#and i need less strawberries and more bones

[outlying-hyppocrate]

mouthfeel (in my teeth.)

i don't like anything anymore

i don't like anything anymore

i don't like the way my mouth feels

i like your voice and something else

it's something else

and then this beautiful ring of sunlight cascades down onto the dandelions and daisies

and suddenly sad about everything

because nothing is enough

angels, you and i

or rather me wanting to be one

so i can't be more than him

and i can't be more than you

essentially less and less and less

but cannot be less and less and less

so think of it as an addiction, and cure the self

of strawberry gore in your teeth

do not let it be something i like

not just when, but what and how much

because if i do not count they will count for me, and watch me

see the strawberry gore in my teeth

unpleasant mouthfeel gives us all room for change

everything makes me sad except for the sound of a laugh angelic to melt the heart and brain and viscera into one

and therefore completion

i thank you

[fooltofancy]

i don't miss living near most of my family, tbh, but i DO miss terribly the recovered meth addict uncle.

[lovebugism]

hiii idk if you’re still taking requests but can you do something smutty with steve in season 3 w his scoops ahoy uniform on after he gets home from work or something🙏🏼🙏🏼

like sub!babygirl!steve is so 🤤🤤😽😽 and a

dom!femreader 🫶❤️❤️ AND OMG HE HAS A MOMMY KINK😧😧 I BEG OF YOU

✶ ┄ OH, BABY !

summary: after a long day at work, steve harrington needs someone (*cough cough* you) to take care of him. pairing: sub!steve harrington / f!reader word count: 5.6k warnings: sub!steve, brief use of a mommy kink, r calls steve daddy like twice i think, mention of a breeding kink, 18+ mdni (ignore any typos, i am way too tired to proofread <3) a/n: hi, it's me again, turning a blurb request into a full length fic. also i can't stop writing for sub steve apparently. all i can say is baby girl is baby girlin real hard in this one lol thanks so much for your request! enjoy xoxo

( BLURB SLEEPOVER ) | ( MASTERLIST )

It’s sunset by the time his shift at Scoops concludes. He serves the last few remaining customers while Robin less than kindly ushers out the loitering teenagers that have stuck around all day. 

A group of moms clad in vividly colored spandex tells him “we’re being bad today” like some sort of mantra that makes them feel better about ordering plain vanilla ice cream. Some middle school aged girls with a mouthful of braces, crimped hair in pigtails, and absolutely wreaking of fruity perfume and daddy’s money try helplessly to flirt with him while they use a matte black card to purchase a banana boat sundae.

His last customers of the night are an old married couple, all gray and wrinkly and smiling like life’s still so new to them. They order one strawberry cone to share between them and hold onto each other’s shaking, frail hands as they make their exit.

Steve smiles as he watches them go. He sees a lot of you and him in them. He hopes by the time you both are all old and brittle, you’ll still be happy like that, still so in love.

Working in the downstairs abyss of Starcourt makes him feel crazy sometimes. With no windows and only manufactured fluorescent lighting for ten hours straight, it makes time feel less and less real.

Sometimes he’ll be in before sun out and cower like some sort of vampire when his shift is over. Other times, he’ll come out when it’s pouring down rain and be absolutely baffled at the sight of it because it was perfectly sunny when his shift started.

Everything else but ice cream all but ceases to exist in the hole of Scoops Ahoy — weather, time, life.

Even though it’s closing when he leaves, Steve doesn’t realize how dark it’s gotten outside until he’s walking through the desolate parking lot to his car. The bustling mall has fallen asleep with the rest of the town. The sky has long turned to a navy velvet, the stars and full moon bright white silk. 

It makes his limbs heavy and his eyelids heavier as his tired bones ache for rest.

Steve makes the longer drive out to the cabin rather than his own home to see you. Hopper’s out for some conference which means El gets to spend every ounce of her time at the Wheeler’s and you and Steve get to play house. 

He doesn’t bother to knock before he comes in. He shuffles through the entrance like his feet are made of lead and leans his weight against the door after he clicks it closed.

The sound of his arrival gets your attention from where you scurry around the kitchen. A smile pulls slowly at your face as you turn over your shoulder to look at him, placing a cover over a pot of something that smells like your infamous chicken alfredo.

“Hey, Stevie,” you greet with a beam and a sort of sunshine in your voice that Steve’s been missing all day.

His body relaxes for the first time since he got up this morning at the sight of you, freshly showered and in your pajamas for the night — an oversized t-shirt that definitely didn’t belong to you before, because it used to be his.

You look more like home than any four walls could ever be to him.

Steve tries his best to give you a smile in return, but it’s weighed down by fatigue and not all there.

You can see it all over him, every ounce of exhaustion on his lax and tired features. Slinging ice cream for less than grateful customers for ten hours straight has taken an obvious toll on him. The bright blue sailor’s uniform makes him look more boyish, but no less tired — or hot.

Your heart swells at how cozy he looks, fatigued and warmed and in dire need of being taken care of. It makes you glad that you started dinner earlier than normal, even happier that you’ve got the house to yourselves.

You exit the kitchen and walk the short distance to him, taking his scruffy cheeks in your palms and rubbing your thumbs against his cheeks.

“Hard day?” you wonder softly and smile to himself when you feel Steve nestle further into your touch.

The boy hums lowly in reply — neither a yes or a no, but a short hmph that means he doesn’t want to talk about it now. He doesn’t like thinking about work when you’re in his arms and all over him. He’d rather pretend like you’re the only thing that exists and let the rest of the world slip slowly away.

He turns his face to kiss the inside of your wrists. You smell like lavender, he finds, and it makes him that much more tired and needy for you.

His hands settle on your arms, fingers wrapping themselves just below your wrists. “Just tired,” he answers finally. “How was your day?”

“Better than yours, I’m assuming,” you quip with a smile. Your hands drag from his face, down the tense columns of his neck, and settle at the white lapel of his uniform. Steve lets you pull him down by his red neckerchief until his lips press against yours, the pillows of them far cozier than the bed and blanket he so craves right now.

He grows somehow heavier against you. He exhales deeply through his nose as his aching muscles start to relax, the warmth of it brushes against your cupid’s bow. His hands fall to your back and ball into your shirt as he clutches so ardently onto you, as though terrified he might have to go another agonizing ten hours without you.

Your smile contorts against his mouth. A laugh exhales sharply through your nose at this tired boy, exhausted and too willing to let you swallow him whole.

As much as you want to take care of you him, you want him to get a little food in his belly and fresh clothes on his skin.

He’s got freshly laundered cottons sitting in a drawer you cleaned out in your room especially for him and a pot of his favorite food simmering on the stove. He’ll be golden in an hour or more and you’ll happily take care of him then.

Steve whines when you pull away from him. The pathetic sound bubbles from his throat and his face screws up like you’ve actually pained him by not kissing him more. He ducks down, looming over you, as his lips chase yours.

You giggle at him, letting him kiss you — one, two, three quick pecks and a fourth sweeter, more drawn-out one he presses against you as the two of you stumble back into the living room.

“You need to eat first, okay?” you protest when you part from him again, lips clicking wetly as they separate. “You probably haven’t had anything all day.”

“I had half a banana in the break room at lunch,” he retorts, half-heartedly.

“Exactly,” you scold. “Go get changed and then we can eat, ‘kay?”

“If you wanted to see me naked so bad, you could’ve just said.”

You roll your eyes at him and how he’s still so sly despite being so damn tired. You push playfully against his chest and squirm out from under where he’d cornered you between his body and the back of the couch. “You smell like a sundae and cheap cologne—”

“Blame those assholes from Abercrombie.”

“—hit the showers, Harrington,” you tell him with a playful sternness, swatting him on the ass as you pass by him.

The action stopped surprising him a long time ago. He’d complained relentlessly about corporate and the stupid outfit they made him wear to work every morning until he realized how much you liked it. 

After that, Steve figured he could put up with the itching and the chaffing and the weird stares from other mall-goers. As long as it meant you being unable to keep your hands off of him, dropping to your knees in front of him before he left for work, visiting him at lunch because you just had to see him again.

“You comin’ too, or…?” he jokes in reply, already inching towards the bathroom, but secretly hoping you’ll say yes.

You refuse to amuse him, though, and instead tell him that you have to keep stirring the pasta so it won’t burn. He’s too tired and too excited to wash all the muck of the long workday from his body to beg.

You knew just what he needed — like you always do. He’s as good as gold by the time he gets out of the shower, smelling of your shampoo and practically glittering at how good he feels.

His skin gets to breathe for the first time all day when he slips on a pair of boxers and a faded forest green Hawkins High sweatshirt. They’re freshly washed. He can tell by how soft they feel and the way they smell of fresh detergent. 

It makes his heart swell. 

While he’s been slinging ice cream and questioning all of his life choices, you’ve been washing his clothes, folding them and putting the in their own drawer in your dresser. You’ve been cooking him his favorite dinner, knowing he hasn’t eaten all day, because you know everything about him. 

You do it all because you love him. You don’t have to think twice about it before you so effortlessly take care of him.

He swears you’ll feed him if he begs hard enough, but Steve hasn’t reached that level of tiredness yet. He does, however, force you to sit halfway in his lap while the both of you opt to eat on the couch in the living room rather than the kitchen table.

A repeat of Miami Vice plays on the tiny television across the room and you tell him about what you’d done on your day off in between shoveling forkfuls of pasta into your mouth with your legs slung into his lap.

Most of it was spent taking care of chores, a feat made harder without Hopper and El to take on the extra workloads but easier because their absence meant less shit to get done. 

You drove Dustin and Lucas to the Wheeler’s house later that morning, then doubled back across Hawkins when Max called and all but begged you to free her from the hellscape on Cherry Lane, as she so lovingly put it. You picked her up and dropped her off with the rest of her friends.

And even though they all swore they had rides back home, they’d called again some hours later and asked too sweetly if you could take them back across town.

You complain and grumble about it, but you do it for them anyway.

Because you take care of people. That’s just what you do.

“So you were a personal chauffeur for a bunch of kids all day?” Steve jokes and laughs to himself as he swipes a smudge of alfredo sauce from your chin with his thumb

“Basically,” you nod in reply.

When that’s all done — and the episode is over and the dishes are in the sink and your teeth are freshly brushed — you tell Steve to get into bed, and then to get his head out of the gutter at the look he gives you after.

He’s pleasantly surprised when you bring a whole basket of things from the bathroom and into your bedroom. He watches silently, obediently, as you light a candle on the far side of the room before climbing into bed beside him.

“Scoot down a little,” you tell him. “And take off your shirt.”

He does it all without question. He rises, strips himself of his top, and tosses the thing mindlessly on the floor beside the bed. With his lean torso and bare chest on display, spotted with tufts of chestnut-colored hair and smelling of your body wash, he lazes back onto the bed again with his head on the pillows.

Steve holds his breathe when you straddle his chest.

“Comfy?” you ask him quietly.

He can only nod in response.

His eyes are wide, twinkling with love and curiosity. It makes you smile. He’s always so soft in his way, so compliant with you — and, fuck, if you don’t love how he looks when he’s underneath you.

You lean down to press a chaste kiss to the chiseled tip of his nose then reach for one of the many bottles stacked inside the wicker basket. You drip the rose-scented liquid onto a cottonpad and tell him that it’s cleanser.

“I thought I was already clean?” he retorts.

“Well, this shit is gonna make ya glow like a baby, Harrington,” you tell him and swipe the stuff up and down his face — across his forehead, along his nose, and around his stubbly jaw. “Which means it’s perfect for you.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“Means you’re a baby,” you quip once, then smile lovingly down at him. “My baby,” you correct.

“Damn straight,” he hums with a soft smile, then shuts his eyes when you trade the cleanser for what you call a liquid exfoliator. He doesn’t ask what that means. He doesn’t say much of anything really, because he’s enamored with the way you dote on him.

Your day has been just as busy as his, maybe not as mind-numbing, but still busy. You’ve been bouncing all across town, trying to make sure a bunch of kids weren’t putting themselves in total danger — Steve knows firsthand how hard that can be.

And yet, you keep caring for him, like it’s more important than how tired you must be.

The way you’ve settled on top of him is just a bonus. It’s not as domineering as you usually are in this position, straddling your legs over him and forcing his face between your legs with your fingers tangled in his hair. He wouldn’t have minded if that’s what you’d done in the first place. He would’ve thanked you for it, really.

It’s comforting more than it is anything, the subtle weight of you on top of him, keeping him grounded.

You rub something that feels like lotion into his skin. The tips of your fingers massage his face — they dig softly into his temples, relieving all the strain there, then trace around his curve of his jaw. Steve sighs and melts into your touch. It makes you laugh.

“Look at you,” you giggle, all soft like the moonlight streaming in rays from the windows. Then you tease him. “My baby’s gettin’ all pampered tonight, huh?”

“That stuff smells really good,” he notes. “Think it’s safe enough to taste?”

You know he’s joking, but you flick him in the center of his freshly moisturized forehead anyway, when his tongue darts out the side of his mouth to lick around his lips.

“You’re such an idiot,” you scold with a laugh. “There’s no way we’re gonna be able to have a kid if you keep acting like one, Steve Harrington.”

The boy's eyes fly open. “…A kid?” he repeats in something short of a whisper.

You only hum in reply with a little shrug like you’re trying to play it all off. Like you didn’t just drop the biggest bomb on him and left him to pick up the pieces. Like it isn't the sweetest goddamn thing he’s ever heard in his life (even though you are sort of making fun of him).

“You want a kid with me?” he presses, eyes sparkling and full of hope.

“‘Course I do,” you shrug again, focusing on capping the moisturizer and putting it away rather than meeting his intense gaze. “Want anything and everything with you, Stevie.”

The boy doesn’t bother to hide the grin your words put on his face. He’s all but beaming from where he lays beneath you, trying to make sure he’s still breathing because his heart has started to flutter something fierce.

It was something the two of you only ever talked about in passing — usually him bringing up the idea of having kids and you swatting them all down.

“We’re too young,” you tell him. “We’re too broke”, “we’re too dumb.” The occasional “my dad is literally in the next room, he’ll kill you if he hears you talking like that” shuts him up real quick.

But here you are now, telling him you want a baby with him, that you want everything with him. It drives him absolutely insane.

“Yeah?” he hums in response, idle hands rising and settling upon your bare thighs, rubbing at the smooth skin there, petting you almost. The room gets suddenly and unbearably hot with the look he gives you, innocent and knowing and hungry.

You feel him shift from underneath you, the hardening cock in his boxers making it hard to stay as comfortable as he had been.

“You wanna be a mommy, honey?” he all but coos. “Wanna take care of our kids like you take care of me?”

Though his words set a fire in the pit of your stomach, the tone of them makes you roll your eyes. It’s like flipping a light switch when it comes to Steve. It takes next to nothing to turn him into a puddle of mush.

He’s always raring to go when it comes to you, and you’d be lying if you said it was totally invigorating. 

“What happened to my sweet, sleepy, baby Stevie, huh?” you tease, hands leaving his face to caress the ones he’s got resting on your thighs. “Thought you were too tired?”

He shakes his head defiantly. “Never too tired for you.” 

“I’m supposed to be taking care of you,” you scold with bubbly laughter when you feel his large hands trail up your legs. His finger falls beneath your shirt, the tips of them sneaking into the rounded hems of your underwear, all but cupping your ass to drag you further up his chest.

He’s practically salivating at the mere thought of tasting you. Of knowing that the only thing separating you from him is a couple of inches and the thin fabric of your underwear.

He knows that when he slides them to the side, you’ll be wet and needing him underneath, slick enough for his tongue to slip right in.

And, truth be told, oral sex wasn’t the easiest when you weren’t alone. It was too precarious of a position. If Hopper knocked on the door and barged in hardly a moment later, you needed to break away quickly.

So when your dad and little sister were home, it was easier to use your hands to get each other off. And, maybe, if Steve was real good, you’d let him fuck you.

But his mouth on you? There wasn’t enough good he could be for you to let him do that, not when your father was on the other side of the door in the living room. Because you’re pretty sure death would be easier than your dad catching Steve Harrington giving cunnilingus to his daughter. You’re pretty sure you’d die on the spot, anyway.

But Hopper is miles away. Your sister is on the other side of town. And you’re alone with your boyfriend, hidden away in a cabin in the middle of the woods. It’s the perfect recipe for the best sex of your life.

“Don’t care,” Steve murmurs, pressing kisses to the inner parts of your thigh when he settles you more intently over his shoulders. “Wanna make you feel good.”

“Yeah?” you croon. From below you, the boy notes the arched brow and knowing glint in your eye that usually means trouble. “Daddy wants to make mommy feel good, huh?”

Steve knows exactly why you said it. Why you chose to say it like that. It’s the same reason you brought up the kid thing in the first place. Because you knew it would drive him crazy.

And it’s not like you ever had to try to make him mental, all you really had to do was walk into a room and he was done for. But you didn’t just want to just make him go insane, you wanted to ruin him. 

And you know you’ve done just that when a groan spills from his mouth and two strong hands dig rather ruthlessly into your hips. He pulls you down without warning, pressing your clothed pussy closer to his face and dragging his nose between your covered lips. A moan leaves your mouth in a heavy exhale when the tip of it nudges your clit.

“Like being called daddy, huh?” you tease through bated breaths.

Steve nods in reply as he hooks a finger through the hem of your panties and slides them to the side, putting your pretty, glistening pussy on display for him.

He was right about what he said before — you were soaked. 

All but drunk on the sight of you, he presses open-mouthed kisses to your inner thigh. “Like the other thing, too,” he mumbles against your skin, like he’s hiding himself there.

“The other thing?” you question with pinched brows. The confusion ebbs like a rolling tide as you realize: “Oh. You wanna call me mommy, Stevie?” you ask with a joking lilt.

“Shut up,” he groans against you.

He’s pleasantly surprised when your hand grabs the strands of his hair like reigns, pulling him back just before he puts his mouth on your pussy. He’s even more stunned at the stern expression taking over your features, not nearly as playful as you’d been moments before.

Suddenly you’re ten feet tall, and he’s nothing more than an ant, at the mercy of your boot.

“That’s no way to talk to your mommy, is it, Stevie?” 

He shakes his head with glazed over eyes. “Sorry.”

“Sorry… what?”

There is an underlying tone in your voice, something teasing and yet somehow serious all at once. It’d make him roll his eyes if he weren’t lying beneath you like this. Now, with your pussy mere inches from his face, he isn’t quite sure how to be anything but obedient.

“Sorry, mommy,” he corrects.

A flip switches and you’re smiling again. “Good boy,” you praise and it makes his cock twitch in the confines of his boxers. Your hand guides him to your pussy again.

Steve’s always been good at oral. A little too good, actually. It made you jealous sometimes, to know that his technique has been perfected over years of experience.

“All the other girls were just practice for you, honey,” he’d soothe your seething rage with a wink and a tongue shoved deep into your cunt.

You believe him now, that every other girl was just an obstacle for him to get to you, because no one’s had him like this. No one will ever have him like this.

You’re the one who’s got him on his back with his mouth on your pussy. You’re the one who’s got him calling you mommy.

And it makes you feel like a fucking giant.

He wastes little time to envelope your cunt with his mouth. You feel the muffled grunt he lets out at the tangy and familiar taste of you. His tongue pushes into your cunt, licking you with the intent of devouring you entirely. His nose presses intently against your clit, prodding the little button as you ride his face. He encourages every thrust, guiding your hips up and down his mouth.

“Fuck, Stevie,” you whine and feel him smile drunkenly against your pussy, never ceasing his assault against your sensitive skin.

Your head falls back, suddenly too heavy to hold up. Your gaze settles on the ceiling, though you’re not exactly looking at it, and moans fall from your open mouth and into the heavy air — billowing laments in the moonlight.

“You make me feel so good,” you murmur to yourself, but to him especially, knowing he turns into a ticking time bomb when he’s praised. “Always make mommy feel so fucking good, baby.”

He groans against you, and it makes your hips twitch over his face.

Your head turns and your glazed over eyes fall on the hard cock trapped in his underwear. It’s more than apparent against the thin fabric with a wet patch of precum darkening the plaid cotton. The sight of it, paired with his lips wrapped around your clit, makes you moan most pitifully.

