#u have to be careful because his nails are so sharp and jagged from him biting on them

[tirasamu]

thinking ab fyodor tilting ur face up towards his with a finger under ur chin

[brayneworms]

can you do one where you edge aki hayakawa? PRETTY PLEEEAASSSEEE WITH ALL THE CHERRIES ONTOP

high & dry

featuring. aki hayakawa x gn!reader

content. MDNI, smut, edging, handjobs + the beginning of a blowjob lol, pet names (honey), gender neutral reader + agab not mentioned, sub!aki + dom!reader, established relationship, cursing, mild pet analogy (it’s me what do you expect)

word count. 1.7k

synopsis. aki has a lesson to learn.

notes. minors don’t interact. found this in my drafts from like january so anon if ur still out there i hope u enjoy smile. i take commissions :3

The thing about Aki is that he doesn't mean to misbehave.

The thing about you is that you've never considered yourself overly strict.

But somehow, somewhere in the muddle of this, this being you two and whatever was becoming of your relationship, both of these factors have been thrust into the spotlight and interrogated. The problem is that Aki is a fighting dog whose leash is fraying more with every day, who rushes into conflict with his heart first and his brain struggling to catch up. The problem is that you care for him, despite the awful inevitability of how badly it will end weighing on your mind.

Aki likes to flirt with death, and you like to keep him safe. These factors, as you might imagine, clash frequently.

So—you either become the screeching, shrewish partner, leaving every night a sour argument where you don't face each other where you sleep. Or you take your frustration out in more productive ways. Because, truly—you don't like to yell at Aki. It makes him grumpy and stonefaced but more than that, it makes him hurt. You can see the flickers of it in his dark blue eyes, some fragment of his childhood that never healed properly, like an old wound that bleeds anew whenever you prod it. Tender and painful as skinned knees.

But this, this works for both of you, you think.

His fingers curl up his work slacks, bunching starched polyester between bitten nails. He's looking anywhere but at you, knelt between his legs, cheeks shaded pink beneath the tumbling bangs of ink-dark hair. "You don't have to," he starts, like he always does, ever the gentleman. It makes him a little twitchy to be given pleasure like it's a gift. It's so sweet that it almost makes you feel bad.

You take him in your hand, half-hard and hot, and he hisses. You have a sneaking suspicion, something that's been blooming for a while now, that you may have been the first person to touch Aki like this. The first time you'd slept together he'd had to mumble the names of all the Devils he had contracts with under his breath to last more than a minute inside you.

There's a wound on his hip the colour of a bloody sunset, jagged like a mountain silhouette. It almost seems to mock you as you stroke him loosely, gathering the pearly beads of pre that bloom at his tip as he gets more and more turned on, more sensitive. His chest shakes ones when he inhales, his hands twisting the fabric of his pants uncomfortably. Your slow, patient pace makes him almost overwhelmed, feeling it wrack out from between his thighs in torturously hot, slow waves, makes his whole body shudder.

Once he's hard, you say, "Tell me about today."

Aki grunts, brows furrowing. His hips cant up, once, a silent plea. But your hand has slowed now, so he tenses his jaw and sighs.

"Found a Devil," he says through gritted teeth. "Some a-abandoned warehouse."

"It gave you this?" You use the hand that was wrapped around his cock to stroke over the nasty gash on his skin, and he makes a wonderful shivery noise—both, you think, at the loss of contact to his hardness and the ghost of sharp pain that echoes from your touch along his wound.

"Yeah," he sighs shakily. He looks down at you now, eyes soft, almost pleading. "Could you—"

"You weren't alone, were you, Aki?" you ask, blinking up at him. You think he's starting to get the game now; blood runs up to colour his cheeks darker and his eyes flit away as though in shame. "Didn't you call for backup?"

"Too far away," he says, gritty with irritation. He feels foolish, sitting on the edge of the bed with his dick out. Still hard, despite you not having touched it for about half a minute. "I had it handled."

"You should've waited," you tell him.

"You're killing my hardon," he tells you flatly. You roll your eyes and pick up where you left off; when your hand wraps around him he lets out a shaky sigh and tips his head back towards the ceiling. You'll never tire of how sensitive he is, responding to every touch like it's the first time; when your hand wraps back around him his thighs clench and spasm all over again, and he makes a quiet noise in the back of his throat.

You stroke him, more firmly now, with the occasional focus on his tip. It starts to leak over your hand, and Aki makes a quiet, embarrassed grunt at the sight of it. Privately, you don't mind too much—unlike most guys, Aki has the grace to be abashed by it, which is already enough to put him in your good books—but his humiliation is an added bonus you'd happily put up with some less-than-savoury things for.

You're mean, maybe, in the way a bunny thinks their owner is mean for locking them in a hutch each night. But, you know, the owner only does that for the bunny's own safety.

Sometimes, the owner really does know better.

Aki's thighs twitch; you amuse yourself watching the spasm of the muscles play across beneath the smooth, pale skin, thinking absently of how you'd like to get your mouth on that soft flesh inside. "Y/n," he warns, voice catching, breathy. "I—dammit, I'm gonna—"

You make a thoughtful noise, and then release your grip entirely. Aki gapes down at you, eyes snapping open. "What the hell?" he fumes.

"Say that you should have waited for backup," you tell him patiently. Your positions are some perverse subversion of power; he looms over you, strong legs bracketing your face. By all accounts, you're surrounded as you look up at him. But he's the one looking at you like you've shot him in the chest. His brows knit together in frustration.

"Are you fucking joking?" he gapes. "What is this? You—"

"Aki," you say, so softly that it must frighten him because he stops short, looking at you warily. "You know I care about you, so much, yeah?"

"I—" he looks thrown, impossibly lost. "I guess? Yeah."

"Good." You lean your head on his knee, watching how his throat bobs when he looks at you. His thighs twitch almost indecipherably at the contact, erection showing no sign of flagging. "And you know I want to protect you, and keep you safe? I want you to want that, too."

"I..." Aki's voice is taking on a hoarse tinge. "I know... that."

"Then why do you keep throwing yourself in such dangerous situations?" You unspool a nail up the inside of his leg, and he gasps slightly in anticipation. "What are you going to do next time?"

"I—" he cuts himself off, strangled. "I'm going to... call for backup."

Your finger trails to a halt. "You mean that?"

"Yeah," he says, a little frantically. "I will. I swear. Y/n, please—"

You lean forward, brushing your lips against him. Aki moans, eyes widening as his pupils expound until his eyes are less sodalite and more black-hole. You let your tongue flicker out and trace over the head, tasting him, putting your hands on his thighs so you can feel him strain to hold back. Ever the gentleman, Aki hates to lose control and buck into your mouth. It still happens sometimes, of course, because at his heart he's a needy inexperienced hunter and you revel in the punishment of pretty things. It's mean, you know, to goad him where he's a little helpless.

But the owner knows best. You know how to get him to remember his lesson.

You draw back, pressing a final kiss to the head of his cock like tying the ribbon on a giftbox. Aki blinks blearily at you, mouth slack, expression adorably confused as you wipe at your lips with a thumb.

"What—" he croaks.

"I want you to remember what you said, Aki," you tell him sternly. "I can't reward bad behaviour."

You think he's getting it. Box. Rat. Electric shock. Et cetera.

"Wait," he pleads, brows scrunching together in honest-to-god panic. "I'll remember, okay? I told you I would. I won't misbehave."

"And I want to believe you." Your hand draws soothing circles on his knee and it makes his bottom lip quiver slightly. "So... when you show me you're taking your safety seriously, then you'll get a reward."

Aki's mouth hangs open. "You're serious," he croaks with some shattering finality; he shuts his eyes against the blue-dark, whole body shuddering. "You're fucking... what if I just decide to jack off?"

"You can do that," you shrug. "But I think you know what'll happen if you do."

Aki makes a frustrated noise; he glances down at his erection, starting to flag only slightly. He wants you to touch him so badly; all he can think of is your fingers, your mouth, your hair in his fingers. Or, withholding that, he could at least slide his fingers around himself and get himself off, like he used to mostly infrequently before you.

But if he does that, how long will you hold out for? He knows, with a cold sort of dread, that you can hold out much, much longer than him. He's gotten a taste of it and now he can't be satisfied; it's the one area of his life where he totally lacks any semblance of self-control.

So with a devastated whimper, he reaches down and tucks himself gingerly back into his underwear. He's so turned on it almost stings as his briefs tug on his erection, and it's so much worse when he stiffly tugs up his slacks and buttons them again. For a moment after he just sits on the bed, breathing shakily until he's red in the face, trying not to squirm.

You stand up, brush a lock of his hair back, smiling as he leans pathetically into the touch. There's a lukewarm sweat beading on his brow. "I'm so proud of you, honey. I'm going to start dinner, okay? You stay in here and relax. You've had such a hard day."

Aki's eyes burn into your back as you turn and leave. It takes every modicum of mental fortitude he has not to throw himself on the ground and beg and sob for you to touch him. The thought of going without is almost painful.

He stares down at the faint bulge in his slacks, gripping his own thigh for support. Wonders about grinding the heel of his hand against it, just for some momentary relief.

Aki shuts his eyes. He doesn't want to misbehave. And he does not touch.

[dalishthunder]

Just wanna say LOVE your writing and geo but also i wanna say I’m very excited for the dualscar fic u mentioned. Loving this amporas love

Awwwww thank you anon!!! For you, I will give a small excerpt of it

“Do you know why I chose you to be my personal attendant?” He asked suddenly, propping himself up just a bit.

“Because you’re not threatened by me.” You replied without hesitation. “And even if I tried anything an ocean surrounds us so there’s nowhere for me to go.”

“Well don’t we have a smarty pants here… Didn’t realize you could talk so much.”

“There’s a lot of things you don’t know about me.” You muttered under your breath.

Dualscar turned his head to grin at you cheekily, grabbing you by the arm and dragging you under him. “So small.” He murmured. “With such a smart little mouth.”

He was intimidating even on the best of days, but pinned by his weight with his face only inches from your own…. You couldn’t help but swallow thickly as you caught a glimpse of his shark-like teeth.

“Such fragile skin.” His grin widened, teeth so sharp…. So sharp, you could swear you saw serration on the edges. Not the uneven rows of a bull or mako shark… but the perfect even triangles of a great white. The troll bent his head down, tracing his lips along your jaw and down your neck. “I could kill you right now.” His breath was cool against your skin, the bristly hair on his chin scratching against you. “It would be so easy….” He dragged his teeth along the length of your throat, just hard enough for you to feel it.

“… To rip your windpipe right out with my teeth.”

It was all you could do to keep still as he gently bit down, cold sweat covering your skin. No self defense class had prepared you for this. You could feel your limbs trembling as you stared up at the ceiling, view obscured by his bright orange horns.

“Not that I would of course,” He murmured into your neck, chuckling as he pulled back just enough to plant a soft kiss where his teeth had been a moment ago.

You exhaled shakily, and he pressed his lips against your throat again, laughing. “There’s nothing to be scared of… I’m not actually going to hurt you.”

You gave a nervous chuckle, hyper-aware as the prickle of his stubble left your skin as he brought his face back up, pupils blown wide as his eyes met yours, cheeks flushed a deep lilac hue. Your breath hitched in your chest….

Dualscar was a handsome man, Probably one of the most handsome men you had met; Troll or human. High cheekbones, thick black hair, violet eyes framed by golden sclera and long darklashes… even the thin jagged lines that scarred his otherwise perfect face gave him character.

He loomed over you, his weight on your arms was almost unbearably uncomfortable at this point, pins and needles prickling along your veins, as his eyes bored into your own. Until he closed them, leaning down and pressing his lips to yours gently as though testing the waters. You melted against him faster than you would ever care to admit, and you could feel the smile on his lips. His fingerslit fires under your skin as they slid down your arm to your waist and up against the small of your back. How long had it been since you’d felt the comfort of an embrace…?

Passionate. Insistent. Desperate.

Your fingers tangled in his hair as you pulled him closer. You could taste sea salt and his drink, bitter and slightly citrusy, on his lips… So different from what you were used to.

His cool skin was a balm to the heated way he kissed you. You gasped as he groped your ass, claws pricking through the fabric of your pants, taking the opportunity to unceremoniously shove his tongue in your mouth. He absolutely reeked of alcohol but you couldn’t bring yourself to care, getting lost in the cold, foreign feeling as he explored your mouth.

You followed as he retreated, nipping his lower lip before running your tongue along it. He moaned, breath ragged as you dragged your nails along his scalp and behind his fins. You kissed him deeply, hands curling around his horns.

He gabbed your wrists and pinned them above your head, Dualscar’s voice just a low growl in your ear.

“No.”

You whined as he nipped your jaw, lathing over the spot with his cool tongue. His free hand slipping under your shirt, blunted claws scraping against your skin as he kissed along your jawline and back up to your mouth. It was hot and needy.

[isolemnlyswearpevensie]

Lovers By Chance, Goth By Choice | Snape x OC

{parody fic, based on my immortal :p another thing I found deep in my google drive. thought it deserved to see the light of day. one of my best friends requested this while intoxicated and I just had to write it. don’t take it too seriously lol} 

Warnings: Smexy Themes uwu

Time/Era: Lightning era :)

Word Count: 1.1k shes long ^.^ like snapes dick

Summary: After Arvil Willow Way Urie gets put into detention by Professor Snape, things happen and no one sees it happen </3

Request: Please write a fic where snape kisses me in front Of everyone and doesn’t care who sees. I have like three names and i am GOTH. 

