He tangles a hand in your hair, guiding your movements but not pushing you, slowly increasing your pace. Tears begin rolling down your cheeks at the delicious burn in your jaw and the back of your throat.

His chest heaves as he pants, “So close. Just a little more.”

You move with a newfound vigor at his words, finding a rhythm that keeps the noises tumbling from his mouth. You raise your unoccupied hand to the base of his cock. Experimentally, you brush over his balls with your thumb, eliciting raucous moan from Eris. He twitches in your mouth, and you do it again while swirling your tongue in a prolonged sweeping motion around his length.

“Fuck, Little Bird. I’m—”

He halts midsentence with an earth-shattering groan as his cock twitches violently in your mouth. You slow your movements as he reaches his high, thick ropes of cum painting the back of your throat. You splutter at the feeling, but continue milking him, swallowing his load. You stroke him gently, your tongue rubbing along him in a coaxing manner, until his thighs jerk, and his length softens in your mouth. You inch off him, stroking a hand over his thigh soothingly, and press one last kiss to his tip before pulling off completely.

You glance shyly up at Eris, and your chest swells with pride as you find his head thrown back in pure bliss. You rake your nails softly against his thighs, peppering feather-like kisses over his abdomen. His head lulls down towards you, and your heart skips a beat at the carnal look in his eyes. His hands are gentle as he wipes away the tears staining your cheeks before swiping over your mouth, collecting the saliva staining your lips. 

“You are an enigma, Little Bird,” he mumbles while intertwining your hands with his and pulling you back up. 

Your dress falls from your waist to the floor as you rise, leaving you completely bare aside from your panties. He pulls you onto his lap and you eagerly straddle him, connecting your lips to his. He groans into your mouth at the taste of his own release on your lips.

“Good?” you breathlessly ask against his mouth.

He pulls away from your lips with a chuckle and trails kisses underneath your ear as he mutters, “I haven’t finished so quickly in centuries.”

Your eyes crinkle with pride.

His lips meet yours once again, and you marvel at the way you slot together like the final two pieces of a puzzle. Mimicking his earlier move, you run your tongue along his bottom lip and he grants you entry, allowing you to deepen the kiss. His hands run down the curve of your back before settling on your ass, exploring your soft skin. Your gut clenches at the arousal pooling in your panties.

“Would you like to try something new?” he murmurs against your lips.

You respond with an affirmative hum, and whine as he pulls away.

He grips your waist, lifting you off his lap as if you weigh nothing at all, before setting you back down so you straddle just his left thigh. You jolt as your clothed arousal presses against the bare skin of his thigh.

Eris rolls his thumb over your swollen lips and whispers tauntingly, “Are you horny, Little Bird? Do you need some release?”

You nod shamelessly.

“Get yourself off, then.”

Your brows pinch with confusion, but realization dawns over you as he digs his fingers into your ass cheeks, grinding your clothed cunt against his leg. Your lips part in a silent gasp at the wave of pleasure that rolls through you. He guides you as you set a steady rhythm, grinding your throbbing clit against his thigh. The friction is electrifying, but you need more. The thin barrier of fabric separating you from him is suffocating. 

You whine pathetically, and he senses your desire. Eris pinches the flesh of your ass, and you lift your hips slightly. He removes his hands from behind you and you watch as they dip down between your thighs. You throb with anticipation as he hooks a finger underneath the fabric. Your arousal sticks to the flimsy material as he peels it aside, exposing your bare cunt.

“You’re dripping for me, darling,” he croons.

A long moan escapes your lips as you settle back down onto his thigh. With nothing separating you from him, you can feel how every ridge of his muscle stimulates your clit. He continues guiding you with his hands on your waist for a few seconds, before abruptly pulling away. 

You pause, mouth agape, as he stretches his arms over the back of the couch. Your cheeks flare in a combination of frustration and embarrassment as he leans back in his seat with a coy smirk on his lips.

He arches a brow expectantly, “Go on.”

You desperately want to wipe the smug look off his face—but your lust, your need for release, is too strong. You brace your hands against his broad shoulders and begin moving again. You groan at the way your clit slides against his bare thigh.

“You like making a mess over my thigh?”

You nod obediently.

He jerks his thigh once underneath you, and you cry out at the sensation.

“I need words, Birdie,” he drawls.

You roll your hips against him desperately and pant between gasps, “I love it.”

He shakes his leg at a steady pace, and the additional stimulation sends you reeling.

“Yeah?” he coos, “Tell me how it feels.”

Your legs tremble as your clit catches against the tensing muscles of his thigh.

“Feels filthy,” you mewl.

He grips your chin firmly, directing your gaze to his, before his arm returns to the back of the couch.

“Fitting for a filthy little girl, getting herself off on my leg,” he purrs, “I’m not even touching you and you’re a whimpering mess for me.”

His degrading words don’t even register, your mind clouded with desire. You can feel the tension building in your gut, and you pant with each roll of your hips. You try to increase your pace as you feel your high approaching, but your legs tremble underneath you, leaving that peak you so desperately desire just out of reach. 

“Please,” your voice trembles.

Eris knows exactly what you want, but he taunts you, “Please what?”

A fat tear escapes the corner of your eye and rolls down your flushed cheeks.

Your bottom lip wobbles as you whimper, “Touch me, Eris. Please.”

He swiftly pulls you off his thigh and lays you down on the couch. He crashes his lips against yours, your teeth bumping at the force. Eris doesn’t give you a second to catch your breath as he trails his hand up your inner thigh before sliding his middle finger through your slick, from your entrance to your swollen clit. Unlike last time, he doesn’t waste time teasing as he promptly sinks his middle finger inside of you. 

You cry out at the feeling of his finger deep inside you, and he curls it in response. He doesn’t hold back as he rubs your clit with his thumb while thrusting his finger, curling it against your g-spot with each maneuver. He latches his lips to your neck and sucks harshly while his unoccupied hand flicks over your peaked nipples. 

Your mind whirls at the sensation—the feeling of him all over you. It’s almost too much, having him everywhere. You desperately claw at his back, searching for something to stabilize you. 

Your stomach coils as you feel your high approaching again. He can feel you clench around his finger, and he groans against your skin, “You gonna cum for me, love? Finish all over my hand?”

Another tear rolls down your cheek, “Yes,” you blubber, “’M so close.”

“Let go, Little Bird,” he coaxes while slipping another finger inside of you.

The added stretch sends you over the edge. You all but scream as shockwaves of pleasure roll through your body. Your toes curl and your nails dig into his back as your vision spots. His fingers slow, but he keeps rubbing your clit as you ride through your high. He continues until your hips jerk from the overstimulation, and your hands go limp around his neck. You wince as he pulls his fingers from you and watch through hooded eyes as he sucks his fingers into his mouth, licking up every last drop of your arousal. Your chest heaves as you catch your breath, your mind spinning in a post-orgasmic haze. 

Eris softly strokes your cheek with the back of his hand before dipping down and capturing your lips with his. This time, the kiss is slow—no bumping teeth or clashing tongues. You wrap your fingers around his wrist, relishing in the intimacy of it all, until he pulls away.

An airy laugh passes through your lips as he rests his forehead against yours.

“You’ll be the end of me, Little Bird,” Eris mumbles. He places a chaste kiss on the tip of your nose before collapsing on top of you. You grunt at the weight, and he shifts over enough so that he isn’t restricting your breathing, but his bare body remains draped over yours.

 “The end is but a beginning in disguise,” you tease as he nestles his nose against your cheek.

He chuckles, his breath tickling your neck. 

“How were you made so wise?” he muses.

“Wisdom isn’t born, Fox. It’s learned,” you trace your fingers along the arm draped over you, “And I have a lot more living to do before I can even come close to it.”

“Well, I think you’re plenty wise,” he curves a finger underneath your chin and tilts your head towards his.

Your nose is millimeters apart from his as you gaze into his amber eyes. Their golden hue is vibrant, much like his lopsided smile. But suddenly, something inside them dims, and the corners of his lips twitch downwards. Your brows furrow as you note the subtle change.

“What’s wrong?” you whisper, brushing back his crimson locks.

Eris shakes his head, “It’s nothing.”

You quirk a brow, “Clearly not.”

His hardened stare doesn’t stray from your eyes, but it seems to be searching for something. A chill crawls up your spine at his scrutinizing gaze, as if he’s trying to read your darkest thoughts. You’re suddenly aware of how exposed, how vulnerable you are to him right now—both physically and emotionally.

