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dragongirlpoet · 3 months ago

Text

Corrupt

Sylus x reader (not mc)

Synopsis: Feared, ruthless and agonisingly attractive, Sylus infuriates you like no other. Yet, you work for him. As you immerse yourself in a life of vice with the Onychinus leader, you soon uncover secrets darker than the shadows he wields. Perhaps, just perhaps, you got more than what you bargained for…

Themes: Enemies to lovers, angst, sexual tension, slow burn, violence I Words: 2.1k I Semi made-up lore/cultural facts

“Drinking on the job? Tsk, that’s the third infringement on company policy you’ve made tonight, kitten.”

He took a sip of his whisky — aged in sherry cask, distilled just right with spherical ice. It was how he liked it. I knew, because I was having the exact same drink — his choice of poison at every revel, every meeting, every reclusive night alone.

Sylus threw me a derisive look, cherry eyes surveying me over the glisten of his glass.

“Intentions become more blatant, after a drink or two. Or in your case, five.” I challenged the man who’s kept me hired for the past year.

I was grateful. My work at the Hunters Association had turned trite. Clockwork really, — detect Wanderers, eradicate them, aid the wounded. Righteous, lawful, and so…moral.

My heart had staged a mutiny long before my mind resolved for change. And so I left my woe of comfort and dived into the hellfires of felony. He had found me scavenging for Protocore fragments in the N109, attempting to make my mark with abysmal self-made weapons.

Trinkets — Sylus had called them. Indeed I was a stray cat vagrant in the dominion of vultures.

The leader of Onychinus circled me as I downed my glass, eyebrow cocked at my words. His handsome face gave nothing away — a classic Sylus signature.

“Dance with me?”

A loaded question. One with threat and agency lurking beneath.

I took his outstretched hand and let him whisk me into the centre of the dapper nightclub — exclusive, accessible only to the most premier, and despicable, of criminals.

Sylus was one of them.

With expert grace, he spun me into an embrace, one gloved hand intertwined with mine, the other at my waist. Our steps fell in harmony with each other at once, like missing chords finding solace in a melody.

“So? What have you heard? You seemed thoroughly engaged with that halfwit over there…” his words trailed away as his gaze dipped to my silver dress. Being his right hand had me acquainted with his quirks — sometimes endearing, more so disturbing.

The subtle smirk dissipated as soon as it came.

“They have ties with the Ever Group. Something about a nitrogen spectrum…a capsule…Kenshi and his men have been on the hunt for it for a whi…”

“You look divine in this dress. I had it picked out just for you. Do you not like it?” his impertinence interrupting my mid-sentence.

I huffed a breath. “It works similarly to a Protocore, quite li…”

“Damask rose, isn’t it? With a hint of honeysuckle…out of all my spies…” he lowered his head, “you’re my favourite scent.” A roguish smile accompanied the wanton glint he cast into my eyes.

It had always been like this. Sylus would send me on missions, most times by his side. I was never granted the elucidations of tasks, only that I’d to “act as good bait…suss out whatever information you can…kill if you have to…”

I would probe, and he would reply with a curt, “Not safe. Just do as you’re told.” It was in those moments where I thought I’d witnessed fragility in his demeanour. He would catch on, and he would put on his mask of aloof and asshole, like right now.

I rolled my eyes, vexation apparent on my features. Sylus seemed content that he got under my skin. Not giving me a chance to reply, he twirled me around, the warm velvet of his coat now a flaming singe against my bare back. So that’s why he chose this dress…

“Come on, don’t look so incensed. I heard you. You’re doing a fantastic job, kitten. Always giving me what I need.” The last word came out huskier than intended beside my ear.

The club was cold. Sylus was conceited. It was a perfect match. As much as I abhorred his arrogance, I welcomed the warmth of his body to mine.

I remembered defrosting at my fireplace after I’d been caught in a snowstorm. I had sat there for hours, letting the crackling heat appease my frozen limbs. It felt nice, comforting. And with Sylus’ arms now wrapped around me — he was my fireplace.

“I’m just trying to make this spy business enjoyable for us both. Even if you’re unhappy, at least act it. After all, you’re good at pretending, right?”

There was an edge to his words.

“I saw how you brushed his hand… that spineless leech….unless you were thinking of fucking him tonight?” His hiss was loud enough for the crowd close to us to hear. They turned, throwing us looks of disdain and outrage. I doubted Sylus realised how hard his fingers were digging into my skin.

Cheeks flushed both from the whisky and his risky display of assertion, I shot him a warning glance. “You’re insane, Sylus.”

“So quit then. But do it later, not now, not while everyone’s watching. I don’t want an audience I didn’t ask for.” He was taunting me again, wholly unfazed by the almost furore.

How much did he drink tonight?

Maybe it was the alcohol, but I was in no mood to counter his transgressions. Instead, I snaked my arms back, cradling his neck, fingers threading through his silver head of hair. Sylus stiffened at my touch, likely taken aback by my insolence.

Soulful, sensual beats reveberated through the club, patrons — descendants of the devil themselves, wives, mistresses — all caught up in the fervour of the music. Couples were fondling and kissing on the monochrome floor. And well, I didn’t find a reason why I shouldn’t join the hedonistic heist.

So into his body I pushed mine. Gripping my hips with his right, his left hand slipped down to my abdomen, tracing the lining of my underwear. As I let my head fall back into his chest, his own came lower to nudge my face, burying his nose in my temple. A flutter flushed in my core.

There was a sort of courtliness to the way Sylus moved, a kind of elegance you could find only in Kings and Queens. Yet the way he was guiding my hips to sway in rhythm to his held such lewdity. To the frolicking outlaws here, we looked very much the part of reigning besotted lovers — timeless, transcendent.

Enthralled by the song and how Sylus was spooning me like I was his revered ruby, I ground myself indulgently against his leather pants. He grew hard at once, length prodding at my back.

Our combined excitement was short-lived, though. The silver dress he gifted me caught in the buckle of his belt, hiking the silk up. My black panties were exposed in wondrous glory, earning hungry looks from the men around.

The Onychinus kingpin tugged my dress down immediately, struggling slightly at the fabric fastened to his metal. His reflexes were swift as the time I aimed a loaded gun at him.

A loaded gun, one that was now hoisted towards the crowd. He really was insane.

“Look away, or I won’t hesitate to blow your brains out.” His decree thundered over the booming of the speakers.

Several men smirked, others pretended to ease back into their cavorting. Assault, drugs, murder — it was just another night here at the N109. Being threatened with a revolver? — A mere parlour trick.

But perhaps that was what Sylus wanted to let on. “Never reveal your hand. Remain powerful by appearing meek.” That was the first lesson he had taught me.

“Sylus…careful…you could’ve put us in jeopardy…” I cast a concerned glance his way, only to find him polishing his pistol with his coat, his face a nonchalant calm.

His tone however, was one of annoyance, as if reprimanding a child. “I wasn’t fond of the little show you just put on.”

I put on a show? He was the one who…I sucked in a breath to abstain from an outburst. He was getting on my last nerve.

Pretending the best I could, I instead riposted, “Oh no, it’s not for them. I put these on just for you.”

Two could play at that game.

I watched the silver-haired devil pin me with his gaze, the dark of his pupils rising up to swallow me whole.

“I ought to punish you for violating company rules. Seems you’re breaking many of them tonight.”

“That’s why you hired me in the first place, isn’t it? I don’t play by the rules.”

There was a pause. The music seemed to fade out into a distant void, drowning the chatter along with it. Strobe lights danced around his face, illuminating the reds of his eyes. His right iris appeared to…glow?

A faint disorientation overcame me. In between blinking and regretting what I said, though, I thought I noticed Sylus inch closer — as if a subtle act of want. Only I had the privilege, or burden, to be sentient of his every complexity.

I regarded his stare as they roved over my eyes, my lips, closing the space between us…

“I want to go home.” I muttered.

Sylus straightened himself. If he was peeved, I couldn’t tell.

—

The ride on his motorcycle was spent in silence, save for the roaring of his modified exhausts. I refused to hold him, choosing instead to grab onto the fairing of the tail. So was another night of ambiguous motives and aimless flirtations, one in which I had grown increasingly restless.

“Why is everyone looking for the spectrum?” I asked at a traffic stop.

Silence.

“How is it even related to a Protocore? What’s so danger…”

“You really should hold on to me. I can’t risk my best spy falling off…” once again disregarding my questions, crimson eyes glaring at me through his side mirror.

“What is wrong with you? It’s been a year! And yet you don’t trust me enough with details of your dealings?” I yelled over the muffle of my helmet, my own voice ringing in my ears.

A low rumble sounded in the distance, quite like skyscrapers being blown apart by covert dynamites. The loud whirring of Sylus’ motorcycle remained, the combined knells throwing us into a pit of trepidation.

“Kitten.”

I knew that tone.

Drawing out my gun, I swung myself off the bike and fired. The Protocore-infused bullet buried itself in the recesses of a Wanderer, shredding its power source, erupting shards of alloy projectiles. Some of the pieces lodged themselves into other Wanderers, causing them to convulse violently, teetering on the brink of destruction.

Behind me, Sylus fended off several monsters, his Evol wrapping ominous tendrils around their form. In a mere furl of his hand, they disintegrated into dust, leaving clouds of ash in their wake.

My weapon was formidable enough, having been altered with a Zenith Core — a deviant design forged by Sylus himself. “I made this just for you,” he had surprised me in my first month of training. “It’ll keep you safe. Though you’ll always be so long as I’m around.”

Another shot was fired, this time by Sylus, barrel of his gun aimed over my shoulder. The creature at my back let out a piercing snarl before it crumbled into pieces. Our eyes met at once, the animosity from earlier now a muted thrum.

Hostility, however, chose to emerge in a different form — more Wanderers. Hoards of them. I spotted Foulwings and Magma Knaves, both species not known to spawn here.

I unsheathed my blade, but we were ringed in. Their screeches and grunts enveloped the night, like a fathomless blackhole draining all levity.

“There’s too many of them. We need to leave now.”

In a swift grab of my arm, Sylus tugged me into a whirl of nothingness. Red and black sworls engulfed us, and the last thing I remembered was being thrust in such nauseating force that I blanked out.

—

“Kitten. Kitten, wake up.”

I’d have recognised that voice anywhere.

Sylus was staring at me, hints of distress plain in his electric eyes. I was propped up against his arms in the middle of an empty street. It looked familiar, but not quite. Dim streetlamps cast an unearthly glow to the pavements, their shadows prostrate like spindly entities on a night prowl.

The buildings were far from towering ones in Linkon and the N109, carved instead, out of bricks and stone no more than five stories tall. Rickety signboards flickered on and off, as though a visual alarm to caution that we were not welcomed here.

“Sylus, where are we?”

A deep sense of rue loomed over his face.

“N109 Zone.”

“120 years in the past.”

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charlottecutepie · 1 year ago

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₊˚⊹ᰔ Deal (Mathew Lillard!William Afton x fem!reader)

tags: public sex, m receiving, praise, riding, unprotected sex, threatening??

my notes: not really sure about this one, I might delete it later, idk yet :,) also eng isn’t my first language

“Hello? Mr. "I can't work nights?” Steve's hoarse voice asks, a beaming smile on his face as he talks to his potential victim.

It's always that fucking phone with wires. He'll never get off it. Most, if not all, questions are resolved through this damn phone.

Every time you enter this office, you see Raglan chatting sweetly on the phone, talking about jobs, vacancies, answering customer questions. And then his dark eyes rest on you, briefly studying your face before settling on your body. It's unpleasant feeling, as if you're exposed in front of him like meat on a plate when he already has a fork and a knife in his hands. There Steve lets out a laugh, takes the phone away from his ear and whispers softly to you: "you know what to do, honey." Embarrassment merges with arousal, which you can’t calm down in any way.

It always happens, it has already become a little tradition that at first you hated and denied. You were sick of yourself. But what happened? What made you like it? You started asking for more, you started coming to this damn office yourself, staring at the floor, obediently waiting for the cherished words.

"Yes, it absolutely is. Why? Have you had a change of heart?" Raglan asks with undisguised interest, clarifying Mike's intentions. He didn't even expect him to call back. This is just pure luck, Mike himself fell into his hands, so it's even better.

Every day, the same office, the same time, the same desk, the same Steve Raglan.

You're praying that sloppy sounds of you taking Steve's cock in your mouth don't reach Mike on the other end of the line, you're already ashamed enough. You try to be careful not to get his pants and floor dirty, but Steve doesn't care. His hand rests on your hair, stroking you like a little pet, an obedient pet.

Of course, you'll be obedient. You have made a deal after all.

"Let me give you a little backstory." he lowers his gaze to take a good look at you and spreads his legs wider. His cock penetrates deeper, he presses on your head, which causes an unpleasant feeling of tickling in your throat. You look at him, fluttering your eyelashes quickly as a sign that you're short of air. Fingers dig into his pants, crumpling the fabric. Steve raises his eyebrows, faking surprise, oh, what a pity. He's too rude, and you're too gentle, how cute. "Breathe through your nose or you forgotten you have one?" Steve lowered his voice.

"Can you repeat it again? I didn't hear you." Schmidt clarifies on the phone. You stop moving your head, afraid that Mike will hear something.

Steve sighs and adjusts his glasses, looking away from you. He starts explaining something again and you almost calm down, but he jerks his hips, allowing his dick to fully penetrate your throat, which makes you moan softly.

"This place was huge in the 80s with the kids." he smirks. Fortunately, Mike cannot see the face of his career counselor right now, because it’s definitely distorted by sarcasm and mockery. "This place been shut down for years. The only reason they haven’t given it the old wrecking ball treatment is the owners a bit of a… well, he’s kind of a sentimental guy, I guess. Just can’t bring himself to let it go yet." he chuckles. "Yeah…"

Steve's cock throbs in your mouth as you try to inhale through your nose. It's too much, you're slowly suffocating as now the whole situation is controlled by Raglan's hand, which is holding you by the hair. It hurts so bad, but then why you feel the warmth between your legs?

"Had some trouble with break-ins over the years. Drunks and vagrants, mostly. Not ideal…" it's surprising the way he do it, so calmly talking to someone on the phone while roughly fucking your throat. Although at times his tone is interrupted by quiet sighs. "Security systems dated, but fully functional. Floodlights on the outside, cameras inside and outside. Fair warning: the electricity is a bit… iffy." he’s all shining with joy while telling Mike about the pizzeria.

When you pull on his pants, tears come to your eyes and your throat hurts unbearably, Steve removes his hand from your hair. You release his shaft from your mouth with a popping sound that sounds very loud in such silence. Raglan smiles, looking at you contentedly, your chin is covered with saliva, cum on your lips, youre so beautiful, sweet. You’re lucky he's in a good mood today.

"Anything happens, there is a breaker in the main office, just flip it." he continues, but now looking at you, which makes it feel like he’s having a conversation with you. You exhale, wrapping your hand around his cock, moving up and down, he slowly pumps into your fist. His hand caresses your cheek, finger runs over your lips, smearing his cum, and it makes you smile a little. There's nothing to smile about, though. But you can't hold back the slight feeling of euphoria from such a gentle Steve, feeling yourself… Special? His touch is tender and his gaze has softened, he smiles while you continue to work with your hand. "Uhm, I guess that’s about it. You know, the rest is pretty easy. Just keep your eyes on the monitors and keep people out. Piece of cake." you lean closer, tucking your hair behind ear and running your tongue over his leaking tip. "Fuck, baby." he exhales, slightly squeezing the receiver of the old phone.

"Mr. Raglan?" Mike's puzzled voice. Your heart skipped a beat, like Schmidt's, but not Steve’s. Mike frowned, holding the phone closer to his ear. Did he hear correctly or….? From the very beginning of the conversation, he suspected something was wrong. Yeah, Steve's really weird.

Your innocent lick on his cock brought man to an instant orgasm. He was already on the verge from face fucking you, but the feeling of your tongue on his sensitive tip brought him to the limit. Putting the phone away a little further, he covered his cock with his hand until the spurts of cum laid on your face. He let out a barely heard groan, his glasses fogged up.

"I said it’s a piece of cake." Steve repeats, clearly not interested in continuing dialogue with Mike. "So, I'll catch you on the flip side… hopefully." not waiting for an answer, he hangs up.

What a good day, what an easy prey, how fortunate.

He’s in such a wonderful mood, light idea of rewarding you appears in his head. Why not?

"Come here, baby," he points to his knees with his finger, and you get up like a zombie, immediately pressing your legs together because of the uncomfortable feeling of soaked panties. Of course you're wet, this isn't the first time you are. But this will be the first time your problem will be taken care of. "you've been such a good girl, why don't I return the favor?"

Steve spreads your legs and sits you on his knee, hands holding you in place when you try move. It's not that you don't like it, you're actually losing your mind, but you feel too awkward knowing that you're in a public place. And the fact that he can feel your throbbing pussy against his knee doesn’t make situation better.