A/N: Rawr i <3 prof snape SM! Thx for the request </3 enjoy babey!!!!! WEEEEEEEE

masterlist

Hi. My name is Avril Willow Way Urie and I am goth, incase you couldn’t tell. I LOVE panic! at the disco, Brendon Urie is basically my husband. I’ not related to him no matter how similar our names are but I really wish we were because hes the sexiest man I have ever seen in my life. Anyway, I have short black hair that is cut uneven because it is CURLY and it doesn’t matter. The uneven cut represents my chaotic emotions. You wouldn’t understand them. I am gothic, and NOT a prep. If you call me a prep I will get very angry and flip you off everytime I see you. I love fishnets, like I am wearing today. Today I am wearing a ripped mayday parade shirt with a skirt that has planets all over them. I wear planets because i like space and i am SMART!!!!!!!!1 I have my big platform boots with ripped red fishnets under them. My eyeliner is smudged all over my eyes from crying. I am EMOTIONAL that is why i am emo. My nails are long and sharp just like draco likes. Did I mention I’m dating draco malfoy? Aka the HOTTEST PERSON ALIVE besides brendon urie. (A/N: If you don’t like panic! You are a PREPZ and I dont lik u)

“Miss. Way-Urie I will not have someone talk to me like this. Detention tonight at 8!” Professor Snape screams at the top of his lungs. 

“Omg wtf??? I’m just talking to my super sexy boyfriend Draco! What are you? Jealous?” I smirk, tucking a jagged piece of hair behind my pierced ears. I have 8 piercings in each ear and my tongue also has a stud in it. 

“HOW DARE YOU SPEAK TO ME LIKE THIS!” Prof snape started crying making his black liquid eyeliner drip down his depressed face. Maybe he was emo like me. Prof are NOT emo tho so idk. My face grew sad and I started crying. This made draco angry. 

Draco was wearing a bleach tie died (A/N: get it? Died because im goffick) MCR shirt and acid washed jeans that were half black and half neon pink. Boyz can wear pink, you kno. It’s ok he’s just very in-touch with his emotions. His hair was pulled into big spikes on top of his head n they were died blue. He wore his red contax which made him luok even more goth.

“DONT SPEAK To MY SUPER SMEXY GIRLFRIEND LIKE THAT YOU TOE!!!!!” DRACO sobs, standing up and pushing me behind him. My big platform leather boots jingled and i almost tripped. 

“DRACO YOU PUSHED ME!” I gasped and started crying harder. Big black striped of makeup stroleld down my face like a galaxy. Im like space remember lol

“I”M SORRY BABY I LOVE YOU SO MUCH!” Draco sprinted out of the room but left his chain on the desk. I grabbed it with my long nails and dashed after him. I fount him gasping for air against the piller. 

Herminny Granger came up and shoved me to the ground. She giggled and ran away. Fucking prepz. I put my middle finger up at her. 

~Time skipz to tonight lol~

“I have to go, draco” I gasped, looking depressed. 

“What? Are you inliove with professor snap or something?” draco weaped while singing “im not okay” my mcr. 

“So what if i am?” i said sneakily, closing my closet. I wore a big poofy dress with ripped black material and corset stuff on the front and back. My lips adorned blood read lipstick and my eyes were dead on the inside. I hummed dear maria count me in as i got dressed. Draco turned around so he wouldnt see me change because that is PORN!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

I pushed draco over so he hit the floor and walked into prof snap’s office. 

“SNAPEY!” I yelled. He was in the corner looking sad and depressed, watching rain fall from the heavens. 

“Oh. hello there.” he ejaculated as his long nose pointed in my direction and i felt tears wheel in my eyes. He stood and pulled off his cloak to reveal a fall out boy t shirt and ripped skinny jeans with doc martens and chains and zippers everywhere. 

I GASPED “YOURE GOFFICK???????” I was stunned and he strutted over, shaking his thick, juicy, greasy ass. 

“Yes, and emo and goth and punk and and alt and and indie and underground and a soundcloud rapper and in love with you.” He towards over my small frame and looked into my dark black and silver with small golden flecks orbs. I gasped and almost fainted. 

“What about draco?” my voice shaked as he started singing death of a bachelor by my favorite band, the hot panic1

“Forget about that dog poop bag. You are all i need please marry me and become Avril Willow Way Urie Snape.” His mouth covered mine and i moaned into his lips. His tongue fought mine for dominance and his long ring covered hand found my ass. I gasped as he squeezed me and looked at his neck. 

“Is that a stick and poke of a safety pin snapey?” I twirl his long, emo black, greesy hair inbetween my fingers. 

“It symbolizes my hate for the patriarchy and my love for you” 

JUST THEN DRACO WALKED IN AND PUNCHED SNAPE

“SHES MINE GRANDPA!” he yelled, throwing me over his shoulder! I moaned at the feeling and sobbed to be let down. He set me down and looked into my dead orbs with his blood red orbs. He was sobbing

“Snapes your gpa?” i groaned

“No” draco said back

“Oh” i winked

“But youre still mine” draco twerked 

“No thanks. I love snap now”

Draco screamed and ran into the wall while hermiomy recorded and ronuld farted in response. Everyone in the hall started laughing. 

“NO STOP I LOVE HIM!” I wheezed, throwing myself onto the floor in a big heap

Then I stood up and decided i had to go. The end

[ncthingstars]

𝐒𝐞𝐧𝐬𝐞𝐬 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐨𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐨𝐝𝐝𝐥𝐲 𝐬𝐩𝐞𝐜𝐢𝐟𝐢𝐜 𝐡𝐞𝐚𝐝𝐜𝐚𝐧𝐨𝐧𝐬 .

1. What does your muse smell like?

like the earth. like the dust that piles up in unoccupied cargo bays. they smell like the synthehol from a shuttle’s replicator, and the freshly imported tube grubs from ferenginar. clean laundry, rumpled after a day or two’s wear. they smell like latinum, or perhaps that’s just the air around them. 

2. What do your muse’s hands feel like?

soft, unusually so, though not so strange if you know why. her skin are smooth, unweathered by neither age nor hard physical labor. her grip is strong; a handshake lends itself to firm skin-on-skin contact. her nails are short, not sharp enough to scratch, but sometimes rough and jagged from being bitten and picked at.

3. What does your muse usually eat in a day?

pel enjoys supplementing his diet with non-ferengi foods. of course, tube grubs are a regular part of his diet, and he loves ferengi crabs when he can get them, but klingon gagh is a regular meal, bajoran mapa bread, vulcan gespar for breakfast, and human pasta of all varieties. during the time he spent on the transport ship, he ate a lot of andorian fast food.

4. Does your muse have a good singing voice?

they’re not necessarily a bad vocalist, but they don’t sing very often, and their voice is mostly untrained and undisciplined. they can’t keep pitch very accurately, and their singing is tentative and wavering. that doesn’t stop them from humming our even singing aloud when they’re alone, however. 

5. Does your muse have any bad habits or nervous ticks?

she picks at her nails, and has to keep them filed down as a result. she’ll fiddle with her prosthetic lobes as a nervous tick, which has gotten her into trouble more than once because it comes across as strange — but she can’t feel it, so it’s easy to poke and pull on them. 

6. What does your muse usually look like / wear?

when in public, he wears his prosthetic lobes and multiple layers in order to make his frame seem bulkier and mask his chest somewhat. he doesn’t care too much for fine clothing, but can usually be seen in some multi-piece suit for business deals. when he’s not working, pel prefers to wear loose pants and oversized tops ( x x x x ). he wears boots with a thick sole and a bit of a heel to give him added height, since he is on the short side by ferengi standards. after leaving ds9, he buys a binder from a caitian shop, and he wears it whenever he’s in public. sometimes, on more dysphoric days, he wears it at home too.

7. Is your muse affectionate?  How much?  How so?

very much so. they’re wary around strangers, but they’re big on physical camaraderie — slaps on the back, arms around shoulders or waists, small touches of affirmation, etc. and when they’re comfortable with someone, pel enjoys getting in close, holding hands, huddling together or even full-on cuddling. of course receiving oo-mox is nice too, but it has to be with someone they trust implicitly, because they don’t have any sensation on their prosthetic ears, so they would have to be willing to remove them. they would probably perform oo-mox for the right person, but they’ve never been in that situation. 

8. What position does your muse sleep in?

pel sleeps on her side, usually at least partly curled up, and hugging a pillow. they need space though, because they do tend to stretch and sprawl out in the middle of the night.

9. Could you hear your muse in the hallway from another room?

absolutely. he’s learned to speak loudly — he has to. not everyone can hear as well as the ferengi, after all. pel likes to be the loudest person in the room, but only when doing business. otherwise, he’s quiet softspoken.

Tagged by:  @sampati​​ (ty ty for enabling my love for pel)

Tagging: @guttersniper​ @quantumstarpaths​ @lostmojave​ @pluresque​ (julian or soji), @anarcalina​ (anyone u want!), @storytelers​​ (keiko), && ANYONE ELSE SEEING THIS <3

[mercurytail]

Glide

^u^ Happy Halloween everybody! This is a little mini-Mchanzo fic I wrote up for the holiday! With help, excerpts, musing, and support from my friends: @the-hallowed-lady @captainneedsnosleep @drizzerey @Nobodysangel1980

You can also click the link to read it on Ao3 <3 Leave a comment and let me know what you think!

a slight gore warning since this is a Wendigo fic - its nothing intense, so no worries. Also, Its not a super happy fic, but it has a happy ending! (No he does not eat Hanzo)

Glide (down the throat)

How would it feel? To be so hungry...so in need and yet there is nothing to eat? 

Yet, there is 'food' all around you...but, nothing you CAN eat. 

Like putting a feast in front of a starving man and tying his hands.

How would that feel?

Would you break?

It started off so small. A finger here, an ear there, little things that could staunch the hunger inside him. Things easily explained that could be missing from a body. So small, so easy. He almost didn’t notice when he started devouring hands, organs, hearts, and still the hunger grew. It seemed like every time he ate, his stomach demanded more. The curse demanded more. IT demanded more.

He refused to tell Gabe about the hallucinations. The monstrous creature that stalked him on missions, the lanky, skeletal form that would crouch in the corner of his bunk, antlers scraping the ceiling. There were never any marks in the morning. He could see it even now, grinning away at him, wrapping those long, inhumanly long hands around his stomach, pressing inside and Scratching. Tearing. Demanding more, more, more…

He couldn’t tell when deer and boar and bear and whatever else he could shoot down didn’t cut it anymore. When it finally tasted too rotten, too ashy to swallow down without gagging…The day he realised he’s eaten over half the corpse he’d shot down, he almost threw it all back up again. But the monster wouldn’t let him do that. What a waste of food.

At least the cemetery helped…The monster always demanded more, but at least it didn’t care if it was dead or alive.

Sometimes, late at night when the fire in his tiny shack couldn’t quite chase the cold from his bones, when the monster was pacing through his home on silent hooves, growling and dragging its long hands over the ground. Sunken eyes staring him down from across the fire, and jagged teeth stretched wide in its grotesque face as it listened to how Jesse’s stomach growled and groaned for food, he remembered his mother’s old stories –

“The Wendigo are cursed beings, Jesse, but as long as you never consume a person’s soul – have enough restraint that they may have one piece of them left to carry that spirit over, then a wendigo will be trapped to its human. Never let it consume everything, and you can keep it bound.” 

~ the-hallowed-lady

Jesse McCree, a victim to a 'hunger curse', The 'Wendigo's Curse' . He craves human flesh/blood/bone.

When his hunger takes hold of him he transforms into a Wendigo like creature with horns, mangled teeth, sharp claws, and strange swirling eyes.

In Native American mythology, the Wendigo was a creature that came into being when a human consumed the flesh of their own kind. His grandmother had told him the story and many others. She had seen it. 

In Deadlock, they told him to shoot a young man who had been running drugs for them and was skimming off the top. Jesse refused, ‘it wasn’t right’ he said and tried to get the target out of there - He was caught, locked up, beaten and starved...

...until one day they gave him a huge roasted piece of meat. Told him if he ate it all, he'd be forgiven.

He lunged for it. The grease squelched through his fingers as he took it in his hands tearing into it. The first bite so satisfying, so juicy. Like eating chicken off the bone but amplified by the month of starvation. Its flavor so salty sweet on his tongue, he rolled each bite in his mouth wanting to savor it, the fear it was a trick prominent in his mind. Taking a bite, then another and another, the skin of it crisp and breaking just so under his teeth. The bone came into sight too soon, his stomach still growled...almost as if it hadn’t been fed at all.

...it was only afterwards he found out where it had come from.

The curse set in after that...planting its roots deep. Binding him to the creature he was cursed to become if he gave in.

The nightmares came every night, he dreams of a stag-like creature hunting him down, waiting to consume him just as he consumed human flesh, to take over him, to be free in the mortal world - to eat and eat and eat because it is here now and it is here to stay.

He’s still himself. The curse had not taken him yet. But, it was so tempting in Deadlock. He killed everyday...the bodies were so fresh and supple.