“Your eyes…” he pauses, as if searching for the right words, before continuing, “Do you remember the first night we met?”

The crinkle between your brows deepens, “How could I forget?”

He wets his lips before replying, “I told you your eyes were familiar.”

Fuck.

You pray that he doesn’t feel the uptick of your heart and continue stroking his arm steadily.

“I just realized,” he continues, “Who they remind me of.”

Panic washes over you, but your expression doesn’t falter, and you maintain your soothing touch.

“Oh?” you hum nonchalantly, “Who may that be?”

Eris shifts his gaze away from the eyes in question, and instead watches the rise and fall of your bare chest.

“A woman I knew a long time ago,” he finally replies.

You continue threading your fingers through his hair as you contemplate your next words. You are breeching unfamiliar territory, and one wrong step could doom you.

“Was she important to you?” you ask cautiously.

He doesn’t respond for a while, and his body is tense over yours. You wait with bated breath for his reply, your curiosity growing with each passing second.

“I don’t know.”

It’s not what you were expecting—but you aren’t sure what you were expecting, exactly.

You mull over his response, nibbling on your bottom lip in thought. Pressing him further feels like a violation—not only of his vulnerability, but of Mor’s. But curiosity is gripping you like a vice. This is the first time in a week you’ve gotten him close to talking about the Night Court, you justify to yourself, don’t let the opportunity slip through your fingers.

“May I ask what happened?” you inquire tentatively.

 He grunts and rests his head in the crook of your neck, “It’s not exactly a bedtime story, darling.”

You frown, unsure how to press him further without raising suspicion. 

He must notice your disappointment as he sighs, “I can practically hear those gears turning in your head, Little Bird. Would you really like to know?”

You nod. He traces shapes over the expanse of your stomach as he contemplates where to begin.

“Many centuries ago, my father arranged for my marriage to a daughter of the Night Court,” he speaks slowly, “It was purely political—a chance to strengthen the alliance between our courts.”

This is so wrong, you think to yourself. But you make no move to stop him.

“She did not want the union. So, the night before the wedding, she escaped—into the arms of another male, hoping that if she tarnished her…purity, the wedding would be called off.”

Tears prick your eyes as you know exactly what’s coming next, but you blink them away.

“Her father was—is—a cruel man. As cruel as my father,” the steadiness of his voice falters, but he continues, “When he found out what she’d done, he tortured her with a brutality unlike any I’ve witnessed. He left her, stripped naked, at the border of our court, with a sign that she was ours to deal with.”

You’re grateful for his sparing of the details, because you’re not sure you’d be able to hold yourself together.

“I found her that morning, while out with my guards,” he stops, and for a moment you don’t think he will continue. But he releases a deep sigh, and barely speaks above a whisper, “I demanded them not to touch her.”

Anger bubbles in the pit of your stomach, and it takes everything in you not to scream. You feel nauseous, the reality of your predicament suddenly sobering—the reality that you’re lying naked on a couch with a man who left your sister for dead.

 “If I or any of my guards touched her, she would have been stuck in Autumn—doomed to a life she did not want, according to my court’s laws. If I had…” his voice trembles ever so slightly, “If I had touched her, my father would have killed her on the spot. So, I left her there. I knew her…her friends would come save her. But it was not a decision I wanted to make.”

The fury trembling in your bones settles, and your mind reels over his recount of the events. This is not the version of the story you’ve heard from Cassian, Rhys, and Azriel. He could be lying—but what reason would Eris have to lie to you, when he is blissfully unaware of your relation to Mor? More than that, you’re unable to ignore the sincerity, the distress in his voice. 

“Do you regret it?” you whisper so quietly; you’re surprised he can hear you.

“No,” his response is immediate, “Not for a minute. I gave her a chance to live. Even if she doesn’t see it that way. But I’ll never be able to get that image out of my head…of her pleading for help, and me being unable to grant it.”

Your mouth is dry and you’re sure he can feel the thundering of your heart. Your head is a muddled mess, to say the least. 

“Gray areas,” you whisper simply.

We can’t be faulted for how we choose to navigate them, his earlier words ring through your mind. But not faulting him feels like the gravest betrayal you could commit.

A humorless chuckle tumbles from his lips as he echoes you, “Gray areas.”

His head sinks further into the crook of your neck and he runs his thumb soothingly over your abdomen, unknowingly combatting the pounding of your head as you process the onslaught of new—and unexpected—information. 

“Do you still align with the Night Court?” you change the subject boldly but keep your tone nonchalant.

Fortunately, he doesn’t seem fazed by your question. Unfortunately, he doesn’t entertain it either.

“I like to keep my business separate from the bedroom,” he rasps against your neck, and you shudder at the tickle of his breath.

You purse your lips into a humorless smile, “Compartmentalization.”

“Forgive me, darling,” he muses, the seriousness of his tone gone, “But I can’t bring myself to discuss pompous High Lords while lying atop a beautiful, naked female.”

“You think I’m beautiful?” you tease half-heartedly.

He raises his head from your shoulder and looks down at you, the fox-like grin that had momentarily disappeared back, “I don’t think, I know,” he brushes his nose along your jawline, “You are the most delectable little thing I’ve seen in centuries.”

  You feel his groin twitch against your upper thigh, and you roll your eyes, “You are insatiable, Eris Vanserra.”

He laughs and your heart sings at the sound, despite your reeling mind. He presses his chest against yours and stretches his arm out to the floor. You watch curiously as he rolls back into his previous position with your forgotten book in hand.

“I’m not quite sure if Tydeus qualifies as a bedtime story either,” you arch a brow.

He shrugs with a cheeky grin, “Well if you ever plan on getting through that mountain of books, you’d better get started.”

Eris holds it out expectantly, and after a moment of contemplation, you grab it with your free arm. You untangle your other hand from his hair and wrap it around his shoulder so you can balance the book on your stomach with both arms. He squirms over you, and you squeak he accidentally elbows the side of your breast.  

“Careful,” you hiss.

“My apologies, Little Bird,” he coos as he finally finds a comfortable position on his side. One arm rests underneath your neck, while the other remains draped over your stomach behind the book. He drops his head onto your shoulder, so he has a full view of the book in your hands.

“I’ll let you know when to turn the page,” he nods his head against you, encouraging you to begin.

You squint but relent as you see his eyes moving back and forth, reading the text before him. You can feel him smiling below you as you focus your gaze on the page in front of you and pick up where you left off earlier. 

You’re nearing the end of the page when Eris taps the side of your hand with his finger. He waits patiently for you to finish, and both of your heads shift when you flip the page. You fall into a comfortable rhythm. He taps your hand softly each time to indicate when he’s finished, and you alternate between who finishes first with each flip of the page. The rise and fall of your bare chest moves in time with his breath against your skin, and despite your nudity, you don’t feel an ounce of shyness.

As you read, you can’t help but think that this must be what heaven feels like: orange flames warming your skin as you lounge on a couch reading with a gorgeous, and very naked, male on top of you. But there’s just one tiny problem—the gorgeous, and very naked, male in question.

You feel your thoughts slip from the book and urge yourself to focus on Tydeus’s philosophy rather than dwell on your anxiety. You find yourself so immersed in one passage in particular, that you don’t notice the way Eris’s breathing slows, or how his head lulls against your chest. You reach the end of the page and wait patiently for his signal to continue. Your brows cinch as the seconds stretch into minutes. You look down and realize that the heir to the Autumn Court throne, in all his glory, is sleeping like a babe using your breasts as a pillow.

The book lays forgotten in your hands as you observe him. Even in his softest of moments, his features still hold a certain sharpness. But right now, he looks…peaceful. His cheek is pressed up against the flesh of your breast, and with his eyes closed, you notice that his eyelashes are much longer than you imagined. You long to trace your fingers over the freckles splattered across his nose, to feel the curve of his nose. It’s hard to think that the male before you is capable of any cruelty at all.

But he is. 

And you’re gazing at him wide-eyed like a lovestruck teenager.

 You wish you could speak to your sister right now. You’re not sure what you’d say—maybe nothing at all. Maybe looking into her eyes, which are so similar to yours, would reveal some hidden truth, buried deep under centuries of hatred. Or maybe they would hold disdain—disappointment directed at you, for rolling around with a male who hurt her deeply.

Eris snores softly, halting your train of thought. Your chest tightens and the flames of the fire start to burn your skin. You can’t stay here. More importantly, you have a job to do.

