#Patterns do appear further down in the collection

[freshthoughts2020]

[freedomfireflies]

Counterpunch*

Summary: The one where Harry comes back from a boxing match to find you overstimulated on the bed.

(Based on this concept!)

Word Count: 3.1k

Content Warning: 18+, smut, pain kink, size kink, overstimulation, squirting, daddy kink

By the time Harry returns home, you’ve already cum 5 times.

It’s been a long few hours. Three and a half to be exact. And in that time, you’ve been edged, teased, tortured, and spent. You’ve been left to sweat, writhe, cry, and drench the poor sheets beneath you. 

The vibrator between your thighs is relentless. As cruel and sadistic as the man controlling it from somewhere across town. A pre-programmed punishment that only ends for a few minutes at a time, giving you just enough peace to catch your breath before preparing to do it again.

When you hear the apartment door open, you’re thrilled. Your aching muscles call to him as you strain against the silky ropes keeping you trapped to the bed. Your voice is raw from the excessive whimpering and whining but you cry out his name, nevertheless.

And he’s fucking thrilled.

His smirk is wide and condescending as he leans against the doorframe to watch you. You catch his newest marks through the tears in your eyes. Tonight doesn’t seem to be as bad. He’s got a subtle bruise beginning to form near his eye and a faint cut along his eyebrow. 

But he doesn’t seem too concerned with his appearance. Rather yours. The way your skin is damp, the way your pussy is red and swollen, and the way your lips quiver as you plead his name and beg for mercy.

“Hi, sweet girl,” he murmurs in a soft, low call. And somehow, even just the sound of his voice helps calm you. “What’s your color?”

“Green,” you answer weakly, fingers curling into your palm. “Green, but…but please, Har…”

He chuckles to himself and glances toward the ropes around your wrists. He left them loose enough that if you had felt scared or wanted to stop, you could easily slip yourself free, turn the toy off, and call him. Something you were almost tempted to do at one point, but…the truth is, you loved the pain. You thrived off the idea of him coming to find the mess you’d made. That you’d been a good girl and done what he’d asked. That you took your punishment and you took it well.

He strides closer. Slow, like stalking prey. He looks now toward the vibrator between your thighs as it buzzes and hums in a rhythmic pattern, giving you just a taste of pleasure without ever actually letting you swallow. 

He smiles brighter. “Oh, you poor thing. S’all red, isn’t it?”

You nod weakly. “Can’t…can’t take it anymore. Hurts. And s’empty.”

“Empty, huh?” He tuts to himself and takes a seat near your left leg. Close enough to send chills down your spine as you catch a whiff of his cologne. You nearly cum for the sixth time right then. “I bet.”

You whine harder and attempt to reach him. But he’s still too far and your chest aches. “Harry, please—”

“What, Cherry?” He brushes a piece of hair from your cheek and the gentle touch of his hand makes you want to cry. “Do you need some help?”

You nod again, fast and fervent. Desperate to feel his skin on yours. Overstimulated or not, he’s the only one who can fix you. Make it better, make you whole. Fill you to the brim the way only his cock can.

“Yeah? Well, let’s see.” His eyes trail down your naked chest, along your stomach, and back to the toy. Studying it almost curiously before he reaches for the tie keeping it snug to your thigh and flicks it free. 

The vibrator is taken away, turned off, and discarded. Leaving your pussy to clench and unclench around absolutely nothing while he moves to the foot of the bed in order to see.

Slowly, his large hands push your legs further apart, allowing him just enough room to settle his body between. His face is inches from your throbbing cunt and the collection of arousal that’s drenched the sheets below and he seems thrilled. Exhaling a pleased breath that fans across your swollen clit and makes you jolt.

“Shh,” he coos, pressing your hips back down almost forcefully. “You’re okay, Cher. Just wanna check on you, hm? See how she’s doing.���

His thumb finds you first. Reaching out to swipe down your clit and through your folds as you arch from the mattress and gasp something pitifully close to his name.

“So sensitive,” he muses, almost to himself. “And so wet. Just can’t stop soaking yourself, can you, honey?”

You only gasp for air, desperate to squirm away from the painfully sweet sensation.

He flicks the digit across the delicate nerves and sighs to himself when he sees a large drop of your arousal drip down onto the sheet. “There you go,” he whispers. He shifts a bit to get closer before parting his lips with a gentle exhale.

And the feel of his breath on the swollen bud brings tears to your eyes. You’ve never felt this kind of pleasure before. The kind that hurts and feels euphoric all in the same wave. You want to push him away and drag him closer. It’s strange but addictive and you peer down at him through stained lashes pleadingly. 

He does it again, taking hold of your thighs in order to lift them toward his cheeks, as though caging himself between your legs and suffocating himself with your pussy. Giving you no other choice than to let him have you.

“S’so pretty,” he says between torturous breaths. “God, could stare at you all day, baby. Your little hole looks so sweet like this.”

He brings his hands back to your folds and spreads you. Giving him the perfect view of the way your hole flutters and begs for his cock. His finger. His tongue. Anything.

You mewl to yourself and watch the way those pretty green eyes of his glaze over with lust. “Harry…”

“What?” He glances up and smiles. Feigning oblivion. “What’s the matter? You don’t mind me playing with her a bit, do you?”

You find the strength to shake your head.

“Good girl.” He pulls your pussy back again before dipping down to ghost his mouth along your clit. “Taste like fucking heaven. Always taste the best when you’re desperate.”

He makes a V with his fingers to keep you spread and lets his tongue do the rest of the work. He flicks and licks and savors the taste. The slurping sounds are sinful and pornographic, and your entire body begins to shake as you’re teased.

“Har…Harry,” you mewl, desperate to reach for his curls. “Harry, it hurts—”

“I know. But this is what you wanted,” he reminds you, glancing up while you drip from his chin. “Color?”

You swallow thickly. “Still…still green, I just…I need…need…”

“Need…more?” That arrogant smirk returns. “Oh, I know, sweet girl. Just aches without me, yeah?”

“Yes,” you gasp. “Yes, please—”

He hums, one large digit slowly pushing past your fluttering walls. “How’s this?”

A sigh catches in your throat. It’s good, but it’s not nearly enough. And after 5 orgasms already, you don’t want to be teased any longer. You want the main event.

And he knows this, which is why he pushes and pulls his finger from your cunt at a tortuously slow pace before adding a second. 

“Harry,” you wail. “Harry, please—”

“Uh-huh. If you complain, I won’t give you anything at all,” he tuts. He licks your clit while adding a third finger, too. “I’ve already been nice enough to let you have all this fun without me. Do you really want me to stop?”

Your bottom lip quivers. “No…”

“Didn’t think so.” He sucks you into his mouth before nipping at your clit with his teeth. Your back arches from the bed, tits covered in a glossy sheen of sweat, and his lashes flutter as he looks at you. “Fuck.”

You feel proud. Even when he’s trying to dominate you, he can’t help but be mesmerized by you. Desperate to adore you. Appreciate you. Let you know just how much control you really have over him.

Your fingers twitch, desperate to thread through his curls. And sure, you could slip yourself free now, but where’s the fun in that? You know eventually he’ll set you free and that moment will make everything else worth it. To hold him and be held by him. 

Still, this consistently slow thrusting of his fingers inside your used and abused cunt doesn’t scratch that itch. So you whisper, “Please…Harry, please I need you. I can’t…I can’t, it hurts, Har…please.”

“I mean…I’d love to, but m’having so much fun like this,” he coos with an air of false sympathy. “Besides, I don’t think your little cunny can take me right now.”

Your expression falls as you look down your body at him. “What…? Why?”

“Think she’s too sensitive,” he says, running his thumb back over your pussy while you whine. “Look at her. All swollen and pitiful. Think I’d split you in half if I tried, baby.”

“No…no, I can take it—”

“Can you?” He meets your eye while reaching into his sweatpants to pull his cock free. And the sight of him—red tip leaking pre-cum that’s just begging to be tasted—makes your mouth water. He is big. And maybe he’s right. Maybe it would ruin you, but the truth is…you want him to. “I’d have to go slow, and it might hurt with how overstimulated you are.”

You pout again. “I can take it,” you blubber, tears returning to your eyes. “Just let me try. Please…please let me try.”

He seems genuinely touched now as he watches you cry, moving up your body to press his lips to your cheek. The first time you’ve felt truly close to him in hours.

You sigh happily at the feel of his mouth near yours, even if he’s not directly kissing you yet. In fact, the warmth from his body is enough to slow the racing in your chest, and you whisper his name as he leans back.

“My good girl,” he praises, cupping your jaw and tilting your head up. “Brave girl, too. Just wanna make me proud, don’t you? Even if hurts.”

“Yes,” you agree softly.

“I know, Cher.” He kisses your other cheek, right over the stain of tears. “You know I don’t actually want to cause you any pain, don’t you?”

Another nod.

“Good. Because I’d never forgive myself.” He plays with your bottom lip a bit before smiling. “And honestly, I hated leaving you here like this. Knowing I wouldn’t get to watch.”

You nuzzle into his palm and trail your eyes down the parts of his body you can see. “Did the fight go okay?”

“Mhm. I won.”

“Obviously.” You giggle. “Are you in any pain?”

He dips down to brush his nose against yours. “Not anymore.”

You frown. “Har…”

“Not bad pain, I promise.” He shuffles back down between your legs and lines his cock up. “Plus, you know I like it.”

“I know…but I worry,” you tell him. “Some of those bruises look bad, Har.”

“I know,” he echoes. “But I’ll take some painkillers and be fine. Until then, I can pretend they belong to you.”

You feel a deep sigh leave your lungs when he brushes the tip through your soaked folds. Even now, despite his condescension…he’s careful with you. He knows what you’ve been through, and he never wants to give you more than you can take.

“Want you to do something for me, okay?” he calls softly before getting into position. “If it starts to hurt…I want you to bite down on my lip. As hard as you can. Deal?”

Your eyes widen as you nod quickly, anxious to have his mouth on yours. 

The moment he pushes in, he kisses you. Swallowing the heavy moan that melts from your throat.

You do as instructed, clamping down on his bottom lip when you feel that poignant stretch and he groans in response. And the two of you are nothing but a mess of noises and animistic fucking. His nails scratch down your skin, tongue dancing circles around yours. 

Then, his hand comes to your throat. The same hand that causes so much harm to the men inside that boxing ring. The same hand that’s been shattered, broken, and torn. The same hand that wears a variety of scars and scratches, and the same hand that you love more than anything in the world.

It closes around your neck, gently and purposefully. Enough to excite you but not enough to scare you. Instead, you succumb to it. To the weight of his body on yours. To the peaceful trance you feel lulled into as your mind grows distant and all you really understand is the feel of his hips slapping against yours.

“Cherry,” he calls after you’ve gone quiet. “Baby, are you with me?”

You nod lazily, lashes fluttering. “Yes…feels good.”

“Yeah? S’it making your little ache go away?”

“Uh-huh…feels good.”

He smirks. “Good. S’it getting hard to talk to me?”

“Mmm…”

He chuckles to himself before kissing you again. “Honey, I think you might be going into your subspace.”

“What?”

“S’okay, don’t worry,” he assures you gently. “Not a bad thing. Just means I’ve been playing with you so long that you’re starting to feel a bit…spacey. Needy, in a sense.”

“Oh.” Your brows furrow. “But I’m always needy for you. Does that mean I’m always in it?”

 He shakes his head. “This is a special kind of needy. And it means I need to be extra careful with you.”

“Okay, Daddy.” You stop, sucking in a sharp breath. “I’ve never called you that before.”

“No, you haven’t,” he agrees. “Do you want to call me that?”

You think. “I don’t know. Do you like when I do?”

He rolls his lips into his mouth before nodding once. “Honestly? I kind of do. But that name can mean different things for different people. And I don’t want you to say it if it makes you uncomfortable. I like to hear you say my name, too.”

Another pause. “I like it,” you decide. “Feels…dirty. But good.”

“Just like you.”

You giggle. “Then you can be Daddy?”

“I can be Daddy.” He squeezes your tit in his palm. “Fuck, I never thought I’d like that so much. But I really love the way you say it.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.” He dips down to take your nipple in his mouth, giving it quite a bit of attention before moving to the other one. “Just reminds me how fucking sexy you are. Cause you are. You know that, right?”

You feel your skin warm and you try to hide in the crook of his arm. However, he quickly snatches hold of your jaw to force your eyes on his.

“Baby, you’re beautiful,” he tells you earnestly. “You’re so fucking beautiful and I still don’t know why you waste your time with me. But I’m very grateful. And I love you. A lot.”

“I love you, too, Daddy,” you whisper, pushing your lips together as though begging for a kiss.

He obliges. “Think I should let you cum now?”

“Yes, please.”

With that, he fucks you. Hard and deep into the mattress with a tenderness you don’t imagine you’d ever find anywhere else. Because even when he spanks your leg and squeezes your throat and sucks on your tongue while demanding you cum undone for him…he loves you. You can feel the way he loves you through every brush of his body against yours. Every thrust of his cock into your rather abused pussy. Every promise of his adoration.

And it’s everything. You bite so hard on his lip, you taste blood. And he loves it. He curses to himself and begs you to do it again. So, you do.

He plays with your clit, pinching it tight between his fingers that are slightly stained with blood from tonight’s fight. He rubs and he presses and he uses you like some sort of toy. And maybe you are. Maybe you’re his to use and abuse any time, day or night.

And maybe you wouldn’t have it any other way.

“Shit, know you’re close. Huh, baby?” he hisses in your ear. He moves his hand to your chest and gropes it in his large palm. “You trying to hold back for me?”

You nod. “Want…want to feel you first.”

He laughs before his features twist with pleasure. “Well, that’s not our rule, is it? And I know you want to, so…let Daddy feel you, okay? S’gonna feel so good…gonna soak my cock and clean it up. Make me proud.”

And you do wanna make him proud. Wanna do anything to make him feel good. Wanna make him throw his head back as he fists your hair and fucks himself down your throat. Stomach clenching…thighs flexing…back muscles rippling.

The image is lewd and beautiful and everything you’ve come to adore about your stranger from the diner. And just the promise of getting to be witness to his pleasure tips you over.

And you cum.

But you don’t just cum. You squirt. All over his cock, and his bedding, and his thighs, and your thighs, and you make a noise that sounds so depraved, you don’t even recognize yourself.

And through this orgasmic fog, you hear the way he moans your name and gives you two sharp thrusts before following suit. Along with soft whispers of, “Holy fucking shit, Cherry. My god…y’just squirted, didn’t you? Fuck me…fucking hell, baby, m’so proud of you. Did so good…so good, honey. Feel amazing…that was the best thing I’ve ever seen. You’re so goddamn hot.”

You feel proud, truthfully. Exhausted…but pleased. Because he’s so happy right now, a dopey little smile on his face as he drops his face into your neck in order to catch his breath.

“Was that…okay?” you ask softly, desperate to run your hands over his body the way you always do after he cums. 

“Baby,” he nearly sighs, “that was so much more than okay. That was perfect. Why, are you okay? You feel all right?”

“Yes, Daddy,” you whisper. “That was…fun. Don’t think I’ve done that before.”

“Don’t think you have, either.” He lifts up to run his thumb over your cheek and study you. “Lot of firsts tonight, hm?”

“Mm.” You nudge yourself back into his hand and he laughs. “Daddy?”

“Yes, sweet girl?”

“…can you untie me now? So I can touch you?”

“Fuck—shit, yes. Sorry, baby.” He quickly reaches up to undo the knots and gently guide your hands out. Once your arms are back beside you, he offers a rather guilty look. “Does it hurt?”

You shake your head and run your fingers down his back. “No…this is much better.”

“Good.” He gives you a quick peck. “I think you deserve a bath, hm?”

“Ooo, yes, please!” You pause. “Will you stay with me?”

“Cherry,” he nearly tuts. “Of course I will. Where do you think I’m gonna go, hm? I’m yours.”

Your eyes brighten. “Mine?”

He kisses you again and it makes your heart soar.

“Yours.”

Ew why did I miss them 😭 THANK YOU FOR READING, ILY SO MUCH AND HOPE YOU'RE ALL HAVING AN AMAZING WEEK AND WEEKEND!!! 💞

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[luckyroll3]

Thank You, Daddy Chapter 4

Masterlist and Summary

Previous Chapter

Warnings: This work of fiction is intended for 18+ audiences only. Includes explicit sexual content, graphic language, sex work, power dynamics, daddy kink, possessive behavior, etc. Author chooses to not extensively tag in order to preserve some elements of storytelling.

Additional warnings: Talk about domestic violence and physical abuse.

Word Count: 8,003

Days melt into one another in Christopher's mansion, each falling into a pattern that grows more comfortable than you'd like to admit. Within the first two weeks, mornings find you in his bed more often than your own, though you sometimes retreat to your wing when you need space to remember who you are outside of his orbit. The mansion staff move around you with practiced invisibility, and you find yourself settling into the rhythm of this temporary life, this borrowed luxury that fits like someone else's expensive coat; it’s beautiful, but not quite yours.

It's during a quiet dinner on the terrace, the Los Angeles skyline twinkling below like earthbound stars, that the first real crack appears in the formal wall between you. Christopher has been less tense today, his usual sharp edges softened by good news from Taiwan and a rare afternoon free from meetings. The wine is excellent, as always, and you've grown to appreciate the chef's impeccable taste. Tonight's sea bass is buttery perfection and the pairing is exquisite.

"Tell me about your family," Christopher says suddenly, setting down his wine glass with deliberate care.

The question catches you off guard. Clients don't usually ask about your background; they prefer the fantasy, the blank canvas onto which they can project their desires.

"What do you want to know?" you counter, buying time to decide how much truth to offer.

Christopher's eyes, dark and observant, study your face. "Whatever you're willing to share."

You consider fabricating something palatable, like a middle-class upbringing, parents who are conveniently deceased… the standard escort backstory that invites no further questions. But something about the genuine interest in his gaze makes you offer a piece of truth instead.

"Working class," you say, watching for his reaction. "Only child with a single mom who worked three jobs. Dad wasn't in the picture."

Christopher nods, no judgment in his expression. "Which jobs?"

"Diner waitress mornings, hospital custodian evenings, weekend shifts as a cashier at a 24-hour drugstore." You take a sip of wine. "She was always tired, but the rent and utilities got paid."

"Sounds familiar," Christopher says, surprising you. "My mother cleaned office buildings overnight. Came home smelling like industrial disinfectant every morning."

You tilt your head, reassessing the man across from you. "I thought you came from money. The mansion, the clothes, the art collection..."

A dry smile touches his lips. "All earned, not inherited. I grew up in a two-room apartment in Queens. Father worked construction until his back gave out, then drank himself to an early grave." He says this without self-pity, just stating facts. "Mother raised three of us on minimum wage and stubbornness. I’m the oldest; I helped where I could."

The revelation shifts something in your perception of him. Not the ruthless titan born to privilege, but someone who clawed his way up from circumstances not unlike your own. You find yourself offering another piece of truth, unprompted, in exchange.

"We moved a lot. Rent increases, evictions, following my mom's jobs. I went to six different schools before high school."

Christopher nods, understanding in his eyes. "Must have been hard to maintain friendships."

"I stopped trying eventually," you admit. "Easier that way."

"Smart," he says, and there's respect in his tone. "Self-protection is an underrated skill."

The conversation flows more easily after that, each of you trading small truths that build a bridge between your worlds. You learn that Christopher earned a full scholarship to Dalton, an exclusive prep school in Manhattan, at fourteen; it was his ticket out of poverty.

"The first day was a nightmare," he tells you, refilling your wine glass. "Designer clothes everywhere, kids talking about summer homes in the Hamptons, the French countryside, and St. Barts while ordering take out. I showed up in Walmart's finest, a bagged lunch that I made mysefl, and an accent that screamed outer borough."

The image of a young Christopher, proudly defiant amid wealth he couldn't comprehend, tugs at something in your chest. "I get it. I had a similar experience."

His eyebrows rise in question.

"Brentwood in LA," you explain. "Full academic scholarship my sophomore through senior years. The girls had handbags that cost more than my mom's three month salary."

Christopher's expression brightens with recognition. "You too, huh? How did you handle it?"

You smile, remembering. "Studied their accents, their mannerisms. Thrift stores for designer castoffs. Learned to fake it until they couldn't tell I didn't belong."

"Chameleon survival," Christopher nods. "I did the same. Though I was less into blending in and more about proving I was better than them despite my background."

"Chip on your shoulder?" you tease gently.

"A fucking mountain," he corrects with unexpected humor, leading you to chuckle. "Still there, just better disguised now."

As dinner concludes and you both move to the lounge, the revelations continue. You discover you both majored in business; you at USC Marshall, him at Columbia. Both first-generation college students. Both driven by a hunger born of early deprivation.

"So how did finance win out?" you ask, curled in an armchair across from him, shoes discarded, feet tucked beneath you in a posture more relaxed than you'd normally allow yourself with a client.

Christopher's fingers tap thoughtfully against his wine glass. "Money equals security. I watched my mother count pennies, literally, at the grocery store while people watched annoyed because she was holding up the line; decide between electricity and heat in winter; patch our clothes instead of buying new ones. I never wanted to make those choices again." His gaze grows distant. "And I was good at it… understanding markets, predicting movements, taking calculated risks."

"With Hyunjin?" you prompt, recalling their easy rapport despite their different styles.

A genuine smile crosses Christopher's face. "Hyunjin was my first ally at Dalton. Really my first friend there. Old money, but never made me feel like the ‘scholarship kid’. He understood the game but never took it too seriously. And he taught it to me." Christopher shakes his head. "We immediately became inseparable; best friends. His friendship and status offered me a bit of protection, I guess. We have complete opposite approaches to life, but somehow it works. He smooths my edges."

"I've noticed," you say wryly, thinking of Hyunjin's casual invasion of Christopher's space, the way he teases Christopher and also seems to delight in drawing his best friend out of his well-manicured shell. "He gets away with things no one else would."

Christopher acknowledges this with a cute giggle that makes you smile. "Jin tends to do that." He pauses, his eyes more probing now. "What about you?" he asks, his voice slipping into a different register, one loaded with curiosity. "How did you decide to start escorting?"

The question shouldn’t surprise you given what you’ve both been sharing about your lives, but it does. It's one clients rarely ask, a subject that usually remains as untouched as the emotions you're not supposed to have. You tap your nails against the wine glass as you weigh your response, momentarily tempted to give him the standard story: college loans, a suggestion from a friend, a temporary gig that turned lucrative. But you sense Christopher won't be satisfied with clichés. "It seemed like a better option than unpaid internships, minimum wage jobs, and ramen noodles for dinner every night," you say, letting a hint of humor show. "And I was good at it. Still am, according to some sources." You wink at him.

Your comment makes Chris grin. “So you started in college?”

“Officially, yes. But really it was high school,” you reply. You watch as Christopher's eyebrow raises at the confession. You know he’s silently urging you to elaborate, and you decide to give him more than the usual guarded truth.

“Started when I was seventeen,” you tell him as his expression shifts to one of disbelief mingled with intrigue. “I had already been sexually active for a few years and really enjoyed sex. But sex with other people my age was just not great. Teen guys think they’re amazing at fucking because they watch porn all the time.” You roll your eyes. “So I eventually started dating older men. One of my first boyfriend’s, and I use that term lightly because we never really ‘dated’, was older. Much older.” You pause, letting that sink in. “He liked taking care of me, buying me things. And I let him.”

You notice Christopher forming a response, but before he can interrupt with a question, you continue.

“He introduced me to other older men who liked giving me expensive gifts in return for my time. And it was easy because most never really wanted sex. They wanted to talk, to be held, to have someone young and cute on their arm to impress their buddies. But when they did want sex, I made it worth my time physically and financially.” You can see the understanding beginning to dawn in Christopher's eyes, the pieces clicking into place. "No one called it escorting, but that's exactly what it was. I wasn't forced into anything or taken advantage of; I was just having fun and getting off at the same time."

You sip your wine, recalling the thrill of power and independence that came with those first encounters.

“I sold most of the things they gave me and used the money to help my mom pay bills, while also building my savings. The best was when I’d have the same purse or clothing item as one of the popular mean girls; they’d wonder how I was able to afford it not knowing that it was their dad who gifted it to me and probably bought it at the same time as theirs.” You chuckle to yourself. “By the time I got to college, I knew exactly how to play the game.” You hold his gaze, unapologetic. “And I knew I was good at it.”

He leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "But why stay in it? You have the degree, the skills. Why not go corporate?”

You take another sip of wine. "Because it’s not as different as you might think. Invest some time upfront identifying your target audience and crafting the brand, create a marketing plan to sell the product, build a loyal client base, and the returns are higher than most entry-level jobs. And," you add, giving him a pointed look, "I don’t have to answer to anyone but myself."

Christopher considers this, his expression shifting from inquisitive to something closer to admiration. "Using your degree after all," he says. It’s not a question.

"From day one," you confirm. "Business school really taught me how to operationalize what I was already doing organically. And I was able to use my ‘hypothetical’ business plan as my honor’s senior thesis; I won the top award and even had a couple of the judges approach me to inquire about investment opportunities to get my company off the ground, not knowing that I was already three years in. I always knew what I was getting into, and I set the terms. No risk of a glass ceiling in my line of work."

There's a moment of silence as he absorbs your words, and you wonder if you've revealed too much or just enough. You feel exposed, but not uncomfortable. It’s strange, this impulse to tell him more than you should.