"What would you like, honey? My tongue or fingers?" he looks up at you, moving you so that your wet underwear rubs against the fabric of his pants. Your clit is stimulated, but in the most painful and torturous way, causing shallow sighs. You put both hands on his shoulders and squeeze his shirt as you throw head back.

"Please…" you're almost crying. "please, your… oh…" one more move and you'll cum. "cock, your cock, Steve, please!"

"Hush," he squeezes your thigh. "you know our little rule, don't you? Or should i remind you?"

"William," you're correcting your mistake. "William." He grunts with satisfaction.

"That's it." Afton's hands wander over your body, caressing you in right places. "Tell me honestly, you’re going to scream?" at first you don't even understand what he's asking.

He kisses your neck, continuing to slowly bounce you up and down on his knee. Thanks to you, a dark wet spot already appeared on his pants. His beard tickles your skin and his tongue leaves a wet trail on it.

"Yeah," you come to your senses, finally understanding what he meant.

William breaks into a smile. Of course, you'll scream, not just scream, but break your voice and cry, he knows that. His cock is hardening again. Afton loosens his tie, leaving it hanging around his neck. He'll definitely find a good use for it, already did. He makes you get off his lap and you look down, blushing. God, you couldn't be that wet?.. It's humiliating, so embarrassing.

William pulls your panties down to your ankles, and you step over them, remaining only in a skirt and shirt. You don't know what to do. This is the first time something as it happens, you've never gone far than just a blowjob. He pulls off your skirt as well, causing it to fall along with your underwear. He pushes the clothes aside with his foot, then sits you on top of him again. William’s eyes don’t leave yours, his hand reaches down, you feel a finger at your wet entrance.

Your lips part to let out a loud moan and William steals it with a kiss. You can't make any noise. He pushes his hips up, pressing the head of his cock against your pussy. He mumbles something into your mouth, holds you tightly in one position, you’re unable to move. His tongue roughly explores your mouth. William feels your breath on him and smiles. Then his hands grope your butt and he pushes you down, slowly lowering you onto his cock.

He moans in unison with you, but quietly, working hours aren’t over yet. However, you can't hold back the loud whimpering, feeling full. It doesn't seem very pleasant at first. Afton closes his eyes, thrusting fully.

"Be quiet." another warning. "You're taking my cock so well," he praises. "don't try to pull away," his hands go up to your back. "you have no right to do that, you know that." a careful but extremely unnecessary reminder. At least, definitely not at the moment when you're having sex with him, you don't want to think about a deal. About consequences if you’ll break it.

Every touch gives you a pleasant tingling sensation and you start to enjoy it more with every second. You move on top of him, trying to find the right angle, pressing your chest against his. You don't want to look at his face, into his eyes, because even through the glasses you can see that he's devouring you with his eyes. It's embarrassing. But it gets worse when he runs his tongue over your nipple through your shirt, leaving a wet spot on your clothes. William lightly bites the sensitive skin, while squeezing your other nipple with his fingers, a hiss leaves your lips. It hurts, but it turns you on even more. His chest heaves, he tries to restrain himself from jerking his hips up and ruin your cunt the way you deserve. Your warm walls squeeze his cock too tightly as you tremble from too much attention to your nipples.

"Now move up and down," William points out. "and don't forget about hips."

He knows you've never tried this pose. Of course, he knows everything about you. He likes to be closer to his prey.

Your fingers on his shoulders tighten, you begin to move according to his words. You don't forget about your hips, as he demanded. And then something pleasant begins to spread through the body. An enveloping feeling that radiates to every nerve. His cock feels much different than it did a few minutes ago. Everything inside is burning and throbbing, your body needs more. You want to move faster, you can barely contain your moans. William puts his shoulder up, which is what you're using to shut yourself. You mumble, unable to make a sound, whine, but you continue to bounce on him.

"Good girl," his words break you. "such a tight pussy." your teeth are digging into him painfully, soaking the man's shirt with saliva.

Afton starts moving with you, now holding you tightly. It's like you're nothing more than a rag doll in his hands. Your body becomes so weak and sluggish, eyes roll back in bliss. His cock goes in and out of your pussy with an incredibly perverted sound that echoes throughout the office. Drops of sweat run down his forehead and down your back, but it feels like lava that burns to the bone.

"I-… I feel so good…" your speaking so slurred, because it's hard to talk with his clothes in your mouth, but you're so pleased that you can't control yourself. "William!"

You can't help but moan in surprise when he gets up from his chair, holding your ass, his cock still inside. It even hurts. William lays you on his desk, takes off his glasses and puts them next to a sign with his fake name on it. You dare to look at his face. He's just as horny as you are. Without glasses, he looks a little different, grey strands stuck to his sweaty forehead, hair slightly messy.

William puts his tie in your mouth, you almost choke. Afton leans down, brushes his lips against your collarbone, so sensually. In response, you wiggle your hips, trying to get him to move. William is grinning at you, at your pleading eyes. He begins to hammer in your pussy. You cry out as loud as you can, but fortunately, the tie shuts you up, leaving only indistinct "please." His hands squeeze your ass until it bruise as he thrusts into you.

William stretches you out just fine, thrusting into your cunt fast, which makes it seem like desk under you is about to break. You're afraid of accidentally hitting his glasses, you don't want unnecessary sounds. William is so damn tensed up, you realize that in all this time he has never broken eye contact with you. His cock reaches deeper when you just thought it was impossible and tears flow from your eyes. William smears two fingers with his saliva and lays them to your clit, your pussy clench around him. His fingers move sweetly and slowly, pressing on your bundle of nerves that it drives you crazy. Your legs are wobbly, blood is boiling.

"Do you want me to cum inside you, baby?" the question isnt scary at all, because your brain doesn't work. Your red, tear-stained face responds him. You just nod frantically, trying to say yes, but tie doesn't let. William smiles, runs the pad of his thumb over your clit. "Your cunt clenching around me like that, begging me to fill you up. Damn perfect."

He leans closer to your face. Poor thing, he wants to end your sweet torments, to give you what you crave. Clenching your tie between your teeth, you arch and cry, unconsciously moving your pelvis towards him. William's legs bend slightly as his thrusts become more chaotic. He keeps fucking into you, groaning softly. William wants to say so much dirty things to you, but he can't. He can't be loud, he can't be heard, no need to ruin his reputation. Let others continue to think that he's a good father, an amazing career counselor, an ideal person who helps others. And you… and you're just his little assistant, who brings coffee to his office. Let everyone think so.

Warm liquid filling you, and at first you don't even realize what it is as you cum. His fingers caress your clit with gentle circle movements while you try to bring your legs together, but eventually wrap them around him, only driving him deeper into yourself. William is unable to hold back heavy sighs, still continuing to thrust, until he sees that his cum is already flowing out of you down to the floor. Your tired eyes and his tie in your mouth, all covered with your saliva, cause him an evil smile. This day couldn't be better, today everything is going too well.

"You did so well, Y/n," he breathes with relief, running his fingers over your face and taking the tie out of your mouth. "you extended your little sister's life by one more day. By the way, tell her hi from mr. Raglan."

#fnaf william afton #fnaf x reader #william afton smut #steve raglan x reader #william afton x reader #dilf william #fnaf smut #william afton #fnaf x y/n

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pomefioredove · 5 months ago

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Noble Bell ; Book One, Part I ; The King of Truands

what if you were sent to Noble Bell College instead?

type of post: series characters: rollo, original characters (pierrot, bou, phoenix) additional info: reader is gender neutral, this is mostly my own vision, influenced by Disney's Hunchback, the 1939 movie, and the original novel

prologue | the king of truands, one | the king of truands, two |

Chapter One

That night, while you slept on uncomfortable bed of straw and mildewed wood, a council was held.

It is important to note that, for all its rules, and there were many, the body of staff of the proud Noble Bell College were rather removed from the common life. Outside the realm of the lecture hall and the office, the scholars were governed by a democratic and elected student council, that which organized the events, kept order, and administered discipline, when necessary.

The council was entirely egalitarian, but there are three key members: The Justice of the Peace, now sitting at the right hand of the stand, looking rather bored, The Vice President, M. Bou de Neige, whom we have already met, and The President, who is unusually absent on this chilled evening.

These three people are responsible for an entire body of students. They are looked up to, not only as scholars, but as diplomats, peacekeepers, and leaders. They are expected to keep the students best interests close to heart, to be the bridge between the scholar and the staff, and this is no easy burden, despite most of the council being no older than sixteen years of age.

You must understand, then, the significance of tonight's council.

Gathered around the dark hall, illuminated by the fire burning at one end of the long room, scholars and staff alike exchange whispers, glances, and moods.

"As far as I'm aware, they're still on school grounds," the Justice of the Peace scratches his head with his quill, and a spurt of black ink stains his light brown hair. "One of my men saw them going with Gregoire to La Tombe."

Bou de Neige, who had, up until this point, been rather quiet, grimaces. "The fool. He just can't help himself, can he?"

"Hospitality is a virtue," says the headmaster, a graying, old man in a white cloak by name of Monsieur Diacre.

"Where is the President?"

"No one can find him," Bou says. "I will be speaking for him tonight."

"Perhaps we should postpone until he's been found?" a council member echoes.

"As much as I would like to, this matter is grave," Monsieur Diacre says. "A decision must be made tonight. The fate of this stranger depends on our council."

A low murmur reverberates through the room.

"Now, I have received word from two arcane academies, and there, no mention has been found of this place they say they came from, in any language, in any history. There is, in principle, no proof that this person has ever existed.

Despite this, they have appeared at our doorstep, in our clothes. By merit, the Bell of Solace has seen them fit as a student of Noble Bell College."

Bou stands. "With all due respect, sir, I strongly disagree. How do we know they are not a thief, a beggar, or a vagrant? You know well the problems Fleur City has-"

"There is another thing," Monsieur Diacre says, calm despite the tension in the hall. "Perhaps even more grave."

"And that is?"

"If you will recall, some hours ago, in my office?"

"Yes," Bou says, sitting down again with his arms crossed over his broad chest. "A useless conversation about their home, which does not exist, because they are a liar, a thief."

"Not so. Remember the way their eyes clouded when we discussed the Bell, the school, and the ceremony? How they asked, in that confounded tone, about magic? Even you must know that they were truthful then,"

He narrows his eyes. The Justice of the Peace, who had, up until that point, been scratching the "Ph" of his name onto the stand with the fine point of his quill, finally looked up.

"You don't mean to say they don't know about magic?"

"That's impossible," Bou says, though his eyes are downcast, seemingly lost in the memory of their conversation.

"Perhaps we have become too dependent on the academics. The sciences," Monsieur Diacre says. "That we forget the power of miracle."

"You are sure, then- that this person- this stranger- has no magic?"

"None whatsoever?" the Justice of Peace echoes.

Monsieur Diacre gives them both a hard stare. "Monsieur de Neige, you were closest to them. Did anything seem strange as you walked them to my office?"

The boy presses his lips together to make a firm line. "...I did have such an impression,"

"We must consider the reality," he continues, "That is that we have a young person, born and raised without magic, on our campus."

A heavy silence follows. Only the matrons, the professors of Noble Bell College, old and dressed in gray, bell-shaped habits, murmur amongst themselves.

"But I do hope," one whispers, "That we will not keep them."

"I pity the housewardens if they are to be carried to their doors for shelter. I would rather shelter a thief!"

"A sign of bad luck for certain. The greatest calamities! It's no wonder we had such low exam scores last year,"

Bou leans on his elbows against the wood of the stand and grumbles.

"So, what will we do?"

"There are options," the headmaster says. "This very building was once a symbol of hope, a sanctuary for outcasts. I know how our scholars pride themselves on tradition..."

"And the other?" Bou asks, eyes narrowing.

"I am of the opinion," one older, respected professor says. "That it would be better for the scholars of Noble Bell, and the people of Fleur City, if that strange thing were not in our walls."

The room erupts into a frenzy of murmurs, whispers, and hisses. Monsieur Diacre sighs.

"...That is a possibility. I have received offer from Headmaster Crowley of Night Raven College, as he is looking for a new boarder, and would be willing to accommodate a magicless persons. We could-"

"That will not be necessary,"

Despite the obvious unrest, the symphony of whispers, the crackling of the fire, the single voice, the unwavering presence at the large doors of the hall, cold, dignified, carries over the room.

"President Flamme," Bou de Neige says. He is not greeted in return.

"Please thank Monsieur Crowley for the offer, and send him on his way. They will be staying at Noble Bell," the boy says, walking briskly into the room, cutting through the mass of students and staff like a hot blade.

He climbs the steps to the stand and sits between the Vice President and the Justice of the Peace. Both stare at him as if they were looking at a ghost.

"On what grounds, Monsieur Flamme?" the headmaster asks. A few heads nod in agreement.

"By our rules," he says. "If the Bell of Solace has chosen them, then they are ours."

For the first time, Bou seems flustered, stumbling over his words and making a spectacle of himself.

"But- well, yes, that is the rule, but- you must consider- there will always be exceptions! They made trouble at orientation, they ran away with Gregoire, and that's not even mentioning- no magic! How can they be expected to study at this college with no magic?"

"Compose yourself, Vice President," Flamme says sternly, folding his hands in front of himself on the table. "Noble Bell has seen them fit for our academy. There are greater powers at work here.

And who knows? Our Bell works in mysterious ways. Some day, they may be of great use to us."

"You are suggesting we enroll them as a student, then?"

The council waits with baited breath. After an amount of suspense, he nods.

"I am. Shall we vote?"

Chapter Two

You jolt awake to the sound of hard knocking on the door.

The makeshift home Pierrot had brought you to the evening prior looked quite different in the light of morning. You could now make out the interior:

On all sides, you are, once again, surrounded by stone walls. On one, the door, large and heavy. Above you, the ceiling is high, vaulted, and tiled.

Everything is thick with grime and dust.

On either side of you are what appear to be two large stone benches, engraved with arches, men in robes, and writing in a language you don't understand. Atop these benches are a number of things: papers, quills, bundles of clothing, a block of moldy cheese, and many, many books, piled and shelved as if this small place, whatever it was when Pierrot found it, had been baptized a library.

The boy himself, across the straw-covered floor, is just now waking, bleary-eyed and confused.

"Who is it?" asks Pierrot.

A low, annoyed voice comes from the other side of the stone door.

"Housewarden and Vice President de Neige. I've come on official council duty,"

The color drains from Pierrot's face. "Yes, just a moment!"

"Pierrot?" you ask, following him as he scrambles to his feet.

"You must speak to him first, I'll be out in a moment!" he ushers you to the heavy door, drags it open, and then closes it behind you with the unpleasant scrape of stone on stone.

The morning on the field is crisp and chilled, somehow much colder than the little stone room. Bou de Neige is standing in front of you, his arms crossed, an unpleasant scowl on his lips.

"Is he hiding?"

"He said he would be out in a moment,"

"Very well," Bou says. "I suppose we may as well start without him. I've come to prepare you for your classes."

You blink. "...My... classes..."

He scowls again. "Yes, and don't look so dumb. A student of Noble Bell ought to conduct themselves with the poise of the Righteous Judge himself. The council and staff held a vote last night. Despite your obvious lack of abilities, the Bell of Solace has chosen you for Noble Bell College, and thus, you will be permitted to study with us for the foreseeable future. Understood?"

You nod. He seems... unhappy, you think. Or perhaps he's always like that...

"Good," Bou crosses his arms. "You should consider yourself quite lucky. You have powerful allies on your side."

A loud, obtrusive crashing, and a high scream come from inside the little building. The stone door suddenly cries open again, and out comes Pierrot, now dressed in a black and white uniform, similar to de Neige's, except with pants rather than a frock. His hat is lopsided. Bou stares at him with clear disdain.

"This concerns you, as well Gregoire," de Neige says, hands on his hips.

"Me?"

"Wipe that stupid look off your face," he scowls. "Now, listen. You,"

de Neige points at your chest. "...Are useless in the practice of magic. Correct?"

You nod.

"And you-" he points at Pierrot. "Have lost your scholarship, your dorm accommodations, and your respect. You buffoon."

Pierrot blushes and sticks his hands in his pockets, as if feeling their emptiness. One has a finger-sized hole you can see his pinky wiggling out of.

"The council has come up with a solution that would be beneficial to the both of you. As an act of charity, the expenses of the new scholar have been covered by the college. That includes your books, uniforms, and meals. This does not change the fact that you at a clear academic disadvantage; magicless.

Here is the proposition: you and Gregoire, from the moment you accept, will count for one student. You will share your school materials, meals, and clothing provided by your scholarship, you will study together, take the same classes, and in return, he will perform the necessary magic for both of you."

You and Pierrot share a glance.

Bou sighs. "I, personally, would have never come up with such a ridiculous idea, but... unfortunately... your old tutor seems to have faith in you still, Gregoire,"

Pierrot's face goes pale. "You mean-"

"Either that," de Neige interrupts. "Or he simply thinks you are too weak-willed and incompetent to take advantage of them. I expect your answer before the first bell."

He turns on his heels, long, dark hair whipping behind him, and disappears into the grove, on a dirty cobblestone path back to the school.