You set the book down on the floor beneath you, and cautiously shift your body. He grunts in his sleep, but doesn’t stir, as you carefully slip out from underneath him. You hiss as you tumble onto the ground below and pause to make sure he’s still asleep. His snores don’t falter, and you rise from the ground.

You make quick work of gathering your clothes, cringing at the dried arousal covering your inner thighs and panties. Just as you’re about to slip out of his chambers, you turn back to take one last glance at his sleeping form. You gnaw your lower lip, a pang of guilt tugging at your heartstrings. Against your better judgment, you search for a scrap piece of paper and pen to leave him a note, as he had done for you.

‘Till we meet again, Eris Vanserra

Your lips purse—simple, yet effective. You set the note down on the wooden table and drape a throw blanket over the sleeping male in case he has any unexpected visitors. You don’t dare look back as you creep towards the doors.

The creaking of the rusted hinges has you cringing as you ease them open, inch by inch, and peer into the hallway. It’s empty—thank the Mother—with the only movement coming from the flickering flames of torches on the walls. 

You slink into the shadows as you move to your left down the hallway. Assuming Azriel’s map is correct, Eris’s office is two floors above his personal chambers, about one mile to the left. Despite the sizeable distance, you don’t risk winnowing for fear of someone catching you.

As you move along the walls, there’s a heavy weight on your shoulders. You can’t help but feel guilty for playing with his feelings and using them to your advantage—especially following the vulnerability he showed you tonight. But you remind yourself that, even in life’s dimmest gray areas, your loyalty to your family is unwavering.

Your heart thumps in your chest as you scale the winding staircase, keeping an eye out for any guards or lurking Vanserras. As you make your way down the next hallway, identical to the last, you move as swiftly as you can. The sooner you’re gone, the better—but you can’t deny the unease that grows with each step. On one hand, you hope you’ll find something to report back to Rhys. But on the other, you dread finding something that may contradict your image of Eris thus far.

Your steps are featherlight, and by the grace of the Cauldron, you make it to your destination without any setbacks. You press your ear against the door before slowing pushing it open.

The room is much like Eris’s chambers: swirling yellows and reds along the walls, a blazing fireplace, and a deep mahogany rug carpet covering the stone floor. In the middle sits a large, mahogany desk, covered in parchment. You creep forward, careful not to make any noise. You run your fingers along the polished wood of the desk, glancing over the papers. Nothing stands out as you shuffle through them. You search through his cabinets, rifle through the small bookcase in the back, and even check beneath the cushions of the chairs. All you can seem to find is polite, and uninteresting, correspondences with various courts, and menial to-do lists. You check each possible hiding place but come up short once again. There’s absolutely nothing here.

You’re not sure whether to feel relieved or frustrated—or perhaps, both. You glance at the grandfather clock in the corner of the dimly lit room. 3:06. You contemplate redirecting your search to Beron’s office, but you remember from Azriel’s map that it’s six floors down, and approximately two miles away on the opposite side of the house. If you were to go now, there’s a chance the sun would be rising by the time you’re ready to leave, leaving you defenseless without the dark of the shadows. 

With a sigh, you check over the room once more to ensure nothing is out of place before making your exit. You leave just as you came, slinking into the shadows along the hallways as quiet as a mouse. As you navigate the winding tunnels, you wonder if Eris is still sleeping soundly by the fire, or if he’s aware of your absence. And as your thoughts drift to the crimson-haired heir, you find yourself moving faster—as if escaping the walls of the Forest House will erase him from your mind. 

The wind is even more chilling than usual in the dead of night, you realize as you finally make it out through a side door. You make quick work of the courtyard, using the shadows to your advantage to avoid detection by the sentries littered throughout. When you finally make it out, you will the air to twist and fold around you, winnowing you back to your ransack cabin just as the sun begins to peek out from the horizon. Your limbs are tired, but your mind is racing. You know that sleep will not be kind to you. So, you kick off your boots and plop yourself on the dirty floor in front of the fireplace.

You find yourself just as you were before; hovering your hands over the orange embers until the burn becomes too much, and you are forced to pull away. Again. Over and over. As if the pain will grant you some sense of clarity. As if nothing has changed since you were last sat here. As if you aren’t falling further into the fox’s trap with no way out.

Being born of Light and Dark can be a difficult thing. But there are far worse evils in the world, some lurking just around the corner. 

taglist:

@lilah-asteria @goldenmagnolias @myromanempiree @i-know-i-can @hannzoaks @olive-main @lilylilyyyyyy @batboygirlie @stuff-i-found-while-crying @moni-cah @6000-fandoms @melsunshine @roseodelle @rcarbo1

[charliemwrites]

Part 5 (it’s getting out of control) of Charmed Slasher Simon.

Part 4 is here. (Master list coming soon)

(Slight warning for a coworker being a bit of a pushy creep but Simon handles it)

“Riiiiileyyyy.”

Ah, that’s your naughty voice. It means he’s going to want to do awful, terrible things to you out of pure endearment for your cheek.

He turns, arches an eyebrow as you nearly skip up to him. Your hair is shorter.

“New haircut?” he asks as if his fingers aren’t twitching to bury in it and pull your head back.

“Yup! Thought about dyeing it orange, but decided it would clash with my flat.”

He snorts, gives in to the urge to curl a strand around his finger, watches it bounce back into place. You don’t seem to mind, sticking your cute little tongue out at him. (If you’re not careful, he’s going to put you on your knees and have you wrap it around his cock right there.)

“Sensible choice,” he replies, “yellow is more your color.”

You giggle, aren’t bothered by his flat, almost inflectionless tone. “You think?”

“Highlighter yellow. Or maybe banana.”

“Hey, I like bananas!”

He smirks. “Oh yeah? Big ones?”

You shove at him, face going hot. He doesn’t move an inch, not that you were trying hard. Touchy little thing. You remind him of those little birds that flutter around lions, picking and pecking right under their noses, amusing themselves with death.

“Don’t be icky, Riley.”

“Icky.”

“Gross nasty.”

“We’re name calling now?”

“It’s not name calling if it’s true.”

He clicks his tongue, ushers you into the building.

“There a reason for the new hair?” he asks, eyeing it. It’s pretty, don’t get him wrong. But he didn’t know you were getting your hair cut today.

“Fancy office party tonight,” you sigh, rolling your eyes. “My stylist just managed to get me in, but now I’ve gotta rush to get ready.”

“Now who said you could go out?”

“What are you gonna do, stop me?” you laugh, clearly thinking he’s teasing. He’s not. If you looked at his face, you’d know it. But you’re busy fussing with your keys, trying to unlock your door.

“I might.”

“Oh, you stop,” you huff, shaking your head. “It’s not even movie night!”

He’s been coming over once a week to watch a movie and drink with you. One of you picks the movie, the other picks the takeaway. He always chooses a horror movie, likes how your eyes water when you get truly scared. You refuse to watch slashers (haven’t told ‘Riley’ why) but you’ll indulge paranormal ones.

It’s not movie night - those are on Saturdays. This is Friday.

“What if I just kidnap you?” he asks. “Keep you in all weekend?”

You hum as if in thought, glancing at him over your shoulder. “Could I go back to work on Monday?”

“Have to see how I’m feeling on Sunday.”

You giggle. “A tempting offer, but you’ll have to settle for kidnapping me just for Saturday.”

“I don’t think you understand how kidnapping works.”

“I’d be a terrible hostage,” you say. He arches an eyebrow, inviting you to continue. “I have to pee when I’m nervous, I’d be talking their ear off - and! I cry like, so much.”

Oh he knows. He thinks of tears running down your pretty face when he cums.

“Some kidnappers like the crying. Theyre sadists.”

You scrunch your face. “But it’s like… gross crying. Total mess. And I make dying seal noises.”

No, you don’t, not in his experience with you at least. But he’s not going to explain that to you.

“Didn’t you have something to get ready for?” he asks because he’s violently wrestling the urge to make good on his threat.

“Fuck!” You glance at your watch, brows scrunching. “If I’m late, I’m blaming you, Riley Simmons.”

“Oh no.”

You stick your tongue out at him one last time and disappear behind your door.

—

He hears you come back at 11:30, has been waiting up. Pauses when he hears two sets of footsteps, a man’s voice talking to you. A wave of bloodlust nearly drowns his better sense.

You brought someone home from a work event? Did you lie to him and go on a date?

“Well, thanks for walking me to my door, Brandon.”