Christopher's eyes refocus on you, something warm and assessing in his gaze. "You're not what I expected," he says finally. “At all.”

"What did you expect?"

"Someone more... calculated. Less genuine." His admission surprises both of you. "The women I've had arrangements with before were skilled at telling me what they thought I wanted to hear."

"Hmm… Maybe you weren't listening properly," you suggest, not unkindly.

He considers this, head tilted slightly. "Maybe I wasn't interested in hearing. From them anyway."

The moment stretches between you, laden with implications neither of you are ready to examine too closely. Finally, you break it with a yawn that's only partially performative. "It's getting late."

Christopher rises, offering his hand to help you up, a gentlemanly gesture at odds with the dominant force who took you on one of the pool chairs two nights ago. "Eastern wing or mine tonight?" he asks, giving you the choice.

"Yours," you answer, the decision made before you fully consider it.

His smile, small but genuine, warms something deep in your chest that you promptly try to freeze again.

This is business, you remind yourself. 

Just business.

The next morning, you encounter Hyunjin in the kitchen, helping himself to breakfast pastries as if he owns the place. Christopher has already left for an early meeting, leaving you to navigate his friend alone.

"Morning, sunshine," Hyunjin greets you, sliding a cup of coffee from a local cafe across the counter. "Christopher mentioned you take it with a splash of creamer."

You accept the coffee with murmured thanks, suddenly aware you're wearing only Christopher's discarded dress shirt from yesterday. Hyunjin’s eyes are observant but not leering.

"You look comfortable," he says instead, leaning against the counter with feline grace. "That's new."

"What is? This shirt?"

"No. Christopher allowing someone to look comfortable in his space. Usually he prefers everything and everyone as tightly coiled as he is."

You sip your coffee, considering how to respond. "We have an arrangement. It's professional."

Hyunjin's laugh is soft and knowing. "Sure it is. That's why he cancelled our standing Thursday dinner for the first time in six years last week. Because it's 'professional,'" he says sarcastically, his fingers curling in air quotes.

The information catches you off guard. "He did?"

"Said he wanted a quiet evening at home." Hyunjin's gaze is too perceptive. "In the eighteen years I've known him, Christopher Bahng has never once prioritized 'quiet evenings' over work or obligation."

You maintain a neutral expression, though something flutters in your stomach. "People change."

"They do," Hyunjin agrees, studying you over his coffee cup. "But not usually this quickly." He pushes off from the counter, moving toward the door. "Just an observation. Do with it what you will."

Before he leaves, he turns back.

"Oh, and he actually smiled during yesterday's board meeting. Nearly gave old Jenkins a fucking heart attack." His expression grows more serious. "Whatever you're doing, it's working. Just... be careful with him, okay? He doesn't do casual very well."

After Hyunjin departs, you stand in the kitchen, coffee cooling in your hands, his words echoing in your mind. The warning, be careful with him, strikes you as backwards. Shouldn't he be warning Christopher to be careful with you? You're the escort, the temporary arrangement, the one who will walk away back to your non-billionaire life when the contract ends.

Yet as you move through the mansion that's becoming familiar territory, as you shower in a bathroom where your products now sit beside Christopher's, as you slip into clothes from a closet that holds both his gifts and your own possessions, you recognize the danger. The lines, professional and personal, business and pleasure, are blurring.

You retreat to your wing, needing space to think. Sitting on the edge of your barely-used bed, you run through mental exercises you developed years ago when you first started escorting. Reminders of what this is and isn't. Boundaries that must be maintained. The danger of mistaking transaction for connection.

But your usual mantras ring hollow against the memory of Christopher's face when he spoke of his mother, the unexpected humor in his eyes when he admitted to his chip-on-shoulder past, the gentleness of his hands caressing your skin when he thought you were sleeping.

You're good at your job, at giving clients what they need all while protecting your core self. It's what's made you successful, sought-after, well-compensated. But as you sit in your beautiful room in Christopher's mansion, you face an uncomfortable truth: the wall you've carefully constructed between your professional and authentic selves is developing hairline fractures.

And Christopher Bahng, with his unexpected vulnerability and careful attention, is finding every single one.

****

“You look good.”

Eva’s voice greets you the second you step into your penthouse. Her greeting, blunt as ever, is paired with a glass of wine and a knowing smirk. You abandon your small bag by the door and take both.

"Good to see you too. You still have my key, huh?" you reply, sinking into your plush sofa next to her. It's strange how it doesn't feel as much like home as it used to. "And thanks for that."

Her eyes narrow, appraising as you bring the glass to your lips. "You've got that 'man' glow. The one that says you're getting fucked regularly but not thinking clearly."

You laugh, a real one, because only Eva could frame it like that. "Is there any other kind of glow?"

"Not for us." She leans forward, curiosity naked and unapologetic on her face. "So? How's the arrangement going?"

You knew this was coming. "More intense than I expected," you admit, swirling the wine before taking a sip.

"After a month? Ooh, do tell."

"He's... different." You're surprised by how much you mean it. "Not quite as straightforward as I thought."

Eva arches a brow, her interest piqued. "Different how? Kinky? Controlling? Batshit crazy?"

"Yes to all three," you say, and she laughs again, demanding details with a tilt of her head. You give in, recounting the first night at his mansion, the unexpected chemistry that's only grown since.

"And he's opening up to you?" Eva asks, her voice edged with disbelief.

"More than I expected," you confess. "He's told me some pretty personal things."

"Like?"

You hesitate but know there's no point holding back; Eva will get it out of you eventually. "About his family, like his alcoholic dad. And about his past, his childhood."

"The poor little rich boy routine?" she probes shrewdly.

"No," you say quickly, more defensive than you mean to be. "It's real. Our upbringings are actually pretty similar. Single moms working multiple jobs, scholarships to private schools, etcetera etcetera."

She studies you closely before speaking again. "What else?"

“He cancelled dinner plans with his best friend to spend an evening with me,” you say, watching her reaction closely.

Eva whistles low. "That’s serious. Sounds very personal."

You shrug off the accusation even though something in your chest tightens at the truth behind it. “It’s not supposed to be serious,” you insist, even as doubt creeps in. "It's still business."

“And yet…” She lets the words hang, unspoken implications weaving through the air between you.

You let out a breath and shift topics before the conversation gets too close to places you're not ready to go. “Enough about me. How was Miami?”

Eva takes the hint with a knowing smile. “Profitable and exhausting,” she says, leaning back with practiced grace. “The usual wolves in designer clothing. No one worth remembering.”

“Didn’t meet any potential benefactors?”

“No one who could compete with a billionaire who actually listens,” Eva retorts.

You try to mask how much that statement hits home by draining your glass and pouring another. "It's not all roses," you say lightly. "He's demanding as hell."

"Bet he is." Her eyes twinkle mischievously. "In bed too?"

Your answering grin is wicked and unguarded. "Especially in bed."

She laughs, rich and full-throated.

The rest of the evening passes in a familiar blur of laughter and too much wine, Eva sharing more stories of her own clients and their absurd expectations until you're both doubled over in hysterics.

When Eva finally leaves with a hug and a warning to keep your head on straight ("or bent over if that's what he prefers"), you're left alone in the silence of your penthouse. It feels emptier than usual without her kinetic presence or Christopher's steady intensity filling the space.

You wander from room to room, picking up your phone more than once before putting it down again with a frustrated sigh. It's ridiculous how much you want to call him, hear his voice, even though you've only been away from him for a few hours.

****

The weeks unspool in a blur of luxury and unexpected intimacy. Your life with Christopher settles into rhythms both planned and spontaneous with formal events where you play the role of the exquisite companion on his arm and quiet moments of startling connection that weren't outlined in any contract. Time becomes marked not by dates on a calendar but by the gradual shift in temperature between you and the slow dissolution of the carefully constructed boundaries. You tell yourself it's just excellent acting, just the professional adaptation to a long-term client. The lie tastes bitter even as you repeat it nightly, like swallowing medicine that doesn't quite work.

The first charity event arrives five weeks into your arrangement. Christopher delivers a garment bag to your room personally, watching with undisguised anticipation as you unzip it to reveal a gown that catches light like trapped lightning. It’s silver and midnight blue, cut to accentuate every curve while maintaining an elegance that whispers old money rather than shouting new wealth.

"Tom Ford," Christopher says, fingers trailing over the fabric. "Couture."

The implication isn't lost on you; he had this made specifically for you, which means he'd been planning your public debut long before you'd agreed to the arrangement. The presumption should annoy you. Instead, something warm unfurls in your chest at the thought of him imagining you in this dress, directing designers to capture your essence in fabric and thread. You also wonder how in the hell he somehow managed to get his hands on your exact measurements.

That night, you stand before the mirror as Christopher fastens a diamond necklace around your throat, his reflection watching you with that particular intensity that makes your skin prickle.

"Perfect," he murmurs, hands lingering at the nape of your neck. "You'll be the most beautiful woman there."

"That's what you're paying for," you remind him, the words automatic, a defense mechanism.

His eyes meet yours in the mirror, something flashing in their depths. "No. That's just who you are." You feel heat rising in your cheeks and hope you’re not blushing.

The event passes in a whirl of champagne flutes and calculated small talk. You play your role flawlessly. You’re charming, intelligent; the perfect accessory to Christopher's power. But you notice how his hand never leaves the small of your back, how his eyes track you even across crowded rooms, how he introduces you as his date with a possessive inflection that makes his claim clear without words.

Later that night, he fucks you against the balcony door of his bedroom, your face and tits pressed against the glass, the city lights spread beneath you like a carpet of stars, his grip bruising on your hips as he whispers "mine" against your skin with each thrust. You cum with his name on your lips, and the line between performance and truth blurs a little more.

You fall asleep against his pecs, lulled by the warmth of his skin and the steady rhythm of his breathing. His arms are tight and possessive around you, clutching you like you might disappear at any moment. You find the comfort unsettling but addictive, leaving you unable to pull away despite knowing you should. The house is quiet, the only sound is the gentle rustle of the sheets as he shifts closer in his sleep, murmuring your real name with a tenderness that makes your heart squeeze in your chest.

You wake to him tossing, turning, his forehead creased with lines of tension. He's still holding you, but his grip changes; it’s less conscious, more frantic. 

He's having a nightmare.

His body jerks, and his breathing turns ragged against your neck. You cradle his face, whisper his name softly until his eyes blink open, haunted and disoriented.

"Hey, you’re okay," you say gently, brushing damp hair from his forehead, feeling a strange twist of emotion when he calms at the sight of you.

He doesn't pull away or try to downplay his vulnerability. He just presses his face into your shoulder with a low, relieved breath.

You’ve never seen him anything less than in control, and the unguarded moment overwhelms you, makes you do something stupid like care. You rub his back soothingly until his muscles relax, until his hold on you becomes less desperate, until he falls back into a deeper, more peaceful sleep.

And somehow, despite knowing better, you do too.

The pattern repeats. Another week. Another occasion. Another dress tailored and delivered. Another event blurring the line between business and indulgence.

This time, it’s a dinner with investors where Christopher positions you beside him rather than at the opposite end of the long table, a calculated placement designed to show everyone present exactly where you fit into his life, how he views your relationship.

The attention from the other investors flickers over you with interest, but Christopher's gaze is relentless, claiming. As dinner is served, his hand finds yours beneath the tablecloth, a subtle intimacy breaking through the polished, professional veneer. His thumb strokes your palm, and the deliberate intervals at which he reaches for you make your pulse escalate, make you hyper-aware of each touch and the promise it holds. Each course arrives with more intensity, more heat building between you, the food a secondary indulgence to the simmering electricity.

Christopher leans in to murmur something that sounds like an offhand comment about the market, but all you register is his breath on your ear, something far more intimate. His hand slides from yours, and you nearly gasp when it finds your thigh. He's talking to the table about the latest economic forecast, but it feels like he's speaking only to you, each word causing his fingers to inch higher, under your dress, teasing the edge of your panties while you struggle to keep your expression neutral. The investors around you are mostly oblivious, absorbed in their own conversations and the high-end wagyu steak dinner, but you're sure that everyone can hear the erratic beating of your heart. Your breath catches, and Christopher pauses, as if waiting for you to protest or stop him. When you do neither, he resumes his exploration, his fingers slipping beneath the lace of your underwear, and you bite the inside of your cheek to keep from making a sound. His eyes meet yours, dark and knowing, as two fingers sink deep, curling in exactly the right way to make you clamp around him.

You try to focus on the discussion about projections for the next quarter, on maintaining some semblance of decorum, but Christopher is ruthless, relentless, moving inside you with rhythmic precision. Your nails dig into his forearm, a silent plea that only makes him go deeper, more insistent. You’re on the brink, legs trembling, your free hand clutching the table for stability. The world around you fades, the conversation becoming white noise as Christopher crooks his fingers and presses his thumb to your clit.

After you cum quietly around his fingers, he sucks your juices off of them while one of the investors tells a joke, then leans over to press a soft kiss to your bottom lip. .

At a gallery opening a week later, he watches your reaction to the art more intently than the pieces themselves. A few days after, you return to the mansion after pilates to find one of the paintings you’d lingered at mounted on a wall in your east wing bedroom.

Then there’s a weekend brunch with Hyunjin and one of the many women he keeps in rotation, where the conversation and inside jokes flow so naturally you almost forget this is a temporary arrangement.

A work event at Christopher's firm reveals new dimensions to his possessiveness. You wear a conservative but striking maroon dress, appropriately elegant for a corporate function. Christopher's expression when he sees you is approving, but there's a tightness around his jaw you've learned to recognize: desire held in check, control exerted.

Martha greets you with an enthusiastic hug, her warm energy wrapping around you just as tightly as her arms. She is one of the few people in Christopher's company who talks to you like a real person rather than a precious artifact he's decided to display. There's genuine affection in her voice as she compliments your dress, her eyes sparkling with something akin to approval. “You’re simply adorable, dear,” she gushes. You beam, as you can’t remember the last time someone called you ‘adorable’.

Martha is charming in her efficiency, seamlessly transitioning between small talk and event logistics when someone interrupts with a question without missing a beat. You laugh when she mentions that Christopher will likely have a coronary if even one tray goes unsampled. "I don't want to be the one to resuscitate him," she jokes, glancing over your shoulder with a wink.

You follow her gaze and see Christopher watching you from across the room, a small smile playing at his lips. The look is possessive, approving, and entirely too satisfied, as if he knew you'd charm everyone effortlessly and he's proud of the show. He nods when he catches your eye, a silent signal that he's pleased, and you feel a ripple of satisfaction… or maybe that's just the champagne.

You're surprised when he doesn't immediately stake his claim, instead allowing you to navigate through the room with freedom. It feels like a test, like he's seeing how far you'll go and how long you'll last without him by your side. Then you realize with a smirk that he's just as likely pacing himself, saving his appetite for dessert.

The evening progresses smoothly until you find yourself in conversation with one of Christopher's colleagues, a silver-haired man with sharp eyes and sharper wit. He's entertaining, making you laugh in a way that feels genuine rather than practiced. You're mid-anecdote when you feel Christopher's presence behind you, his hand sliding around your waist in a gesture that appears casual but conveys unmistakable ownership.

"Lee," Christopher acknowledges the man by his last name, voice cool. "I see you've met my partner, Noelle."

The word choice, partner, not date or companion, raises eyebrows, including yours, though you maintain your composure.

"Indeed I have," Lee replies, eyes shrewd as they move between the two of you. "She was just telling me about her thoughts on the Miyazaki acquisition. Sharp mind, this one."

"Yes," Christopher agrees, fingers pressing slightly firmer against your side. "One of many reasons I’m attracted to her."

The possessiveness should feel stifling. Perhaps with another man it would. But you recognize something beneath Christopher's territorial display, not just ownership but pride. He wants everyone to know you're his, yes, but also that he recognizes your value beyond the physical. It's a distinction that matters more than it should.

Later that night, when you ask about his choice of words, Christopher pauses in the act of removing his tie, expression unreadable.

"Lee has a reputation," he says finally. "I wanted to be clear about your status."

"As your possession?" you challenge, testing boundaries that have grown increasingly flexible.

Christopher approaches slowly, stopping just short of touching you. "As someone who matters to me." His admission hangs in the air between you, more intimate somehow than the countless ways he's had your body. "Does that bother you?"

The truth, that it doesn't, that it warms something cold and protected inside you, feels too dangerous to acknowledge. "Just clarifying the parameters," you say instead.

His smile is knowing, seeing through your deflection. "The parameters are evolving. Isn't that what happens in any relationship?"

But this isn't a relationship, you want to say. This is a contract, a transaction, a temporary arrangement beneficial to both parties, designed to fulfill both of your needs. You should counter his words, remind him of what he’s paying for, but the way he watches you makes you hesitate.

The words stick in your throat, dense and unspoken, as he spins you around and bends you over the dresser, holding your face down against the smooth polished wood, hips pressed against your ass before you can push back.

You smile when you hear him undo his zipper with his other hand before he flips up your dress and plunges into you roughly from behind.

“Ugghhh!” you groan.

His hands pin your wrists in place on top of the dresser as he thrusts into you.

The motion is hard, immediate, a declaration without the need for language. He fills you completely. His hips crash into you, each hard plunge rattling the dresser and driving you to the edge of something you can’t quite define. He’s relentless, pounding so deep, over and over, like he needs to remind you in every way how he owns you, like he knows exactly how you’re starting to question everything. There's nothing soft or careful about the motion. It's blistering, primal, tearing down the walls you've built, making your vision spark white and your thoughts scatter, and you wonder if you're the one who's been wrong all along.

You’re gasping, breathless, the impact shredding through your carefully constructed defenses and unmooring the truths you’ve clung to, until all that’s left is Christopher pushing you to the very brink.

You moan loudly in absolute pleasure when you cum.

****

Saturday mornings become sacred somehow, an unspoken ritual neither of you planned. Christopher, usually awake before dawn even on weekends, lingers in bed, his usual precision softened by morning light and the absence of anywhere he needs to be.

You discover he reads poetry; Neruda and Angelou and contemporary voices you don't recognize. Sometimes he reads aloud, his voice roughened by sleep, words flowing over you like warm honey.

One such morning, as Christopher sits with his back against the headboard and you lie next to him, you find yourself tracing the scar on his ribs, the question you've wondered about for weeks finally finding voice.

"How did you get this?"

Christopher's hand covers yours, pressing your palm flat against the mark. "Street fight when I was sixteen. Three of my classmates decided the scholarship kid needed a lesson in hierarchy. So they found a way to distract Hyunjin after his swim practice and jumped me from behind as I walked towards the subway station." His tone is matter-of-fact, not seeking sympathy. "They learned a different lesson instead. Rich kids never realize they can’t fight until they actually fight someone who’s not from their neighborhood. And when Jin realized what was happening, he ran from where he was and his scrawny ass leaped onto the back of one of them. I think he broke that fucker’s nose for me." He smiled as he thought of the memory.

You can picture it, young Christopher, outnumbered but refusing to yield, that same intensity in his eyes that you see when he negotiates deals or fucks you. The image stirs something protective in you that has no place in this professional arrangement.

"And this one?" Your fingers drift northward to the scar on his shoulder.

His expression shifts, something vulnerable flashing before it's tucked away. "My father. Broken bottle. I got between him and my mother when I was ten and paid the price."

The simple statement reveals volumes about his childhood, about the origins of his need for control, about the boy who became this carefully constructed man.

You press your lips to the scar, a gesture of comfort decades too late but offered nonetheless. You feel his story in the warmth of his skin, the way his muscles initially tense when your lips touch the raised tissue. Christopher's fingers tangle in your hair, holding you close against his chest, a silent plea for closeness that he doesn’t need to vocalize, his heartbeat steady beneath your cheek.

"I think you're the first person I've told," he says quietly, “other than Jinnie,” and the admission feels like being handed something fragile and irreplaceable, a token of trust so unexpected that it makes your chest constrict with a mix of emotions you’re not sure you can name. In that moment, the lines blur beyond recognition: personal and professional, fake and real.

You lift your head to kiss him on the lips, intending comfort but finding something deeper, a connection that scares you as much as it draws you in. You straddle him without breaking the kiss, your need to be closer to him a magnetic force that pulls you out of yourself and into this moment.

Beneath you, you feel his cock start to harden, and your hips respond automatically, sliding back and forth against him like it's the only thing they know how to do. When he’s fully erect, you reach down and position the tip of his dick at your entrance before sliding down on it fully, taking him with a smoothness that feels like inevitability.

Christopher groans into your mouth, a sound so raw and needy that it sends a jolt of electricity down your spine, amplifying your desire, making you wetter, hungrier. "Fuck," he breathes as you set the pace, riding him with long, deep strokes that leave no room for pretense or defense mechanisms. Just skin on skin, all boundaries obliterated.

You sink your teeth into his shoulder, the sex too good, your need too great to contain quietly. The bite makes him thrust upwards, hitting you at an angle that makes your vision blur and your breath catch. You dig your nails into his chest, marking him, claiming him in the only way you know how. As you drop onto him again and again, you see the earlier hurt in his eyes replaced by something intense and adoring. 

The vulnerability of his confession shifts into possession. His hands grab your hips, taking control, guiding you up and pulling you down with a ferocity that shatters your last defenses. "Baby Girl," he rasps. "I'm not going to last." The words should be a warning, but they push you closer to the edge. You want him to lose it. You want him to know he's the only one who can make you like this, trembling, incoherent.

As his thrusts become desperate, frantic, you slip a hand between your bodies, your fingers finding your clit, circling, pressing, needing that final spark to send you over. You clench around him, and Christopher’s growl is primal, possessive, as if claiming every part of you. This time, he cums first, burying himself so deep inside you that you can’t tell where you end and he begins. But he continues thrusting upwards until your orgasm hits, violent and consuming, his name tearing from your lips.

You collapse against his chest, your head resting on his shoulder as he leans his back against the headboard, both of you trying to catch your breath, the room ringing with the aftermath of what just happened. Words feel inadequate, too small for the enormity of what lies between you. Christopher strokes your back, a gentle counterpoint to the way you’ve just fucked him, and you let your eyes close, savoring the unexpected tenderness amid the wreckage of your carefully constructed barriers after only a month and half. You’re not sure how you’ll ever keep your distance, how you’ll ever keep it strictly business. But maybe, you think as you curl up beside him, maybe... you don’t want to.

****

The Tokyo business trip comes as a surprise: not the trip itself, which Christopher had mentioned weeks ago, but his insistence that you accompany him.

"I'll be in meetings most days," he explains as you pack. "But the evenings will be ours. There are restaurants I want to show you, places I think you'll appreciate."

The thought he's put into imagining your preferences, into planning experiences you might enjoy, catches you off guard. This goes beyond the parameters of your arrangement, beyond what you're being paid for. You tell yourself he's just maximizing his investment, ensuring his exclusive companion remains available even during travel.

The lie grows thinner each time you repeat it.

Tokyo unfolds around you like a revelation with neon and tradition interwoven together and energy humming beneath meticulous order. Christopher keeps his word about the meetings, disappearing each morning with Hyunjin in tow, returning each evening with the day's tension melting as soon as he sees you waiting.

He takes you to tiny restaurants hidden in back alleys that require passwords or personal connections to enter. He guides you through temple gardens at dawn, before the tourists arrive, his knowledge of Japanese culture surprising and extensive. He buys you small, thoughtful gifts: a silk scarf from a fifth-generation artisan, a rare edition of your favorite poet found in a dusty bookshop, a pair of earrings that he says catches the light ‘exactly as your eyes do when you laugh’. That last one makes you roll your eyes playfully, which he smirks at until you kiss it off his face.

None of these gestures were stipulated in your contract. None fall under the obligations you agreed to. Each feels like a stone added to a scale that's increasingly tipping away from the transactional and toward something you're afraid to name.

In bed at the hotel, with Tokyo sparkling beyond floor-to-ceiling windows, Christopher maps your body with the dedication of someone memorizing territory they never want to forget. His usual domination is tempered by something that feels dangerously like reverence.

"Tell me what you need," he murmurs against your inner thigh, each word a breath on your skin.. He’s asked this before, his voice typically a low growl, an insistence. But not this time. There’s a difference in his tone now, a softness. This time it’s a request, not a demand, leaving the power squarely in your hands. It’s a change that thrills you more than you expected. You guide his head between your legs, your fingers threading through his hair, and he gives in to your silent response, his mouth on you with worshipful precision. Each flick of his tongue pushes you closer to the edge, unraveling you, turning your request into a litany of whispered “please” and “right there, daddy” and “more.” And when he's made you so wet and desperate that you're no longer sure if you’re begging him to stop or never stop, he pulls away. 

He’s inside you in one hard thrust, his body covering yours, his skin burning against you, his lips seeking yours with a yearning that matches your own. His moves are careful but determined, like he wants to consume you whole but is savoring each moment before he does. You hook your legs around his waist, forcing his thrusts deeper, faster, feeling the full possession of him. You bite his bottom lip, too close to stay silent, too close to hold back. Each drive forward is a question. An answer. A promise. A plea.

Tonight, when you come apart beneath his mouth, his hands, his body joined with yours, the name you cry isn't ‘Christopher’ or ‘Daddy’ but ‘Chris’, the forbidden diminutive only Hyunjin is allowed to use.

Instead of the correction you expect, his rhythm falters, his control slipping as he nuzzles the tip of his nose to yours and follows you into release with a hoarseness in his voice that sounds like surrender when he calls your real name.

Neither of you mention it afterward. Some revelations are too raw to acknowledge in words.

