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suguwu · 5 months

Text

christmas countdown

Your company is taking on a new project and desperately wants the backing and expertise of retired CEO Jing Yuan. Dispatched out into the countryside to bring him on board, you find it won't be as easy as you think.

Jing Yuan strikes a bargain with you: spend the upcoming days with him, until Christmas Eve, and he'll tell you exactly what it will take for him to come back if you don't figure it out yourself.

Let the Christmas countdown begin.

MINORS AND AGELESS BLOGS DNI.

pairing: jing yuan x gn!reader

word count: 16k (whoops)

notes: this came about through dms with my beloveds @petrichorium and @lorelune! they both were invaluable, and lore also was kind enough to beta for me, along with another friend. this fic feels like it possessed me; i wrote it in just over a week.

fic notes: hallmark au, gn!reader (they/them pronouns), jing yuan is taller than the reader, age gap (jing yuan is in his early 50s, reader is in their late 30s), this is mostly just fluff.

divider by @/cafekitsune.

“I’m sorry, Mom.”

“This is the third Christmas you’re missing,” she says, voice thickening, and you can almost see the way her eyes are going glassy with tears, shining beautifully in the light.

“I know. But this project is huge and I’m so close to the promotion—”

“You’ve been saying that for years.”

“This is different. The CEO herself asked for me,” you say with a sigh.

“When would you leave?”

“I leave tomorrow.”

“That’s almost a week until Christmas! Maybe you’ll get back in time! Or maybe it can wait until the new year?”

“No, Mom. The project is waiting on getting this person on board, it can’t wait that much longer. It’s just Christmas, I don’t see why this is such a big deal.”

“It’s time with your family,” she snaps, the words shattering at the edges, honed keen with hurt.

“I’m sorry. Next year, okay?”

“That’s what you said last year.”

“Mom.”

“Fine. But think about it, please. We miss you.”

You sigh. “I miss you guys too.”

The conversation continues on from there; she tells you that your father has taken up gardening, renting out a space in a greenhouse nearby, coaxing it into a full lushness that has him coming home flecked with flower petals. He’s already plotting out a vegetable garden come spring.

You listen as she chatters away, throwing in the occasional “uh-huh” as you scroll through your emails, typing as quietly as you can. You pause as she goes silent.

“Mom?”

“Are you working right now?”

You wince. “I just had a few emails—”

The line goes so quiet that you reach for your phone to see if your earbuds have disconnected. They haven't. Your stomach roils.

“Mom?”

“We’ll talk later, then,” your mother says, and the pit in your stomach grows at the sorrow threading through her voice. “Good night.”

You hesitate. Then your email pings again.

“Night, Mom.”

She hangs up, and the click of the line sounds like a dour bell, but it’s chased from your mind by the bright chirp of your email. You settle back down with your laptop, digging into work once more.

When you finally glance up from your laptop screen hours later, your eyes stinging, you realize it’s snowing.

In the orange glow of the streetlights, the flakes look like embers flickering through the sky, like the sparks of a bonfire on a summer’s eve. It’ll be stomped into slush tomorrow, trodden under so many boots, but for now the snow dances through the air, a ballet all its own.

It muffles the world, blanketing your apartment in oppressive quiet, and not for the first time you feel small in your own home. You shiver. The high ceilings of your apartment feel like a gaping maw, arching and empty.

You shift uneasily and turn on a soft lofi playlist despite the headache that’s settled in at your temples. It fills the air, creeps all the way to the empty corners of your apartment and softens them with sound.

You let out a gentle breath. Still, something cold uncurls behind your ribs, sinks its teeth into bone until it hits marrow. You pick up your phone, swiping up to your messages with your best friend, and you’re halfway through typing out a message before you catch yourself. A quick glance at the clock makes you wince. Your phone thunks against the table as you toss it down.

It’s late and she has a new baby—she needs as much sleep as she can get. You can’t disturb her, not for something as silly as this. You scrub a hand over your face and get to your feet.

It’s quiet as you get ready for bed, even the soft music doing little to soothe you. You turn on every lamp in your bedroom, flood the room with light, until it’s as if the sun has risen and is cradling you in its warmth. You keep them on until the last moment, flicking them off only when you’re tucked in bed.

That cold thing stays with its fangs sunk in until you fall asleep.

***

The airport is nearly deserted by the time you land.

It’s late, night blanketing the terminal, held at bay only by the light pollution of the airport. Your shoes click against the linoleum as you hurry through the empty hallways, eager to be done with your exhausting day of travel.

The taxi driver that heaves your suitcase into the trunk is talkative, but you’re too busy checking your phone, flicking through the emails that poured in while you were in the air. The car rumbles to life beneath you as you pull up an attachment, scanning over the analysis quickly, scratching out a few notes on a scrap piece of paper you’ve pulled from your bag. The countryside rolls by as you work, pitch black except for a few lit windows from passing houses, little lighthouses in the deep sea of the night.

“Here we are,” the taxi driver says cheerfully, killing the engine in front of the inn.

It’s clearly old but well-maintained, a piece of the past caught in the resin of time. There are fake candles guttering in each window. The wreath on the door is almost as big as the door itself, dotted with lights that twinkle like little silver stars and topped off with a perfect crimson bow.

“Thanks,” you say to the driver, trading a tip for your suitcase before heading up the steps of the inn. The scent of pine wafts around you; you step inside before it can stick to your clothes.

“Hi,” you say to the receptionist, who puts down her magazine. “I’m here to check in.”

“Name?”

You tell her. She nods and you check your phone again as she checks you in. Luckily, it doesn’t take long, because the long day is beginning to weigh on you, an ache deep in your bones.

“Let us know if there’s anything you need,” the receptionist says.

“Thanks.”

You pay little attention to the room, simply stowing your suitcase before pulling your laptop from your carry-on bag. There’s a small desk that you settle at; your laptop screen glows brightly as you open it. The world blurs, smears like a watercolor. You blink the fuzziness away to answer a few more emails.

A few turns into many, catching up on all of your current projects now that you have another project to take care of. The headache that slowly blooms is familiar; it lingers behind your left eye, throbbing like a wound. It’s what finally gets you to set down your laptop for the night. It’s late enough that when you peer out the window while getting ready for bed, even the stars seem to have gone cold, twinkling faintly.

By the time you crawl into bed, you don’t even want to look at the clock. Still, you see it when you set your alarm, and you wince. You only have a few hours before it goes off. You curse yourself and roll over to finally, finally go to sleep.

Tomorrow comes too quickly. You wake with the sun, before your alarm, watery light pouring into your room, pooling in soft gold puddles on the floor. It catches on the prism dangling from the window, throwing rainbows against the walls, a whirling ballet of color.

You make a mental note to close the curtains tonight. You hadn’t even realized they were open, with how dark the countryside is around the inn, far too used to the ambient light of the city. When you peer out the window, all you see is woods framing a large, clear space still dusted with snow.

In daylight the inn is even more quaint, brimming with Christmas decor: with thick garlands draped over the doorway arches, weighted down with golden ornaments that catch the light, sending it flickering like the flames roaring in the fireplace. Sprigs of holly are tucked among the garlands too, little fireworks of color. Add in the mounds of fake snow lining a sprawling ceramic village and it’s a picture-perfect display. You trace a finger over the tiny wreath on the village bakery’s door.

“Mornin’,” someone says behind you, a deep rumble of a voice, shaking through you like thunder splitting the sky. You turn around and find a man beaming at you.

“Good morning,” you say.

“Looking for breakfast? It’s in the dining room, right through there.”

“I was really just looking for coffee.”

“That’s in the dining room too,” he says. “I’m Lee. I own the inn with my husband.”

“Oh,” you say. “That’s nice. It’s lovely. I’m sorry, though, I really have to get to work.”

He raises a brow. There’s a whole conversation in that brow, you think. One you’re not interested in having.

You give him a tight smile. “Excuse me,” you say. “That coffee is calling me.”

“Sure,” he says. “Let me know if you need anything.”

“Thanks.”

You trade nods with a few other guests as you get your coffee, but you’re in and out of the loud dining room in a matter of minutes. Your room, foreign as it is to you still, is a welcome respite from the chatter that fills the inn.

The coffee is good. It’s rich and nutty, the warmth of it warding off the slight chill that lingers in the room from the large windows. You try to peer out one of them but it’s whorled with frost, ice spun over the glass like embroidery, just opaque enough to let in the light.

You settle back down at the little desk and boot up your laptop. Your inbox has slowly filled up again, and you’re starting to work through it when your boss slacks you.

Qingzu: You’re off your regular projects for now.

Me: ??? I’m almost done with the analysis.

Qingzu: Fu Xuan wants you to concentrate on bringing Jing Yuan on board. I’ll delegate your usual tasks.

You wince. Your coworkers are going to hate you.

Me: I can still do the analysis at least.

Qingzu: What the CEO says goes. Focus on the job she gave you.

Qingzu: Also it looks like the address we have on file for Jing Yuan is outdated.

Qingzu: You might need to do a little searching.

Me: Okay.

You sigh, scrubbing your hands over your face before exiting out of your email. Not for the first time, you wonder why Fu Xuan didn’t reach out to Jing Yuan herself, considering she’d succeeded him at Luofu Corp. You’re not sure how negotiation from a stranger is the better option. And it would certainly have made your life easier.

At least she’s given you a profile on him. The picture is unnecessary considering how many magazine covers the man has graced, but it’s there, and you won’t say no to looking at a pretty face. Even in his official picture, there’s a small, lazy smile on his face. He looks half-asleep, but his golden eyes are knife-sharp.

A tactician's mind, Fu Xuan said, and you believe it.

You read through the profile carefully, taking in details large and small, trying to get a sense of the man you’re supposed to lure out of retirement. He’d retired early, barely into his fifties, and he’d only picked up a handful of projects in the last two years since, mostly charity work. You sigh, deeply jealous, and read on.

The profile isn’t particularly helpful; to be honest, you hadn’t expected it to be. You’ll need to meet him and gauge him for yourself to see what the best avenue is.

You shrug on your coat before leaving the room, slipping past a ragtag group of children. They’re led by a little girl in a hat bigger than her head, the fuzzy flaps of it bouncing as she scuttles down the hallway, her face shining triumphantly, a mug of hot cocoa carefully balanced in her hands.

You hesitate at the bottom of the stairs, glancing between the door and the front desk. You sigh and head towards the front desk. Lee smiles at you.

“Whatcha need?” he asks.

“I’m looking for someone in town,” you say. “I was hoping you could direct me to them.”

“Sure. Who is it?”

“Jing Yuan.”

His smile shatters at the edges, a slowly spreading crack. He leans back on his heels and eyes you up and down.

“You a reporter?”

“No.”

He nods to himself. “Should have known. You look a little too corporate for that.”

You smooth down your coat self-consciously. Maybe you should have brought some more casual clothing for this trip.

“Can you tell me where he is?” you ask.

“He’s not interested.”

“What?”

Lee shrugs, rocking back on his heels again. You think of a great pine tree swaying in the wind, bending, never breaking. “Whatever you want him for, he’s not interested.”

“How about he tells me that himself?”

“I’m sure he will,” he says. “If you can find him.”

“Which I assume you aren’t going to help with.”

“Sorry.”

You roll your eyes and stalk towards the door, wrenching it open and fleeing into the outdoors. The sun is shining but the air is frigid, the type of cold that sinks right through clothing and into your marrow. You shudder and pull up the collar of your coat to try and block the worst of the chill as you walk towards downtown.

It’s an easy walk; you find yourself in the heart of downtown in just a few minutes. It’s just as quaint as the inn, the lampposts lining the street decorated with wreaths faintly dusted with pristine snow. You glance up at the lights strung between buildings, shimmering like the icicles they’re mimicking.

It’s pretty, you suppose. You think people would flock here if they knew about it. Still, despite how small the town is, the streets are filled with people, some of them shouting greetings back and forth.

You duck into the crowds and weave your way through them carefully, pausing just before a cafe. A thought occurs to you as you take a quick peek through the frosted window. You peel off your gloves, holding them in your hand as you step into Auntie’s.

“Excuse me,” you say as one of the waitresses comes over to you, a tray balanced against her hip. “A man dropped these a block back and I thought I saw him come in here. I was hoping to return them. He was tall and had long white hair that he was wearing tied back. I think it was with a red ribbon.”

“Sounds like Jing Yuan,” she says. “You sure paid close attention to him.”

You cough, fidgeting with the leather gloves and she laughs. “Most people do,” she reassures you. You flash her a small, embarrassed smile. “He’s hard to miss, handsome as he is. I can give them to him next time I see him.”

“That’s okay,” you say. “If you know where he is, I don’t mind bringing them to him. I’m just enjoying wandering around town.”

Her eyes narrow; ice seeps into them, the slow creep of the first frost. Her grip tightens on the tray.

You blink at her guilelessly, trying not to hold your breath.

Her shoulders uncoil. “Sorry,” she says. “It’s just—nevermind. I haven’t seen him today. I’d check along Aurum. That’s the main street. If you don’t find him, you can come back here and I’ll give ‘em to him.”

“I’ll just check a few more shops,” you tell her. “I’m on the lookout for Christmas presents, anyway.”

“Cutting it close, aren’t you?”

“I know, I know,” you say. “I’m so bad about it. Thank you!”

“Bye.”

You hurry out the door, flexing your fingers against the cold as you keep your gloves in your hands. The second and third store yield the same results; the fourth shop is a bust too. The locals are more protective of Jing Yuan than you’d thought. You get a suspicious look every time you describe him, and that’s without even mentioning his name.

You step outside the fourth shop with a huff. At this point, you’re worried that someone is going to insist on keeping the gloves. There’s only so many times you can spin the same story before it bites you in the ass. Plus, your hands are freezing; the sunlight is doing little to warm the day despite the rays bathing half the street gold.

One more store, you think. Just one more.

You groan when you see the next store is a bustling toy shop. Children tug at their parents’ hands and smudge their noses up against the windows with gap-toothed grins. They spill out of the entrance like little ants, almost tripping over themselves as they babble excitedly to their companions. They part around you like flowing water as you make your way inside.

“Excuse me,” you say to the first person wearing a nametag that you see, holding out the gloves. “A man dropped these a few blocks back. I tried to catch up but couldn’t, but I thought I saw him duck in here. Have you seen a tall man with white hair tied up with a red ribbon?”

“Funny,” a rich voice says from behind you. “I don’t think those would fit me.”

You freeze.

The man peers down over your shoulder; a few strands of fluffy white hair brush against you as he examines the gloves you’re holding. He tugs one free of your slackened grip and holds it up against his hand, which dwarfs the glove. His low hum resonates through you, a honeyed drip of sound, soft and warm.

“A little small, don’t you think?” he asks.

You turn around.

Jing Yuan smiles at you, his eyes crinkling with it. There’s a wicked amusement tucked up secret in the corner of his full lips; you try not to scowl.

You see why Fu Xuan called him a scoundrel.

Still, there’s no way out of this. “It seemed like a good idea at the time,” you say with a shrug. “And I did find you, so.”

He chuckles. “That you did.”

“I—”

“Uncle!”

You blink as a blond blur zips past you and almost crashes into Jing Yuan. The blur turns out to be a young boy—no older than twelve—carrying a sizable sword. It’s almost as big as he is.

“Uncle,” he says again, tugging at Jing Yuan’s sleeve. “Look what I found!”

“It’s a very nice sword, Yanqing,” Jing Yuan says, his smile softening. “But let’s wait and see what Christmas brings, hmm?”

Yanqing pouts for a moment before he glances at you. You realize he shares his uncle’s eyes, as golden as the sun. He blinks. “Are you another reporter?”

Jing Yuan leans down to be closer to his height. “Worse,” he whispers. “They’re corporate.”

The boy wrinkles his nose.

Jing Yuan’s smile threatens to turn into a grin. “Go put the sword back, please,” he tells Yanqing, and you watch him dart off again.

“Could I—”

“I’m afraid I’m busy,” Jing Yuan says. “And you may have heard that I retired.”

“I know, but—”

“Business has no place in a toy shop, you know.”

“That’s not what the toy seller would say.”

He tilts his head, a sliver of a smile unfurling on his lips. “I suppose so,” he says thoughtfully. “Either way, I am busy.”

“Fu Xuan sent me,” you try.

He sighs. “Yes, I had assumed.”

“If I could just get a bit of your time—”

“Not now,” Jing Yuan says. “I’m with my family.”

“But at some point?”

“You’re at the inn, yes?”

“I am.”

“I’ll come find you tomorrow. Does that work?”

“Really?” you say and cough as he smiles, golden eyes twinkling like the ornaments decorating the toy shop. “I mean, that works. Here, here’s my card.”

He takes it; it looks tiny in his hand. He says your name, rolling it over his tongue like he’s tasting it, like it’s something to be savored. Your cheeks heat. A small smile plays across his lips.

“Tomorrow, then,” you say.

He nods, his white hair swaying with it, like dandelion seeds caught on the wind. “Tomorrow. Come on, Yanqing.”

You start as the boy goes past you like a little darting fish, settling at his uncle’s side and tugging on his sleeve. “Can we go to the smithy?” he asks as the two of them turn to leave. “Please?”

Jing Yuan laughs, the sound rich, spilling over you like smooth chocolate. “Just to look,” he says, and they’re almost out the door when you realize—

“Wait!” you call out. “You still have my glove!”

Jing Yuan pauses and glances back, one golden eye rising like the sun over the mountain range of his shoulders. “Oh?” he asks, raising a brow. “I thought you said it was mine?”

Behind you, the employee stifles a laugh. Your cheeks burn. “I—”

He chuckles. “Here,” he says, handing it back. “I’d hate for you to be cold.”

Then he and Yanging are out the door, leaving you standing in the middle of the bustling toy shop. You clutch at your glove; it’s still warm from his hand, like the soft heat that lingers in the hearth stones long after the fire has gone out.

It occurs to you that you may be in over your head.

***

The feeling doesn’t go away the next day.

“Where exactly are we going?”

Jing Yuan flashes you a smile; the edges of it curl into something smug. He’d called early and met you at the inn, coaxing you into putting your coffee in a to-go cup before shuffling you out the door with no real explanation. “Christmas tree shopping.”

“Christmas tr—I thought we were going to talk about the project!”

“We are,” he says easily, pulling into a gravel parking lot surrounded by towering, barren oaks. In the distance, you can see a grid of pines, laid out like an embroidery pattern. “But it’s Christmas.”

“It’s five days away.”

“That’s basically Christmas,” he says cheerfully. He slides from the pickup with feline grace, the flex of his thighs obvious even under the thick denim of his jeans. You stay put in the passenger seat. He raises a brow. “You don’t want to talk?”

That sends you scrambling for the passenger door.

Jing Yuan doesn’t bother to hide the little smile that blooms on his lips, an unfurling flower. You scowl at him as you join him next to the pickup; it has no effect.

“Shall we?” he asks.

You huff and follow him onto the tree lot. He clearly knows where he’s going, weaving through the pines with a dancer’s ease despite his size. You stop at a row of sizable trees, their blue-green needles rustling in the wind. They’re dusted in the lightest layer of snow, like frosting sugar has been sifted over them.

You’re searching for the words to start your pitch when he hums.

“What do you think of this one?” he asks, testing the thick branches of a plush pine, watching critically as needles scatter everywhere. It releases a waft of the sharp tang of pine.

“It’s a tree.”

“Noted,” Jing Yuan says dryly. “Thank you for your input.”

“I don’t understand why I’m here,” you tell him as he moves on to the next tree. “I thought we would go to your office.”

“I don’t have an office,” he says. “And the rec center needs a Christmas tree.”

“That doesn’t explain anything.”

He glances at you. His eyes are the color of amber shot through with sunlight, a deep, rich gold. His gaze is knife-edged, a flaying thing, and it sinks beneath your skin to open you on its blade. You fidget with your sleeve.

When he smiles, it’s soft and maybe a little sad. He doesn’t say anything; he just hums again and moves to the next tree.

“Jing Yuan!”

“Keep moving,” he says. “We have to deliver the tree too, you know.”

“We have to what?”

He laughs, loud and bright. “You heard me,” he says cheerfully. “Now come on.”

You follow him through the rows, giving him clipped answers when he asks your opinion about a tree. Finally, after several more trees—that all looked the same to you, tall and full of pine needles—he finds one that he’s pleased with.

He tells you to wait with the tree and disappears down the row.

When he comes back, he has an ax.

“Um,” you say.

“Hm? Oh. It’s fine,” he says, resting the ax nearby as he ties his hair up into a high ponytail.

“Is it?”

He hefts the ax up and motions you back before swinging. He strikes true, the trunk starting to splinter under the hit, and the next one is in the exact same spot. The tree groans in protest, but Jing Yuan doesn’t pause. His powerful shoulders bunch and flex as he keeps the ax in motion with ease, though he’s beginning to pant a bit by the time he’s halfway through the trunk. Sweat glints on his brow; it dampens the edges of his hair, darkening it to the silver of the moon.

He swings the ax again, his biceps bulging, and a crack splits the air. The tree starts to topple, falling into its neighbor, which keeps it mostly upright. Jing Yuan wipes his brow, chest heaving, and belatedly, you realize you’re staring.

Behind you, there’s the crunch of pine needles under boots. Two men wearing name tags stride by you and clap Jing Yuan on the shoulder. They confer with him for a moment before they pick up the tree and start carrying it back towards the parking lot.

“There,” Jing Yuan says, sounding satisfied. “We can go now.”

“Do you often just…cut down trees?”

“Only at Christmas.”

You snort. He chuckles before gesturing you back to the parking lot. You head back and come up to the pickup just as the two men finish tying off the tree in the bed of the truck. Jing Yuan gives them firm handshakes; you pretend not to notice just how much cash is transferred between their palms.

The two of you climb back into the truck. You have to move your briefcase in order to sit comfortably and the sight of it sets you back on track.

“You said we’d talk about the project,” you accuse.

“You didn’t say anything,” he says, putting the truck into gear. “So there wasn’t anything to talk about.”

You scowl at him. He pulls out of the parking lot; the truck trundles down the road.

“Insufferable,” you mutter, but from the way the corner of his lips lift, he’s heard it.

Quiet falls. The radio is crooning a soft Christmas song, but it’s faint, like an echo of the past. The heater is on, and the truck’s cab is soft with warmth, like sinking into bathwater after a long day. You lean against the window. Your breath fogs over the glass, a marine layer, and you resist the urge to draw something in the mist.

The rec center isn’t far; you pull up to it just a few minutes later. Your phone rings just as Jing Yuan hops out of the truck.

“I need to take this,” you tell him. “It’s work.”

He hums, something flashing across his face. It’s gone quickly, rolling by like a summer storm, and you’re already picking up the phone, your coworker’s harried voice filling your ears.

The phone call takes a while. At one point, the truck rattles around you—a quick glance in the rearview shows a group of teen boys pulling the tree free from the truck bed, leaving a sea of needles in their wake, a forest floor brought home. Their laughter fills the air, audible even through your earbuds. You turn up the volume.

Jing Yuan shows back up just as you’re finishing your call. There’s silvery tinsel woven into his hair, barely visible except when it catches the sunlight, a lightning strike gleam. “You must be cold,” he tells you. “Come inside.”

You shake your head. “I need to go back to the inn,” you say. “I have a project that just went sideways.”

He sighs. “As you wish,” he says, and climbs back into the truck.

You flick through your phone as he drives back to the inn, answering emails and trying your best to put out the embers of the fire that had sprung up on your project. When you reach the last one, you click your phone off and glance at Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye.

The cold wind has nipped at his cheeks until roses bloom on his pale skin. The tinsel in his white hair shines, the full moon draped in ribbons of silvery shooting stars, and he’s beautiful in an untouchable way, a statue come to life.

Except—there’s a small, lopsided smile tucked up secret in the corner of his lips. It sweetens his mouth and adds a puckish curve; it makes him real again. It’s a contentment that you didn’t know existed, a quiet happiness that radiates from him.

Something in your chest goes tight.

You clear your throat. He glances over at you, that tiny smile fading into something more polished.

“Something to share?”

“The project.”

“Ah,” he says. “That.”

“Yes, that.”

“I suppose you have me trapped, don’t you.”

“For as long as the car ride,” you agree.

“Go on, then.”

You give him a basic overview, sweeping over the vast lay of the project, upselling things you’ll think he’ll care about while cutting out a few of the things you think he won’t. It’s hard to tell how it’s landing; you’re slowly realizing that Jing Yuan is a hard man to read. You suppose it makes sense, considering his years at the highest level in corporate, but it feels odd.

“I can see why Fu Xuan wants me on board,” he says as he pulls into the inn’s driveway. “And it is the type of project that appeals to me, which she knows.”

You let out a soft breath. “I don’t suppose that means you’ll come on board?”

He parks. “No,” he says.

You sigh. “I thought not. What would it take for you to come on board?”

“Don’t you think it’d be more fun to find that out yourself?”

You scowl at him, ignoring the way the corners of his lips lift.

“No.”

Jing Yuan glances at you, his eyes gleaming, the sun come down to earth.“I'll tell you what,” he says. “Spend up until Christmas Eve with me. You can talk to me about the project until then. And if you haven’t figured it out by then, I’ll tell you exactly what will get me onto the project.”

You eye him suspiciously. “Really?”

“Really.”

“Deal,” you say, sticking out your hand. He shakes it, his grip firm. You can feel the heat of him even through your gloves. It’s soft like the early spring sun, a gentle warmth that blooms through you.

“Not that I mind, but I will need my hand back.”

You let go immediately, snatching your hand back like you’ve been burned.

Jing Yuan smiles at you, eyes crinkling.

“I have to go,” you say, scrambling for your briefcase. You think you hear him chuckle under his breath as you pop the door open. You don’t even say goodbye; you slam the door shut before striding off towards the inn, pretending your dignity isn’t lying in pieces.

At the inn’s door, you can’t help yourself. You glance back.

Jing Yuan smiles and gives you a little wave.

Your cheeks go hot, a supernova burn. You retreat into the inn quickly.

Lee calls out a greeting, but you ignore him and rush to your room. You curse Jing Yuan’s name as you boot your laptop up. Your cheeks are still warm. You scrub your hands over them as if that will help.

Your email pings. With a sigh, you scrub at your heated cheeks one more time before you delve into your inbox.

The rest of the day passes in a blur of phone calls and emails; by the time you look up, stomach grumbling, the sun has set, leaving behind only its reflection in the moon to lead the way. You push back from the desk and rub at your stinging eyes.

When you go downstairs to grab something to eat, the inn’s lounge is full of people. You balk, unsure, but your stomach rumbles again. You make yourself a plate and sit down at the edge of one of the crowded tables, picking away at the food as laughter fills the air around you.

There’s a couple at the other end of your table, hands intertwined as they talk, pressing close to hear each other over the noise. The shorter woman smiles at her partner, quick and bright, a shooting star burning through the night sky, and you look away.

Across the room, a group of teens are laughing among themselves, draped over each other casually. You watch them for a moment. They vie for the handheld console they’re playing with, passing it back and forth as they chatter excitedly.

Something cold slithers behind your ribs. It winds around the bones like ivy, sending roots down into your marrow.

You take the rest of your meal upstairs.

***

The morning light streams through the frost on your windows, the feathered whorls of ice glittering as they cast dancing shadows on the walls. Beyond your window, the inn’s yard is full of bundled up families swooping down the slight hill in brightly colored sleighs, their whoops barely audible.

You watch a little boy tug his father up the hill. He’s so wrapped up in layers that he’s waddling. He throws his hands up in the air as they coast down the hill, snow kicking up behind the sleigh, his father wrapping an arm around him to keep him steady.

Someone says your name.

“Sorry,” you say, coming back to yourself and the conference call you’re on. “Could you repeat that?”

They do and you refocus, tapping away at your keyboard as you sip at your coffee. You’ve stepped back into some of your usual projects now that you’re at Jing Yuan’s whim. He’s clearly a late riser, based on the time.

He calls when you’re on your third cup of coffee. He tells you only to meet him in front of the inn in fifteen minutes. You’re out the door in ten, stamping your feet on the inn’s porch to keep warm, tucking your chin into your coat’s collar in hopes of keeping warm.

Jing Yuan pulls up a few minutes later. He slides from the car gracefully, looking cozy in a fleece-lined bomber jacket. You tuck your chin further into your coat collar as the wind gusts. He eyes you for a moment.

“Do you have anything warmer?”

“I brought clothes for business meetings, not whatever you have planned,” you say irritably.

He chuckles. “Fair,” he says. “Hold on.”

He disappears to the trunk of the car. When he comes back, he’s got a thick scarf and hat with him, the knit of them full of lumps, clearly handmade. There’s a neon bright pom-pom on the top of the hat.

“No,” you say flatly.

He chuckles. “Alright.”

The wind chooses that moment to gust heavily, biting through every layer to kiss frigid against your skin. “Shit,” you bite out, and when Jing Yuan holds out the hat and scarf again, you take them.

You jam the hat on your head and wind the scarf around your neck before burying your chin in it, pulling it up over your mouth and nose. When you breathe in, the air is tinged with what can only be traces of Jing Yuan’s cologne, a faint hint of warm cedar and bergamot, woodsy and bright. Beneath that, there’s a hint of smoke, of woodfire. It drapes over you like a soft, warm blanket. You resist the urge to close your eyes to breathe it in again.

“Cute,” Jing Yuan teases. You glare at him, but from the smile he gives you, it’s not very effective. You glare harder.

“Let’s go,” he says, urging you towards the car with a gentle hand at the small of your back. You can feel the weight of it even through the thick material of your coat. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. He chuckles as you glance away.

“Where are we going?” you ask as you slip into the passenger seat.

He flashes you a coy little smile. “You’ll see.”

You huff; he just smiles.

It doesn’t take you long to get back to the rec center, but you make the most of it, chattering to him about the project, trying to figure out what to highlight based on his reaction. He responds amiably, even asks a few questions, but it’s not enough. You know it’s not enough.

When you arrive at the rec center, Jing Yuan pulls around the back of the building. Before you can even ask, the answer comes into view.

“Oh,” you breathe, cutting yourself off mid-sentence about the marketing strategy, taking in the massive skating rink. The bleachers are covered with twinkling lights and pine garlands, massive red bows dotted along them like flowers. There are lights overhead, too, dripping down like icicles. A Christmas tree sparkles in the far corner of the rink, weighed down with ornaments and topped with a shining star.

Jing Yuan parks and you balk.

“We’re not—”

“We are,” he says cheerfully, the corners of his lips curling up into a lazy smile.

“What does this have to do with the project?” you ask desperately.

“Ah ah, that would be telling.”

You gape at him. He chuckles and gets out of the car; you follow him after a moment. He guides you to the skate shoe rental hut and before you realize it, you have a pair of skates on and are at the edge of the rink. You’re not even sure how he convinced you.

Jing Yuan is already on the ice. He moves like a dancer despite his bulk, swaying over the ice like kelp in a current, rippling and beautiful. There’s something utilitarian to it too, not a single move wasted. An athlete’s precision.

He comes close to the edge and holds out a hand to you. “Ready?” he asks.

“I know how to skate,” you snap at him.

“Okay,” he says, skating backwards to give you enough room to kick out onto the ice.

It takes you a minute to find your feet, skates almost skittering out from under you, but you find your balance quickly and start to skate through the rink. The ice is smooth beneath you, perfectly slick, and you pick up speed. When you glance to your right, Jing Yuan is there, keeping up with you effortlessly, a small smile unfurling across his lips.

His hair is streaming out behind him, barely tamed by the thin red ribbon holding part of it back. You think of the pelting snow of a blizzard, beautiful and dangerous, and look away just as he turns to you.

“So shy,” he says, a laugh rumbling in his chest, and you consider how much it might hurt the potential of the project if you hit him.

“I’m hardly shy,” you tell him.

“That’s true,” he says. “I don’t think anyone shy would have claimed their gloves as mine.”

The tips of your ears go hot. “I needed to find you.”

“I’ve heard that you can ask people things.”

“I tried. They’re protective of you, you know.”

His smile softens, goes tender at the edges. “More protective than I deserve,” he says, so quietly it’s almost lost in the whipping wind.

You bite at your lip. You glance at him from the corner of your eye; his smile is distant now, like the sun dipping just below the horizon.

“Jing Yuan?” you say tentatively.

He blinks. “Hmm? Oh. Sorry.”

You hum. “You skate well,” you say instead of the question that’s lingering on the tip of your tongue.

“So do you.”

“My mom was a skater,” you say, looping around a tottering child. “She taught me when I was little. I haven’t gone in forever, though.”

“How come?”

“Too busy.”

“Too busy working,” he says, and it’s not a question.

You think of the Instagram photos from a few weeks ago, all of your friends at a nearby rink, glowing under the lights as they pile into the frame, caught eternally in joy. The pictures of the food afterwards, of the drinks they used to warm themselves up, each one dotted with a little sprig of holly.

“Yeah,” you say softly. “Too busy working.”

He hums.

You push yourself to skate faster. He keeps up with you smoothly, his footwork impeccable.

“I didn’t mean to upset you.”

You glance at him; he meets your gaze steadily, his eyes the color of sunlit whisky, deep and rich. “I’m not upset,” you say.

“Alright.”

The two of you skate quietly for a long while, keeping an easy pace around the rink, avoiding the wobbling tots being coaxed by their steady parents. Teens spin around in circles until they’re dizzy, falling to the ice with a laugh. There’s a girl holding hands with another girl as she scrambles across the ice like a baby deer. You watch them bobble along, a little smile blossoming on your lips.

“Careful,” you hear Jing Yuan warn, and you look up just in time to see a teen boy windmilling his arms as he comes straight at you. Before you can even blink, there’s an arm around your waist, tugging you out of the way. The momentum sends you directly into Jing Yuan; he turns the two of you quickly and grunts as he hits the rink’s edge, taking the brunt of the impact.

You end up pressed together. His arm is still slung low around your waist, holding you to him, the tips of your skates just barely touching the ground; you’ve fisted your hands in his coat to keep from falling. You can’t help but lean into the warmth of him. This close, you can smell his cologne more clearly. It’s different on his skin, the woodfire scent all but gone, while the cedar and the bright flash of citrus from the bergamot still lingers.

“You okay?” he asks, setting you down. His big hands are gentle as he steadies you, touching you as if you’re something fragile, something to be protected.

“Shouldn’t I be asking you that?” You still have your hands fisted in his jacket. You let go one finger at a time before stepping back.

“I’m fine,” he says, straightening up. “Doubt it will even bruise.”

“Thanks,” you say. “For the save.”

“You’re welcome. Think I’m done with skating for the day, though.”

“Me too.”

The two of you skate to the edge of the rink; Jing Yuan holds out a hand to help you from the ice. By the time you’re done returning the skates, the sun is setting, the fiery orange horizon giving way to the encroaching teeth of night.

“I should get back,” you say. “I still have some work to do.”

Jing Yuan glances at you. His gaze is assessing, golden eyes keen, and you wonder if this is what it felt like to be under his scrutiny when he was still a CEO. If other people felt his gaze like an autopsy cut, opening you for his perusal.

“Sure,” he says easily. “If you have to.”

“I do.”

He takes you back to the inn. Your goodbye is quiet, though he takes one last jab at how you look wearing the hat and scarf as he insists you keep them for now.

You watch him drive off, unable to shake the feeling that somehow, you’ve disappointed him.

You work for a while, your room quiet, before you give up in the middle of an email. You shut down your laptop and get ready for bed.

It takes you a long time to fall asleep.

***

“Do you really get up this late?” you ask, checking your watch as Jing Yuan climbs out of his car.

“No,” he says, sounding amused. “Do I give that impression?”

“They literally called you the Dozing CEO.”

“There are worse things to be.”

“That’s true,” you say thoughtfully. “Anyway, I wanted to talk about the second stage of the pro—”

“Later,” Jing Yuan says. “Right now it’s time for coffee. Let’s go to Auntie’s.”

The snow crunches under your boots as the two of you walk into town. The crowd is even bigger today, filling the streets. There’s a band at one end of Aurum, the musicians bundled up as they play lively Christmas music. They take a request from a passing child and they clap in delight as the band starts to play.

“Is it always like this?” you ask.

Jing Yuan nods. “The holidays are a big deal around here,” he says, holding the door to Auntie’s open for you. “It’s a close-knit community.”

He greets the hostess by name and asks about her family; she chatters familiarly with him as she leads the two of you to a booth.

“I can tell,” you say once she’s left. “Is that why you came here?”

He pauses.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to pry.”

“No, it’s fine,” he says, giving you a little smile. It’s soft, that smile, and sweet at the edges. Your cheeks heat a bit. “But yes, that’s a large part of it. That and I wanted to be out of the city.”

“Really? I thought you loved the city.”

He tilts his head in question.

You cough. “Most of the profiles I’ve read say you like the city.”

“When I was younger,” he says. “But now, I find the quiet suits me.”

The waitress comes by with a coffee for him; he thanks her kindly before returning his attention to you.

“The quiet here has been nice,” you admit.

“Would you ever leave the city?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “I’ve been there for almost twenty years now. I moved there when I was eighteen. Besides, that’s where my job is.”

He hums lightly. “So it is.”

“Speaking of—”

He sighs, cupping his coffee between his big hands to warm them. “Go ahead,” he says. “I said I’d listen.”

You launch into the second phase of the project, outlining the plans and how they’d be executed, as well as what his backing and involvement might look like. Jing Yuan drinks his coffee as he listens, only pausing you once so he can ask the waitress a question.

You wind down and he smiles at you. “You’re very convincing,” he tells you. “I can see how you got Feixiao to come on board for the last project that Luofu did.”

“But—” you say, knowing what’s coming.

“But I’m not sold.”

“Of course you aren’t,” you grumble under your breath. Jing Yuan breathes out a laugh and your face goes hot. “Sorry,” you say. “I’m so sorry—”

“It’s fine.”

“You’re very tolerant.”

“Am I?”

“You know you are.”

He chuckles. “I suppose I am,” he says. “Retirement has taken much of the bite out of me, I’m afraid. Though I don’t consider that a bad thing.”

“It’s not.”

He rests his chin on his palm, gazing at you from under his long lashes. Only one of his eyes is visible; the other is behind the silver of his hair, a sun hidden by clouds. His eye is heavily lidded, but his gaze is as keen as ever. “I’m glad we’re in agreement.”

“Right,” you say, flustered and unsure why. “Me too.”

“I find the best part of retirement is the softness,” he says. “It gives you room to be gentle. With yourself. With others.”

“You sound like a self-help book.”

“I do meditate quite often,” he says, eyes crinkling with his smile. “I would recommend it.”

“I don’t have time to meditate.”

“All the more reason to find some time for it,” he says mildly, taking another sip of his coffee. A droplet clings to his lower lip; he catches it with his thumb before licking his thumb clean. You almost choke on air.

“Are you alright?” he asks, a coy smile unfurling on his lips.

“F-fine.”

That smile grows larger, but he doesn’t comment on it. “Alright. Let’s have a late breakfast, shall we?”

“Okay.”

The food comes quickly, filling the air with the scent of crisp bacon and the sharp, woody tang of rosemary. The eggs melt on your tongue, perfectly fluffy, and Jing Yuan smiles when you let out a pleased sigh.

“Good?”

You nod eagerly, taking another bite.

“Good.”

You’re both quiet as you eat; when it comes time to pay, Jing Yuan doesn’t even let you reach for the bill, simply handing the waitress his card with a flick of his wrist. His playful glare silences you before you can even protest.

When you stand to leave, he gestures you in front of him. He follows you out the door of Auntie’s and the two of you stop under the awning—hung with crystalline stars that catch the sunlight as they sway in the wind—to stay out of the way of the crowds.

“Walk with me,” he says, tugging lightly at the end of your (his) scarf.

“Okay.”

The two of you thread through the crowds; eventually, they thin out and you settle beside each other. You take in the quieter part of town, still Christmas ready, with fake candles flickering in the windows of the offices and thick wreaths adorning the doors.

“Pretty,” you say absentmindedly, toying with a ribbon as you pass, the material velvety under your fingertips.

“Yes,” Jing Yuan says, sounding fond, and he’s already looking at you when you glance at him. “Come along, we’re almost there.”

“Where?” you ask, but you round the corner and the answer is there.

The park is beautiful, even barren, with the tree’s empty branches reaching towards the yawning sky. A light dusting of snow covers the ground, though it’s turned to slush on the paths. You and Jing Yuan pick your way around the worst of the melt, until you find a massive gazebo.

It’s a sight. It’s draped in garlands, each dotted with sprigs of holly and bright little lights that flash like shooting stars. Poinsettias line the gazebo, their stamen golden starfish amid the sea of crimson.

“Wow,” you say.

“It’s my favorite place in the park,” Jing Yuan says. “Though it’s normally a bit more subdued.”

“I would hope so.”

“But it’s not what we’re here for.”

“It’s not?”

“No,” he says, resting his hand on the small of your back and guiding you forward. “Let’s keep going.”

You talk quietly as you wander through the park until you suddenly notice there are a lot more people than there were before. Before you know it, you’re in a line. You look at Jing Yuan, but he simply smiles.

“No,” you say as the horse-pulled sleighs come into view.

“That’s what you said about skating, too.”

“Why is this town so into Christmas?”

“Why not?”

You sigh and let him guide you forward, abruptly aware that his hand is still at the small of your back. The weight of it prickles along your skin. He gives you a light push towards the front of the line.

The sleigh that pulls up in front of you is large. It’s decked out in garlands and holly, filled with soft, fuzzy blankets that look like they would keep you warm on even the coldest nights. The mare in front of it nickers, her tail flicking from side to side.

Jing Yuan slides into the sleigh with feline ease, though he’s broad enough to take up most of it himself. You hesitate.

He chuckles, patting the spot next to him on the bench. “Indulge me,” he says.

You sigh and slide in before sitting down. You immediately regret it. “It’s cold,” you whine, the chill seeping through your pants, but he simply tosses one of the blankets over you and tucks it in at the side, blocking out any chilly air.

“There,” he says. “Ready?”

“Okay,” you say, and the driver flicks her reins, sending the mare into a trot. The sleigh starts to slide forward and you grab onto Jing Yuan’s arm without thinking, sinking your fingertips into the muscle of his forearm.

He chuckles again and pats your hand. “You’ll get used to it,” he tells you.

“And if I don’t?”

“You can always keep holding on to me.”

You immediately let go.

He gives you an indolent smile. His eyes crinkle with it, and you want to curse him for being so handsome. Instead, you huff and bury yourself deeper under the blanket, which has slowly been heating.

“I could be working,” you mutter.

“Would you rather be?”

You blink, not having expected Jing Yuan to be listening to you that closely. “I—It’s hard to explain.”

“Try.”

“I just—it’s what I’m good at,” you say, and it sounds like a question even to your own ears. “I’m a good worker. A hard worker. I don’t really have much else to offer, so it makes sense to work all the time.”

“I think you’re underestimating yourself.”

“What?”

“You have much more to offer than just work,” he says gently.

“I really don’t,” you say miserably. “I barely see my friends and I worry about overwhelming them, and my family is just—”

You pause. “And I also just said all of this to you, basically a stranger and also who I’m supposed to be recruiting, so this is just embarrassing now. Goodbye.”

He catches you by the wrist as you start to throw the blanket off and try to wiggle away from his side.

“And here I thought we were more than strangers by now. I’m a little hurt.”

“Jing Yuan!”

“Alright, alright,” he says. “But it’s okay. I’m here to listen if you want.”

“I don’t,” you say, refusing to look at him as he reaches over you to tuck the blanket back in around you. “Just forget I said anything.”

Silence falls, broken only by the steady trot of the mare and the soft jingling of the bells you hadn’t noticed on her bridle.

“That’s part of why I retired, you know.”

You glance at Jing Yuan out of the corner of your eye. He’s staring off into the snowy treeline, his golden eyes hazed over, the sun under morning mist. “I wanted to be good at something other than work. And I wasn’t.”

“That’s not true,” you say softly. “You and your friends—”

“Fell apart,” he says, and you subside. You know just as much about the group of company heads deemed The Quintet as anyone does, which is to say that you only know of their end. Their exploits, their dreams, all overshadowed. Companies—people—that rose into the sky and then fell, burning up in the atmosphere until they were meteors, destined to crash.

Jing Yuan, barely out of his twenties, was the only one left standing.

“I put in years of work to try and get everything right again,” he says. “To acquire their companies and do right by them. I did it, too. And then I stayed. Because I was good at it. Because I didn’t know what else to do.”

You chew on your lip before throwing caution to the wind. You rest your hand on his forearm and don’t move when he jolts. His eyes cut towards you, burnished amber, and the sharp edges of him soften.

“You’re more than just work,” he says. “I can promise you that.”

