#even though its way past october

[mitamicah]

.

[moonlight-prose]

SWEETNESS OF THE DAMNED

a/n: this was a quick drabble at first, but somehow turned into an allegory for persophone and hades. which isn’t surprising for me given that i’m already plotting october fics. logan isn’t a monster in this, nor is he a vampire even though the vibe and title may give that off. i just really love gothic vibes in everything i write so who better to give it to than old man logan.

summary: when night falls and wine overflows in glasses of crystal, logan finds his home in between your thighs.

word count: 1.2k+

pairing: old man!logan howlett x f!reader

warnings: EXPLICIT SO MINORS DNI, p in v sex, alcohol consumption, allegories for persephone and hades, biting, scratching even though he heals, cumplay, overstimulation, squirting, dirty talk, older logan is so filthy i’m blushing.

The acrid embers of the fire burned your nose the deeper your breaths became. Red wine remained chocolatey and bitter on your tongue; the dinner you tried to eat quickly was now forgotten in favor of something else. You thought you could smell the cigar he smoked on the porch an hour ago on his bare skin. You couldn't.

Not when his fingers dug into your hips, lips pressed against the shell of your ear. He grunted with each slap of skin. The wet slick of how he pounded into you echoed loud and bright in the cabin.

You would have been embarrassed if it weren't for the sounds he let out. The way his eyes fell shut the closer you got to that fiery peak.

"C'mon baby," he sighed, ragged and needy. "I can feel ya."

Wine had gone to your head the second he poured you a third glass. Your red dress of crushed velvet lay in a heap on the floor. A pair of his jeans and a shirt beside it. The soft fabric of his flannel was smooth beneath your knees where he dropped it. Careful to keep your skin from going raw as he took you before dinner could even finish.

The alcohol is what brought this night to an early conclusion.

You already knew it would happen. Hoped for it on long days with hours that stretched for miles. Ached for his presence when you curled up in bed—the scent of his body still stuck on the cotton sheets. Logan promised to give you everything with a soft kiss at the door, his fingers gripping your chin to hold you there a minute longer. To slip his tongue past your maroon painted lips and lick along your teeth.

"'S too much," you garbled.

He laughed as you clenched around his leaking cock—tearing a deep moan from his chest. The heat of his body burned its way into yours where the fireplace couldn't reach. Each muscle and ridge along his stomach pressed into your back—his hips strong enough to break you slowed into punishing thrusts that bounced you on his thighs.

Time didn't exist; seasons began to blend into one.

The both of you resided where spring met summer and the shadow of night met fall's full moon. You wore a crown of wilted flowers—red spilling over your hands from where he asked you to bite into his skin. This was your damned hour. Your time of need.

You were the other half of an already broken soul, and he found that in your absence he couldn't hold it together for quite as long.

"You feel that?" His hand cupped your cunt—fingers spread around where he ended and you began. "She's leakin' for me baby."

"L-Logan," you gasped your throat thick with too many emotions.

The slow grind of his hips into yours sent your body hurtling towards yet another release. Your stomach was sticky where his other hand pressed - already coated in the three before. Holding onto the fraying pieces of your mind proved to be difficult when his teeth latched onto your shoulder. His fingers drew a shape around the edge of your throbbing clit.

His initials.

"You want another one don't ya honey?"

Yes. No. Please never fucking stop.

Instead all you could get out was a whine of his name. Your back arched into his hold, head pressed hard against his chest, as you fought to keep up with him. To grind against his lap and feel the drag of his cock along your walls.

"Yeah. You do," he murmured against your ear. "She wants to be good for me."

Down in the base of your stomach you felt the familiar pull of bliss begin to draw tight. You knew what came next. The rush of mind numbing pleasure trickled into your veins. Slowly drawing you higher with each stunted thrust—each echo of his fingers toying with your stretched cunt. You could count the seconds until it finally burst.

"I'm gonna–" The breath caught in your throat, hands clasping around his wrists as something shifted. "F-Fuck. Logan I'm–"

"Fuck yeah ya are," he grunted into your neck. "Gonna lick you clean after this. Get my fuckin' dessert."

His cock pounded deep against your walls, fingers pulling up the hood of your clit to circle rapidly against nerves that were already shot. And you sobbed his name. Your nails drew red angry marks on his arms that healed moments later; your body too fucking rigid and too hot to process what the fuck he was doing.

Elysium and the River Styx were ripping you apart. As if you were being pulled in two very different directions.

A clatter echoed beside you when he reached for your glass of wine, still stained with the now faded red of your lipstick. You felt his thigh shake—his cock twitching in the heat of your body. You wondered if this is what it felt like to burn alive. The sweet aching bliss of being held by your lover as he drowned you in the fire. Would this be how he took you to the Underworld?

The cold wash of wine spilled along your body as he poured out the remainder of the glass. His tongue quickly dragged across your blistering skin—drinking the cabernet off your body with a raspy groan of your name.

"'M almost there." He gripped the back of your neck and yanked you back with a kiss. His tongue plunging into your mouth—sharing the wine as his fingers pressed hard and fast against your swollen bud. "Give it to me huh? Fuckin' cum on my cock."

Your release ripped through your body with a scream. The echo of his name came back to you eventually, yet you couldn't figure out if you were the one saying it. With your nails piercing his skin, he felt you gush, choking his cock and milking him dry. A splatter of something wet landed on his thighs as he wrapped an arm around your waist to keep you still.

To bury himself as deep as he could go and finish with a blissful ragged groan against your shoulder. Wave after wave of ecstasy washed over your spent body and you felt him fill you until it began to leak out. Coating the inside of your thighs.

"Are you breathing?" he chuckled, lips sliding along your neck to find your mouth.

You answered with a whimper. Which proved enough for him.

The stickiness of the wine began to dry against your bare body while his fingers dragged through the mixture of your cum that stuck to your thigh. He sighed—content and warm—as he lowered himself to the floor. His back pressed against your clothes and softening cock still buried in your dripping cunt.

"Speak to me bub." His fingers tapped your cheek, nose nudging against your jaw. "I can't have killed ya."

"You almost did," you mumbled, barely able to open your eyes.

Exhaustion sunk right down to your bones the longer you lay there wrapped in his arms. You knew the both of you should shower. Clean up and actually eat something in its entirety this time around. Logan would say the same if it weren't for the comforting press of your weight against his body. He cupped your breasts, thumbs toying with your peaked nipples, and kissed you with a sigh.

The both of you should say something to get the other moving. Yet neither of you did.

Instead you were met with silence and the crackle of the fire. Time, now a nonexistent variable to a night spent in each other's arms.

[sayruq]

Throughout this war, those journalists have mostly ignored that Palestinian reporters are being killed, or even that they are reporters at all. With Western journalists largely prevented from entering from Gaza for these past 10 months, many of them have responded not by looking at the constant coverage by Palestinian journalists inside Gaza but by pretending that those reporters do not exist. Christine Amanpour, for example, lamented in April that “journalists are not on the ground in Gaza” who can show what’s happening there. (When she was corrected about this, she clarified that she meant “independent, Western journalists.”) A report from Rafah in December by CNN’s Clarissa Ward was sold to audiences as an “exclusive look at life in war-ravaged Gaza,” as if Palestinians had not been revealing what is going on in Rafah since October. What’s almost worse than this erasure, though, is that the few Western journalists who have been able to enter Gaza have almost exclusively done so by embedding with the Israeli military on heavily supervised excursions into the Strip. The IDF decides where the reporters go, what they are allowed to see, and whom they are allowed to question. Rather than challenge this obviously propagandistic situation, reporters from outlets like The New York Times and NBC News have instead dutifully played along. The benefit for Israel is clear. Witness a February dispatch in The Wall Street Journal, where the paper’s correspondent brought breathless reports from inside Hamas tunnels under the devastated city of Khan Younis that the Israeli army was more than happy to give access to. Israel has done nothing to earn this level of trust. Throughout this war, its government has lied consistently, endlessly, in absurd ways without stopping for breath before announcing the next lie. Its credibility is beyond question in that it has none.

[xxsabitoxx]

Pale Blue [Part Two]

Geto Suguru x AFAB Pregnant Reader

READ PART ONE HERE

Warnings: THIS FIC IS CANON COMPLIANT, if you are not caught up on Jujutsu Kaisen's manga, or at the very least if you have not seen "gojo's past" you WILL be spoiled. This story contains darker themes, heavier topics, pregnancy and all the lovely details of it, and lastly explicit sexual content. Read at your own risk!

A/N: Here she is, months overdue, but here she is. I know nobody will want to read my author note considering the behemoth before you but I just want to thank you for sticking with me for so long. I am, of course, already working on part 3 and will continue to work on it as I continue my hiatus. The only thing I ask of you is to take your time and enjoy! I know I am going to be returning to inactivity very soon but your comments, reblogs, and asks are always welcomed and always appreciated. I love y'all endlessly and I hope you enjoy it.

WORD COUNT: 36.1K | Playlist

September 2007

Two weeks had passed since you discovered you were pregnant with Suguru’s baby. Now you were sitting in a dull waiting room, blinded by fluorescent lights as you waited for your name to be called. Shoko had taken the news well, not that you expected her to be shocked in any capacity. She had said something along the lines of “I knew it.” when you had told her the next day, Satoru, who was  by your side, was slightly disappointed she didn’t have a bigger reaction. “Are you sure you don’t want me to go back with you?” Shoko had leaned closer to you, whispering so other people in the waiting room wouldn't hear. “I’m sure, Shoko. I’ll be okay.” 

It had taken weeks to see a doctor, mostly because she had been booked out. Your morning sickness hadn’t gotten much better, so you assumed you were still lingering somewhere in your first trimester. September was slowly coming to an end, with October looming on the horizon the world had slowly begun its transition to reflect that. This transition brought you the weather you really needed, allowing you to wear comfortable baggy clothing. “The perfect time to hide a pregnancy.” you had mused, much to Satoru’s disdain. Your leg bounced at the memory, your hand coming to rest on your stomach. It was a habit that you had picked up shortly after the test came back positive. You felt the urge to protect them, even though they were as safe as they could be, snuggling in your womb. There was truly no place safer for them right now. 

Things hadn’t gotten all that easier either, within the past two weeks, you had to live through the one month anniversary of Suguru’s deflection. It had been harder to swallow than you thought it would be, the sinking reality that four weeks had passed since you had seen his face was unbearable. Going from seeing him nearly every second of everyday to nothing at all felt as cold as the air at night. You had to wonder what he was doing at that very moment, maybe he was up making those girls breakfast. The idea of him being a father already, caring for those two little girls, it made your heart flutter and sink at the very same time. You wanted to be there, you wanted to help him, you wanted to tell him you were pregnant, that he got what he wanted. 

“Y/N Y/L/N?” 

You blinked back into reality as Shoko hit your arm, a nurse dressed in light pink scrubs was looking around the waiting room after calling the next name on her list. You nearly jumped out of your chair, motioning for Shoko to stay where she was as you got up and made your way over. You ignored the small grumble from her, it seems she had still intended on following you back for the appointment despite your reassurance of being okay to go alone. “Good morning dear, follow me.” You mustered the best smile you could in response,uttering a soft “morning” as she grabbed the door handle to enter the portion of the office that held the exam rooms. You went through the routine process, having your weight and height checked before being brought into a private room. It was different from other doctors offices, there was an ultrasound set up and various posters about sexual health and pregnancy scattered about. It made you feel a bit dizzy. 

“So we had you take a urine sample and get your blood while you waited, I have the results of the urine test but not the blood yet. That should be ready for you once the doctor is ready to come in and perform the exam… in the meantime let’s go over the basics” She was typing on her laptop as she spoke, looking at you briefly as you nodded. Your hands were clasped together in front of you, feeling cold and clammy at the same time. You shifted due to your nerves, the paper below you crumpling as you fidgeted. The nurse went through the basics, making sure your insurance information and home address was correct. “You’re in college?” she questioned absentmindedly, as if trying to make small talk with you. “No, not yet. I graduate high school in the spring.” You felt your face grow warm as she let out a soft “oh.” 

Luckily for you, she didn’t press further and hid her judgment within seconds. You kept your eyes trained on the floor as she continued her interrogation, getting your basic health and allergies on file before shutting her laptop and gracing you with a fake smile. “Alright then, that’s it for my portion of the exam. The doctor will be in shortly to discuss your results.” You nodded, thanking her quietly as she left the room. Silence rang in your ears as you were left alone with nothing but your thoughts. hands still clasped tightly together as you dragged your eyes away from the floor and observed the examination room. There were shelves on the wall with various pamphlets, all of them geared towards women's reproductive health and pregnancy. 

You used to laugh at those things when you were younger, wondering if anyone would even bother taking them. Now, you were tempted to get up and go grab a few for yourself. But as you moved, the paper crinkled so loudly that it made you still again. It reminded you of just how silent the godforsaken room was, it reminded you of how alone you were. Now, as you sat there, you wished you had just let Shoko get up and follow you back here. You needed someone to talk you off the ledge, it was likely Shoko would have been allowed back here with you,  considering most women brought their partners with them. It would have brought you two a good laugh for the nurses to assume you were a lesbian couple. 

You could hear Shoko now, coming up with some asinine plot to what the nurses probably thought was going on with the two of you. Probably contemplating who your “real” partner was considering Shoko couldn’t get you pregnant. Though, your partner still wasn’t aware of his child growing within your body. Suguru should be here in this room with you, sitting in the empty chair across from the exam table you sat on. He should have been filling this empty space with jokes about how nervous you looked, making you laugh and forget why you were scared in the first place. But he wasn’t. You were doing this alone. That was the part that hurt the most, because this whole “doing it alone” thing was your choice. 

At some point during your storm of emotions, you had begun to blame yourself for Suguru not being with you. Your brain took the liberty of twisting the events in your mind so harshly that they had deteriorated all together, you couldn’t recall the truth anymore. Somewhere along the way, you had convinced yourself this was your choice, that Suguru wasn’t here because you were keeping him away. A quick couple of knocks on the door signaled the doctor’s arrival, effectively pulling you out of your forlorn daze. “Good morning, how are you?” A short, plump woman entered the room with a cheery smile, one you couldn’t help but return. “I’m alright.” Which was pure bullshit, but she didn't really need to know your whole life story. 

“Ah, that’s better than most answers.” she chuckled to herself, setting her clipboard down on the counter and reaching for soap so she could wash her hands. You found yourself flinching, suddenly feeling bad for lying to a woman who hadn’t known of your existence until walking through that door only seconds prior. “I have the results of your blood test…” she started, scrubbing her hands until they turned visibly soapy. “If it were bad news, I’d be telling you a lot more formally than this. However, your results were looking very good! You’re definitely pregnant.” You let out a shaky sigh of relief, hand resting over your stomach again as you smiled. “That’s wonderful news.” because, despite everything, it really was. You could now look at this as a shimmering ray of hope peaking out among your storm clouds. 

The doctor smiled, turning off the water and reaching for paper towels. “Your results indicate you are roughly around the eleven week mark. You’re nearly done with your first trimester.” That was a bit jarring to you, and by the look on the woman’s face, she could tell. “It’s not unusual for some women to go a while without realizing, some women don’t even know they are pregnant until they go into labor and assume it’s kidney stones. Have you missed your cycle?” She was pulling blue gloves over her hands as she spoke. So much information being thrown at you that you had to blink for a moment before uttering  “I’ve been going through some things in my personal life, I suppose my last cycle was sometime in June then… I assumed it was stress.” 