“Was happy to. Don’t want anyone snatching you up off the street now, do we?” An annoying laugh. Yours sounding a little flat and strained joining him.

“Oh, hey, mind if I come in?” Brandon asks. So casually, as if the yes is expected.

Simon’s hands ball into tight fists.

“Ah, it’s pretty late…”

“Well, that’s what Saturday is for, right?”

Oh. That little roach. Simon’s going to hang him by his own guts.

“I have plans tomorrow, actually.”

Good girl.

“That’s alright,” Brandon persists. “Just one drink. Least you can do since I went out of my way, right?”

“I mean, you didn’t have to, I would have been fine.”

There’s some genuine annoyance in your voice this time. Simon’s proud.

“Nah, what kind of gentleman would I be if I let you go home after having drinks?” Brandon chuckles.

“I didn’t have that many - and anyway I’m here now, so…”

“And so am I. At least a little something for my troubles?”

And Simon hears just the slightest, faintest ruffle of clothes.

That’s enough.

Simon yanks his door open and steps out. You’re nearly pancaked to your own door, head snapping to him with relief.

“Riley!”

Brandon takes a step back, expression stormy. Simon almost laughs. Little prick is barely taller than you, has done hard work maybe twice in his life. His hands look softer than yours. And he’s wearing a sweater vest.

“Did we wake you up?” you ask.

Simon saunters down the hall towards you. The closer he gets, the more nervous Brandon gets. But you seem to relax a bit more with each step, even shift towards him.

Very good girl.

“Was already up.” He doesn’t look away from Brandon, radiating menace.

You hum in understanding - know Simon keeps late hours. Brandon clears his still-intact throat and you jolt a bit, expression wilting.

“Oh, um. Riley this is my coworker. Brandon, this is Riley, my neighbor.”

“How do you do?” Brandon replies stiffly.

Simon’s not playing along.

“You try to push her again, someone will be pushing you in a wheelchair the rest of your life. Understand?”

Brandon sputters while your eyes go adorably wide, expression caught between horror and gratitude. Like you don’t know if you should be condoning his threats.

“I beg your pardon?!”

“Not yet, but you will if I see you here again, yeah?”

Brandon’s face drains of blood. You press your lips together.

“Now get the fuck out. I’ve got her from here.”

Brandon, worm that he is, scurries away with a hasty “see you Monday”. You don’t reply, too busy blinking up at Simon with parted lips.

He chucks you gently under the chin, eyes narrowing in amusement.

“Off to bed. I’m kidnapping you tomorrow.”

You audibly swallow, then nod.

“Thank you.”

“Good manners.”

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[organic-bloodbath]

hiiii, can i request some fluff with niragi (cus theres hardly any written about him n it’s a struggle for me😭) anyways, i think anything would be good, whether it be bf headcanons for him or a short scenario, just anything pls im begging u 🧎🏻‍♀️💔

Would you say yes?

Niragi x Reader

Summary: You meet your boyfriend for the first time since the games started. Niragi arranges a dinner for you and has a talk about the future of your relationship when the games would be over.

A/N: We need more Niragi fluff so bad. I'm always sobbing trying to think what i have to write on the search bar to find any fluff.

♤♧

Niragi hadn't seen you in several days. At first, he had counted the days since he had lost you. One, two, three, four… But so many things happening around him, he had lost count. He was sure that you were dead, killed by one of the games if you even had been here at all. If you were alive, you should be here with him right now, by his side, but you weren't. Why weren't you with him?

Niragi took his anger to others, becoming more violent and menace than usual to deal with his emotions. He wanted to blame someone for you being gone. He experienced awful mood swings where one moment he was all chill and chatty, but the next moment he wanted to shoot the brains out from a person standing in front of him if they even glanced at him the wrong way.

The last time he saw you was in the crowded streets of Tokyo when you told him you'd go use the bathroom nearby. Niragi let you go inside alone, obviously he didn't plan to join you in a women's bathroom. You never came back. Niragi had gone to the bathroom where you went later, but you had been nowhere to be found. You had vanished into thin air.

Niragi was now standing by the pool at the Beach, talking with Aguni when Hatter appeared to the pool, though not alone. He had three new people coming after him. Niragi's heart stopped for a second when he recognized one of the three, his legs becoming weak under him.

The most gorgeous woman he had ever laid his eyes on was currently looking directly at him.

"Y/N?" Niragi breathed out when he looked at you with wide eyes, looking like he had just seen a ghost. Were you real or was he just extremely dehydrated, starting to see things?

You were frozen on your spot, not expecting to actually see him again.

Niragi dropped his rifle on the ground and hurried towards you, pushing one or two people out of his way. He instantly wrapped his arms around you, pulling you into a suffocating hug. You didn't remember when was the last time he hugged you so tightly, desperate to keep you from floating away from him.

You were here, alive. Was this a dream after all? No, he felt your body against him, you were real. You had to be. If it was just a dream, he never wanted to wake up.

He pulled back a little, taking your face into his hands, making sure it was really you.

You put your arms around his neck, pressing your lips against his. He instantly kissed you back, sneaking his tongue inside your mouth. His hands were back on your waist, tightening his grip on your hips.

"Get a room, you two," Hatter shouted. When you glanced at him, he had a grin spread across his face.

"Mind your own fucking business," Niragi yelled over his shoulder.

He was about to pull you back into his arms to another kiss, but you put your hand on his chest to push him back.

"You heard the man," you grinned. "We'll need to continue that in private." He was already taking your hand in his, about to pull you inside but you didn't move from your spot. "Not now."

"Come on, baby," he whispered and lifted his hand on your cheek, brushing your skin with his thumb. "I missed you. I missed you so much."

"I missed you too," you smiled. "But it'll have to wait."

♤♧

Hatter had assigned a bedroom for you, but Niragi insisted that you'd be staying in his room. There was no way he'd let you out of his sight anymore.

Right now, you were taking a nice, hot shower. God, how much you missed having a proper shower, you had felt so dirty and nasty for several days.

Niragi had disappeared somewhere, vaguely saying he had something he needed to do and would be back soon. He wouldn't tell you what, which felt suspicious, but you didn't put too much thought on that.

You stepped out of the shower, wearing only your towel wrapped around your body. Before you managed to do anything, there was a knock on the door. You approached the door and opened it without another thought. Niragi stood in front of you, hands behind his back. He looked at your figure from head to toe.

"You always open the door half naked for people, huh?" Niragi asked with an angry expression on his face, eyebrows raised up. He pushed himself past you and closed the door before anyone would manage to walk past your room in the corridor, but keeping one hand behind his back. "I could have been anyone, you know. I don't want other men see you like that."

"Calm down," you sighed and rolled your eyes. "It was nobody else now, was it?" You tried to look past him what he was hiding behind his back, but he dodged your curious look by turning his body.

"What's going on?"

He pulled a single red rose behind him, offering it to you.

"I came to ask my girl for a date, of course," he answered, like it was obvious and you should have been aware of his plans. You took the rose between your fingers, blush rising on your cheeks, along with a flattered smile. "I know it's not your favorite flower, but that's all i found right now."

"It's perfect, Niragi, thank you." You pulled him closer by the collar of his black-and-white shirt, taking his lips on yours.

He eyed your half naked body up and down once more, not being very subtle, until returning his gaze back into your eyes. "You know, I'm extremely tempted to just rip that towel off, toss it on the floor and carry you into the bed but let me be a little romantic here, okay?"

"So, a date, huh?" you asked, not sure if you heard him correctly. "Where on earth did you plan to take me out here?"

"It's a surprise," he said. "Now come on, get dressed up."

"What's the theme, hm? Fancy, casual, bikinis or what?"

"Wear whatever you'd like," he answered, but then pointed a finger at you. "But no bikinis right now."

"You sure?" you grinned.

"Clothes on, now," Niragi demanded.

"I like when you're all bossy."

"Y/N," Niragi repeated, no tone of joking in his voice. "Now."

"Okay okay, jeez."

♤♧

Niragi had arranged a nice little dinner, just for the two of you, he had even lit some candles to be fancy. It had been a while since the last time he took you on a proper date, but whenever he did, he made sure to put effort on it. Being here right now, you had kind of limited options what you could do on a date.

When you had both finished eating, Niragi turned a lot more serious now.

“Y/N, I… I have something I’d like to talk to you about,” Niragi started, suddenly feeling extremely nervous.

“Alright, what is it?”

"We haven't really talked about our future."

"What do you mean?" you asked, brows furrowed.