“Okay,” you say softly, because what else is there to say? “Okay.”

The both of you are quiet for a few minutes. You chew on everything that’s been said, careful not to sink your teeth into the meat of it. You’ll leave that for later, preferably in the dark of your own apartment. Next to you, Jing Yuan seems perfectly at ease, and not for the first time, you’re jealous of his composure.

“Look,” he says suddenly, nudging you gently. He points to where the park meets true forest, where the saplings grow teeth. “Rabbits.”

“Where?” you say, leaning around him to try and see it. “I don’t see anything.”

“Here,” he says, and suddenly you’re encased in warmth, his arms wrapped around you as he points. You peer down the line of one bulky arm and finally see a family of hares in the underbrush, their downy fur as white as the snow that surrounds them.

“How did you even see them?” you breathe, watching as one of them noses at another, who shifts back into the brush. “They’re beautiful.”

“They are,” he says.

The horse nickers and the hares freeze before darting off deeper into the underbrush. You watch until you can’t see them anymore. You settle back before realizing you’re almost in Jing Yuan’s lap, his strong arms still wrapped around you. He’s warm against you, his chest firm despite the slight softness around his middle, and you can feel his voice rumble through you as he asks the driver a question, one you can’t quite make out through the static in your ears.

You push away quickly, settling on the far side of the sleigh. It doesn’t do much, considering his size, but at least you’re further away from him. Hopefully without alerting him to anything.

From the puckish curl of his lips, that hope is dashed. Still, he says nothing, continuing to talk with the driver as you stare out the side of the sleigh, huddling under the blanket now that you’re bereft of his warmth.

After he’s spoken to the driver, he turns back to you, that same little smile blooming on his lips, an unfurling flower. You brace yourself.

“If you’re cold, the ride’s almost over,” he says. “And then I assume you need to go back to work?”

You almost say yes. You almost take the out he’s given you, but you look at him instead, at the way his expression crinkles his eyes and the way his aureate gaze has softened. You look at Jing Yuan and something behind your ribcage writhes, battering against the bones.

“No,” you say quietly. “I think I still have more time.”

He smiles.

***

The two of you spend the rest of the afternoon in the park, meandering through the expanse of it and chatting the whole time. You only turn back towards the inn when it starts snowing, a light fall of fat, fluffy flakes. They catch in Jing Yuan’s lashes when he turns his face up to the sky, his white hair cascading behind him, a river of starlight.

He’s beautiful. You’d known that before, of course—the man was a staple on magazine covers for a reason—but like this, it’s a different type of beauty. You wish you had words for it. Instead, you content yourself with watching him.

He cracks open an eye and sees you looking. “You’re staring,” he says, a small, sly smile blooming on his lips. “Something on my face?”

“Snow,” you say dryly. “You’re going to catch a cold.”

“Ah, so you do care.”

“Maybe,” you say, and relish the fleeting look of surprise that he can’t quite hide. It’s gone as soon as it came, replaced by his usual small smile, but you think there’s a pleased edge to it. “Now hurry up, it’s cold.”

He lifts his face to the sky for a moment more, letting a few more flakes drift down onto him. You wait for him. You’re cold even with the hat and scarf, but he looks so content that you can’t bear to drag him away.

Finally, he strides to your side. The two of you head back into town, taking a route that extends the walk. You chat quietly for a majority of the time, though sometimes you lapse into a comfortable silence, simply watching the snow fall.

He insists on accompanying you all the way to the inn’s doorstep, citing the icy path. You roll your eyes but don’t argue; his smile makes something in your chest twist.

“Thanks,” you say at the doorstep.

“For?”

“Everything,” you say, a little bit helpless.

He smiles again, gentle like the spring sun, and then says: “I’d like to take you to the house tomorrow.”

“The house? Whose?”

“Mine.”

“Oh,” you say.

“Only if you’re okay with it.”

“You haven’t murdered me yet.”

“True,” he says, that same little smile unfurling on his lips. “There’s still time, though.”

“Jing Yuan!”

He laughs, low and rich, more a vibration than a sound, as close together as you are. “I’ll see you in the morning?”

“Yeah,” you say. “See you then.”

“Goodnight,” he says. But he stays until you give him a tiny shove.

You go to sleep with a smile lingering sweet on your lips.

***

It’s still snowing the next morning. The flakes fall delicately, dusting over the trees like icing sugar, coating the inn like a soft blanket. You watch it as you sip your coffee. It’s slow and steady, like a snowglobe settling after a flurry.

You can tell when Jing Yuan pulls up; your phone vibrates on top of your closed laptop. You gulp down the rest of your coffee before throwing on your coat. The walk from the inn to his car is short but cold. You shiver as you slip into the warmth of the car; he reaches over and tugs your hat down a little more firmly.

“Thanks,” you say. “Definitely couldn’t have done that myself.”

“You’re welcome,” he says cheerfully. “Let’s go.”

The drive to his house is longer than you thought. It’s on the far outskirts of town, set back into a grove of pine trees, not at all the modern manor you’d thought it would be. It’s still large, but there’s a modesty to it that fits him.

He pulls into the garage and leads you inside, where you immediately hear running footsteps. Jing Yuan smiles as Yanqing rounds the corner, all but throwing himself at his uncle.

“You took forever,” he complains.

“I had to go pick up my friend here,” Jing Yuan says, patting the boy on the head. “We can get started now, though.”

Yanqing peers at you. “Are they helping?”

“Helping with what?” you ask, shrugging out of your jacket at Jing Yuan’s gesture.

“Gingerbread, duh.”

“Oh, um—”

“They’re helping,” Jing Yuan says smoothly, ushering you forward into what you quickly realize is the biggest kitchen you’ve ever seen, filled to the brim with sleek kitchenware. There’s already ingredients laid out on the kitchen counter, perfectly arranged.

“I’m afraid to touch anything in your kitchen,” you say.

He laughs, rolling up the sleeves of his dark red sweater. You watch his forearms flex, the muscle rippling beneath his skin, the tendons in his hands cording.

“Don’t be,” he says. “Now let’s get started before Yanqing eats all the chocolate chips.”

Yanqing pauses with another handful of chocolate chips almost to his mouth. He gazes at his uncle for a moment and then defiantly pops it into his mouth. Jing Yuan sighs, but there’s a smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

The boy chatters at the two of you as you measure out the ingredients for gingerbread, though he mostly speaks to Jing Yuan. For his part, Jing Yuan listens intently, paying as much attention to Yanqing as he would to any adult. He nods seriously when Yanqing complains about something that happened at school.

“And then they took away my sword—”

“Wait,” you say, stopping in the middle of mixing. “Sword?”

Yanqing stares at you. “Yeah. My sword.”

You look at Jing Yuan, who laughs. “He’s a fencing champion,” he explains.

“I’m the best in the region,” Yanqing informs you, his chest puffed up. “But one day I’ll beat Uncle.”

You start mixing again. Jing Yuan is a former champion—that has been detailed in almost every magazine he’s ever interviewed with. With good reason, too. You’ve seen the photos of him in his fencing gear, his face mask by his side, his strong thighs outlined by the uniform. He’d been sweaty and smiling broadly, his senior Jingliu at his side, her lips pressed together sternly but her eyes gleaming.

“Ah, this old man can’t keep up with you anymore,” Jing Yuan says, ruffling Yanqing’s hair.

“Liar,” the boy grumbles.

Jing Yuan laughs again. “That looks ready,” he says to you. “Yanqing, do you want to roll it out?”

“Nope.” He’s already sorting through the candy that’s on the other counter, unwrapping various ones. “I’m picking decorations.”

“It’s up to you, then,” Jing Yuan says to you with a little smile.

“I don’t see you doing very much work,” you say. He’s leaning against the counter, looking half-asleep.

“I’m supervising.”

You point your spatula at him. “You dragged me here. Come help.”

“Of course,” he says, pushing off the countertop. He pauses to stretch, reaching high, just enough for his sweater to reveal a slice of his belly and the tiniest hint of silvery hair. You almost drop the spatula. He grabs it before you can, a smug little smirk playing across his lips.

But he doesn’t say anything, choosing instead to lightly flour the countertop and dump the gingerbread dough onto it. He flours the rolling pin as well, his big hand easily reaching around the fullest part of the thick pin. When he starts to roll it out, his hands and forearms flex with each motion, the veins protruding slightly from beneath his skin.

You decide it’s better for you to look at something else. You focus on Yanqing, who is humming happily to himself as he picks out varying decorations.

“Those would make good pine trees,” you say, pointing to the waffle cones.

He eyes you. “How?”

“Like this,” you say, flipping them over so the mouth of the cone is against the counter. “And then you pipe on icing to make it look like a tree.”

He deliberates for a moment. “We can try it,” he allows.

“Okay.”

He slips away to another counter that’s got piping bags and tips laid out all over it, along with several different colors of icing. You glance at Jing Yuan. “You really have everything, don’t you?”

He smiles, cutting out a few shapes from the rolled out dough. “Not everything,” he says. “But I do try to stay stocked for gingerbread house day.”

“Do you do it every year?”

“Yup,” Yanqing says, sliding in next to you. “Since I was little.” He concentrates on the piping bag for a moment, pressing the tip down until it’s at the bottom of the bag and then grabbing a glass and pulling the edges of the bag over the edges of the glass. It holds it nicely and he starts to pile icing in.

“I can tell,” you say, watching his careful precision. He doesn’t reply, too busy piping on the first bit of icing.

There’s a blast of heat at your back as Jing Yuan opens the oven to put the gingerbread pieces in. The pan clinks against the rack and then the heat at your back is softer, a gentle warmth instead. Jing Yuan leans over you to see what Yanqing is doing, his long white hair draping over your shoulder, a waterfall of moonlight.

“Clever,” he says.

“Pretty sure I read it in a magazine.”

He hums. “Still clever.”

“I guess.”

“Look!” Yanqing says. “It looks good, doesn’t it?”

“Very good,” Jing Yuan says, and he’s not lying. Yanqing has an eye for details, swirling the piping to achieve a needle-like texture in the deep green icing. “Now you can put ornaments on it.”

“Yeah!”

You watch him fish through the varying candies to find a handful of circular red and gold ones, which he starts pushing into place in the icing. He works diligently, setting them into patterns, but you’re distracted by the heat of Jing Yuan against your back. He shifts behind you and your fingers flex.

The timer saves you. Jing Yuan pulls away as it dings; you hear the oven open and close again as he sets the gingerbread on racks to cool.

“Make one,” Yanqing says suddenly, shoving a waffle cone into your hands. “We need more for the forest.”

“Is there going to be a forest?” Jing Yuan asks mildly. “I thought we were making a house.”

“We can do both!”

“I see.”

The three of you work on trees as the gingerbread cools. Yanqing chatters away, telling you all about his most recent bout and what he asked for for Christmas. It’s cute, really, watching him and Jing Yuan interact, his hero worship obvious even from such a short amount of time.

You’ve just put the finishing touch—a silver gummy star—on top of a tree when the doorbell rings. Jing Yuan pushes to his feet with a groan and goes to answer it.

When you look up from your tree, Yanqing is staring at you.

“Uncle doesn’t usually bring corporate people to the house,” Yanqing says. “So how come you’re here?”

“I don’t know,” you say. “You’ll have to ask him.”

Yanqing’s gaze isn’t quite as knowing as his uncle’s, but it’s gutting in its own way. “I think it’s because you’re sad,” he tells you.

“I’m not sad!”

“Okay,” he says in the way that pre-teens do. “Lonely, then.”

He grins in triumph when you can’t refute that. Then his brow furrows. “I think he’s lonely too,” he confesses. “He doesn’t want to say it, though. But he is.”

Your stomach twists.

“Yanqing—”

He glares at you. “He is!”

“I’m not saying he isn’t,” you say softly. “I just don’t think you should be talking about it with me.”

“But you understand!”

You sigh. “Yanqing,” you say. “If Jing Yuan wants me to know something, he’ll tell me himself, okay?”

“No he won’t,” he mutters.

“That’s his choice.”

His brow furrows; his lips twist, a sour lemon kiss. “Fine,” he says.

You bite at your lip but he doesn’t say anything else. “Let’s build the house?” you offer.

“We have to wait for Uncle.”

“What’s he doing?”

“Delivery, probably.”

That certainly explains the scuffing noises that have been coming from the hallway. Before you can go investigate, though, Jing Yuan reappears.

“Did I miss much?” he asks, before looking at the still dismantled house. “Oh, you didn’t start.”

“We were waiting for you,” Yanqing says.

“Oh? So considerate.”

“Let’s build already!” Yanqing says, practically bouncing in place. “Uncle, c’mon!”

Jing Yuan laughs and joins the two of you at the counter, looking down at the pieces of the gingerbread house. “Yes sir,” he says. “Where do you want to start?”

“Here!”

It takes several tries to even get two of the walls to stick together. Yanqing makes you and Jing Yuan hold them together as he pipes in royal icing to be the glue; the two of you crowd together on one side of the counter to try and keep them upright. This close, you can feel how thick Jing Yuan’s bicep is as his arm presses against yours, courtesy of his broad shoulders.

Finally, the icing sets. When you and Jing Yuan pull away, the walls stay standing, earning a cheer from Yanqing. He immediately picks up the next wall, gesturing for Jing Yuan to hold it in place. You take advantage of your moment of respite to pull up one of the kitchen stools, nestling into the plush of it.

“Don’t get too comfortable,” Jing Yuan warns. “We’ll be putting you right back to work.”

“Yeah,” Yanqing says. “You’ve gotta hold the next wall while the other one sets.”

“Okay, okay,” you say, reaching for the next piece of gingerbread. You set it in place, holding it carefully, bracing the corner of it with your fingertips and the side of it with your other hand. Yanqing ices it quickly, and you wince as he manages to get a good amount of icing onto your fingertips.

“Oops,” he says, looking abashed but not sounding particularly sorry.

“It’s fine,” you say, lifting your fingers away from the join of the walls, still bracing the wall itself with your other hand. You pop your fingertips into your mouth one-by-one without thinking, the sweetness spreading across your tongue rapidly, the sheer amount of sugar enough to make your teeth ache.

Jing Yuan coughs.

When you look at him, he’s already gazing at you, his eyes darkened to topaz, a deep, rich golden brown. For a second, his lazy smile goes knife-edged, something hungry tucked up into the corner of his mouth, but it’s gone when you blink, only a faint amusement remaining.

“There’s a sink if you would find that more useful,” he says, nodding towards the farmhouse sink just behind you. “Though far be it from me to stop you.”

Your cheeks heat. You wait a moment, letting Yanqing take the brunt of the gingerbread wall before you pull away. You wash your hands as the two of them chat behind you, the water burning hot as you try to compose yourself.

The little smirk Jing Yuan sends you when you turn around doesn’t help.

You take in a deep breath before rejoining them, taking the final wall and putting it into place. The three of you continue building, chatting the whole time. Yanqing’s delight is infectious and you find yourself laughing with every mishap and quietly cheering each time a wall stays up. The roof is the most precarious part; it takes the three of you several tries to get it situated.

“Now it just has to fully dry,” Yanqing announces. “Then we can decorate.”

“And in the meantime?” you ask.

“I’m going to my room!” he says, taking off down the hallway. You blink and glance at Jing Yuan.

“He means he’s going to snoop under the Christmas tree,” he says.

“Oh.”

“He thinks he’s sneakier than he is.”

“Don’t all kids? Besides, didn’t you peek under the tree when you were a kid?”

“I would never,” he says, eyes sparkling. “Who do you think I am?”

“The type to sneak under the tree. I bet you shook boxes and everything.”

He chuckles. “I stopped after I accidentally broke one of the presents doing that.”

“You didn’t!”

“I’m afraid so.”

You laugh, the sound bubbling from you like a spill of champagne. “Oh my god.”

Jing Yuan smiles, his eyes crinkling with it. “Don’t tell me you never shook the presents.”

“Of course I did. I just never broke anything.”

He hums. “Of course not.”

“Why do you sound like you don’t believe me?”

“Maybe I don’t.”

“You’re so annoying.”

He smiles, popping a candy into his mouth. You watch the way he licks the residue of it off of his lips. “Now, now, be nice.”

You pick up a candy too. It’s watermelon, the taste bursting over your tongue, stickily artificial. “Are we spending all day on a gingerbread house?” you ask.

“There’s a Christmas market that I’d intended to go to.”

You hum. “Alright.”

“No need to sound so excited about it.”

“Excited about what?” Yanqing says, flouncing into the room. He’s pink-cheeked and looking pleased with himself. You assume the present shaking went well.

“The Christmas fair.”

The boy’s face lights up. “We’re going, right? Right?”

“Yes,” Jing Yuan says. “After we finish decorating.”

“Is the icing dry yet?”

You test the gingerbread house carefully, seeing how well the walls and roof hold up. They don’t move under your gentle prodding nor when you apply a bit more pressure.

“I think so,” you say. “Let’s decorate.”

The three of you set to work. You and Jing Yuan mostly follow Yanqing’s direction; you build a chimney out of non-pareils, the uneven sides like trendy stone work. The fir trees are sprinkled around the yard, each one more decorated than the last; the shingles to the roof are made of gingerbread too, carefully cut into a scalloped edge. The very top of the roof is lined with gumdrops, the rainbow of them like Christmas lights. Chocolate stones make the pathway to the house; the path is lined with little licorice lamps.

Altogether, it’s probably the fanciest gingerbread house you’ve seen. Granted, Jing Yuan had clearly gone all out on different types of candy—so many types that you barely use half of them—but Yanqing’s eye for detail makes it all come together.

“Wow,” you say, putting a final star-shaped sprinkle in place over one of the windows, where it joins a line of others, a draping of fake Christmas lights. “This is really good, Yanqing.”

The boy puffs up. “I’ve won my school’s decorating contest before,” he says.

“I can see why.”

He beams and then turns to Jing Yuan. “When are we going to the market?” he asks.

“After we clean up.”

A pout creases his face for a moment, his lips turning down in an admittedly endearing way. “Fine,” he sighs, looking at the messy counter. You’d tried to keep the mess to a minimum, but between icing and sugar-dusted candies, you hadn’t quite succeeded. As Jing Yuan and Yanqing start to sort the candies and put them away, you start scraping up the dried-on icing.

For a moment, you think Jing Yuan is going to protest, but when you flash him a little stare that dares him too, he subsides without saying a word. You grin triumphantly and he smiles, soft and sweet. Something in you twinges.

You push the little flutter aside, wetting a paper towel to scrub off the worst of the icing. The three of you work away, chatting lightly, until the kitchen is almost as pristine as when you got there.

“That’s good enough for now,” Jing Yuan says, taking in the kitchen with a critical eye. “We’ll get the candy in the pantry later.”

Yanqing perks up. “Christmas market?” he asks.

Jing Yuan nods, a fond little smile unfurling across his lips. “Go change your shirt.”

Yanqing looks down at his shirt, which is spattered with icing from when he got a little overenthusiastic with the piping bag. “Okay!” he says, running off.

You head to the sink to wash your hands again; they’re sticky with leftover icing. Jing Yuan meets you there with a dish towel to dry your hands. His fingertips linger over your palm as he hands it to you. You take in a soft breath, but the touch is gone as soon as it comes.

Yanqing returns and the three of you bundle up—apparently the market is an outdoor one. Jing Yuan fixes Yanqing’s hat despite the boy batting his hands away. Then he turns to you and tugs at the end of your scarf.

“Ready?”

You nod. The three of you pile into one of Jing Yuan’s cars. The ride is mostly quiet, with Yanqing and Jing Yuan chatting here and there, but you’re busy looking out the window at the rolling countryside. It’s picturesque in a way no painting could ever capture, the trees lit golden by the setting sun, the snow glittering like stars as it sits heavy on their branches. The firs bend under its weight while the bare oaks soar into the sky, as if they’re painted in long, sweet strokes.

You pull into a stuffed parking lot. You shiver as you get out of the warm car, burying your chin into the scarf as your breath puffs out in a gentle mist.

The fair is stunning, little stalls lining the closed-off street, each decorated in its own way. Each of them is festooned with lights and garlands, with little stockings hung carefully from the tables. There’s a baker with bread shaped like wreaths, the crust of them perfectly golden-brown, tucked into star-patterned cloth; a weaver with stunning blankets with complex designs; a blacksmith with all sorts of metalwork, each more beautiful than the last. And those are just the first few stalls.

“Wow,” you breathe.

“Impressive, isn’t it?” Jing Yuan asks. “I hear it’s grown through the years. It seems to get bigger every year.”

“I’m surprised this place isn’t known as a Christmas destination.”

“It is,” he says. “If you know the right people to ask.”

“How did you find it?”

“A friend,” he says, and there’s something in the set of his mouth that keeps you from asking more. “Come on, let’s go take a look.”

“I want to go to the blacksmith!” Yanqing pipes up.

“Go ahead,” Jing Yuan says. “Don’t go far, please.”

“Okay!”

The two of you watch him take off into the crowd, his golden crown of hair bobbing along, dodging adults and other children alike. Jing Yuan sighs, shaking his head, but gestures you along to the first stall.

You linger over some textiles, including a beautiful tablecloth embroidered heavily with holly, each sprig carefully woven to look as real as possible. You can tell that love was stitched into it, and going by the stall owner’s gnarled fingers, she’s been doing it for a long time.

“It’s beautiful,” you tell her, stroking your finger over a holly leaf. She smiles and starts to tell you about her process; you listen intently, Jing Yuan lingering patiently at your side.

When you finally move to the next stall, someone calls Jing Yuan’s name. He smiles as they approach. They chat amiably for a few minutes before he excuses himself.

As you wander through the market, you notice that it’s a pattern. Multiple people come up to Jing Yuan, all full of smiles and good cheer, talking to him like he’s an old friend. Some of them eye you curiously, but just nod your way when you’re introduced, going back to catching up with some news they’ve heard or thanking Jing Yuan for a favor he’s done.

“You’re popular,” you tell him as you both step into another stall, this one filled with ornaments. They shine brightly under the twinkling fairy lights strung over the stall’s top.

“Am I?”

“Mhm.”

He hums, picking up a snowglobe ornament and giving it a little shake. You watch the fake snow settle at the bottom, revealing the little girl building a snowman, her figure exquisitely made. “They’ve been very welcoming since I’ve moved here,” he says. “I’ve been lucky.”

“I think it’s more than luck,” you say quietly. “I think you give as much as you get.”

He flashes you a little smile. “Maybe so.”

The two of you continue on before someone stops Jing Yuan again, this time near a stall that’s too full for the three of you to step into. You do your best to shift out of the way of the people making their way through the market, but it’s hard to do so with so little room.

You’ve just been knocked into when Jing Yuan loops an arm around your waist and tugs you into his side. It pulls you out of the line of fire for the crowds filtering by. He’s a line of heat against you and you feel it when he chuckles, the sound rumbling through you.

“You okay?” he asks.

You nod, cheeks hot.

“Good,” he says, and leaves his big hand high on your hip, keeping you close. He goes back to amiably talking to the other person as if he hasn’t noticed. If you lean into him, just slightly, no one but you needs to know. You peer at him from the corner of your eye. You take him in, from the moonlight spill of his hair to his sunrise eyes, to the little smile on his lips as he chats away.

He belongs, you realize, watching him slot back into his conversation with ease. He’s a part of the town, and based on how many people have come up to him, an important one. You think of the way the locals had eyed you when you’d been asking about him. It makes sense now. The town protects him as one of their own because he is one. And he’s happy, a subtle glow to him, a type you’ve rarely seen and likely never achieved yourself.

Something in your chest squirms, fluttering against the bones of your ribcage, trying to slip through the gaps. You resist the urge to press a hand to your chest.

He pulls away from the conversation a few minutes later, the hand on your hip dropping to the small of your back as he guides you forward. He stops to talk to a few more people, his eyes crinkling with his smile each time as they come up to him. It’s mesmerizing to watch.

And you’re asking him to give it all up.

Not all of it, you remind yourself. It’s a project, not a job, but something in you winces nonetheless. Your chest tightens, like a ribbon wrapped around it is cinching in.

Jing Yuan glances at you as you step away from his warmth, his hand falling from where it’s been resting on the small of your back. His brow furrows, but it passes quickly, a guttering candle.

You keep your distance for the rest of the fair. You’re still close enough to almost touch despite the thinning crowds, but the gap feels like a gulf between you, as if you’re oceans away.

“Are you alright?”

“I’m fine,” you say, but from the way Jing Yuan eyes you, he doesn’t quite believe you. He opens his mouth, but you’re saved by Yanqing, who runs up with sparkling eyes.

“Uncle!” he says. “The blacksmith says we can go to the forge and watch him!”

Jing Yuan chuckles. “Did you badger him into it?”

“No!”

“Alright, alright. We’ll set up a time with him later, okay?”

Yanqing pouts but nods. You hide your smile behind your scarf.

“Let’s go home,” Jing Yuan says. Night has fallen, the sky velvety and dotted with stars. He glances at you. “Would you like me to drop you at the inn?”

You nod. He hums. “Alright.”

The three of you pile back into the car. The inn isn’t far—you probably could have walked, but the cold night has only gotten more frigid. Jing Yuan comes up to the inn’s doorstep with you, catching you by the wrist when you’re halfway up the stairs. You turn around and he looks up at you, his golden eyes shining under the moonlight.

“Are you okay?” he asks, and it takes a moment to gather yourself, too focused on the way his thumb is rubbing small circles on the delicate skin of your inner wrist. You realize you’re leaning towards him, a flower to the sun. He smiles at you, eyes crinkling, and you see it again, that soft glow to him.

Something clicks into place.

“Nothing will make you come on board the project, will it?” you ask, sounding too calm even to your own ears. You shake off his hand. “There’s never even been the slightest chance.”

Jing Yuan lets out a low, slow breath. “No,” he says. “There hasn’t been.”

“Right,” you say. “Okay. Thank you for everything.”

“What?”

“My job is done,” you say. “If I can’t convince you, there’s no point in me being here.”

“That’s not true.”

“It is,” you say. Your chest hurts. Something sinks its teeth into your ribs, chipping away at the bone. “I came here to get you on board.”

“That’s not what the last day or two has been,” he says softly. “Right?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He reaches for you, brushing his gloved fingers against your cheek. “Yes, you do.”

You pull away. “I’ve been here to get you on board, Jing Yuan. To do my job. That’s all.”

“You—”

“I’ll catch a flight tomorrow,” you say. “It shouldn’t be hard, since it’s Christmas Eve.”

He lets out a low, slow breath. He gazes up at you, his golden eyes flickering with something you don’t dare name.

“Is there nothing I can do to change your mind?”

“It’s time for me to go,” you say. “It’s been time for me to go since I got here, apparently.”

He says your name softly. It rolls over you like morning mist, blocks out the world. You take in a shuddering breath.

“Goodbye, Jing Yuan.”

He sighs. “If you change your mind, I’m having a Christmas party tomorrow. You’ll always be welcome.”

You nod sharply, turning on your heel to go inside. Jing Yuan says your name again. You glance over your shoulder. He opens his mouth. Closes it again. And then—

“Travel safe,” he says.

“Thanks,” you say, and then you’re inside the inn, leaving Jing Yuan standing out in the cold behind you. You don’t wait to see if he lingers, ignoring Lee’s cheerful greeting to make your way back up to your room.

You book the first flight you find. It’s late in the day, but that’s fine—you can catch up with your emails and calls. You’ve barely checked your phone today. You can’t quite bring yourself to do it now.

After your flight is booked, you close your laptop and fold your arms, resting your head on them. The fangs sunk into your rib bones dig deeper, hitting marrow.

“Fuck,” you say, sitting up and scrubbing your hands over your face. “Fuck.”

You stare out the window, into the deep bruise of the night. The woods rise beyond the hill, the trees skeletal as they reach for the sky, barely visible in the dark. Stars glitter coldly high above; the moon shines like a lonely mirror. It all feels distant, like a world you’re not part of.

You let out a deep, slow breath. It does nothing to loosen the string wound tight around your chest; if anything, it tightens.

You get ready for bed slowly, that fanged thing still biting deep, leaving teeth marks that ache deeply.

When you fall asleep, the last thing you see is Jing Yuan’s eyes.

***

The next day dawns too early. You once again wake with the sunlight, having forgotten to close the curtains as you drifted around the room last night. The watery light pools on the floor, sweetly golden. The wooden floor is warm under your feet as you cross through the puddles of sunlight.

You get ready for the day quickly. You pack up carefully, rolling your clothes up so they fit better before you tuck your toiletries in. You keep your laptop out to answer emails as they come in. The sun stretches along the floor as you work, barely coming up for air.

You don’t dare give yourself time to think.

You check out in the early afternoon. The receptionist is the one who checked you in. She’s quick and efficient, and you find yourself on the doorstep of the inn waiting for a cab in just a few minutes.

The taxi driver is quiet; you find yourself wishing for the same talkative driver as before. At least it would fill the air, give you something to concentrate on beside the noise in your head.

It’s all mixed together, a slush puddle that you keep stamping through, expecting to not get splashed this time. Jing Yuan, the project, your work, the promotion—it runs through your head non-stop, circling over and over again. Your work, all for nothing. Your possible promotion, just beyond the tips of your fingers. Jing Yuan with his golden eyes and his lips with a smile tucked up secret in the corner of his mouth. Jing Yuan with his laughter and his dedication to the town.

You check your email but it doesn’t help.

You’ve already told Qingzu that you’ve failed. She had taken it in stride; she made sure you knew that no one was going to blame you. The project is going to go forward with or without Jing Yuan. You knew that, but the failure stings anyway. Fu Xuan had asked for you specifically; she must have believed you could do it.

You should have been able to.

Except—you think of the quiet glow that Jing Yuan had yesterday. The way he’d slipped seamlessly into the town’s community, how they treat him as one of their own. He’s happy in a rare way, deeply content with his lot. How you’d felt at his side in the last few days, even as he dragged you around. What it felt like to not be so focused on work all the time; how it felt to live life again.

Something in your chest warms. It rises through you like sparkling champagne bubbles, fizzing across your nerves.

You think of the way Jing Yuan’s eyes crinkle when he smiles.

“Sir,” you call out to the taxi driver. “Can you please turn around?”

***

The party is in full swing by the time you arrive. There are people coming and going; laughter drifts out the door every time it opens. The path is brightly lit, with Christmas lights lining the side and elegant wreaths hanging from posts, each big red bow perfectly tied. They’re glittering with tinsel, woven expertly in through the pine boughs.

You slip inside quietly. It’s completely different from just yesterday: there are tables set up inside, piled high with an entire array of hors d'oeuvres, from tiny little tarts to a bacchanalian cheeseboard, overflowing with plump, glistening figs, wine-red grapes, and fine cheeses. The decorations have multiplied. There are fairy lights everywhere, twinkling merrily. They’re tucked into vast, lush garlands that drape along the tables; there are candles flickering in their ornate holders, little wisps of smoke dancing from the flames.

It's easy to find Jing Yuan; he’s holding court by the Christmas tree, perfectly visible from the doorway. He’s chatting away with the small group that’s gathered around him, but there’s something different about him. Something you can’t quite name.

He looks wilted, almost, like the flowers in the last days of summer, still thriving but sensing their end. He smiles at someone and there’s nothing tucked up secret in the corner of his lips. Your chest aches, something howling between the gaps of your ribs.

He glances up and your eyes meet. He goes still, and then there’s a brilliant smile spreading across his lips, the sun come down to earth. He excuses himself from his group and makes his way over to you.

“Hi,” you say as he draws near, a little bit breathless.

“Hi,” he says.

“I’m sorry,” you say, the words rushing from you like water. “The last few days haven’t been nothing. I shouldn’t have—”

“It’s alright,” he says. “I’m sorry that I led you astray.”

“Why did you do it?”

He sighs. “I remember what it was like to work like that. To give up everything for the job. No one should live like that. And you seemed so lonely.”

You wince.

“Sorry,” he says. “But it’s what I saw.”

You shake your head. “It’s not like you were wrong. And you made me less lonely, Jing Yuan.”

He reaches out and sweeps his thumb over the apple of your cheek. You sway into the touch, turning until your cheek is cradled in his palm. “I’m glad,” he says softly. “All I want is for you to be happy.”

Someone whistles. You balk, starting to step back; Jing Yuan catches you before you can go far, pulling you in close.

“You’re under the mistletoe,” someone calls.

You look up, and sure enough, there’s mistletoe hanging innocently above you, the tiny flowers white as snow. It’s tied off with a perfect red ribbon.

“We don’t have to—”

“It’s tradition,” you say, and then you’re surging up to kiss him. He meets you halfway and as his lips brush yours, warmth blooms inside your chest, embers stoked to flame. He cups the back of your head to pull you closer. You make a little noise; he swallows it down.

There’s a certain greed to the kiss; a longing, too. He steals the breath from you; takes in your air and makes it his own. You kiss him harder, as if he might disappear.

When you break apart, he leans down to press his forehead against yours. You close your eyes. You can hear people murmuring, but they seem far away. Only Jing Yuan feels real. You open your eyes and glance up at him. He smiles at you, his golden eyes crinkling at the edges. Your heart flutters behind your ribs, beating against the cage of them like a bird’s wings.

“Merry Christmas,” you breathe.

“Merry Christmas,” he says softly.

He kisses you again and this time, it feels like coming home.

#hsr x reader #jing yuan x reader #jing yuan x you #honkai star rail x reader #bee writes hsr

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necroflame · 3 months

Text

On the Way to a Smile (Dark!Rafe Cameron x F!Reader)

Paring: Dark!Rafe Cameron x F!Reader

Summary: On the cusp of your wedding, you are haunted by a shade from your past who just can't seem to leave you alone.

Warnings: Implied non-con, drugging, loss of virginity, original characters, wedding crashing, possessive behaviour, flashbacks, bullying, substance use, cheating, implied eating + body image issue (18+)

🦇gill – "I made a story board for this on pinterest if anyone is interested, this is my first dark fic + semi smut so any feedback would be very appreciated! I also included some linked visuals but that's only how I imagined things to look, you can follow your own destiny." 🌬 17k (buckle up ya'll)

"What's all this?"

Strewn across the Cameron's dining table was an array of objects that could only be described as a mixed blessing. Multiple binders containing silk swatches protruding from the edges, sticky notes with potential dietary requirements, and different flora species – planning a wedding was less of a journey and more of a ride.

Averting your burning eyes from your laptop screen, you acknowledged Rafe with a cordial smile, lazily gesturing to the conglomeration of wedding itinerary.

"My future."

The blonde simply hummed, eyes narrowing as he leisurely rounded the dark oak to stand beside you. He silently lingered there for a moment, ring-clad fingers dancing across the drafted invitations with an indecipherable expression.

"Where's Sarah? Ain't she supposed to be helping you with all this shit?"

You refrained from rolling your eyes. Rafe was, after all, a friend of the family, and by extension earned your respect. Even If he could be a complete dick–

"I am helping, thank you very much!"

Sarah's voice, now tinged with irritation, reverberated from the pantry before she emerged with a bag of microwave popcorn. "What do you have to offer other than giving us a headache?" A deep crease settled between her brows as she threw her flaxen locks into a low ponytail, setting the bag into the microwave.

"Well you see, Sarah, I'm a man with a fine eye for detail." He prodded his haughtily puffed chest which Sarah scoffed at, glancing towards you with disbelief.

"Says the boy who'd be leaving the house with his shoelaces undone were it not for Wheezie."

"Now you're just making shit up–"

"Both of you, please!" With an exasperated sigh, you cradled your throbbing temples in the seat of your palms. "If you're going to argue, do it somewhere else."

Ding!

A much-needed reprieve from the stifling tension in the room, the microwave beeped, signalling that the popcorn was ready. However, the pause was short-lived. As soon as the timer stopped, the silence was disrupted by Rafe's voice. His tone mocking and derisive.

"Ordering me around in my own house, hm?" His short, dirty blonde locks cascaded over his eyes as he shook his head, failing to conceal his lour. "Nah, that's not how it works sweetheart. Maybe I'd allow it if you were marrying me."

"Rafe." Sarah hissed. "Shut up and get out."

In the typical fashion of the first-born Cameron, Rafe disregarded his sister's command, instead opting to leer down at you like some voracious beast reading to trap you in its gaping maw.

"So where's the lucky man? He got to stake his claim, now he's leaving all the work for you?"

You ignored his taunts, for that was what they were. He fed off reactions like a leech. You had come to realise this over the years as he evolved into an obnoxious variant of the boy you once admired. Rather than giving him the attention he craved so dearly, you turned your focus to Sarah as she came to sit beside you.

"If you must know, he's working to pay off his student loans," You fought the urge to bite back at his spiteful remarks, ultimately losing when you added; "Maybe one day when you take care of your responsibilities, you will understand."

Sarah suppressed her snot beneath a mouthful of popcorn. As you reached for a handful of your own, a hand slid in between, suddenly pushing the bowl out of reach.

"Careful." Rafe drawled warningly, pointing to a trumpet silhouette dress advertised in a women's magazine you had circled with a red marker. "That dress is real pretty, it would be a shame if you outgrew it."

ii.

It was winter, 2006.

You were five, perched on your mother's lap in the front seat of your father's Chrysler 300C as she consoled you through hiccuping sobs. This Christmas, the esteemed Camerons were your family's special holiday destination; a far cry from the usual dinner and movie at your grandparents.

Numerous road signs were posted throughout Figure 8, warning drivers to approach the winding roads with caution due to the unusually high levels of sleet. Despite the treacherous conditions, your father traversed along as he usually would. You whimpered and pawed at your mother's blouse in a bid to be reassured, but she merely shushed you.

"Don't worry, baby. You're safe."

As you pulled up along a circular drive encompassed by large plains of neatly trimmed verdure, a house came into view… if you could even call it that.

A quadruple frontage acting as a supporting beam for the large balcony above donned with red, white and blue flags and multiple seating arrangements. On the right side of the glass entry doors was a metal plaque spelling 'Tannyhill'

You beamed up at the place in awe. "Is this a castle?"

Your father chuckled, ruffling your loose hair.

"Something like that."

A man emerged from the double doors, dressed in the typical 'low-key' Figure 8 attire: white slacks, a chequered shirt, and leather loafers. He was a splitting image of your father and all the other men on the island, carrying an aura of confidence in every sedate step.

You were urged out of the car with a gentle but firm push. The strange man’s beady eyes— like two pale corks screwed into his head— landed on you disconcertingly, as though you were a microorganism being inspected beneath a scope.

"Hello, little one." His eyes crinkled as he smiled, bending down to your level. "What's your name?"

Your young mind could not fathom why he frightened you like the animated villain in your favourite TV show. When he extended his hand to you, you instinctively retreated into your mother's skirt.

"Don't mind her, Ward." Your father emerged from the driver’s side of the vehicle. "She'll warm up real fast if you offer her something sweet."

"A sweet tooth?" The man, Ward, mused. His voice mild-mannered and pleasant to the ear. "My son is the same, I'm sure you'll get along just fine."

Inside, the house was even more impressive. Tannyhill had been the proud ancestral home of the Cameron family for generations and their wealth and prestige were evident in the sheer opulence of its interior. The walls of the hallway were draped in thick upholstery, varying in shades of crimson, indigo and gold. An ornate floral pattern embroidered in gold thread was meticulously sewn onto the walls.

Adorning the hallway to the kitchen were multiple picture frames. One in particular caught your interest; a young boy sat on Ward's lap in a velvet-lined chair, smiling and well-groomed with golden locks and a well-pressed collar.

You wondered if this was the aforementioned son.

Ward's explanation of the Plantation's historical significance fell on deaf ears as you gaped up at the towering ceilings. Your mother attempted to conceptualise it for you through the metaphor of an onion; Tannyhill was composed of multiple layers of history, each integrating to create the rich heritage value of the place.

"You came here once when you were just a little bean in my belly."

"I don't remember that."

She pulled you into her side by the shoulder as she laughed. "Of course you don't, darling."

Ward came to a halt at the staircase, raising a finger to his lips.

"Sarah's nursery is upstairs. We just got her down before you arrived but I'll let you have a peek."

"Oh, that’s alright, Ward. We wouldn't want to disturb her." Your father interjected, mirroring Ward’s hushed tone.

"That won't be an issue, my angel is a heavy sleeper," he whispered, motioning for you to follow him with a reassuring wave of his hand.

“Rafe's up there at the moment,” Confusion enveloped you as a frown settled in place of his previous jovial demeanour. When his stiffened gaze met yours, heat bloomed beneath your cheeks and you perked up. “Maybe you can keep him company, little one."

The first door on the right was painted a light, dusty rose. Above the door frame were little wooden letters decorated by fairies and flowers spelling out ‘Sarah’. The dry hinges screeched as Ward opened the door.

“Rafe, come meet our guests.”

The boy from the picture emerged, older now and taller than expected. Unlike the bright smile he wore in the photograph, there was not a trace of joy on his face. But despite his gloomy demeanour, there was a certain charm about him that you couldn't help but notice.

Beautiful, he’s beautiful.

“Hello.” He said robotically, as though the syllables were being tugged out of his mouth by an invisible wire.

Ward glared disapprovingly at his son. There was a silent exchange between the two before Rafe finally sighed as if submitting to some sort of inevitable conclusion.

“Merry Christmas, it’s nice to meet you all.”

His eyes met yours. Crystal orbs of cerulean, framed by a dark outer ring… you were transfixed by his beauty.

You sat mutely at dinner, only answering direct questions with the bare minimum of words. Mrs Cameron was a lovely and welcoming woman who did her best to include you in the conversation despite your reluctance to participate. Rafe's occasional snarky remarks seemed to anger Ward. His face would darken each time and he would glare in his son's direction with a look of disapproval. The tension between the two was thick, oozing onto you from across the table. You made eye contact with Rafe a few times. He held it with no indication of discomfort whilst you were always the one to eventually flit your attention elsewhere, unable to withstand the strange intensity.

As the maids began to clear the table, Ward suggested to both you and Rafe, “Go and play while us adults have our talk.”

With the sun making a hasty departure below the treeline in the distance, It had cooled off exponentially outside. You trailed behind Rafe as he led you to a small shed next to the pool, struggling to tug your gloves over trembling fingers.

You waited outside as Rafe disappeared beyond the frame, returning a few moments later with a black and white ball.

“Do you know how to play?”

The ball was familiar but you shook your head, unsure of the rules.

“Don’t touch the ball with your hands or make contact with me.”

“Make contact?” You tilted your head in confusion.

“You can’t kick your enemy on purpose, got it?”

You gave a nod– still unsure about why you’d want to kick anyone on purpose– and Rafe tossed the ball at you. The ground was partially frozen beneath your feet and you stumbled backwards with the sudden force of the ball, nearly toppling over.

“Good, let's play.”

At first, it felt hopeless as your feet slipped on the icy ground cartoonishly. Rafe’s size, strength and experience did not deter him from going full pelt, and it quickly became apparent that the only way you could gain any leverage over him was if you were to be sneaky– which of course, was easier said than done.

Every pivot of your foot he anticipated. His agile movements made it nearly impossible to bypass him and you found yourself huffing in frustration as he swiftly confiscated the ball from your weak stance.

“This is not fair!” You cried exasperatedly, ego depleted after numerous failures.

“You’ve got to try harder if you want to beat me.”

Rafe’s arrogant tone only stoked the flames of your wrath. Slowing down, you realised that your frantic footwork before an attack left your defences vulnerable. Watching Rafe’s strategy, you could see that he was coming head-on, anticipating that you would focus your resources on an attack.

This time rather than barreling towards him head-on, you hunkered down into a low stance, turning slightly and awaiting his arrival. Once within range, you swiftly kicked your right foot out, connecting with the ball. It shot through his legs, the suddenness of your attack delaying his reaction ever so slightly, allowing you ample opportunity to rush past him and possess the ball.

After the shock wore off and Rafe turned to face you, his face was adorned by a countenance of surprise. “Wow, not bad.”

“Got you!” You giggled, spinning around in glee.

“You’re more fun than Sarah.” Rafe earnestly remarked. “She never wants to play. All she does is sleep and cry.”

“I like playing with you.”

The corners of his lips tugged upwards, his dour demeanour melting away into a softer grin.

“Let’s try something different.” He suggested, your stomach clenching in apprehension at the mischievous glint in his eyes.

“...Ok.”

“You stand over there,” He pointed to a small clearing between two trees, “That is the goal. You have to try and protect it.”

“Ok.” You giggled, heart thumping in rhythm with your hasty steps.

“Ready?”

You gave a thumbs up and he backed up. Once he was pleased, he took an initial calculative step before thundering towards the ball, sending it soaring through the air. You were sure that it would not make contact with you as it was well above your head. However, after it had risen, it quickly descended back down with the speed and precision of a hunting eagle. It slammed into the edge of your brow, making contact with a surprising amount of force. Your legs gave way under the pressure as you clutched the spot where the ball hit, eyes tearing up from the impact.