“That would line up with the HCG levels, you likely got pregnant early to mid-july. But don’t worry, I should be able to pinpoint it a little more accurately with an ultrasound.” Your heart skipped a beat, you hadn’t expected to see your baby this soon. You watched her move to turn on the machine, brows creasing as you began trying to shift through your hazy memories. You figured it was likely useless to try and pinpoint when Suguru could have gotten you pregnant, because the damage was already done at this point. You realized you hadn’t responded, clearing your throat a bit as she walked over to the machine and began turning it on. “So, I’ll be entering my second trimester soon? I-is it alright that I didn’t know for this long? I-is the baby okay?” You felt your lip tremble as you spoke, suddenly more anxious than before. 

“Oh honey…” the doctor stopped what she was doing and reached out a hand to place it over your own. “You are perfectly fine, baby should be doing good too. We’ll get to hear their heartbeat in just a few minutes and I’ll be able to give you a rough timeline for the rest of your pregnancy. I can assure you, it’s okay that you didn’t know until recently. We’ll get you on some prenatals and other vitamins to keep you and baby in tip-top shape.” Her presence was grandmotherly, it set your racing mind at ease. Mentally you would have to remember to thank Shoko for finding this woman for you. “Thank you.” you breathed out as she placed some of her supplies on the metal tray beside the exam bed. You had so much you could say at that moment but thanking her was the only thing that would come out. “No problem, honey.” 

A few beats of silence passed before she spoke again. “Alright, I’m going to have you lay back and lift your shirt for me, pull down your sweatpants a bit as well.” You took a shaky breath, nodding as she moved around the table to flick off the main lights. The exam room was left in a golden glow from the small lamp on the desk in the corner, paired with the fluorescent-ish glow from the ultrasound screen. You did as she instructed, lifting your shirt and pushing down the waistband of your sweats so your stomach was no longer obstructed. “The gel is going to be a little cold, but it warms up quick.” Your throat felt dry, so you nodded, hands clasping tightly together to rest on your chest as you watched her squirt some of the clear liquid on your abdomen. “I’m also going to have to press down a bit, which may cause some discomfort at first but I assure you that the baby is safe while I do this.” You nodded again, mouth feeling too dry to respond verbally at that moment. “Alright, let’s see your baby.” 

You gave a shaky smile, eyes immediately focusing on the black screen as she pressed the ultrasound’s wand to your stomach. You flinched a bit before getting used to the feeling of the wand pressing so deeply. “Sorry, honey. At this stage the baby is so small that we really need to get in there… if this doesn’t pick them up then I may have to do an internal ultrasound.” She was walking you through each step, which you were abundantly grateful for. After a little bit of searching, she let out a happy sigh as something small and vaguely baby shaped appeared on the screen. “There they are! At this stage they are just starting to kick and stretch, but they are too little for you to feel it yet.” You couldn’t breath, eyes zeroing in on the tiny little thing that was your child. The doctor was smiling, using her other hand to take pictures and measure. 

“Ah, what an over achiever, they are nearly two inches in length right now! They are measuring a little ahead.” You couldn’t help but smile, eyes turning a bit glossy. “Just like their daddy, he’d be so proud.” The words felt foreign but at the same time they felt just right, your head would surely implode if you dwelled on it for too long. The doctor only chuckled, clicking some buttons on the keyboard to snap more pictures as she moved the wand around your stomach. You were thankful she didn’t inquire further about the father, though you were sure it was probably against practice to ask such personal things outright. “Well, mama, would you like to hear their heartbeat?” You inhaled sharply, eyeing her suspiciously to make sure she wasn’t joking. “I-I would love to.” your tone was shaky, hands curling at your sides as she smiled. “Alright, one sec.” 

After a small stretch of silence, you heard it. Through the speakers, the strong and steady heartbeat of your baby met your ears. You let out a choked sob, the noise surprising you as your hand shot up to cover your mouth, it was probably the best thing you’ve heard over the course of the last month. You didn’t want it to end, you wanted to sit there on that table and look at your baby, hear their heartbeat, for as long as you possibly could. “They are doing wonderful, mama. It’s too soon to tell the gender, but the baby is doing great. You have nothing to worry about.” you nodded, heart aching a bit as she turned the sound off and pulled the wand away. 

“I’ll have those pictures printed so you can take them home.” She wiped the gel off of your stomach, tossing it in the trash before moving around the table to turn the lights on again. You sat up, wiping your eyes as you pulled your shirt down and readjusted your sweats. “That would be wonderful, thank you.” you chuckled a bit as she handed you some tissues for your face and nose. “Now that we’ve got all the fun stuff out of the way, I’m going to prescribe you some prenatals and other vitamins like we discussed earlier. If you’ll give me a few minutes, I’ll go get things in order so you’ll leave here feeling a little less overwhelmed.” You smiled, thanking her again as you resituated yourself on the table. She stepped out a moment later, still grinning. 

Once again you were “alone”, but this time it didn’t feel all that lonely.

—

“Did you really mean what you said last week?” You set your pen down, looking across your room to see Suguru sitting at your desk. You were both working on different assignments but still wanted to spend time together. “Hmm?” Suguru set his own pen down, turning his body to look at you where you sat on your own bed. “About… ya know… wanting to get me pregnant.” You watched a shy smile pass over Suguru’s face as he sighed. “Yeah… I meant it.” He started softly, hand coming up to rub the back of his neck. You had to chuckle at the fact that Suguru had stuffed an extra pen through his bun, just in case the other died while writing. “I guess you could say I have baby fever.” 

“Baby fever, huh?” you teased, putting your notebook to the side as you did. “Yeah, baby fever. I just… fuck I don’t know it’s been a thought on my mind for a while now. I keep seeing these happy families, their small children giggling and playing and… I started daydreaming about what it would be like to be a father. When I envisioned our baby, fuck my heart just melted.” he sighed, face turning a little red before he continued on. “I started thinking about how cute you’d look pregnant, how cute you’d be as a mom. How sweet it would be to hear their little voice calling you mama.” Your lips parted, completely entranced by the world he was painting you. 

“Suguru.” you stated rather bluntly, smiling as his head shot up to look at you. At some point in his rambling, he had begun staring into space, as if envisioning the things he talked about. “Y-yeah?” You laugh softly, crawling off your bed and crossing the small space until you stand before him. “Come here.”  You smile, hands gently cupping his cheeks and forcing his head to look up at you. “ I love you so much.” You started softly, thumb gingerly brushing along the plains of his cheekbone. Suguru swallowed, brown eyes observing every inch of your face. “I love you too.” He breathed, subconsciously leaning into your touch. “If you’re serious, if you truly want a baby…”

“I do.” 

Your lips parted before you smiled brightly, giggling a bit at his instant reassurance. “... then I am more than willing to try and conceive.”  You hadn’t intended for it to come out so seductive, but the way Suguru’s breathing hitched told you it had a dual effect. “Really?” You nodded, thumb still gently caressing his cheeks. “I know we’re young and all, but I think there is no time better than the present to chase your dreams.” You snorted at your own cheesiness, laughing as Suguru’s arms came around your waist to hug you tightly. “Thank you.” his voice was soft, just above a whisper. “You know, I have to ask, Suguru… especially since you seemed to put a ton of thought into this.” 

“Yeah? Anything. Ask away.” You reached up and tugged the pen out of his bun, fingers moving to delicately pull his hair out of the bun itself. You always enjoyed it when he had his hair down. “What was the moment that made you realize it was more than just a desire, that it was something you actually wanted. I know you said you saw families and all that but… you’re a man of purpose. Something in particular egged you on and I’m dying to know what.” From the way his cheeks turned red, you knew you had hit the nail on the head. He wasn’t lying about the baby fever, but you knew him too well to know that it wasn’t just an accumulation of events. 

One thing in particular had been his “breaking point” of sorts. 

“Alright you caught me.” he sighed deeply, eyes glancing away from you before looking up again. “Remember that weekend I went home to visit family?” You nodded, hands sliding down to rest on his shoulders. Suguru’s arms opened, allowing you to climb onto his lap as he spoke. “Well, my cousin had just had her baby a few weeks prior. Since she knew I was coming home to visit for the weekends, she came over with her new baby to introduce us.” You nodded again, humming thoughtfully as you twirled some of his hair around your fingers. “I don’t think I’ve ever held a baby before.” He added, cheeks a rosy pink instead of flaming red. 

“And when she put that little baby in my arms I… fuck I just melted.” 

He swallowed, finding it endearing that you were so invested in every word he spoke. “I just remember thinking that… there was nothing more special than that bond. The bond between mother and child… between father and child. I found myself imagining what it would be like to hold my own newborn… and I was serious when I said every time I envisioned it, they always looked like you.” He relaxed a bit when you leaned forward, pressing a chaste kiss to his cheek before pulling away again. “That’s a beautiful reason, you know.” You hugged him after saying it, letting your chin rest on his shoulders as his arms encompassed your waist and squeezed. 

“I want to be a dad, I’ve known that from the very moment I held that baby. But I… if you aren’t ready… I don’t want to force you to do anything.” The vulnerability in his voice made your heart squeeze, it was very rare that Suguru was openly shy about something. “No time better than the present, ya know.” You whispered it again, feeling his breath stutter as you spoke. “Really?” he breathed out again, as if in disbelief that you were saying yes despite already agreeing once before. 

You nod, trying to contain your smile. “It’s not like it’ll happen right away, it takes time. Most couples have to try for a while before they strike gold.” 

“I guess that is true, there are a lot of factors that go into this… it’s a miracle that women are even able to conceive in the first place when you truly look at it.” you felt yourself giggling, finding it cute that Suguru had clearly put some research into this whole idea too. He wanted it, so bad, you couldn’t bear the thought of not trying to give it to him. “So… what do you say, shall we start now?” you pulled away from his hug, grinning deviously at him. “Right now?” Suguru looked shocked, eyes wide and lips slightly parted before he was able to collect his thoughts. “Yeah, right now.” studies could wait, of course they could. Suguru knew that just as well as you did. 

Suguru answered you with a kiss, lips melting against your own as his hands clung to your waist. 

—

“So this… is the baby?” Satoru’s glasses hung low on his nose, blue eyes observing the glossy paper intently. “Yep, that’s the baby.” You were laying on the couch, head resting on Shoko’s lap as she absentmindedly played with your hair. “Are you… sure?” Satoru was having a difficult time comprehending that the white, vaguely human-shaped blob on the glossy sheets of paper was a baby. “Positive, Satoru. They don’t start looking like a real human until around the twenty week mark.” Satoru shot you a glance over one of the photos, a smile tugging on his lips as he spoke “So what you’re saying is you’re carrying an alien for a while.” This time it was Shoko to interject, shooting Satoru a glare as she threw her lighter at him. “Be nice, Satoru.” 

You, on the other hand, had begun to laugh. “I’ll take away uncle privileges, Satoru.”

“Hey! Let’s not get too hasty there, Mothership.” Satoru looked mildly offended at the idea of you pulling his uncle privileges before he could even get them. You sat up now, eyes meeting Shoko’s before you burst out laughing. “Did you just call me mothership?” You would be offended if it was anyone other than Satoru using the nickname. “...Maybe.” Satoru had set the photos down on his lap, no longer holding them up to examine like he was looking for a hidden secret. “You’re so mean, Satoru.” Shoko sighed, sad that your warmth was no longer on her lap. “She’s laughing, Shoko!” Satoru tried to defend his honor, it was still a rare sight to see you laughing. 

“What is with all the commotion?” The three of you fell silent instantly, heads turning to see Yaga enter the common room. You had yet to inform the principal of your pregnancy, he had absolutely no idea that you were carrying Suguru’s baby. You had intended on telling him after you told Shoko the following morning, but you chickened out and had yet to find the courage. “Nothing major, just hanging out.” Careful as possible, Satoru was sliding the ultrasound pictures behind the arm of the couch so Yaga couldn’t see them. Luckily for the three of you, his eyes were mainly focused on you. “I hadn’t heard your laugh in a while, y/n. I thought you may have lost it.” 

“Ah, well, leave it to Satoru to find it for me again.” You smiled, an almost real smile that still felt foreign on your lips. You were certain you would never feel the joy of a real, genuine smile until Suguru was in your arms again. Though, that day may never come. You were still heavily weighing your options, knowing the choice you wanted to pick was the one that would cost you the things you had within your reach. Your love for Suguru would never blind you from the fact that you loved Shoko and Satoru just as dearly… at least you hoped it wouldn’t. “Ah, he’s good for something I suppose.” His tone was teasing, earning snickers from both you and Shoko. 

“You wound me, principal!” 

Yaga just shook his head, smiling a bit before moving to leave the room. “Remember, you three, I’m always a call away.” You all shared a knowing glance before nodding your heads. With that, Yaga left the common area, leaving the three of you to relax again. Satoru was careful as he pulled the ultrasound pics up again, looking them over one last time before folding them neatly and reaching across to give them to you. “That was close.” he offered with a grin as you took them and set them face down on the coffee table. “It was, but you managed to hide them well, Toru.” You grinned as you settled back again, lying comfortably with your head on Shoko’s lap. 

“See, Yaga isn’t wrong, he is good for something.” Shoko laughed as Satoru rolled his eyes, flipping her the finger before reaching for the lighter she had chucked at him. “You seem to forget I can keep this.” He taunted her with her favorite lighter, you weren’t even sure why she threw it in the first place considering Satoru’s infinity was able to block it. It had bounced off of his barrier and landed on the couch cushion beside him. Again, you three were lucky that Yaga hadn’t seen it, he was pretty convinced Shoko had given up on the smoking habit. “Give it back, Satoru, I’m too comfy to have her moving.” You whined as Shoko tried to get off the couch. 

“You heard the pregnant lady, give it.” Shoko taunted, knowing she had already won the battle thanks to you. “Fine, fine, here.” he tossed it over, uttering out “nice catch” as Shoko caught it with one hand. “So, back to business.” Shoko smiled as she twirled the lighter around her fingers. “How are we telling Yaga that little miss here is pregnant with the problem child’s baby?” You made a noise of annoyance at Shoko’s words, smiling a bit as she raised her eyebrow at you. “Well, I don’t think it will be easy telling anyone… Besides you, Shoko. You took the news like a champ.” Satoru was still reeling over how calm she had been about the whole thing. 

—

“Are you sure you want to tell her right now?” Satoru was buttoning his uniform top, you two would still have to continue on with your lives like it was any other day. “She needs to know, there is no way I could keep this from her.” She basically already knew, but you couldn’t say that to Satoru yet. Just in case Shoko had the opposite of the reaction you were anticipating. The whole concept still felt foreign to you, so did the fact that it felt natural for your hand to rest on your abdomen. You didn’t think you should be adapting to this so quickly, then again what were you supposed to do? 

“I know that, I’m not saying we never tell her. But you still seem to be pretty in shock over this.” 