"Our relationship, you know," he continued. "We've been together for five years and being here, every day a new chance to die, has made me think things."

Niragi took a deep breath and got up from his seat, taking your hand and pulling you up as well. He brushed your knuckles gently with his thumb, having a vulnerable look in his eyes when he looked at you.

"When we get home, i'll propose to you, if you'd like," he suggested.

Your heart started beating faster, shock flowing through your veins. Propose? Getting married was kind of whatever to you, though deep down a part of you did want to get married some day. You just hadn't imagined that Niragi would truly want that so you hadn't given it too much thought.

"Wait, really?" you asked, making sure you hadn't misheard him.

"Only if you promise to say yes because i don't think my ego is able to handle rejection very well," he stated and swallowed the lump in his throat. "Would you? Say yes, i mean?"

You smiled. "Of course i'd say yes, idiot."

He let out a relieved sigh and pressed a kiss on the top of your head, smiling against your hair and pulling you tighter against his chest. He held you like that for a moment, not saying anything in a while.

"You've changed, you know that? While being here," you pointed out.

"Is it a good or bad change?" he asked, a little unsure.

"Well, i'd never want you to change to someone else but it feels like a good one," you assured him. "You're more… serious, I think."

"In our world i was never afraid of losing you but now i almost did," he admitted. "It made me think things a little differently."

You couldn't help but smile, feeling butterflies storming inside your stomach.

"I'll take you on more dates when we get home than what i did before," he promised and put his warm hand on your cheek. "I know i took you for granted. I want to do better, Y/N."

"Niragi, you're too hard on yourself," you comforted him.

"Be honest," Niragi whispered, furrowing his eyebrows. "Do i make you happy?"

"Of course you do," you confirmed, cupping his cheeks in your hands. "I wouldn't be here if you didn't, now would i?"

"Okay," he smiled.

♤♧

Back in your bedroom, you changed into more comfortable clothes, stripping yourself until you were wearing only your underwear.

Niragi came out of the bathroom, taking a step back when he saw you in only your bra and panties. He automatically scanned your body from head to toe with his eyes. You leaned your hand against the wall, the other resting on your hip. He took a deep breath through his nostrils, clear lust in his eyes.

"You like what you see, hm?" you grinned and stepped closer to him, only a small gap between your bodies. You rested your hands on his shoulders, slowly sliding them down on his chest.

"Oh, you have no idea," he smirked.

"Come on, show me how much you've missed me," you whispered, almost coming off as a whine.

Niragi pushed your hands away, picked up a t-shirt and pulled it over your head. Your jaw dropped a little, shock and confusion filling your mind. He had always taken your shirt off, never putting one back on you.

"Niragi," you said slowly. "Is this a way of saying 'no' to having sex with me? Are you ill?" You put your hand on his forehead to see if it felt hot.

"Y/N, i'm not-"

"First you were ready to almost strip me by the pool and now you're not, huh?" you asked, crossing your arms against your chest. "And you’re saying that women send mixed signals to men."

"I think we should just rest tonight, that alright with you?" he asked, rubbing the sides of your body with his hands.

You narrowed your eyes and after a few seconds you took his head roughly in your hands, starting to yank on his hair and pull his cheeks to act as if you tried to rip his skin off.

"Who are you and what did you do to my boyfriend, huh? Come on, take the disguise off already, you filthy impostor," you commanded, making Niragi laugh as he tried to push his hands away from his face. "Don't start bullshitting me and say that you'll want to wait for marriage before having sex with me again. In that case i'll have Hatter marry us."

“You don’t have to worry about that,” Niragi promised and without a warning, he picked you up bridal style in his arms. He looked into your eyes. “I just want to hold you tonight, alright?”

The sweet look on his face made you feel all giddy and warm inside. You didn't see this side of him often, if ever. This gentle and handling you like he'd break you if he held too tight.

Niragi put you down on the bed, sitting next to you. You moved to sit between his legs, laying your back against his chest. He wrapped his arms around your waist, resting his hand on your stomach. His nose was buried in your hair, making him smell his own shampoo since there had been no other option for you to wash your hair with.

"Um," Niragi mumbled. "We talked about getting married but…"

"But what?"

"What about kids?"

"Kids?" you repeated, now pushing yourself up to properly turn around and face him. You looked at him with wide eyes and for a second he regretted bringing it up. "You want kids?"

"Well, um, you see. I didn't tell you but… i saw a dream about it once," he explained nervously. "You were there, teaching a little toddler to walk. I don't remember all of it. It just made me think and, well, i liked the idea. I think i'd like to have a kid with you some day."

"For real?" you asked, a wide smile spreading on your lips.

"For real."

You turned around to sit on his lap, straddling him with your knees on both of his sides on the mattress. You put your hands on his shoulders, rubbing them slowly.

"You don't want to start now, hm?" you asked, biting your lip.

"Tempting," he smirked. "But i think it'll have to wait for another time."

You looked shocked. You were literally grinding on his hips wearing only your underwear and he was still saying no?

"Did you come close to death in one of the games and suddenly found God, now wanting to devote yourself to him for the rest of our time here or something?" you asked, raising your eyebrows.

Niragi pushed you backwards, making you collapse on the mattress. He crawled on top of you, your legs wrapped tightly around his waist. He pinned your arms on the mattress next to your head. You tried to resist, laughing, but his grip was too firm for you to escape.

"Trust me," he said with a low voice, the tip of your noses almost touching each other. "Normally i'd never refuse but tonight i just want to keep you close to me."

"You're actually serious?" you asked, thinking what kind of switch had been turned around in his head to make him so soft.

He pushed a strand of your hair out of your face, the loving gaze in his eyes filling your stomach with butterflies. He pressed a kiss on your forehead.

"I'm serious about you, Y/N. You know that, right?" he asked, furrowing his eyebrows.

"I know," you replied. "I'm serious about you too."

"Good. It'd be really awkward if you weren't," Niragi sighed, relieved. He pressed one more gentle kiss on your lips.

You giggled, and he laid down on the bed next to you, pulling you back on his chest.

"So, how many kids were you thinking about having, hm?" you asked. "Because i've planned to have atleast five."

Niragi sat up in full panic. "Now hold on a second, i said i'm open to have kids but i'm not going to buy a fucking bus to be able to drive my kids to school," he argued.

The image of Niragi driving children to school early in the morning was one of the least realistic thoughts you could think of. Looking at him while he acted the way he did around other people, it was hard to see him as an actual father. Although, you saw sides of him that nobody else could ever see and you knew he'd make a good dad.

"I'm kidding," you giggled. "There's no way i'm pushing more than two babies out of me."

"Don't scare me like that," Niragi sighed, holding his hand against his chest as if he was on the edge of a heart attack, and laid back down on the mattress.

Both of you laid there on your side, bodies facing each other. You were quiet for a moment, just losing yourself into each other's eyes.

"You'd make a good dad, though," you smiled.

"Yeah?" Niragi mirrored your smile. "And you'd make a damn good mom."

You eventually fell asleep in each other's arms, blanket pulled over both of you. Niragi held you close against his chest, giving you no way to escape his hold on you. You were the first to fall asleep, the heat of his skin warming you up just the right amount.

Niragi stayed awake later than you, brushing your hair with his fingers. He had gotten you back, you were there again with him. He had never thought that someone would love him just the way he was enough to agree on marriage and spending the rest of your life together. It felt surreal.

And having a child with you? Niragi didn't know if he would make a good father but the idea of him raising a child with you warmed his heart. He'd try his best to be good.

For you.

If someone asked him about getting married and having a child, he would have laughed at their face how stupid thought that was. That life wasn't meant for him at all. But now? Imagining that life with you? He suddenly wanted that.

"I love you," Niragi whispered against your hair, but you were deep asleep.

[writeriguess]

Can you write a Dabi x female reader, where reader is Katsuki's sister and in secret relationship with Dabi?? Reader is not a prohero and doesn't have any quirks. Katsuki is sssssuper protective of her and Dabi just lives for it. He throws hints about her and their relationship while fighting Katsuki, but he doesn't catch up, he thinks it's just some nonsense a crazy person would say. This is probs stupid but I'm just... crazy about Katsuki's sister reader x Dabi trope and I wish there was more of it 😩

author's note: Oh I love this scenario and I loved writing this fic <3

Burned in Secret

You’ve spent your whole life in the shadow of someone explosive—your brother, Katsuki Bakugo. It was never easy being the quirkless sibling of a pro-hero, especially not when that hero was the loudest, most aggressive, and most protective person you knew. He had a way of acting like the world was out to get you, like you were made of glass and would shatter if he wasn’t watching. You loved him for it, but at the same time, he didn’t understand that you weren’t some delicate little thing. You could handle yourself.