"...Well?" a voice says from beneath you. You jump, and look down to see the goat, Hugo. Talking. You're still getting used to that...

"Where have you b... never mind," you say. "What do you think, P- Pierrot?"

You look back around to see the gentleman on his knees in front of you, his hands clasped as if in prayer. He's giving you terrible puppydog eyes.

"Please, please, please, this could be my only opportunity! I have nothing else! My studies- Noble Bell is everything!"

You grimace. "...I don't know. I just met you."

For a moment, he almost looks... taken aback, as if he found it strange of you to consider him, of all people, a suspicious character.

His voice drops, and he answers carefully.

"...I swear to you, by my quill, by my hopes of success, not to even approach you without your permission and consent, but, for the Judge's sake, give me a meal plan!"

Hugo bursts out into bleating laughter, and even you smile.

"...Alright," you say. "Let's go give him an answer, then."

Chapter Three

The dining hall, eerily void of living bodies at this early hour, is a thin, and humble building reaching towards the edge of the campus.

Hidden by the monotonous stone walls of the school, it is rather indistinct, the only remarkable thing being that it is held between courtyards on both sides, making it a sort of bridge between one row of buildings and the other, not unlike the stone bridges that hold the embrace between the island and the city.

This modest, almost dull exterior is deceptive, though, as appearances so often are. Once inside the hall, one is met with the magnificent vaulted ceilings, painted dark with stars, held high by the thinnest of thin, delicate arches on the walls, themselves sheltering bodies of stained glass in every color the eye can perceive. Warmed by candlelight and the fire crackling at one end of the magnificent hall, it is nothing short of... well, magic.

The body, no matter how exquisite, dull, or deformed, is nothing without the matter of the soul.

You tilt your head. In a sad sort of way, the feeling reminds you of your straw bed. Dirty, but warmer than the harsh morning outside.

"What did the building used to be?"

"Hm?"

Pierrot hums, smiling as if he had not heard you, preoccupied with piling his plate. You had counted sixteen strips of bacon so far. At this rate, he would build a tower high enough to touch the painted stars on the ceiling.

"Where you sleep. Your room. It's not a dorm, is it?" you ask, following behind, setting a fruit or two on his plate when the opportunity presents itself.

"More oranges," Hugo demands from beneath you. You concede.

Pierrot finishes off his mountain of breakfast with a few slices of bread, and then leads you off to a far corner of the magnificent dining hall.

"Oh, no. A mausoleum,"

"A what?"

"Don't worry, it's empty," he says. "...I think. I've never checked. I recall reading that the bodies from the old cemetery had been moved."

"Cemetery?"

"Fleur City is full of them," Hugo says. "I've been to my fair share. People just leave flowers all over 'em. A free meal is a free meal, right?"

Pierrot nods in agreement, though he doesn't really seem to be listening. You grimace.

"Yes. The field is covered in tombstones. They're quite pretty," he says. "But the bodies were reburied under the tiles in Noble Bell a long time ago."

Each thing they add seems to be more concerning than the last.

Hugo bleats. "You're gonna have to get used to the cadavers, y'know. This place is old, and full of 'em... and their parts,"

"Yuck,"

"Nonsense," Pierrot says. "There is beauty and life in everything, even death itself. Such is the danse macabre."

You and Hugo share a look. What did he say he was, again...?

"Do you think he came out like that, or was he taught?"

"Rude," Pierrot mumbles. "But one might say it runs in my family."

He offers you a slice of bread, and you decline. The headache you'd been fighting off since first light is making you nauseous.

"Tell us about your family," anything to distract yourself now.

Pierrot smiles, his features warming like the sun on a winter day. He always seems quite pleased to talk about himself.

"I'm afraid it's nothing interesting. My father is a notary, and I have five brothers, though most are older than I. The closest in age, a year younger, is at another arcane academy. Alas, I was disowned, and haven't spoken to them in some time,"

"Unsurprising," Hugo mutters. He snags the slice of bread that would have been yours off the plate, between his teeth, and returns to lying under the table.

You lean into your elbow. "Why were you disowned?"

"By my passion," he smiles. "See, I tried to be a guard, but wasn't brave enough. I became a religious man, but was not devout enough, and couldn't drink enough, anyway. I tried carpentry, but wasn't strong enough. At last, I realized I was good at nothing- therefore, I became a writer."

"And your family didn't approve?"

"Not quite. But then I was here," Pierrot becomes quiet, his eyes turned up at the colored windows of the hall with a sort of holy reverence.

"...And the rest is history."

You blink. Disowned by his family, stripped of his scholarship and thrown out of his own dorm by his housewarden?

He's resilient, at least. You'll give him that.

"And your scholarship?"

"Bah, that was nothing. I simply... printed a pamphlet on free thought that the school officials did not care for,"

"Your dorm?"

"I annoyed the housewarden,"

This guy can't catch a break. No wonder he was so desperate for your help.

"Who's the housewarden?" you ask, watching him absent-mindedly scratch beneath his cap.

"Of L'Universite? You've already met him. He is the one who came to see us this morning, Bou de Neige,"

You hum. Of course... Perhaps he is always that unhappy, then.

"I don't miss him. I kept to myself at L'Universite. The students were... unpleasant," Pierrot shudders, as if taken by some unfelt chill, and you raise an eyebrow.

He goes on without question. "You'd assume, with such a name, that the dorm is only for the most exemplary of scholars, but they're unruly. I was almost burnt alive only once, though,"

Huh. "Why is it called that?"

"The three dorms of Noble Bell are based upon the ancient divisions of Fleur City. On one side, the university district- L'Universite- on one, the aristocratic gardens- here, called La Ville- and in the center, the sacred island, which we call The City," he explains, snapping a crisp piece of bacon in half.

"...But the histories of the dorms have little to do with their personalities. They're only to pay homage to the time when Noble Bell was established. Up until Monsieur de Neige, L'Universite had no housewarden, as per tradition. It was overseen by the college itself..."

"Then the kids got too rough, and the administration had had enough of 'em. I heard about that," Hugo's voice comes from under the table.

Pierrot nods. "Now, de Neige has completely turned it around. He punishes anyone who steps out of line,"

This is a strange place, you think for the umpteenth time.

Chapter Four

Fed, sated, and warmed by good conversation, Pierrot leads you through the delicate halls of Noble Bell College with a renewed lust for life in his step.

He goes about, pointing towards windows and great pillars and plaques on the walls and floor, explaining their origins, which came from where, from what year and artist.

You nod along, content to just listen while your mind wandered.

It feels too real to be a dream, but it must be one. In your world, animals don't talk, humans don't cast spells, and schools don't have astrology classes.

Hugo had disappeared again, likely off looking for table scraps. He seemed to have a will of his own. Pierrot hadn't noticed yet.

"And the tile from this courtyard was repurposed from the Place de Grève..."

He talks so much to himself, it almost feels as if you are alone while right beside him. Despite that, and that he's facing away from you, his sunny self pointed toward the tiled courtyard he seems so enthusiastic about, you can't help but feel as if someone is watching you.

That strange, unnerving feeling had been following you since you left the dining hall. No matter how many times you turned over your shoulder, reassuring yourself that it was only your nerves, it lingered.

Every corner or so, another dignified scholar will pass you by, dressed in the same uniform, quiet, poised, looking straight ahead. Once, you walk by someone shrouded in a blue cloak, singing "Thaumarks to spare? Thaumarks to spare?" to whom you apologize for having nothing.

You don't even know what a thaumark is.

Pierrot leads you through yet another courtyard, and the feeling of eyes on your person never leaves.

It's beginning to weigh on you.

"How much longer?"

"Hm?" he finally turns to look at you, and the strange feeling subsides, slipping back into the shadows of the hall.

"Not much. Don't worry, Scriptorium is easy. As long as you pretend to be busy, no one will bother you,"

Chapter Five

Pierrot could not have given a truer description.

Though, he could have at least warned you about the boredom.

The melodious sound of forty quills on paper echoes off the stone walls and tiled floors. There is no talking, no eating, no foot-tapping, no whispers. The faint sound of the city, as close as it is, feels distant from here.

The parchment before you is as empty as it was at the beginning of class, and the book you'd been provided is on the very same page. The student in front of you has filled two pages already, delicately copying the contents of the book onto the parchment.

Pierrot, sitting beside you, seems to be writing something of his own. At least he seems entertained...

Then, all at once, everyone begins gathering their quills and ink, standing from their seats without a word. Pierrot jolts, shuffling around his things to cover his pages of writing as the other students pass him by.

Though he waits until everyone else is gone before getting up himself, avoiding their prying eyes is useless. Waiting outside the lecture hall is none other than his ex-housewarden himself.

"You. Come with me," Bou says, sharp, crimson eyes boring into you. "We have some things to discuss."

You share a glance with Pierrot. He looks sympathetic, waving you goodbye as de Neige leads you in the other direction.

"I trust you enjoyed Scriptorium?" he doesn't look at you when he speaks.

"Oh- um, yes,"

"Good. Copying manuscripts is an honored tradition of Noble Bell," he says.

"Until the invention of the printing press, all books were made by hand. Though the press made the process fast and inexpensive, the beauty of manuscripts remains unmatched."

You look at him. "You seem to have a lot of traditions,"

He returns your look with a glare. "We are a proud school. It would do you well to adopt a similar attitude. And not to let the idealistic drivel of that fool get to you,"

By "that fool", you assume he means Pierrot. That boy keeps getting stranger and stranger...

"What did he do, anyway?"

de Neige mumbles "heresy", and then clears his throat. "Nothing of your concern. Now, hurry up. You're dawdling,"

Chapter Six

As you pass through the halls of Noble Bell, you think of how easy one could get lost in a place like this.

It's almost labyrinthine. It seems as if every turn leads to another lecture hall, another crypt, another library...

"You should consider yourself fortunate," de Neige says. He's been going on about Noble Bell for some time.

"Of all the arcane academies, Noble Bell College's curriculum has the least practical magic."

"Right," you mutter, following him up another narrow flight of stairs.

"And despite that," he says, "You are already being coddled. The headmaster is... soft. Which brings us to the purpose of my visit."

Bou stops in front of a narrow wooden door and turns in a swift movement to face you. "Follow me," he says.

He takes something out of the depths of his pocket and slots it into the heavy, iron-bound wooden door, then pushes it open as if it were a silk curtain.

You follow him up another flight of stairs, and into a darkened room. The only light, cold and gray, comes from a handful of flower-shaped windows, whose glow illuminates the piles of books and dusty furniture cluttering the small room. Another staircase at the far end leads further into the unknown.

Your eyes are drawn to the window closest to yourself, and you peer out over the island, studying the city, its shape, its color, the curve of its river. You could spend your life up here, alone, comforted only by stone and the dim, foggy noon outside.

Bou hums, drawing your attention back to the present moment. He seems familiar with the room, walking about it and dusting its worn furniture with the sleeve of his uniform.

"Here is the north bell tower. You will be staying here from now on,"

Your eyes widen. "But..."

"Careful. It would be unwise to reject such a generous offer," Bou says, refusing to face you. "The bell towers are spacious, quiet, and warm. Winters are quite cold here."

"But Pierrot?"

Finally, you can see the crimson of his eyes, as he turns over his shoulder to glare at you.

"The student council thinks it improper for you to be living alone with Gregoire. He will stay in La Tombe,"

"But-"

"The key," Bou says, ignoring your protests. He takes something cold out of his pocket and places it in your hand. His skin is almost as chilled as the metal.

"I'll see to it that your mail is forwarded here,"

He turns and leaves you in the room, the rough, cold key still cradled in your open palm. You scoff. What mail?

No one knows you. And no one you know knows where you are.

You don't belong. You're an outcast here.

Your fingers tighten around the key. The least you can do is tell Pierrot. You don't want him to worry when you don't come back tonight, after all.

Finally finding some semblance of purpose, you take long, confident steps back the way you came.

Down the narrow wooden stairs, out the left door, down the stone ones, through this passage, this hallway, this turn, then this, and then...

...No. You don't recognize this hallway. It's darker, and the ceiling is lower. You must have gone too far down.

You take a breath. Don't worry. You'll just retrace your steps.

It isn't over. You've been telling yourself that all day. This is not where it ends. You'll find a way out of this.

All of this.

And then, you're no longer alone.

Though there is no noise, no light, no voice that would indicate a human presence, you are suddenly quite aware that there's someone behind you, watching you from the way you came.

All the hairs on the back of your neck stand up and you stay in place. If you are to turn now, will you see someone- or something- standing behind you? A pair of eyes watching you from the doorway you'd just ducked under?

Or, worse- will you see nothing at all?

You decide you don't want to find out either way.

You keep going. Into the dark of the hall, over another threshold and another, around the corner. At some lengths, the feeling seems to subside, giving you a moment's worth of peace, and then it returns.

The halls are getting narrower. You have an inexplicable feeling that you are no longer in the school, but somewhere much deeper, much older, primeval.

The scuff of shoe against stone, which most certainly did not come from your own feet, makes you go cold.

"Who's there?" you shout.

The only response in your own echo.

"Come out! Stop following me! Leave me alone!"

The words come tumbling out without much thought. You can feel yourself slipping into a panic.

Thoughts chase each other through your mind, and then suspicions and paranoia poison those thoughts. You must ask yourself now, what is this? What's there, in the dark, just out of sight?

And your mind answers for you: it is a monster.

There is a monster in Noble Bell College, and it wants you.

"Leave me be!" you yell at nothing. You're starting to get desperate.

Nothing happens. Then, all at once, a light comes from ahead of you, not behind, and someone shouts:

"Who's there?"

You turn your back to the dark behind you in a frenzy, and, finally, the feeling of being watched disappears entirely.

"Me! I'm here!"

Around the corner comes a boy, one you had not seen before. Not tall, but not short, sturdily built, we'll say. He's quite good looking, at least compared to the other students you'd met, with light brown hair spilling out of a short, stubby ponytail, blue eyes, darkened by the black of the hall, and, curiously, the wisps of a beard on his chin. He's quite unlike any of the other students you'd seen so far.

But, the more pressing question-

"Who are you?" he asks it before you can.

You say your name, and his eyes widen. His stern expression turns merry, and he smiles.

"Ah, I know you. The magicless one,"

That's not very reassuring. You grimace.

"...How do you know who-"

"You shouldn't be down here alone, you know. It's not safe. We've had some thieves on campus lately,"

"Thieves?"

"Yes. Or so I've heard," he nods solemnly, and then a strange mood comes about him.

He smirks and puts his hand on his hip, his other at his hilt, purposefully drawing your eyes to what must be a sword. A big one, too, if his smile is any indication.

"But don't worry. I'll protect you. You know, I haven't seen you in person yet. The way everyone's been talking about you, I assumed you were some sort of monster. But you're actually very pretty,"

You give him a weird look. Perhaps you were wrong- of course, he's just as strange as the others. "Um... alright...."

"Ah, where are my manners? Let me escort you back to your room."

"...Right," you say, looking over your shoulder one last time. The boy follows your gaze, and then coughs for your attention.

"Bell tower, yes?"

You look back at him and nod.

"Then let's not waste any time,"

Chapter Seven

Despite his confidence, it takes the boy a full hour to find the right passage out of the tunnels. He gets to the bell tower easy enough, at least.

Something about him tells you he's not from here, either, but you keep the thought to yourself for now.

"Well, here we are," he says, hands on his hips as if he had just accomplished something.

"...Yes. Well, thank you,"

He beams, gives you a courteous bow, locks of hair falling over his face as he does. They turn golden in the sunlight. "It was my honor. And if you need anything else-"

"There you are," someone says from within the bell tower. You recognize the gruff voice, but before you can answer, the heavy wooden door bursts open and Hugo tumbles out.

He chuffs. "We've been worried sick, 'ya know! Pierrot's all over the place! Who's the stiff?"

You turn to the boy, and his smirk sharpens at the acknowledgement. "Um... I don't know, actually. Who are you?"

"My name is Phoenix. It means, ah, sun bird," he chuckles.

You and Hugo exchange a glance, and he stops laughing. "I'm the Justice of the Peace of the student council. I was doing my rounds when I heard you shouting,"

You turn back to Hugo to explain. "I got lost,"

"No kidding!"

"I didn't know you had a kid," Phoenix says, the same sly smile on his lips. You almost scoff.

"Yeah, and he doesn't take kindly to pigs!" Hugo says. "Now, get lost! That's our magicless human!"

As the two go back-and-forth, a little glimmer of white against the dark brown of the floor catches your eye. You kneel, and pull a thin envelope from under the wooden door. It has your name on the back, and a bite taken out of the corner. You roll your eyes at that. Hugo.

The goat sets off, headbutting Phoenix back down the narrow stairs and leaving you alone again. You sit on the floor and open the letter.

Dearly Beloved, it starts,

The King of Truands has reviewed your case and sees you fit to join his Cour des Miracles. All thieves, beggars, vagrants, or otherwise outcasts, welcome.

You turn over the parchment, noting its weight, and stuck to the back is a thin pendant, woven of purple and teal twine, in the shape of a leaf. At its heart, a small, golden cross.