“Which is exactly why I need to tell her.” If anything goes wrong in your life, Shoko has always been the person you ran to. It wasn’t until Suguru left that you had started running to Satoru instead. Part of you felt guilty about that, like you were leaving her in the dust. She knew you and Satoru’s pain just as well, it hurt you to know you had started seeking comfort in him rather than her. “If you insist, I’ll back you up all the way.” he grinned as you pouted, feet kicking idly. 

You had snuck off and gotten dressed before he even woke up. Now all that was left was to rip off the band-aid and reveal to Shoko that she had been right all along. “I’m glad you aren’t scared of Shoko’s wrath.” you laughed as you pushed off of his bed, shuffling to the door with a grin. “I’m not the one that got you pregnant, her wrath isn’t directed at me.” You felt your cheeks grow warm as you shook your head, pushing his door open and heading into the hall. “You’re too blunt sometimes, Satoru.” You felt mildly embarrassed about how he put it, that and an odd sense of possessiveness. 

“Well it’s the truth, Suguru is the one that knocked you up.” He shrugged as he followed you out into the hall, turning to shut the door just as you reached up and smacked his shoulder. “And you’re fucking vulgar! Be kind!” your tone was a mix of teasing and annoyance, one Satoru knew quite well. If he had to work you up to get glimpses of your old self, then so be it. “I am being kind, you’re just being sensitive.” risky thing to say to a woman, nevermind a pregnant woman. 

“You are a menace, Gojo Satoru.” You huffed, crossing your arms to glare at him as he replied with a sheepish grin. “Hey, sorry, I can’t help it sometimes. You’re just so easy to tease.” He made a kissy face at you, watching your nose scrunch in amusement before turning to head down the hall. “I’ll have to work on making things harder for you, Satoru.” You sighed as he whistled. “Don’t quite know how Suguru would feel about that.” He was laughing when you turned to swing on him, a smile pulling at your lips as he blocked you. “A menace and a perv… I’ll start sharing Shoko’s bed.” 

“Hey! No way! You’re so warm, I like having you in my bed.” Satoru pouted, as if you were a cat looking to find a new home. “Eh, don’t know how Suguru would feel about that.” You mimicked him, smiling widely now as he rolled his eyes. “I guess you’re right.” Ever since you realized, it has become a little easier to say Suguru’s name. You had to wonder why, your emotions were still a stormy mess but… speaking about him didn’t really hurt that bad right now. Maybe you were just riding on a high of emotions, but compared to the low from the night before… you had doubts. 

“Shoko!” you knocked on her door, glancing back at Satoru as he shoved his hands in his pockets. He was pretty sure he was masking his anxiety well, but you knew better than anyone that Satoru was mentally shitting his pants at the idea of informing Shoko about your predicament. “One minute!” Her voice rang from the other side of the door, mildly surprised in tone to hear you. She had expected Satoru, just as she had been expecting him every morning to go pull you out of your depression pit dorm room. For you to be at her door too… something was up. 

“What’s with the welcome party?” Shoko’s door swung open, eyes traveling over the two of you with a quirked brow. “Got some news for ya…” you started bold, not missing the way Satoru inhaled sharply. “News for me? About?” she had no idea where you could be going with this, but she assumed any direction you took would lead to Suguru somehow. “Well you see… that conversation we had yesterday…” and Shoko knew immediately. “Shoko, I’m pregnant.” 

“Oh, okay.”

“That… you’re fucking kidding me! That’s IT?” Satoru looked completely appalled at the woman’s casual response. You were a bit surprised yourself but that didn’t stop you from laughing at Satoru’s over reaction. “Yeah, that’s it. Am I supposed to scream or something?” Shoko was stepping into the hall, turning to shut her dorm room’s door before turning back to face you and Satoru. “So what do we do now?” Satoru couldn’t believe it, from the gut wrenching sobs you had made, he half expected the world to implode when it was time for you to tell another person. 

So…when it didn’t… he couldn’t quite get over it. “That’s a great question, honestly I have no idea.” You sighed, feeling a little antsy as you turned to walk down the hall. “Ya know, this isn’t fair.” Satoru pouted, arms crossing as he followed after you with no hesitation. “What isn't fair?” Shoko questioned as she fell into step beside you. “That you got the easy reveal and the easy reaction. She nearly gave me a fucking heart attack last night! I mean really I felt my balls shrivel.” 

You nearly tripped over your own two feet at that, laughter so genuine bubbling out of you that it made the previous night feel like a distant memory. “Ew TMI Satoru.” Shoko plugged her nose, sticking her tongue out as the three of you made your way down the stairs and out to the sunny day ahead. “It’s the damn truth.” Satoru mumbled under his breath as you pushed through the double doors, shoving his sunglasses further up his face in an attempt to block out the blinding sun. 

“I mean I’ll side with him this time, Shoko. I really did scare the life out of him. I thought he was going to faint.” You had collapsed into his arms, if anyone was about to faint, it would have been you. “That’s only half true.” Satoru mumbled in defeat, throwing himself down on a picnic table bench and watching as you and Shoko clambered into the other side. “It’s not important right now, what’s important is trying to figure out what the hell I’m supposed to do now. I don’t want anyone knowing besides the two of you. Not Yaga, not Utahime, Meimei, Nanami…” 

“We get it.” Satoru stuck his tongue out, feeling far cheekier than usual this morning. Maybe it was because he was still partially convinced he had smacked his head and this was all a dream. “So rude this morning, Toru~” there was a hint of a smile on your face though, one that had the tips of his ears burning pink as you turned to look at Shoko. “The first thing we need to do is get you a doctor. If the tests came back positive, it still needs to be confirmed with blood work. Along with that they need to make sure the baby is actually growing.” Shoko pulled out a pack of cigarettes as she spoke.

“Okay, so, doctors is the next step… then what?” Satoru questioned, watching the flame ignite on the end of Shoko’s lighter. “Then I grow the baby till they are ready to be born.” You said in a bored tone. You knew what Satoru was implying but you weren’t ready to cross that bridge yet. Suguru needed to know, you were still hanging onto that fact. You couldn't do this without him. “Oh gee I would have never guessed.” Satoru deadpanned as he snatched Shoko’s pack, ignoring her glare as he also snatched her lighter. “I’m not in the mood to discuss that part yet, Satoru.” 

Your tone was final, so much so that Shoko merely nodded, eyes glaring holes into Satoru’s head so he wouldn't dare push the topic. He swallowed his words, putting the cigarette to his lips before mumbling out “fine, I’ll drop it… for now.” 

—

The day had come and gone, night had fallen once more and you found yourself lounging in Satoru’s bed. He was showering at the moment so you had it to yourself, the dim light of the little lamp on his desk was just enough for you to admire the ultrasound photos. You had been looking at them on and off all day, still struggling to comprehend that it was your baby. “It’s crazy that you’ll continue to grow into a living, breathing, talking person. You’ll have your own personality, your own thoughts, your own voice…” you hummed softly, hand resting on your abdomen as you spoke to your baby’s pictures. It all felt so damn surreal. 

“I wonder what your daddy would think…” You felt your voice crack as you whispered those words out loud. Your heart was still aching from his absence, but with your child growing, it was hard to feel totally alone. Part of him was growing within you, you just needed him to know it. You straightened the moment Satoru’s bathroom door opened, wiping your eyes in an attempt to make it look like you were yawning instead. “Not visiting Shoko tonight?” Satoru smiled, white shirt hanging on his lean frame, a towel resting on his shoulders and collecting the water droplets from his damp hair. “Nah, she said she needed to get some stuff done.” 

“She’s such a procrastinator, the deadlines for those med-school applications are like two days from now.” You nodded, you weren’t quite sure how your friend intended on getting the seven applications done in time. “I highly doubt she’ll be truthful to them anyways.” You laughed, she was determined to get in with no prior college experience or any experience in the medical field save for her curse technique. But, if there was anyone who could cheat their way into med-school, it would definitely be Shoko. “She’ll somehow be fine… she always is.” Satoru chuckled as he moved about his room, picking up his towel to dry his white locks. 

With his back turned to you, he nearly whispered what he said next. “You’re sad again.” You felt your brows twitch before forcing them into perfectly maintained neutrality. “When have I not been sad, Satoru?” you tried softly, folding the ultrasound pictures neatly together again from their extended accordion strip. “You know what I mean, y/n. You were crying before I came in.” You stopped folding, inhaling shakily before turning to meet his gaze. “I wasn’t crying yet. You actually interrupted me, Satoru.” you weren’t even sure why you had been trying to hide it in the first place. There was no sneaking anything by him. Those six eyes of his were always on alert, always observant, even more so nowadays. 

Satoru was still quiet, his towel resting on his shoulders again as he turned to observed you. “I miss him terribly, Satoru. Nothing is going to fix that.” You could tell he was stewing on something, but he was holding himself back. “Say it, whatever it is you're thinking, say it.” This time, he looked mildly surprised, not used to being the one so easily read. “You’re not going to see him.” He stated rather plainly, but you could see his jaw clenching after he uttered the words out loud. You felt your stomach twist in the same way it had with your morning sickness… morning sickness you had become quite acquainted with at this point. 

“I didn’t plan on it.” You shot back, lying through your teeth like he wouldn’t be able to pick you apart in an instant. “Yeah, bull shit y/n. I’m not stupid.” You felt anger bubbling over the nausea, not particularly enjoying the way he was talking down to you. “Watch your tone, Satoru.” Dangerously low, full of promise. It was enough to snap him back into reality for a second. “Sorry.” he started “I’ll be more mindful. However, that doesn’t change my previous statement.” You felt your head tilting, eyes narrowing as you sized the strongest sorcerer up. “You do not get to decide what I can and cannot do, Satoru.” 

There, you finally said it, maybe it was very indirect but Satoru knew exactly what you meant with those words. He looked stunned, but at the same time if he had any fight left in him, he wasn’t going to push upon the matter. Your gaze didn’t soften, rather it continued to size him up until his shoulders sagged. “Forget I said anything, you’re right. I don’t get a say in it.” Yet, you could tell he was saying it just to maintain peace. You weighed your options, was it really worth giving up your sanity for a fight you weren’t willing to have yet? In the end, you swallowed your emotions, wondering if it was possible that your hormones were already causing mood swings. “We can discuss this when we are both ready… not weighed down by our own baggage.” 

Finally, your gaze had returned to its normal, slightly sad state. Satoru found that it was easier for him to breathe again, so he pulled the towel off his shoulders and turned to enter his bathroom. “I agree.” He called as he hung the damp towel over the top of his curtain rods, letting it air dry till morning so he could put it in the hamper to be washed. “Let’s talk about something else, yeah?” He emerged with a smile, the tension in the room subsiding considerably as you relaxed back into his covers, comfortable under his blankets. “Gladly.” You teased him, turning onto your side as he flopped down beside you. “Do you have any name ideas yet?” 

You blinked, not thinking that was the route he was going to take. “Oh-uhm… well I’ve certainly thought about it over the last two weeks. I don’t know if I want to find out their gender… I’m tempted to wait until they are born. Makes it more fun that way but… I’m eager.” You confess with a dreamy smile, one that has Satoru’s lips parting in awe for a moment before he quickly recovers. “I don’t know how you’d do it, I’ve been itching to know since you told me.” He confessed softly, eyes lingering to where your hand had found its new home. He didn’t think a day had gone by in these last few weeks where he didn’t see your hand resting on your stomach. 

“I don’t know if I’ll be able to do it, Satoru. When the time comes, when she asks if I want to know the gender… I don’t think I’ll be able to say no.” You laughed softly, you were indifferent to what your baby’s gender would be. You didn’t care if they were a boy or a girl, you would be over the moon with either. But you were dying to know so you could buy them things, settle on a good name, look at baby furniture… “Are you going to share the name ideas or are you keeping them a secret?” He questioned when he saw you were starting to space out. He had been keen on trying to ground you in the present lately. 

“Oh well…” you started softly, suddenly shy to share the names you and Suguru had discussed what felt like centuries ago at this point. “For a boy, we discussed names like Ren, Ritsu, Isamu… oh and we really liked the name Hajime.” For some reason it felt very intimate to share this information. “But of course… it all depends on what he looks like. We can pick any name we want but really you can’t make the decisions till you meet them.” Satoru nodded, “I would go out on a limb to suggest Satoru… pretty solid name in my opinion.” You started to laugh, slapping his chest lightly “You’re relentless, Satoru.” 

“I may be relentless, but you love me.” He countered as you rolled your eyes. “I, unfortunately, have to agree with that.” You smiled at him, settling further into the bed before he spoke again. “How about girl names?” Satoru questioned, genuine curiosity shining in his eyes. “Oh well, we have way more of those than we do boy names. Suguru is particularly attached to Ayame and Sachi.” Satoru felt his cheeks redden, it seemed that it was just now hitting him how intimate this moment was. “I rather like Sachi and Ayame too but I really like the name Hanako.” There were a few others but you knew those three were the top contenders for a baby girl. 

“I mean Satoru can be a unisex name…” He added softly, trying to lighten the mood a bit because this was all starting to feel way too personal. Not that he really minded, it was more for his sake than yours. Laying in bed beside you, discussing baby names, it was playing with his head. “It is fully a male name, I would not name my little girl Satoru.” You laughed softly, trying to stifle your yawn as you pushed his shoulder. “Okay fine, I’ll drop the Satoru name agenda… for now.” You just smiled at him, shaking your head in an attempt to ignore the way your eyelids were steadily dropping. “You’re trying to fight your sleep?” this time, Satoru pushed your shoulder. 

“I guess I am…” you yawned, eyes watering “... I just like talking to you, Toru.” You felt warm and safe snuggled under his blankets and under the gaze of his watchful eyes. “I like talking to you too but…” his voice had cracked, heat flooding his cheeks as your eyes closed a little more. “But you need your rest, you’re literally growing another human inside of you. I’ll be here in the morning.” You nodded, eyes nearly closed completely at this point. “I guess you’re right…” he couldn’t help but chuckle. “Always guessing and never just admitting I’m right… good night.” He finished in a way you couldn’t argue with, leaving you to just sleepily hum in acknowledgment. 

—

He would stay awake longer than he wanted to, simply to watch your chest rise and fall as you slept soundly. He would remind himself with every small flutter of your eyelashes that you were dreaming, you were alive, you were breathing. Most importantly, he’d try and make himself believe that you weren't on your way out the door, leaving him behind just as Suguru had. 

But he knew better, god dammit he knew better and he hated himself for it. 

He could see it, with each passing day, each passing hour, your heart was choosing its path. The path that led straight out of his life and into the arms of the man you really loved. How he wished it was him, how desperately, selfishly Satoru wished it were him that you loved. The guilt would gnaw at his chest, making it feel like someone was ripping his heart open tendon by tendon, the blood leaking out an inky black. So weighed down by his guilt that it was tainted. 

He had tried, for years he had tried to suppress it. But nothing in this universe could block out the love he held for you so deep in his chest that it took the air from his lungs. He loved you, with every fiber of his being, even now he couldn’t understand how he had gotten so close to you without cracking and shattering to the floor like fine china. Satoru knew that even a month ago, the idea of holding you as you cried would have seemed like an impossible task. 