Back in Los Angeles, the pattern of your days continues to evolve. Christopher starts adjusting his schedule to maximize time with you. He’s leaving the office earlier, bringing work home to complete after you've fallen asleep beside him, scheduling his most demanding meetings early so his evenings remain uncompromised.

"You have a five o'clock with the Singapore team," you remind him one afternoon, having overheard his conversation with Hyunjin earlier that day.

"Rescheduled for tomorrow morning," Christopher replies, sliding his laptop closed. "I thought we could drive up the coast for dinner. There's a place in Malibu I think you'd enjoy with a fantastic view of the sunset. You interested?"

The casual reprioritization of his time, Christopher Bahng, who built his reputation on ruthless efficiency and availability to clients, speaks volumes. Even more telling is how he no longer phrases these changes as demands, assuming your consent, but rather as invitations for shared plans, assuming your desire to be with him.

The most unsettling part is how rarely you want to refuse.

Hyunjin notices, of course. His perceptive eyes miss nothing, especially where Christopher is concerned. You find him in the kitchen one morning, contemplating the coffee maker with theatrical confusion.

"This thing gets more complicated every time I visit," he complains, though his smile suggests the helplessness is at least partially an act.

You take pity, preparing his coffee along with your own. "Christopher's already left for his soccer game," you inform him, assuming that's who he's looking for.

"I know." Hyunjin accepts the mug with a nod of thanks. "I came to see you, actually."

The admission surprises you. "Me? Why?"

Hyunjin leans against the counter, studying you with that gaze of his. "Because Christopher's different with you. Calmer. More present." He sips his coffee. "Less like he's waging war against the world and more like he's found something worth protecting in it."

You don't know how to respond, so you focus on adding cream to your coffee, stirring longer than necessary.

"He's never brought anyone to the Tokyo restaurants," Hyunjin continues, his voice gentler now. "Those were places we discovered together years ago. Our private sanctuaries in a city that never stops moving."

The revelation sits heavy in your chest. "Why are you telling me this?"

"Because I care about him. And because I think, despite your best professional intentions, you're starting to care too." Hyunjin's directness is kind but uncompromising. "The question is what happens when your contract ends."

The question follows you through the day, through the week, through moments when Christopher's hand finds yours without conscious thought, when his eyes seek you out across rooms as if confirming you're still there, still his. The evidence accumulates like the formation of snowflakes—small, individual moments that together create something that shouldn’t exist, something substantial and something impossible to ignore:

The way he's memorized how you take your coffee.

The book of poetry he left on your nightstand, passages marked that made him think of you.

How he calls you by your real name in private, never Noelle.

The protective way he positions himself between you and crowds.

The genuine interest when he asks about your day, your thoughts, your dreams.

At night, in the darkness of what has become undeniably "our" bed rather than "his," you face the truth you've been avoiding. Your professional detachment, your carefully maintained boundaries, your emotional self-protection, all compromised by this man who approached your arrangement like a business transaction but somehow transformed it into something else entirely.

You suspect Christopher Bahng is falling for you, in his own controlled, measured way. Worse, you might be falling for him too. Most dangerous of all, you're no longer certain you want the contract to end in four months' time.

The realization terrifies you. You've built your career, your independence, your entire adult life on maintaining control, emotional and financial. On keeping transactions clean, boundaries clear. On never needing anyone enough that losing them would matter.

Christopher shifts beside you in sleep, his arm instinctively tightening around your waist, pulling you closer against him. Even unconscious, he seeks you out, claims you. In the sanctuary of darkness, you allow yourself to sink into his embrace, to acknowledge the warmth that spreads through you at his touch.

Your guarded heart, the one you've protected so carefully for so long, is quietly, treacherously surrendering. And despite every professional instinct screaming caution, you find yourself letting it happen, one moment, one touch, one shared breath at a time.

A/N: This was probably my favorite chapter to write. Hope you enjoyed it.

[lookinghalfacorpse]

pandora's vault as a point-and-click horror game.

the objective is always at the top of your screen: "get the revival book." you can access a map that will take you to a few different places on the server, but once you click on the prison, the map icon only appears when you're near the entrance. when you get further in, you're trapped.

you can go to the arctic. philza is there, always peaceful and always sewing, sitting on a nice rocking chair. you can present items to him and he'll give you some clues about how to use it. you have a hunger bar, and if you're low, you can get food from him. technoblade is in the background, cooking. you can't interact with him.

you can stop by some other places too, like mcpuffys, and get a burger if you gather enough gold to buy it.

wandering the prison is confusing. it's a maze, and the more you click, the more the prison shifts. interact with too many items that make a lot of noise and you'll upset sam, and he'll kill you quickly. the warden walks in a pre-determined circle around the prison, and you can't interrupt him unless you have an item that interests him. following him is your best bet to navigate the prison, but he's hard to track. you have to learn his pattern.

take too long, and the prison shifts faster. doors close on their own.

you can summon technoblade once to save you from sam. he'll buy you time and de-aggro sam, but then he disappears, and you'll see him in the background with philza again when you tp there.

make too many mistakes, and you'll be transported to the main cell.

dream is there, starved and thin. he's curled into himself. hover your cursor over him and he'll kill you-- he doesn't want to be seen.

you have to be patient. keep your cursor on the wall. wait. eventually, dream says "...what do you want?" and a dialogue options shows up. he'll chat, but he won't give up the revival book. you click everywhere. you find no way out. new objective: "get out alive."

there are different items you can collect on your way to the cell that will affect your chances. you can gather food from chests you find, but you should preserve them and give some to dream to get on his good side. if you present shears, he'll kill you, no matter how good you're doing with him. you can collect status effects, and if you get "sir," he'll obey faster. but he's never particularly helpful.

the screen flashes into images of blood and gore across the cell.

try to kill dream, and sam stops you. you hear dream sigh.

really, the key is endurance. you have to make sure you have enough resources when you enter the cell to stay on dream's good side and survive until sam decides to let you out. a bit of experimentation.

or, if you make it to the main cell without sam putting you there, you can get out at will. but that's very difficult, and you won't achieve that your first run, but the status effects help. you'll gather more of those as you play. with "sir," sam gets less agitated with you.

get dream's favor, and you get a new objective: "get both of us out alive"

there's an item called "hope"-- a stuffed cat. if you present it to philza, he'll say "…someone else could use this more, mate. you shouldn't leave it here with me."

get back to the main cell.

What do you want to do with "Hope"?

>>Give to Dream Destroy Nothing

if you give it to him, big tears will roll down his face-- an animation you've never seen before. he'll give you a piece of his bloody shirt in exchange.

take the bloody shirt to philza, and technoblade will move from the background. there's an animation where he rushes out the door, and philza follows him. that's the good end. objective complete.

you can also keep with the first objective, if you want. you can go in every day, if you want. you can gather weapons and shears and experiment with how dream responds, if you want. perhaps, somewhere in the code, there's a way for you to get that book. maybe THAT'S your good end.

[rascalentertainments]

Wish Granted 🌟👩🏾🎶 (Wish Reimagined)

Chapter 12: Bibbidi-Bobbidi-Doom 🔮✨🌟

Chapter 11

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Time for us to check on our villains! Just for a bit, I promise. 😅 (This moment is actually going around the same time as Chapter 11, and it'll lead back to our newly formed team)

We see Amaya in a black cloak standing in front of her potions cabinet as she adds a few ingredients to a drinking glass filled with colored liquid. "To make me look younger, a drop of spring water. To retain my royal attire, a peacock's feather. To strengthen my voice, a child's laughter. To restore my hair, a sundrop petal. And....a dash of nutmeg for flavor."

As she added the last ingredient, the liquid bubbled up and turned into the color of red wine. The liquid settled and we see Amaya's face in the reflection of the glass, looking much older than she did in previous chapters.

She carefully drinks the entire glass, and her appearance returns to normal. The black cloak vanished and her royal garments reappeared.

Amaya heard a growl and looked down, seeing Sabor raise an eyebrow as he questioned why she would need a simple kitchen ingredient.

"Don't give me that look, dear. These spells are powerful, but they taste dreadful. A little spice never hurt anyone." She walked over to a nearby mirror, admiring her return to her former beauty. "Besides, I may not be able to transform into different beings like the star, but I can keep my 'natural' beauty intact."

Sabor took a moment to admire his own silky fur before straightening up. He heard laughing coming from the wishing room. "Meow?"

"Oh, that's just Magnifico playing with his balls...Somedays I think he's a bit too obsessed with those wish balls. I better check up on him, he's had quite the night." Amaya stepped away from the mirror and proceeded to the wishing room, with Sabor trailing behind her.

Amaya opens the heavy door and sees the king now humming "Twinkle, Twinkle Little Star" as he exaggerated his arm movements like a conductor. The wishes are moving in several different line patterns all around him.

Magnifico pauses once he sees his wife. "Ah, darling! I'm so glad you're here!" He had a wide, almost sinister looking grin.

Amaya noticed his unusually happy tone. "You in quite the good mood this morning, mi rey." She looked and saw the massive amounts of wishes surrounding the two of them.

Sabor cautiously stepped further into the room. Seeing the wish orbs fly around the place made him nervous, since one wrong move could accidentally destroy a wish. And he did not want to make Magnifico that angry...

The lynx narrowly dodged a few orbs that whizzed by due to the man's gleeful use of magic on them. Another one came flying and he quickly batted it away. Sabor smiled in satisfaction.

Then another orb came from seemingly nowhere and knocked the feline across the room, making him yowl in pain. (He'll be fine)

"I was almost too excited to sleep!" Magnifico stopped with his make believe orchestra and grabbed Amaya's hands. "We've gotten so much closer to our goal in these last few days, then we ever have in the past few decades. Tonight we'll have the traitors, Tomás' daughter and the star all in one place! And best of all, the entire kingdom will witness our full power!"

The two of them started to dance lightly as the wish orbs surrounded them. "Believe me, I'm just as happy as you, but don't you think it's a little early to be celebrating?" Amaya questioned despite her fun.

Magnifico stopped at those words. He was so excited to finally get the traitors that alluded him all these years, he nearly forgot the most important one to capture: Asha.

"As usual, you're right. Everything could fall apart if Asha and the star get involved before the ceremony."

He looked up at the many wishes the two had collected, and with the addition of the Hamlet residents wishes, it was beginning to look a bit crowded up there. It was a lot of peoples dreams up there just doing nothing.

"Perhaps we need to prepare ourselves with a little snack?" He pulled down three wishes from above and held them in his hands. "Besides, we do need to make some room now that the traitors wishes are up here. Let's say we get rid of a few non-important ones?" He asked playfully.

Amaya shook her head. "Now, now. Don't get impatient. We can't risk anything by destroying any wishes. People might start getting suspicious of missing newcomers, and I don't want to waste more magic on wiping people's memories."

Magnifico was silent for a moment then smirked as he grabbed a familiar wish. "How about just this one?"

"For the last time, you can't take my mother's wish!" she scolded him.

The king needed a laugh. "I'm just kidding, dear! Mostly." He threw the orb back up with the others.

He took another look up and noticed something was off. "Is there a wish missing?"

"You can't be serious, there's over a thousand wishes in here. How could you possibly-"

"No....there is one missing. I can feel it." The king reaffirmed as he slowly raised his hand upwards and called down a couple wishes to him.

The problem was, only one came down; Sakina's. Her wish was the become the best seamstress in Rosas, a wish that was never intended to be granted.

"Where's the old man's wish?" Magnifico growled.

Amaya looked up and realized the man was right. Both of them keep track of their wishes everyday. It was the one job even Flazino wasn't allowed to do. "You mean her grandfather's wish?"

"I always keep those two wishes together, I don't know what happened to...." The king's eyes widened in horror.

He remembered when that pest of a shapeshifter was mocking him yesterday, the star must've been a distraction in order for Asha to get to the wishes.

THOSE BRATS KEEP GETTING IN HIS WAY.

He was tempted to crush Sakina's wish in retaliation, slightly gripping the orb in his hand, but one stern look from his wife told him that it wasn't a good idea.

Magnifico forcibly threw the orb back with the others. He wasn't even trying to hide his anger anymore. If Asha managed to get one wish, how long before she and the star got the rest?

He stomped out of the wishing room, his good mood now dissipated.

Sabor slowly stumbled across the room as he followed Amaya. It was one of his rare moments when he didn't look regal. She looked down, noticed his disoriented appearance and picked him up.

The lynx purred as he relaxed in her arms.

Magnifico rubbed his forehead as he walked back to his study. "We need to find Asha immediately. Everything hinges on her trading the star in for her family and we can't even find her to make the deal. Tonight is the most crucial night of our lives and I refuse to let some peasant girl ruin it!"

"Oh, there's no need to worry about that." Amaya chirped as she stroked Sabor's soft fur. "While you were dealing with the Hamlet, I took it upon myself to ask for a little...personal help in finding Asha quickly. And in return, I told them that their entire family's wishes will be granted by you."

Magnifico was suddenly intrigued. "And who might that be? We don't exactly have colleagues here."

"Someone in Rosas whom we can make work to our advantage, and they're more than happy to help our beloved kingdom." Amaya chuckled deviously.

Aaaaaaaaand now we gotta go back to our heroes, and they're having a really hard time taking in everything. 😅

All seven of them started talking at the same time. Gabo and Simon tried to calm the others down, but it was a mixture of panic, excitement and confusion.

Star looked embarrassed as he floated down to Asha. "I freaked them out, didn't I?"

"Ya think?" Asha snapped at him.

"Sorry. I did try to lay low, but the animals were freaking out and I tried to calm them down, then that sneezy guy came in and freaked out and then I freaked out!" The star felt terrible about this. He didn't want to be the reason everything fell apart.

"...You're not angry with me, are you?" Star had the most worrisome eyes.

Asha took a deep breath. "No, I could never be mad at you. We just...need to get them to understand our problem here. It would help if we had more than just two people on our side, but I don't-."

"WHY IS THERE A COW ON THE CEILING?!" Safi screamed as he pointed up to a large cow chewing cud.

"Helllooooooooo!" she mooed.

Asha looked at Star with a stern face. "You need to fix this. Now." Her voice was low and serious.

Star didn't argue. "Got it." In a flash he flew up and tried to pull the cow back to the floor.

Dahlia frantically adjusted her glasses as she got a better look at the star. "Wait, isn't that Cosmo? You never mentioned he had magic!"

Gabo looked at Dahlia confused. "Cosmo? I thought he was just called Star."

Dario scratched his head. "Well, that's not a very creative name. A star called 'Star'?"

Asha had to cut this banter short. She was getting annoyed with most of them already. On top of that, they just insulted her indirectly.

"God, you people are loud...Valentino, shut the door before anyone hears this." Asha gestured to the opening.

Valentino nodded and trotted over to the door, closing it shut with his little hooves. Meanwhile, Star had finally gotten the animals to calm down and was attempting to take away their speaking magic spell. The chickens were protesting against this, though.

"Alright, I'll make this quick. The royals are evil, they're keeping our wishes hostage for power, and we're working together to stop them from destroying more lives." Asha's went through entire thing like ripping off a band aid. "We need your help, Dahlia-"

"And I'd like to add that I WAS RIGHT ABOUT THOSE TWO BEING EVIL THE ENTIRE TIME! You guys owe me an apology." Gabo chimed in with a smug look.

"YOU'RE WHAT NOW?!" Dahlia exclaimed at Asha's "confession".

In the background, Star had finally calmed the animals down and took away their ability to speak. That didn't stop the chickens from running around, with a few of them flying over the teen's heads thanks to the star's magic.

Dario laughed. "This is awesome! Can Star make me fly too?"

Star grabbed one of the frantic chickens in his hands. "I dunno. I never tried it on a human before. But you can be the first one!"

Safi wanted to be happy that his feathered friends could finally fly, but his allergies acting up warned him that this could be trouble. "AAAACHOO!" He sniffed and wiped his nose with his sleeve. "This is bad, like really bad. Am I the only one who realizes this is gonna end very badly?" He groaned.

Hal scoffed. "Oh come on, Saf. I mean, sure we got a giant glowing guy floating here that can make animals sing and dance."

Safi waited for her to tell the actual good news. "Yes, and?"

"That's... all I got right now, I'm just trying not to have a mental breakdown here." Hal laughed nervously. For the first time her constant upbeat personality was beginning to strain.

"Join the club, I thought I was going insane too." Simon grumbled.

Star noticed that the teens were feeling a bit uncomfortable. His smile started to falter a bit hearing they were freaked out by his presence. He didn't know he'd have that effect on humans too...

"Will you all stop and listen to me? The fate of everyone's lives is at stake and like it or not, I need your help keeping him a secret."

"Th-This is objectively impossible." Dahlia stuttered trying to keep her grip on her crutch. "First you're getting these crazy conspiracy stories from Gabo,"

"Which are all true." Gabo added smugly. Dahlia shot him a look, but it didn't last.

"And now you brought another guy with magic powers–which I remind you is forbidden for anyone else to use magic other than our rulers–to come here here to steal from the King and Queen? How did you even get him here in the first place?"

"She wished for a magical boyfriend to help her take down the monarchy." Gabo once again cut in.

"Would you stop telling people that!" Asha snapped while Star started to glow very brightly.

"That's the one thing that makes sense, actually." Simon chuckled lightly.

"How romantic!" Bazeema's eyes lit up at the mention of a romance. "It's like a fairy tale!"

Gabo scoffed at the shy girl. "Oh, so now you can speak? At least say something important!"

"Don't talk to her like that!" Safi stepped in front of Gabo, ready to defend the girl. It was a rare sight to see the teen actually raise his voice.

"Hey, I got a song that could clear things up!" Star chimed in as he started to float in the air!

Dahlia waved her hand. "Please don't, I can't stand singing."

"Wait a minute. You wished on a star, and the star came down....looking like this, right?" Hal gestured to the star's human appearance.

"Yes, finally you're getting it. I know it sounds strange, but its all true. I couldn't have gotten this far without him."

"A follow up question...So if I wish on a star-"

"No." Asha immediately shot that question down in flames.

Hal sensed she hit a nerve. "All right, all right, just curious..." she avoided eye contact with her for a while.

"Look, I need you guys to focus here. The fate of Rosas-"

"Hey, can Star turn into a platypus?" Dario was too excited to even listen about the danger. "I mean, I get if its too hard. I got friends who can do some pretty impressive tricks that would blow your mind." He waa clearly baiting the star to transform for fun.

"Oooooh, is that so?" Star teased, raising an eyebrow.

Asha knew what was coming. "Star, don't-"

"Can your friends do this?" In a flash, he turned into a small yellow platypus on its hind legs. He looked down himself, a bit underwhelmed. "Yeah, I don't know how to work with this one. I mean, its a platypus. They don't do much."

(Thanks to an anonymous ask for suggesting this transformation bit!)

"However!" Star changed into a series of animals both large and small each with a bright flash. once he finished, he turned back to his humanoid form. "Can your friends do that? Bet you ain't never had a friend like me!" He said with a wink.

It suddenly clicked in Dahlia's mind. "That giant elephant was you?!"

"That's so neat! You're like a Fairy Godmother!" Dario exclaimed in genuine joy.

Gabo looked at Dario with the most confused expression imaginable. "....what fairytales are you reading, man?"

The good time was interrupted by a hard knock on the door, getting everyone's attention.

"What's going on in there?" A deep voice boomed on the other side.

Valentino panicked and hid underneath a large pile of hay.

Asha and the star looked at each other. Asha didn't even have to tell Star what to do this time. He turned back into a mouse and hid with Valentino.

"Look, I...we're begging you. You can't tell anyone about us. If that guard finds us, all this will be for nothing." Asha pleaded with them, looking desperate.

Gabo's usual grumpy expression slightly soften seeing their worried faces. He sighed, "Fine. I'll take care of this." the teen pulled out his dagger and marched towards the door.

"GABO NO—" Asha whispered in a panic.

Simon grabbed Gabo by the collar and pulled him away from the door. "Don't even try it, buddy." Simon muttered.

Gabo scowled and folded his arms.

On the other side of the door, the guard was getting more impatient. "That's it, I'm coming in right now!" He put his hand on the door, only to be stopped by Dahlia with a nervous smile on her face as she poked her head outside the doorway.

"No need for that! Sorry about all that noise in there. The animals got spooked a mouse that sneaked in, but everything's settled down now." She did her best to sound calm as she pushed the guard away from the door.

The guard wasn't fully convinced. "Why did it sound like there was someone else in there?"

"AAAACHOO!!" a loud, sort of forced sneeze erupted from behind the door.

"Oh, that's just Safi getting the eggs I needed for the feast tonight!" Dahlia blurted out, then she knocked on the door. "You got those eggs, right Safi?" she raised her voice in a manner to signal the sneezing teen.

On cue, Safi came out with a basket of eggs. "Yep! Nothing out of the ordinary here! Definitely no need to look in there cause all the animals are totally normal! Hehehe..." He wasn't really a good actor. 😅

After a few tense moments the guard finally bought it. "Fine. Just keep your eyes peeled. We can't have anything or anyone disrupting the ceremony tonight."

And with that he walked away and left the two nervous teens alone.

Dahlia breathed a sigh of relief once he was out of sight. "He's gone, guys." she called to the others.

Valentino was the first to peak out, until Simon forcibly pushed the door open. "That was too close." He muttered. "I'll go check to see if there are any more guards."

"So you really think that the royals are using us? Cause I've never actually seen them hurt anyone." Dario asked Asha as the teens left the chicken coop.

"I know it. Star and I faced each of them once and we barely made it out alive. I did manage to get my saba's wish, but I want to restore everyone's."

"Then why do you need Flazino?"

"Cause he's the only one who can get us there safely at this point. All of these guards roaming around, we can't even zip by with Star's speed. Only problem is that he's in the dungeon and I have no idea where it is or how to get there."

"Since when did we get a dungeon? There's no crime here!" Hal questioned.

Dahlia still wasn't convinced, but she tried to rationalize this. "You're really here to steal from them? And you can't just ask Magnifico for them back? I think either of them would understand..."

"Dahlia, what would you do if you found out...the wishes of those you love with all your heart...will never be granted?" Asha asked seriously.

None of the teens had an answer. Most of them haven't even turned 18 yet in order to give the royals their wishes. (Except Gabo, he's never doing it.)

Safi finally spoke up. "I better not regret this. Or I'll turn you in myself for animal endangerment!" He sniffed.

Asha actually felt relief. At least she had more people on her side for a while. Star gave her an encouraging thumbs up.

"Star can free the wishes, but we need to get him to the top without being seen. If it works, we can free the wishes tonight."

"TONIGHT?!" Dahlia exclaimed. She had no idea this was going to happen at the same time as the ceremony.

"Of course, before the royals can take 100 wishes tonight. I just don't know where he's going to get them all. Not to mention he's after Star's magic too."

Dahlia wanted to argue or try to convince Asha to change her mind, but she held back. She never thought reuniting with her childhood friend would turn into a plot to overthrow a kingdom.

Simon came back from checking outside. "All right, the coast is clear. Let's get going."

"I can't believe what I'm getting into..." Dahlia grumbled as she followed Simon. If it wasn't for searching for Flazino and proving he was okay, this wouldn't be joining in this.

The dopey teen wanted to lighten things up with some introductions. "By the way, I'm Dario!"

Star greeted him with a hug. "Nice to meet a new friend!" He exclaimed.

"Ah-hyuck, love this guy!" Dario cheered as he hugged the star back.

"'Friend' is kind of pushing it..." Asha muttered.

"Hey, I want some that!" Hal laughed. "I'm Hal!" She spread her arms wide.

"Bazeema...and that's Safi." the shy girl whispered as she pointed to the boy behind her.

Star scooped up both girls in his arms as he hugged them. Hal was glad to have someone else be the cheerful one other than herself, while Bazeema slowly warmed up to his embrace.

Safi looked nervous even looking at Star. He slowly raised his hand for a handshake, but the star went for his usual friendly hug greeting.

"AAAACHOOO!" Safi sneezed right into the star's face. Luckily his eyes were closed.

"Don't tell me you're allergic to stardust..." Asha lightly joked.

"I'm so sorry..." Safi replied sheepishly.

It didn't seem to bother the star as he wiped his face with his sleeve. "No worries! Stars don't get sick, I think. Although I did go through a 'new moon' phase for a month once. I freaked my mom out with how emotional I got all the time."

"If you get this guy sick, I swear you'll be the first one to get thrown in the dungeon!" Gabo pointed his dagger at Safi's big nose.

Safi got a bit scared and hid behind Bazeema.

Hal stepped in and gently pushed the two towards the entrance. "Come on, you two. Let's get going before Gabo stabs somebody. Guy's got bite to him, I'll give him that!" She joked.

Just as Gabo put his dagger away, he could feel something rubbing against his leg. He looked down and saw Valentino looking up at him with big eyes.

"You really want to come with me, little guy?" Gabo asked.

"Maaah!" Valentino nodded happily.

Gabo picked up the goat in his arms, making Valentino gently purr. The grumpy teen would never admit it out loud, but it was nice that an animal was happy with him for once.

Bazeema was slightly jealous he got to carry Valentino, but the little goat was happy and that's what mattered more to her.

"So, you sure you two can save everyone's wishes tonight? I mean, this is all starting to get pretty crowded." Gabo couldn't believe he was saying this. And he's been dreaming of overthrowing the monarchy for years!

"We can and we will." Asha replied. "Tonight, everything changes. I promise that."