“Fuck, Steve,” you cry. “You’re gonna make me come. Holy shit, baby— gonna come so hard in your mouth.” The promise makes Steve double his efforts against you, wanting nothing more than to taste every drop you can give him. “I’ll ride you after, 'kay? Make you come so hard you can’t see straight. Fuck. I’m so fucking close.”

You figure his muffled whine is an affirmative.

“If you make me come now, maybe I’ll let you come inside me—”

You barely get to finish your sentence before Steve’s wrapping his arms around your thighs and keeping you pressed against his face. His tongue works overtime inside of your cunt, attentively flicking against every part of your velvet walls that it can reach, while his nose nudges your clit most relentlessly.

It has you reaching your climax within seconds, hips jerking against him while his hold on you tightens. Steve only lets you go when he’s certain you’ve ridden out every inch of your orgasm.

You’re shaking and half-numb when you unfold your body from his and settle next to him on the bed. You press yourself over him as your lips swallow his, tasting yourself on his mouth that glistens with you.

Your torso is splayed over his bare one, knees digging into the mattress at his side as you arch your back to push yourself further into him.

“Was that good for you?” he mutters after you’ve pulled away, sliding the tip of your nose up and down the bridge of his.

A laugh escapes you in a sharp scoff. If he couldn’t have felt how good it was for you — after you all but writhed against him — surely he must’ve tasted it dripping like honey from your cunt.

“It’s always good,” you assure him, then murmur more quietly, “Always so good for mommy.”

You keep the promise you’d made him no more than minutes beforehand. You pull down his boxers at the same time he’s trying to get you out of your shirt, and it’s just a mess of yearning limbs until the both of you are naked.

You rub yourself over his cock a few times, getting it all slick with you in the place of lube, because you know taking him is never an easy feat. The stretch of his dick inside you is always delicious but fuck if it doesn’t burn. It’s like fire in every sense of the word, hot and filthy paired with a distant ache.

Steve lets you set the pace as you get used to his length nestled deep inside your velvet. His hands rest compliantly on your hips as you grind against him, honeyed gaze fixed on your fucked out features as you take him — brows pinched, eyes squeezed shut, bottom lip trapped between your teeth.

Then, when every inch of him is snug in your cunt and your senses return to you, you deny him of his want to touch you. Your fingers wrap around his wrists and push them into the pillow on either side of his head. “Mommy didn’t say you could touch her, did she?” you purr to him as you lean over him. He shakes his head obediently, if only it meant that you kept fucking yourself on top of him.

And you do. Most ardently.

You keep your bare chest pressed against his fuzzy one, nose-to-nose as you slide your hips over his. And even though he’s had you like this before (in this position and many others), it feels brand new every time. It’s like he’s never felt you before despite how familiar you feel.

It triggers his body into a sense of fight of flight, as though frightened he’ll never get to have you again. It leaves him fucking you like it’ll be the last time he’s inside you, every fucking time.

It never is, though — obviously. Most times he only has to wait a couple minutes or more before he gets to take you again.

But now, with his hands balled into fists beside his head and your’s braced on his chest, digging into the patch of hair there as you rock back and forth on his hard cock — the tip of it nestled deep inside of you and hitting every sweet spot that makes you keen — has left him an absolute wreck beneath you. 

He’s chasing his pleasure like he’s never felt it before. Like he won’t feel it again.

“Your cock feels so good, Stevie,” you moan above him.

“‘M not gonna last long, baby,” he mutters between harsh and labored pants.

“’S okay… I want you to come,” you promise and press a too sweet kiss to his swollen, pink lips. You move your hips more intently over him. The sound of skin slapping against skin fills your bedroom. “Want you to fill me up.”

“Yeah?” he breathes out in something short of a whimper. His eyes are glassy and his brows are furrowed and it takes everything in him not to fuck up into you — because he wants to be good, he wants to be good for you. 

“Yeah… Want you come in me… Fuck me until it takes,” you babble over top of him, knowing exactly what it’s doing to the whining boy beneath you. “Wanna give you a baby— fuck— I wanna make you a daddy, Stevie.”

A whine spills from his throat. His toes curl into the fabric of your comforter, eyes rolling back into his head, body tensing as he digs his fingers into the skin of his palms that still ache to touch you.

Your name spills from his mouth along with a string of curses and pretty little cries when he stuffs you full of his come.

You happily accept every load he shoots into you as work him through every aftershock of his orgasm. Yours doesn’t come so easy — you roll your hips over yourself and rub your clit until you’re twitching right along with him. 

You come down from your highs together with a tender softness. You lay over him, one hand combing through his curls and the other stroking softly at his sweat-slicked bicep. You watch with heavy eyes as his orgasm rolls over him. 

His chest rises and falls with every heavy breath, stuttering when another pang of pleasure hits him all of a sudden. “Fuck,” he whines harshly into the heavy air.

He’s happy you don’t deny him when his arms wrap around your waist, hands rubbing up and down the expanse of your slick back.

You press tiny kisses to his face as he comes down — his nose, his cheeks, his forehead his stubbly chin and jaw. You press one, two, three pecks to his lips before you slide off of him, then laugh when he whines.

You’re gone for hardly more than three minutes, but to Steve, it feels like an eternity’s gone by.

You return from the bathroom, wiped freshly clean, and blow out the nearly burnt-out candle on your dresser before you slither back into his side. One of his arms curls beneath your shoulders to pull you closer to him with his other rests on the back of yours that’s settled on his chest.

You share one pillow, noses inches away from one another’s, while you bask in the warm moment and the sex-coated air around you before you have to break it.

“You know I’m still on the pill, right?” you ask him.

He nods.

“And that we’re—”

“Way too young to have a kid right now?” he finishes for you, though the idea makes him sad. He nods.

“Yeah… And—”

“Too broke? I know that too.”

“Also my—”

“Your dad would kill me if I got you pregnant?”

It makes you laugh. You hadn’t realized you’d talked about having kids this many times — at least, not enough for him to memorize all the reasons why it’s not the best idea right now.

“Yeah, I know it’s not happening any time soon,” Steve says with a sigh. “I like to pretend, though. Plus, it’s not even about that to me, you know? I just… I just like being with you and… everything.”

Everything, you repeat to yourself. A word that means so much and nothing at all.

No one knows what everything means, they just know that it’s a lot, a whole lot. That’s what makes it so special. Steve wants it all with you — the overbearing dad, the sister with powers, the teenage kids who never let you have a single second to yourselves when they’re around. 

It’s a lot sometimes, most times, but he’ll weather it all with you.

“You like being with me?” you echo just to see him nod.

He does. “I love being with you,” he corrects.

“Love calling me mommy, too, huh?”

He realizes then, the sincere moment was just a set-up for that stupid joke. He groans and flops his head back on the pillow, but makes no move to distance himself from you.

“Oh, my god,” he moans in annoyance. “Am I gonna have to deal with this the rest of my life?”

You nod. “Sorry, Harrington, but I’m never letting that shit go.”

Good, he thinks to himself, even though he pretends to hate it because it makes you laugh. He never wants you to stop.

[itsthestutterforme]

The Sweet Times (Rafe Cameron Drabble)

Summary: You and Rafe shared a cute moment at Tannyhill:

Prompt credit @luvmmarner : “I don’t ever want to lose you,” “You mean everything to me,”

Notes: GIF is not mine, all mistakes are my own, reader is black

**

Softly humming a tune, you flipped the chicken as it continued to brown in the pan while the sauce was mixing in the blender. The blender clicked off and you turned around to open the blender. Dragging the tip of your finger along the lid, you licked some remnants of the vodka sauce from your finger. You were about to open the fridge when you noticed Rafe staring at you from the hallway.

“Oh hey baby, I didn’t see you come in.” You greet, bringing down the heat of the chicken as you crossed the kitchen. “Just trying to figure out how you’re such a natural in the kitchen,” he states, wrapping his arms around your waist. “All it takes is practice,” You tried to go on your tippy toes to kiss him and still fall short. He chuckles as you collapse into his chest. “How is it fair you can make gourmet meals and I can barely make a grilled cheese?”

“There’s nothing wrong with a grilled cheese,” you console, making him roll his eyes. “Besides, that just mean we balance each other out,” you add, pouting when you couldn’t reach his lips for a kiss. He loves your height difference. How you need a step stool because you could barely reach the middle shelf.

It felt nice for you to need him for something. I makes him feel like less of a fuck up. He bent down to press a warm kiss on your lips, smiling when you ease under his touch. You hummed into the kiss and brought him closer by the neck. “I missed you,” you said against his lips. “I missed you more, pretty girl.” “Topper invited us to his place for a rager but I’ll tell him some other time.” he adds.

“Awe, why not? I like his ragers,” “Because I bought us some face masks and we are going to have a self care day.” Rafe states, motioning to the Ulta Beauty bag on the floor in the hallway. “Well why didn’t you say so?”

**

The night continued on and you finished your Chicken Marsala just in time for Rafe to rent one of your favorite comfort movie: She’s All That. The entire night you felt his eyes on you, examining every part of you as he can. You decided to keep it to yourself so he didn’t feel embarrassed that you caught him.

It wasn’t until it was time for the face masks that you spoke up about it. It’s not like you had any choice. He sat on the toilet bowl while you gingerly placed the strawberry face mask on his face. His eyes searched yours, his lips parted slightly as if he was in awe. His slow breath fanning against your neck made it hard for you to think straight. His eyes dilated the longer you held his gaze, making your face burn bashfully. “Rafe, why do you keep looking at me like that?” “Like what?”

“The look you have right now. It’s gives a girl butterflies you know?” You smile, applying some pressure to smooth the mask over his forehead. “Is something on your mind?” You suggest. Concern weighed on your brow when he continued to look at you in silence. You were about to say his name when he finally said, “You mean.. everything to me,”

His soft voice caused hundred of goosebumps to erupt on your skin. “Rafe,” he wrapped his hands around yours and pulled you in between his legs. “I don’t ever want to lose you,” “You won’t,” you reassure. Had it not been for the face mask, you would have held his face by now. Casually caressing his cheek bone so he knew you were genuine.

“I’m here. I’m yours.” You reinforced, flattening your hand over his buzzcut. “If you get down on one knee or something, I’m going to scream.” A you added. “Well.. it’s not like the sound isn’t familiar to me.” A small smirk plays on his lips and you shove him playfully. You made a stride to leave the bathroom but he caught you and pulled you back where you once were.

“Whoa, whoa. Where do you think you’re going, pretty girl?” “Going to watch the movie,” you said as he piled you in his lap. “I have my movie right here,” you looked away from his burning gaze and he lifted your gaze back up with your chin.

“Beautiful,”

[centipedelightning]

Could you do an Undertale, Underfell, and maybe Underswap with an enderman-like S/O, like they're really tall, jet black skin, can teleport, the whole shebang. But instead of eye contact making them aggressive, it just makes them really anxious and on edge.

(To clarify, I see teleporting and short cutting as to different things. Teleporting is instantaneous disappearing and then reappearing while shortcutting is more like a portal type thing)

(Love your hcs, btw. Here, have some chocolate 🍫 ❤️)

Enderman-like OCs and stuff are always so cool bc Endermen are cool. And thank you!! can't have chocolate without strawberries though! so here !! 🍓🍓🍓. I agree btw! I don't always write it, but I've always seen shortcuts as needing to happen at the edge of the screen/at certain points in the world like doorways. So portal-like if you don't think about it too much!

| UT/UF/US x Enderman-esque!Reader || Romantic || Fluff |

Sans

How neat!

Up until meeting you, he's been the only Monster that can disappear and reappear he knows.

On the surface, he definitely likes to race you and see who can get further faster. The deciding factor is genuinely only on if you can teleport before Sans can get to a shortcut.

Y'all's score is about even.

Listen. This man is like 5'2" (~157cm). Even if you aren't exceptionally tall, like 6' (~182cm), he has to try to look in your eyes.

Try to tell him pretty early on in the relationship, but even if you put it off you really don't need to worry too much.

For others though, he tries to act as a mediator to give you a second to prepare yourself.

His life as a stand-up comedian has also given him a few tips and tricks to help you.

Things like "Look just slightly past the person you're talking to" and "Look right between their eyes"

Once you guys are pretty established in your relationship Sans makes sure to keep something for you to hold onto in his pocket.

Sometimes it's a fidget toy. Sometimes it's a roll of tape he snagged out of the junk drawer on the way out the door.

Truly depends on the day.

Papyrus

"PLEASE TELL ME YOU DON'T USE YOUR TELEPORTING TO BE A LAZY-BONES LIKE MY BROTHER"

Tred... Carefully here.

He thinks it's neat sure, but if he catches you teleport from the couch to the kitchen for a snack back to the couch prepare to be lectured.

He's not mad at you he's just passionate.

You can buy his silence very easily if you are willing to surprise him with a grocery run without needing to drive.

Papyrus is scary good at reading people, so if you don't mention that you can't do eye contact, he'll figure it out by the end of the day.

So, regardless of whether you tell him or not, he will start fully turning his head away from you while you guys talk.

He doesn't even need to be able to see your face normally.

He can be doing something with his back to you and he will instinctively turn his head.

Yes, that does probably mean he turned enough to see you slightly.

That also means he can see what he's doing less so you might want to remind him to look forward lest y'all have a mess.

As a crafty guy, he'll make you some little item for you to hold onto if you need to.

Introduce him to fidget toys. He'll lose his mind.

Red

Stressed mostly.

Underground, someone who can teleport is bad news.

Once you get into his good graces, he's your biggest fan.

Have you ever been a living taxi? Do you want to be? regardless of the answer Red is gonna try to mooch a free trip out of you all the time.

Similar to Sans, he's short. You really don't need to worry about constant eye contact from him.

Or any Monster for that matter. I've always seen Fell-verses as not being eye contact heavy for probably obvious reasons.

Red still does try to give you some tips and they are somewhat similar to Sans'.

He likes to whittle things with interesting textures for you to hold and mess with.

Think something like a little animal figure with ridges and bumps and stuff.

Edge

So here's the thing about Edge.

He is not dumb and he is very emotionally intelligent.

That awareness of the world does not overpower his lack of chill.

He makes the Most Intense eye contact with people and you are going to need to tell him to knock it off.

Because you can be completely turned away from him and you will still feel his gaze.

Once your relationship progresses more, he stops trying to turn you to stone with his eye sockets.

By that point, he will also be comfortable telling you to do whatever you want so you don't need to worry yourself about looking in other people's eyes. If they say anything he is more than ready to tell them off for you.

Obviously, he also has a similar worry to his brother about your teleportation. At least initially. He's in the royal guard and a high-ranking member at that! He has a right to be a little wary.

What he won't tell you is that he's easy to please so you can do the bare minimum to prove your friendship/interest in him and he folds.

If you're the type that's into it, he really enjoys sparring with you. He thinks your teleporting is a really fun challenge.

Edge will find you the tiniest, most obscenely complex puzzle boxes on the market to give you.

He says it's something about keeping your mind sharp but it's more so insurance that you won't get bored of it too quickly.

That and he likes bragging about his datemate being able to solve complex puzzles.

Blue

Despite the height difference, he looks you in the eyes super hard all the time.

It's not to be mean or anything! He's just passionate and forgetful.

This is one of the few guys where avoiding eye contact is gonna be more on you.

He'll notice after a bit during conversation and relax a bit but until then...

He thinks your teleporting is pretty neat!

He's not crazy about the lazy applications of your ability, but who's he to tell you to stop teleporting?

He complains even less once he realizes you can take the both of you on spontaneous, last-minute date nights.

He likes to give you his things to hold onto.

He tries to keep it to a reasonable size but you have ended up with one of his action figures before.

Guess you can carry it in a bag?

If you like much smaller objects he'll give you cool rocks out of his collection

Stretch

He was already a couch potato before meeting you, he's even worse now.

To shortcut he still has to get up and walk to a spot where he can but you? You can just poof from wherever?

Yeahhhh you're on snack duty from now until forever. That includes the convenience store.

Force him to come with you. Don't let him get too comfortable.

Stretch isn't big on eye contact himself, so neither of you has ever had a problem with it.

Stretch will find you cool knickknacks to hold onto. usually super little ones with a button or switch. Something tactile.

If it's your style, he is also willing to sew you a little stuffed animal or something. It makes it happy to know it's being loved regularly.

[sushibabe]

20 low cal/ 0 cal drinks! (Non basic version lol)

☕︎ Diet sodas (obvi)

☕︎ Bone broth! 10g of protein for 50 calories. I like Swanson Beef Sipping Bone Broth. The warmth along with the protein helps me stay fuller longer. And the collagen is great for your skin.

☕︎ Coffee (plain or with a splash of any milk you’d like/ sugar free sweetener)

☕︎ Unsweet tea (putting it on ice makes it taste better in my opinion, same with plain coffee)

☕︎ Gatorade zero

☕︎ Sparkling Ice drinks

☕︎ Unsweetened almond milk or soy milk (for your cereal to make it a snack if you need something small)

☕︎ Chewing ice/ drinking water distracts you and fills you so that’s always a good one. Adding lemon is also a trick!

☕︎ Zevia (zero calorie soda which a bunch of different flavor options)

☕︎ Aquafina Flavor splash/ artificially sweetened water (multiple brands have released this)

☕︎ Diet Snapple

☕︎ Hint water

☕︎ Diet Monster/ the “ultra blue” kind

☕︎ Red Bull Zero

☕︎ Starbucks cold brew with sugar free vanilla syrup and a splash of almond milk (my Starbucks go to for anyone who likes Starbucks). Less than 50 calories!

☕︎ Chocolate Silk almond milk is about 80 calories a serving which is the highest calorie drink listed on here, but it’s good for stopping sugar cravings. It tastes really good and always works for me. Strawberry soy milk is good too for sugar cravings. Good for preventing unnecessary sugar intake with high calorie deserts.

☕︎ Adding fruit to your water is also good idea. It makes you want to drink more water while also adding vitamins/ some substance to keep you full if you’re trying to stay away from big meals. Mint is a good thing for water too. Different fruits have different healing properties as well and can even help with things like acne and bloating.

☕︎ Glaceau sparkling fruit water (fizzy vitamin water basically without the calories)

☕︎ Vitamin Water Zero is a good source of electrolytes! Gatorade zero/ Powerade zero both have electrolytes as well which aid in hydration and restoration of your body.

☕︎ Unsweet Lemon Honest Tea

☕︎ Bai drinks are a good option for people who wanna try something different and are tired of the basic diet sodas/ unsweet drinks. There are a lot of flavors including coconut which only has 10 calories for the entire bottle, and they are antioxidant infused.

Stay healthy and hydrated! ♡ if you’re struggling with an ED, you aren’t alone and there are ways to cope and heal healthily. If you ever need someone to talk to I am here :) I’ve struggled too but I’m trying

[kcrossvine-art]

Hewwo! baps your face off! TODAY from the big book of Redwall cookin’, we have my fuckin favorite recipe thus far; Rosey's Jolly Raspberry Jelly Rock Cakes- The one that I've actually had ready to go for a few weeks now but I kept eating it too fast to take notes. Buckle into your buggies, hotshots.

(You can find the original recipe at the bottom if you’d like to follow along, and i plead you do)-

MY NAMES CROSS NOW LETS COOK LIKE ANIMALS

SO, “what goes in to a Jolly Raspberry Jelly Rock Cake?” YOU MIGHT ASK

All-purpose flour

Baking powder

Salt

Unsalted butter

Sugar

Eggs

Raspberry jam or jelly

Went to read this recipe and upon realizing i had every ingredient- from start to finish it took about an hour and half from deciding to make it to being able to eat it! 

AND, “what does Jolly Raspberry Jelly Rock Cake taste like?” YOU MIGHT ASK

Excellence. Pure comfort. Food that heals bones and hearts. Food that laces up scars. Food you make for your lover in bed on a cold rainy day.

Not quite fluffy, but very soft, smooth center

Crumbly, again soft, outer

Tart raspberry jam is the crown jewel of the piece. Mwah. God.

Rich and refreshing

The sprinkled sugar comes out not overbearingly sweet

Do try to eat/serve these warm, they keep well, but the jam will start to absorb into the pastry

Most jam or fruit filling works here, as long as it has some tartness, the world is your oyster. Grab your oyster fork. Feel weird about having an oyster fork. 

Like a molten lava cakes baby cousin-

. Used fine granulated sugar 

. Used salted butter (and only a pinch of salt instead of tsp.)