Not because he couldn’t restrain himself, god he couldn’t even think of you in that way without feeling immense guilt. But because he didn’t think he would ever be able to let you go. Initially he had been right, he had struggled, albeit for a fraction of a second, but he had let you go. Had you told him two months ago that he would be falling asleep with you beside him, he would have fainted on the spot, he was sure of it. 

Because even though he finally had you beside him, it wasn’t in the way he truly wanted. 

The way he truly wanted would forever be unattainable, for you were not his to keep. You had been right, you had been so god damn right when you said that he had no say in what you could and couldn’t do… and it killed him. Fuck did it kill him in every way but literally. If he could, he would keep you by his side forever, away from the man he still considered his one and only best friend, he would raise your baby with you so you didn’t need Suguru to feel whole. 

But that was not the route you were going to take, and he knew it. He knew it was only a matter of time until you ripped his chest wide open and left him only a fraction of the man he was. Suguru already had one half of his heart, if you were to leave, you would be taking the only half Satoru had left with you. Leaving him with nothing, completely and utterly alone. Why couldn’t you see he was more than enough for you? 

He was convinced he could give you a good, if not better life than what Suguru could offer you. He could provide for you and your child and you would never have to lift a finger for the rest of your life. You wouldn’t have to be a jujutsu sorcerer, you wouldn’t have to work to make money. He could give you and your baby everything you could ever desire. It was a selfish thought, the selfish desire to have someone he couldn’t. 

Somewhere along the way, amid his heartbreak over Suguru, he had foolishly believed he could win your heart. As if Suguru’s deflection would suddenly make it easier, make it okay for him to pursue you. What a childish thought, what a selfish, naive thought. He loved you too much to put you in that position, he loved Suguru too much to betray him like that… even though Suguru had arguably done much worse. 

He inhaled shakily, watching your lips wobble as you must have dreamt about something. It grounded him for a moment, making everything in his room feel a little too real yet not real at all. Like he hadn’t been aware this whole time that he was alive, that this wasn’t some nightmare. For a moment, he was certain he would black out from the crushing weight of the realization. 

So he forced his eyes to close, squeezing shut so tight that colors and odd shapes began to blossom behind his eyelids. It didn’t help the way his chest had begun to rise and fall in a pattern that was starting to look like a panic attack. He didn’t know who to go to, he didn’t know who he could go to for help. The two people he always ran to were the two people he couldn’t. 

How was it possible he felt so alone when you were sleeping right beside him? How was it possible that he still ached for you when he knew you would take his heart and stomp on it. You were a ticking time bomb, and it was only a matter of days until your timer went out. So why wasn’t he savoring this? Why wasn’t he soaking in every second he had with you before you left? 

How was he already mourning you when you were right beside him? 

—

Late November 2007 

“It…It…” you huffed, trying to force the buttons of your white top together. “It doesn’t fit?” Shoko questioned with an amused face, watching you lose your breath as you tried to make the buttons clasp. Your stomach had grown considerably over the last few weeks, it was now becoming increasingly difficult to hide the fact that you were twenty weeks pregnant. “It–” you huffed out again, whining as the button you closed popped back open. Defeated, you flopped onto Shoko’s mattress, uttering out a weak “It doesn’t fit.” as she began to laugh. 

“Linen like this isn’t forgiving. You’re going to have to hope your jacket fits at least, or else you’ll be telling Yaga whether you want to or not.” You whine again, hands coming down to rest on the swell of your stomach. It had been an experience to learn you were pregnant a few months back, but to see and feel the physical proof of your child was even more surreal. You had managed to sneak past Yaga for the most part, something Satoru couldn’t even grasp. “Shoko, I give up.” She quirked an eyebrow at you as you struggled to get up. “Already?” 

“Yeah, already. I’m not going to be able to fit into my uniform and I don’t think I have the energy to try it.” The second trimester had been more forgiving than the first, but you had found yourself quickly running out of breath and stamina. It was only a matter of time until you had to take a break walking up a single flight of stairs. “I’m telling Yaga today. Fuck this.” With your white button up still only covering your breasts, you pushed out of Shoko’s bedroom and marched down the hall towards Satoru’s. 

“Satoru! Give me some clothes!” you yelled before even making it to his door, banging on it only once before he was pulling it open, visibly confused. “What in the hell happened to you?” He tried not to snicker, looking over your half-assed appearance. Luckily your uniform skirt was covering your ass but even then, it really didn’t fit you. “Give me some clothes, none of mine fit me anymore, Toru.” You pout, chest rising and falling a little faster than it usually did. 

“Alright, alright, come on in.” He pushed his glasses up his face, trying not to show any sort of amusement at the way your bump was fully out in the open. Turning, he made his way to his dresser and pulled out a knit sweater and some sweatpants. “They may be too big for you, we’ll have to go shopping later for a new wardrobe that fits you.” You caught the knit as he tossed it, you could have easily gone down the hall to your own room and gotten some of Suguru’s clothing. But, for some reason, you had chosen Satoru. 

He hated to admit it but it gave him butterflies. 

“I’m going to have to tell Yaga.” you grumbled as you undid the few buttons you had managed to get shut, tossing the garment to the floor a moment later. “Oh? We’re already at that point, huh?” Satoru leaned against his dresser, watching as you pulled his knit sweater over your head, effectively masking the fact that you were twenty weeks pregnant. “We are, I’m not in the mood to keep sneaking around him.” You shimmied out of your too tight skirt, whining as you kicked it away. You have certainly gotten more whiny and irritable over the last few days. 

Maybe it was because you were antsy, with each passing day your child grew. Meaning that Suguru was going on with his day to day life, completely unaware. You had finally decided on your resolve not too long ago, while showering one night in your own room. He needed to know, you couldn’t live with yourself if you grew this baby and birthed them without Suguru ever knowing. “Are we going the second you’re done getting dressed?” Satoru shifted his weight from foot to foot as you stepped into the pair of sweatpants he had given you. 

“Yep.” you were curt, worn out already from an action as simple as putting on clothes. “Do we even have a game plan?” Shoko’s sudden appearance made you both jump, your head whipping around so fast it would have been comical to the two of them if they didn’t know any better. Pregnancy mood swings were no joke, Satoru learned the hard way only a few days prior when teasing you and nearly losing a finger to your curse technique. “No, but I don’t see why I need to dance around the obvious. I tell him I’m pregnant and we move on.” 

You shrug, struggling to tie the string of Satoru’s sweatpants due to your stomach. “Here , let me.” Satoru closed the distance and easily tied the string in a quick knot, laughing a bit as you huffed out a thanks. “So you’re just going to drop an atomic bomb on the poor man and move on?” Shoko questioned curiously as she flicked her lighter. “Yeah, I am. And then the two of you are coming with me to go get maternity clothes.” You sigh, hand smoothing over your now barely visible bump, smiling a bit at the fluttering kick baby gave you. “Baby agrees, so no declining.” 

Satoru saluted you “whatever you say, sergeant.” That made you laugh, tension from your clothes not fitting melting off of your shoulders as you turned to leave. “Oh wow, so we’re going right now.” Shoko fell into step beside you as you marched down the hall, leaving Satoru to scramble and get his dorm door shut before following after you. “No better time than the present, I want to get an early start with my day… you know I’ve been tiring easier nowadays.” One thing you hadn’t fully been prepared for was the amount of physical changes your body would go through. 

Sure you knew the basics like your stomach would grow, your breasts would get bigger, you would get bloated… but you hadn’t thought about how strenuous the whole thing would be. Though, it made sense when you sat down in Shoko’s bed one night with your laptop. “Oh, so baby pushes all of my organs out of the way…” To which Shoko had made a fake gagging noise. You used it as a way to antagonize Satoru the next morning, watching the man turn a shade of green as you proudly explained why you had been losing your breath. 

“I guess that’s true… it’s almost nine in the morning so I assume Yaga will be in his office.” Satoru sighed as he walked just a step behind you, pulling out his flip phone to file through a few news articles as you three walked. “Good, that means he’ll already be sitting when he gets the shock of his life.” Shoko sighed, pocketing her lighter and unlit cigarette as the three of you left the dorm buildings and began walking through the courtyard towards Yaga’s office. “I mean, I don’t really think it's that big of a deal.” You shrugged, waddling slightly as you moved. 

“You’re carrying the black sheep’s baby, of course it's a big deal.” 

You glared at Satoru as he finally had enough space to walk beside you. “I don’t mean it in a bad way, it’s just… a lot has happened. The man already beats himself up over the whole thing and now one of his students who he has been trying to watch so diligently… has hid the fact that she’s like five months pregnant. That's even more of a mindfuck.” That made you stop walking for a second, your nonchalant attitude towards it all seemed pretty selfish now that you had heard what Satoru said. “I…shit…I didn’t think about it like that.” 

“Hey, it’s not your fault, you’ve had like three whole months to cope with this and sort things out. It's normal for you  now, sometimes it’s hard to see it from new perspectives once you’ve gotten so used to it.” Shoko had listened intently, eyes shifting between you and Satoru. “You’re awfully philosophical this morning, Satoru.” The white haired man immediately pushed his glasses further up his nose, cheeks dusting pink as he shrugged. “I dunno, I’ve just had time to think.” She dropped it, focusing her attention back on you as you seemed to inhale deeply. 

“I… I’m still telling him. I’ll be gentle with my delivery but I have to rip off the bandaid.” And with that you were walking past them again, leaving the two to follow behind you as you carried yourself with a new purpose. “Do you want us to go in with you?” Shoko asked softly as the three of you crossed the courtyard and entered the building “No… It's best for it to now be some sort of show.” You knew they’d find a way to listen in on the conversation anyways. “Alright but if we hear screaming or the thud of a grown man passing out, we’re coming in.” Satoru sounded uninterested but you knew him better than to believe his facade. 

“Yeah, got it.” 

With that, you were heading up the steps to the second floor. Yaga’s office was the last door on the left, you couldn't even collect your thoughts enough to practice what you were going to say. At this point, it was better to just let it happen naturally. Your hands smoothed over your covered bump one last time before you stood in front of his doorway “Here goes nothing, little one.” It was still comforting to you to know your baby was always with you. “Principal? Are you in there?” you knocked softly, hoping your voice carried through the thick wood of the door. 

“Y/N? Yes, I’m in here, come in.” You let out a shaky breath, pulling at Satoru’s knit to make sure your bump wasn’t visible at all. You pushed the door open, relishing in the feeling of the cold wood under your fingertips before stepping into his office. “Good morning, principal.” you spoke softly, shutting the door behind you with a soft click. Yaga was sitting at his desk, papers scattered over his desk and a couple resting in one of his hands. “Good morning, Y/N… is something wrong?” You rarely came to his office to speak with him, you knew that much would have his suspicions up within the first seconds. 

“Nothing is wrong…per say.” Your hands clasped behind your back. “But you need to tell me something, don’t you?” he questioned softly, setting the papers in hands down as you began to rock on your feet. It felt as if a swarm of butterflies were fluttering around your lungs, making it almost hard to breathe as you nodded in confirmation.  “Please, come sit.” but your feet wouldn’t move, gluing you to the small space where you were rocking back and forth on your heels. “Please, sir, I’m very antsy so I think it’s best for me to say this while standing.” 

“A-alright, Y/N you’re making me a bit nervous. So please…” He swallowed, hands clasping together on his desk as he looked at you expectantly. “...If it is about Suguru…” and you nodded, eyes downcast on the two chairs before his desk. “Listen, this… I don’t even know how to spit this out so forgive me if it’s harsh.” You cleared your throat, not liking how hoarse it was already sounding. Yaga didn’t answer, instead he nodded his head even though he could tell your focus wasn’t on him. “Suguru and I… we had been dating since our first year here.” 

“Yes, I know that much…” Soft and unsure, he couldn't quite understand where you were taking this conversation. Though he could certainly guess a handful of routes, what alarmed him most was the fact that Satoru and Shoko weren’t by your side. “We… We were very serious about each other, Principal. He always spoke to me about getting married, starting a family…” you looked up at him then, teeth worrying into the side of your cheek as you tried to get the next part out. Yaga’s forehead had creased in worry “Okay… Y/N have you had contact with him since?” 

“I- no, I haven’t heard from him since the letter he left me before he left. No contact sir, that’s not what I’m trying to get at anyways…” You huffed, hands unclasping and reaching up to rub your face as you grew frustrated with yourself. “Principal I… I’ve been hiding something from you for months now and I am no longer able to hide it any longer.” That had him straightening in his chair, eyes narrowing as he waited for you to continue. You took a shaking breath, knowing there were no words that would make this any less jarring for your principal. 

“Principal Yaga I…” carefully you grabbed the hem of Satoru’s knit sweater, pulling it tight so it hugged the swell of your baby bump. “... I’m twenty weeks pregnant with Suguru’s baby.” 

You watched as the man’s narrow gaze turned considerably wide before softening. “Oh…wow.” He cleared his throat, pulling the sunglasses that had been hanging low on his face off all together. You let the knit go slowly, hiding the bump again as your principal reached up to rub his eyes. “Are you… principal are you crying?” you sounded mildly aghast at the sight. “No no I…” but he was. After a moment he set his hands down, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms. “I’m sorry I'm sure that’s not the best reaction to receive after telling someone you’re…” 

“Yeah it’s… well it’s not as bad as I feared.” you cut him off, laughing a bit because among all the emotions you could sense, anger was not one of them. “I’m sorry you felt the need to hide this from me for… damn nearly five months…” he mulled over the fact that you had said you were twenty weeks into this, well into your second trimester. “I just didn’t know how to go about it sir… only Shoko and Satoru are aware of my… circumstances.” Yaga nodded, muttering a soft “I figured that much.” before sighing heavily. “Suguru has no idea.” he spoke softly, watching you nod with a sad look on your face. “I found out two weeks after he…left.” 

So not only had you been dealing with the defection of your boyfriend -  whom you loved with your entire being - you had also been reeling with the news of your own pregnancy. “I… you’re so young and you’ve already gone through so much.” Yaga spoke more to himself than you, that didn’t stop you from trying to lighten the mood. “A complicated life comes with the job of being a sorcerer. You know that Principal.” You laughed, hands finding their home on top of the swell of your stomach. Seeing you smile eased some of Yaga’s concerns. 

“I suppose… I’m glad you were able to tell me. I… take it you won’t be fitting into your uniform from here on out?” he looked you over, recognizing the clothes to likely be Satoru’s. “Oh yeah, it’s not happening from here on out.” You laughed a bit “If it’s alright with you, I’ll be heading into the city with Satoru and Shoko to get some clothes that fit me… I can look for some clothes reminiscent of our uniform.” you laugh a little more, watching a smile crack on his features. “Or I could see about getting you a uniform altered to fit you as you grow. Either way you’ll need some normal clothing that fits you…” he sighed as you nodded.

“You three be careful, I know you’re all more than capable but… still.” He sighed, voice raising a little bit “If either of them get hurt, I’m blaming you, Satoru.” Behind you, the wooden door flung open. “Hey!” But, realizing he and Shoko had been caught for eavesdropping, Satoru’s cheeks flushed pink. You whirled around, bursting out in laughter as Shoko’s hand covered her own mouth in attempts of hiding her own giggles. “I stand by what I said… Now go, have fun.” He sighed, arms unfolding as he sat forward in his chair to continue mulling over paperwork. 