Gabo couldn't help but think of Asha's words sounding like something from a storybook. "Whatever you say, princess."

"Hey, I'm not a princess!" She kind of assumed he was teasing her again.

"If you wear a dress and have an animal sidekick, you're a princess, sister!" He snickered as he walked off.

Asha sighed. He could really be annoying sometimes.

Star noticed her stressing a bit and gently put his arm around her shoulder. This caught her by surprise as she turned and saw the star was very close to her face.

"Hey, if it makes you feel any better, you've always been a princess to me." He gave her a wink before turning into his mouse form and climbing back under her hood.

For a moment, Asha could feel her chest tighten when he said that. She's been focused on almost nothing but freeing the wishes and helping her family be free. Recently though, half her thoughts had been on Star without even trying.

She had never really been interested in romance for herself (unlike her saba), but now part of her thought what would happen to him after this whole adventure was over. Asha had originally wanted to write him off as a weird dream back in the forest, and now it was getting harder to see herself without him.

Asha's heart picked the worst possible time to start developing feelings...

Once they were outside and into the heart of the city, Dario turned and faced the group.

"Hey, we need a secret code to signal each other. You know, in case we get lost or something." He rubbed his hand on his chin for a moment, then his eyes brightened. "How about, 🎶Heigh Ho!🎶

All the teens looked at him as if he had two heads.

Gabo rolled his eyes. "That will never catch on, mark my words." He replied in a dry tone as a passed the tall teen.

"Is it that bad?" Dario questioned as he followed the rest of the group.

Asha just shook her head. These guys were a handful, especially when you put them all together. But strangely, she didn't mind being a part of a group for once. At least she had more people to talk to.

Hal grabbed Asha's arm and pulled her more towards outside. "Come on, while we look for a way to this 'dungeon' we apparently have, allow me to show you the good parts of Rosas!" she winked.

"...There are good parts?" Asha questioned. She seriously doubted that.

The group finally headed outside, but first they had to make their way through this sea of people that were out and about.

Dahlia looked up at the king and queen's statues, which now had a large purple purple banner hanging over it. The words "100 Wish Celebration" were embroidered in gold.

The whole city was looking forward to this ceremony, and Magnifico and Amaya had worked hard to provide the people a safe and prosperous kingdom for everyone. This event is supposed to bring ease, but the young baker was more nervous than ever. Were the things Asha said about the royals true? Or was she being tricked?

"Dahlia!" Hal's voice brought her out of her thoughts. "You coming with us, right?" The others were already ahead of them, making sure Asha was surrounded enough to not be seen easily.

The girl hesitated, then nervously answered. "Sure...I'm coming."

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FINAL THOUGHTS

Happy New Year, everyone! As you can see, I'm still going strong writing this! I wanted to take a break to be with family, but I still loved seeing the "Wishmas" content!

So now that the whole team is together, the next step is to find Flazino and get his help for a spell to free the wishes. However, its not going to be easy now that the royals are practically breathing down their necks. And in the next couple chapters, the traitor will finally be revealed, and I'm really excited to show it soon. I've been holding this secret for nearly the entire time of writing this! As long as you don't hate me for the reveal. 😅 Until then, I hope you enjoy seeing the teens banter in here, I wanted it to still be comedic and mostly important. And now Asha can actually get to know the teens and develop a bond with them.

As for the royals themselves, I wanted them to be really on the heels of our heroes, but not ahead all the time. Most villains (if they have them) from Disney are usually these ridiculously omnipotent people that's always ahead of the heroes. They can't be tricked, they know all the secrets, they find the heroes easily, ect, ect. So for this rewrite, I wanted the king and queen to have some flaws despite all their power and cunning. Sometimes Magnifico is outsmarted (which he hates) and sometimes Amaya's tricks don't work. (which will come up in the next chapters) Even Sabor isn't perfect!

Also we're seeing more of Asha and Star getting closer. Mainly Asha's crush on Star is beginning to turn into something deeper, which is why she's getting a little flustered around him. Star does feel the same, he's just not fully aware of his own feelings yet. (That comes soon though!) I always see Starboys get a crush on Asha pretty quickly in other rewrites, but I rarely see it in reverse. So I thought it would be fun to see WG!Asha start having the crush first, and for such a simple but important reason to her.

There's going to be at least one more break from writing the story, I really want to get more extra stuff out (redesigns, Lore part 2, the teaser poster) and because I have no idea what to name the rest of the chapters. 😂 The only one I have is the final chapter, "A Wish Worth Making" for obvious reasons. But I promise I'll keep up with everyone else's rewrites too!

Thanks for reading!

@oh-shtars @tumblingdownthefoxden @chillwildwave @your-ne1ghbor

@annymation @lazytitans-world @thesafireartist @natsuki208

@snackara @kenihewa @mythartist21 @uva124

@spectator-zee @cocoapowderpictures @emptyblog7

@pinkninja0708 @gracebeth3604 @ishadow246 @jojo-ker06

[vaquelin]

“A collection of poems. Nine letters.”

“Anthology.”

Kaveh rapped the quill on the paper and wrote the answer.

“You’re right again. Now this: the creation of wonders for eleven letters.”

Alhaitham didn’t even need a second.

“Thaumaturgy,” he answered instantly.

“I’m starting to think that doing a crossword with the Haravatat graduate was the wrong idea in the first place,” admitted Kaveh, filling in gaps.

In reality, Alhaitham had answered every clue on his own, without Kaveh's help. What was more embarrassing, Kaveh didn’t even guessed the words from his own field. He forgot what the linear patterns of interlacing foliage were called, even though he used them in nearly all of his designs! When Alhaitham said in the most pretentious tone that it was arabesque, and that Kaveh should have known this, the Architect wanted to kill him with his bare hands.

Fortunately, only one clue was left and they could end this evening’s session of shaming.

“Alright, now. The thing that one cannot live without.”

“Air?”

Kaveh counted the squares on the paper.

“Four letters.”

“Four letters?” repeated Alhaitham slightly surprised. “Food?”

“Doesn’t fit with the “astrolabe” vertically. Last letter is “E”,” said Kaveh.

That wasn’t really helpful. Alhaitham tried to think of some crucial body parts but when they had four letters, they didn’t end up with “E”.

“Bone?” This was just a lucky guess.

Kaveh raised an eyebrow. ”Just one?”

“Nose?” No other words were coming to his mind.

“Come on, you surely can live without a nose! You can learn to breath through you mouth.”

All evening, Kaveh had struggled with every clue, and now, suddenly, he was thinking rationally? Alhaitham found it ironic.

“What’s the first letter of the word?” asked the Scribe. He was getting more and more frustrated because of this unknown word, but he didn’t let his facial expression betray his emotions.

“That’s the last remaining clue. There’s only last letter,” Kaveh showed him the magazine to prove what he said.

Indeed, that was the truth. Alhaitham stared at the blank gaps, hoping that he will visualise the right word there.

“Maybe it’s ‘core’?”

“What type of core?” said Kaveh and the sinful smile appeared on his face.

“What?”

“Nothing. Let’s keep thinking.”

Minute after minute was passing by and they couldn’t think of any solution. Alhaitham still seemed to be focused and engaged in finding the right word, while Kaveh’s eyes began to close. He was resting his head on the arm, after another time when it fell down, he decided there is no use in further sitting on the couch.

“I’m getting tired, I think I’ll go to sleep. Goodnight, mr. not-as-good-scribe-as-I-thought,” he said, standing up.

Alhaitham didn’t even look up at him.

“I will figure it out,” the Scribe claimed.

“Sure, but don’t stay up long.”

And shortly after Kaveh left the room. He knew that Alhaitham won’t let go easily, but it wasn’t a matter of life and death. The Scribe was the most rational person Kaveh could think of, so he wouldn’t have wasted much time on it. Either he would have found out the answer or given up and go to sleep, just like the Architect.

The moment his head sank into the pillow, exhaustion dragged him under. Only few hours later Kaveh woke up to go to the toilet. Drinking the whole cup of tea before sleep wasn’t a good idea but he kept repeating that mistake. When he was coming back to his room, he noticed the light at the end of corridor. Half-asleep, he grabbed a decorative vase and approached the doors to the library, doubtfully ready to fight supposed burglars.

When he quietly entered the library, he saw old books shedded across the floor. There were no noises coming out of the room but Kaveh tightened the grip on the vase. He entered the library farther and that was when he noticed Alhaitham sitting in the middle of this mess, scheming through a thick book.

“What the heck are you doing!?” The Architect put down a vase, a little bit embarrassed of his choosing of weapon. He really needed to stop forgetting that he had a Vision for situations like this.

“I’m searching for this word,” answered Alhaitham, not even looking up from the book

Kaveh sighed. “Oh, for the love of Dendro Archon, I take it back! You’re a genius, the brightest mind of our time—can we go to sleep now?”

“No.”

Kaveh let out a groan and sat next to Alhaitham, leaning against the bookshelf. He grabbed another dictionary from the pile and started flipping over.

“A bit more light please.”

After almost an hour and a half, all the words started to blur to him.

“Maybe it’s a spine?” he naively suggested.

“Too many letters.”

“Crap.” He rubbed his eyes. “I can’t see anymore. I’ll bring myself coffee, would like one too?”

Alhaitham still was too engaged in looking for the right word, that he didn’t look up even for a second.

Kaveh thought that a short trip to the kitchen would wake him up a little, but it didn’t last long. When he finished his coffee, he was still as tired as before. He laid down among open books and looked at the ceiling covered in darkness. However, the floor was too hard for his perpetually aching back, so he sat up again. He straightened up, moving his spine closer to the dark wood of the shelf.

“Maybe it’s in another language?” Alhaitham asked with a hint of hope in his voice.

“I doubt, everything was in common speech. Why would I even say that!?” Kaveh banged back of his head to the bookshelf.

He was too sleepy to think straight.

“Maybe they made a mistake,” Kaveh suggested, watching Alhaitham flip another page. “It happens, you know. Not everything has a perfect answer.”

“No,” Alhaitham muttered, scanning the index. “There’s always a right answer. You just have to find it.”

Kaveh sighed, rubbing his temple. This was the problem with Alhaitham—he thought everything could be reduced to logic, as if emotions could be neatly categorized like words on a page. But life wasn’t a crossword. Some blanks stayed empty, and some answers you had to discover for yourself.

“Not everything can be solved by staring at a book,” he said, voice softer now.

Alhaitham didn’t respond.

“How about we go tomorrow to their office and ask about it?”

“No,” he flipped another page.

His tone was dry, but a bit quieter than usually. Kaveh took a good look at him. His hair was messy, shadows under his eyes were too visible, and he couldn’t even sit straight anymore. He had to be as tired as Kaveh but stubbornly didn’t want to admit it. It was so childish of him. Sometimes Kaveh still felt like his senior in Akademiya, telling him not to read books all night.

“If you’re tired, go to sleep.”

“And leave you here with all these?” Kaveh pointed at the piles of dictionaries laying around on the floor and some still on the bookshelves. “We both know you won’t stop until you…”

He went quiet when his eyes met the interesting title. “Love and War”, Kaveh hadn’t heard about this book since his teenage years when he used to be into such heroic romantic novels. How had Alhaitham came into possession of it? It didn’t seem like something he would have read for pleasure. Kaveh mused for a while, analyzing the title when a thought came right across his mind.

“Love,” he suddenly spoke up.

Alhaitham looked at him confused. “What? Are you sleep talking?”

"The answer," Kaveh murmured, almost to himself. "It’s love."

Alhaitham stilled. He turned to Kaveh, searching his face as if waiting for an explanation, for proof, for some citation in an ancient text that would validate it. Just Kaveh’s tired smile, the softness in his voice, the certainty in his eyes.

"You’re sure?" Alhaitham asked, though the answer was obvious.

“I am.”

Kaveh hunkered down beside him to give him a fleeting kiss on a cheek. “Goodnight,” he said softly, turning to the door.

Alhaitham remained still, his mind processing the word, the gesture, and everything in between. His fingers brushed the spot where Kaveh's lips had been, warmth lingering there longer than it should have. After the Architect left the room, stretching and yawning, Alhaitham grabbed the crossword and filled “L”, “O” and “V” in the gaps. He stared at the completed crossword, pen resting idly against the paper. The word fit perfectly. He had spent hours searching, convinced the answer would be buried in a book. But in the end, it had been right in front of him all along.

#kavetham 🌱🏛️

More of my works 🍃

All short stories on ao3 ☘️

[jonnysinsectcatalogue]

German Yellowjacket (Queen) - Vespula germanica

Although today's find may seem like just an ordinary Yellowjacket Wasp, I assure you that she is something very special. This individual is in fact a Wasp Queen, and the first to be featured on this blog. When her pictures were taken, she was observed gathering wood pulp using the scraping action of her mandibles. You can see how much she has scraped up based on the trail left in the wooden signpost. I would have taken a video, but the construction near the Lash Miller chemistry building was too loud for a comfortable experience. In any case, as a young queen who has survived the bitter chill of winter, it is up to her to choose a suitable location for her nest, and then construct the beginning of that nest. She's completed the latter, and typically this specie is a ground-nesting Wasp, rather than one who builds a nest in a cavity or under an overhang. However, on the University of Toronto's (U of T) campus, it's possible that this regal specimen found a nice seclusion to build in. In any case, she collects material to build nest combs in which eggs will be placed. Over time her first batch of hatchlings will mature into adult workers, and they will be assigned with the queen's former duties of foraging, defending and maintaining the structure and cleanliness of the nest.

When those workers Wasps eventually go to forage, I can seem them being quite a major nuisance during U of T campus' summer time. Interestingly, the many generations of Wasps that this queen creates will appear slightly different in terms of appearance (its all in the genes). With that being the case, how can be tell that the Wasp in these pictures is a queen? The answer is relatively simple for this specie: German Yellowjacket queens will have a diamond-shaped marking on the first segment of their abdomen. By comparison, the similar-looking native Eastern Yellowjacket (both queens and workers) have a wide "anchor-shaped" marking in the same location, as do the German Yellowjacket workers (their anchor-marking is more narrow). Further, this queen's subordinates will also display more prominent black markings along the abdomen's segments, while a queen's pattern typically appears reduced, as if her abdomen has black spots running down the side. The face of a Yellowjacket can also provide a clue on which specie she belongs to. Thanks to Picture 6's close up, we can see spots on lower part of her face and no further prominent striping in the center of her face or above her antenna. As a final add-on, male/drone Wasps are simpler to identify from their fellow nestmates; they have longer antennae and distinctly longer abdomens which lack a sharp tip.

Pictures were taken on May 29, 2025 with a Google Pixel 8a. For additional information regarding North American Vespula specie identification and how to discern differences between Wasp Queens, Workers and Drones of the same specie, you can check out Bugguide's Vespula genus page via the clickable link if you like.

[asimplearchivist]

𝓕𝓲𝓻𝓼𝓽 𝓚𝓲𝓼𝓼

𝐄𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐘 𝐕𝐈 𝐨𝐟 𝐗𝐗𝐕

[𝓪𝓼𝓲𝓶𝓹𝓵𝓮𝓪𝓻𝓬𝓱𝓲𝓿𝓲𝓼𝓽'𝓼 𝓶𝓪𝓼𝓽𝓮𝓻𝓵𝓲𝓼𝓽] [ 𝐌𝐎𝐎𝐍 𝐊𝐍𝐈𝐆𝐇𝐓 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐓 ] AO3 | SPOTIFY | PINTEREST summary ☾ ⤏ there was no possible way that you could have romantic feelings for steven. right? pairing(s) ☽ steven grant/reader-centric | constellations!verse word count ☾ 4.1k a/n ☽ ⤏ my sixth entry for the moon knight bingo hosted by @juneknight and @spacecowboyhotch over at @moonknight-events. I will eventually crosspost this to the main fic for constellations on ao3 when it will best fit the chronological progression of the chapters. this takes place post-chapter ii. ⤏ trying to resist the urge to tell myself this is repetitive. had to cut it off there or else it would’ve been way too long. ☽ MASTERPOST ☾ ☾ PREVIOUS ENTRY ⤎ ☥ ⤏ NEXT ENTRY [TBA] ☽

You’re going to give us an ulcer if you keep this up—and I, for one, do not want to have to chug that wretched pink shit for the next few weeks.

“Hush,” Steven muttered, glancing towards the window next to him to level his host with a dark glare, but he was distracted by the skewed angle of the lapel lying haphazardly across his clavicle. He frowned in concentration as he readjusted it and smoothed it back down to rights with a clammy, trembling palm. “You’re not helpin’.”

Marc’s brow was furrowed, arms folded tightly over his chest, appearing rather dour to be mirroring the pressed, brightly patterned shirt and light slacks he’d talked Steven into wearing—Marc’s canvas jacket suited the look as well as the stormy weather, although Steven’s insistence on wearing his favorite dress shoes was the one concession that the alter was unwilling to sacrifice.

Marc had argued with him for nearly ten minutes not to wear the suit coat for just a quick bite before returning to the flat, and Steven had only relented once he’d realized that you’d still be wearing your casual clothes since he was picking you up from work. He knew that you liked to dress up, too, if he made the effort to do so, and that you grew a little self-conscious if you looked ‘frumpy’ (although, in his opinion, you never looked anything short of stunning—even with dust smudged on your cheek from the shop’s prolific collection of old books, espresso splattered all across your sleeves, or ink smeared on your hands after your long days spent working and studying), so he’d sooner invest in your comfort than to preen at your expense.

…Not that he was trying to preen or anything. You just made him feel like the biggest catch this side of the Thames, for once in his life—and while he would never willingly admit it, Steven liked the idea of showing off a bit for you. His nerves and insecurities still got the best of him every now and again, but most of the time your adoring gaze and easy smiles served an invaluable salve for his fretful tendencies.

He liked to look nice for you—liked the way you’d give him that lingering once-over out of the corner of your eye like you didn’t think he’d notice it. Depending on the colors he wore, he could elicit varying intensities of a reaction; the studious side of him was fascinated with how soft shades of blue kept your gaze trained on the contrast of the collar and his neck, whereas deeper jewel tones of crimson and juniper drew your stare further up to his unkempt curls and eyes. Trim slacks and khakis caused lingering glances towards his legs and posterior, if he happened to have his back turned to you. If he took off his coat, you’d peek at the silhouettes of his arms and shoulders under the pressed cotton. If his sleeves ever happened to be rolled up, you blatantly and openly gawked at the muscles flexing in his forearms and the articulation of tendons in his hands—that flustered him more than anything else.

You weren’t shy about telling him that you found him attractive, either. Although he was still growing accustomed to your consistent sprinkling of compliments—each as sincere, as meaningful, and as thoughtful as the last—he appreciated your earnesty beyond any thanks he could express with simple words. He stood taller in your presence, didn’t stoop or hunch to make himself appear smaller; he didn’t stutter as much, and he spoke with confidence and ease even when launching into his infamous tangents and drawing skeptical glances from strangers; he even found it getting easier, over time, to flirt with you in return, learning that you grew flustered when he gave you half-lidded looks or shivered when he lowered his voice into a murmur near your ear (although he wouldn’t have noticed the subtle, subconscious changes in his behavior had Marc not remarked upon them).

He felt comfortable with you—attractive and valuable and wanted without deceit nor facetiousness—something he had never before experienced beyond his connection to Marc. To others, he was an overenthusiastic nuisance, or a negligible commodity at best, but to you he was important. You cared for him, wanted him to be happy, and never expected anything in return, save his honest companionship.

…But the boundaries for that had started to blur, hadn’t they? Ever since he and Marc had returned from Cairo, you and Steven had grown closer than ever before. With you given just short of full disclosure about his situation (although this was not for lack of faith in your reasonability, since Steven himself hadn’t been aware of all the details until relatively recently—and they would cross the bridge about telling you about their suited vigilante days when it became relevant, although he hoped it never would be), he no longer felt the urge to keep up appearances. He no longer had to fret about hiding the more cornering traits of his supposed sleeping disorder from you, since the true nature of his midnight meanderings had been discovered. He had no more secrets save those that no longer occupied his life at present, no more worries, because you saw and knew and understood most everything that encapsulated him.

That, inevitably, led to a rather blatant and ardent infatuation on his part, seeded by his initial attraction and long-standing friendship with you and germinated by your steadfastness and dedication even after their…episode—one extremely difficult to restrict, and one for which Marc had been teasing him relentlessly now that he had met you, too.

You really ought to tell her, you know, said the devil about whom he thought.

“Yeah, right,” Steven scoffed, tilting his head forward to scrutinize and pick at the layers of unruly curls parted along the side of his scalp with his fingers—they never did sit quite right, even when he made the effort to comb them while they were wet. Marc had wanted to plaster them back with gel to avoid the hassle altogether, but Steven had resolutely set his foot down—you adored their curls and Steven despised the sensation of the pomade on his scalp, so he would not stand to see Marc glue them down like he always did when he had the steering wheel. “Sure, I’d love to put myself out there to be rejected again. You know how bloody well that went the last time I had a date.”

That was my fault. Marc owned up to it, at least. But it won’t happen again.

“You don’t know that,” Steven told him, hushed and tense. “I could just…she’s said we’re mates, yeah? But she could think we’re just mates.”

The way she looks at you? Yeah, totally platonic, Marc remarked, rolling his eyes. You’re her ‘bestest friend in the whole wide world’ and she just so happens to want to climb you like a tree when you ramble about regicide in Ancient Egypt of all things.

Steven’s face prickled with heat as he glared at his host. “How would you know, huh?”

Marc tipped his head forward and raised a knowing brow. The bastard had the gall to smirk at him.

Steven scowled. He could point out how utterly insufferable his host had acted around Layla, awkward and ignorant like a teenager as far as reading her as he had been, but he wouldn’t stoop so low…for now. (As long as he didn’t continue to take the piss out of him, that is.) “Oh, Mister ‘I’ve-Been-Married-A-Grand-Total-of-Once’ is suddenly an expert on the art of interpretin’ female attraction! I’m sure you’ve just got the entire situation nailed down like a psychoanalysis, yeah?”

Give me ten minutes to let me direct the conversation and I can tell you all of her—

“No! No, thank you,” Steven blurted, dragging a hand over his eyes and nose to clasp over his mouth. If his face had grown any hotter in the handful of awkwardly silent seconds that followed that particular statement, Steven was certain that it would have been capable of spontaneous combustion. He floundered for a moment, mouth opening and shutting in search of a response, while Marc started chuckling, but he was saved by the bell, so to speak.

“Hey, darlin’!” you chirped through the doorway as it cracked open and you slipped out of the coffee shop. “I didn’t realize you were here at first, but Amy saw you in the window. You could’ve texted me, you know—I hate that you stood out here in the cold.”

“Oh, I haven’t been here long,” Steven assured you, turning to offer to take your purse. You allowed him to hold it while you shrugged on your coat and wrapped the scarf he’d recently gifted you around your neck. “Where would you like to eat tonight, love?”

“Actually, I was hoping you’d let me try my hand at something new tonight,” you started, then hesitated. “If that’s, uh, okay. I’d have to run into the store to grab some groceries, so if you’d rather wait for another night we can. I completely understand if it’s too late for that.”

And refuse your feats of culinary masterpieces? He thought bloody not. “That would be wonderful, as long as you’re not too terribly knackered to stand over the stove,” Steven said brightly. “I can help.”

Your smile was dazzling even under the unflattering whine of the fluorescent street lamp. “Thank you. I think you’ll like this one.”

“As if I’ve ever disliked anythin’ you’ve cooked for me,” he scoffed in disbelief.

“Okay, sure, but I think you’ll really like this one,” you amended, slinging your purse over your shoulder and grabbing his arm to tug him towards the bus stop. “Come on.”

The ride was filled with idle chatter about each other’s days. Steven was still adjusting to working during the day shifts after his reemployment as a tour guide at the museum, and he somewhat missed sitting with you while you closed up the coffee shop already—but it had given him the opportunity to tidy up the flat and to clean up before returning to the block to fetch you. You’d been tasked with reorganizing the used classical and poetry section, so you’d spent the better part of your day elbow-deep in dusty old books. (Steven was having a very difficult time resisting the urge to snuff the biblichor lingering on your scalp—there was nothing better than the combination of your signature perfume and books to him.) An older man had walked up on you to ask you a question and it had startled you—you’d barely stopped a whole row from toppling down on you since you’d been standing on a stepstool at the time. He’d apologized profusely, but you said that the image of you teetering on that rickety old hunk of metal was probably the funniest thing you’d pictured yourself doing in a long time.

“But you’re not hurt, right?” Steven pressed, brow furrowed.

“No, I’m good,” you answered, nudging him in the side with your elbow. “I’ve got a thick skull—you ought to know that by now, darlin’.”

The stop in the general store was, true to your word, a quick one. He recognized some of the ingredients, but he had no idea how you were going to combine them all into something undeniably delicious. By the time you both got to his flat, you were cutting up and he was laughing a bit louder than what was appropriate close to midnight.

“Here, I’ll get started,” you told him as you unloaded the sacks on the kitchen counter, “why don’t you go pick something to put on for background noise?”

“Sure thing, love,” he responded, turning to do just that. When he came back, you were in the middle of warming oil in a saucepan while dicing some vegetables. “What can I do?”

“I’d kill for some of that lemonade we made the other day if you have any left over,” you commented. “But you could help me get this chopped up. I’ll need the emulsifier. It’s just a simple soup I thought was interesting—I haven’t used sundried tomatoes before. It reminds me of a pasta sauce I’ve seen before, but this is more like a tomato soup than anything.”

