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somnambulic-thing · 1 year

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art student!reader x life drawing model!Eddie Munson

E 18+, so nsfw Words: 7048 read on ao3

find the sequel here

Paint It Black Summery: You’re frustrated with your latest work and look for distraction by attending the open life drawing class on what looks like a very ordinary Thursday. Eddie, the new model, is everything but ordinary but definitely a distraction.

CW/tags: characters somewhere in their twenties, meet-wild, smut, fluff, some sort of voyeurism/public erection, gets a little rough, unprotected sex, piv penetration, oral for everybody, v fingering, biting, love marks, talky sex, aftercare, art school bullshit, messy sex, artsy sex (I guess), love at first sight (I guess)

A/N: @edsforehead made me do it. (thank you so much)

comments and reblogs are so appreciated

The air is cold, stinging your cheeks as you ride your bike through a clear and crisp winter morning. It does wonders for waking you up and clearing your mind; you had spent way too long in your studio last night, hovering over this painting that just wouldn’t go the way you wanted. Inside your mind, you hoisted it off the wall to place it right in the middle of the room, a bucket of thick black paint in one hand, the other one dipping in until the medium reached your wrist. You drop down to your knees and get to work, blacking the wretched thing out one large swoop of your arm after another, sending hours of work into oblivion.

Oh my, it was so tempting. Your fingertips tickle with the urge to turn your frustration into something wild and rough and… simple.

But your Professor had sworn to make your life very hard if he ever got wind of you destroying one of your works again, so you followed the advice he had given you: You had decided to take a break. Do something different, something simple, something rewarding and easy to clear your mind to recharge your drained batteries.

So it is Thursday and you crawled out of bed after four measly hours of sleep to go to the life drawing class. You are early as always to get one of the good spots. The small auditorium is still empty except for your teacher who is busy untangling the cords of the various space heaters that will keep the model warm for the next hours.

“Ah,” he says as he sees you, “haven’t seen you here in a while.”

“Yeah, been busy wasting paint.” You smile and walk down the steps of the middle aisle and drop your bag on the best chair: first platform, second chair on the right from the aisle. It had the perfect distance and angle and the top of the backrest of first row to put your feet on so you could rest your paper on your thighs and wouldn’t have to struggle through two hours and a half hours of numb feet.

“Good decision to waste some graphite instead today,” your teacher says and grins. “I’m excited to see your progress.”

You hum, unpacking your supplies. “Who’s the model today? Someone familiar?”

“No, actually, I finally could recruit someone new. He should already be here though. Maybe he has difficulties finding us.” The building was old and could be confusing if you never set foot in it before.

“He,” you say, sharpening your pencil. “Guess it’s my lucky day.”

Male models were rare - maybe two out of ten sessions - and you start to get excited about coming in today.

Your teacher climbs up the stairs past you, “I’ll go and see if he’s wandering around somewhere.”

—

The room fills with students; you say your How are you?’s and What are you working on?’s and when the clock shows 9:37, you brace yourself for the session getting cancelled. Just then, the door opens and your teacher hurries down the stairs.

“Good morning everybody. Sorry for the delay, our model got lost in our hallways. Let’s hear: anybody working on something particular and has some requests for poses?”

You crane your neck up to the back of the room towards the overflowing coat rack while your teacher keeps going through the usual procedure.

The model’s back is turned and you see a long black coat being shrugged off of lean shoulders and underneath: more black. Black lines of ink meandering out of the sleeves of a black shirt; a harsh contrast against pale skin. Ringed hands come up to the back of his head to put the long dark wavy hair into a bun.

No! you plead internally, surprised by that strong reaction.

He chooses the far left aisle down, almost disappearing behind the rows of students but your eyes follow him with a burning curiosity as if you wouldn’t get the chance to look at him for hours in a moment. You shake your head and open your sketchbook to do just anything but stare. There was a difference between observing and staring and the latter wasn’t fucking appropriate inside this room.

“Everybody,” your teacher announces, “this is Eddie. Eddie has never done this before so be patient and just let him know if he’s moving too much.”

You look up and grind your teeth. This Eddie is fucking gorgeous.

“Uhm, hi!” he smiles into the room then looks back at your teacher. “So, uh, I just get naked or what?”

Everybody laughs, but you don’t. You’re taking a long slow breath.

“That’s the general idea,” your teacher grins. “You can put your things on that table in the corner and then just come back to this spot.”

But Eddie does not move to the mentioned corner, he simply pulls off his shirt and throws it the distance to the table. More tattoos come to light; all black, no color. He then kicks off his shoes and you watch his fingers as they open his belt and his fly, how they lodge into the hem of his black, frayed jeans and pull them down in one swoop. There are giggles as he throws the bundle, aiming at the table like he’s at the bowling alley, completely naked.

And then you realize, Eddie didn’t wear any underwear.

“The rings too, please.”

“Oh, sure.” He picks them off his fingers; one two three from one hand and one more from the other. Eddie looks at them on his palm for a moment and grins. “Nah, not gonna throw those.”

The class giggles again as Eddie takes two three long strides to the table to put his rings down carefully and prances back, taking his spot in the middle of the small platform surrounded by space heaters.

There is a soft crack coming from your lap and you look down to see that you had pushed your pencil to the paper so hard that you’d broken the tip.

—

It’s as always: a series of short poses to warm up. One minute, then three and up from there.

Except it is not like always. You're flustered, you’re hot and you spend way too long staring, not finishing any of the one-minute poses.

This has never happened to you before and you had been presented with a lot of good-looking people over the years but this guy was something else.

Three-minute poses and Eddie is slouched back in a chair, long legs spread, left arm resting on top of his head, the right one on his thigh. This was sinful. You just corrected the angle of his left thigh for the third time when you look up and find him looking right back at you. No lost glance into the distance over your shoulder, no: your eyes meet. And those eyes are big and dark and curious and he holds the gaze for several seconds before the timer beeps and announces the change of poses.

He’s not only beautiful and scorching hot but also incredibly adorable. He’s giddy between poses, shaking his arms and legs - and with that his cute little ass - bouncing on his toes and you start to think that holding still normally isn’t his forte. When he lies on his belly, soft gaze on the floor, he tries to stifle a yawn once, twice and only lets it out when he’s allowed to move again. You like his dedication.

Five-minute poses and you finally get into the flow; things start to make sense on the paper until you find him looking at you again. And not only that: he mouthes a small 'Hi'. You bite your lip and look down, feeling the looks of some of the students on you.

He’s cross-legged, leaning back, hands braced on the ground behind him. The angle is weird and it doesn’t help that the way his lean, inked chest moves every time he takes a breath makes you want to bite down on those sharp collarbones. You hold your sketchpad in your outstretched arms doing those quick back-and-forth glances to find out where to correct the mess when his eyes move back to you. Every time you meet his gaze makes your spine tingle more and more and you have to bite down on your lip again to not let a fucking noise slip from your mouth.

Ten-minute poses and your teacher has made it to you to give you some feedback. Nothing you hadn’t expected: you go about it too complicated, want to do too much in too little time, too much detail. Eddie is stretched out on his back and smirks towards the ceiling.

On the next round of feedback, he tells you to really look at Eddie’s hips. You get the angle wrong, it throws off the stance, and you know why all your stupid drawings look a little wonky: you try to avoid looking at his cock for too long. You never thought about a penis as a cock before in this class and it drives you up the walls seeing it twitch slightly while your teacher keeps explaining things you already know and you’re forced to stare at Eddie's crotch, knowing he's side-eying you and your flustered expression the whole. Damn. Time.

Eddie gets a brief pause to stretch and have some water and you want revenge. While his back is turned to you - shoulder blades rippling deliciously under his skin - you open the top two buttons of your blouse, sliding the collar off your shoulder.

One final five-minute pose before the session ends with a twenty-fiver and Eddie is crouched down with his knees pulled under his chin. He shuffles a little before he really settles, tilting his head slightly in a way that forces him to look in your direction unless he wants to lower his eyes to the floor for five minutes.

When he finally looks up, you’re waiting for him, head titled yourself exposing the side of your neck down to your shoulder where your bra strap is barely holding onto your skin.

Eddie’s eyes widen and you smile, tongue poking out just a little to lick your bottom lip before you focus on the paper in your lap to roughly map out the pose. You don’t linger on him while you draw, quick glances only, but you can feel his gaze heavy on you.

This sketch is turning out to be the best so far. You lean back a little, biting down on the back of your pencil and start rolling your shoulders. One gets stiff sitting like that for so long, so people stretch all the time and nobody will notice that you’re giving Eddie a little show. You tilt your head to the right and run a hand over the muscles in your neck, massaging the achy spot right beyond your skull for a moment. When you give in to look down at him, you do it from under your lashes, taking the pencil stuck in your mouth between two fingers and let your tongue play with it ever so slightly.

Eddie takes a deep breath; you can see it in the way his shoulders rise and his knees are pressed forward. You grin and he pulls up his brows and you can’t tell if he begs you to stop or go on.

Twenty-five-minute pose and the crowd demands him to stand.

“Twenty-five minutes of standing is ok?” your teacher asks Eddie, who hasn’t jumped up like a spring toy after the timer rang.

“Uhm, yeah,” he says, legs still drawn to his torso. “Sure thing, uh-hn.”

It takes him another beat to push himself up and come to a stand. Your eyes wander from the top of his cheeks, tinted in a pretty pink, down to those hips to find him not exactly half hard, but on a good way to it. You feel your eyes roll up.

Shit.

Your teacher instructs him how to stand, feet wider apart - a little more, perfect - arms crossed over his chest which too is now slightly pink. His biceps’ flex a few times as he waits for more instructions.

“Can you turn a little, to the left?” a guy in the top row asks and Eddie does.

“Like this?”

Like this you get him in a three-quarter-view and your heart is racing; will he look at you again or did you push it too far?

“Anything else?” your teacher asks and you want to bite down on your tongue but instead it’s moving and forming words.

“Can we have the hair down for this last one?”

Eddie’s head snaps up, catching you in the middle of your request. He pinches his eyes shut at the approval of your fellow students. Below the waist, he’s twitching again.

Loosening his hair tie, Eddie musses around in his dark waves with practised fingers until he seems satisfied with what he sees in the mirror across the room. You suppress a moan, breaking the tip of your pencil again. He’s not looking at you, this time choosing to turn down his eyes while his face points in your general direction again. You curse at yourself internally; you should have just gone to him after the session and slipped him your number or asked him if he was busy after this while the both of you were still flooded with whatever this was and—

Shit!

Whatever Eddie is thinking while not looking at you did not help with what was going on in his loins. That pretty cock was getting bigger: half-hard-hello! And judging by his current state, he was big. You involuntarily grind your hips on your chair and drop your pencil in the process. A groan escapes you, sounding much too pleasant for a case of dropped art supplies and you bend down to get it back. When you come up, brown eyes are waiting for you. There is a smile playing around them while his pretty pink lips are slightly pressed together. Thank god he doesn’t look mad or annoyed, only the blush giving away that something was going on.

You can’t help it, you’re biting your lip, eyes wandering between his face and his cock and his brows draw slightly together before he averts his eyes again, breathing a few times: deep and slow.

Deep and slow.

Holy shit you are throbbing and wet and all you can do is fake another stretch and while shuffling around, press your thighs together for a little bit of friction. You tilt your hips down slightly and the sensation is so good and welcome that your eyes pinch close and your back arches. The movement is jerkily and you stretch your arms over your head to conceal it, slowly opening your eyes again.

Eddie is watching. Eddie is hard.

You grab your pencil and start drawing the spectacle in front of you; concentration isn’t the right word for the sharp focus that settles over you. It’s fucking lust.

It’s not the first hard-on you’ve seen in this class, not by any means. It happens now and then and usually a slight blush from the model was the only reaction. But this wasn’t any hard dick: you did this. You did this to this gorgeous man and you wanted to capture this with your own hands. In case he just bolted right after the session, you would have something to remember this.

You’re leaning in, literally, sketch pad balancing on your knees and bent over your thighs you almost forget the additional loosened buttons on your blouse until you catch those eyes directed at your chest. Seems like Eddie figured the damage was done anyway so why hold back now?

And fucking hell was that precum glistening at the tip?

This is when the timer starts announcing the end of class.

Eddie shoots you one final look, a sharp grin, a slight shake of the head, tips of his hair tickling his shoulders and hops off his little platform to get dressed.

“Holy shit,” says the guy next to you, leaning over. “Have you seen that dick?”

You huff a laugh that throbs in your pussy. “Hard to overlook.”

“Exactly,” he groans and picks up his things.

—

You look at drawings of Eddie of all kinds. They are all beautiful, even the bad ones. You rub your forehead catching that corny thought and look across the room where Eddie is talking to two people, gesturing to the drawings on the floor, laughing. The two of you are slowly moving towards each other. The journey consists of looking, talking: This is a good one! and That one is crap, right? and glancing to your right. You reach the row with your own stuff, groaning internally at how very off everything looks, everything but two.

Suddenly, a chest presses to your back and an arm sneaks past you to point at a drawing.

“That’s amazing.”

The explosion in your insides barely travels to your voice and you’re impressed with yourself. He even smells amazing. “Thank you.”

“Oh, that’s one of yours then?”

You turn to face him. The smile on his face is obscene.

“Hi.”

“Hi, Eddie.”

The smile shrinks a little and his nostrils flare with the air he pulls in. His voice is low and deep when he speaks. “You… uh, made that a very hard job to do.”

“I’m almost sorry,” you croon. His face is way too close; one uptilt of your head and you could bite his plush bottom lip.

“Don’t be,” he licks the spot you just imagined nibbling on. “I didn’t start it for nothing.”

You both jump when someone hijacks your moment. “Those detailed studies are really nice.”

“Yeah, right?” Eddie says with genuine enthusiasm. “Almost the only ones who got some of my tattoos…”

“Uhg, tattoos are hard in that short time, man and you know, not really anatomy.”

The exchange goes back and forth a little longer until Eddie loops his arm under yours and not so causally pulls you in the direction you’d come from under the disguise of looking at sketches.

“So, uh, what are you doing, like, right after this?”

“You, I hope.”

“Shit…” he shakes his head, hair falling into his face. “You’re killing me already… where do you want to go?”

You think about this for a moment, greedy and soaking through your panties you’re in no mood to wait much longer to have him naked again.

“I have a studio two corridors down…”

His brows shoot up. “You ahm…” he blurts out, then lowers his voice, “want to do me here at school?”

“Yes, Eddie… like the pretty little muse you are.”

—

His hand is warm in yours as you pull him along behind you through the hallway past your fellow students who throw curious glances over their shoulders.

Eddie catches up to your side and leans close to your ear, “Are you already wet for me? The way you moved on that chair…”

“Drenched,” you breathe against his neck and almost stumble over your own feet. Eddie sneaks his arm around you, keeping you steady.

“Easy, sweetheart. Let me be the one to bruise you, ok? I’ll do it in aaall the nice places.”

You stare at him, mouth hanging open.

“Promise,” he adds, tapping the tip of your nose, a devilish smile spreading on his face.

You drag him on and he laughs behind you until he catches up again. There is a brief moment where you leave him in the middle of the empty foyer to get your key from the doorman, interrupting his lunch break, praying to whoever deity will listen to your horny call that none of your studio mates is in there already. You almost moan when the guy hands the key to you and you bump into Eddie’s chest face first when you turn around in a hurry.

“Fuck you’re so pretty,” he rasps, takes your face in his large hands and bends down to press a hot kiss to your mouth. Your fists close around the lapel of his coat as he licks along your teeth until your tongue finds him. The world around you feels vague and unimportant until the doorman behind you knocks against the glass of his booth.

“I don’t need to see this, folks.”

This time Eddie takes your hand and walks on. “Show me the way, babe, or I’ll have to hoist you up one of those windowsills… you people are doing performance art here, right?”

Eddie is mumbling filthy things at you the whole way down the empty corridor where your shared studio is the last room on the left. You try to fumble the key into the lock and drop it because Eddie is already busy bruising your neck. Pressed flat to your back he brushed your hair to the side and started sucking at the spot just below your ear, his hands sneaking around you, cupping your tits through your blouse. As you bend down to pick up the key, Eddie grabs your hips and rolls his own against you, almost pushing you into the door. You both laugh and he pulls you up by your waist.

“Sorry,” he chuckles as you finally unlock the door. “I couldn’t help myself.”

You let him inside and lock the door behind you.

“What’s your workspace?” he asks, already poking his nose into things. “No! Don’t tell me… it’s… this one.”

“How did you know?” you ask surprised, taking off your coat and fully unbuttoning your blouse while he looks at your work lined up on the wall, hand on his chin like a proper little art critic.

“Well, I saw your drawings and this stuff here… it has the same… Duktus?”

“Christ,” you moan and he looks at you. “That was so sexy.”

“Hey, you’re starting without me?”

Eddie rushes to you, hands instantly sliding inside your open blouse against your bare skin. His hands are rough, calloused in some places and the slight scratch is making you shiver in his arms. He pulls the fabric off of you and drops it to the ground. His coat falls next, then his shirt. Eddie hisses as you sink your teeth into his collarbone as soon as you have access to them.

“Too much?”

His eyes are lidded and so very dark as he shakes his head. “Just start pulling my hair too and you’ll never get rid of me again…”

“That a threat or another promise?” you purr as you open his belt and fly over the impressive bulge in his pants.

“Which one turns you on more?” You hook your fingers into his waistband and drop to your knees, pulling his pants down with you, making his breath hitch. “Oh, s-shit…”

This is the close-up you've been yearning for all morning. Fully hard and flushed a deep pink already; you wonder if it will feel as heavy on your tongue as it looks. You run a finger along the underside and it twitches again, bobbing up and down in front of your face. You lean in, stick out your tongue and give the swollen tip a lick that makes Eddie whimper above you.

Again you meet his eyes and the expression in them is so unexpectedly soft that you almost whimper too. Your cunt is clenching around horrible nothingness as you lick him again, flat tongue sliding along the underside, feeling a vein, tasting salt, watching those big brown eyes roll up and close as a moan escapes him.

“You’re gorgeous, holy shit.” You firmly grip his cock around the base and stroke him a few times, your mouth watering, before you close your lips around the tip, your tongue swirling in lazy circles around it. Eddie’s breath is uneven and laced with soft moans from his glistening parted lips while you softly play around with his cock. Every twitch of his face is a delight, the way his abdomen tenses when you press small kisses to the length of his shaft makes you swoon with adoration. You reach up one hand to trace up the lines of a tattoo on his ribcage and he catches it, pressing it flat against his chest. Eddie’s heartbeat pounds against your palm and you moan around his cock.

“Holy… fuck… I wanna watch you so bad but I don’t know if I can take it.”

“You can take it, big boy,” you say in a low voice. “Look at me.”

It takes him a few more seconds until he opens his eyes and looks down at you; the moment you lock eyes you take him down as far as you can. A string of loud but mostly intangible curses echoes through the large room as you suck him down again and again in long leisurely motions. Your lips stretched around his girth curl up into a smile when his hands look for something to hold onto in your hair and you place your index finger at the corner of your mouth without stopping your onslaught to signal him to keep the volume down.

“Sorry, ah fuck fuck FUCK… I’ll try… shit I’m balls deep in your mouth and still don’t know your name—”

You don’t want to stop, not even for the moment to tell him your name. There’s a big portfolio folder leaning against the wall and you point in the general direction before running your fingers through the dark curls around his base and up the trail to his stomach while he’s trying to figure out what you’re showing him, failing at his attempt to stay quiet.

Then he says it: your name, no, he moans it. And he doesn’t fucking stop.

Suddenly your abdomen is on fire and you have to pull back to catch your breath. But you can’t, not really, because Eddie has kicked off his pants the rest of the way, dropped to the floor and pushed you to your back to peel you out of your clothes.

The floor is cold under your ass and back and you thump your head a little as he wraps his arms around your thighs and pulls you closer to him.

“Shit, you okay?”

“Yeah,” you giggle, “keep manhandling me.”

Eddie grins like the devil himself and goes to work. He’s everywhere: kissing, lapping biting at your mouth, your jaw your neck your tits, his fingers pushed into your thighs and you know it will bruise. He’s keeping his promise, leaving wet tingling marks all over you, a purple trail of small galaxies. His fingers find your cunt, finally, and Eddie eats the moan out of your mouth.

“Shh,” he says with a cocky laugh, his forehead pressed to yours, two fingers circling your clit in dragging motions. “You’re loud, beautiful. You don’t want us to get caught before I had a chance to fuck you.”

“N-no… ahhh.” Two thick fingers slide into you and your muscles grip down hard at the sudden intrusion.

“Hi,” he grins down at you as if he wasn’t just pounding your g-spot out of nowhere and making you see stars.

You hold on to his face, grappling for purchase and finally wind your fingers into this wild tickling hair and pull.

“Jesus, finally!”

“I— I’m so close.”

“Keep holding on,” he groans and moves down your body, fingers stilling for a moment.

You keep your hands in his hair, pulling in frustration from the ebbing pleasure.

“Of course, you have the prettiest fucking pussy, you—“ he doesn’t finish his thought, diving in with his tongue to lap at your clit like he’d been starving for you his whole life.

You bite the back of your hand to keep from yelling out at the sight alone. His eyes meet yours, of course they do and he sucks one of your lips into his mouth.

“You’re a fucking tease, Eddie… what’s your last name?”

“Munson,” he mumbles against your core and keeps on feasting.

“You’re a fucking tease, Eddie Munson… ahhh don’t stop please.”

And he doesn’t. He gives you his fingers and his mouth, his eyes fixed on you— well, most of the time, he keeps looking to a spot behind you but you have no time to inquire as your legs start to tremble and everything inside you starts to tense and pulse and you’re coming apart under his mouth before you’ve really seen it coming.

Yeah, that guy was something else.

When you’ve come down he gently pulls his fingers from you and litters your thighs and belly with kisses. His fingers are sticky against your skin but a slight roughness remains.

Your head lolls against the floor while you’re still blissed out and Eddie still puts those feathery kisses to your skin.

“You… you’re a musician…” you drawl out.

He looks up. “Yeah! How do you know?”

You take his hand from your chest and lick your wetness from his fingers before you turn his palm to him, sliding a fingertip over the calloused skin.

“You like that?” he grins.

You let go of his hand and nod. “Something with strings?”

“Guitar. And vocals.”

“Fuck you, you’re way too hot as it is…” you squeeze him with your thighs and his eyes go to that spot behind you again before he kisses your chest.

“What do you keep looking at?” you wiggle and crane your neck. It’s that painting. The one that has been haunting you for weeks.

“Sorry,” he scrunches up his nose. “I don’t know, draws me in somehow… it’s… weird… sorry.”

“No, no, don’t be…” you say and pull him up to you, kissing him. “You’re right.”

“Yeah?” he glances over again. “Well, fuck… yeah… m’ not gonna lie to you it’s kinda terrifying.” You both laugh. The warmth in your chest only expands more.

“Want to slather me in paint and fuck me against it?”

Eddie’s eyes widen as he glances between your face and the canvas. “Yes? Fuck yes!”

He pulls you up and into a hungry kiss, his thick cock hard against your belly.

“Is that stuff safe to use?” he points his chin to some paint tubes on the trolley in the corner.

“No, oh god, no. But…” you leave him to look for a large bottle of black paint letting out a triumphant ha when you find it. You turn around beaming. “This here is… and will wash out of hair with no problem.”

“Come here…” he curls his finger to beckon you to him. “And hand that over.”

“Is that turning you on?” you ask as you join him.

“You have no idea.” Eddie takes the paint from you and wraps an arm around your shoulders, pulling your back to his chest. “You’re so pretty already with all my marks on you.” He walks you over to the canvas that way, his lips pressed close to your ear.

You turn in his arm and reach for his cock, stroking him softly. “How do you want me?”

“Fuck if I know… gimme a second and don’t stop that.” He looks at the canvas, really thinking about this. You suddenly want to pull his hair again. “Hands above your head, babe,” he says, opening the bottle of paint and squirts a generous amount into his hand. “Keep them clean. You have to put me inside you.”

You lean against the canvas; it’s large, so large that your outstretched arms above your head just graze the wooden frame inside.

Eddie’s hands are dripping black paint as he grabs your hips, bends down and sucks your nipple into his mouth before he kisses up to the crook of your shoulder to suck on you once more. “One last one before I make a mess out of you.” The contrast between the warmth of his lips and the cool paint as he slides his hands up your sides to your ribs makes you squirm and whimper. Eddie steps back to look at his work.

“Fuck, I’m an artist.”

He grabs the bottle from the floor and gets more paint, letting it drip right to your tits before smudging with splayed fingers. You watch him, mesmerized. When he is satisfied, he spins you around and pats your thigh as a sign to widen your stance. You feel him shuffle behind you as he presses himself against you and your chest against the canvas.

“Ready?”

You reach down, fumbling in the air for a moment before you find him. “You ready?”

“Ye—ahhhh, you little minx,” he groans as you line him up and push back on him half the way. He holds you steady and slides in the rest of the way breathing out a long low fuuuuck. Then he stills. “Are you holding your breath? You ok?”

You are more than ok and you let the air out, your forehead dropping against the canvas. “It was that or letting everybody in the building know I’m getting stretched real fucking good right now…”

He angles your hips back and pushes closer. “Yeah, you are… shit, you’re unreal.”

“And you’re big. Gimme a moment.”

“All the time you want, I’m cosy here.”

While you get used to the stretch, Eddie caresses your back, rubbing small circles up the sides of your spine.

“I have a show next Tuesday,” he says kissing your shoulder. “Would love to see you in the first row.”

“Wouldn’t miss it… I assume it’s something hard?” you wiggle your ass, making you both sigh.

“You like it hard?” he laughs. “Music, I mean.”

“I do.”

“’Course you do. Can I fuck you now? Please?”

“Yeah,” you sigh. “Before the paint dries.”

He starts slow, pulling out almost all the way and sliding back in till he bottoms out. Your front slides against the canvas blackening out parts of it in big splotches.

“How’s this?” He’s so careful it makes your throat feel tight.

“You feel in-incredible.” You push back, meeting his thrusts as he picks up the pace.

“You’re incredible, sweetheart.”

Then you’re just getting lost in each other. His movements get rougher, more confident as he thrusts into you. You feel him deep inside you lighting little fires everywhere. A hand presses to the canvas next to your head, an arm loops around your waist and you yelp as he sharply slams into you. You beg him to do it again but he’s already on it, relentlessly fucking you into the canvas. Most of the paint is dry now, it’s prickling on your skin. Eddie moans your name into your ear, squeezing your tits and you squeeze your muscles around his cock.

“Shhh, babe…” you chuckle after he cries out.

“Fuck you,” he laughs hoarsely into your hair.

You’re so close again and you slip your hand between your legs but Eddie stops and pulls your arm to your back. “No nono, shit, not-not like that…”

“Eddie…”

“Stay like that,” he says and pulls out of you, leaving you empty and confused. There is some shuffling and then he is back behind you. “Going to be cold.”

“What— uhn!”

Paint trickles onto your arched back, sliding down your spine and making you shiver. Eddie gives your ass a little smack and turns you around, crowding you against the canvas, and hoists you up by your thighs.

“Oh my god,” you huff, wrapping your arms around his neck while he balances you out.

“Can’t do that all day but you’re close ‘n I wanna see that face when you come.” He leans you back to create some space between you. “Help me out, put me back inside you…”

You do as you’re told and you clench your thighs hard around his hips as he starts up almost at the same pace he stopped. He kisses you, so sloppy so wet you feel a string of spit between your mouths when he pulls back again to hook his arms under your knees and spreads you open so wide that you’re crying out his name.

“I got you,” he assures you, pounding into you at a new angle, so deep it makes you dizzy. “I got you, you can juuust fall apart…”

The noises you two are making where you’re joined are obscene.