. Used raspberry jam

. Served with goat cheese caramel lightly drizzled

. Bumping the cook time up from 15 to 17 minutes let the edges brown a bit more which I recommend I think in the future I would like to also try pairing this with slices of strawberry, or perhaps fresh raspberries placed on top? Its hard to spitball pairing ideas because Most Things would pair fair!!

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

Gentlethems of the Jury, we here at crossy wossys kitschy kitchy, welcome our very first 10/10

I so dearly need to communicate that I've had this art made for a good week now, I first baked this almost 2 weeks ago, and am just now getting around to writing the actual review. I like to have the food in my mouth to write about the flavor/mouthfeels section.  And I kept eating them too fast to take notes. I've used almost a whole bag of sugar making these on repeat and my teeth surely hate me but the heavens sneer enviously.

These fellas don't seem rather persnickety- I think one would have to actively try to mess up the recipe in a way where its no longer delicious. These are essentially scones with more variety in textures and flavors! The aforementioned latest batch was made at 4am halfmindedly with multiple perceived mistakes, and the only difference from the first carefully attended-to batch was that they were slightly less pretty to look at, both being absolutely mouthwatering. 

The low fussy-ness, low spoons (for me!), and delicious outcome that can pair with many drinks, makes this a flawless pastry in my eyes. a proud 10/10, with 1 being food that makes one physically sick and 10 being food that gives one a lust for life again.

🐁 ORIGINAL RESIPPY TEXT BELOW 🐁

Ingredients:

1 and 1/2 cups all-purpose flour, plus additional for rolling the dough

1 and 1/2 teaspoons baking powder

1/2 teaspoon salt

6 tablespoons unsalted butter or margarine, chilled and cubed, plus additional for the baking sheet

1/2 cup sugar, plus additional for sprinkling

2 eggs, lightly beaten

Raspberry jam or jelly

Method:

Preheat the oven to 400° F and grease a baking sheet.

In a mixing bowl, whisk together the flour, baking powder and salt. Add the butter and rub it into the flour with your fingers (alternately, pulse the dry ingredients and butter in a food processor) until the mixture resembles coarse crumbs. Stir in the sugar. Make a well in the centre, add the eggs and mix well to form a stiff dough.

Turn the dough out onto a floured board and form it into a roll. Cut the dough into ten pieces, shape them into balls and place them well apart on the baking sheet.

Use your thumb to make a hole in the centre of each and fill the hole with jam or jelly.

Pinch the dough closed over the jam, sprinkle the rock cakes with a little sugar and bake them until golden brown, about 1 5 minutes.

Cool the cakes on a wire rack and eat them while fresh, preferably on the same day.

[who-knew-a-sheep-can-write]

Caught in the Rain: Charles Smith x Reader

You ducked inside the tent, squeezing as close to him as you could, your eyes couldn’t help but peek at the flap of the tent threatening to break open to drench you both once again in the horrible elements. Your clothes were already sopping, you were soaked to the bone, your hair was sticking to your face and neck, and your boots were surely needing a good few days out in the hot sun to dry them out.

And you’re sure Charles is in the same hole you’re in, maybe even deeper.

You both had been out in West Elizabeth looking to hunt down some more meat for dinner as Pearson was droning on about low supplies once more. Dutch had Arthur busy dealing with some nonsense for the camp that when you both had volunteered, you were both sent off on your horses without a second thought. You both were in the vicinity of Strawberry, passing by trails that pointed directly to the little town along the river multiple times when an awful storm suddenly hit. You were nearly blown off your poor horse by gusts of wind as claps of thunder surely scared away any prey ripe for hunting.

Charles barked over the rain to head into the trees for shelter, you both were hoping to find some long forgotten cabin before the rain became too bad. Sadly, after about ten minutes of searching, Charles had given up hope on the plan and snatched up the tent off the back of his horse and tried to set it up as best as he could.

You tried to hitch the horses close by, the poor things were scared by the lightning flashing across the sky and the claps of thunder that shook the woods around you.

You heard your name called from behind you, and when you turned around, you saw the tent put up and being battered by fat droplets of water. It looked less stable than usual in a storm, poor Charles looked absolutely rattled inside as he held the flap of the tent open for you.

And there you were, sitting all huddled up in the tent, shoulder to shoulder with your lover shivering for warmth.

The flap of the tent had been pulled closed, though, the howling winds and heavy rain threatened to rip open the flap and bring the elements inside of the tent too.

But for now, everything was stable. You could hear the horses snorting nearby where you had hitched them and the inside of the tent was mostly dry.

Everything was okay.

You leaned against Charles’ broad shoulder, laying your head against him as you couldn’t help but shiver. Even though he was drenched with cold rainwater, soaked through his clothes to his skin, he still gave off warmth. He practically radiated it. Charles brushed the soaked strands of hair off of his face and squeezed off the excess water from his clothes before sighing and looking over at you all huddled up to his side by this point.

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. There were no worries right now: No thoughts about O’Driscolls or Pinkertons or bounty hunters wanting to drag them all off to jail for being with Dutch’s little gang. There was suddenly no storm, no cold and wet clothes, no horses outside getting soaked, or a tent about to blow over with both of you in it.

It was just calm inside of the tent as you both looked each other in the eye.

Charles smiled at you, placing an arm around your waist to draw you in closer, almost knowing that you were going to sponge up all of the warmth he produced. He nearly had you in his lap at that point.

“You cold?” he half-laughed at you still shivering.

“I was getting drenched hitching the horses! Of course, I’m cold. I’m soaking wet!”

“I can think of a way to help warm you up.”

You caught him looking at you with a smug smile on his face as he tugged on your soaking wet clothes that were still dripping. You threw your brows up at the idea of even doing it right now, but something inside of you started to burn with desire.

“Charles!” you whined as he pressed a kiss against your cheek. “What if the tent falls down?”

With a smirk on his face, all he said was “It’s happened in the woods before.”

[writingforatwistedworld]

Could I pls request a Trey riddle and malleus being jealous of your real life partner? Thx you and thx a bunch!

Self-aware au

I do not take any responsibility for you reading this no matter which age group you are from!

WARNINGS: Yandere themes, murder, violence, blood, killing, religion, kidnapping, death, obsession

Riddle Rosehearts/Trey Clover/Malleus Draconia-Being jealous of your partner

Ohdearohdearohdear...

You really decided to endanger your beloved... great....

Suddenly I can see him as the Queen of Hearts even more

You see, he is just always screaming “OFF WITH THEIR HEAD!”

How you don't hear it through the screen? I don't know man. I'm just an author writing this

Oh! Did your dear just feel something around their throat?

Probably just the wind... OR MAYBE....

Riddle needs to calm down somewhat does he do?

If you guessed feeding the flamingos then you were wrong

He is playing “Off with your head” bingo

Cater is crying somewhere, scared for the freedom of his throat

C-can you please tell him later through swooning that you like him?

Just so that his dorm members can more or less repeat the French revolution without the guillotine

And then suddenly it's really off with their head... Heartslabyul won't need to buy paint for a while

At least Riddle admits that he is jealous

But that neck of your dear one looks just so crunchable! Just imagining the sensation of their bones cracking under his fingers.. they felt something once more? How curious...

When Trey woke up that day everything was perfect...

The sun was shining in golden rays through the window, birds were chirping, the baker became a Disney princess...

And then he choose war

There was ANOTHER person with you

And that wasn't even the worst

They were close to you! Hugging you!

Making it clear to him that they were your partner

Overseer! Just look into the mirror and you can see the grin they are throwing him! (It's all in his head dw)

You know, Trey was always someone who likes to solve things with words instead of violence...

But not today! Nu-uh! Time to get rid of the pest who dares to steal the attention away from him... *ahem* from your subjects!

Thank the Overseer Sadly he just isn't strong enough to actually influence your world...

So he does something we all do when we hear an especially annoying mosquito at night and that thing is somehow hiding every time you search for it: imagining it squashed against the wall

Well there are differences of course

For one, that mosquito will eat a cake before spitting blood, fall in over, bleed to death....

But hey, color-wise they will match with the strawberry cake on the table!

Whilst every other person would accept that they were just jealous and not imagine another persons death....

He is completely deluding himself. Him? At fault??! NEVER! He just has to get rid of that parasite over there!

Uh... the world is ending in green flames

Ok but where did it all begin?

So here he was, the dragon fae, Malleus Draconia, himself catching the first glimpse of you

Basking for a millisecond in your presence....

And then it's the apocalypse

I am not kidding he will snatch you up and just drag you into TWST

Your dear? Oh just dangling from that wall over there.... thorns piercing their throat....

Red is a very fitting color for green, wouldn't you agree?

Sebek is preparing your room

Silver is trying to keep the damage outside of TWST

And Lilia is being Lilia by dangling from a tree eating popcorn

Please cuddle him! He will make you sleep those ninety-nine years of sleeping Aurora was able to slip away from

Tell him that you only belong to him! Only him! No one else!

The throne back home is polished, the temples cleaned till the last bit of dust is gone

Don't you see dear? You are truly loved here! Unlike back then with that... thing

Well, I do have to say though that crown looks pretty neat upon your head...

Oh, and you might be cursed to spend all eternity with him. Hurray!

[violetsaffron5]

12 Days of Christmas (2022)

| Masterlist | Taglist | Ao3 | Social Media | Discord 18+ | Chapter 8 |

7 | Seven Swans-a-Swimming

Pairing: Ieiri Shoko x f!Reader

Prompt: You run into the last person you expected, in the most unexpected place over the holidays. How will things turn out?

Words: 1.4k

Warnings: a little hate sex, oral sex, vaginal fingering, semi-public sex, getting walked in on (kinda)

“So, what’s it like being a hot shot doctor?” Your patient asks as you push them down the hall of the hospital in a wheelchair.

“Have you ever gone to see a movie that everyone said was the best thing to happen to mankind, and then your expectations are high so you end up disappointed?

“Movies nowadays have too many special effects,” they wave their hands in the air as your pager beeps on your hip.

Quickly, you hand them over to a nurse and run down the hall towards the room you’re being called to.

When someone’s heart fails, they need everyone, and the first doctor to show up gets to run the room, which is incredibly exciting for an intern such as yourself.

You get to tell everyone what to do, make all of the important decisions, including if the patient lives or dies. It’s crazy when you stop to think about it. Which unfortunately did.

So you take a turn, opposite of the patient's room and open the first door on the left to the medical supply closet.

You just started your internship in the ER, on Christmas no less, where there’s no shortage of patients who’ve had heart attacks, strokes, cut themselves with knives or who have gotten into heated arguments and drunken fist fights with family members resulting in broken bones.

When you close the door to the closet and turn around you’re met with beautiful brown eyes, chocolate colored hair and the smoke of a cigarette burning in her hand.

You yelp, having not expected to see anyone in this room, let alone her.

“Shouldn't you be out there, helping the patient?” Shoko asks, taking the last drag of her cigarette.

“Dr. Gojo and Dr. Geto were already in the room assisting,” you mutter, mildly ashamed of your actions, now that you’re being called out on it.

“Bunch of show offs,” she scoffs, rolling her eyes.

“Um, should you be smoking here?” You wave your hand in your face, even though there's no smoke.

She points up, while putting out the cigarette, to a vent, “this is where I go when I need a quick break.”

You nod, pursing your lips. Shoko is a few years older than you, and you met in medical school. Once she graduated, she broke your heart, but you knew going into the relationship that she would always put her work before you, that’s just who she is.

But it didn't stop the sting each time she would cancel a date last minute to work a double, leaving you hanging, all dressed up and already out waiting for her to show up, several times a week.

The tension in the tiny room is so thick you could cut it with a knife. There were a lot of things said during your break up, and even more left unsaid since Shoko ran off to work in the middle of the argument. The two of you stopped all contact with each other that night.

Until now, where she stands so beautiful, and tall, even with tired eyes, smelling like cheap coffee and cigarettes.

And then her lips are on yours, or maybe yours are on hers. You’re not entirely sure who made the first move but right now, it doesn't matter.

She sighs a breath of relief, and you slip your tongue into her mouth, tasting menthol from the cigarette and caramel from the coffee she must have had recently. There’s also a hint of strawberry chapstick on her lips mixing and mingling with the other flavors making for an odd combination.

“I hate you,” you breathe as she makes her way down the base of your neck, lifting the top of your scrubs, pulling your bra down and sucking a nipple in her mouth. She swirls her tongue on the bud before nipping playfully, the way you always liked.

“Oh please,” she’s exasperated, never having time for bullshit, including now as she kisses the crevice between your chest to the other side, “if you hated me we wouldn't be doing this.”

She has a point, and you hate that, as much as you really do want to hate her, but you can’t, no matter how hard you’ve tried over the years. You just… can’t.

You gasp as she tugs on your other nipple, tweaking the lone one between her fingers until you’re pushing your hips against hers, begging to be touched where you’re aching most.

She smiles against you as she leaves a trail of kisses along your stomach, lowering herself to her knees, playing with the hem of your pants.

“Please,” you plead quietly, as she teases, letting her thumb graze just under your panty line, several times, placing a soft kiss to your clothed pussy.

“I know you want this, so stop being a bitch about it,” she comments before hooking her fingers through the waistband of your pants and panties, pulling them both down in one fell swoop.

Shoko teases by kissing around your stomach and thighs, totally ignoring your now exposed pussy before placing a tentative kiss just above your clit.

You gasp at the contact, pushing your hips forward, trying your hardest to get some contact. She laughs as she removes one of your shoes, sliding your pant leg off, allowing you to place one foot on the shelf behind her, granting better access to you.

Shoko wastes no time dipping her head between your legs, licking through your folds, still avoiding your clit for several seconds, or minutes, you’re not sure but it feels like forever. Your hand tangles in her hair, pushing her further into you until she finally runs her tongue over your clit in a small slow circle.

You moan out at the contact, arching your back against the shelving unit you’re leaning against. She smiles and you can feel it as she sucks your clit, inserting two fingers into your dripping cunt.

She still has your body mapped out, memorized, that much is apparent with how easily she’s able to find your g-spot. There’s not a lot of time, she knows it, you know it, but fuck if you’re not going to savor this moment with her.

You’re set on fully enjoying the ways she’s able to make you feel, in ways nobody has been able to since.

The shelves shake and rattle as you rut your hips against her tongue, as your legs begin to shake alongside them. It was always so easy for her to make you cum. Still is, apparently.

Shoko’s moaning into you, licking and sucking like she’s been a woman starved, denied of what she wants most in the world.

“Cum for me, baby,” Shoko says, picking up speed, long, slender fingers hitting that spot each and every time, making you whimper.

And your body listens to her, gripping her hair tighter, arching your back, calling out her name as waves of pleasure wash over you. Your entire body shakes at the intensity of it all as Shoko moves her tongue between your folds, drinking up everything your body has offered her.

Before she stands, she helps you get your shaking leg back into your pants and shoe back on. She’ll let you finish dressing, it was the least she could do, since she was already down there.

She grabs your face, pulling you into her, tasting your essence on her tongue, her eyes are lidded, filled with lust anticipating her own turn. She knows you’ll be able to make her cum just as quickly, and if you don’t hurry, someone is bound to notice the two of you are missing.

As you lean over, grabbing your pants to adjust yourself, the medical supply closet door swings open.

“What are you two doing here?” Chief of Medicine Yaga asks, you stand quickly, pulling your pants up before he’s able to see them around your ankles.

“Just looking for some, um, you know…” you trail off as Dr. Gojo swings his arm over Chief Yaga’s shoulder, distracting him.

“I need some tubes,” he nods his head towards one of the containers, so you grab a package and toss it to him. He winks with a wicked grin as he pulls Yaga away with him, down the hall.

“Wait!” You run out of the room, into the hall after them, “what happened with the patient?”

“Oh! Turns out he was sleeping, and the monitor was faulty. He did not like being zapped with the defibrillator,” Dr. Gojo laughs, walking off with the package of tubes he didn’t need.

Taglist: @z33sblog @thisbicc @septembersums @septembersummer @nothisispatrick300 @km7474 @missyasma @arisucat @watyousayin @khadeejarh

[skellebonez]

Cotton Tails and Borrowed Time: Aftermath and Remix... and Some Stuff Between. Chapter 4

For Now and For Forever.

This can technically take place before the last chapter, but I had to save this for today. Happy Pride ya'll! Also, sorry for the long delay in fic uploads/updates. I was in a car accident and had a concussion/wrist bone contusion and couldn't really write anything for like a month. But I'm ok now!

AO3 Link!

"Tang, wake up," Pigsy said softly. He couldn't believe he was doing this, but... He had made all these plans. He needed to follow through. "I have something for ya."

Tang yawned and stretched, blinking open his eyes. A slow, lazy smile spread across his face at the sight of the silver tray with the dome lid that sat on the bed between them.

"What's all this?" He asked. "And... it's almost lunch? Did you let me sleep in?"

"I, um..." Pigsy faltered, rubbing the back of his neck with a nervous chuckle as he slowly lifted the lid. "I have a surprise for you."

"Strawberries!" Tang exclaimed. Under the tray was delicious treat and fruit juice that Pigsy took extra time to prepare himself. "White chocolate strawberries! How did we not think of that!? This isn't exactly breakfast food, but... I'm not gonna complain!"

"I thought you'd appreciate that," Pigsy said with a fond chuckle. "They're all yours, honey bun. I kinda helped myself to some of the fruit as I made all this already."

"Really?" Tang asked, eyes wide in awe as his leg thumped in excitement under the blanket.

"Really," Pigsy said with a nod. "Except this one."

With a chuckle he reached out, snatching one of the smaller ones and popping it into his mouth. The fake offended "THIEF" Tang whisper shouted was worth it, as was the chuckle they shared and the delicious sweet-tartness of the treat he had made up for his... boyfriend?

Boyfriend didn't feel right any more. Not strong enough for the bond they shared. That was at least half the reason he decided to do this. It felt like it was time to take the next step. They had to.

Tang ate happily, listening to Pigsy explain that the shop was closed for the day and that he planned a special day for just the two of them.

"You're hiding something," Tang said plainly as he licked the strawberry juice off his mouth fur.

"Am I that obvious?" Pigsy asked with a chuckle. He might have been more flustered or upset that Tang caught on if he hadn't gotten so used to the scholar picking up on things so quickly (and if he didn't find it both endearing and less anxiety inducing to know he was noticing things). "Got any guesses?"

"Nope," Tang said with a chuckle. "Something tells me this would be better if it was a surprise. Let's see what you have in store for me today."

Pigsy breathed a quiet sigh of relief, settling onto the bed beside Tang. His love for the bunny demon was overwhelming at that moment, banishing... MOST of his remaining fears and doubts. Not all of them. But enough to make him feel that, maybe, today was going to be perfect after all. At least... he hoped it would be.

It took almost no time for the two of them to get ready, Pigsy having informed Tang it would be dressed for an outdoor day.

He looked... so handsome to Pigsy. It wasn't every day that Tang wore something shorter than his usual longer top, opting for a similar outfit that had something he could tuck into his pants instead, but the few times Pigsy saw him in this outfit he couldn't help but find it made him look amazing.

"If you're gonna stare," Tang said with a smirk. "You should probably take a picture."

"S-shush," Pigsy eventually stammered out, averting his gaze with a flush. "And uh... bend down a bit? No peaking."

Tang looked at him with a raised brow, a bemused smile on his face as he did so. The smile faltered for a moment as Pigsy pulled a piece of cloth out of his pocket before slowly, carefully, blindfolding the rabbit.

"Is this really necessary?" Tang asked, the first bit of uncertainty Pigsy has heard from him that morning. But he didn't stop the chef, patiently waiting for him to finish.

"No, but it's part of the surprise. Remember, no peaking!" Pigsy said as he tightened the blindfold. "And hold on."

"Hold on to wh-AH!"

Pigsy closed his eyes, holding onto Tang's hands as the feeling of the magic surrounding them almost pulled him down into the shadows. Then thrust them upwards, more gently than he had expected actually. When he opened them again, they were no longer in the bedroom.

"Hmnn... sounds like... were on Mount Huaguo," Tang said after a small gasp with wide smile. "On the beach! But the smell gave that away first."