“Sounds divine,” Steven told you, stooping over into the fridge to pull out the pitcher in question. He’d left enough for two more servings. “Will you want a grilled cheese?”

“No, I’m okay.” You bumped your hip into his as thanks when he set a glass within your reach, the ice clinking against the glass. “I’m kind of beat, honestly, so if I can get this down before I pass out, I’ll be lucky.”

“I washed your spare clothes if you’d like to go shower while I watch the pot,” he offered. “They’re on top of the dresser.”

“I may take you up on that offer,” you admitted. “Can you dice these tomatoes?”

It, perhaps, should have been a little worrisome how easily he fell into such a domestic routine with you. Even if Marc suspected you had feelings for him that weren’t strictly platonic, Steven wondered whether your natural exuberance was causing him to misread your behavior. But it was in the moments that you intentionally brushed against him when such contact could’ve been avoided, displaying your comfort so loudly without saying a word, that he dared to let that little flicker of hope breathe itself to life. You seemed committed to keeping some form of contact with him at all times, your hands touching his arms or sides as you orbited him like his own personal little moon. You only spoke in that low, inexplicably soothing tone.

Steven watched the pan while you retreated to the bathroom. You reemerged with damp, shiny hair and dewy, softly-scented skin, and it was even harder for him not to catch a whiff as you floated around him grabbing cutlery and bowls and napkins like you had the layout of his flat memorized. You even put the kettle on without him even having to ask, setting out a mug and a teabag for him to fix how he preferred it.

After blitzing the vegetables together and adding a bit of coconut cream to smooth it out, your dish was completed and smelled utterly divine topped with fresh basil. You both ended up settled shoulder-to-shoulder on the couch in front of the television, slurping spoonfuls and idly commenting on the film he’d chosen. It was cozy and calm and exactly what he needed after having a class of rowdy six-graders that had seemed interested in anything but what he’d had to say during their field trip for which he’d been tasked to provide a tour that morning (he should have suspected something was remiss when the teacher’s name had popped up on the itinerary and all the other guides had—quite brightly and appraisingly—suggested he take it; it was a marvel to him, really, that the school could miss the fact that she had utilized the opportunity to be paid to scroll on her phone while he was forced to wrangle the feral children supposedly under her care).

That was exactly the tale he regaled when you asked him, midway through the movie during a lull in the plot, if anything interesting had happened to him that day. You looked rightly disgruntled on his behalf, huffing that he was far too nice to tolerate that sort of negligence and that you would have set her in her place had you been there. He’d gently, if amusedly, informed you that it had somewhat worked out in the end—with no small (nor well-hidden) amount of satisfaction, he told you that his obligation to supervise them all had ended upon delivering the troop to the gift shop at the end of the tour…where Donna had been stuck on shift yet again (since so few people applied for the position due to its low wages combined with the high turnover rate as a result of her nasty behavior and poor management style…but Steven wasn’t normally one to gloat over such things; you, however, had been utterly delighted to hear it).

“At least that bitch got some of what she deserves,” you said, tipping your chin up and glaring down the end of your nose at the screen. “I hope she regrets every last negative word she said to you now that she has to pick up all the shit she dumped on you.”

“It doesn’t matter in the long run, love,” he reminded you, although his chuckle was difficult to smother. It did give him some satisfaction to see it, else he’d have been made a liar to suggest otherwise…but just a little bit. “I don’t answer to her anymore.”

“Good, or else I might’ve felt the need to cut a bitch,” you grumbled.

Steven jumped slightly as Marc’s low, huffing laugh caught him off guard. He glanced over at one of the mirrors he’d mounted on the available space of a nearby bookshelf, and his host’s moody, brooding eyes were twinkling with equal parts mirth and mischief. He didn’t say a word, as he tended to give the front a wide berth when Steven was having personal time with you, but the weight of his presence was a reassuring one. His host lifted his brows and glanced pointedly in your direction, tipping his head towards you for emphasis.

Steven cast him a dark glare. Marc had been teasing him for a week now about finally making a move in the most cliché and inane manner possible, but Steven was resolute that it was not ideal. He respected you highly and didn’t want to give you a poor experience that might smother any chances he had of winning over your good graces. Your ex had been the pushy sort, and he wanted to be anything but. It was simply unfortunate that his and Marc’s individual approaches to romance were vastly contrary.

“Let’s not add ‘murder’ to your long, impressive list of accomplishments, yeah?” Steven proposed mildly, watching you glance up at him with a smirk and glittering eyes of your own.

“Fine,” you sighed, resting your temple briefly on his shoulder. “If you insist.”

“I do,” he nodded. “Wouldn’t be very good if you wind up in prison defending somebody like me.”

“You ought to know by now that there’s not a whole lot I wouldn’t do for you, Steven,” you responded, rolling your eyes, but there was something couched in your tone that piqued his attention.

He blinked, then glanced towards the mirror again, but Marc was gone. So much for his bloody help regarding women.

“You do know that, right?” you prompted a little quieter, and when he looked over, you were gazing up at him through your lashes out of your periphery.

Steven relaxed as that familiar warm, fuzzy feeling unfurling within his chest like the blooming of a flower in the morning. “I do,” he returned softly. “And I hope you know that sentiment is mutual.”

You stared at him, then, head turning little by little until your full, beseeching gaze was fixed on him. His heart pounded raucously against his ribs as he became acutely aware of your hand slipping over to squeeze his knee gently—he was shocked you couldn’t hear it, because it was loud enough he very nearly didn’t hear your next words. “…Can I kiss you?”

He swallowed roughly, a reflexive action that caused him to jump. His hand, shaky and clammy, settled over yours, his fingers slotting alongside your own. He licked his lips, sucked in a breath that rattled in his lungs, and managed a jerky nod. “Yeah,” he croaked. “Please?”

Your free hand cupped his chin, fingertips tracing along his jawline with undeserved reverence before settling his cheek into the cradle of your palm, and he stooped slightly to save your neck as you lifted your chin to meet him halfway. He blinked, startled, as your lips—soft and smooth—chastely met the corner of his mouth. The split-second confused thought of you missing was promptly erased when you tilted your head and repeated the motion to the opposite side, lingering just a tad bit longer there.

Oh. Oh.

He clamped his eyelids shut.

The featherdown flutter of your doe-like lashes tickling the arch of his cheek as you kissed him proper, gentle and slow and tender, skyrocketed his pulse. He wondered idly, somewhere in the back of his muddled mind, if he was in any danger of having cardiac arrest at this rate. Heat flooded his face like wildfire, sweat springing up along his hairline as he reached out to touch you, too.

His trembling fingers made contact with the side of your neck, first, and to his inexplicable delight and relief he could feel your heartbeat racing alongside your throat, too. He curled his hand around your nape, thumb stroking the tender skin beneath the shell of your ear as an indescribable, high-pitched whine escaped you. He cracked an eye open to watch your expression cringe with embarrassment, but you made up for it by sliding your fingers into his curls to tug his head into a deeper angle. A gutted, broken groan bubbled out of the pit of his chest before he could stop it.

You began to litter his lips with quick, light pecks, and never before had Steven quite felt cherished. You pulled back just a hair’s breadth to catch your breath. “You have…no idea how long I’ve wanted to do this.”

“I can hazard a guess,” he mumbled, pulling you back in, “‘cause you’re in the same boat as I am.”

You let out a needy, desperate little noise that lanced down his spine. Steven Grant had never considered himself a selfish person by any stretch of the imagination, but he was quite certain at that moment that if he didn’t hear it again immediately he would die.

Oxygen became a hazy concept, but even the most ardent and devoted of adorators required it. When you broke away to suck in a lungful, Steven dared to look at you. You were dazed, eyes hazy and lips puffy, but the way you glowed in the dim lighting was like nothing he’d ever envisioned in all his studies of art. And you were staring at him as though he had hung each and every last individual star in the sky.

“I was so scared you wouldn’t feel the same,” you murmured, “but I couldn’t hold it anymore.”

“I never wanted to assume,” he added quietly. “I was fine with being mates, but I always wondered…I didn’t want to pressure you, after…I just wanted you to feel comfortable if…”

“I know,” you interrupted him mercifully, leaning back in. “I know. Thank you for being patient.”

“There were so many times I wanted to tell you,” he mumbled into your mouth, too enchanted to shut off his stream of consciousness, “but it never felt right, and I didn’t want to lose my only friend—my best friend—yet it was absolute torture not knowing—”

“I didn’t know if I could bear to make myself vulnerable to be hurt again,” you returned, shifting to kiss along his cheek, “and I had to work myself up to take the risk. You’re all I’ve got left anymore. Maybe I’m selfish to want more than what we have, but God, Steven, I want you so bad, I can hardly stand it.”

The lump in the pit of his throat nearly choked him. He buried his face in the crook of your neck and shoulder, arms coiling around you and holding you tightly against his chest. “I do, too,” he breathed. “Like I need air.”

You returned the hug with a ferocity he hadn’t felt from you before. You were shaking, too, and it soothed him to know that the nerves were mutual, as well. For being very transparent people by nature, the both of you had managed a miracle of hiding your feelings from each other for so long.

“I need you to know that I can only do it if you’re all in,” you said, muffled by the material of his shirt. “My heart can’t take it otherwise.”

“You have all of me and more, poppet,” he told you, smothering his face into your scalp. “I swear to you I’ll do better than anyone else has or could. I’ll earn it, I promise. I can be worthy of you. I’ll sooner hurt myself than ever dream of hurting you.”

[bumblebugwrites]

chapter 4: i bet on losing dogs

Pairing: Victor!Treech x fem!Reader

Summary: The time has come for the 11th Annual Hunger Games, though it seems to you that no amount of time can truly prepare you for the weight of what comes next.

Warnings: Cursing, Suggestive Themes, Mention of Injuries, Character Death, Weapons, Violence.

Word Count: 6.2k

Taglist: @nekee-lilac02, @mr-panda357

Series Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Next Chapter

You do not see Colt again before the Games begin, and though you manage a few moments alone with Bee, it is only because you begged Calpurnia for the right to braid her hair the night before.

The young girl is back in the clothes she was reaped in when you appear in the doorway of her room, gracing the wooden frame with a light knock that has her head twisting in your direction. She is afraid, that much is clear, fear leaking out of every open feature on her small face, and you take a moment to steady yourself in the way you often found yourself doing for Fawn when the weight of the world seemed too much. 

You do not say anything as you enter, only bringing your hands out from behind your back to reveal a brush and several small rubber bands meant to keep her hair in place, and she nods, giving you permission to advance further into the room. As you approach, Bee moves to stand, clearly eyeing the seat before the vanity in the corner of her room, but you only shake your head, climbing atop her mattress and positioning yourself behind her as she clings to the edge of the bed. Reaching a careful hand out, you smooth the mess of strands on her head before running the brush through the sea of chesnut locks. 

There is something soothing to the pattern of your motions, and you feel your own shoulders begin to lose some of their taut energy. Bee begins to relax as well, no longer visibly shaking as she leans her head back into your touch. 

Setting the brush down, you begin to section off the pieces, pulling them into a careful pattern on the back of her head, and suddenly, she feels so small. So much like Fawn, wolfing down the last of her toast before coming to sit before you, fidgeting with the sticky hands of a child. You want to cry, but you fight the urge, swallowing the pain in your chest in favor of focusing on the work at hand. Each fold in her hair feels like some sort of sacred spell, and you find yourself in a state near prayer, repeating the sentiments you had braided into Fawn only days ago. This child is loved. This child is loved by me. Why can’t that be enough?

As you reach the last careful pleat, twisting a final band into Bee’s hair, the fear returns, flooding your system once more. The trance of the moment is gone in an instant, and bile rises slow and angry in the back of your throat. You are opening your mouth to say something, to croak out some useless sentiment, when she whips around to face you, burying herself in your chest, small arms coming up to grip you tightly. And it is all you can do to hold her in return, pressing her closer, closer, and placing a soft kiss on the crown of her head. She doesn’t deserve this. No one deserves this. 

“Thank you,” Bee whispers, and it is muffled by the fabric of your shirt, but that does not stop you from catching the wetness in her voice. You do not reply, afraid your own voice might crack if the words on your lips bubble out. Instead, you nod, pulling her tighter against you until it is time to go. Until the Peacekeepers arrive at the door to her room, ushering the two of you apart, and even then, it is a moment before you relinquish the girl to their grasp, slipping a single already loose strand behind her ear and drying some of the tears beginning to roll down her cheeks. And you don’t know what else to say so you repeat her words from only moments before.

“Thank you.” For you allowing me to know you. Even in small part. Even in the worst days of your life. Thank you.

When the Peacekeepers come for Bee, several more follow to collect you, bringing you down to the lobby where you are met with the other mentors. Most look as though they have been up for hours, and several, including Treech, look like they haven’t slept at all. Your brow creases in concern as you cross to stand by his side. 

“You look exhausted,” you state, restraining yourself from reaching out to tidy his curls.

“Thanks. You look like shit, too,” he grumbles in reply before his head shoots up, a slow look of regret spreading over his features. “I mean, like you haven’t slept– Like there are bags under– But you look gr– fine.”

“Thanks,” you respond, though it sounds more like a question as you say it. “Did you get any food this morning? Coffee?” 

“Yeah, I had coffee. I had a cup of– like four cups of coffee,” Treech speaks, nodding at the end of each new phrase as though reassuring himself he’s finished speaking. His hands are shaking.

“Nothing to eat?” You ask, looking around to ensure no one is looking before taking one of his hands into yours and pressing it flat between your palms. You try not to think too hard about the movement. About the implications that follow. About the feeling of his fingers grazing your wrist ever so slightly.

“I– I–” He takes a deep breath, steadying himself, and you feel his hand move, snaking around to give yours a squeeze. “No.” You nod, understanding. You’d barely been able to manage the piece of toast you’d forced down your throat this morning. Still, you dip your hand into your pocket, producing a napkin from the hotel room with a small croissant wrapped neatly inside.

“I saved it in case I got hungry later, but honestly, I don’t think I could stomach it if I wanted to,” you say, extending it in his direction. And for a moment, Treech only looks at you, eyes wide and unsure, but you nod, and the spell on him seems to break as he reaches for the food and begins to eat, slowly at first, then nearly inhaling it.

Not even five minutes later, the group of Peacekeepers begins to usher you outside, this time filing the group of you into a single van, and you find yourself wedged in between Teff and Treech, the latter looking a bit better after having eaten something. To your other side, Teff appears nervous, pulling repeatedly at his collar and drumming his fingers in a smooth pattern against his knee. You fix your eyes ahead, meeting the gaze of Lux, and even her typically unshakeable composure seems to be caving slightly as she digs ardently at her nailbeds, nearly tearing at the skin. Casting your gaze down once more, you try to breathe, but each inhale feels ragged, as though there is no amount of oxygen you can take in that might be enough. The van jolts to a stop. 

When the double doors to the back swing open, you fight the urge to wince at the sunlight that pours in, nearly blinding you with its intensity. Instead, you attempt to get a good look at your surroundings, feeling your gut begin to sink at the sea of red just visible from your place so deep in the van. You recognize it easily, though, from last year’s Games. Academy Red. It is not difficult to recall the hours of footage taped within the Academy, putting all those selected for mentorship positions on display, and you wonder if this year will be the same. If they will make you a part of the show or keep the cameras confined to Flickerman out of fear of detracting too much from the action with your presence.

It is two Peacekeepers to a person as they guide you inside, and frankly, you’re surprised they don’t chain your wrists and ankles. You remember the man with the white hair and all his talk about appearances and making victory an honor. This must be your reward. But how free is a dog without a leash if there is still a gun pointed at its back, keeping it in place? 

You ignore the sick feeling in your stomach, thrusting your shoulders back and keeping your head held high; you have to be calm. For Bee. For Colt. You have to be calm for them. 

When you enter the room, which appears to be more of a lecture hall, it is set up in an odd fashion. The screens at the front mirror their positions from last year, with one for each tribute and a larger screen at the center, which would likely stream the Games, but with eight desks, the surrounding area looks sparse and pathetic. Especially given that the desks for 1 and 2 are pushed together to facilitate better communication between mentors with partners. You breathe another unsteady exhale as you are led forward, brought to stand beside a chair painted with a large 10 in between those for 7 and 11. This is really happening.

No one speaks, with the exception of the large audience of Academy students being led into the surrounding stands. From the back of the room, you recognize the particularly grating voice of Lucky Flickerman, and a single glance over your shoulders reveals that he is seated at a table, a half-drunk martini in his hand and his microphone just in front of him. The man with the white hair is there. Snow. He stands before the central screen, and after a few moments of waiting for the crowd to settle, he begins to speak.

“Dr. Gaul will be here momentarily to join us for the beginning of the Games, but for now, I would like to get a few things straight. As mentors, this is where you will remain until the end of the Games. Food and drinks will be provided three times a day and aside from use of the bathrooms, you will not leave this room until we have crowned a victor. This applies even if your tributes are dead. Now, the Games will begin following the countdown, as I am sure you are all aware, and they will also be televised in their entirety. That means if Lucky Flickerman is on screen, you are too, so look alive.” Snow continues to ramble, but you find your attention elsewhere, lingering on the two screens marked with Bee and Colt’s faces. Beside each is a number, and it doesn’t take you more than a second to register that they mark the donations received by your tributes. Your gut sinks at Bee’s measly sum of 82, and your eyes flit down to your screen, scanning your options. Not even enough for a bottle of water. 

There is a sudden noise at the back of the room as the double doors are flung open. Your head jerks in the direction of the disturbance only to be met with an odd-looking woman, each eye a different color and her hands tucked away in a set of latex gloves. It is unnerving the way she surveys you. All of you, victors, as though you are prey, and for the first time since the arena, the hair on the back of your neck raises with the distinct feeling that you are being hunted.

You swallow hard and look away, training your eyes ahead on the screen, trying not to flinch at the sounds of her footsteps echoing throughout the cavernous space. Two desks down from yours, Trawl shivers visibly. She reaches the center of the room.

“Welcome, victors; we are so pleased each of you was able to join us for this momentous occasion.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with something poisonous. Something like a threat, and you begin to feel as though you are missing some key piece of information. “Mr. Flickerman, whenever you are ready, I believe all of the tributes are in place.”

From the back of the room, Lucky Flickerman grumbles something about having to run on other people’s schedules before standing from his seat and making his way to the front. 

“Alright, people, try not to look so vaguely threatening and downtrodden; you’re going to be on television, for God’s sake.” He clears his throat, doing what appears to be a vocal warm-up of some sort before nodding to the man behind the camera. Somewhere behind you, a man’s voice counts down from three. 

“Hello and welcome to the eleventh annual Hunger Games. I’m your host, Lucretius ‘Lucky’ Flickerman, and joining me today are the eight mentors for this year’s tributes. Speaking of tributes, it looks like we are just about ready to begin, so without further ado, let’s switch over to those arena cameras.” 

Behind him, the emblem of Panem vanishes, fading into black, before a brand new image populates the screen.

“What the fuck?” You don’t mean to let it slip; you are on national television, after all, but when the darkness lifts, you really aren’t sure what else to do. The cornucopia is there. That much you recognize. And the tributes, they still stand in a wide-spread circle around it. But it is not the stadium you recall from your Games. Instead, the tributes find themselves on an island of sorts, lush with grass and surrounded by a stream that departs into smaller floods behind them, shooting off into a large wooded area. Although, upon second glance, the stream seems too deep to really qualify as anything less than a river, cutting all twenty-four children off from the safety of the treeline.

“This isn’t the arena!” Antonia whips around to face Dr. Gaul, rage evident in her features. The woman only smiles. Still, that does not stop Teff from making his own demand.

“Where are they?” 

“Well, if you must ask, since the rebel forces in the Districts thought it appropriate to bomb the old arena, we decided to go a different direction this year.”

“That’s not fair,” Beau barks, and his words almost seem like a snarl. “You should have told us– We would have trained them differently!” At the front of the room, Lucky Flickerman’s faux smile begins to dissipate. 

“Could we try not to disrupt the broadcast–” he hisses through gritted teeth.

“If you would like to leave, I’m sure your tributes would be very understanding if we notified them you’ve given up.” Dr. Gaul’s voice drips with a sickening sweetness.

“We can’t leave. You made that clear when we got here,” Treech growls, and the woman before you feigns a look of surprise.

“Oh? Did we? Well then, I suppose you will just have to adapt.”

There is a tall sign attached to the cornucopia, with a facade of LED lights, much like an old scoreboard; you recognize it from your own Games. As Lucky Flickerman clears his throat once more, it begins to count down. 10. Your eyes do a frantic search of the screen, scanning for Bee’s chestnut braid and Colt’s broad build. You only manage to find the latter. 9. You watch as he steadies himself, crouching as though preparing for a race. And really, it is a race, but you want to shake your head and scream, recalling the advice you had drilled into each of their heads in the prior days. Do not engage with the cornucopia. 8. She catches your eye finally. Bee. Her hands are curled into two neat fists by her side. You swallow hard. 7. You watch her spot Colt, several platforms away. Stay together. Please, God, stay together. 6. For a moment, you are back in the arena. The boy from 5 twitches in his place, and you want to reach out and steady him. But it is not real, and he is dead. 5. 4. Your hands are shaking. Your breath is unsteady. Treech is looking at you.

3. Something moves in the water. Something large.

2. The boy from 8 steps off his platform a split second too early. It blows. To his left, Bee brings both hands up to shield her face, sinking away in panic. Her heel nearly slips, and you feel like throwing up. 

1. The room is silent. Dead silent. On the screen, the tributes begin to run.

Bee skids backward off the platform, landing awkwardly in the grass. She plants her hands at her sides, lifting herself slightly, and you watch as her gaze veers toward the remains of the boy from 8, who was dead before he hit the ground.

“Don’t look. Don’t look,” you mutter to yourself, hand gripping the back of your seat. Any of the mentors have yet to sit down.

Five platforms away, Colt is mere feet from the cornucopia, and you narrow your eyes, attempting to spot exactly what he’s going for. On one of the rocks close to the mouth, there is a machete propped atop a bundle of rope. Smart boy, you think. If he can reach it in time, the other half of your mind taunts distantly.

Back at her platform, Bee is still struggling to stand, knees visibly shaking even through the distant footage. Several yards away, the first of the tributes have managed to make it to the river. Almost simultaneously the boy from 2 reaches the cornucopia, turning, knife in hand, out towards the approaching competition. In a flash of silver, the weapon has lodged itself in the chest of the girl from 5. A loud signal sounds throughout the room, marking her death. 

The girl from 11 takes a careful step into the water, and you wade through thick memories in an attempt to pull forward her name. Olive, your brain supplies. You wait, breathing seemingly suspended as she plunges deeper into the expanse, and feel beside you as Teff tenses. She is older, you note. Probably about eighteen. Her last year in the reaping. She nods to the boy on the bank, her District partner, and he takes a hesitant step forward. Then, so fast you think you may have imagined it, she disappears, yanked below the surface. Teff steps forward, hand reaching subtly from his side as though he intends to save her. There is thrashing at the surface, and over by the cornucopia, another tribute falls, the boy from 3. Olive’s head reappears, and she is screaming, a swirling mass of scales encircling her throat. Arms dart out, grasping and pulling at whatever is urging her downward. She disappears again, and this time, she does not resurface. The alarm rings out, and Teff stumbles back, sinking into his chair. You want to go to him. You cannot. Colt has reached the cornucopia.

He is off as soon as the rope and machete are in his grasp, and you note that the girl from 1 has armed herself with a crossbow. Not good. She loads it with ease, and a single bolt whistles through the air, piercing the stomach of the boy from 12. His District partner, who had been making her way to his platform, likely in an attempt to coax the poor frozen boy to flee with her, lets out a vicious scream, and you shudder at the pain, raw and palpable in her voice. She eyes something on the ground before picking it up and beginning to advance on the responsible party. A sword, you quickly note. Her eyes are alight with rage. With the promise of vengeance and, she looks almost like an angel of death, setting out to reap the soul of her fellow tribute. The girl from 1 stumbles back. In shock or fear, you are uncertain, but you can see the pace of her breathing increase as she fumbles to load another bolt. It clicks into place and she raises the crossbow, sending it whizzing straight past her target. Celica, you note from the screen plastered with the District 12 girl’s face. She continues her advance, slowing now as she grows closer. The girl from 1 loads another bolt, and this one hits, piercing through Celica’s shoulder. She growls, and it is tinged with a muffled sound of pain, but does not stop. Another shot sounds off, this one entering her stomach, and her advance, though slow, continues until she is only inches away from the girl from 1, her head dipped to load the weapon a final time. She never does. The sword enters her stomach and she looks up, something mirroring surprise painting her features. Both girls sink to their knees together, and it is odd the way they collapse forward, almost appearing as though they are intertwined in an embrace. The alarm sounds twice, a piercing buzz amid the chaos, and Lux lets out a sob.

Bee is on her feet now, head whipping around in wide arcs. She is looking for Colt. He moves in her direction with a sort of urgency in his step, ducking his head and just missing the blade of another knife sent spiraling across the arena by the boy from 2. Instead, it plants itself in the neck of the boy from 4, who collapses to the ground, blood leaking from his open mouth. Trawl lets out a string of words you don’t quite understand before turning away for just a moment, eyes brimming with grief. You are so distracted you almost forget to note the girl from 2, slowly approaching Bee from her right side. The small girl does not seem to see, still slowly approaching the river, eyeing the boy from 11 as though assessing the threat. Where the fuck is Colt? You note Mags, Trawl’s girl from 4 nearby, eyes lingering on the still coughing form of her District partner from the water’s edge. She notes the option to escape but forgoes it, turning back towards the boy to kneel down beside him. 