And, well… you handled yourself right into the arms of the last person Katsuki would ever approve of.

Dabi.

You weren’t exactly sure how it happened. Maybe it was because, in some ways, he was everything your brother wasn’t. Katsuki was all fire and noise; Dabi was quiet destruction. Where Katsuki burned hot and bright, Dabi burned slow and deep, dangerous in a way that sent a thrill through your veins. You met him through circumstances that should’ve never led to romance—he was a villain, after all. But something about his smirks, the way he looked at you like you were something interesting, something real, had you falling before you even realized it. And despite his nonchalant attitude toward most things, you found that he actually cared in his own twisted way.

The relationship was a secret, of course. If Katsuki ever found out, there’d be hell to pay.

Which is exactly why Dabi loved to drop hints.

The battlefield was in ruins, buildings crumbling, smoke filling the air. Katsuki stood in the middle of it all, blood trickling down his forehead, hands still crackling with residual explosions. He was glaring at the man standing across from him, the one whose stitched grin hadn’t wavered once throughout the fight.

“You just don’t shut up, do you?” Katsuki snarled, flexing his fingers like he was resisting the urge to blast him into oblivion.

Dabi smirked. “What can I say? You’re fun to mess with.” He rolled his shoulders, barely fazed by the heat in the air. “Though I gotta admit, you’re a little denser than I expected.”

“The hell is that supposed to mean?”

Dabi let out a low chuckle, tilting his head just enough to let his bangs fall into his eyes. “Just thinking about how protective you are. Cute, really.”

Katsuki’s scowl deepened. “Shut the hell up.”

“You act like you can keep everything precious to you locked up tight, but people have secrets, Dynamight.” Dabi’s tongue flicked out over his lower lip, dry and cracked. “People do things in the dark they’d never do in the light. Even the ones closest to you.”

Katsuki barely stopped himself from lunging. “What the fuck are you on about?”

Dabi just grinned, the kind of grin that set Katsuki’s teeth on edge. “Nothing. Just thinking about how funny it’d be if someone close to you was keeping a little something from you. Something big.” He raised his hand, wiggling his fingers as if in thought. “Like, I don’t know… a secret relationship?”

Katsuki froze for half a second before shaking his head violently. “You really are a lunatic. What the fuck are you even talking about?”

Dabi just shrugged. “Just a thought.”

With a snarl, Katsuki launched himself forward, palm sparking. Dabi dodged effortlessly, laughing under his breath as if this was all a game to him. In some ways, it was.

Because he knew the truth.

He knew that the moment this fight was over, he’d find you waiting for him in the shadows, worried and scolding him for teasing your brother. He’d get to hear your voice, feel your hands fussing over his burns even though he told you not to bother. He’d get to be with you, touch you, kiss you. And your precious big brother? The one who thought he had everything under control? He had no idea.

And Dabi lived for it.

Later that night, when you met him in your usual spot, you smacked him lightly on the arm. “You were messing with him again, weren’t you?”

Dabi chuckled, wrapping an arm around your waist and pulling you close. “Maybe.”

“You’re going to slip up one day,” you huffed, though your hands still rested against his chest. “And he’s going to actually kill you.”

“I’d like to see him try.” He leaned down, brushing his lips over yours. “Besides, what’s life without a little risk?”

You sighed against his mouth, knowing this was just who he was. Knowing that, despite everything, you wouldn’t change him for the world.

And knowing that when Katsuki finally found out, all hell was going to break loose.

[alchemistc]

Welp, looks like I'm not done with the make them communicate series.

"I don't think this is working," Buck says, and sits in the silence of his words long enough to see the panic in Tommy's gaze. He waves his hands, shakes his head.

It was a stupid argument, really. A little thing that grew into a bigger thing until they were bringing up past grievances big and small and then Tommy had just ...shut the fuck down. Still and quiet in his seat, arms crossed, ass apparently surgically attached to that chair, so tense Buck could see the seams in Tommy's shirt fighting for their lives.

"That's not - I don't mean us. I'm still, like, so mad at you right now but I'm not - this isn't." Buck pauses. Takes a breath. Steadies himself with his weight braced on his palms. Tommy's arms have become somehow more crossed. "We're working. Badly, at the moment, but we'll figure it out. I just meant - Tommy do you need a break?"

He'd been clingy as hell, all those months ago. He could remember the panic every time Tommy got that "making a break for it" look on his eyes. He could remember the anger in his voice when he'd made Tommy swear not to leave in the middle of a conversation.

Tommy blows out a breath through his nose that makes Buck wonder if he'd been holding it.

"Yes," he says, grimacing like he hates to fucking admit it.

Buck's voice is a little fried. He still feels like yelling. He's still so pissed.

He'd caught Tommy smoking a cigarette, after the funeral. Could still remember the way he'd smiled around the filter when Buck's nose scrunched up at the smell. He hates the act itself, but it had looked...

Well, it had looked.

Buck's pretty sure Tommy had spent the early hours of the morning, once Buck had successfully managed to make him believe he could sleep, leaned over the kitchen sink slowly dismantling the rest of the pack stick by stick.

Buck has no idea what Tommy's calming techniques are. They should -

They should talk about that.

"Five minutes," Tommy says, already shaking weight out of his limbs, curling out of his seat. "I'm - five minutes. Time me."

He's already halfway toward the back door, which gives Buck a little comfort. Front door would have kept him on edge until he could actually see Tommy's face again. Back door means if Tommy's making a break for it he's gonna have to jump the fence.

"I'm not gonna time you," Buck snips, because he's still - he's not a violent man but sometimes Tommy drives him so damn crazy.

Buck paces. Does a mental inventory of his baking supplies. Thinks about Tommy's clothes, still waiting to be put in the dryer. Remembers this whole thing had started because Tommy made some dumb joke about how he hadn't expected to be sharing a closet with Buck and Eddie when Buck handed him a shirt Eddie'd left the last time he'd stayed over.

Tommy wasn't even being an ass, that time.

And. Okay. So, yeah, what he and Eddie have isn't, like, not co-dependent and a little strange to outsiders. He knows that. But it's still a sore subject with them. And Tommy's doing a much better job taking Buck at face value than Buck is believing that Tommy believes him.

It had just been a joke. A poorly executed one, but just a joke.

Tommy's back in four minutes and twenty-two seconds. Not that Buck was timing him.

Buck's a little surprised when Tommy walks right past his chair to stand across from Buck.

It seems like it's a struggle for Tommy to look at him. He does, though. Buck hates the spooked look in his eyes enough to feel some of the ire trickle from his spine.

"My father yelled a lot," Tommy says, and Buck rolls his tongue over his teeth. Clenches his jaw because he so rarely gets anything like this from Tommy and if he makes a single noise Tommy will clam right the fuck back up. "I learned a long time ago the easiest way to deal with that was to shut the fuck up and listen. Most of my adult life the same principle applied."

Buck's still annoyed with Tommy, but it would be incredibly easy to shift all that anger straight into everyone who's ever made Tommy feel small even once in his entire life. Starting with himself and working his way backwards to Dick Kinard.

("His name is John, Evan, that's not even close to a derivative.")

"I know you can't always help it. But. If we could - yell less. That would help."

Buck holds up a fist. Raises a single finger from it, just to see Tommy's watery grin.

"Can I go back to not-yelling at you now?"

"We could start framing our arguments as lively debates," Tommy jokes, because he can never quite help making light of things, and it's a trait Buck adores and despises in equal measure. Tommy catches him rolling his jaw, and sobers. "Return to our regularly scheduled programming."

"Tommy, I swear to -."

[moriitis]

What would it be like dating Toby Rogers?

Slightly NSFW? TWs; gore, blood, manic episodes, kidnapping. Just little HCs.

Pretty much the biggest goofball there is but he can be really annoying, anything to get you pissed, doesn't really understand the concept of overstepping a joke or taking things too far. I feel like warnings kinda go over Toby's head, so if you told him to stop, he would continuously do it because the first time it made you laugh so naturally every time he did it, you'd laugh, right? He'd do things like jabbing you in the sides when he walks past, jamming his fingers up your butt to piss you off (smacking your ass when you bend over), chasing you up the stairs, he'd mock you when you whined and do that thing to mimic your facial expressions in an irritating way but also in a way to make you laugh.