Blackwatch came and they took him. “Raw talent” they said. At least it was a home. He’d say it was his first. Gabe treated him like a son. They helped him curb his appetite, fed it and kept it under control. Genji was his only friend. The only true friend he’d ever had.

Moira grew him flesh from human stem cells.

But, after Blackwatch It got worse. On the run, food was harder to get and "burying the dead...well, that's just a waste of food." He’d told himself.

He began to get desperate. He wanted to stay somewhere familiar but, that brought too many bodies. Too many opportunities to eat and consume. “Can’t eat it all” he reminded himself, chanting it to himself as he gnawed on the assassin’s exposed liver. Trying to keep that last bit of himself human. ‘Leave a finger, that’ll be enough’.

Swallowing, he came to, the taste still thick in his mouth. He screamed throwing the piece of…whatever it was away and falling back scraping against the dirt. The moon was high in the sky and full lighting the body at his feet. Blood was thick on his hands, under his nails...claws and his head ached from the split skin on his forehead, the horns having receded. He didn’t remember...he didn’t remember coming out here or chasing after this…’food’. He curls in on himself, shivering in the cold night air...crying. 

But the Hunger became too much and he ran. He ran north.

He moves into a estranged deep forest...lives in a cabin alone. Near a small village, and a cemetery.

He sustains himself off of deer and wild game he kills. Whether with his gun or his claws when the hunger and hallucinations cloud his judgement.

The urge to consume human flesh is always there, and sometimes he gets so ravenous for it he digs up fresh corpses or steals body parts from the morgue.

Hanzo comes into his life after a short while.

He is simply running away as well...someone who murdered their own brother. It's why he likes the church yard so much. He lives there for the peace, and because when you are surrounded by the dead, it's easier not to feel judged for your actions.

They fit too well, every bit of banter, late night talk over coffee at the diner, the hunts. It was all too natural. Hanzo was getting too close and McCree craved him. He craved for his words, his touch, his time...and the beast craved him too.

And Hanzo was too curious for his own good. They strike up a small friendship and the closer they got. The harder McCree tried to push him away.

McCree tried to get Hanzo to leave.

“Hanzo, I just need you to understand it ain’t safe out here for you. They’ll find you too easy. I should know! You got to leave and keep moving.” McCree slumps against the wall, hands in his pockets; hiding. They’d had this talk before.

“I am fully aware of my surroundings and my clan will never find me here. You as a fellow criminal would know. You are hiding here, are you not? Why shouldn’t I? Especially, since we go so well together. We could fight them together...live here together.” the last bit of his sentence is but a mumble not quite making it to McCree’s ear.

McCree finds one night he’s too short on meat - much too short and winter is setting in. He goes out into the light snow for a final hunt, hoping for a bear or moose.

Hanzo finds him out there, cold and unlucky. Hanzo has been around way too much. It puts him on edge.

When a surprise snow storm hits McCree is forced to stay the night in Hanzo's home.

His hunger starts to gnaw at him, scratching, clawing at his insides; out of control. Even though Hanzo had just share his hardy venison stew...three servings of it.

The grotesque beast looms over Hanzo; caging him as he sits in front of the fire, reading. It salivates and begins to whisper in his ear. ‘Just one bite. The taste will be worth it. It will feel so good, so delicious gliding down.’

McCree licks his lips, fighting back the drool building in his mouth. He leans forward in the leather chair rubbing and worrying his hands; one over the other. Staring at the oblivious man across from him.

‘It would be so easy...just a bite. It wouldn’t hurt. It wouldn’t even kill him.’ the skull of the creature caress Hanzo’s shoulder. Its black abyssal eyes like fire on his soul.

McCree cringes, cradling his head and crushing his eyes closed, “SHUT UP!” His heart feels like its leaping from his chest. His breathing is ragged, drool slipping from his mouth as he cries. He tastes the salt.

It's quiet, he feels warm, happy, ‘just chew...it’ll be alright...just eat.’ Freedom is at his fingertips he thinks. Then...

Before he realizes, McCree has changed. His small horns, claws, and teeth have peeled free of his skin and his eyes are a wild black and silver. Hanzo steps back in horror.

Half manic, McCree stalks the room, trying to run or hide. But as time passes He finally pins Hanzo when the hunger clouds his mind.

And Hanzo just gives in. Accepts his fate. ‘It’s what he deserves.’

This Snaps McCree out of his haze. He pulls himself back, eyes becoming clear and he shrinks into the corner of the room just whimpering in an inhuman voice, "food"...”so hungry.”

So, Hanzo goes outside. He takes the remains of an Elk carcass from the snow and brings it in for him. Laying it at his feet. It's a sickening sight, as the horned man leans in drooling and finally shredding into the decaying remains, moaning...

McCree changes back soon, wiping his mouth of the gore and Hanzo faints, the shock too much for his body.

When he wakes, McCree explains everything and after a shared silence Hanzo nods and agrees to help him. To McCree’s great disbelief. However, He accepts the offer...just tired of being alone.

Hanzo knows a thing or two about curses after all, from his family and his past.

They travel in search of a shaman to remove the curse. McCree had never thought of it. Of asking for help of breaking the hold on him.

It takes almost a year but they find the shaman. Hidden away deep in the tropics of mexico. However, they find that it would kill McCree to revoke the curse or change him entirely.

So, with a heavy heart and tears streaming down his cheeks McCree accepts his life. They decide to just live with it and Hanzo says as he holds his lovers face in his hands, he will stay by his side.

The flaming wood cracks as it settles in the fireplace. The orange glow lighting the room. Snow drifts down softly outside the window. Each gust of wind causes the cabin to creak, the room quiet and yet not silent; the sounds of home.

The two men lay together on the sofa, swaddled close in warm wool blankets. Hanzo nuzzles into his neck humming a song neither know the words to.

“Are you hungry my love?” Hanzo asks.

Jesse swallows taking in the flames as they dance. He kisses the top of Hanzo’s head, “No, You keep me full Darlin’.”

[jlpat82]

Not Our Home

Chapter 7

An shrill blasted penetrated the silence, startling me back to my reality. It had been the fifth one since the doors had closed. I was disoriented, looking around my surroundings. The metal shined brightly as the sunlight poured in the window.

I stumbled over and peered out, the grass swayed in the light breeze. In the distance I saw tall columns, dabbed in various shades of green. Trees, I had seen them in pictures and movies. It was marvel to behold, beauty that I had no words the describe.

I felt my stomach tighten and rumble, I knew what laid a head of me. Part of me wondered since there was little to no radiation how they managed to kill those sentenced to death. Bullets were scarce, and hard to make since the dropping of the bombs.

Other methods that they had used previously to kill those on the death row were no longer available. I had a week to figured out how to escape, or if I even could escape. All while becoming dehydrated and starving, with little to no sleep.

❧

"Sir, the prisoner is awake." The guard informed him. It was time to figure out how this girls little friend was getting in the building, disrupting the flow of things.

The metallic door slid open with a large bang, baldy stepped in waving his lakies away. The door slid closed with another large clang. He walked in towards me as I sat on the metal cot, his eyes concentrated on the window.

"It's amazing, never ceases to surprise me. It only took a couple of years for the trees to come back." His voice was cold, almost disgusted. "We almost had the perfect utopia. Everyone in their appropriate social classes, not mettling. Then you came along."

He finally turned his head toward me, his eyes narrowed. I stayed silent, I didn't know what he was planning but I didn't want to be a part of it. He looked down at me and folded his arms.

"You know, we only took the brightest of lower middle class. Before the bombs dropped, thinking maybe, just maybe it would make all of you smarter in the long run. Remind you guys if it hadn't been for our generosity to your grandparents you wouldn't exists. However, I felt obligated to personally take your dad in." I heard the disgust in his voice, it dawned on me. This man was easily a hundred and fifty. Which meant he was one those genetically modified.

"That's right, little girl, I'm like your little friend out there. The only difference is, I was able to live out my life in luxury. You see I was promised an amazing life if I didn't disarm the nuclear warhead in the bomb. I'm sure had your little friend not been so focused on her he would've noticed." He gloated. "Things ran smoothly for the most part around here, everyone happy in their classes, content. Till you started dabbling in the underground."

"Me?" I was genuinely confused by this.

"Yes, you. Bringing your books and movies top side had a long impact on our society. People talk, and whisper through the community. Telling stories of things you'd bring back to your friends. We let it slide, as at that point it hadn't caused to much trouble. People were still complacent in their dull little lives, that was till Reaper showed up."

"Reaper showing up had nothing to with me."

"Your right, and wrong. Had you not been curious that night and walked the tubes he would never had seen you. He would not have been fixated on you, as you look so much like your grandma. He had to come in, and you just had to make contact with him. Then stories swirled about that outside isn't as deadly as people were lead to believe, if people know that life is capable of surviving out there society will crumble again."

"I was right." I whispered, looking towards the ground. My mind began to tail spin.

"It took hours of persuading your friend Elise to rat you out. Ultimately we had to threaten her family but you get the point. She will be taken care of after we are done with you. We will slowly eliminate everyone you have had contact with, so not to draw any attention."

"You have held us hostage, kept us from a better life because the lot of you are to lazy to do your own work? That's what this comes down to?" I sprang up from my cot yelling, my entire body shook with anger. "You think by getting rid of me that will solve your problem? You think that nobody else will question your ideas of utopia? Your wrong, there will be others like me. Word is already spreading, you can't kill the idea once the doubt is put in their minds."

"How cute, you think this is the first time people have wondered if it's safe out there. News flash child, it's not. We will deal with it as we have always done, destroy the non-believers. We are due for a reduction in numbers anyhow, can't have over population happen. It makes people unhappy once the over crowding starts. Can't have that, unhappy workers make bad decisions."

"You’re a monster." I stated in disgust.

"So is your little friend, how do you think he earned the name Reaper." His lip curled as he smiled at me. "This has been a marvelous chat but I have better things to do now."

I watched as he banged on the metal door and left. I felt sick to my stomach, my chest started to heave. The realization of how bad our society really was hit me like a brick. Lives meant nothing to these people, killing people for having thoughts that didn't conform to their beliefs.

A scream startled me from my thoughts. It was deafening, and inhuman. A hallow metallic sound that chilled you to the core. My heart raced, I sprinted to the window and peered out. I watched as a pair of boots walked passed the window struggling to pull something. Another shrill scream pierced my ears louder then before. I clamped my hands over my ears.

Large pale white hands planted into the soil before my eyes, long talon like nails dug into the soil. The skin was almost translucent white, marred by large bloody blisters. It lowered it's massive head to the ground. It's smooth face was void of any eyes, sunken skin covered the sockets in the skull.

The creatures body was heaving with each heavy breath. It opened its mouth, sharp jagged teeth glistened, its eye teeth absurdly long. The abominations tongue slipped out and graced the ground licking the soil, saliva sticking to the ground.

It's body braced back as it took in a deep breath, that shrill, ear piercing hallowed scream exited it. I winced in response to its call. The thing snapped its head in my direction, I was confused as to how it sensed me.

It lunged at me through the glass, hissing. Pressing its flattened nose against the glass, and started clawing erratically. I instinctively took a step back, it lunged again and shrieked. In horror I heard a small crack and watched as a small fissure appear in the glass that separated us.

The boots came back into view, I heard the zap of electricity. It spasmed, and turned to the boots hissing. The thing slowly crept away from the window, growling. Whatever that thing was, whatever it's genetic make up, it was far from what it had originally been. Years of genetic mutation from radiation had taken its toll.

❧

Sasha waited in the tube as night approached, she didn't know who else to turn to. Reaper had found away into the building surely he could find away to rescue her sister. She had no idea where they housed the condemned, but she knew where the blue prints were contained.

She could see a storm rolling in, the first few droplets twinkled in the fading moonlight. A green light flickered through the night sky, thunder rocked through the tube. Sasha stepped closer to the tube wall, pressing her hands to the cool glass.

Lighting graced the blackened sky, she saw him. Reflecting in the glass, an irrational fear ripped through her body as she spun around. Their eyes locked, confusion etched across his worried eyes.

"They have her." She breathed out, his eyes narrowed.

"Where?" His voiced boomed.

"I don't know, I don't know where they house the condemned." His body began to tense up at her words. "I know where the blue prints are, Julianne found them once. She told me where they are."

"Where?"

"They are deep in the underground." Sasha stated turning walking toward the tube door.

"Do you know where at in the underground?" He asked as they paced through the door, he turned toward the elevator as she had turned to take the stairs.

"Yes, but we need to her bag, it has pepper spray. We're outsiders they will attack us." She watched as he pushed the call button.

"Then let them, you won't need the pepper spray. You will be safe." The doors dinged and slowly rolled open.

"Are you sure?" She asked, stepping in the elevator car.

"Yes." He pressed the U button, the car started its rickety descent downward.  Sasha watched him out of the corner of her eye, he was tense. His hands clenched into fists, causing the veins in his forearms to pop out a bit. She adjusted her weight to her foot farthest away from him.

"You don't trust me." His voice flat, her eyes trained on the door.

"I don't know you, or what your intentions are with my sister. All I know is you've killed at least three people since you arrived, and now I'm standing in a small elevator with you, descending into bowls of darkness riddle with crime and filth. My sister is awaiting death and we have absolutely no plan on how to rescue her and you're worried that I don't trust you?" She scoffed. "Trust is the last thing I'm worried about."