How strange...

You squint at the pendant, and then the letter, which, quite rudely, bursts into flame in your hand.

You drop the fiery letter and it dissolves into ashes on the floor. You huff. Magic...

"And stay out!" Hugo's voice returns from the stairs. For a goat, he certainly has a loud bark.

The white of his small head crowns over the steps, and you stand.

"Hugo," you hold out the pendant to him. "Do you know what this is?"

The goat stops and squints, then scoffs. "One 'a those touristy necklaces. They're all over the city, I can't remember what they're for, though. Just that they don't taste good,"

You hum, bringing the pendant back towards yourself. Why would this King of Truands send you a souvenir?

"...Maybe Pierrot will know," you finally say. He seems to know a lot of useless things, after all.

You hurry to the stairs, Hugo trotting behind you. "What's the big deal?"

"I don't know," you say, paying close attention to each step. You don't want to get lost all over again, after all.

"I've had a bad feeling all day. I think this means something."

"Great, a fortune teller," Hugo sighs.

He follows you, anyway.

Chapter Eight

The sun is already setting over the city when you stumble down the steps of Noble Bell.

The sky is streaked with fiery pinks and oranges, making the school look cold and dull by comparison. Even the clouds, red and descending on the wrought iron gates like a bloodied army, turn the stone of the city into a dull, lifeless blue.

You stumble across the sports field and into the grove at the end of the island.

"Slow down!" Hugo gasps.

You don't. But you do stop at La Tombe and pull open its heavy stone door. It's dark inside.

"Pierrot?" you call for him, as if he were hiding behind a book or in a stray shoe.

Nothing.

"Hey, come look at this!"

You abandon the mausoleum and turn to its side, where Hugo is standing over an attached tomb. Its stone lid has been pushed to the ground beside it, and there's light coming from its depths.

"You think he...?" you start, unable to look away from its gaping mouth. Instead of dust and bones, there's a flight of stairs.

"Who else?" Hugo sighs. "He was looking all over for you."

"He must've panicked when the sun started going down," you murmur. "We have to get him."

"What?" Hugo asks, eyes wide. "Are you crazy?"

You take the pendant out of your pocket and hold it against the warm light coming from inside the tomb.

"I just have a feeling," you breathe in slowly, and take your first step into the grave. "Let's go find Pierrot."

#noble bell #noble bell college #twisted wonderland #twst #rollo flamme

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vallification · 6 months ago

Text

In My Heart You Pay No Rent

Pairing: cowboy!gojo x reader

TW/CW: historical inaccuracies, smut, outdoor sex, first times, mention of guns, alcohol, MDNI

Too obstinate and infatuated with a dastardly outlaw to bend to the will of your father, you head to town to find the target of your distant affections, a sharp-tongued cowboy with a long list of charges decorating his reputation.

This work is part of the "Slow It Down, Cowboy" AU, a collaborative effort with @slutshamethesquirrels. Read its sister work, "All The Sweet Tea In Carolina" here.

The wild, wild west was aptly named, given the plethora of things bound to go awry in the massive stretches of empty land between each isolated township. Terrain, storms, animals, vagrants, vagabonds, money-hungry city folk swarming in droves to strike oil, and, of course, outlaws. Some days you’d see well-groomed, mild-mannered, decent gentlemen dressed to the nines strolling to the bank to make a deposit, and others you’d see sweat-soaked, sharp-tongued, wild cowboys dressed in grimy leather storming out of that bank with those gentlemen’s cash. Of course, the township’s staggering number of law enforcement officers (three)(including the sheriff) would chase after those slimy vandals, but that always ended in either a sprained ankle, a see-through hat, or a funeral.

However, as the surrounding communities began to flourish into cities, you began to see less and less of those outlaws. Daddy would mutter something about how it’s damn time, how sick to bastard death he was of those ruffians hanging around your good, decent town, how lucky you were that one of those good-for-nothin’s never thought to heave you up over his shoulder and ride off with you, because you still weren’t married, and had no one but your old Daddy to keep you safe.

Suitors, courtship, marriage, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, suitors, courtship, marriage, babies, lawfully wedded and married and holy matrimony and blah, blah, blah. He raised you right, you were ladylike enough, you looked just like your mother, why were you so hard to marry off? You were so damn tired of that conversation, and you had begun to make it known, remembering the first time you turned your nose up at a potential romantic proposition like it was yesterday. Your poor old Daddy called you to the porch, and you were sure he’d pop something by the way he turned so red.

“The banker’s son’s coming from town tomorrow,” He mentioned, passive and gentle as he puffed on his cigarette.

“So?” You said, hip jutted out to rest against the doorframe, arms crossed tightly over your chest. Daddy shot you a warning glare, but as his one and only little girl, you knew it’d only ever be just that: a warning.

“He wants t'marry you. He’s got a good daddy, a good mama. Some money. More money ‘n us if you can believe 'at,” Puff, “He can take care of you.”

“I’d rather wear a potato sack on m'head than marry that man.”

It only took two more times for him to throw his hands up in defeat. There wasn’t anything wrong with any of those men, they were decent enough, and they did have the means to take care of you, but it didn’t matter. No, you weren’t keen on marriage, or babies, or domesticity; what you were keen on was your every-other-monthly ride to town, snug in your nice go-to-town dress, much to Daddy’s dismay.

Technically, you weren’t doing anything wrong when you went to town. What was so wrong about waiting at the edge of town by the dirt road, under the big southern live oak, nose faux-stuck in a book, aching for a glimpse of that white head of hair hidden under the brim of a black cowboy hat? Was it a sin to watch his tall, broad, strong frame saunter down the road and into the bar? Was it a sin to imagine what his sun-tanned, dirty, sweaty skin looked like beneath his grimy, baby blue cotton button up?

Sometimes it felt like a sin, given the way you’d hide your face in your unread book to bite your lip and blush when he looked in your direction. You still lie awake at night, face flushed pink and hands over the blankets, reminiscing about the time those dangerous blue eyes flicked up and down your figure before they gave you a wink. That was the only time you felt brave enough to push Daddy’s limits to let you ride back to town early the next morning, under the guise of helping one of the elderly ladies with her cleaning, when in reality you were scoping the outskirts of town for his shiny black horse. If you saw it, well, that meant he stayed in place for at least one night. Sure enough, around the backside of the homely little inn, that black stallion stood tied.

You weren’t sure why you did it, at least not at the time, because it wasn’t like you’d ever get the chance to do anything with that information. He was a stranger, named a troublemaker in the paper, too, and you were locked away in that ranch house 5 miles down the beaten trail like a knightless, wild-west princess.

… That is, until Daddy’s got overnight business to tend to. With a bad storm rolling over the endless sea of grassy prairie, and some pretty sleazy cowhands, he forbids you to travel the 150 mile round-trip alongside him to help drive a fellow rancher’s cattle further uphill. You tut, whine, roll your eyes, and stamp your foot in protest, but oh, no, it’s just no use, sweetheart, Daddy says. It’s a miracle that little trick still works on him, or else he might’ve remembered it’s nearly time for your ride to town.

With a shotgun shoved in your hands and a kiss pressed to the top of your head, you watch Daddy ride off, standing barefoot on the porch. For the first time in forever, now grown and far braver than you were the last time, you’re by yourself; you’re freer than the summer breeze blowing through the trees, freer than a bird, freer than the water trickling in the crick at the other end of the pasture. It’s a secret, sweet victory, and in your glee you almost go running off the porch before realizing it’s probably a good idea to put the gun down first.

—

It’s close to 10 o’clock when you trot into town on your dark bay horse, Ace, dressed in the prettiest non-fanciful dress you own. Compared to your usual attire, with bustles, corsets, undercoats galore, it almost feels like a nightgown once you’re in the realm of the rest of the town folk. You figured it was better to dress down than up, though; if anyone was to spot you riding into town, your go-to-town dress would be your first identifier.

Daddy’s not the type of man to drain his money and life away in such a grimy place, and neither are his friends; well, maybe one, but he’s done so much money and life wasting in that saloon that you doubt he’ll recognize you. Or, if he does, you doubt he’ll remember. However, you find yourself hesitating to leave your horse, once he’s tied up next to the saloon.

The lively music playing from the shabby little building is so loud, loud enough for you to hear from where you stand… outside. Inside, people are yelling, laughing, singing, shouting, swearing, and you start getting the feeling that you really shouldn’t be here.

“God, ‘ve gotta piss like a fuckin’ racehorse.”

You snap your head in the direction the voice came from, but it’s too little too late. In the dim moonlight, you watch the man stumble ‘round the corner of the saloon, drunk hands popping open the button of his thick, canvas pants. “Don’t look, Blackjack, got my dick ou— oh, shit!”

“Wh— I-I, um,” Stammering, you whip around and squeeze your eyes shut (although it’s far too late for that to do anything), your legs immediately carrying you back to your horse’s side. There’s no mistaking the snow-white hair peeking out from underneath the brim of that black hat, and you’re utterly mortified.

“Woah, sweetheart. Hang fire,” The stranger drawls, the sound of fabric rustling behind you as he haphazardly tucks his shirt back into his now-buttoned pants. “Y’look awfully familiar, y’know.”

“I don’t believe I do,” You mutter, your back still turned to the outlaw as you work at the knot securing your horse to the wooden hitching rail. If you weren’t so flustered by the man’s presence, and the eyefull you got of what’s hidden in his pants, maybe the knot wouldn’t take so damn long to come loose.

“I said hold it, miss,” He emphasizes, hooking a finger into the ribbon at the back of your dress and tugging you away from the hitching rail. Without 100 feet of distance separating you, you realize just how much he towers over you, dwarfing you in comparison… However, you’re no regular, resigned, reverent little girl, and you’re not about to let a stranger—no matter how handsome—ragdoll you around. “‘S no mistakin’ you.”

“You’d better get your grimy hands off'a me, mister, or else,” you bite back, praying for his soul should his grip tear the bow off of your dress. He’s not pulling on it anymore, but he’s still got his finger crooked into the baby blue silk.

“Ooh, yer a mean ‘un, huh?” The man sneers, snorting at your pitiful attempts to wriggle away from him without ripping the shiny, delicate fabric. Bending down to meet your ear, he lowers his voice to something just above a whisper. “Or what?”

“You’ll find out, that’s what. Let go'a me.”

“Say, yer th’girl who sits under ‘at tree over there, ain’t ya? Watchin’ me?” Pointing a long, deathly still finger at the live oak tree, he turns his head to look at your scowling face. “Well, ya don’t usually look at me ‘at way, but y’sure are her. I’d recognize ‘at hair anywhere, sweetheart.”

“If you don’t turn me loose m'gonna blow that finger clean off your hand, sir.” One final warning. He lets you go, not because of your threat, but because he wants to. It’d be a shame if he spoiled his fun so soon. Plus, the only person capable of blowing a finger clean off of his hand is himself.

“Thank you,” you mumble, glaring up at him when he returns upright, reaching behind you to make sure the ribbon is still tight, neat, and secure against your back. “If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be leavin' now.”

“Oh, c’mon,” he says, his voice yet again a smooth drawl, grinning ear to ear as he follows each of your steps back to your horse. “Y’can watch me for months but ya can’t gimme th’time t’introduce m’self?”

“Will you stop with that?” Punctuating your question with a hand planted on your hip, you look at him incredulously, using your other hand to jab a finger into his chest. Although your cheeks are bright pink in embarrassment, the night sky acts as your ally and disguises the girlish glow. “You— If I’d’ve known you were such a— a bastard I’d’ve saved m'self the trouble!”

“A bastard? Y’got quite th’mouth on ya, huh?” He laughs, his hand coming up to pick the hat off of his head as the other smooths his sweaty white hair back, bringing his hat to his chest so it doesn’t fall to the ground. “Quit yer caterwauling ‘n let me introduce m’self, please, ma’am, or I’ll hafta show ya a real bastard.”

From what you can tell, he is a real bastard, just the most charming bastard you’ve ever had the privilege of running into. The outlaw holds out his rough, calloused hand for yours, which you hesitantly give.

“Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, ma’am, ‘s a pleasure t’meet ya,” Satoru greets, bowing to place a kiss on the soft skin of your knuckles, only serving as fuel to the flames burning on your cheeks. You quickly take your hand away from his and hold it close to yourself. “But if ya’d like t’call me bastard, at’s okay too.”

You give him a once-over, humming in some semblance of approval at the newfound half-properness in Satoru’s behavior. That won’t last long, but you’re a lady after all, a lady who has been treated nothing but properly your entire life, which is exactly why you find yourself subconsciously wishing he’d get back to his dastardly act.

“Well, Six Eyes Satoru Gojo, I’ll be leavin' now,” You say flatly, trying to offset the fact that he’s got you wrapped around his finger already. It’s no use giving into the idea of staying, things have already gone further than they should have, and if you stay any longer you’re not sure you’ll know when to say when. Gathering a handful of your dress, you slip your foot into the stirrup at Ace’s side and heave yourself up into your saddle.

“Oh, for th’love of— After I introduced m’self s’ sweetly?”

Clop, clop, clop, is all Satoru hears in response as you back your horse away from the hitching post, throwing your hair over your shoulders and out of your line of sight.

“Awww, don’t leave m’lonely already, sweetheart! C’mon, I ‘on’t bite,” he calls to you as you slowly start your way back in the direction of your house. The back way, the way you came, just for extra insurance that you won’t be seen leaving the saloon. “Not ‘nless ya want m’to, at least!”

All he gets in response is a grin over your shoulder, and the same clop, clop, clop of Ace’s shoes against the dirt. Well, shit, Satoru thinks to himself as you ride away, almost walking back over to the doors of the saloon, but he’s found himself far too interested in the way your body shifts up and down in tandem with your horse’s steps. He takes one step towards the door, then swivels over to Blackjack, then the door, then Blackjack—

“Fuck, still gotta pee.”

After relieving himself, this time without flashing anyone, Satoru makes quick work of the knot tying Blackjack to the hitching rail and slings himself up into his saddle. No mind is paid to the poor waitress still waiting for his return in the dingy saloon, who’s eyeing the double-doors for his reappearance; no, he’s dead set on following your path into the horse-high grass, pulling Blackjack into a higher gear with the reins in his hands.

If you cared, you’d chastise yourself for walking the line of inappropriate behavior as an unwedded woman with a man you just met. If you cared, you’d scold yourself for taking your sweet time, for the slow trot you’ve kept Ace at when you could have hauled ass home. But you don’t care, not when you can hear Satoru’s horse almost pick up to a gallop behind you.

With one hand keeping his hat from flying off his head and one on the reins, Satoru races to close the gap between the two of you till he’s about 100 feet from you, slowing Blackjack to a trot. He hangs behind you once he’s caught up, matching your pace, watching you ride, pulling a cigarette and a match box from his stash in shirt pocket. Once it’s lit, he pinches out the match, tosses it over his shoulder, and pulls a drag from the cigarette between his lips.

“For bein’ s’hellbent on gettin’ away from me, y’ain’t very fast,” Satoru comments, smug as ever that he’s caught you—as if you weren’t trying to be caught— blowing smoke from the side of his mouth. He’s still watching the up down up down up down of your body in the saddle. “Y’got a name?”

“Not one y'need t'know,” you reply coolly. Somehow you can feel the weight of his blue gaze on your back, a type of audacity you’ve never experienced in all your born days, and it makes you blush. You’re glad he’s watching you from behind, not just to satisfy your itch for his attention, but also so he can’t see the girlish grin you can’t seem to fight off.

“Stubborn,” he tuts around his rolled cigarette, only tearing his eyes away from your backside to shake his head. “Sweetheart’ll work, then. How’s ‘at?”

“Inappropriate, really.” Another cool reply. Both of you know your feigned unaffectedness isn’t going to shoo him away; if anything, it’s pulling him in closer, making him more interested in getting you to drop that nonchalant act with each short, clipped comment.

“Where we goin’, sweetheart?” Satoru asks, tugging the reins till Blackjack gets him right beside you. He pulls another drag from the cigarette dangling between his lips before leaning over to you, pointedly blowing the smoke in your face.

You fake cough, bringing a hand up to erratically wave that damned cloud of cigarette smoke away from your mouth and nose as he laughs. Satoru shakes his head as his laughter subsides, freeing a hand to wipe at his teary eyes.

“We are not goin' anywhere. I am goin' home, Six Eyes,” you sass, punctuating your words with a hmph. All that serves to do is wind his laughter back up and lean back in the saddle, making Blackjack stop in his tracks. Ace keeps on trotting. “What’s that even mean? Why do people call ya that?”

“Whew, ‘s fun t’wind y’up, y’know ‘at?” Satoru says once he gets Blackjack to catch up to you again, killing the smoldering end of his cigarette before flicking it away. “I’ll tell ya th’story when we get t’where we’re goin’.”

Huffing at the way he overlooks your I, not We statement yet again, you instead focus on the view of your ride. Bright, silvery light of the near-full moon shines off of the smooth live oak leaves, illuminates the wide expanse of tall grass where the trees don’t grow, and kisses every square inch of the crop fields in sight. The clear sky seems to go on forever, wrapping its dark arms across the horizon and on, highlighting each star in the sky. It’s warm, humid from the system of storms not too far off, the epitome of a perfect mid-July night.