“Holy shit,” you moan, “li-listen… those sounds.”

Eddie drops his head to your shoulder, sweat dripping from his forehead onto you. “Like fucking music…”

You laugh. “Fucking music indeed.”

“God, you’re perfect,” he presses out through a laugh and really leans into you. You grab a thick strand of hair and pull as your insides begin to tense.

“Oh… oh shit, don’t stop.”

The world tilts as he leans you back again. “Wouldn’t dare… touch yourself for me, I need to feel you come around me.”

“Come inside me, yeah?” you rasp as you circle your swollen throbbing clit.

His eyes bore into yours, the strain and pleasure all over his face. He’s a mess as much as you are. “Come on, darling… come for me… I want you to run through my fingers.”

And you swear you do: your head thumps against the wood frame as your muscles try to create a black hole or whatever happens under so much pressure, but who cares when this stupidly perfect man fucks you through the hardest orgasm anyone ever had while looking at you like he was fulfilling his fucking destiny. You can’t hear him over the blood rushing through your ears, but he looks so pretty with his nose scrunched up, a streak of black paint running over the bridge and his eyes shut tight. A few more thrusts and he collapses against your chest with stuttering hips, pinning you so hard against the wall that it drives the air out of you.

There is only breathing, hot air from his lungs against your tickling skin. You cup the back of his head and stroke his hair; he nuzzles deeper into your skin and makes a noise that sounds like fucking home.

“I need to put you down now… sorry.”

He puts you down but doesn’t let go. Kisses cover your face until you cup his cheeks and claim his mouth while he’s dripping down the inside of your thighs.

Then you giggle together, Eddie squeezing your ass with both hands, smiling at you so silly and soft. You’re thirsty, you let him have the bottle first and he gulps the water down, spilling down his chest, creating little rivers of paint that let the ink show through. You want to study those lines up close without twenty people around you, without the blinding fire of lust, but calm, taking your time asking questions.

“What’s going on up there?” he asks, tapping a finger against your forehead.

“I wanna study you some more,” you say, taking the bottle and down what’s left.

He doesn’t ask you what you mean, only tilts his head and smiles. Then he sits down in that worn-out armchair your mate had dragged in a few months ago, still naked, it isn’t time to cover up yet and you find a clean enough rag, climb into his lap and clean the paint off his face as gently as you can.

“Stop,” he grabs your hips, “do you have a camera or something?”

You do and the timer takes too long for you two not to start fooling around before the soft click of the shutter sounds. One more and one more and the film has only two more left and he pulls you in to kiss you just before the camera rewinds.

“You want to join me when I make the prints?”

“You, red light and chemicals?” he grins. “It’s a date.”

The painting is dry already; Guache dries rather fast, you explain to him. It’s itchy, he adds and scratches his chest, small flakes of black falling down to the floor. You sit in front of both your work, your head against his shoulder and your fingers fumbling with a strand of his hair that is stiff with paint.

“You know,” he says, “it would have made a damn good record cover before…”

“You can have a picture… I document every night before I go home.”

“Really? I mean, the picture?”

You brush sweaty hair off his forehead, “I’m sure it’s in good hands with you.”

He almost shoves you over when he kisses you, the giddy streak you saw earlier during class showing when he chuckles and licks your cheek like a puppy.

“It looks really good now though, don’t you think?”

“You’re just horny,” you laugh.

“What? You don’t like our work?” he pouts and this shouldn’t pull at your heart that much.

“I do,” you kiss the pout, “I was just teasing.”

“I mean it,” he looks at the canvas, “It’s a bit crooked and dented now, but that just adds to the charm.”

“It has nothing on you though when it comes to charm.” You lean in with a sultry smile and his palm cups your breast and then—

A knock on the door. “Come on, you still fucking in there? I need to work.”

You look at each other with large eyes and break out laughing, scrambling for your clothes. Eddie hisses sharply when you slap his ass just before he pulls up his jeans and you forgo the bra because one strap did not survive Eddie’s enthusiasm. There is paint sticking out of his collar that you couldn’t clean before your photo shoot and you remember to put the film in your pocket while he kisses your temple because he seems to can’t help himself but stay close to you.

“Ready?” you ask and he grabs your hand and nods, following you out.

“Finally,” your mate says, but smiles when she sees you. “Aren’t you that new model?”

“Muse,” he grins without further explanation.

You hand her the key, mouth a small sorry and admit it when she calls you out on your lie.

His hand is warm in yours, his thumb playing with your knuckles as you walk back through the hallway.

“So,” he says, “we gonna shower at your or my place?”

#Eddie Munson x reader #Eddie Munson x afab!reader #Eddie Munson smut #somnambulic-thing #my fic

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eoieopda · 6 months

Text

FORCE QUIT // EPISODE I: SCRAPS

you didn't have "anti-capitalist revolution" on this year's bingo card, but you never turn down a good time.

pairing: lee felix x reader | series masterlist (1/4) | next episode series summary: it's 2077, and life's a fucking nightmare. corporate titans ate the state and shat it back out, leaving citizens of the new republic to fall in line, or fall to their knees. a reckoning is coming — where will you fall? au: series — dystopian, cyberpunk; episode — childhood friends to strangers to something ➢insp. by: cyberpunk 2077 + the true lives of the fabulous killjoys genre: smut + angst + some fluff word count: 15.4k rating: 18+— minors do not have my consent to interact. series warnings: violence (hand-to-hand, firearms, explosives), depictions of injuries (blood/bruising/burns), some characters have cybernetic modifications, class conflict + poverty, surprise - corporations are bad!, unethical medical/tech experimentation, self-indulgent references to non-skz idols, reader is afab and uses she/her pronouns. episode warnings: above + trainer!felix, edgerunner!reader, pov switches, time skips, reference to food insecurity + reader living check to check, reader has cybernetic retinal mods + one in her hand, reader experiences temporary vision loss after being knocked out, oral sex (f receiving), unprotected p in v penetration. a/n: each episode features a different member x reader pairing, but the plot is linear, so you'd need to read them (in order) to get the full picture! you can sign up for the taglist to be notified of the next uploads. thank you to my beloved @sailoryooons for beta'ing this and @jihopesjoint for being my emotional support internet wife even though she doesn't stan skz. ily both endlessly!

You don’t deal in absolutes, but you know two things for sure: vending-machine burritos are a crime against humanity; and Han Jisung is a dirty, rotten bastard.

The firm stance you’ve taken on the latter may or may not have something to do with the former, but you can’t draw that conclusion now — not with the abuse your taste buds are currently suffering, anyway.

“Who the fuck —”

You cut yourself off to spit a mouthful at the ground. Notably, the remnants of that half-chewed abomination look just as awful on the way out as they did on the way in.

“— Replaced this queso with battery acid?”

Chipmunk cheeks stuffed to bursting, Jisung blinks back at you. He says nothing — suddenly too polite to speak with his mouth full — and shrugs, unbothered. That’s when the realization hits you like a boot to the skull. Drenched in disbelief, your muttering comes out in slow-motion:

“You spent the last of our cash on these.”

He swallows, though you don’t know how he could bring himself to do it. That act alone makes the rage you’re simmering in bubble over.

You repeat yourself through gritted teeth, pausing emphatically between every word, “The — last — of — our — cash!”

“My bad?” He eventually offers. Tongue flicking out, he tries to gather the unidentified sauce that clings to the corner of his mouth. He fails. “Not sure what else I was supposed to find with that little money in this part of town, but go off, I guess.”

You bite your lips together to hold back the guttural yell you’re seconds from releasing. At your sides, your empty hands clench tightly. Instead of snapping — with your words or your fists — you close your eyes, inhaling slowly through your nose. Deep breaths won’t do you any fucking good in this smog, but your brain tends to work a little bit better without visual interference.

I can go another twenty-four hours, you think. Maybe.

It’s been a while since you’ve last eaten and even longer since your last job. This isn’t out of the ordinary; gaps are to be expected when you live on the fringe, jumping from thread to thread. Still, it isn’t like Changbin to leave you hanging the way he has been lately. It sure as shit isn’t like him to dodge your calls, either.

So, you figure, if you make an unsolicited visit to his office — the stock room of a bar you know better than to frequent — he won’t have a choice. He’ll have to look you in the eye and explain the dry spell, personally. He owes you at least that much.

With your plan finalized, you hold out your left hand to Jisung. In the few moments you’d taken your eyes off him, he’d apparently gone from sitting on the hood of your car to reclining fully with his own eyes closed. Basking like a little lizard in the sunlight, it’s a miracle the hot metal hasn’t burned a hole in his shirt.

“Come on.” You nudge his bent knee with your knuckles to no avail.

As Jisung is wont to do, he pouts. “But it’s so nice out — and your car still reeks, by the way.”

The absolute, rakish audacity.

If you didn’t love him, you’d probably kill him.

Strike that.

Love is irrelevant. You wouldn’t kill him unless and until there was a price on his head. After all, your mother taught you better than to do the things you’re good at for free.

“Do we want to talk about whose fault that is?” You ask with a roll of your eyes. The affection’s still there; you know he sees it. “If I recall correctly — and I think I do, having been the only sober person present — you were the one who got blasted and barfed on everything I love in this world.”

“I got blasted and barfed exclusively on the floor of your car.”

It’s your turn to shrug. “Exactly. End of list.”

Groaning, Jisung rolls his eyes as far back as they’ll go, but he still takes your hand. He always does, always has. With your help, he scoots his ass down the hood and lands with both boots — precisely where your ejected burrito bite did, not five minutes earlier. You can’t stop the satisfied grin from spreading when he whines again, this time louder and with twice as much despair.

After playfully shoving your passenger towards his door, you unlock your own. You don’t dump yourself into the seat, however; not yet. A wall of horrible heat is waiting for you the second the door opens, and you know better than to run into it, headlong.

Jisung is less patient. He’s also more regretful, face twisting in self-imposed anguish when he drops down onto the sun-scorched leather seat. And, to your delight, the hits keep coming. You watch with a smile when the consequences of last weekend’s actions hit his nostrils. The look he gives you falls somewhere between humbled, apologetic, and absolutely dead inside.

“Not one of my finer moments, I’ll admit it.” He acknowledges with a wave of his hand. Resigned, he sighs, “I’ll scrub the shit out of the floor mats the next time we can afford a wash.”

Satisfied, you finally climb behind the wheel. Pushing through the slightly-muted sting of the seat against the backs of your bare thighs, you put your foot on the brake and lift your right hand to press your thumb to the ignition port. The roar of the engine covers the way your breath hitches, but Jisung doesn’t have to hear it to notice the grimace that accompanies it.

“Still sore?” He asks.

To his credit, he looks genuinely concerned as he reaches across the center console and takes your hand in his. It’s gentle, the way he tilts your palm up, but the movement burns in every single one of your tendons. This time, you know you have a captive audience, so you don’t flinch.

Despite the trouble it’s giving you, you have to admit that the new enhancement looks beautiful in the sunlight. In the center of your palm, two rectangular, silver brackets refract iridescence. Their shine contrasts sharply with the matte, midnight black cybernetic plating that now covers the majority of your palm, spreading to the first knuckle of your fingers but coating the length of your thumb in its entirety.

More than beautiful, it’s deadly — and it aches like a motherfucker.

“I read a study about these ballistic co-processors last night while you were knocked out,” he hums.

Classic Jisung.

He has no medical or academic background whatsoever but wastes his time reading crank doctors’ research for fun. And, of course, he makes sure to mention it — casually and apropos of mostly nothing — in order to impress.

Gingerly, he runs his finger along the edge of the cyberware, mumbling, “It usually takes five days from installation for the musculoskeletal inflammation to chill.”

Your fingers twitch of their own volition, which prompts him to look up at you curiously.

“Yeah, well…” You grunt.

Less carefully than you should, you pull your hand from his, tap the gear shift, and throw the car into reverse. Peeling out of the lot, you scoff without even bothering to look his way:

“It’s been ten.”

When the War came and went, it took the old way of life with it on its way out. You might’ve been late to the party by fifty or so years, but you’ve got the gist now. It goes something like this:

Korea, as it was once known, crumpled like a beer can in the face of a corporate uprising and was quickly kicked curbside with the trash. In its place came the New Republic — in all its stolen, neon glory — promising technological revolution, profit in excess. Although the world’s eyes were trained on the peninsula then, not everyone stuck around to watch democracy die in real time.

Not up close, anyway.

Some people had enough cash to run but not enough to make staying worthwhile. With their tails between their legs and their life savings in hand, they left before the capitalist rot could set in fully; chose willful blindness and headed for countries where corporations rule from the shadows rather than broad daylight.

Most people, however, didn’t leave. People like your grandparents, who hadn’t looked up long enough to notice things going to hell in a hurry. And if they did — well, maybe they saw things for what they were: shitty, same as anywhere else.

Five decades later, that fact hasn’t changed much.

Regardless of why a person opts to stay in the New Republic, their options for survival are effectively limited to two. Simply put, a person can sell their soul to the very corporations that strangled the state, or they can starve.

Nobody ever chooses the latter.

You can safely assume everything you need to know about a person based on where their next steps take them.

For example, those who crave both chic, penthouse apartments and blood-soaked streets are most likely to fall in line with WraithCo.. The name suggests that it’s a criminal enterprise run by fucking ghouls because that’s essentially what it is. More than that, it’s the arms manufacturer monopoly that out-manned and out-gunned the national military without breaking a sweat.

The high-powered, highly-paid WraithCo. executives find joy in three things and three things only: designer suits; missiles that explode into clouds of fiberglass upon impact; and testing said missiles out on non-violent nomad encampments outside city limits.

Fucking ghouls.

Despite being the most openly violent of the major players, you find WraithCo. to be the most boring. They lack nuance, don’t bother with a false front or a positive PR spin — it’s all a little too predictable. Thanotech, on the other hand, is subtle; the perfect cover for those who like to convince themselves they’re doing more good than harm.

In furtherance of that delusion, Thanotech replaced all public hospitals with state-of-the-art, for-profit rejuvenation centers. Worse, their lobbyists ensured that medical licensure was limited to employees of those centers, outlawing the provision and receipt of medical care outside of authorized Thanotech facilities.

In short, those who can’t afford Thanotech’s astronomical rates — specifically, poor fucks like you — are left to fend for themselves in back alley clinics; to pray that they don’t wind up worse-off than they started, that the police don’t sniff them out, and that their new modifications aren’t just garbage-tier knock-offs.

Of course, some people give more of a shit about these designer mods than the patients who may or may not wind up with them. In that case, the last of the three titans has them covered.

It’s no fucking surprise that the Ulsan Corporation is the crown-jewel of the New Republic — it’s primarily responsible for killing the old one. As the world’s premier technology and cybernetics conglomerate, Ulsan is also primarily responsible for the research, development, and distribution of cybernetic enhancements.

Like the one your body is currently acclimating to.

No such thing as ethical consumption under capitalism, right?

Ulsan may be less obvious with its bastardry than its counterparts, but as far as you can tell, it’s not good guy behavior to eat an established state and shit it back out. Even if you can’t tie any specific, ongoing atrocities back to them, you have no qualms about adding the desperate state of the union to their indictment.

You can blame them for the desperate measures they’ve necessitated, although you won’t give them an ounce of credit for the spark of resistance they so recklessly lit.

Despite it all, there are still people out there who refuse to accept things for what they are. They find an alternative to the comply or die ultimatum — run along the razor’s edge, taking what they can get, whenever they can get it.

Like Changbin, one of Seoul’s best-connected fixers.

Like you, a gun for hire.

Like Jisung, sitting in your passenger seat as you drive across town, who’s just happy to be included.

Generally speaking, piss and vinegar don’t mix well with club security.

If you were anyone else, rolling up to The Crypt like you own the place would be ill-advised. More than that, it would be asking to get your teeth kicked in faster than you could say, “I’m on the list.”

Thankfully, as it often does, your reputation precedes you. Nobody in the block-long line bats an eye when you cut right to the front, a fact that has Jisung smirking in a way that might otherwise get him killed. Still, the bouncer shoots you a look that says you’re more trouble than you’re worth; and you agree.

Before your friend can change the muscle’s mind, you grab Jisung by the wrist and tug him through the front entrance. You don’t let go when the door shuts behind you, although it’s more for convenience than concern for his safety. He has a tendency to wander, and you don’t have the patience.

“Haven’t been here in a while,” he muses as you drag him towards the main bar, head turning to look in every direction except the one you’re moving in.

You don’t slow down.

Winding your way through the drunks at the counter, you inch closer to the large booths along the far wall. Inside, draped nonchalantly over the plush benches, sit the big guns — mercenaries with far more sway than you, far fatter wallets. They’re living the high life you’ve always dreamed of, and they don’t even notice you staring as you pass.

“Oh, shit!” Jisung waves overhead to one of them, reminding you without trying that he — unlike you — has other friends.“S.Coups, where have the fuck have you been, man?”

You still don’t slow down.

Not when you reach the stairwell at the far side of the main floor. Not when you shuffle down the steps to the employees only section. Not even when the security camera overhead silently demands that you do.

There’s only one locked door amongst the few; you fly to it like a homing pigeon and beat against the metal with your free hand. It isn’t until the burning ache sets in that you realize you chose your right.

“Goddamn it.” You growl down at it, as if your hand will apologize for hurting. Turning your vitriol towards the door, you kick it hard, steel-toed boot forcing out a thud. “Changbin, open this shit up!”

Jisung glares as he scolds you, “Manners, maybe?”

You roll your eyes, but his expectant expression doesn’t budge.

“Fucking — fine, okay? Fine.” Hands thrown up in defeat, you take a deep breath. Your next words come out saccharine, accompanied by fluttering lashes that can’t even be seen. “Changbin, darling, could you please open this shit up?”

The two of you wait in dead silence for several seconds before Jisung’s hands fly up to your hair, unprompted. Your surprised yelp doesn’t faze him. He grabs the bobby-pin from where you’ve stashed it under your ponytail, drops to his knees, and starts to work.

You snort, “Well, damn. Look at you!”

Truly, you’re impressed. Jisung normally leaves the dirty work to you, yet here he is — breaking and entering.

They grow up so fast.

He tries not to look proud of himself, but his cheeks blush a shade of sakura and rat him right out. Though you’re sure he’d love to, he can’t even lift a hand to wave you off before the lock clicks. With a quick twist of the knob, he pushes the door open.

Changbin’s office looks close to normal, with a few notable exceptions. For starters, he’s not in it. The man you’re dealing with never sees the light of day if he can help it.

Jisung pipes up first: “Okay, what the fuck?”

The office chair Changbin normally occupies is spun to the side, as if his ass left it in a hurry. Even odder than that is the small, green light which indicates that he didn’t shut off his computer before leaving it unattended. It’s not a decision someone like Changbin — neurotic and paranoid to a borderline clinical degree — makes on his own.

That, you know outright, is a problem.

Cautiously, you slip past Jisung and walk on eggshells towards Changbin’s desk. You know it’s stupid, that no one would bother rigging the floor tiles to blow under the weight of your boots, but you can’t ignore the way your gut twists with every step. That dread only gets worse, the closer you get.

To the right of his primary screen, there’s a half-eaten vending-machine burrito that’s so covered with ants, you almost mistake them for pepper flakes. That sight makes bile rise in your throat, in and of itself, but it’s the untouched cup of coffee that sends a tingle of panic down your spine. Around the base of the glass, hardly visible on the sheet of paper underneath, is a water ring.

That coffee — at one point, however long ago — was iced.

Changbin would kill you for it if he were here, but he isn’t, so you drop down into his chair. You pause as soon as your ass settles onto the leather, still not convinced that one wrong move won’t set off some sort of trap. The breath you’ve been holding leaks out slowly when your actions go without consequences.

A quick glance up at Jisung confirms that he looks exactly as spooked as you feel. You watch his Adam’s apple bob when he swallows hard.

He knows the answer before he asks, but that doesn’t stop him. It comes out scratchy, riddled with hesitation that says he doesn’t really want to hear the response. “He hasn’t been here in days, has he?”

You shake your head, just barely, then turn to the desk. Bottom lip pinched between worried teeth, you scan the surface for anything you missed on your first pass.

Give me a hint, you motherfucker. All I need is a breadcrumb.

It’s the absence of something that grabs your attention. Eyes narrowing, you lean forward in your seat to get as close as possible to his monitors.

“Does that…?” You start to ask but your voice trails off before you finish; thoughts moving too quickly to inventory before the next one arrives.

Though black, the screens in front of you aren’t lifeless. If anything, they’re still backlit, glitching subtly in a way they shouldn’t — not if the system had been locked, powered off, or otherwise put to sleep. You don’t have to be a netrunner to know that someone is running an opp, fucking up the computer’s processing and leaving it brain dead.

It’s so small that you almost miss the minimized window at the bottom left-hand corner of his secondary monitor, screen otherwise barren. Hesitantly, you reach out your hand and press a trembling finger to it.

Jisung is hovering so closely over your shoulder that you can practically taste that burrito on his breath. You elbow him once in the chest, hard.

He coughs, pointing to the screen as he sputters, “What the hell are those?”

“Numbers, Jisung.” You deadpan. “They’re called numbers.”

Ignoring the way he grumbles in response, you grab your mobile from your pocket. It springs to life at your sudden touch and broadcasts a holographic home screen in the air just centimeters above the glass. Just as fast, it tracks the movement of your eyes flicking through the list of applications. With the faintest shudder, the GPS navigation consumes the screen.

You repeat what you hope are coordinates:

35.2029, 128.6001.

As the map loads, you and Jisung exchange glances that are underscored by tense swallows. He knows it, and so do you:

No matter where that pin ends up dropping, you have no choice but to go.

It takes three hours to drive from Seoul to Changwon. Although it’s not a route you’ve taken in years, or one you ever expected to take again, you still know it like the back of your hand. You can still navigate every turn — every crater and curve — with your eyes closed, even now.

Despite that fact, your decision to race to the southeast this time has nothing to do with sentimentality for the hometown you left five years ago.

This is just for Changbin, you repeat like a mantra, pressing harder on the accelerator.

With every stoplight and thought you race through, the background grows blurrier but the big picture gets clearer. Changbin himself has nothing to do with it; and you’re not as selfless as your inner monologue keeps claiming. You correct yourself:

This is for me and my empty bank account.

Really — who could blame you?

You need steady contracts in order to eat. Without Changbin, those get fewer and farther between. It’s the transitive property, or whatever; basic math. You might starve without him, and that is the one thing in this life that you’re unwilling to do.

In the passenger seat, Jisung stirs. When he speaks, his voice isn’t weighted down with exhaustion in the way it usually is, halfway through a car trip. For some reason, it makes your stomach turn to consider that — for what is probably the first time ever — he isn’t sleeping through a drive.

“He left in a hurry,” he quietly notes.

Out of the corner of your eye, you glance at him and confirm the presence of that worried crease between his eyebrows. It’s not accompanied by the usual, furiously-bouncing knee. That makes your stomach turn, too. Clearly, he’s vaulted over mere anxiety and landed somewhere close to shutting down.

You nod. “He did.”

It spooks him when you take your right hand off the steering wheel and give his elbow a brief squeeze. You’re not the affectionate type; you both know this. It always makes your rare touches more ominous than comforting.

“Do you think he was running to something, or running away from something?”

Leave it to Jisung to say the quiet part out loud.

Normally, you have an answer for his constant questions; and if you don’t, you resort to lying or guessing. This time, however, you don’t bother with either of those tactics because it doesn’t matter. Whatever the correct answer is, it’ll still feel wrong because Changbin doesn’t run.

Period.

Full stop.

So, the conclusion your brain keeps trying to come to is that he didn’t — he wouldn’t — if it came down to choice. The only reason Changbin would’ve disappeared like this, suddenly and wordlessly, is if he was taken.

Pulse hammering loudly in your ears, you don’t hear Jisung announce that your destination is only a few hundred meters down the road. Without his emphatic pointing out the windshield ahead, you simply would’ve continued racing forward, taking the speed limit as a suggestion to be ignored. Thankfully, your lead foot switches to the brake with enough time to make your turn. Tires hit dirt; your car fishtails as it transitions from the road to the worn-out path to your right.

“The fuck is this place?” You mutter, more to yourself than to Jisung.

It’s obsolete, you know that much.

Something akin to an industrial park, but one that clearly hasn’t been used since before the War. There are electrical towers dotting a perimeter around the space, none of which are operational; the grid system was replaced by wind power, then by solar energy no fewer than fifty years ago. The driveway below is so cracked that patches of weeds have overtaken most of what remained of the pavement. All the rest is weathered, reduced to broken bits of cement and dirt.

Your car slows to a stop halfway down the parkway, surrounded on both sides by empty storage units with doors either broken or missing entirely. Hair raising on the back of your neck, you park but don’t kill the engine. Slowly, you rest your right hand over top of the holster strapped to your thigh and open your car door with your left.

The sun set a few hours into your drive. Its absence hasn’t done a damn thing to break the thick heat waiting for you outside. Humid air settles on your skin and leaves a sheen of sweat behind like a handprint, sticky.

“These were the coordinates,” Jisung affirms with a sigh. He stays seated inside the vehicle, leaving you to wonder why. He’s either too panicked to move, or correct in assuming you’d tell him to sit his unarmed ass back down before you made him.

You don’t respond.

Instead, your eyes continue to scan the property for signs of — well, anything. Movement, a heat signature, whatever might register on your optical mods. There’s nothing, save for the stray tumbleweed somersaulting across the empty lot. You narrow your eyes to zoom in, heart pounding with anticipation.

You almost scream when you see it, but you swallow the urge. Fear won’t do you any good, but the semi-automatic strapped to your thigh might. It’s in your palm before you can blink, cocked and aimed at the figure ahead. At the bottom of your field of vision, your ammo count glows in translucent, block letters.

So, the ballistic co-processor is worth the pain.

Their posture is casual, legs dangling from the metal catwalk they sit on. Their elbows rest against the railing in front of them, as if they’re leaning on a counter in a bar and not spying on you from a scaffold four meters overhead. The way they’re watching in silence is unsettling enough; the wooden tal obscuring their face is fucking nightmare fuel, if you’ve ever seen it.

Head tilted curiously to the side, the stranger stares down at you through small eye holes, wooden mouth frozen in a hand-carved smile. Whoever they are, they’re immersed in the bit. They exaggerate every slow movement for their audience of two.

Good for them, you scoff to yourself.

Gloved hands come up to pantomime “don’t shoot” mere seconds before they grab hold of the railing in front of them. Just as quickly, they swing themselves underneath with a kick of their legs until they’re falling, falling, falling towards the ground below. They land easily on their feet without so much as a grunt. All the while, dust swirls in pirouettes around their ankles, spot-lit by your car’s headlamps.

“What — what the fuck?” Jisung squeaks.

You don’t answer, but that doesn’t stop him from repeating his question, over and over.

Hands still raised, the stranger slowly closes the distance between you. Their fingers wiggle slightly in some demented version of a wave; they’re taunting you. The unhealed part of you wants to shoot those fingers off, one by one.

You’ve never been fond of clowns.

“If you like having kneecaps without bullets in them, I suggest you stay still, chingu,” you scoff, now more annoyed than alarmed.

To your surprise, they listen. Their feet still, side by side; and their hands stay where you can see them. That is, until they curl all of their fingers into their palm, except for their right index finger. With it, they point silently over your shoulder.

As soon as you can whip your neck around, a gloved fist collides with your temple. The last thing you see before your vision goes black is a second, wooden smile looming over you.

A hushed tone manages to nudge you awake.

“You really can’t keep doing this. Seriously, your people skills are awful.”

The whole world’s blurry, and you can’t make out the source of the sound, but you’re coherent enough to know it when a second voice chimes in. It’s much less gentle than the first, higher in pitch and twice as exasperated. It snaps, “She was armed.”