"Trust is needed in any mission." He replied, looking at her.

"The isn't a mission, and I'm not a soldier." She quipped, he grabbed her shoulder and pulled her gently to face him.

"Without trust, you're going to worry that I will hurt you and not those who intend to do is harm. If I don't trust you, you could be leading me on wild goose chase that could get you or I killed. If we fight with each other the odds of us getting to your sister are slim. Trust is necessary."

"Okay, fine, I trust you." She stated, her eyebrow raised. He let go of her, his chocolate eyes bore into her, her body relaxed. She could almost understand why her sister felt at ease. There was something about him. "Why are you fixated on her?"

"She reminds me someone. Reminds me of a woman who gave everything, and expected nothing in return. I wanted to keep her safe, so she could return her family but I failed." He tore his gaze from her, and watched their reflections in the elevator door.

"Whatever happened, it wasn't your fault. Trust me I learned a long time ago that you can't save everyone." She looked back the door. "My father said he failed us and my mother when they arrested him. I was tasked to take care her after they took him. Julianne would tell our mother amazing stories of adventures he was going on to get her the help she needed. Our mother thought our dad was on journey went she passed."

"Your father didn't fail though."

"It didn't matter, in his eyes he had. That's the thing, you may see yourself as failure but in reality to her, you weren't." The car started to slow as the number hit fourteen. "Just like no matter what happens from this point on, we won't fail. You can't fail if you don't stop trying."

Permanent tag-

@kitkatkl

Not our home tag-

@devilbat t @tarithenurse e @radicalesbians @lilmissravingwriter @no-fuhking-idea

Let me know if you want tagged.

[hxh-secretsanta-2017]

yo this is for @sanktpetyrthethird who asked for drug dealer au killugon

honestly thank you cause?? this is not at all a story i would have ever brainstormed let alone written if not for that prompt and ive fallen in love with it and it really really improved my writing workflow to. yknow. plot instead of writing <3000 word fluff pieces (raincheck for acts 2 and 3 my dude. this. kinda got away from me)

(also i started following u cause of this and ur sweetheart!! i was really happy to be writing this for such a cool and awesome person)

I HOPE YOU LIKE IT!!!!!!! :D

also thank you to @driftingglass for beta reading a whack of this and helping me to realize i had to cut some prose described by a friend as “violet”

Prologue.

Golden eyes. An earnest smile. Freckles that mark a childhood spent in sunlight.

Killua shakes out his hands, hoping to flick away heart fluttering memories and dread that sinks through his gut like ink in water.

“I need you tomorrow,” says Illumi. His hands drag across the spines of the books, fingers knobby and nails sharp. He eyes the titles with the same vacant, disinterested scowl he has for everything.

Iron supports hold aloft the domed glass ceiling and cast sweeping shadows like eagle’s wings. Fading dusk sky snatches away scarce warmth from the city below.

Killua shrugs off his suit jacket and drapes it over the back of one of the few couches clustered by the unlit fireplace. He walks past the table stacked high with stolen documents awaiting review by himself, his parents, or senior staff.

As Illumi browses through the children’s books—Killua suppresses a disgusted sneer—he slides a brass ladder along the wall of the circular library. Its wobbly wheels scream in the otherwise silent air. He swallows hard and hopes that he hasn’t awoken Kikyo.

Body sluggish and aching for sleep, he climbs up and finds what he’s looking for by the marks he left in the dust a few days prior. It’s an old farmer’s almanac with folklore stories scattered throughout, factual and fantastical in equal measure.

Killua hops to the floor and runs his thumb along the scarlet cover.

It’s an illustration of a humanoid goat standing over a river of blood. Her apron flies in a vicious wind, and the scissors she holds over her head are open around a crescent moon. She stares straight out at the viewer, defiant and oozing with fury.

Killua passes the book to Illumi and Illumi looks up at him, unblinking. For a moment, Killua thinks he’s going to make him pick out something else, but then he adds it to the small stack balanced in the crook of his elbow.

Illumi fades towards one of the arched entrances, which gapes wide like a jaw.

Killua bites his lip.

“Can I give them to her?”

Illumi pauses, a hand gracefully posed on the archway. He smiles, but it doesn’t reach his eyes.

“Was there any trouble tonight?”

“Will I see you again?”

Killua can hardly keep himself standing. He rubs the side of his temple with the heel of his palm, before forcing himself to open his eyes as wide as he can manage.

“I’m fine.”

Illumi tut-tuts, sickeningly similar to their mother. “Oh Kil, you must be falling ill. Go rest. I don’t want to lose my best spotter.”

Killua is going to vomit.

He hisses in a breath to argue, but something about the way Illumi raises an eyebrow stops him. For a moment he’s pulled into his brother’s dense orbit. A cold sweat runs down his neck.

Killua’s legs itch, screaming both to run and freeze like ice.

Illumi breaks the stare, and Killua gasps, his breathing heavy.

“Goodnight, Kil,” he says, before vanishing with steps so smooth he may as well have been a ghost.

Killua raises a hand to the base of his neck and rubs his skin in a fruitless attempt to self-soothe.

Illumi is far from good company, but he leaves a vacuum in his wake.

Killua does not enjoy solitude. Loneliness, he has learned to live with; solitude, he abhors.

The library is gray and old. It’s a room that hasn’t seen proper use in years, a forgotten corner of the Zoldyck estate with mildew air that itches Killua’s nose and tastes like dust on his tongue. The books are no more than lifeless stacks of paper, ripped apart from the one who loved—loves—them most. The reading chair in the corner, undisturbed even by the housekeepers, calls out for company.

“Will I see you again?”

Killua grabs the hair at his temples and tries not to scream. For a moment, grief compresses him so hard he’s knocked to his knees.

There are translucent hands wrapped around his arms, grabbing at his neck, twisting the flesh of his thighs. His chest bubbles with panic that wants to spill over into sobs. A reckless desire he’s kept in check for years torrents through his heart, and he wants nothing more than to give in and let it ruin him.

Killua has survived through routine and a lace veil of iron between himself and the world beyond his fingertips, but now the walls are crashing down around him.

A thousand deaths on his hands, and he is going to crack for just one person.

There’s a chance, a risk, so stupidly foolish he hates himself for even considering the possibility.

Killua is a professional murderer. He has the heart of a killer, and the drying blood under his fingertips to prove it. He has never shown mercy, and tonight has yet to become an exception. His record is flawless, and his legacy, should he choose to embrace it, will be unparalleled.

Life stretches out before him, every cranny of it predetermined, and he has learned to accept that, to swallow it, for the sake of his sister.

It’s been months since he was allowed to see her, to rest her head in his lap and answer her questions about the outside. Even the polish on his toes has chipped away.

What do they have left to lose? Pain does not scare him, and they dare not touch her.

***

There are pinup posters on the walls of Milluki’s room, and a strip of lights wrapped around the ceiling that flash green and purple. Monitors are mounted to the walls, and boxes of cables in tangled knots are stored under the desk.

Milluki doesn’t even look up when Killua closes the door.

“What do you want?” he asks, tapping his finger on the mouse. A loading bar ticks slowly on one screen, and a jumble of code Killua has never cared to understand lights up another. Milluki continues working, used to more hysterical interrupters than Killua.

What does he want? Killua pauses for a moment, and then he almost laughs, because any answer even close to honest is surreal.

“Can you do me a favour?”

Milluki chokes at that, before spinning his chair around. There’s a glowing smile on his face, though he’s trying to hide it and failing poorly. A flash of irritation burns on Killua’s cheeks.

“Sorry, can you repeat that?”

Killua grinds his teeth and swallows his pride. “I need a favour.”

Milluki claps his hands together and rocks back in his chair. His eyes sparkle with delight. “Anything for my most darling little brother.”

“Shut up,” says Killua, his nose wrinkling.

Milluki’s enthusiasm is undeterred. “What do you need?”

Killua plunges over the point of no return before he can convince himself of reason. Hesitation, his grandfather always said, is the antidote to good fortune. “I need you to leak the outgoing messages from Zenji’s phone over the past two weeks. It can’t be tied back to us, and no one can find out about it.”

Milluki nods happily, and he’s already closed out one screen for another when he stills. “Wait—does anyone know about this?”

Killua shakes his head, frustrated and impatient. Kikyo could wake at any moment, Silva should be home soon, and Illumi has a knack for appearing when he is least wanted. Which is always.

Milluki sobers and worries his lip with his teeth. “I mean, yeah, I can do it, but…” His eyes slide up to the monitors and then down to Killua’s feet. “It isn’t a good idea.”

“I’ll owe you. Seriously.” Killua watches the door, his palms sweaty and his mouth dry.

Milluki sneers at that. “Obviously, idiot. But if they find out—”

“They won’t. You’re good at what you do.”

Milluki rubs the back of his neck, unconvinced. Killua can’t blame him, but he needs Milluki to help him.

Anxiety rises in his chest and he has to slide his hands into his pockets to keep from running them through his hair.

“Milluki, please.”

Milluki’s eyes shoot up to his. Killua doesn’t know what does it, but something about his voice, or maybe his expression, makes Milluki bite his cheek and shake his head.

He licks his lips, and then huffs a laugh. “Tell you what, Kil,” he says, turning back to his keyboard. “It’ll be one hell of a favour.”

Chapter 1.

Meteor City is a jagged mountain of metal and glass. It imposes over the landscape, cast in silhouette by the setting sun. A hazy cloud of pollution hangs over it like flies on an open wound.

Gon walks towards it along the edge of a dusty road, alone among a thousand others making the journey. Trucks pass by, forming an unbroken caravan from the blurry tree line behind him to a field of canvas tents and sheet metal buildings. People hang from the sides and produce jostles under tarps. A great big billowing cloud of dust forces Gon to wrap his bandana around his mouth and nose.

He stops when he reaches the edge of the shadow cast over the desert scrub. A woman with a weathered face and bandaged hands slows beside him, and the two of them look up, silently.

Somewhere in the staggeringly enormous mass, he’s going to find Ging.

The woman moves on first. It takes Gon a few more minutes, and by the time he starts on again, the shadow had crept to his shins.

The eastern market is the major entry point for the city, but Gon isn’t interested in squeezing his way through the crowd. He cuts off onto a thin path, with dry grass growing high down the center.

The buildings, jutting like crowded teeth, are packed together so tightly that not even a starving alley cat could squeeze its way through. More are under construction. Workers buzz about the scaffolding, and huge machines Gon has only ever seen in an encyclopedia gifted by Abe dig up the ground.

There are open balconies on every story. People lounge in them, wearing fancy clothes and airs.

“Welcome home, sunshine!” shouts a woman, hanging off the arm of a clearly intoxicated man with a hideous mustache.

Gon waves. “I’m just passing through.”

She snorts, covering her mouth with a ring-bejeweled hand. “Sure, of course. Just passing through.”

Gon’s breath hitches and he wants to ask what she means by that, but the two of them giggle off into the room beyond.

He waits to see if they’ll return, and when they don’t, he draws closer.

Gon approaches the building like it’s a frightening animal tensing to bolt.

He reaches out and touches the wall. The cold concrete is unyielding against the warmth of his palm.

Gon walks along the edge of the city as dusk falls around him.

The workers continue clanging, sparks bright and flying in the fading light. Gon is careful not to step underneath the swaying cranes, or cut across through dug out pits.

Eventually, he finds a door propped open with a rock. Workers stroll in and out, chatting to each other in a language Gon doesn’t understand. None of them pay him any mind as he slips inside.

The air is rot and neglect and grease. He slams a hand over his mouth and doubles over in the hallway, gagging. His eyes water, and his lungs burn as he forces himself to breathe.

A man walking out snickers down at him, and Gon’s nose wrinkles. He straightens himself intentionally, pulling the bandana back up over his nose.

Gon swipes a tear out of his eyes. The corridor stretches on, long and punctuated with bursts of light where caged fluorescents flicker. All he can see between the pockets is darkness shifting like falling sand.

A fly buzzes in the nearest light, banging itself against the walls of its confinement.

Gon swallows hard.

Just passing through.

***

Gon sits on scaffolding made of plywood and cheap metal, his feet dangling over oblivion. The bridge connects two different buildings. The bustling neon party scene on one side fades into the almost idyllic business row on the other, where plants hang on the walls and shoes squeak across vinyl flooring.

Gon takes another bite of his sandwich and clicks his heels together, watching people stream across the dizzying sprawl of other connectors below.

When he was young, Mito got him an ant farm. Sometimes it spilled sand all over his windowsill, but he still loved it. Gon could watch the workers dig for hours. The city is the same; something about it is mesmerizing.

He’s been meandering for a day and a half. Whale Island, for all its beauty, was plagued by familiarity. Gon grew up around the same four hundred faces and a bitterly frigid line to his exploration quite literally in the sand. Meteor City is incomparably dense with wonders.

He found a shop that sold glass butterfly charms in every colour of the rainbow and watched the artist make one.

It dangles around his neck, now. A luxury he can’t afford, but one he couldn’t say no to, either.

He passed by a funeral procession marching slowly through the street, percussion instruments made of wood and beads clacking. The woman leading them wore a bone white tunic and red shoes.