“Alright, thank you, Principal. I appreciate you for being so understanding.” 

He gave you a warm smile and a soft nod, watching you exit with the other two. Once Yaga’s door was shut with a soft click, once he heard your voices and feet fading down the hall, his smile dropped. “That poor girl…” he wasn’t mad that you were pregnant, nor was he mad that you had hidden it from him. He was more so sad that you had felt the need to hide it, especially regarding your circumstances with Suguru and all. 

Which opened a whole new can of worms, he couldn't quite believe that you would keep such news from Suguru… maybe that’s why he’d noticed Shoko and Satoru always by your side. 

Maybe it wasn’t just to support a dear friend going through heartbreak. Perhaps they felt it too, felt that you were going to slip through their fingers just as Suguru had. 

—

“Are you sure clothes shopping is the task you really want to complete right now?” Shoko puffed out smoke as she talked to you, navigating the busy sidewalks with ease as Satoru led the way. “It needs to be done, I can’t wear Satoru’s clothing forever.” Shoko understood that ideology and all, but you had been ready to blow your brains out this morning over a linen dress shirt not buttoning. At this rate, she was certain just about any clothing not fitting you would get you worked up like the world was ending. “She can borrow my clothes any time.” 

Satoru laughed as he looked back at you, finding it hysterical that even with the sweats tied, you had to keep pulling them up. At this point, they were nearly at your chest, relying solely on your stomach to keep them from falling down. “All due respect, Toru. I look like a fucking clown in these pants… your tops may not be safe from me but I need pants that fit.” Satoru shook his head, an amused smile as he finally found the clothing store you loved. 

“You can help yourself to my shirts and sweaters any time, Y/N. You know that.” You scrunch your nose, shaking your head a bit as you stop in front of a store he had walked right past. “I’ll try this one first.” You could hear Shoko laugh as the automatic doors open for you, Satoru’s feet slapping the pavement as he stomped back to where you were. “Don’t get pissy cause you strolled right by, Toru.” But he only grumbled, falling to the side as Shoko shoved him teasingly. 

You spent the next fifteen minutes browsing the racks, finding things in various sizes that you’d unfortunately have to try on. All the while, Satoru had found his home on a bench in the middle of the bustling store, his legs crossed as he sorted through things on his phone. “I think this one will be cute, but you’ll have to try it on in this size and this size.” Shoko handed you a knit sweater similar to the one you were already wearing, a smile on her face as she spotted something else. “We’ll have to find a proper maternity store.” 

Shoko mumbled as she filled through the racks again for the article of clothing in your size range. “Satoru, go see if they have a baby store around here.” Shoko ordered the man who didn’t move a muscle. “Yeah, no way.” You snickered as you dropped a few more items on his lap. Dutifully, he held them there with one hand while looking at his small phone screen. “I’ll just go ask one of the employees here.” you wandered off after saying that, hearing Shoko scold Satoru for making the pregnant woman go look for help. 

You moved with ease through the busy aisles, walking past the floor to length mirrors as you did so. Just beyond the windows was the busy sidewalks of downtown Tokyo, mid-day sun making it look much later than it was due to the shortening days. You weren’t sure what possessed you to be so observant as you walked the length of the store, really you should have been looking for an associate. But there, across the street, visible between the people passing by, was a person you would recognize anywhere. You felt your heart stop at the sight. 

You questioned it for only a split second, feet frozen in place as you watched two young girls come bouncing out of a cafe with drinks in hand. He smiled at them, a smile you had only been able to see in your dreams, before turning to head down the sidewalk with them in tow. It took you all of two seconds to collect yourself enough to move. Without thinking much beyond the fact that Suguru was across the street from you, you moved as fast as your feet could carry you without breaking out into an all out sprint. 

You couldn’t hear anything beyond the ringing in your ears, had you been able to you would have heard the confused calls of your name from Shoko and Satoru as they watched you run out the door. You couldn't breath as you moved down the sidewalk, eyes laser focusing on the back of Suguru’s head as he moved among the many bobbing heads. Your inability to breathe in that moment stopped you from calling out to him, though you doubt he would have been able to hear you anyways. Still, you pushed through the people flooding the sidewalk, not acknowledging a single disgruntled look as your feet carried you towards him. 

Move. Move faster. Fucking move faster!

You screamed inside of your own mind, ignoring the way your body screamed in protest from the amount of physical movement. For the first time in months, Suguru was in your reach and yet you couldn’t seem to close the distance. It was like some nightmare, no matter how fast you moved, Suguru never seemed to get any closer to you. Yet, you still saw the back of his head, he was still there, you wouldn’t give up until you couldn’t see him anymore. It was creeping up on you with each and every step, the deep rooted heartbreak from his departure. 

For some reason, it felt like you were ripping open a wound that hadn’t even begun to heal yet. Yanking each carefully placed stitch with nothing more than dull fingernails. It came undone easily, blood leaking out in time with the pounding of your heart as Suguru’s head disappeared around the corner of an intersection. A feeble cry of “No!” left your lips, just as labored as your breathing as you reached the end of the sidewalk and looked right in the direction he had turned. But, there was no sight of him anymore, gone from your view once again. 

You felt the steady build in your chest, creeping up your throat as you felt the urge to sob violently where you stood. Yet the tears wouldn’t come, catching somewhere in your throat so you truly felt like there was no air in your lungs. “What the fuck was that?” Satoru’s voice pulled you from your daze, your head turning to see a concerned Shoko and Satoru panting as they caught up to where you now stood. Yet, you couldn’t hold Satoru’s bewildered gaze for long, eyes returning to the street once more. “I…” you started, barely hearing yourself as you spoke. 

“I saw… I saw him. It was him.” you managed to spit out, lips parted as you tried to force air in your lungs. “Him? As in Suguru?” Shoko spoke for Satoru, had you been able to turn your head and meet his gaze you would have seen that he had turned as pale as a sheet of paper. You could only muster a nod, shoulders shaking with the force of your breathing as you tried to ground yourself in reality once again. So many emotions were running rampant through your head that it was turning into a dull buzz where none of them could make their way up to the surface. 

“You’re… positive it was him?” Shoko closed what little distance there was, hand resting on your bicep as if she was afraid you’d take off running again. “P-positive. I’d know him anywhere… The little girls were with him too.” You felt your baby kick, your hand flying up to rest on the swell of your stomach as you were finally grounded by their movement. “Sorry honey… I didn’t mean to scare you.” you spoke downwards, soothing your hand over the knit sweater to comfort the child within your womb. You doubted it would really comfort them, more so it was to comfort you.

You pulled your gaze away from the busy street, head turning to look at Satoru but the man was already taking off in the direction you had claimed to see Suguru go. “S-satoru?” Shoko’s head turned with yours, watching him stalk down the busy sidewalk. “He…” You started, but your voice sounded hollow as Shoko began guiding you back in the direction you had come from. “But… he…” Your head followed Satoru until Shoko had guided you away from the intersection and down the sidewalk. “Leave him be.” Shoko spoke slowly, head trained forward.

“But he… Satoru…” Shoko cut you off with a tug a little harder than the others “Satoru is a big boy, you are pregnant. You are in no condition to be booking it out of a store and into the busy road, did you even bother looking before you crossed the street?” For the first time ever, you could hear anger in Shoko’s words. Your silence was more than enough of an answer for her, a scoff leaving her lips as she pulled you over to a small area cut off from the endless streams of people making their way through the city’s center. “You cannot fucking do that, Y/N.”

But she could tell by the look in your eyes that you were anywhere but this moment in time. 

“You are pregnant. Carrying a baby inside of your body, who is reliant on you and you alone to keep them safe. You almost got hit by a fucking car. Do you even know that? You ran out into that street in front of cars Y/N.” Shoko’s voice wavered, to add to the many firsts that were occurring in these moments, her voice had begun to waver. As if she were scared… in truth she was. She had nearly witnessed you and your unborn baby be killed and yet you were completely oblivious. You caught sight of Suguru and you had left everything behind. 

Somewhere in the back of your mind, amidst all the buzzing in your head and ringing in your ears, you were processing the gravity of the situation. Your actions had so blatantly given away your inner thoughts, thoughts you hadn’t intended on letting out. You would, without fail, everytime, follow that man if given the chance. It made your heart ache, the same deep rooted ache that you were certain would never leave you until he was in your arms again. “Satoru…” Shoko spoke softly, your head whipping in the direction Shoko was looking. 

Satoru was making his way back up the sidewalk, face pale and eyes hollow. “I lost him.” he spoke softly, somehow still audible over the roaring of the city. “You saw him?” Shoko questioned, her grip on your bicep lowering to your wrist because she really couldn’t trust you to not run away from her. “Only for a moment, he was getting into a car. The thing was driving off by the time I reached the spot where it had been parked.” Then, finally, knowing he was long gone by now, you could breathe again. The urge to run was gone, leaving you drained. 

“I want to go home.” 

“Yeah, me too.” Satoru uttered softly, arm coming up to rub the back of his neck. He seemed just as disconnected as you felt, leaving Shoko to look between the two of you in concern. “I’ll call for the car.” She pulled out her phone, clicking a number she had on speed dial and waited. Your day had effectively been ruined, leaving you and Satoru in shambles all over again. “We can try this again another day… but you need clothes that fit sooner than later.” Shoko knew she was practically speaking to herself at this point, flipping her phone shut and shoving it in her pocket. 

The three of you stood quietly off to the side, waiting for the car to pull up to the curb and take you home. Your mind was still reeling of course, so many thoughts at once that it had essentially gone blank. But there, amidst the haze of your confusion, one question was burning brightly. “Why didn’t you use infinity?” Your tone was gravelly, eyes meeting Satoru’s dissociated gaze. “...what?” he questioned back as if there was no air in his lungs as he spoke. “Why didn’t you use infinity?” you say it again, a little stronger this time. 

You had no intentions for it to come out accusatory, nor did you mean it to be rude. You were just stupidly unaware at that moment, your brain so clouded that it had reduced you to nothing. “Why didn’t you use your curse technique?” he countered, knowing your own technique would not have been able to stop Suguru from getting out of your grasp. “Why didn’t you look before crossing the street? Why didn’t you run faster?” Satoru spat at you when you didn’t answer, regret dawning in the back of his mind when he saw your eyes brim with tears. 

“That is enough, Satoru.” Shoko interjected before you could even mumble out a feeble response, sniffling harshly as you rubbed your watering eyes. “You are both hurt. There is no god damn point in sitting here asking the other why they didn’t do something because it’s done and over with now.” Shoko’s head was focused on Satoru, glaring at the man harshly as he schooled his features into stoic disinterest. “Better yet, you two were so fucking shell shocked by his sudden appearance that you lost all sense of reason, so there. That’s why infinity wasn’t used.” 

But still, Shoko was staring at Satoru. It angered you a bit, sniffling a little harder as you couldn’t seem to control the watery whimpers that fell from wobbling lips. She should be mad at both of you, and instead she was primarily scolding Satoru and treating you as a frail object. But, given your hopeless and teary eyed gaze, Satoru didn’t blame Shoko for focusing her anger on him. He regretted it almost as soon as he spoke the words out loud, having read your intentions wrong. But he couldn’t swallow his pride and apologize for it just yet, still too overwhelmed. 

You were both saved from her wrath due to the car pulling up to the curb. “We’re going home, and you two are sitting in the back seat.” she tugged you along, reaching for Satoru’s wrist and tugging him too. “We’ll figure out your clothing situation another day.” She grumbled as she pulled the door open for you “for now, just wear Satoru’s clothes… or Suguru’s.” she added the last bit softly, glancing up to see Satoru shoot her a look as he rounded the car to get in on the other side. “Next time, it’ll just be the two of us going out.” 

You only nodded, sinking into the soft back seat of the school’s car and letting Shoko shut the door for you. Satoru settled in beside you, making a point to keep his distance and look out the window as the car began to drive off. You ignored it, not in the right headspace to even tackle what the man’s withdrawn behavior could really mean. You’d just assume he was upset with you until he was ready to talk, because right now all you wanted was your own bed, in your own room, and to sleep until you couldn’t remember why your heart was so heavy in the first place.

—

December 24th, 2007 [1:00pm]

twenty five weeks. 

You were twenty five weeks into your pregnancy which meant you had roughly fourteen weeks left until your baby was born. Still, Suguru had no idea. Over half way through your pregnancy and the father of your baby had no idea you were even pregnant. “It’s christmas eve, little one.” You spoke softly as you sat alone in your dorm room, one of your own sweaters sitting snugly on your body, your pregnant belly was too big to hide at this point. “I can’t believe you’re going to get bigger…” you cooed softly, rubbing your stomach as you sat at your desk. 

You haven't really been speaking to anyone, especially after your near encounter with Suguru back at the end of November. You and Satoru had made up to an extent, but you could still feel a strain on your relationship. That strain was leaking into your relationship with Shoko as well, isolating you from the feeling of comfort the two once brought you. You had ended up sleeping in your own room that night, not responding at first to either of them when they pressed you. “I just need space to think.” you had finally caved late that night when Shoko wouldn’t stop texting. 

You hadn’t returned to either of their beds since, finding comfort in your not so alone solitude. You had your baby with you - in you - you were never truly alone nowadays. For some reason, neither of them pushed you further about the sudden switch of wanting to be alone. In the following weeks of Suguru’s deflection, you couldn’t stand being in your once lively dorm room… despite not being able to drag yourself out of bed most mornings. Now, Satoru and Shoko saw you sparsely, so long as you were on campus, they supposed it was alright to leave you alone. 

It took a few days for the realization to settle in, but your reaction to seeing Suguru again had really done a number on them. “I’ll be out of their hair soon enough…” You murmured to your quiet room, pen scratching the notepad on your desk fervently as you expressed your sorrow.  A faint smile was present on your lips as you wrote down your goodbye note to Shoko, a weight slowly being lifted off of your tired shoulders with each sentence you neatly scribbled down. 

You would be leaving Jujutsu Tech tonight.

And if you could help it, you would never be coming back. 

That was your final decision roughly one week after the whole incident, the guilt of feeling like a burden had been weighing on you since. You would be going to see him tonight, for the first time in four months you would be seeing Suguru… but he would have no idea it was you. It was all planned out, like clockwork really, you had worked through every fine detail of your departure. Your bag was packed and shoved under your bed, a duffle filled with some sentimental clothing items, your personal belongings and things that meant a lot to you. 

Most of your dorm room would be staying behind, just as Suguru had. 

You were - intentionally and not at the very same time - following in his footsteps. Albeit you’d have it a little harder because you had a funny feeling Satoru, Shoko, and Yaga already suspected you were ready to jump ship… they just didn’t know when. You set your pen down for a moment, stretching each finger and flexing your hand to shake out the wariness. You would be leaving soon after the sun had set, while everyone who was still present on campus attended the annual christmas party. You would feign a migraine, something you had been doing quite frequently so it wouldn’t come off too strange when Shoko or Satoru came knocking.

Once you were certain the dorms were empty, you and your baby would be off. Only two pit stops on your way out the door, Shoko’s dorm and Satoru’s dorm, so you could leave them your letters before disappearing into the night.  The first stop after that would be the hotel room you had booked in Shinjuku, you’d place your bag there and get ready. You would be meeting with Suguru at 6pm, under an alias and disguise. You had called his assistant on a pay phone only a few days ago, begging for an appointment on christmas eve with the “mighty healer” taking pity on you, she ran it by Suguru and he agreed. 