“Ow.” Your voice wobbled as you cradled your head.

“Oh, oops.” Rafe rushed to kneel beside you, gingerly lifting your chin to inspect your face. “Are you ok?”

You didn’t respond, and when he noticed the tears welling up in your eyes, his entire body stiffened.

“Hey, hey, hey. Don’t cry, you’re ok.”

Blinking furiously, you managed to keep it together, but your voice came out as a dry croak. “Am I bleeding?”

“Nah, it’ll just be a little bruise. Nothing to worry about.”

His assurance dampened your concern, and you nodded. “Even though that really hurt, I still won. The ball didn’t pass the trees!”

Rafe began to chuckle but was abruptly disturbed by the click of the back door. Your mother called your name into the still air. Sniffling, you brushed your hair back into place when his tight grip clasped onto your shoulders, stilling your frantic movements.

“I was saving this for later,” His voice was hushed now as he removed a lollipop from his back pocket. “But it’s yours if you promise not to tell.”

Wiping the corner of your eyes, you smiled, “Alright.”

iii.

You froze in front of the mirror.

Floor length, delicately laid seams stretching taut against soft curves, the colour perfectly harmonious with your undertones– The dress was a beautiful testament to how far you've come, like a chain binding the past and the present together.

There was just one issue…it wouldn’t zip up the whole way.

You urged the seamstress to keep trying, tugging the resistant zip until it eventually gave way. It didn't, and on one particularly harsh tug, the zip got caught and pinched your flesh. You hissed, and she apologised before releasing it down and backing off.

“Your wedding is in a week?” She inquired, glancing over your frame insouciantly.

“Yes, Saturday week.”

“I should be able to add some alterations to the back in that time.”

Her attempt at assuaging you was futile – your mind could only focus on the wheel of possibilities, endlessly spinning. “What if there’s nothing you can do? Or the alteration destroys the style of the dress? Is there another alternative?”

Her smile was solemn as she met your frantic gaze in the reflection. “Well, I suppose the only other suggestion I can make is to move more and eat less.”

You pressed your lips together before stepping out of the changing room into the harshly lit waiting space. Your mother’s eyes immediately widened as she shot off the couch with a mixture of admiration and concern concocting within her irises.

“Oh, Darling. The dress is beautiful, but you don’t look happy. What’s the matter?”

“There is a slight issue…with the back.” The seamstress sighed, urging you to turn.

Your mother attempted to stifle her gasp beneath a freshly manicured hand. She skittered forward brushing delicate fingers over the fabric, prodding and pushing at the broad opening.

“Mum,” You groaned. “Just be honest with me, how bad is it?”

“Well, it’s about two inches so it’s not unnoticeable.” A crease formed in her brow as she inspected you, momentarily stuck in thought. “Have you considered styling your hair down?”

“Yes, but that's not going to fix the issue.”

She nodded, turning her attention to the seamstress, “Ma’am, I am willing to pay the price to have my daughter's dress prioritised.”

Before she could even consider the request, the familiar chime of your phone rang out, breaking your dazed stupor. As you peered at the screen, the name vibrantly lighting it up like a lighthouse beacon made you deeply exhale.

“Sorry, I’ll just answer this.”

“Is it Thomas?” Your mother’s ears piqued up in interest as you shuffled back to the changing room, her thin lips stretching into a downward crescent.

“Don’t sound more excited than me, mum.”

You swiped the accept button on the call after clicking the lock shut. “Hey sweetheart, how’s it going at the shop?”

A pit swelled within your stomach. “Things could be better.”

“Is there an issue? Last time you couldn’t have sounded happier.” Thomas’s voice was laced with concern, the image of his deep-set frown and fidgeting fingers flashing into your mind.

“I mean, it’s nothing that can’t be fixed. Just a minor issue with the beading.”

“Alright then, so it could be worse? Regardless, I’m certain you look beautiful.”

“You’re kind of required to say that, y’know, as my fiance.” You whispered timorously.

“Required or not doesn’t make a difference if I mean it all the same.”

The impressive weight of the dress’s train dragged the bodice down with it as it cascaded into a pile of limbs on the floor. A chuffed smile melded onto your face. “Was there any real purpose to this call?”

“Depends on what you count as purposeful. I wanted to hear my beautiful fiancé’s voice…and ask what other plans she has for the day?”

This time you snorted. Thomas was always vying for your attention. “I’m supposed to be meeting Edie at the club for lunch. She’s afraid you’ll hog up all my attention after the wedding and plans to get me drunk so she can find out all your dirty secrets.”

“Well she’s not wrong about the first part,” He heartily chuckled. “But try not to reveal too much, I think we’ve had enough rumours spread about us for a lifetime.”

“I’ll do my best. Anyway, I probably should get going, I’m already running late.”

“Alright, I’ll see you later then. I love you.”

“Love you too.”

Your mother resumed her position on the plush white couch while she waited for you, snapping up as you beckoned for her towards the entrance. She stalked closely behind your tail, approaching warily as you headed to your car.

“We discussed options on how the dress could be altered. It seems like the quickest solution will be to make it backless.”

“Honestly at this point, I don’t really care,” A heavy and tired sigh escaped your lips as you unlocked your car. “As long as it fits, that's all that matters to me.”

“Darling,” Her cold grasp caught your arm, forcing you to face her. “I know how you get. Your mind is all over the place, I can see it in your eyes.”

“It’s fine mum. I gave up on perfection a long time ago.”

“Either way, this is your big day and I want you to enjoy it. Don’t let this small mishap ruin it for you, alright?” She sagely advised, soothingly rubbing your shoulders.

“Ok, I won’t. Promise.” Though the smile was forced, you didn��t have it in you to counter her pleading eyes. She hugged you firmly, planting a kiss on your cheek as you parted ways.

The country club was brimming with familiar faces, each passing by with a nod of the head. In all honesty, you couldn’t remember half of their names, only being acquainted through your parents. Etiquette was an expected part of the club, though, so you returned their superficial pleasantries with an equally superficial smile.

The dining hall was occupied by an elderly couple sharing hushed whispers beside the far right window and a group of young men ravenously devouring their meals after an afternoon playing golf.

However, there was no sign of Edie.

Allowing your intuition to guide you through the hive-like hallways of the facility, you eventually ended up at the outdoor bar overlooking the course green. That was where you found her; firey tresses flowing loosely over her shoulders, hunched over the bartop as she swirled a glass of glistening rosè.

“I see you started without me.”

Without having to turn she squealed as the sound of your voice carried over to her, attracting the attention of curious onlookers. “You made it! I was starting to think you’d bailed on me…again.”

“Ed, that was months ago. I think it’s time we move on.”

She hummed and with a light giggle tapped the stool beside her. “Only if you let me buy you a drink and promise not to complain about the heat.”

“Deal.”

Nothing ever changed with Edie. Some people would describe her as immature, solidly stuck in the same old adolescent patterns of staying out late, drinking to the point of blacking out and entertaining unsuitable partners based on her attraction to them. But despite the opinion of others, her consistency came as a comfort to you. She knew how to have fun, and this energy never ceased to rub off on you.

“Now I know you’re probably sick of hearing it,” Already knowing where this was going, you rolled your eyes to emphasise how you felt about this turn in the conversation. Her voice was slightly slurred at this point, having gone through half a bottle of prosecco together. If you didn’t keep your wits about you, your tongue would soon become looser than you wished.

“But I have to ask–”

“Ed.” Your tone was firm.

“Are you sure about this?”

You sighed, leaning back in the stool like a beleaguered outpost, utterly surrendered and defenceless against her heavy onslaught.

“The amount of times you’ve asked me this is making me think you just don’t like him.”

“Babe, you know it’s more complicated than that.” She gently clasped your hand. “If you’re happy, I’m happy, promise…even with his track record.”

Your muscles stiffened, weighing you down like a heavy stone in your seat. “We put that behind us many years ago.”

“Well yeah,” She reticently continued. “I guess I’m still in the process of forgiving him, though.”

“If I can then I’m sure you have it in you.”

Her viridian eyes continued to pierce into you as she tilted her glass up to glossed lips. Sensing the finality in your tone, she nodded.

“So, are you?”

“Am I what?” You chortled incredulously.

“Happy!”

“Yes! Trust me if I wasn’t you’d be the first one to hear about it.”

“That’s what I like to hear.” She shimmied her shoulders with a giggle, the previously heavy aura dissipating and being charioted away by the breeze.

The debate over your love life has been a perpetual thorn in your side for many years. People liked to voice their opinions as though your life was paltry gossip they could pass on to their hairdresser. But not many took the time to consider your perspective, your feelings, your anguish.

Edie geared the topic of discussion to her latest rendezvous. A welcome change. Her sporadic lifestyle always kept you on your toes, considering there had been no major updates in your life for some time now... well, aside from the engagement of course. With the warm buzz pulsating through your veins, nothing could disturb the serene ambience of the club.

Almost nothing.

“Well, well, well. If it isn’t the two finest women on this island.” Kelce, and that could only mean–

“And if it isn’t our favourite troublesome trio. What brings y'all here this evening?”

Rafe lingered behind his posse like a shadow, his feathery locks tucked beneath a dull grey cap. Though his eyes were shielded by black-out shades, you could sense the burning heat of his gaze from a mile away– your body well attuned to it.

“Only the same as you two of course. Mind if we join you?”

“Sorry boys, but it’s kind of a girl’s night.” You quickly interjected, masking the unease in your tone with a fleeting smile.

Edie groaned your name, “Come on, the more the merrier.”

“Yeah come on,” Rafe echoed petulantly. “It’s been a while since we last hung out.” And you got the feeling he wasn’t talking about the rest of them.

Kelce and Topper occupied the two stools adjacent to Edie, leaving the last available seat directly beside you. Rafe was entirely isolated from the group, nursing a bitterly scented beer, and you had become his sole companion.

His stool made an awful scraping sound as he encroached on your personal space. The thick, solid weight of his thigh nudging into yours caused you to flinch and you could have sworn he smirked at the.

“So, how’ve you been?” He lazily drawled and you didn’t miss the way he blatantly zeroed in on your ring.

“The same as always Rafe, but I can’t say that bothers me.”

“No? Y’know that surprises me, you were always so…adventurous. Didn’t think you’d settle for the housewife lifestyle so soon.”

“You of all people should know that others can change.” You argued with a morose huff.

“Yeah, but not you.” His chuckle was merely a blank imitation of humour, shamelessly inauthentic.

“This is kind of unfair. You seem to know my whole life story while I can barely piece yours together these days.”

“You wanna know what I’ve been doing?” You nodded and he slouched back against the bar stool, taking a hefty swig of his beer and removing his shades with a flick of the wrist.

“I was at the shops recently, saw your mum,”

“...Ok?” You scoffed, struggling to see the relevance.

“She says you’ve been acting strange lately, distant, that true?”

“She always thinks I’m acting strangely.” She also apparently likes to gossip about my personal life.

“Thing is,” He paused for a moment, grimacing as if struggling to formulate the proper words. You knew better. Nothing Rafe did was without reason. “She’s under the impression it’s got something to do with the big day.”

“The big day, are you kidding me?”

Your heart synchronised with the beat of the music, drowning out all other immaterial noise as it pounded slow and steady in your ears. For the first time that evening, you dared a glimpse into Rafe’s eyes, immediately noticing his pupils dilated to the size of pennies.

“Jesus– Rafe,” You hissed, snatching his chin between your fingers. “I thought you gave up on that shit.”

“Always worryin’ about me.” A humourless laugh floated from his hollow chest. Cool silver dug into the supple flesh of your wrist as he gently pried your hand away. With a bated breath, you snatched the limb from his grasp.

“Yeah, well someone has to.” You scoffed. Remanence of snow dusted his collar and without thinking you brushed it away, watching as it fluttered into small clouds before dispersing.

“I did give up on it, by the way,” You frowned as your eyes flitted back up to him, brow raising in disbelief considering the blaring evidence that suggested otherwise. “But something’s been bothering me recently. You know what that is?”

“No.”

His grin was so juvenile you struggled to fathom how this man-child before you was in actuality a twenty-two-year-old well on the way to developing his frontal lobe.

He leant forward, resting the weight of his upper body on those muscly thighs, shallow breaths puffing hot and dewy onto your neck. There was no subtlety to his show of bravado. No attempt to hide his objective as the invisible string urged him forward, enabling his crude behaviour.

He wanted to make you suffer.

“The fact that I may have been the first man to have you, but in a week… I might not be the last.”

iv.

Brighton Grammar wasn’t any ordinary school, and it certainly wasn’t for the weak.

On your first day, you witnessed a scrawny boy with haphazard streaks of green throughout his locks get tripped in the hallway and laughed at. The next day, he returned with a full head of brown hair.

His conformity was duller, sure, but it removed a target off his back. The positive side to being different was that you stood out and the negative was that you stood out.

It was a lose-lose situation.

“I don’t see why you bother with all those clubs and shit.” Rafe dallied beside you with his hands stuffed in his pockets. He took it upon himself to chauffeur you between classes, and you didn’t miss the way the crowds parted for him like a proverbial red sea.

A sense of discomfort washed over you as Rafe’s hallowed presence had both girls and boys alike turning their heads. Then there was just you. Plain old you. It was unfair, like pitting a stone against a diamond– ultimately you stood no chance.

“I’m trying to find my passion and form connections. You should try it sometime, then maybe you won't be such a grouch.” He snarled and swerved to the side when you reached to pinch his arm. His reaction stirred a playful snicker from your lips.

“Uh-huh. You talk like my fuckin’ grandma, y’know that?”

“I guess that means, unlike some people I have manners.” He glared at you again, a growing grin nearly breaking his unbothered countenance. “Anyway, I am very capable of making my own decisions and I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You, capable? That’s not something I ever thought I’d hear.”

“Oh screw you! Starting today I am an independent woman.”

This time he barked out a laugh. “Whatever you say, sweetheart.”

You came to a halt outside the locked classroom, leaning against the bulletin board frame and waving at your classmates as they mingled amongst each other. Rafe snatched the scheduling paper from your hands, snorting when you cursed him for it.

“General maths with Mr Dubra? Damn, all I can say is good luck.”

His words registered someplace in your mind, but your attention had ventured elsewhere. Rafe followed your transfixed gaze to the bulletin board; a bright-coloured poster with cursive font drew you in like a moth to a flame. In the centre of the A4 page was a picture of a small collective of students, the boy at the front particularly capturing your attention as his pointed finger directed at you.

Auditions for Brighton Grammar’s Hamlet are to be held in the auditorium during lunchtime this Thursday! Do you have what it takes thou thespian?

“I think I’ll join the theatre club.”

Rafe’s expression could only be described as utterly mortified. “Hey if you want to be labelled a fucking loser, be my guest,” He raised his hands in surrender. “I ain't gonna stop you since you’re an ‘independent woman’ now.”

Your attempt to swing at him failed miserably as he dodged your attack with ease.

Ironically enough, you had been joking. The spotlight never called to you the thought of that much attention made your skin crawl. What you were drawn to on the other hand was the underappreciated art of stage crew, the glue that binds a production together.

But the ironic part of it all was that you did end up joining. For one, pathetic and degrading reason:

Thomas Hughes. The boy on the poster.

While you would describe Rafe as universally attractive, Thomas was the kind of handsome that not everyone could appreciate; a somewhat lanky build, eyes deep set into his skull as though he were eternally sleep deprived and unkempt hair tied into a loose bun.

But most notable was his aura, one of complete self-assurance and radiating warmth. He was also in Rafe’s year level– the grade above you –and you were certain the blonde would not approve, which made it all the more thrilling.

And for the sole reason of your silly little schoolgirl crush, you found yourself itching to get out of class after fourth period on Thursday. Unbeknownst to the pack of hounds you liked to call friends.

“You coming to lunch?” Topper asked as you passed him in the hallway, heading in the opposite direction of the cafeteria.

You shook your head with an affable grin. “I’ll catch up with you guys later.”

“Rafe won’t be happy.”

“Remind me to give a fuck.”

The auditorium was located on the west wing of the school, an old block that had been neglected by the school's previous funding. The heavy double doors creaked as you pushed through them, eyes momentarily adjusting to the dim lighting.

At the front of the stage sat a panel. Some students, some older, presumably teachers. You took a seat a few rows behind them, intent on simply observing.

There were six others in the crowd, bouncing their knees and fidgeting with their jewellery anxiously. All apart from one girl who sat up straight, clad in a stained white gown. She caught your intrigued gaze and softly beamed in return, offering you a wave.

Thomas emerged from the right wing clasping a manila folder. “What a turnout, huh? Now as you probably all know, I will be starring as Hamlet–” The audience erupted in a fit of claps and he bent over into a small bow.

“Thank you, thank you, I am honoured. But more importantly, we are in desperate need of an Ophelia, Gertrude and a Polonius. The show can not go on without them! So I invite you all today to give it your best shot.”

He gave a cue to someone in the light box and the overhead fresnels were adjusted to a neutral glow. “Well then, I don’t see any point in keeping you all waiting. Who would like to go first?”

The girl in the white gown sprung her hand up with little hesitation. “Alright, thank you, Cindy. The stage is all yours.”

Cindy, as you now came to know her, strode up the steps, hips swaying confidently like a lioness on the prowl. She was offered a script but turned it down, “I’ve memorised this act.” Another girl in the crowd scoffed, shaking her head.

As she began, you took note of the dip in her cadence as it transitioned from her naturally firm voice to something delicate and wispy. She had an interesting way of manoeuvring across the stage, light-footed movements carrying her graciously on the wooden surface akin to a small cloud conquering the great big sky. As her performance came to an end, the panel of judges clapped and hooted, and she hid her face in the palms of her hands as it turned notably red.

Thomas offered his hand to help her off the stage, “Great job Cindy! Although I would add for you to maybe tone down on the crazy. It is only the beginning of the play, Ophelia is still fairly sane.”

The gleam in her eyes faltered slightly. “Oh–uh…ok. I’ll remember that for next time.”

“If there is a next time, don’t get too cocky,” Thomas spoke without looking up from his notes, missing the way her jaw fell open in surprise.

“Who’s next?”

The room was swept into silence, everyone glancing around with hesitation.

“You in the back!” Your head snapped upwards, heart dropping instantly, and you awkwardly gestured to confirm that he was indeed referring to you despite the burning of eyes trained on you like being under a spotlight. “Yes, you. Since no one else was brave enough to volunteer, I nominate you.”

“Oh, well I wasn’t actually going to audition. I was just interested in seeing how this all…works.” You chuckled nervously.

“Nonsense! We don’t bite, do we?” A chorus of ‘no we don'ts’’ echoed in the large space. “Besides, it’s worth a shot. Some people are naturals and you will never know if you don’t give it a go.”

It wasn’t like you couldn’t refuse. These were theatre kids not abductors with a gun held to your head. But there was an indescribable intensity radiating off of them as if they could sense the refusal on the tip of your tongue, and for the first time, you felt the agonising weight of what your mother would call peer pressure.

“Alright, why not.”

“That’s the spirit!” You were ushered up to the stage before you had the chance to reconsider, face burning and legs trembling. Thomas’s fingers scraped against yours as he handed over the script. Your breath momentarily hitched and you flinched as though a spark of electricity had been transferred between you.

“Just read what’s been highlighted, the other shit isn’t necessary.”

You nodded, mumbling in recognition as you noticed that at least two-quarters of the page had been highlighted in yellow.

Inhaling deeply, you centred your focus on the script, attempting to block out the sets of eyes trained on you. You opened your mouth…and laughed. A painstakingly timorous noise that could only be controlled by slapping a hand over your traitorous lips.

“I’m sorry, this feels so unnatural to me.”

“No need to apologise, we’ve all been there,” Thomas’s tone was earnest, void of any judgement and this quelled the pin-pricking sensation circulating through your extremities slightly. “How ‘bout we read through the scene first so you have a better understanding of it. Shakespearean language can be a real bastard if you’re not used to it.”

You giggled at his jocose attitude, relief washing over you like a damp cloth. “I think that would help, thank you.”

From what you gathered the scene went as follows: Ophelia's father Polonius and her brother Laertes say their good-byes, consecutively warning her not to trust Hamlet’s promises of love as well as ordering her not to see Hamlet again.

Although you still admired her performance, Thomas’s criticism of Cindy’s portrayal made much more sense now. Though Ophelia is famously driven to madness later on in the play– accumulating in her untimely and equally ambiguous end– at this stage of the story, she is merely a heartstruck girl observing the world through rose-tinted lenses.

“Good to go?”

“I think so.”

“Alright, everyone! Give it up for…sorry, what’s your name?”

Your voice echoed with a newfound confidence and the crowd repeated it in a cheer. Perhaps you had been wrong, maybe you did like the spotlight, only you’d never given it the proper chance.

Mimicking Cindy, you adopted a higher pitch. Not shrill like the birds that resided outside your window each morning, but a pleasant touch of feminine; soft and delicate. You ambled across the stage, not in the same floaty manner she had employed but instead surefooted, conveying Ophelia’s clear-mindedness at this stage of the play. Unlike Cindy, however, you did not have the lines down, forcing you to take a slower approach. But this seemed to work in your favour, your slowed speech giving you plenty of opportunity to focus on your facial expressions, ensuring that they matched what was being described in the cues.

As your performance wrapped up and the adrenaline steadily receded, you couldn’t resist fixating on Thomas in the crowd who gazed up at you as though you hung the moon and stars in the sky.

And for the first time at your godforsaken school, you felt seen.

The hum of silence echoed in the Cameron’s dining room, encompassing the yellow walls in a damp sheen that refused to dry. Silver cutlery clinked against delicate porcelain, and as you picked away at your food, Rose smiled at you from across the table.

“So…Rafe tells us that you’re going to be in the school’s performance, what was the name–”

“Hamlet.” The blonde blankly interrupted, and you were surprised that he even knew that. “She’s playing the girl who kills herself.”

Ward hummed in interest, passing you the salad bowl. “That's excellent news. Theatre was a thriving business in my generation but it seems to have become somewhat of a dying art. Good on you for keeping it alive.”

“Well I didn’t exactly plan on joining, it just kind of happened–”

“She’s got a thing for the main guy, Tobias or some shit, that’s why she auditioned.”

“Rafe!” He grunted as you nudged his shin, lips peeling into a provoking smirk at your scolding.

“You gonna tell me I’m wrong?” He teased with a venomous undertone only you seemed to register, and your eyes narrowed at him.

“I want to see, I want to see, who’s this guy?” Sarah wheedled with her big brown eyes.

“Shut up, Sarah–”

“Rafe! Do not speak to your sister that way.” Ward’s voice boomed like a deafening clap of thunder, and once his pulsating anger settled, a small cry erupted from Wheezie who tried to conceal her tears beneath a dotted napkin. Rose was quick to placate the young girl with promises of dessert, whisking her off into the kitchen but not before refilling her glass of chardonnay.

Once they were out of sight, Ward beckoned Sarah to clamber onto his lap, folding her small face into his broad neck before regarding his son with a scalding glare. “Look at what you’ve done.”

The interaction was unsettling, to say the least, but not uncommon. Rafe’s lips pinched shut, suppressing a whimper. In the face of his father’s wrath, he would always detract from his usual tough persona, retreating into the shell of a wounded puppy. You didn’t blame him. Ward could be cruel with no regard for the effect his words had on his son, and you loathed him for his blatant favouritism.

You reached for his hand underneath the table, intertwining the cold extremity with your own. He flinched at first, aggressively flicking his head toward you. But as you gave it a gentle squeeze he seemed to catch on to your intention and his body fell back into a relaxed state.

You tried to be there for Rafe as much as you could, but despite your efforts, the void left by an absent father was irreplaceable. You could only try your best, but sometimes you had to put yourself first, even if that meant neglecting the needs of those closest to you.

The production was a much bigger commitment than you initially thought. Rehearsals pulled you from classes multiple times a week and you began to worry that it could potentially detract from your other subjects. But as a young woman, the possibility of it reeling you from your scholarly responsibilities was not quite as concerning as it was that you felt you were failing at your duties as a friend.

It had been raining consistently for the past five days. Endless bouts of downpours during spring thickened the soil and left the air with an unpleasantly muggy tinge. You and Rafe slouched against the linoleum floors of the school gymnasium, slightly obscured from view by the red curtains of the wall-length window. He shut your concerns of being caught down by offering you a swig of whatever concoction he’d brought onto school premises.

“How about instead of getting your tits in a twist about it, you have some.”

Classic Rafe.

But you did end up having some because as soon as he began ranting you knew it was necessary for your own mental wellbeing.

“You better fucking be there ‘cause there’s no way I can deal with all those old farts on my own.”

“Am I even invited?” You grimaced as the bitter taste invaded your tastebuds, eagerly handing the flask back, to which he condescendingly snorted.

A gathering with Ward and his highly esteemed guests could only entail boredom to a deadly degree. Even thinking about it made you yawn, but on the other hand, you would feel bad if Rafe had to endure it on his own.

“Dad says you're more than welcome, he likes having you around,” He let out a small chuckle, ruffling his short bangs. “He says you keep me sane like we’re an old married couple or some shit.”

At that, you couldn’t help but barked out in laughter. “Yeah right. Say we ever did hypothetically get married, one of us would probably end up killing the other.”

“Yeahhh, probably.”

He drank again, eyeing you scrupulously, and in that moment you wished you could climb into his brain to know what he was thinking. There was a brief awkward pause before you cleared your throat and asked, “Wait, when did you say this was again?”

“Friday, afterschool…why?”

“Shit, Rafe–”

“Nah. You gotta be fucking kiddin’ me, again. They can’t keep you after school on a Friday! That’s criminal.”

“I know, trust me I agree.”

“Don’t go then.” He countered with a raised brow, testing you.

“I would If I could, you know that. But there’s two weeks till the show, there’s just too much to do.”

“Sure, whatever you say.” He lifted the silver cylinder back up to his lips, taking a long swig.

“Rafe,” You sighed, trying to reason with him. “Please don’t be mad at me, I’m sorry–”

You were cut off as the doors to the gym groaned, opening to reveal the last person you expected to see.

Thomas.

“Oh, hey. What’s up?” He seemed surprised to see you, but even more surprised to see you with Rafe, eyes flickering between you with confusion.

“Hi Thomas, we were just,” His attention flitted down to the flask, incriminating evidence that you quickly swept beneath Rafe’s folded leg, “Uh, what are you doing here? Never took you as the sporting kind of lad.”

Shit, that was bad. As if Rafe was thinking the same thing, he snorted into his fist. You wanted to crumble right then and there.

Thomas seemed to find your comment amusing, however, bowing his head as he chortled. “Damn, it’s that obvious, huh? But nah, I’m just tryna help Cindy find her phone. I would ask what you guys are up to, but…well, I don’t really wanna know.”

“Ah, well I hope she finds it. We didn’t see anything, did we, Rafe?”

“Nope.” He popped his ‘p’ when answering, and you frowned, unimpressed by his cavalier attitude. “Hey man, why don’t you join us?”

Rafe tilted his head at Thomas in what would appear to the average eye as a friendly gesture but you knew better; he was up to no good.

“I would. But as I said, I gotta–”

“Oh c'mon, I’m sure she could do with the detox.”

“Uh…”

“Is that a yes?” He gestured toward you, “She won’t mind. In fact, I think she’d much prefer to hang out with you than me–”

Classic Rafe. You desperately waved your hands at Thomas, attempting to damage control before he had the opportunity to make the situation even more awkward. “Don’t listen to him, he’s way too used to getting his way. Go if you need to.”

A brief glint of relief flashed across Thomas’s features, and like a rabbit caught in a tiff, he seized the opportunity you provided to flee. “You’re right, I really ought to go. Thanks for the offer though, man. See you both around.”

As soon as the doors clicked shut again, you wasted no time. Rafe didn’t even attempt to defend himself against your slew of attacks, simply taking your weak hits for what they were.

“What the fuck was that?” You finally hissed out once you’d calmed down.

“What was what?”

“Don’t be a moron, are you trying to embarrass me?”

“Oh, sorry for being a good wingman.” His shrug was insouciant, further frustrating you.

“What you’re being is a pain in my ass.”

He didn’t react to that in the way you expected. Generally, he found the humour in your insults, but this time a coldness you weren’t accustomed to receiving glazed over his eyes.

“You really like this guy, huh?”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Cut the shit. You’ve only ever acted like this with that kid who proposed to you in the sandpit.” As you stood he sighed, realising you were refusing to engage in this conversation. “So will I see you on Friday or not?”

“Probably not.”

“See! I knew you’d rather hang out with him than me!” He shouted after you as you stormed off to your next class, gait regretfully swaying as the effects of Rafe’s concoction set in.

In the weeks leading up to the performance, things only became more hectic. If you were to get your cortisol levels tested the results would likely conclude abnormally high. To make matters worse, Rafe was mad at you. Topper and Kelce tried to assure you that he wasn’t, but you knew better. He didn’t respond to your texts, barely acknowledged your presence at school and hadn’t invited you over in a week. All very abnormal behaviours as, while yes, he was an inherit dickhead, you were usually exempt from this.

So naturally, you did what any normal person in such circumstances would do; gave him the same treatment in return. Only acknowledging the damage his behaviour was inflicting upon you in furious scribbles in your lavender spiral diary.

You were having your costume fitted in the small dressing room adjacent to the auditorium. Cindy was booked for her appointment afterwards and in the meantime she lazed on the tattered purple couch in the corner of the room, scrolling through her phone.

A girl from the costume department examined the logistical functioning of your costume as there were a few instances in the performance where a quick change was necessary. Her vivacious red curls bounced as she turned the room upside down in search of her pins.

“Ok then, you’re pretty much done. I’ll just have to hem the base so we adhere to theatre-safe practices and all that stupid shit they assess…” She paused and eyed you over, tugging at the loose sleeve of your dress with a hum. “You look so pretty, like a fairy.”

“Thank you.” You bashfully smiled. She returned it before turning to the other girl in the room.

“Cindy.”

“Hm?”

“Cindy.”

“What?” She snapped, tearing her gaze from her phone.

“What do you think?”

“I mean it’s alright” She shrugged, face peeling into a saccharine grin. “Not really your colour but you definitely suit rags.”

You would’ve burst out into laughter had you not been so shocked.

“Now I remember why I don’t ask for your opinion,” The redhead rolled her eyes, shoving Cindy’s garment bag into her lap. “Be useful and get changed into this. I’ll get started on you in a moment.”

Once Cindy had left the room, she bowed her head apologising.

“I’m guessing you’re not her biggest fan?”

“Not a fan, period.” She sullenly snorted. “She’s a sanctimonious bitch who can’t keep her nose out of other peoples’ business.”

“She’s pretty at least.” You tried to see the best in people, despite how difficult they made it for you.

“Well, that’s about all she has to offer. I’m Edie, by the way.”

And the rest was history.

Similarly to the majority of the cast and crew, Edie was in Rafe’s grade. And when she discovered (during your break on Friday rehearsals) that you knew the infamous blonde personally, you did not hear the end of it.

“You’re friends with Rafe Cameron?” Her jaw fell open so quickly that you worried it would pop out of alignment.

“Yeah, I mean we practically grew up together. I’ve spent half my life at his house.”

“You go to his house?! Holy fuck, you’ve been living my dream life like it’s nothing to you.”

“Trust me it’s not as good as you might think. He can be a real ass–”

“Hope you’re not talkin’ about me?” An arm suddenly snaked over your shoulder. The limb was heavy but warm– comforting –and emanated a pleasant aroma. Thomas let his hair hang loose today, long ebony strands pirouetting over the surface of your skin when you glanced up at him.

“Ah-ha not specifically, but I don’t know, maybe it applies to you too.”

In true theatrical style, he sputtered out a choking noise, clasping onto his chest to imitate immense pain. “Ouch. I think you just broke my heart.”

“Oh really? I didn’t realise Martians could feel pain.”

He gasped, and Edie chuckled at the interaction from beside you, shaking her head at your antics. “O-kay as cute as that was, can we please get back to the topic of Rafe.”

Thomas’s expression pinched in discomfort at the mention of the blonde and you recalled your last interaction with them both, inwardly cringing. “Does he have a problem with me or something? I feel like he does.”

“Wouldn’t be surprising. He’s always looking to have a problem with someone.”

“Seems to tolerate you though.”

“Barely,” He opened his mouth to respond but was beaten to it by a loud screech sounding out the syllables of his name. Cindy stood atop the stage, tapping her foot rhythmically against the solid wood with her arms crossed over her chest, not bothering to contain her lour.

“Thomas!” her voice pierced across the auditorium again like one of those pesky drillers going off on a Sunday morning. “I want to go over the cues for this scene, c’mon.”

“Hey,” Edie halted him as he begrudgingly moved to acquiesce to her demand, “Just remember you have free will.”

“Well look how far that’s gotten me.”

You weren’t sure what he meant by that, as though it were some cryptic message you’d been tasked to decode. He smiled, bidding you both goodbye with a simple wave and you paused for a moment, observing as he trudged away.

Edie cleared her throat and you were snapped out of your daze, returning to the present only to realise– with much dismay –that your face had been donned with a damning grin. Her brow quirked and you knew what was coming.

“What’s that look for?”

“Something you wanna tell me?”

“Um… I don’t think so?” Your voice came out in a pathetic squeak and you cleared it, although the damage had already been done.

“Oh come on,” She scoffed with an omniscient smirk, “You’re about as transparent as my gran’s panties…You like him.”

“Not you too.” You groaned, pivoting on your heels to take a seat in one of the rows of chairs furthest away from anyone else. If she wanted to have this conversation it was going to be out of earshot. Lest someone else managed to uncover your secret it would soon spread like wildfire. Her girlish giggle followed, and she saddled up beside you.

“There’s no shame in it, babe. Tom’s a good guy, and you seem to get along…but–”

“But what?”

Her expression soured, as though the words on the tip of her tongue were full of bile. “One thing you should know about Tom is that for many years, he had a thing for Cindy,” Her eyes rolled to the back of her head, “She rejected and rejected him, and eventually he moved on…but she didn’t like that. Not one bit. But now it seems the tables have turned. Did you know she fucking hates theatre?”

“Doesn’t seem that way to me.” You were prompted to glance up onto the stage where the two were currently rehearsing; she made it seem so effortless. How could she hate the things she was good at?

“Exactly. That’s why she’s so dangerous, she can keep up a good act.”

“I see…” This information shouldn’t have unsettled you. The past was set in stone for a reason and it was only possible for it to be resurfaced if you allowed it to. But it did unsettle you. Cindy possessed a classic kind of beauty you weren’t sure you could compete with. “So do you think if she were to ever bring it up, he would go for her again?”

“Hard to tell, with both of them. I’m pretty sure it’s just a game to her, she likes the attention. But as for Thomas, I think he’s beginning to see things clearer now.”

You tilted your head, unsure of what she meant by that.

“He’s not thinking with his dick.” She clarified bluntly, the crass wording making you gasp and then chuckle.

“Right. Good to know.”

Your phone vibrated from within your jeans pocket and you were surprised to see that it was Rafe calling you, considering you’d essentially gone with no contact for days. Assuming the worst, you excused yourself.

As you placed the phone to your ear you could only manage to make out a whooshing sound as though he were standing atop a viciously windy mountain. Then it stopped in tandem with what sounded to be like a string of expletives before he finally spoke.

“Yooo, what’s up? You coming?” Your brows furrowed at his elated tone. Last you’d checked, he was ignoring you.

“Rafe, I already told you I can't–”

“Chill, it's fine. Got dumb and dumber to come over, keep me entertained”

“The fuck you just call us?” Topper and Kelce both shouted in unison somewhere in the background. Aside from their outburst, you couldn’t make out any other noise so you imagined they’d locked themselves away from all the action with Ward and his friends. Rafe detested hanging out with the oldies.

“OK, good. Saves me from feeling bad. But are you alright, you sound a bit…” Happy. The word you were grasping for was happy because you couldn’t remember the last time he’d sounded so carefree.

“Better than ever!”

“And are we ok?”

“Yeahhh, you’re too cute to stay mad at for long.”

His response stifled you for a moment. “That’s real funny, Rafe.”

But in the coming days, something told you this may not be the case.

Instead of avoiding you, Rafe wasn’t even showing up to school anymore. You were worried he was still clinging onto the remnants of his unjust anger until you received another phone call at 2:30 am, the night before your performance.

“Rafe…” You rubbed the sleep from your eyes, voice groggy and disoriented as you checked the glaring red lines on your digital clock. “What’s wrong? Do you even know what time it is?”

“Yeah, uh I’m sorry…” He sniffed. “I’m outside, can I come– ah actually y’know what just come out front, will you?”

You paused. On any ordinary occasion, you’d have told him to piss off, too tired and frustrated to entertain his larks. But a stab of concern reared its ugly head at his shakey tone– this was very out of character.

“Yeah, yeah of course. I’ll be out in a minute.”

It was a blisteringly cold night so you shrugged on a coat before trekking downstairs quietly, praying your parents weren’t lying awake to witness you sneaking out of the house in the wee hours.

The front door scraped against the doormat as it opened. Rafe remained slumped against one of the white veranda pillars, motionless, as though he hadn’t heard you. His breaths were heavy, and upon assessing him you frowned at the fact that he was merely clad in a thin polo shirt and khaki shorts.

“...Rafe?” You brushed your fingers gingerly across the wide expanse of his shoulders. He violently flinched, whipping around as though your touch was a burning affliction upon his supple skin. But his harsh reaction quickly softened when he saw it was just you.

“Shit, don’t do that.”

“Sorry.” You whispered, dragging your eyes from his head down to his toes, assessing for any injuries. His unmarred skin left you stumped and it was only when you honed in on his frantic gaze did the issue finally dawned on you.

“Are you high?”

Your question seemed to strike a nerve. He scrunched his face within his hands, as though he were in pain.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with me, I-it’s like I’m seeing shit and hearing shit and my head hurts so fucking bad.” He was reacting badly. “And all I could think about was seeing you.”

“Did you fight with Ward?” This time he didn’t flinch as you grabbed onto his bicep, hoping to ground him.

“Yeah, uh, yeah he’s just–”

“It’s alright, you don’t have to explain that right now. I’m here.” His burly arms engulfed you as he accepted your hug. You entangled yourself within his embrace, understanding that right now, all he desired was some comfort.

“Thanks.”

His voice was muffled by the position with his head stuffed into your shoulder. You gently tighten your hold in response, focusing on the rapid stuttering of his heartbeat which gradually slowed and levelled out into a calmer rhythm.

What came next was like an inevitable chain of events: both of you pulled back at the same time and a frisson of confusion swept over you as he remained there, content with your noses practically intertwining. Although you weren’t confused. No. You were evading the truth. The truth that had become crystallised at this moment, glistening so bright you could hardly ignore it.

One moment you were pinned to the spot by his sodden gaze, sporadically alternating between each region of your face. Mapping out each detail but notably lingering on your lips. Emotions raged within those viridian orbs like a violent coastal storm, threatening to destroy whatever stability you had left.

Then, as though it were natural to him, he met you in the middle.

You’d never experienced anything like it, and any story you’d been told was not comparable. His lips were firm and demanding in a way that surprised you and there was not a single trace of hesitation in his movement, as though he’d been waiting for this moment for a long time.

Reality came crashing into you like a truck; you were kissing your best friend. The boy you bathed with as a child, who allowed you to snot into his sleeve as you wept and who vowed to protect you from the plight of men; It felt nice, but this sentiment was so heavily outweighed by the fact that it felt wrong.

This revelation ignited your dormant reflexes. As he began to paw at your lower back, you realised this had gone too far.

The rate at which you pushed him away stunned even you, and a wave of guilt ebbed through your system as his back collided with the pillar; you didn’t mean to be so harsh, after all, he was already in a vulnerable state. He remained crumpled in that position, fingers ghosting over his lips as if he were attempting to savour the taste of your own.

“Shit, I-I’m always fucking up, I’m sorry,” He cupped your chin, the action causing you to jerk. “Sorry.”

It unnerved how contrived his apology sounded, and you wondered if he could hear it too.

“Uh-no no it’s ok,” Your body was frozen in a state of shock. “You're all over the place,” Surely he’d brush this off as a mistake by morning. “let's get you inside, yeah?”

His eyes glazed over your face once again, scrupulously this time, as though he were searching for something. He nodded when he didn’t find it, seemingly wanting to say more as he brushed the back of his neck but he chose to remain silent as you led him inside.

It wasn’t unusual for you to share a bed; you’d done so numerous times in the past. But it felt different now, like an invitation you were reluctant to hand out. You wanted to be there for Rafe, but you couldn’t let him get confused.

So you lay there, keeping an appropriate amount of distance from the snoring blonde. If you acted normal, things would remain as they always had, right? Would it be swiped under the rug? Deep down you realised the implications of what had just occurred, and the potential for your…brief mistake to alter both of your futures. It was a classic tale, one you’d heard so many times (both in reality and fiction) it had burned deep into your psyche. A slow evolution between boy and girl, from friendship to beyond. But that didn’t mean you'd end like that, you repeated it over and over again like a mantra.

You just couldn’t.

So you lay there, deciding to enjoy this peaceful moment. Naturally, your mind drifts over it all: the play, Thomas, and Rafe beside you. All share a common denominator– pumping your life full of both excitement and stress.

But as the saying goes; all good things must come to an end.

vi.

Rafe experienced what you liked to call a reverse metamorphosis during your senior year.

Why reverse? Well, instead of transforming from a raggedy moth, expanding his wings to flourish as a butterfly, he took a drastic turn for the worse; as though he’d retreated into a slimy cocoon.

Not that he’d ever been exceptionally well-behaved throughout his schooling years– busted for truancy more times than you could count, dabbling in all sorts of allusive substances among other nefarious things that you try not to dwell on –but as a recent graduate privileged with all the resources needed to pave a bright future, you had at least expected he’d try.

Unfortunately, things didn’t always pan out as you imagined they would.

If he wasn’t drunk, or at least on the brink of it, then he was under the influence of some other powdery or herbal substance. Wasting his days away under the soft confinements of his bedding, recovering from late nights and remaining slumped against the toilet for the better half of his waking hours. Then he’d repeat the cycle, with absolutely no lessons learnt.

Sometimes you’d receive a call. Incoherent slurs that reminded you of that fateful night months ago, where lines were blurred and boundaries crossed. His drunken words held no meaning, right? That’s what you would tell yourself, like a mantra, over and over until your mind believed what it heard the most.

Nonetheless, you couldn’t spend your whole life worrying about Rafe. Not when you had other, more imperative issues at hand.

Or… between your legs.

The nonsensical droning emitted from the food network on your TV fell on deaf ears as you sat perched on Thomas's lap. The weight of your knees was supported by cherry sheets and pink frilly pillows as your lips moved against his at a languid pace. It was soft, sensual…tame, but at the same time exhilarating, and you trusted Thomas to guide you through it.

He let out a low groan as your fingers absentmindedly tugged on his shiny locks. Much to your dismay, he recently cut his hair shorter than it's ever been; his new look attracted attention from those who previously dismissed him, and this stoked the flames of unease within you.

You lowered your position, leaning impossibly closer until your chest brushed against the flimsy cotton of his t-shirt. A jolt of electricity transmitted up your spine as his hands found purchase on your lower back, traversing dangerously low, and a soft whimper floated from your chest.

But as you were still discovering, the art of intimacy was much more complex than you initially believed, and you hadn’t quite learnt how to toe the line.

Without thinking, your thumbs dipped into the waistline of his pants. Just barely tickling the surface, but enough to make Thomas jerk his head back, the hasty action subsequently halting your heated movements.

“What’re you doing?” His voice was outlandishly thick as his breaths came out in heavy puffs, scented in confusion.

“I-i just thought…” You sat back, feeling suddenly unmoored. “Sorry, am I doing something wrong?”

“Of course not, just not right now, ok?” His deft fingers kneaded into your side, but their intended comforting effect did nothing to quell the pang of his rejection.

“Sure.” You halfheartedly smiled, slipping off of his warm body to settle by his side.

Had you been as stiff as a board this entire time? And why was your bedroom becoming increasingly suffocating? As though the walls unanimously decided to close in and focus every second of awkwardness into one concentrated area.

“Wanna watch a movie?” Thomas eventually broke the heavy silence, refusing to broach the elephant in the room– which you were thankful for.

Clearing your throat, you rolled out of your bed, pulling on a pair of fuzzy socks. “Yeah, I’ll-uh get us something to eat. You choose the movie.”

Your relationship with Thomas had been smooth sailing…until it wasn't.

As you busied yourself slicing up a platter of fruit in the kitchen, you couldn’t resist analysing each possibility as to why. Thomas was acting strangely. This wasn’t an assumption, and it couldn’t have been a coincidence that his change in demeanour always seemed to occur in your presence. So then what were you doing wrong? And why did he insist on keeping you in the dark?