“I had it under control,” the first voice huffs.

The two seem to be too lost in their argument to notice your eyelids fluttering or your fingers twitching. Your wrists aren’t bound, you realize, but that fact doesn’t help you much in your current state. Back resting heavily against the thin nylon cloth of a cot, it’d take more energy than you have to spare in order to get to your feet. Worse, your eyes don’t seem interested in cooperating.

They should be by now.

They’re open, you’re conscious, and —

Motherfucker.

The more awake you become, the more the ache in your temple reverberates down your jaw. You know without looking that the right side of your face is bruised to hell and back. Scraped up, too, if you had to guess; you hit the gravel like a bag of bricks.

They must’ve done it on purpose, hitting you exactly where they needed to in order to scramble your visual input. The most you get is shapes, black and white static. It wasn’t the hardest knock you’d ever taken to the head — not by a long shot — but it was perfectly targeted and timed.

Clearly, they’re no amateurs.

One such shadow kneels down next to you. Gentle fingers tuck a strand of hair behind your ear while their other hand tilts your drooping head to the side.

They tut, “Just look at what you did to her face.”

“From what I’ve heard, she’s been through worse,” the second voice scoffs. You watch the shadow’s shoulders as they shrug, wishing you could focus on their face well enough to bash it in.

The retort comes quickly, but it doesn’t come in Korean.

“That doesn’t mean you can’t do better.”

The hands that gently cradle your face pull away, leaving you cold. The action itself isn’t as jarring as the sudden use of English, though — especially the accent it’s spoken with. You may not be fluent, but you can sense what’s missing: the consonant on the end of that last word.

You sense something else, too, but you’re still too disoriented to follow that thought from start to finish. It’s on the tip of your tongue, just out of reach.

Who — ?

The bastard that broke your brain must notice your face scrunching in confusion because their next words seem to be aimed at you. Clipped and unapologetic, they mutter, “Should be fine within the hour. Already been out for —”

They suck in a breath through their teeth. You can’t tell if they’re stalling in order to toy with you, or if they’re genuinely doing the math.

“— Seven hours or so, now.”

Fuck!

One of the two snorts out a laugh; it’s the only reason you piece it together that you spoke out loud. Emboldened by the confirmed functionality of your voice, you speak again without thinking it through first.

You don’t care where you are or who you’re with. You only have one question:

“Is Changbin still alive? Because if he is, I’ll kill him myself.”

The man kneeling next to your cot chuckles, soft and low, but he doesn’t acknowledge your question beyond that. Instead, he addresses his hamfisted friend. “Can you please get her some water?”

“Am I a waiter now, Yongbok-ah?” The other snips, though his tone is devoid of any real heat. If his face wasn’t blurred out of existence, you’d likely find a sneer on it. “Should I roll some gimbap for her, too?”

“Actually, you should,” counters this Yongbok. His response is buried so deeply under his breath that his back talk may as well be a secret for your ears only. “Punched her clean into the next weekday — so, yeah. It’s the least you could do.”

It grows silent enough that you can hear every incredulous footstep as the waiter storms off.

The remainder says, “Sorry about him,” and for whatever little it’s worth, he sounds like he means it. You say nothing, simply marinating in your resentment.

Meanwhile, he shifts from his knees in order to sit fully on the ground next to your cot. Elbows extended, he leans back onto his palms and sighs gently, “Minho’s not as bad as the first impressions he makes.”

You scoff so forcefully that you feel it in your sinuses. “This is the second. His first is the reason I can’t see who’s holding me hostage.”

“Whoa, whoa, whoa!” The shape beside you sits up suddenly. He sputters, “You’re not a hostage, and this isn’t a kidnapping —”

“Then what the fuck is it?” You snap, “Huh, Yongbok?”

Blindly, you throw out a half-balled fist in a half-baked attempt to even the score. It misses by a mile, nearly knocking you off balance in the process. Your wrist is encircled by the same warm fingers you felt before, doubling over but exerting no force.

“We were scouting you. You know, like, soccer?” He chuckles sheepishly. “Changbin mentioned that you were a free agent, so to speak, and we thought you might wanna join the team.”

What the fuck?

“And — it wasn’t supposed to wind up like this.” His shadow’s hands gesture vaguely at the room you can’t see. “I did try to warn you. You just didn’t turn around in time.”

There are too many questions swirling around in your skull to choose from. One of them must break free and nudge your retinal chip back into place because something turns the lights back on. Glitching wildly, your vision flickers from low contrast to high definition. It doesn’t hurt, but the surprised gasp you choke out could easily be interpreted that way.

The man next to you is back on his knees in a second, both hands finding your shoulders to either comfort you or immobilize you — and you aren’t sure which. Against your better judgment, you ignore the reflex that tells you to fight or flee. Instead, you reach out and touch his cheekbone to confirm that the faint spots you see are freckles and not lingering sensory damage on your part.

He doesn’t even blink, much less say a word. There’s no jerk to get away, and there’s not a single question asked about what the fuck you’re doing — just tolerance. Far more than you’d be extending if the roles were reversed.

Freckles.

You aren’t embarrassed, but you drop your hand quickly and scowl at him until he does the same. Once again, he raises them as he leans back. Notably, he doesn’t wiggle his fingers like the first time you crossed paths.

That reminds me —

Abruptly, you draw your arm back to deck him in earnest.

Just like the last time, he catches you before you can strike him; however, instead of capturing your wrist, it’s the entirety of your fist. His palm absorbs the shock, fingers closing around your hand. It’s the gentlest trap you’ve ever been ensnared in, which you hate.

Smart of you to prevent another attempt.

“Can I finish explaining myself?” He asks, voice soft.

Bright doe eyes scan over your face cautiously as he contemplates letting your hand go. It’s disarming, sure, but you’d rather die than admit it.

You give him absolutely nothing to work with, so he adds, “You can hit me when I’m done, if you still want to.”

All you give him in return is a glare, which he somehow correctly interprets as permission to keep going. The grip on your fist loosens, although it wasn’t constricting to begin with. Like nothing happened, you pull it away and cross your arms.

As if nonchalance has ever been your strong suit.

He stares at you, deep in thought, for longer than you know what to do with. Eyes sweeping over your features like he’ll be quizzed later, taking in every detail. It’s unsettling — what about you is even worth gawking at?

When he frowns, that spark of light in his eyes stays put. “You don’t remember me.”

It’s not a question because he isn’t asking; he’s telling. And you have no goddamn clue what he means, no matter how loudly the voice in your head screams that you should. The familiarity buzzing through your brain can’t place him — not the button of his nose, not even those fucking freckles.

“I don’t know anyone named Yongbok,” you counter, frustration evident.

You wouldn’t be this harsh if you know how not to be. Part of you feels guilty when you see the hurt flicker across his face, but both emotions — his and yours — are gone as quickly as they appear. Consequently, the walls stay up, refusing to give. Despite you, the corner of his mouth hitches up in a lopsided version of a smile.

That’s familiar, too.

“Never really went by it,” he chuckles. As he does, he tilts his head quizzically.

Another bell rings, yet you can’t name the note.

Shyly, he takes his half-smile with him and looks anywhere else. The anticipation is spinning cartwheels in your stomach, tingling down the back of your neck, and you’re seconds away from trying to smack the trapped words right out of him.

Who are you to me?

After a deep breath in and out, he glances back at you from the corner of his eye. His hesitation does nothing to prepare you for his response, which isn’t his name at all. It’s yours — a nickname, more specifically. One no one has used in damn near a decade.

“Been a while, Scraps. Hasn’t it?”

Felix has never seen anyone freeze the way you do when the realization finally hits. For a minute, he worries that Minho did more damage to your poor brain than either of them initially diagnosed; it wouldn’t be the first time. Minho’s never been known to be careful or tactful.

Your silence — and your total lack of physical response — doesn’t last, though. He nudges your kneecap with his knuckles just to make sure you can feel it. You blink rapidly, as if you’re just now remembering how.

He starts to ask, “Are you ok—?”, but your fist flies out, pops him right in the jaw, and he chokes on the rest of that question. Hands flying up to cover his face, he collapses back onto the floor with a groan. When the initial shock wears off, it dissolves into laughter that shakes his shoulders.

Honestly, what did he expect?

In a flash, you shove yourself off your cot. You’re on top of him before he can blink, pinning him down. You grip his shirt in one fist and raise the other. He braces himself for impact but doesn’t flinch, too taken aback by the fury you’re capable of communicating without a single word.

“You’re fucking with me,” you spit, breaking the silence.

Your glare is borderline feral — burning — and that makes him laugh even harder.

“You haven’t changed a bit, you know that?”

To both of your surprise, you don’t hit him again; you don’t even try. You freeze, but unlike the last time, your eyes are shaking. Your raised arm is, too, like it’s taking all you have to keep whatever you’re feeling to yourself.

Classic Scraps.

You mutter, “You’re dead,” and it’s not a threat.

Not even close, really. It’s a declaration, one accompanied by an expression that’s as close to vulnerable as he’s ever seen from you. All at once, you lower your arm; the rest of you slumps, too. Whispering, you repeat, “You’re dead.”

Something about your tone hurts worse than the burgeoning bruise near his mouth. It aches, even more so when he frowns. You deserve an explanation — an apology, too — but Felix doesn’t know where the fuck to start.

Maybe he should cash that reality check first.

“Is that what people are saying?” He asks.

He’s not sure what about that trips him up. It makes perfect sense that this is the conclusion people wound up jumping to. After all, he left without a word and never came back — didn’t leave a trace, either.

Felix wasn’t the first teenager to slip through the cracks, so he’d figured that his would be another run-of-the-mill disappearance. Sure, people tend to notice when kids go missing; but that doesn’t stop the world from turning. Sooner or later, people stop looking, either too busy or too hopeless to keep holding a torch.

Eventually, they forget.

At least, that was the reality Felix had subscribed to — that, after a while, he’d slipped through the cracks of collective consciousness. It was easier to tell himself that he wasn’t missed. His guilt couldn’t keep him up at night if nobody remembered that he existed in the first place; especially when a decade slipped past in his absence.

But you did remember.

You missed him.

You lift your knee so that you’re no longer straddling him and drop onto your back at his side.

It’s funny, he thinks as he stares up at the ceiling. The two of you spent years just like this, albeit on the hood of some junkyard sedan. Two pairs of wide eyes were always fixed on constellations, dreaming of something bigger than both of you. Of some future where you weren’t still stuck in the gutter.

“There was no trace of you anywhere.” You speak so softly that Felix is left to wonder whether you’re talking to him or yourself. “No records that you fled, no word from you, no hits on CCTV — nothing. The cops said there’d be a trail if…”

Your voice fades out before you can finish that thought, so Felix picks up where you left off: “If I was alive to leave one.”

There’s a long pause before you speak again.

“This is where you disappeared to?”

He feels a shift beside him. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees the way you’ve tilted your head to gaze at him. By the time he does the same, the moment is gone, and you’re taking in the room around you.

It’s not much, but it’s all he has: A small room in a decommissioned factory, smelling faintly of sawdust despite not containing any. The cot you just sprang from is where he’s spent most nights since he was fifteen.

The floor underneath it — underneath you — is more dirt than concrete now, no matter how many times he’s scrubbed it; and the few iron shelves that hang along each wall are just as gross. So are the knickknacks he’s set on them, but he doesn’t mind.

The site itself is long forgotten. It’d be an eyesore if anyone ever looked, but no one bothers.

Even satellites have stopped paying it any attention, leaving it to fade into dirt and obscurity, not even a shadow of what it used to be. Once plush and inviting, the surrounding forest was leveled in a firefight that ended with ninety-percent of the nearby buildings getting blown to shit.

The New Republic could’ve easily organized a relief team to dig through the shattered city. At any point in the last fifty years, they could’ve rebuilt what burned in that failed uprising, but they didn’t; and Felix knows they never will because that rubble has a function. Apart from burying one of the country’s most impoverished districts, it serves as a cautionary tale. A threat left behind to the masses: this is what happens when people pose risk to profits.

Still, flowers can grow within cracks in concrete. After all, his life with you started just a few kilometers away.

“Are we still in Changwon, or did you and that asshole drag me out of the province?”

That edge of yours is ever present, and Felix is glad. It’s one of the million things he’s missed about you; a feature on the long list of reasons he wishes he could’ve called — messaged, sent a smoke signal, anything — to keep you around in whatever capacity he could.

But he didn’t.

He couldn’t.

Felix feels the weight of a lost decade sitting heavy on his chest, so he does what he always does: he chooses light. Smiling brightly, he asks, “D’you remember that junkyard we used to run away to after curfew?”

You roll your eyes. You don’t have to say it out loud; he knows you do. The two of you spent more time there than you did in your own homes, lining glass bottles along the wooden fence posts and firing stones at them with a homemade slingshot.

“We’re a few kilometers up the road, actually.”

At this, you sit up so that no part of your body stays pressed against his. Dead silence settles in the space between you like a brick wall. You bristle, then you snap, “All that time you were dead, you were still within spitting distance?”

Felix opens his mouth to respond, but your rigid posture makes it clear that you have no desire to listen. He closes it again without saying a word. It’s what he deserves, isn’t it?

“Traded in your family, your home, your — Me.” You clear your throat to hide the fact that your voice breaks. It’s too late. “And for what, Felix? To haunt some abandoned building like a ghost?”

You clench your fists, like a grip tight enough might keep you together. That part of you hasn’t changed either, it seems. Neither has the extremely unsettling way you get quieter, the more upset you are. Just like that, he’s reminded of what you used to say: the more it hurts, the less it shows.

“I couldn’t pick you out of a fucking lineup despite all of that history,” you whisper, deflated. “And you were here the whole time.”

Talking won’t do him much good, so Felix opts to show you. Palms pressed to the ground, he pushes himself to his feet, and he doesn’t bother dusting off the back of his pants once he stands. It won’t make a difference, anyway, when the whole damn city is covered in it.

Once he steadies himself, he extends his hand to you, half-expecting you to slap it away. You don’t budge. You never do, he recalls fondly.

“One chance?” His eyes are pleading, even though you don’t look up to meet them. “It’s hard to explain, but it’ll make more sense if you see it.”

Without looking, you lift your arm and slap your hand into his. A small concession, but it’s enough to make his smile reappear. He’s practically beaming when he hauls you to your feet, and you grip his forearms to keep steady.

“Fine,” you concede with a huff.

Then, you round on him with one pointed finger, jabbing him in the center of his chest with force. It’ll bruise, but he supposes that’s the whole point.

“This better be worth all the fucking theatrics, or I swear to god —”

“You’ll make me swallow my own teeth?” He rolls his eyes with a low chuckle and tugs you along after him on his way to the door. “Yeah, yeah, yeah — Heard that threat a thousand times, Scraps, and you’ve never once made good on it.”

Just to emphasize his point, he looks over his shoulder at you and grins with all thirty-two of them.

All things considered, you take everything in stride. You don’t react much at all when you discover that the abandoned building is anything but; refuse to bat an eye when the two people you woke up to are revealed to be a tiny fraction of the whole.

You even keep your hand in his as he ushers you from room to room — through the clinic, the makeshift and woefully under-equipped armory, the Hub — and introduces you to whoever you come across. He might even go so far as to call you friendly, which is a first. Receiving any kind of warmth from you typically requires high-level security clearance.

Or, at least, it used to. Felix has to remind himself more than once that, small echoes aside, there are parts of you he doesn’t know anymore. This could very well be one of them.

Halfway through the tour, you finally offer up more than a lukewarm greeting and your name. It’s just the two of you now; you don’t have to make yourself palatable anymore. Blunt as ever, you throw out, “This is a cult, right? You ran away from home to join a cult?”

There she is, he thinks.

Felix pulls a face in disapproval, which you either don’t catch or don’t care about. Instead, you turn your head in the opposite direction and let your gaze sweep over the loading dock you currently stand upon.

It’s the closest thing they’ve got to a sitting room, filled with the only comfortable furniture they could get their hands on — half-busted arm chairs, ratty old couches, tables held together with duct tape and a prayer. You drop suddenly onto one such couch, jerking him back until his ass winds up next to yours on a tattered cushion.

Felix can’t tell if you pulled him down on purpose, or if you simply forgot that you were holding onto him. Either way, he doesn’t mind, but part of him hopes it was the former.

“It’s a collective,” he corrects you, lips flattening into a firm, straight line.

“You don’t have to sugarcoat it. If it’s a sex cult, just say so.”

He tries not to laugh — really, he does — because the last thing you need is an enabler, but your deadpan delivery has always hit him where he’s weakest. He tries again while swallowing a chuckle: “It’s the Black Screen, home to the most talented and ungovernable motherfuckers on the peninsula.”

You don’t look impressed. Felix doesn’t take it to heart.

“We’ve got a reconnaissance team, netrunners —”

As if he’s doing a roll call, he points to nearby stragglers with every position he names.

“— corporate defectors, combat vets, medics, ex-fixers —”

He nudges you with his elbow, wiggles his eyebrows and murmurs, “— Edge runners —”

If that look in your eye is any indication, you still hate it when he does that.

“And a couple of wayward drunks who — well…” Felix pauses for a moment to think. It doesn’t help, so he shrugs, snickering, “I dunno how they got here, and they don’t contribute much, but they’re fun to have around!”

The corner of your mouth twitches, ever so slightly. He grins down at you, as if to say gotcha.

“So, it is a sex cult,” you repeat flatly after a beat.

Felix can’t beat your bit, so he may as well join you in it. Bested, he sighs, “Yeah, pretty much.”

You hum in acceptance of his defeat, clearly amused by how easily he still gives in to you.

With pursed lips, you continue to take in your surroundings. Your brow furrows while you process the information you’ve been bombarded with so far, but you don’t offer up any further questions or snide comments. Thankfully, the silence that falls over you both feels a lot less like lead than the previous one.

Felix’s gaze stays fixed on you, though you’re too busy looking elsewhere to notice. Maybe you couldn’t recognize him, but shit — he’d know you anywhere, anytime. You’ve gotten older, of course, finally grew into those features of yours. Still, there are hints of the kid he used to know hidden all over your face.

Original traits aside, the new additions — the tattoos, for starters — all read like you. In fact, Felix is fairly confident that he’d know who they belonged to, even if the other context was removed. After all, the cyberware installed into your hand can’t undermine the familiarity of it resting against his palm.

And it sure as shit still hits like it used to.

He considers it a blessing, really, that so much of you survived the years that flew by without him. That the scrawny girl next door — ready and willing to fight God over a single slight — still rolls her eyes the same way, still speaks in that satoori his non-native tongue could never mimic.

“Maybe I’m missing something,” you announce suddenly. The unexpected sound of your voice startles Felix so much that he jumps, knocking his shoulder into yours in the process. You ignore his reaction and continue, “This just looks like someone is collecting people as a hobby. What are you all doing here?”

Oh.

Yeah, that’s a fair question.

“We’re… starting a fire,” Felix muses.

You arch an eyebrow expectantly, although the rest of your face remains impassive. It’s less of a demand for him to continue than it is permission for him not to stop.

“And we’re going to burn it all down.” He hits you with a devilish grin, drops his voice low in a way that makes you shiver involuntarily. “The corpo-rats, the lies they sell — all of it.”

“Sounds like anarchy,” you say, tilting your head to the side. There’s a beat, then you grin to match his. “Sign me up.”

Felix stands at the far side of the dining area with his arms crossed and his head leaning back against the cinder blocks behind him. His legs are crossed at the ankles, knees aching from the sheer amount of time he’s been holding the wall up.

As much as his body wants to sit, the rest of him is out of options. The only table that isn’t full is the one you’re occupying with Changbin and Jisung. After the day you’ve had, you deserve time alone with something familiar. He recognizes that he isn’t that.

Not anymore — and not yet, either.

He finds it hard to stray too far, though. You’ve always been able to fend for yourself — that black-and-blue jaw of his is proof enough — but it’s a role he can’t help falling into, looking out for you. Muscle memory.

Although Felix can’t quite make out anything that the three of you are saying, it’s clear as a damn bell when you slam your palms down on the table. Just as obvious is the split second in which your anger gives way — when the pain in your right hand finally registers in your brain.

“That one going to be a problem?”

Hyunjin, as usual, seems to appear out of thin air. He sidles up to Felix and takes up the spot next to him along the wall. All it takes is one quick glance to confirm it — he’s exhausted. Dark half-moons sit in the wells beneath his eyes like ink, silently informing Felix of yet another all-nighter; still keeping secrets as to where he goes at night when everyone else is sleeping.

But Hyunjin isn’t a mystery Felix will ever be able to solve, so he looks back in your direction and asks, “Who, Scraps?” Then, with a shake of his head, he sighs, “No. She’s a cherry bomb, but she’s reliable. Far more than most, actually.”

It’s odd, Felix thinks, that Hyunjin didn’t already know the answer to that question. As the reconnaissance leader of the Black Screen, there isn’t much Hyunjin isn’t aware of. Felix doesn’t comment on that piece, however. Instead, he does his best to interpret your reaction.

“If I had to guess, Changbin just told her about the fake kidnapping.”

And Hyunjin doesn’t do a damn thing to conceal his smirk. That was his plan, after all.

Two weeks ago, Seo Changbin stumbled upon a lead by accident. While Felix isn’t privy to the details of what Changbin dug up, he knows it must’ve been significant. That’s the only explanation Felix can come up with as to how Changbin wound up at the rendezvous point. Nobody — not the corporate ghouls, their war dogs, or any other sorry soul — finds the Black Screen unless they want to be found.

Felix is privy to what happened next because it’s the only reason he wound up involved in this at all:

Whatever intel Changbin had was groundbreaking enough to score an invitation to the revolution, but he had more to offer the higher-ups than that. He dropped the name of someone who could be an asset, under the right circumstances. Someone who wouldn’t follow a breadcrumb trail for free but would tear the peninsula apart to find whoever owed them.

For what it’s worth, Felix disagreed with that characterization the second he heard it. Despite the mask you like to wear, you’re incapable of being self-centered. You’ve never been profit-driven, heartless, or attachment-avoidant. Just hellbent on survival for you and the people you feel responsible for, even as a kid.

The only reason Felix hasn’t asked you about your motive outright is because he knows you’d lie. The truth is simple: Unless it was for someone you care deeply about, you wouldn’t waste gasoline on speeding back to a place you hate.

Hyunjin clears his throat, pulling Felix out of the daze he’d fallen into. Given the pointed look on his face, Hyunjin must be repeating himself when he says, “She got you bad, huh?”

Confusion forces Felix’s brow to furrow.

“This?” He takes a wild guess and gestures to the bruise on his jaw before waving dismissively. “Nah, her form is terrible. Truly garbage-tier follow-through. I can teach her, though.”

Hyunjin pushes himself off the wall and moves to exit the dining area. As he passes by, he gives Felix a patronizing pat on his shoulder. “Not what I meant, Yongbokie.”

Felix frowns, unsure how to take what he’s being given.

The fuck?

“Not even close,” Hyunjin calls over his shoulder.

He shoots Felix a wink, and then he’s gone, disappearing out the door the same way he entered it — like a goddamn apparition.

“Wow. Recruited? That’s — wow.”

Jisung is doing a terrible job of pretending he isn’t blushing. He clears his throat to keep his voice even, but it’s useless. He’s not fooling anyone.

“I didn’t realize we were so sought after.”

“You’re not,” Changbin responds bluntly. He gestures across the table to you but maintains his eyes on Jisung. “She is. You just happened to be present, and they couldn’t leave a witness behind.”

Jisung doesn’t bother to hide the way his face falls. When he opens his mouth to whine, you raise your hand and silently demand that he spare you the earache. It seems to work; he slumps dejectedly and leans with his elbows against the tabletop. You proceed to ignore him.

Affect flat, you stare straight ahead at the source of all your fucking problems. The half of you that wants to hug Changbin for being alive and well is significantly quieter than the half of you that wants to grab him by the nape of his neck and shove his face into his yukgaejang.

Bastard.

“I no longer give a shit how I ended up here,” you state coolly. Liar. “That ship has sailed, and to keep it a buck with you, Binnie —”

He cringes at the nickname, which is exactly the reaction you sought.

“— I’m not interested in stroking your ego for getting one over on me. It won’t happen again. What I’m still waiting on —”

The only reason you leave that clause hanging in mid-air is to see the anticipation stir in his eyes. From where you’re sitting, it’s what he deserves: a little bit of unnecessary suspense. Really, it’s a form of reparations for the giant fucking inconvenience he’s been lately. His balance is way past due.

Jisung, perpetually along for the ride, shovels shrimp chips into his mouth while his eyes dart back and forth between your face and Changbin’s.

You shoot Changbin a sly smile and grab his beer, tilting the can his way in lieu of a bow. His eyes narrow, visibly annoyed with your stalling, but he doesn’t audibly complain when you down the rest of his drink. Resigned, he accepts the empty can that you hand it back to him

At long last, you clear your throat.

“— is an explanation for why you’re here,” you finally sigh.

Changbin rolls his eyes so hard that they go all-white for a moment. Then, to your surprise, he glares across the table at Jisung.

“You know, my life was way more pleasant before you dragged this one,” he huffs, gesturing to you with his chopsticks, “Into my bar.”

Just for a moment, Changbin sits with his annoyance. He’s entitled to some of it, you’ll concede. You’re not easy to love — you never have been — and you’re occasionally even harder to like. Despite that, he’s been known to look out for you in his own, mostly useless way; even in moments like this, when you’re being a fucking gash simply because you can.

But the fact remains that you dragged your ass across a peninsula for him. He knows damn well that you accept payment in the form of secrets when cash is too hard to come by, so….

“Spill,” you demand.

That tough exterior of his collapses like wet cardboard, just like you knew it would. He glances around the room quickly to confirm that no one is listening in, then he pushes his empty bowl out of the way. With the threat of staining his white t-shirt neutralized, Changbin leans in and asks, “Do either of you know Jung Wooyoung?”

Simultaneously, you and Jisung respond:

“The boxer?”

“The biter.”

Just the same, your friends turn to you with identical looks of bewilderment. You shrug, declining to elaborate because Changbin asked if you knew him, not how or how intimately. Truth be told, you’re not sure that he’s prepared for that answer.

“Anyways,” Changbin segues after clearing his throat. “He’s not up to either of those tasks these days.”

Genuinely curious, Jisung asks with a frown, “Did someone finally kill him?”

Fair question, you think.

With the way Wooyoung runs his mouth, it’s a wonder he’s lived as long as he has — assuming, of course, that he’s still alive. Beyond picking fights with people three times’ his size, his specialties include fixing matches and swiping other fighters’ significant others. If he’s not dead yet, you figure, it’s only a matter of time until the consequences of his antics come calling.

Changbin shakes his head, and the look on his face seems weirdly solemn, like the answer is even worse than that. It’s sobering; it knocks the smirk right off your face.

“He was short on cash, so he signed up for some clinical trial promising a million won for participants.”

Jisung, the resident non-doctor, sits up at this development. “Thanotech?”

You’re in the middle of rolling your eyes when Changbin intercepts, grimacing: “No, that’s the fucked up part. Well, one of the fucked up parts.”

Two pairs of expectant eyes lock on him.

“It’s Ulsan running the trial.”

You don’t pretend to be well-versed in any of the biomedical, cybernetic shit going on around you, but you do know that this particular corporation never leaks details of its research and development — not ever. Doing so would run the risk of a lesser titan swooping in to try and to dupe it.

But that’s not the only revelation that smacks you upside the head.

“Ulsan pays for lab rats now?” You scoff, surprised by your own interest. “Here I was, thinking they used ex-employees for that shit.”

It sounds callous when you say it out loud, but it’s a universal assumption. Part of the New Republic’s mythology, so to speak.