Loves driving you around, especially late at night. More prone to opening up about his feelings when driving because then his attention is diverted to the road and he's forced to avoid your gaze. You'll always know he needs to vent when he asks if you wanna go ride around, listen to music or something, he'd mention it with his hands in his pocket, pretty embarrassed to ask. Also just likes to ride around and find somewhere remote to park so he can fuck you in the backseat of his car.

Probably the worst person ever to try to call or text. He'll never answer so good luck really trying to get a hold of him.

He's a romantic and he's pretty corny. On the rare occasion he does decide to text you, it'll be a song that reminded him of you. Although don't be surprised if he literally hands you a tape with burned music on it. Wild flowers that he decided to pick because the colour of the petal reminded him of your eyes? Coming home late at night with your favourite snacks. He's a good boy and despite the occasional memory loss, he remembers these things about you, he also keeps reminders on a little piece of paper tucked away in his wallet.

He's a physical person but really only in private. Cuddling on the couch? For sure! Want to share a kiss in public? Probably not. It's nothing toward you, he just feels weird expressing bouts of love in public with people watching. Was it the lack of love in his childhood? Probably.

Will roll your cigarettes/blunts for you. He's a natural.

Very competitive gamer, try playing some Mario Kart against him and this guy is quivering at the thought of beating you. You got him with a blue shell once at the finish line, thus taking his first place last minute and he had to step outside to have a cigarette because the loss hit him that hard.

Despite his lack of physical affection in public, he is possessive. Hates the idea of other people looking at you and gets very jealous. Also will stand incredibly close to you, close enough you could feel his breath against the back of your neck. He'll scowl around too and make sure to put himself between you and another guy.

Speaks German when he's angry, like when he rages at Mario Kart (he HATES Yoshi primarily) you'll hear him talking smack to the TV in German.

Also speaks German to you when you're beneath him, muttering small praises in his mother tongue as he pants and groans softly against the skin of your neck. Sometimes he'll mix, start speaking English but end the sentence in German.

His driving is reckless but he'd never put you in any danger, not after what happened with Lyra.

He hates being around you when he has a manic episode, his voice cracking as he yells at you to stand back, that he's dangerous, that he could hurt you, kill you. With each step you take toward him, he takes one back, violently shaking his head. His tics and twitches are worse as he runs his hands through his hair, they bawl, tugging at his locks as if he was daring to rip them out but the pain is non existent to him. He'd storm out, distancing himself from you. It could take weeks, the longest it took was a month before he came back, scruffy, tired, longing.

Talks about how he wants to travel, to go somewhere with you, that he'll kidnap you and take you away forever and that you'll only be his and his alone.

Does get a little thrill of scaring you. Making it look like your home alone but as you walk past the bathroom door, he'll jump out, one hand over your mouth, the other wrapping around your waist as he picks you up helplessly and drags you back. You'll kick and scream until his raspy laughter breaks out behind you. He did it a couple times until you had a panic attack once and he never did it again.

Likes to remind you to take your medication, dude specifically has a calendar to keep track of times and dates, when you should take this and that. Especially birth control.

Will touch your thigh as you sit in the car together sometimes his fingers pushing up further in a little attempt to get lucky, a smug smirk on his face.

Compliments in German too, of course.

Will suddenly hit the breaks in the car to send you flying and then lecture you to always wear a seatbelt. Always wear your seatbelts when sat in car with him.

sorry these suck lololol, idk might seem off character for toby but it's just how i see it play out. i'll make another post for just general HCs for Toby bc i have so many. anywayyy taking requests to shoot if you have any ideas :)

[cruel-seduction]

Blurb || 18+

Boxer!Mattheo (Brother’s Rival Au) || Main Masterlist

It was never just a rivalry between Mattheo Riddle and your brother. It was a war. Bone-deep. Blood-borne. A hatred so old and ugly it felt like it stained the air whenever they were within ten feet of each other. If Mattheo stepped left, your brother was swinging right. If Mattheo breathed wrong, your brother was ready to break his fucking ribs. And Mattheo? He wore that hatred like armor, sharpened it into a smirk that could cut glass.

Mattheo Riddle was the kind of man your brother wanted nowhere near you. The kind of man you were supposed to never associate with. And you? You were the exception. The unspoken rule was simple: Stay the fuck away from Mattheo. But that’s the thing about rules—they’re made to be broken, even if you don’t admit it to yourself.

You’d never been one to bow down to anyone, and especially not to Mattheo. You didn’t care for his arrogance, his need to provoke, or the way he walked around like he owned the world. He wanted to get under your skin, and he tried.

But tonight? You weren’t in the mood. So, when he shot his usual smirk your way across the room at that party, you didn’t even glance back.

Every time he opened his mouth, you shut him down. The insults were sharp, cutting, and they were aimed at him, always. “Fuck off, Mattheo,” you muttered, as if he were nothing but another irritating part of the background noise. He was used to it, of course. You always disrespected him like this. The insults rolled off your tongue as naturally as breathing.

You tried to ignore him. You wanted to. There were drinks to be had, friends to talk to, music to drown out his presence. But Mattheo didn’t care. He wanted something more.

It was when you were making your way to the bathroom, thinking you had successfully avoided his presence for the night, that he struck. His hand shot out, grabbing your wrist with a force that made you freeze.

“Not running off to hide, are you?” Mattheo’s voice was low, dangerously calm, as he yanked you toward the stairs.

You struggled. “Let go of me, Riddle.”

But he wasn’t listening.

He dragged you past the noisy chaos of the party, his grip tight, his steps confident, like he knew exactly where he was taking you. To the room at the end of the hallway. The door slammed shut behind you, and the lock clicked. Your heart started to race. You shouted, your voice loud enough to be heard downstairs. “What the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

Mattheo didn’t flinch. He didn’t flinch at all. Instead, he reached up, pressing a hand to your mouth with a speed that caught you off guard. You gasped, the words trapped behind his palm.

Mattheo’s hand was still clamped over your mouth, his body pinning you lightly against the door, all heat and threat and something else, something thick and electric that you pretended not to feel.

His lips brushed against your ear, voice low and venomous. “You gonna scream again, princess? Go ahead. See if anyone fucking saves you.”

You ripped his hand away, jaw set, heart pounding so violently it hurt. “Get your filthy hands off me, Riddle. I wouldn’t fuck you if you were the last goddamn man breathing.”

He grinned — slow, wolfish, entirely unbothered — like he could taste the lie bleeding from your tongue. “Yeah?” he murmured, dark eyes dropping to your lips, your throat, the frantic pulse hammering there. “Funny, coming from a girl who stares at me like she wants to ride me after every match.”

Your stomach twisted viciously. Because he wasn’t wrong. He didn’t know about the nights you spent with your hand buried between your thighs, watching his fight clips, chanting his name like a dirty prayer. No one knew. And you were determined to keep it that way.

“Fuck yourself, Mattheo,” you hissed, shoving his chest. But you didn’t move him an inch.

Instead, he laughed, deep and guttural, catching both your wrists in one hand and pinning them high above your head against the door. “No, princess. You’re gonna do that for me.”

His mouth descended on your neck — hot, open-mouthed kisses, biting and soothing — and despite yourself, your hips jerked forward, seeking friction. You pretended to resist, whimpering half-heartedly, twisting under his hold, but he saw straight through you.

“Such a good little actress,” he muttered against your skin. “Gonna win an award for how hard you’re pretending you don’t want me to wreck you right here.”

You opened your mouth to spit another insult — something cutting, something cruel — but it turned into a broken gasp when his free hand slid up your thigh, lifting your dress without ceremony.

“Mattheo—”

Too late. His fingers slipped beneath your panties, the barest brush against your clit enough to have your knees buckling.

“Fuck—” you choked out, biting your lip so hard you tasted blood.

“What was that, princess?” he taunted, pressing harder, rubbing slow, deliberate circles that made your mind go blank. “Not so mouthy now, are we?”

You glared at him, breathing ragged, humiliation burning under your skin — but god, it felt so good. You should’ve stopped him. Should’ve fought harder. But the thrill, the chaos, the sheer wrongness of it all made your body betray you.

Your dress was bunched around your waist now, his hand relentless between your thighs, and when he finally crashed his mouth against yours, you snapped. You kissed him back. Desperate. Hungry. Furious.

The pretense shattered.

You tore your mouth away, panting against his jaw. “Please,” you whispered, the word like poison on your tongue.