“What is she doing?” Trawl questions, face white with fear.

“She’s making sure he doesn’t die alone,” Treech responds, voice flat with detachment, but his eyes tell a different story.

The girl from two is almost on Bee now, grasp firm around the bar mace in her hand, and like a shining light in the dark, there he is. Colt. Leaping in front of Bee and swinging his machete around in a wide, arcing motion. The message is clear. Get back. Her eyes narrow, but she seems to think better of attacking the pair, turning her gaze back toward her District partner. The alarm sounds. The boy from 4 is dead, and Mags reaches forward to brush his eyes closed before turning to survey her surroundings. You watch her eyes land on the boy from 11, and you feel a thick bile begin to creep up your throat, unsure if you can watch her kill him. At only 12, he is the youngest tribute in this year’s Games. 

Across the arena, you watch as both the tributes from 7 and 6 assess the river, clearly considering the safest means of crossing. Beside you, Treech is completely still. You watch as the boy from 6 begins to back away, preparing to take the leap, before sprinting forward and pushing off the ground. He clears it, though not by much, and you fight the urge to gasp at his actions. The girl from 7 approaches next, soaring across, followed by the girl from 6. 

A field away, Colt seems to realize that Bee will never make the jump alone. He dips, whispering something to her before staying bent over to allow her to climb onto his back. No. They’ll be too heavy. There’s no way they’ll make it. 

He backs up. Mags is a foot away from the boy from 11, and he whips around to face her, eyes wide with fear. She lifts up a hand. To push him– No. He flinches away, but she does not continue her approach, only offering her open palm. He eyes it suspiciously, then looks over her shoulder, seeming to note the four approaching tributes from 1, 2, and 3. He takes her hand.

Mags pulls the pair back and, almost in unison with Bee and Colt, they start toward the river. Bee’s eyes are screwed shut, hands digging into the fabric of Colt’s shirt. Similarly, the boy from 11 looks petrified. All four reach the edge of the grass and jump, and when they collapse on the other side, it is nearly in a pile, but they all make it over. You breathe a sigh of relief, attention shifting back to the boy from 7 who takes the leap and seems to clear the bound until his heel slips, footing on the bank failing, and he tumbles into the water. His District partner darts forward, instinct probably, but it is no use; the river seems to swallow him whole, and unlike Olive, he sinks like a stone.

Treech’s face remains cold and unfeeling, but his fist clenches and unclenches by his side, and in a single, barely noticeable movement, he flexes his jaw, huffing out a long breath.

You are not sure when, but the male tributes from 5 and 9 have died, their screens overlayed with the Capitol’s domineering emblem. The girl from 8 is gone too, putting the death toll at twelve, only seven minutes in. Half the tributes gone in one day. You sigh, sinking into the chair beside you, watching as Colt and Bee make for the woods. Still alive. Not safe, but still alive.

After several hours of seeming inactivity, the Academy students begin to lose interest. Several stand to leave following the bloodbath, and most follow in the remaining hours of the day. This year’s pack quickly set up camp in the cornucopia, likely gleaning security from the surrounding waters while the remaining tributes spread themselves in the woods, most using the remaining daylight to search for food and a safe water source.

You give Teff a quick squeeze on his shoulder as you pass behind him to pour your third cup of coffee, and he pauses his conversation with Trawl momentarily to give you a solemn nod. The District 4 mentor does the same, face lacking its typical mischievous smirk. They both look exhausted already, grief topping most shoulders like a wet blanket, heavy and inescapable. 

You snag a mug for Treech as well before reconsidering, having remembered his shaking hands from the morning and reaching for a water bottle instead. 

On your way back to your seat, you nearly collide head-on with Lux, who scoffs, sending a pointed glare in your direction, and you almost ignore it. Almost.

“I’m sorry. About your tribute.” She has only just whisked past you when you speak, and for a moment, she freezes in place before spinning slowly to face you, eyes still cold.

“I don’t need your apology.”

“I’m not trying to–” you start, but she cuts you off. 

“Don’t.” And this time, her eyes soften as though she is trying to say something else. You aren’t sure you understand, and suddenly, Lux steps forward, painting her face with the meanest look she can muster before whispering in your ear.

“If you apologize for every lost tribute, you are going to spend the rest of your life swimming in guilt. Don’t start now. Not when we both know this isn’t your fault.”

When she steps back, she gives you a shove. Not hard, but enough to jostle the coffee in your cup and it spills over slightly, dripping onto your sleeve. When she walks away, several sets of eyes are trained on you, but you fix your gaze ahead, feigning frustration and moving to approach Treech.

“What happened there?” He asks, lifting a single brow in question.

“Nothing. Just Lux being Lux,” you say, taking your seat beside him. And really, it’s not untrue, but no one needs to know the rest.

“If you say so,” he mumbles, just as the camera view switches to his remaining tribute, Hazel, who has secured herself a spot tucked away in the trees for the night.

“Brought you a water,” you say, extending the bottle in his direction. He reaches to take it from you absently, accidentally brushing his fingers against your own. His eyes flit in your direction at the contact, but he doesn’t say a word, only uncapping it to take a sip.

You watch him closely, the bags beneath his eyes far worse than two nights ago. Far worse than when you had– Not the time. You shake the thought from your head, and for a while, it does not plague you. But it is still there, lurking beneath the surface. Had he had another nightmare? Trouble sleeping in his room all alone? Had he slept at all? It was a miracle you had made it through the night without anyone beside you. You recall the couch in your tributes’ suite. The silence of the room. No muffled snores from Treech or movement from Fawn. No distant babble from Lennox’s bed, who could hold a whole conversation in his sleep if pressed. Just the ticking of the clock hung on the sterile hotel wall. Overpowering. Constant. A reminder that time will pass and you will remain here in this cycle. 

From his place beside the screen, Lucky Flickerman interrupts your thoughts.

“So, how about that river?”

The next day passes without much activity, and you find yourself beginning to doze off on the third day when the screen suddenly switches to Colt and Bee, monitoring an avid discussion between the pair.

“I don’t like it,” Colt states, crossing his arms and pinning her with a hard look.

“Just for a little while. Come on, we’ll cover more ground that way,” Bee pleads. “We have to find water.” Colt only continues to stare her down, uncertainty plastered all over his face, and you find yourself sitting up, mentally pleading with him to say no.

“Come on, you idiot, it’s not worth it,” you mutter, causing Teff to look over in your direction.

“Fine. But we meet back here in one hour. And if anything happens, you start screaming.” No.

“That seems inadvisable,” Bee snarks and you almost forget your frustration, so caught off guard by her wit.

“I don’t care. So help me, God, if you die out there, I will bring you back so I can kill you again myself.” Colt threatens, but it is all empty, affection seeping into the edges of his tone. Your heart feels as though it is folding in on itself, and you recall Bee’s words from the night of her interview. We both know he has a better chance and when I’m gone, you can’t just leave him to die. Please, promise me. When. The word rings out in your head, pounding against the inside of your skull. When.

The two part from one another with nothing more than a shared nod, and you find yourself standing from your seat, wringing your hands. 

Twenty minutes pass, and your heart rate is through the roof. The camera sticks with Bee until it doesn’t. Until it is just behind the girl from 9, peeking out over the shrubs. Watching your tribute. Something in her hand glints. A knife.

“Fuck–” You feel the gazes of the other mentors hot on your neck, but you do not care. All you care about is the girl on the screen, eyes fixed on the bush beside her, inspecting its berries. The girl from 9 begins to stand, having inched close enough to safely lunge for Bee. And then she does. And all you want to do is look away, but you can’t, eyes glued to the screen and wide with fear. The young girl begins to scream, thrashing in her attacker’s grip. Your eyes brim with tears, hot and angry. You do not move, completely powerless.

Suddenly, seemingly from nowhere, a trident thrusts itself through the girl from 9’s torso. She lets out a yelp before sinking down on top of Bee, unmoving. Distantly, you hear the alarm sound, but it is not over yet. Colt carries a machete, and as far as you know, none of the tributes had left the cornucopia with a trident, which means– The girl from 2 steps into frame, fixing Bee with the same look she had only two days ago, and you want to cringe away from the scene. With a single move, she kicks the body from on top of the young girl, leaving her to scoot away, hands pressing into the dirt. Behind her, you note the presence of her District partner, several throwing knives tucked away in his belt. Still, he stands cool and unmoving, simply observing the scene before him. The girl points her trident at Bee, who kicks out at her feet, attempting to sabotage her balance. It does not work, and she continues her slow advance until Bee is pinned back to a tree. She raises the weapon, and there is a sharp intake of breath from behind her. The alarm sounds. Her District partner hits the ground with a thud, revealing a visibly displeased Colt.

“What did I tell you about dying?” Relief floods your lungs in one swift motion, and you want to sink to your knees and give thanks to whatever higher power has just allowed Colt to find Bee, but the moment is shortlived as the girl from 2 darts forward, thrusting her trident in Colt’s direction. He catches it before the blow can land, his machete lodging itself between two of the prongs, but she pulls back, swinging again with a speed he can’t match, this time piercing through the muscle in his shoulder.

“No!” And you aren’t sure if it’s you screaming or Bee, but suddenly, she’s on her feet, launching herself onto the other girl’s back and wrapping both arms around her neck. The girl from 2 stumbles before steeling her gaze and slamming herself back into a tree, causing Bee to cry out in pain and release her hold. She hits the ground with a thud only to shrink as the larger girl pivots, fixing her with a glare.

“Bee!” Colt calls out, moving in her direction, and it is almost as though she is the only other person in the world. You think of Colt’s sister, only a year older than Bee, and you recognize that look. It is the same one you give Fawn. It is deadly. 

Bee sees it coming first, the way the girl from 2 whips around, drawing the trident back. Her hands surge forward as though it can be prevented. As though her weak grip might be enough. It is not. And she is looking at Colt, and he is looking at her, saying something indecipherable before his shaking hand reaches down to graze the three prongs impaled in his stomach. 

The girl from two moves to pull it out. To leave him bleeding and twitching on the forest floor, but he grips the handle, keeping it steady, before with one final ragged breath, bringing his machete in a wide, arcing slash across her face. 

She screams, gripping the wound that cuts straight through her eye, and you note that it must be surface level, though you would not be shocked if the attack left her blinded. Still, no amount of screaming can drown out what happens next.

Colt hits his knees, and the whole forest seems to shake with the impact. You want nothing more than to reach out and touch him. To wipe the sweat from his brow and promise him it will be alright. You think of the sister he will never see again. Of the children, she will have someday who will hear his name spoken in tales, a whispered fable at the dinner table. You remember his father, who had worked so closely alongside yours; Colt’s face the echo and legacy of all his achievements. Of days spent in the slaughterhouse when he was too small to pull his own weight, and you would slip some extra meat into his scale so that he might meet 

the required amount. Of the story, he never finished telling you on your final day. Something about Old Man Higgins from down the street being so blind he wore his shoes to work on the wrong feet. You long to hear it again. To hear the sound of his laugh, lighter then, fill the space between you. You would listen to the ending a thousand times if it meant you could hear it just once.

No one holds his hand as the life ebbs from his body, but he does not look afraid. He keeps his eyes on Bee, the ghost of a smile on his lips as he shudders one final breath. The alarm sounds. The girl from 2 has pulled the machete from Colt’s limp hand, though with her vision gone, she stumbles forward almost aimlessly, swiping in all directions. Bee lets out a muffled sob, and the girl’s head whips in her direction. You are going to lose them both at once. All that to lose both of them on the same day. Bee doesn’t move, choking on her own tears, her eyes fixed on Colt’s unmoving form, and it is like watching your worst nightmare play out in slow motion. Bee lets out a cry; the girl stumbles forward. Bee takes a ragged breath; the girl lifts the machete. Bee shifts, eyes glancing upwards, fixed on her demise– A hand reaches out from the shrubs to her left, pulling her in, and in an instant, she is gone.

[corrodedcoughin]

Eddie has a hard time making friends | 2.7k | very self-indulgent corroded coffin centric drabble | not beta-read so i can only apologise, also i'm off sick so if this is incoherent i apologise x2

Eddie Munson lived his life telling himself that no matter what, he didn’t need anyone. That he was better off without friendships and relationships, that in reality, he could do whatever he wanted and please himself. Fuck off at the drop of a hat if he so desired! He didn’t need to factor anyone into his life and that’s the way he liked it. 

The truth is Eddie Munson wanted to be loved. That’s what it boiled down to. The problem was he wouldn’t and couldn’t let himself. That’s what he believed anyway. There was a pattern to Eddie’s relationships, be it romantic or otherwise. And that pattern was that Eddie fucked them up. He was too much. He knew it in himself, he could feel it deep in his bones. Every so often though, he’d forget and would open himself up to somebody new. Always guarded, he’d talk and play his part, getting to know this new person, entertaining them and making sure they had a good time. That’s what his role was and he was good at it. To a degree. Eventually he let a little too much of the real him out and that’s when the other person would see him. They’d see him and the uninterested look in their eyes would appear and the pain of the realisation would come crashing over Eddie like ice water.  The person would have enough and be on their way again, leaving Eddie alone but ultimately for the best. 

Sometimes though, sometimes Eddie let the person in. He’d take a few bricks out of his mile high wall and let the person peek inside. See the real Eddie, with his excitement and happiness but his sadness too, his neediness, the very weight of him and his pain. This never ended well. The problem is, Eddie got attached. He got attached too easily and then he’d make himself vulnerable. Then, the spark of a new friendship would fizzle out. Not for Eddie, never for Eddie, but for the other person, or that’s how it felt anyway. The conversations would get further apart, the excitement to share started to feel one sided. He’d get so nervous about starting a conversation, unsure what to say to how to say. Unclear if the other person even wanted to hear from him, instead sitting in silence and yearning to reach out. The fizzy feeling in his chest would still be there but it would be tinged with this heartache and Eddie would second guess himself, then the whole relationship, and he’d be pulling back so fast he could almost feel the g force of it. He’d push the new friend away after convincing himself that it was all out of pity. That they saw how much time and attention he took from them, that ultimately he wasn’t worth the effort and he’d be left to lick his own wounds as another friendship failed. The issue was that Eddie had maybe too much affection. And when he let that out? Even just a little bit? Reining it back in was impossible. A tidal force of emotion welled up for so long and desperate to be let out, it couldn’t be held back. And so after every time he mistakenly let himself show his true colours, he was left to mop up the deluge. Friendship swept away and another wreck left in his wake. A fresh ache to be added to the collection. 

 —------

He tells himself he is happy on his own, better off that way because the alternative is worse. He doesn’t need a reminder of just how unbearable he is, how unwanted his true self is. Eddie Munson, acquaintance to many, friend to none. Safe. He knows his part and he sticks to it.

Or that’s how he plans to be anyway. That is how he thinks his life will go. But then he gets tricked. 

He gets tricked into caring about three lost losers that wander into his orbit. 

It’s the lunch of the first day of his second senior year and he has no intentions of making friends. Knows he’ll be better off getting through the year on his own. But then it happens. He doesn’t mean for it to happen. But happen it does. There’s a new kid that clearly has no idea where hes going and is giving a valiant attempt at trying to be nonchalant as he cranes his head around looking for a free table. Eddie sits on his own at the table he has marked out for hismelf that nobody else comes near, likelihood that his reputation proceeds him. So he kicks a chair out and tells the guy to sit. And the guy? Looks at Eddie like he’s handed him the keys to heaven, or hell going by the boy’s judas priest shirt, nice.

Eddie is about to leave, gearing himself up for a friendly nod before running to solitude. The new guy isn’t so keen on that though. 

‘Thanks man, somehow nobody ever mentions how shit the time between classes can be when you transfer. Only ever the shittiness of new teachers’ the guy says, offering a smile so warm that Eddie returns it without thinking. ‘I’m Jeff by the way’ 

Lunch passess without consequence, he gets Jeff’s backstory. Listens to how his day has been so far and what he’s got for the rest of his classes. They part amicably enough and Eddie thinks nothing more of it, glad to have helped with first day nerves but mentally starts planning on taking his lunch elsewhere tomorrow, let Jeff get acquainted with the rest of the school and not feel obligated to the first person that was nice to him. 

Only that isn’t how it goes. Jeff finds him in the food line and Eddie, and his Wayne instilled mantra of ‘Munsons have manners’, smiles and engages in the best, albeit stilted, small talk he can muster while simultaneously seeking his escape route. Only he gets involved. He gets pulled into a conversation about guitars and the best bass riffs and honest to god symbolism in lyrics. He gets tricked! Jeff tricked him! And now he’s sitting at a table with this new guy and enjoying himself and he can’t help himself. Tomorrow. Tomorrow he’ll pull away and slink out the back door like he knows best and everything will be okay. 

Tomorrow turns into the next day, turns into next week and soon enough it’s two weeks and Eddie is looking forward to lunch so he can see Jeff, conversation gets easy, somehow enjoyable, and he hates himself for it but his heart is so happy he can’t help it. He’s heading to ‘their table’ (when did he start calling it that? Better quit while he’s even marginally ahead) and now there’s three people there, causing an internal panic.

Eddie must have got the wrong table? But no, sure enough Jeff is waving him down as a fluffy haired boy and his friend are flinging their hands around in a heated debate. Over what? Eddie guesses he’ll never find out because he is absolutely not sitting with them. Nope. No way. He is a loner and that’s how he’s going to stay. He’s about to turn on his heel, lunch tray in hand, when Jeff is by his side and pulling him over.

‘Get held up man? No worries, saved you a seat. I invited Gareth and Ian too, met them last week and thought it would be fun.’ Jeff doesn’t give him a chance to answer before he’s pushing him into a chair and getting back involved with the other two. Now Eddie is a loner but that doesn’t mean he isn’t keeping tabs on people. He knows the name of these two but other than that? Not much to tell. 

‘And I’M saying you are an IDIOT if you think Gimli couldn’t bare knuckle brawl with a shithead like smeagol and win’ Ian is passionate with it but he’s fighting a losing battle by the looks of things.

‘Oh! I’M the idiot? ME? DUDE! Last week you tried telling me that Tom Bombadil could win against Gandalf. GANDALF! THE GREATEST WIZARD OF ALL TIME? Fuck off man, thought you were smarter than that.’ Shaking his head, Gareth throws Eddie a look of ‘can you believe this shit?’ 

And before he can stop himself Eddie is interjecting, ‘All the power to Gimli but Gandalf respects gollum for a reason’ which gets him a slap on the back form Jeff as Ian and Gareth go at it again. He knows he made a mistake in this but he couldn’t help himself, he’ll pull back soon. He will. 

Only he doesn’t. He keeps coming back, he keeps talking and laughing and learning more and more about these guys and he cares. He cares so much he feels like his heart might burst with it. He actively looks forward to spending time with the three of them. They spend time together outside of school! Wayne has even made comments about it being nice to see him looking happy, brightening up like the sun when Eddie slips up and mentions plans with the three guys.

That doesn’t stop the pervasive and creeping feeling from reminding Eddie of who he really is, how things go for him. He tortures himself with it, in truth. He tells himself that he knows the pull back is coming so to stop the painful waiting game he starts planning the detachment. Tries to keep it scientific, emotionless. It isn’t easy. It’s the exact opposite of what he wants to do. He wants to spend as much time as possible with these people, talk shit with them, make them laugh, get to really know them, maybe even let them really know him. But still, there is the insipid little voice in the back of his head, telling him what he believes to be true, that soon enough they will have had enough of Eddie. Soon enough they’ll look at him and see the burden that he is. 

It’s a small thing that sets him off, and entirely his own doing. He starts comparing the relationships within the group. Analysing down to the nth degree to try and prove the worst to himself. And he does, of course he does when he’s torturing himself with it. The way he’s now convinced himself to see the group as a strong three. Ian and Gareth already were friends, already have a long history together, nothing is shaking them up. Jeff and Gareth? They can riff off of so many shared experiences after finding out their families are from the same place. Ian and Jeff are like peas in a pod when it comes to senses of humour, can’t help but make each other laugh, truly there for each other. The three of them have such interwoven bonds that means Eddie is left out in the cold. He can offer them nothing so what’s the point of sticking around?

He doesn’t do it slow, knows that ‘all or nothing’ is the best approach so he stops showing up at lunch. Doesn’t turn up to Gareth’s grandma’s house to watch the copy of ‘The Night of the Living Dead’ Jeff snagged from his older brother. Tries not to think about how excited he was for that one. He stops answering the phone and makes sure Wayne tells anyone looking for Eddie that he isn’t in while also not telling Wayne what was going on. He wishes he could say he found the whole process easy but that would be a lie. He doesn’t let himself ruminate on it though. Distracts himself with his guitar, his books, music. The things that have kept him going. It’s lonely, he can acknowledge that but that feeling will fade, he’ll get used to it again. It’ll be fine, in time. 

Eddie knows who he is, how he is and so he settles himself on the couch with the tv and a rerun of Magnum Pi, he’s sad but that doesn’t mean he can’t admire a beautiful man, okay? Sometimes ogling a hairy chest is the best medicine. That and it’s something he and Wayne like to watch together and point out the plot inconsistencies. Thankfully Wayne is home so Eddie doesn’t feel entirely isolated. Wayne’s tried bringing up the friend thing a few times this week but Eddie hasn’t been able to talk about it, just casts his eyes down and changes the subject. He doesn’t need Wayne hearing just how pathetic his nephew is. This is just always how these things go. Everyone else seems to navigate friendships so easily but that ability was clearly left out of Eddie’s skill set. 

He really is trying his best not to think about it but it’s so hard when the physical sensations in chest wont leave him alone. Its a constant churning of ‘Not good enough. Too much. Nobody’s priority. Never right’ that feels like a persistent and solid pain where his heart should be. And this pain is exactly what distracts him from the noise of a knock on the door, from Wayne going to the door, from Wayne opening the door and letting somebody in. Letting three somebodys in that are now standing in front of Eddie who is presenting as a very pathetic curled up mass of hair and flannel.

‘People here to see you, son’ Wayne calls from the door. Completely un-needed because yes Eddie can see them thank you very much Wayne. And they can see him and Why did he let them in??

Eddie slowly brings himself to sitting up on the couch from his position of ‘sad-lounging’. He doesn’t look up, can’t meet anyone’s eyes. Opens his mouth to speak while pushing a hand through his hair to buy himself some time. TO figure out the easiest way out of this. Why are they here?

‘Get the fuck up man, we only have this movie for one night before Jeff has to give it back. Don’t be a dick’ Gareth says rather than waiting for Eddie to begin, even starts pulling him up to his feet before Eddie can stop him. 

‘Guys, no. It’s fine. You’ll have a better time just the three of you. I promise’ Eddie starts his explanation, hoping to get it out so they can leave. 

Jeff won’t hear it though, ‘Fuck off Eddie, you know these two will just end up arguing ad I’m going to need someone to give me running commentary on the actual movie so I don’t get caught up in their shit’ He starts head out the door, Gareth tugging Eddie along and Ian at his back.

‘Thanks for letting us in Mr Munson, is it okay if Eddie stays with us tonight?’ Ian, actual shithead but always a charmer asks as he walks backwards out the trailer, following the troupe. 

‘Fine with me, just don’t feed him after midnight.’ Wayne replies and Eddie can hear the smile in his voice. Can’t help himself but shout ‘WAYNE!’ to the amusement of the guys. 

He gets settled in Gareth’s Grandma’s car? Gareth got his Grandma to drive them here?? And doesn’t let himself think until they arrive at the house. They get settled in the basement, all of them sitting closer than necessary but seemingly comfortable, Ian on the floor, tilting into Jeff’s legs, Jeff next to Eddie on the couch and Gareth sitting on the armrest. 

Eddie’s mind wont rest though, feels fundamentally wrong. Inexplicably bad and needing to fix thing. So he starts, quietly and in the dark as the movie starts ‘I’m really sorry guys, I know I’m hard work and not exactly eas-’ He doesn’t get to finish before Jeff is shushing him ‘Eddie shut the fuck up. Let us be your friends, yeah? But seriously, shut up. Movie time.’ 

Obviously he wants to keep going, apologise again, try to explain himself, opens his mouth to. But then he feels Gareth’s hand on his head, a gentle smack and a hushed ‘Dude, stop’ and Ian reaches over to pet his leg before stealing the popcorn out of Jeff’s lap to a shout of protest. 

Eddie tries to settle down, tries to just let it slide. But the thing is his skin feels tight and like somebody replaced his blood with something fizzy. His tummy is squeezing painfully and his trying his best to contain a laugh that’s begging to be let out. Maybe, just maybe, he’s found his people.

[gargusscp]

Sandy

Conceptual exploration drabble based on @zal-cryptid's upcoming Misfits in Toyland comic. How far can we extend the ideas of toys and play? Let's find out.

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What’s in a grain of sand?

History, for one.  What once stood as a great solid mass worn from itself by the attritions of wind or water over ungodly ages, broken into millions and billions and trillions of component parts.  To most who walk these shifting tracts, there is no evidence once here stood an outcrop, a plateau, a cliff; merely now a different texture to the ground beneath their feet, beneath consideration unless a grain sticks somewhere unwanted.  The studied mind, however, one familiar with erosive sciences and larger distributive patterns, they might discern the rough nature of what once was from a grain.  Not on its lonesome, not divorced from its context, definitely never a fully accurate picture, but a near-microscopic grain of sand still betrays its origin to some degree.  Shape, texture, hardness, size, solvency, all these properties in comparison against its neighbors.  Such a tale to be told, the shadow of a mountain hidden in part within something measuring less than a millimeter.