In your lifetime, you’ve never come across a single person who used to work for the Ulsan Corporation — not one. Just the same, you’ve never heard about anyone leaving; no one you’ve ever met has. It’s beyond the realm of possibility that a corporation like that has no turnover, so where do people go when their turn is over?

The dumpster out back, some say. According to others, they wind up in a secret mass grave in the oil fields.

“When he came back, I didn’t know where he’d been or why; I just saw him wandering around like a fucking zombie.” Changbin shivers. “He’s empty now, all sucked dry.”

Jisung looks pointedly at you, shit-eatin grin tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Is that what happened when you —?”

An elbow to the center of his chest stops his question before he can finish asking it. He yelps instead, scooting his chair further down the table to get away from you, your sharp edges, and your even sharper glare.

“It freaked me the fuck out, and I didn’t have any answers, so I started poking around for something — anything — that might make sense of it.”

“So, that’s how you got pulled into the web.”

The voice from nowhere makes all three of you jump. You whip around to find yet another stranger.

How many fucking people do I have to meet today?

This particular wild card sits on top of the table directly behind yours with arms gently crossed over her chest; not closed off but cold, judging by the goosebumps making themselves known across her bare arms. Her boots rest on the chair in front of her, one chrome leg shining next to flesh-and-blood.

Whoever she is, she’s beaming. That fact confuses the shit out of you because you’re not often met with friendliness, especially from unknowns. Or maybe, you think, it’s a well-concealed effort to disarm you. Whatever it is, it’s working; the urge to snap at her for intruding is dead on arrival.

You open your mouth to ask what she means, but you can’t get the words out before someone else interjects.

Minho, that bastard, shouts from across the room, “Spider! Got a minute?”

Her eyes light up in a way that says she has several, so long as he’s the one asking. Without another word, she hops to her feet and pushes the chair that held them back under the table. As she heads his way, she sends you an apologetic smile, like she somehow owes you anything.

“I don’t know what they unraveled by pulling that thread,” Changbin sighs, nodding towards the pair exiting the room. “But this place has been buzzing since I got here.”

You need something to chew on that isn’t this, so you reach over and grab the bag of shrimp chips from Jisung’s unsuspecting hands. The frown he gives you is cartoonish, but as usual, he doesn’t put up a fight. Your version of an apology is holding a spare chip out to him, which he happily accepts.

After shoveling a handful into your mouth, you mumble, “So now what?”

“I don’t know about you, but if these guys —” Changbin gestures vaguely around the room with his index finger pointed. “— Give me a target to point at, I’ll pull the trigger.”

You snort, “That’s a lot of trust.”

It doesn’t mean much, coming from you. Your metric is beyond fucked, and you know it. That word is foreign, though; so far out of your grasp that you can’t wrap your brain around it.

“Maybe it is,” Changbin mutters while he looks down at the empty can in his grip.

For a moment, that’s all he says. All he does is stare into the black hole of its opening, as if there’s some answer lurking in the emptiness below it. He must not find it, though, because he crumples the aluminum like a piece of scrap paper.

When he glances back up at you, you see the uncertainty in his eyes. It reads like fear, which manages to unsettle you.

“I just — I can’t see what I saw and do nothing.”

Your second month in the compound starts with a bang — no, a thud.

With your body being forcibly ejected from your cot, crashing onto the ground, and your jaw clenching shut quickly with a click of gritted teeth.

“How many fucking times are we doing this?” You growl, less than half-awake.

Already past today’s quota for rage, you form a fist and swing your arm back violently against the capsized cot; it scrapes along the cement floor and skitters further away from you. The sudden burst of movement doesn’t do anything to make you feel better, but it was worth a shot, you suppose.

Felix, whose sunshine smile is too goddamn bright for this hour, crouches down in front of you. He at least has the decency to look apologetic when he lilts, “Until you learn to wake up to an alarm, I fear.”

He pauses, eyes scanning for any genuine distress beyond your shitty mood.

“Does that hurt?” He frowns.

Bleary eyes follow his pointed finger to your elbow, now prickling with blood where you skinned it against the floor. It doesn’t; and you’re not even remotely concerned about it, so you swat his hand away without answering his question and shove yourself to your feet. Once standing, you wander over to your steamer trunk to grab something clean enough to wear.

The shadowy one, Hyunjin, brought your shit to you a week ago — thank god. He provided no explanation whatsoever for how he knew where you lived or how he managed to get inside your building, but you’re a beggar, not a chooser. You’d rather enable his burglary than keep wearing the same, re-washed clothes you came here with or borrowing from people you still don’t know well.

As you peel yesterday’s tank-top up and over your head, your gravelly voice flies out to Felix, who stands and moves to lean against the wall. “You at least going to feed me breakfast before you bore me with more target practice?”

That’s most of what your time together has been so far, anyway. The chain of command is sorting out details above your pay grade; and you condition yourself to jump as high as they may eventually ask you to.

Felix doesn’t answer you, which isn’t like him. You look at him out of the corner of your eye and find him staring up at the ceiling, like his life depends on it.

“What are you —?”

Oh.

You glance down, cutting your question off midway through. He’s giving you and your semi-exposed body privacy, that’s what.

Sensing blood in the water, you swim in to scoff, “You have no problem flipping my bed when I’m in it, but bras are where you draw the line? What kind of gentleman are you?”

Still averting his eyes, he rolls them. You do him the favor of tugging on a different, slightly wrinkled tank-top; but you don’t give him the courtesy of letting up.

“Where do you stand on ass, Felix?”

“Are you always this annoying, first thing in the morning?”

Amusement slips through the cracks despite his efforts to conceal it. You slip out of the cotton shorts you slept in, dip your toes under the fabric pooled around your ankles, and flick them at him. He concedes his staring contest to the panels overhead in order to catch them.

Impressive reflexes.

“I’m this annoying at all hours of the day.” You grin impishly for just a second, then shrug. “You’re just less able to handle it, first thing in the morning.”

Bending back over your trunk, you dig through for something denim. You land on black, high-waisted shorts with a triumphant, “Aha!”, and make a big show of raising your trophy overhead. Once again, you glance at Felix to see if your attempt to get a rise out of him was successful. In a way, yes, it was — just not in the way you expected.

Based on the way his gaze lingers on your thighs and the curve of your ass, you don’t think Felix even noticed your theatrics. You don’t think he means to stare, either. As far as you can see, it’s the perfect opportunity to fuck with him further.

“Admiring the tattoos?” You arch an eyebrow and wait for him to blush out of panic at being caught. “I can recommend the artist, if you want to hit them up.”

To your surprise, you don’t rattle him. Dark eyes flick up from your body to your face, and they don’t seem ashamed of where they’ve been. Your plan backfires. More than that, it blows up right in your face, which is starting to heat up.

“The cantine closes in five minutes. Training starts in ten,” he states matter-of-factly, holding your gaze. “So, you can either eat, or you can keep pretending you’re not trying to flirt with me.”

Your mouth drops open, but you can’t even snap back at him before he chirps, “The choice is yours, Scraps,” with a playful smile.

With nothing more to say, Felix leans away from the wall. On his way out the door, he gives you a lazy, two-finger salute. Dumbstruck, you stand there, watching him leave; wondering where the hell your bumbling, sweetly shy friend from back home managed to disappear to.

“That’s exactly what I’m talking about.” Felix waggles his finger at you. A smug smile toys at his lips when you let out a frustrated grunt. “That’s the problem.”

He takes a step away from you, raises his fists to mimic your posture, and throws a right jab out into the air ahead of him. When he draws it back, he pauses with his shoulders even.

“D’you see the issue with this?” He asks, loosening one fist so that he can gesture from shoulder to shoulder.

You roll your eyes. “Is it that nobody’s currently hitting you?”

Felix, to his credit, is completely unbothered by the attitude you keep giving him. He’s far more patient than he should be with you. You, however, do not take criticism well.

“You square yourself off instead of retriggering an attack,” he gently corrects you. “By not turning and leading with your shoulder —” He twists slightly backwards, so that his body is angled similarly to the way it was when he struck in the first place. “— you leave all this surface area open.”

Okay, fine.

You’ll concede that this makes sense, but you will not admit to poor blocking. In fact, deflecting is what you’re best at, so that’s precisely what you do.

“And how exactly am I supposed to block hits that aren’t coming?”

Felix relaxes his stance with confusion scribbled all over his face. You don’t wait for him to ask what you mean, plunging right into your notes for him:

“This sparring shit doesn’t feel real because you refuse to hit me. It’s been weeks, and there still aren’t any stakes. If you’re going to insist that I learn this — which, by the way, feels pointless when I’m already armed —”

You gesture down to your thigh, where your pistol is normally strapped.

“— then you have to make me care.”

He doesn’t say anything for a minute, opting instead to quietly chew on the challenge you’ve raised. For a split second, you think you’ve finally grasped the straw that’ll break his back. He turns towards the door and walks away, seemingly giving up on trying to teach a rabid dog new tricks.

But Felix defies your expectations yet again, grabs your gear off the counter at the far side of the room, and heads back to you. As he walks, he pulls back the slide to fish out the round that waits in its chamber. Bullet still in hand, his focus shifts to the magazine, which he easily removes from the base of your pistol’s grip. After tucking your ammunition into the back pocket of his jeans for safekeeping, he holds your now-empty firearm and thigh strap out to you.

“Gear up.”

Now, it’s your turn to be confused. You accept the items he pushes into your hands with both eyebrows raised.

“Are we giving up on hand-to-hand, then?”

“Absolutely not,” Felix snorts with a shake of his head. “I’m just going to prove the necessity.” When you don’t budge, he waves his hand to hurry you along. “C’mon, Scraps. Strap in.”

Eyeing him suspiciously, you slip the vertical strap over your belt loop and fasten it before doing the same to the horizontal piece around your thigh. Once it’s nestled snugly against your skin, you slide your weapon into its resting place.

Holding your hands up, you fire off a saccharine smile like the brat you are. “All done,” you chirp.

The smirk that appears on his face makes your stomach flip for two reasons, the least of which is the anticipation of his next move.

“You want it to feel real, right?” His voice drops so low that you feel it deep in your abdomen. “Fine by me.”

Like before, Felix steps slightly backwards. With a nod of his head towards your firearm, he challenges you, “Draw.”

It’s unfamiliar, seeing him counter you like this. Growing up, he was content to go in whichever direction you nudged him in. The version of Felix you knew back then was passive, agreeable to fault. You may not know what the fuck he’s planning now, but he radiates newfound authority that you almost want to respect, so you listen.

“Fine,” you demur while your fingertips trail over the cool, metal grip. “Make your point and move onto something useful.”

The next sequence of events flashes by so quickly that your brain can hardly keep up.

Just as soon as you pull the gun from its holster, Felix turns in his spot, channeling the momentum into a strong push off the ground. He’s in the air before you can even level the barrel; and in the blink of an eye, the side of his boot collides with your hand, forcefully ejecting the gun from your grip. The power behind his kick sends the weapon flying several meters away, where it clatters to the floor with a smack amidst the quiet.

Gasping more so out of surprise than pain, you recoil your stinging fist and clutch it to your chest. He reads your expression incorrectly, if his widened eyes are any indication. Immediately, Felix breaks his stance to step across the distance in between you.

Worried hands come to rest on your biceps, squeezing gently. He urgently asks, “You alright?”

You blink back at him, throughly stunned by how fucking fast his reflexes are, and he misinterprets that, too.

“Shit, I’m sorry,” he sputters. His next words come out so frantically that they bleed together over the course of one breath. “I really didn’t want to hurt you; I just needed you to understand that your gun can’t always save you. Sometimes, you have to —”

“That was insane,” you blurt out.

Felix’s eyes widen, caught completely off-guard by your interruption. It’s understandable, you think. After all, it’s the closest thing to a compliment you’ve given him over the past few weeks.

He peeps, “Oh?”

You nod vigorously — and there’s that sweetly shy boy from down the block, blushing slightly under the weight of your attention.

Somehow, seeing him this way feels like home; the one you knew before he disappeared, that you might actually admit to missing. Acting solely on instinct, you unfurl your right hand and seek out the warmth of his cheek, like it’ll flip a switch and turn the clock back.

It doesn’t. Of course, it doesn’t — but you can’t help feeling like this is fine, too.

Until you realize what the fuck you’re doing, and you see the starry-eyed look he’s giving you. Then, you do what you always do.

You dodge.

Patting his cheek patronizingly, you breeze, “I guess I’ll let you train me, then,” before turning to retrieve your gun.

“Oh, really now?” He laughs, like he’s already forgotten the way your mask just cracked. You can’t tell if you’re grateful for this, or disappointed. “Is violence all it takes to win you over?”

Disappointed.

You wish he’d called your bluff again, like he did so long ago in that closet you’re currently calling a bedroom. Once wasn’t enough; you want to be caught out, to have someone refuse to let you get away with the bullshit you’re always trying to pull. For some proof that you’re not the bulldozer you pretend to be.

Felix raises an eyebrow as he tilts his head teasingly to the side. “Are you actually going to shut up and take instruction this time?”

Like that.

“Maybe.” You crouch down to grab your discarded pistol off the ground, lips pursed to keep the satisfied smile off your face. “Are you going to stop pulling punches?”

Three weeks of sparring tick by before you manage to clean his fucking clock.

It came as a surprise to both of you; not just that Felix slipped up in the first place, but that you were fast enough to capitalize on an opening he’s otherwise never created. You might’ve gasped even louder than he did when you managed to seize the opportunity — but that memory is fuzzy already. It doesn’t matter, anyway, not to him. Either way, the point stands:

You actually learned from the shit he’s been trying to instill in you.

Having hobbled from the training room to his bedroom, Felix now sits on top of the old, metal counter that once served as a workbench. It’s not comfortable by any means, but he’d rather die than move from his current position. Between his knees, you stand close to him, holding a frozen sponge to his left eye with your right hand.

Funnily enough, that particular hand is the reason he needs an ice pack in the first place.

For a while, the pair of you exist in comfortable quiet. It’s nice, he thinks, just being present. He would’ve been happy to carry on that way for as long as possible, but the shitty voice in the back of his brain keeps yelling that he’s letting more moments slip by than he has to spare. Wasting time that he should be making up.

He clears his throat to shake off the rust, prompting you to glance down from his forehead to his eyes. Your expression is hard to read, but there’s anxiety in there, somewhere. Felix worries that you’re worried; you’re searching for a sign that you’ve somehow injured him further.

“You’re a quick study — if and when you want to be.” His teasing sounds pathetic because his voice is barely more than a groan. Still, he smirks, “Those corporate mercenaries won’t stand a chance.”

With his good eye, Felix watches as your mask cracks a little further in the shape of a smile.

For once, you simply nod in acknowledgement and let the compliment slip through your defenses without trying to deflect it. He wants to compliment you for that progress, too, but he’s hesitant to push his luck when he’s already flying half-blind by the seat of his pants.

Then again, it might be worth the risk to push the envelope — even if you succeed in punching his goddamn lights out for good. He doubts that he’d complain, if that were the case. You’d be an incredible last sight to ever see, wouldn’t you?

His internal monologue pipes up again, demanding that he gamble.

Every single muscle he has aches after spending hours sparring with you, but that’s not at all what he’s talking about when he says, “You’re a knockout, Scraps.”

It’s a cop out, but it’s something.

Just for a second, Felix wonders if you heard what he meant, and not just what he said. All his doubt disappears when that shy smile tugs even harder at the corners of your mouth.

“Shut up.” You roll your eyes, chuckling quietly. “If you want to get technical, you didn’t even lose consciousness —”

Carefully, you bring your free hand up to his forehead and brush flyaway strands of hair out of the way of the makeshift ice pack. By contrast, your fingertips are warm enough to simmer on his skin.

“— so you’ll have to try that joke again when you actually do.”

Although you could, you don’t take your hand back after unsticking his hair from the condensation on his skin. You lower it gently, let it rest on his shoulder, and leave Felix to wonder if it’s a choice, a convenience, or a reflex.

This eats at him.

A long time ago, this little gesture wouldn’t be something he’d have to guess at. He used to just understand, never once needed to be told. So far out of practice, he’s no longer fluent in your body language — and he hates it.

Unwilling to leave anything else up to interpretation, Felix looks up at you with one, unobstructed eye. “Wasn’t joking,” he murmurs.

You freeze without meeting his eyes.

If he didn’t know better, he might think your retinal mods had been knocked loose again. You don’t seem to see him, and that’s all he wants. All he gets is quiet, so he tries again: “And I’m not bullshitting you, either.”

It’s his low voice speaking your real name that finally draws you out of hiding. Surprised for just a moment, your expression softens when you notice the way he’s studying your reactions. You don’t speak at first, but your bottom lip is pinched between your teeth; a telltale sign that you’re trying to.

“Since this is apparently honesty hour,” you start with an exhale.

Felix braces himself for whatever evasive maneuver you’re going to throw next.

Shockingly, you don’t throw out a joke to change the subject. You take the ice pack off his eye so he can see you properly, set it down next to his thigh on the counter, and scrub your hands sheepishly over your face.

“You freak me the fuck out.”

You laugh despite yourself, and then you pause just like that; like you’re waiting on him to laugh at you, too. When he doesn’t, you take it as your cue to keep going: “Am I insane, or does this feel easy?

“I think both things can be true.” You shoot him a look that could — and might — kill him. He holds his hands up in surrender, but he keeps his eyes locked on you. “And I know you’re not used to easy.”

Felix doesn’t know what he expects you to do next, but your next move isn’t one he would’ve guessed. In the end, it’s your still-chilled palms reaching up to meet him, and your fingers filling the empty spaces between his. Brow furrowed, you study the way you fit together, like the words you’re searching for are hidden somewhere in the gaps of your chain-linked knuckles.

“I’m not used to it because I avoid it,” you correct him, frowning. “Easy scares the shit out of me. It just feels like a trap, you know? Like, the second you stop looking out for it, the other shoe will drop and knock your unsuspecting ass to the dirt.”

Keeping his fingers interlaced with yours, he lowers your joined hands until they rest against the tops of his thighs. You watch them go; he watches you, and he can’t help thinking that he’s the reason you armored up in the first place. That him leaving was the blow to the head that taught you to wear a helmet.

“I’ve got good reflexes,” Felix whispers, squeezing your hand.

At this, your eyes flick upwards. A microscopic crease forms between your eyebrows, and he knows exactly what’s coming next, so he says it first: “Excluding today, obviously.”

When you smile, it hits him even harder than your right hook did.

“What are you saying, exactly?” You ask, head tilting to the side as you narrow your eyes.

“Fuck the shoe.”

The look on your face suggests that he can’t possibly be serious, but he’s never been more so. Maybe he can’t promise you easy in a world like this one; and he can’t keep that fucking shoe from dropping, but he swears he’ll catch it when it does.

Felix has to let go of your hands to hold you properly. You lean into his touch when he snakes his arms around your waist; and you rest your forehead against his, careful not to press into the bruise that borders his eyebrow.

“I’ll make you a deal,” he whispers. You hum in reply, confirming your willingness to trade. “Kiss me now, and we’ll batten down the hatches later.”

Felix may have called you a quick learner, but you have to wonder what his basis for comparison is. From your vantage point, it’s him that catches on in a heartbeat, like nothing unexperienced is truly new to him.

Coincidentally, it’s also him that’s kneeling between your thighs, bearing the weight of your hinged knees over his shoulders and making you shake with his tongue alone.

“Fuck, fuck — nngh — fuck!”

It’s all you can say because it’s the best you can do.

Over and over, too drunk on the sensation of his mouth, you let profanity spill out of yours. He has you dripping in more ways than one, pooling on that godforsaken counter, and you can’t spare a single thought about the mess you’re making.

Every neuron fixates on him, the cotton-candy blue strands gripped tight between your fingers, and the way he devours you, like he’s making up for skipped meals.

“F-Felix,” you beg, breathless.

Looking up at you from under his lashes, he feigns innocence. It’s bullshit — he knows you’re on the brink of death, knows your whole damn body is buzzing — and his sweet smile doesn’t match his actions. You jolt, wailing, when another kitten lick trails over your clit.

“Hmm?” That low timbre of his vibrates through you when he pulls back, panting.

God, you’re spent already, but you can’t collapse until you know what he feels like, buried to the hilt in you. Something about that need makes you shiver; has your bottom lip quivering when you manage to squeak, “Please.”

Absolutely boneless, you slump against the wall behind you. With far more grace than you, Felix maneuvers his way out from under the tangle of your legs. He ensures that they fall gently back into place on the countertop.

“Gotta work on that stamina if you’re gonna help wage a war,” he teases.

The half-powered glare you shoot at him doesn’t stop him from leaning in and pressing a kiss to your forehead. It doesn’t keep his fingertips from tracing languid lines down the lengths of your bare thighs, either.

Your voice is fucked out and weightless, far softer than you’ve ever heard yourself sound. “Is that what this is? Conditioning?”

The hand not caressing your thigh comes up to cradle your jaw, like it’s something fragile. It’s the first time anyone’s touched you as if you’re breakable, worth protecting — and motherfucker, you’re one soft smile away from crying.

“No.”

He states it much more firmly than he kisses you. So gentle that you can’t believe it’s real until you taste yourself on him, so warm that you dissolve like a sugar cube on his tongue.

Fuck any other person that’s ever pressed their lips to yours and called it a kiss. They’re liars, all of them. One by one, their names disappear with every passing second in which you know better.

“Need you,” you moan into his mouth.

Fistfuls of his shirt can’t bring him close enough. Even when his head dips down and his lips are at your throat, the ache wins out. You crave him anywhere — everywhere — all over you.

“Going crazy —” You gasp when his teeth nip at your collarbone. “— waiting on you.”

Greedy hands drop to the button of his jeans, fumbling to no avail. Apparently, your dexterity flew out the window two orgasms ago. A frustrated whine jumps out after it, pushing your head back as it goes.

Felix’s low chuckle soothes you, but it’s nothing compared to the relief you feel when his hands nudge yours out of the way. That, too, is a drop in the bucket; bliss crashes in waves when there’s no denim left to separate you. His hands land on your hips, fingertips pressing into your flesh as he guides you further down his length.

Never — not fucking ever — have you made a sound quite as pathetic as the one you bury into the crook of his neck. You can’t classify it, not as a moan or a whimper. It’s desperate — loud. It’s an air raid siren; every fucking barricade you’ve built over the years being blown to smithereens.

This is it, you think.

Fuck your bank account.

Fuck staring at the sky and waiting for the other shoe to drop.

Fuck your contracts, your shithole apartment, and the million different ways you were set up to lose in this life.

This isn’t about you at all. It��s about you and him; all the space and time you’re dead set on reclaiming.

This is for us.

a/n: thank you so much for reading! i’ve been working on this since JUNE, and it’s a much bigger undertaking (creatively and….. mentally) than anything else i’ve done before, so i’m scared and also excited to start sharing it with y’all.

while likes are appreciated, comments/tags/reblogs with your thoughts are really what make my brain go brrrtt.

tagging: @saintriots, @mal-lunar-28, @dabiscrustyfeet

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#stray kids #skz #felix #felix x reader #felix smut #felix angst #felix fic #lf #stray kids fic #skz fic #stray kids smut #stray kids angst #skz smut #skz angst #stray kids series #skz series #jade writes #re: force quit #kvanity

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definitelynotafurinasimp · 8 months

Note

Congrats on 1.5k! Super proud of you! If it isn’t too much of a hassle #12 with Lynette if neither of them are taken?

“Aren’t those my Clothes?”

characters: Lynette x gn!reader

warnings: none, just fluff

a/n: This post is part of my 1500 Follower event, if you want to read other works belonging to it or want to request something yourself, you can do that here.

Anyway, thanks for the congratulations and I hope you enjoy!

Lynette

While Lynette liked her and Lyney’s stage outfits, something she would never say otherwise, not wanting to witness one of Chiori’s lectures again, she had to admit that they weren’t exactly clothes she would consider wearing in her time off, loungewear fitting her usual afternoon activities such as relaxing and reloading her batteries much more. And fortunately for her, she knew a person with a fantastic track record of picking the most comfortable clothes to wear at home.

When you opened your front door, only to be hit with the smell of someone’s favorite tea almost instantly, your eyes were quick to land on a particular pair of shoes. And while you had no problem with Lynette coming over to your home to relax after a successful show, even when you were away, giving her a copy of your keys for exactly that reason, the sight of her silently sitting on your couch while drinking her tea and reading whatever book she found in your bookshelf had something about it that just felt… off.

“How was the show, Lynette?”, you asked, her ear twitching for a moment before she looked up towards you, her previously focused look softening as she greeted you with an easy to miss smile.

“It was fine, nothing out of the ordinary”, she responded briefly, an answer you were happy to hear considering what happened last time her show didn’t go as planned. As the two of you continued to exchange a few words, you saw down besides her, only to notice her folded up clothes in the corner of your eye.

So that’s what felt strange! Your brain finally came to the same conclusion any normal person would have ended with immediately after looking at her.

“Hey Lynette?”, you called out her name, causing her to face you with a curious look on her face, “Aren’t those my Clothes?” Whatever responses you had expected, a shift back to her book and a casual nod of her head definitely wasn’t one of them.

“May I ask why you decided to don my clothes? Did you miss m-”, you teased, only to be cut off by her response.

“I like clothes that have your scent”, she said completely stone faced, causing your face to open in shock as your face filled with a deep red. Only for the entire mood to change when Lynette gave you an amused smile.

“Is what you wished for me to say, didn’t you? Check your pocket”, Lynette continued, you complying with her command almost instantly, only to pull a card out you were sure wasn’t there before, causing your eyes to widen in awe.

“As you might have heard already, distraction is the key ingredient to magic”, the magician explained without looking up from her book, a small blush and smile lingering on her face that filled you with nothing but adoration for her.

What a great magician you had the honor to date. To plan things out this much in advance to pull of a trick when you least expected her to, her change of clothes and bold words serving as one big distraction for her card trick.

…or maybe, it was the other way around?

#1500 simps event #lynette x reader #lynette x y/n #lynette x you #lynette

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buggywiththefolkmagic · 6 months

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Only YOU Can Prevent Witchy Fires

Hello witches, workers, and all in between! Your friendly neighborhood Granny is here to teach you a few things about fire safety!

Yes, yes, I know. “But Buggy, this is tumblr! And you're on a boring witchcraft blog! What do we need a lesson on fire safety for? We aren’t in kindergarten!” But trust me! More than one witch has accidentally singed their hair or set their own altar on fire before! Sometimes we get so into the spiritual that we forget to be mindful of the reality around us.

I’m going to go over a bundle of good tips to keep in mind for making a wax seal over that spell jar or burning a few bay leaves or ingredients to release that nonsense into the air! Even a section for the kitchen witches!

Indoor Safety:

*Those annoying fire alarms? Make sure they are operational okay? Change those batteries at least once a year, preferably twice. (If it is something you are in control of.)

*Always use a fire-safe candle holder for candles! Trim down that wick before lighting! I know it seems silly to use a pair of scissors or a wick trimmer, but trimming down that wick will always make that flame much easier to manage. And that flame? If it gets big enough to cause black smoke ALWAYS put it out.

*Always keep the candle in your line of sight, no meditation with an open flame going okay? Also if your candle is big enough to burn for more than four hours...put it out at the 4 hour mark.

*The longer a candle burns the more carbon gathers on the wick itself and that can make the flame get bigger and more unstable. Those ultra-wobbly flames that flicker and waves like one of those wacky inflatable arm flailing tube men? That is something you don’t want.

*Putting out a candle: We don’t recommend putting it out with your fingers no matter how cool it looks. Use a candle snuffer, or blow it out. I promise blowing out a deity candle won’t insult them!

*Another crucial tip is to keep anything that could catch fire a minimum of three feet or 91 centimeters AWAY from the fire source. That includes carpeted flooring, cloth, hair, rugs, altar cloths, papers, books, all sorts of things! Always wear your hair back when working with fire, and wear close fitting clothing that won’t hang or drape into the fire with your movements.