"Knew having Macaque teleport us wouldn't stop you from figuring that much out," Pigsy said with a chuckle. "I owe him for that... Keep that blindfold on though. We're still heading a bit farther."

Tang huffed in amusement but didn't protest, allowing Pigsy to guide him along the  slightly rocky path. Though, to be fair, Tang didn't need nearly as much help as he used to. His new rabbit paws made traversing the outdoors second nature to the bunny demon, the fur protecting him from any sharper corners he may inadvertently step on. His ears twitched and swiveled, as much as they could in their lop state, no doubt picking up all the sounds of the wildlife around them.

After a few minutes of walking, Pigsy said, "We're here. You can look now."

Tang pulled off the blindfold, blinking at the sight before him. A picnic blanket was laid out on the ground, laden with all of Tang's favorite foods. All of Tang's NEW favorite foods, he should clarify. They were very particular about making sure they knew exactly what foods his new hybrid rabbit stomach could handle.

"Red Son and Sandy helped me set this up before they left," Pigsy explained, rubbing the back of his neck. "I saw them leaving on the other path once they spotted us. I wanted today to be perfect for you."

Tang turned to him, eyes soft. He cupped Pigsy's cheek, bending down to meet his other cheek in a gentle kiss. "Every day with you is perfect, PIgsy. You didn't have to do all this."

Pigsy's cheeks flushed as he ducked his head, embarrassed but pleased. Tang always knew exactly what to say to set his heart at ease.

"I know but...you deserve the world, Tang," he said. "And I want to give it to you."

Tang smiled, bumping their noses together.

"You've already given me everything I could ever want."

Pigsy's heart swelled, almost feeling as if it might just explode with love for the demon in his arms. Today was turning out even better than he'd imagined.

They settled in to enjoy the picnic, chatting and laughing as the sun slowly rose and began it's descent towards the other side of the horizon. They talked about everything and nothing at all, almost feeling like they had too much time to catch up on and not enough time to talk about because they'd been inseparable this past year. A comfortable silence fell between them in time, the only sounds the chirping of crickets and the rustle of leaves in the breeze.

Tang eventually leaned back on his hands, gazing out at the scenic view.

"I'd forgotten how beautiful it is up here. We haven't had a chance to come in so long." He sighed, shoulders drooping. "Things have been so busy lately. Feels like we haven't had a moment to ourselves in... ages! I missed this."

"Missed what?" Pigsy asked at the sudden interjection.

"Us just... taking things slow," Tang answered with a chuckle. "After everything with Lady Bone Demon and then my transformation and then my rehabilitation and all the Monkie Kid stuff MK has to deal with? It's been a while since we just had a full day to each other properly. It's been almost three months since the last proper date we had."

Pigsy had been so busy planning this and dealing with the aftermath of the latest world ending disaster that actually wasn't that he hadn't noticed.

"Aw, Tang, I'm... I'm sorry."

"Don't be!" Tang countered with a laugh. "Things happen sometimes. I don't expect our lives to be a whirlwind romance every week. But today? More then eclipses the last 3 months entirely."

Pigsy scooted closer, wrapping an arm around Tang's shoulders.

"I know what you mean. I miss this too—just the two of us, no responsibilities, no deadlines to worry about. We've been neglecting ourselves."

"Mmm," Tang hummed in agreement, nestling into Pigsy's side. "Promise we won't leave it so long before our next date, ok?"

"Never," Pigsy vowed, pressing a kiss to Tang's temple. "You're stuck with me, Tang."

"Good," Tang said with a chuckle.

"But, uh, don't make yourself too comfy," Pigsy said with a shrug to dislodge the bunny from his side. He stood, walking over to a nearby bush. "We're not done yet."

"You mean there's MORE?" Tang asked in surprise. "We’ve already had breakfast in bed, strawberries, a blindfolded walk to lunch. What else do you have planned?"

"Oh, you'll see," Pigsy said with a slightly nervous chuckle. He tried not to notice the weight in his pocket as he pulled out two hiking backpacks. "We've still got a long walk to our next destination though."

"A romantic hike through the woods of Mount Huaguo dooooes sound nice," Tang admitted with a smile.

~

A hike was putting it mildly. Pigsy wished that Sun Wukong had warned them that it would be as intense as it was, but... well, perhaps he was to blame. This WAS a mountain.

But despite his misgivings about the difficulty of the terrain, he wouldn't change it for the world. Not when he could see Tang having so much fun.

He wasn't sure when the last time he saw the bunny demon looking so care free and natural was. He ran across logs, jumped over rocks on the rivers they crossed, chased at least one butterfly. By all accounts he was having the time of his life.

It took them hours to get to where they were. But that was the point. A day to hike and take in everything. They were in no rush, they could stop for a snack or a drink at any time. They could stop so Tang could pull out one of his notebooks and draw any of the wildlife they saw, pick a flower and press it to take home.

They talked and walked in mutual silence in equal measure. It felt... amazing.

Pigsy felt amazing.

He felt more amazing when they reached their destination just 15 minutes before sundown, running a little later than he expected but also still making it there in time. Sun Wukong really did know all the best spots on the mountain. On this side you couldn't see the city at all, and with the wind blowing in their direction the sky was clear before them. They could see the island beneath them and the vast sea laid out around them, so high that they couldn't even see the beach anymore.

And as Tang helped him lay out a blanket on the side of a hill, as well as their much more modest dinner from Pigsy's hiking bag, he started to feel nervous.

The day was almost gone, he thought to himself as they ate their fruit and sandwiches. As Tang once again leaned against him, both reclined on the hill as they watched the sun slowly setting.

Tang smiled, relaxed and care free, and together they watched it finally dip below the horizon and bathe the sky in vivid oranges and reds. A deep contentment settled in Pigsy's chest, holding Tang close as the stars began to emerge in the darkening sky. They had all the time in the world, and for now, that was enough.

Pigsy watched Tang as he took in the breeze, letting it flow through his fur. Watched as the last rays of the setting sun shove off his brown fur, giving him an almost amber glow. Watched as the other closed his eyes and started to grind his teeth in contentment.

It was almost time.

He could do this. He could last just a bit longer.

It was after the first few starts started to look down at them that Tang next spoke.

"What's wrong, Pigsy?" Tang asked suddenly.

"What?" PIgsy asked, staring at the other. "Wh-what makes you think something's wrong?"

"Pigsy, I'm not stupid," Tang said softly, but also bluntly. "I can tell something has been on your mind all day. What's wrong?"

"Nothing!" Pigsy said quickly. Too quickly. "That-that's kinda the problem... Everything always goes wrong! Eventually! When is something going to snap, a demon going to attack, MK call us to say the shop is on fire!?"

"The shop isn't going to be on fire-"

"You don't know!" PIgsy said, taking a deep breath. "Sorry... sorry, I just... my nerves are getting to me because there's something I've been meaning to ask you..."

"What-"

"What do you think of MK?" Pigsy asked quickly, rushing the question out before he lost his nerve. "Like, how do you see him?"

"Huh?" Tang asked, looking at him in confusion. "Pigsy, you know how I feel about MK."

"I know, but... but I wanna hear it again!"

This was stupid... this was stupid, he was stupid and Tang probably hated him for asking such a stupid question and-

"He's practically my son too," Tang said softly. "I wasn't posturing or making things up or using him to make myself feel cooler when I told Spider Queen I was a father figure to him. That's how I felt."

Pigsy felt like he's been hit in the chest with a sledgehammer, but not in a bad way, somehow. His stomach almost filled with butterflies, his head felt light at the words of the other.

He couldn't psych himself out now.

"OK... OK, ok, uh..." Pigsy cleared his throat, heart pounding. It was now or never. "Tang, there's something else I've been meaning to ask you."

Tang glanced up at him, brows furrowing slightly in concern. "What is it?"

"I know it hasn't been easy, with your transformation and all the changes in our lives recently," Pigsy began, choosing his words carefully. "But you and MK are the best things that have ever happened to me. You've made me happier than I ever thought I could be, and I don't want to imagine my life without you in it."

He took a deep breath, steeling his nerves as he pulled the small box out of his pocket and opened it and climbed to one knee.

"Tang, will you marry me?"

~

Pigsy peered into the glass case, eyeing a simple silver band inlaid with tiny rubies that matched Tang's favorite color. At least, he hoped they did. They were the same color at his outfit that he wore everyday... His heart raced. Was it too much? Was it not enough?

Mei nudged his arm, smirking at him. "It's perfect. He's gonna to love it!"

"Do you think it's too much?" Pigsy asked, hands fidgeting with the credit card they held. "Too little? This ain't gonna scare him off, is it?"

"I don't think there IS a way for you to scare him off, " Mei said with a shrug. "Not with this, anyway. If anything, he's going to be even clingier."

"And you're sure MK doesn't... you know, have any reason to object to this?" Pigsy continued. "Maybe I should ask him if he's ready for this kind of change."

"I think he was ready the day he called Tang 'hop pop', Piggy."

Pigsy took a deep breath, steadying his nerves. Mei was right. He knew in his heart that Tang and MK were his family, and they deserved to make this official. MK deserved to have his two dads, like he had been hinting at for ages... if you could call calling both of them his dads hinting.

"OK... Excuse me, sir?" He called out, clearing his throat when his voice cracked a little under the nerves of the moment. "How much is this one?

~

There was a moment of stunned silence. Then Tang surged forward, throwing his arms around Pigsy in an ecstatic embrace (nearly knocking the box out of his grasp before he set it aside).

"Yes, yes of course I'll marry you!" he exclaimed, voice muffled where his face was pressed into Pigsy's chest.

Pigsy's heart soared, and he spun Tang around with a shout of joy, hugging him close. When he finally puled back, it was to find Tang's face streaming with tears as he continued to smile wide. Pigsy brushed them away with his thumbs, cupping Tang's face in his hands.

"I love you so much," he whispered, gazing deep into Tang's eyes. "You and MK are my world, and I want to spend the rest of my life proving that to you."

"You already have," Tang assured him, smile soft and radiant as the sunrise. "The moment you kissed me back when I confessed. I love you too, Pigsy, with all my heart."

Pigsy kissed him then, slow and sweet, pouring all the love and devotion in his soul into that one perfect moment. He and Tang were going to be together, forever, and this was only the beginning of a new journey for the two of them.

Pigsy drew back reluctantly, aware they still to breathe. But he kept one hand encased in Tang's unwilling to let him go completely.

"We should head back," he said with a sigh. "MK will be wondering where we've gotten to. I'm pretty sure we're going to be home later than I told him."

Tang nodded, though he looked just as loath to end their moment.

"You're right. And we have so much to plan!" His whole face lit up again at the thought. "A wedding to organize! We need flowers, food, a venue, oh my gosh we have so much! We're going to need a lot of help!"

"I think we can figure that all out together," Pigsy said with the easiest smile he had mustered all day.

Tang's smile brightened, if that was even possible, soft and radiant as the starlight above them.

"That's all I've ever wanted."

"Then it's decided," Pigsy said as he squeezed his hands, blinking back a fresh swell of tears. "From now on, we face every challenge together. Just like we always have. But, you know, more official!"

"Together," Tang echoed firmly. He stood on his toes to steal one last lingering kiss. "Now, let's go tell our son the good news!"

Pigsy's heart swelled with joy at the words our son. He had a full official family at long last. Hand in hand, they made their way back through the fading sunset, ready to embark on a new chapter of their lives.

Together.

[tqngerine]

stay in the middle — 28. shoulder to sleep on

SYNOPSIS: Huening Kai would do anything for his best friend Taehyun, and this one small favor is no exception. It appears that Kai’s fellow campus journalist Y/N has caught his attention, and Taehyun needs help connecting to them. Befriending someone outside of his small social circle wasn’t something Kai did often, but he comes to find that it’s easy to get close to Y/N—maybe even getting a little too close.

word count: 0.5k

Y/N dreamt of watching the cherry blossoms bloom in Japan for the first time. They reached up to feel the rosy pink grace their fingertips, basking in its rebirth from a cold winter. It was hard to resist the urge to jump around and dance with the petals, even without the company of a tune. Eventually, they tired out and slumped against its trunk to rest in its shelter, wrapping their arms around it with eyes fluttering shut.

The next time they opened their eyes, it was no longer a sturdy tree trunk in their embrace, but rather a cotton sleeve of somebody’s arm.

Wait.

“Hyuka!” Y/N yelped in realization, startling away from his side. They nearly fell off the bench but Kai quickly wrapped an arm around their waist to pull them back up.

“Woah, Y/N! Calm down, it’s just me.”

Y/N turned around to find that the outdoor food hall was less crowded, as students were mostly attending their classes by this time. In front of them, their BLT sandwich had barely been nibbled on, and Kai’s bowl of soup was now replaced by his laptop. And Kai himself… he was still as smiley as ever. “Oh my god, how long have we been here?!”

“About an hour and a half.”

Y/N’s face dropped. “Shit! Literature class is about to end! Ms. Seulgi’s gonna kill me!”

“It’s okay. Don’t beat yourself up over it. You were tired and needed the rest.”

“But you’re supposed to have class at this time too right? Did you miss it because of me?”

Kai gestured at his laptop. “I was able to finish an assignment anyway. My time didn’t go to waste.”

“You should’ve woken me up!”

“I couldn’t! You looked too peaceful!”

“Should’ve shaken me until my bones fell off!”

“You know I wouldn’t do that!”

“But I…”

Kai gaze fell down to Y/N’s chin. Y/N’s ears turned red as his hand reached to wipe something off their chin. Electricity shot through their veins. “You drool in your sleep.”

“I… Kai!” Y/N stood up and pushed Kai even further from them, crossing their arms. “I take back what I said about my separation anxiety from you.”

“Really?”

Y/N made the mistake of looking back at his face, yet another penguin pout gracing his lips. They wanted to wipe it off him the same way he did to them. “What am I gonna do with you…”

Kai stood up, closing his laptop and putting it back in his bag. “I’ll make it up to you by walking you to your classroom so you don’t miss your next period this time. Sounds good?” It was a decision he was making, but he spoke it so softly.

Y/N really didn’t know what they’d do with him.

“Okay, fine. But I was really looking forward to today’s discussion. I had a lot to say, even noted it down and all.”

“Tell me about it on the way.”

“Can we just walk down campus for the rest of the day so I don’t have to stop talking to you?”

Kai let out another soft laugh, and every time he did that instead of the usual hearty laughs, Y/N’s shoulders squeezed like a lemon. “So do you hate me or not?”

“I could never hate you, Kai.”

< prev | masterlist | next >

A/N: find me someone who’ll lend me their shoulder to sleep pls thx 💔💔 AS FOR MY ANNOUCEMENT!!! MY REQUESTS ARE OPEN!!! i have my term break coming up so i figured i’d have some more time now to write beyond this smau ^^ check this post out for more details 🫶🫶

TAGLIST: open!! leave a comment below or send me an ask to be included in this taglist ^^

@kaisdefender @fairysh4mpoo @0rangemilk @beomsbeanie @hanjisungsgirl @luvsoobs @goldennika @spagettae @solarsolarity @hy2ka-i @aestheticsluut @sophie-writingtime @quitbeingawhore @destinylightlove42 @softpia @strawberry-kirby @matcharetsuko @txtbrainrot @taekwondoes @tatanbin @uno7 @catsyoon @fzy-b3om @concatpng @wezbin @fandcmwritingss @officiallyjaehyuns @wannabeyn @youbettertellmeyes @umbreonwolfy @yumilovesloona

[justkillingthyme]

Tell me about the Noah Kahan Layton animatics 👁👁

Smirks. Oh boy get ready for an infodump.

Here’s the sketch (not all of the planned ones just the ones I had thought up on the spot) and the actual thoughts are under the cut and it’s going to be. Long

Not going to go into detail on the plans themselves unless I get asked to about a particular one it’ll just be my thoughts on why it fits. If I don’t have a song from him it’s either that I have an idea that half fits or don’t have it all fleshed out

Stick Season

Northern Attitude

I think Northern Attitude is a Des song

You build a boat, you build a life.

You lose your kids, you lose your wife

And

If you get too close

And I'm not how you hoped

Forgive my northern attitude

Oh, I was raised out in the cold

If the sun don't shine

'Til the summertime

Forgive my northern attitude

Oh, I was raised on little light

Literally him. Left alone in his house at a young age, built himself up. Got his shit together and settled down and had it all ripped away from him.

Come Over

Randall vibes (Stansbury era)

And my mouth was designed for my foot to fit in it

Oh, the words they went missin' when the stock market crashed

^angelas tears. He doesn’t know how to deal with his emotions, much less other people’s.

Someday I'm gonna be somebody people want

Randall on the expedition. His whole thing is that he wants to prove himself. Randall is very much an insecure needing reassurance but covering it up with reckless confidence kid.

New Perspective

Randall vibes but MG era

If I could fly I doubt I'd even do it

I'd probably get high and crash or something stupid

Ironic here. Talking w descole

Gave me your word and now I can't pronounce it

No thing's so sure that I can't learn to doubt it

And the chorus

Ooh, this town is for the record now

The intersection got a Target

And they're calling it downtown

You and all of your new perspective now

Wish I could shut it in a closet

And drag you back down

This is aimed at Henry and the development of Monte D’or. On how it’s so close to Stansbury and Henry profited from his death.

Orange juice

I actually have a page for this one! So good for you for sticking around till here

It’s old but encapsulates more of my idea for the animatic

Henry @ Randall post MM. in this particular one it’s more of a scenario where Randall has left Monte D’or after everything and is back for visiting occasionally.

Feels like I've been ready for you to come home

For so long

That I didn't think to ask you where you'd gone

Why'd you go?

And the verse

See the graves as you pass through, from our crash back in '02

Not one nick on your finger, you just asked me to hold you

Literally the ending of MM. flooded the city with sand.

But it made you a stranger and filled you with anger

Now I'm third in the lineup to your Lord and your Savior

Not sure if it’s visible in the picture but I have lord as Angela and savior as Hershel. He’s always been third place for Randall.

You said my heart has changed and my soul has changed

And my heart, and my heart

That my life has changed, that this town had changed

And you had not

That the world has changed, don't you find it strange

That you just went ahead and carried on?

And here Randall gets a little angry. Henry remains the same no matter how much time has passed. It’s something of a mixture of anger that Henry had moved on without him before but refuses to move on now that Randall has left of his own accord

And Henry responds

Are we all just crows to you now?

Are we all just pulling you down?

You didn't put those bones in the ground

That Randall was the one leaving them.

Strawberry Wine

Layclaire!!! Hershel about Claire after her death. Getting over it

I said, "Love is fast asleep, " on a dirt road

With your head on my shoulder

It’s about the little things. The things they used to do together. The moments that made love real.

Strawberry wine, and all the time we used to have

Those things I miss, but know are never comin' back

and for when he sees Claire pass him by

No thing defines a man like love that makes him soft

And sentimental like a stranger in the park

For a few moments, I see you

and for the chorus. Right person, wrong time. Wrong place. Maybe in a different world

If I was empty space, and you were a formless

Shape, we'd fit

But love leaves little runway, and every time we run

Straight over it

Growing Sideways

Hershel and his habit of self destruction and riding on tea and late night research so he doesn’t have to process any of his trauma. Also could go for Des here

I'm still angry at my parents for what their parents did to them

But it's a start

hello Leon Bronev

But I ignore things, and I move sideways

Until I forget what I felt in the first place

At the end of the day I know there are worse ways

To stay alive

'Cause everyone's growing and everyone's healthy

I'm terrified that I might never have met me

Oh, if my engine works perfect on empty

I guess I'll drive

Halloween

MM era ranlay, could also work post Stansbury. Could also do layclaire. Hershel pov

I’ll let the lyrics do the explaining. Here’s the chorus

But the wreckage of you, I no longer reside in

And the bridges have long since been burned

The ash of the home that I started the fire in

It starts to return to the Earth

I'm leavin' this town and I'm changin' my address

I know that you'll come if you want

It's not Halloween, but the ghost you're dressed up as

Sure knows how to haunt, yeah, she knows how to haunt

and the verse

It's an ode to the hole that I found myself stuck in

The song for the grave that I dug

There's a murder of crows in the low light off Boston

And I see your face in each one

I'm losin' myself in the tiniest objects

I'm seein' my life on a screen

I'm hearin' your voice in a strange foreign language

If only I learned how to speak

Hershel blaming himself and being unable to move on

Still

Layclaire <3

Last lyric of verse and then the chorus

Stare up at a starless sky and you say

It’s like I’m still here with you

It’s like I’m still here with you

I don't, I don't, I don't wanna say goodbye

Literally the ending cutscene.