He looked at park from an observation window, unable to afford the fee to enter. It had a high ceiling and ivy climbing the walls. Gigantic lights fed the lawn, and a handful of couples were clustered on benches under carefully pruned apple trees.

Gon finishes his lunch and shrugs on his backpack, careful not to let it fall.

The next market he passes through has a ceiling painted to look like a midday sky. Dragons swirl through thick cumulus clouds and swoop down the walls. The stalls are open and cascade throughout the entire floor. Support columns are painted green and plastered with posters. Most of them are written in a language he doesn’t recognize.

He skirts around an open vat of oil, manned by an old woman with bags under her eyes and whiskers at the corners of her mouth. She dips meat down in strips, and they sizzle on the surface. A mother with a toddler in tow buys a bag, and pays by tapping the back of her phone to a metal plate drilled into the table.

Gon is pushed onwards by the swelling crowd.

The Hunter Association, when he finally finds it, is marked by the logo on a handleless door.

Gon hops onto the bridge to it. Both above and below, he can only spot three other entrances to the building.

A voice crackles from a speaker.

“Name?”

Gon tugs the collar of his shirt. “Gon. Kite sent me. He said to tell you ‘strawberry blackwater’ and to apologize for using an old pass code.”

“I can’t let you in with an old pass code.”

“He said I should mention I’m Ging’s son.”

There’s a long silence.

The speaker crackles, and Gon can make out indistinct words spoken too far away to be picked up clearly.

“Fine.”

The door slides open with a chime.

There’s no one on the other side. Gon pokes down the hallway, expecting to be interrupted once again by whoever was watching the door, but he’s only met by dead air.

All the hallways are painted the same grating shade of gray, and every door he tries to open is locked and beeps at him angrily. He’s steered like cattle through the building by short stairwells and dead ends until he stumbles upon a lobby.

The room is large, white, and brightly lit. There are a few people talking in clusters of two or three. Gon doesn’t recognize any of them. None of them smile when they look his way.

He fists the hem of his sleeves, rubbing the fabric between his thumb and his knuckles. There isn’t a line at the front desk.

“I’m looking for Ging Freecss.”

The woman behind the high counter snorts. “I’m sorry,” she deadpans, flipping the page of her magazine.

Gon pouts. “I want to see him. Do you know where he is?”

“Does anyone?”

Gon hums, considering the question. “He probably does.”

A ghost of a smile graces her face. She looks up and gives a snide scowl. “I wouldn’t bet on it.”

Gon isn’t sure what to say, so he says nothing. She goes back to reading, though he can tell by the way her eyes aren’t moving that she’s watching him peripherally. Gon bites his lip and glances over his shoulder.

Apparently accepting that he isn’t going to leave, she sighs and drops the magazine down. This time, her smile is tight and annoyed. “Can I help you?”

“I’m looking for Ging.”

***

There was a long retired sailor on Whale Island, so old that even Abe could only shrug when asked his name. He lived alone in the hills, where yellow wildflowers spilled across the forest floor like honey, and came into town when he needed to replace a failing tool or stock up on food. He had eyebrows like scraggly wire and shuffled, though he didn’t use a cane.

One lazy summer afternoon, gnats buzzing in the air, Gon stumbled upon him plucking weeds in his back garden. Compelled by nothing but curiosity, Gon pushed up his sleeves and helped. They spent a few hours in silent companionship, and at the end of it Gon was invited into the well-maintained kitchen to share a blackberry pie. Gon breathed on a spoon and managed to stick it to his cheek; the old sailor guffawed, his nose wrinkled.

A couple of years after that, Gon found his body in the woods.

At first, it looked as though he was sleeping against one of the apple trees, but the smell, the flies, and the stillness of his chest told Gon otherwise.

Bisky reminds Gon of him.

It’s her eyes that do it; soulful and heavy, despite a body that doesn’t look a day over sixteen. Even slouched, with elbows on her knees, her presence fills the air.

The lounge is chaotic. Flashing lights cut through smoke. Music blasts, and partygoers holler. Gon slips through the crowd, offering muttered apologies as he squeezes between dancers.

Wide support columns curate his view. They cut up the lounge like a warren, giving him only snippets of her form as he makes his way over. Gon ducks under an arch and jogs down the half-flight of stairs.

He slides into the seat across from her. She jolts from whatever she was thinking about.

“Bisky?”

“Gon?”

For a moment, they float in their own bubble, separate from the rest of the world.

She leans towards him, eyes wide.

They’re interrupted by a young man tripping on his own shoes. He catches himself on Gon’s shoulder and nearly tumbles into his lap. Gon helps him back to his feet, insisting that it’s not a bother as the man blushes fiercely. He scampers off.

The conflicted swirl in Bisky’s expression is gone when he sits back down.

“You’re so much like him,” she says.

Gon’s chest swells with shy pride.

***

His throat is warm and fuzzy, and his senses are enjoyably dulled. His inhibition, thin at the best of times, has been shredded like wet paper.

Bisky is either a fantastic influence or a terrible one.

She hollers and Gon grunts, his elbow straining, sweat burning down his forehead. The woman across from him narrows her eyes and pushes harder against his palm. Gon’s muscles are clenched so tightly he can hardly breathe.

The back of his hand slams into the table. There’s a roar, and people in the crowd push him by his shoulders as he catches his breath. The woman offers him a handshake and a roguish smile as a conciliatory participation prize.

“My turn, my turn,” insists Bisky, sliding into the seat after him.

The woman, graying at her temples, quirks her lips into a smirk. She stands to whispers something in Bisky’s ear, and Bisky laughs.

Gon is knocked back by the swell of the excited onlookers; he lets himself drift, and while he doesn’t see it, he sure as hell hears it when Bisky pulls off a victory.

They sit beside each other on a quiet step. Bisky scribbles out something on the back of a napkin and shoves it into his hand.

“He’s a lightweight too,” she says.

Gon groans. “‘M fine,” he lies.

Bisky can’t hide the chuckle that bounces her shoulders. “Of course you are.” She claps her hands together. “Right. Let’s go get you settled, young man.”

The true face of the headquarters is nothing like the monotony from earlier.

Every hallway is decorated in a different style. One is lined from floor to ceiling with wooden masks, whose eyes seem to follow them. Another is snow white, with the silhouettes of deer somehow moving across the wall.

Bisky has to drag him along by the wrist; Gon keeps wandering off to gander.

Her apartment is luxurious. The ceilings are high, and from them hang ornate chandeliers. The carpet is thick between his toes, and the paint on the walls looks new. He can only stay for the night, she says, because she’s leaving in the morning and the place will be turned over to someone else.

Gon curls up on the couch and she brings him a glass of water, a pillow, and a fond ruffle of his hair.

The night wasn’t what he was hoping for. He’s disappointed he didn’t get to meet Ging, even if he had a fun time. All Bisky knows is that he’s off on some special assignment and planning to come back soon. It’s enough for Gon, though.

He’s waited his whole life. He can wait a little longer.

Chapter 2.

Gon stops outside the restaurant and triple checks the napkin. He’s supposed to meet with the friend of a friend of a friend.

Bisky’s words swam over his pounding head during breakfast. He isn’t sure whether he’s meeting with a thirty-something martial arts instructor or a guy his age with a buzz cut. Either way, he isn’t looking forward to it.

The other key detail that he missed was what job he was applying for, exactly.

He pokes his head inside. The restaurant is empty; not one of the three round chairs has a guest, and there’s no one behind the counter.

The walls are yellow stucco and the splashboard behind the workspace is functional black diamond plate. There’s a chandelier with tacky plastic jewels that reflect spots of light onto the walls and ceiling. The melamine tables are worn and chipped, and the chairs have awkwardly low backs.

It is, Gon thinks, the least welcoming restaurant he has ever had the misfortune of visiting.

There’s a bang in the back room and Gon jumps. The door swings open. A man with a willowy build and unruly blonde hair stalks up to the counter, tying his striped apron behind his back.

“Can I help you,” he sighs venomously, as though he would rather swallow spiders than even consider doing so.

“Bisky sent me,” says Gon.

The man’s nose wrinkles with disgust and he rolls his eyes. “Great.”

Gon rubs his hand along the back of his head and passes over her note. The man holds the napkin out at arms length before pulling glasses from his pocket. He mouths the words as he reads them, and Gon taps his fingers on the empty glass display case as he waits for him to finish.

“Bisky didn’t tell me what KP stood for but—”

“Kurapika. Me. My name.”

“Oh.”

Kurapika sets the paper down and pulls his glasses back like a headband. His hair is tucked, revealing dazzling ruby red earrings.

“Who are you.”

“Gon Freecss. I came here looking for my dad, but—”

“Gon, I want you to know, from the bottom of my heart, that I do not care. What do you know about running?”

“Um, I’m fast, I think? I’ve never really raced anyone though, so—”

“Okay.” Kurapika chuckles a little, his eyes sliding closed and his smile genuine for the first time. Gon squirms, certain that he’s stepped over one of those invisible lines that everyone else can see. “Go tell Bisky not to waste my time.”

Gon’s heart plummets. “I’m a fast learner.”

Kurapika stares at him unflinchingly.

“Also Bisky just left this morning, so I can’t do that.”

There’s a beat of awkward silence. Kurapika stares through him, his eyes glassy and his mouth pressed flat, before untying his apron and hanging it up on a hook beside the fridge.

“You’re from outside the city.”

Gon tilts his head, wondering how Kurapika could tell.

“You’re never going to know it as well as someone who’s grown up here.”

“I’m good at—”

Kurapika holds up a finger, turning on his heels. His smile curls sharper. Kurapika shapes his words carefully, like Gon is a rabbit he’s leading into a snare. “How long did it take you to get to the Hunter’s Association headquarters?”

Gon winces. “A couple days.”

Kurapika holds out his relaxed hands, palms flat. “That’s only a seventeen minute trip from here if you know the way, Gon.”

Gon gasps. The pieces click into place, and he relishes in the rush of having figured out the test.

“No it isn’t.”

Kurapika bites his tongue. “Yes, it is.”

“It only took me twelve.”

Kurapika freezes. His eyes open wide, but he recovers quickly into a slightly less confident scowl. “You said it took you days, Gon.”

Gon nods avidly. “Yeah, the first time. Then when I came back it was only twenty minutes because I knew to use the tunnels way below everything. And then I was bored because the restaurant was closed for the night, so I went back and forth a few times.”

“And you shaved it down to twelve minutes?”

Gon beams. “Yup! It only really works one way, though. There’s this place where the boards are really close between the buildings and you can hop down and it saves you from having to do”—Gon demonstrates with his hands—“the hook thing.”

“Show me.”

***

Kurapika stands with him on the top board and shakes his head slowly. Gon can’t wipe the smile off his face. He points at the grated metal, only seven feet below.

“It’s—”

“Twelve minutes. It’s actually twelve minutes.” Kurapika licks his lips and puts his hands on his hips. He stares at the path below like he doesn’t believe it.

Maybe it wasn’t a test. Either way, Gon’s pretty sure he passed.

With practiced grace, Kurapika holds out a hand. Gon shakes it firmly. Kurapika’s teeth grind and he pulls away, clenching and unclenching his fingers.

Gon rocks back and forth from his toes to his heels. “I said I was a fast learner, didn’t I?”

“You did, you did, you absolutely did,” says Kurapika, his voice dazed. “I take it back. No guarantees, but I can try to find you something.”

Gon hollers at the victory. Someone far above shouts down at him to be quiet. Gon apologizes.

“So what now?” he asks.

For the first time, Kurapika’s smile is softened by fondness. “Try to learn the area around the restaurant as best you can. Do you have a phone?”

Gon passes it over and Kurapika presses a few buttons before tapping their backs together.

“I’ll call when I know one way or another.” He stills and rubs his thumb over his lips. “Do you have a place to stay?”

***

“It’s temporary.”

Gon leans against the wall and bites his lip. It’s the first true residential area he’s visited. Kurapika had to tap his phone on a screen to slide open the front gate.

The hallway has tiled vinyl flooring, and the mounted lights are soft. The main corridor branches off like a fractal, what must have once been a wide open space subdivided into a maze of small apartments. It’s nicer than most of the places Gon has been so far, which is to say that there are no suspiciously dark stains on bare concrete.

Across the narrow hallway the door to apartment forty-five opens. A boy with short black hair, not much younger than Gon himself, steps out, carrying a handful of empty bags.

“Like hell it’ll be temporary, Kurapika.”

The boy’s eyes widen and Gon mirrors the look.

“Just a few days. He doesn’t have anywhere—”

“Why can’t you take him in?”

With a polite wave the boy runs off down the hallway, favoring his right leg.

“Because my place is—”

There’s a dramatic sigh. “Fine. Fine.”

Kurapika leans out, a smug smile lighting up his face. “Come on in.”

The apartment is a long, narrow room. There’s a kitchen at the very back with mismatched stools. Closer, the walls are lined with cubbies full of plastic totes. There’s a low circular table between them, and one of the boxes is open on the ground beside it, folders spread out chaotically.

Next there’s an unmade bed that juts out from the wall, right beside the door to what Gon presumes is the washroom. Across from the bed is a couch, sandwiched on either side by a bookshelf and a dresser.

The man beside Kurapika is, somehow, exactly what Gon would have expected if he had only seen the room.