*Another tip given straight from the NSC is to NEVER use candles or other fire sources while tired or inebriated! That means no 2 am spell jars if you are half asleep! ALSO never EVER leave a candle WARM or actively BURNING! Same goes for any items you are burning down like bay leaves. Burn them in a fire safe bowl that is much bigger than you think you need. Toss the debris around and soak in water to ensure they are safely doused.

*IF you are using wax to seal off spell jars I highly suggest getting a wax sealing kit! Wax sealing kits come with a little spoon that you drop bits of wax into and ‘melt’ them down over something like a tea candle. An example is this: Which you can find on Amazon for roughly $10 USD!

The spoon is perfect for pouring and there’s less likelihood of the candle you would sit on top of the jar from falling off because...there is no candle! If you only have a candle to work with...please don’t burn the candle on top of the object you are sealing, put the candle in a safe holder and hold it over the object once warm to let the wax drip down. Have the object you are sealing sitting on top of a safe ceramic plate or bowl in case of drippage!

But what do I do if a fire starts?

Good question! That depends on the type of fire it is! Here’s a breakdown of the types and methods to put them out: Ordinary Fire: An ordinary fire is caused by candles, papers, cloth, plastics, that sort of thing!

The good news is these types of fires respond amazingly well to plain old water! It’s always advised that you keep a bucket or pitcher full of water within reach whenever using candles just in case!

Electric Fire: Electric fires are caused by a source of electricity, like wires getting crossed and arching.

NEVER use water on an electrical fire! If you do, you'll just electrocute yourself. If it’s safe to do so...unplug the object from the outlet. Turn off the electricity in your house’s electric breaker box. Smother the flames by pouring baking soda onto them.

Chemical Fire: Chemical fires have a chemical as a fuel source, like rubbing alcohol, nail polish & polish remover. Even your nails near a candle can produce a small chemical fire if you aren’t careful! (Dry those nails up good before using candles.) These fires can only be put out with a fire blanket OR pouring a LARGE quantity of baking soda or sand onto the fire.

Cooking Fires: Cooking fires are the most common form of household fire. It can be caused by grease, burning food, or burning cooking oil. Water will NOT work on any fire oil or grease based, it may seem like a first instinct to grab the pan and toss it into a sink with water...DON’T.

That will cause the oil to splatter and can injure you and make any flames spread further! It the fire is small enough and contained within a pot or skillet, have a lid or baking sheet handy and throw that onto the top of the fire, this will smother it out. A fire blanket can also be used for this. Do NOT swat at the flames, this is just a fanning motion and will give the fire more oxygen to grow with! Pour a large amount of salt or baking soda on top of the fire. MAKE SURE it is not flour, as flour will cause the fire to grow quick enough to even explode! Turn off any heat source.

And if the fire is in the oven or microwave? Leave that door CLOSED. It seems super scary but the fire will smother itself out when trapped in a small box. (Of which both cooking items are.)

Outdoor Safety:

Never burn outdoors if it is windy or extra dry! Do not burn general trash, only burn natural dry vegetation/herbs. Always check your local ordinances and make sure there are no burn bans in your area currently active!

If you are going to burn outside, clear away a circular space for the burning items. Far enough away from overgrowth, houses, powerlines, and other such things. The burning site should have plenty of dirt or gravel around it, usually around 10 feet, 304 centimeters circular if burning a campfire-size burning space. Make sure the dirt and gravel is well doused in water to prevent any spreading.

Always stay around the fire until it is completely out. Turn the debris from your burn a few times and douse it hard with water. NEVER leave dry ash on the ground, embers could be still warm enough to catch on the inside of the ash! Keep checking on that burn area for a few days or a few weeks to make sure nothing is left, especially during warmer or dryer months. Don’t toss matches or other lighting instruments just anywhere! Those can still be warm and still catch grass alight.

And there you have it! A crash course on being safe with fire while doing your thing and slinging your spells!

#witchblr #psa #witchcraft #buggy's lessons #witchcraft for beginners #beginner witch #fire safety is important folks!

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thatone-brightstar · 1 year

Text

The Bear & The Fox (Carmy Berzatto x Fem!Reader)

Chapter 3: Pin a Fox skin to the wall, call it decoration

Words: 4.9k

Summary: With a few drinks in, you both confess your feelings. But there's always something getting in the way.

a/n: I am the gift that keeps on giving! So here's the next chapter cuz I feel shitty just leaving it in my documents and you all have been so nice! Enjoy! xx

P.S. Reader is Latina in this, so there's gonna be melanin for daysss.

“How much longer do you think you're gonna be?!” Syd yelled at her phone through the noisy bar.

Everyone was on a different wave of conversation, ranging from sports to food to whatever new show they were hooked on. The buzz of chatter around them combined with the pulsing music and lack of food in his system was enough to create a growing migraine in Carmy’s head. He gladly took a swig of the beer in front of him to dumb out the increasing sensation as he waited for Syd to hang up on you. He thought their reaction to joining them would be one of distaste or discomfort but his first drink had been on Sweeps, who was glad to finally see him outside the perimeters of The Beef.

“I like what you’ve done to the place.” He said after finishing the second beer. “But you gotta lighten up, man. Rome wasn’t built in a day. Also you could use a tan. Try going out in the sun every once in a while!” He joked and a genuine laugh had left Carmy’s lips for the first time in forever.

“She’s on her way!” Sydney yelled to the table and everyone acknowledged it before returning to their conversations.

“Does she know I’m here?” He asked her over the noise, a bit concerned whether he wanted to know the answer or not.

“Yeah! I told her we’re all here!” She answered and of course she would tell you, because as far as they were concerned, nothing out of the ordinary had happened between you two.

His hand began to grow clammy and he took another hefty swig of the amber liquid to try and calm the nerves down. At least the music was loud enough to drown out the sound of his thoughts, he'd have to make due with that for now. The chatter transitioned into anecdotes about the stupidest things they had done as teens and they spent the next ten minutes debating whether Angel stealing single batteries from the family packs at Walmart counted as kleptomania or not. By his third beer, he felt his shoulders lose a bit of the perpetual weight that had been sitting on them since he had arrived back in Chicago; the music felt more bearable, his laughs lighter and his nerves almost down to a hum.

They had been lucky enough to get a booth table by the windows, the sight of River North’s night life was in full bloom behind the old stained glass and his eyes wandered to the new perspective he had been granted of the old neighborhood. Between neon signs and moving cars he saw you from afar. Standing patiently for the little human to move on the crosswalk light. You looked like a radiant ray of moonlight, with loose curls framing your face like a dark halo and even though he had found you absolutely beautiful with your paint splattered overalls, this was something entirely different, something that would have him losing his balance if he wasn’t already sitting down.

He watched you move your boot-covered feet closer towards the bar, and with each stride on the long skirt, the slit up your thigh revealed a glimpse of lovely tan skin with swirling designs he had known no existence of until then, but now wanted to discover more of. Golden rings contrasted against the black jacket covering your arms as you raked your fingers through your hair and turned towards the window where he had shamelessly been gawking at you. A small smile covered your previous serious features and you waved nervously before disappearing through the entrance.

He shuffled in his seat and wished he would have at least run some water through his hair before leaving, but looking around at everyone’s post work attire, he figured he’d be fine. A cheer of ‘Hey's was heard through the group as you approached the table and you made a little dance once you reached them. You scooted into the booth beside the edge by Carmy and threw a nervous smile in his direction.

“Sorry I’m late! Two fuckin Ubers canceled on my last minute. I swear I was about to start walking!” You yelled exasperated.

“Well you’re already two drinks behind so start catchin’ up!” Marcus said, calling the waiter over and ordering another round of beers and a double shot of tequila for each one.

“Oh it’s gonna be like that then, huh?!” You asked him with raised brows and a smile.

“Uhh, yeah!” He mimicked you in a pitched valley girl accent and the table roared in laughter.

They went around talking about their day and how Richie, as he does, had death threatened Fak for suggesting he should go to anger management classes. Your shoulder rubbed alongside Carmy’s in the small booth as you laughed at their stories and the friction along with your delicate perfume was making it hard to concentrate on anything at all. He took a couple of fries from the dish at the center of the table to keep his mouth occupied as he listened to Syd and you argue about the best contestant in a new baking show you were both watching.

The shots came with cheers, and as everyone took the small glass in one hand and a lemon wedge in the other, they went around the table to say something they cheered for,

“I’m thankful that I got tomorrow off so I can get as hammered as I want!” Cheered Sweeps and it was followed by a choir of Boo’s from everyone.

“I guess I'm thankful that I got a job that I actually like.” Marcus continued and the Boo’s turned to Aw’s.

“And I’m very thankful for you, bunch of idiots.” You finished shily and only Marcus, who was sitting across from you, noticed your eyes linger a little too long on Carmy.

Their little glasses clinged against one another and everyone downed the transparent liquid with a scrunched face.

The conversations broke into groups again, and he took his shot at catching your attention before anyone else. He gently bumped his shoulder against yours while he took a sip of alcohol for courage. From his side view he saw you had turned up to look at him and noticed you swallow hard scanning his features. When he turned to you, a soft smile covered your face and it was hard not to smile back.

“Hey” You whispered, bumping your shoulder back to his softly.

“You..um, you look really nice.” He said leaning towards you so you could hear him better above the music, and also so no one else would notice his words.

His breath ghosted over the skin of your ear and you were thankful for the jacket covering your already bumpy skin.

“Thank you.” You whispered, cheeks warm.

“Look, I’m sor-“

“I’m sorry for-“

You interrupted each other, then laughed waiting for the other to continue.

“You go.” You insisted.

He breathed in deep and turned his torso towards you to give himself a false sense of privacy in the crowded space. “I’m really sorry If I made you feel uncomfortable… back at the office.” He started and his eyes jumped between yours trying to decipher your thoughts through your expressions. “That was not cool and kinda creepy and I don’t want you to go because of me-”

“Wait-”

“You’re a great addition to the team, honestly one of the best, you’re good at calming Richie when he gets stressed and you're fast and precise, and you're good for me too-” He kept rambling, his gaze now focused in his hands.

“Carmy-” You tried to interrupt again with no avail.

“And I’d hate for you to leave cause I’m an impulsive jackass and I wouldn’t know what to do if I.. couldn’t see you.. anymore.” He finished swallowing hard, his eyes dragged slowly from his hands to your features and he grew scared of the confession that had left his mouth under the rambling.

All his words separately meant something different, they meant a thank you, a praise, a gentle pat on the back. But not like this, not all together, jumbled and tied with a string of revelation that there might be something more than what he was saying. He saw your chest raise with the motion of a heavy breath and your eyebrows were scrunched in concentration over his face. The background noise had been covered over by the thumping of blood rushing to his head and for a second his heart stopped at the idea that he had dug himself a deeper grave than he had wished for. He stared back at your eyes unable to look away, the ‘Fuck it’ from a couple hours ago now sour on his tongue.

“Do you wanna talk outside?” You whispered leaning forward so he could hear you, brows still knotted together.

You didn’t wait for his answer as you reached down to his tightly clasped hands and wedged your fingers carefully to get them to separate. You held on tightly then began to slip out the booth telling everyone you were gonna get more drinks for the table, before getting lost in the sea of bodies standing around. He let you guide him through the free spaces between the swaying crowd of drunks as he did his best to calm the growing anxiety in his chest. All he could concentrate on were your delicate fingers brushing softly around his hand.

This is what he wanted, right? This is why he had come knowing you would be here, to tell you how he felt, to clear things up, and since the cat’s head was already out the bag, might as well let the rest of the body out.

‘Let it rip’ his brother’s words danced in his mind and he smiled humorlessly at how they teased him with how easy it sounded to do so.

**********

Fuuuck. You had not planned this far ahead. At least not this early into the night. You expected to do this with maybe another three drinks in your system, when you could still hold a serious conversation without crying for getting rejected cause the voice in your head would slur that it was his loss and that you were still a bad bitch. It also didn’t help that you had smoked a bit while getting ready and the cloudy haze around your brain had not subsided. You were coherent, yes, which was important, however you were not very good with your self control and with the way your throat had closed up at the sight of his profile while he simply took a drink, god you knew this was gonna be hard.

His confession still swam in the swampy waters of your foggy brain as you pulled both of you through the crowded space. Your hand was tightly wrapped around what you could hold of his and when you finally spotted an exit, your heart leaped in your chest at the idea of how the conversation would go. The emergency door stood tall between the bathroom entrances, an inaudible creek vibrated through the metal as you pushed yourself against it and a cold breeze of air welcomed your face when you both stepped out into the alley. You expected a few smokers to linger around, but then again many who did choose to smoke did it in front of the place, not the side alley like rats; so you were alone. Great.

You finally let go of his hand, a cold absence replacing it, then leaned against the wall in front of the metal exit, staring at him. He took a cigarette from the packet inside his jacket and lit it, mimicking your actions by the door. He took a couple calming drags while both of you thought about what you were gonna say next.

You could play this two ways: One. Pretend like you hadn’t understood what he said at the booth and say the whole office thing had been a misunderstanding. A little gaslighting wouldn’t hurt, right? It was for your own good anyway, the both of you. The pessimist in you was sure Carmen didn’t know what he was getting into and he already had enough problems trying to get the restaurant off the ground to add yours to the mix.

And two, Tell him how you felt, fuck the rule. You had known him long enough to know he wasn’t the type of guy you established the rule for in the first place. He was nothing similar to the mutherfuckers you had met in your other jobs, he was nice and patient and cared more about others than he liked to admit; and for fuck’s sake if the bar was already on the floor, finding someone like that and also have him be hot, was not a common occurrence.

You took your eyes off your boots scraping the pavement to look at him. ‘Why is he so hot and so miserable?!’ you thought as you watched him with his cigarette, the gloss in your eyes making any source of light into twinkling stars. His eyes met yours and normally you would avert your gaze. Normally, however, you would not be in this situation and normally you would not be feeling this angry all of a sudden.

“You thought I was gonna leave?” You asked. ‘Solid start’.

“I thought I freaked you out.” He shrugged. “You walked out on me.”

“Yeah, and how did you expect me to react?” You respond a little more defensive than you intended.

“Look, I know it was fucked and I’m sorry, okay? I just-” He took another drag to calm himself down then looked back at you, ocean eyes harboring a storm. “I don’t know what happens to me… when you're around. You make my chest not hurt as much and I- It feels easier to breathe with you.”

You stayed silent, staring at him through hooded eyes and heavy breaths, trying to keep your mind clear because how could you concentrate on anything when he spoke so sweetly about you? You had to keep reminding yourself that this was for the best. Around you, the low rumble of the music vibrating past the walls could still be heard, like a distant world existing outside your current bubble of angst.

“Wh-what did you mean?” He asked after a long silence and he noticed the confusion in your blank stare. “When you said you needed to get me out your system, what was that?”

Carmy noticed the subtle change in your expression, how your shoulders tensed and you diverted your gaze to anything else but him. You wanted to shout that it meant exactly that, he was so deep in your thoughts that some days you had caught yourself shamelessly daydreaming about the two of you together, in any way possible. But the last rational part in your brain held your tongue from speaking, you couldn’t say it, there was too much at risk to do so and he was not helping with the way his words were making your chest swell. You were getting angry because this would be so much easier if he was just another asshole.

You shrugged looking at him. “Nothing, i-it just came out.” ‘Gaslighting it is.’

He exhaled a humorless laugh, his eyes still trained on you. “You’re a shitty liar, you know that?” He said with a last drag of his cig before flicking it to the ground and stomping on it.

He raked a hand through his hair and shameful observation had taught you that this meant Carmy was getting stressed.

“Okay, fine! You wanna know?!” You finally spat with anger, “Because I fuckin’ like you, Carmen!” You raised your arms in exasperation. “Because you have no fuckin’ idea what it does to me when you look at me like-like that!” His gaze was fixated on you, head slightly tilted down and to the right, jaw tensed. His brows dropped lower in a scowl and a jolt of lightning traveled down your back at his expression.

“And why didn’t you say anything!” He yelled back.

“Oh, seriously?! What did you want me to say? I need two roast beef sandwiches, hold the peppers and FYI Carmy, I got a crush on you?!”

“How the fuck was I supposed to know then?!” He said in frustration, taking a step closer to you and the height difference was significantly more noticeable when he wasn’t shrinking into himself.

“You weren’t supposed to, that’s the fuckin’ point!” His shoulders fell slightly and the strength in your voice lowered. “I just... needed to get over you and you’d never know. Get you out my system with someone else and never have to mention it.”

Carmy tried to ignore the flashes of your rosy cheeks and short breaths, panting under someone else. ‘This is not the time.’ he reminded himself.

“So, what? You were just gonna leave me believing I did somethin’ wrong to you when you actually liked me?”

“I wasn’t gonna leave.” You whispered. The words get caught on your tongue and you take a deep breath before continuing.

“But the last time I liked someone at my job it… It didn’t turn out right.” You struggle to calm your racing thoughts, his eyes a distracting lighthouse guiding you back in. His brows knitted together. “I don’t wanna go through that again, Carmy” You said defeated.

“You don’t know if it’s gonna be the same.” His voice pleaded just above a whisper, lower than you were used to when it came to him or his cousin.

“I don’t think I can risk it.” You whispered back, doing your best to keep the tears under control.

You were both silent for a while, until Carmy began to shake his head slowly.

“No, no, no you don’t get to do that, okay? You don’t get to tell me you like me then immediately blow me off cause some asshole in the past hurt you.” He took the last two strides in your direction, his chest now so close you could feel the heat radiating from his body.

You pushed yourself against the wall from the sudden proximity. Your breath seized in your lungs as you felt both his hands cup the sides of your face and tilt it up to stare deep into the pits of your eyes. You swallowed hard at all the scenarios flashing through your head, the turn of events giving you whiplash. He lowered his forehead slowly to yours, your eyelashes fluttered trying to close, but your eyes were fixed on his. Carmy’s face was so close, you could feel the heat off his breath. The smell of tobacco that lingered around you and mixed with the smokey wood scent that seemed to cling to him after a long workday, had your head grasping onto the last threads of self control left in you.

“Tell me to stop. Tell me to stop and I’ll do it, I’ll never touch you again or mention it, I promise.” He rambled, a soft desperation clear in his voice. “I won’t even look in your direction but please, please don’t ever think for a second that I would do anything to hurt you.” He whispered.

Even in the darkness of the alley, you could tell his irises had swallowed the last drop of blue, now so dark and glossy you could see your own despair reflected back to you. You swallowed hard to get rid of the cottonmouth and his eyes flickered towards your lips for less than a second. ‘God, why couldn’t you just say yes?!’ Your head screamed at you through the dissipating smog of weed and untampered emotions.

He had not only given you his heart on a golden platter, but had plated it himself and set the table for you, too. Now it was solely your decision if you wanted to take it or not, if you wanted to guard his heart next to yours for safekeeping or let it finish crumbling on the grime covered pavement. You stared at his features in contemplation and scanned your brain for all the ways it told you this could go wrong. And yet, even after a thousand scenarios came up, you held in protective arms the few ones that bloomed a warm excitement in your chest. You wanted to, even if it was just this once, to be fearless, jump into the unknown regardless of the outcome. You truly did.

“It’s not that easy.” You whispered, shutting your eyes to avoid the look of hurt haunting over his. His hands faltered their grip on your face and soon a cold rush of air replaced the warm contact.

You reopened your gaze to see him standing with his hands now resting on the brick beside your head, defeated. His stare was glued to his tattooed skin, not even daring to look directly at you anymore and you knew, he was withdrawing back to the depths of his mind where one goes when you’ve been completely shattered. You could see his jaw tense up, probably in anger and he was well in his right to be so. He had bared his feelings to you and you had massacred them all over the walls in less than five words. ‘It’s better like this.’ You tried to convince yourself.

“I’m so sorry Carmy, but I-I can’t-”

He cleared his throat then pushed himself back with enough force that it almost felt like he had pulled on an invisible string against your chest.

“No- uh, no I get it.” he sniffled “You’re right, it’s better this way.” He did his best to avoid your gaze, settling it on anything around the empty alley. “I’m gonna go buy the drinks and then head home.” He said walking back to the door.

You watched still from your position by the wall how he reached for the handle pulling the metal open. An immediate rumble of bass surrounded the once empty area as Carmy walked halfway in then stopped. He slightly turned his head in your direction, eyeing you over his shoulder.

“Don’t-uh.. don’t worry about.. this.” He said to you over the music. “I meant what I said about not sayin’ anythin’.” He rose his head to the sky for a couple seconds then back down. “So, don’t worry about it.” The gravel under his feet groaned as he turned to look at you one last time, “See you at work, chef.”

He was gone with a slam of the door. You stayed motionless, fixated on the space his body had occupied only seconds before. The ghost of his touch still tingled on your face and it took you an unspeakable amount of strength to not break down for the second time that day. It was already atrocious enough that you had committed what was probably the second worst mistake of your life by letting him go, but if you let yourself fall apart in a dingy unlit back alley of some bar, you have truly found a point lower than you thought possible. So with a very, very shaky breath and with the vast expertise as a teen with an overprotective mother, you pulled yourself together, sniffled back the tears and made your way inside ready to pretend like the last fifteen minutes had never happened.

When you reached the booth with your friends, a tray of five shots sat untouched on the table and a sour taste invaded your mouth to see the sixth had been downed and turned upside down at the end of the tray.

“Carmy said your mom called, is everything okay?” Sydney asked as soon as you were in earshot, the pit in your stomach grew again because even after hurting him, he still considerate enough to cover for your absence.

“Uh… yeah she’s fine. Just wanted to know when I’d be back.” You lied as you slid back into the booth.

With no hesitation, you reached for one of the glasses and downed it straight, no lemon. Syd gave a confused look to your expressionless face and even reached for one of the glasses to prove it was actually alcohol when you were laughing at Angel and Macus’ arm wrestling.

The liquid burned a distracting path down your throat and kept your attention diverted enough from the emotions you knew you’d have to figure out when the fog had lifted. For now, at least you would allow yourself to play with the idea that everything was fine and that your chest wasn’t shattering with every whiff of his lingering scent that permeated on your jacket.

The rest of the night was a blur of strawberry daiquiris, tequila shots, terrible karaoke and the guys competing over who could throw the furthest a traffic cone they found off the side of the road while walking you and Syd home, at almost four in the morning. They had dropped you off with a chorus of slurred ‘bye byess’ and kept walking in the direction of “Adventure” as Sweeps had called it. On your way up, the usual still stairs had become a workout to climb and Syd had almost landed on her ass on the second and third floor, before tripping on the forth and sliding belly first down half the flight of stairs. You did your best to contain the laughter after seeing her reaction to finally landing with nothing but a bruised chin and ego, but her surprised face was enough to have you slumping on the last step and heaving with tears in your eyes. After you both caught your breath, you reached towards her and held her hand until you were in the safety of your room.

You giggled drunk while changing into your pajamas and turned to Sydney, telling her about your foolproof plan of going home with a stranger to get Carmy out of your head.

“I don’t get it.. why not jus’ like, bang Carmy, right? And get it over with?” She said between hiccups as you both climbed into your bed.

“It’s jus’ not the same!” You whined, turning off the light. “He’s too good for that.” You heard Syd groan beside you and you’re glad the lights were off so she couldn’t see you rolling your eyes at her. “He is!”

You shimmied under the covers and stared at the glow in the dark stickers on your ceiling, the alcohol making them swim around the blank canvas like shooting stars.

“He’s sweet and kind and… funny in like a fucked up, kinda tragic way..” you giggle “and he’s so fuckin’ hot, Sydney! So hot! Every time he looks at me with those eyes I want him to bend me over the expo an-“ you feel a soft smack against your face and the plushness of the pillow drowns out your laughs.

Syd groaned in disgust at the image you planted in her head “Dude gross! Why would I ever need to know that?!” She said taking the pillow back from you.

You giggled again and turned to Syd’s silhouette, softly combing back the braids that rested on her shoulder to distract yourself. “I think I really fucked up tonight, Syddy.” You finally admitted in the darkness of your safe space and heavily intoxicated.

Sydney hummed in question and you knew you only had a few moments of clarity before falling unconscious. You took the end of one of her braids and used it to tickle under her nose to keep her awake a little longer while you failed to understand the many emotions in your head.

“I think he hates me now.” You said softly, a small tear sliding out your eye and quickly disappearing into the soft fabric of your pillow.

She scratched at her nose in frustration then slightly slapped her palm against your forehead. You laughed softly but continued to bug her.

“He could never hate you, he loves you too much.” She mumbled carelessly, readjusting herself and swinging a leg up on your hip under the duvet.

Your cheeks felt warm at the idea of love and even though you knew it was too soon to call it that, you couldn’t avoid the fuzzy feeling the word brought to your insides. ‘Oh to be loved’ you thought ‘and by Carmy of all people’.

“You can’t know that.” You said with a sniffle, caressing the tip of her braid now on your own nose. You liked how it tickled.

Syd sighed before lifting her head as best she could in her drunk and half asleep state and slurred your name “Please, that man has been tripping-over-his-feet in love with you since day one.” She paused to pull her hair from your hands and adjust the pillow under her. “You two are the only idiots who haven’t noticed.” Then laid her head back down with a soft smack.

A new sensation filled your chest, one you hadn’t really given a name to before because there hadn’t been a reason to. It was a warmth that spread from the crown of your head down to the tips of all your extremities as your friend’s words floated in your head. A slow smile extended across your face and with the last waves of consciousness you decided to put an end to all the doubt and talk to him tomorrow, the stupid rule be damned.

Capter 4.

Taglist: @pearlstiare and that’s it lmao

#carmen berzatto x reader #the bear & the fox #carmen berzatto x you #the bear fx #carmy berzatto #carmy the bear #carmy x reader #carmy smut #the bear tv #carmy berzatto headcanon #the bear headcanon #carmy berzatto imagines #carmy berzatto fluff #carmen berzatto smut #carmy berzatto smut #carmen 'carmy' berzatto #carmy x poc reader

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ataraxiaspainting · 6 months

Text

Shameless.

Yan Chrollo x GN Reader.

Synopsis: Chrollo is many things; annoying, chatty, selfish, petty. Especially petty.

Warnings: Yandere themes and kidnapping.

Word Count: 700.

“Petty, much?”

The damn devil doesn’t even turn to look at you. Instead, he turns to the next chapter of his book, a book large enough to easily force you or any other ordinary person into a yearlong coma if it hits your head. His humming physically hurts your ears and almost makes their drums burst, you are sure of it. You would much rather listen to his trill sonata from a gramophone and disc that is at least five times your age.

You cannot find the stuffed animal you normally sleep with. You have been looking all day while this clone of the antichrist just sits and reads in whatever the hell that language on the dusty cover is. You wouldn’t be surprised if he had made it himself, it’s only further proof that he is just an old man on the inside. Or at least half; the other part may as well be a toddler throwing a tantrum.

Maybe less than half, now that you think about it. That plush was a gift from Chrollo to you, after all, a symbol of how adorable you are or something else in that vein that made his face all the more punchable. The bunny made for a good pillow and could be used as a sort of wall whenever the epitome of hell lays on the bed beside you, trying to converse or cuddle with you.

It certainly yielded better results than biting, kicking, and hitting him at least. Your knuckles and palms still sometimes hurt. Ow. His flesh is made of iron, you know it. Maybe you should dare him to get his DNA tested to ensure that he is indeed human before speaking with you again.

You could fake an allergic reaction to automatons perhaps. Even though you were never a drama kid in school you think you can still pull it off.

You can craft yourself an Emmy using what remains of your old art supplies, though that would require having Chrollo cut the papers and cardboard for you. You bet that if he is a robot, he will eventually use up all his battery by chatting away and then shutting down.