And with a history, why not a mind?  No such thing as zero to God, as the man said, and in total accumulation even a pinch of sand between fingers amounts to an awful lot of near-but-not-quite zeroes.  Interrogate one grain properly, and so many pieces of the story appear.  Do the same with the next, and the next, and the next, there manifest more hints, further clues.  Now gather a group in one palm, consider their collective quality, walk a dozen paces down the beach, take another scoop, compare them.  And then another, and another, and another.  Slowly the picture grows, definition sharpening, details clarifying, fogged vision swimming less violently with each focal adjustment.

Now, a similar exercise with the typical mind’s home in a brain.  Poke at one neuron, followed by its neighbor, and carry on in the established pattern.  A few memories here, behavior patterns there, governing rules for a particular internal system down that way.  Scrape some gray matter away, presume some futuristic means of examining its contents and function without inflicting damage by said removal, and it is very much a kind with the grain of sand.  Molded and reshaped by years of electrical impulses and chemical uptakes and releases, communicating with its fellows in a plasticine dance of formation and adaptation.  Carbon mastered into a deliberate shape, made wet and conductive and warm, housing joys and rages and despairs untold.

Why not silica as carbon? Why not a grain of sand as a neuron?  Why not a beach as a mind?  It is, after all, your best guess for what you are.

You cannot rightly say you think about these matters very often.  All told, you don’t think much at all.  Most hours, you simply are, a distributed mass of silicate uncountable, unfeeling, unthinking, unaware.  Or at least, unaware in the moment.  When consciousness does come, you find the experiences of the sand somewhat accessible in memory, recollections of a late night’s chilled gale, or a particularly forceful crashing wave, the patter of bird’s talons and occasionally something like stalking hooves.  To some extent, you must exist when you cannot think, experiencing the world in a strange dreamless sleep, logging experience in a manner more actively retrievable than garbled dreaming interpretation of outside stimuli in more normative REM cycles.

Either way, these are not the thoughts of a mind with nothing but time on its side.  You process ideas and inquisitive lines quite quickly, thank goodness, but active thought and awareness only come in fits and starts.  Sometimes a scant few minutes, on average an hour or so. Even with the seconds so precious, however, it is always helpful to start by organizing and relitigating this particular track.  In an existence alien as this, time spent considering the possibilities in a single grain and the oddity of your life grounds you in a most comforting way.  Even if you are ground, after a fashion.  Grounds need their grounding in self-awareness too, you know.

It is good to indulge whatever thoughts come along.  You suspect Descartes might disagree with your supposition that thought does not necessarily imply existence, but old Descartes never had to work out his philosophy for only a few irregularly scattered moments while also being a beach, now did he?  Object example there: random bout of pettiness against a centuries-dead thinker.  Feels nice to let those thoughts flow, like sand kicked about by the breeze or lapped by the waves.  Once, long ago, you tried forcing your thoughts down particular avenues, clinging to questions like, “What the fuck is happening?” or “What am I?  Who am I?  Where am I,” loops of, “Oh my God, no, oh my God, no, oh my God, no, oh my God, no!”  Painfully stiff and limiting, those.  A touch of grounding exercises for a moment or so, and then onto free forms.  So much better.

The sun seems nice to you this day.  Somewhat wan, as if hidden behind a thin cloud layer, yet sufficiently penetrative to warm the atmosphere much as it can in these frigid environs.  The waves bite hard as ever, alas.  Had you the mobility and inclination, you’d not risk even their shallows.  On some distant stretch of shore, you can sense the winds blow harder than one might find tolerable.  Here, at the locus point, they are relatively still.

Now, who’s out today?  Who stirs your sands?

In their usual spot, the trod of two have settled to pile the rough start to a sandcastle.  Perhaps a crude sculpture, or mayhaps a humble mound.   Their constructive efforts vary so from day to day - at this instant, you can feel a larger set of fingers scooping at your surface with greater vigor than the smaller, nimbler pair, but early goings rarely indicate their final intentions.  At the least, their activities seemingly focus on collection rather than digging, so there is little chance either will bury their fellow today.

There is digging some feet further away, however, the familiar scrape of uncoordinated hands pawing away a shallow hole.  If previous experiences hold, soon a small weight will be deposited within, the hands’ owner will sit upon the sand, adjust the weight some, and then remain still for some hours. These you might lose in the stillness, consistent unmoving presences being difficult to focus upon, though you expect some small chance footsteps will wander from the first site to this, followed by a sprinkling of grains atop and around the weight, and then uncoordinated scuffing before the approaching feet retreat with a quicker step.  Such happenings are not uncommon.

Down by the water’s edge, where awareness of the sands that are you blurs against the sands that are not, a soft, broad nub draws aimless patterns.  Grains of yourself stick to this far readier than the others, regardless whether they be damp or dry.  If the figure responsible for these whorls and swoops so quickly erased by the tides finds such accumulations irksome, the rhythmic kicking of their feet and slapping of their opposite palm belies no bother.  You already anticipate the pad of larger, softer feet rushing in to drag this figure up to less wave-besotted heights. For now, the hands of the rescuer merely content themselves at your backshore, seemingly preoccupied with the shuffle and count of... pebbles? Yes, that seems right.

One typical visitor, the tiny feet with a dragging ringlet about them, is not here today.  While you only truly detect them when they stand far from the others and kick about in something like a brief, private dance, you feel some disappointment at their absence.  Thankfully, it passes quickly, as it always must and does.  The others provide so much stimulation on their own.

So the seconds and minutes and hours pass.  A longer visit, then, perhaps the gathering making a whole day on your shores. Indeed you do lose feeling on the unsteady one and their weight until their brief business with the larger builder, and indeed the body in the surf is dragged away only to totter back and resume their doodling before the seafoam several times over.  As happens about half the time, the smaller hands’ instincts win over the larger, and you feel the contours of a castle rise above your surface, holes poked for windows and something you can only presume is a stick serving as flag jammed in the apex.  These expected repetitions on established patterns are just so delightful as the rare breaks.

The feet which plod to rescue the doodler eventually drag them only a little ways from the waves, to a wet but not actively drenched height, and begin tracings in their own hand, purposeful strokes diagramming something too complicated to understand through the lessened yet still present haze.  The weight’s companion drags it a little closer, and spends some minutes flecking individual grains which linger from the earlier assault.  The castle is not scattered to the wind with a sudden, forceful kick, but remains standing as hands mismatched in size rest upon your surface, shifting and occasionally squeezing in a manner indicative they now hold one another.  At one point, you swear there is the impression of a dainty step at the furthest extreme you can sense, before the presence is gone, leaving only the lightest footprint.

You do wonder from time to time about the prints these visitors leave in their wake.  Difficult to judge though scale and weight remain in this amorphous existence, rough estimation of such rules out their identity as adults.  They do not sink and disperse near so large a surface area as even the lightest full-grown frame.  Children, then, only they seem too light and small for even this hypothesis.  Birds, crabs, seaside mammals, insects, all ruled out, for they march and hop and scuttle across your expanse when your mind goes away, leaving all manner of traces to observe and contemplate on waking, and (excepting the scribblings) the actions of your visitors are too purposeful for wildlife besides.  Quite perplexing.

Especially in view of the one answer you’ve entertained as reasonably possible, best backed by evidence. Every now and again, one or the other will flop bodily upon the sands, splay their limbs wide, and make something like a sand angel.  On these occasions, you sense them fully as possible - the immersion for burial in the sand results in too too much wriggling for clarity - and by all instances compared and categorized, you can only describe the basic shape in combination with the shallow treads and small profiles as one belonging to a doll.  A wide variety of dolls, true, occasionally something larger and floppier suggestive of a stuffed animal, but dolls all the same.

Toys.  Ambulatory toys visiting the beach of you, summoning you from slumber for the duration of their visit.  The mind would reject the notion as lunatic, were the mind not itself the amalgamated thoughts of dispersed silica.  The mind has rejected the notion, regarding it as some manner of horrid fever dream, then a manner of ironic hell, and then a simple fact of life, no more remarkable than the sloughing waves and pecking birds and shining sun.  Your suppositions on the similarities between your mind as it is now and the gray matter which powers the animal engine already turn on postulations of quantities unknown to science at present.  What are living toys but an unexamined aspect of the tapestry yet cataloged by any beyond you?

Besides, there is pleasantry in their presence, a comforting familiarity of the like upon the like.  You cannot strictly feel as a nervous system would process and report stimulation, merely sense depressions and removals and shiftings of your grains, extrapolating the shape and mass and basic texture from context clues.  Despite this, when the pair who build sandcastles gather and mold you for a parapet, when the clumsy hands take on surprising gentleness flicking stray grains from their fellow, when soft, near-formless limbs almost form a “D” seconds before the surf crests, you come ever so close to truly, legitimately feeling the molded plastic warmed by weak midday sun, the slight tingle of an electronic under battery power, stitchings of corduroy and terrycloth.  They are a diverse lot, in composition and interest, and you experience a stronger spark of life than any you have known beneath their idle play.

Actually… would that not be something?  They and theirs are the ones who summon your conscious mind to whatever forefront you possess.  Always toys, always engaged in diversions and amusements and games. Playing in the sand, as it were.  Could very well be they uintentionally make you real when they play, and when they finish and retreat to whatever homes they have beyond the beach, you sink and sleep.  You had not thought of such until now.  Something to think on, when next the time comes round.

For indeed, you sense from their stirring today’s visit draws to an end.  The plush drawers toddle from the shoreline, the last grains are flecked from the weight as it is lifted from its hole, the air around the castle whooshes in a telltale giveaway someone aimed one last attempted kick towards its walls.  So it goes, so it goes.  You hope they drew some pleasure from this visit in equal measure to your own.  If there is anything a stretch of beach must keep in mind, it is appreciation of what experiences one gains within the necessary impermanence of things.

This last thought threatens a scatter of questions in your mind at so late an hour, an annoying instinct likely triggered by pointed awareness of approaching dark and quiet.  From whence do these toyfolk hail, your mind babbles.  Are they mere animate playthings, or does something human lurk in their hollow and stuffed heads, as it must for you?  The verbosity and scientific curiosity of your own thoughts does not escape you, however malformed or incorrect certain details might prove, so while you cannot actively recall any time when you held a shape other than this, you feel strongly at times there must have been some period when you stood humanoid.  Why this transformation?  Was there some sin to deserve this, some request to deeper understand the earth itself, a mere dream of humanity by some sand with an overactive imagination? Are they similarly cursed, their souls befouled regardless your innocent interactions? Is there any way to manipulate your sands, let them know you are here, speak with someone, finally talk after who knows how many ages' silence?  Who what when where why how pounding and drumming and hammering and…

…and gone.  As the man said, the secret is in letting go.  Should a thought trouble or hurt, allow its passing and move on to the next.  And the next, and the next, and the next, like firing neurons or counting grains on an endless beach. Health in stillness, tranquility in silence…

Maybe... on next wakings... think about the wind... and whether its touch counts... as play...

They are nearly gone now, your time of rest in void almost upon you.  Normally, by this stage, you have shrunk back to a single grain, lingered for a moment, and then been no more.  Something tethers you longer than expected.  Through a tiring, diminishing mind, clouded and craving rest, you cast out in your final seconds, seeking some cause.  This is no painful thought, just a last little thing before…

Ah.  There.  Funny, that.  One of the dolls.  A single grain of sand.  Caught in their shoe.  Rocking about after too many scrapes against plastic, as she tries to shake it loose.  This, too, must be play of a kind.

What’s in a grain of sand?  What’s a grain of sand in?  Hah.

There it goes.  And now… goodb

.  .   .         . .  . . . .  .  . . . .        . . . . .    .  . .    . .  .   .     .  .  .     . .. ….  . . .… …….. .. .. ..  .. . . . . . . . . . . . .  . . . ...... .. . .. . . . . ..... . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ...

[jupiterswasphouse]

WASP REVIEW - BUZZLEGUM (VIVA PIÑATA)

[Image ID: A render of Buzzlegum from Viva Piñata /End ID.]

Now this is a pretty fun design! Admittedly, I don't know much about this franchise, as I completely missed its seemingly fairly brief and small peak, and the designs within the game seem fairly fantastical in nature (being that they are, quite literally, piñatas), which makes this a bit of a tough one, but I think there's still enough to work with!

First off, almost nothing here is segmented accurately, having one real body segment, fairly straight (just barely curved) single-segment antennae, and stubby little legs that don't seem to have any joints. I get the feeling the artists were a lot more used to working with squishy, vertebrate designs, which is fair enough, there's only so much you can do with a simplistic piñata design, but either way, this is further confirmed with the shape of the head, which is almost sock-puppet-like, with eyes that resemble that of a small bird. Always disappointing to me when depictions of insects don't show off how truly wild their mouthparts can be!

[Image Source: Wikimedia Commons | Image ID: A colored diagram showing the mouthparts of a grasshopper (A), honey bee (B), butterfly (C), and mosquito (D) /End ID.]

Furthermore with the fact that their body segments are fused, their coloration seems mostly the same throughout where the meta- and mesosoma would be on a real honey bee, which isn't entirely accurate, as the stripes are all on the metasoma of a real honey bee but stop as soon as we reach the more solidly colored mesosoma. This design reads more like some solitary bumble bees, even though in gameplay this bee is closer too a honey bee. I like the patterns though! They also seem a bit too wide for a honey bee, more like a carpenter bee or bumble bee here as well.

[Image Source: Jupiter's Wasp House, ie Myself, and Honey Bee Suite | Image ID: A photo of a black and yellow/orange honey bee on a human finger, followed by a photo of a bumble bee in flight /End IDs.]

The legs are a bit too far apart, reaching down to about where the metasoma would be, when they should be all connected to the mesosoma. But at least they have the right number of legs! The same, unfortunately, cannot be said for the wing count, as they appear to have two wings as opposed to the requisite four wings, they're also slightly too far back, if we want to include the "neck" as part of the mesosoma area here.

As for their behaviors, they seem fairly straight forward. They do seem to possess stingers according to one line on the wiki but whether or not they use it is unclear to me. They do, though, nest in hives, which can be bought without necessarily having to be entirely produced by the bees themselves, about accurately to how beekeepers in the real world do it! Presumably, from their, the Buzzlegums would produce wax combs within, but this doesn't seem to be shown, and the idea of it is further thrown for a bit of a loop by the fact that there are, inaccurately enough, two, entirely separate hives for housing and for the collection of honey, as opposed to how real honey bees would store their honey in combs of their hive. On the other hand, the main hive does appear to be quite literally overflowing with honey, so why the honey isn't just collected from there is a complete mystery to me.

[Image Source: wildalongtheway | Image IDs: Two renders, one of the Buzzlebee Home and the other of the Honey Hive, followed by a real photo of an abandoned wild honey bee hive in a tree /End IDs.]

The Buzzlegums, of course, produce honey by way of visiting a flower in the garden. They seem to have a fairly neutral effect on the flowers they visit, instead of having a particularly positive effect by way of pollination, but it at least gets the part of bees having to visit flowers to feed and produce honey right!

They also appear to get angry around and fight with Raisants, which is accurate enough if one or the other invades a bee or ant nest, but not necessarily the case if they encounter one another out in the open. Also, I have to say, the Raisants have notably more accurate designs, but that's a story for another time.

For now, all in all, I can only dock so many points for inaccuracies given the premise and world of the game, but they're just alright in my books not much more or much less! They're fairly cute but don't drop much of the goods when you really crack them open, so they'll be leaving the fiesta with a score in hand that isn't all too bad but doesn't exactly wow the entomological tastebuds...

-

Overall: 5/10

-

This wasp was suggested by an anonymous user, leave your wasp review suggestion in the replies, tags, or askbox!

[3ofpents]

The Jersey Devil & The Pine Barrens Pin Stripe // Fabric design for @shapeshiftersvt and The Cryptid Collection

Oh it's time for my favorite cryptid, the Jersey Devil.

We've reached the first fabric design that was a direct adaptation from its coordinating travel poster. Here, let me show you, I think it's pretty obvious.

This wasn't the first based-on-the-poster design that I did, but it was the very first poster that I did. I mean obviously. I grew up in New Jersey and, save for a 9 month stretch in Brooklyn after I was born, and a 2 year stint also in Brooklyn in my late 20's, I lived there for about 30 years. The Jersey Devil has always and will always hold a special place in my heart.

So why on earth is there a version of this pattern without it???????

Easy! Remember when I said that some of the fabric designs were created with Eli's runway looks in mind? Well here's the concept sketch for the Jersey Devil design:

The initial concept while we were brainstorming and finalizing the fabric designs was to create a skirt suit with the trees-only design (Pine Barrens), with a binder or sports bra in the Jersey Devil design peeking out from underneath. I can't speak entirely to Eli's thought process, but I believe part of this decision was made with the photobombing idea behind the posters in mind, where the cryptids are sort of semi-hidden, or at least not the focus of the image. And part of it was aesthetic, not wanting to have multiple moons all over the outfit that might even get cut off and such.

I want to say I had a decent time with this one, and I think I did in the end. But I have to admit that it ended up being a little frustrating because it took a lot longer than I expected it to. Or that I thought it should, considering I was just recreating a slightly altered version of an illustration that I'd already done. It took a while to get the trees right, especially because for some reason that I kept getting a single pixel wide line across my horizontal seams that, like. The only way I can explain it is that it was as if the canvas was a single pixel shorter on the bottom than the image, so every time I smoothed out the seams and moved the tile back, that single pixel line would come out of hiding and break up the whole image because it didn't get edited, so the colors were in the wrong places.

This was NOT the case, for the record. I expanded the canvas multiple times in my attempts to fix this thinking that was what was happening. And yet it kept happening. I don't remember if restarting my computer fixed the problem (I often have issues with things on my screen not appearing properly when I need to restart to free up some memory); if I confirmed that it was just a weird visual glitch in Clip and that it wasn't visible anywhere else; or if it just stopped happening because I stopped moving the tile multiple times to double or triple check it and it was happening at the point of moving it. But I got it fixed, obviously.

And I'm pleased with it! I think if I'd put this one further down the list and so had more experience under my belt, I would've done it a little differently. Really mainly the tree repeat. I think I would've done a larger tile to get more trees, for more trunk shape variation; and to have more room to get a more gentle curve back and forth.

But the essence of the thing is still there, and I still think it's a cool concept (one that Eli came up with, I forgot to mention!) with the trees being stripes. And of course I love my flying Jersey Devil. I need draw more Jersey Devil art.

As always, if you'd like to order your own binder or sports bra with either of these fabric designs, you can find them (and the poster print) here, on the Shapeshifters website. If you do, we'll finally be able to get a photo instead of the mockups I made up there.

If you want to purchase the fabric for your own sewing projects, you can do so through our Spoonflower shop. Important to note that the Pine Barrens stripe runs vertically along the length of the yard; and the Jersey Devil stripe runs horizontally, and the pattern repeat is a full yard, so there's only one moon on each yard.

[ivoryminitower]

Echoes of Home: 52 - Tsu'na ("presence")

Echoes of Home: FFXIV AU OC – WoLs on Earth

I have not had chocolate in a while.  It is a low-level recipe.  We soon learn how to make better healer food.  But in Earth people apparently eat it for pleasure.  Certainly the chocolate Husband brought me does not affect my piety.  But I do like the taste, even if it is milder than I remember.

We made chocolate in Eorzea using kukuri beans, which grew in La Noscea.  But La Noscea is a collection of islands surrounded by ocean, and the ocean here is a thousand malms away.  Husband tells of places called Jamaica and Bahamas, which are even further away.  If I want to make chocolate now I must find a source of kukuri beans or a substitute.

Husband had an idea for changing people's perception of us.  He said that normal couples argue, so we would seem more normal if we were seen and heard arguing.  We have argued before, but the things we argue about are things we do not talk about with Earth people.  Husband thought we should argue about things that are stupid and not important, and only sometimes.

Husband called this developing "shtick": "a gimmick, comic routine, style of performance, etc. associated with a particular person."

We tried it with May.  We went shopping at her store together, which we had not done before.  Her store has sliced bread and "sub rolls", so Husband got one and I got the other and we met at the register and argued about which we should buy.  "Sub rolls are better for sandwiches!"  "Sliced bread is better for peanut butter!"  It was certainly a stupid thing to argue about.

After we argued for a bit, we stopped, we looked at each other, we kissed, and we told May we would take both.  She was chewing on her lip.  I think she was trying not to laugh at us.  Perhaps now I am more a woman who argues with her husband rather than a cat that does not want to be petted.

Husband called this developing "context": "the circumstances that form the setting for an event, statement, or idea, and in terms of which it can be fully understood and assessed."

There was not much of the afternoon left, so Husband went to the Pit to check the shed before dinner.  I shifted to Ninja, Stealthed, and went to the diner to see what patterns I could observe.

We usually see young people at night.  The people during the day were older -- adults eating alone, or in pairs, or with children.  I went by the tables, listening to the conversations.  Most of them were not about Husband or me, which was encouraging, yet not useful.

The one table with people talking about me appeared to be a family.  I recognized the boy and girl at the table; they had come into the diner more than once during our shift.  The adults were probably their parents.

"But Mom!  All the kids come here at night!  It's real popular!  And it's safe too…it's not like we're going to parties and stuff."

"I don't know how safe it is.  I heard the woman who works here has tattoos and body piercings.  She could be dangerous."

"Miz Tsu'na's nice!  She's just into comics and video games!"

"Still, you should be home working on your schoolwork."

"We do our studying here sometimes!"

I did not understand "body piercings".  Did the woman mean my earrings?  I saw several women with earrings in town.  I did not understand why they were a problem.

What I did understand was a problem was that we had been worried about people who had seen me, yet this woman had never seen me and was still unhappy about me.

I could at least change her not having seen me.  I went into the kitchen, switched to Earth normal, got a serving tray and set out four apple pies from inventory onto saucers.  Then I turned.  "Mr. Hartman?  Can you help me with something?"

He was at the grill.  He started and spun around. "Jesus, girl!  Where'd you come from?"  He looked me up and down. "You need help?"

I gestured to the pies.  "How can I make these different?"

"Different how?"

"At all."

He stared at me, then looked at the pies. "They still warm?"

"Yes."

He got a brush from among the tools near the grill and brushed a small amount of butter onto each.  Then he got a bowl and poured in sugar and cinnamon and stirred them together.  He sprinkled the mixture across the pies, where it stuck to the melted butter.

I am a Culinarian.  He is a cook.

"That what you need?"

"Yes.  Thank you, sir."

He watched me carry the tray out of the kitchen.  I went to the table with the family and addressed the girl.  "Hello.  I have seen you here in the evening, have I not?"

"Sure!  We come here all the…"  She stopped and looked at her mother.  "...I mean, we did, yeah."

"I thought so.  Perhaps you can help me…I am trying something new with the apple pies.  Could you try them and let me know what you think?"

The man spoke up. "We didn't order these."

I smiled and set the saucers on the table. "They are free for our valued customers.  Enjoy your day."

The boy and girl looked eager.  The parents stared at the plates.  I took the tray back to the kitchen.

Mr. Hartman was still watching as I came back in.  "Advertising?"

I thought of what Husband might say. "Community-building."

"Same thing."

Later, Husband called it developing "presence".

[lamuradex]

Signs of Light and Shadow - Book 1

Prologue - Chapter 1 - Chapter 2 - Chapter 3

Chapter 1 - Life in the Woods

Rain misted over the leaves as a tree shuddered and fell. A young woman stood near the fallen trunk, axe in hand, catching her breath. Wiping her brow, she chopped the log into pieces and began her trek back through the forest with the lumber on a small sled.

She looked to be in her mid-twenties, with long black hair which hung down her back. Her complexion was a robust peach, with only small scratches, a few lingering freckles, and some flecks of mud to mar her skin. Her eyes were a deep, watery blue, but shone brightly out from beneath her dark eyebrows. Her cheeks and chin were soft and mild, her features surprisingly delicate for one so used to the outdoors. This was with the exception of a slightly crooked nose and a small scar on her left ear from some fight arguably won. Athletically built, her body was toned and agile. She wore a light-armoured garb, all greys and dark blues, made of leather and metal plates, tough but built for movement. It covered her from her neck to her boots, a dark red cape attached at the shoulders which hung down past her knees.

She hummed as she walked, her axe on her hip, as the rain slowed to a stop. Suddenly, she paused. There was a rustling in the brush. Only her head moved as she searched for the noise. She relaxed when she spotted it was just a small herd of deer. She licked her lips. Her hand went to her axe, slow and silent, but there was another rustle, as a fox ran from the trees and the deer scampered away in alarm.

She shrugged and kept walking.

She reached the camp and placed down her firewood, before chopping it into further chunks. The loud crack of wood rang out, and from the nearby den in a tree, another woman emerged.

“Cerris?” she called.

“I’m back,” Cerris answered between strikes.

“That was fast. Did you get food or firewood?”

“Thought that would have been obvious, Elena.” Cerris’s axe landed pointedly.