Your train of thought came to an abrupt halt as you noticed an onslaught of notifications popping up on your phone. With an exasperated groan, you leaned over the bench to see who dared to disrupt your moment's peace.

Rafe. Could you get a break?

To: Princess Rafe 🙄👑 Piss off I’m busy.

You left it there, praying to any deity willing to lend you an ear that that would suffice. But clearly, you’d also managed to vex the higher beings, as his response was immediate:

From: Princess Rafe 🙄👑 I’m going 74 mph yet I take the time to talk to you 🖕

Yep. No break for you.

To: Princess Rafe 🙄👑 ???? Dude get off your fucking phone.

From: Princess Rafe 🙄👑 Since you asked so nicely.

And if his cavalier regard for the law wasn’t bad enough, his next message sent your jaw straight to the floor.

“Nope. Not dealing with this.” You shoved your phone into your pocket, ignoring the buzz of a new notification, both for your sanity and Rafe’s safety.

When you returned to your room, Thomas had migrated to the carpet, perched atop a pile of decorative pillows you’d previously discarded onto the floor as he flicked through the pages of a familiar lavender spiral notebook.

You gasped, the realisation of what he was rifling through and slapping you right across the face.

“Oh, hey.” He smirked– that sick, condescending bastard!

“STOP!” You screeched, and his laughter verged on hysterical. “Put. That. Down.”

He swiftly dogged the stuffed animals you pelted in his direction, pouting derisively as you proceeded to storm towards him. “Aw, why would I do that? I was just getting to the part where you’ve described my scent. Lemon myrtle? That’s pretty specific, it’s actually musk–”

“Thomas.” Your tone acquired a sharp edge, but clearly, he hadn’t tortured you enough as he teasingly flicked to the newer entries.

“Oh, and what’s this…” His posture went lax, abruptly pausing. His wide eyes darted in between the lines as though the words were a mirage he was reluctant to put his trust in. Then his lips pulled down into a small frown, and your stomach clenched.

“What? Where the hell are you up to?” Your attempt to snatch at the book was fruitless as he kept it raised well above your reach. “Wha–”

“Alright, I’ve had enough of this game for one night. Let’s watch the movie.” You stumbled to catch the book as he carelessly discarded it, pivoting around you as he flopped back onto the bed.

“Okay…but don’t make a habit of breaching my privacy.” Your laugh was intended to lighten the mood, but it seemed to have the opposite effect.

“Why, got something to hide?” He sullenly spoke, staring at the ceiling. Again, the inexplicable tension had wormed its back into your room. It was like a stubborn parasite that adapted to its surroundings, never completely disappearing.

“Nothing too damning I’d imagine.”

The movie Thomas chose was a 20th-century romantic tragedy featuring many themes typical of that era such as misogyny and class which made your eyes roll. Your attention to the plot was continually hijacked as Rafe continued to flood your phone with messages, making it difficult to follow along with the plot. You’d been in the middle of responding to one of his many texts (complaining about how some guy at a party was getting on his nerves) when the movie suddenly paused.

“Mm, why'd you pause it?” You peeled your eyes from the screen to be met by Thomas’s blank ones.

“Can I ask you something? And I want you to just be honest with me, don’t tell me what I want to hear.”

“Uh, sure.” His quick transition into seriousness caught you by surprise, and your body tensed like a coiled spring.

“Alright look, I hate to be this guy,” His face scrunched into a grimace as he glanced anywhere but your eyes. “But you’d tell me if there was someone else, wouldn’t you?”

“Someone else? What do you mean?”

He sighed, clearly frustrated. “Let me be more clear then. If you liked someone else, would you string me along…or would you break things off?”

You couldn’t believe what you were hearing, now twisting your body to face him with a scoff. “Who do you think I am, Thomas? I was the one who asked you out, remember? That wasn’t on a whim, I did that because I liked you.”

“Liked?”

You groaned. Why was he making this so complicated?

“Liked, like. What difference does it make? To me, this seems like you are trying to come to the conclusion you want to hear?”

“I’m not jumping to conclusions, just tryna test my hypothesis.”

“Okay, and what’s that?” Probing information out of him was like bribing a kid with vegetables; fucking tedious.

“That you care about Rafe more than you’re letting on, maybe more than you even realise.”

“What?” You almost laughed in disbelief. Where was this even coming from? “He’s one of my best friends, wouldn’t it be more concerning if I didn’t care for him?”

“I never said you couldn’t care about him to a normal degree, but he may as well be in the room with us! It’s never just me and you, he’s always occupying your mind. Do you not stop to think about how that makes me feel?”

He did have a point. Rafe was like a dog, constantly demanding your attention, and it had been that way since the day you met him. Still, you sat there in shock, realising he must’ve been bottling this up for some time now.

“I didn’t mean- well alright if we’re suddenly being honest, half the time I’m with you it feels like you don’t even want me there.”

“What does that mean?” Now it was his turn to sound confused, offended even.

“You confuse me! One moment you’re all over me and the next you’re pushing me away as though I make your skin crawl.”

He paused, contemplatively digesting your words before his pretty features twisted into an indignant scowl. “So does that excuse what you did? Because I don’t show you enough attention?”

“What did I do?” You were at your wit’s end.

“Oh stop pretending like you don’t know what I’m talking about. I saw it, written in your pretty fucking handwritten; you kissed him.”

Oh. Shit. Of all entries, it was that one he had to have read; which did not paint the clearest picture of that night. You got halfway through documenting what had happened before stopping right at the point when you realised it was wrong, no longer feeling in the mood to relive the moment…no wonder he was furious.

“It’s not what you think.” You internally cursed yourself for how cliche that sounded.

“No? Enlighten me then.” He sat up straight like a judge awaiting your testimony from a convicted criminal.

“Rafe has issues…okay. Stuff at home, and he’s never known how to cope on his own–”

“Oh right, so that’s where you come into play. Are your lips like some magical cure for interpersonal issues?” He queried cynically.

“Would you shut up and listen!” This time, he reared back at your outburst, “That night he was really out of it. I’m talking delirious, like some rabid dog. He kissed me, not the other way round, and I stopped it because it didn't feel right… and because I liked you.”

You could see the cogs churning in Thomas's mind as he absorbed your words, taking the time to process each one. With a gentle gaze, he met your eyes, his expression softening into an apologetic smile.

“I see. This all happened before we got together?”

“Yes, of course it was before. I would never do something like that to you,” His drop in hostility spurred you to lean forward, dragging his warm limbs into your embrace, “I promise.”

Surely this would be the end of it. It had to be. Everything was out in the open, and miscommunications cleared. But when you pulled back, his guilty grimace told you otherwise.

“There’s something else I have to tell you.”

vii.

Ring.

Another fervid sob was ripped from your maw. You burned from within, rife with malice clawing up your raw oesophagus till it was raw and prying through your lips in ugly bated breaths. You allowed a moment to pass before trying again.

Ring.

…

“You ignore my fuckin’ texts and now you wanna talk.”

“Rafe,” Your cracked voice butchered the syllables of his name, sounding almost unrecognisable. Pathetic. “Can I see you?”

Not even 10 seconds later a notification appeared on your phone. He’d shared his location, some vaguely familiar residence on the outskirts of your neighbourhood.

“What–”

“I’ll see you soon.”

Being vulnerable wasn’t your forte, nor was it Rafe’s, and there was no doubt he was currently perplexed by your sudden change of heart. But tonight, you needed someone. And that’s how you found yourself stepping into a stranger's house at 12:45 am, scouring the misty rooms in search of a familiar burly figure.

A low whistle piqued your attention. Topper emerged from the kitchen as you were passing by, two red solo cups in his possession. “Didn’t expect to see you here, not that I’m complaining.”

His eyes quickly swept over your frame, the respectful gentleman he was. You couldn’t contain your scoff. Even in black track pants and a muted pink top… guys really could be attracted to anything as long as it walked on two hind legs.

“Bit cliche, don’t you think, Top.” You retorted with a halfhearted snort, gesturing to the cups. What was this, a freshman's first house party?

He rolled his eyes, extending one to you. The nefarious liquid sloshed over the rim and you shook your head. “Uh, no I’m good, thanks.”

He fixed you with a pointed look. “It looks like you could use it.”

With a huff, you snatched the cup from him, to which he chuckled. “I hate how you’re always right.”

He began to ferry you toward Kelce and their gaggle of friends who huddled around a small coffee table in the living room, passing a clumsily rolled joint between them. When Kelce’s wide-set brown eyes landed on you, he abruptly stood, knocking the table's contents in doing so as he manhandled you into his side.

“How’s my favourite girl doing?”

He balanced the joint between two fingers, residual smoke clung to his body in a damp sheen. Your eyes watered as you suppressed a cough, “Fine, until I caught a whiff of you.”

“C’mon, nothing takes the edge off like a good toke.” He waved it in front of your face, an offer, snorting as your face contorted into a grimace.

“As great as that sounds,” You pushed his arm off its perch on your shoulder with a bitter smile. “Is Rafe here?”

“Yeah, pretty sure he went upstairs.” His hand absentmindedly flicked toward the staircase and you quickly excused yourself before they could become too attached to your presence.

The ambience upstairs was much more quaint than below, mainly consisting of couples who split off from their respective groups. A few were making out, some others collapsed asleep on the furnished floorboards; typical party antics reminding you as to why you generally avoided these places.

The walk from your house had cooled your system, remedying your flighty instincts ever so slightly. This you were thankful for, as upon opening the final door along the lengthy hallway, you were met with Rafe’s determined gaze, and you knew he would demand answers.

“Been messaging you.” The mattress creaked as he lifted his weight off its surface. His gait was straight and steady, and this was perhaps the closest to sober you’d seen him in a long time.

“I know, I just wanted to see you in person.” Despite your best efforts, the burning of your eyes became so overbearing and you fought to hold back the overwhelming emotions coursing through your veins. It was like the moment someone asks if you're okay when it's obvious you're not, the floodgates open and emotions come crashing down around you in an unrelenting wave.

“Hey hey hey, what the fuck happened to you?” He rushed over, forcing you to face him with a firm grip on your shoulders.

“It doesn’t matter.”

“The fuck it does,” His hands rubbed over his face exasperatedly as though he were controlling the urge to be rougher with you and extract an answer forcefully. “You can’t call me all hysterically crying and shit then give me nothing. Did someone hurt you? Did Thomas do something?”

The mere mention of his name sent you spiralling even further. “Alright, come on, sit down.” Rafe didn’t give you much of an option, dragging you to the bed in an iron grip and then forcing you onto the black sheets as he sat beside you.

“What happened?”

“It’s Thomas.” You affirmed solemnly.

“I’ll kill him.” He seethed through his teeth and your head violently shook.

“No, no I won’t tell you if that’s how you’re gonna respond.” He went to ark up but you interrupted him before he had the chance. “Rafe, I'm serious.”

“I’ll decide for myself once you tell me.”

With a heavy sigh, you finally conceded. “Do you remember that one girl from my theatre club? The diva one?”

“Who?”

“Cindy! Blonde hair, beautiful. She was in your year level.”

Rafe’s brows furrowed in confusion. “I seriously don’t know who the fuck that is.”

“Whatever, it doesn’t matter. Anyway, before me and Thomas started…dating, I found out he had a thing for her for quite some time.”

“So?”

“Jesus- just let me finish!” He reluctantly relented, nodding for you to continue. “Since you’re so impatient, I’ll tell you the short version: Thomas stopped liking her then me and him started dating. He thought we had something going on secretly and confided in Cindy…then he used that to justify sleeping with her.”

The silence that followed was like dust settling back onto the road; static but still very much disturbed.

“What.”

“There’s nothing else to say.” You croaked, dabbing your sodden eyes on your sleeve.

Not a moment later he shot up, pacing back and forth a few times before submitting to the battle raging in his head and storming toward the door. “Rafe, no you promised me–”

“I didn’t promise you shit!” He whipped back around to face you, face wild with fury. “That motherfucker is gonna get what’s coming for him!”

“RAFE.” His cheeks were ablaze as you cupped them in your hands, eyes darting around sporadically as though he were high on adrenaline. “Please, I need you right now. What happens next is for another time. Let it rest.”

His nostrils flared as he finally met your eyes. You pulled him closer, sensing your words were having an effect, softly whispering another plea– and it was like deja vu when his lips met yours for the second time. Only it wasn’t. As he pressed himself firmly against you, unyielding in his advance, you realised this was truly happening again… and to your horror, it felt nice.

In fact, you didn’t want it to stop.

In the time you’d been together with…Thomas…the intimate experiences you shared allowed you to act with heightened confidence, no longer feeling the need to skittishly paw at his chest like a bunny caught by the big bad wolf. Now you moved with your own validity, placing your hands upon his taut chest and following the pace he set.

His palm suddenly clamped down on your ass and you gasped into his mouth, surprised. Thomas was a respectful lover, never so daring, but Rafe’s impulsivity stirred a concoction of excitement and nervousness within your belly.

He took this window of opportunity to dip the tip of his tongue into your mouth. Testing the waters at first, and when you showed no signs of disapproval, delving full throttle. “Shit,” He groaned, using his grip on your lower half as leverage to guide you backwards.

Your libidinous scrambled brain only registered his intention when the backs of your knees came into contact with the bed, instigating your loss of balance. A pathetic squeak floated from your throat as you fell onto the soft confinements of whoever's sheets these were.

Rafe didn’t hesitate to slot himself between your parted knees, crawling over your limp body like a predator readying itself to ravage a meal. His head dipped into the crevice of your neck, planting strategically placed kisses and sucking on the tender flesh, subsequently sowing the seeds of your growing excitement.

But as he remained in that position– feverish palms exploring your clothed body, hot enough to burn through the fabric –your heart began to race. Why did you feel a shudder of anticipation run down your spine? What if he were to stop and really look at you? Why were you scared?

It wasn't until he gained the confidence to explore the curve of your body beneath the fabric that you jolted back into reality, your heart racing and breath catching in your throat.

“Wait!” He peeled himself off of you with an expectant look, blown pupils peeved by your interruption. “I’ve, uh-... never done this before.”

You whispered it, timorously, ashamed even.

You were expecting rejection, after all, that was the only response you ever received from Thomas. What you weren’t expecting, however, was his lips to twitch up in a haughty smirk, his desire for you not faltering whatsoever. You would even go as far as to say that the gleam that appeared in his eyes indicated that he found this revelation rather pleasing.

“You trust me?”

Your nod was automatic like a reflex, saving you from mulling over the question too deeply. In response he sat back on his thighs, swatting away your hands which had fallen to your stomach (perhaps subconsciously attempting to create a separation between the two of you) allowing him to slide your loose shirt above your navel and then over your chest, the material bunching around your neck. He marvelled at the exposed skin, tentatively brushing over your stomach causing you to squirm at the new sensation.

“Then lay back and relax, sweetheart.”

From then on, the sequence of events was a blur; a tangle of limbs and a symphony of noises all coming together to form an incoherent memory.

Your shirt was the first to come off, followed shortly by his. Rafe’s bare chest was nothing you hadn’t seen before, but in this context, your vision was obscured by a rose tint. His sculpted biceps flexed as he worked on tugging your pants down and you couldn’t help but notice the way he tucked his lower lip between his teeth in concentration or the dewy sheen covering his skin.

It was akin to looking into a kaleidoscope for the first time and not knowing where to cast your gaze.

“If he thinks he can hurt you like this,” His firm lips danced across your throat.“Then he’s got another thing coming.”

He spoke in a harsh growl, hooking his fingers beneath the straps of your bra and dragging them down in one sweeping motion.

You squeaked in shock, heat blossoming beneath your cheeks at the abrupt exposure of your tits. Your tingling nipples quickly began to harden, and you weren’t sure if this was due to the draft slipping through the slightly ajar window or the firm attention Rafe was paying to your flesh.

Nonetheless, your arms instinctively twitched upwards, preparing to cover yourself from his prying eyes. He anticipated this, however, promptly collecting your wrists and pinning them beside your head.

“Don’t, don’t do that.” His voice exploded into a vehement tone. “I don’t even remember who that bitch is, let alone what she looks like…think that’s saying something.”

Before your short-circuiting brain could formulate a response, his lips descended upon your chest, laving at one of the sensitive buds before sucking on it harshly. Your body reacted viscerally, flailing at the newfound stimulation. You mewled, squirming, as he pulled away with a breathless chuckle.

“See what a girl like you does to a man.” He forced one of your hands down to his boxers. Your eyes widened as you felt how hard he was, and you let out a soft gasp as he throbbed around your palm.

“Feel that? Yeah, that’s all you baby.”

“Rafe, ple–” Your breath hitched as his knee drove forward, the delicious pressure nudging into your clothed core.

“Go on, I want to hear you say it.”

“Please…”

“Already speechless? That’s cute.” His words had you shrinking in on yourself, trying to flee from the heat radiating off his body. “It’s alright, I know what you need.”

While your racing thoughts kept you occupied (as well as demanding lips), you were oblivious to the fact that Rafe had removed his knee from between your legs, opting to slink his deft fingers inside the flimsy cotton of your underwear. That was, of course, until you felt something foreign swiping against your most sensitive area, teasingly prodding at the tight entrance. You flinched, shuddering beneath the unfamiliarity of his touch.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, is that okay?”

Your head bobbed up and down ardently, voice tiny and breathless and he grinned. “Ok.”

“Okay then.”

Your body fell in and out of consciousness, wrecked from a night filled with both pleasure and anguish. When you finally woke up, it was well into the night. The heavy breaths falling onto you from behind drowned out the eerie silence of the house. A gust of wind howled through the night sky, and your naked form shivered as the cold managed to slither beneath the sheets.

Rafe’s arm laid heavy across your waist. Anchoring you down as though— even in sleep —he was paranoid you’d slip away. You carefully lifted his arm, halting as his breathing accelerated before replacing your warmth with a pillow.

The first step went surprisingly smoothly… but that must’ve been a fluke as what came next was nearly debilitating.

An aching pang shot up between your legs, sharp and sudden. You gasped, clutching onto the bed frame for support. The sensation wasn’t extremely painful, rather unpleasant and even worse it acted as a punishing reminder of the choices you’d made tonight.

What you just did.

Fumbling around the floor on all fours was equally deplorable and you now understood what others meant when they described the after-fact as a ‘walk of shame.’

You eventually located your pants, desperately patting them down to find your phone. The screen flashed on when you pulled it out of the pocket and you hissed as the harsh light penetrated your retinas, a dull throb settling between your eyes.

There was a flurry of texts from Thomas. Apologies, explanations, and pleas for a response. He’d left your house without much resistance earlier in the evening as you cried for him to do so, but it seemed he wasn’t giving up on you so easily.

Your heart clenched painfully, and it was as though all of the synapses in your brain fired at once; What have you done?

A pool of saliva formed within your mouth, stomach suddenly churned. You stumbled across the floor, making a beeline for the ensuite as your throat heaved. In a matter of seconds after collapsing on the floor before the toilet, you were vomiting into the bowl. Violent hurls that only subsided once you were completely empty.

Could you be any more putrid?

The facet rasped as you turned it, a steady flow of water filling the bathtub as you rinsed out the vile taste in your mouth. It was bitingly cold as you slowly lowered each aching limb into the water, sighing in relief as your body acclimatised and began to relax.

When you were on the cusp of sleep once again, you started cleaning yourself. Scrubbing your skin raw with soapy suds until the water turned a sickening pink and you felt sick for the second time that night.

You dipped below the water and watched as bubbles rose to the surface.

viii.

Everything was becoming surreal.

In half an hour your given moniker would be permanently altered. It was the ‘essence of your identity’ your mother would say, but you’d never been particularly sentimental about it. This likely stemmed from your childhood, as in the mind of a little girl, it was only a means to an end. You used to long for a prince mounted upon a dark stallion to come and sweep you off your feet with promises of a perfect future; all that was required in exchange was a simple change of your name.

Of course, reality hit like a truck when you learnt that there weren’t enough princes around for each little girl in the world. But still, perhaps your expectations had been too high.

Mrs. Hughes.

There was a certain ring to it that you couldn’t quite pinpoint, similar to when you found a puzzle piece that looks right, but it isn’t the exact fit.

After kicking everyone out of the room, you’d spent the last fifteen minutes distracting yourself by mulling over your appearance. The seamstress did everything she could to preserve the original cut of the dress but was ultimately forced to make it backless due to the inflexible time constraint.

Despite the reassuring gushes you’d received from the bridesmaids, you couldn’t help but feel exposed. The material that once clung taut against your curves now flowed freely in all its feathered glory, displaying the tender expanse of your back to all those who cared to witness.

A firm knock reverberated off the oak door and your lips pinched down in a small frown; you’d been explicit in your desire to be alone.

You cracked the door ajar, bewildered to be met with the familiar blue orbs of the eldest Cameron upon peeking out into the hallway. His pale blue suit was neatly pressed and tailored to his body, a black bow tie complimenting the look, making him appear youthful.

“...What are you doing?” You whispered incredulously, glancing to each side of the empty corridor.

He flashed you a grin, holding up a long-neck bottle with a pretty red ribbon wrapped around it like a noose. “Wanted to say my congratulations. I’m guessing you’ll be a bit tied up later on.”

“You’re not supposed to be here,” His head tilted to the left in confusion and you sighed, “It’s bad luck.”

He hummed, smirk grew patronising as he deadpanned; “I thought that rule only applied to the groom?”

“Is this for me?” You chose to ignore his previous remark, gesturing to the bottle he still held in his possession.

“Yeah. Rose wanted to give it to you herself but she was more than happy to let me do so when I offered.” You knew what he was hinting at; she missed having you around to keep her stepson in line. You didn’t know why you were surprised, it was in the Cameron's DNA to stoop to sly tactics.

"Mind if I come in?" Your reluctance must’ve been evident by your unwavering grip on the door. He rolled his eyes, voice now tinged with a touch of condescension. "C’mon. One last hurrah, that’s all I ask for."

What can five minutes hurt? Then hopefully he’ll leave you alone for the rest of the night. “Alright, fine, but make it quick.”

You clicked the door shut, aimlessly lingering by the window as he lined up two of the clean champagne glasses left over from the earlier celebrations. The side seams of his suit tapered around his shoulders, extenuating the strain of his muscles and they rippled beneath the fabric. You averted your gaze, choosing to fix it on a lone swan floating out on the lake instead.

“Thought I should say,” He turned to face you as he removed the cork with surprising ease, the stopper not even popping as it was released. “You look beautiful.”

You snorted, brushing over a crease in the thick curtain. “That’s just custom speaking.”

He seemed genuinely miffed by your comment, mouth hanging open with a small huff. “That right there is proof that no one takes me seriously, I mean it.”

“Well thanks, I appreciate it. I did end up fitting into the dress so, guess I proved you wrong.”

His brows furrowed as the cardinal liquid poured into the glass. “Don’t tell me you took that to heart? I was just fuckin’ with you.”

“Yeahhhh, I know.”

He brought the two glasses over by the stem, passing the one which was filled exceptionally fuller to you.

“Going easy?”

“Designated driver.” He affirmed, leaning against the opposite side of the window frame.

Your mouth opened, a soft ‘ah’ flicking off your tongue. “I must say I’m surprised and impressed.”

With a humoured scoff, his eyes rolled to the back of his head. “Alright, it’s your special day, what are we toasting to?”

You stilled for a moment, scouring your mind for something appropriate to say. When it came to you, you grinned: “May you be in heaven a full half-hour before the devil knows you’re dead.”

He hummed in approval before extending his arm to meet your glass somewhere in the middle.

“Cheers to that.” You said in unison, falling silent as you downed the entirety of your drink– it was your day after all, so fuck it, you were going to need some liquid courage to make it through the coming hours.

The drink was shockingly sweet, oozing down your throat like a hot teaspoon of honey and you grimaced. “What is this?”

Rafe shrugged, placing his untouched glass down. “Some guy who distils it himself. Disgusting, right?”

“That’s an understatement.”

Words died in the air between you, lost and forgotten as a thick silence surrounded you both. The energy within the room grew dense, tensions steadily simmering and only increasing in intensity. You squirmed in your position, noticing as Rafe grew fidgety; something was dancing on the tip of his tongue, ready to be released.

“Remember when I told you that your mum was worried ‘bout you?”

“...Yeah.” How could you forget, his drunken induced admission which soon followed still haunted your psyche.

“Was-uh…was any of that true about you acting strangely?”

“Your timing is truly impeccable.” Any of the previous lightness was sponged from your tone, replaced by defensive shrill which was painful to your own ears.

“I’m just sayin’, it’s good to get this shit out in the open before everything is finalised, don’t you think?” He began to gesticulate with his hands, flapping motions which were distracting.

“There’s nothing to ‘get out.’ I’ve had my doubts, but that’s normal. My mind is clear now.” You stated firmly, struggling to believe that he would have the audacity to question your decision just as it was about to come to fruition.

“Is it?” His words carried a soft almost sympathetic note, as though you were a child and he was trying not to upset you.

“Is it what?”

“Is it normal to have doubts? I mean that reaction before didn’t seem very convincing to me.”He let his breath out in a soft sigh as your gaze remained defensive, backed into a corner like pitiful prey. “You see what this is telling me? That you don’t know how to make a decision that’s good for you.”

Your head was reeling, throbbing as the lights intensified, the artificial brightness causing you to squint. You were struggling to think, let alone formulate a sentence. All you could conjure up was a childish response: “Shut up, shut up.”

The room tilted as you abruptly stood, staggering forward like a limp doll. You were on a rollercoaster, extremities weighed down by the impressive force of gravity. Rafe caught you before you could collapse, supporting your nape against his chest. Confusion ebbed through your veins as you clung to him, a delicate whimper falling from your lips.

“Steady now.”

“Wha…” Your heart thumped realising how slurred your speech had become.

His hand drummed along the exposed skin, shushing your protests. “It's okay,” a soft and hungry whisper. He drew the zipper down. An expanse of naked, supple skin awaited. A fresh carcass, ready for the taking.

“I'm prepared to make that decision for you.”

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yeyinde · 10 months

Text

WILLOW TREE MARCH

John Price x Reader | Fae!AU

"They'll give you gifts," your gran says, shaking her head. "Things from their realm. Little trinkets and gems—" geodes, sapphires and diamonds, raw gold and coral; "—and you must never accept them," a whittled deer made of sequoia under your pillow; crow bones buried in the garden."Because if you do, if you do, they'll never let you go." "Why?" You asked, blinking at her. "Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

—WARNINGS: 18+ | SMUT fae shenanigans, mythological nonsense; unsafe sex, smut in random places, slight exhibition kink if you squint; Dom-ish Price, soft Price, pining Price; fae trickery (dubious consent on account of the trickery but not really); unreliable narrator; ahhhhhh, body horror (??????????) —TAGS: Fluff, AU, mythology —WORD COUNT: 8,5k —Based on this ask

There's a thick forest at the edge of your town. It curves along the coastline, breaching the yawning maw of the inlet—the last safe haven before the open ocean—and can be found almost nowhere else in the entire world. A unique ecosystem comprising vaguely familiar flora and fauna. Brown and Black bears. Wolves. Sitka-black-tailed deer. Ravens. The waters that crest through the forest are full of salmon, steelhead, and river otters. On the coast of the inlet, you can find whales, sea lions, seals, orcas, and porpoises swimming offshore.

It's protected, in large part, by its sheer vastitude. Spanning a massive chunk of your home, it stretches far north with curling fingers cutting through the granite of the crumbling coast, and as deep south as its knobby knees can reach.

From above, it looks like a child curled on its side, knees tucked to its chest. It's this pose alone that makes others revere it as some sacred being, slumbering mindlessly until the day it cracks open its eyes, and awakens to the new world. A child god made of conifers, red cedar, spruce, fir, pine, birch, and hemlock. Mossy caves of granite and limestone. Thick colonies of moss, liverworts, plume moss, and common haircap.

The forest is linked to your town only by a small strip of land that juts out from a raging ravine with currents too dangerous, too deadly, to try and traverse. An archipelago all on its own, untouched by greedy, human, hands because of its placement.

It's insulated by the vast ocean on its front, and a series of insidious looking mountains ready to swallow wandering mountaineers whole if they get too close to the sleeping child. Protected and safe by anyone who might try to harm it.

You used to dream about the forest. A nightmare dredged up about whispers and calls. Lured close to the edge of the river where a man would hand you his heart—sap-stained, and charred; a brittle piece of Bristlecone pine that felt fragile and worn—and told you to come back for him. To wait for him.

You'd wake in a cold sweat each time, heart pounding so fast that it almost felt like you were dying.

(Maybe you were. Maybe you did.)

You don't know if you believe the stories told about people wandering into the gaping chasm of the forest and never coming out. It's not uncommon for people to get lost, after all. But it feels distinct and archaic. Old. Something about the way the wind howls sounds different from the other woodlands scattered around your home.

It sounds like a beckoning call. A mother calling their child home for dinner. Come to me, the Chinook bellows. Come home now, dear.

You never venture too close. You know all too well what happens to children who do.

His name is—was now, you suppose—Kyle, but no one called him that. To everyone in town, he was simply known as Gaz.

Newcomers to the isolated archipelago are a rarity—so much so that news of the new family's arrival sent waves through the community, making Gaz an instant star overnight, all without him even setting foot on the shores.

None of that mattered, though. He fit in with an ease that seems almost preternatural when you think about it, as if he was meant to be there. And maybe he was. Maybe the soft rolling valleys were destined to be his home where flowers bloomed in the spring, and Arctic tern trilled from the branches.

Gaz was unique, different.

He picked dandelions with the same intensity that picked fights with the bullies in the neighbouring town, the ones who tried to pick on the smaller kids in the community.

With his fists always covered in dandelion oil and bruises, face caught between a grimace and a grin, like he was never sure if he wanted to spit at their feet or tell a joke, he stood against the onslaught with an anger that seemed to crackle in the air like fireworks. Ready for battle. Thirsty for blood.

His anger never waned even when he turned back to the group, eyes cresting in satisfaction, and body trembling with adrenaline, and you could scent the rage in his smile, hear it in the soft words he muttered to the kids, telling them everything would be alright.

Gaz was everyone's friend. The person you told your deepest secrets to, the one you planned adventures with. He was a rock—always armed with snappy jokes to make you smile, and advice when you needed it.

He was everyone's friend—yours especially—but you can't remember if anyone was his best friend. He was polite. Distant.

It started in the summer. His hands were always cold, and he kept them shoved deep in his pockets, clenched tight around the latchkey his parents gave him.

He started to seem almost liquid then. Temporal. You'd reach for him, brushing your hands against his arms or shoulders just to assure yourself that he was really there.

You noticed that his eyes would list sideways, head tilted, slanting toward the forest. It looked to you as if he was listening to something. To some unheard noise or call that only he could hear.

When you asked about it, he'd always blink, surprised, as if you'd woken him up from a dream quite suddenly. Then, he'd smile, and shake his head.

"Don't worry about it," he'd say, shrugging. "Just the wind."

He'd bend down and pick a dandelion for you, holding it out between pudgy fingers with a grin that seemed to mimic the cresting moon.

"For you."

He picked them for three springs before he, too, became another victim of the endless forest. Another empty tomb in the overcrowded graveyard.

Missing, they said, but not forgotten.

You think about him often.

(Even more so when you, too, begin to hear your name echoing through the forest.)

Beware the woods, your grandma says. Especially when it calls your name.

(You never understood why something that sounds so comforting, so sweet, could ever be dangerous. It sounds like an old friend calling you over to play.

"Never go," she snaps, her hands lashing out to grip your arms tight. You feel her knobby fingers digging into your bones. "Never listen, and stay away—"

"You're hurting me, gran—"

Her rheumy eyes burn into yours. "Stay away—!"

(You wisely never speak about the whispers in your head, keeping them to yourself. A secret just for you.)

You leave town when you're old enough, when the hisses in your head grow too loud to ignore, and it feels as though they're scratching at your skull.

(Clawing at the walls.)

"Crazy weather, eh?" The first mate mutters nervously, eyes tilted upward as the sky darkens into an angry grey. "Came outta nowhere."

You leave, and you don't look back.

(But oh, how the forest screams.)

She calls you back several years later with a phone call. Your gran has passed.

You think you should mourn, but it's been so long since you thought of home, that you don't remember what she looks like anymore. The sound of her voice is a whisper in your head—the cadence gone, the tone flat.

But you don't cry, and you don't grieve—she's been dead for a long time now, after all. Ever since your mum went missing all those years ago, she's always seemed more of a ghost than a person. Living as if her body hadn't realised her heart was long dead.

You go back only because you think your mum would have wanted you to.

(And pretend it isn't because the silence in your head is suffocating. Without the whispers, it feels as if you're missing something. A part of yourself forever lost in the forest.

You wonder if anyone has found it by now.)

Nothing has changed since you turned your back on the town that raised you, the forest that stole from you.

It's the same buildings. The same market. The same roads. The same houses.

The people, too, seem largely unchanged by the years that have passed.

The friends from your childhood who stayed meet you at the graveyard, eyes filled with sympathy as they ask how you're doing.

She'll be missed, they lie sweetly to you. Everyone loved her.

She was a hermit, you want to scream. A woman driven mad by ghosts and fairytales and terror.

You nod, instead, and let them lead you around the town on a grand tour as if anything about this beautiful, haunting place had changed since you ran away.

It gets easier to force a smile when they ask if you're okay.

"Fine," you murmur and wonder if your voice even carries over the whispers. "Just—yeah. Fine."

North of the town is where the river separating the lonely forest carves a path, not at all dissimilar to an idyllic trough, through bedrock and sand, and flows into the sea.

The estuary is dangerous in high tide when the rapid ascent of water on the sandy shores hides the rip current that is known to form when the two bodies of water meet.

It's a dangerous place to get caught in.

This beach was impressed upon you as deadly from a young age, almost in equal—if not greater—measure than the rapacious forest across the river. You know the dangers of standing on the slippery bedrock.

But as the sun glows a burnt orange in the distance, and the endless ocean before you darkens into an almost unfathomable black, you can't help but find the view from the cliff's edge to be the most mesmerising thing you've ever seen.

It looks like a painting. A brush stroke of tigers eye in the centre of the cresting sun that gradually fades out into xanthous, and rings of hazy peach; the light of diminishing star smears coruscating rings of persimmons into the indigo water. The gradual fade into gradients as the waves lap closer to the shore is reminiscent of liquid sapphire and smelting amethyst.

The picturesque view is more befitting of a pastel postcard, an ethereal pastiche of the Ninth Wave—a moment of life imitating art, or—perhaps—the same view Ivan Aivazovsky stumbled upon when he set out to render the haunting beauty of the ocean in oil.

The cresting waves arch into curled petals of white before setting upon the sloping beach with frenzy. It's the roar of those hungry waves that seem to, if only for a moment, drown out everything in your head.

There are no whispers. No songs. No screams. Vengeful hissing can't climb to a higher decibel than the frothing waters slamming against jagged bedrock.

All is quiet—except the sea.

You lean into it. The closer you get to that precipice, the quieter everything in your head goes. Sounded sucked into the vacuum of the ocean. The endless song of the sea.

Another step. Another.

For a moment, you're free.

The forest doesn't scream for you. Your grandmother doesn't dig her teeth into your gyri, hands clawing at the space behind your eyes. You don't think of her, or your mother, or Gaz, or anyone else unfortunate enough to get consumed by this damnable place where fairy tales split the seams apart, and merge with reality.

It's peaceful.

You take another step—

A hand curls over your shoulder, tugging you back.

Anger pools, thick and acidic, on your tongue, but the flash of your ire, your vexation, is dashed by the sound the waves make when it slams into the spot you were just standing.

It slashes across the concrete as the stranger pulls you into his broad chest, heat nearly liquifying your spine.

He sucks in a breath. You feel his chest expand with it. When he breathes out, you taste gunpowder on your tongue.

"Gotta be more careful n'that, love."

You've had near-misses before. Flirted with the reaper. Ripped yourself from the jowls of death himself.

This isn't anything new.

And yet—

Your eyes drag up, meeting flat black boring down at you. His hood is pulled over his forehead, casting shadows down to his jaw.

"You—"

Your teeth sink into your tongue. Emotions lash through you like the flick of a bullwhip, shredding your skin until it's raw and oozing. The tail pulls away whenever you try to wrap your fingers around one of them—relief: you're not dead; embarrassment: how could you be so stupid; shame: saved by a stranger; and—

Visceral terror. Panic.

It bludgeons its fist down your throat, barbed knuckles clawing at the soft tissue of your esophagus until you taste blood on your tongue.

Panic tastes of ozone and leaks, thick and warm like molasse, down your throat.

"Hey," he murmurs, and the sound of his voice, his low timbre, is porous, calcined. The rough scratch scours through the haze of fear threading through your sternum. "C'mon on, now. Gotta breathe, yeah?"

It's his hands on your shoulder—hotter than grenade fire—and the thick scent of musk, of stale smoke and kerosene sweat, that break through the gossamer of your acrid panic. He spins you around to face him, eyes fixed on your face.

"That's it," he says, soft, soothing. "Keep breathin'. You ain't dead yet."

You come to yourself in pieces. The world bleeds with startling clarity around the blurred edges. Home, you think. Maybe.

Once upon a time.

You blink. Blink again.

The hand still on you—heavier, you find, than an anvil—lifts, his thumb brushing over the curve of your jaw, swiping over the sweat-stained skin.

You can't see his eyes through the shadows cast over his face. A stranger. You've never seen him before.

They didn't say anyone new moved to town.

"Who are you—?"

"You don't know?"

And then his hand is gone, taking all the heat in your body with him.

It lifts to his vest, thick fingers, gloved in yellow, curling over the butt of his cigar.

You must make a face. A grimace. A whisper of bemusement. Whatever it is, it makes his lips twitch under the shorn burnt umber of his beard.

"I'd share," he mutters, teething sinking into the hilt as he pats himself down for a lighter. "But I ain't got the time."

"Shouldn't be smoking in a provincial park, anyway."

The words are dragged out of you. Numbed, gritty.

It makes him snort. "Maybe—;" he cups his hand around the end, thumb striking the ignition of the lighter. He inhales, and the red circle at the tip illuminates the cerulean blue tucked away into the folds of his hood. The plume of smoke curls over him like a shroud. "But I doubt a cigar is gonna bring the whole forest down, mm? 'sides, we all have our vices, don't we?"

With that, he leaves you standing in the tendrils of smoke that billow out from his caustic mouth. No goodbye. No name. Nothing except the hum of his touch buzzing through your veins.

Your head is numb. Thoughts congealing into hardened clay.

Yeah, you think sluggishly, eyes dropping to the drenched pavement where the ocean narrowly missed you. Swallowed you whole. We do.

(Yours is bad decisions that reek of napalm.

Men who scour your hands raw when you touch their coarse surface.)

You find him again in some desolate pub on the fringes of town a few days later. It looks like it's one strong gust of wind away from blowing down. Dilapidated. Rusted from the harsh salt of the ocean to the north.

He lifts his head when you slide into the empty chair on the left, but says nothing about your unexpected company.

Instead, his lips curl over the cigar sawed between his teeth. A grin, you think.

You wonder if he was expecting you.

(Wonder, then, with a touch of something warm gnarling in your belly, if you surprised him.)

The barkeep wanders past, brows lifting at you in question.

"Um, a vodka soda—"

The man, Price you learned from the locals with a great of digging, snorts.

"Ain't got none of that here, love. Two scotches. Neat." He leans over, thick fingers grasping the middle of the cigar, an inch away from the bristles on his upper lip, and pulls it away, ashing it in the tray in front of him. "And a bottle of spring water."

"Scotch?" You echo, leaning your elbow on the sticky counter. He reeks of smoke. Sweat. Blood. Gunpowder. You veer closer, soaking in the astringent tang of him. Everyone on this island smells of daffodils and cotton; clean and neat and innocent. He reeks of danger. Everything inside of you screams to stay away. "I don't drink scotch."

The cigar burns in the tray. He pulls back, shifting in the chair. His elbow rests on the counter, the other arm is slung over the back of his seat. The picture of appeasement, of a satiated tiger eying a little mouse sniffing past it. There's no immediate danger, and his posture is relaxed. Open. But his eyes—

Price turns to you, then. His legs are spread, knees notched apart, taking up more space than you offer him. A looming presence. Dominating. Confident. He's not doing it on purpose, you don't think, he's just—

Big.

His legs are too long. Thighs are too thick.

Something gnarls behind your ribs when you take in his bare face. It's different, smaller, without the bulky black hood thrown low on his brow. His hands bare, leaving him in only casual clothes that stretch taut around his broad body.

The beanie on his head, pulled low on his forehead, makes him look roguish, rough. The picturesque presentation of a bad boy down to the pelt-brown leather Levi jacket stretched taut around his broad shoulders.

He looks older, somehow, without the tenebrous of night shading him in dark indigo. Aged like a fine whisky. All burnt umber and ivory.

The charcoal colouring brightens the heavy blue of his eyes—crushed bluebonnets and powdered graphite; a black hole centre—and the frame of his brown lashes dusting over his clean cheeks makes something pool in your lower belly.

(You wonder if he'd taste of whisky sour.)

"Well," he murmurs, brow lifting. It makes the skin on his forehead crinkle. He has laugh lines cresting around the corners of his eyes. They stand out to you, now. Void of the shadows you're used to. "You do when I'm paying."

The scotch, the cigar, the dingy pub that reeks of stale cigarettes and is perfumed in a dusting of nicotine that films every surface coalesces into incipient vice.

His hand moves from where it's loosely curled around his glass, and rests, heavy and warm, on your thigh.

When he leans in, you taste calcine on his breath.

The acrid tang is a balm to the blisters in your raw esophagus. You meet him in the middle, smaller hands curling over the wool lapels of his jacket, tugging him into you.

"Never thanked you for saving me," you murmur, his beard grazing your lips. A tickle. A brush.

Price sucks in a deep breath, eyes liquifying into an intense azure. "No need to thank me, love. As much as I love the ocean, you don't belong there, do you? No," he adds, decisively. Sure. "You belong on land. The earth. You're wild, like the forest, aren't you?"

It's an out. An escape. An option to flee from the cosm that folds around you like a nebulous cloud.

You could take it. Back up, away. Walk out of this dingy pub on the wrong side of town, and forget the man who reeks of nicotine, smoke; who leaves ashes behind on your skin when he touches you.

The only one who stares at you from the unfathomable black of his eyes, lashes shrouded in tenebrous, and makes you falter. Makes your heart lurch, jumping to sit at the bottom of your throat.

You should pull away. Stay away from the man who leaks ethanol and nitroglycerine. From the man who smells of acrid smoke. Gunfire.

You should.

But your fingers tighten in the lapels of his jacket, pulling him closer. Closer.

The bridge of his nose is warm when it presses against your own.

His eyes spark, wildfires. A blazing forest.

"You said something about vices." His chest rumbles in response to your hushed words.

"So I did."

Smoke singes your nose when you brush your lips over his. Warm. Chapped. Dry. You taste ash. Humus. The bitter tang of dandelion oil.

"Got some time tonight?"

"Thought you said I shouldn't be smoking."

"We're not in a park, near flammable trees," your hand falls to his chest. His heart thuds beneath your palm. Thick, full. Your eyes lift to his, lidded and heavy. You gaze at him from under your lashes, coy. Demure. You wonder if he can see how eager you are beneath the sly cut of your lids. "Are we, Price?"

The use of his name makes his lips quirk. A small, secretive thing that you can't read.

"No, we're not." His hand slides down, curling over your knee. "Don't know what you're gettin' into, love."

"Oh, no?" You taunt, breathless. Even through all your layers, you still feel his searing heat on your skin. His eyes drop when your tongue lashes out, wetting your lower lip. "And what's that?"

A frisson shudders over his face. Lashes fluttering. He leans forward, resting the rim of his beanie on your forehead.

When his eyes slide open, all you see is arsenic white pooled around Prussian blue. "More than you could ever dream of."

Your trembling fingers curl into the lapels of his jacket. For leverage, maybe; or to hide the quiver in your joints from his widening eyes.

And so, you kiss him.

A messy punch to the mouth with your sun-blistered lips.

His mouth parts, wry curls flutter when he inhales sharply. And then—

He devours you.

It's messy. More sealed lips glueing together than it ever could be considered a proper kiss, but it feels more like a homecoming than stepping off the boat, and you tuck that inside your pounding chest.

(The whispers in your head seem to sing when his lips touch yours.)

You taste bark on your tongue when it slips over his. Loam. Moss. Something earthy and rich. His beard scratches your chin, your lips, but you pull him closer, hungry for more—for the taste of wilderness on his tongue, for the respite from the whispers, the screams. Like the ocean, he, too, is a vacuum, swallowing everything whole until just you remain, stripped down to nothing but sensation and want. Bare, raw.