“What are you, a kindergartener?” You move closer to his unholy throne, stomping with each step forward. “Stop acting like you are eight, you swindler, and give it back.”

It would be easier that way if he went unconscious because of his powerless charge.

If you are feeling particularly sadistic you could use electric shocks on his unconscious tin can of a body until it explodes. It would be a great thing, the sound. Like fireworks, if you avoid getting stabbed by tiny slabs of hot metal.

“Kindergarteners are ages five to six.” You could picture dreaming of it now if you can go to sleep tonight. “Eight-year-olds are typically in the grades second and third.”

“So you do admit to stealing it, then. This trial has now concluded, you have been sentenced to life without parole.”

You can hear a slight chuckle that makes you want to fall down the stairs while playing jump rope. Anything to make sure you never hear it again. “You get points for effort, darling. That wasn’t a confession, I was just correcting your utterly adorable libel.”

“Don’t talk like that to your judge, you larcenist.”

“I see you have been reading the books I have given you.”

You grumble a curse under your breath as you walk a bit closer. “It is amazing what the human mind can remember from a dictionary when there is nothing better to do. I think if I ever see my literary teacher again she’d be impressed. I’d pass with flying colors if I ever had to retake her class.”

At the sight of your laid-out hand, a slight frown appears on Chrollo’s face. “Being polite never hurt anyone, you know.”

You scoff and cross your arms, not looking at him anymore. “It hurts me every time I say anything to you instead of trying to find out how to give you enough papercuts to make you internally bleed.”

Underneath the table, you can see the rabbit plush, and crouch down to grab it.

“Take this as an act of precaution then; don’t test my limits, dear.” As soon as you look into his eyes, hugging the stuffed animal, you look away as you see what lies beneath the surface once more.

Nothing.

#yandere chrollo #yandere chrollo x reader #yandere hxh #yandere hunter x hunter #yandere chrollo lucilfer #yandere #chrollo x reader #chrollo lucilfer #hxh chrollo #phantom troupe #chrollo hunter x hunter #yandere x reader #yandere hxh x reader #hxh #ideas #author aya

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falcemartello · 3 months

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Questa storia è per capire il futuro distopico previsto dai Gretini. Chissà se la capiscono. "In un'isola gli abitanti hanno deciso di liberarsi dei fossili e utilizzare solo energia rinnovabile, in particolare eolica vista la disponibilità del vento.

Per questo hanno costruito 100 turbine eoliche e si sono provvisti di batterie di stoccaggio per ovviare all'intermittenza del vento. Le 100 turbine forniscono energia elettrica domestica a tutte le case compreso il riscaldamento con pompa di calore.

Soddisfano anche le richieste della attività industriale della comunità. Dopo qualche anno si rompe una turbina. Per ricostruirne una nuova si rendono conto che serve una energia pari a 10 anni energia da questa erogata.

Cosicché decidono di dedicare 10 turbine, per un anno, all'energia necessaria a per produrre acciaio e cemento per la costruzione di una nuova turbina. In questo modo, però rimangono privi dell'11% dell'energia per le attività ordinarie per un anno intero.

Non riescono più a stoccare sufficiente energia per l'intermittenza e il blackout si iniziano a manifestare sempre più numerosi. Dopo qualche tempo, una seconda turbina salta e i problemi raddoppiano.

E così via in una spirale senza fine perdita di energia fino al collasso finale." Fine della storia. Pensate ora se la transizione energetica fosse globale, anziché limitata ad isola. Cambierebbe solo l'entità del collasso. Il tonfo sarebbe terribile.

Obiezioni Gretine?

#Critica Climatica

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rambunctioustoons · 2 months

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The celestial bot thrumming so intently, convinced anymore strain he'd pop a metal joint. Eyes fixated down to the shaking movements of his palms.

Today had been a terrible day, but nothing out of the ordinary. Fussy kids eating up the time needed for the other kids. Sun stretched out further than his fingertips could reach and wrangle the troublemakers out of harm's way in time. All it takes is one booming shrill of a voice advocating for chaos for all hell to break loose.

Every attempt to heed the storm and aid him met with a snappy strained pleasantry. He's got this, he's made for this! You've only got one fleshy squishy body, don't push it now. Some kid puts a little too much strain on his wrist joint, that's just show biz! And these crazy kids demand an encore!

Every attempt so far in the early evening air to talk to him met with a question about your well being. A comment about that funny thing you were both there to witness but not actually all that funny! How many minutes he had left before Moon would take the reins, and did you really really wanna spend the next half hour talking about how he feels? Silly, feeble, kind friend. He's just fine.

But he's not. Sure if there had been a way to see Moon flickering in those bright vacant eyes, you'd be giving each other the look.

No more chores left to do, none that he'd let you do anyway. Too high strung. Things snatched from your hands as he forcibly twists fate on the limits of his abilities. Trembling himself apart.

Little you could do to evade the inevitable parts & service visit if he kept pushing like this, so you've hatched a plan.

“Laundry-”

“Done and done! Done twice!”

“Folded sheets-”

“Pristine and crisply folded. Would you really need to check that?”

“Books-”

“All put away and alphabetical like they should be!”

You grin. “... Fairy lights?”

“Put away insideee theee closeet-....” Words dragged out in a dwindling song-songy tune, his faceplate whipping around to face you. “-why are you asking that? They're out of season, Friend.”

“I'll put ‘em to good use then!” You chirp, hands placed on your hips. “Closet?”

Sun squints skeptically. “Yes. Closet.” Eyes fixated on you, suspiciously. You ignore this, of course. Waltzing your way over to the Daycare storage closet. Gathering up the supplies in your arms. Awkwardly leaning down in the naptime nook as you pass by, nabbing a book at random. Using your foot to toss a few throw pillows atop of the pile.

Sun squints at you. “Whateeeever it is you think you're doing, just know, it won't. Work!”

“I’m taking a reading break, don't care what you do. ” You chime. An offended gasp piping up behind you. You duck into one of the corners on the ground level of the play structure. Tying the flat sheet to the gridded bars inside the small space. Weaving the corded battery powered lights inside, flicking them on. Flickering flimsy bulbs of light, shimmering a yellow hue on the play structure bars still visible. It wasn't perfect, but. Cozy enough to hopefully lure a creature right into the trap.

All you had to do was wait. Plopping yourself down in the makeshift blanket fort. Carefully cracking open the book, nesting the hardcover against your thighs. Not actually reading the words of course. Too focused on the shuffling outside the play place, jiggly footsteps alluding playing a game of who cracks first, and you intend to win.

Every fiber of your being trying not to beam with a grin, when Sun eventually ducks his head into the space, craned down to observe the hurried fruits of labour.

“There's still a lot to do, y’know.” He says. Tone wobbly, uncertain.

“I know,” You say, turning the page. “And there's even more to do tomorrow.”

“Sooooo,” He drags on, one hand gripping the caged siding. “We should keep going.”

“Sure.” You hum. “Five minutes.”

A disgruntled sound reverberates from your friend. Shoot. He's on to you. All or nothing now. You cheekily pat the remaining space on your legs. Worth a try, but not at all expecting him to take you up on it. A gesture of sincerity of course, glancing up at him. Pulling you into his lap aplenty times in moments of distress, or sorrow. Or to impishly move you aside because whatever you had been doing, was taking much too long.

Difficult as always to follow his eye line. Making a guess his gaze is fixated on your torso. Hands folding to his chest, restlessly squeezing his intertwined palms. Faceplate trained slightly down, you recognize this. A conversation you're not part of, and very little business pondering on. Turning back to the book, rolling your shoulders.

Sun, careful and hesitantly steps into the space with you. Kneeling down in front of you, paying him little mind. He's exhausted sure, but one wrong jeering word from your mouth and he'll scamper right back out away from you. Quiet whirring and rhythmic tapping atop of one bell. Words a blurry haze along the page to read at all, terribly distracted by the striped pants lingering above the peripheral. Sure if he made any sudden movements, you'd equally skitter out of the play structure too.

Sun reaches hesitantly for the book. Index and thumb pinching the pages on either side of the hardcover book. You let him, smiling up at him gently. He never really indulged in much book reading, much more of a collaborative storyteller. Eagerly adopting any silly, outlandish detail a guest would pipe up with during play time.

Pulled from your musing as he closes the book, setting it aside.

Careful movements as he closes the space between the two of you. Contorting himself down with much less graceful ease than you'd ever seen, and flops right in your lap. Faceplate pressed flat against your tummy, gangly arms quick to encircle your torso. Slumping his weight down as he lets out a shaky faux breath. Full heartedly admitting defeat, solidified as he speaks up.

“Today was bad.” Words lightly muffled, for effect of course. His speaker box didn't reside in the mouth rested against you.

“It was.” You affirm gently. Resting your arms along the backs of his shoulders, met with a small twitch underneath you. His arms squeezing you tighter after a good few moments.

“How much longer?” He inquires hesitantly, tilting his head up to see you.

“Lost count.” You tease softly.

His rays twirl once, in place of an eye roll. Plopping his face to rest back against you once more.

“Five more minutes then.”

“Five more it is.”

#sun x y/n #sun x reader #daycare attendant fnaf #daycare attendant sun #sun fnaf #moon like. briefly mentioned lmao #fluff #idk if its tooth rotting but it is to ME #writings #drabble

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gingerbreadmonsters · 2 months

Text

HEART EYES CRY BLOOD!!

or: yours sincerely, wasting away.

gn!reader, blood, violence, and extended discussions of death, the world’s worst stress dream with a happy ending, i promise. life and limb and all that. my undying and eternal gratitude to @zozo-01 and @androgynouspenguinexpert, who sacrificed their time, laptop battery, and brainpower to feed my delusional mind, and all my love to @sincerelywhistler for creating possibly the most beautiful vega on earth and inspiring the barbie ponytail agenda. warden not wanting to miss a thing in 16,800 words or less.

this fic is the combination of two other series of mine, human nature and peaches and cream – it’s entirely possible to read this fic without having looked at either of those, but i think you’ll enjoy it a lot more if you know what’s happened so far in both of them!

human nature masterlist

peaches and cream masterlist

main masterlist

Recipe for undying love:

Add veneration, sacrifice, and subversion to a small saucepan, and simmer over medium heat until thick enough to coat the back of a teaspoon.

Stir in devotion until fully dissolved, then immediately remove from the heat.

Mix blindness and faith together in a separate bowl, then add slowly, mixing until fully incorporated.

Transfer mixture to clean bowl, then sift in persistence, stirring continuously until mixture becomes thick, smooth, and glossy.

Add fortune to taste, then transfer mixture to a greased and lined tin. Bake for 35 minutes at 180°C, or until a skewer comes out clean.

Leave to cool slightly on a wire rack before turning out. Best served warm with cream and fruit, but can be kept forever in an airtight container until you are discovered, or until all escape conditions have been met and the universe can begin again.

It starts…

…to be honest, you don't actually know how it starts. It's a total mystery, as far as you're concerned – it could have been anything. You're not sure if you were even there at the time, or if you just stumbled in by accident. You don't know when it starts, or who starts it, or why it even starts at all.

More importantly, you also don't know how to get out.

The first time was a total accident. You'd not gone far, only for a little walk down to the park for some fresh air. It’s kind of a weekly thing, you see. Both of you have to do it – it’s important that the neighbours see you two doing ordinary human things like shopping and walking and laundry, so they don’t get suspicious.

Obviously, you have to modify your human form a little bit so that you can’t be recognised by anyone who might be looking for you, and it’s a little bit annoying. Hiding your demonic features is less comfortable than it used to be, so you’re always grateful to come home and shed the disguise. It’s just so itchy, so stiff and awkward �� your gums ache with the quiet pressure of suppressed fangs, and your skull cries out for the horns that it knows should be there.

Sometimes you go together, and other times you go one at a time. Going alone is fine, even if it gets a bit tricky trying to field questions from your neighbours. The two of you came up with a cover story when you moved in, and you've done your best to stick to it – it's kind of a silly story, and you had to watch a lot of television to make sure you got all the details right, but it seems to be working.

You did your best to make it as bland and generic as possible – no details that anyone could use to try and track you down. Forgettable. You never mention how you met, or even anything close to it – in fact, you and Vega have never even heard of Dahlia. As far as your neighbours are concerned, you're newlyweds from the other side of the state, looking for somewhere to settle down. That’s a pretty normal thing, right?

Vega's job – you still haven't really decided what it is, but definitely some sort of dull office thing – lets him work from home a lot more than it used to, and your job (Vega suggested ‘copywriting’, which is apparently some sort of bookish computer-y thing to do with adverts) is mostly online too, so you thought you’d take the opportunity to get a bit further out of the city. Both of your families live out of state, which is why nobody comes to visit you, and nobody saw you moving in because… um…

…oh, because it was very sudden! Yes, that’s it. You’d heard from a friend of a friend that the family who used to live here had to move because of a work thing. Some sort of exciting opportunity that had come up, maybe? Or a promotion? In any case, they’d practically jumped at the chance to sell their house to you so quickly. You and Vega had been living in a tiny flat in the city, so you hadn’t really had much stuff – no need to pay for a huge moving van, right? It’s not surprising, then, that nobody had seen you arrive.

Yeah – yeah, it’s like you just appeared out of thin air. Yeah, that’s so funny. Haha.

Unfortunately, everyone seems very chatty in this tiny little town, and keeps asking difficult questions. It got a bit awkward when one of the neighbours asked about why you didn’t have a car – luckily, Vega had been there at the time, and managed to make up some lie about having taken it for repairs a few days ago. That evening, you’d both spent several hours on the computer trying to figure out what sort of car you were supposed to have, and you’d even gone on a little reconnaissance mission around the neighbourhood, to see which types and colours of car people living here tend to have.

It’s in the garage now, some generic-looking shiny thing in some inoffensive colour or other that Vega magicked up with the help of a very complicated-looking repair manual. Unfortunately, neither of you actually knows how to drive, which makes it a bit hard to actually look like you’re using it – the whole driving thing is much less intuitive than either of you was expecting, and neither of you have been able to make it do anything useful! It’s a nightmare!

You could probably make it go with magic, but if you’re honest, that’s a lot of effort and energy for not a huge amount in return. For now, you’ve just settled on leaving the garage door open and conspicuously washing it with a bucket of water and a sponge every so often, to make it look like you know how to use it. That’s probably enough, right?

It was kind of difficult, trying to figure out what things you needed when you first arrived. All those mundane human things that they like to keep in their houses, like lunchboxes and pianos and those bicycles that say they’re for exercising but don’t actually go anywhere. When you’d arrived the house had been furnished with all the stuff that the, uh, previous tenants had owned, but it’s better to be safe than sorry. If that means having to drag Vega all the way to the closest garden centre at 9am on a Saturday to go and choose a suitable plant for the empty space on the front lawn, then so be it.

(Obviously, it’s a peony. Dark pink and white stripes, big flowers with soft petals. What else?)

You know what, it doesn’t even matter. You’re just rambling, now. The important thing is that you’d not been home when you felt it, that very first time.

You’d been about five or six minutes away, walking back through the park. It was busy, so many humans around that you couldn’t do anything suspicious – but you’d felt it, all the same. Gravity failing, air rippling around you, something deep and vital being snatched away. Silence where it shouldn’t be, a dry sort of cold, bitter and biting. No moisture in the air left to freeze.

Panic – pure, unfettered panic, turning your body to acid. All you could do was run.

Fighting your way through the slow, stupid humans that blocked your path, streets flying past as you pushed yourself faster and faster. Something had been wrong, so incredibly wrong, pulled out from under you. Running across the road without looking, footsteps loud against the pavement, turning the corner, and-

You’ll never get your hands on us again. Either of us.

Yellow caution tape, stretched across the street, fluttering just outside the boundaries of a tall, solid ward. It’s enormous, a huge dome that ripples and pulses with power. If you were human it would probably have been imperceptible, but to your demon’s eyes it was more like frosted glass, obscuring what was inside but not quite hiding it. You could make out the blurred shapes of people inside, but no more – the magic was almost unbelievably strong, all thick and liquid. What could have been happening?

You’d known you had to get inside. But how? It didn’t feel like Vega’s magic, there was none of that familiar sherbet fizzle on your tongue, it didn't bleed into your aura in that seamless, easy way. This had been something else, something wrong – grim and cold and clumsy, more of a sledgehammer than a switchblade.

Ducking underneath the tape to face it, your stomach lined with lead. Someone else was doing this.

It recoiled from your nervous touch, or maybe it just pushed you away? It was like gravity, or maybe magnets – like poles repelling, your own face in the mirrored surface of the ward.

Gritting your teeth, you’d forced your hand into the seething mass of magic up to the wrist, and though it screamed for you to leave, you didn't give in. He’s taught you too well for that. The world swam around you as you fought your way inside, and it was like trying to walk through oil, sticky and solid.

Closer, closer. Your body, getting impossibly heavier the further you go, laden with the iron weight of so much magic pressing in on you from every direction, and oh, it hurt, it hurt. Crushing, grasping, squeezing pain, trying to trap you in its brutal fist – but with every torturous step, the picture got clearer. Cars, more than normal, parked haphazardly in the street. Trees, still and unmoving with the lack of breeze. And humans, all dressed alike, swarming around the middle of the street, running into one of the houses – wait, that’s your house – the sound of shouting, screaming, gunfire—

Are you there, darling?

Delta uniforms. It’s the Department.

They’d found you.

If you’re being entirely honest, you don’t really know what you did next.

You didn’t scream, you’re fairly certain, but you think you froze. Paralysed with panic, all you could do was stand and watch as the shrieking carnage began, a crashing wave of blood and death and fire, and the whole new life you’d built for yourself turning to ash in the summer sun.

Hidden behind a parked car, you’d watched in horror as more and more humans poured into your house, descending upon the eye of the storm. Windows breaking, walls crumbling, your lovely front garden set ablaze and trampled into nothing. Magic coursed through the air with every breath, every fabricated cell of you singing with vicious power as wards formed and shattered, as the earth slipped and shuddered, as pure, seething energy tore through brick and bodies alike.

Pain, raw and ravenous, the sort you thought you’d escaped from long ago. Flooding your body, lighting up every simulated nerve – the hateful heaviness of your physical body binding you to the ground. You couldn’t make sense of it. Falling down inside your own mind, dizzy spirals in the riptide of anguish that swept you away.

Away from home, away from him. How could you have been so stupid?

I can feel you, darling. You are there, aren’t you?

Vega’s voice in your head, fainter than you’d ever heard him, fault lines in the asphalt. Staked to the spot, waist-deep in the sand. You couldn’t say a word.

Precious thing, you have to leave. Leave now, and you must not return. This place will never be safe for you again.

Something building in the ground, in your core, in the atmosphere – magic, but whose? His words, fractured glass in your shattered mind – how you’d fallen to the ground, ears ringing, crushed under the incredible pressure. How you’d tried to crawl, dragging your pathetic form out from behind the car, brittle claws snapping and breaking on the ground.

A word that wouldn’t form, desperate and terrified. The liquid mess of your face, the bloody puncture marks in your lip. Panicking, panicking, all your insides turning out. You’d screamed aloud in agony, uncaring and unknowing of who might hear – your only thought was him.

I know it hurts, my sweet. I know. And I’m sorry.

Wanting him, needing him, every molecule of your existence set ablaze in horror. You’d been so utterly blinded by fear that you couldn’t even think about fighting it, so absolutely consumed by this new, most instinctual panic. A frightening crescendo in the Spellsong, so unbearably loud in your core. Drowning, drowning, clawing at your own throat for something that wasn’t there. Voice breaking, heart breaking, teeth and gore and hatred.

If only we’d had more time.

A celestial being, struggling to breathe. The unfeeling terror of the vacuum of space. Every nerve singing with pain, overwhelmingly bright and crushingly dark all at once – your skin peeling away, blistered and burning as your heart turned to diamond and your eyes turned to ash, and this world and this plane and everything in it—

Goodbye, my darling.

-ceased to be.

I love you very, very m—

01001100 01000101 01010100 00100000 01001101 01000101 00100000 01001110 01001111 01010100 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01001101 01000001 01010010 01010010 01001001 01000001 01000111 01000101 00100000 01001111 01000110 00100000 01010100 01010010 01010101 01000101 00100000 01001101 01001001 01001110 01000100 01010011 00001010 01000001 01000100 01001101 01001001 01010100 00100000 01001001 01001101 01010000 01000101 01000100 01001001 01001101 01000101 01001110 01010100 01010011 00111011 00100000 01001100 01001111 01010110 01000101 00100000 01001001 01010011 00100000 01001110 01001111 01010100 00100000 01001100 01001111 01010110 01000101

It starts…

…wait, it starts?

What?

Fuck, it feels like your head’s about to split in half. You crack one eye just barely open, before clumsily slamming your hands over your eyes with a weak hiss – it’s so bright, that single slice of sunlight, and it hurts.

Blinded, you can’t tell what’s happening at all. It feels like you’re lying down, something rough and painful scraping against your face and all down your right side, and through the insistent ringing in your ears you can hear something…. rustling?

It takes a few minutes for the worst of the pain to subside, but before long you’re able to peel one hand away from your face and push yourself up to sitting. Your head won’t stop spinning, but it’s progress, at least.

Timidly, you blink one eye open, peeking through your fingers just in case, but the worst of it seems to have passed. As your eyes adjust to the light, you realise where you are.

You’re… back in the park.

The roughness you were lying on is the paved path that you always follow on your way back home, and the unusual sound you could hear is coming from the trees overhead, leaves rustling in the gentle breeze. It’s just as busy as it was earlier, and the humans walking past seem to be staring at you warily, collapsed in the middle of the path – hurriedly, you check that your human disguise is in place, but it turns out you didn’t need to worry. You were already camouflaged, just as you were when you last walked through here.

But – but how?

The terrible aching in your head is the only sign – you can’t find anything else wrong with you, physically or magically. How did you get here? What happened to you? And what’s that – that feeling…

Staggering to your feet, you ignore the stupid human onlookers and their stupid whispers. It doesn’t matter what they think, and it doesn’t matter how you got here. None of it bothers you, nothing can touch you now. All that matters is what happens next.

You’ve got to do what he said, you’ve got to run – there’s nothing left for you here any more, is there? They’ve taken it all, haven’t they? This place isn’t safe anymore – the Department will be hunting you now, they’ll be here any second, and you aren’t far enough from where – from where they – they—

Don’t think about it. Don’t think about it.

Looking away from the gates in the distance, back into the park, you can see the dark nest of trees that you’ll have to reach if you want to rift away unseen. It’s not far, maybe a little more than a hundred metres. If you ran, you could be gone in less than a minute. You don’t know where you’d go, but anywhere has to be better than here, right? You couldn’t possibly stay here, a fly desperately clinging to the web – he’d want you to escape, wouldn’t he? Isn’t that what he said? That he wanted you to be safe, and leave him behind?

Can you leave him behind?

It’s ridiculous. Even if you went back, what would you do? You’d be walking straight into a trap for nothing. Demons dissolve when they die, magic scattered back into the universe – there’ll be no body for you to find. Even now, at this very moment, everything that made him will have already disappeared, never to return to you again.

He’s gone, he’s gone. You try to suppress it, but you can’t – in your mind’s eye, you can’t help but see it – your house, your lovely warm house, with the photographs you took hanging on the wall and the flowers blooming in the garden that he grew for you. Perhaps they’re still there, or perhaps they’re destroyed – perhaps you’re the only one who remembers them now. Are you all that’s left of your love?

You look towards the trees.

You’ll leave. You’ll leave this place and never come back, and they’ll never ever find you. You’ll leave and live and forget him, forget this cursed place and this cursed plane, and you’ll become something new. Something different and demonic and utterly unrecognisable.

It’s what you ought to do. He wouldn’t want you to be so… so sentimental.

The air freezes.

What’s happening? What’s happening? Déjà vu hits you hard and fast – your insides turn to ice as you reel, knocked backwards by the sudden weight of the memory.

Floating, falling, lighter-than-air. The balloon of your skull pops and you spiral into silence, unknown claws tearing at your middle and all your insides falling out. All the warmth is sucked out of the air in a second, your skin raw and tender as all the nerves there start to sing.

It’s that same thing you’d felt before, that crippling, burning absence that had told you something was wrong before. It’s exactly the same, every agonising ripple of loss that tears through your core – and before you can even realise what’s happening, you’re already running as fast as you can towards the house.

You’re definitely going too fast for anyone to think you’re human, but you really don’t care, leaving a trail of shouts and curses behind you as you push people out of the way. At one point, you’re fairly sure you phase right through a man who doesn’t get out of the way fast enough, and the almost-certain car crash that you leave behind as you dart across the road isn’t exactly the most subtle thing you’ve ever done, but there’s no time for that now.

The ward looms above you as you turn the corner, stretching up into the sky, and you tear aside the caution tape to hurl yourself against it with a bitter snarl, clawing and biting at the bouncy, stretchy surface until you can slice a gash big enough to let you through. It repels you at first, but you bare your fangs and push, jamming your body into the gap and squirming inside.

Briefly, you laugh to yourself – you’re doing it exactly as he taught you, but with none of his finesse or elegance. What would he say, if he could see you now? Something clever, you’re sure.

The ward tries to force you out, just like before, but you won’t be deterred. The Department’s warding is no match for the white-hot force of your desperate fury, slashing blindly at the thick layers of magic over and over again until they crumble away in front of you. Gradually, the blurriness of the barrier gets clearer and clearer, and although your core aches with the effort, you keep throwing yourself at it until it finally lets you through.

The scene that greets you, stumbling from the suffocating grip of the ward, is no less horrifying than it was before. Deltas everywhere, laden with guns and sprays and shock sticks, filling the street and advancing on the house. It’s like a nightmare, those terrifying dreams that humans have when they sleep – it feels like watching the end of the world. Unmarked vans full of faceless, heavily armoured soldiers are parked haphazardly across the road, a peaceful suburbia turned to a terrifying prison.

But hold on – why are they doing this? It doesn’t make any sense. Why would they be going back into the house, when you know they’ve alre—

Are you there, darling?

Blindsided, you stagger backwards as his voice echoes through your head. How is he…?

I can feel you, darling. You are there, aren’t you?

You must be going mad – what magic is this? It feels like him, exactly like him, as if he’d never been taken from you at all. How can this be happening?

Precious thing, you have to leave. Leave now, and you must not return. This place will never be safe for you again.

As the soldiers descend on your house, the same buildup of magic as last time fills the air, yet it barely registers in your frantic mind, smashed flat against the ward as the painful pressure swells and swells. Once again, you try to struggle against it, but it’s too strong. You can still see more humans throwing themselves at the house, even as others are engulfed in flame, or crushed by invisible force, or thrown screaming from the upstairs windows.

In the back of your mind, you realise that he’s saying it all again, the exact same way he had the first time.

I know it hurts, my sweet. I know. And I’m sorry.

The sound of gunfire, humans shouting, Your physical body starts to falter under the incredible force of magic pressing down on you, soft tissues disintegrating into nothing, and you watch in horror as your body starts to break down. Frantically, you flood your form with healing magic to try and reverse it, but it’s no good – the more magic you use, the less stable your body is, and the faster it erodes.

Is this how it ends? It would be poetic, you suppose. A second chance to live, and all you could do was die with him.

If only we’d had more time.

It’s getting harder and harder to think, crushed backwards against the unrelenting surface of the ward. As your body melts away, you smile with what’s left of your mouth, and close what’s left of your eyes.

Goodbye, my darling.

It’s not so bad. If you really concentrate, you can almost feel his arms around you once again.