Elena sighed. Her blonde hair was tied up in a neat bun, while the sides hung down framing her face. Her complexion was smoother and warmer than Cerris’s, though more from makeup than sun. Her features were very much like her sister’s, only with a smaller, unbroken nose, rich brown eyes, and a lither figure. She wore a dress of pale-gold fabric, the hem of which stopped just above her ankles. Her prim shoes were made of sturdy but pretty leather, though they were of course speckled with dirt and mud. Finally, a necklace adorned her throat, five interconnected gold rings on a beaded chain for its charm, the piece pulling together her gilded appearance.

“So, you didn’t get anything to eat?” Elena surmised.

“No, I didn’t.” Cerris kept chopping. “Do we need food?”

“Not urgently, no. We still have those spices and vegetables from town. Could use some meat to go with it though,” Elena said, stepping out from the den.

“Maybe you should go hunting then?” Cerris smirked, finishing up and leaning on her axe.

Elena shook her head and started piling the chopped wood. “Very funny, Cerris.”

“It was just a suggestion.” Cerris sheathed her axe and headed inside, pushing open the blanket curtain door.

The inside was welcoming and warm, with beds, candles, a table and chairs. Two single beds were bathed in candlelight, each covered in soft linens. The furthest bed was dressed with yellow, almost golden, duvets embellished with swirling patterns. Meanwhile the closer one was made with simple dark green sheets. Between the beds was a small shelf, built into the wall. One end was littered with a collection of flower buds, a few gemstones, and a pearl, while the other end had a sharpening stone, a polishing cloth, and a coin purse. Opposite, to the left of the room, sat a disused double bed. The candles around it were unlit and the bed was buried in clutter. Amongst the clutter was a small wooden shrine, three carved figures barely discernible, the wooden block half buried by clothes.

Cerris paused, enjoyed the warmth for a moment, then grabbed one of the old chairs and dragged it outside. She placed it next to the fire pit, then placed a second chair almost directly opposite. With a relaxed sigh, she fell into a seat and made herself comfortable.

Elena had placed some of the wood in the firepit and was now grabbing a few dry twigs from the overhang of a tree for kindling. She returned and piled them all together.

“You’re going to want to make a little tent with the twigs,” Cerris suggested.

“I’m well aware,” Elena snipped. “Maybe if I go out hunting, you can stay here and make the fire, cook the meals, clean the beds, and most of the other chores?”

“I could, you know.”

“Yes, but much slower than just letting me do them.”

Elena grabbed one of the larger twigs by an end, and with her other hand, she pressed a finger against its longest branch. Like heated metal, parts of the twig began to glow, small symbols burning in the bark. Elena removed her finger and the runes glowed red hot. In a flash, the marks ignited, the twig caught, and it was placed burning amongst the kindling. Elena then followed Cerris’s example, but first retrieved an old dress with needle and thread before she sat in her own seat, straight backed and proper.

Cerris sat back languidly, holding out her hands to the flames, staring at the clear blue sky. She sighed happily. “So,” she began. “What did you get up to while I was gone?”

“Not much,” Elena said, stitching a rip in the dress. “Took a walk nearby looking for interesting plants. Cleaned inside. Tried to mend… this.” She focused on a particularly difficult stitch.  

“What happened to your dress?”

“Oh, nothing,” Elena said without looking up.

Cerris eyed her doubtfully. “So, it just ripped by itself?”

“It’s only a small tear. Near the shoulder strap.”

“Oh yeah. I remember seeing it,” Cerris recalled. She raised an eyebrow. “You wore that dress last time we went into town, right?”

“Did I?”

“Yes. You did.”

“Oh, well. Must have happened while I was out and about.” Elena waved a hand innocently.

Cerris aimed an accusatory smile. “You know, I think I remember seeing that rip when you came out of the tavern. You seemed very happy that day,” she teased. “Something happen while I was distracted?”

“Oh, why would you think that?”

“Because you’re blushing.”

Elena tried to appear affronted, but couldn’t against Cerris’s smug smile. Her insulted expression fell to embarrassed annoyance.

“Fine,” she pouted. “There was a rather nice gentleman who was there that night.”

“And?”

“He was charming. He even dared to kiss me on the cheek before the night was done.”

“Exciting,” Cerris rolled her eyes. “And did this kiss excite you so much your shoulder strap broke?”

“It wasn’t the whole strap,” Elena corrected indignantly, “just nearby it. And no, it wasn’t him who was responsible.”

“Aggressive moths then?”

“No. One of his drunkard friends tried to grab my shoulder. The gentleman apologised on the drunkard’s behalf, of course.”

“Quite the manners,” Cerris approved. “So, what was this mystery man’s name?”

“…I don’t know,” Elena deflated. “He introduced himself, I’m sure, but between the noise and the ale I’m not sure if I even heard him.”

“A regular?”

“No. Just passing through,” she said disheartened. “When he left at the end of the evening, he left town. I’ll likely not see him again.”

“Ah, well.” Cerris relaxed, staring again at the midday sky. “At least you had some fun.”

“I suppose,” Elena agreed sombrely. “Still, feels like quite the missed opportunity.”

“I’m sure you’ll meet someone nice.”

“Hmm…” Elena got back to her sewing.

The pair fell into a comfortable silence, as Cerris sat back and dozed in her chair. The fire crackled and danced. After a short while, Elena spoke again.

“I did find some new flowers on my walk.”

Cerris stirred from her dozing. “Hm… Anything good?”

“Some small grey blossoms outside that dead tree by the river.” Elena gestured in the general direction. “They make a sticky paste when crushed. Might be useful.”

“For mending and the like?”

“I think so. But I’ll wait until I can have someone check them out in town. Make sure they’re not poisonous.”

Cerris nodded. “Good plan. Don’t want to have them littered around the home, then find out they’ll make us sick.”

“They do smell lovely though,” Elena chirped. “Like roses and winter berries. A scrumptious smell, like those cakes the baker cooks around-”

A gurgling rumble cut off the conversation. Elena turned red.

“Was that your stomach?” Cerris grinned.

“Yes,” Elena shrunk back in her seat.

“If you’re hungry, we’ve got some fruit,” Cerris offered, pointing back at the den.

“I don’t know. I was hoping for something a little… heartier?” Elena said with veiled hope.

“So you want me to go hunting?” Cerris prompted.

Elena focused on her sewing. “Only if you want to.”

“Well good. Because I’m happy here.” Cerris sat back to relax again. “Unless you want to go hunting instead?”

Elena threw down the dress in her lap. “Cerris, what am I going to do against a deer? Jab it with a needle? Throw a stone?”

“An enchanted stone maybe?”

Elena went to answer, but just huffily got back to her sewing. When Cerris stayed seated, she rolled her eyes. “Oh, fine. If I must ask. Cerris, would you please go hunting?”

“I think I will,” Cerris stood and stretched, rolling her shoulders. “I could go for something with a bit more substance anyway. And I saw some deer before. Shouldn’t be too hard to track.”

“Thank you. And while you’re gone, I’ll get the stew going.”

“Sounds good.” Cerris looked to the sun, determining the time.

“And take your shield,” Elena said firmly.

Cerris nodded, walked back towards the den, and pulled her shield from beside the door. She took a moment to admire the intricate faded pattern that decorated it. A blue wolf stood before a red tree on a field of dull yellow. She wiped some dirt off it with a sleeve, then hung the shield over her shoulder on a strap.

“Okay then. I’ll be back soon. A few hours at most,” she smiled, then headed out across the clearing to the east.

* * *

Cerris stalked through the underbrush, barely crinkling the leaves beneath her feet, the wet weather keeping the forest soft and soundless. She crept around a large tree, then up a ridge overlooking a clearing. Dense foliage surrounded the glade, and a shallow stream ran through the middle. Her perch was a short cliff, about head height above the ground. Below, a herd of deer were gathered. Most bent their necks to graze, but some were stood bolt upright, ears swivelling. One stag stood in the centre, tall antlers visible over the crowd.

Cerris crouched on the ridge. She drew her axe from her belt with practiced ease, fingerless leather gloves and calloused fingers working it out thoughtlessly. She watched the herd. Her fingers shifted their grip. Her knees tensed. The leather of her greaves creaked. One of the deer spun its ears towards her. Cerris took a deep breath and pounced.

She leapt from the ridge, hit the ground and rolled. The first deer saw her and startled, the panic rippling through the herd. Cerris rose into a sprint, closing the distance. The herd began to move. Less than a step away, the closest doe was already bolting. Cerris loosened her grip and swung her arm out. The axe slid through her palm until her grip returned at the end of the handle. With the full length of the weapon, she swung. The blade clipped the rear leg of the deer. The animal stumbled as its leg failed, landing in a heap a few paces away. Its front legs struggled to stand, while its surviving rear leg was trapped beneath it. Cerris rounded to the creature’s head and held her axe ready.

With a sudden burst, the deer sprang up, its rear leg gaining traction. Its lame limb dangled as it bounced across the clearing, until it stumbled and stopped. Cerris took her chance. She charged and swung for the animal’s neck, but the axe cut empty air. The doe sprang and vanished past the tree-line. Cerris scowled.

“By the blasted skies! Dra’aming car’zit!” she cursed a blue streak. She then looked to the sky, took a calming breath, and reduced her anger to a grumble. “It’ll take hours to track that doe.”

She looked to the ground. It was muddy, grassy soil with silt rock nearer the stream, the softer earth torn up from the many hooves that had fled. Amongst it, there was a small splatter of blood where the doe had stood, and another patch where it had fallen. Cerris followed to where the deer had fled. No visible tracks, or too many from the herd. But the stream ran near the spot, the water shallow, muddy and about three strides wide. Something crimson floated on the water. A trail. Cerris gripped her axe tightly and followed it upstream, stance low and ready.

She followed the river for about half a mile, the blood trail still floating past. She stayed behind trees and out of the water wherever she could, quiet and tense, ready to strike.

Eventually, she reached a small turn in the river where the water pooled. The blood was still visible. She followed the pool’s edge until she found where the stream fed in. Clean. No blood at all. She continued to circle the pool until she found a trickle of crimson. It flowed over the silt like a small red snake. Further into the trees, the soil was dark and sodden. More blood than could have come from the deer’s wound. The trail headed uphill.

With some effort, gripping tree branches and rocks, Cerris struggled to the top. The slope levelled out and she steadied herself. The earth was heavy with red fluid. Her eyes followed the trail, the stream widening as it went. Finally, it ended at a large mound in the forest bed. A mound covered in cloth and bleeding.

Cerris walked over to the man. He was leant up against a tree, back to the slope, wearing a long brown and white robe with a hood that shrouded his face. What could be seen was old and weathered, his face deeply pale. A red flower of colour blossomed across his chest, which rose and fell as he struggled for breath.

“Hello?” Cerris called cautiously. She stepped around the figure and slipped her axe back into her belt. “Can you hear me?”

The figure moved, turning his head. “Yes… Yes I can,” he managed to say, his voice croaking and weak. Even so, he seemed cheerful. “Not for much longer I’d guess,” he smiled, his accent eloquent and foreign.

“You’re injured. Is there anything I can do?” Cerris knelt beside him. “My sister has magic. She might be able to help.”

He smiled wider at her kindness, but shook his head. “Not likely, dear girl. It’s alright. It’s been a grand journey, this life has. A long-” He was interrupted by an unpleasant, hacking cough. “It’s been a long and winding path,” he finished breathlessly.

“What-” Cerris started to ask.

“What happened?” the man finished for her, temporarily regaining his breath. “Let my guard down with a wolf. Drove off most of the pack, but the leader stayed to fight. Quick little devil.” He coughed again. “Got the blighter with my knife though, right in his shoulder,” he wheezed proudly.

“What… What’s your name?” Cerris asked, avoiding his eye and wringing her hands.

“Graham of the Great Cliffs. I’m a long way from home,” he said happily. “And you?”

“Cerris,” she answered. She could hardly look at him.

“You seem scared, Cerris. But then again, death must be new to a young lady like you.”

“No. It isn’t.”

His smile saddened. “Oh. I see. But that doesn’t make it easier,” he nodded.

Cerris looked him in the eye at last. He didn’t seem scared, but she still couldn’t hold his gaze for long.

“You are kind to try to help, Cerris.” He reached out a hand to pat her arm.

Cerris was silent.  She simply nodded, as the man’s breath became more strained. One hand raised to clutch his chest.

“Thank you,” he gasped. “And good luck to you in all that is to come. You may need it,” he chuckled.

Slowly, like a flame sputtering out, his eyes slid shut and his head slumped back. As he lay, his chest gradually slowed to a stop. When he was completely still, one last breath escaped. Cerris reached forward, placing a hand to his chest. There was nothing.

He was dead.

Cerris stood, looked him over, bowed her head solemnly, and seeing nothing else to do, she turned to leave.

Suddenly, each of the man’s hands began to glow. Cerris leapt back, raising her axe. His left hand radiated a pearly white light while his right was shrouded in an obsidian black. Both grew stronger, lightening and darkening their surroundings. The strange powers reached their zenith, almost eclipsing the man. Then they flared and died to nothing.

Cerris looked on, waiting for any other strangeness. She took a step closer, and prodded the body with her axe handle, but there was nothing. The body was still. He was definitely gone.

“Is… is that what happens when people die?” she wondered. She’d seen bodies before, two at least, but she’d never seen the moment of death. She couldn’t be sure that wasn’t supposed to happen. She certainly hadn’t enjoyed it.

 She breathed a final sigh and turned to walk away. Then she stopped. Her stomach knotted as she eyed the dead man again. She turned and stood over the body, raising her hands together in front of her chest. Quietly, she prayed.

“By the heavens and earth, the spirits and the fire, let the soul of this man be guided well to the land beyond. May he be protected from evil and be honoured for his good deeds. May his friends remember him fondly-” she recited flatly, recalling the prayer as best she could.

As she prayed, two shapes moved in a nearby tree, two cats strolling through the branches.

“-may the great veil beyond grant passage, and the waters of the endless rivers carry him gently. Let the skies above look kindly upon him-”

The cats leapt from branch to branch and moved towards her, dancing around each other in their path. Cerris glanced at them but continued.

“-The earth accept his humble form, the winds carry his soul, the waters wash away his pain-”

The felines made no noise as they moved. One had white fur, speckled with golden brown. The other was black, flecked with auburn. Cerris watched them wryly, but continued her prayer unabated.

“-The Father of Skies watch over us all-”

The cats stopped a few feet away, perched on a branch near head height. They were definitely watching her. Staring at her.

Cerris stared back, then shook it off and turned back to the dead man. “-and may the light of… Aheazal shine upon us and the shadow of Zaheal cloak us,” she struggled to remember which was which.

“So close, but not an uncommon mistake,” a masculine voice echoed.

Cerris span, her axe and shield drawn. Her eyes scanned the area for the speaker, but she was alone. There was only the dead man. The dead man and the cats. The felines stared at her intently, each one the negative mirror of the other. After a moment, one cat turned towards the other.

“I do enjoy that prayer. I just wish we featured in it more.” A new voice came from nowhere, this one feminine and bright. The white cat jumped down from the branch. “Then again, what role do we actually play in their daily lives.”

“Their sunlight, their knowledge, their energy and motivation. Take your pick,” said the male voice cynically. The dark cat lowered its ears to its head and prowled along the branch. “At least in some abstract respects. And it isn’t like we actually hand it to them. I guess I take your point.”

“Hello?” Cerris called out, her voice shaking. The white cat bent its head up to stare at her.

“Down here, daughter of man,” said the female voice. Cerris looked down to meet the cat’s gaze. She stared into yellow eyes. Eyes that stared back.

“I believe she is confused. Maybe we should help her understand,” the male voice rang out. It almost sounded like it was coming from inside Cerris’s head, but she still turned towards the black cat.

“You’re right. Prepare yourself, human,” the female voice chirped.

The white cat began to radiate the same blinding light that had come from the dead man’s hand, as the black cat followed suit, its surroundings swallowed in an opaque black aura. Within each flare, the shape of the cats altered, unfolding and rising. Each form straightened up and faced her, their radiant aura’s dissipated, their new bodies revealed, one woman and one man. Beyond that though, they could not have been described as human.

The woman had robes made of light. Beneath them, darkness clung to her skin like silk, concealing her eyes beneath her hood. Her skin was radiant pearl and silver hair spilled about her shoulders. Her robes hung loose, a shimmering hunter’s tunic and trousers beneath, the clothes sculpted onto her frame. Her very presence glowed, her light welcoming, like the dawn after a long dark night. She smiled at Cerris.

The other figure was her opposite in almost every way. Darkness clung to him like a shroud, becoming impossibly darker beneath his cloak, his features given shape by how the shadows ebbed and waned. But his eyes shone through the blackness as two glowing stars in the night. His cloak was tied shut and entrapped him, his arms folded. Nothing was discernible beneath, not even movement. He glided over the ground, noiseless and without disturbing the grass. His presence engulfed everything, like a living shadow on a moonless night, as he glanced emotionless at the young woman before them.

“I am Aheazal, the Spirit of Darkness. You were incorrect in your prayer before,” the shadowed man said with a flat tone, his voice cold and indifferent.

“And I am Zaheal. I hope you can guess what I’m the god of,” the woman chimed, her voice bright and warm, though she held a calm air.

Cerris’s eyes darted back and forth between the two impossible beings before her. Her axe fell from her hand. Her shield dangled from her arm. Finally, understanding struck her and she fell to her knees. She dropped as low as she could and bowed her head. Her mouth froze, stumbling to find words, as her hands clasped together again in prayer before the gods.

The Spirit of Light chuckled, her laughter like echoing bells. “Is she afraid or is she happy to see us?”

“Neither. Now forget the mortal. We have business,” the Spirit of Shadows answered.

“Very well.”

Cerris watched as Aheazal, draped in his darkness, drifted across the area. His feet, if indeed he had any, made no noise as he moved, stopping at the side of the dead man. Zaheal meanwhile bounded across to the corpse, whipping the wind behind her, stopping between Cerris and the body. The dead man’s hands glowed once more at their presence.

“What a crying shame,” Zaheal shook her head reverently.

“An inevitability,” Aheazal countered.

“This one lived a long time though, and ventured so far from home. Almost halfway across the grand continent, seeking his own truths.”

“Halfway across Deivhara, all to discover and understand the world? I guess I can respect that. But now he dies to a random beast in some forgotten corner of one little forest.”

“Such is fate unforgiving, and now his blessings fade,” Zaheal said yieldingly.

“As with all the rest,” Aheazal spoke as fact.

“Now to choose who will host our marks next. I believe there are a few towns nearby?”

“I suppose. Warriors, adventurers or bards,” Aheazal grumbled.

“What do you suggest instead?”

“Why not just use the mortal which is already presented to us?”

They turned to Cerris, still knelt nearby. Her stomach went cold as their eyes fell on her.

“Strong, a hunter, and a woman?” Zaheal smiled. “This could be amusing.”

“Nearby is the only trait I’m concerned about,” Aheazal sighed.

“Providence by any other name. And it is how we picked the last one. We’ll have to do something different with the next.”

“Agreed.”

As they spoke, the dead man’s hands glowed brighter. With a single movement, both entities cast a hand in Cerris’s direction.

Cerris prayed to the dead to save her, as the gods were already before her. She thought of her parents. Then the gods’ powers filled her vision and everything went dark.

*  *  *

Images swirled. Shrouded in darkness. Glimpsed through the black.

A great red palace. Solid crimson walls. A legion of guards and the sounds of crowds.

The image shifted. A deep dark cavern. Words painted upon the wall. Silence in the stone.

Then a shifting form with claws and teeth. Moving. Changing.

A voice cut through the darkness. Light crept in with it.

The voice was distant but shouting.

Getting closer.

“Cerris?”

*  *  *

Cerris awoke on the forest floor. Sticks dug into her back through her armour. A voice called out. She could barely move. The world was dark.

“Cerris?” the voice called again. She knew it.

“Elena?” she whispered. The ground beneath her rustled as she tried to move.

“Cerris!” Elena called stressfully.

Cerris heard footsteps, running and breaking twigs. Elena was panting for breath.

“By the skies, Cerris, please be alright.”

Cerris opened her eyes. She was looking up through the forest canopy, and Elena was leant over her, eyes wild with fear. The moment they locked eyes, she visibly relaxed. The forest was dark, the moon hanging in the sky above. Cerris winced against her sore limbs and the cold night which bit at her. With an effort she pulled herself up.

“Elena?” Cerris murmured. Her head swam. “What happened?”

“I was going to ask you the same thing,” Elena said unhappily. “First you say you’re going to catch some deer, then you disappear until well past sunset. When I finally find you, you’re lying here, freezing in the night air.”

“I found someone. They were hurt.” Cerris rubbed her sore head and glanced over to where the man had been. Nothing remained of him. Where he had been lying, a great gouge had been taken out of the earth. Cerris stared in dull confusion before searching her surroundings, but there was nothing. No sign of the cats or the people they had become. No sign of the man. Her axe still lay beside her. She picked it up and used it as a crutch to stand, as Elena grabbed her armoured shoulder and supported her. Between the axe, Cerris’s weak legs and Elena, they carefully headed home.

[stillalive19567]

Beneath The Surface | JenLisa | GxG | Chapter 20

The door swings open, revealing So Hee, her presence instantly shifting the atmosphere in the room. I quickly hide the folder I got from the librarian under the blanket, hoping she doesn’t notice the tension that’s been brewing.

“So Hee,” I say casually, trying to act natural.

She smirks and glances at Rosé. “You coming?”

“Yeah, wait a second,” Rosé replies, her voice light but her demeanor still slightly strained.

As they prepare to leave, I busy myself with my laptop, pretending to focus on whatever screen is in front of me. My mind, however, races with thoughts of The Elite Circle and the potential connections to something darker. I keep an ear out for their conversation, hoping to catch any hints of information that could lead me closer to the truth.

“So, what’s the plan?” Rosé asks, her tone a mix of excitement and curiosity.

“Just hanging out with some friends. You know, the usual,” So Hee replies nonchalantly, but I can sense there’s more behind her words.

“Sounds fun,” Rosé responds, but I can see the uncertainty in her eyes as she steals a glance at me.

I make a mental note to keep an eye on both of them. Whatever So Hee is up to, I’m not convinced it’s just a simple outing.

I start by gathering all the notes and documents I’ve collected so far. Pulling up my laptop, I create a timeline, meticulously matching the dates of when each student went missing with key meetings or events held by The Elite Circle. As I go through the bank statements, attendance records, and any notes on the group’s activities, patterns begin to emerge.

As I step out of our room, the hallway is quiet, a few students passing by, absorbed in their own conversations. I turn a corner, lost in thought, when I notice Lisa approaching. She looks up with a soft smile that lights up her features, and my heart skips a beat.

“Can I walk with you?” she asks, her voice warm and inviting.

I nod, feeling a flutter of excitement as she falls into step beside me. The warmth of her presence radiates in the cool air, making the tension of the day fade away. We walk in comfortable silence for a moment, the soft sound of our footsteps echoing in the hallway.

As I walk down the hall, the atmosphere shifts suddenly when So Hee steps in front of me, blocking my path. She looks at me with a fierce determination, her eyes blazing.

“Lisa is mine,” she declares, pinning me against the locker. I feel the cold metal dig into my back as I glare at her.

“What does it have to do with me?” I shoot back, my voice steady despite the intensity of the moment.

So Hee leans in closer, a smug smile playing on her lips. “Lisa said that she likes you,” she taunts, pushing me harder against the locker.

I can feel my blood boiling at her words. “Listen, touch me again, and I’ll beat the shit out of you,” I warn, trying to remain calm.

But she shoves me again, and I stumble back, falling to the floor. A rush of anger surges through me as I hear someone yell, “Stop it, So Hee!” I recognize Lisa’s voice, but my vision is already clouded by fury.

Rosé appears beside me, confusion etched on her face, but it’s too late. The fire inside me ignites further as So Hee slaps Rosé across the face. That’s it—I’ve had enough.

With a swift motion, I grab So Hee by her neck, pushing her back against the locker. The shock in her eyes fuels my rage, and I slap her across the face, feeling the heat of the moment surge through me. “Lay a finger on her again,” I growl, my voice low and threatening, “and you’re dead.”

Each word punctuates my anger, and I can see the fear dawning in her expression. She tries to struggle, but my grip is firm. I’m not letting her threaten anyone I care about.

“Do you understand?” I hiss, locking my gaze onto hers. In this moment, I feel a rush of protectiveness wash over me—nothing will come between me and Lisa, not even So Hee.

I narrow my eyes at So Hee, my grip still firm around her neck. “Were you held back a grade? Two?” I ask, my voice dripping with disdain.

“Fuck off. Mind your own business,” she snaps back, but I can see the fear in her eyes.

Just then, Jungkook rushes in, his voice echoing in the hallway. “Yah! You mind your own business!” he yells at So Hee, anger flashing across his face. He moves as if to slap her, but I quickly intervene.

“Kookie, stop!” I call out, shaking my head. “A man shouldn’t raise a hand to a woman.”

So Hee smirks, the arrogance returning to her expression. “Yeah, ‘Kookie,’ obey her like a pet you are,” she taunts, trying to regain her composure.

In a split second, I lose it. I slap her hard across the face, the sound of it echoing through the corridor. “But that doesn’t apply to me,” I hiss, my voice low and cold. “I am a woman, after all.”

The shock on her face is priceless, and I can feel a rush of empowerment surge through me. I won’t let anyone intimidate me, especially not over someone I care about.

I take a step back, my posture defiant, as I watch her stumble slightly, the smirk wiped clean from her face. “Next time,” I warn, “you’ll think twice before messing with me or anyone I care about.”