Your teeth ache when you pull away, fingers curling into the coarse hair along his chin. The whips of his wry curls scratch your palm.

You never want to let go.

Price's eyes are noctilucent clouds; a storm over a rainforest. He'll ruin you. Devour. Destroy. Take, and take, and take until there is nothing left.

Your lips tremble when you speak, words tremulous with your desire, your eagerness, when they slip past your bruised mouth.

"I can think of a few that are better than smoking."

Price shudders.

"Where did you go?" Your friend asks, eyes swinging from the cards spread out in front of him—the Idiot, Solitaire—to you. They burn into the side of your face, the same place Price touched with bare knuckles, and said you belong to the forest, don't you? "Missed dinner."

You ate Doro Wat in a small shop after Price fucked you stupid in the dingy bathroom of the pub, face scraping against the waterlogged wallpaper that chipped with each brutal thrust of his hips.

Like that, hmm? Can barely take me, love, but you're so fuckin' greedy for it, ain't you?

You're sure the barkeep heard your moans as they bounced off the jaundiced walls.

(You still hear him hissing in your ear. Still feel him splitting you apart.)

You try not to shiver.

"Ate already," you shrug, bundling your sleep clothes tight in your trembling hands. When you stand, his eyes follow you. "So. Um—"

"You okay?"

"Yeah," you say, shifting on the balls of your feet. "I've—" You think of his eyes, gyre white, and wonder if this is what it feels like to get swallowed by the sea. "I've never been better."

"Good," he says, smiling. "I worry about you, you know?"

You nod. "Yeah," you say. "Me, too."

You break apart in the shower, falling into pieces as you make yourself finish, thinking about nothing but the phantom stretch of his cock seated deep inside of you, the taste of his come pooling on your tongue.

It balms the residual burn in your esophagus, and you know, then, when you throb, still wanting his touch on your skin, that you've always been terrible at telling yourself no.

It can't happen. It can't.

There's a strange magnetism about him—an uncanny sense of mystery and familiarity sutured together.

It feels a little bit like staring at the looming maw, the event horizon, of a black hole. Unfathomable black. No way out.

There's something that feels a bit like forewarning inside your chest when he brushes against you, and presses his lips on the skin behind your ear—a secret place only he knows, where only his fingerprints have ever been. You feel his touch even when he's gone. Haunted by the memory of his rough hands and rasping tenor.

Running would make sense, you think, watching the ferries come and go. You have enough money for a ticket, and you've yet to even unpack your bag.

You don't know who he is, but you've given him everything. All of it. There's nothing left inside of you to hand over, but he keeps looking at you as if he's waiting for more.

"Waiting for a ride?"

You glance back at the operator with a divot between your brow and cotton inside your ears.

You want to say yes, but you shake your head instead.

"No." I can't leave. "Just enjoying the view."

You find birch branches stripped of leaves, juniper berries, maple leaves, spindles of dogwood, bushels of fir, and bouquets of bog rosemary, northern bluebell, fireweed, and wintergreen on your doorstep each morning, laid gently against the old welcome mat.

You should toss them out, and throw them away. How does he know where you live, anyway? It would make the most sense; be the wisest decision.

Instead, you tuck them inside your notebook, pressing them against the pages where they'll be safe.

(You try not to think too much about why they never die.)

It happens again. And again. Again—

It becomes a ritual for the few months you're back in town. The leaves, twigs, petals, pines, and seeds all show up at your door each morning and come nightfall, you're drawn to him like a moth to a flame.

He finds the nastiest looking pub in the city, and you find him there after dark.

He sits, smokes a cigar. Orders two scotches, and a bottle of spring water. Teaches you how to drink it properly—none of that sugary cocktail shite; just pure whisky, love, as it should be—and lets you puff on the damp end of his cigar, eyes gleaming in the soft yellow light above as he takes in the way your lips curl over the wet tip.

He stares at you like he's indulging you.

Like he knows.

And maybe, he does.

Maybe he sees the way your jaw works, tongue lashing over the tip just to chase his taste. The heat in your cheeks, your eyes, as you gaze at him, open and raw and wanting. The way you list toward him. Eager for it. For him. His touch, his smell.

He must, you think, but he's a right bastard.

He doesn't give it until the end of the evening, when everyone has gone home. When it's just you and him and the barkeep that glowers at you something ugly when you stand on shaky legs, and whisper you're going to the washroom.

Your fingers curl over the chipped porcelain, back arched as you stare at the face in the mirror.

You can't remember if it's you.

Whisky has polluted your synapses. The thick scent of smoke, the tobacco from the cigar, has congealed into resin over that little bundle of axons and nerves that control your impulse, logic.

Stupid.

You stare at the thing in the mirror, and wonder if the basal want on your face was so apparent to him as it is to you. If he saw the dark gleam of hunger, greed, impatience, swimming in your ink-smudged depths.

The door rattles. Clicks.

The squeak of the hinges is the only warning you get before Price is there, liquified in the doorway and clouded in smoke.

His hand curls over the worn, peeling frame. Eyes dance with the same hunger, same want, as the ones that flicker across the surface of the mirror.

"Couldn't wait for me, eh, love?" He breathes, his chest expands with his exhale. Scenting you, you think. You wonder if he can smell the slick pooling in your panties. The desperation brimming in your veins. "Wanted it that bad, huh?"

He moves. A mountain of a man now filling up the entirety of your gaze until all you see is him.

You used to want to climb mountains. In training, they always warned of summit fever. Of that little part of your head that just wanted it to be over, to reach the very top of the precipice. Impatient, it couldn't wait. It made you spring up, and climb higher and higher before you were ready, prepared.

You think of it now when your hands lift, curling over his broad shoulders.

("Summit fever will get you killed," they say.)

"Just shut up and fuck me, Price."

His eyes flash. "Greedy little thing, aren't you?"

You are. Painfully so.

It etches in your ribs like a sickness, festering in your mouldering bones. Rotting you from the inside out.

A crutch in the searing heat of skin, sweat, and sin. The feeling of him taking you apart, breaking you down into atoms and molecules that bubble in the lining of your head becomes so commonplace, so often forget who you are when you're pushed up against a wall, being filled to the brim by him.

He leaves madness behind when he goes, and the world that divides fantasy from reality begins to crack, to splinter.

You hear his voice in your head late at night when the wind blows through the window, carrying the scent of the forest.

"Come home," he rasps in your ear.

The scratch of his beard seems to scrape against the little thread keeping you tied down to reality. It's frayed and worn by his hands. You wonder when he'll sink his teeth in the silk, and snap the line. Untethering you from your binds.

Come home to me. Come back to where you belong—

Price takes you out to dinner three months after this—whatever it is—starts. After your house becomes more of a garden, writ with the wild remnants of the forest, after each passing day. Full of bushes, and branches. Twigs and precious gems. He gives you raw gold, and open geodes full of amethyst, and sapphire. Canopy leaves, and bark from the trees.

He leaves a whittled deer made from the red wood of a giant sequoia, and the likeness of the little fawn makes you believe that one day, it'll come to life in your living room.

(You leave a dish of water near the doorway—just in case—and wonder if you're becoming just as mad as your gran.)

He shows up at your doorstep, the bleached antlers of a great pronghorn in his hands. It's decorated with vines and moss weaved over the ivory in intricate braids and knots that you can't even begin to unravel. You marvel at the gift as he tells you he's taking you out for dinner.

There is no discussion. He doesn't ask, he just—

Does.

"Found a spot," he says, arms crossed over his broad chest. The cable-knit sweater pulls, stretched taut over his bulk. "Think you'd like it."

You don't know what to say. The antlers feel heavier in your hands, and warm to the touch. You try not to shiver when you set it down beside the little fawn.

"Oh," you say, but know you've never turned him down yet. It's all—

So much.

Your home is slowly becoming one with nature, with vines growing on the walls in great blooms of wisteria and lilac; the old floor boards under your feet shudder and creak as little saplings sprout through the cracks. You wake up at night and taste earth in your throat, feel the grass beneath your fingers. The breeze in your hair. The call of an arctic tern.

You dream of running through the forest. Of being chased. You breathe and feel the little seeds inside of your lungs start to take root. Soon you'll bloom with dandelions.

"Okay," you say, and wonder if the madness rummaging around your head will turn into a beautiful sequoia in the end. "Let's go."

The tavern is busy on a weeknight, crowded with a swell of mainlanders who'd ventured out for a camping trip over the long weekend.

You sit with your back straight, and listen to him talk about a hike he wants to take with you in the morning. Through the woods, he says, and you don't ask which one. You know. You know.

(It's time. It's time.)

There are alarm bells ringing in your head, but they're drowned out by the crooning whispers.

But the line is only frayed and worn, and despite the lure in his voice, the itch in your head to say yes, you hesitate. Falter.

The woods are dangerous.

You don't want to go.

He seems to sense it. His brows knot together.

"You want to, don't you?"

You fiddle with your napkin and try not to meet his arsenic stare. "It's… dangerous."

"I'll keep you safe."

"It's probably time for me to leave, anyway."

The air in the room turns frigid all at once. You think you can see white plumes of condensation when you shakily breathe out, teeth chattering.

"Price—"

"Didn't wanna do this, love," he says, voice hushed. Barely a whisper. His eyes are lavascapes. "But you ain't givin' me much of a choice, are you?"

"What—?"

The words die on your tongue when movement flashes in the corner of your eye. A man weaves, liquid, through the mindless crowd, cutting a path like the parting red sea.

His eyes are honeycombs. In his hand, he holds a limp dandelion.

It takes you a moment to make out the strange man who looms in the background. A splash of colour among sfumato.

It's Gaz.

The childish swell of his cheeks has sunken into angled, sharp bone. Slender fingers twirl the flower around, around, around—

It's hypnotic. You stare, horrified and awed—a strange amalgam of emotions that slip down your spine: worry, elation, panic, comfort—as his pink lips part into an easy, familiar grin. The cresting sun breaching the horizon. Eyes slanting in playful derision.

He looks like he's torn between telling a joke and spitting vitriol. Making you laugh, and then making you cry.

It buzzes in the air, electrified fingers dancing down your spine, and then just as quickly as the boy who disappeared reemerges into the land of the living, into this bastardised reality, he gives one last sharp, fanged grin, a mordant wink, and then he's gone.

He slips through the door, and without hesitating, you give chase.

Price says nothing when you go. Or maybe he does, but you can't hear anything except the rustling of leaves in your head.

Gaz, it whispers. Gaz, Gaz, Gaz.

(It's time for the lost little boy to come home.)

The rocks sit in a zigzag pattern through the frothing waters, a deceptive bridge that connects the valley to the coast. You feel the tremulous rattle of the water slicing against the hollow cavern beneath your feet. A ledge chiselled from the blunt erosion of the rapid currents below. One day, they say, the granite shelf will give and a massive hole filled with howling water will fill it.

Try not to be the idiot standing on the ledge.

You feel the power of the currents even on the peat-covered edge.

The water in front of you is deceptive. A calm, rolling surface at the shoreline almost seems to beckon you inside. Come take a dip in the cool waters. Grow fins and gills and chase the river otters through the currents. Feast on the wily salmon, and see if your feet can touch the sandy streambed.

But the river's fatality is nearly assured. No one has survived a dip in these waters that act as a serrated knife, carving chasms and channels through the granite below. The currents will rip into you, pulling you until your body is crushed against the wall, or into an unsearchable cave.

One slip, you think. Just one.

But—

The man in the bar flickers through your mind. His honeycomb eyes, fanged grin. Ethereal in his beauty like a painting of a god in oil and raw canvas. Carved likeness of a Stygian prince.

It was Kyle. It was Gaz. You know it. Know it deep within your bones, your marrow.

Taking the first step to the jutting slate that peaks just a few precious inches from the raging waters is easier, then, when you think of the boy who plucked a dandelion from the earth, and tucked it behind your ear. It makes the risk less daunting when it's for him.

For his parents who sunk into themselves, into the crater his absence left behind. A deep depression into the earth that swallowed them whole.

They moved last year after laying down a bouquet of flowers at the mouth of the forest.

You toe your shoes off, leaving them at the embankment, and then you leap. The perch is slick with waterlogged moss, slimy. It wobbles under you, but you catch yourself, stabilising. Steady. You huff. One down, four more to go.

Up close, they look so far apart. A chasm between each rock. An endless abyss that will rip you into pieces.

Still. Still. You have to find him. Have to.

You step, toes sliding in the algae. The rock beneath is stained green. It wobbles again when you bring your other foot down on top of it. The loud clack of rock scraping against rock is heard, unmuffled by the roaring water that tugs on the stone. You feel the push against your feet.

Two more. Two more.

You take another step, and then—

You fall—

The world drips into focus, a steady trickle of cognisance that paints the world in shades of greens and browns. An eagle soars above the canopy, their shadow swooping through the thick tangle of conifers reaching to the heavens.

The bed of moss beneath you is damp—lush with dew and softer than your mattress at home. You sink into the ground when you breathe, caught in an embrace. The vines curl over your wrists, your ankles, as if refusing to let go.

It should scare you—and maybe it does—but there's something against your head, fingers digging into your temples, and you feel nothing except a warm serenity leaking in. Thought spool into liquid gold, threads that weave together in a knotted clump. Indistinguishable from each other, and unreachable when they slip deeper into the honeyed-thick fog that curls around your mind. A temper from logic, from fear. Anything that isn't pure, artificial comfort is filtered through and cast aside.

You don't know why you're here.

One moment, you felt the coils of the raging currents sinking its claws into your flesh, pulling you under the deep waters, and then—

Heat on your face. The sun's desperate attempt to filter through the corded canopy and touch the forest floor. The shrill call of an eagle on the prowl. The tender caress of the moss below cushions your body.

You should be underwater. Pressed tight against the side of the rocks until you were swept downstream and spat out in the inlet, waterlogged and dead.

You draw humid air into your lungs until it swells against your ribcage. The steady thud of your heart tells you that somehow, somehow, you're alive. An empty brag—thud, thud; thud, thud—that seems to call out to the birds in the emergent layer, the ones nestled in their branches as they watch your feeble attempt to reconcile how you survived.

It's strange, you think, but the soporific warmth coursing through your veins does not let you panic.

You are—

"Foolish."

The warmth turns molten. You try to sit up, but the vines tighten around your limbs. If you weren't so vulnerable, you think it would almost feel like a hug.

The soft crunch of the moss tells you the voice—the man—is moving forward, toward you. You want to scream, but your tongue is thick, and your mouth is numb.

"What you did there was stupid," he says, and the forest around you seems to come alive in his anger. Pulsing. The branches sway and the leaves rattle without any wind. The trees bend down, coming inward. You hear the scream of a fox in the distance. The chuff of an agitated brown bear.

Primordial signs tell you to run.

But you're trapped.

Price steps closer, falling to his knees beside you. You can see him now, and suddenly you wish you'd been swallowed by the waves.

His face is writ with anger, brows tightening together in displeasure.

He seems imbued with the forest. One with the lush green that swells around you. Burnt umber and icy blue. Ethereal, unnatural. Something in your hindbrain tells you to run from that man that looks as if he could swallow you whole.

"Tryin' t'die on me, hmm?"

His hand lifts, and you feel his warm knuckles graze your temple. Soft, gentle, despite the ire in his eyes, and the irritation clenched in his jaw.

"Gonna hav'ta try harder than that, love."

You weren't trying very hard at all, you think, dazed, dizzy. You weren't trying at all.

"You're mine," his eyes flash, and you feel the press of gravity against your skin, pulling you down to the soft earth. Your fingers twitch. The fog inside your head clears.

Blinking up at him, you catch the scattering supernovae echoing in the corners of his eyes; galaxies of pine and cedar, humus and tussock. They bloom from the black hole in the centre, surrounded by sapphire blue. He's not human, you think, but it doesn't surprise you because you already knew. Have known, really—ever since you asked around for his name and watched the same strange fog seep into their eyes as they struggled to remember a man they claimed to know.

Ever since you found bushels of figs on your doorstep.

A crown of pine needles and crow feathers.

Price leans over you, brows knotted together like the gnarled, weaving trunk of a Great Basin Bristlecone Pine.

There's a forest fire in his eyes. "You're mine, aren't you?"

You think about the trinkets left on your doorstep. The whispers, the screams.

"Did you ever give me a choice?"

The tension in his brow snaps taut. Agony frissons through the spaced canyons; whet from ire and slick from sorrow. He bends down, and shakes his head.

"I've always given you a choice," his words are smouldering logs, crackling with his pain. "I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?"

Price takes you on the mossy forest floor, fingers digging into the peat as you sink, down, down, down—

His hand under your head, cradling the back of your skull, keeps you from getting swallowed by the grass knoll that breathes and trill against your spine.

Fire licks in the crevasses of his eyes, molten desperation you can't ignore. He rages above you, quivering in the fading glow of the sunset struggling to slip through the canopy. No longer a man but a myth. He hangs over you with his canines bared, and flashes of anger and sorrow scorch the path his teeth leave behind on your skin.

You're becoming unmoored. Each touch, and brush; each sweep of his tongue soothing the indents of his razor-sharp teeth all seem to loosen the ties that thread through your soul, anchoring you to the world that stands in full bloom before you.

The forest shudders with his frantic pace; each piston of his hips leaks his fervent anguish and makes the trees croon, and creak as they bow their foliage in sorrow. His pain lashes through their roots, and rent the air in two. A fox mourns his loss in the distance. A wolf yowls in agony. His brethren lifting their muzzle to the sleepy moon, and howling out the melody of their despair.

It's too much, too much, and you fall into pieces in his hands, shivering beneath him as the woods around you tremble and quake. It's a mesmerising dance.

He finishes with a grunt that makes the world shudder anew, spending himself as deep inside of you as he can, as if he could overwrite your empty spaces with himself. Fill you to the brim until you are bursting with him, with life. Tulips for your eyes. Furze for veins. Moss for hair. Peat soil for blood.

When he speaks, the world falls silent.

"You don't know it yet, but you will. You've always been mine. Always belonged to the forest, to the earth. To me."

Despite his words, he lets you go.

And you run, run, run—

Your toes dig into the wet soil near the stream. The desperate catapult across the ravine halted at the very last moment, leaving you winded and shaking. Hands clenched into tight balls by your side. Quivering with fear, with the adrenaline rush still roaring in your veins.

You don't know what you're doing.

The whispers in your head go silent.

The absence of sound makes you mourn, and you think about his agony. The pain when he took you, the resignation when he let you go.

You think of him, and you know.

I've always told you to go, but you couldn't stay away, could you?

You scent napalm in the air, cloying despite the acrid burn that scalds your lungs when you breathe in deep, holding it there.

You think of the chest inside your closet. The pieces of yourself you left behind. The way he fits you like a puzzle, like he was made for you. Designed with your rough edges in mind. Softening your hard lines; scouring your gritty surface it was smooth and shiny like fire Opal and precious gems.

Ever since you felt his hand on your shoulder, you haven't been able to let go.

(You don't even think you ever really tried.)

Come to me, the forest says, honey in your ears. It sounds like the rapid beat of a million birds' wings, ready to take flight. Pulsing and alive and full of wonder, childish glee.

The earth blooms in your chest. You feel the soft, tender caress of the leaves against your skin, the moss sinking between your toes. Clinging to your flesh, desperate to get inside, and take refuge in your heart. Come home to us.

Your grandmother warned you to stay out of the forest, that it was dangerous. Deadly. Wrong. But how can it ever harm you when it touches you so sweetly?

The branches curl around your ankles as you walk, leading you, guiding you, to the place where you belong. The forest opens around you, spreads apart and makes room for you to pass, touching you as you go, taking little pieces of you. Strands of your hair, the salt from your tears. Pieces of clothes. Parts of your soul.

You pluck your heart out of your chest, and leave it beneath a gnarled sequoia. She will protect it forever.

Moss grows inside of the empty space. A tern makes a nest inside of it, filling it with a bed of pine needles, and twigs from the junipers. You feel a mouse make a home in your rib cage, burrowing between your bones. You place your hand over your side, and feel her nuzzle against your palm.

"You're safe now," you say. "We're almost home."

It's Gaz who greets you with a crown made of sugi. When he cups your face, you feel raging rivers and streams in his palms, and now that you are home.

"Missed you, dandelion," he breathes, and his voice turns into a Chinook that crests over the mountains. "But there's someone who wants to see you."

His hands slide down to your wrists, and you feel the sun grazing your skin when he spins you around, around, around—

"Now," he leans down, pressing his lips to the shell of your ear. You hear the Falcons nesting in his chest, and smell pine in his breath. "He's been an impatient bastard, you know? Just moping about ever since you left—"

A scoff. You lift your head and feel the swell of the earth beneath your feet. Dizzying. Wanting.

He waits for you in the thicket, eyes made of sapphire and stone. When he breathes, the forest swells with his breath, and you taste loam when you swallow.

"A sorry sap, thinkin' you were runnin' away, and all. But you won't, will you?" Gaz pushes you forward, and his laughter rings in your ears. "Not anymore."

Price meets you in the middle, his eyes sparkling embers. A baptism in fire. You feel the heat on your skin, and shiver.

You used to be afraid of forest fires, but you know, now, that sometimes trees need to burn before they can truly grow.

Lodgepole roots bud under his skin, rippling veins across a ravine. He rests his hand against your cheek, thumb brushing the dawn redwood needles that bloom under your skin.

"Welcome home."

"Why?" You asked, blinking at her.

"Because it's a courting ritual, and to accept means… well," her mouth twists in wry disdain. "Just don't."

You don't tell her that you already have. You don't mention the sticks and precious stones that always ended up on your windowsill. The whispers of the forest calling your name.

You nod sagely instead, fingers tightening around the sap stained heart chiselled from Bristlecone Pine. The charred ends are warm in your palm. You feel it pulse.

Will you accept this? My heart? Will you keep it safe for me?

"I will."

This was meant to be light and fluffy and smutty but now it's. This. And um. Oops. I hope you enjoyed it!

JOHN PRICE MASTERLIST | NAVIGATION PART THREE OF COD X MYTHOLOGY ⁞ SOAP ● DRAGON PRICE

#captain john price #captain john price x reader #john price #john price x you #john price x reader #captain price x reader #captain price x you #fae price #cod x mythology #bhhhhhhhh #ive been in halifax for the last week and it's been kinda rainy and weird and this was born

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distort-opia · 2 years

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God, obsessed with the idea of the Wayne Manor being haunted. Being placed under a curse, and everyone in the house being able to feel it, except Bruce.

Jason hears cruel laughter and Sheila’s voice, following him down the corridors. Dick keeps seeing movement out the corner of his eye; the room is suddenly cold and he swears he can hear the cheering of a crowd, the thud of bodies hitting the ground. Both Ace and Titus whine and cower, bark and then retreat at an unseen presence; all of Damian’s pets are unsettled, scared, and Damian dreams of dying, dreams of being dead, wakes up one night with a sword in his hand in front of Bruce’s bedroom door. Tim keeps seeing his father’s face in the mirror, stained with blood, mouth moving soundlessly and forming words he’s only ever heard in a phone call.

Death, death, death. It bites at their heels, taunts them with ghosts of the people they lost, the people they used to be, the people they fear of becoming. They’ve all been drenched in it; some have been dead themselves and spat back out, and now the house has become a gaping maw that feeds on it... but the worst of it is Bruce.

They bring it up to him, but he dismisses all the signs, as if he’s blind to it all. He keeps going on patrol, keeps being Batman, but every time the Family goes down to the Cave the Batsuits are black twisting monsters within their glass cases. It’s so cold they can see their own breaths. Bruce has dark circles under his eyes, looks pallid and exhausted, feels so very far away. There’s a swarm of bats following him around, screeching and red-eyed, and the first time he sees it Dick’s heart jumps out of his chest.

They’re always behind Bruce, faces empty and devoid of emotion. Bruce seems utterly unable to see them. Thomas and Martha Wayne, blood staining their clothes, dripping down. Wherever Bruce goes, they flicker into view as well, sometimes as horrid rotten corpses and sometimes smiling and loving, ghostly arms wrapped around him from behind; and Damian’s the one to shout when the image of Alfred, neck twisted and broken and eyes wide open, peers over Bruce’s shoulder.

The Wayne family portraits keep changing from day to day, moving within their frames. Thomas and Martha Wayne look more and more full of despair, and the child Bruce in the painting keeps getting greyer, torn, skin rotting away as if he’s being devoured from the inside. It doesn’t take long for them to realize it’s all coming from Bruce. The Manor is turning into the nightmares that plague his head, becomes a nest of fear and loss and grief that never healed. They need to undo it, save Bruce before he becomes the haunted house and the ghost that haunts it, before he turns into his own grave.

After all, how much death can you take, how much grief can you fill yourself with, before you become it? How many ghosts can you preserve and chain to yourself before you join them?

#hnnng basically who do I have to pay to write me a 'Haunting of Hill House' and 'Portrait of Dorian Gray' psychological horror crossover #but called 'The Haunting of Wayne Manor'#and it's Bruce losing himself and not even realizing #I'm sorry. I fully blame the anons with the Wayne Manor stuff for this brainrot #rants.txt #batman #bruce wayne #batfam #wayne manor

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morgana-ren · 8 months

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Thinking about Astarion's parents and what it must've been like if they truly loved him and then one day he was just .. gone. Gone from their lives forever. Maybe his mother kissed him as he rolled his eyes and his father told him to stay safe today. Maybe he was a reckless, brash, arrogant and decadent young elf barely out of adolescence making his way up in the world but he was clever and bright and full of life and the light of their lives and then one night he just never came home to them

He just disappeared into thin air and his friends and family hadn't seen him and after years and years of misery and torture and horror, they were finally forced to accept their baby boy was dead, another victim swallowed by the gaping black maw of Baldur's gate, having a bodyless burial with a headstone carved in his remembrance because they couldn't take another year of not knowing. Of not knowing what happened to their son.

He was loved. He was loved and missed by someone. When he disappeared, someone mourned him. Someone he can't even remember after centuries of misery and torture. Someone visited his grave. Someone wept for him. Someone paid to have him put to rest. Someone loved him.

He prowled the streets by night that his parents searched by day. Endless. Dogged. Hell for a mother and father robbed of their child. Searching for a single sliver of silver hair in the crowd. His bright smile. His handsome visage, perhaps taking after his father. Perhaps one day he would come home. They could pray and pray that one day he'd find his way home to them. That he isn't dead. One day that never came— and never will.

Because he cannot even remember them. Even as he is free, he cannot remember. Just another thing Cazador took from him.

#morgana and friends #astarion #astarion spoilers #i dont know the lore behind his parents and family #maybe someone got dialogue that i didn't #but can you imagine if he just.. was so so loved #and one day just never came home #and his Parents are still ALIVE #and they think their son is dead and gone #even as he is strolling with the love of his life scarcely a mile away #yes i KNOW some parts are wrong but can you imagine if they werent #i am retconning astarion clawing up from the coffin because eat my balls skksk

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abibliophobiaa · 11 months

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talking in your sleep

- eddie munson x afab!reader; 80s summer camp slasher au.

There are rumors that Hawkins is cursed. That there’s a gateway to hell in the town’s epicenter—paved by the blood of innocents. That there’s a whole world roaming beneath, teeming with monsters who have gaping maws full of endless rows of teeth that walk on twos and fours, screeching bats, and swirling shadow beasts.

But they’re rumors all the same. Hushes in hallways, within the four walls of homes, by conspiracy theorists trying to strike up their next controversial story. Stories told around campfires to wide eyed children, fear struck grave and true behind their gazes, or by those wishing to warn others to stay away, to reconsider coming—to turn back while they still have time.

Those same rumors fueled by the terrible murder of the Creel family, a haunting story of a girl who disappeared and was never found again, the impossibility of the zombie boy who was gone from this world one day and alive the next, the devastating fire that burned down the Starcourt Mall and took the lives of many.

Tragedies. All of them. Twisted to fit a narrative. Because Hawkins is safe. Inconspicuous. Boring. Nothing strange happens there.

Nothing, that is, until the summer of 1986.

…Welcome to Camp Firefly.

🏕️🛶

warnings: obviously dark in tone, so please understand that before entering (although chapter one is light and fluffy); thriller vibes; character death; violence; gore; blood; depictions of murder, though limited in description — i would say on par with what we see in the actual show; possession; alcohol and recreational marijuana use; horror tropes galore; pov changes; smut; additional tags to be added; 18+ minors dni.

additionally—while this is technically an au, the upside down does exist here. the original core st gang has experienced the events of season 1-3, but in a different capacity that will become clear through the narrative. also a loose loose loose adaptation of s4 with this slasher flair.

🏕️🛶

playlist || ao3 || a sketch by my dear friend

🏕️🛶

Chapter List:

one: burnin’ for you

two: obsession (tba)

three: running up that hill (tba)

#eddie munson x reader #eddie munson x you #eddie munson fanfiction #eddie munson fanfic #80s slasher au #eddie munson x afab!reader #eddie munson x fem!reader #eddie munson smut #lunaloveseddie

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curiositydooropened · 5 months

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Wildfire • Inferno

The last march into the Ether is fraught with uncertainty. You stumble forward, partner and friends by your side.

Pairing: Steve Harrington x Reader

Chapter Wordcount: 10,887

Warnings: This chapter contains gore and horror, including character injury and allusions to character death. • enemies/rivals to lovers, second chance romance, slowburn, unrequited love, so much pining, blood, gore, character death, best friend!disabled!Eddie Munson, character injuries, trauma, PTSD, hallucinations, drowning, concussion, hurt/comfort, fire, panic attacks, insomnia

Fic Masterlist • Navigation • Masterlist

Chapter Six: Combustion

---

THEN

May 1988

The woods sprawled forever, rows of monotonous chaos stretched to a sunless sky. You scrambled through, boots squelching in inexplicably moist soil as you toed over the twist of vines and fallen limbs. A shock of orange guided your way, a light in the greyscale abyss, just out of reach, dipping into underbrush and up the hillside.

You’d made this trek through dozens of times, the steady climb from Roane County Farms to Mary Hill Lane. Countless nights of your youth were spent feeding cows apples from your pockets and scurrying home before the sun crested its final valley.

You knew the resemblances were eery. The first time you’d stepped into this horrible place, the first time you felt the pull at your navel and the spin in your skull, you’d been nauseated by the carbon copy version of the town you called home. Grocery stores and public libraries crumbled beneath the weight of disembodied tentacles. City sidewalks crumbled beneath your feet. And even after all this time, after countless trips through the portal into the Hellscape, the similarities to your childhood never ceased to unsettle your stomach and itch like anxiety in your chest.

A different panic clawed there now, making the ascent more difficult. Your pack weighed you down, and your mask hung from your throat, lungs burning with strain and inhaling toxic air.

“Vickie!” You cried out for her again, your voice hoarse and cracked. A handful of mulch fell away to make room for your boot, and you pulled yourself up through the tree line and onto Mary Hill Lane.

The asphalt was torn up, a pot hole down the center of the little lane, right where they’d patched it that summer you turned 8. You used to take turns jumping it on your bikes. Once, Vickie hit the lip, and her frail little body went flying over the handlebars. You watched the blood ooze from her knobby knees in horror, and admitted delight, and helped her limp her bicycle two doors down to her house.

A wave of orange flickered in your periphery, and you steeled your breath. Two houses down, with pale yellow siding and a metal storm door, was your best friend’s childhood home. It hadn’t changed since her family moved to the little neighboring town of Hawkins. The tree out front was a little taller, the grass a little sparser, and of course the entire facade was succumbing to the overgrowth of demonic vines that curled and whipped beneath the shutters and peeled back the roofing tiles.

There was a residual off to the Ether, the dip in your stomach that never left once you’d crossed the gaping maw threshold, but now, staring up at a home you grew up in, the off settled into your ribcage like a bad breakfast. “Vickie,” you whispered, following your feet to her driveway. “What the Hell are you thinking?”

You reached over your shoulder to remove the flamethrower from its holster. Your hands shook around the cold metal. You tried to even out your breathing, panic clinging like condensation to your neck.

Bang! Something large smacked against the garage door, rattling the whole thing on its hinges.

You scrambled backwards, foot slipping on a rogue bit of gravel. You gasped, catching your fall before you heard another loud thwack to the door.

Then you saw her. Grimy, fogged glass lined one of the garage panels, through which you caught the terrified look of your best friend, a shock of orange and pale skin.

You called out to her, ran to the door, smacked your fingers against the glass.

“No,” she shook her head, slamming her hands into the other side of the wall. “Get out of here! Run!”

“Vick? What’s going on?” You shook your head. “Are you trapped? Stand back, I’m going to torch it.” You squared up, readjusting the trigger behind your forefinger.

“No!” She cried out again. “You don’t understand. You need to run.”

“Is there something in there?” You asked, trying to peer between her and a stack of boxes to look within the confines of the garage.

“Yes.” She said. “Me.”

She disappeared for a moment before she lifted the garage door, one strong push to expose herself and the rotting boxes abandoned beside her.

“What the Hell is wrong with you?” You growled, dropping the weapon to your side.

“She’s stronger than she looks,” she said, stance square. There was something in her eye that tickled at the base of your skull, sent a shiver down your spine.

“Vic?”

“Really, your friend held on for so long. She really tried to fight. The two of you had years of good memories for me to lose her in.”

Years of training stalled your reaction, running through your mind in reverse, hours spent on the Scorch course echoing in your skull. You raised your weapon again, and her name left your throat in a whisper.

“You wouldn’t burn sweet, innocent Vickie would you?” She took wide strides your direction, hands in the pockets of her pants. “Not here. Remember when we called this place home. You and I?”

You scrambled for the walkie on your shoulder, hands trembling. “Team Lead to Scorch team, requesting emergency evac.”

“Yes, yes, bring in the troops,” she smirked, something miserable and uncanny, something so un-her.

Steve’s voice echoed through the speaker, startling you. “Where are you?”

“Roane County, Mary Hill Lane. Quarantine required.”

“Her old house? Is Vickie okay? Vickie?” Robin’s voice called out before Steve cut her off.

“Copy that. We’re on our way.”

“R-Robin?” Vickie’s voice broke, and you noticed a distinct change in her demeanor. Her teeth were grit, fists clenched and shaking at her sides.

You caught her gaze, eyes filled with terror, and took a few steps closer.

“NO!” She cried out, holding a hand up to stop you. Tears welled in her eyes, spilled over, tracked through the ash on freckled cheeks. She whispered your name, bottom lip trembling beneath her two front teeth. “You have to do it.”

“Vickie, no. Just hold on. Steve and Robin will be there soon. We’ll take you back and -”

“It’s too late,” her voice cracked. “He’s in here, and I can’t hold him back much longer. You know I love you, right?”

“Vickie, stop it.” You shook your head, tasting salt. You didn’t realize you’d started crying as well.

“Please?”

You shook your head again, obstinate, every bit of you fighting the pleading look in her eyes, fighting the sad smile on her face, fighting the way she said your name.

—

NOW

October 1988

Your blindfold was made of wool, something thick and itchy against your nose and the tips of your ears. You scratched at it, exposing a sliver of light, and you hand was promptly snatched away.

“Will you stop that?” Steve huffed, voice a warm rumble to your left year.

“I’m not going to take it off,” you grumbled.

Your anxiety had peaked the moment he put it on, relieved only temporarily when he pressed his lips against yours. Then, you were promptly carted down the clanging elevator and shoved past a sea of whispers until a heavy steel door was opened, and brisk autumn air caressed your cheeks.

The familiar rumble of a truck bed chattered your bones, knees knocking against various others’. You sat in silence, sensing a handful of watchful eyes. You were desperate to ignore the gnawing at your brainstem, the villain clawing himself to the surface, desperate for air, for a hint. You focused, instead, on your breathing, on the warmth of Steve’s hand in your own, of the buzz in your fingertips and the weight of something that had been strapped to your back.

Steve’s grip tightened as you came rolling to a halt. Engines idled. The smell of diesel fuel burned at your nostrils. Your stomach churned.

Your partner pulled you upright with a strong hand beneath your armpit, and you teetered on your feet as the balance shifted with each body that jumped from the bed to the dusty ground below.

“Wait here,” he muttered, and then released your hand.

Panic curled into your organs. You reached out for him again, listening for the fall of his feet. Cold replaced him beside you. The ground shifting beneath you. You extended your toe until it hit something, a wheel-well, by the sound of it, maybe a tailgate.

A hand found yours again and pulled you to the cool metal. The machine trembled beneath your clammy fingertips.

“Sit here, swing your legs over. I’m going to catch you, okay?”

“I don’t need to be caught,” you scoffed, though you followed instructions, feet dangling over the bed’s ledge until you slid into Harrington’s strong grip.

“Shut up,” he grumbled, gentling setting your feet to pavement.

You shoved at his chest, and promptly chased him until his hand slipped firmly into yours again.

“Dudes!” A familiar voice called from not-too-far away, and you felt yourself led toward them.

A fist tapped your shoulder, and the sickly sweet smell of marijuana filled your senses.

“Argyle?” You smiled.

“You got it, dude.” You could hear the smile in his voice. “Hey, remember that time we played those pranks on Munson?”

The levity of his sentiment didn’t match the intensity of the situation you were all stepping into, and it caught you off guard. Your memory strained to strum up images of hiding Eddie’s notebook and replacing it with a replica you and Argyle had doodled crude images in. That felt a lifetime ago, when you were all just kids caught up in a war you didn’t understand.

“Well, that gave me the idea to doodle a dick on the dragon on his new notebook.” Argyle spoke it like a confession, whispered to you from around your veil, words muffled by the thick fabric.

You crinkled your nose. “You did?”

“Yeah,” he barked out a laugh. “So you’ll have to come back to see the look on his face when he sees it.”

The fear that had settled like a pit in your gut fluttered a little, a glimmer of a heartbeat added to the future you weren’t certain you’d have.

“Deal,” you choked out, and you felt a hand reach into yours to shake on it.

“Harrington!” Someone yelled from a few yards away, and you free hand was tugged with careful instructions to follow. You bid Argyle goodbye and stumbled after Steve, slow steps dragged along dusty streets.

You couldn’t tell the direction, though something deep in you longed for them. Something wondered if you could peer beneath the blindfold and make out a location based on the stones you kicked along with the steel toes of your boots. Something sensed the wind caressing your cheeks, your chest, wondered if it blew in an Easterly direction.

Another warm body pulled up beside you, blocking the wind. Your shoulders fell in gratitude. You hadn’t realized you’d hiked them up.

“Mind if I lean on you?” Byers muttered, wrapping a soft hand against the crook of your elbow.

You shook your head and accommodated for his weight. You noticed a limp in the sound of his walk, slowed your gait to match his. Another spring of panic fluttered at your chest. “No offense, Jonathan, but… should you be going on this mission? How’s your leg?” You squeezed Steve’s hand on your other side.

He squeezed back.

“Remember that day we took bets on the mats? The one where you wiped the floor with Harrington?”

“Alright,” Steve huffed on your other side.

You snickered, remembering the flow of cash into the hands of your best friends. High fives were exchanged. Munson had set up a hydration station in your corner to fan you off between rounds.

“I won like five hundred bucks thanks to you, you know?” Byers spoke softly beside you, breath a little labored.

“Oh yeah?” You swallowed back a lump. “Sounds like a deserve a cut of that.”

He laughed at that, Steve too. “Yeah, you do. Here’s the deal. You kick major ass in there, I’ll give you three hundred.”

“Double or nothing?” Steve said over your head.

“Deal,” Jonathan chuckled and squeezed again at the meat of your bicep. “What do you say?”

“Yeah, okay, deal.” Your voice sounded hoarse. When Jonathan released you, you nearly halted your walk to stay with him, but Steve tugged you along with a firm grip, and you stayed in line with the footfall all around you.

You kept your eyes squeezed closed, resisting the temptation to gain some sort of bearing. You thought of Argyle’s doodles and Byers the bookie and tried to push back the emotion clawing to escape you.

Then you felt it, the pull. You’d felt it before, dozens of times, that warped tug of gravity that started from behind your navel and led you onwards and upside downwards. It had to be close. You felt the pulse of a gaping maw as if it were your own, the steady thrum-thrum of a heartbeat. Or two heartbeats, in tandem to the pulse you felt in Steve’s wrist against your own. Or three heartbeats, the rhythm of dozens of soldiers falling into line.

A familiar voice called your name from up ahead, and you heard the stamping of feet as someone approached, others moving out of their way. “Hey,” Wheeler breathed. “Have you figured out what we’re doing yet?”

You couldn’t respond, overcome with emotion and terror, that call of the Ether drawing you closer with each step.

Nancy fell in sync beside you. “Remember our first run in the Scorch course? Me, you, Vickie, Robin?”

You remembered being terrified at the prospect of setting monsters ablaze. You remembered spying an intimate “good luck” between Steve and Nancy before she went in with you. You remembered Vickie and Robin exchanging nervous smiles. You remembered sweaty palms around a weapon you’d never used, and you remembered the heat that licked at your skin.

“We did it in record time, and they were still extinguishing three hours later.”

“Nancy, I…” You weren’t sure what to say, exactly, couldn’t understand the meaning.

“Us girls have to stick together.” She stuck a bony elbow to your side, then she shouted. “Ready? Let’s go. Battle stations, everyone. You know what to do.”

You heard the unsettling squelch of vines, the clearing of a membrane from the jaws of the gate, and the tug of your arm halted you. “Steve?” You muttered. “What’s going on?”

“We’re going in,” his breath was warm against your ear, and he brought your hand to his chest. His heartbeat was rapid, racing your own to the finish line you couldn’t see, couldn’t fathom.

Your mouth was dry. Things within you battled: the urge to turn heel and run and the urge to go diving headfirst into the Ether, into the frigid embrace.

“I’ll never forget the first time you pinned me to the mats,” he spoke soft, catching you off-guard. You could feel his smile against your ear, the upturn of his lips. “You knocked the wind clear out of me, had me seeing stars, and then you leaned over me to help me up. You had this big, beautiful grin on your face, like you’d never had more fun in your entire life. Robin was doubled-over laughing in the corner.”

“Steve,” you breathed, clutching at the soft fabric of his shirt.

“But when you asked me if I was ready for round two, that’s when I knew I was in love with you.”

“Harrington,” you grit your teeth, slammed your eyes shut. The pulse compelled you. Vines like tendrils slithering beneath booted feet to find you.

“Because I knew you were resilient, and any bullshit I could throw at you, you could survive. Are you listening to me?”

“Steve, are we ready?” Nancy called from several feet away, voice drowned by the thundering in your ears.

“You have to fight him, okay? I promise I will protect you, but you have to promise me you’ll fight back, that you won’t give up. Do you promise me?” He was holding your face now, large hands on either cheek, and you longed to see his brown eyes again, that furrow between his brow.

“I promise,” you nodded, and his lips were against yours, hot and soft, and then they weren’t, and you were chasing for his touch.

He hooked something into your belt, and you felt cold plastic, with a long cord attached. “Whatever you do, don’t take your blindfold off, or these,” he tugged headphones over your head, the foam around the ears amplifying the pounding of your heart. “I will stay as close to you as I can, but you just need to trust that I’ll be there to protect you. Are you ready?”

Again, the opposing forces within you pulled in separate directions. All at once, your senses will filled with pop music and panic that you had to swallow back as Steve took you by the hand and led you once more toward the door between worlds.

—

The Ether smelled damp, like mildew, the rotting flesh of vegetation left to spoil. It tasted of ash and ruin. Static lingered in the air, clung clothes to your skin. The music in your ears was muffled, somehow, like there was too much room for sound waves to travel, so they thinned out and became tinny. The blindfold itched at your nose, and you stood alone, cold, in a void.

You tried to focus on the happy memories your friends had presented to you, but with every chill that wracked through you, all you thought of was her.

That shock of orange had been extinguished, had vanished into the grime of this Earth, had smoked out. Happy memories of her turned to ash at your fingertips, laughter to choked screams.

Then, you smelled gasoline, sweet and strong. You were used to the fumes, that chemical after burn with each torch of the flamethrower, but this was stronger. This stung at your nostrils, made your mouth water. You took a few steps forward to ensure you hadn’t stepped in it and were waiting for someone to light a match.

You felt dizzy with it, that wobble as you walked. You called out for Steve, unable to hear your own voice though the music. You received no response, felt no tug on your arm, no warm hand to your waist. You were only cold, and you were all alone.

He’d left you. He made a promise he couldn’t keep, just like Vickie had, and you supposed like you had to them.