The only reason you were doing this under a disguise was because you needed to get your emotions sorted. If you saw him for the first time again in months, face to face with nowhere to run, you were positive you would break down immediately. So, you’d ease into things as best you could. If things worked out, you would only have to live inside a hotel room for less than a week. But if things didn’t work out like you prayed they would, you and your baby would figure it out as you went. You just couldn’t bear the weight of your guilt any longer, you felt as if you were dragging everyone down. 

Carefully, your pen was picked up and you began scratching your thoughts. Satoru’s letter has been finished for three days now, sitting neatly in an envelope on your bottom drawer. You were finishing Shoko’s now, front and back of each paper so the letter itself was nearly four pages long. Satoru was shorter, a single page because if you let yourself get carried away, you were certain you would run out of paper before you could finish your thoughts. Your teeth sunk into the flesh of your lower lip, worrying it deeply as you tried to conclude her letter. 

Your pen froze on the paper as you stared at what you had written, for some reason it was hitting you now. Tears were welling in your eyes as you sniffled, trying to blink them away while trying to avoid them landing on the paper and soiling it. “C’mon now… it would be so unfair to her to litter this with my tears.” You pushed the paper away, getting up from your desk to make your way into the bathroom. Splashing cold water on your face seemed like the best solution, bending over the sink as best you could you let the water pool in your hands. 

A couple rounds later you were able to regain your composure, reaching for the towel you kept hanging on the wall and using it to dry your face. You stood in the all too bright lights of your bathroom, looking at your reflection just to find it felt foreign for a moment. Twenty five weeks into your pregnancy, your stomach had certainly popped at this point, making it hard for you to believe it would continue to get bigger. “The human body is fascinating.” you muttered softly, turning to the side so you could see how you looked with your sweater on. “You’ll be difficult to conceal, little one. Though, your daddy won’t know it’s me…” 

You were still going to put effort into trying to hide your pregnancy. That was a part of your plan you truly couldn’t explain, it just didn’t feel right waltzing in there with your pregnant belly on display while he had no idea it was you and his child. “Let’s finish Auntie Shoko’s letter, shall we?” You needed to get through it, you had no time to really delay things further. The sun would be setting in a few hours, the party would start at five, you had four hours total left for your time at Jujutsu Tech. Not a single second of it could be wasted. 

You sat down again, inhaling through your nose and exhaling through your mouth as you picked up the pen with shaky hands. You reread everything you had written thus far, all the way up to your half done sentence. You picked it up front here, finishing your thoughts and concluding the letter within twenty minutes. With a labored sigh of relief, you pulled another envelope out of your drawer and folded the letter neatly, slipping it inside and sealing it. Your hand trembled tenfold as you wrote Shoko’s name neatly on the back. “Done… it’s done.” 

December 24th, 2007 [3:30pm]

You had drawn your blinds, got a hot pack ready, set medicine and a glass of water on your nightstand. Now, you laid in near darkness, counting down the seconds until Shoko or Satoru appeared at your door. You had planted the first seed an hour prior, telling Shoko you felt a migraine coming on over text and that you’d have to lay down for a bit to see if it would pass. She had responded with an “okay” and let you know she or Satoru would be checking on you within the hour. If they stayed true to their word, it would be any time now. 

You passed the time by looking out your window, despite the blinds being drawn you could still see slivers of the darkening sky. “Winter is such a melancholic season, little one.” not even evening yet and the sky was changing from blue to orange and finally fading into indigo. “I’m glad you won’t be born in the dead of winter… rather somewhere in early spring.” It was odd to think that the year was nearly through, that Christmas was looming just hours away. This was arguably the least festive Christmas you had ever experienced. 

“Ya know, this isn’t how I thought my first pregnancy would go.” You whisper to your empty room, knowing it didn’t matter how quietly you talked, your baby would hear you. At least, that’s what you liked to think, that one thought always brought you comfort. “I swear mommy is going to fix this, my little love. You will be so cherished and so loved by me and your daddy.” You exhaled slowly, not expecting your own rambling to tug at your chest the way it did. “Soon, soon my little love, soon it will be okay.” You tried to swallow the lump in your throat as you struggled to roll onto your side, placing the hotpack on your head once more. 

It took all of five minutes for footsteps to approach your door, a gentle rasp of fingers hitting the wood and a soft call of your name. “Come in.” You didn’t have to try and sound weak, the frog in your throat aiding you. “Well, this is a depressing Christmas eve… how are you?” You struggled to roll over yet again, squinting as the hall light flooded your room, silhouetting Satoru’s lanky figure. “Not good, I don’t think I’ll be able to go, Satoru.” You could see him shifting from foot to foot. “Do you… want me to stay with you?” and for a moment you had to school your expression from the sheer panic that nearly pulled your features. 

“N-no, god that would be useless. Go enjoy your christmas eve, I have my pain meds and I’ve got some pregnancy safe sleeping meds. I’ll be out like a light within the next hour. Have fun, Satoru.” You urged him, praying he wouldn’t be stubborn. Reluctantly, you heard him sigh. “Are you positive?” You weren’t sure why him giving up so easily made your heart ache. For the sake of your plan, you couldn’t let him stay. But, for some reason, it made your chest heavy that he didn’t put up more of a fight. So different… Why are things so different? “Positive.” You gave him a weak smile, still squinting because of the hall light.

“Alright… well… merry christmas, Y/N. I’ll give everyone your well wishes.” 

“Thank you, Satoru… Merry christmas.” 

You watched him leave, a gentle click of your door shutting flowed by his feet padding down the hallway again. It wasn’t until silence was the only thing ringing in your ears that the choked sobs you had tried to hold off all day came forward. You couldn’t catch your breath with the force of them, clutching your chest as you curled in on your side. Deep, guttural sobs shook your frame until they turned completely silent. In the dark of your room, you gasped for air that would not enter your lungs. Your cries so wheezy and silent that you were certain you would pass out if you could not get a grip and catch your breath. 

It hurts… god it fucking hurts… What went wrong? Where did I go so horribly wrong? Your own thoughts seem to bounce off the cavern of your skull, echoing in your ears as hot tears ruined your pillowcase. You forced yourself into a sitting position despite your body screaming in protest, your baby’s fluttering kicks urging you to relax before you sent them into distress along with you. “I'm sorry…I’m sorry.” You could barely speak, stumbling out of your bed and towards your bathroom, blindly searching for the knob as your vision was clouded with tears. 

All you could think about was cold water, splashing cold water on your face would ground you for a moment. Though, cold water certainly could not cure a breaking heart. Your slowly swelling eyes remained shut as you flicked on the LED lights of your bathroom, blindly walking to your sink and turning the cold water on. It contrasted starkly with the hot tears that had been streaming down your cheeks, filling your nose and making it run. You hated it, every second of it, so utterly hopeless and confused. You never wanted to leave on a bad note, but it didn't seem like something that could be helped. Not now at least… 

You bent down, eyes opening a fraction to see the crystal clear water pool in your cupped hands before overflowing. After a moment, you splashed it up on your face, gasping as it seemed to shock your system out of its haze. You did it again, and again, and again, until the tears stopped and you could breathe without needing to think about it. “There we go… I’m so sorry, little one. Mommy didn’t mean to frighten you like that…” Slowly, your baby’s hyperactivity slowed, relaxing with your calming heart. “I’m still learning… I promise I’ll get the hang of it.” 

“You are pregnant. Carrying a baby inside of your body, who is reliant on you and you alone to keep them safe. You almost got hit by a fucking car.”

Shoko’s words still hung heavy on you from that day. Ever since, you have become all too aware of your baby. Especially since you had begun spending so much time alone, every waking thought was about them and their well being. Even at doctor’s appointments you were certain Shoko only accompanied you so you wouldn’t use it as a chance to run off. “I think it’s almost time for us to go, little one.” You had told your doctor that you didn’t want to know the gender, as much as it killed you to wait. You wanted Suguru present when it was revealed. 

With a heavy sigh you  grabbed a towel, drying your face and tossing it in the hamper to never be washed. Your mind was still filled with ten million and one thoughts, but you needed to try and stay level headed if you wanted to get off of campus without being spotted. You gave your bathroom one last glance over, three years this room had been your home. After tonight, you would likely never see it again. With a small amount of hesitation, you flicked off the lights and shut the door. Now you were faced with every step that needed to be taken to pull this all off. 

The first step was to lock your door, you couldn’t bring yourself to breathe until you did so. Crossing the short distance, you held the knob title and turned the lock until it clicked. That pulled a fraction of the stress off of your shoulders, allowing you to move a little more freely about your bedroom as you got yourself ready. You weren’t particularly in a rush, though the racing of your heart certainly made you feel like you should be. It took you about twenty minutes to sort through the contents of your bag before throwing a few more things inside of it. 

By now the sun had set, 4:00pm was staring at you in big red letters on your nightstand. 

I’ve got time. You spoke to yourself, shuffling over to your desk to pull the bottom drawer open. You had been strategic, burning and disposing of any information you had kept hidden in there. Not that there was truly anything worthwhile, you just felt a bit paranoid leaving it behind. Now, all that was left were the two letters you’d be placing in their dorm rooms. This was how you’d make sure they had actually left for the party. You had plenty of excuses made up in the event they were still inside their respective dorm rooms. “Alright little one, let’s go.” 

You carefully placed the letters inside of your coat, shielding them from unwanted eyes in the event things turned for the worse. You tried to move with no real direction, if you seemed intent on getting somewhere, it would easily give you away. At least that’s what you figured while unlocking your door and heading out into the quiet hallway. Squinting, playing the part of someone who had a raging migraine, you shuffled down the hall towards Shoko’s bedroom. Your sock covered feet seemed to echo with each soft tap, your body carrying you down the halls you had considered your one and only home for nearly three years. 

“Shoko?” you knocked on her door, speaking loud enough that if anyone was in there, they’d hear you. After a moment of no answer, you grabbed the knob and pushed it open. Shoko’s room was dark, all lights off save for the festive holiday lights she had strung up around the perimeter of her dorm room. It’s really been that long… I had no idea she even did this… the weight of that realization made it hard to breathe again, chest tight as you made your way forward while tugging the envelope with her name on it out of your coat. Her room once felt so safe to you, so homey and secure… Now it felt as if you were walking into a stranger’s dorm. 

It was astonishing how quickly relationships could change over one “small” event in time. 

Your heart was still pounding in your chest as you dropped the note on her desk. You didn’t want to waste another second, turning on your heels and shutting the door as if you had never been in there to begin with. Next was Satoru, his room just a little ways down the hall. Your feet seemed to move slower than before, one hand resting on the swell of your stomach as you waddled to the door you had opened and shut so many times over the years you’d never be able to keep count. You could feel it again, the frog forming in your throat as you held your hand up. 

But you stopped mid-way to the door, you never knocked before entering Satoru’s dorm room. That would immediately raise suspicions if he still happened to be inside. So, one last time, for old time sake, you pushed into his unlocked dorm room and heaved a heavy sigh as you were greeted with nothing in return. Satoru had left his desk lamp on, leaving the room in a golden glow despite nobody being inside. You couldn’t understand why you felt disappointed about the fact that he wasn’t there. Just as you couldn’t describe the heaviness in your chest when he didn’t put up a fight only a little while ago. Such stupid emotions… stupid stupid stupid. 

You shut his door behind you as you entered his dorm for what would be the very last time. It seemed to suck the air from your lungs as you stepped further into the room you had once been so familiar with. Only a few weeks had passed and yet you felt as if an eternity had expanded across the short period of time. It almost felt foreign as you stepped towards the bed you had spent so many nights in, eyes roaming over his disheveled covers from his hazardous bed making skills. You pulled the letter out of your coat, laughing a bit as you realized your stupid mistake, not that it mattered now. You’d be out the door in less than ten minutes. 

You left the envelope neatly on his pillow, holding back tears as you turned away and walked out of the room all together. There was no point in reminiscing, no point in wishing for things to return to how they once were, you needed to do what you deemed best for yourself and your child. That meant being with your baby’s father, that meant doing what you could to rebuild the things Suguru had destroyed. For some reason, that seemed easier than staying at Jujutsu Tech. You pulled Satoru’s door shut, adrenaline flooded your veins as you processed the fact that all you had left to do now was grab your few things and leave. 

You moved down the hall quickly, feet carrying you faster than they had in a long while. Every step you took, out in the open, felt like you were begging for someone to accidentally stumble upon you. You could heave a sigh of relief as your dorm door was in sight once again. You pushed into your dorm room again, throat feeling dry as you grabbed the duffle bag off of your bed and slung it over your shoulder. You looked around one last time, pregnancy hormones making you suddenly sentimental over everything you’d be leaving behind. They are nothing more than inanimate belongings, get a hold on reality. You scolded yourself as your eyes welled with tears, you’d have plenty of time in the future to gain new sentiment over such trivial things. 

Right now, you need to get out. He was waiting for you, unknowingly Suguru was waiting for you. You’d be damned if you gave up the opportunity now. With a heavy heart, you crossed the distance one last time and turned off the lights of your dorm before stepping into the hall. With a click that felt almost deafening, it was time for you to make your way out of the dorm building without gaining any unwanted attention. You placed everything on your fellow classmates being at that damned christmas party, you just prayed it was a safe bet to make. You moved equally as fast as you had moments prior, feet carrying you and your child down the wooden halls you could no longer call your home. Each step seemed to creak loudly as it bounced off empty walls. 

Your feet hit the landing of the first floor and you felt like they’d give out beneath you, Everything was too silent, though you supposed that should be a good thing for your sake. It made you feel uneasy regardless, every fiber of your being seemed to come alive with each step you took. The air in your lungs seemed to be frozen as your hands met the cool metal of the back door, one push and your fate would be sealed. For the first time that day, you didn’t second guess a single action you made, pushing it open to be greeted with a gush of cold air. 

Freedom.

Had you not been so heavily pregnant, you would have taken off in an all out sprint. You didn’t realize how badly you ached to do so until the ability was taken from you. Instead, you moved as fast as your feet would allow you to, hand resting on your stomach to try and minimize the amount of bouncing the action was causing you. You would be off campus within seconds, out into the real world and on the subway before you could process it. It seemed as if the universe put wind on your sail again, the only thing thundering in your ears was the sound of your own racing heart. It was within your reach, so close you could taste it, the happiness you so desperately longed to feel again, it was coming back. 

“Y/N?” 

You stopped short, the air leaving your lungs just as it had left your metaphorical sail. You turned slowly, bracing yourself for who you’d see calling your name. Much to your surprise, it was the last person you had expected to see. “...Nanami?” The blonde was looking you over with creased brows, nodding a bit as you stated the obvious. “Yeah, it’s me uh…wow.” he commented softly, taking a timid step towards you. “I came for the party though I didn’t really want to… I see you’ve got a lot going on.” He cleared his throat, it dawned on you in that moment that he had no idea you were pregnant until this very second. “I-yeah. You could put it like that.” 