A perfect mid-July night that you just had to take advantage of. Despite the serenity of the view, internally, you’ve spent the last three miles flip flopping between excitement and anxiety. On one hand, you’ve taken action, and that’s something to be proud of; on the other, you’ve taken action to do this, with him, who’s enough a bastard without the criminal record to make any good lady’s father bust a few vessels. God, you think about your poor father, how he loosened his reins after keeping you on a tight, protective leash, and you wonder how he’d feel if he found out. His one and only daughter alone with an outlaw, a dirty, grimy, criminal cowboy, in the face of all the kindhearted, decent suitors you turned your nose up at.

“You’re nothin' but trouble,” You say, softer than anything else you’ve said to the man beside you. Anxiety has outweighed your excitement, and it’s written all over you in big, red, capital letters. Satoru could sense it before he saw it, and he’s getting the feeling you’ve never done so much as come home late.

“Aww, ‘at’s not true,” He says, feigning hurt with a pout, his pink bottom lip pushed out. Maybe, he thinks to himself, he can tease the nerves out of you. Playing with you is far too fun to give up. It’s a shame you didn’t come up to him earlier, maybe you wouldn’t be so nervous if you had. “Want me t’show ya how good I can be, sweetheart? Y’got a lil’ sneak peek earlier.”

“You’re gonna get me in trouble! This 's hardly appropriate, and I hardly know ya outside of your charges listed in th'paper, and if my daddy finds out he–he’ll have me arrested, or somethin' like that. He’ll put a hole right through your head!”

Now, that just makes him laugh, which he knows will do nothing to soothe you. “I’d love t’see ‘em try,” Satoru snorts. However, knowing a sliver of your temperament from experience, he doesn’t want to push you too far yet. He’s got a secret weapon in his saddle bag, and it isn’t another gun to aid the two on his hips. “Y’know what, I got somethin’ ‘at’ll help calm those boil over nerves’a yours. Ev’r been down south’a the border, sweetheart?”

–

Cold iron warms in the heat of your drunken hands, the shiny metal revolver gleaming in the moonlight heavy in your inexperienced grip.

“Atta girl– now, look right down the top’a the barrel ‘n line ‘at iron sight up,” Satoru instructs at your side, knees bent so he can see what you see. The scent of gunpowder, cigarettes, tequila, and sweat floods your senses with him so close, the amalgamation sure to stick to your dress, but you can’t bring yourself to find it anything but good. From the corner of your eyes, you take a lingering look at his face, and notice a dimple on his cheek you hadn’t before. The gun. Right.

“The metal things? I’m nervous,” You mutter, fingers adjusting and readjusting their position before realizing it’ll take a while to feel comfortable wielding such a weapon.

“The metal things, yep. Ain’t nothin’ t’be scared of, sweetheart. Y’got it?” Moving behind you, Satoru now has his strong chest pressed to your back, muscular arms wrapped around you, his hands covering yours just as he warned you he would to make up for the recoil of the shot.

“Mmmm.. mhm. Now fire?” Focused eyes line up the metal fin at the end of the barrel with the ‘O’ on the ‘No Trespassing’ sign posted in the grassy field at edge of your father’s property, all the while you’re mentally preparing yourself for the explosive force and deafening noise of your upcoming shot. The physical contact, so foreign to your previously untouchable body, doesn’t help your preparation in the least, proving infinitely more distracting than the tequila.

“Go ‘head, sweetheart. I gotcha.”

Deep breaths. All you have to do is put your finger on the trigger. Before you can move your index finger, Satoru gasps dramatically and grabs your sides, making you flinch and squeal in fear. You’re cowed down, hunched over with a hand slapped over your eyes and another still aiming the gun at the sign in fear when you not only hear, but also feel him start laughing. That bastard.

Ramming an elbow back and hitting him square in the ribs is all you can do in this position other than throwing him a scolding glare. “Don’t scare me when I’ve got a gun in my hands!”

“Sorry, sorry– Had t’do it.” Glare. “I ain’t gonna do it again, I promise!” Squint. “I swear I won’t.”

Resuming the position, chest pressed closely to your back, hands clasped tightly over yours, chin comfortably rested on your shoulder, Satoru hushes his laughter in favor of letting you gather your bearings. He watches the way you squint one eye as you realign the iron sight, and the way you stick the tip of your tongue out of the side of your mouth to focus, and the way you visibly go through a mental checklist before you put your finger back on the trigger, and he’d be eternally damned if he said it wasn’t the cutest thing he’s ever seen. Something so common to him was so foreign to you, and that sentiment could be held for more than guns.

When the gun fires, you squeeze both of your eyes shut, lean back into the solid body behind you, and the world goes silent. Your eyes only open when your ears start ringing, Satoru’s impressed whistle filtering through the muffled sound snapping you to attention.

“Well, I’ll be damned. ‘At was a damn good shot, sweetheart, almost ‘s good ‘s me,” he praises proudly, standing tall as he examines the bullet hole in the sign, almost emptying out the ‘O’ entirely. “Y’got five more bullets. Wanna try yer hand at five more shots?”

The next five shots take over an hour to fire, and the last two leave no trace other than a knick in the side of the otherwise swiss-cheese sign. Each shot was sandwiched between mouthfuls of tequila from the bottle and drunken fits of laughter, both overshadowing your target practice in the end, leaving the decorative glass and revolver empty.

Raising your wobbly frame up onto your tiptoes, you snatch the black cowboy hat off of Satoru’s oddly compliant head and place it gently atop yours. It’s a little big, and it’s hot, and it smells like campfire smoke, but you wear it all the same. With the hat settled on your head, you clumsily spin his pearl-grip six shooter around your finger and strike a pose. “Who’s Six Eyes Satoru Gojo now, hm?”

For the first time tonight, Satoru says nothing. Instead, he’s just looking at you, strong arms crossed over his strong chest, expression unreadable if not for the smirk tugging at the corner of his lips.

“Well, how do I look?”

“Real pretty, sweetheart… real, real pretty. Y’wanna know what they say ‘bout takin’ a cowboy’s hat? Puttin’ it on like y’got mine on ‘at pretty little head’a yours?” Satoru drawls, his low voice dripping a sweet, dangerous kind of venom that sounds like the gospel to your drunk ears. Slow, sauntering steps kill the distance between you, till he’s so close you can feel the body heat radiating off of him. Eyes growing wide as you tip your head back to look up at him, your hand holding the cowboy hat on your head so it doesn’t fall off, you finally decipher why he looked like he caught you earlier. When he answers his own question, he drops his voice to a smug, deadly whisper. “Y’wear the hat, y’ride the cowboy.”

Sober, it would be hard enough to gather yourself to say anything at all, much less something so on par with Satoru’s energy, but drunk? That liquid courage, drank by the messy mouthful, is aptly named, coursing through your veins stronger than the deep-rooted conventions of the world around you. With scanning, studying eyes, you further analyze the look etched into Satoru’s suntanned face, and you figure that this is why you haven’t left the thought of him alone since you first saw him. You don’t cower away from his blue haze, not this time. This time, your eyes meet his, locked on them in a manner akin to a standoff.

“Ride the cowboy, huh? Do they say that?” You whisper back, slipping the six shooter in the black leather belt hanging off of Satoru’s hips, letting your hand drag against the holster one second too long. It makes him shift, his baby blue shirt barely concealing the hints of moving muscle beneath.

“Mmmmmhm. Don’t tell me ‘s yer first rodeo, sweetheart,” he teases, his euphemism enough to make you blush if not for your already flush-drunk cheeks.

“I bet ya wish it was, Satoru. It ain't my first rodeo.” Oh, but it is. And if he were talking about kissing you, it’d still be your first rodeo, save for the sweet cheek-kisses you’d given a boy when you were six years old. However, you’re no longer in the realm of backing down, and you won’t give him the benefit of knowing he’s deflowering you.

“Oh?” Satoru doesn’t believe that for a single second— not when you were tripping over yourself about all the trouble you’d be in if anyone found out about you doing so much as riding alongside him. That devilish set of dimples dip so deep as he grins down at you that you’re sure it’s hurting him. “Y’not ev’n a little scared t’get bucked off?”

“I ain't scared at all,” You muse, initiating your first touch of the night by placing a flat palm against his clothed stomach. Satoru’s heavyweight cotton shirt offers little padding between your hand and his skin; he might as well be shirtless, because you can feel every contour of his impressive abdominal muscles.

Something shifts in the air when you touch him, as if that single action changed the charted course of your world in an instant. The change is palpable, it’s audible, it’s visible, it’s so refreshingly different from all you’ve known and you’re going to chase it, even if it kills you, and it very well might should your father find out. Screaming cicadas and chirping crickets, trickling water and whistling breeze, all of which buzz around you in the night air seem to drown in the noise of Six Eyes Satoru Gojo.

“Yeah? Call my bluff, then. Prove it.”

It’s a dare, an invitation to dance with the blue eyed devil himself, and you’re taking it without a second thought. In the blink of an eye you take hold of his shirt collar, yanking him down to crash your inexperienced lips into his, and the world around you as you know it comes down crashing and burning with him. Satoru uncrosses his arms and plants two firm, rope-worn, calloused hands on your waist, pulling your eager frame flush against his.

The kiss is rushed, open mouthed and sloppy, and if not for your plush lips it might hurt. Each passing second against your lips is chock full of proof that you have no clue where to start or where to stop, proof that you’re running on nothing but instinct to both satiate yourself and call Satoru’s bluff. Headstrong and obstinate as ever, you urge him backwards, back, back, back in sloppy, tripping steps till there’s enough of a rise in the terrain to stop him from moving without taking a step up.

Satoru takes the reins from your imperious hold to ease the two of you to the ground, bending and hinging one joint at a time till you’re both close enough to fall to your knees in the dry grass. He’s still got one hand on your waist, traveling until it finds purchase on your hip, while the other flings the bulletless gun from the right holster away with reckless abandon. The other revolver lays aside within arm’s reach, just in case, but Satoru’s more focused on getting as far as you’ll let him go. Without the possibility of being poked, prodded, or shot, he shifts from his knees to sit flat, hauling you into his lap with a single arm wrapped around your waist.

By the time you’re in his lap, you’ve pried his shirt off, but there’s not much of the night left to waste for you to sit and admire him as you’d like to, the two of you instead working overtime at getting you undressed. You’re breathless, he’s panting between each kiss of your lips, so soft, so sweet against his that he has to fight the urge to rip off the remaining clothes you’ve got on, consisting of nothing more than your linen chemise and cotton underwear. It’s only now, almost exposed under the silver moonlight in this cowboy’s lap, that your nerves start to get the better of you; it’s not that you want to stop, because you’d rather die than stop him from just touching you, but it’s all so fast that your head is spinning and you’re shaking like a leaf.

Beneath you, where your hips sit atop his, you can feel how hard he is through the thick, rough canvas of his pants. It’s not smart to take them off— not outside, anyway— but there’s a part of you that craves to have your bare skin against his. Maybe that’s naive, but tequila doesn’t care about naivety.

After all the teasing and taunting he’s put you through tonight, Satoru won’t make you say it. He won’t make you admit that this is your first time, nor will he ignore the fact. Instead, Satoru’s strong hands slide up the sides of your thighs, under that thin, white underdress, settling on your hips with a soft squeeze before pulling you down to grind against him. The friction, the drag against that wet, sensitive, aching place between your legs makes your breath hitch in your throat and cling to him, arms thrown around his neck.

His black cowboy hat is back on his head where it belongs, tipped back enough to let you see his face, and those blue eyes you’ve come to know seem to glow up at you. They’re lidded, heavy in a way you’ve never seen before from anyone else, and now that he’s looking at you like this you’re not sure you’d want anyone else to. Another roll of his narrow hips and you’re whimpering, nothing more than putty in his hands for him to mold and shape however he’d like.

“Y’okay, sweetheart?” Satoru whispers, placing a searing kiss at the junction of your neck and shoulder, scattering goosebumps across your sensitive skin. You can feel his cock twitch from its confinement beneath you, and although your ability to gauge his size is obscured, he’s big. He’s a big man, with big hands and big shoulders, but you didn’t expect all of him to be so big. “Feels like yer shakin’ ‘n I ain’t ev’n done anythin’ yet.”

The right words seem impossible to find, much less to say, all of them so vulgar and explicit that they make your face burn with such a vibrant shade of red it’s visible even in the low light of the moonbeams. He grins against your skin at your inability to speak, knowing such phrases have never left your pretty plush lips, relishing in the fact that your headstrong nature has been reduced to nothing by his touch. In a bashful whisper, you manage to whimper out your incomplete request. “I… um, I want you to…”

More tempting words than those have never graced his ears in all his born days.

“Yeah? Y’want me t’do somethin’, baby?” Satoru murmurs, continuing to chip away at your resolve with his open mouthed kisses to your neck, his low voice rumbling against your skin, each action setting you aflame with every precious, passing second. You moan when he calls you baby, and again when his lips reach that place just under your jaw, and you want so badly to claw at his back but your hands feel so weak.

“Do y’want me t’touch you? Right…” As he trails off, so does his bruised, nicked, calloused hand from your hip, stopping when his palm is pressed smooth against your lower stomach. Barely, feather-light, his thumb grazes your clothed clit. “… Here?”

“Yes— yes, please,” You plead, your hips pushing into his touch, your eyes squeezing shut to splay your lashes over your cheeks, your body tensing at the touch; it’s so foreign, so forbidden, but you’d trade your spot in heaven for more of it.

Satoru doesn’t make you beg, no, but he stops touching you to hang his fingertips on the waistband of your offensive underwear and slide them down your legs. Only after they’re discarded in the dry grass does he offer his merciful touch again, spreading your soaked folds to gather your slick on the pad of his thumb before slowly circling your clit. Each circled swipe over that shiveringly sensitive bud pulls a shaky, breathy moan from your throat, a sound so rewarding that all he wants to do is flip the two of you over and take you right there.

“Relax, sweetheart. Feels good?” He asks, hungry eyes dropping to watch the way your teeth sink into your lower lip, then lower to watch the way you chase his touch with your hips, and then lower to watch you toy with the buttons of his pants, your hands just brushing against his solid cock. It’s not on purpose, but it feels like teasing nonetheless, making his cock jump against the thick canvas restraining it. It’s starting to ache.

The strength to speak is so hard to gather, even more so when one slick, thick finger dips past your entrance, slowly sinking into you one sweet centimeter at a time. Your pride, your ego, your purity, all the aspects of your mind that have been built up like walls to protect you come crumbling down instantaneously, rendering you defenseless against Satoru’s masterful touch as he curls that finger inside of you. Pure electric bliss radiates through your shaking body from the gentle pressure against that newfound spongy spot, and again when you feel him slip second finger into you, the new addition offering a slight stretching sensation to the pleasure. Something in the pit of your stomach feels like it’s coiling up, warm, tense, tight, and you’re unsure whether you should run to it or from it.

Each curl of his fingers pulls winds that coil up further, pulls you closer to that feeling, and overtakes your control, leaving you feeling close to tears and on the brink of something unknown. All of your pride has been stripped away, finding yourself no longer above begging and taking.

“Satoru, please,” You gasp, in an attempt to fill your pleading lungs with air as he just keeps on pulling you apart. Desperate, shaking fingers start grasping at the buttons keeping you from what you want, clumsily popping them open till you can dip your hand past them and free his cock in one swift motion. It’s thick, so hot to the touch, tip red and weeping from watching you fall to pieces in his hands. “I-I want more, please, I really want it ‘n I feel so… s-so good, please.”

With no clue what to do, you just do what feels right, swiping at the mess of precum gathered at the tip of his cock with the pad of your thumb before letting your grip drag slowly down his length. Satoru swears under his breath, words so vulgar you’d only heard them once or twice before, but from his mouth they sound like the damn gospel. His head drops back in awe of the relief your soft, soft touch offers, only snapping back up to watch your hands slow strokes up and down his aching cock. The glorious sight is enough to violently rip the thought of enjoying this from his head and kick him into a higher gear.

“I’ll give y’whatever ya want, sweetheart, y’don’t hafta beg me,” Satoru says, his voice low, breathy, laden with lust and hymnal in your ears. Slowly, he slips his digits from your cunt, his palm and fingers coated with your slick and shining in the silver light. There’s no time to waste, not when you just begged him for more, not when nights don’t last forever, but he wants to taste you so bad that he brings his soaked fingers to his lips and licks them clean, savoring the sweet, sweet flavor of you. Watching him lick his fingers clean of you is enough to make you whimper.

In no time he’s pushing up your chemise to rest on your hips, reaching around to find purchase of a handful of your ass to steady you as he pulls you higher on your knees. You’re hovering over his hips now, the tip of his cock nestling against your slick-coated folds, your shaking hands resting on his broad shoulders, and you are so completely overcome with anticipation that it hurts.