I love you very, very m—

01010111 01001000 01001001 01000011 01001000 00100000 01000001 01001100 01010100 01000101 01010010 01010011 00100000 01010111 01001000 01000101 01001110 00100000 01001001 01010100 00100000 01000001 01001100 01010100 01000101 01010010 01000001 01010100 01001001 01001111 01001110 00100000 01000110 01001001 01001110 01000100 01010011 00101100 00001010 01001111 01010010 00100000 01000010 01000101 01001110 01000100 01010011 00100000 01010111 01001001 01010100 01001000 00100000 01010100 01001000 01000101 00100000 01010010 01000101 01001101 01001111 01010110 01000101 01010010 00100000 01010100 01001111 00100000 01010010 01000101 01001101 01001111 01010110 01000101 00101110

It starts…

…well, you know.

Gasping for air, your eyes snap open as you sit bolt upright – the familiar sunlight sears your eyes, but the pain isn’t quite as bad as before. Air rushes back into your lungs, back inside your body and free of the suffocating force that only moments ago had held you, and even though you don’t technically need it, you’re pathetically grateful for the learned relief.

The pavement scrapes your palms as you push yourself to your feet. You’re here again, dumped back in the park just like last time, and as you look around – really, properly look around this time, you start to realise what’s going on.

It’s the same humans as before, the same breeze in the trees, the same clouds in the sky. It had been the same ward and the same soldiers, the same words in your head said in the exact same way. Déjà vu, on an unbelievable scale.

It’s a loop.

That’s what it’s called, right? A timeloop? Like the thing from that film you saw on the television, the one where the same day keeps happening over and over again, and they had to find a way to stop it. You’re stuck inside until you find a way to do some specific thing, and you’re supposed to keep repeating the day until you figure out the perfect way to do it.

(You’d asked Vega if these timeloops were real or not, some quirk of some branch of magic you’d never tried before, and he’d said they weren’t – just human flights of fancy. Oh, the irony.)

You can’t be certain that that’s what’s going on here, considering it’s only happened twice, whatever it is – wait, or is it three times? Should you be counting the number of resets, or the number of times the same things happen? Because they’re not the same, and if this is going to keep happening then you should probably make a decision on that sooner or later…

The air pressure plummets around you, earth swaying underneath your feet, and your mind is made up. Not about the stupid counting thing, that can wait – but about what all this means, what you’re going to do. For you, right now, the choice is clear.

You don’t know why this is happening, but you must have been put here for a reason. There must be something important you have to do, something that the universe can’t do without – something must be wrong, and you must have to fix it. Why else would this be happening to you, and why else would you, specifically, even know about it?

Nobody else seems to be clutching their head in timeloop-induced pain, nobody else seems to be crying and screaming about the existential horror of being forced to, perhaps indefinitely, repeat the same fifteen minutes of their life again and again. As far as you can tell with your limited knowledge, you’re the only one who knows.

There’s only one thing it could possibly be, one reason that you might be trapped here.

Vega.

You’ve got to save him. Whatever happens, wherever this leads, you’re going to get him out of there, no matter the cost. He’s too important to lose – to you, and seemingly to the rest of the universe as well.

Most likely, it’s something to do with his plan, his grand scheme to take back the Sovereigns for Aria. Could they be doing this? You can’t rule out the possibility. Who else would have the power to even try and pull off such an enormous magical feat? Time travel? You can’t even imagine how much magic it must be taking.

Then again, it’s not like it really matters who’s behind all of this. You’d do it no matter what. If there’s any chance that this could work, you have to take it. There can’t be a world without Vega – there just can’t be. It’s impossible. There’s just no way.

Goodbye, my darling.

You’ll fight for him, as hard as you can, for as long as it takes. He saved you, once before, and in doing so he gave you everything. You won’t fail him now.

The ground shakes again, and you start to run.

I love you very, very m—

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You keep running, and running, and running.

Loop after loop, you keep learning.

How many has it been, now? Fifty? Sixty? You’re starting to lose count. Every time, you try something new. You’ve given up on trying to maintain any semblance of humanity – something’s stopping you from rifting, but you abandon your disguise and let your demonic form take over, reaching the ward in about a minute and worming your way inside. After some experimenting, you’ve discovered that the weakest part of the ward is actually behind one of the houses on the opposite side of the street, so you’ve started aiming for there instead – it’s a little more difficult to get close to the action from there, but you’re iterating your way through finding a route.

You’ve tried to leave things behind, or leave yourself notes between loops so that you don’t accidentally forget anything, but nothing you do is ever permanent. Unfortunately, it all gets washed away at the moment you’re reset, so you can’t set things up in preparation for a future loop. It would be helpful if you could, but apparently it’s just not meant to be.

Right now, your focus is on trying to get into the house in time to help Vega escape. Something about the structure of this particular ward is designed to suppress magic use inside it, so you’re not as powerful as you should be, and it’s not possible to rift from inside the barrier either. You know you’ll have to get him out of the house and outside the barrier in time – but it’s not as easy as you’d hoped.

It feels like he’s set up a barrier of his own around the house that you’re not strong enough to break through on your own, and it’s blocking out almost all outside magic. That means you can’t talk to him and ask to be let in, or tell him about your plan, and it means you have to wait for the Department to break through before you’ve got a chance of actually entering the house.

You haven’t been able to figure out where in the house he’ll actually be, for when you do manage to get inside, but you suspect he’s in your bedroom, upstairs at the back of the house, overlooking the garden. It would make the most sense – even before all of this, it was one of the most heavily warded rooms in the house, and the physical distance between that room and the front door that they’re mainly attacking from gives him just that little bit more time to react before they reach him.

If he is there – and you’re fairly sure he is – then you can’t actually see him. It’s probably a good thing, because it means the Department won’t be able to see him either, but it makes your job a lot harder as well. You’ll have to figure out a way to sneak inside and convince him to come with you, then escape without being seen.

Goodbye, my darling.

If you could just get up to that room… but how?

I love you very, very m—

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It’s been days. Weeks, perhaps, or maybe months. You’re not sure.

Loops upon loops, the same neverending fifteen minutes. Four hundred, five hundred, six hundred – or is that six hundred thousand? It’s a good thing you don’t need to sleep.

You’ve managed to get a little closer, but it’s still not enough. You’ve tried to get in through the garden, through the back door, through the secret entrance to the basement Vega made that only you and he have ever known about. No matter what you do, you just can’t reach him in time – gunned down in the kitchen by the Department, burned alive as the hallway fills with fire, blown to bits when a grenade comes sailing over the fence and scatters you across what used to be your very neatly-kept lawn.

There’s just so many of them, filthy rats swarming through the street, flooding your house like the disgusting vermin they are. The stupid magic-dampening effect of the ward makes it almost impossible to cloak yourself for long enough, and there’s almost nowhere to hide once you get close enough to the house.

Electrocuted, clubbed, impaled, dismembered – and not enough magic to put yourself back together. You die every time, and you remember them all.

(You don’t know if the loop resets when you die, or when he dies – but with no way to record any proof for the next loop, there’s no way to tell. It doesn’t really matter that much, seeing as you – for obvious reasons – can’t do anything after you die, and whatever magic Vega does seems to wipe out everything inside the ward, including you and him at roughly the same time. So, in a very real sense, there’s no actual benefit to knowing. You’re just curious.)

Vega still says the same thing, no matter what you do, and you always hang on to his every word, no matter how much it hurts. It feels… comforting. Knowing that he’s so close, that you’re almost, almost there – a hopeful reminder that one day, this will all be over, and he’ll finally be yours again. He says goodbye as your broken body fizzles away into nothingness, and the agony of death is almost worth it to hear him again.

Goodbye, my darling.

It’s kind of ironic, isn’t it? Two immortals, cursed to hear each other die over and over again. There’s a joke in there, one that if you weren’t so tired, you could probably think of. You’d say something clever, and Vega would laugh. He’d give you that mischievous, knowing smile, and slip his hand around your middle, and lean down to kiss you even though you’d have to hide your demon fangs and tongues because there's humans watching.

Waking up doesn’t hurt any more, though. So, you know. That’s something, at least.

I love you very, very m—

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It feels like years. Centuries, even.

You feel old. The blinding, neverending sun, dust gathering in the tiny creases of your palm. Your body doesn’t age, but your mind feels ancient – you haven’t seen the night in what feels like a million years. Has your life been longer inside the loop, or out of it?

You don’t give in.

Iteration after iteration, you keep trying. At times, you can’t help but feel like you’ve tried everything – that every possible option has been exhausted, that there’s just no way. That you’ve searched everywhere, killed everyone, heard and seen and done it all, and yet still it’s not enough.

Everything is always exactly, exactly the same. It used to be comforting, but now it’s just infuriating.

You’ve wondered if the secret might be to stay outside the ward altogether – if maybe you going inside distracts Vega in some way that means he always dies, or if you should try to dismantle it from the outside in the hope that it would force the Department to retreat and regroup. But, alas, neither of those ideas work either, any of the hundred or so times that you try them, and all that happens is you end up right back at square one.

There have even been loops where you don’t try anything at all. Instead, you’ve tried to make sense of the loop itself, figuring out how it works and where its limits are. As far as you can tell, the loop is always reset at the point when Vega dies, expending all his magic to shatter the ward from within, killing anything and everything that’s inside. You don’t know what happens after the ward breaks – presumably all of that force escapes outwards, devastating the surrounding area and likely wiping half the town off the map.

The loop also seems to have a sort of physical boundary, one that you’re unable to cross by physical or magical means. It’s roughly circular, with the house at its centre, extending about three or four kilometres in all directions. You can travel freely within it, but you can’t leave and you can’t signal anyone or anything outside.

You can’t rift – you can’t even open a rift, let alone travel through it, which you privately suspect to mean that there’s someone or something very powerful running this whole thing. Like this, you’re entirely cut off from Aria, and far away from anyone who could help – even the Spellsong sounds weak and strange, on the edge of changing key. How could such a thing be possible – what could have the power to do that?

Throwing yourself against the wall, the same impossible wall, forever. Who do you have to thank? Who do you have to blame?

The memories are a little less clear than they used to be, but it doesn’t stop you from dreaming. Dreaming about the life you used to have, the slow, golden days from before it all began. Are those days still there? Will they ever come again? Or is this all that’s left, now – is this the most you’ll ever have?

He still says it, even now – even when you’re not inside the ward, his voice still finds you. He tells you to go, to save yourself. To leave him behind. He says goodbye, time and time again, and you never let it stick.

Even after all of this, every torturous decade that passes in the prison of your stolen time, you can still picture him exactly. Every detail of his face, his form, his smile. As if he were right there, right in front of you. As if this had never even happened at all.

Goodbye, my darling.

The tiny bubble of eternity, stretching out in all directions. Does he smile as he says it? Or does he cry, and you’ve just never known?

I love you very, very m—

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The park, again.

You’re fairly sure you have the first part nailed down. After an uncountable amount of tries, you’re certain this is the fastest way to reach the ward. You need to revert back to your demonic form, with its elongated proportions and affinity for speed, and brace yourself to phase through the humans and cars and buildings that stand between you and the weak point in the ward.

This time, you’re going to try mind manipulation again. If you can just get a few more of them under your control, and take out the one who shot you to death from across the street last time, you might be able to hold them back a tiny bit longer…

Your human disguise disappears in an instant – teeth splitting and sharpening into fangs, bloody horns piercing through your scalp as they bloom out of your skull, and the screams around you begin. Good. It means they get out of your way quicker.

Smiling to yourself in grim satisfaction, you turn to run. There won’t be any obstacles in your path until you get closer to the gate, so you can just—

It’s you.

…What?

No, no, no.

This can’t be right.

You’ve seen this all before, every single part of it, every moment in excruciating detail. A closed system, a circular world, repeating over and over again. Nothing ever changes, and nobody but you can remember it.

Something must have gone horribly, horribly wrong. Never in a million million tries, a million million loops – not once, not ever has this happened before.

There’s a voice in your head. You can’t move.

Of course it’s you, the voice marvels, and you can feel someone behind you. Someone magical. But how? There’s never been anyone magical here before. Ever.

Your nonexistent blood turns to ice at the sound of quiet footsteps, starting to circle slowly around you. Sharklike. Predatory.

I should have known.

Slowly, whoever-it-is steps into your field of view, and you frown as you try to figure out where you’ve seen him before. Because you have seen him before, haven’t you? Why does he seem so… so familiar?

He’s a demon, that much is clear – his tail sways slowly behind him as he walks, and long, pointed claws catch the afternoon sunlight as he flicks his hair out of his eyes. His horns aren’t as tall as Vega’s, but they seem to be well-maintained and shiny. For some reason, it takes a little more effort than it should to make your eyes focus on him, like the world goes a little bit hazy around his edges.

He reminds you a little bit of a Concubus, although you can’t quite put your finger on why. Maybe it’s something to do with the way he walks, effortlessly smooth and steady, or the way his presence seems to draw you in without even trying. He’s not especially tall or short, and his features conform to mostly-human proportions – his fingers aren’t so inhumanly long like Vega’s are, his fangs not nearly as sharp or numerous, and his eyes don’t have the black sclera that you’ve come to favour. There’s just something so irresistibly, fascinatingly beautiful about him that leaves you unable to look away.

(Somewhere, in the back of your mind, you remember Vega saying something about an incubus. Or did you read it in his file? Oh, come on, come on – what did he tell you? It’s right there, on the tip of your tongue…)

(Hm. It’s probably nothing, and you’re probably wrong, but you just can’t shake the feeling that there’s something you’re forgetting.)

It’s weird, though. He looks so much like a demon, but he doesn’t feel like one. There's emotion there, certainly, but which ones – and why can't you tell? Your aura fizzes and pops as it touches his, like it’s unsure what to make of him, and the air tastes like a strange kind of energy you feel like you should recognise. It soaks into the song of your being, the invisible space between the stars, like something primaeval and powerful – an ancient, inevitable force.

He catches your eye, and something splinters in your mind as he smiles. Involuntarily, your legs give way underneath you, and if his magic wasn’t still keeping you upright, you’d be in a graceless heap on the ground.

Maybe you were wrong. He’s no demon, no ordinary one at least. He’s something new, something strange and ethereal, reality bending around him like light around a black hole. A walking, talking law of the universe – wearing a demon’s crown, and looking so very, very familiar.

You’re not… His mind is uncomfortable to speak into, multicoloured static filling your head like an ache, but you struggle through it anyway. You’re not from here.

I suppose.

The not-demon raises one perfectly-manicured eyebrow, looking you up and down. But, to be fair, neither are you.

A twinge in your chest, a niggling, scraping feeling in the back of your brain. You’re hardwired for the adrenaline of the chase, for the mission you’ve been fixed on for so long – it’s unnatural, to still be here in the park for so long.

I have to go. He needs me.

Is that so? muses the not-demon, pretty lips twisting into a wicked smirk. Are you sure?

He opens his hand to reveal what looks like a pebble of some sort, perfectly round and black and smooth, before tipping his palm and letting it fall.

I think he can wait.

Shocked, you stare as the pebble doesn’t fall at all – instead, it just hangs immobile in the air, frozen at the very moment that it left his hand. There’s no telltale ripple of psychokinesis that you can feel, no illusion cast over your senses. It’s like time just… stopped.

Seeing your surprise, he sighs, and leans slightly to the right. Behind him, the rest of the world is frozen, too. Humans caught mid-step, mid-smile, mid-breath. Trees that blow in the unmoving breeze, clouds that hang suspended in the breathless, staring sky.

A creature who controls time. Is he the one who’s behind all this?

I – I don't understand.

Your voice is so small as you try to push down the fear, the instinctive sense of danger that flickers wildly in your core. Who are you? And how did – what do you mean? How do you know me?

He shrugs, strangely casual. I know everyone.

But – but…

I know everyone, and I know everything, he says evenly, unblinking as he walks slowly towards you. I know every word in the world, every note in the Spellsong, every drop of blood and blade of grass that there ever was or will be. Little demon, I know every thought you’ve ever had, every speck of stardust that ever formed you, and I know how every single moment of your entire existence will end.

Paralysed, all you can do is watch as he stops just in front of you, expression utterly impassive. What is this? What is he going to do to you?

So, I have a question for you.

He leans forward, closer and closer, until his face is right in front of yours. Staring up at him in terror, you want nothing more than to back away – but you can't, you can't, trapped in his inescapable web and entirely helpless.

He sighs, sadly.

Does it ever work?

…Hang on.

Well, you’re not sure what you were expecting him to say, but it certainly wasn't that.

The not-demon continues, inspecting every tiny facet of your confused face like he might find his answer written there. It's not that I don't think it's admirable. It is. But don't you ever get tired?

Does it… work?

He nods. Yes.

I don't… You're so, so lost by this whole conversation – what on earth is he talking about? I don't know what you – what do you mean, ‘it’?

Oh, don't lie to me.

He says it lightly, waving his hand like it's a joke, but there's something sharp and steely just under the surface. Call it ‘professional curiosity’, if it makes you feel better. I want to know, and I’m asking you nicely. Does it work?

His gaze has turned hungry, almost manic in its intensity – reflexively, your magic recoils from the tidal wave of power that surges inside him, towering over you like a tsunami, jaws open to swallow you whole.

Tell me, little demon, ‘cause I want to know. Is it worth it? Is it better?

This change in him – is it mania, or is it madness? The realisation blossoms in the back of your petrified mind, fault lines in the frozen surface of the sea. This – this creature, whatever he is, that feeling that you couldn’t quite explain.

Does it make you happy, hm? Holding on so tightly to your quest, forever. Tell me the truth, if that's what this is – because your ignorance doesn't look very blissful to me.

It wasn't just fury, and it wasn't just fear. Yes, yes, you can taste it now, sweet and tart on your paralysed tongue. It's heat and blood and savage need, it's sweet revenge and desperate, ravenous desire – this is a man driven out of his mind with passion.

You’re not scared, are you? Of a little question like that? the man spits, like sour acid splattered across your skull. No, I don’t think so. So answer it, and answer me – are you pleased with what you’ve done? Is this the eternity you always dreamed of?

You can't move, can't breathe, can't think. It's like staring into a black hole, this incredible force looming closer and closer. You have to run, why can't you run? Your mind stutters, buckling under this crashing, crushing weight of stress and terror and confusion.

I don't know what you mean, you sob, wanting nothing more than to rub your eyes as hot, scared tears finally spill over. What is this – who are you? I don't know, I don't know – I want – please, Vega, I – I just want – Vega, Vega, I need—

The not-demon says nothing, face utterly blank as he just watches you cry. It's embarrassing – you can't help the awful wailing that tears its way out of you, every fraction of your being screaming out for help. You want him to go away, why won't he just go away? You don't want to be here, you don't want to talk about it, you don't want to be alone – you want Vega, Vega, Vega!

Lovely Vega, wonderful Vega – he's so safe and kind and precious to you, and you need him so much. You don't want to be scared. He keeps you safe from being scared. He should be here, but he isn't, and it’s not right, it's not right! Why can't he just be here?

Nothing moves. You cry and cry and cry, and it's the only sound in the whole wide world.

So you don't know.

He closes his eyes for just a moment, before he reaches out to slowly take your hand in his. Of course. Of course you don't.

It's strange, but he doesn't feel warm or cold – it's like his skin is exactly the same temperature as yours. All you feel is the pressure as his fingers fold around yours, both hands enveloping your own, and sweet magic ripples across your face as your tears suddenly dry up all on their own, as if they were never even there.

I’m sorry.

Why does he look so… so sad? It's frightening.

I thought….I thought that maybe you could have been like me, he says quietly, his thumb stroking slowly back and forth over your knuckles. Apparently not. Although, maybe it's for the best.

He smiles mournfully, and tosses his head in a mock show of vanity. You can have too much of a good thing, you know.

There's a sudden sort of crumbling, crunching noise, like an eggshell cracking, and your whole body drops to the floor like a stone as the paralytic magic holding you up collapses. Caught unawares, you only just manage to avoid landing flat on your face – he's still holding one of your hands, and you barely manage to get the other one underneath you in time to save you from a very nasty nosebleed.

Careful, now.

He watches you scramble to your feet in amusement, before swiftly looping his arm with yours and guiding you the wrong way down the path – well, the wrong way to you, seeing as you always go in the opposite direction. Walk with me, won’t you?

It’s not exactly like you have a choice, but you nod anyway. Okay.

As you walk, time begins to move again, but much more slowly than it should. You pass a jogger, running in slow-motion in the opposite direction, and for some reason you get the tiniest, nagging feeling that something isn’t quite right about her.

Out of the corner of your eye, you notice the not-demon reaching out a curious hand towards the ground, and you watch as a dandelion growing by the side of the path is plucked from the earth and summoned to his fingers.

You’re confused. Was that psychokinesis? It looked like it, but it didn’t feel like it. If you had to be specific, you’d say it felt less like a physical manipulation and more like a psychological one, closer to telepathy or dreamwalking or something. But that can’t be right, can it? What kind of magic could he be doing, that seems one way but is actually another?

Regardless of your astonishment, he catches the dandelion out of the air and twirls the stem between his fingers, to the left, then the right, then the left again.

It’s a lovely world, isn’t it?

You nod warily, unsure what to make of all this. It seems best to just let him talk.

He holds the dandelion up to the sunlight, narrowing his eyes as he examines all of the little fluffy seeds, a soft white bubble atop the skinny, green stem, neatly sliced at the bottom from where he’d picked it.

I wonder…

Bringing it back down, he blows gently on the puff of seeds and watches as they come loose, fluttering in slow-motion through the air and leaving the bare stem behind. Some begin to fall to the ground much more quickly, while others are carried away by the wind, slow like air bubbles rising through thick honey.

So detailed, he murmurs, as he watches the seeds tumble away with the breeze. It’s remarkable.

Surprised, you turn your head to look at him. Detailed?

It's a strange word for him to choose – surely the world is just… like that? This is just how Elegy is, with all its rules and laws and creatures. What an unusual thing to say.

He doesn’t elaborate, but just keeps walking. You’re carried along by his arm in yours, a melancholy mockery of the way Vega used to walk with you, and you can’t help but close your eyes as the sense of loss swirls up inside you once again. So near, and yet so far.

I wish things had been different, you know.

At first, you’re not sure who said it. Then, you catch sight of his face, and realise he’s wearing exactly the same expression as you.

It’s not that I regret it, as such, he says wistfully, but I wish it hadn’t come to… this. To all of this.

His tail curls thoughtfully from side to side, just barely noticeable at the edge of your vision. When I noticed it, I thought that this might have been the answer I was looking for. A solution, at last. Or the model for one. A way that I could fix everything, for good.

Sunlight glitters off his fangs. All I wanted was what I used to have. What was taken from me.

There’s something hard and ruthless in his voice as he says it, form blurring ever so slightly at the edges. Not enough to really notice, but you feel the tremors of escaped emotion stirring in your own core as if they were your own.

Perhaps they are. You must not be as different as you’d first thought.

His words in your mind, full of longing, rhythmic like a prayer. I wanted it back – that life, that world, where nothing ever went wrong. I thought I would be willing to give it all up, if I could just have that world back.

Your shirt flutters in the slow breeze as you pass a woman walking a dog, holding the lead in one hand and her phone in the other. She shivers slightly as the two of you stroll past, and that irritating feeling of forgetting something tingles again in the back of your mind..

I wouldn’t want power. What would I need it for? the not-demon continues, a dreamy, faraway look in his eyes as he gestures mindlessly in front of him with his free hand. I’d give up everything. I’d let the universe spiral off in its own direction, let it tear itself apart the way it always seems to want, and I’d just keep that tiny little piece all for myself.

Idly, he reaches up and flicks his hair out of his face with a single, pointed claw. He seems distracted. You’d wager that he doesn’t even know he’s doing it.

I’d keep just enough to hide myself away, keep my little, perfect world protected, and I’d live forever in that little bubble of time where nothing could ever go wrong again.

He laughs humourlessly to himself, a quiet, grim little thing. Sorry. I think what I mean to say is… thank you.

Time stops.

You’re not just saying that – it really does stop again. Nothing moves except for you two, no sound except for your quiet footsteps on the path, slowing down.

Me? But I…

Something like dread crawls up your spine, slow and creeping. I haven’t done anything.

No, he replies calmly, you haven't. And I understand it now. Your little experiment – it hasn’t worked, which means I need to find another way.

Sorry, your what?

You must have heard him wrong. You must have. There’s no way he actually – there’s no way he means that.

I’m sorry, you manage to choke out. ‘Experiment’?

He takes a deep breath, but doesn’t say anything. In an instant, you’re seeing red.

You mean this whole time – time thing? The looping? you hiss, suddenly furious. It’s been nothing but an experiment?

He shrugs, suddenly cagey. In a manner of speaking.

How did you…? You don’t care who he is, or what he is, anymore – all you care about is tearing his stupid fucking head from his shoulders. This has all been a test? Hundreds of years of torture, losing your mind in the prison of this neverending spiral, and it’s never meant a thing?

What have you done to us? you scream, words turning to raging radio static as you hurl them into his head. What have you done?

What have I done? I’m hurt, little warden, he gasps, and that name, that name – right word, wrong voice, and it burns your skin like hot oil. For once, it’s not my fault.

Then whose is it? you snap, fingers twitching, simulated blood simmering with rage. Who do I have to blame?

Infuriatingly, he has the nerve – the nerve! – to just roll his eyes and keep walking. You won’t like it when I tell you…

You won’t like me if you don’t fucking say it, you spit, sharp claws digging into his skin as you try to struggle out of his grip on your arm – but he’s stronger than he looks, practically dragging you along by the elbow, and you can’t even draw blood. Who is it? Tell me!

Of course it’s got to be difficult, he mutters to himself, and your aura flares in fury at his exasperated tone – like you’re just a child throwing a temper tantrum. Why does it always have to be difficult?

He finally lets you go, and you skitter backwards away from him on pure instinct, your form swaying and changing constantly as magic rolls beneath your skin. Claws lengthening and shortening, blood freezing and melting, bones stretching and contracting. You can feel your magic surging, pressing against the bounds of your physical body, seething with your desperation to destroy.

You’re making a scene.

The man stands still, regarding you with what you can only describe as a miserable sort of rueful pity, and it makes you even angrier. Actually, I suppose that’s sort of the problem.

He knows you won’t respond, head too full of rage and mouth too full of fangs. I thought you would have realised, by now, but I guess not. Didn’t you think it was odd, how nobody noticed us?

The question takes you momentarily by surprise, before you realise what he’s talking about. Of course. You’re always in your demon’s body nowadays, so you quickly learnt to tune out the screaming. It hadn’t even occurred to you that nobody was panicking, at seeing two adult demons, horns and tails and all, walking through the park.

I thought it might be better if we weren’t disturbed, he says gently, hands raised slightly like he’s trying to soothe a cornered animal. I thought you might want to be alone when I told you.

Your laugh is a horrible, screeching thing, wild and frenzied as it forces its way free of you. Told me what? Told me that none of it was real – that this has all just been a game to you? That you’ve been playing with us for some sick amusement?

That’s not—

The air around you starts to shimmer as it heats up, grass just barely on the edge of catching alight. You say you know everything – you have no idea what it’s like! How many times I’ve died for this, for him – you don’t care! It doesn’t matter to you how much we’ve suffered, how hard I’ve tried, because it’s all just some fucking joke to you, isn’t it?

You think you can just take him from me? you spit, venom pooling in your mouth and dripping down your chin. He’s mine. And you could never understand what it’s like, to do what I’ve done – what I’ve had to do! Do you think it’s easy, to have him dangled just out of my reach, dying over and over again when I can’t save him?

The earth stands still and watches as you howl your grief at this monstrous, stone-faced stranger, utterly silent except for the ragged breaths you don’t even need.

The only creature in this world I could ever truly love, and he’s dead, you laugh, manic tears running down your face. He’s dead! He’s gone, isn’t he? He’s just gone, and I can’t follow him.