The View Between Villages

Hershel post MM. going home after THAT whole experience. Also could work with visiting Stansbury during college/later

Feel the rush of my blood

I'm seventeen again

I am not scared of death

I've got dreams again

and the last verse

Passed Alger Brook Road, I'm over the bridge

A minute from home but I feel so far from it

The death of my dog, the stretch of my skin

It's all washin' over me, I'm angry again

The things that I lost here, the people I knew

They got me surrounded for a mile or two

The car's in reverse, I'm grippin' the wheel

I'm back between villages and everything's still

Paul Revere

MM. just Hershel in MM.

It's typical, I fear

Folks just disappear

And when they ask me who I am

I'll say I'm not from around here

Dude. I could go on and on about this song because I have something planned for each lyric. It fits so well.

No Complaints

Hershel recovering post attack. Could also set it post UF

I saw the end, it looks just like the middle

Got a paper and pen and a page with no space

End is Claire’s death, middle could work for Randall or Claire’s first death. Paper and pen. Man literally journals.

In love with being noticed and afraid of being seen

But I can finally eat and I can fall asleep

It's fine, fine, fine

I think you guys see me vision. Vaguely gestures at Bill Hawks.

You’re Gonna Go Far

Henry and Angela seeing Randall out of Monte D’or.

Making quiet calculations where the fault lies

Heyyy

So, pack up your car, put a hand on your heart

Say whatever you feel, be wherever you are

We ain't angry at you, love

You're the greatest thing we've lost

Alt ending line is we’ll be waiting for you love.

I’m a firm believer that Randall doesn’t stay in Monte D’or post MM

[stargazer-sims]

Journal Entry #51 (part one)

previously - Journal Entry #50

Victor

Hey everyone!

Guess who got one of his casts off?

Spoiler alert: it's me!

My right wrist only had a partial fracture, and after looking at my latest x-rays, Dr. Sato said the bone is completely knitted together now. I started physio for my right arm today, and guess what else? I'm cleared for limited daytime driving and light exercise, and the doctor says that if I keep progressing at this rate, she'll fully clear me for all my normal activities in a month. That means snowboarding. It means I can start training again, and eventually competing again if I want to.

Yuri doesn't like the idea of me getting back into competition, but he said he won't try to stop me if it's what I want. What I really want is to make it into the FIS World Championship next year and hopefully place in the top ten. Ideally, I'd like to be on the medal podium, but I have to be realistic about it. Naturally, I'm aiming for the top, but it's just that I have to be prepared not to achieve that, because as I've learned, anything can happen.

But, I've promised Yuri that I'll retire at the end of next season, regardless of the outcome at Worlds. If I have a year to mentally prepare myself for my retirement, maybe it won't be so difficult.

Dr. Sato says it'll be at least another two to three weeks before my left arm is ready to come out of its cast, and she says I'll likely have to wear a wrist brace for a few more weeks after that. Even though I'm itching to get back on the slopes, I'm trying to look on the bright side. Having one of my hands back in service has made a massive difference in the level of help I need, so I definitely shouldn't be complaining.

Talking about my arms makes me realize just how much time has actually passed since I recorded anything here. It's been about five and a half weeks since my accident, and the last time I made an entry was a little over two weeks after it. So, basically that's three weeks of radio silence. Sorry for that.

It's been a chaotic three weeks, but Yuri and I have been managing. Mom and Julian already went home, and Uncle Kaz left the day before yesterday, but Yuri's parents are still here to look after us. We're getting lots of support from our friends as well.

Yuri finally got out of the hospital after having been in there for seventeen days. He's still mostly on bed rest at home, but I can see him improving little by little each day. He’s sleeping less and eating regularly now, and doesn’t seem to be in as much pain as he was before.

More than anything, I'm beyond grateful that he's eating. I don't even care that his meals are tiny and mostly consist of yogurt, fruit and rice, or that he has to be coaxed to eat, or that somebody often has to feed him. Anything's better than an NG tube.

Oh, and just in case you were wondering, Seiji was dead-on about the strawberry mochi. It did, in fact, turn out to be the thing that convinced Yuri to try taking one small bite of something. Seriously, never underestimate the power of desserts.

Now that I've mentioned Seiji, I should give you a little update on him, too. He ended up moving to the city after all, despite my best efforts at talking him into staying around.

You may have guessed the brilliant idea I had that day in the park was for Seiji to help take care of Yuri once he was released from the hospital. I thought it was a stroke of genius. It'd give Seiji a purpose and a reason not to leave, and it'd avoid the necessity of having a stranger look after Yuri while he's recovering. Unfortunately, neither Seiji nor Yuri went for it. That's not to say we didn't ultimately solve the problem anyway, but I'll tell you more about that in a minute.

The last I heard from Seiji, he'd gotten a job in a convenience store, just like he predicted he would. I'm not sure he's entirely happy with it, but he didn't seem happy here any more either, so I guess he might as well be unhappy with a change of scenery. I'd much rather he was happy, of course, but I have no control over that. Happiness is an inside job, after all. We each have to get into the mindset of choosing happiness for ourselves.

As for me, I can honestly say I'm happy in spite of everything. Setbacks notwithstanding, the future’s looking good for Yuri and me.

In light of Dr. Sato's prognosis for my recovery and my ability to return to competitive snowboarding, I got in contact with Luke Smith, my former coach back home to see whether he'd consider taking me on as a student again. He said he couldn't do it, but he told me that he had the perfect person in mind for me to train with, and when he told me who it was, I might've shouted a little bit with excitement.

Apparently one of my former teammates, Davey Duke — or Daisy, as everyone calls him — is planning to retire at the end of this season, but is looking to stay actively involved with the sport. Daisy and I were always great friends, and we've kept in sporadic contact since I've been in Japan. Also, the guy's a freakin' rockstar. Having him for a coach, I'd be the envy of pretty much every other competitor in the sport.

Luke said he'd pitch the idea to Daisy and get back to me, but as it happened, I didn't have to wait for Luke. Within two hours of that conversation with my old coach, I had a text from Daisy that was in all caps with a huge string of exclamation marks. "YES, MY DUDE!!!!!! LET'S DO IT!!!!!!!"

That matter having been unequivocally taken care of, Yuri and I have turned our attention to planning our move at the end of May. The goal is to be there and settled in well before Mom and Julian's wedding on the eleventh of June. We officially made an offer on the haunted house, which was quickly accepted, and we’ve transferred our down payment.

We’d been hoarding money for that down payment since the house went on the market, and we’re kinda broke now until Yuri gets next month’s allowance from his trust fund, but I can live with it. I’ve been broke before and survived.

One of the lawyers at Uncle Stephen's firm is dealing with all the legal details of the house purchase for us, which is a huge relief. An even bigger relief is that Uncle Stephen is personally handling Yuri's immigration paperwork, and he's waiving his fees.

In related news, I'm still debating with myself what to do about school. I've almost entirely made up my mind that I'm going to study nursing, but I'm waiting for my next appointment with Dr. Ishida before I commit to that choice completely. Dr. Ishida's pronouncement about my ability to read having more to do with my vision than my intelligence is still sinking in, and I want to get my glasses and be sure I actually can read as well as she thinks I can before I sign myself up for a course with lots of required reading.

The other thing I have to decide is if I'm going to try to start school this September or if I'm going to defer my studies for a year. I think it might be difficult to do a course with a clinical component while I'm competing. I'd have to travel for competitions, but I'd also have to prioritize my clinical placements, and since it's impossible to be in two places at once, I'd have to pick one. I think that'd be a less than ideal situation.

Meanwhile, Yuri has decided to take a leave of absence from his job at FutureBright Communications. His boss, Mr. Tanaka, assured him that he could still work remotely even if he was living in Canada, but Dr. Kasongo suggested that it'd be in his best interests not to work at all for a while. She thinks it makes more sense to focus on his health without having to cope with the pressure and stress of work.

Yuri resisted at first, but I think Mr. Tanaka might've guided him toward seeing reason. I know he really trusts and respects Mr. Tanaka, and I think the promise that there'd still be a job for him when he's ready to come back to work helped.

The human resources lady from FutureBright phoned here a few days ago to fill out the paperwork for short-term disability insurance benefits with him. He'll be covered for six months, which will get him through the spring and summer, and then they'll revisit the claim in early September to see if it'll need to be renewed for a further six months or if he can return to his job.

Personally, I think this is the perfect arrangement. Who wouldn't want a free summer in Willow Creek, with a percentage of their pay still coming in? Yuri can devote his time to getting healthy and doing things he enjoys, and when I'm not busy with work or training, we'll be able to go on all kinds of awesome adventures together. I'm really looking forward to that.

Another thing both Yuri and I are looking forward to is having Takahiro and Fox join us in Willow Creek this summer. Fox is from the Willow Creek-Newcrest area, and when his visa expires at the beginning of August he'll be returning, and he's bringing Taka with him.

Normally, one might expect that they'd stay with Fox's parents, but apparently the Abbottsfords dislike "foreigners" and have some sort of weird moral objection to the fact that their son is in a relationship with a man. They sound like totally charming people, right?

According to Taka, Fox's father hasn’t even spoken to him since November, which utterly blows my mind. My mom and I would be beside ourselves if we were out of contact for more than a day or two, much less for whole months at a stretch. Even when Yuri's relationship with his dad was at its worst, they still spoke to each other every couple of weeks.

Just as an aside, Yuri talks to his dad daily now, and sometimes multiple times a day. I love to see how much closer they're growing lately, and it almost makes me sad that we're moving because it means Yuri won't get to spend as much time with him. But, like Mr. Okamoto has assured us, they'll come and visit and they can certainly still find ways to talk every day.

Anyway, in light of all the racist and homophobic nonsense with Fox's parents, Yuri and I have already agreed that Fox and Taka can stay with us if they want to, until they find a place of their own. The haunted house has a couple of extra bedrooms in the basement, so they can have whichever one of those isn't Sachiko's room.

Yeah, Sachiko the ghost has decided to remain in the house. Robert and Kim MacAllister, the current owners, told us that they offered to bring her home to Mt. Komorebi, but she wanted to stay and see what it'd be like to share a home with people her own age.

That was kind of funny to me. I mean, Kim and Robert are in their early seventies, and as far as they can determine, Sachiko died about seventy-five years ago, so they're technically closer to her age than we are. Still, I get what she meant. She was in her early twenties when she died, and Yuri and I are in our mid-twenties now, so there's a certain logic to her choice.

Robert and Kim explained that they bought Sachiko a flower-arranging station, and decorated a bedroom for her, and even set a place at the table for her at mealtimes. Being a ghost, Sachiko doesn't need to eat or sleep, but they wanted to help her feel like part of the family. Yuri and I are planning to continue with that, so of course we can't give away her bedroom, even if she doesn't actually sleep in it.

Now, the only hurdle left to face is how we're going to break the news to Taka that our haunted house literally is haunted. Up to this point, he's seemed to think it's some kind of elaborate joke. He's not a big fan of the paranormal, and I think he might not want to stay with us when he finally grasps the fact that Sachiko is real.

But, we'll cross that bridge when we come to it, as my grandpa Michael likes to say. We'll certainly have plenty of opportunity to address the subject, since we've been seeing a lot more of Taka and Fox lately.

And why is that, you ask? Seiji may not have bought into my plan to help take care of Yuri, but Fox and Taka did. Or more specifically, Fox did, and because he already has his partner wrapped firmly around his little finger, our dear friend Takahiro is along for the proverbial ride.

I'd like to take full credit for planning our circumstances to evolve this way, but I can't. In reality, Fox volunteered for the job and Yuri, perhaps concluding that we didn't have a lot of viable options, accepted his offer.

It happened a few days before Yuri got out of the hospital. I was there with him when Fox and Taka showed up for a visit. Yuri hadn’t been very talkative. He'd had a bad morning and really didn't want to do anything except be cuddled, but that hadn't put Taka and Fox off. They seemed happy enough to sit there and chat with me.

Fox was excited because he's learning to drive and would be getting his learner's permit soon. He happily declared that there'd be no stopping him once he had his own wheels, whereupon Taka emphasized the need for his own, because he certainly wasn't going to be driving Yuzu. Oh... If no one's mentioned it before, Taka has this SUV that he and Seiji painted an absolutely eye-popping shade of yellow. He calls it Yuzu, after the fruit, and I'm reasonably certain it's his most prized possession.

Meanwhile, Taka was excited because he just finished his first study module in language school. He only started taking English classes at the language school in January, so I felt like his achievement was impressive, and told him so. His English was okay to begin with, but it's improved by leaps and bounds since he started his course. He confided that he wants to get as much learning in as possible before the summer, because he wants to take the immigration language test so he can apply for a study permit and go to college in Canada.

"Looks like you've got a busy spring, then," I remarked.

"Yeah," Taka agreed. "Because I has big plans."

"I have plans," Fox corrected him, and they both laughed.

"I have plans," Taka repeated dutifully. "Why is that one so hard?"

"You'll get it," Fox said. "Don't worry. You're already so much further ahead than you were when we met."

"Because I practice with you. You're the best teacher I... has." As if the deliberate pause wasn't enough to signal that he'd used the wrong verb tense on purpose this time, Taka bestowed his partner with a cheeky little grin. "Best ever."

That caused Fox to blush an extreme shade of pink, and brought about my turn to laugh. "Anybody ever tell you guys how cute you are?"

"Everyone. All the time," Taka answered cheerfully.

Fox looked flustered, and mumbled something in Japanese that sounded like. "New topic. Begging you."

Taka looked amused. "Now who's showing his good language skills?"

"Maybe we do need a new topic, before Fox starts looking for a place to hide," I said.

"Okay," Taka agreed. "I know when to stop. We can talk about you instead. You're going to Canada before us."

"Yeah, at the end of May, but we've got to get back on our feet and make it through the rest of the winter and the spring, first. One thing at a time, right, Yuri?"

Yuri stirred slightly in my arms and said quietly, "I guess."

"Are you going home soon, Yuri?" Fox asked.

When he didn't reply after several seconds, I said, "His doctor says he can go home in a few days, but she won't release him until we sort out who's going to be looking after him."

"Won't his parents do it?" Taka asked.

"They will, but they can't be with us the whole time," I gestured vaguely with one of my casted arms. "And there's a lot I still can't do, so I'm going to need some help too."

"What exactly do you need?" Fox asked. "Is it like, actual medical stuff, or more like someone to help around the house?"

"The only medical thing would be to make sure Yuri takes his medication when he's supposed to," I said. "But, I can still manage that myself. It's the other stuff that we need help with."

"I could do it," he said.

I wasn't quite sure I'd heard him correctly. "You... what?"

"I could help you, and I'll bet Auntie Keiko would help too, if you asked her."

"I think she would," Taka said. "We can ask."

"You can help too, Takahiro," Fox added.

Taka hadn't appeared to mind being drafted by his boyfriend. "Yes, when I'm not at work."

"Perfect," Fox said. "Victor, even if Auntie can't help, you'll have Taka on Fridays and Sundays if you need him, and I'll be glad to come to your house every day and do what I can."

"You know what you'd be getting into, right?" I asked. "You'd be doing almost everything until I get at least one of these casts off."

"I understand."

As grateful as I was for his offer, I needed to make sure he really did understand. Being able to see properly again, I was able to do a lot more for myself than I could before. I was getting pretty good at using just my fingers to do quite a few things, and I was feeling comfortable picking up lighter objects like dishes or dog toys or laundry, but without the use of my thumbs, there were still plenty of tasks that were outside my ability.

"When I say everything, I mean literally everything," I said. "That'd include personal care, so uh... there'd be kinda gross stuff involved."

Fox laughed. "Are you trying to discourage me?"

"I'm not trying to discourage you. I just don't want you to agree to something without knowing exactly what you'd be in for."

"Thanks." Fox's determination was evident on his face. "I appreciate that, but I can do it."

Taka reached for Fox's hand, and the smile he gave him practically glowed with pride. "You are amazing. You wouldn't have done that before."

"I've learned a lot from you and your parents and Jin," Fox said. "Turns out, I'm capable of a lot more than I ever gave myself credit for, and I'm not scared to challenge myself any more. Plus, remember what you told me when we first met?"

"I told you a lot of stuff," Taka said.

"Yes, but I'm talking about what you said about kindness. You said the best way to repay you for your kindness to me would be for me to pay it forward to someone else some day."

"Right. I remember."

"Well," Fox said. 'I guess this is the day."

I glanced down at Yuri, who was curled tightly against my chest and clearly doing his best not to listen to the conversation. "Hey," I said softly. "Would you be okay with that? With Fox looking after you?"

He nodded and practically whispered. "I... I think I'd be okay with that."

I'm not sure Yuri was entirely relieved, but I can assure you I was. The issue of whether or not we'd need somebody from the home healthcare program had been a big one for us, and something I was glad we no longer had to think about.

Although I felt confident the home care workers were well-trained and trustworthy, my opinion would've made very little difference if Yuri was too scared to have them in the house. Being in constant fear wouldn't help his recovery. And yeah, it'd be easy to say his fear was irrational or unjustified, but given his physical condition as well as his past trauma, I'd tend to disagree. I mean, if I were in his place, I think I'd be scared to let a stranger into my house too, never mind letting them do personal stuff for me.

At least Fox was a known quantity. To be fair, we didn't know him all that well yet, but based on my acquaintance with him up to that point, I was satisfied that he would handle Yuri with care. Besides, I reminded myself, Takahiro's parents trust him to continue to live in their home and not cause any trouble, and apparently Taka's sister Aiko trusts him enough to ask him to babysit her three year old son. I reasoned that if he could manage looking after little Toshiro with no mishaps, then he should be able to handle looking after an adult.

[marshmallowprotection]

Can you rank the characters on most to least likely to drink plain milk?

You would think that Yoosung would be the highest on that list, and while he is a good boy who enjoys drinking milk to take care of those bones of his, I'd argue that he's got a challenger for that title. Saeran isn't picky about food, as a matter of fact, there's only one thing that he avoids, and that's plain white bread. I think he would enjoy a nice glass of milk! While he might enjoy strawberry more, he won't turn a glass of milk down. God knows he needs it.

Jumin strikes me as the next person who would he likely to drink plain milk. I don't know why I feel that way, but he doesn't seem like the type of person who like chocolate or strawberry milk. He's a very traditional kind of breakfast guy in my eyes. I just know in my heart he enjoys a healthy balance of milk and water after nights of wines on his lips.

Jaehee can go either way. I don't think she has a preference one way or the other when it comes to dairy. She's particularly picky about creamer and milk in coffee, but if you asked her what milk she prefers on its own, she doesn't have one. You could guess her favorite milk from the way she uses it in her coffee over time, but it's really a toss up.

Zen strikes me as someone who had to drink plain milk when he was growing up and he wasn't allowed any variety. The taste isn't it for his palette these days. He likely prefers oat or soy milk when he's not on track to drink more beer. So, he's less likely to drink plain milk. That's a taste associated with a bad memory.

I'm going to say Rika prefers chocolate milk. Her adoptive parents probably only let her have water and plain milk growing up and she sees chocolate milk cartons as something she wanted but could never try because her parents told her that strawberry and chocolate milk weren't meant for kids like her. It was a reward she could never have so now she has it whenever she wants. She's more of a juice girl these days but a nice chocolate milk hits the spot!

V doesn't drink plain milk. He doesn't strike me as the type. I think he was raised on oat or almond milk and he prefers the taste of it much more, and that just makes sense to me. His father strikes me as the kind of person who thinks he's all worldly and better than others just because he doesn't consume cow's milk. Chief Kim is pretentious as hell, and just seems like he'd make it his personality. V would never make others feel bad for enjoying milk, though, it's a preference for him.

Saeyoung puts plain milk, strawberry milk, and chocolate milk into a glass and calls it neapolitan milk. I don't know if he's onto something or not.

Vanderwood just drinks whatever is put in front of him.