“Promise‘ll be gentle, sweetheart. Y’ain’t gots t’worry over ‘at, I swear,” He whispers against your lips, pulling your body flush against his own. Mumbling pleads for him to hurry, you want him, you want this, you beg him to make his move, and Satoru can’t deny such a pretty girl asking him so nicely. Mercifully, he lines himself up with your weeping entrance, and allows you to take control.

With shaking legs, you lower yourself down just until the tip of his cock is snug inside of you, suddenly halting. It hurts… but it feels so, so, so good. You lift yourself up to try again entirely, staring down to where the two of you meet, and lower yourself again. This time, you don’t stop for that burn, that intrusion, that stretch, wincing while sinking down so slowly that you can feel every single inch of Satoru’s hot, fat cock drag against your walls until you’re so full you can’t go down any further. Once you’re still, you’re panting, whimpering, and clawing at the lifestyle-built muscles of Satoru’s expansive shoulders.

Below you, Satoru’s in awe, his grip on the flesh of your ass so tight that his knuckles are white, his breath tortured, ragged, desperate. If he could manage to focus on something other than maintaining his self-control he’d let every nasty, vulgar, explicit thought of his at the sight of you pour from his lips, but he can’t. Inside of you, you can feel him twitch, a non-verbal, involuntary request to move from your position flush against his hips, but now that you’re so full of him you’re not sure you can. Whimpering, you open your hazy, pleasure-stricken eyes and meet his, finding them busy drinking every inch of you in his lap.

That’s all he needs to take the reins, he knows what you’re saying with nothing more than the way you look down at him: you want him to move, you want him to help you. On the brink of losing all composure, he pays no mind at all to the snarky little comments he could be making about so much for the rules being “you ride the cowboy.” Satoru wraps an arm all the way around your waist, one hand holding your side and the other still holding a handful of your ass, and he pulls you to rest against his chest so he can take care of you. It’s a small change in position, but it makes you gasp nonetheless, eyes batting shut once again and jaw falling slack around a pretty little whimper. With you tucked so sweetly against him, head between his jaw and shoulder, Satoru slowly draws himself out of you and so shallowly pushes back in.

“‘S ‘at alright, sweetheart?” The outlaw murmurs, your whine of a response swiftly hushing his concern and care and making him go that much more crazy. Another gentle drag of his cock out, another slow thrust of it in, the bliss of the disappearing burn making way for the delicious stretch seeping into your muscles. Then, as Satoru finds a nice, shallow, beginner-friendly pace, the tip of his cock catches on that wonderful spongy spot decorating your walls and you moan, loud and involuntary, his name leaving your lips like some sort of praise. You can’t help the sound spilling from your mouth when he finds it again, and you want to beg, plead, cry, anything to chase that feeling, anything to get Satoru to fuck you like he means it; you’re so stripped of your defenses and your self-control that you don’t realize that you are begging, pleading, crying for him to go deeper, harder, more more more.

Such filthy words leaving lips as precious as yours should be a punishable offense, he thinks, especially when they sound so good that the sweet nothings he’s whispering into your hair are cracking off at the end into broken, wanton whines. Satoru’s grip on you grows impossibly tighter, entranced by your words, your warmth, the otherworldly grip your cunt’s got around him, and if he focuses, the soft squelch of how sopping wet you are each time he pushes up into you. He keeps his pace despite your pleas, he doesn’t want to hurt you, he doesn’t want to push you too far, because although he’s a grimy, sorry sleazebag of a cowboy, and you’re a hotheaded, ornery brat, you feel like a china doll in his arms. Breakable.

“Please, for th'love of God, Satoru, just— just fuck me, already!” You cry out, desperation kicking your respectability out the door, almost reduced to tears as you cling to him like you’re going to fall off the face of the earth if you don’t. Where was the bastard who grabbed you by the bow? The outlaw with a pistol on each hip, a cigarette in his mouth, blood splatter on his shirt? Six Eyes Satoru Gojo? That’s who you wanted now, that’s who you needed, and you appreciate the sweetness, the care, but by God it wasn’t sweet anymore. It was torture.

“Y’want me to fuck you, huh? ‘At’s what y’want, sweetheart?” God, there he was. Compared to those sweet nothings he was whispering, it sounds like a threat, his low growl of a voice rumbling through his chest while you babble yesyesyesyespleaseyesyes. Satoru almost pulls out of you entirely, leaving only the tip to nudge into your messy cunt before snapping his hips up, burying his cock inside of you in one fell swoop, slamming into you so deep that it feels like he’s trying to bruise your insides. It hurts, it elevates the drool worthy stretch of your cunt around his cock, it makes you sob his name in a way that Satoru’s sure will burn into his brain and haunt him forever. “All ‘at talk earlier, now look at ya. Beggin’ me t’fuck you,” He tuts, but his near-scolding words are draped in adoration. “‘M gon’ fuck you s’good ya won’t want ‘nyone else to.”

Not the second time, or the third, but on the fourth vicious ram of his cock into you, you find yourself trying to match his pace, rocking yourself up when he drags himself out, sinking yourself down when he slams himself in, all with shaking legs and pitifully weak knees. The sound of skin hitting skin, the gushing sound of how wet your pussy was for him, the pleasured, guttural swears moaned from the man beneath you, all of it in tandem with the way his impossibly thick cock abused each and every tender spot inside you was addictive. Everything he offered, you took, and you took more, and he watched as your manners, your upbringing, and your conditioning flew out of the window with reckless abandon, entranced by the way he’s unraveled you to reveal a woman of pure need.

Both of Satoru’s hands are settled on your ass, now, his white-knuckle grip sure to leave it’s mark when this is all over, but you don’t care. You’re too busy pushing yourself off of him, planting both hands on his strong chest, riding his cock like it’s the last thing you’ll ever do in this world. It’s sinful, he thinks, the way your hips meet his in the middle, the way you cry out his name, the way your jaw has fallen slack around each of your filthy babbles of how good you feel.

“Atta fuckin’ girl, sweetheart! Look at ya,” He praises, something primal, something venomous, something paradoxically needy coating his gruff voice. Inside you, that coil from before is wound so tight that you’ve got tears in your eyes, but you want it, you want whatever feeling comes after so bad that you’re begging for it. Satoru’s praises only serve to urge you on, his ragged, tortured moans only pulling you closer, and closer, and his fat cock slams into you one more time and you’re done. “Let go, sweetheart, y’can do it, jus’ let go, alright? Atta girl.”

Your orgasm tears through you like bullets; hot, forceful, sudden, and searing, those tears falling down your cheeks as you cry out, desperately grinding your hips down into him so you can chase the pleasure radiating from that sweet spot inside of you. Satoru tips you forward to crash his lips into yours, swallowing your beautiful cries of bliss, still fucking into you so brutally through your orgasm in pursuit of his own fast-approaching climax. The gush of your cunt around him, the way you clench down so tight, so rhythmically, god, it’s too much, and he’s swearing as he pulls out of you swiftly at the very last minute, his hand flying to his freed cock to catch the cum spilling from the tip before it can stain your linen underdress.

As the two of you still, panting against each other’s lips, a pile of sweaty, strengthless bodies, the sounds of the night around you fill the world again. Your sense has yet to return, because you should be gathering yourself and your clothes, but instead you rest atop the outlaw’s heaving chest.

Satoru takes care of getting you back home, despite a nagging voice in the back of his head reminding him he doesn’t do this, it’s not smart, it’s something a sap would do, not a travelin’ man. But you’re tired, and he’s tired, and all he wants is a nice, warm bed to lay his head down for the night. By the time the two of you lay down between your linen sheets, your dress and all its fixings are laid over the chair in the corner of your room, his grimy ones are thrown on the floor in another, and his boots are hidden beneath your bed. One strong arm is trapped beneath your head, and your sleepy, mumbled half-protests are met with one thing before your lights are out:

“Cain’t leave ya out here by’n yer lonesome, I’ll stay till yer Daddy gets back.”

And he does.

The next day starts wrapped up in each other in the golden, pink-painted morning light, a sobering repeat of the love made a few hours before out in the grassy field. Any thoughts of your daddy, what he’d say, or what he’d think are nowhere to be seen when you’re in the presence of Satoru, the bastard cowboy who’s taken your affections hostage. You wash his filthy clothes and yours, hang them out to dry, and stow Blackjack in the luxury of the barn next to Ace till Satoru needs him. You sweep away the dirty footprints his boots left on the porch. You rinse his smoke-soaked cowboy hat till it smells new again.

Satoru feeds the horses, the chickens, and the cows, all of which were your chores to do while your daddy was gone to drive cattle. He helps heave you up onto Blackjack’s back, the black stallion far taller than your own horse, and he lets you sit in front of him to take the reins. None without the fair amount of teasing, which didn’t seem like a fair amount to you; at several points in the day, you’d hop off Blackjack’s back and try to storm back to the house, but somehow the outlaw always reeled you back to ease you up into the saddle again.

When the sun starts to hang heavy in the west side of the sky, you draw him a bath, to which he doesn’t protest. Nice baths are hard to come by when you don’t stay in one place for very long, and when you spend most of your time on the run, in places so wild, so untouched as the West, they’re a godsend. Warm water and soap washes him clean, soothes his sore muscles, and makes him new again, but he doesn’t want to leave the bliss of the tub so soon. As he soaks in the suds, you enter the bathroom in your dressing robe to sit on the lip of the tub, simultaneously admiring him and admonishing him as the two of you bicker back and forth.

“I think your clothes’re dry, bastard,” You tease, head resting on your shoulder as you balance yourself to sit on the edge of the tub. It’s a little urge for him to get out, because you feel you’re just as filthy as he was and you need to bathe. Satoru keeps your eyes with his, sinking lower in the tub till his shoulders are submerged and knees are poking out over the suds, reaching a wet hand to the string keeping your dressing robe shut. He draws it slowly, eyes still locked on yours, till the knot comes loose and each side falls open to expose your bare body beneath. It makes you fluster, wanting to slouch and hide yourself, but he grabs your hand as if to say don’t. You huff. “Come on, you’re hoggin’ it. I’m filthy.”

“Get in,” Is all he says at first. Before you can protest, he speaks again. “C’mon. Get in.”

You hesitate, but stand nonetheless, slowly letting the robe slip off of your shoulders and into a heap on the floor. Not once does he stop staring at you, not even when you can’t meet his eyes, not even when you’re stepping into the tub. All he does is grab your arm and yank you to rest against his chest, back to front, not caring about the water splashing over the sides as a result of his forceful repositioning. If not for the way he settles his strong arms around you, you’d scold him for wetting your hair, but you can’t bring yourself to get onto him.

“When’s yer daddy meant t’be back, sweetheart?”

“Tomorrow night.”

“Alright.”

The two of you sit in that water so long that it’s ice cold by the time you step out.

You find yourself wishing the sun would stay still in the sky, but it doesn’t; it just keeps on moving westward, like the unusually quiet outlaw dressed in a pair of your daddy’s nightclothes at the end of your bed. As the last few hours of daylight passed over the plains, Satoru became gentler, quieter, more tender than his usual dastardly manner. It struck you normally, if not pleasantly, knowing that such a wild, sharp-tongued man spoke to you so softly, so sweetly. It wasn’t lost on you that this would be your last night in his arms for a while, but you let yourself daydream that he’d be back in another month, and maybe he’d even knock on your window in the dead of night to make love to you again.

At the end of the bed, dressed in your oblivious daddy’s nightclothes, Satoru finds himself unpleasantly surprised at how bad he feels. Feeling bad wasn’t something he felt often, having seen so much death, violence, crime, and corruption, not to mention having committed those acts with his own hands. It was a rotten feeling, knowing that he’d been your first, that he’d taken you in a field, in your bed, in your kitchen, and in your bathroom, and it was a rotten feeling, knowing that he was about to shatter any semblance of faith you placed in him. Your obstinacy, your petulance, your temperament, none of these things about you changed the fact that you were too naive to realize the fact of the matter, which was that you were just another girl to him, and he would be gone before you knew it.

The guilt was unsettling. It was eating at him. It was blooming under the soft touch of your warm hand on his arm, urging him to come up to lay beside you in your stark white nightdress. Satoru looks back at you with a halfhearted grin, traversing the soft expanse of your bed until his head meets the pillows and he can slip under your covers, tangled up in you again. Your soft laugh, your hair on the pillows, your keen eyes; all of you will be different soon, so he drinks it in while he can. Maybe it’s a fucked up thing to think, but you have been one of his favorites.

“Will y'wake me up in the mornin’? Before you go?” You whisper, sleepy and warm from where you lay your head on his chest. The outlaw has you gathered in his arms, pulled halfway over his body, holding you so comfortably while you fight the tiredness that threatens to lull you into sleep. If he wasn’t preparing himself to go, he’d notice how you fit against his side like two pieces of a puzzle, a perfect fit. His voice rumbles through his chest when he replies.

“Sure, sweetheart,” Satoru whispers back.

“You’d better, you bastard. ‘M gonna be cross ‘f you don’t…”

As sleep takes over, you trail off, the blow of your threat softened by your rhythmic breaths. Through your window shines the silvery light of the moon, creating a soft glow around your peaceful, sleeping form, and Satoru looks away.

It’s four awake, dragging, guilty hours before he moves you off of his chest. He’d stay all night if he didn’t get a move on now, when you’re sleeping so deeply that you don’t react to the loss of warmth or his weight shifting the bed as he stands up. Satoru shimmies out of your father’s nightclothes and folds them as best he can, laying them on the surface of the mahogany nightstand beside your bed before dressing himself in his washed, pressed, clean clothes. Grabbing his spurred boots from beneath your bed, his leather belt holster, and his pitch black cowboy hat, he quietly makes his way out of your bedroom, but he stops in the middle of the doorway.

One last look. That’s all he lets himself have.

One last look at your sleeping face that he kissed countless times in the past two days, that he blew smoke at, that he admired when you didn’t look and even when you did. Your sleeping body that he viewed, touched, held. Your hair, your hands, your breathing… Soon enough, it’ll hopefully all melt into the sea of women he can’t remember the names or faces of. It’ll be a while before he sees you again, and he plans to forget you before he does. You still hadn’t told him your name. Maybe that will help.

Satoru slips out of the front door silently, slipping on his hat, boots, and belt, but before he makes it to the stables he realizes he’s only got one gun holstered on his hip. He’s not one to misplace his guns of all things, not when they’re the driving force of his survival given the path he’s chosen, so he books it to the stables and tries to retrace his steps.

“Bar… No, definitely had’m then… not th’ride out here’n either. Had’m both in th’pasture…” Ding ding ding. Satoru purses his lips, and Blackjack huffs beneath him. Of course, now he remembers throwing the revolver into the grass, far too busy with you all pretty and pliant in his lap to take care of his own belongings. Sighing, he gives his horse a gentle spur to get him on the move.

Once he’s far enough from your house to know you won’t hear him, even though you’re curled up dead asleep, he picks up to a gallop till he reaches that fated field of grass. The spot where Satoru had taken you was flat, but other than that there was little differentiating where he would have thrown the damn thing. Moonbeams would shine off of the smooth metal surface if the grass was shorter, but it’s no dice trying to find it that way. He finds it his next best course of action to hop down off of Blackjack’s back and search for it that way, but all he finds in the hour he takes is the empty bottle of tequila and that pretty, baby blue ribbon you had been so protective of. They don’t call him Six Eyes for nothing, so the fact that he can’t find the goddamned-piece-a-shit-good-fer-nothin’ revolver, mounted on top of the disgusting feeling of guilt eating at his insides, has his temper a building to a height he can’t control.

Satoru shoves the ribbon in his saddle bag and launches the bottle at the “No Trespassing” sign you used as target practice. Milky white and blue glass shatters against the wooden sign, falling in a heap of shards beneath it, the broken, jagged pieces shining like diamonds in the light of the big, white moon. The clatter of the impact makes him curse, it’s too loud, it cuts through the peaceful sounds of the night, and it’s not as cathartic as he thought it’d be. Not at all.

Nights don’t last forever, though, and the way a soft blue decorates the eastern horizon lets him know it’s time to go whether he’s got two guns, one, or none. Defeated, pissed, and swimming in guilt, Satoru hops back into the saddle and gives three gentle pats to Blackjack’s neck before spurring him on again. It’s shorter to cut through the endless acres of your father’s property, but he wants to take one last look at your house. One last look at the house you’re sleeping so peacefully in. One last look.

One last look until he rides off and doesn’t come back, not until you’re nothing more than a fuzzy memory.

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eat-limes-bitches · 1 year ago

Text

Be Brave

PAIRING: Female Reader x Bucky Barnes

SUMMARY: On a cold lonely night, Bucky finds something he never expected to.

SONG Be Brave by Owl City

WARNINGS: Angst, (Bucky's self loathing, anxiety, mention of nightmares, hinting to PTSD) Hints of fluff (Alpine is the best)

Word Count: 942

A/N: Hi! I wrote this with a second and third part in mind but I wanted your opinions first! Should I leave it like this or do you want to see where this relationship goes?