Then came the rumble, that slow wave of nausea that drifted from far-off, from mountain tops and Great Lakes, that cosmic sway of land that chattered your teeth and sent you off-kilter, to your knees. You caught yourself on a hand, feeling the snap of your wrist beneath your weight as the Earth continued to rock beneath you. You cried out, though you couldn’t hear it over shrill music.

Then you felt it, the searing agony of torched vines, every vein and nerve ending ablaze, punching the air from your lungs. Screams rippled through you, not yours but the screams of others, of them, agonizing, writhing in horror, screams from gaping mouths with rows and rows of jagged teeth, and you were them and they were you, and you felt it all.

You thought you might rip in two from the pain, maybe you already had, and you lie prone against a cold, hard ground, willing your body to push it away. Everything in you scorched, and everything in you begging to fight. How could you fight fire? How could you fight an unseen force?

Desperate for air, you ripped your blindfold from your face and stared up into a storm-filled sky. Bright red lightning flashed inside a black, billowing cloud. Your eyes ached at the orange glow, and when you turned your head, you came face-to-face with an entire forest ablaze.

It caught like wildfire, an inferno that scorched the Earth. Beautiful bright whites and yellows, oranges and reds painted the night sky, casting the forest in silhouette as limbs groaned and trees crashed down upon an army of soldiers.

You sucked in a breath, sputtering to the sand as you rolled over to gain your footing. Your wrist cried out under your weight, but your vision had shifted again.

It was as though you ran through the woods, double time, rushing to escape the fire. It was as though you flew through smoke filled skies. Your targets wore tactical attire and carried flamethrowers on their backs, and millions of teeth sunk into them, filling your mouth with the taste of their blood.

Something found your ankle, a thick vine that wrapped itself there and pulled until you slammed back into the pavement. You squeezed your eyes shut and kicked at it until you felt the satisfying squelch, the burst of ice cold liquid, and you scrambled away until another could find you.

Then your eyes were on him: Steve torching the wood. His face was tanned, dripping with sweat and grime. He picked up a barrel and threw it into the trees, shielding his face from the explosion as Nancy cocked her rifle and hit her target. Only, you were looking at Steve from an odd angle, and you reached out a clawed hand toward him.

“Steve!” You cried out, but it was too late. The demogorgon’s claws pulled through his chest to the bone.

Nancy fired rounds into the creature until it had backed into a truck. From there, it was blown to pieces.

You watched them now, from a few yards away, unable to lift yourself from the ground. She tended his wounds, and he staggered, glancing your direction. Tears stung in your eyes. Somewhere nearby, a song echoed through tattered headphones. Behind your eyelids, allies were being ripped open, guts spilling to the forest floor, but the fire raged on.

—

The pain subsided, and all was numb and black and void.

You sat at a desk, sunlight filtering in through a window overlooking the woods. You had a pencil in one hand. Times tables were etched into the paper in front of you. The lines of the numbers flipped and blurred, and you stuffed your tongue between your teeth in frustration. God, you were so stupid.

Your mother called from down the hall. Dinnertime.

You set your pencil down, and it rolled across the desk top before halting against a terrarium.

You stood and stretched, rubbed at bleary eyes. You pulled your sweater from the back of your chair and swung it over bare shoulders.

You crossed to your door, traced the wallpaper in your hallway with fingertips like you did every evening.

Dad’s chair was empty as you passed the living room. The television played something dull and quiet, reruns.

You rounded to the dining room, table stacked with food for two. Dad must be on another work trip.

Light filtered in through the sliding glass door. Winter had just begun. The leaves had all browned and fallen. The trees stood like soldiers, all limbs and armor.

You took your seat at the table and sipped the carbonation from your soda. The bubbles fizzed at your nose, and you itched at it before dumping a heaping spoonful of mashed potatoes to your plate.

A slam at the glass door startled you, and you looked up to find Vickie. She looked different, old and grizzled. Her jaw was sharper, the muscles in her arms more defined. She rolled her eyes and peeled the door open. It rolled on its track, and she let herself in.

“This is where he’s keeping you?”

“Wh-what?” You blinked back at her, wondering if the times tables had messed with your head.

“Vecna, come on, idiot. You’re flayed. He’s got you by the strings, and he holed you up in the third grade for some reason. Do you have any idea how long it took me to find you?”

Her words processed like sludge, letters mixing and swapping like they had on the page.

She leaned over to dip her finger into the bowl of mashed potatoes. She tasted it and blanched, spewing the soft white back onto your plate. “Jesus, there are some tricks he really can’t master. Now come on, we don’t have much time. You need to snap out of this.”

She tugged at your wrist, and you cried out, a sharp pain zipping through you. You stared down at the tender and bruising limb.

“That’s a good start,” she nodded. She glanced out at the backyard, forehead creasing in thought before clicking her fingers together. “Quick, think about Steve.”

“Who?” You winced, nursing the dull ache in your wrist with a gentle touch.

“Harrington. You know, big brown eyes, floppy ears, a tail that wags when you pay him attention.”

“What?” Everything felt fuzzy, a slog of jumbled words that fell from soft lips and onto deaf ears. You hadn’t remember Mom giving you cough syrup, but perhaps you had a cold.

With a groan, Vickie grabbed you by the shoulders and lifted you from your seat. She shook you a little. “Come on, damnit, remember. You aren’t here in your mom’s kitchen, you’re in the Ether. The Scorch Team is blowing it up. A demogorgon got Steve, and I have a feeling he’s going to die if you don’t snap out of this.”

“Steve?”

You saw a flash of him staggering toward you, Kevlar shredded, blood tainting the inner corners of his perfect lips.

“Steve!” You cried out, but you were back in the dining room. The breaker had been flipped, everything dark, everything caked in a layer of rot and decay. Everything but Vickie.

“Nicely done,” she grinned, yanking at the sliding glass door. “Let’s get out of here!”

You didn’t hesitate to follow, staring up at the sky scapes of your mind as they began to implode. The woods beyond turned to the craggy, rocky shores of your grandmother’s beach house, and as you stepped through the bog water that had filled your backyard, everything turned to concrete and asphalt and tar.

“Yeah, this’ll do,” Vickie’s sneakers slapped against the tarmac as she ran toward the compound.

You took off after her, wind sweeping at you like wispy tendrils, desperate to hold you in place. “What do we do now? How do we trap him?”

“I don’t think we do,” she responded. “It’s kind of like a lucid dream. You’re in charge in here. We just have to get rid of all the places he can hide.” She bypassed a passcode to unlock a familiar steel door and held it open for you to go inside.

You entered the small hallway, floor-to-ceiling munitions lockers. “And how do we do that?”

“Well,” one locker opened with a creak, “they’re blowing his shit up on the outside. Maybe it’s time to turn the heat up in here, too.” She reached in and procured a flamethrower.

—

You scorched the Earth. You set fire to the Roan River bed where Vickie had tumbled. You set fire to the little covered bridge and all the horrors that lay within. You set fire to the little farmhouse where you lost her. You set fire to the woods that surrounded your childhood home, to the little fenced in backyard, the rope and plank that swung from the oak down the street. You torched the roof and watched it crumble inward over mashed potatoes and the tv turned to static in the corner. You watched the pages of a times table curl and fall to dust.

“Making record time,” Vickie grinned, slapping a hand to your shoulder. “Just like Nancy said. Us girls really do make a good team.”

She turned from you and began to jog down the little lane, pack bouncing, light on her feet as though the world wasn’t crashing down around her.

When you didn’t follow, she turned, fire lighting her eyes, and gestured for you to join. “You coming or what?”

The flames made no sound as they consumed your house, a dreamscape of embers in reds and oranges and yellows to the ringing in your ears. The roof fell first, like the house that nearly ate Steve, and then the windows burst and the walls came next. As the fire spilled out across the front yard, chewing at tires and overtaking flowerbeds, you stumbled backwards to join Vickie in the lane.

“One last stop,” she promised, intertwining her fingers in your own.

“How do you know that’s enough?” You asked with a frown, wheezing a cough into your free hand. Your wrist ached, and the purpling bruise was beginning to crawl up your arm. Your chest felt tight, and the faster you ran, the harder it felt to breathe. The smell of gasoline filled your nostrils.

“We’re running out of time,” she smiled sadly and turned into the driveway of her own childhood home, the place you found her, the place you watched the life leave her eyes.

“Vickie,” you warned, screeching to a halt just at the end of the driveway, where concrete turned to rubble. Looking to your left, you saw the pothole. To the right, flames had spilled to the neighbor’s house.

“Don’t be a baby. This is his favorite place to hide. We have to make it uninhabitable.” She explained, stacking lawn furniture to a pile between the garage and house.

It was his favorite place to hide because it was your worst memory, the place you refused to go back to, the truths you kept hidden under lock and key.

Something went boom far in the distance. Your ears rang again, and they hurt. Something hot and wet splattered your right cheek. You reached up to find blood spilling from your ear. “Vickie!”

“Hurry!” She removed her pack, added it to the pile.

“What’re you doing?” You crossed the driveway as she opened a can of lighter fluid from beside the grill and began trailing it across the closed garage door. She splashed some onto her shoes. The cuffs of her pants were soaked in it. “Be careful!”

She looked up at you then, a sadness behind the mischief in her eyes, and she shook her head. “Don’t you get it? It’s me. He’s hiding himself in me. I’m the safe space for him. He knows you’ll never touch me. You’ll hide from him in the good memories: the pranks with Eddie, the bets with Jonathan, the sing-a-longs with Robin. He’ll hide from you here, with me.”

Another boom rocked the world around you in ripples. Scratches clawed themselves into your right side, your cheek, your chest, your arm as shrapnel lodged itself within your skin.

Vickie rushed to your side, wiped blood from your cheek with a thumb. “Hey, I love you, and I will always be with you in your heart and your good memories, but this?” She gestured to the pile of furniture, to the scorch mark in the drive. “You need to let this go.”

You wheezed another cough, violence that clawed at your insides, squeezing every drop from you.

“Go back to Steve. Get yourself out of this Hell hole, as far away as you can, you hear me? Get married, have a dozen babies. Follow your dreams. Live the life I didn’t get to. Promise me?” She touched her nose to yours. “I love you.”

“I love you,” you managed, though tears blurred your vision and smoke choked at your lungs.

She kissed your forehead and took ten paces back, until her feet were touching the spilled can of fluid that had begun to weep down the driveway. “You promise?” She called.

You nodded, hands trembling as you lifted the flamethrower. “Promise.”

“Good,” her face lit with that mischievous grin, a smile of peace and of love, and she maintained it as the flames engulfed her.

—

Your ears rang, and your body thrummed, and every nerve in your body stood at attention. The smell of burning flesh and gasoline stung acrid in your nostrils. You blinked your eyes open, expecting the bright oranges of flames and finding only grey, only smoke, and then two big, brown eyes.

Steve came crashing into focus, and you pulled him into you with desperate hands. The side of his face was torn and bleeding. Thick, dark red spilled down his jaw and throat to gaping cuts across his chest and abdomen, but he was crouched over you, and he was mouthing something. No, maybe he was screaming.

He looked beyond you before he covered you with his body, and you felt the rain of something down on top the both of you.

After a long moment’s rest, you shoved at him, desperate to find his eyes again, and he sat up and looked around before he pulled you both to your feet.

The Ether was chaos all around you, a cloud of smoke and ash. Soldiers and monsters alike disappeared and reappeared through the cloud in flashes of thunder-less lightning and the splatter of blood.

You ducked into the crook of Steve’s arm and followed his lead as he ran, both of you a little wobbly, dodging vehicles and bodies.

He tripped over a vine, and you caught him under the arm, pulling him upright again so you could continue your journey. He stopped, peering around once more, shouting into the smoke cloud with a hand over his mouth until he was doubled over in a wheezing cough. You covered your own mouth with the crook of your elbow, but the smoke was too much, and the oxygen too small.

You threw yourself to the ground and pulled him too, breathing what air lie between particles of sand in the empty lake bed.

Steve lie beside you, eyes fluttering with exhaustion and defeat, and he leaned sideways to thumb blood from a stinging wound on your cheek.

That’s when you noticed the vines. Thick, black, oozing with ichor and something fouler smelling than the ash and smoke, these vines were reaching for something, crawling for air of their own.

You yanked on Steve’s sleeve and pointed to them, and the two of you crawled after the vines to the edge of a gaping wound in the sandbar.

The membrane had been popped and water bubbled below, steady waves that brought forth the prospect of life, of fresh air, of home.

Steve threaded his fingers through yours and nodded, spoke words you couldn’t hear. “I won’t let go.”

You nodded and took as deep a breath as you could muster before diving headfirst through the portal to the waters below.

—

Righting yourself felt different without gravity, the weightless tug of your body that begged to be back on the other side, back where up was up and down was down. But here? In the void of frigid cold and screaming wounds, of empty lungs? Your body and your brain couldn’t comprehend anything but out and now.

Steve’s hand remained in yours, though you couldn’t see past the blur of dark and sting in your eyes. So you just kicked and pulled at the space around you, weightless and yet too heavy all at once.

Something wrapped itself around your ankle, but you just kept kicking, feet as paddles and anchors.

You wrist ached, the numbing pull of something as Steve tried to yank you upward, and then you felt his arm around your waist and then your knee, and he was fighting something off, and then nothing. Then he was gone and his warmth and his weight, and your body was surging you upwards and outwards and now as fast as you can.

It hurt. Everything hurt. Your lungs screamed and your soul ached and your heart hurt, but when you burst through that surface and through your head back and filled your lungs at least that was right again.

You slapped your hands to the surface in an effort to stay afloat, and you gasped and sputtered and took in the fresh, clean air.

Starlight glinted above you, miles and miles upward, not shying beyond clouded skies. God, you’d missed them.

You floated for a moment, on your back, body screaming for rest, exhausted, eyes drifting closed while you drifted like a log on the water’s surface. Alone and weightless, but free and alive and alone.

Alone. You sputtered, coughed out water that spilled in through your nostrils, and when it had cleared, you looked frantically around you for Steve.

Your distress caused ripples in the water, ripples in reflected starlight, ripples alone.

You took a deep breath, weak, lungs pained, and dove. Your eyes stung and the darkness filled everything below the surface, so you reached out with frantic arms until your lungs couldn’t take it anymore and your body rocketed you back up for another gasp of air.

You cried out for Steve, a wheezing sound that had you coughing again. Your teeth chattered. You could barely hear your own voice above the ringing in your ear.

You dove again and again, dives decreasing in length each time until you finally surfaced, gasping for air and screaming for someone to help, screaming for Steve, screaming at Vickie, at Vecna, at the world for doing this to you, and that’s when you found him.

Several yards off, face down, like driftwood bobbing along the shoreline.

You swam to him, one stroke at a time, aching legs kicking until the tips of your fingers met the back of his head, and you turned him to face you. Liquid poured from his open mouth, the sweet curve of his lips.

You pulled him under your arm and dug in hard to the silt and soil, pulling him up and over the banks where cattails bloomed and crickets chirped. You pulled yourself up too, both of your bodies scraping the sand.

“Steve,” you wheezed, straddling his body. You tilted his head back. “I promised Vickie. I promised her we’d get married. I promised her we’d have a dozen babies.”

You ripped open what was left of his shirt, bits of material sticking to his shredded skin. You held back a cry and interlaced your fingers. Your wrist screamed, bruising crawling to your elbow. Gingerly, the palm of your hands found his sternum, and you began compressions.

“You have to stay with me because I love you, and I can’t do this without you.” You tried to keep time to the adrenaline thundering your heartbeat in your skull.

More liquid spilled from his lips.

“No!” You cried out. “Stay with me. Damnit, Harrington!”

You clenched your jaw until something snapped, a tooth, maybe his ribs, maybe your arm, but you didn’t stop, you couldn’t stop.

—

Your throat was so dry, a swallow that burned down your esophagus like sand paper. Your insides smarted with it. Everything was red, too bright, vicious like wildfire. You winced, turned your face to shield yourself from the light.

The beeping got louder, a steady rhythm that matched the thump-thump of your heart in your skull only fuzzier, dials turned down, a bit of static ebbing and flowing like waves, a current.

Then you heard a mumble, or at least, it sounded like a voice. No, two voices muttered to one another from over top of you, one louder, clearer, the other soft, strangled, too-far away.

“Have you been here all night?”

“If they try to pull me away from this bedside, I’ll kill them.”

“Have they woken up yet?”

“Not yet. No one can tell me if that’s good or bad. Do medical charts make sense to you?”

“Let me see.”

Something clattered beside you, too close to your head, and your reflexes startled your eyes open. You winced to find everything was no longer red, but stark white and too bright, and your eyelids were crusted over and burned. You groaned and shielded them with a hand wrapped in gauze.

“Holy shit,” someone spoke your name.

“Should we call the nurse?”

“Hold on a second. Sweetheart, are you awake? It’s me, Eddie.” A soft hand reached for yours to pull it from your eyes. “Hit the lights, will ya?”

Stark white dulled to softer blues and grays, and you lowered your hand from your face. Your eyes adjusted, room and faces blurred until the sweet, sad face of your best friend came into focus.

Munson smiled back at you, hair swept back over his shoulders, black t-shirt hugging his chest. His body was pressed to yours, butt pinching the wires that were jabbed into your hand and the crook of your elbow. “Bet those drugs are feeling really nice right now, huh?”

His voice was sweet and low, like molasses, and it buzzed through you warm and soft. You hummed, but the dryness in your throat cracked until you coughed and sputtered and gasped.

“Okay, I’m calling the nurse.”

“You want some water?” Eddie scrambled, snapping his fingers at something on the other side of you, and you turned your head to find Robin with a clipboard under one arm, frantically pushing a large, red button that hung on a cord beside you.

You tried to say her name, but once again the wheezing and sputtering halted your attempt, so you reached for her instead.

“Water? Yeah, here,” her voice trembled, and her hand as she lifted a large plastic cup from the bedside table and held the straw to your lips. She looked scared, frantic, and tears brimmed in her big, blue eyes.

“I got it,” Eddie took it from her, holding the straw steady for you to drink.

The cold water soothed your throat, and your eyes closed in the relief. You were exhausted. Your entire body sunk further into the soft cloud you laid upon and wanted to stay there.

“What’s going on in here?”

“You fall back asleep on us?” You felt the rumble of Eddie’s chuckle, and the tug of a smile played on your lips.

You peaked one eye back open, and the nurse who stood in the doorway dropped her arms from where they were crossed over her chest. “Well, good morning, sunshine. How’re you feeling? Don’t talk, but give me a thumbs up or thumbs down.” She pushed into Robin’s space to jiggle the tubes attached to you.

You managed a thumbs up, the world still a little fuzzy around the edges.

Eddie snorted. “Yeah, I bet you’re feeling good.”

“Your vitals are looking good, but you should probably rest. It’s the fastest way your body can heal.”

Yeah, rest sounded lovely. You nodded and closed your eye again, sinking farther into the warm cloud embracing you.

“I’m going to go check on Nance,” Robin muttered from beside you. “You going to stay here?”

“Try and stop me,” Eddie said, and it pulled another smile to your lips as you drifted off to sleep.

—

Seventeen gates had sealed themselves over night, leaving naught but severed vines and wet patches of pavement. Bits of equipment and body parts slowly began to wash up on shore, but when the lake beds were dragged, no gates had been found.

Your drug-induced dreams had been void of smoke and screams, void of ash and ruin, void of that shock of orange and the chill in your spine.

You’d gotten to your feet faster than any of your comrades, despite being one of the last living recovered by the Evac team. You joked about your competitive nature through wheezed coughs behind your cast.

You and Munson raced walkers down hallways. Much to your chagrin, he let you win.

Weaning off the drugs, your body ached, bones stiff. The stitches around your cheekbone and shoulder and hip itched something fierce. Your voice came back after a few days, scratchy and raw, but your hearing never returned on that right side.

You begged Eddie to read you the novel he’d been writing every night as you drifted off to sleep. You played card games with Jonathan and Argyle during the days, stuffing aces into the bright blue plaster of your bandaged arm.

Hopper visited when he could, cursing at a nurse under his breath when she came in to tell him to put out his cigarette. He did so in your abandoned jell-o cup, and before he left, he squeezed the fingers of your hand and said, “I’m proud of you, kid.”

Nancy’s recovery came along quickly, always two steps ahead, and you spent evenings distracting her while her bandages were changed. Burns covered half of her slender frame, but she grit her teeth through the agony. You helped her to her feet when she asked and held her hand to the bathroom and back to her bed.

Robin came bearing gifts smuggled from the outside, warm socks and soda in glass bottles, a record player and later, hummed tunes. She tried to teach you French one night, Russian another, and if she hadn’t fallen asleep at Nancy’s bedside, she was slumped onto Eddie’s shoulder, the two of them wide-mouthed, snoring out-of-sync.

Some such nights, you’d sneak out, carrying your IV so the wheels didn’t squeak, the pads of your feet cold against stark white linoleum. You’d bypass the common room, illuminated by the vibrant colors of candy wrappers from a vending machine, and tiptoe down the hall past the nurse’s station. You’d slip into a room two doors down, on the left, masked under the faint blue glow of a heart monitor and sidle up beside the patient there.

You didn’t like the blue, cast across hard features like the frigid chill of a drowned man. You much preferred the warmth of sunshine pouring in through easterly windows. If you stayed long enough, you’d catch a glimpse of that, honeyed light caressing soft skin, tousling the golds in his hair.

You glanced at his heart rate on the monitor, the steady but slow rise and fall, and then you slipped your fingers to the pulse point on his wrist to double check. “Harrington, I’m always saving your ass, aren’t I?” You tutted.

You tugged his torso to warm exposed shoulders, careful not to drag the material against the plane of his chest, where skin had been grafted together with vicious knots of needle and thread.

You pressed the back of your hand to his forehead, taking solace in the warmth of life, and swept hair from the wrinkle in his brow.

You pulled up a chair and tucked your hand into his, resting your elbows and head beside the dip of his thighs, listening to the subtle beat of his heart until your eyelids felt heavy and your rhythms matched with his.

—

May 1990

Sunlight dappled the landscape in pale yellows and vibrant greens, pouring in from between the limbs of trees and spilling onto the grass like paint to a canvas. A breeze brew through, sweet florals on the wind. You helped it sweep fallen, wilted petals and debris from letters carved into stone. A petrified bouquet was replaced with a fresh one, and you primped rose petals and wiped lily pollen off on a pant leg.

Robin crouched beside you, freckled nose red and eyes bleary. She kissed a beaded bracelet before wrapping it around the little vase with the others like it.

You stood before her, helping her up by the hand, and both of you kissed your fingertips and placed them to the tip top of the headstone.

“You ready?” You muttered, giving her hand a squeeze.

She sniffled, nodded, and you began your trek up the dappled hill toward the parked car.

“Give a kiss for me too?” Eddie asked as you approached, frown etched between his brows. You sunk into his embrace, buried your face in the warmth of his throat. He smelled of the cigarette he’d stamped out on the asphalt.

“Always,” Robin muttered into his other shoulder, burying herself there too.

You pulled away with a sad laugh, mopping the tears from your cheeks to slide into the arms of the man beside him.

“Hey, Harrington, you doing okay?” Steve’s voice rumbled against your cheek, his lips pressed to the shell of your ear. He hadn’t stopped calling you that in months, and you delighted in the way his honeyed gaze lit up when he said it.

You swatted at his middle, fighting back the grin that tugged on the corners of your lips. “I’m changing my name back,” you argued.

He hummed a protest, rocking you back and forth, large hands tracing circles of comfort up and down the length of your spine. He felt safe, a tall drink of relief, calm tides after a storm.

“Well, I think I’m ready for brisket,” Eddie clapped Steve’s shoulder, and you reluctantly peeled yourself from your husband’s embrace to help your friend into the back seat.

Robin rounded the car to join him, and you accepted Steve’s sweet kiss to your temple before he climbed in behind the wheel.

With a sigh, you turned to cast one last look down the hill at Vickie’s grave. Light poured down sweet and soft. This place had never felt like her, a disconnect between the girl you knew and loved and the monument for soldiers fallen.

“Steve,” you turned to see him, big brown eyes staring back at you.

“Yeah?”

“Can we make one stop first?”

“Of course.”

—

The new owners painted it blue, still pale, but it matched the sky now. The garage door had been painted stark white like fluffy clouds, and a mini van was parked out front. Toys and bicycles spilled out onto the yard like it had when you were young. Someone paved over the pothole in the lane.

“Want me to come with you?” Steve mumbled, fingertips to your wrist as you opened the passenger side door. You noticed his glance in the rearview.

You shook your head. “I’ll only be a second.”

The wind ruffled the trees, forest curving downhill toward farmland and beyond, but you turned your back to the trees and took cautious steps up the driveway to the garage door. Two daisies had been chalked beside a hopscotch course.

You closed your eyes and breathed in all of the memories from childhood: running back and forth from your house to hers, her incessant humming, the sound of her laughter, dancing in circles in a thunder storm, the feeling of her slender fingers between your own, her nose to yours.

With a smile, you opened your eyes again and turned to go back to Steve’s idling car. That’s when you saw it, a shock of orange out of your periphery that ducked between slats on the porch and flew directly at you.

Your breath caught in your throat, anxiety clawing at your chest, when you felt the wrap of tiny limbs around your knees, knocking them together.

“Baby, what are you…? Oh my God, I’m so sorry. Honey, let go!” A woman launched herself from the front door.

You looked down to find a child, no older than three, with bright red hair and a toothy grin etched upon freckled features. You smiled back, tears welling in your eyes, and patted her little head. “Hi, sweetie,” you chuckled.

“I’m so sorry. We just learned what hugging is,” the little girl’s mother reached for her pudgy little hand to pry her off of your legs.

“Oh no, she’s okay,” you let out a wet laugh.

“Thank you,” the woman huffed. “Can I help you with something?”

You waved her away. “Oh no, my um… my friend used to live here, before the Earthquake. I came to check in on the place. We um… we used to play hopscotch just like this.” You fumbled for a reason to be stood there, in this stranger’s driveway.

“Oh, I see,” the woman’s face fell in understanding. “Would you like to come in? I might have lemonade.”

“That’s alright,” you smiled at the girl in her arms. “Your little one gave me just what I needed. Thank you. Have a nice day.”

“Bye-bye!” The girl waved before hiding, shy, in her mother’s hair.

“Bye.” Emotion swelled with a lump in your throat, but you turned to find that wash of relief in your partner, who stood, leaning over the hood of his car, knowing smile stretched across handsome features.

He waved at the mother and daughter behind you and waited until you were safely inside before getting back in himself. A large hand came to squeeze at your knee, two others squeezed your shoulders from the backseat.

“That baby was pretty cute,” Steve mumbled from his seat, shifting his car into gear to start rolling again.

“Yeah,” you smiled, letting the groans of your best friends fade into the background as you watched the colors of your childhood roll on by.

---

[[A/N: And here we come to the End. I'm a bit emotional here, and would like to, if I may, wax a bit about how much this story means to me.

I haven't written a story this long (haven't finished a story like this) since November of 2019. Like most of us, 2020 took a toll on my mental health, my physical health, my self-esteem, my confidence as a writer, and I think this year, with your help, I'm slowly gaining that confidence back. This story really proved to me that if I put myself into it, my values, my fears, if I truly tie myself to a piece of work, I can do it again.

Wildfire will always be my baby, my favorite, the reader and Harrington and Vickie and all of them mean so much to me, much more than even I know, I'm sure. And I really want to thank all of you for sticking along for the ride with me. I'll never be able to express just how much your words of encouragement have meant. So thank you, so so much, for reading xo]]

#stranger things fic #steve harrington fic #steve harrington fluff #steve harrington smut #steve harrington enemies to lovers #eddie munson #robin buckley #nancy wheeler #jonathan byers #argyle #vickie stranger things #vickie

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eywa-eveng · 10 months

Text

ɪᴠ. sᴇᴄᴏɴᴅ ᴛᴏ ɴᴏɴᴇ

ᴘᴀɪʀɪɴɢ – ᴊᴀᴋᴇ sᴜʟʟʏ, sᴜʟʟʏ ғᴀᴍɪʟʏ X ᶠᴱᴹ ᴹᴱᵀᴷᴬᵞᴵᴺᴬ ᴿᴱᴬᴰᴱᴿ

ᴡᴏʀᴅ ᴄᴏᴜɴᴛ – 12.4

ɢᴇɴʀᴇ – angst

ᴡᴀʀɴɪɴɢs – widower!Jake, major character death

ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪ – ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪ – ᴘᴀʀᴛ ɪɪɪ

ᴛᴀɢ ʟɪsᴛ – @eywas-heir @fanboyluvr @amiets2 @neteyamforlife @itscheybaby @sunrays404 @im-in-a-pansexual-panik @eternallyvenus @bobojojoba69 @behindthearcane @elegantkidfansoul @goldenmoonbeam @ladylovegood-69 @slutforsmut4ever @myheartfollower @pinkiemme @arminsgfloll @wtf-why-do-i-gotta-do-this @onlyreadz @sovereignsylvia @scc7514 @ghost-lantern @calums-betch @nao-cchi @a--1--1--3 @crazy4books1 @meladollsims @yeosxxx

Wounds will heal with time. Scabs turned to scars. And these demons have gouged deep gashes across Pandora, ravaging everything they touch with no regard for anything outside of themselves. They are the aliens setting foot in a world that is not their own and yet they treat Pandora as if she is theirs to tame. To torture and abuse. Like a diseased plant poisoning all that it’s roots tough, they take and take, never returning that which they’ve stolen. They reap without sowing and destroy everything that wanders into their path. The Great Mother has surely weeped for many years at the atrocities these sawtute have committed against her. And even those years of peace were stolen away in a heartbeat. A scar long since healed torn open to bleed once more. Pandora had prevailed once before and yet these humans have learned nothing. Ignorant as children, repeating the same mistake and hoping that this time it will be different.

The oceans have been stained in blood by their hands. The blood of tulkun. The blood of Na’vi. But the favor has been returned and it’s now their blood that mingles with the waves. This battle may have been small, only a shadow of the might they brought down upon the forest, but they lost. What was left of their people retreated like wounded animals, chased out of the ocean back to whatever stolen piece of the forest they’ve made their home. But how long until they’ve regained their strength? How long until they return once more in search of revenge. These humans are like weeds. Cut away only to grow back once more. It will be a small miracle if they’re gone long enough for the People to heal, to grieve. Because both sides have suffered losses, though some feel greater than others.

“Tsireya!” It’s the first word you’ve spoken in what feels like days and it sears through your throat as if you’ve swallowed fire. The clouds of smoke had not been kind to your body, feeling your lungs and making each breath feel like you’ve swallowed thorns.

“Sa’tsmuke!” Sunlight spills over her in a wash of amber light, tears sparkling in her eyes as she finds you in the distance. Payakan had kept all of you in the cradle of his fins through the eclipse. It allowed for a fitful sort of rest in the soft rocking of the waves. It felt like the comfort of your mother’s arms gently bouncing you as your mind slowly began to stitch itself back together after coming undone by the thought of your son being one of the casualties lost to the hands of the sky demons. Even now you can hardly think further than what is in front of your eyes. Your children, your mate. Your family. You cling to the idea of them, terrified of what will happen if you allow the pain to consume you once more. To return to that great gaping maw that swallowed you whole, covered your eyes and quieted your mind to anything but seeking to make others suffer with you. It was deserved but the demons are gone. To lash out now would be to hurt those that you love. The only people that remain already share in your pain.

A deep breath steadies your resolve.

Tsireya stands shakily to her feet, swaying as she wraps her arms around herself, quiet sobs shaking her shoulders. She reaches for you as soon as you climb ashore the tiny stone island.

“Tsmuke’ite,” you cup her face until her gaze steadies on your face, “where’s your brother? Where are Ao’nung and Rotxo?” She shakes her head as falls into your arms, burying her face in your chest. Her heartbeat drums against the palm of your hand settles on her back. You curl yourself around her as if there’s anything left to protect her from. The damage has been done. All you can do is pick up the pieces left behind. Her tears wet your skin as your nose presses against the shell crowning her head. She smells like home. Like comfort and safety and happiness beyond this small piece of land wet with water and blood. Her hair carries the familiar scent of dried flowers and that sour fruit so few people seem to like. Your heart pinches at the thought as your arms tighten around her. Ronal and Tsireya were always the ones to share the sour fruit with you until the Sullys arrived. Neteyam seemed to love the almost bitter taste. It pains you to think you’ll never bask in the simple joy of eating with your son again.

The points of your fangs dig into your lower lip as you brace yourself to look over at where you know he’s lying. Tuk is at his side, holding his hand in her own. Her tears fall over his fingers and drip down his arm and still he doesn’t move. And his stillness can’t be mistaken for anything other than death. His eyes are closed but it hardly looks like he’s resting. The hole torn through his chest stands out against his deep blue skin, like a red flower blooming in his chest. The sight of it snatched the air from your lungs and the strength from your body. Lo’ak rushes to your side as Tsireya struggles to keep you standing. The ground meets your knees, stone chafing your skin, but you hardly notice. Tsireya says something. Perhaps to you, or maybe to Lo’ak. It sounds as if she’s shouting from across the horizon even as she kneels beside you. A hand touches your shoulder, just for a moment before falling away as you rise just far enough to move. Your hands keep your movements steady as you half crawl towards Neteyam’s prone body.

There’s a deceptive sort of warmth to his skin as you reach out to touch him, fingertips brushing over his cheek. The sun casts fleeting heat across his cold body as you pull him into your lap. He’s been here for hours, cold and alone save for Tsireya and the stone beneath him is wet with a facing wash of his blood. It stains your legs as you hug him close, Tuk nuzzling against you as you wrap your arms around the both of them. Her cries are quiet as she hides her face in your side, hands clinging to the beaded strings of your chest covering. The pads of your fingers find the shape of his pil, tracing the striped pattern so different from the ripples dappling your own face. Tears cloud your vision as you brush over the softness of his lashes, desperately hoping against hope that his eyes will suddenly flutter open.

The shape of the wound in his chest seems almost delicate. Small and insignificant if it were in another place. The ocean holds many wonders, but also great dangers. Warriors have come to you to heal far more grievous wounds. Your fingers find the shape of the wound you’d stitched only weeks ago. It has healed well, only a slightly raised scar, a pale slash across his arm. He bled then too. It had seemed like such a simple thing to heal. A needle and thread to soothe the hurt, but some things are beyond your abilities as tsakarem. Even a tsahìk would be powerless to this injury.

The thought weighs heavy in your heart. Already so much has been taken and still there is more to lose. But these things have a reason. There is balance in all that Eywa does. The Great Mother protects the balance of life no matter the cost. All things have a reason even when you cannot See it. This pain has blinded you, closed your heart. Your chest feels cold and empty as if the flame of your soul has burned out. Perhaps it has. The only thing left burning inside are the tears in your eyes, clouding your vision even as you try to focus on Neteyam’s face. To carve him into your memory before he is washed and committed to the ocean, returned to Eywa. Soon a search party will be sent to find those stranded and your family will be among them. Neteyam will be taken home. His adornments will be removed and his body washed in preparation for his burial, but you want to stay here for a while longer. To count the pale freckles dotted across his cheeks, to remember the pattern of stripes crowning his forehead.

Someone says your name. Gentle as a warm breeze as you hug Neteyam close, cheek pressed against his braided hair. A shadow falls over your back, blocking out the warmth of the sun and reminding you just how cold Neteyam feels in your arms.

“Come here, yuey.” Jake whispers. It’s his hands that move you more than any will of your own, gently unwinding your arms until Neteyam is laying on the ground once more with Tuk still at his side. It seems wrong to leave him there. Stone isn’t as gentle as sand. Surely his tswin is being pinched under the weight of his head. You reach to push a stray braid away from his face but Jake catches your fingers with his own. His grip is insistent as he pulls you away. Kiri takes your place at Neteyam’s side, taking his hand in hers just as Tuk had. You watch over them as Jake pulls you aside and wraps you in his embrace, arms tighten until the air is crushed from your lungs but you hardly protest. His grip is grounding though you can’t help but wonder how long this strength will last. Already you can see the splinters forming in the crease between his brows, in the hard line of his lips and the pain swirling like a storm in his eyes.

“Monkey boy.” Kiri’s voice is quiet, only the faintest hint of relief ringing in her otherwise doleful tone. Her eyes are staring past you and you turn to find the same human god threatened on the demon ship. He looks different now that your mind isn’t fogged with mournful violence. When he was under your knife you hadn’t cared much for the finer details of his appearance, but now you stare at him with a renewed sense of curiosity. He boasts the trappings of a Na’vi and yet he still seems so strange and out of place.

“Are you alright?” Jake asks, fingertips brushing over the scratch you’d left on his chest. It’s shallow as you’d expected and the bleeding has long since stopped. He nods but he eyes you warily before stepping away from the two of you. He joins the children around Neteyam’s body, speaking your language with assured fluidity. On the ship he had spoken in the human language but now he seems comfortable as he speaks to Kiri and Lo’ak, gently touching Neteyam’s arm. You stiffen, tail swaying tensely behind you.

“Shh,” Jake whispers, nuzzling his nose against your temple as he feels your muscles tighten in his arms. “He’s okay. He’s safe.” You aren’t sure if he means the boy or Neteyam who can no longer be hurt by the hands of a tawtute. You watch him as he interacts with your family. Tsireya eyes him warily, sharing a fleeting glance with you even as Lo’ak speaks to him with a familiarity akin to that he shares with his siblings. All of the Sully children seem at ease in his presence but you find yourself still wondering about his ties to humanity. The man that held your daughters captive, that nearly killed your mate, hesitated at the thought of this human boy dying by your hand. He hadn’t seemed so worried over his band of uniltìrantokx warriors and it makes you nervous to think of what importance he holds to the demons terrorizing your home. He must feel the weight of your gaze as you scrutinize him, picking out the finer details of his appearance, because his shoulders begin to curl as if he can become any smaller.

His hair is loc’d like Jake’s and adorned with beads, and you notice the end of a braid hanging down his back. Likely his equivalent of a tswin. A scowl finds its way onto your face, lip curling with distaste. Seeing something so sacred being mimicked by a human feels almost insulting. Your shoulders rise as your body seizes with disgust only to be soothes by Jake’s soft petting as he traces the shape of the stripes swirling across your shoulder beneath his fingers. You feel all five of them gliding across your skin. Five fingers. The same amount that Lo’ak has. That Kiri has. That this boy before you has. If he is so repugnant then what is keeping you from feeling repulsed by your mate and the family he’s given you. Your eyes move away from the braid, tracing over the rest of him. His armbands are handsomely made, the pattern indicative of the Omatikaya’s intricate weaving style. His tewng is comparatively plain but there is a songcord hanging from it.

“Sa’nok,” Kiri says warily, watching you watch the boy. She had always spoken so fondly of her human friend and now she seems almost resigned to your displeasure. Hearing about him is different from seeing him before you, and suddenly you can’t reconcile the thought of this seemingly peaceful boy with the demons that attacked your family only a few hours ago. Not when he meant something to one of them. Norm and Max had been abandoned by their people, left here to live out their lives in a place that they loved. They made sacrifices to be here. What has this boy done but aided the demons that attacked your home. Speaking the tongue of your people only to demand to know where Jake had hidden himself away in a desperate attempt to live in peace.

“Sa’nok, please.” Kiri tries again. You do your best to smooth out your expression and ease your body until a tenuous sort of neutrality returns to your face. Tsireya seems to calm with you, shoulders relaxing under Lo’ak’s arm. The boy–Spider–looks between all of you, as if he’s trying to piece together the threads that bind you to them. But he speaks Na’vi. He must know what sa’nok means. His eyes are brown and full of hesitancy as he stands to face you. So strange that you can See into him the same way you can with your People.

“Spider,” Jake says finally, introducing you by name. “This is my mate.”

“She is the sister of tsahìk of the Metkayina. A tsakarem.” Kiri adds. Spider nods but it hardly relieves the tension between the two of you. Part of you wonders if this is how Ronal felt when the Sullys first arrived. These strange new people, coming to join your clan despite their obvious differences. But if her animosity had been misplaced then, so too is yours now. This boy is loved by those that you hold in your heart. Even still he doesn’t seem any more at ease than he’d been a moment ago.

There’s a dip between his brows where the fear on his face has gathered. He’s frightened again. Though not nearly as terrified as he’d been with your blade against his skin. He looks afraid, but not of you. In his eyes the fear seems to run deeper than your appearance. This Spider does not fear Na’vi. And yet he is still afraid. He shrinks back when you take a step towards him, curiously staring into his brown eyes as if the dark depths will become clearer with closeness. Surely you aren’t easing his nerves with your continued silence, but you’re listening for something. A shift in the wind, a rogue screech of a hì’ikran. Anything that might tell you what Eywa wills you should do with this boy. When nothing comes you wonder if she’s already given you your answer. This boy is no threat to you or your family. He is precious to your children. That should be enough. Especially now when so much has already been lost. To turn him away would be to further fracture your family. Still you’re curious.

“Oel ngati kameie.” He bows, hand extending towards you in a customary greeting. You hum in acknowledgment but don’t share the sentiment. Just like his tswin you can’t help but wonder if he fully realizes the weight of his words or if he’s simply mimicking those around him. His body is adorned with fading war paint, stripes streaking across his skin in uneven lines. There’s no pattern to the blue markings as there would be on a Na’vi. It seems strange that someone like him hasn’t decided on a more traditional design for his paint. It’s almost childish how desperate the thick lines are, how obviously they’re meant to mimic the sharper stripes of a forest Na’vi.

“Where is your family?” You ask at last. Spider seizes as if you’ve struck him but you spoke softly, keenly aware that all your screaming had whittled your voice down to a rasped drawl that might make him hear anger where none was meant to be found.

“My mother is dead. And my father… he’s dead, too.” He looks away as he says this but you don’t need to see his eyes to know that isn’t the truth. A lie. A word Jake had to teach you. Something different from the truth. You don’t ask again. If he wants to lie to you then you will let him live in his delusion. No one corrects him and you wonder if they know he isn’t speaking truthfully.

“This is my family.” He says after a beat of silence. His voice breaks as he looks down at Neteyam. You hum and turn your back to him, eyes facing towards the horizon where riders will soon come to take you home. They arrive as you listen to the faint voices of the children reuniting with their friend. The soft screeching of skimwings echo over the open water followed by the long bellow of a horn. A scattering of voices whoop and yip in return as those left behind make their presence known. Your own voice joins the calls, the sharp sound burning your throat. Riderless tsuraks and ilus swim through the water and you mount the first one you find. The ilu tosses its long neck as you make tsaheylu, clicking as the storm in your mind mingles with their own. Tuk rides with you, her little arms clinging tight to your waist as you ride back to the village.

A net of silence has been cast over the island. The shallows are empty and the beach deserted, chores abandoned in favor of mending what’s been broken by the humans. Battle is not unknown to Na’vi. Clans fight amongst themselves when peace cannot be made with words. The humans had ravaged Pandora before. But never here. Never in the far reaches of the ocean reefs. Even the tulkun that had been killed were murdered far to the south. Now the shadow these demons cast has finally fallen over Awa’atlu. Kiri takes Tuk as all of you arrive home, leading her to the marui. All of the children trail behind Jake as he carries Neteyam’s body. He looks so small in his father’s arms. It’s your instinct to follow, to comfort. Instead you find yourself hand in hand with Tsireya as you make your way to your sister’s home.

Tonowari is the first to notice your arrival, nostrils flaring as he catches the scent of you and his daughter on the breeze. He meets you on the path overhanging the water, arms winding painfully around the both of you before he kneels before Tsireya. A gracious sigh comes from inside the marui as Ronal emerges with Ao’nung at her side. She goes to her daughter first, hands moving over her body in search of any wound that needs tending. Ao’nung strays toward you, head knocking against your shoulder. He doesn’t speak but his actions are enough. You rest a hand on his head. Not quite a hug but enough to offer comfort. He hesitates before grabbing your arm and leaning into the weight of your hand resting on his braided hair.

“Tsmuke.” Ronal moves in beside her son, eyes tracing over you. “You’re hurt. Come.” There’s no leniency in her words as she pulls you inside and sits you next to the cookfire. The needle stings as she threads the torn skin of your arm back together with meticulous hands, rubbing a soothing balm over the wound when she’s finished. The pain had already calmed to a manageable throb after being ignored for so long and now it feels all but numbed.

“What happened?” She asks after returning her healing items to their rightful place. “I felt your tirea so vividly but I could not find you. We searched but the demons were retreating. We had to look after the clan. We–I thought–” she gathers herself with a long breath, “I’m glad to see you safe.”