“It’s Suguru’s, isn’t it?” he questioned softly, finally dragging his eyes from the swell of your stomach and up to your face. “It is, he just doesn’t know it yet.” Yet. Nanami wasn’t stupid, seeing the duffle bag slung over your shoulder he knew you were leaving. “I take it that’s where you’re heading now?” his voice was achingly quiet, though he had never been one to talk loudly. “It… yeah it is. I…umm… Nanami, they don’t know I’m leaving.” You started, your throat feeling dry as you tried to figure out how to proceed. “You’re not coming back.” he stated it more than questioned. Carefully, you nodded. “I’m not coming back.” you repeated with a sad smile. 

“I understand. Trust me, if anyone is to understand where you’re coming from with that logic, it’s me.” You felt the tension melting from your shoulders “Nanami, promise me you won’t say a word… I left them letters I just… I can’t have them stopping me now. Not when my mind is made up.” The blonde nodded slowly, eyes roaming over your body and back to your baby bump. “You have to do what you think is best for you and your baby. If leaving this all behind, if going to Suguru is what you deem best, then nobody has the right to disagree with you.” He stated it matter-of-factly to you, arms crossing as a gentle smile crossed his face. 

“Take care of yourself, and your baby, Y/N. Tell Suguru I said hello, and I promise your secret is safe with me.” As quickly as it started, it seemed to stop. Nanami had always been a man of purpose. “I will… thank you, from the bottom of my heart, thank you, Nanami.” The blonde nodded, still smiling a bit as he turned away from you. “This never happened, I’m sure you’re on a tight schedule.” But his tone was lighter for once, making you smile a bit as you uttered out a soft “yeah… see you later, Nanami.” You took off again, feet carrying you down the dirt paths with ease. Unknowingly to you, Nanami was watching you go, not moving from his spot until you had disappeared from his sight. He sighed deeply before finally moving the other way. 

 “I hope you find your peace, Y/N.” 

December 24th, 2007 [4:45pm] 

You held onto the iron pole of the subway cart as it barreled down the tracks. Standing where you were now, surrounded by people heading home to spend the holidays with their families, fluorescent lights nearly blinding, you felt unreal. As if this was all a figment of your imagination and you’d wake up in your bed, in your dorm room, hopelessly alone again. It hadn’t been until you arrived at the station that you realized just how suffocated you had felt at Jujutsu Tech. Satoru and Shoko had been so strict in hopes of keeping you from flying the nest, instead it had the polar opposite effect. I guess I should thank them. 

You didn’t hold any malice towards the two, but it did sting when you thought of how quickly they changed. You could, arguably, understand where they were coming from. By no means were claiming innocence to anything that had gone down between the three of you. It was crazy to you how less than forty five minutes of freedom was already giving you a level head and better perspective. Though you doubted you’d be able to cling onto sanity for much longer, with each minute that ticked by you were closer to seeing Suguru. That alone made your heart swell. 

Based on the lights above your head, you’d be at Shinjuku Station in less than three minutes. From there it would be taking a taxi to the hotel you had booked a room at. Then, so long as check-in went smoothly, you’d be in your room and getting ready before 5:30. You knew Suguru’s religious group was a fifteen minute walk from your hotel, but a taxi would get you there in five. Either way, you’d get there by 6pm, you didn’t care how. Your heart was thumping erratically, you knew you’d need to disconnect your phone once you got off the train. 

You prayed with each passing second that you wouldn’t feel it buzz, that nobody would ring your line because truthfully you didn’t think you’d be able to handle knowing they knew. You’d rather be selfishly, blissfully unaware of when their worlds came crashing down for a second time. You would need to destroy your phone once you arrived at the station, you could worry about buying a new one after the holidays had passed. Truthfully, there was no reason for you to remain in contact with anyone anymore, what was done was done and that was simply it. It did make your heart ache though, but you were a big girl, you made the bed and you now had to sleep in it. 

The subway cart came to a halt, sending you forward a bit as your clammy hand gripped the pole a little harder. An automated voice came over the speaker to announce that you had arrived at Shinjuku station. With that, the doors were sliding open, crowds of people moving to exit the train just as people flooded to enter it. Luckily for you, people could see your state, knowing you were pregnant, many moved out of the way just a bit to accommodate you as you walked by. You had ended up standing the whole train ride despite many offering you their seats. You had assured them you were fine, antsy even and it would help your nerves to stand. 

Your feet felt as heavy as led as you carried yourself through the brightly lit station towards the escalators that would carry you back up to street level. With your phone clutched tightly in your hand, you activated your curse technique. You could feel it now, the metal and glass that made up your flip phone crushed until it resembled nothing more than a flattened soda can. Completely unusable, utterly destroyed. You dropped it in a passing trash can, body feeling significantly lighter now that there was no way for them to directly contact you. Your feet hit the moving platform a second later, carrying you upwards, a step closer to your goal. 

December 24th, 2007 [5:45pm] 

You were early, you couldn’t help it. You had taken as little time as possible once you arrived at your hotel room, throwing together an imperfect disguise. You had managed to successfully hide your pregnancy, a disposable face mask was hiding the lower half of your face. Suguru would recognize your eyes, you knew that, so even though the sun had long ago set, you slotted a pair of sunglasses over your face. Your hair was neatly tucked under a beanie, the hood on your sweatshirt being dragged overtop. You had to wonder if this appearance would raise any suspicions with him, but you had to assume he was used to people being ashamed of wanting to be “healed”. Either way, you prayed he wouldn’t question it. 

Your weight shifted from foot to foot, eyes peering up at the looming and honestly overwhelming building that made up the temple. You had a handful of steps you would need to climb to reach the entrance, which had been part of your desire to get here as soon as you could manage. Climbing up stairs had become your mortal enemy at this point, one flight in and you were wheezing for air. “Bear with me, little one.” You let your hand smooth over your stomach one last time before starting your torturous climb. Each step was shaky, your breath warm on your face as the mask shielded you from the cool air. Still, labored breathing was enough to have faint puffs of your breath turning visible in the air. 

The added layers weren’t helping your cause, either. But you would manage, all because Suguru was just beyond the walls of the temple that loomed before you. For months you had to live with the fact that he was alive and well within miles of you. Just out of your reach, leaving you to pick up the shattered pieces of the life you had so carefully tried to build. You had been angry, sad, depressed and disappointed. You had gone through every stage of grief and then some. But right now, as you ascended these steps, it suddenly didn’t seem to matter anymore. How foolish you could become when blinded by such devoted love. “Are you here to meet with Master Geto?”

You glanced up at the sound of a woman’s voice, recognizing it from when you spoke on the phone a dew days prior. “I-I am.” you huffed out, finally reaching the top of the platform in which the temple rested upon. “You’re quite early, Mast Geto will appreciate this.” She smiled warmly at you but you could tell by the ugly crinkle in her smile lines that it was forced. “I’m glad.” You managed to squeeze out, trying to calm your racing heart as your baby’s kicks fluttered around your stomach. Always so active. You mused to yourself as the woman turned away from you. “He’ll likely be waiting already, he just finished with a client. You’re the last for the year. Quite the honor if I say so myself. You’re very lucky.” Very lucky, huh?

You didn’t have to bother hiding your amused smirk, the face mask providing you all the security you needed as she guided you towards the temple’s entrance. “I hope you don’t mind my appearance.” You started, testing the waters to see how poorly she thought of you based on one glance. “It’s alright, Master Geto understands some of the people that come to him are doing so against their family’s wishes. Anonymity is welcomed in his eyes.” You felt your brow twitch, humming out a “oh good” as the temple doors seemed to open on their own. “Before you meet with him privately, I do have a small handful of rules.” Rules? She took your silence as a go-ahead, holding her clipboard tightly to her chest as her hips swayed with each step. 

“Master Geto asks you to wash your hands before meeting with him. He also requests that you do not touch him unless he reaches out to touch you. Granted the most the man will touch is your hands or shoulders. He will never venture any further.” You assumed that had to do with his newfound hatred for non-sorcerers, anything of the sort was likely considered filth to him. So how peculiar was it that he would go out of his way to heal them. If you could pick his brains apart, you would. You prayed wholeheartedly that you’d be given the chance. All those countless nights, sitting beside Satoru, trying to wrap your head around Suguru and his choices. 

He owed you the deepest, most thought out and intricate explanation he could manage. You still couldn’t fathom why this was the answer to his jumbled thoughts. “You may use this sink to cleanse yourself.” You blinked, head turning to the stainless steel sink fitted right to the wall outside the doors that would lead to Suguru’s quarters. It was brand new, clearly installed within the temple’s construction only a few months prior. You exhaled slowly as you pushed up your sleeves, this was by no means the Suguru you remembered. But you couldn’t let your doubt drag you down yet, you still hadn’t seen him, spoken with him. 

You set the water to cold, scrubbing your hands thoroughly with the soap provided. You swore you could still feel the clammy, dirty metal of the subway pole on your hands despite washing them when you got to the hotel. It only made you scrub harder, anxiety creeping into your neck as the crushing reality began to settle in. Within minutes… no within seconds really, you’d be seeing Suguru again for the first time in nearly five months. “You may use the towels to your right to dry your hands once you are done.” The woman chimed softly behind you, looking down at her clipboard so she could cross off your name – an alias you had given – the last on his list. 

You felt a moment of hesitation as you reached up to turn off the water. As if the anticipation for this moment would feel more overwhelming than seeing him in person again. You found yourself fearing the disappointment that may come with this meeting. It took you a moment, but you pushed forward, grabbing the knob and turning the cold water off. “Alright, Miss.” You grabbed a towel, drying your hands thoroughly before dropping it in the bin beside the sink. “Alright.” You repeated, turning to face her, sight dimmed from the darkened corridor and the shading of your glasses. “If you’ll allow me to check in, Master Geto should be ready for you.” 

Your heart had begun to hammer in your throat, over the roaring in your ears you uttered out a weak “Okay.” As she strolled past you and pushed through the large door, just enough to peak her head and upper half of her body in. A little muffled, but you heard her speak “Master Geto, your last client is here. Are you ready for her?”If he responded, you couldn’t hear it, your own heartbeat pulsing in your ears as she turned to smile at you. 

“Master Geto is ready to see you, please, head in.” 

Here went everything, everything you had thrown away had led to this very moment. You nodded, taking one step forward, then another, until somehow your legs managed to hold out on you and carry you into the large prayer room. The door shut behind you, nearly making your feet falter as you took in the expanse of the room. It was absurdly large, mats rolled up and leaning against the wall, you assumed it was for his worshipers. The room itself was lit primarily by candle light, yet it was still bright enough to make out everything before you. 

A small flight of stairs led to a raised podium, an arm rest screwed into the ground to support Suguru as he lounged. “Welcome.” Your eyes landed on him, his fist pressed into the side of his cheek as he smiled at you. Behind him was a large altar, barren likely due to the temple being closed until the new year after tonight. “Please, dear, come up and sit before me.” His voice, smooth and melodic, just as it had always been. But this time around it carried a level of authority and hospitality that was foreign to you. 

You swore stars were starting to spot your vision, so utterly overwhelmed by his presence that you had to force air into your lungs as you climbed more godforsaken steps. “Thank you for meeting with me, Master Geto.” You choked out, doing a horrible job of hiding your genuine emotions. “Of course, I couldn’t say no after hearing how urgent your needs were. Think of this as a Christmas gift from me to you.” He spoke softly, eyes roaming over your appearance. “So, please, do tell me of your problems. Something horrid seems to be ailing you.” 

You knelt before him, praying it didn’t look awkward as your stomach nearly made it impossible to get into such a position inconspicuously. “I just… I’m not even sure what is ailing me.” You started softly, hand reaching up to adjust your absurd disguise. “I’m desperate, I figured if anyone could help me, it would be you…” For a moment you nearly uttered Suguru, your throat felt dry as you quietly finished “...Master Geto.” You stared at him through the lenses of your sunglasses, wondering how Satoru dealt with wearing the cursed things all the damn time. 

As Suguru’s eyes roamed over you, studying you intently, you felt reality weighing on you once more. Suguru was right there, in front of you, less than two feet. It felt utterly surreal, maybe that's why you felt so disconnected from the moment. Two weeks of pure, agonizing grief over his departure only to be cut off by the realization that you were pregnant with his baby. Sure that didn’t fix your broken heart, at first it had even managed to make it worse. But it kept you busy, and has continued to keep you busy over the course of September, October, November, and now at the end of December. Yet it hadn’t been enough to bring you to your senses. 

“You seem troubled, and I’m so sorry you’ve been having such a difficult time.” he uttered softly, straightening from his lounging position as he let his arm rest to support him instead of having his fist pressed to his cheek. Everything thus far had brought you right to this moment, right back into his arms… almost. You blinked, swallowing nothing at all and nearly choking. For a split second it felt like Suguru was talking directly to you, your Suguru. Not the Geto Suguru who was the new head of the old star vessel religious group. Your mouth opened and closed a few times, hands folded neatly on your lap despite having to strain to reach it. 

“I appreciate the sentiment, Master Geto. Please, what are you going to do to aid me?” For a foolish moment, you wondered if maybe there was some invisible curse clinging to your back and weighing you down. “I will do the best I can to heal you, my dear.” You inhaled slowly, nodding as you spoke “Thank you, but may I ask how?” it had slipped past your lips before you could stop it, a genuine question you prayed wouldn't come across as offensive. After all, it’s how you lost Satoru’s trust. “Of course you may, it’s human nature to be curious, my dear.” He started softly, a grin on his face as he moved to sit up fully, no arm rest to keep him balanced. 

“I could preach to you about how there is good and there is evil, how the strong prey on the weak and use it to their advantage. But that is common and dismal knowledge at this point, that is not what you are looking for either.” You nodded, eyes still soaking in every inch that made up the man before you. As much as the sunglasses were annoying you, you appreciate them for allowing you to so shamelessly admire your lover. “You’re tired, aren’t you? You feel as though you are being weighed down.” He questioned you softly, watching you nod as he found a small starting point for your ailments. “Did something happen to you recently?” 

For a moment you swore you felt your heart stop beating in your chest. That question was far too loaded for you to answer, so you cleared your throat a bit, muttering a soft “yes” but not willing to go further. Suguru seemed to understand that, nodding softly. “You, by no means, need to explain yourself to me, my dear. I will do what I can to ease your burdens.” you watched his hands, noticing every little detail as they reached for you. “Are you alright with me taking your hands?” So soft you nearly missed it over the thundering of your heart.

 “Y-you may.” Shakily, you stuck your own hands out, feeling a bit awkward at the clamminess of them. For the first time in months, Suguru’s skin was on yours again. It brought a wave of relief you thought you would never feel again. The warmth of his hands in your own, worn and calloused but somehow perfectly soft and cared for. They encompassed yours, his grip strong but not strong enough to hurt, mindful of you. Tears welled in your eyes, throat constricting in a way that you knew meant tears were going to flow freely before you could stop them. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N.” 

—

“Master Geto, there is a potential client on the line and she is very adamant about meeting with you on the 24th of December.” Suguru stopped reading over his paperwork, eyes glancing up at the secretary he had hired only a few weeks back. “That so?” he mused softly, tapping his pen against the polished oak of his desk. “I really didn’t want to take many people that day, considering Mimiko and Nanako…” he started with a hum, pondering it for a moment longer. “Did she say her name, her intentions, anything of interest?” He was far too tempted to flat out say no. 