He’s tall but slouches, his glasses seem comically useless, and the twist of his lips is crass. His hair is dented on the side from bed head, and his button-up shirt is half untucked.

“I’m Gon, nice to meet you.” He holds out his hand with a beaming smile.

The man looks up at the ceiling in a silent prayer for patience before accepting the handshake. “Leorio.”

Gon sets his backpack down and clasps his hands behind his back. Kurapika wrings his wrists. Leorio rubs his eyes. The silence is awkward, and Gon jumps to break it.

“What are those papers?” he asks.

Leorio glances over at the table. “Records.”

“Oh. For what?”

“I’m a doctor.”

“Why?”

Leorio inhales through his nose then exhales through his mouth. His stare turns to Kurapika, who has conveniently fled to the kitchen.

Dinner is made in near silence. Gon chops the vegetables put in front of him while Kurapika and Leorio bicker in low tones over the pot on the stove. He wonders why they’re friends if they spend so much time arguing, but maybe that’s what friends are supposed to be like. Gon isn’t exactly an expert; there was only one other kid on Whale Island, and she moved away years ago for high school.

They’re eating soup, lined up on the counter stools, when Gon tries again.

“So why did you want to be a doctor?”

Leorio drops his spoon and scowls at Kurapika. “Was he being an ass earlier, or…?”

“I don’t know,” says Kurapika, covering his full mouth with a hand.

“What are you talking about?” asks Gon.

The two of them look up at him, and then to each other. Kurapika shrugs. Leorio sighs, and rubs a fleck of broth off his cheek.

“A long time ago a friend of mine got sick, but healthcare in Meteor City is expensive and shoddy, so, y’know.” Leorio twirls his hand, watch clinking. “I wanted to help.”

“Did he die?” asks Gon.

Kurapika sucks in a breath. “G—”

“Yeah,” says Leorio.

Gon bites his cheek.

He swirls his spoon in his soup, and a carrot bubbles up from the bottom. He tries to imagine what that would feel like—losing Abe was hard enough, and he’d been able to find comfort in her long life well lived. Gon’s chest unravels at the thought of losing a friend.

“I’m sorry.”

Leorio looks down. Kurapika rests a hand on his arm.

“Thank you, Gon,” says Kurapika. “Now finish your soup.”

Gon cleans the plates while Leorio digs out extra bedding from the dresser. Kurapika has left, something about needing to sleep before his next shift started.

“You’re getting the couch ‘cause I’m too tall for it,” says Leorio, trying in vain to get fitted sheets to work on couch cushions.

“Okay.”

Gon lies with his back to the room. Leorio snores, like Mito does.

Gon sleeps easy.

***

Gon flips over the work phone. It’s sturdier than his own, and designed to snap closed. He clicks it open and shut as Kurapika explains the process to him.

Again.

“Deliver the package, tap the back of your phone to theirs, if they’re the right person it’ll tell you, and if they aren’t, I’ll get an alert. Do you have any questions?”

“Nope.” Gon reaches for the cardboard box, not much larger than a slice of bread, and Kurapika slides it down the counter, out of his reach.

“I can be there in five, six if you need me armed.”

“It’ll be fine,” says Gon, stretching on his tiptoes to grab the package. He flies out before Kurapika can launch into another lecture. Lectures, Gon has discovered in the two weeks since meeting him, are something Kurapika is fond of.

He weaves through the buildings, secure in his bearings, slowly ascending staircase by staircase. Waiting for Dalzollene’s approval was boring, but it did give him time to familiarize himself with his surroundings.

The meeting itself is mundane. There’s a woman waiting right where expected, and when they click their phones together, they both receive a cheery green check mark.

He passes the box, she slips off into the crowd, and he returns back to Kurapika, where the next delivery is waiting.

Running, Gon discovers, is something he enjoys a lot.

It takes him a few days to conclude what, exactly, he’s carrying, but once he does it hardly bothers him. Who cares what other people want to do if it means Gon is getting paid to fly through the city?

There are three of them working out of the restaurant. He’s a runner, as is Zushi, a barrel-chested boy with stony expressions but a kind heart. Kurapika is their manager, and he reports to “the brass”, as Leorio calls them. Gon isn’t sure what “the brass” has to do with him, so he keeps to running.

There are a few regulars. The woman he met his first trip was one, as are twin boys down in the factories with equally devious grins and clothes that seem intentionally picked to set them apart. There’s a gangly teenager who always meets him behind a heart-pounding night club, and a woman who insists on double checking their tap every time.

Gon hears a new language every day, sees a new pastry behind shop windows. He meets people he never could have imagined, and every night his dreams are fed by pushed horizons. It’s like he’s twelve again; his heart soars with anticipation of adventures to come.

***

“Whale Island?”

Gon nods, slurping from his bowl of noodles. The woman across from him with a sleeve of tattoos and an impractically big septum piercing smiles warmly. She leans back in her creaky chair.

“I passed through there a summer, way back when.”

Gon bites back a pang of homesickness. “Yeah?”

She clasps her hands behind her head and smiles. “Just for a night. Beautiful place. Miss the sky.”

Gon does, too. He’ll return someday, though.

He calls Mito in the evening, and they talk for hours.

The mail system is unreliable, Kurapika says, but Gon still sends her the glass butterfly. It made him happy. He hopes it makes her happy, too.

***

Leorio, despite his big talk, lets Gon stay.

After a few months, Gon is grunting along with him and Kurapika as they maneuver a second bed into the apartment. There’s barely room to squeeze it in against the wall, and only about a foot is left between it and Leorio’s, but it’ll do.

***

When Gon runs into trouble, he’s unprepared. He breathes through his mouth and grips the edge of the cushioned table as Leorio’s fingers brush over his nose. He swallows blood, and the slick, thick feeling of it travelling down his throat almost makes him gag. Leorio sets it, and Gon can’t help but cry out. Kurapika winces, hovering over Leorio’s shoulder.

“What happened?” he asks, eyes stormy.

“I got into a fight,” says Gon. Leorio’s mouth quivers as he fights back a snicker.

Kurapika sighs and rubs his forehead with his index finger and thumb. “Yes, but what happened.”

Gon shrugs. “I was just walking.”

Call it a fight is honestly an overstatement; more accurately, Gon got his lights punched out and woke up with his face against the ground.

Kurapika insists he learn to defend himself, after that.

***

Firearms are rare in the city. The Ten Dons ban them outside of their own use; with the thin walls and shabby floors, it’s too dangerous to risk lackadaisical use, so confrontations come down to martial ability.

Gon coughs and lets his head loll back onto the springy wooden floor. His instructor—an old student of Bisky’s—pads closer.

“You’re completely uncoordinated,” says Wing.

“I’ve never done this before,” says Gon, rolling onto his hands and knees before bouncing to his feet.

“That much I could tell.”

Gon sputters a laugh and rubs the back of his head. Wing crosses his arms.

His teacher is coiled muscle, veiled by unassuming, baggy clothes. The studio is an extension of himself, with its wonky fans and chipped mirrors. Overhead, the neighbors shout each other down.

Gon takes a deep breath, wincing when his ribs ache, and resets into the stance Wing showed him. They move slowly; Wing explains every step as he’s doing it, and Gon occasionally interrupts to ask for clarification.

Two hours pass in the blink of an eye.

Gon ties his laces as Wing talks him through the studio’s schedule.

He learns, slowly, about the people he’s working for. Some of it is from Kurapika, but Kurapika is stingy, dispensing information in palatable drips. Most of it, he gathers from the people he meets.

The Nostrades are just one of the many families tied to Ritz Clan, which is just one of ten clans that operate quasi-governments throughout the city. They control a pocket on the border of the Ritz’s territory, and are infamous for the daughter’s hobby of collecting human body parts. A grim fascination, Gon thinks.

They are also, he learns, infuriatingly difficult to get the drop on. They smell weakness like bloodhounds, and many suspect Light Nostrade is trying to worm his way into the Ritz’s inner circle. How, exactly, no one can tell him. Smoke chokes out the sun, but no one can find the fire.

When Gon isn’t working, he’s exploring.

He charts his way through the ground level, where he finds the crematoriums, water treatment plants, and livestock pens. It’s dingy. The walls are caked in grime, and he finds more than a handful of bodies rotting in the stagnant water between the buildings. But it does provide the most direct routes he can find. Usually, it isn’t worth it to climb down and back up the stairs, but he notes the potential.

It’s normal for him, now, to go weeks without seeing the sun. His eyes burn when he does climb up to the roofs. He can’t tell if it’s because of the light or the pollution. Probably both.

His martial ability improves through hours of practice with Wing and hours more alone with Zushi. Zushi is an enthusiastic teacher, thrilled whenever Gon asks him to stay a little longer.

Sometimes his lessons are less like lessons, though, and more like excuses to show how good he is at trapping Gon in a headlock.

Kurapika begins splitting the risky jobs between them more evenly. Gon learns how to slide unnoticed through crowds, treating the markets and echoing apartment complexes like the forest.

Bisky does not return. Ging does not return. Kite does not return.

Gon keeps waiting.

Baise, one of the Neon Nostrade’s bodyguards, takes two weeks off to visit family. Kurapika suggests Gon fill in, and in a burst of generous optimism, Dalzollene lets him.

Standing outside a locked door for hours or shuffling awkwardly through crowds isn’t as much fun as running. It’s exhausting to have to assume the worst of everyone. Neon likes him, though, so Gon ends up spending more and more time in her entourage.

One afternoon, he has two hours to kill before the next run. He sits in the restaurant, flipping through a newspaper in a language he can’t read, frowning at the pictures. Zushi walks in and greets Kurapika formally. Kurapika grunts from his stool behind the counter, but his eyes stay glued to his phone.

“Hey, Gon.”

Zushi stands with his back straight and his mouth schooled into a professional scowl.

“Howdy,” says Gon, smiling up at him.

“Don’t even fucking start,” says Kurapika.

“Hello,” says Gon. He folds away the newspaper and drops it on the table. Zushi is robotic as he pulls out a chair and sits down.

“I was wondering if you’d like to go out. With me.”

“Sure.” Gon reaches for his jacket. “Hey Kurapika, we’re—”

Zushi waves his hands in the air, cutting Gon off. “No, like, out.”

“Yeah,” says Gon. “Sure.”

“Like a date. Together.”

Gon brows pull together. “Was I supposed to say no?”

Kurapika blurts a laugh, which is quickly cut off by his hand slapping over his mouth. Gon fidgets with the hair at the base of his skull.

Zushi’s cheeks are bright red. The colour spills up his ears and over his forehead. “You like me?” asks Zushi, voice cracking.

Gon shrugs. “The point of a date is to find out, right?”

Zushi is a wreck as they make their way to the karaoke bar.

Gon tries to get him laughing, but it’s in vain.

Zushi is cute, Gon thinks. He’s fun, and Gon likes spending time with him. Gon isn’t sure if that’s a crush, though.

The karaoke bar is loud and bright and Gon hates it upon arrival, but Zushi is a balloon ready to burst at the next morsel of air, so Gon goes along with it. There are, unsurprisingly, no versions of the songs he knows in the Whale Island dialect. Gon flounders, trying to keep up with lyrics that are close but ever so slightly off.

When it’s Zushi’s turn, he stands with white knuckles around the microphone. The words start to scroll and his cheeks puff out. There’s a tremor to his bottom lip.

“Why don’t we leave,” says Gon.

Zushi breathes a sigh of relief and agrees eagerly.

They end up tucked in the back of a donut shop, sitting across from each other.

“Sorry, that was bad,” apologizes Zushi. Again.

“It’s fine,” says Gon, flashing a smile.

“I’m not sure this was a good idea,” says Zushi, his hands rubbing each other on the table.

Gon nods his earnest agreement. “I don’t think we’d make a good couple.”

Zushi’s face falls at the confirmation, and his gaze drifts over to the wall, plastered with amateur paintings on sale. Gon’s gut twists.

“But I like spending time with you. And someday, it’ll be really funny that we went on a terrible date.”

Zushi laughs nervously. “Really bad.”

Gon beams. “The worst.”

Zushi smiles shyly and takes a sip of his coffee. He taps his fingers on the sides of his mug for a moment, looking down at the floor. “It won’t be weird?”

Gon shakes his head. “Nope, promise. Here.”

He holds out a pinky and Zushi reluctantly takes it. Gon chants as Zushi watches him with befuddled interest.

“—sealed with a kiss!”

Zushi’s face turns beet red. “No thanks,” he says, voice tight.

Gon pushes their thumbs together. “Mwah.”

“Oh.”

Zushi sighs, his shoulders sinking down in relief. Gon can’t help but snicker. Zushi reaches over and slaps his arm.

A half-hour later Zushi has recovered to his regular self.

“So, how did you end up a runner?” asks Gon, stealing crumbs off his plate.

Zushi lifts a hand to swat him away, but Gon, ever a careful thief, escapes unscathed. Gon sticks out his tongue. Zushi gives him a stink eye before letting it go.

“I need a job while I’m training to take the Hunter exam,” he says, twisting his mug back and forth by its handle.

“Oh,” says Gon.

A plate crashes across the room. Gon springs to his feet. There’s a woman with her hands over her mouth and an embarrassed wobble in her voice as she bends down to pick up the pieces. The boy behind the counter tugs her back up by her arm, insisting she not worry about it. Reassured that no one is hurt, Gon leaves them be.