[mortemoppetere]

TIMING: sometime before this. FEATURING: various npcs written by the lovely @ohwynne & @mortemoppetere LOCATION: the shores of moosehead lake! SUMMARY: emilio investigates the aftermath of wynne's departure from their home. CONTENT WARNINGS: child death, sibling death, child abuse (cult + hunter variety)

It was funny, the way his heart was in his throat. There was nothing scary about the job he was imparting on now. There were no punches to be thrown, no real threat of bleeding out over someone’s blad, something’s teeth. And yet he never felt nerves like this when heading into a vampire’s den, never felt this uneasy outside of a pit of undead things. This was a farmer’s market; he had no idea why his nerves were telling him it was the gates of Hell.

Well… all right. Maybe that wasn’t entirely true. He had some idea. Wynne’s face flashed in his mind, sad and desperate. There were answers to be found here, he knew. And he didn’t know if those answers would be good or bad, but he knew they needed to have them. He understood that much. He thought of the massacre back home, of Juliana and Rosa and Edgar and Jaime and Flora. He’d lost everyone, but at least he’d known what had happened to them. Even if he could never get the image of it out of his head now.

Mind made up, he squared his shoulders and walked into the market like a man marching into battle. He flittered around for a while, using his minimal people skills to give his best impression of a man who knew how to socialize. He wasn’t very good at it. He was stilted at best, awkward at worst. But people seemed to accept him as a man without much experience in the people department. A few well-placed questions here, a few sly inquiries there, and he was standing in front of a booth. There was a woman sorting fruit behind it, looking distracted.

“Uh, hey,” he greeted, letting his accent hang heavy on the words. People underestimated immigrants; Emilio used it to his advantage sometimes. “Isn’t there usually another booth next to here? Thought I remembered them from last time.”

—

The farmer’s market in Greenville, Maine was a place of rhythm and routine. Though the produce and products changed with the seasons and whims of their sellers, there was still something about it that remained the same. Similar faces. Similar scents. People knew not to stand on the East corner of the market, because that’s where Meg Bushway always put her stall — and you did not want to piss her off. Emily was fond of it all.

She had worked with the local fruits and vegetables for quite some years, her first job having been helping set up and her current one being one of the smiling faces that helped customers. She liked the old, familiar faces, with their growing-wrinkles. When they asked for recipe ideas, complimented last week’s wild blueberries. 

Emily even liked the booth next to her, which tended to house the people from up north who were a little strange. One time, she had caught one of them slipping a clean, shining bone in her bag. They sold produce, much like her, as well as cuts of meat and a fair amount of eggs. They had been pretty absent as of late, though, and when they’d appeared they had not had much to offer. The man she liked best – Rhys – had looked tired, harrowed. Emily had offered him some fresh strawberries that she hadn’t sold at the end of the day.

But life went on. She had sales to make. So when a stranger – which was strange, as there were mostly familiar faces here! – addressed her, she looked up with a bright smile. He didn’t ask her about the sweet potatoes though, nor the cranberries. “Oh! You mean the one from the estate up north? No, they’ve been here a bit more sporadically. Don’t really know why? Seems they have been having less stuff to sell.” Emily stopped rearranging the apples. “Were you lookin’ to buy something of them? Maybe I can redirect you to an alternative.”

—

His intel that Wynne’s old community tended to set up in this spot was good, then, though Emilio wasn’t sure he liked the implications that they’d been around less and less lately. At first, he hadn’t been sure he believed the ideology they’d sewn into Wynne’s worldview. The idea that there were demons out there who were so concerned with the goings-on of humanity that they might demand the occasional human sacrifice had seemed absurd, even if demons themselves were things Emilio had always believed in. 

But then came Levi. Then came Teddy. And, suddenly, demons with a vested interest in humanity hadn’t seemed so far-fetched after all.

So he was nervous about the implications here. He didn’t want to go back to Wynne and tell them that something terrible had happened when they’d left, didn’t want them to carry the weight of it. Emilio knew about survivor’s guilt. He bathed in it every morning, wrapped it around him like a blanket at night. It was heavy, it was suffocating, and it wasn’t something that Wynne deserved. Not in the way he did. Unlike Emilio, Wynne had done nothing wrong in their survival. They didn’t deserve to be punished for it.

“Ah, not really looking to buy. Actually hoping to reconnect with someone from there. Guy named Rhys? I spoke with him last time I was here, wanted to follow up on a few things. You know when he might be back?” 

—

Emily thought about Rhys, that bearded and funny man. A little gruff, rough around the edges. Sweet. “Yes, yes, I know him,” she said. “He was here a week ago? Might be here again next week.” It was hard to imagine any of those people having connections to those in the larger world — even with Emily, they were reserved. As if they tolerated her. They always glared at her phone, as if it was offensive to them. “They’ve not been coming weekly for a while now, but they tend to do more of a biweekly schedule. Monthly, sometimes, you know? Ah, but I’m sure he’ll be here next week. It’s a good month for harvesting.” 

She smiled brightly, gestured at the fruit on display, “Meanwhile, maybe you’d like –” But the look on the other’s face made it clear that he would not be nibbling on any blueberries soon.

— 

He was tired. Rhys somehow chalked it up to his age, but maybe it was something else entirely. He’d spent over five decades with the Protherians, having been born into its confines and not wanting to know much else. He’d seen four young people lay down on the altar, one of them a friend of his, someone his own age, the next three all seemingly younger as the years passed — and three times all had gone as it should. But this last one, where the wrong kid had let himself be tied up and down, it had been wrong.

Not wrong in regards to the demon – never that – but wrong, because Iwan had not been prepared. Iwan had cried, because he had not been primed and groomed as his sibling had. Wrong, because gythraul had not thought it enough. He had expected one soul and gotten another. And so he’d taken. Iwan. All the lambs, and the rams too. Half of the hens, and their trusty rooster. Gythraul had made Itself a bloody feast and left Its community reeling, once more afraid to step a toe out of line. Even he, who thought himself as hard as stone, had become scared.

This was reprieve. Greenville, that ugly town where people came to gawk at the people dressed as if they came from a time long gone (as if their neons and microplastics were any better). Rhys was glad for them, though. They reminded him of why he was here. He polished one of the eggs, one of the very few the remaining (and traumatized) hens and laid. At least with spring long past them, there were new hatchlings. He was disrupted from his steady work by a new arrival, a customer with a face wholly unfamiliar. “Afternoon,” he hummed, voice a gruff rumble, “What can I help ye with today?”

—

A week in the cheap motel room he’d gotten for himself was better than going home empty-handed, because Wynne would have questions. They’d want to know what he’d found, and Emilio didn’t want to tell them that the answer was nothing. He didn’t want to go back until he had something to give them, some kind of answer to the questions he knew plagued them. So he hunkered down, he watched bad TV, he took out things that went bump in the night a little farther away from his apartment than he was used to. 

And, a week after his conversation with the woman at the farmer’s market, he went back.

This time, when he returned, the booth Wynne had spoken of was there. The offerings were sparse. A few eggs, some crops, but nothing bountiful. Nothing that seemed to sing of a community so blessed by a demon that they didn’t mind sacrificing their children to it. (As if any amount of blessing could excuse such a crime. Emilio thought, as he had been all week, of Flora. Of the ache that her death had burrowed into his chest, of how he would have given anything to save her. There were things not worth sacrificing. He wondered why Wynne’s parents hadn’t known that.)

There was a man behind the booth, and he seemed to match the description Wynne had given well enough. Emilio nodded at him. “You Rhys?”

—

People that he didn’t know, didn’t know him. It was a simple thing. Rhys’ word was small and limited — there were the people at home, known well and deeply, those deserving of his loyalty. There were the people in Greenville, the locals he sold to and dealt with, with whom he traded. And there were patrons, who didn’t know his name but perhaps remembered his face. This man belonged in none of those categories. 

His defenses spiked. Gythraul was supposed to keep them protected from outsiders, from people that came sniffing in their business. Their traditions were theirs, not to be meddled with by local authorities — and it never had been. But maybe the demon had become less invested in that, too. For how long would the ripple effect of y dewisedig’s betrayal continue? Rhys nodded. He was not a man who lied, generally speaking. To himself, though, he did so very often.

“Yeah, that’s me. Who’s asking?” He placed the egg he’d been polishing back on the carton, which only counted about three dozen. 

—

He could see it, the way the man’s defenses went up. He’d known this would happen. People who lived their life in seclusion didn’t often respond well to strangers saying their names. Emilio would know — he would have been just as on edge as Rhys was now, had their roles been reversed. 

But that was all right. He’d had an extra week to think on this now, and he’d come up with a plan. It was deceitful, it was manipulative, it wasn’t nice, but what did Emilio care about any of that? Not one of these people, Rhys included, had stepped in to stop Wynne from being sacrificed to a goddamn demon. If they hadn’t saved themself, they’d be long dead now. Rhys didn’t deserve an ounce of kindness from Emilio; none of them did. So his plan was a little cruel. So what? They deserved much crueler. 

Leaning forward, he glanced around as if to ensure no one was listening. “I think you know,” he said lowly, “who’s asking.” He glanced to the eggs, noting how few there were, and he thought about how Rhys hadn’t been at the market at all the week before. He made a gamble, a guess. He was good at those. “Been short lately, haven’t you?”

—

Frankly, he did not know who was asking. His jaw set at the other’s movements, at the way he leaned forward and lowered his voice. Rhys looked at him, trying to deduce something from his face. Was this a family member of someone who had joined their community, who had left their previous life behind for a better one? It could certainly be, but the face didn’t remind him of anyone at home.

“Not sure I do know,” he said gruffly, though there was a tenseness to him. Not fully hidden, either, as his tiredness made his defenses lower. Eyes continued to scan the stranger’s face, who didn’t ask him a question directly but in stead commented on the amount of eggs that were present on the stall. Not a lot. Not nearly enough. Rhys’ mind flashed to the dead chickens, the smears of blood. The way some of the ones not killed by the demon had died all the same, from fear. 

His head shook. “Nah. Sometimes the hens just don’t wanna lay. We don’ make ‘em. It’s part of the philosophy we practice.” Sure, the chickens were free creatures — but there had once been plenty, and now there were few, with many of them stressed still. “Did you want to buy any or …?”

—

Unfortunately, Rhys was a little slower on the draw than Emilio would have liked. Ideally, this would have been more subtle. He could have implied something without telling a direct lie, let Rhys’s own assumptions work against him. But it seemed not everyone was as paranoid as the detective. Not everyone was as on edge as he sometimes banked on. That was all right, though. He could use the details Wynne had shared with him to his advantage. Lack of paranoia was a hurdle, but it was a good thing, too. If Rhys wasn’t paranoid enough to assume a stranger was with the demon, he probably also wouldn’t be paranoid enough to assume Wynne had sent someone to scope the compound out. Emilio could work with that.

Scowling, he leaned back, crossing his arms over his chest. “Gythraul,” he said simply, and though he stumbled over the pronunciation with his accent, he was confident he would be understood. When you molded your entire life around an entity, you recognized its name no matter who was saying it. Emilio knew that. Maybe a little better than he’d like to.

“I don’t want to buy anything, no. I need to talk to you. All of you. So I can tell It that what happened was a one-time thing… or so I can tell It it wasn’t.”

—

A stranger knowing his name was one thing. A stranger knowing the term Rhys’ community used to refer to the entity they all owed their life to — now that put fear into the old man’s bones. His back straightened and he took a closer look to the other, now really trying to put a name to the face. But he came up empty, again. 

There was no logic to it, but when had logic ever applied to his ilk? Protherians followed an entity and the doctrine surrounding it blindly, not questioning the youths that were ritualistically sacrificed time and time again. What the elders and patriarch said went. Rhys was born in that doctrine, that approach to life — he did not have an instinct to question, just an instinct to follow and fear. And maybe one to sell eggs, but that one wasn’t coming in so handy these days.

Besides, this man, he referenced the failure. The source of gythraul’s wrath, the common cause to the lack of produce on the stall right now. “Lower your voice,” he hissed in stead, eyes flicking around the pair of them. Privacy, that was one of the pillars on which his society was built. Outsiders keeping their nose out of their business. Rhys bent closer, voice lowered. “What … are you?” Then, not wanting to come off like perhaps he wouldn’t trust someone who spoke for It, he continued, “You want to talk to us today? You can — I can give you directions. A ride, even, if you ... I need to clean this up, of course.” 

—

“I tried to do this subtly,” Emilio pointed out, shrugging a shoulder and putting on a mask of nonchalance. In reality, he was relieved. Glad that his shot in the dark had worked, happy that he could do this without doing something Wynne might not like him for later. He was bound and determined to get them the information they wanted, but he’d rather do it without hurting anyone. This allowed him a chance to do just that.

He leaned in as Rhys spoke, trying to determine how best to answer the questions. “It doesn’t matter what I am,” he replied, voice just as low as the other man’s had been. “That’s not for you to worry about.” Levi and Teddy both looked human, which told him demons were capable of that, but he had no idea if Rhys knew this information, so… claiming to be another demon was probably a no-go. Letting Rhys decide what he thought Emilio might be was a better shot, especially now that he’d said enough to convince the older man he was with the demon. If he had to guess, he’d wager that Rhys wasn’t going to question him too much. If they were in the business of questioning the demon, the community wouldn’t have been sacrificing kids to it. 

Emilio immediately discarded the offer of a ride. No way in hell was he getting in a car with this guy behind the wheel. Even if he had Rhys on the ropes, he couldn’t trust the guy not to get scared and do something stupid. Besides, thanks to whatever the hell Nora had done to get it for him, he had a car of his own now. It was parked nearby, just waiting for this. “Directions will be fine. And it will be today. I’m sure you know what might happen if It’s kept waiting.”

—

Though entrusted with the responsibility of going out of town and talking to outsiders (something not all Protherians were permitted to do), Rhys was still a mere cog in the machine. Low-ranked, nowhere near the status of mentor or elder. So he listened, he followed, he nodded his head, and most of all — he didn’t question. Not Siors or Alys or Padrig, none of them, and not this man either. “Right. Understood.” 

He didn’t know the specifics of what might happen, but he knew enough. The stories of a century ago, when the youths had all been killed in one fell swoop. The blood in the chicken shed. He nodded. “Directions it is.” As there was no map to use, he ended up giving the stranger verbal directions. North, pass between the lake and Spencer Pond and then dip South again. Rhys had driven it a hundred times, if not more. Besides, if there was one skill he had working in his favor, it was his memory. 

With the instructions given, the stranger trudged off. Rhys stared at him, the muscles in his arms tense and the hairs in his neck standing up. Had they not offered enough? Suffered enough? For a moment, he closed his eyes, and then looked down at the little bit of harvest he still had yet to sell. Though instinct demanded he return home, the lack of sales he had made demanded he remain.

—

The verbal directions, along with the things Wynne had already told him, were more than enough to get Emilio to the compound. Parked his car near the entrance, hiding his limp as best he could as he trudged in. It made the walk more painful, but it also made him more nondescript. When he left here, it would be better if none of the people who saw him had anything to identify him by. He doubted they’d come looking for him, but on the off chance that they might, it was his job to protect Wynne from all of it. He’d failed to protect them from so much already. He wouldn’t add to that.

They seemed to know he was coming, which wasn’t a surprise. He’d given Rhys enough time to finish up at the farmer’s market, gone back to the motel to prepare himself for the situation ahead in the meantime. He’d convinced one person he was in contact with the demon; let Rhys convince the rest. Save Emilio the trouble. So they were waiting for him, when he got there. The two that led him to meet with someone named Padrig were younger. Close to Wynne’s age; he wondered if they’d played together as children, if they’d been friends. He wondered if they’d all been just as okay with what was expected of Wynne as the adults in their life had been. He’d never resented kids before; for a moment now, he found that changing.

They stopped just outside the door. Emilio didn’t know if they weren’t allowed inside, or if they just preferred not to enter. He said nothing to them as he ducked in the door, critical eyes finding a man who could only be Padrig standing there, staring right back at him. “Pleasure,” he said flatly. “How about we skip to the meat of it?”

—

Padrig Conway was a tired man. A failed man. Siors had told him as much, but he had also told him he was a man capable of redemption. That was the road they were all to take now, after all — one of redemption. Pave the road with good intentions with gythraul and all the rest too. So this message Rhys had brought could be promising, but it could also be something else entirely. Padrig had looked at Siors’ face as he’d called his elders together to inform them of the news, and he had looked steadfast. But even so, there had been an edge.

There was always an edge. Always a surprise. Wynne Hughes had been the perfect lamb, so docile and sweet and ready for the slaughter. He had made it so, or so he thought — but then on the morning of the blue moon they had been nowhere to be found. Left them all to scramble to find the next best option, someone unprepared and just as youthful. Someone It would still be satisfied with. It had left them all to watch Iwan weep as he bled out, had left them all to cower in front of the demon that showed Itself this time. 

If he couldn’t predict what the child he’d prepared for their inevitable sacrifice might do, it seemed nothing in life was predictable. So this might as well happen. An outsider, who knew some of what had occurred, who knew their word for demon. It works in mysterious ways, he reminded himself as he waited. Eirwen and Fionn brought the man to him, and he thanked them both for their duty. They stared at the stranger, because outsiders were strange. “Leave us,” he said to the youths, his gaze then falling on the newcomer.

Padrig was a pious man. Dutiful. Strict, when he needed to be. But part of him had been undone when his mentee had ran. Still, he was straight-backed when he faced the other. Proud. The book he’d been reading (old scripture, written by Corwyn’s own hand) was abandoned. “Sure. Sit, if you must.” He gestured to a chair, waited to sit himself. “Rhys has informed me that you and It need an ensurance of sorts, that what happened won’t again.” Hands folded in front of him. “Right?” 

—

Anger swelled up in his chest at the sight of Padrig. It was a familiar feeling, more familiar still the more people from the compound he met. How many were here? Wynne had spoken of a few, and he’d seen evidence of a fairly large community as he’d been led to Padrig’s home. And it was infuriating. Here was this entire community of people, and not a single one of them had stepped in to help Wynne when they’d been a calf fattened up for the slaughter. None of them had so much as called out just how wrong it was. It had been one thing with the kids who led him here, or with Rhys who seemed to be little more than a foot soldier. But Padrig? Padrig had power in this community. And what did he use it for? Nothing good. Nothing decent. He hadn’t saved Wynne; no one had.

Luckily, he thought, anger made sense for his cover, too. Let these people think their demon was angry with them. Let them cower in fear, let them mourn their own deaths in advance, let them feel a fraction of what they’d made Wynne feel for their entire goddamn life. Emilio’s only regret was that he wouldn’t be able to instill them with all of it, that there would be no laying Padrig down on an altar when all was said and done to give him a real taste of what Wynne and children like them had been forced to face. Wynne wouldn’t want it, but he thought it might make him feel better. He was selfish enough to wish he could feel better.

He didn’t sit in the chair Padrig offered him, though his leg screamed with a yearning to do so. Let it ache, he thought. Let the whole world ache. He would take nothing this man was offering, and this man would find no comfort in believing he’d made Emilio’s stay easier. 

(They both deserved that discomfort, both earned the pain. After all, hadn’t Emilio failed to save Wynne just as much as Padrig? He’d tried harder, at least, but how much did it matter if the end result was the same?)

“Yeah,” he replied, tone hard and full of a righteous anger. “I’m sure you don’t need me to tell you that It isn’t happy. So tell me everything that happened. Your version. And I’ll decide what happens next.”

—

The man who didn’t offer a name didn’t sit and Padrig watched him. It seemed something radiated off him, something like anger. Warranted, perhaps: there had been a failure, one that the community had not seen before, and there was no excuse for it. He’d said as much to Siors. There is no excuse for this, and I’ll search for an explanation within myself, so I can rectify my shortcomings. He had said a demotion would have been warranted. But Siors hadn’t made him work in the field.

He was a grateful man, too. Grateful for the forgiveness of Siors, of gythraul. Because this was forgiveness, even if they had had to burn more animals than ever before, even if something seemed undeniably shifted in people’s attitudes. 

He was, above all perhaps, a scared man. And this stranger who refused to sit, who spoke with anger that he felt was warranted, made Padrig waver. He tilted his chin up, slightly and remained standing himself. “Right.” He had hoped all of this was in the past. That the slaughter, the replacement sacrifice — that it would be enough. A bad mark on their record, a slip-up, just once. Hadn’t they been punished and forgiven? It seemed not, and that made this demon-fearing man afraid.