He stilled, smirk curling his lips as he leaned in closer, breath hot against your cheek. “Please what, princess?” Mocking. Cruel. Daring you to beg.

You bared your teeth, fire sparking in your veins. “If you don’t fuck me right now, Mattheo, I’m going downstairs and I’m gonna let your best buddy do it instead. Choice is yours.”

His eyes darkened, the grin vanishing in an instant. For a second, he just stared at you, jaw ticking, breathing like he’d just gone a few rounds in the ring. And then—

Mattheo ripped you away from the door and threw you onto the bed.

You bounced once, hair splaying wildly around you, and by the time you propped yourself up on your elbows, he was already stalking toward you like something feral.

“Oh, princess," he rasped, dragging your panties down your legs in one brutal motion, "you’re gonna regret running that pretty mouth."

And you smiled—sharp and wicked—because if regret felt anything like this, you wanted all of it.

[daydreaming-in-olympus]

— 𝐊𝐈𝐒𝐒 𝐈𝐓 𝐁𝐄𝐓𝐓𝐄𝐑.

pairing: clarisse la rue x fem!reader (daughter of athena) summary: clarisse won’t let anyone bad-mouth you. unfortunately, her methods often get violent fairly quickly, leaving you to patch her up.

word count: 426 (drabble)

author’s note: aaaaahh first time writing for clarisse! constructive criticism & reblogs are always appreciated <3

“hey! be gentle!”

you rolled your eyes, pressing the napkin soaked with betadine into clarisse’s knuckles as she involuntarily flinched at the sting. “should’ve thought about that before you punched michael yew.”

“you didn’t hear the things he said,” clarisse protested, her eyebrows scrunching together. “sweetheart, i can’t sit by while he’s shit-talking you. you know that.”

“clar, i think it’s really sweet that you stick up for me every time someone says something, but i just wish you didn’t have to split the skin on your knuckles to do so. also, i don’t care what michael says about me. the fact that he’s too scared to say it to my face is reassurance enough.” you continued carefully wrapping the last few strips of gauze loosely around her injured fist. “not every problem has to be settled with conflict, babe.”

“and this is why i’m the daughter of ares and you’re the daughter of athena. someone’s gotta fight enough for the both of us, right?” she leaned forward to press a gentle kiss against your forehead.

you let out a disapproving hum and tied the ends of the gauze. “there, you’re all done.” you gave her forearm a small pat, gathering the contents of the first aid kit that had been strewn around you both. you noticed her staring at you expectantly and looked up, tilting your head. “yes?”

“don’t i get a get-well-soon kiss?” she feigned innocence, fluttering her lashes and holding out her hand like a self-pitying puppy. you bit the inside of your cheek to stop yourself from laughing. gods, you loved your girlfriend with all your heart, but she could not give puppy eyes to save her life. she looked more like a shocked rugby player that had just seen the worst comments on social media thirsting over them.

“fine. but just so you know, i’m quite pissed at-” you didn’t get to complete your sentence because she grabbed your waist and pulled you in, pressing her lips to yours. her watermelon-flavoured chapstick mixed with your cherry lip gloss on your tongue, sending dizzying electric rushes straight into your brain.

“still pissed?” clarisse asked, pulling back with a smirk. you raised your eyebrows at her, gingerly taking her hand and bringing it up to your lips. you pressed your lips against the topmost layer of gauze gently, over and over, so the rose-tinted lip marks left behind overlapped each other.

“there. that should be enough get-well-soon kisses for you, right?”

she chuckled softly as she examined your masterpiece, then snaked her arms around you once more.

“never.”

[dreamingkitsunewrites]

✧♬•¨a.k.a. What Getting Wasted with GRUNGE BOYFRIEND!CHOSO feels like✧♬• (PT2)

Pt1 here. Inspired Moodboard here

Warning tags: suggestive, mentions of alcohol and weed, nsfw (pin, receiving f!oral)

♬ Inspired by 'I like the way you kiss me' by Artemas ♬

Pt 3?? (I feel like the last? part of this series will be the smuttiest one, already got ideas😏)

✧Grunge! Choso who became Grunge Boyfriend! Choso after you two spent the rest of the night together, wandering around the city. As the sun was about to rise, you were seated on a swing, in the middle of a deserted playground of a local park, talking about your personal stories and venting about how being different by showing your authenticity automathically makes you a weirdo in this fucked up society... Lulled by the lazy back and forth of the swing, you smiled at the sight of your matching platform Doc Martens. Shortly after enjoying the sunrise together, he walked you back home. Standing outside your door, his brows furrowed as you start rummaging through your bag, in search of your dark lipstick.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who looked like about to pass out as you grabbed his wrist and started writing your phone number on his forearm with your matte lipstick, along with a clear invitation: text me if you wanna be my boyfriend. "Don't worry it will last enough 'till you make it home...it should be long lasting..." You giggled to yourself and placed a final peck on his pale lips, making sure to leave a stain.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who did text you back as soon as he calmed down his nerves, but still couldn't believe he could call you his now...the mere thought sending chills of anticipation down his spine: he layed in bed for hours, smiling goofily at the ceiling and already fucking his fist while picturing all the naughty things he would have done to you from the following day on, finally able to show the whole world you were nothing but HIS now...

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who never felt alone anymore after you two got together, becoming the cool 'Big Bro' in your friends' circle. He feels contempt every Friday and Saturday night, when you all stumble loudly out of the club together, messing around the underground subway station at 3am. A persistent whistle echoing in your ears until morning from the loud music, pumping through the imposing speakers.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who loves sloppily making out with you, no matter the situation: holding you on the subway seat on the way home with his strong hands on your waist, totally unbothered by other people watching your tongues connecting shamefully with a sticky line of saliva, or laying on top of your tiny sexy body on the old, worn down couch at your pal's place, ending up groaning against your swollen lips and grinding his needy hips on yours whenever your black-polished nails scratched his sensitive scalp ever so slightly.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who fucks you missionary style with gritted teeth when he dives into your velvety depths for the first time, trying desperately not to cum instantly and paint your walls white with his hot seed. He instantly develops an addiction to the lewd, wet sounds your small, warm cunt makes when it swallows his fat dick over and over again at every frantic thrust. He finds his little piece of heaven between your thighs and he feels higher than he ever was when he reaches his climax, quivering and whimpering pathetically as a torrent of tiny pearls of cum erupted violently from his pinky, swollen tip, adorning your chest with a sticky necklace of his cum.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who collapses his whole body weight on you as he fights hard to catch his breath again after tasting the sweetness of your pussy. With his heartbeat slowly coming back to its usual pace, he looks up to you with adoring puppy eyes, meeting your warm smile and asking you if you too enjoyed it. When you nod and cup his face in your palms, he kisses you slowly, savouring every little whine and sigh you confess to his lips.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who just wanna be your sweetheart and treats you like a princess during the day -showering you with cute plushy animals and smothering you with kisses- just to press your head further into his pillow as he hits it desperately from the back, holding onto to you and leaving marks on your soft buttocks, as he physically cannot resist drilling your cunt when he sees you ass up, face down for him on his bed. He compliments you continuously, telling you how much he loves you and how he deep he wants to feel you. He nuts everytime you call him 'your sweet good boyfriend', moaning words of encouragement as you feel your walls flutter wildly with your impending orgasm.

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso whose hazed expressions are priceless when you try weed together for the first time, buying it from a guy who offered you some at the exit of the club. His glassy eyed stare makes him appear even cuter and kissable, while he inhales deeply and drag after drag lets go of any inhibition, confessing the depths of his adoration to you: he lazily repeats he would do ANYTHING for you, he would fight ANYONE to keep you safe in his arms, his pretty beautiful angelic girlfriend, the only one he wants to feel laying her head on his shoulder while staring outside the window on the subway train...

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso who wakes up on the cold floor of your antics the morning after with a great headache from all the alcohol and the weed of the previous night. He blushes furiously when you show him the video of his sweet, stammering confession, but he doesn't deny a single word...

Thanks for reading this far, reblogs and comments are appreciated! 🙏

✧Grunge Boyfriend! Choso whose favourite remedy for bad hangovers like this one, is to lock the whole world outside of the door and spend the whole day with you, listening to Nirvana and Radiohead from your vintage vinyl record player in your antic with his head buried for hours between your thighs.

Taglist: @lemonlimecrystal-blog @lordbelkamort @viviennevianna @verydreamerfairy