Zushi shuffles in his chair as Gon sits back down. “Your dad’s one, right? Don’t you wanna be too?”

Gon hums, a thumb on his lip. “Not really. I don’t think I have to be, so I don’t see the point of it.”

“You don’t see the point of it?”

“It’s a lot of work for perks I don’t care about.” The boozy lounge, free alcohol, and splendid apartment are not things he desires.

Zushi balks. “It’s not about the perks. It’s about being a protector of the city.”

Gon raises an eyebrow. His expression of disbelief morphs into a wince. “My dad is hardly a protector of the city.”

Zushi’s eye bulge wide. “Dude. Your dad is like, on some quest to find out what killed the last chairman. If that’s not protecting the city, I don’t know what is.”

Gon bobs his head back and forth. “Fixing the bridges? Upgrading the water mains?” He gestures vaguely towards Leorio’s practice, fourteen stories and three buildings away. “Making healthcare accessible?”

Zushi opens and closes his mouth like a fish, before snapping it shut and glowering down at his mug. His eyebrows are scrunched together like he’s trying to solve a difficult puzzle.

Gon shrugs a shoulder. “You don’t need to be a Hunter to do any of that.”

“Maybe,” says Zushi. “But I still wanna do it.” His mouth is set with determination.

Gon’s eye crinkle fondly. “For what it’s worth, if anyone should be a Hunter, it’s you.”

Zushi’s eyes flutter in shock. He sniffs and looks up at the ceiling. “Thanks, Gon.”

Chapter 3.

They issue him a firearm.

It’s coded to respond to his fingerprints and will only be activated when he’s on duty. Further precautions include a weekend of training at a facility on the other side of the city, jointly run and funded by the Ten Dons.

Gon enjoys the walk, and he enjoys the breaks from the classroom when he has nothing to do but wander around. Training is miserable, though. No one will crack a smile, and distrust leaves the air hot and sticky. By the time it’s over, he’s relieved to return home to Leorio’s cooking and loud complaining about work.

Kurapika tells him he suits it and the holster.

Gon’s face puckers at the compliment. He doesn’t like suiting something crafted to kill.

The gun has no functional affect on guard duty because nothing ever happens. Gon watches doors that stay closed and scouts streets free of danger.

In the copious, wretchedly still free time the job gives him, he begins to draw out a map of the city. He doesn’t need the guidebook, but maybe it can be a birthday present for Zushi.

At the very least, it makes his time feel less squandered.

***

Kurapika is late. Gon stands outside the locked up restaurant, rocking from the balls of his feet to his heels, humming a song Leorio’s been blasting for weeks.

Kurapika is never late.

It’s a guard night, so maybe he just forgot to meet with Gon before heading to the estate.

Gon texts, and then he calls. Nothing.

He bites his lip and scratches the back of his head. They’re going to be late at this rate.

Kurapika’s apartment is a shabby place. Gon’s shoes crunch on broken glass as he steps around buckets overflowing with water leaking from the ceiling. Kurapika can afford better, but says he doesn’t see what the point would be if he’s almost never there. (Most nights, he sleeps on the couch in Leorio’s apartment, anyway.)

Gon grabs the key tapped to the back of the mailbox and knocks as a formality before walking in. For a professional bodyguard, Kurapika is comically lax with his own security.

The room isn’t much more than a box. There’s a mattress on the floor, and a milk crate flipped over to support a microwave. Clothes, which theoretically belong in the shallow dresser, are scattered over the desk, chair, and bed.

Gon hears a scratchy moan in the bathroom.

Kurapika is doubled over the toilet. Sweat soaks through his white tank top, but he’s shivering. Hair is plastered to his forehead.

He looks up at Gon, his eyes dark and narrowed.

“Let me die,” he hisses as Gon hoists him up, slinging one of Kurapika’s arms over his shoulders. Kurapika leans heavily into Gon’s side, his free hand clasping at the fabric of Gon’s shirt.

“Leorio would cry,” says Gon, walking them towards the main room. “And he cries enough already.”

Kurapika fixes him with a sour pucker.

“Like when you sent the cat.”

Kurapika frowns and stumbles as Gon transfers him to the door frame to dig up a jacket.

“The cat picture?”

“Yeah.”

“It made him cry?”

Gon presses his lips flat.

Kurapika’s brows furrow, then his face falls into weary but fond amusement.

“I can see it.”

***

Leorio, freshly awoken from his night shift recovery, stares down a greasy Kurapika.

Kurapika pinches his lips tight, his hand still on the doorknob.

“Sit down,” Leorio sighs, grabbing Kurapika by the scruff of his tank top and pulling him back until his knees fold against Gon’s bed.

Gon drops their pill bottle haul from the bathroom cabinet beside him.

“I have to go now,” he says, shooting a worried look to Kurapika.

“Then go,” says Leorio. “I’ve got him.”

***

The Nostrade estate sits on top of the territory they control like skin on the surface of lukewarm soup. There are big glass ceilings over the ballrooms and jars of preserved body parts decorating alcoves.

Gon changes in the armory and barely swings into the front lobby before Neon and Eliza walk down the spiral staircase from the bedrooms.

“Where’s Kurapika?” asks Baise, her teeth gritted and her smile forced.

Gon twists his heel in the carpet. “Sick. We’ll be okay without him.”

Baise’s smile tightens and her eyes bulge. “You can’t make decisions like that on your own.”

“We’ll be fine,” says Gon.

Her glare is disgusted, but she drops the subject.

“Good evening,” says Gon, cheery, as Neon slides off her slippers, using Eliza’s offered arm for balance.

“Good evening Mr. Freecss,” she says, voice light and airy.

For all the time she spends out of the house, it’s rarely for her own pleasure. On nights when she’s alone, or alone as she can be, Neon is always bubbly.

They take an elevator to the theater.

It’s one of the services the Nostrade family operates. Not only do they control the drug market, but they monopolize most amenities, too, from water to light.

The elevators, old and prone to failure, are especially expensive.

Eliza and Neon chat in the balcony lobby, Baise and Gon close at their sides. There are two other high-ranking mafia members present, but Gon can’t name them or the older guards that circle them.

A young man Neon smiles brightly at is telling her disconnected facts about the theater’s architecture when Gon spots trouble.

Kurapika rubs his eyes as he makes his way over. Gon slips away to intercept him.

“What are you thinking?” he hisses, grabbing Kurapika by the elbow. Kurapika shrugs him off.

“I’m good to work. Leorio gave me medicine. I’m feeling better.”

Gon scowls his disapproval.

Kurapika’s nose is red and his eyes are puffy. His hair is damp, and Gon suspects he washed it in the sink.

“We can handle it without you.”

Kurapika doesn’t bother replying. He steps around Gon to catch up with the rest of the group.

Lights flash, and the shuffle for seats begins.

The theatre is paneled with dark wood, and the house lights are so dim that it takes minutes to adjust. There are private balconies, rows of seats, and a pit down the center of the room. The stage itself is shallow and cramped.

Beads, in long, dazzling strings, are hung along the spines of the faux dome. Every lighting effect and curtain lifts sends sparkling ripples out like waves.

Gon stands at the back of the balcony, beside the door, and Kurapika slumps beside him. From here the ballet is hidden by curtains red as dried blood, but Gon doesn’t care for it much anyway.

Eliza, Neon, and Baise sit in the front of two rows. Eliza and Neon chat idly, even as the music begins. Neon’s elaborate hairstyle bobs with every laugh. Baise taps her fingers on the armrest impatiently.

The audience settles. Before the performance, after it, and during intermission are the high risk times. Between those, it’s smooth sailing.

Gon zones out and watches the beads.

It’s twenty minutes into the performance when Neon abruptly stands, turns to face him directly, and says: “whatever you do, don’t touch your weapon.”

Gunfire.

Kurapika pushes off from the wall and nearly stumbles to the ground, but he manages to grab Eliza and yank her down as Baise does the same for Neon.

The music abruptly halts. There are screams, and the floor shakes as people run to get away.

Someone has to sweep the emergency route before they can move on. Usually, it would be Kurapika’s job.

“Wait with them,” says Gon, slipping out before he can be stopped.

Kurapika shouts, but his voice is cut off by the door closing. There’s a click as Baise locks it.

A curved hallway with creamy walls services all of the balcony seats. It’s an unbroken oval, with part of it used to access the catwalks over the stage. Gon jogs around it as it fills with a panicked crowd.

People shout and push past each other in a dash for the exits. A man stumbles to his knees, and Gon swerves to help him back to his feet.

Gon finds himself bumping into shoulders and getting in the way. It’s useless to try and fight the flow. He steps aside to the wall and lets people pass.

The shots came from inside the theatre, but Gon didn’t have a view of the seats. They could have been fired by a licensed guard, or someone might be running around with a cracked weapon. Neither possibility is good news.

He doesn’t know the target, and he doesn’t know if bystanders are injured.

Kurapika will have almost certainly reported the incident by now, so backup will be on its way. With so many unknown variables, staying put until then might be the smart decision—or, they might be in harm’s way.

Gon rubs his temples. There isn’t an obvious answer. Combined with Neon’s ominous warning—if anything working for the Nostrades has taught him, it’s to listen to her warnings—he doesn’t know what to do.

The crowd is thinning and being still increases his visibility, so Gon moves on. When he reaches the heavy curtain separating backstage from the audience, he draws it back without hesitation.

No one.

There are big stage lights, carts full of props, and painted set pieces.

Gon passes by the door out to the catwalks. A bucket of fake snow is tipped over beside it.

His phone rings. Kurapika. Gon snaps it closed.

On the other side of the next curtain, the hallway is empty. The silence is eerie, dropping over him like a shroud.

Gon has never seen it still like this before. The unfamiliarity, the warping of space he knows into something he does not, sets his teeth on edge.

Usually, he appreciates the gentle curve. In hand-to-hand combat, seeing your opponent when they’re still far away can minimize conflict. But once firearms are introduced, it just means that every step could be the one that put Gon in the line of a bullet.

His hands shake from the adrenaline pumping through his system, and he walks on the balls of his feet, as though he’s barefoot in the forest.

There’s a thump ahead.

A chill runs down Gon’s spine. His nostrils flare. He inches his hand closer to his lapel.

Someone is around the bend.

A man appears. He takes a step forward, graceful as a sylph, and not a sound is made when his foot falls. The tilt of his sharp shoulders is predatory, like a cat coiling to spring. Dangerous and…

Beautiful.

His eyes are sapphires, and the curve of his lips is soft. His suit is tailored perfectly to his form. The braid over his shoulder is white as crisp ocean foam.

Gon can hardly breathe.

“Who are you,” asks the man. He pops the knuckles of one hand with his thumb.

A fleck of blood drops.

Gon grinds his teeth together, mind racing.

“Are you choosing to get involved or not?” he asks, bored and impatient.

“Your buttons are done up wrong,” says Gon, pointing to the man’s jacket.

The man’s eyes widen in what is either shock or disbelief. And then he glances down.

Gon closes the distance with a leap and slams his knuckles into the man’s solar plexus.

His feet are swept out from under him and he’s slammed against the wall, toes dangling. The detached coldness in the man’s eyes is gone, replaced by hot fury.

“What the he—“

“Why didn’t you kill me?”

The intensity in the air evaporates away.

The man’s mouth is slack. His eyes narrow into a squint, searching Gon’s with naked bewilderment.

Gon holds his breath.

The man lowers him so that his toes can touch the ground.

“You could have,” says Gon.

“Because—you—who does that?”

Gon hums thoughtfully, and loses his fight against the smile trying to curl his lips.

“So you were curious, too.”

The man blinks, then closes his eyes and gives a long, shaky sigh. With a gentle shove, he lets go of Gon entirely and backs up, like an archer relaxing his bow string.

“Just tell me who you are,” says the man, leaning against the wall on the other side of the hallway.

“Gon.”

The man stares at him with a mix of horror and confusion.

A moment of silence passes. Gon pats his hips, unsure of where to put his hands.

“Do you have a death wish, Gon?”

“That’s not fair.”

The man’s eyes flutter and he gasps a shocked laugh.

“What?”

“I told you my name, you tell me yours.”

The man purses his lips. He leans his head against the wall and looks up, as if the light moldings will give him answers.

For a few seconds, Gon doesn’t think he’s going to answer.

“Killua.”

Killua.

“Nice to meet you, Killua.”

Casually leaned back, he doesn’t seem nearly as dangerous. Still beautiful, though.

“You’re weird, you know that?” says Killua, his voice raspy.

“I’m not sure you’re one to talk.”

Killua sniffs a laugh. “Takes one to know one, I guess.”

Gon laughs.

Killua’s eyes shoot wide as saucers.

“What?” he asks, tilting his head.

Gon shakes his head and waves his hands placatingly. “Nothing, just funny.”

Killua scowls. “Don’t laugh at me.”

“I’m not laughing at you,” says Gon.

Killua raises an eyebrow. “Sure.”

There’s the click of a door opening further down the hallway. Gon’s head swivels.

Backup, probably. That, or a peeved Kurapika on his way to shout Gon down the second they’re out of Neon’s earshot.

Killua stands with his hand on the frame of an open door.

Gon stumbles back a step, taken aback by the dramatic movement.