Ronal has never been a coddling person that speaks gently and soothes worries with softened words. She is plain in her speech, pointed and assured even with her own children. It has always been this way growing up in her shadow. You were kept under her impartial guidance in all things and even now she isn’t inclined to soften her strong voice, but she can do nothing to mask the worry she felt even if she hasn’t said it in so many words. The fear she must’ve felt turning for home without her daughter and sister at her side must’ve stabbed through her like an arrow but Ronal is tsahìk before she is anything else. The clan looks to her and Tonowari for guidance and they cannot waver no matter the circumstances. Though your olo’eyktan is more open with his fears.

“You are a fearsome warrior, but I feared for your death when we could not find you. I stayed until the last of our mounted warriors had retreated, praying that the Great Mother would spare our tsakarem.”

“Eywa has heard you.” You hum with little enthusiasm. “I was on the demon ship. They took Kiri. They had Tuk and Tsireya. I couldn’t leave them.” Tsireya looks towards the floor, ears pulled back tight as she leans heavily against her father. He holds her close, thumb rubbing soothing circles into her arm. A parent reunited with their child. You understood the need to keep her close. You’d felt it when you saw her stranded and alone on that little island, felt it when you saw Kiri and Tuk bound on the demon ship. A part of your family has been reunited but there is still a fragment missing. A piece that will never be replaced. Your hand finds the length of your songcord, thumb drawing over each piece in turn. Your first breath, your selection as tsakarem, your iknimaya. The whole of your life is strung here. And it will continue. Already there is a need for new additions. But so many cords were cut short in the battle. The threads slip through your fingers as your hands begin to shake. The bitter taste returns to your mouth as you try to find the words through the rising tears.

“I found Kiri and Tuk after Tsireya escaped, but–” your voice cracks as tears rise in your eyes once more, “I couldn’t protect them all. I–we lost Neteyam.”

“Neteyam? He–?” Ronal’s eyes find yours in an instant. Her eyes are wide with panic as her hands find yours now tightened to fists to keep the tremors at bay. You can imagine what she is thinking. How could Neteyam, the promising warrior, son of Toruk Makto, be lost in battle? Tonowari looks just as disbelieving. He has seen Neteyam’s prowess, trained him alongside Ao’nung and the others. His death must seem impossible and yet he is gone just the same.

“He is with Eywa now.” Is all you can muster. Your sister bows her head, eyes unblinking as she hears your words. When she meets your gaze again her eyes are resigned. It’s the same dark cast her green eyes had taken when Jake insisted on sending away the tulkun. Disbelief and rejection linger in her voice when she finally speaks.

“Go to them.” A basket is hastily filled with food before she leads you outside. “Your family needs you now.” The path from your sister to your mate is a familiar one and you arrive to find the children gathered outside the marui. The covering meant to keep out wind and rain is drawn closed and Jake is nowhere to be seen. Still, you tend to your children first. Tuk is hugged against Lo’ak’s side and Kiri and Spider are sitting in the canoe just beyond their hanging feet. There are no words exchanged as you offer each of them food, hesitating for a moment before offering some to Spider. He doesn’t protest when Kiri snatched the leaf wrapped meat from him, carefully picking through it before rewrapping it. They haven’t eaten in hours and you watch them carefully as they take their first bites, keeping a close eye on Spider.

He takes a deep breath before his mask hissed as he pulls it away just long enough to fit a gluttonous bite into his mouth. It must be easier to take larger bites than prolong his time without proper air. You find yourself waiting for something terrible to happen. It isn’t uncommon for children to explore the world with their mouth, eating anything that looks enticing. But some things are poisonous, meant to be consumed by animals that have developed immunities to them. But when Spider doesn’t begin to choke or itch you deem it safe to leave them to eat. You’re still weary of him but far too exhausted by loss to let another child slip between your fingers today. Human or otherwise.

Inside you find Jake kneeling beside Neteyam’s body, the faint blue light of the sun peeking through the marui membrane, the only thing lighting the somber home. His ears twitch at the sound of your approach but he makes no move to look at you. He takes in a deep breath through his nose, scenting the air instead of turning to see who you are. Only when you’re within arm’s reach does he move, his hand finding yours in a nearly painful grip as he pulls you down beside him. He curls himself around you until you’re nearly in his lap.

“I’m sorry.” He says it over and over, nearly choking on the words as the air refuses to stay in his lungs. Each inhale is shallow and rushed, too quick as each exhale rushes across your neck.

“I’m sorry.” He whispers, clinging impossibly closer. His tail finds its way around you, the tuft of hair tickling your skin though you hardly feel like laughing as you watch your mate fall apart in your arms with no way to hold him together. He had been strong for all of you but at last the tide has turned.

“She killed him. I killed him. All of it was for nothing. I’m supposed to protect the People and I can’t even protect my own son.”

Your skin is wet with tears where he’s hidden his face. Even if you wanted to, you can’t pull away from him. He’s holding you tight, blunt nails biting into your skin as if even the slightest bit of slack in his embrace will leave space for something to take you away. He’s shattering like splintered wood and it’s all you can do to gather the pieces back together. He lets you. His cries grow quiet and his breaths slow as you try your best to soothe him. It’s only a temporary consolation. This type of pain isn’t one that can be healed with salves or prayers. Even tsahìk cannot heal this wound. Grief is something that only passes with time. And even if you like a thousand years it’s almost certain a part of you will die still mourning your son.

“I failed him.” Jake mumbles. His voice sounds utterly defeated. “A father protects. That was my job. Above anything else I’m supposed to protect my family. I couldn’t even do that. My son–” his words break off into a choked sob as he shakes his head. “My boy.” He touches Neteyam at last, his hand settling against his son’s cheek while the other keeps you close. “Neteyam.” Tears fall onto Neteyam’s cheeks as Jake bows over him. His eyes flit across his face, looking at every detail before he finally sits back.

“I wish we had more time.” Jake whispers. It breaks your heart, or what’s left of it, shredding the few fragile pieces that remain. No father wants to bury their child. Neteyam was meant to grow up, grow old. Be laid to rest long after Jake was gone. Now here you sit. Returning such a young soul to the Great Mother.

“I wish you had more time with him. He loved you, you know. I know he might not have said it much, but he did.” Jake’s hands hesitate as he takes Neteyam’s songcord from its place hanging on his loincloth. Some beads you know from when he would hum the melody of his life during quieter moments. His iknimaya, the shell marking his arrival in Awa’atlu. But there’s another close after. One you’d assumed was a chorus bead, a placeholder between events. Events that would never come. There’d be no bead for his Metkayina iknimaya. No bead for his mate. No bead for his first child or a triumph in battle. Every cord must have a last bead and it seems the one Jake is rolling between his fingers will be it. It’s a pearl, pale blue and lustrous in the muted light.

“This one’s for you.” Jake says, gently placing the waytelem in your hands. “It matches his mother’s.” There’s another bead, farther back in his life story. A light blue bead of stone laced with black veins. “This was the bead for her death. He wanted yours to match hers as a show of his love and respect for both of you.” It’s not until Jake thumbs away the moisture gathering on your cheeks that you realize you’re crying. Of course you knew Neteyam loved you. A tsakarem is taught to See all, to feel the ties that bond each being to Eywa and each other. When you quiet your mind and steady your soul, pushing aside any thoughts and worries you can almost feel the people around you. Their triumphs and tribulations. Their happiness and sorrows. Just as clearly as you can see it in their eyes, their tirea can be felt like the warmth of a flame wafting off their skin.

Neteyam always radiated calm and contentment when he was at your side. You often found him accompanying you in your chores the same as Kiri. The eldest of your children preferring the more subdued space of your marui to the mischief Lo’ak and Tuk seemed to stir the moment you take your eyes off them. Now there is nothing surrounding him, no air of comfort as you stare at his serene face. Nothing. This is only a body, waiting to be returned to the earth. Neteyam has been gone for hours, his vitra already passed into the hands of Eywa.

“We have to clean him.” You say finally, rising to gather some water. The freshwater spring isn’t far from the Sully marui and you find others there. Bowed heads and solemn faces as they gather their fill of water. Death is not uncommon. Life must always be returned in the end. Energy is only borrowed and one day you have to give it back. This is the way. And it is good. Eywa holds all those that have passed into her hands. No one is truly gone, and yet you will never see your son again. Not truly. The Ranteng Utralti will offer brief glimpses, small moments of comfort. But it won’t be lasting. No new memories will be made. No changes will be seen in his face. He will remain as he was while everything continues to change without him. Death has parted him and only death will reunite you in the Great Mother’s arms. Jake is still where you left him when you return, Lo’ak following close behind you.

“It is time.” You say gently. Jake nods. He’s slow in his work as he washes the blood from Neteyam’s skin. Taking off each of his adornments and setting them aside. His necklace, his armbands. They’ll be kept as memories, passed down to his siblings or their children as cherished items. Lo’ak puts them away with care. It’s plain on his face that he has many things he wishes to say but has resigned himself to the silence. You busy yourself with weaving, the familiarity of the task is strangely comforting even as you weave the bindings Neteyam will wear as he’s returned to Eywa. It takes hours, long enough for day to give way to evening as the sky begins to darken to dusk. Finally you set aside the last of your weaving to stand. It is time to allow everyone to say their final goodbyes. Jake has already had his time with Neteyam as he washed the blood and sweat from his body. Now he leaves you to say your parting words.

It’s so strange to touch him and know he will not move, to breathe in and find his scent stale in their air as if he hasn’t been here in many hours. And truly he hasn’t. The body before you is empty of life. Neteyam is gone. But there’s still a small comfort in sitting beside him one last time.

“We didn’t have long together did we?” You ask quietly, a sad laugh leaving your lips. “Even if it was only for a moment it has been an honor being your mother. Did you know your sempul still hasn’t told me your mother’s name. I’ve been too afraid to ask. You’re likely with her now. I’d like to think she’ll be happy to see you but I’m sure it’s a bittersweet reunion. And I’m sorry I could not do more to protect you. Our Great Mother protects only the balance of life, but if she willed it I would trade my life for yours. But what’s past has passed, all I can say now is goodbye, maitan. Until we meet again.” His skin is cold beneath your lips as you press a parting kiss to his forehead. When you emerge Kiri stands with Spider in hand. They duck inside and you leave them to their privacy.

Instead you find your way to your own marui. It stands as little more than a place to keep your things since finally being convinced to sleep with your mate in his own home without feeling as though you’re imposing. You’ve had your time with him. Now it is their turn to whisper their goodbyes.

“Here you are.” Jake stands at the entrance of your home, back turned to the darkening sky. The freckles dotted across his skin are beginning to glow faintly. The pattern is interrupted by a slash across the bridge of his nose, dipping over his cheek. You hadn’t noticed it before but now it gives you purpose. Just as weaving had you find a distraction in healing.

“You’re hurt. Come here.” You light the fire pit in the center of your pod, before finding a needle and thread. Jake’s eyes don’t leave your face as you stitch up his wound. When you’re done he doesn’t allow you to pull away. Instead his hands settle on your face, bringing your head close until your nose is pressed against his. One hand leaves your cheek to reach behind you, brushing over the curls of your hair before settling over the braid of your tswin. He draws it over your shoulder, bringing it to his lips. For a moment you expect him to ask for tsaheylu so that you might share this burden of pain, but it would only feel heavier as it weighs on both of you. Instead his lips brush against the braided hair for a moment longer before letting it fall between you.

“Tsmuke.” You’re drawn apart by the sound of Ronal’s voice. She arrives with her arms full, footsteps slowing as she sees Jake by your side. Her eyes turn away but you catch the edge of regret in her eyes. It’s been there in fleeting bouts in the months since the Sullys have begun learning the ways of your clan. She’s slowly grown past her previous misgivings even as things have ended in this way. With the sawtute turning their eyes towards your peaceful home in search of the man seated beside you.

“Jakesully,” she say at last, inclining her head towards him, “may Eywa ease your spirit.” Jake returns her show of respect, touching his brow and extending his hand towards her.

“Tsmuke,” she says evenly, “you are our tsakarem.” You aren’t the only one but you’re surely the eldest. The most experience and the most respected within the clan. Tsireya has inherited the honor as well with a few others but only one will be named tsahìk when Ronal passes down the mantle. “Will you lead with me tonight?”

The clan hasn’t suffered a loss this great in many years. Usually only one, perhaps two people are committed to Eywa in such a ceremony but tonight there will be many lives returned to the Great Mother’s hands. Ronal extends her own hand, balancing the basket she’s holding on her hip. She pulls you to stand but Jake doesn’t allow her to take you farther than necessary. His tail coils around your ankle before you can take even a half step away from him. His eyes don’t meet yours when you look down at him and he says nothing as you accept your sister’s request to lead with her. It is your duty to your people no matter the occasion. Eywa has chosen you for this and you can’t turn her back on her when you so desperately need her guidance.

The sky has turned a deep shade of blue like the darkest depths of the ocean, dotted with pearls of light as stars shine overhead. The village flickers in shades of orange and red, finally stirring after a day of lingering silence. A song lingers on the breeze, the familiar sound of chorus beads and the intimate words of each Na’vi’s life. Ngaru irayo seiyi ayoe… You know these words by heart. They’re the words that you sing in your heart as you trace the beads of your own songcord. Your hand finds your hip where you keep the cord wound around your tewng. The beads and crystals, bones and coral that symbolize your life. Jake’s fingers draw over yours before slipping his hand into yours.

The covering is drawn back by the time you return, Kiri’s voice carrying outside as she sings the beads of Neteyam’s songcord. Jake’s hand tightens in yours as he listens to your daughter sing. Her voice lulls over the last words before your home falls silent once more. All of the children have come to hear Neteyam’s waytelem. Tsireya and Ao’nung have come along with Rotxo as they kneel around Neteyam’s body to hear Kiri sing. Such an honor is only given to those closest to you and everyone here cared deeply for your son. There won’t be another chance to be beside him after this moment. Soon the ceremony will begin and Jake kneels beside him, carefully bundling Neteyam into the ties that you’ve woven. Tsireya offers you a jar of paint in customary white. It’s cold against your skin as Jake drags his fingers from your forehead to your chest. You return the favor, painting each of the children in turn. And when people finally begin to gather in the shallow waters you shrug on the woven shawl Ronal gave you as Kiri straightens the veil upon your head.

Firelight drifts over the gentle waves as Ronal’s voice rings out across the shore. She calls to Eywa to open her arms to her children, to hold each of them in turn. Your brothers and sisters, each treasured members of the Metkayina are pulled out to sea in their sämunge surrounded by those that were closest. Mother, fathers, siblings, mates, children. Tonowari announces their names as they’re given over to the anemones lighting up the ocean with yellow syuratan. The grasping fronds glow brighter as each body is accepted into the watery earth. Returned to Eywa.

“Neteyam te Suli Tsyeyk’itan.” Tonowari’s voice echoes into the night as you step away from Ronal’s side as she opens her arms to send Neteyam home, joining your family as Jake leads the ilu over the open water. Pale pink flowers trail behind as you carefully pull Neteyam from the woven carrier. His tanhì are still dark, no light glowing from within. There’s nothing left of your heart to break as each of you takes a final moment with him. Jake’s eyes find yours as you hold Neteyam above the water. He isn’t ready, but when will you ever be ready to part with your child? Lo’ak lingers beside you, his hand resting on Neteyam’s head until you and Jake pull him beneath the water. One swaying frond touches his skin, brightening until it’s nearly white. Another and another until they’re pulling him from your hands, wrapping Neteyam in their grasping arms and pulling him deep into their embrace. He disappears all too quickly. Blue skin lost in the sea of yellow. Part of you wants him back but that desperation won’t be quelled by holding his body. Neteyam is gone. Clinging to his body won’t bring back your son. Your tears mingle with the ocean as you linger longer than the others, knowing you’re meant to sing when you rise again. But it is your duty and you must do it.

“Utralä Anawm ayrina’lu ayoeng.” We are all seeds of the Great Tree. Words you know by heart. Words you’ve sung many times. Words that sting your tongue as you sing them for Neteyam. For all that were lost to the hands of those demons. How had a day like any other darkened so deeply with a storm that seems as if it will never pass. The clouds crowd your mind and darken your heart. It’s cold, and desperately lonely even as you stand beside your sister with the clan at your back. This pain is yours and yours alone. Others have lost those they love but they haven’t lost Neteyam. They haven’t lost those small pieces of him that you would never get back. It feels selfish to feel so anguished, to be so utterly consumed by this darkness of grief. You only had him by your side for a short time, but even so you loved him. He was your son. You were his mother. And now he is gone.

When the night draws to a close and the People retreat to their homes you find yourself wandering the shore. The ceremonial garbs have been abandoned somewhere behind you. Perhaps slipping carelessly into the sand or maybe you’d given them back to Ronal. You can’t quite remember but the air feels cool against your suddenly bared skin. Your hands run over your arms as you hug them around yourself, feeling the prickles flesh of your cold skin under your fingertips. Despite the slight chill of the night you find yourself wandering further than you have a need to, walking aimlessly until sand turns to dirt underfoot. Burst of blue and green light come to life with each step as the treeline swallows you. The forest holds a different type of silence. The sound of waves breaking over the shore is replaced with the buzzing and chirping of unseen insects and the sound of wind rustling through the leaves.

Fatigue creeps over you like a tree taking root, threatening to bind you where you stand. Two days you have fighting. The demons and your own grief-stricken mind, and finally it is beginning to take its toll on your body. Each of your footsteps is slower than the last, your legs feeling heavier with every passing moment. The forest is still bright with syuratan that dapples your skin in shades of purple and green but darkness is starting to creep in around you, tears only working to further disrupt your vision. So soon after you’ve been blessed with everything you could ask for it was taken away. The sea gives and the sea takes, no matter when your blessings were received. All life must remain balanced and equal. It is your sole purpose as tsakarem to abide by Eywa’s will, to uphold the Great Mother’s balance. But the mantle feels too heavy to bear at this moment.

Your feet slip, knees going weak, and fall to the ground. You’ve asked for so little in this life. Never wanting more than that which was given. Your heart never darkened against your sister when she was bestowed the honor of tsahìk. Never once did your happiness falter when those around you were mated and blessed with children. And when finally the tides turn in your favor a wave comes to wash it all away. Your arms tighten around yourself, nails biting into your skin as you curl in on yourself. Content to let this terrible moment pass in the cradle of the forest floor. Now you will allow yourself to grieve, allow the ugly, terrible feelings to overtake you. Your tears seep into the soil as your cheek rests in the dirt. Each breath is gasping and shallow as a weight like a thousand stones threatens to bury your prone body and return you to the earth as well.

The silence is nearly deafening until it isn’t. The lull of the forest is broken by the sound of something tearing through the trees. Too heavy to be a benign animal, yet too loud to be a hunting predator. There’s a stiffness to your limbs as you try to sit up, rolling to your knees in time to see Lo’ak vaulting over a fallen tree.

“Sa’nok!” He stumbles to a stop in front of you.

“Lo’ak? Why are you here?” He should be asleep.

“Why am I here?” He asks incredulously. “Why are you here? I’ve been looking all over the village for you!” Why are you here? You hadn’t meant to walk so far, to get so lost in your own head. Instead of answering you find your feet and begin walking the way he came. Despite his loud approach Lo’ak has left hardly any trace of his presence aside from the dimming light where his feet had been only moments ago. Veins of syuratan ripple like water through the ground, rising and fading as your son walks beside you. Grass turns to sand and the light of Naranawm washes over both of you.

“I’m sorry,” Lo’ak finally says, breaking the comfortable silence between you, “I’m sorry about Neteyam.”

“It was not your fault, Lo’ak.”

“But it was!” He is suddenly in front of you, eyes shining with unshed tears. “I was the one that said we should get Spider. Neteyam saved us and now he is gone because of me.” You hear his words before you speak, turning each one over in your mind. Of course it was not Lo’ak that killed his brother. He loved Neteyam. You raise his head with a hand under his chin, nearly drowning in the amount of guilt shining in his yellow eyes.

“It is no fault of yours, maitan. Many lives were lost. No one is to blame except the demons from the sky. They brought this storm upon us, not you.” He pulls away from you, pacing in the sand. It seems he won’t allow his guilt to dissipate so easily. You sigh and close your eyes, turning to the Great Mother for guidance. It’s a lesson you learned as tsakarem. Eywa speaks when thoughts are quiet and hearts are open.

Somewhere in the wind there’s a whisper of her voice. It’s a simple breeze brushing through the mangroves but you hear more. Somewhere in the stillness of your focus you hear the sound of a tulkun singing, slow and mournful. The same song that filled the air as you and Ronal laid Roa to rest yet the voice in your head isn’t as deep, still light with youth. A young tulkun mourning its mother. And then more. Many more. Na’vi and tulkun, all dead in bloodstained water. One remains, a single voice. Payakan. Your eyes jump open as if you’ve been struck. Eywa’s meaning is clear as the stars overhead as you look at your son. Lo’ak is still pacing and muttering to himself.

“But if I hadn’t asked… if I’d left Spider–”

“Neteyam might’ve died even still. Perhaps not on the demon ship but those ayvrrtep were everywhere in the water. What did you tell me when you bonded with Payakan?” His feet finally come to a stop as he thinks over it.

“Those Na’vi died, but it wasn’t Payakan that killed them. He wasn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

“And neither were you. We are not tulkun. Their way is not our law. I know Neteyam’s death is heavy on your heart, but it is not your fault, maitan. Who is to say he would not have been struck by their metal arrows later. It is the sawtute that should carry this guilt.” He sniffles and nods, eyes still staring at the sand, then he lets out a watery laugh.

“Bullets.”

Your ear twitches, “What?”

“The metal arrows are called ‘bullets.’” You taste the foreign word on your tongue. It’s your deepest hope that you will never have to say the word again, but it’s a naive thought. War has come to Awa’atlu and it will not end until every hostile human on Pandora is dead. But these are worries for another day. War is a heavy burden and you are barely carrying the weight of your son’s death. You draw Lo’ak into your arms and press a kiss to the top of his head. He smells like the ocean and home. It makes your heart long for the comfort of your family, of your mate’s warmth and the sound of Tuk’s purring snores. You’re tired and you both should sleep but for a moment more you find yourself standing still as Lo’ak wets your skin with silent tears.

The horizon is hidden behind the silhouette of the seawall. A small piece of protection around the village. But somewhere beyond, over the horizon yet far closer than they should be, the humans are lurking deep in the forest. Or perhaps they’re even closer, building a nest for themselves on some island just out of sight. The threat is great but you’re already so tired. Tired of the fighting and the death that it brings. It makes you wonder how tired Jake must be.

He doesn’t look peaceful even as he sleeps. His face is pinched, brows drawn tight as you finally lay down beside him. Lo’ak finds his own bedroll, the place next to him occupied by Spider instead of Neteyam. When you lay down Jake stirs just long enough to wrap his arm around you before falling still once more, and you wake to the feeling of his tail slipping from its place curled over your thigh.

The sky is already alight with light far past a blushing dawn. Voices and sounds float in from beyond the open marui as village life moves on. One day at a time. A first step and then a second until you’ll lose count and look back to see how far you’ve come. The pain will linger. A familiar smell or a comforting melody might bring echoes of pain to the surface like ripples across still water, but with time your heart will heal if you don’t allow the grief still clinging like a second skin to consume you. Just one step, one day.

Kiri kneels next to the cookfire, turning over carved skewers of fish. Lo’ak is missing as is Tuk, but you can hear her voice somewhere nearby, giggling and splashing in the shallow waters. Spider lingers in the shadiest part of your home, knees curled up to his knees as he watches Kiri cook. He’s uncomfortable, you can tell just in his posture. Pulled up tight into himself as if he will disappear from view if he can make himself small enough. He seems almost ashamed of himself, of everything that he is. He seems so like your children and yet no amount of warpaint will hide his true nature. Still, you quell the animosity still festering deep inside you. There is no time to dwell on darkness. If you stay still and wallow in these feelings, you’ll be lost.

“Good morning.” It’s a tentative extension of kindness, kinder than the few words you’d had for him yesterday. Spider raises his head, eyes darting between Kiri and Jake as if your eyes aren’t resting pointedly on his face. Kiri returns your greeting, murmuring about Lo’ak having already left to tend to his chores. It’s a distraction for him, you’re sure. It is easy to forget yourself in the needs of the many. You imagine it’s why Kiri is cooking. Busy hands, quiet minds.

“Good morning.” Spider says at last. It is enough. One step. You rise with Jake as he stands to leave.

“Where are you going?”

“I have to speak with Tonowari.” His face is guarded, eyes clouded as he tries to hide his intentions from you. He’s pulling away and you reach for him. It’s instinctual. He is your mate, your love, and you want to stand beside him.

“Ma Jake, what is wrong?” So much is wrong, so much hurts. You want to bear this burden with him. Let me, you want to say. Spiritual burdens are something you were taught to See. The bond between Jake and the Great Mother still holds strong, the rope has not frayed. Eywa has not abandoned him and he has not turned his back on her. So what is so wrong that he would hide his eyes from you? He doesn’t explain himself as you trail behind him, hand still in his. You pull hard, planting your feet against the path until he can go no further without letting you go. He hesitates before his hand falls away from your own. For a moment it feels as though the world has fallen away completely, that there’s nothing left to ground you now that he’s pulled away. Anxiety rushes through you like bitter poison, pricking over every inch of your skin as tears begin to burn in your eyes. His rejection stings more than any other you’ve felt in your life. Every terrible thought rushes to the surface all at once.

“Jake?” Your voice wobbles as your arms hang limply at your sides. His shoulders rise and fall with a heaving sigh before he turns to face you.

“Ma muntxate.” His hands find your face and you, thumbs brushing over the shape of your cheeks. There’s conflict in his eyes, uncertainty, as if he is standing at the edge of a cliff wondering which way he should step. Away from danger. Away from whatever is causing him so much strife. The look in his eye is different than the pain you saw yesterday. It isn’t the futile longing of a father. It’s something more resigned. Whatever he wants to tell Tonowari, it shadows any of his own feelings.

“Don’t.” You say quietly. “Please, don’t. Whatever you are thinking, please, don’t do it.” He’s heard your words but doesn’t seem to take them into his heart. Instead he presses his forehead against yours. The world falls quiet for a brief moment. You feel grounded once more even as Jake pulls away with no intention to heed your words.

“Nga yawne lu oer.” And he means it. There’s no glint of deception in his eyes. Jake loves you as you love him and yet something inside you feels as though you’re losing him. Each step he takes away is like a thread straining and if you don’t follow it will break. His pace is slow as if he dreads what he is about to do. All it would take is a moment’s hesitation. If he would just turn around it would quell the panic rising in your heart.

Tonowari and Ronal rise as they see the two of you coming towards them. Jake trudging somberly with you quick at his heels. Ronal looks between the two of you, setting aside the spear arrow in her hand.

“What is this?” She asks before Tonowari can speak. Jake swallows thickly before he answers.

“My family and I, we’ll move on tomorrow. Far away from here.” Ronal takes a half step away from him as if moved off balance by his words. You feel the same. A weakness builds in your knees as you try to step towards him, to see his face, his eyes, and know what he is thinking. This is his home. Your home. He has built a life for his family–your family–here. You’d promised to follow him, but hearing the words makes you realize the path you’ve laid for yourself. A new life in a new place, far from anything you’ve ever known. Wherever you go it will be a place your previous life cannot follow. Ronal, Tonowari, the children, your spirit sister. They’d all be left behind. The thread begins to break.

Tonowari nods but it is a gesture you’ve come to recognize as disapproval. He is acknowledging Jake’s words but he will not heed them.

“Your son lies with our ancestors. You are mated with our tsakarem. This is your home.”

“Now you must stand with us. As our brother.” Ronal’s voice is steadfast though Jake still seems to hesitate even before the words of his tsahìk and olo’eyktan.

“I caused all of this. They were looking for me, for my family.”

“And we are here.” Ronal’s voice echoes your own as the two of you speak in tandem.

“You are Metkayina now.” Tonowari extends his hand expectantly. Jake looks at it, then at you. As if trying to decide if this is truly what he wanted. A moment passes before he clasps Tonowari’s forearm, committing himself to his place within the clan. With time, when Jake has fully committed his heart to the Metkayina, he might become eyktanay and stand beside Tonowari. The clan needs his guidance now more than ever. War is inevitable. All that’s left now is to prepare for the coming storm. He’s quiet as you walk away, aimless steps weaving through the village paths.

“I’m sorry,” he says at last, “I don’t want to abandon you. I want you by my side. You are my mate; I love you. But I have to protect the People. I can’t let anyone get hurt because of me.”

“These things we cannot decide. It is up to the will of Eywa who lives and who dies. The Great Mother’s balance is out of our hands. All life must be returned to death sooner or later.” It hurts to say the words and know that your son was among those taken into the Great Mother’s arms. It was far before his time if you could’ve chosen it. He would’ve lived a long life, far beyond your own and died with the legacy of a great warrior. With a mate and children of his own and many beads to sing of his waytelem. But it was not meant to be. Neteyam is gone and you miss him more than anything but he would not want this. He would not want his father, the mighty Toruk Makto, to give up this fight. Jake was like the brightest star in Neteyam’s sky, a place so high he could only ever hope to reach. His greatest wish was to be a warrior resembling his Jake. You will not allow him to abandon his son’s dream even in his absence.

“Eywa has not abandoned you, ma Jake, so you will not abandon us.” He nods but his eyes are shrouded with a fog of sadness. Grief does not pass easily and you don’t expect this wound to heal within a day, a year, or even a lifetime. You’ve lost people in your life. Great warriors and clan elders. Thinking of them is like pressing against a bruise. It pangs and throbs but soon you will forget until you touch it once more. Neteyam’s parting is still fresh in your mind, weighing heavy on your heart.

“I miss him so much.” There are no words to placate the pain in his voice. “I just want to see him again. Just once.”

The desperate wish leads the two of you to the Ranteng Utralti. It will not be a true reunion. Not in the way Jake wants, but it will be something. Neteyam still lives within Eywa. His vitra has not been lost even in death.

The sun is still high overhead, poking beams of white light through the water as the two of you dive towards the Spirit Tree. The fronds seem to beckon your arrival as they sway in the tide, tossing patches of purple light across your skin. You’re still wearing your mourning garbs, your paint, your veil. It seems fitting as the two of you lock eyes. Jake’s hand reaches for yours, squeezing tight as you both make tsaheylu with the Spirit Tree. One moment you feel yourself floating, water all around you, but it fades in an instant, swallowed by a swirl of flashing light that fades first to green and then to more defined shapes. Leaves, a forest. It’s only vaguely recognizable, just different enough from the forest of your home to know you’re far from Awa’atlu, returned to the Pandora jungle once more.

There are voices among the sounds of rustling leaves and chittering animals. The sun is warm against your skin as you trail towards the sound, wide tail brushing against the plants around you. A warmth unfolds in your heart as you peek around a tree and find Jake kneeling next to a stream, a young boy at his side. At once you know it’s your son. His smile is just the same as it was as he offers his little bow to Jake. It’s beautiful in a way only Eywa can provide. A peaceful piece of perfection, a sweet dream to tide over an ailing heart. You’re content to watch them but a sound draws your attention, an ear flicking towards the noise. It doesn’t seem to disturb Neteyam or Jake and you wonder if they even know you’re here just beyond sight. Perhaps you’re at the very fringe of Jake’s vision, peering in from the outside. You leave him to it, attention drawn towards the sound of a woman singing. The forest changes around you, wavering like air above a fire as you walk a seemingly long distance in only a few strides and stumble upon a marui. It’s large, much too big for its single occupant, and woven with the intricacy expected of an Omatikaya dwelling.

“If you have time to stand and watch you should come help.” She interrupts her singing to finally look up at you and her face is striking. Round eyes, full lips, and her pil slant upward in a way that makes her features seem sharper. And there’s a sense of familiarity within her features, as if you’ve seen her somewhere before, like a memory faded with time. You stare at her even as she hands you a stone bowl, expecting that you’ll begin to grind cycad seeds. It usually isn’t your place to make such preparations but you are a guest in this woman’s home and she wouldn’t know if you are better suited preparing meat rather than flour. Still it is the same as preparing plants for medicines, an easy enough task, though you nearly drop the bowl when she asks who you are. But it’s hardly a question as your name rolls off her tongue.

“That is your name, yes? Neteyam has spoken highly of you since he arrived.” There’s a bitter tinge to her tone. For a moment you think it’s directed at you as you finally recognize her face. It’s Neteyam’s face if only older, more feminine. This is his mother. Jake’s first mate. Your chin tucks towards your chest as you try to hide within the dark cloud of your curls, shrinking behind the curtain of your hair. Perhaps you had wrongly interpreted Eywa’s will. Perhaps you were not meant to mate with Jake. It had been a selfish thought just as you’d worried, inconsiderate to the woman waiting for him here. She curses under her breath and your fangs bite into your lip to keep from apologizing before she’s said her piece.

“I give my life to protect my children and still it is not enough. Faysawtute.” Her chopping begins to gain vigor, scoring the wooden slab as she goes. “I kill him and he lives even still. When will it end?” Finally she looks up at you.

“Are the children safe? Kiri, Tuk, Lo’ak? I have not seen them here. They have to be safe.” She is trying to hide her desperation, you can tell by the pinched doing of her voice, but her eyes cannot hide from you. She is terrified that more of her children will be delivered to her soon.

“They are safe. They’re all safe.” The tension leaves her shoulders.

“That is good. And Jake?”

“He is with Neteyam now. He might come to see you soon…” your voice trails off as you realize he never told you her name. In his quest to keep you from questioning his devotion he has hidden a piece of himself. She will always be a part of him and it is not your place to begrudge him that. It is because of her that you have the family he’s given you. She deserves your unyielding respect as the mother that came before you.

“Neytiri,” she sounds almost amused by your ignorance. “Neytiri te Tskaha Mo'at'ite.” She sets aside her cooking and reaches for you, her hands finding yours once you set aside the bow of ground seeds. “I’ve heard of you and your sister Ronal. A skilled tsahìk and her tsahìknay.”

Tsahìknay. No one had ever called you such a thing. It was always tsakarem; a tsahìk that never finished her training and earned the honored title of clan leader. That was your sister, that was Ronal. She was tsahìk and yet you’re still treated with such respect within the clan. Even Ronal defers to your guidance at times. Was it not you that told her to allow the Sullys to stay? Before the clan she reminded you of her authority, but she is your elder sister. It has always been her guiding you and giving orders. Of course she would bristle at her word being questioned before the clan, before outsiders. And yet she allowed it. Even Jake had acknowledged your place upon first meeting. He called you tsakarem just as the rest of the clan did. It’s a title for a child not yet completing their rites to become one with the People, but what else were they meant to call you. Rarely does a clan have more than one tsahìk. But just as Eywa has blessed Jake it seems she has chosen you for something as well. Why else would you be blessed to See things as you do?

You See and yet you are blind. Ronal has told you this more than once in your life. It was meant as a reminder. To look clearly at things as they truly are. The shadows retreat and you see at last. You were never lacking, never less than. You are equal. Second to none.

Neytiri smiles, “A clan with two tsahìks must be blessed. I am glad it is you that he has chosen. My children will grow up well.” Her hand presses to your chest, palm against the tattoo inked over your heart. It means loving, protective. These are words you live by.

“Oel ngati kameie,” she says with gentle reverence. Your name sounds like a prayer on her tongue. “You have a strong heart. I trust it to take care of everyone that we love.” Even when you’ve failed to protect Neteyam she has given her blessing to look after her mate, her children. Your mate, your children. You move to bow but she meets you halfway, pressing her forehead against yours just as Jake would. You aren’t taking her place. Tsaheylu bonds your body and soul. She is a part of Jake just as much as you are, so she is now a part of you.

When your eyes open the marui is suddenly full of white light. And though you’ve never seen a forest atokirina’ you recognize the delicate creatures at once. There’s something calming about the presence of the pure spirits. Their syuratan is different from the yellow glow of the tree spirits of your home but they still feel gentle as a kiss when they caress your skin. One lands and then another. Neytiri reaches out her hand as one dances over her palm. She holds the bouncing sprite in her hands, white light dancing in her eyes as they fill with a rueful sadness.

“When I died, I was afraid. I knew I was dead the moment my eyes opened. My sister, my father, Tsu’tey. Everyone I had lost was here to greet me within Eywa. But I was afraid for my family.” She lifts her hands and gently blows on the atokirina’. It swirls through the air, threadlike tendrils swirling about before it finds the breeze and floats away with the others. They leave in a shimmering cloud just as quickly as they came. When you turn back to Neytiri she’s smiling. “I’m not afraid anymore.”

For a moment you think you’re crying as her face begins to swirl into a wash of color like spilled paint, but when you blink it away the vision is gone and you’re staring at the Ranteng Utralti once more. Jake’s hand is still tight in yours as his eyes open as well. When you surface you find that you were crying, tears streaming down your cheeks along with the seawater as you mount your ilu.

“What’s wrong, yuey?”

“I saw her, Jake.” A smile finds its way to your face despite the tears. Your heart flutters in your chest, beating heavily where her hand had been. Your skin seems to sing as you touch your tattoo as if her hand would still be there.

“Saw who?”

“Neytiri.” His eyes go wide, ears standing on end. Behind him his tail perks up, curling anxiously as he sits on his own ilu. It has always been his greatest fear that you would seek out knowledge about his mate. He knows you, knows your heart. You would have compared yourself to her, belittle and bemoaned your every flaw until you felt like nothing by comparison. But that isn’t the truth of it. There is no comparison. He chose her. He chose you. Jake values both of you just the same in his heart. There is no superior. You see that now. See it more clearly than you ever have.

“Why are you crying? What happened?” Sharing what you’ve seen while connected to the Spirit Tree is always an intimate experience. Tsaheylu is sacred, and what’s seen while communing with Eywa is always a look into someone’s soul. But you do it every time you meet someone’s eye. Jake’s vitra is plainly clear in his eyes. The bittersweet feeling of being able to catch even a glimpse of his son, to relive the memories that he cherishes and know that’s all that will be now. Just memories.

“She called me tsahìknay, said I was blessed. We were touched by atokirina’.” The Great Mother’s has not been subtle with her intentions on this day. You are meant to be by Jake’s side, just as Neytiri was before you. And Jake is meant to be by your side. To part would be to spite the blessings Eywa has given you. There was a reason you were not mated before. He is the reason. This is the reason. You were not meant for Tonowari, not meant for any man in Awa’atlu. This is the path Eywa has drawn for your life. It has not been without its hardships and there will surely be more to come–more death, more destruction–but the only way is forward. The storm will come and you will weather it. One step at a time. For now, though, you return home, listening to Jake recount his time with Neteyam. Their fishing and climbing trees. He sounds younger, a quiet smile in his voice. His spirit is lifted if only for the moment.

“She would’ve loved you.” He says at last. “I wish I’d told you that sooner.” There’s so much he hasn’t told you, so much you’ve yet to learn. A sharp pain pinches in your chest as you think of Neteyam and all the things that died with him, all the things you’ll never know about your son. Part of you wishes you had seen him with Eywa, had a chance to speak with him, but the Great Mother doesn’t always show you what you want to see but what needs to be seen.

“She said she trusts me to take care of our family.” Jake smiles and for a moment he looks like himself again. His face isn’t drawn with sadness but bright with a satisfied grin.

“I know she does, because I do. This family is our fortress and I trust you to protect it. No matter what happens.”

ɴᴀ’ᴠɪ ᴛʀᴀɴsʟᴀᴛɪᴏɴs

Tawtute, Sawtute – sky person, sky people

Sa’tsmuke – aunt, mother’s sister (speculative)

Tsmuke’ite – niece (speculative)

Hì’ikran – dorado verde, small ikran (speculative)

Sämunge – transportation device

Eyktanay – a step below clan leader

Waytelem – songcord

Ranteng Utralti – Spirit Tree

Vitra, Tirea – soul, spirit

Vrrtep – demon

Tswin – neural braid

Muntxate – wife, female mate

Maitan – (my) son

Naranawm – Polyphemus, the planet Pandora orbits

Syuratan – bioluminescence

Uniltìrantokx – dreamwalker, avatar

Pil – facial stripes, skin stripes

Tsakarem – tsahìk-in-training

Tsahìknay – a step below tsahìk (speculative)

Yuey – beautiful (inner beauty)

#jake sully x reader #sully family x reader #avatar x reader #avatar #atwow

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celtic-crossbow · 3 months

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So I Live a Lie in the Light

Setting: Forest (6 year gap) Pairing: Daryl Dixon x Tabby O’Sullivan (OC) Warnings: Typical TWD violence and gore; mentions of child abuse; mentions of pregnancy Summary: Daryl has a secret. He’s always known it could affect all of those he loved. Just not like this. A/N: Tumblr is being an uber twat right now and won’t let me edit so hopefully there are no mistakes.

It had been getting more difficult to hide. Emotions always made it worse. For most of his life, he had tried to hide from them; push them down and bury them. And that was before he was bitten. He had been so young and careless, out in the woods after a particularly heavy beating from his father. Nature had always been his safe place. That night, it was anything but safe.

He had thought it was a dog at first, a low growl the first indication he hadn’t been alone. He had stumbled through the bushes and landed directly in the middle of the dinner table. The creature was kneeling over the deer carcass, its clawed hands holding open a gaping hole so its canine-like maw could delve inside.

It had heard him, probably smelled him now that he thought back on it. Running had proven useless, its long legs catching up to him with ease. He remembered thinking he would die right there that night. Even now, he could feel the pain flare to life around the scar its teeth had left on his shoulder.

Then it had let him go.

His daddy had been passed out drunk when he got home, allowing him to care for the wound without explanation. He would find out on the first full moon since the attack that the creature had been Merle and what exactly that bite meant for the rest of his life.

So Daryl, a lycan, had kept his secret. It made slaughtering the undead while alone a piece of cake. Even when he was with his chosen family, he had strength he would never be able to explain if he didn’t hide it well. Had he not been so consumed by fear, he could have saved them. He could have saved so many of them.

After Rick’s supposed death, he had skulked off into the woods to find his brother’s body, dead or alive. He had left everyone behind. He had left her behind. If there had been anyone he would have told, it would have been her. He wanted to tell her; wanted to show her how much he trusted her. How much he loved her.

But he was afraid. The walkers had done nothing more than die and had become the enemy. What would that mean for him? A lycan. A werewolf.

Rather than live with her rejection, he chose to live with her absence. It was better for both of them this way.

Daryl had made her promise to never visit aside from after each full moon. He had been adamant and, so far, Tabby had held to the promise. She’d set the world on fire for that man, so even when her heart ached for his presence, she held fast to the agreement.

Until now.

Circumstances called for an earlier visit. She brought supplies with her but secretly hoped this would be when he’d return. It had been six years. Two day visits every 30 days or so just wasn’t cutting it. He’d always allow her to stay in his camp, sharing touches and sweet kisses and whispered words. Sharing his bed and his body. She yearned for those moments.

Maybe today was the day.

“Daryl, are you here?” Tabby peeked into the tent, surprised to find Dog stretched out on the bedroll but no archer. “Daryl?” With careful, quiet steps— just like he’d taught her— she crept across the forest floor. It wasn’t long before she heard the familiar snarls of a herd. Oh god, no!

She didn’t call for him. It would only alert them to her presence when he could be perfectly fine and hiding to wait it out. But why would he leave Dog? There was a new, unfamiliar sound as she closed in, an animal of some sort. Probably, being mauled and eaten, the poor thing. When she could see a few of the uncoordinated, shuffling bodies, she pressed herself against the nearest tree, carefully leaning around to the other side.

What she saw defied everything logical she had ever been taught up until the dead began to walk.

A large, black creature was slaughtering walkers left and right; taking heads and limbs and tossing them carelessly. It was covered in fur and stood on two legs at about seven feet, with decipherable knees but canine hocks below them. The fingers and toes were tipped with large, razor-sharp claws that were slicing through flesh like butter. The torso was comparable to that of a human but larger, broader with pronounced skeletal and muscular features. But its head… Its head was large with canine features: elongated snout, pointed ears, and a mouth full of dangerously sharp, dripping teeth.

Tabby was frozen to the spot with wide eyes, tears on her lashes, and only one coherent thought: Daryl.

Had it killed him?

The creature paused with a walker’s head in its grasp, raising its snout to sniff the air— and turned its black gaze right to where she was hiding.

“Oh fuck.” She whispered, stumbling backwards before she turned around and began to run back to the camp. There was a roar unlike any she had ever heard from somewhere behind her but then the sound of more walkers being dispatched. “Dog!” Tabby screamed, relieved when the canine poked his head out of the tent. “Dog, come! We have to find Daryl!” She saw the archer’s pack on the ground, choking on a sob. Why would he go anywhere without supplies? “Come, Dog! We have to—”

When she turned, she was face to face with an open maw of pointed fangs, rivulets of thick saliva stretching and falling to the leaves. She lifted her foot to take a step back, watching its eyes lower and then rise before it growled. She couldn’t die. Not now. She hadn’t survived years of slow moving corpses to be taken out like this when she was so close to everything she could have ever wanted, apocalypse or not.