His hands remained folded in front of him, thumb rubbing the skin of his other hand. Chink in the armor. “Everything was set up, as always. According to plan — there were no signs that something was to go amiss.” But the bed had been empty. I don’t want to die, the child had written. Padrig remembered them saying such a thing before, but it must have been years back. He’d taken their chin, ensured eye contact. It is the most beautiful thing you could ever do, he’d said. If there had been signs, they had stopped years ago. He thought he’d taught them better than to be a liar. 

“Y dewisedig ran. We woke up to them having abandoned us all, leaving no hints as to where they’d gone. Took money, papers … it must have been planned, but we missed it. Some of us searched, but the main focus was on the ritual itself — preparations, you know, to ensure all was ready.” Lips pressed together in a fine line. “It was me who suggested the replacement. If not the child, why not their sibling? Similar blood, similar lineage – a signal to the parents, as well.” Where was his punishment? Padrig wondered that. Maybe this was it. “Which doesn’t take away the fact that I am to blame, too — I should have noted the signs. If It is cross with me … I’ll do whatever, to make it right.”

—

He had to focus on his anger in order to avoid giving in to the nausea tugging at his gut. The way Padrig spoke — it was clinical. As if Wynne was not a person, not a child, but an object. Emilio fought to keep his mind from wandering, fought to keep himself from thinking of his mother’s firm hand and the way she’d spoken about Victor after his death. Not as a mother who had lost a child, but as a woman whose favorite knife had broken off at the handle. As if the death of her oldest son was an inconvenience instead of a tragedy.

And Padrig was the same. Wynne wasn’t a person in his mind — how could they be? If he’d let himself view them as they were, as a child over whom he held a position of authority, would he have let himself go through with what was expected of him? Was it necessary, somehow, for him to separate himself from the reality of what he was doing? Did that make it okay?

Emilio thought of Flora, of the way he’d been unable to do with her what Padrig had done with Wynne. He had put no form of clinical distance between himself and his daughter, had allowed himself to see her as a child instead of a weapon. He’d doomed her with it just as Padrig had attempted to doom Wynne by doing the opposite. Were they both irredeemable, then? Was it just as bad to make a child of an object as it was to make an object of a child? 

And then, Padrig continued. He spoke of a replacement, and Emilio felt sick long before he delivered the fatal blow. If not the child, why not their sibling? He remembered how Wynne had spoken of their brother. He remembered that they loved him. And he thought again of Victor, thought of being twelve years old and wondering why him? He thought of being an adult, of standing in his living room across from Rosa as she looked at him with tears in her eyes. I wish you had died instead of Victor. He remembered thinking that, every day of his goddamn life. Victor died, and he was supposed to. Victor died, and it would have been better if Emilio had instead. 

And now, Wynne’s brother had died in their place. Bloody and afraid and unnecessary. Why hadn’t their parents stepped in? Why hadn’t they burned the place down? Why hadn’t Padrig? Why had no one protected these children, why had they let what they needed eclipse what their children did? What kind of parent put anything above their children’s own lives?

He didn’t realize he was moving until he was already across the room, face inches from Padrig’s. His hand was fisted in the man’s shirt, his other raised and trembling. He wanted to bash this man against the wall until he stopped moving, wanted to do for Wynne and their brother what no one else had ever done even if it was too late now. They were children, he wanted to scream. How the fuck could you do that to children? 

But what good would it do? Wynne’s brother was dead. He would have to tell them that. And if he killed this man, if he did what he so desperately wanted to do and ripped his throat out with his fucking teeth like a rabid animal, he’d have to tell Wynne that, too. They might already hate him for the first; he wasn’t sure he wanted them to hate him for the second, too.

“You are a shitty person,” he told Padrig, voice quivering just a little. “With shitty views and shitty ideals. And when this compound burns, the world will be better for it.” He let go of the man’s shirt with a shove, sending him into the wall. “I need to speak to their parents.”

—

It was an age old equation. Even Padrig knew of the trolley problem, that philosophical question that kept being repeated, that kept being altered as if the answer would ever be the same: you would sacrifice the few to save the many. What was one body in the face of it all? What was one less youth if it meant all the rest of them could live into old age? It was an equation, a mathematical problem — one of ethics, even. Kill the one, save the rest. It wasn’t pretty, but cold logic hardly ever was.

This was why he had been able to climb the hierarchy of the commune. They claimed that there was equality amongst all members, but they all knew of the way there was an order. It was mentors, then elders and then the patriarch — and all the rest of them fighting it out underneath them. Padrig had gotten this position, one of a mentor, of a wiseman, by applying a levelheaded and pragmatic mindset to all he did. 

It helped that the late Corwyn Prothero’s blood moved through his veins.

So no, he felt no remorse, not for the death of Iwan. Not for that of Jac. Not that of Evan, which was to come in a decade — it was necessary. All of this mess had proven that much: it was necessary. Even offering a replacement had not been enough to please the demon, who had in turn taken more. It wasn’t a farce, a figment of imagination, it was real. The dead chickens had been real. The dead lambs, the beheaded ram. Real. What was real too, was that it could have been worse. There had been a bigger massacre, once.

Maybe that’s why he told it all so calmly, as if it was nothing but a math problem. Lose one, you find another. Give the suggestion. Be willing to take off your shirt for flaying, if such retribution was still on the menu. Endure the sacrifice, with the wrong child. 

The one thing that shook him – that even shook him now, faced with this stranger – was his own failure. Not because he felt for Wynne Hughes, but because he was angry. They had given. The community had given that wide-eyed lamb all, from reverence to the best cuts of meat to the softest plaid. They hadn’t had to do the labors did. Their hands remained soft. They had been given comfort, the kind that not many saw in this place — they had been given it all, and they had turned on their heel all the same. Selfishness was an ugly thing.

As was this. Whereas Padrig kept his composure, despite his unease, despite his willingness to go on his knees for forgiveness, the other man burst at the seam with emotion. With violence, even. He was too slow to back away, and so he was on him, a hand hovering in the air. He breathed in, tightly and limited, and exhaled just as fast, staring at the other and waiting for the punishment that didn’t come.

The words, they didn't align, they didn’t quite make sense. “Whatever do you mean? We paid our debt — It got the boy, It took the chickens and sheep, too. If there is more to collect, collect it. I’ll offer it.” He’d do it. Get on his knees for that forgiveness. “There needs to be no burning. The future – we can have a bountiful future together, no?” Padrig inhaled sharply once more, still waiting for that punch, scared in the way he thought was holy. Fear like this could be beautiful. To have something this powerful to be afraid of — it was privilege. He let himself be shoved into the wall, caught his breath.

“And we are — we are for It, because of It, in honor of It.” If this man spoke for the demon, then why talk of their ways like this? Padrig felt his guards rise, straightening his body. “No. I think you need to explain what it is you need and want from us. I —” Fear, that divine thing, demanded him to speak with more respect. “Please, that is what I ask, what I think is best — they have no answers for you. I can get you an elder to speak to.” Or, he thought, I’d rather have you leave. 

—

Emilio searched the man’s eyes, looking for remorse, for doubt, for anything that made sense. Because there had to be something, didn’t there? There had to be some part of this man that understood what he and his community were doing was wrong, had to be some inclination that they might be in the wrong. How could someone believe, so wholeheartedly, in the slaughter of children? How could they excuse it, how could they enforce it? 

There was no honor, he thought, in the way this commune operated. They didn’t give those children a chance. Hunters raised their children as knives, yes, but wasn’t it better to be the blade than the thing it was cutting? Wasn’t it better to be metal destined to rust and break and die on a battlefield than to be a lamb fattened and led to the slaughter? His mother gave him a chance, at least, trained him to take care of himself, to protect himself. If he failed, it was because he didn’t try hard enough. Wasn’t that love? Wasn’t it closer to it than whatever it was Padrig had given to Wynne?

But there was nothing behind those eyes. They weren’t even cold, the way he might have expected them to be. There was no malice, no rage. There was… confusion, if anything. A perplexed expression, as if he couldn’t understand why someone was angry with him. As if he had no idea what he might have done wrong. A child was dead. Many children were dead, generations of them who were snuffed out before they got the chance to live at all. Killed by people who were supposed to protect them, slaughtered in a way they were led to believe was love. And this man, this weary-eyed man who had seen to it that all of those children would die passive and bleeding, saw no issue with the things he had done.

It felt unjust, somehow. Emilio hated himself for his daughter’s death, carried that burden every day as if it had been his hands that had killed her. And these people, with generations worth of blood on their hands, felt nothing. They felt justified. 

Emilio’s stomach churned.

He let out a sharp laugh as Padrig spoke of fetching an elder. “Now you choose to question what you are told? Now? Not when there are children beneath your blade?” He’d given himself away, he could tell. Padrig no longer saw him as an ally. He ought to feel worse about it than he did. It would make the rest of what he wanted to do here harder, after all, but… The idea of this man seeing him as a friend felt sickening. He’d rather fight his way out than shake a hand coated with the blood of children. 

“I will find them myself,” he said lowly. Then, he reared back and hit Padrig hard on the side of his head, letting him crumple. He dragged the man’s unconscious form to a closed door, opening it and shoving him inside the small space. Some kind of a storage closet, it seemed; Emilio broke the knob once Padrig was inside to keep him there. It wouldn’t hold him forever, but it would keep him quiet and contained long enough for Emilio to do what he wanted to do.

A wiser man would have left then, knowing that he had what he needed to tell Wynne the truth. But Emilio had never been one to go with wisdom over rage. He ducked out of the house, spotting one of the kids who’d led him there and waving them over. “Padrig said you could take me to the Hughes house.”

—

Padrig was ill-prepared for this. Sometimes there were trespassers, certainly, but they were dealt with easily. To outside eyes, this place was nothing but a self-sufficient community that lived in a traditional manner. They received a tour of the place, could taste some of the produce and food and were often send on their merry way with a full belly. There were newcomers, people that heard of a naturalistic and close-knit community and wanted to belong, and they were welcomed into the fold after a certain amount of time and influence.

But this? No, none of them ever came in with knowledge that no outsiders were privy to. This man had known Its name, this man knew of the things that weren’t supposed to be public knowledge — and of course, they had assumed he was because of that a man sent by the demon Itself. Gythraul was supposed to keep them all safe from such outside sources, after all, and to question Its influence was unwise.

There was a hole in the net, though. Information was leaking. Padrig was ill-prepared for this, and as the other laughed, as the other berated him he knew he’d made a miscalculation. Again. (The largest miscalculation was, of course, the one he would never see as one: the one where he assumed all of this was right.) He got ready to jump into action, needing to find a way to raise the alarm bells — to make all alert that this stranger was an interloper, not a voice for the demon. That there was trouble, again. That perhaps gythraul had ceased Its protection of them, opening them up for trespassers.

Or, somehow maybe even worse, that his former pupil had started talking after their escape. That his failure would cost them again.

His mouth opened to retort but in stead was met with a fist against the temple, the move effective in its suddenness and swiftness. Padrig fell, slipped into darkness, his last thought of how it wasn’t by his hand, that the children died. 

— 

Zahra Hughes had no knowledge, thus far, of the man at the market who had approached Rhys, nor of his presence at the compound at present. Knowledge at the commune was contained, and she and her husband had been pushed to the sidelines where nearly no knowledge reached them. It had been different, once. No less than a year ago, she had been at the center of it all — enjoying the fruits of her child’s impending labor. And before that, she had been the newcomer, an outsider who had been invited into the fold. Gareth had held her hand then, his own lineage in the commune holding weight, the welcoming arms and words of all those around her making her certain that she would stay.

And stay she had. She had stayed when her stomach had swelled with the life that would eventually be known as Wynne. She had stayed when Siors had kneeled at her maternity bed and told her of her child’s destiny, the way that her little bundle of joy would save them all. She had stayed and watched her child grow, knowing that an expiration date hung above their head. She had brought another child onto this world, knowing that she’d get to keep this one, and so she had loved that one better.

Now, Zahra was a woman with no children left, and yet she stayed. Where could she go? After Wynne, who had abandoned not only their duty but their parents, their brother? Back to the family she had once had, the people she had been raised with who had offered no kindness and warmth — who might as well have driven her into the arms of the Protherians?

She stayed. In this empty house. In her shame and failure. In the rage she could not permit herself, because they were watching — they were watching. They had asked her if she had helped Wynne get out, and though they had said they believed her, Zahra thought they had taken Iwan as a repercussion all the same. Her boy: the one who was supposed to live. The one she hadn’t spent all his life mourning.

There was a knock at the door. She dragged herself from the potatoes and their peels, opening the door. There was Fionn, who’d ran around with Iwan. There was Eirwen, who shared a surname with her. And there was … a stranger. “Hello.” She wiped her hands, wet from the potatoes. Zahra looked at the man, confused. “How can I help you?” 

Eirwen, the snotty wisenose, spoke up: “He’s here to talk.” Zahra deeply despised her niece in that moment, and not just because she was alive.

She let out a sigh. “Sure. Come in.” She was, these days, too fatigued to fight — whatever this was, let it happen.

—

She looked like Wynne. It was the first thing he thought when she opened the door — she looked like Wynne. Or, rather, Wynne looked like her. They had their mother’s nose, their eyes were shaped as hers were. Some features were different — he suspected those were the ones their father had given them. But he thought Wynne must look more like their mother, because he could see them in her features, looking back at him with an expression he’d never seen the kid wear themself. 

(Flora had looked like him. Juliana had commented on it once, rolling her eyes. I carry her for nine months, I spend hours pushing her out, and she still looks more like you. A slayer, too. What am I, then? She’d laughed as she’d said it, nudging his shoulder. It had been in the early days, when Flora was still too small for Emilio’s hesitance to drive a wedge between him and his wife, when she was almost an infant instead of a blade. The early days hadn’t lasted very long.)

He couldn’t decide what he wanted to say, looking at Wynne’s mother now. Here was a woman whose child had been lost to her, but Emilio felt none of the empathy he normally might. He didn’t feel a connection to her the way he had to the weeping father outside Wynne’s hospital room, didn’t taste her grief the way he did then. Her child had been lost to her, but hadn’t she chosen that? Hadn’t she raised her eldest like a lamb for the slaughter, hadn’t she offered her son in their place when they protested their demise?

It wasn’t right, he thought, to compare this loss to his own. He would have given anything to save his daughter. He would have fallen on the blade himself. This woman might as well have held that blade in her hands, might as well have been the one to slit her son’s throat. Perhaps even calling her a grieving mother was giving her more kindness than she deserved. Mothers fought to save their children, didn’t they? The way Juliana must have fought to save Flora, the way his mother had tried to save him in the training she’d drilled into him. Mothers saved their children, but this one had killed hers. It wasn’t a crime Emilio knew how to forgive.

“Go,” he said to the kids who’d brought him there, and they did. They were afraid of him, he suspected. Because they thought he had a connection to the demon that loomed over them, because they thought he was a part of it. Would they fear him more or less if they knew the truth? Would they see him as a threat instead of a marvel once Padrig made his way out of that closet? He wondered, idly, if they were dangerous. He suspected they weren’t. At least, not to him. People who sacrificed children probably weren’t used to fighting someone who knew how to fight back.

He stepped inside the Hughes home, glancing around. Had Wynne grown up here, he wondered? Had they sat between these walls contemplating their life and how short the people who were meant to protect them were intent on making it? Had they loved the woman he was staring down now? They must have. Children loved their mothers, even when they shouldn’t. 

The silence hung heavy between them for a moment, and Emilio was the one to break it with a question. One he’d been wondering, one that had been eating away at him ever since Wynne told him about their past: “Did you love them?”

—

The door fell shut behind them and Zahra had half a mind to simply turn around and wordlessly lead him to the kitchen, where conversations were better had. But even this house was no longer a place under her control, it seemed, with the newcomer posing a question so broad yet so narrow, so pointed and confrontational.

Did she have to ask who he meant? No — for all her shortcomings, Zahra Hughes did have some maternal instinct. He was asking after her child, perhaps children, as that was the only thing she couldn’t be certain of: whether the them referred to just Wynne or the two of them. Irregardless, he meant Wynne, the one that had gotten away, that had brought such shame and disgrace upon their family, the one who’d ruined it all, the one who had refused to stay. 

Something about her posture changed, desperation revealing itself like a book opening. Did this man know Wynne? Had her child somehow found their way to a place outside of here, alive, where there were people? Or had they been like their mother, running into the arms of a community who’d entrap them, make everything seem like an impossible puzzle with no possible solution?

“Yes.”

What other answer was there to give? Mothers loved their children. Even when their children were destined to die, even when they were not given even a day of living in ignorance, even when their children skirted duty and ran. Zahra loved Wynne even in their absence, in their insolence, in their disloyalty. She hated them too — but that went better unsaid. That was an ugly thing to do for a mother: to hate their child. To not only envy them, but to despise them. 

It was childish and weak, the fact that her child had thought themself capable of outrunning fate. It was a despicable, selfish act. Somewhere, Zahra must have fallen short, for something like this to happen. She knew that now, and she hated herself for it the same way she hated Wynne. Sometimes it was easier to focus on that rage than the actual grief she held.

Zahra still did what she had intended to do and walked to the kitchen, that question looming over her like a shadow, the same way the stranger might. She looked at the peeled potatoes and sat on her kitchen chair, that old wood beneath her old bones, eyes drifting up to the stranger. She hardly considered the knife on the table.

“Do you know them?” The question was asked with a certain level of hunger. Maybe she was not entitled to these things, but she wondered. She laid awake at night, wondering where Wynne had ran to. Where they were now, if they even were anywhere — the world was dangerous and treacherous, and they had no knowledge of it: to survive it alone would be quite something. Maybe the demon had taken them anyway, besides, and found it irrelevant to mention.

“What is it you want?” Best get it over with.

—

Yes. 

Somehow, it was the worst answer she could have given. Yes, she loved her children. Yes, she’d doomed them anyway. The air in the house felt suffocating, like the goddamn world was on fire and he couldn’t see through the smoke. But there were no flames here; no heat, no crackling. There were only two parents with no children left between them, a mother who had sacrificed one child and driven the other away and a father who had done everything he knew to save his daughter and failed her anyway. 

He wondered which was the worst crime. Was it more forgivable to fail to save your child, or to never try to begin with? It made no difference to the child, in the end. Flora was as dead as Wynne’s brother, regardless of whatever efforts Emilio had made. How much did it matter, what he’d tried and failed to do? He was in the same boat as Wynne’s mother now, was just as guilty. It was an irredeemable thing for a parent to outlive their child, an unnatural one. No one should do it.

Wynne’s mother had loved her children. Emilio had loved his daughter. And love, in the end, had saved none of them. So what was it worth? Was there any point to a love too empty to build a liferaft? This love, it was little more than an empty precursor to grief, a pointless prologue. 

Had Zahra felt superior, he wondered, in the years she’d raised her child to die? Had she walked around this compound with her head held high, proud and mighty? Had there been dread there, or anticipation? Had she wanted to cling to the days she’d had with her child, or had she only ever been waiting for it to be over? 

She moved into the kitchen, and Emilio followed without thinking, angry and grieving and a walking contradiction of a man who both wanted answers and desperately wanted to avoid them. She asked if he knew them, and it was almost funny. “Do you?” Had she ever? In all the years she’d raised her child like a thing already gone, had she ever bothered to get to know Wynne? Or had she distanced herself from them, held them at arms length to protect herself when she should have been protecting them instead? 

And then, the unknowable question. What is it you want? Emilio didn’t know the answer. He never really had. He wanted better for Wynne, for Flora, for himself, maybe. He wanted to find something in this woman worth redeeming, because if he did maybe he could find something in himself worth redeeming, too. He wanted for her to have been a good mother, and he wanted for her to have been a bad one. He wanted them to be the same, he wanted them to be different. He wanted a thousand things that were at war with one another, and none of them mattered because none of them were possible. 

He wanted a better world than this.

But how could he say any of that without sounding as insane as he felt? How could he communicate how he felt when the only language they shared still felt so foreign to him? He didn’t know the answer, so he turned the question around. “Is this what you wanted? For yourself, for your children? You let them kill your son. You would have let them kill Wynne. And — And for what? What loyalty do you have to these people that’s bigger than the one you should have had for your children? What kind of a person — what kind of a parent does this?” He was shaking. His hands, his legs, his voice. He was trembling like there were earthquakes moving up and down his bones, and he didn’t want to be, but he couldn’t stop it. He was louder than he meant to be; yelling without realizing it, hoarse with the force of the voice being ripped from his lungs. “You should have stopped it. You should have done a better job. You should have saved them.”