For a moment their eyes meet, and something in the air shifts. It’s a comfort and a bone deep knowing so strong that Gon’s heart aches.

“Will I see you again?” he asks, hands floating uselessly.

Killua runs a hand through his hair. His eyebrows furrow, and he sucks in a breath as though to speak.

And then like a switch flicking, his eyes glaze over with the same detachment from earlier. “No, and it would be better if you forgot you ever did.”

And then he’s gone.

[archivesdiveronarpg]

Congratulations, NAY! You’ve been accepted for the role of VOLUMNIA (with a faceclaim change to Eva Green). Nay, your application was such a joy to read - every line further solidified why you’re so perfect for the role of Volumnia and how much you just get her. You nailed her mannerisms and her voice in the interview, but your para sample astounded us was where we were completely floored. It’s such a simple scene, Viv eating at her parents’ table alone, but the very premise of it speaks volumes about the Viv before and after the death of her parents and the development in between. We know she’s in good hands. Congratulations, Nay!  Please read over the checklist and send in your blog within 24 hours.

                                                                             WELCOME TO THE MOB.

Out of Character

Alias | nay.

Age | nineteen.

Preferred Pronouns | she / her.

Activity Level | well, right now, I’m going through a bunch of end-of-semester shit, so I would put myself as a solid 7/10 — meaning: replies every other day. my activity tends to be at its peak on the weekend, but summer always gives me time to kick it up a notch.

Timezone | GM+5.

In Character

Character | Volumnia; Vivianne Agnes Sloane; I’d love a FC change to Eva Green.

What drew you to this character? | I think how immediately I was drawn to Vivianne has everything to do with my truly horrible addiction to unfathomable, morally ambiguous characters that would be so easy to dislike if only they weren’t so easy to empathise with – and really, that’s just a sign of a well-written character, isn’t it? when it comes to Vivianne, I am totally hooked on the complexities of her character; how there is layer upon layer upon layer of all of these intricacies that knit together to create her, that make her the fierce woman that she is.

there is this juxtaposition of strength and softness with her, that makes her so appealing: the way that she is jagged like the serrated edges of a blade wielded unflinchingly, and still possesses softness reminiscent of a pool of melted wax. I really enjoy how Vivianne is no one thing?? I just really see her as a convolution of things; she is a one-woman performance, but every time the crimson velvet of the theatre curtains find themselves drawn, the audience ( and there is no doubt: there is always an audience, and Vivianne Sloane misses nothing and no one ) does not know just what they will be met with. on one hand, she rocks this magnificent woman-king aesthetic, the sort of bullet of a woman who reminds one of that one line in that quote that goes, “All gods who receive homage are cruel.” on the other, she is a woman who makes calculated decisions, who seems to represent the essence of simplicity, almost paradoxically, with the steady head to make choices that must be made. and what’s so incredible is that there is no one without the other. she is everything at once!!!! it all exists within her. isn’t that amazing?

Vivianne has this – really human story. she has a story, and a past, and it shapes who she is. but it, at the same time, does not dictate it. that’s one of my favourite parts about her. I love the way that ruthlessness and an inherent standard of fairness exists with her. how she is endlessly principled, and it doesn’t have to make her someone who is a likable person, but she is someone who is worthy of the position she holds with the Capulets. Vivianne earns everything that she has, because she has been on her own for a very, very long time. no one has ever really taken care of her, you know? she does that herself. and she takes care of others, and just because she does it in ways that are not outwardly tender does not make that protection she offers any less significant. I love how much she is capable of. and I really love how what cripples her is what she doesn’t let show – there are things; they are just too well-concealed to be used. Vivianne is someone who exercises such a precise amount of control, and it’s all because she learned how to exercise it at a very young age. it is her who chooses how wear it: she wears it like armour.

basically, I am a sucker for her backstory. and I just really wanted to be the one who writes the rest of it.

What is a future plot idea you have in mind for the character? |

H A U N T I N G | of course, probably totally unsurprisingly, what I really want to explore more than anything is Vivianne and Cyrus. I want them face to face, him in front of her with what she did to him in his eyes, and I want her to have to face it. Vivianne makes choices, and not a single one is made without thought and strategy and it is due to this that she stands by hers – but to leave him, abandon her own flesh and blood, who had no one in the world but her, is the hardest she has ever made. I want how Vivianne would react to that. would she regret it, when she must face that she happened to him as her parents happened to her? would she stand by this choice of hers, too? can they go back? how would they move forward? would her ruin come at his hands? would she try to strike back? i’m already flailing!!!!!!

F I S S U R  E S | sometimes, there are cracks in the cave wall that let light in. and in Vivianne’s world, that crack is for Juliana. and it is Juliana who is that light. Juliana that is a soft spot. no, Vivianne does not wear it, and let’s it lie concealed in the depths of her person, where all ofl the truest things about her lie. I want to see that; I want to see that tenderness that she could not give Cyrus blossom inside of Vivianne. I want to know what a heart like hers is like when it feels for another person. I want to see why Juliana, and not Cyrus. I want to see, more than anything, if she were to make a choice between the two – who would she choose then? would she be able to live with that choice?

B L A D E | Vivianne is a weapon in Cosimo’s arsenal who wields a lot of power. and she is in possession of it because she is capable. where she is, and what she is, is all something that she has earned – not in tears, but in sweat and blood, and the latter not always her own. I want to toy with Vivianne’s sway in the Capulets’ army. I want to play with the command she has. the differences between who she is at heart, and how that translates into her work. I want her to have to make a sacrifice that is hard for her to make. I want maybe for her to make a call that goes wrong, that makes her lose some of that respect and that power. I want something to challenge her, to catch her off-guard because it comes out of left-field. for her who appears indestructible to perhaps have to show that she is, in fact, no such thing.

In Depth

What is your favorite place in Verona?

The quirked corner of her mouth is a caustic thing, disappearing just as quickly as it appeared, in the span of a fleeting moment. It parted to exhale a plume of smoke, and let the words be lost in it: “The empty ones,” Vivianne answered. The words were dry; there was no humour to be found, though. It was the truth. The basement of the Cathedral was where she would choose to go. In its cold draftiness of a place of holiness, she chooses to sit now and again – by herself, with the sins she chooses to make humming where they are tucked behind the hard shell of her breastbone.

Aloud, she said, “To prefer a place over all others requires an attachment of sentiment, and to no end –” another drag; an unflinching gaze, “– for buildings were so easy to crumble, so why bother to expend sentiment on that which could give nothing back? And on another note, it is not the place that matters, but the view.”

What does your typical day look like?

Vivianne’s lashes lowered and rose once more, the dark fan of them as apathetic in motion as it was languid. “Typical?” At once, it was a question, but not. “I don’t care for that word.” She answered the question of it herself. How did she spend her days? As she had lived most of her adult life: doing what it was that she needed to. She woke at first light, if not earlier; she bathed, with water cold, and rousing from the hallowed depths of her mind; she ate breakfast, in the kitchen, standing, and never at a table; and then she did her job. And she did it impeccably. And there was nothing that was fucking typical when it came to her job.

Would she offer this to another? It mattered not if it would give nothing away that could harm her in any manner; she did not care to answer it, any more than she cared for that word. She turned her face away, offering no more.

What are your thoughts on the war between the Capulets and the Montagues?

War was – an unholy thing. There was too much blood spilled, too little room for clemency, for it to be any other way. Perhaps that was why Vivianne found herself so well-suited for it. After all, had she not always had so many sins to beg forgiveness for? She uttered no apologies now. The slant of her mouth was as cruel as her gaze was cold; in that moment, she could have shown the asker of the question what she thought of it. A blade in the name of Capulet drawn, and any blood spilled for that name the crimson that she would bear, drying on those ruthless palms. How many lives had those hands taken? Many. But Alvise’s was not one of them. The woman’s chin canted, sharp as the words that came for her mouth: “It is a necessary thing, brought to our door, and to be won.” There was no room for arguments, and were that not the case, there raged a darkness that lurked beneath the waxiness of Vivianne’s flesh that would terrify the urge right out of them. She looked like the monster she was. And she did not forget: It was Cosimo Capulet’s hand that fed her. “There is no Helen to wage a war for; this is about honour. And for that, I would do what I must.“ Honour, she understood.

In-Character Para Sample:

TITLE: closure;

Utensils clanked against the plate in the quiet of the room, the sound of it obscene in more ways than one. Vivianne almost smiled into her sip of the glass of brandy, that she had filled to the brim, poured straight from a bottle that her father had kept locked in his study; the one room in the house that no one, not even his wife, was allowed to stroll into. She did not like the taste of it, thinking that it did not mix well with the taste of the stew – but the burn was satisfactory, at least. Fitting, for the occasion.

The dining-room was quiet, for the first time since she had been sat at the wooden, lace-tablecloth-laden table that took up the majority of the space in it. Real quiet; not the sort that was claimed as such, unjustly, so constantly ( and ironically ) intruded-upon it found itself by the incessant insistence of need for it. And the reason for it was simple: for the first time since she had been sat at this very table, Vivianne Sloane ate completely alone. Moreover, she dared to do it, sitting at the head of the table where her father had once sat, and her gaze remained, as it had done from the very moment her rear had settled into the chair with its velvet cushion at the seat, stuck on the one where sheusually sat.

This was not an experiment with sentimentality – not really. And there was nothing here, were she capable of it, to be nostalgic about. It was at once terribly simple, and nothing of the sort. The face was this: Vivianne sat at her father’s place, which would never again be his place, for the dead belonged in the ground, and she did it for the principal of the thing. Her actions were free of the burden of the shame that belonged in this room. They were not ones born of something as thoroughly useless and irritating as vengeance through sheer pettiness; she was not sure it was vengeance at all. Rather, it was something else entirely. It didn’t feel particularly important to identify what it was that her actions were demonstrative of. It was the necessity felt for it to be done, then, that took precedence.

      Those who did not know her parents, but cared to say so anyway, for death was a tricky thing that tended to bring out a fear of mortality in people, and that made them do foolish things – well, such had been the case at the funeral ceremony that morning. For that, tears had rolled down pale cheeks, staining the flesh momentarily, unlike the scars that they’re words had left on her innards with every syllable that had dug into her over the years. That had gouged tenderness from her, mostly in this very room. It was Vivianne who knew them; their sinful daughter, to whom they had known themselves with clarity that she had never asked for. Was she to be grateful for that? She did not know. But all the same, it was through this that she bid them farewell.

                                      God fucking bless them.

Her features did not contort to betray her emotions, as they were not accustomed to doing so. It was clad in a passive mask of indifference that she wore, merely surveyed from the other side of the fence she had always been on – and truthfully, it was not one that felt affected. Whether she had been wearing it as armour for so long that it had made a home of her, it could be. Vivianne did not question it, either way.

She chewed her meat, and more of it than she would have been allowed to, for stout girls were not particularly marriageable. Took in wretched mouthfuls of her father’s brandy. And God, ( andyes, she would take the lord’s name in vain ) Vivianne revelled in it. She revelled in all that she did, that she was not supposed to do – and in the moment of it, just as it felt right to do, the girl opened the box in the corner of her mind, and she scooped out the memories and looked at them, recognised them as one did the reflection in the mirror. Her hands stayed steady. Her expression unfeeling.

             The Lord does not approve of cruel little girls.

             The words sat heavily at the base of her skull. The pressure of it insisting, as it always did, as the burden of shame must do, telling her to bow her head down to it. Go pliant. Beg for forgiveness – for forgiveness that would not come. That never had. That they could not tell her to beg for any longer.

              Vivianne wouldn’t.

              Instead, she straightened the curve of her spine, refusing to hunch. Lifted her chin, defiant. And she drowned those words with another gulp of the drink, swilling it inside of her mouth before she swallowed it. Another sin. One that was a sin if she committed it, but not them. When there was no more food left in her plate, she crossed the knife and fork, one atop another, in the middle of it. She scooted the chair back, letting it drag noisily against the floor. Stood up, and turned away from the seat she would never put herself in again. Turned away, and left the room.

Lights on. Ghosts festering.

Extras:

HEADCANONS.

ONE: The only makeup that Vivianne wears every day is eye-makeup; a slash of kohl on the rims of her eyes, and a slash of eyeliner. Lipstick is reserved for special occasions – it is not a part of her regular look.

TWO: Similarly, her clothes tend to lurk on the simple side of things, as well. When it comes to colour, Vivianne enjoys a lack of it – more than anything else, she tends to dress in white. The ivory of saints, for the woman with the heart of darkness. Her wardrobe is dictated not by her preferences, however, but rather by whatever allows her to blend easily into her surroundings.

THREE: Though it is not that Vivianne does not drink at all, so much as the case remains that she chooses not to do so around people. When she is out and about, she prefers to be in full-possession of her mental faculties, aware that there is responsibility to be taken and control to be kept hold of, and she is not likely to tamper with the level of her control for the sake of something as preposterous as a stupor.However, on a similar note, her agreeing to drink with someone is a show of trust – and trust is not a thing Vivianne Sloane gives out freely. It is with Cosimo, at least, that she allows herself a drink now and again.

FOUR: When she finds herself unable to sleep, Vivianne shows a great liking for hot chocolate. She makes it well, and it is perhaps one of the only sweet things that she can tolerate, not possessing much of a sweet-tooth to begin with.

FIVE: She smokes too much. Almost constantly.