“Dog.” She whispered, oddly concerned that the canine hadn’t made a single sound. She started to risk a glance but didn’t have to look far. Dog was sitting calmly at her side, looking up at the creature with his tongue hanging out the side of his open mouth.

Movement in front of her brought Tabby’s eyes forward. A huge, clawed hand was reaching for her, slowly. She whimpered, raising her shoulders and screwing her eyes shut. The touch on her face was shockingly gentle. When it pulled away, she released the breath she had been holding and opened her eyes. It was backing away.

It made a noise before things began to shift. Bones and colors and size, shrinking and morphing until…

“Daryl?!”

He was naked as the day he was born, a hand out against a tree to balance himself as if the change had sapped his energy. The look he was giving her was unreadable, so many emotions flitting across his face that she couldn’t pinpoint just one.

“Ya weren’t s’posed to come here.” He whispered.

“Yeah, I get that now.” She snapped. “What the fuck is going on?” He stepped toward and when she stepped back, his expression crumbled.

“Yer afraid of me now.” He choked on a sob, his chin quivering. Daryl walked briskly past her and grabbed his pack, jerking out clothing and proceeded to begin dressing himself. “Ya can go if ya want.” The tremble in his voice made it clear that wasn’t what he truly wanted. Besides, she came to tell him something and now, more than ever, it seemed more imperative.

“Daryl,I—” The redhead braved a step toward him, visibly trembling. Yes, she was afraid. Even so, something in her gut told her that he would never hurt her. She was afraid because she didn’t understand. She needed to know what this meant for her. How it changed things. “I need an explanation. I need to know—”

Tabby paused, standing straighter when he went still with his shirt halfway pulled over his shoulders. Daryl sniffed the air— once, then twice —and turned to her, his brow creased. “Ya smell diff’rent.”

“You can smell me? Like…a dog?”

“Lycan.” He corrected, pulling his shirt the rest of the way down. The archer began to step toward her, but she consciously made her feet stay planted.

“Lycan?” Tabby queried, blinking.

“Werewolf.” Daryl stated calmly, as if it was the most normal thing in the world. He was nearly in front of her now, taking a moment to lean in and inhale through his nose once again. “Why do ya smell diff’rent?”

“New body wash?” She giggled nervously, a fine shaking to her person but still not moving away.

He actually dared to look insulted. “Ain’t like tha’, Tabby-cat. S’ya scent. Yer smell. Ain’t yer clothes or soap or perfume. S’you.” The jig was up. She had to tell him and then he’d need to her what it meant; if it was dangerous. What she needed to do.

“So,” The redhead dropped her gaze, toeing at the rocks. “What happens when…lycans?” He nodded. “When lycans and humans have sex and that results in the creation of a little being?”

Daryl stood up straight, looming over her in a way that had never intimidated her before that moment. “Yer…pregnant?” Tabby nodded, her chin quivering. Daryl barked out a laugh and doubled over, hands on his knees.

She stared with wide blue eyes, incredulous. “You’re seriously laughing right now?”

The hunter shook his head and stood up with an expression of pure relief. “Thought ya’d got bit. Didn’ have the…dead stench but I didn’ know how else ta take it. Ya weren’ s’posed ta be able.” He sobered quickly, reaching cautiously for her shoulders. When she didn’t back away, he pulled her in against him. “Anyway, aint been through it ‘fore n’ haven’ ran inta many others like me, but s’far s’I know, ain’t no diff’rent than a human. Jus’…” he trailed off, easing his hold on her so that she could move back a little.

Tabby looked up at him, fear present in her trembling orbs. “Just what?”

Daryl bit his lip nervously. “Kid’ll have the curse. Ain’t no two ways ‘bout it. Don’ know how much or how lil’ it’ll show up. Could be born like a pup, could be human. Could change immediately, could take months, years. S’a lot I don’ know.” He let her go and turned away. “M’sorry. Didn’ think ya’d ever…”

Tabby stood in stunned silence, completely overwhelmed and more than a little frightened. One thing hadn’t changed, though. She didn’t think it ever would. She stepped up after a deep breath, wondering if he already knew she was closer because of super hearing or smell. Regardless, she wrapped her arms around him and nuzzled her head between his shoulder blades, pushing back the mental image of them snapping and shifting only a few minutes before.

She still loved him. He was still somehow her Daryl, even if she had a lot to learn.

“I’m scared. You can’t blame me for that.” She felt more than heard him sigh. “But I’m not scared of you.” Now a sharp intake of breath, blue eyes searching for her over his shoulder. Tabby leaned back, only enough for him to turn within her embrace, pressing herself right back into his chest. His arms encircled her immediately, warm and familiar. “I’m scared for our baby, what it means for them. What sort of life they’ll have to lead. What precautions we’ll have to take.”

Daryl nodded but didn’t interrupt.

“I do know that I want this and I want it with you.” She smiled against his shirt, squeezing him tighter. “We’ll figure it out. Together.”

“Together.” He repeated softly, a hand coming up to cradle the back of her head.

Pulling back, she gave him an all too familiar smirk, a mischievous twinkle in her wet eyes. “So, if I scratched behind your ear, would your leg shake?”

“Stop.”

@lilyevanstan1325 @willowaftxn83-87 @graciepies @sohhel @lazyneonrabbitt

#murda writes #daryl dixon #daryl dixon x oc #daryl dixon x female oc #tabby!#werewolf au #were!daryl #the walking dead #daryl dixon fanfiction #daryl dixon fanfic #daryl dixon the walking dead #the walking dead daryl #daryl dixon twd #twd daryl #daryl fanfiction #daryl #Spotify

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residences-of-the-darkforest · 17 days

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Added the Gaping Maw family!

Family Echo - My Account

#loonfur #rosefrost #fallenfire #snoweyes #wormtongue #and more #gaping maws #gaping maw family

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residents-of-the-darkforest · 11 months

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The cave mention reminded me of something I’m PRETTY SURE I mentioned before, but Imma say again just in case

Blackfinch came from the Gaping Maw caves, while Falleniris came from the Eye-Out Thorns. They’re both used to and like their setting.

So they came together to their own cave and filled it with thorns. The thorns seem random but are actually placed like a maze one could easily get lost in if they don’t know the way.

That’s where they and their kits, Scab and Blight, live.

—

Waspbeak and Sapdew made a similar compromise. Sap likes living near water, Wasp at the thorns. So they found a wide pond with a decent, small island in the middle big enough for them to make a den and lay outside of it. Beneath the water’s surface, all around, are thorns buried deep in the mud, sharp edges poking upward. They can’t be seen by intruders until they’re already cutting in. They’re too deep and firmly in the sticky mud to be easily removed.

That’s where they, and their kit, Red, reside.

(Maybe Wasp shared some with Fallen?)

#Falleniris #waspbeak #sapdew #blackfinch #eye-out thorns #gaping maw #gaping maw caves #DF dens #Dark forest dens #Eye-out family #Cave family

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squirmifyoulike · 5 months

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(Credit to this post for this idea!)

During Thanksgiving week, many avian species find themselves being extra careful. Most ordinary families will just buy themselves a frozen turkey from the store to prepare themselves... But many preds like to go out and catch their own thanksgiving turkey.

Even if it's not a turkey at all, and is in fact a griffon.

Many griffons go about their business ordinarily. Who would mess with a griffon, right? They're strong, can fly, have sharp talons and a sharp beak... Nothing would mess with them.

...Except they totally would. One unfortunate griffon learned this the hard way on Thanksgiving evening as he was headed home, stomach slightly bulging out and squirming from his own meal. Out of the blue, a pair of strong, large hands grab him tightly, with one wrapping around his beak and the other wrapped around his neck. Before the griffon knows it, he's knocked unconscious and is left at the mercy of his attacker.

When he wakes up, he's confused. Groggy. He looks around slowly, and then realizes in embarrassment that he's been tied up and bound... Like a thanksgiving turkey. His stomach is on full display, and he's been placed on a platter on a table. When he lifts his head up, he can see his attacker clearly; a dragon, nearly twice his size. The dragon is holding a large bowl of stuffing, and it's eyeing the griffon with a malevolent grin.

"Finally awake, I see," The dragon rumbles. "Good. We can move things along, then."

The griffon opens his mouth to protest, but before he can get any words out, he's met with a large spoonful of stuffing. He's forced to swallow it down. As he does, he finds himself pleased with the taste; it's slightly sweet and salty, and it's been seasoned to perfection. Perhaps a little more wouldn't hurt... And then he can escape.

"There you go," The dragon coos as the griffon readily opens his mouth for the next spoonful. "Good boy. You'll make a fine thanksgiving dinner~"

Spoonful after spoonful is shoveled into the griffon's mouth, even as his stomach begins to ache and groan in protest. After a while, he finds himself panting, and as he's met with another spoonful of stuffing, he turns his head away and lets out a whimper.

"You're not done yet." The dragon growls, grabbing the griffon's beak. "You still have the rest of the bowl to get through."

The dragon forces the griffon's head forward, and again, he's met with spoonful after spoonful of stuffing. The griffin keeps swallowing, and finally, when he thinks his middle is about to pop, the dragon finally relents.

"There. You got through the whole bowl, see? That wasn't so bad, now, was it?"

The griffon can barely respond. His stomach is extremely overstuffed, letting out high-pitched, strained gurgles. The dragon chuckles in amusement, and then, they go around to the griffon's head. The griffon wants to struggle, but they can barely move, thanks to the food that was forced on them unceremoniously.

"Hold still... It will all be over soon."

Seconds after hearing that, the griffon is met with the wide, gaping maw of the dragon. It closes over the griffon's head, causing the griffon to stiffen up and wince. The dragon lets out a low, satisfied rumble... And then, they begin ravenously gulping the griffon down. The griffon barely has any time to react; all she can do is stay tensed up and whine as the dragon's throat squeezes and crushes his belly. Within seconds, though, the griffon is fully sealed away. The dragon's gut is cramped and tight, and almost immediately, it's active, churning around the griffon and kneading into them. The griffon begins squirming a little, but they're still tied up and overstuffed, so they can barely move.

Outside, the dragon lets out a satisfied belch and rubs their swollen gut. They'd been waiting for this moment all day, waiting for the perfect creature to stumble by... And as soon as they saw the griffon, they knew immediately not to let this opportunity pass them by. As their gut lets out a low gurgle, the dragon can't help but to chuckle.

"Happy Thanksgiving," They utter. The griffon, of course, won't be around to see any future thanksgivings... but the dragon certainly will be. As they sit, rubbing their swollen belly, they begin wondering what they'll have tucked away in their belly next, after their current meal is done.

#fatal vore #tw vore #vore tw #v.ore #digestion #unwilling prey #soft vore #tw fatal vore #implied digestion #griffon prey #dragon pred #stuffing #foodplay #maybe??? idk #slight dom/sub undertones too

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seijorhi · 1 year

Text

Echoes

i am extremely late with this spooktober fic but... at least it's here ghfjdkfhgjf

i hope y'all like it! <33

Sano family x female reader

w.c 6.7k

tw: yandere themes, mentions of blood/gore, character death, supernatural themes, dub-con (kinda? not in a smut way tho)

There’s a reason why the asking price for the old house at the end of the lane is so cheap.

Why it’s sat on the market for near-on three years, untouched. A reason why the real estate agent, with her perfect hair and painted red smile, falters ever so slightly when the topic comes up.

“Before you decide whether you want to submit an offer, you should know that this house it– it has… a history.”

In hindsight, perhaps it’s your own fault for not prying deeper. You didn’t want the details, the ghost story. With an inheritance you gained too young, and grief still too raw, you lied, and told her you knew.

You liked this house, with the trees in the garden and its quaint little kitchen.

What harm could the past ever bring?

—

“That’s the last one, yeah?”

You nod, setting the box down in what will be your living room, “That’s it.” Your whole life, everything you own, packed up into boxes now scattered throughout the otherwise empty house.

Yuzuha sighs, rolling her shoulders as she leans against the kitchen countertop, surveying the mess that awaits you. Then, she glances back at you, “You sure you don’t want me to stay? I don’t mind helping build furniture or unpacking stuff.”

If you let her, she’d probably call up her brother and rope him into helping the two of you as well. Not that Hakkai would take much convincing.

And while you can’t imagine that muddling through indecipherable assembly instructions or diving into the very same boxes she helped pack is anyone's idea of a fun Friday night activity, Yuzuha would do it gladly, without complaint. All night, if that’s what it took.

If that’s what you wanted.

You shake your head and offer her a small, tired smile, “Nah, you’ve done plenty, Zu. I appreciate it, really.”

She lifts an eyebrow, “You’re gonna spend the night by yourself in this big, empty house?”

“Considering I bought it, yeah, that was kind of the idea,” you laugh.

Yuzuha doesn’t look sold on the idea. Then again, she hadn’t been sold on the whole moving thing to begin with, and for that matter hadn’t been shy about telling you. But if there’s one thing you’re grateful for, it’s that despite that, she’s the last person who’ll ever tell you that what you’re doing is the wrong way to grieve.

And so she nods, pulls you into a close hug. “… Love you,” she whispers, and you squeeze her back just as tight. For a while, the two of you stay like that, neither saying a word.

With Yuzuha, you don’t have to.

Eventually, the two of you part and she makes you promise, hand in hers, that you’ll call if you need her.

The house feels infinitely emptier once she’s gone. The bedroom you’ve taken up residence in has your bed set up at least, a suitcase stuffed with essentials and clothes for the next few days propped open by its foot.

You order pizza for dinner because it’s easy, sitting cross legged on the floor of your new home with an open bottle of champagne that the real estate agent left. Tomorrow you’ll begin the task of unpacking and settling in, a slow process that’ll doubtlessly take days – tonight, you don’t have the energy.

So you sit, and eat, and stare. This house of yours feels different in the dark. The emptiness echoes, a yawning, gaping maw that feels as though it wants to swallow you whole given half the chance.

But this house is new. Unfamiliar. It won’t be forever – when the rooms are filled with light and music and the kitchen smells of freshly baked treats, and you remember which of the floorboards creak and where the sun shines through in the late afternoon, it’ll be home.

And maybe one day you’ll fill these rooms with a family of your own, maybe you won’t. Maybe in a few years time you’ll come to the realisation that you’ve outgrown what you needed this house to be, and you’ll sell it to somebody else. A family, perhaps, with kids who’ll run down through the living room chasing each other, laughing and giggling.

The thought is an oddly bittersweet one.

For as bright and happy as this place used to be, you can’t escape the truth that something awful happened here. There’s a sadness that hangs thick and heavy in the air around you. Grief and pain etched into the very foundations.

But you’re broken, too – hollowed out with emotions still too raw to touch.

There’s something about this house, though. Something that goes beyond the tragedy that haunts it. You’ve spent days trying to put a finger on what exactly it was that drew you here, and why you kept coming back to it no matter how many other properties you saw.

You wanted an apartment, or a small two bedroom place. Something nice, small – cozy. Easy to take care of and keep clean. Rather than any of that, you’ve somehow ended up with a place bigger than you'll ever need, with four bedrooms and a converted garage out back.

You take a slow sip of champagne, straight from the bottle because your glasses are yet to be unpacked.

This house has good bones, it just needs a little life.

—

You wake with a jerk, gasping.

The dream – nightmare, you suppose – begins to fade, even as you reach desperately to grasp at its threads. The only thing you can remember is the feeling of coldness seeping through your body, and hands grabbing at you from all different angles. Holding you, touching you, petting you.

Your stomach turns as you scramble from your sheets.

It’s been like this every night this week. You fall asleep tucked away under the warm covers and wake in a pool of sweat from horrid dreams that you can’t remember, panting like you’ve run a marathon.

Forgoing the bathroom light, you reach for the faucet, cupping your palms beneath the cold water to splash it over your face.

You wonder absently whether it’s worth the effort of having an actual shower. The sheen of night sweat still clings to your skin, sticky and uncomfortable. Gripping tightly at the edge of the sink, you exhale, staring at the drain as water swirls down, down, down.

It was only a dream.

Another shaking breath.

Nightmares are nothing new for you, yet these ones seem to sink their claws into you. They’re harder to shake than the ones about the accident – dead faces staring back at you with unblinking eyes, a cold morgue, your father’s corpse whispering into your ear; your fault, your fault, your fault.

You shake your head, squeezing your eyes shut as if that will rid you of whatever lingering unpleasantness the nightmare imparted.

Finally, turning off the faucet, you glance to the mirror on the vanity– and scream.

There’s a figure standing behind you; slight and tan, with wavy blond hair and red hanafuda earrings that dangle to his shoulders. His eyes, though– one violet pupil fixed on your reflection. Where the other should be there’s a gruesome, gaping hole of flesh, brain matter and blood that drips down the left side of his face like tears.

A door slams somewhere inside the house, a shout piercing through the night and you jolt, screaming louder as you whirl, still clutching at the edge of the sink as if it’s a lifeline.

There’s no one behind you, though, and when you fumble for the light switch, heart pounding, your stomach sitting in your throat, there’s nothing but silence to greet you.

—

“You know what this house needs?”

Yuzuha, munching on the pastries she’d brought over for breakfast, eyes the room thoughtfully, “New curtains. A rug for under the coffee table, hmm… oh! And some indoor plants, too. They’d liven the place up a little, I think.”

Hakkai laughs, waving off her suggestion, “Nah– well, maybe, but that’s not where I was going with this. You’ve got that extra room shed thingy out the back, right?” You nod and he continues, “Right, well I think you should convert it into a super fancy guest room, and then when Yuzuha starts smothering me, I can come and stay here!”

“Hey!”

“You wouldn’t stay up here with me in the main house? There’s like a thousand rooms you could pick from.”

“Well, no, I mean– I wouldn’t, um, I don’t–” he flashes a panicked ‘deer-in-headlights’ look at his sister, the tips of his ears turning pink, and you almost – almost – feel bad for the laugh that bubbles up in response.

“Relax would you? You guys practically offered to let me move in with you both, no questions asked. You can stay here whenever. I’m not sure about the space out the back, though. I’m thinking I might turn it into a studio, or a movie den or something?” You shrug, “I don’t know yet. Still figuring it all out.”

When you glance to Yuzuha, the strawberry blonde is already watching you, a fond little smile warming her features. Hakkai may be the model in the family, but there’s something infinitely lovely about the elder Shiba sibling when she looks at you like that.

“A movie den sounds great,” she says, “but there’s no rush. We can make this place perfect, however you want it.”

You grin back at her, lips parting to continue the conversation when goosebumps begin to dot your skin, a cold shiver rolling down your spine. In the space of less than a second, the temperature in your living room’s plummeted, a chill that seeps right down to your very bones.

The windows are closed, though, there’s no breeze or draught blowing through to explain it.

Yet if either Yuzuha or Hakkai notice, neither gives any indication.

“–Hakkai’s shoot, so we can go on Monday or Tuesday?” Yuzuha’s looking at you expectantly.

You blink at her. “Sorry, what?”

The faintest of frowns mars your friend’s pretty face, but it’s smoothed over in an instant as she rolls her eyes good naturedly. “Stop zoning out on me. I said Hakkai’s got a shoot over the weekend, so if you want we can go look for house stuff early next week.”

Ice trails down your neck, localised this time – like fingertips dragging along your skin.

“Oh… yeah, that– that sounds good.”

Your smile is frozen. Tight. And while Hakkai is oblivious to it, flicking through his phone with one hand, chowing down on the ‘low cal’ salmon bagel Yuzuha had begrudgingly bought for him, his sister isn’t so easily fooled.

Critical eyes sweep across your face. The corners of her lips turn downward, and she opens her mouth only to close it, seemingly thinking better of whatever it was.

Yuzuha exhales softly, and reaches for your hand, squeezing it til you look at her properly. “You look tired, hun,” she murmurs quietly. “Are you sleeping alright?”

And for some reason, the innocuous question has your eyes prickling, a thick lump forming in your throat. But you smile (as best you can) all the same, and nod.

“Y’know what else this place could do with? A dog. Or a cat. Either really – you’ve got the space for it.”

—

A little after midnight, 12:17 to be exact, the TV in the living room switches on.

The sounds of buzzers ringing like pinball machines and peals of laughter float under your door, you recognise the sound of the host’s voice – reruns of a popular game show you used to watch as a kid.

You pull the covers tighter around yourself, squeezing your eyes closed like that’ll stop the noise. Protect you, somehow.

The TV’s old, wires must have loosened or frayed in the move somehow. That can happen, right?

You’re not crazy.

You’re not.

Ghosts aren’t real.

And when the door to your bedroom slowly creaks open, and muted, impossible footfalls pad closer, your grip on the sheets tightens.

Muscles pulled taut and trembling like a leaf, a cold bead of sweat trickles down your spine.

Ghosts aren’t real.

The other edge of your covers lift, and you tense, flinching at the breeze of cold night air that licks at your back. A whimper slips out, halfway to a sob, as the sheets rustle, your bed dipping under a phantom weight.

The cold you’ve since become familiar with settles over you once more. And still, you refuse to look.

This has to be a dream. Another visceral nightmare that’ll fade the moment you wake.

“Go away,” you whisper, voice cracking. “Go away, go away, go away, go away–”

Down in the living room, the TV changes channels.

—

The sun is shining and your bedroom is blessedly empty when you pry open bloodshot, exhausted eyes.

Not a pillow out of place, no sign of any late night visitors, corporeal or otherwise. It should be a relief, except the same cannot be said for the kitchen, for when you sleepily shuffle in, you find a blonde girl with honey eyes no older than you sitting on the countertop, idly swinging her legs.

Watching you with a strangely eager smile.

“About time you got up. I’d ask if you usually make a habit of sleeping this late, but I think by now we both know that you do.”

You freeze, eyes widening, heart pounding; a deer in headlights.

She’s a petite thing, slender if not for her curves, and perched atop the counter and smiling as she is, she doesn’t appear threatening or violent. Appearances can be misleading, though, and the fact remains that there’s a stranger in your house, talking to you as if she knows you.

Rooted to the floor on the outskirts of the living room, you’re wholly defenceless. There’s nothing within arms reach you can grab to defend yourself, and you can’t even threaten to call the cops – you left your phone back in your room.

Nervous eyes dart around your living space. Is it just her, or are there others, too?

You don’t know whether to scream, run, or stand your ground and demand she gets the hell out of your house. You can’t think, petrified of making the wrong choice, your breath coming quicker and quicker.

“I don’t bite, y’know. You don’t have to be scared.”

Screaming, you eventually decide. If you scream, she might get scared and run off, or someone else will hear and come and investigate. Before you can make so much as a squeak, however, the blonde shifts, leaning back ever so slightly – inadvertently placing herself directly in the path of the sunlight streaming into the kitchen.

And your jaw falls lax.

The sun doesn’t spill over her features, casting them in a warm glow. The shadows don’t shift.

Rather, that beam of buttery, golden light filters through her, as if she’s no more than smoke and dust.

“You’re not… real.”

The girl tilts her head to the side, considering you for a moment. Then she laughs, hopping down off the counter. “No?”

One blink, and all of a sudden she’s standing right in front of you, hand outstretched to touch your face. You jerk back reflexively, and she diverts her course, grabbing your wrist instead. Steadies you with an ice cold touch and laces her fingers with yours.

“I might not be alive anymore, that doesn’t make me any less real.”

It’s too much. Her touch and the closeness, the paranoia of the past two weeks. Hysteria bubbles up inside of you and you try to yank your hand free and scramble back away from her.

For a figment of a fractured imagination, the blonde’s grip is surprisingly unyielding. You wrench yourself against it all the same.

“No, no, no, let me go–” you gasp, hot tears prickling at your eyes.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” the hallucination says, a pout tugging at her full lips. “None of us will, Izana… Izana’s just–”

You never find out who or what Izana is or isn’t, because between terrified, rattling breaths and half choked pleas, a masculine voice calls out from nearby.

“Emma.”

The blonde – Emma? – heaves a long suffering sigh, rolling her pretty eyes. “Fine.”

And in the blink of an eye, she’s gone.

—

You refuse to google the word ‘ghosts’.

Lost in the crowd wandering the busy streets of Tokyo with a coffee in hand, you reach a calm sort of clarity.

As far as you can tell, there are two possibilities; Either ghosts are real and your house is haunted, or you’re seeing things.

Having never been one to put much faith in anything spiritual, logically, the second option makes more sense. You’re grieving still, exhausted from a lack of sleep and the stress of packing up your life and moving houses for the first time. Is it any wonder that you’re struggling to cope? Is it that much of a stretch to imagine that you’re seeing things, feeling things that aren’t actually there?

Except you don’t feel crazy. When you’re outside, away from home – on your bi-weekly trek to your parents grave, or when you’re out shopping with Yuzuha or picking up groceries, you don’t get that same sense of unease. You don’t see things that shouldn’t – couldn’t – possibly exist.

And things were getting better. You were getting better; the nightmares were easing. The guilt still ate away at you, yes, and you mourned for the loss of your parents, but it wasn’t that all consuming grief that crippled you before.

You’d felt that touch. That day in the kitchen with your friends, and again this morning. The girl, Emma, you’d felt her hand around your wrist, cold and impossibly strong, but real.

Which leaves you with the possibility that you’re not imagining any of it.

In any case, you can’t just bury your head in the sand and pretend this isn’t happening. You can’t hide away forever.

The house is quiet when you return. Still. Yet there’s an air of anticipation that stirs as you cross the threshold and set down your keys, like an arrow nocked and drawn, ready to be loosed.

Wetting your lips and squaring your shoulder, you wonder if you’re a fool. You must be, yet you don’t see any other option.

Breathing in deep, your lips part, “Emma? Are you there?”

You’re speaking to an empty room, and then, suddenly, you aren’t – the petite blonde girl appearing beside you.

Only this time, she’s not alone. Leaning propped up against the open entryway, arms folded across his chest, a tall, dark haired man meets your gaze.

There’s something decidedly familiar in the set of his features, the shape of his nose, but you’re spared from thinking too much on it when Emma squeals in delight, throwing her arms around you – oblivious to the way you stiffen and squeak under the cool embrace.

“I knew you’d come around!”

“Emma.”

You recognise the deeper voice, having heard it only hours before. Your attention shifts to the other figure in the room. Older than Emma, with more than a passing resemblance; a brother, you decide, or a cousin.

Flat, black eyes peer back at you. Unsettling, despite the pleasant expression he wears.

Emma huffs, drawing her head from your tensed shoulder to look at him, “What? I’m not doing anything wrong.”

A hint of a smile teases at his mouth.

It’s a familiar look, you’ve seen a similar one on Yuzuha’s face whenever Hakkai tries to sweet talk his way out of doing things he doesn’t want to – chores, paperwork, what he deems to be ‘unnecessary’ meetings. The list is endless.

“Let her go and give the poor girl some space, would you? You’re overwhelming her.”

For a moment it looks as though she’s going to argue with him, but upon glancing back at you – noticing, probably for the first time the strained expression on your face – she relents, a petulant, “Killjoy,” muttered under her breath.

Yet she doesn’t stray from your side, hovering close. “This is Shinichiro. He’s the oldest.”

It’s a surreal thing, being introduced to the ghosts of the people who used to live in your house. Stumped by what you’re expected to say in return (‘nice to meet you’ seems a little… inadequate, considering the circumstances), Shinichiro takes the lead, grinning as he pushes off the doorframe.

“Not every day you meet a ghost, huh?” he asks.

You decide against telling him that you’re still not positive this isn’t all in your head.

“Not every day you move into a house that’s haunted,” you counter. You’d meant it as a joke, but the words come out all stilted and stiff, betraying your discomfort.

Despite that, they seem to have their intended effect, something like amusement glittering in Shinichiro’s eyes as he chuckles lightly, “Lucky us.”

Your stomach twists. Joking or not, none of this feels right. Emma, clinging to your side like glue, seems enamoured already, and Shinichiro appears friendly enough, but none of that changes the past two weeks, your fear and terror, the sheer blinding panic you’d felt, waking up from nightmares you’re beginning to suspect weren’t so inexplicable.

A sudden thought occurs to you, and you turn to Emma, “Wait, you said oldest?”

She nods, “Mhm! Shin’s the oldest, but there’s four of us.”

“You’ve already met Izana.”

Met him? Confusion etches its way onto your countenance, and with a frown of his own Shinichiro hastens to add, “The asshole shouldn’t have scared you like that, he’ll apologise.”

Ah, you realise with an icy stab – the face in the mirror. The one you’ve spent the past week trying your best to forget.

… Emma had mentioned him before, hadn’t she. She’d known then, that her brother had scared you half to death that night. Both of them had. And yet he – Izana – hadn’t looked like they did. Save for the smoke-like translucence of their skin and the preternatural way they moved, appearing and disappearing at will, both Emma and Shinichiro could almost pass for human. Or alive, you guess.

Izana had been something else entirely. A nightmare, bloody and horrifying… Why was he different?

“And then there’s Mikey, but he’s… well–” Emma hesitates, glancing at her older brother, who’s quick to step in.

“Manjiro doesn’t do great with change,” Shin admits, sheepishly rubbing the back of his neck. “But he’s coming around. I wouldn’t worry about it.”

Nope. This is too much.

“I-I think I need… I just need–” but the rest of the sentence won’t come, and so you shake your head and stumble for the couch, sinking down into the cushions moments before your legs give out entirely.

Elbows braced on your thighs, staring vacantly at the wooden floorboards you shudder for breath. The air’s too thin, and your head’s spinning.

Maybe you have lost it completely.

“Hey, hey, breathe for me, yeah? I get it’s a lot to take in, but everything’s gonna be fine.”

There’s a hand on your back, stroking slowly. Emma pops into existence beside you, curling into your side like a cat. Her cheek falls against your shoulder, “It’s okay.”

—

You never do get that apology.

Izana’s different from Emma, from Shin. Different even from Mikey – Manjiro – the youngest brother having taken to silently glaring at you from the outskirts whichever room you occupy.

(‘He just needs some time’, Shinichiro assured, patting you on the head.)

He appears in the windows, in your mirror. Always in the reflection, bloody and gruesome, hovering like a bad omen.

Then comes the cold that freezes you in place. And you’re forced to watch as he draws closer – touches you. Encircling your wrist at first, icy fingers trailing up your sides.

And then comes the hand that curls around your throat.

He doesn’t squeeze. Doesn’t tighten his grip.

Izana smiles in the reflection, laying his ruined face in the crook of the very neck he’s toying with and you wonder if ghosts can hurt the living – truly hurt you.

You wonder if he can hear the frantic pounding of your heart.

“I won’t leave,” you tell him one night, your voice trembling as he thumbs leisurely at your fluttering pulse. “You won’t scare me away.”

Izana snickers, and in the blink of an eye he appears behind you. Real, solid (or as solid as a ghost can be), wholly undamaged. Lips at your ear, violet eyes twinkle as they bore into your reflection.

“And what makes you think I want you gone?”

—

Another night, another restless dream that wrenches you back to consciousness.

In the darkness of your room, you draw your knees up to your chest, curling into a ball as the tears – hot and bitter – well up and spill silently down your cheeks.

It wasn’t a nightmare, at least, not the kind you’ve become accustomed to. In it, you weren’t haunted by shapeless, faceless figures, but your parents. Dead and empty, cold to the touch. They’d stood on the road beside the wreckage, watching impassively as you cried and screamed, crawling over broken glass to reach them.

Your fault.

Shoulders shaking, your face buried in your knees, you don’t notice the temperature in your bedroom dwindling.

“What happened?”

With a sniffle, you lift your head to find that you’re no longer alone; Mikey sitting cross legged at the end of your bed, chin resting in his propped up palm.

For once, he isn’t glaring.

Too drained for anything other than acceptance, you shrug with another weak sniffle, “Just a dream, don’t worry about it.”

At his raised eyebrow, you sigh, slowly wiping at your tears. “There was a car accident a few months back,” you say. “My parents, they–”

“They didn’t survive.”

“No.”

Mikey tilts his head, “Were you there?”

The screech of metal bending and gasoline that burns up your nose. Your head throbs, pain radiating along your leg. Your mother’s body lying twisted on the road in front of you–

Fingernails dig into the soft skin of your palm.

“… Yeah.”

For a little while, Mikey doesn’t say anything. He doesn’t offer any comfort, and you don’t expect him to, but he doesn’t leave.

You wouldn’t go so far as to say that it’s a nice moment, what with tears still quietly rolling down your cheek and your heart aching, but it’s something. Enough, maybe.

And then Mikey decides to speak.

“You have no one left, then.”

You stiffen, blindsided for a moment by the callousness of the comment. Mikey’s own expression is decidedly neutral, and whether he meant it to hurt or not, the words are salt in your wounds, rubbing too deep, too painful to be ignored.

Your eyes narrow into a glare, “I have Yuzuha. And Hakkai.”

Yuzuha hadn’t spent weeks looking after you in the wake of your parents’ deaths, making sure you ate and slept and showered, keeping you from becoming a miserable, hollowed out shell just to be brushed aside like she’s nothing. The Shiba siblings are family, blood and DNA be damned.

“They’re not your family,” he scoffs, scowling right back. “They’ll leave eventually.”

Resisting the urge to tell him to shut up, you instead fall back to the pillows, roughly yanking your covers up over your shoulder once more. “You don’t know anything,” you huff under your breath, the words more bitter than you intend.

You expect him to disappear then, or to double down on the cruel remarks. Mikey does neither, choosing to remain at the foot of your bed, his stare boring holes into you.

Whether it’s minutes or hours that pass, you couldn’t say, only that you’re on the verge of sleep once more when his voice breaks through the silence.

“I know what it’s like to watch your family die.”

Curled up on your side, gazing into the darkness, there’s an old ache inside of your chest that pangs, and regret washes over you.

You’d asked Emma about it only once, tentatively broaching the subject after dinner one night.

She’d gone silent for a long time, staring at the floor with wide, unseeing eyes. It hadn’t been until you’d gently called her name again that she’d snapped out of it, quietly admitting that there was a break in. Shinichiro had appeared a moment later and the subject was quickly dropped – you haven’t had the nerve to bring it up again since.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, and Mikey hums in response.

—

Things seem to settle after that.

You return to work, and though you’d never admit as much to either one of them, it’s nice to be around people other than Yuzuha and her brother.

After the first day or two, your co-workers stop tiptoeing around you like they’re afraid you’ll break at the slightest touch, and start treating you how they used to.

For the first time in a long time, you feel almost normal again.

You come to realise that you like coming home to Emma and Shinichiro – even Mikey when he’s not in a mood. You enjoy having company while you cook dinner, someone to listen to you talk about your day.

Izana still takes perverse pleasure in trying to unnerve you of course, and Mikey hangs over you like a shadow (though he doesn’t glare so much anymore, which you count as a win) but the house feels more welcoming now that you know it’s not so empty.

You’re not a burden to them. Not a broken, pitiable thing.

It’s enough, sometimes, to make you forget that you’re not the only one with hang ups from the past.

The first time you come home late, it’s because your bus broke down halfway home, and you ended up grabbing a bite to eat while you waited for the next one.

You’re greeted by Shin, pacing in the living room, an unlit cigarette hanging from his lips.

(And maybe if he hadn’t looked so frustrated, you might’ve marvelled at the concept of a ghost smoking.)

“Where the hell were you?”

Both Emma and Mikey linger nearby, watching on as you drop your keys and purse on the counter top, toeing off your shoes. “There was an issue with the bus, it’s not a big deal.”

Well meaning or not, his attitude chafes a little. You’re a grown adult, you don’t need to be babied or coddled. You certainly don’t need to explain yourself to any of them – it was barely an hour. If you wanted to spend all night partying, or go out on a date, or stay back in the office working, you were perfectly entitled to.

Shinichiro isn’t your big brother, and you’re not a kid with a curfew.

Nevertheless, you apologise – if only to rid the awkward, strangely tense atmosphere that hangs in the air between you.

“Shin gets like that sometimes. After… everything that happened,” Emma explains later, seated atop your bedroom vanity. “He cares about you. We all do – we just wanna know that you’re safe, is that really so awful?”

You’re not the one being unreasonable, you know that, it doesn’t stop the slight twinge of guilt.

The second time it happens, it’s because you’re dragged out for drinks after work to celebrate one of your coworkers birthdays. You stumble home well after dark, the taste of sake fresh on your tongue.

Lips pursed, Shinichiro doesn’t say a word as you step inside and shut the door behind you, the lock clicking into place. He doesn’t need to – the disapproval rolls off of him in waves.

“I’m sorry,” you tell him, your previous good mood all but evaporating under his scowl. “I didn’t realise it was so late.”

Which is a lie, technically, but what else is there to say?

This time, even Izana’s here, his countenance impassive save for the narrowing of his eyes – an expression matched across his siblings’ faces.

The longer the heavy silence stretches, the more uncomfortable you become. You begin to feel a little like you’re on trial. “Next time I’ll call, o-or, I don’t know, I’ll leave a message somehow to let you know that I’ll be coming home late.”

“You don’t fucking get it, do you?” Shin snaps, and for one split second, you swear his appearance changes; blood flecked across pale, dead skin, a bullet wound at his temple, bone and blood and brain matter exploding on the other side–

You blink, though, and whatever you thought you saw is gone.

Shin looks down at you, eyes uncharacteristically hard, his jaw set. “You don’t fucking get it,” he repeats quietly, shaking his head, and an instant later, all four of them are gone.

Feeling very much like a child chastised by your parents, there’s not much left to do but shower the day’s stresses off of you and head to sleep.

The hot water helps. Tomorrow, you decide, you’ll apologise to him and talk, maybe set out some ground rules. You still don’t think you’re entirely in the wrong, but clearly this is a point of contention with him – with all of them, apparently – and it’s better to nip it in the bud.

Opening the shower door, you step gingerly out onto the bath mat, reaching through the steam for your towel. One moment, you’re upright, the next you’re careening backwards, arm outstretched–

You hit the ground hard, and scream as bone breaks.

—

“I leave you alone for one week!”

“Zu, it’s fine! Would you please stop worrying?”

“You broke your arm!”

“There was water on the tiles, I slipped and fell, it happens, and I’m fine,” you stress. “The doc said a few weeks in the cast and I’ll be good as new.”

The unimpressed look Yuzuha gives you says more than words ever could. “You need to be more careful, hun. You could’ve hit your head, you could’ve seriously hurt yourself!” She sighs, nibbling at her bottom lip, “I just… I don’t wanna lose you, too.”

You smile at that, letting her pull you into a tight hug. Her lips press against your forehead and she holds you there for a minute, the familiar scent of honey and daisies tickling your senses. “You know I love you, right?” she mumbles against your hair.

“I know. I love you, too.”

Above you, the light fixture shatters.

—

A hand smoothes over your hair, a cold sensation tickling the soft skin of your cheeks. Blinking slowly, the world comes to, and you realise that once again, you’ve fallen asleep on the couch instead of your bed.

“What time is it?” you croak, squinting up at the eldest.

“Late.”

You yawn, pulling yourself up into a seated position, “‘m sorry. Work’s been crazy this week.”

“I know,” he says. “You’ve been staying back a lot lately, and going in early.”

It sounds almost like an accusation.

Rubbing the sleep from your eyes, you frown a little, “I know– I’ve just gotta get back in the swing of things. And the broken arm isn’t exactly helping, but it won’t be like this forever.”

Shin nods, but he’s not even looking at you, staring instead at the game show playing forgotten on the old TV, and your frown deepens, “I-is everything okay?”

His shoulders rise and fall, a heavy sigh falling from his lips. He turns to look at you then, and smiles.

You’ve seen Shin smile plenty of times before, but this one looks all wrong. Your stomach twists uneasily.

“Yeah,” he says, “It’s gonna be just fine, I promise.”

Your neck snaps to the side with a sickening, final crack.

—

You’d asked Yuzuha once if she believed in ghosts.

At the time she’d brushed it off as idle curiosity and told you the truth; yes, she believed in ghosts and no, she’d never seen one herself.

‘Do you think that there’s such a thing as good ghosts, or –I guess ghosts that aren’t inherently bad?’ you’d pushed.

Looking back on it now, Yuzuha wonders whether she missed something. She’s always been able to read you like a book, and it was strange, wasn’t it, that you’d pressed the issue? That you’d seemed so out of sorts, nervous, even.

But back then, you were only just starting to come back to yourself. She overlooked so much of it.

She’d told you then that ghosts only came about when people died with unfinished business, and that meant they were tethered here. Trapped. She’d told you that like any animal caught on a chain and left to rot, that made them dangerous.

The approach clicking of heels against wood draws her back to the present, and she turns to see the real estate agent pocketing her phone with a bright smile.

“Apologies, Miss Shiba.”

Yuzuha waves her off, “Don’t worry about it, it’s fine. Now, you were telling me about the history of the property?”

“Ah yes. I believe you’re aware that this home is a jiko buken?” Yuzuha nods, and the agent continues, “Well, about four years ago there was a nasty mess with the family who lived here, a murder-suicide, I believe. An awful, tragic thing.”

Tragic was one way of putting it.

After an hour or so of digging online, Yuzuha had found the full, grisly story on a true crime blog – backed up by links to leaked documents from the original police report.

The Sano children were orphans, raised by their grandfather after the untimely death (and abandonment) of their parents early in their childhood. The grandfather, Sano Mansaku, passed himself some years before, leaving the eldest, Shinichiro, to raise his three younger siblings: Izana, who it was later discovered was in fact adopted, Manjiro, also referred to as Mikey, and Emma, the youngest and only girl – Shinichiro and Mikey’s half sister.

Reports vary over what exactly caused the initial argument. The police suspect it might’ve had something to do with money or gang activity, as all three men had at one point or another been tied to various criminal groups. Another theory posits that the fight broke out after Izana’s true parentage was revealed.

In any case, it was deduced that a physical altercation broke out between Izana and Mikey and in the struggle Emma, likely trying to stop them from fighting, was shot on accident.

While the bullet missed her heart, it punctured her lungs. Even if emergency services had been called, there was no saving her at that point – the poor girl died within minutes.

Enraged by the death of his sister, police gathered that Mikey then shot Izana at a near point blank range, right through his eye.

While both shots were heard by neighbours, neither the police nor ambulances were called to the scene. Nearly two hours later, the eldest Sano returned home from work to find Emma and Izana dead, Mikey still cradling his sister’s body.

With the knowledge that his family was destroyed, and that his only remaining brother would be lucky to escape the death penalty if he were to be arrested, Shinichiro killed him – either in a blind rage or as a brutal act of mercy – before turning the gun on himself.

Yuzuha swallows a bitter laugh. Murder-suicide.

The real estate agent, oblivious, sighs, “The property then sat unoccupied until a few months ago when it was purchased outright by a young local girl.”

“O-oh?”

Her heart pounds so violently against her ribs that she’s sure the agent must be able to hear it. She knows what’s coming, tries to brace herself as best she can.

Hakkai had offered to come with her, his face ashen – almost green at the thought. He would’ve, though, if she’d said yes.

Maybe she should’ve. It’d be easier, she thinks, to hear it with her little brother’s hand wrapped around hers.

“Yes, unfortunately she too died on the property a few weeks back – an accident,” she hastens to clarify, as if that makes any difference.

Bile creeps up her throat, and Yuzuha forces herself to nod, clasping her hands behind her back so the real estate agent won’t see how badly they’re shaking. “I see… Do you– do you mind if I take a look around by myself?”

“No, no, of course, feel free. I’ll be in the kitchen if you have any questions.”

Her footsteps fade away, and Yuzuha walks the familiar path into your bedroom. All your furniture’s gone, your belongings. The room’s empty now. Cold and lifeless.

This house of yours always had cold spots, a bitter iciness that crept up at the strangest times, freezing her right to her bones – like someone was walking over her grave.

Closing her eyes, Yuzuha breathes in deep, and waits.

It doesn’t take long for goosebumps to prickle, the tiny hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

“I know you’re here,” she breathes, eyes fluttering open – just as a cold grip seizes her by the throat. In one fell swoop, the door to your bedroom swings shut, the power surging ‘til it blows all across the house.

Plunged into darkness, the room’s just as empty as when Yuzuha entered it, frost spreading across the window. Even her breath, choked and frantic, puffs out in clouds of vapour as she claws at the invisible grip.

Distantly Yuzuha hears the real estate agent calling out to her, the door handle rattling uselessly. Locked.

Cold breath washes over her neck, lips at her ear. The hand at her throat tightens.

“She isn’t yours anymore. Get out.”

#yandere tokyo revengers #yandere mikey x reader #yandere emma x reader #yandere shinichiro x reader #yandere izana x reader #yandere mikey #yandere shinichiro #yandere izana #yandere emma #tw: dubcon #i mean kind but not really but i'm tagging it to be safe

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