(And maybe part of him knew that it wasn’t her he was speaking to anymore. But maybe it was easier this way. To give your grief a face, to assign your rage to someone else… It felt better. It made it into something tangible you could hate, let you aim outward instead of inward. He liked that, sometimes.)

—

She hadn’t known Wynne and it had been purposeful. Gareth and her had fought about that sometimes, the favoritism she showed to Iwan — but then he had showed favoritism to their eldest, and the argument would hit the same wall it always did. Where her husband looked upon their child as their chance to make the Hughes line a more important one within the commune – one that would be immortalized upon Wynne’s passing, with their name among all the martyrs – Zahra had looked upon them as something dead. 

It was a ghost in the crib, a ghost that yowled at the breakfast table in their high chair, a ghost that ran through the fields with their cousins and peers their age. Zahra had fed the ghost, had read them stories and sang them songs before bedtime, had taught them the things a mother was supposed to teach a child — but they had not gotten to know them. 

Whenever Wynne had tried – and the child had tried – she had gotten harsh and cold, as if she was more wall than mother. The dead had no interests, no puns, no crushes or friendship squabbles. So Wynne ran to dadi and Zahra let them, coddling Iwan in stead. Iwan, who was flesh and bone and not destined to lay down like Jac and Enyd and all those before them. Iwan, who she could love without being afraid of losing all she got to know.

She had watched Gareth run around with Wynne in stead, their laughing faces blurring against the fields. It had been Gareth who would discipline Wynne too, who would take the brunt of parenthood — because Zahra couldn’t even be angry at this ghost-child. All she could be was the cold that was promised to come when they were dead. She watched them, father and child, and did not envy them. She thought her husband a fool and the child … well, the child was like the lambs raised for slaughter, the squealing piglets. It was a farm rule: you couldn’t get attached to the livestock that was destined for the slaughter. Save your affections for the hens and the cows. For the Iwans of the world.

But there had been such misplaced resentment there. What was one to do, though? She was a woman with nothing to her name, shunned from her former family and entangled with a man she loved, a community she served — she resented nothing but chance, that it had funnily enough been her to put a child on the earth at the wrong time. She didn’t resent the elders, nor Siors, nor Gareth. Zahra, at the end of the day, resented herself and Wynne the most.

Which left only one external target. A target who was supposed to die and take her resentment with them, but even that hadn’t happen.

Gareth would often ask her for more children, that two was too few — but she refused him time and time again. She wasn’t sure, now, if this had been the right or wrong idea. Would they have been taken, too? Or would she have a bunch of young running around, now? Would she be able to love them right?

She was taking too long to answer, she knew. She shrugged. “Does any mother really know their young, especially at that age?” It was a non-answer, a way to say no without really saying so. Zahra had failed as a mother in a multitude of ways. She could tell this stranger Iwan’s favorite color and animal, the names he wanted to give his children, his favorite song to hum while working, the way he laughed — but she could do none of that for Wynne. 

She was tired. This man, in her kitchen, was an ugly and angry thing. He seemed to be bursting at the seams with it, and then he did. Didn’t he know? There is no room for rage here. You take your rage and you bury it. You put it in the labor. In the cooking, the work in the fields, the washing and the ironing. You do not get angry because that is like confessing there is something to be angry about and that simply would not do.

Zahra watched him, this outsider. He had to be an outsider. These weren’t questions the people in the commune asked. These weren’t things you spoke out loud. She watched him and then watched her potato peels, the rest of the unpeeled things that still had to be finished before the workday was done. His words kept going though, echoing violently through her mind, like a hand at the back of her neck pressing her down, forcing her to look at all her failures and sins. There were no successes to be found. She had not done her Protherian duty, had not done her motherly ones either.

Her hand splayed on the table, with hardly a slap but some kind of noise, “You — I don’t know who you are, but you come in here, in my house and you talk about want and should have and loyalty …” Her voice was a bristle. Instinct demanded she cowered, but this wasn’t an elder and this certainly wasn’t Siors. “What I wanted was no longer relevant – has not been relevant, and that is fine, there is a higher cause that I’m more than glad to answer — that they should have been glad to answer as well.” Zahra felt her voice grow venomous, but she remained seated. “This is larger than one child. I have known that all their life, so has their father — it is an ugly truth, but that’s the truth of it. This is larger than just one child. Every cycle a mother has to watch —” 

She cut herself off, inhaling sharply. The image of Iwan on that altar had not quite left her. “I am no different than the women who have come before me — but you’re right! I should have done better, I should have made sure their duty was fulfilled … that we wouldn’t be in this situation, recovering still from their – their insolence.” Wynne was supposed to die and now they lived, outside her grasp, and Iwan was supposed to live and now he was dead, along with so much of their livestock. If there had been someone to save, it was her son, because her other child … well, she’d mourned them already. She’d never allowed them to be real in her mind. Which begged the question of who Wynne was now, out there, and if they had brought this man here.

—

Zahra, Emilio thought, was something close to what his mother had wanted him to be. The choice she had been given wasn’t entirely dissimilar from his own — like her, he had been handed a child and told that it was his duty to mold her into something else. Make her a weapon, they’d told him, fashion her into a knife. Don’t hold her when she cries; she needs to learn to be a thing with no tears to shed. Don’t read her to sleep at night; just put her in her sheath and turn out the lights. Feed her, clothe her, but do not love her. Love is the worst thing you can give a weapon. Love turns a hunting blade into a butter knife. 

But love had burrowed into his chest the very first time he’d held his daughter in his arms all the same. Love had clung to his fingertips as he’d let her suck them to soothe her aching gums, had dripped from his chin when she’d thrashed and splashed and squealed as he bathed her, had hung from his neck when she’d wrapped her arms around him and draped off his shoulders like he was a tree and she was built only to climb. He loved her, and he wasn’t supposed to. 

Would it have been easier, he wondered, if he were more like this woman in front of him now? If he’d built some sort of wall between himself and his daughter, would the story have ended differently? A toddler couldn’t have turned the tides of the fight that took place in his living room while he was absent. Even in all his unreasonable guilt, Emilio knew that. But if he’d taught her something, if he’d begun to shape her into the weapon she was supposed to be, could it have shifted things just enough to make a difference? Could she have survived long enough for Emilio to reach her? Could her limited competence have been enough to ensure Juliana was able to fight with no distraction? Could it have provided enough of an inconvenience to convince her murderers to go somewhere else and return again later? 

Maybe he’d doomed Flora by loving her. Maybe Zahra had doomed Iwan by not loving Wynne. Maybe all parents were capable of, in the end, was finding new ways to make ghosts of their children. Raise a child as a lamb, and watch them kick the gate down and run away. Raise a child as a weapon, and watch him rust and dull until he was little more than a broken hunk of metal and rage. Raise a child as a child, and cradle her body where it fell on the living room floor. Was there any winning? Was there ever any hope for any of them?

Still, any camaraderie he felt towards Zahra refused to soothe his rage. If anything, it intensified it. He was angry at Zahra because he was angry at himself. He hated Zahra because he hated himself. It was a mirror that he desperately wanted to shatter, a reflection he wished to tear to shreds. If Emilio deserved what he deserved, so did Zahra. If Emilio had earned a quick trip to whatever afterlife existed for people like him, so had Zahra. And it spoke volumes, he thought, that part of him wanted to deliver her there now. It said all that needed saying about the kind of man he was that Wynne was the only thing that stopped him. They’d lost a brother. He’d have to tell them that. He wouldn’t tell them that they’d lost a mother, too, even if he thought Zahra didn’t deserve to have ever been called such to begin with.

So when she replied to his question with one of her own, Emilio’s laugh was bitter and brutal. “You are not a mother,” he told her. “You don’t get to call yourself that. Mothers protect their children. You offered yours up for the slaughter. Did your son beg for his life when you let them kill him? Did he look to you for help?” It was a cruel question, a twist of a knife he knew had probably been sitting in her chest since the day Iwan died. He couldn’t bring himself to care. He hoped it bled her dry. He hoped she choked on it.

But he didn’t think it would. She was more statue than woman, the outline of a mother drawn by someone who had never known one. If she ever loved her children at all, she’d loved them wrong. And maybe Emilio, who’d loved his daughter wrong, too, couldn’t judge that, but he was judging anyway. He was here, he was angry, he was a hypocrite, and he’d keep prodding at the bruises on her skin until one of them cried out for mercy because there was nothing else for him to do. It was a pointless act, he knew; no amount of sneering and screaming would bring Iwan back or soothe Wynne’s grief. But for Emilio, mourning and rage had always been synonyms. He didn’t know how to have one without the other.

“Nothing should be larger than one child when that child is yours,” he snapped, but he couldn’t help but wonder if he was wrong. After all, his examples of parenthood were closer to Zahra than his own philosophy. His mother did what she did, raised her children the way she had been raised, and Rosa did the same. It was Emilio who was the outlier, Emilio whose love for his daughter was bigger than his duty to his family when he knew it always should have been the other way around. Zahra chose duty over love, the way Emilio was supposed to. His mother’s teachings would insist that she’d been right to do so, but how could she be? How could this be right? How could any of it? 

“Your children,” he said, “deserved a better mother than you. They deserved someone who would fight for them. You should have gotten them out. The moment you were told to make a sacrifice of them, to use their body as a thing to make your lives easier, you should have gotten them out.” It was an echo of the thoughts in his own head, the ones that haunted him. You shouldn’t have waited. You should have left with her the moment it became clear that she was to be a weapon instead of a girl. You should have run without stalling, should have taken her far far away. You should have saved her. You should have saved her. 

What was left for him now? For either of them? His daughter was dead. Iwan was dead. Wynne was alive, but to this woman, they never had been. They’d been born dead in the eyes of the person who’d brought them into the world, and Emilio thought of the way his mother never wept for Victor the way he couldn’t stop weeping for Flora. He wondered, for a heartbeat, if Elena and Zahra were the same, and then he shoved the thought from his mind so violently that it burned. This couldn’t be about that. Nothing could be about that. Not now.

His hands shook, because she still had it wrong. She thought her mistake was the child who had lived instead of the one who had died, that she should have done more to force Wynne to a fate she had allowed to be chosen for them. Like her greatest sin was not allowing one child to be bled dry, but allowing the wrong one to be. He thought of Victor, dead before twenty. He thought of Rosa, her words harsh and honest nearly two decades after the fact. I wish you had died instead of Victor. And he thought of Wynne. Wynne, who was kind and quiet, who made food for him even though they knew he didn’t eat it, who tried to make sure he was all right even when they were drowning. He thought of how many people had failed them, about how he was one of them. He thought of the mother and father who had refused to save them, of the community who thought them a means to an end, of himself and the blood he’d let flow from their throat because he was too slow, too stubborn, too stupid. He thought of what they deserved, and what they’d gotten instead. 

And he was angry. He was so fucking angry.

“You should have been a mother,” he said, “instead of an executioner. Maybe you didn’t hold the knife that bled your son dry, but don’t kid yourself. It was your hands that killed him. Not Wynne’s, not some demon’s, not anyone else’s. It was you. It was just you.” 

Swallowing, Emilio took a step back. “I hope you get everything you deserve,” he told her. “I hope this house burns to the ground. I hope you lose everything you’ve built here. I hope you bury everyone you love. And I hope you do it all knowing that Wynne is so much better without you in their life.”

—

This man was hurt and he was lashing out. It would be good for him to look within and see what was truly bothering him, Zahra thought, and then reconsider if it was worth getting this worked up over. These were hardly her own thoughts, but rather repetitions of the things she had been told and told herself over the years — part of the way emotions were treated when they reached levels like this. This was a community build on serene peace and togetherness. Making your emotions so big that they had to take up an entire room was not okay, and yet here the other was. Filling her house with it, with his hurt. 

It might be her peeling knife on the table, but it was his verbal knives ending in her gut, attempting to splay her open and reveal all the twisted truths of the past twenty something years. The stranger – who had not offered a name, still – asked after Iwan, after that fated day.

What a day it had been, to wake and find Wynne’s room abandoned, that small note scrawled with their words of goodbye (I don’t want to die, I’m sorry) the only thing they had left behind. It hadn’t even been Zahra who had realized that their child had ran, but rather the elders — Alys had creaked open that bedroom door and found absence, had pulled the strings that had seen Zahra and her husband looking down not only Siors but a few elders as well, wondering how this could have happened. How they even knew where the money was. 

What a day it had been, of groveling and claiming ignorance, because that was the truth. Zahra hadn’t known her child, so how could she have known that they would do such a thing? They were to keep their mouth shut, as a straggle of men went into the forest to search for the betrayer, Gareth among them. And eventually Padrig had come, with the news. Eventually Padrig had come and he had taken Iwan and there had been no room for arguing. But she tried. For Iwan, she had tried, to open her mouth and protest — but she’d been shut down. And she’d fallen in place. 

I tried, she wanted to argue, but the words died on her tongue. Because Iwan had cried and he had screamed and struggled. He had not been as subdued as Wynne would have been, because he lacked the preparation — because he wasn’t supposed to be laid on that altar. He had begged. And Zahra had watched, digging her fingernails in her knees until the half moons bled, clenching her jaw until a headache formed. 

She had screamed into her husband’s shoulder, who had held her tight and then forced her back upright again, refusing the comfort she seeked. Gareth had been all quiet anger, tightly-wound, with no direction for it to go. Zahra had been nothing but despair, and had sobbed in stead.

Maybe this man was right. Maybe she wasn’t a mother, at least not any more. What claim to motherhood was left, with one of them having turned their back and the other having begged for his life, while his mother watched and sobbed? The demon had taken the sacrifice and then some, proven that its wrath was a true thing to fear — but what did it matter, when it came to her? Was it regret she experienced, or was it just a bitterness at the powerlessness?

And he just kept going, raining judgment after judgment as if he lived in this world. Where a demon raged through their livestock if the soul it was given was slightly different. Where not even a century ago, it had killed all the youths just to repay an escape attempt. The rules were different here. They had to be. The rules weren’t as simple as motherly instinct saving its child here. They couldn’t be.

Zahra had abandoned her former life for this one. For herself. Then, for her husband. Then, for the demon, for the community, for all there was. The luscious fields. The euphoric celebrations. The closeness to death, the healthy awareness of it. It couldn’t all be beautiful. It couldn’t all be kind. But it had purpose.

Iwan, even as he had squirmed and wept, had had purpose. Wynne, in their betrayal, had discarded their purpose and only served to be a thorn in everyone’s side. I don’t want to die was a plea she could only answer with a motherly: we all do things we don’t want to for the greater good sometimes. 

She watched him speak. She let him speak, her hard and angry, her walls growing higher. She lifted her hand, pressing it against her sternum to remind herself to breathe easily. In the back of her mind, the words of elders repeated. She couldn’t — no, she wouldn’t hear this and let it mean something. Zahra had loved and lost, had performed her duty. She had failed when it came to Wynne, but when it came to Iwan she had persevered and done what the mothers before her had done. 

And when he was done, confirming that he not only knew Wynne but knew where they were, she opened her mouth. “Either you get out of my house right now or you tell me where they are.” Zahra pushed herself off from the table, raising to her full height (which wasn’t a lot, compared to the stranger’s). “You’ve said your piece, haven’t you? So go, get out — take your judgments and your opinions and get out of my house. As if – no, I don’t need to justify myself. I don’t need to explain myself to someone so – so blind, so —” 

She inhaled. “You speak so easily of things you don’t know. So get out. I don’t need to hear it. It’s wasted breath.” Her arm raised, limb trembling, and she pointed at the door he had come from. “Get. Out.”

—

She was upset. It was clear in the way she was looking at him, the way she pressed her hand against her chest, the way she tried and failed to breathe easy. She was upset, and some bitter part of Emilio was glad for it. Why should she know peace? Why should she get to sit here, safe in her home, and peel potatoes? Her son was dead, her eldest child broken by the life she’d forced them into, and she had the audacity to look at him as if he was the monster, as if his intrusion into her home was a heavier thing than the rooms that she had emptied, the blood that she had spilled. 

He didn’t know what he was looking for here. He had the answers he’d promised Wynne he’d bring them, even if those answers would weigh heavy on him as he carried them back to Wicked’s Rest. He’d had those answers even before he came to this house, even before he’d started this conversation. He could have left after Padrig told him what he’d needed to know. So why hadn’t he? Why was he here, why was he screaming at this woman, why did his chest feel so tight?

Emilio was not a man who understood his own emotions. The fact that he had them at all was a failure, a sign that he’d messed up somewhere along the line. He was meant to be a blade, a weapon, a wooden stake: something someone held in their hand to use and discard when it was too dull to function properly anymore, an object designed to spill blood and do nothing else. Emotion was useless, but it was something he’d struggled with all his life. At some point, his mother had recognized that she couldn’t remove it entirely, so she’d taught him to utilize it instead. To take grief and confusion and uncertainty and to turn it into anger instead, to let rage be the only thing that made his heartbeat quicken. Anger was useful. Everything else was pointless to keep around.

He no longer knew how to recognize if the anger burning inside him had another name. He couldn’t color code it, couldn’t call it what it was when what it was wasn’t something he had a name for. Let it be rage, then. Let it be a fury that burned instead of a grief that ached, let it be something he could make use of. If you have to be anything, his mother used to say, be angry. And so he was. 

But useful wasn’t the same as productive. Useful let you slide a knife between ribs, but it wouldn’t ease the pain that radiated up your wrist from the force of your grip on the hilt of it. He could scream at this woman until his lungs ran out of breath, but he couldn’t put the blood back into her son’s body, couldn’t save Wynne from decades of living knowing they were only alive to die. No amount of screaming would change her mind, no amount of venom would make her realize she was wrong. If her son’s death didn’t turn the tides, what would? If years of watching her child grow hadn’t convinced her that their sacrifice was not worth whatever ‘honor’ it would bring her family, she was lost already. Let the demon have her. Let it all burn.

The idea that she carried some pain within her that he couldn’t understand was a laughable thing, a joke without a punchline. As if she should be allowed that pain, as if she’d earned it. You weren’t allowed to grieve something you’d chosen to slaughter. You weren’t allowed to hold your head up high and claim victimhood for a situation you’d gotten yourself into all on your own, for something you could have prevented if only you’d tried. It was her fault, what happened to her son. 

(It was his fault, what happened to his daughter.)

She didn’t deserve to mourn.

(Neither did he.)

She deserved whatever grief tore her open, deserved to spend the rest of her life with her son’s cries and pleas echoing in her ears.

(The image of his daughter’s corpse would lurk behind his eyelids until the day he died. He deserved it as much as she did.)

“I know,” he said lowly, “more than you could imagine. But there is a difference between us. I would have died for my daughter, but you asked your children to die for you. You’ll never see them again. I’m going to make sure.” She wouldn’t make sacrifices for Wynne, but Emilio would. He would have died for Flora. He would have died for Wynne. A blade could be used to protect, too.

But she was right about one thing, at least — he was wasting his breath here. He shot her one last disgusted look, anger still burning in his chest. He made his way over to the door, and it opened a heartbeat before he reached for the knob. The man who stood there looked surprised; Emilio could see Wynne’s features reflected in his face the same way he’d seen them in Zahra’s. Their father, he realized distantly. This is their father. 

There was little thought behind it. It was rage that clenched his fist, rage that reared his arm back, rage that collided his knuckles into the stranger’s face without saying a word. He didn’t feel better as Wynne’s father stumbled back, didn’t find relief in the blood that gushed from the man’s nose. Everything felt painfully empty as Emilio shook out his hand and stepped out the open door. 

The sun was shining; he thought it shouldn’t be. No one said anything to him as he sulked towards the same gate he’d come in, though a few people whispered as he passed. He didn’t know if it was because they still thought he had some connection to the demon or if it was because they now knew that he didn’t. It didn’t matter much one way or another. No one tried to stop him, and part of him almost wished they would. His knuckles yearned to meet more flesh, the fury burning inside of him begging for an outlet. But when he got to his car at last, all that was left to do was drive.

This had been the easy part. The worst, he knew, was yet to come.