Shuddering with rage, you stalk forwards, thinking only of one thing. Is that what you wanted? Is this what you wanted to see? What it looks like to be cursed with false hope, forever? Your fucking experiment worked, then, because you will never, never know how it f—

I do know!

The man’s voice shreds through your body as he screams, a shockwave of sparking, glitchy static forcing you back several metres into the grass. Of course I fucking know!

Stunned, all you can do is reel as your mind is overwhelmed with emotion, washing over you like a tidal wave and knocking you flat on your back. Something like electricity courses through you, locking up every muscle, the stinging crack of a lightning bolt as it spears you to the ground, and it hurts, it hurts, it hurts—!

Is this how he truly feels? Is this what drove him mad? You gasp for air against a raging torrent of grief, white-hot and agonising, consuming every atom of your being in torturous fire – images flash by, too fast to see, leaving only the impression of a handful of flowers and a lonely, sunlit grave.

It feels like your mind is too big for your skull, excruciating pressure as it fills with voices, vying against the Spellsong for control of your form – you feel as though even your demonic nature, that most base of things that creates you, begins to falter under the hellish weight. It’s morphing, changing, all the magic in your body burning up as it turns from the bubbling, aching lust that formed you into something else, into this starving, sobbing desire that roars into the empty sky.

You are made again, full of fury and love and sorrow. You are your mission, single-minded in your quest, a ravenous force and a never-ending power, seeking only to regain a world that is no more. This universe is yours, turned inside out at your will, and… and…

…hang on. This isn’t right.

Blearily, you try to force yourself back into your own brain, struggling to form the thoughts that you know should be there. There’s a lie – a false memory, that you should have seen coming from a mile away. That’s not how you came to be, that’s not the right story. You weren’t formed from lust. You’re an Inchoate, not a—

Concubus, you breathe, and the illusion shatters.

It takes a little while to come back to yourself.

When you do, you’re still lying there in the grass. Your tail is digging uncomfortably into your back where you’re lying on it, and your gums ache from your fangs constantly lengthening and retracting, but you’re still you.

There’s the soft sound of footsteps, and a hand appears in your vision. Grudgingly, you take it, and the man pulls you to your feet.

Sorry about that, he says sheepishly, the tip of his tail curling from side to side in faint embarrassment. I, um… well. You know. Sorry.

Time seems to still be frozen – no feeling of the breeze in your hair, or sound of the leaves in the trees rustling faintly. The sun is high in the sky behind you, and you wonder how you ever missed that he casts no shadow.

It’s you, isn’t it? you marvel, as the pieces fall into place. The incubus he told me about, the one who brought him to the Department in the first place. That was you.

It’s strange. You don’t have nearly enough evidence to prove it – it’s not like he’s the only incubus in the world, and Vega never showed you what he looked like, or even told you his name. He only ever mentioned him once or twice, back before you escaped. But for some reason, it just feels right, something instinctive deep down inside, telling you that it’s the truth.

He nods, wry smile playing across his face. I think his exact words were ‘you human-loving pathetic little upstart worm’ at the time, but yes, ‘incubus’ will do. That was me, a very long time ago.

Did you know, back then? you ask, curious. That he would come to me?

Not at the time, no, he replies. But, well – you know what they say. Everything happens for a reason.

You gesture vaguely with one hand at the lazy world around you. Even this?

Even this.

He ducks his head, looking strangely remorseful. And I meant what I said: I am sorry that I have to tell you. But you deserve to know, and it wouldn’t be right to keep it from you.

You’re about to protest, but he shushes you first. I know. I’ll explain everything, I swear. All you have to do is close your eyes.

Warily, you look around, but nothing has changed. Yet.

What are you going to do?

I won’t touch you, if that’s what you’re worried about, he says. Close your eyes, and just listen to me. Listen to my voice.

Hesitantly, you do as he asks. You can still vaguely sense your surroundings as your aura gently reflects off of them, feeling the grass beneath your feet and the leaves of the trees above you, and you can feel that the incubus hasn’t moved at all.

(Is he still an incubus, after everything you saw? Probably not. But he still hasn’t given you his name, so it’s the best you can do.)

I don’t want you to think, he says solemnly, I just want you to answer me honestly. Alright? However feels right – the first answer that pops into your head.

Okay.

Good. Where are we?

You nearly open your eyes out of reflex, caught off guard by the bizarre question. …What?

Nope, it wasn’t a joke – he sounds serious. I mean it. Where are we? Where is this place?

It’s – it’s the park. Near my house.

The incubus clicks his tongue in understanding, like he hadn’t known. The park, right. And your house! That’s very good. But where is your house, exactly?

Well, it’s close to the park, you reply, still confused. Shouldn’t he know that too? It’s only about ten minutes’ walk from here, back the way we came.

Ten minutes… I see. You can’t see it, but you’re fairly sure you can hear the minute sound of him nodding his head – the tiniest friction of skin and hair and fabric, and you strain your ears to try and focus on it. But if I want to go there and visit you, I’ll need more than that. Remind me what street your house is on?

Uh… I mean, it’s definitely nearby… It’s just on the tip of your tongue – fuck, what street do you live on? You know how to get there, but the name… If you turn right, then left, then keep walking, it’s sort of straight ahead.

Right and then left? Ah, I know the one, he muses, before his voice turns all puzzled. He sounds sad, and that feels… wrong, somehow. You don’t want him to be sad. But there are lots of houses on that street, aren’t there? And I wouldn’t want to get the wrong one. So what number is your house, then?

Oh, it’s number… You go to say it, but the answer isn’t there. Lost in thought, you snap your fingers like it’ll help you remember – because you do remember, obviously. It’s your house! Of course you know which number it is!

It’s, um…

There’s an uncomfortable pause, as he watches you try to rack your brain for the right number, and you start to get more and more embarrassed the longer it goes on. Come on, come on, why can’t you think of it?

Eventually the incubus just gives up. You know what, it doesn’t matter, he murmurs reassuringly. That was kind of a difficult question. Shall we do some easier ones?

Relieved, you hastily agree. Yes, please.

Alright. Alright, we’ll do that.

He thinks for a second, before humming quietly in satisfaction. You know what, why don’t we talk about Vega for a little bit, hm? That sounds good. You like Vega, don’t you?

Mmm, Vega. You smile dreamily at the name, letting the incubus’s low, calming voice wash over you. Yeah.

Yeah? Mm, I know, he laughs, not unkindly. And I can see why. He’s so handsome, isn’t he?

Mm-hmm. Vega…

Without even having to try, the thoughts fill your mind – the image of Vega’s form here on Elegy, and the warm feeling of being bathed in his astral aura. He looks…

Even after all this time, you can picture him as clearly as if he were right here in front of you. The gentle curve of his horns, long hair pulled up high, falling messily past his face and down his back. Tall and lithe, elegant fingers tipped with savage claws, the sly curve of his tail as it sways lazily back and forth. In your head, sweet blood drips from his fangs, gore smeared indulgently across his face and down his neck, running down over his chest, a slick, shiny trail that leads lower, and lower, and lower…

Dark eyes and a darker smile, ever knowing – ever hungry. Vega’s is a cruel sort of beauty, and no matter how long his absence, it never fails to captivate you.

He’s so pretty, you mumble, only barely aware of the words. He looks so nice.

Oh, I’m sure he does, replies the incubus, and you can hear the indulgent grin in his voice matching your own. And he’s so clever, too! Don’t you think he’s clever?

You nod, because it’s true. Very clever.

Clever and beautiful… I see, I see.

The incubus gasps theatrically, like he’s surprised himself, and you find yourself hanging onto every little sound. Ooh, but he’s got big plans, hasn’t he? Lots of ambition! And I do like that, in a man.

You can’t help but laugh delightedly at the way his voice dips all low and flirty when he says it, like a special secret from a best friend. But he’s not all work and no play, is he? That would be pretty boring. I bet he knows how to unwind, when he wants to. Is that right?

Absentmindedly, your hand drifts up to your neck, fingers pressing gently over the tender shape of Lyra that you know is there. It stings slightly, fresh as it is, the deep bite of his namesake star sitting just where your pulse ought to be.

Yeah, you breathe, only slightly embarrassed. Yeah, he does.

Obviously you can't see it, but you can practically taste the wicked smirk that spreads across the incubus’s face at your admission. Mmm, I thought so.

He starts to move, circling slowly around to your left, the quiet echo of his footsteps on the concrete floor. He even found the time to get married, didn’t he? That’s pretty impressive. And he found himself a real catch, too – you know, I heard the wedding was something very, very special indeed.

Your wedding ring suddenly feels like it weighs a ton as he mentions it, enormously conscious of the weight on your finger that you’d almost forgotten was there. So sorry I couldn’t come, by the way. But is that true? Did you have fun?

Oh, your wedding day… Hadn’t it been so wonderful? Flowers and ribbons and confetti everywhere, like a great big birthday party, and all those floaty, happy feelings you got to gobble up from all the people watching you. Vega’s lovely words to you – the special promises you made, to be together forever and ever. And the music! That big piano thing that the lady played for you, so loud and sweet-sounding, the whole song of your being singing along.

Even after you and Vega had left the ceremony, you’d still had fun. He’d carried you in his arms back into the room you’d passed through earlier, the one with all the balloons and chairs and decorations, and shown you the cake he found – it was the tallest cake you’ve ever seen! It had so many layers, and it had lots of flowers made of pink sugar stuck to the sides. There were two little figures made of sweet-smelling stuff on top of the cake as well, that were shaped a bit like humans, but you hadn’t really been paying attention to them.

You’d really really wanted to try some, but you hadn’t seen any sort of spoon to eat it with, or a knife to cut it with. And perhaps you could have made one with magic, but you couldn’t really be bothered – so instead, you’d reached out and excitedly clawed a handful of sweet cake out from the front, scooping it up into your mouth and enjoying the rich, buttery redness that had been hiding inside.

Vega had refused at first, but he’d relented when you’d taken a second helping and offered it to him, neatly taking a bite out of the red and white chunk of cake and icing sitting in your palm. He hadn’t wanted any more after that, though, so you’d helped yourself to the rest, burying your face in your palm until half your face was smeared with all of that sticky, gooey goodness.

Oh, it had been so delicious! You’d been tempted to take the whole thing home with you, but that would have been quite greedy – and you did already have plans for dinner, so you’d just settled for taking one more handful, as well as some of the sweet flowers from the sides of the cake as a snack.

Red velvet flavour, Vega had said after you’d got home, sugar flower dissolving on his tongue, peering at the list of cake flavours he’d found on the computer screen. How…. unpleasant. Why would humans even want to eat that?

You’d been so confused. Is velvet the shiny one? I thought they made music out of that.

No, I think that’s ‘vinyl’, dear, Vega had replied, although he’d looked a bit unsure. It’s the one that’s mostly smooth, but a little bit fluffy. Like a sort of fabric, I believe. Did you think it tasted like that, darling?

You’d shrugged, too preoccupied with licking the sugary, cakey mess of crumbs and icing from underneath your claws, making sure not to get any of the red stuff all over your nice white clothes. Whatever it is, it’s nice. We should find some more.

Lost in the lovely memory, you startle as the incubus quietly clears his throat, the sound echoing off the walls and bouncing around the room – shit, you were meant to be answering a question, weren’t you?

Lots of fun, yeah, you say happily, rocking softly from foot to foot in content. He’s so good to me.

Yeah? Oh, I bet he is, laughs the incubus, slowly coming around to your other side from behind you. Real husband material – you want to hang onto that one, for sure. And I bet he took you on a hell of a honeymoon, didn’t he?

You start to reply, but then you realise you don’t know what to say. Did you have a honeymoon? You must have done…

The air is cold and still, and you can hear every near-silent swish of the incubus’s tail as he walks, the tiny sounds of the building settling around you. No? Hm. That’s funny. I could have sworn you two went on holiday somewhere… And pretty recently, too. Don’t you remember?

Holiday, a holiday… why does that sound familiar? Did you go somewhere special with him lately? Did he take you anywhere unusual…?

It would have been pretty late at night, wouldn’t it? the incubus continues, thoughtful, and you let his voice lead you back into the maze of your memory. Yeah, that’s right. It would have been dark outside, and he’d have led you inside, wouldn’t he? Maybe by holding your hand? Or asking you to follow behind him?

Now that he mentions it, that sounds… yes! Yes, you remember! Walking side by side with him in the dark, streetlamps overhead as you’d got closer and closer to the building – oh, and how he’d said to stay close to him…

You remember going inside, don’t you? You’d just gone inside, and you were looking for the stairs. Do you remember the stairs?

He’s right, you had been looking for the stairs. How could you have forgotten? You’d been trying to find a way to get downstairs, to see what was going on. You’d been curious. Why had you been curious?

But you didn’t find the stairs. You saw someone instead, didn’t you?

Someone unexpected, someone who shouldn’t have been there…

A strange man, someone you didn’t recognise.

He’d been so odd. Saturated with magic, but no sound at all – singing with no voice, a terrifying emptiness where something ought to be.

The incubus speaks again, low and gentle. And he was scary, wasn’t he? You were so, so scared. Because it was frightening, there in the dark, talking to that strange, scary man.

Yes… you murmur, shivering in the chill of the empty room. Yes, I remember…

But it was okay, wasn’t it? he asks, and there’s something indescribable in his voice that you can’t quite name. You got away. You held Vega’s hand, and you turned and ran, as fast and as far as you could. You ran all the way outside into the night, and you kept running until you could run no more, and then you rifted away.

You start to agree, but there’s a strange sort of friction in your mind when you do. Is that not what happened? Why does it feel wrong?

No, you manage to force out, but the words are slow and painful as your eyes fill with tears. No, I didn’t hold Vega’s hand.

The incubus nudges your aura gently with his own, a silent question. You bite your lip to stop it trembling so much, and let him take you in his arms as you start to shudder uncontrollably.

Why not? he whispers sadly, and this time, you know he already knows the answer.

Streetlights flickering outside. I couldn’t.

Why?

Cold concrete under your feet. There was nothing to hold.

Why?

Because he wasn’t there, you wail, and the corridor is filled with the airless song of your grief. He was already dead.

Silently, the hazy spell of the incubus’s voice falls away, and you open your eyes. Not to the trees and sky and earth of the park that’s near your house, but to the grim, dark grave that is the CloseKnit headquarters, and the moment that the world itself ceased to be.

You’re back.

The incubus holds you softly as your body convulses with awful, aching sobs, lowering you gently to the ground when your legs start to give way and you can’t hold yourself up any more. I’m so sorry, he murmurs into your mind as he kneels with you, rocking you back and forth as you cry uncontrollably into his shoulder. I’m so sorry, little warden.

It’s torturous, how the memories come back all at once, as if they had never gone away. The sheer, absolute panic of that moment, of seeing the empty space where Vega had been only a fraction of a second before. How you’d felt something give way deep inside you, some buried well of power so immense and vital that to even think of it was to fall apart – all you remember was a sharp flash of light, brilliant and blinding, and the sudden feeling of falling.

A sickening crack, your body and your mind splitting open as magic poured from your being, rending the very sky and the entire universe that hid behind it. Nothing had been real, nothing had mattered – only you, only the murderous, vengeful fear that filled you, the agony of your terror and the fury of your fear.

How? you weep through tears, not trusting your voice to come out as anything but a screech. How could I forget? I thought – I really, really thought he – that it…

That it was real?

He quietly shushes you as you start to keen, pressing his face to your hair. I know. I know you did. And it’s not your fault. It did exactly what you designed it to do.

You couldn’t bear it – couldn’t bear to believe that it could even be real. That such a world, such a cruel and awful world, could ever come to pass. It didn’t make sense. It couldn’t be allowed.

Your body spasms and twitches uncontrollably as you cry, all messy and wet. Just another thing that’s out of your control.

You couldn’t believe that he could be taken from you, the incubus whispers, words full of the terror you can’t say. It was impossible, surely? For him to just… disappear? For everything he ever was or ever would be to have vanished in an instant, leaving you behind?

It had all been so fast. Trembling behind him, peeking out over his shoulder at the horrifying, empty shape of that – that creature, that thing. One second he was there, and the next…

Dissolving into the air, returning to the Spellsong as if he had never existed at all – the ring on your finger that suddenly had no pair. You hadn’t even seen his face.

Poor, sweet little warden. The real world was too horrifying, so you dreamed a new one for yourself instead. You needed comfort, you needed to be safe – so your mind took you to the one place in the world where that could be true.

But you couldn’t quite forget, could you?, the incubus muses, sounding strangely proud. Or perhaps… fond, in a bizarre sort of way. You had to make sense of it somehow. You had to explain to yourself why he wasn’t there, and why he never said goodbye. So you dreamed that too – a Vega who was still alive, but always out of reach, and whose last words were that he loved you more than anything.

Held tight in the incubus’s arms, your form trembles erratically, magic desperately melting and setting over and over again to try and keep up with the emotions that flood through it – even the air temperature starts to change, heating up and cooling down with every wave of grief.

Your hair grows long and limp, hanging miserably to the floor to hide your face, before suddenly getting shorter again with every spike of rageful sorrow that flares in your heart. Layers of fat and muscle writhe like snakes under your skin as it flickers between colours, freckles splattering themselves across your back before they fade just as quickly, and your whole face aches as everything moves – your eyeballs changing shape in their sockets, your cheeks splitting as your mouth widens, then sewing themselves back together when it narrows again.

Out of the frying pan and into the fire, again and again forever, just to hear those precious few seconds of his voice again. To hear the words he never got the chance to say.

What do you look like now? Would Vega even recognise you at all? Acid tears burning trails down your face, searing tiny divots in the concrete when they fall. Try as you might, you can’t make your body stay still.

The incubus shakes his head sadly. You just couldn’t let him go. You couldn’t accept that there might ever come a time where you and he would have to be parted, so you clung to whatever pieces of him you could, whatever hope you could find.

His voice comes to you as if underwater, muffled and dim, and you feel as though you truly are lost in the darkness of the sea. A creature of the deep, sunken to the seafloor, tiny fish picking at the soft tissue until there’s nothing left but bones. Soon all you’ll be is sand, nothing but grit and stones rolling in the current, floating adrift and never to be put back together again.

The ultimate escape, your very own one-more-chance – if the only way out is to do the impossible, then you never have to leave. What else is grief, but love that doesn’t realise it’s already dead?

He smiles blackly, and you feel the still-tender bite marks on your neck start to burn. The most perfect prison, for the warden of demonkind’s worst. You really do never fail to impress.

A car that doesn’t go, and a cake you didn’t make. It’s all gone now, and you’re the only thing that’s left – an impossible spectre, risen sobbing from the grave. Buried under the weight of the life you thought you’d have, crushed under the rubble of a peony and a picket fence.

You don’t know how long you spend there, a puddle of limbs splayed across the concrete, crying your endless eyes dry. Perhaps it’s a day, or a year, or a century. Perhaps you’re there forever, never leaving, never stopping even for a moment. It’s impossible to know.

What do I do?

Brokenly, you nudge the words into the incubus’s mind, begging that he’ll have an answer. I don’t – I can’t, I don’t know how…

The words don’t come, but the incubus seems to know exactly what you wanted to be able to say. You don’t know what comes next, he says softly, and perhaps you don’t even know if there is a next. What could possibly come after this? The world has already ended. All you know is grief, and you can’t imagine a time when that grief is not your entire mind.

Creatures of emotion, and the magic that follows it. The great curse of demonkind, that we must become our love.

You feel sick. There’s nothing left. He’s gone.

The incubus pauses for a second, before sitting back slightly and tilting your head up so you can see his face. Gone, you say?

Where else could he be? you mutter, with a voice like smashed glass. He’s nothing, now. I can’t feel him, not at all.

He shrugs, face carefully blank. I guess.

Your sore eyes narrow. What’s that supposed to mean?

You’d do anything, wouldn’t you? Whatever it takes, whatever has to happen, for you to see him again.

He lets out a deep breath, a faraway look in his eyes. You don’t care what it is. You don’t care what it’ll cost. Reality means nothing, if it keeps you from him – you’d tear the world apart to find him again. In fact, you already have. He’s the only thing that could ever matter any more, and he’s the only thing that could ever satisfy the awful emptiness inside.

The half-smile on your face probably looks more like a grimace. How did you know?

Didn’t I tell you before? I know everything.

He laughs, but there’s no humour in it. You and I aren’t as different as you thought, little warden.

Does it change anything? you scowl, pathetically trying to cover your pain with frustration. No matter what I say, he’s no less dead.

Yes, well… His gaze flicks to the right, sliding sideways off of yours. About that.

He sighs.

I have a… a theory, I suppose. Untested. I can’t say it’ll work for sure.

A theory? you repeat, suspicious. What theory?

Look, he admits, it’s something of a work in progress. I think it does what it’s supposed to, but I haven’t had the chance to try it out yet.

What does it do?

The incubus clicks his tongue, claws drumming quietly against your arm.

I’m looking for someone. Someone I lost, a little bit like you.

He blinks, suddenly thoughtful. Actually, a lot like you, now that I think about it. Hm. In any case, I want to bring them back – and I think I know how.

You stare up at him, perplexed. If you know how, then why wait?

There’s… well, there’s a lot that could go wrong, he replies gingerly. Messing with reality is a tricky business, little warden. If I’m not careful, it could do all sorts of… unpleasant things. Things that I can’t allow to happen.

There's an unspoken question there, and you have a horrible feeling that you know what it is. That you know what this has all been leading up to.

You want to try it out on me, you say. On us.

If you wouldn’t mind…

He says it so casually, picking lazily at his claws like he’s talking about the weather. Not to be rude or anything, but when we’re talking about magical experiments that might permanently delete us from every dimension of the universe, I do have some suggestions as to which of us should go first.

Ah. There it is. That’s why he’s hesitating.

Is this really what you want to do?

If this goes wrong – and for all you know, it will go wrong – you might end up completely destroyed. Past, present, and future. You’d be removed from time entirely, and the world would simply go on as if you’d never existed. You’d never have coalesced, never have gone to Elegy, never have met Vega at all. A new universe, one less star in the sky.

Would that be better? Would you even know you’d disappeared? Would anyone really miss you, if you had never existed in the first place?

For a rational mind, it’s dangerous – too dangerous. But what’s the alternative?

If you say no, what comes next? You’ll have to pick up the pieces, and learn to live with everything that’s happened. Knowing what you know now, you’ll have to find a way to live without him. You’ll have to make your own way, on the run from the Department – will you take up Vega’s mission in his stead, to fight for the survival of your species? Or will you crack under the pressure, faltering and failing alone, abandoning the fate of demonkind to someone else?

A world without Vega. You can’t even imagine it.

By all logic, you should say no. You should – but this chance! How could you live with yourself, if you threw away your only hope at bringing him back? What could possibly be left for you, in this new, terrible world, that you wouldn’t trade for the chance to see him again?

You’ve already lost everything. There’s nothing left to risk.

I think…

The incubus raises an eyebrow, pointed tip of his tail brushing his hair out of his pretty face, and your broken heart aches.

I think you already know what I’m going to say.

He smiles, wide and only a little sinister. I can see why Vega likes you.

In the back of your mind, you can very nearly hear some sort of dull, droning noise – a low, glitchy buzz like electricity. Your skin starts to itch, and you can feel some of your hair start to float as it goes all staticky.

The demonic mind is a funny thing, the incubus continues solemnly. If you had the choice, would you want to remember this? Or would you rather not know?

I don’t want to forget.

The answer is obvious – you don’t even have to think about it. I don’t regret it. Any of it. I don’t regret fighting for him like that, and I don’t regret who I’ve become. And if the chance ever comes for revenge…

The incubus nods, and you can feel his satisfaction mirroring your own. You want to know why you’re doing it.

Of course.

And all it cost…

He trails off, lost in thought, and you have the strangest sort of helium feeling in your head, your body growing almost imperceptibly lighter. You really do love him.

Light sparkling off the diamond on your finger, shattering into streaks of bright red and electric blue. I do.

Then remember him, little warden, the incubus murmurs, as everything begins to flicker and fade, colour leaking out of the world around you to leave only black and white and grey. Remember him, and let me do the rest.

He closes his eyes, and the humming, buzzing sound in your head gets louder. It clicks and cracks like the radio, a familiar sort of whirring sound underneath it, like the soft friction of something spinning. A record, perhaps? Or is it something else?

As the noise thrums through your body, you fix Vega’s image in your head as hard as you can, filling your mind with thoughts of him and the world you want to wake up to. His voice, his face, the feeling of his form curved around you as he holds you close to him. The song of his being, sweet and swirling, harmonising with yours.

Bloody fingerprints on the fridge door, claw marks gouged into the arm of the sofa. Wisteria growing up the trellis, stacks and stacks of spare hairbands in the bathroom cabinet. The shape of Lyra brands itself into your mind, the dim light of a fading constellation – and the radiance of your own namesake star cries out in return, reaching into the chattering sky like a lighthouse staring out to sea.

The static feels like a storm, strange winds blowing you from side to side as the noises grow. It’s getting more and more difficult to see, but you feel it as the incubus lets go of you, standing up and starting to walk away. Something about it sends an instinctual pang of fear through your body, and you hurriedly call after him.

Wait!

The figure in front of you turns, features beginning to blur until you can barely picture his face in your head – even though he’s right in front of you, you find yourself struggling to remember what he looks like.

Is this the end? you shout, desperate in a way you don’t really understand. Will I ever see you again?

He laughs, summer light and sunshine easy, and it sounds like a farewell. Who’s to say? he calls back to you, and you notice that he’s unmoved by the wind that beats furiously against your body. Perhaps, if this works, we’ll meet again someday. In a world where both of us can get what we want.

The gaps between your thoughts are getting longer, splintering and stretching, dissipating out into the universe like stardust. Reality twisting beneath you, swallowing you up, ever expanding and entirely unknowable. You can feel it, just barely – time turning back on itself, things and places and people not the way they were before. A new world. A new reality.

As your body crumbles into electric dust, you can feel that you’re almost gone. Your voice has nearly vanished, a blocky jumble of noise that tumbles away in the storm, but you know he hears you all the same.

I look forward to it already.

As your mind begins to dissolve into static, through the sandy, glitchy storm you can just about make out the shape of the mysterious incubus, silhouetted against the collapsing universe, and blowing you a kiss with the tip of his tail. Then I’ll be seeing you soon, little warden.

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And don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.

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Recipe for undying love (REVISED):

Add dread, rage, and sorrow to a bowl, and mix until a smooth dough forms. Chill in the fridge for at least one hour, then roll out it on a flat surface until thin and use it to line a loose-bottomed tin.

“I… I think I did the wrong thing.”

Line case with baking parchment and cover with baking beans. Bake at 200°C for 20 minutes or until crisp, then leave to cool completely on a wire rack.

“I can’t make a mistake… but I made one.”

Mix together denial and agony in a large bowl, then slowly add faithfulness. Stir continuously until fully incorporated. If mixture splits, add a small amount of vengeance and continue stirring.

“His magic is still there. At least part of it. Maybe enough.”

Separately, add misery, regret, and a pinch of self-loathing to the bowl of a stand mixer, and beat until soft peaks form. Fold in beaten ingredients to original bowl, then transfer to case.

“I have to go back.”

Dust generously with terror, and refrigerate for at least four hours, or overnight, until fully set.

“Doc.”

Remove from fridge approximately fifteen minutes before serving. Best served chilled with double cream, caramel, or chocolate sauce.

“Will you come with me?”

You knew the risks. Can be kept in an airtight container for as many cycles of your self-inflicted timeloop as you can stand, or until the reality you came from is manipulated enough to force your husband’s killer into bringing him back from the dead.

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human nature masterlist

peaches and cream masterlist

main masterlist

this is an original fanwork by @gingerbreadmonsters - please do not repost or misattribute.

#redacted asmr #redacted audio #redacted vega #redacted warden #redacted echo #ginger writes #gingerbreadmonsters

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