Enjoy! <3

Divider by Rookthorne

Bucky woke up from sleeping on the floor like a vagrant with a start, frantically looking around the room. Taking a few deep breaths he went through the mantra his therapist told him to use when he was discombobulated.

I am James Bucky Barnes, I’m in my apartment, the year is 2024, and I have a white cat named Alpine

Repeating his little phrase under his breath, he found himself starting to calm down a little bit. Looking at the clock, he was a little disappointed to see that it was only midnight, meaning he only slept for three-ish hours. He sat on the floor for just a little while longer before pulling himself up, throwing on some clothes, grabbing his keys, and leaving his warm apartment out into the chilly New York night. He wandered down the street, feeling a little lonely. Steve was gone, Sam was visiting his family in Louisiana, and, well, he didn’t have anyone else. He kept walking until he found himself at the movie theater. Deciding he didn’t have anything better to do, he bought a ticket for the only show playing and found his seat.

Out of habit, he glanced around noticing a few people and the glowing exit sign but what caught his attention was a woman, sitting in the same row as him. The light of the silver screen lit up her features causing his heart to flutter in his chest, something he hadn’t felt in a long time. Knowing she was there, he found it hard to focus on the movie, sneaking glances at her every few seconds until he was eventually caught. Their eyes locked and Bucky blushed as his eyes widened. He was worried she was gonna call him a creep, or leave but instead she just smiled at him and offered a small wave. Getting over his initial shock, Bucky returned the wave and watched as the woman returned to the film.

Bucky stayed in his seat as the credits began to roll, glancing over to see the woman grabbing her coat and bag indicating that she was getting ready to leave, much to Bucky’s dismay. He sat there bitterly, wishing that he had the courage to go and ask her name, but that Bucky was long gone. He was so stuck in his head that he didn’t notice her walk by his seat. He did, however, notice the brush of her fingers against his gloved hands. He snapped his head up to look at her but she was already exiting the theater so he looked down at his hands and a little gasp left his mouth at what he saw, a little paper crane sat perfectly in his hands with a phone number and two words BE BRAVE.

With a gentleness he didn’t know he possessed, he placed the paper bird in his pocket, walked out of the theater, and began his trek home. His thumb and finger brushed over the paper in his pocket as he thought about the girl. Do I text her? Do I call her? How do people do this nowadays? Maybe I should text Sam? No, He’d just laugh at me. By the time he reached his apartment, he decided that he would text her. He entered the apartment and pulled out his phone along with the little bird. After he pulled up the messaging app, he punched in the number and sent a simple message that honestly took him too long to come up with.

B: Hi, I got your note. Would you maybe want to get some coffee? I know a little place near the theater we could go to. My name is Bucky by the way.

He pressed send and when the little delivered message popped up he immediately descended into a panic. He put his phone on the kitchen counter and began frantically pacing around. Alpine, hearing the rapid footsteps, appeared in the kitchen and observed Bucky for a moment. Eventually, she hopped down from the counter and stood in the middle of his walking path, letting out a little meow to further capture his attention. Bucky paused and with a sigh, scooped up Alpine into his arms.

“Alpine, what am I doin’?” I know I didn’t do this right.”

He huffed, running his fingers through her snowy white fur. Alpine just blinked and tilted her head, as if she was asking him to continue. Bucky sank to the floor, pressing his back up against the cabinets, continuing to absent mindedly rub Alpines chin.

“She probably thinks I’m a creep, o-or she knows who I am and just wanted to tell me what a monster I am. Maybe it’s not too late to delete that message..”

Placing Alpine on the ground, Bucky stood to retrieve his phone and his heart stopped when he saw there was a message.

Y: Hi Bucky! My name is Y/n! I would love to get a coffee! Would tomorrow at 9 be ok? What’s the name of the shop?

Bucky started at the phone unblinking. He looked to Alpine, back to his phone, then Alpine again. He remembered the words on the little paper bird before taking a breath and responding.

B: Yeah, 9 is great! The shop is called Joe’s.

Bucky watched as the sent message changed to read and then the three little dots dancing in the bottom left corner before her response appeared on his screen.

Y: Awesome! I will See you at 9 at Joe’s!

Bucky placed his phone down on the counter and looked down at Alpine who was watching him Curiously.

“I have a date tomorrow Apl.”

#bucky x you #bucky fluff #bucky x reader #bucky x female reader #bucky x reader fluff #bucky angst #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x female reader #bucky barnes #bucky and alpine #alpine the cat #alpine barnes #bucky

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pokemonshelterstories · 3 months ago

Note

i'm a contest trainer, and i've got a ribombee, alolan raichu, and minccino who all get along really well.

theres a wild galarian ponyta that's been wandering my area, and i know it doesn't have a herd since my area doesn't typically have galarian ponyta, but we do have kantonian ponyta, who often travel in herds. im concerned since it seems like she's pretty injured, but I know ponyta can kick real hard so i don't want to freak her out when i approach.

i think she's hurt enough that i could catch her with a pokeball, but like i said, i don't want to freak her out.

i called the local rangers and the person who picked up the phone seemed really casual about this, saying that regional forms that aren't native to the area tend to die out(!?) and that its just nature taking its course(!?!?). i really want to help her because it hurts my heart to see any pokemon in pain, but is there any reason catching her would be bad? the plan probably wouldn't be to release her, since she's not a natural part of the niche here.

i have the resources to take care of her if i were to catch her, but i'm worried that she's going to upset my other pokemon. my raichu is on the smaller side (closer to 1'7") so the ponyta would become the largest pokemon in the household. would this cause a massive upset in my team?

(also i wouldn't be using her for contests, at least not until she's recovered from whatever injuries she has, so don't worry about that)

honestly, it's not unusual for us as rangers and rehabbers to let nature take its course on an injured pokemon that's still out in the wild. given that she's not a native variant, she's likely either an escapee or a released pokemon. an individual vagrant likely wont have any ecological impact, so we wouldn't need to remove her immediately. but capturing a pokemon for rehab (which we typically only do with native species/variants) or euthanasia (more likely what would happen here) takes time and resources, and it also removes resources from the natural ecosystem. if we grabbed every injured pokemon out there, things would fall apart pretty quickly! it sucks to think of a pokemon suffering, but injury and death are a normal part of life in the wild.

now, if you wanted to capture her to be your own pokemon, i don't see any issue with that in and of itself. she clearly doesn't have a social group she belongs to (i imagine some of her injuries are actually from a kantonian herd chasing her off; ponyta are a prey species and often wont tolerate a vagrant who might make them an easier target). but you're looking at a pretty tough time bringing her back to health if she is indeed healthy enough to save her, and you'd have to make sure you have access to pasture. you'd need to make sure you have the right environment to raise a ponyta in, which can be tricky if you don't already own farmland.

as far as social concerns....i don't see too many issues from your ribombee, since they're not terribly fearful and like helping injured pokemon with their pollen puffs. your minccino and raichu are more likely to be fearful of a larger pokemon, but could be slowly introduced. the main issue is that ponyta need interaction with conspecifics or at the very least pokemon that are of similar physiology/social structure to them. skiddo and mudbray are common companion pokemon outside of members of their own species. if you want to keep this ponyta, you need to be ready to also take in a buddy for her, which may be more than you're willing or able to do.

there's always the option to try and nurse her back to health with help from a vet and then rehome her as well. but at the end of the day, while i think the ranger you called should have given you a bit more of an explanation, they weren't wrong: letting this pokemon die naturally is not a bad thing to do.

#charlietalks #pkmn irl #pokemon irl #pokemon death #wild pokemon rehab

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katuschka · 20 days ago

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His Sugar-Dusted Skin – Part 1

Jake Kiszka x reader 5.639 words (Part 1)

So, After some consideration, I decided to split this one in two, because a) I promised to post it this weekend and it's not finished yet, and b) it might me too long. December's been a bit chaotic and as I said before, I've been struggling a bit with this one. So let me know what you think. Any feedback is much appreciated!

Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction, intended for adult readers. Any resemblance to real persons is purely coincidental. Also, if you're under 18, go find some other entertainment elsewhere.

Warnings (are spoilers): alcohol consumption and heavy intoxication, mentions of the death of a close person (retrospective), allusions to a potentially promiscuous behaviour, some strong language, the twins being assholes (kind of... they're still cute), Jake's happy trail, I think that's it for now...

Oh, life…

How ordinary and boring it can get when you stick to thinking that there aren’t any other options. As far as I remember, conformity never made sense to me. And as far as I remember, I was being raised and forced to embrace it. My mind surrendered for a while, but my vagrant soul just kept resisting. I never wanted to fit in. I always wanted to fly.

When I left home three years ago, I didn’t take much with me. My parents didn’t approve of my choices and the only person who would’ve supported me in my decisions was already gone. My beloved grandma. She was the disruptive force that kept me on my toes, always challenging me in the most loving way, knowing too well that it was exactly what I needed. She gave me my first guitar, too. Even though sclerosis made her homeward-bound, her dreams and fantasies always kept her wandering. I loved that. She was always there to spark my imagination and in return, I wanted to be her legs and eyes one day. When I was little, my friends used to call her fairy godmother. “Keep your sails up sweetheart, the wind is whimsical.” That’s what she used to say. “All you need is that air in your lungs and love in your heart.”

“You must never leave me, oma,” I said to her once. “I need that love in my heart forever.”

“Someone else will fill it, darling,” she replied. “I’m only here to make sure it is open. But one day, you won’t need me anymore.”

When she died, I lost my only reason to stay there. The world was slowly getting to its feet again and it was my turn to do the same. I had dreams that simply couldn’t be fulfilled at home. My heart was aching for adventure. So I packed my bags, just like they sing in old songs, slung my guitar over my shoulder and hit the road. A vagabond chick.

As I came to Tennessee, all I owned could fit in my barely drivable car: literally just a few dresses, my phone, my modest savings, my old six string, my treasured voice and THE recipe. Aaaah, those were the days…

Who am I kidding? It was pretty rough at first. VERY rough, to be honest. I cried many nights. But the one thing my parents had taught me was to save money, and that helped me survive the first months, when I waited tables during the day and sang my ass off after dark.

Many people never make it. Hell, even though I’m an optimist, I have to admit that most don’t. If you’re not strong willed and immune to shit, you’re most certainly destined to fail. I’ve seen way too many extra talented and broken people on my journey, just because they were too nice or too naive. Well, I’m not naive, but I’m definitely not a cold bitch either. I think I just got lucky, because I had my guardian angel with me the whole time. When she was still walking on earth, she absolutely loved the Beatles, With a Little Help from My Friends being her favorite song. My childhood memories are filled with those songs and how she sang along, and I believe that it was her doing that eventually turned this tune into the soundtrack of my life. I met a lot of fantastic people on my arduous journey towards my goals and dreams, and that’s how I got by.

As a token of my gratitude, I baked cookies for them. My grandma’s famous linzer cookies. THE recipe. Fast forward a few years, I still keep doing that at Christmas. Apart from the fact that my friends simply demand it, it’s also my way of keeping her alive, to make myself feel like she’s still here with me… in a way.

Back home, the whole neighborhood loved her art of baking. Me being her only granddaughter, she literally forced me to learn how to bake those linzer cookies – her own recipe, to be precise. Every time I rolled my eyes, while making annoyed noises, blowing raspberries and just being a little asshole about it in general, she simply smiled and said that one day I’ll thank her. Why – I asked – and she responded that one day it would bring me love. “Love goes through the stomach, my dear. Look at your grandpa. See how huge it is?” And then he smiled and kissed her hair and it always made me believe her.

Except it didn’t happen. At least not yet. It – however – gave me a semblance of home that I consciously chose not to have, but sometimes missed.

Just last year, I decided to continue with the tradition my grandma started back at home. “Love is a reciprocal game, my dear,” she said. “You get what you give, but do not lose yourself in giving.”

They want my sweets? Fine! But let them show me how much. They have to “earn” it. At the beginning of December, I give my friends custom-made Christmas greetings, and if they want to receive their own little box of cookies, they have to send back a card of their own making. The first time was a success, and I ended up baking sweets for eleven people. And it didn’t stop there, as it earned me nine bottles of wine, a flacon of my favorite perfume and a ukulele. All I really wanted was a thank you, but hey! I won’t say no to wine! So I decided to do it again, and this time I received seventeen cards, including three “masterpieces” from the members of the infamous Greta Van Fleet! Yeah, that’s right. While I still feel like I’m barely making it sometimes, I move in high-ish circles. El-oh-el.

I met Daniel first, through a mutual friend, at one of the music clubs we frequented. He was actually one of the eleven buddies that helped me restart this Christmas tradition. Later I learned that he selflessly shared his portion with the rest of the group during a rehearsal he went to right after he dropped by at my place, and that’s how I got invited to one of their semi-private dinners. Dan kindly introduced me as “Joni”, which earned me two “woos” and one ironic smirk. To be fair, I didn’t like it either. It actually made me cringe, because the woman is an unattainable role model, but it was just Daniel being himself, aka the nice guy. Bless his soul.

I went from an acquaintance with useful skills to a drinking buddy, because I’m good at that too. One of my less admirable strengths, but there are times when it comes in handy. Especially when a Johnny Depp wannabe from Middle-earth wants to outsmart you…

A year flew by and it was time to extend my offer to Sam and Josh, who made sure I wouldn’t forget them. Don’t ask me how. The video they sent me definitely had the potential to go viral. I wholeheartedly appreciate how much they trust me not to do that.

They wouldn’t stop there, though. I had to laugh when I received their own precious hand drawn contributions. How sweet. They’re all so sweet actually… well, all except Jake. Aloof, taciturn and arrogant, that’s how he rolls. I’m pretty sure he just can’t stand me, because while he often laughs with others, he only ever laughs at me. His opinion on my baking goes hand in hand with what he thinks about my playing, preferring darker and more spicy shit, as he once put it. Well, whatever. He’s a colossal prick.

It’s quite unfortunate that I’ve also had a colossal crush on him for quite some time now. As I said, I’m a vagabond chick, and he happens to possess all the right shit to lure me. Like a moth to a flame. And I got burned.

See, oma? Not working.

Well, I’m not the one to cry over guys, so I’m not going to lose my sleep over that. He can go fuck himself. (Someone else can do it. I swear he needs it.).

Seventeen packages meant I was going to spend most of the Friday evening as well as the whole Saturday slaving in my kitchen. Thankfully, I really do enjoy doing this, so it’s simply an essential part of Christmas festivities. A good time spent with me, myself and Ella Fitzgerald. It’s still quite a lot of work though.

Friday was just about making dough. It might seem easy, but you need to understand that in order to make enough cookies for 17 (!) people, I needed more than 5 lbs of flour, 3 lbs of butter, nearly 24 ounces of sugar, 23 egg yolks and zest from 6 lemons! I will say no more to protect the family secret, but you can see it takes a lot of effort just to put this all together. I take this very seriously. I don’t want to disappoint anyone.

It had to be perfect.

But alas! I couldn’t have known that one malicious and horny sprite who wanted me to spoil him with my art of baking was also going to sabotage my efforts in the most peculiar way.

Once finished, I covered the dough with plastic wrap and put it in the fridge to let it rest overnight before I hopped in the shower to wash off the sweaty sugar crust that seemed to stick to every inch of my exposed skin. It was almost midnight when I finally managed to climb in bed, pleasantly exhausted and happy, only to be woken up by a frantic doorbell noise at around two am. A normal person would just freak out in such a situation, but knowing who that might be, I was already pretty much used to it as I lived nearest to their favorite bar. Our favorite bar, to be precise.

Over time, they came to an agreement that my tiny apartment was a perfect place for nightcaps, the only problem being that the Kiszkas were usually quite loud about it, completely ignoring the fact that I had neighbors. Thankfully, this part of town is a bit specific in a sense that the said neighbors simply didn’t give a shit, with their own lifestyle not being much different.

This is what I wanted. Friends, late night laughs, my life filled with music and hugs and kisses and peculiar outcomes of unpredictable events that could only lead to more hugs and kisses.

There was this one time when Josh fell asleep on my couch while the others simply sneaked away giggling and left him there, spread-eagled and snoring his uvula off. Several hours later, I was woken up by the delicious smell of buttermilk waffles, served with maple syrup and a guilty, puppy dog stare.

Simply put, they were (almost) always welcome here. Almost…

Sober, sleepy and disoriented, I was definitely in no mood for a late night party (or an early morning one… seriously Josh, wtf!), with all the baking lying ahead of me. I didn’t even have to guess if it was really them; I could already hear them the moment my heart calmed down a bit and I stepped out of my bedroom. Determined to chase them away with a rolling pin, I answered the door angrily and was nearly knocked down by the falling Oliver Reed who obviously decided to lean against it the very moment I yanked it open.

It’s always intrigued me how the brain works in these situations, working so fast that the time seems to slow down to an almost comical pace. I watched in slow motion how his back slid against the wood, his arms flapping in the air in a futile attempt to regain balance. I could tell at the first fleeting glance that he wasn’t fit to keep his balance standing, let alone falling, so no wonder it was a completely lost cause. Some voice at the back of my skull tried to tell me to jump aside, but I was too mesmerized by the sight. Just when his shoulder hit me clumsily in the chest and I stumbled backwards, Josh finally managed to grab Jake’s arms to keep him from knocking me down completely. My rolling pin fell on the wooden floor with a loud bang that made my neighbor’s dog bark. Jake, now aggressively pinned against the corridor wall by Josh, only added to the ear-piercing nocturnal cacophony with his loud howls: “Whoa whooooa!”

“Shhh, shut the fuck up, Jake!” Josh hissed through his teeth before he turned his concerned stare back at me. “Y/N, sweetheart, terribly sorry hun! Didn’t mean too…” I could tell that he was tipsy as well, but it paled in comparison with the state Jake was in. I had seen him drunk many times before, with his glossy, beady eyes and unfocused stare that always made him look a bit like a teddy bear. This was new, though. He seemed absolutely plastered.

Out of the imminent danger, but with my heart still wildly pumping adrenaline-enriched blood into my veins, I grabbed the doorframe first to support myself before I tried to make sense of what was just happening in front of me.

They weren’t alone. Right behind Josh stood a guy whom I had seen a few times before, but I couldn’t recall his name. He looked slightly uncomfortable. “What the fuck, Josh!?!” I hissed.

Josh immediately tried to win me over with the most sheepish smile he could muster, but his involuntarily cocked eyebrow betrayed him, which only made me more furious. “Dearest Y/N, we need your help, baby!”

“With what? I asked incredulously.

“I need you to take care of my asshole brother, pretty pleeeease.”

“You what?” I goggled at him, completely taken aback by his impudent request. “Why can’t you just take him home?” Much to Jake’s annoyance, we kept discussing him and his imminent future as if he wasn’t even there, which only resulted in another outburst of his loud and incoherent babbling and our collective attempt to shush him before Josh answered.

“Because, I am not planning on going home, honey,” he whisper-shouted, hoping that I would just get it without him having to be too obvious. Yeah, I got it. It didn’t mean I was willing to help him. I looked at the guy again, who suddenly pretended to be very interested in the hallway lights. At that moment, the owner of the barking dog opened his own door to passionately inform us what we all were. I had no other choice than to hastily usher them all in.

“You can’t leave him here just like that? Are you out of your mind? Is this some kind of retribution for what he did the last time? Because it’s not funny. This is my home, and not a fucking sobering center! Just call him an uber,” I continued to protest once we were all safely inside my apartment, and that’s when Jake chimed in for the first time with something that made at least a bit of sense: “Yeah, ah-don’ wanna…,” he hiccupped before he could finish the sentence, making me even more incensed with the whole situation. He quickly tried to amend it, but it was too late. I was seething, my nostrils flaring. “...bother-er. Ah-don’ wanna bother-er! She’s…fierssshe!” he spat in Josh’s face, making him scrunch his face in disgust.

“Well, you should have thought about not bothering people before you got so shitfaced,” Josh spat back, completely ignoring what I just said. “This is your doing.”

What? I shot a deadly stare at Josh. No, it was absolutely not Jake’s doing that they were now standing in my living room. And regardless of the fact that I had work to do – and he knew that – he also knew how I felt about Jake, and was now putting me in a very uncomfortable position. “Out! All of you!”

I’m pretty sure I must have looked like Wrath personified, because Jake whoa’ed again and Josh seemed to finally acknowledge his misconduct. He grabbed my hands in his, suddenly looking like a meek puppy. “I’m sorry, babe. Don’t be mad, hun. I know this is too much to ask, but do this for a friend. I beg you…”

“No, I beg you Josh!” I tried to sound as calm and collected as possible through my gritted teeth, knowing that being just mad would get me nowhere. Josh was too stubborn to ever acknowledge someone else’s anger and boundaries meant nothing to him once you became his friend, which basically meant family. However, he was empathetic. “You know I have a lot of baking to do tomorrow. I’m tired. Just please, take him home.”

Josh bit his lip and he looked like he was trying to say something and NOT say it at the same time. It was late and I felt awfully tired, but the whole thing seemed a bit fishy to me. Just when Josh nodded and finally opened his mouth to respond, Jake grabbed his shoulder. “Ah need to pee, Jawshy boy,” he whined and swayed dangerously, pouting his lips at his twin brother. He was already in his teddy bear phase which meant that he indeed wasn’t fit to be sent home alone in an uber. He’d be knocked out in no time, and even if Josh went with him, he’d have a hard time just getting him out of the car.

Josh glanced sideways at the guy, who had been pretending to be invisible the whole time, and then looked at me pleadingly again. I capitulated. “OK, take that big baby to the bathroom and I’ll fetch some blankets,” I sighed.

Together, they helped Jake get comfy on the couch and he fell asleep before his head even touched the pillow. And me? I felt relieved when I finally closed the door behind them and everything became quiet again, disturbed only by Jake’s light snoring.

They were taking their time, so once I fixed the makeshift bed, it was just me and the guy standing in the middle of the room, waiting, and it was getting increasingly awkward with each passing second. “So, you’re Y/N,” he finally spoke.

“Yeah,” I answered curtly, confirming the obvious. “We’ve met.”

“But we weren’t properly introduced yet. I’m Martin.” I shook Martin’s hand politely without really wanting to, because I knew that if they were heading to his place instead of Josh’s, it probably meant that the chances I’d see Martin again were quite low. Yet another reason for me being annoyed.

I poured him a large glass of water, squeezed some fresh lemon juice into it and placed it carefully on a small table right next to his head before I switched off the light, leaving just a small table lamp on, and went back to my bed, hoping to spend the rest of the night in peace and get some much needed rest.

However, the fact that there was Jacob Kiszka, Sir, lying unconscious on my couch right outside my bedroom door, made it a bit difficult to fall back to sleep. I had never been in a situation like this and it made me feel unpleasantly agitated. I wasn’t afraid of him. I just didn’t trust my own feelings.

I should have been angry.

But I was not. Not exactly. Not anymore. My heart wasn’t beating wildly out of annoyance. Instead, I felt like a schoolgirl, trapped in an elevator with that annoying boy from music class who was also her crush. There were many conflicting feelings inside both my head and chest; and knowing that he probably wouldn’t remember how he ended up on my couch come morning only made it all worse.

I finally dozed off, but morning came sooner than I wished it would, and with it a headache. It felt like just a brief moment, filled with restless dreams about me and Jake dancing on the rooftop to Golden Slumbers playing out of nowhere, with sugar snowing down at us and our hands sticky with jam. Then he smeared some on my cheek and peppered it with kisses…

When I opened my eyes, the feeling still lingered, like powdered sugar on the top of my tongue. Soft and weightless like snowflakes, yet it lay heavily on my chest. Together with the lack of rest, it made me feel almost hungover-ish. I lied unmoving for a while, listening to the silence that surrounded me and wondering whether he was still there. Maybe he already woke up earlier and quickly sneaked out after realizing where he was.

It was unlikely, but I could hardly ever control these self-deprecating thoughts. Especially regarding men. I cursed Josh once again and decided to take a quick cold shower to wake up my senses.

It helped only just a bit. Refreshed, I opened my bedroom door carefully and peaked inside the living room. He was still there, and fast asleep. Slowly, I creeped up on him on my tiptoes, and then spent several long seconds just watching him sleep, before I started to feel like a complete lunatic. But… he looked so peaceful and almost angelic in the milky morning light, lying on his side with his hands folded under his chin, his lips parted and brows relaxed. The glass was empty, and I couldn’t help but smile involuntarily. Once there was a way to get back homeward…

Then I remembered that this was no domestic idyl. I just had a drunk rock guitarist on my couch, and – let’s be brutally honest here – once I got past that dreamy visual illusion, a strong olfactory reminder of this much more prosaic reality hit my nostrils.

I also had several large chunks of dough in the fridge and a debilitating headache that almost made me question all my life choices.

No, it didn’t.

But all those things had to be taken care of and I had no idea how. I tried to be as quiet as a mouse at first, but after realizing that it could take at least a couple more hours before he’d wake up, maybe even half a day – the time that I couldn’t afford to waste – I took Josh’s previous advice and decided to just ignore him.

I really needed coffee… to get the stupid dream, and the song, and all my delusions out of my head. Did I forget that he was also a big-headed asshole? Yeah, that’s the spirit.

It turned out that my worries were groundless anyway. I could make as much noise as possible in my adjacent kitchenette and he wouldn’t even stir. The motherfucker really seemed to be losing his hearing from standing in front of those huge amplifiers and the malicious creature inside my chest chuckled at the thought.

I took the dough out of the fridge and let it soften at room temperature while I made myself some coffee and started to get everything ready. Clanking of baking sheets, coffee grinder, squeaking cabinet doors…nothing seemed to disturb my sleeping beauty. I kept casting wary glances at him every now and then at first, but soon I got accustomed to the unusual situation and just immersed myself in my work.

I had my very elaborate system. I could fit twenty cut pieces – meaning ten cookies – on one sheet, there was roughly enough dough for approximately thirty sheets, it takes ten minutes to bake AND I had only four sheets. You can see I had to be very systematic. Preparation is the key and every minor disturbance could be disastrous. Thankfully, I’m a master multitasker. Still, I prayed to all the known and yet to be made-up deities that nothing would happen. No more surprises, please and thank you.

A few hours passed and the delicious aroma of lemon and vanilla started to fill the room. I was also sweating like a pig, rolling and cutting the dough in haste, always making sure I had enough sheets ready so that there would be no idle time. Focused on the task ahead, I didn’t hear him stir, and my heart jumped in my throat when I finally looked up and saw those beady eyes watching me intently.

I tried to keep my cool, looking down again quickly. “Well, good morning,” I mumbled. It was almost midday.

“Morning, Y/N…,” he choked out huskily and finally tried to stand up, which only resulted in him groaning in pain and slumping back immediately. Oh yeah, consequences…

“Do you remember how you got here?” I asked tentatively.

“I wish I could say I do, but to be honest, I’ve no idea,” he breathed out with his eyes closed. “I was just hanging out with Josh and the next thing I know I’m lying on your couch at blue hour, feeling half dead.” He finally opened at least one eye, just enough to be able to see me.

I nodded and continued cutting the dough. I wasn’t going to make it any easier for him. The timer just chimed and I had to switch the sheets anyway.

“So?”

Did I just hear annoyance and impatience in his voice? Oh yeah, a hungover asshole is still an asshole. It shouldn’t have surprised me. “What?” I spat back over my shoulder.

“Care to explain what the fuck I’m doing here?”

I don’t understand how he always managed to just smash all my buttons with one single blow, and once again he made me see red. I literally threw the next sheet in the oven and slammed the door shut with a loud bang before I turned around and lashed out at him.

“Oh I wish I knew the answer. Be so kind and ask your precious brother who literally just pushed you through my door in the middle of the night, half-conscious and reeking of whisky, because he wanted to get laid. You’re welcome! Fucker…”

He blinked a few times, obviously taken aback.

“I’m sorry Y/N.” The tone of his voice changed and for a split second I almost regretted my curtness. Almost. “Just let me call an uber and I’ll be out of here in no time,” he mumbled, checking his pocket, while I watched him struggle with secret satisfaction. That headache must have been hellish. Good. At least I wasn’t the only one.

He suddenly frowned and started rummaging in all his pockets frantically, including the jacket haphazardly thrown over the armrest. “Where the hell is my phone… and my valet… and my fucking keys. Y/N…did you take my stuff?”

“What? No! The last thing I’d wanna do would be to prevent you from leaving.”

We were watching each other warily, both equally confused. Then it dawned on him. “I’m gonna kill that scrawny little bastard!” Straightening up, he closed his eyes and tried to take a deep breath in a futile attempt to fight off his growing nausea as well as the rage that made his nostrils flare.

My anger dissipated in an instant… or, to be more precise, it was instantly redirected towards his twin. “I don’t understand. Why would he do that? He knows how busy I am today,” I whined.

Jake didn’t respond. Instead, he asked for my phone. I quickly dialed Josh’s number and handed it to Jake, because the timer chimed again.

It went straight to voicemail.

As I was stacking freshly baked pieces on a tray placed on the small kitchen island which also served as my dining table, Jake leaned against it right opposite to me, looking absolutely miserable. “What now?”

Am I their mother or what? I couldn’t drive him, but even if I did, he still didn’t have his keys. I couldn’t even call him an uber to Josh’s, because I knew that scrawny little bastard wasn’t there. It became obvious that Jake was stuck with me for at least another couple hours. He kept watching, obviously still waiting for me to say something, but I didn’t answer. Instead, I just sighed and grabbed the rolling pin again, aggravated with both of them and feeling like their hostage, stuck in the middle of their infantile games. The time was ticking, with my perfectly planned schedule already disrupted.

“Let me at least help you,” he looked at me hopefully with those puppy eyes they both shared. Fuckers. Seriously. Quirks of the mischievous nature that at one point decided that one of them wasn’t enough.

“I think you should take a shower first.”

It was a deliberate jab, and I expected him to retort back just like he always did. I did NOT expect him to widen his eyes in genuine horror. “Is it that bad?”

I didn’t dare answer that question but my face betrayed me when I looked at him sideways and bit my lip. He grabbed the collar of his shirt and took one tentative whiff. “Oh my god, it is. I think I need more than a shower, actually. I smell as if I slept in a puddle of beer.”

I immediately regretted that I let him sleep on my couch, but he looked completely bashful and embarrassed and my previous unwillingness to continue helping him was already in shambles.

“Ok,” I sighed and put down the cookie cutter. “Come with me. I have some spare sweatpants. Thankfully, my ass is just as big as yours, but it might be a bit too tight around the waist…”

“Excuse me?” he protested, but otherwise obediently followed me into my bedroom.

“You’re right. My mistake. Yours is bigger,” I chuckled at my own joke while rummaging in my drawer, before throwing him a pair of my favorite grey sweatpants, an old, oversize flannel shirt and a clean towel. “Everything else you might need is in the bathroom. The washing machine’s down in the basement.”

“Thank you. Uummm…do you, perhaps, have a spare toothbrush? For friends... and such?” He smiled cheekily, testing my patience once again. But to be fair, he couldn’t have known that there was a shortage of “and such” people ever since I met him, because I just wasn’t interested in anyone else for a while now.

“Yeah, there’s a couple of them in the purple cabi… oh fuck!” I quickly excused myself, alarmed by the smell of something burning, because I forgot to set the timer…

Too busy trying to stave off the impending disaster in my kitchen, I barely noticed him sneaking around me on his way down to the basement. So, when he knocked on the door a moment later and I answered it, the sight in front of me threw me completely off-guard. Being no stranger to Jake’s exposed chest, there was a strange sense of novelty in seeing him in my own unbuttoned shirt. Paul started singing inside my head again, but only until my eyes involuntarily slid further down, putting the song to an abrupt stop, just like a torn magnetic tape.

I was right about the waist being too tight, which meant he had it pulled down well below his navel, and seeing his happy trail made me scream internally.

And to top it all off, he still had the towel wrapped around his head.

I was not prepared for the feral reaction he suddenly elicited deep inside my body, and I’m sure he noticed, judging by the cocky half-smile that followed. I quickly turned away before I would compromise myself further.

“I made you some coffee,” I nodded towards the steaming cup waiting for him on the counter, while still not daring to look directly at him again. “... and there are some popsicles in the freezer.”

“Thank yo… popsicles?!?” I might as well have suggested cotton candy, judging by the look he gave me, making me feel like an idiot, so I quickly explained: “Yeah, they’re perfect when you wanna get rid of a hangover. Orange’s my favorite.” I still felt like an idiot.

“I’m feeling better now.” His tone was kind and friendly, for which I was grateful, and I could hear him smiling, with my eyes still fixed on the small yellow circles in front of me. “I think I’m getting a bit hungry, though.”

“I’m not cooking anything now, Jake!” I placed the last little yellow circle on the sheet with care, before I started kneading another chunk of dough frantically.

“No, I didn’t mea…”

“There’s instant ramen on the top shelf.”

“Jesus Christ.”

“Yeah, whatever.”

“What are YOU going to eat, Y/N?”

“I don’t have time for such luxuries right now…”

“Y/N!” He was leaning against the counter desk right in front of me again. I hadn’t even noticed him sneaking so close again, so his sudden exclamation made me jump. “You have to eat something. Look, your hands are shaking.”

Yeah, no shit. But I’m not exactly hungry. There was a huge lump in my stomach, making it quite full. I was getting lost in the sea of my conflicting feelings again when all of the sudden, he put an abrupt stop to it like a fierce wave that sent me crashing on the shore, as he lifted my chin up gently with his index and middle finger. “Look at me, Y/N. I am going to fix us a quick lunch, ok?”

“Ok…,” I peeped meekly.

Jake just nodded, bound his damp, uncombed hair in a makeshift low bun with the band he always wore on one his fingers just in case, and started rummaging in my fridge. “Allrighty then! What do we have here…,” he crooned cheerfully.

And just like that, Paul was back… lalalalala.

To be continued...

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