“She seemed very nervous, she’s said she's not been feeling very good recently and you’ve become her last resort. She can’t keep going on like this.” The secretary repeated your urgent, mildly-overdramatic words. “Sounds dire.” Suguru spoke softly, still mulling over his thoughts. For some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to utter the words "tell her no.” Instead, after a brief pause “Let her know I’ll be able to meet with her on the 24th of December, 6pm.” The secretary nodded, moving to leave once more but stopping short as Suguru called her name. “She will be the last client for this year, please let any new potential clients know that I will not be able to meet with them until after the new year.” 

She nodded quickly before departing, leaving Suguru alone again as he reached for the paperwork he set down. “What a kind heart you have, papa Geto.” Suguru hadn’t even been able to read the next sentence, laughing softly at Mimiko’s comment. The brunette girl was kicking her feet, coloring intently beside her sister on the plush rug Suguru had put in just for them. “It’s important to help people in need, you know. She seemed like she could really use it.” He smiled fondly at the two sisters, listening to Nanako hum softly as she scribbled onto the page. 

“I guess you’re right.” 

“You guess I’m right?” 

Mimiko nodded, stopping her coloring to look up at Suguru behind his desk. “Yeah, I mean you really don’t need to help anyone. But you choose to do so even when you don’t have to. You have a kind heart, papa Geto.” The small girl repeated her initial statement, smiling softly as Suguru’s expression morphed into one of genuine surprise. He couldn’t bring himself to say anything, watching her small head turn back to the paper she was drawing on, starting to hum along with the tune Nanako had set. Suguru sat there, wondering how a child could think of such things. 

He saw himself as anything but kind-hearted at this point in his life. But still, he didn’t have the heart to say those things, especially not to a six year old. Suguru had barely reached for his paperwork again when your face crossed his mind, making him freeze once more. You had been a constant thought in his mind since the day he left. Not even an hour had gone by where you didn’t consume his thoughts, knocking the air from his lungs and paralyzing him for a moment. He missed you. Fuck he missed you terribly and it was enough to render him utterly immobile at points. 

Slowly, he forced air back in his lungs, your smile leaving a permanent mark engraved in his mind. He didn’t regret anything he did up until this point, well maybe except for one particular thing. He didn’t take you with him the day he left. He knew he loved you too much to force you into this kind of life, he needed it to be a choice you made out of your own free will. Something cheesy about loving someone meant setting them free when the time came had crossed his mind when leaving you that letter. Leaving it on the bed he once called his own, so long as you were in it, it was his. 

But still, the choice to leave it all up to your own free will did nothing to fill the void beside him each night. How desperately he wished you were laying beside him, curled perfectly into his embrace, face snuggled into the crook of his neck. Your natural musk mixing with your perfume, your hair tickling his hands as he held you tight, your chest rising and falling evenly as you slept. He ached to hold you again, finding it hard to fall asleep each night in your absence. But he had made this choice, he had to own it, even if that meant you weren’t a part of his life right now. 

“But he knew, deep down, that it was only temporary; you'd come back to him.”

—

He had been right, of course. He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon, as if whatever forces in the universe heard his consistent, unwavering, silent prayer. The moment those doors opened, he knew it was you. From the moment you stepped foot in the prayer room, he could feel you. His soul would never not recognize you, no matter how hard you tried to disguise yourself. He had felt it then, that shaky, stuttering breath as you walked so cautiously into the room. It had taken every ounce of his willpower to not get up and go to you. Based on your appearance, it was clear that you didn’t want to be recognized by him. 

“Welcome.” He started,  praying you wouldn’t hear the tremor in his voice as his heart pounded erratically in his chest. “Please, dear, come up and sit before me.” Carefully, he trained his emotions into neutral ease, watching you shakily make your way towards him. It was you, fuck it was really you. For a moment Suguru was certain he would pass out from the intensity of your presence. How often had he dreamt of you, how often had he silently wondered what you were doing. How often had Nanako and Mimiko listened to him blabber about you with such fondness? Probably too many times to count, bless them. 

Suguru watched you climb up the steps, your voice sending his heart into a death spiral. “Thank you for meeting with me, Master Geto.” There it was. The voice he had longed to hear for months now; your voice had always been so utterly hypnotic to him. “Of course, I couldn’t say no after hearing how urgent your needs were. Think of this as a Christmas gift from me to you.” He had to wonder if he was being transparent, it was impossible to hide the sparkle in his eyes as his whole world sat down before him. “So, please, do tell me of your problems. Something horrid seems to be ailing you.” His brow twitched as he looked you over, worry flooding his veins that you had been over exerting yourself in his absence. 

He noticed you had struggled for a moment, leaving him to ponder further. Were you hurt? Had you gone on a mission recently and injured yourself? “I just… I’m not even sure what is ailing me.” Suguru’s heart ached at the sadness in your tone, you sounded so detached as you continued. “I’m desperate, I figured if anyone could help me, it would be you…” he noticed you hesitate for a moment, as if nearly choking on the wrong words before uttering out “Master Geto.” His family name sounded foreign coming from your mouth, a mouth he couldn't even see under the disposable face mask you adorned. There you were, kneeling before him after months of waiting, and he couldn’t even see your beautiful face. 

Suguru looked you over, eyes soaking in every inch of you despite how covered you were. “You seem troubled, and I’m so sorry you’ve been having such a difficult time.” the words nearly got caught in his throat, coming out so soft that it nearly wasn’t audible. It was almost too genuine, for a brief moment he had forgotten, speaking to you as if nothing had changed at all. He had to wonder if you heard it. All thoughts died before they were even fully formed, the prolonged silence between you being shattered as you spoke “I appreciate the sentiment, Master Geto. Please, what are you going to do to aid me?” You sounded… defeated. 

“I will do the best I can to heal you, my dear.”

But, he could tell you didn’t seem overly satisfied with that answer. “Thank you, but may I ask how?” he couldn’t help the way his lips quirked at your question. “Of course you may, it’s human nature to be curious, my dear.” his smirk turned into something softer, a genuine smile. You hadn’t changed a bit, your blunt curiosity still shining through. “I could preach to you about how there is good and there is evil, how the strong prey on the weak and use it to their advantage. But that is common and dismal knowledge at this point, that is not what you are looking for either.” He watched you nod, aching to know what was going on inside of your head. 

“You’re tired, aren’t you? You feel as though you are being weighed down.” He watched you, brown eyes analyzing your every movement, his heart aching as you nodded. “Did something happen to you recently?” it slipped out, he didn’t want to seem like he was prying even though he was very well aware that the “something” that happened was none other than him. Still, nothing could have prepared him for the ache in his chest as you uttered out a soft, broken “yes.” The urge to soothe you had nearly caused him to lean forward; the need to pull you into a tight, crushing hug to try and soothe your sorrows was becoming too much. 

You deserve none of the emotional turmoil he put you through. 

“You, by no means, need to explain yourself to me, my dear. I will do what I can to ease your burdens.” he breathed out, not knowing how else to soothe you if he couldn't touch you in the ways he desired. So, he dared to ask “Are you alright with me taking your hands?” Suguru couldn’t breathe after asking it, the idea of touching you again after months of being apart was almost too much for him to handle.  “Y-you may.” There, for a brief moment, was the Y/N he fell in love with a few years back, so outgoing but so shy the moment he tried to initiate anything. It made his heart clench, the feeling of nostalgia washing over him in waves as he reached forward. 

Your hands were trembling as he took them in his own. For a moment, Suguru’s shoulders sagged. Your warm skin pressed to his was something he had missed so dearly. No words could describe the relief he felt, your hands wrapping so gingerly around him as his grip tightened. He was afraid you would pull away, being mindful to not squeeze you too tight. Suguru couldn’t quite believe it, every word he had practiced, every speech he had thought of for when this moment arrived. None of it mattered. Not a single word was able to claw its way out of the depths of his mind. Too overwhelmed by the fact that you were before him. 

Before he could stop himself, before the moment became awkward from the long stretch of silence. Suguru uttered the only words that came to mind. 

“You have no idea how long I’ve been waiting for you, Y/N.” 

— 

You blinked, not that he could see it from behind the shades of your sunglasses. Still, you were stunned into silence. Your brain was struggling to catch up, processing the words Suguru had spoken two, three, four times before finally registering. “Wha–” was all you could manage, the syllables dragging out as Suguru chuckled softly. “I didn’t mean to unveil your secret before you were ready, Y/N. But no disguise you could wear would be able to conceal you from me. I’d know it was you every single time.” he swallowed, eyes shifting down to your clasped hands as if he was getting shy. “I’ve missed you so terribly… and I know I don’t have any right to say that because this is all my fault but... I’ve missed you.”

Still, you were speechless. 

“Y/N… my sweet girl… Please say something.” Suguru wasn’t going to move until you responded to him, too afraid of overstepping your boundaries. Your mouth opened and closed again, swallowing the lump in your throat as you uttered out a soft “hi.” You couldn’t think of anything else, every thought in your mind was too jumbled to truly form a proper sentence. “Hi.” he repeated back to you, the same level of adoration in his tone that you’ve always known him to have towards you. “Can I take these off?” He was already letting go of one of your hands to reach for your sunglasses as you nodded. Your heart was erratic as his fingers ghosted your temple. 

You felt it then, the tremor in his hands as he gently took the sun glasses off of you. For the first time in four months you were seeing Suguru without any barriers. “There you are.” He smiled, letting go of your other hand so he could gingerly pull the face mask off of you. You couldn’t contain it then, a smile making your lips twitch as your face was fully exposed again. “My beautiful girl.” Suguru breathed out, eyes memorizing every feature like they weren’t already burned into his memory. “My handsome boy.” your words nearly got caught in your throat, eyes watering as Suguru carefully took off your hood and revealed your hair. His smile matched yours, his lips quivering as he struggled to say anything in response. 

So much to say, but you were both in silent awe of each other. 

It dawned on you a second later that Suguru still had no idea you were carrying his baby. 

“Suguru I…” you choked a bit, reaching to hold his hand again just as he reached for yours. “I’ve missed you too, terribly.” He watched you, brows creasing a bit as his face grew solemn. “It was never my intention to hurt you like this, Y/N.” For some reason, you couldn’t muster any of the anger you figured you would feel when seeing Suguru again. “I know it wasn’t” So soft it was barely audible but Suguru clung on to every word. “But it still happened, I still hurt you. I…” he swallowed, holding your hand a little tighter. “My only regret is not taking you with me the night I left. But I couldn’t do that to you, I couldn’t force you to run away with me after what I did. I don’t regret a single action I’ve made besides that.” 

“I would have left with you, I hope you know that. Wherever you are is where I want to be.” And for a moment you swore you saw tears welling in Suguru’s eyes. “No amount of apologizing will make up for the hell I caused you.” he looked down at your clasped hands before meeting your eyes once more “But I will spend the rest of my life trying to make it up to you, if you’ll let me.” For a moment your heart ached so deeply it nearly scared you, your baby’s fluttering kicks reminded you of the hurtle you still needed to clear. “You don’t have to do that, Suguru. Keeping me by your side is all I could ever ask for… provide for me and…” You stopped, eyes closing for a moment as you breathed out a laugh. “Suguru.” He straightened at your tone change.

“Yes?” You could hear the concern lacing his words, as if you were suddenly going to say “forget it” and get up and go. Instead you steadied yourself “There is something very important you need to be aware of. It’s something I realized only two weeks after you left me and…” you didn’t like how bitter the words left me felt coming off your tongue. You had no reason to harbor any concern over the standing of your relationship, it was evident that neither of you considered yourself broken up from the other. “Go on, I’m listening.” He encouraged you, faced settling  into a look of concern because he wasn’t sure where you were taking this. “Suguru, I wish I could have told you sooner.” You let go of his hands, smiling he held them a little tighter. 

“I’m just standing up, Sugu.” You reassured him, heart fluttering as he gave you a sheepish smile. Suguru lets you go, watching you struggle to stand for only a second before leaping in to help you up. “Did you get hurt trying to come here?” he questioned, something so concerned and innocent that it almost made you laugh. He truly had no idea, you had to pat yourself on the back you supposed. Your disguise had worked out well enough in that sense. “No, no nothing like that, Sugu.” You smiled as you straightened, watching him take a tentative step backwards. “I really wish I could have told you sooner, but it’s better late than never.” Your fingers shook as you reached for the zipper of your oversized hoodie, dragging the cool metal down and shouldering the material off as your pregnant belly was revealed to Suguru’s eyes. 

You watched his face morph from concern to shock. “I’m almost twenty five weeks along, Sugu.” You let the hoodie fall to the floor, leaving you in a long sleeve shirt that was clinging to the swell of your stomach. “You may have left, but you didn’t really leave me alone.” You pulled your eyes away from his face to look down at your bump, hands lovingly caressing it. “I don’t know their gender, I didn’t want to find out unless you were with me.” You didn’t mind his silence, you knew it was likely a very overwhelming piece of information to learn. Suguru didn’t have the ability to speak anymore, instead he opted to close the distance between the two of you. With hesitant curiosity, Suguru’s large warm hands came down to cup your stomach. 

“You’re pregnant.” He uttered the obvious, as if trying to confirm he wasn’t dreaming. “You’re pregnant with my baby.” He said again, this time his tone was a little more possessive. You nodded, hands coming down to lay on top of where his hands sat. “Been carrying our baby this whole time, Sugu.” You heard him hum in acknowledgment, eyes full of wonder as your baby kicked. “They’re happy to finally hear their daddy’s voice.” You whispered, looking up at him through your lashes as he met your gaze. “I love you, with my whole being I love you.” you could hear it in his voice, nothing put pure love and adoration for you and your unborn child. “I’m so sorry you had to find out after I left…” He added softly, heart aching at the very thought. 

“I had Satoru and Shoko… they didn’t really make up for you not being present, Suguru. But they tried their damn hardest and I’ll forever be grateful for that.” He nodded, thumb gingerly brushing the skin below his hand. “Do they know you’re here?” He questioned you, eyes falling back to your stomach. It was almost too surreal to believe. Not only were you in front of him again, but you were very pregnant with his baby. “I left them letters. They have no idea I’m gone and they likely won’t know for a few more hours. I don’t have any intentions of going back.” You let the words hang in the air, you were certain Suguru wouldn't expect you to turn around and leave once this night was through. That didn’t stop the butterflies swirling in your chest out of anxiety anyways. “I have no intention of letting you go.” 

You couldn’t think in that moment, body pushing up on your tiptoes as if no time had passed at all. Your stomach hindered you a bit, pressing snuggly to Suguru’s front as your hands cupped his cheeks. Suguru caught on, of course, bending down and guiding you to him as your lips met in a soft kiss. You felt it then, the same tears burning your eyes as they shut tightly. Melting into Suguru’s lips felt like home, slowly piecing back the pieces he shattered to make you feel whole again. You could tell he wanted to deepen it, devour you whole in that moment so you’d never go. Instead, he pulled away with flushed cheeks that mirrored your own, pupils blown wide as he observed you. “I love you.” He repeated, looking at your lips as you replied back 

“I love you too.” 

Suguru kissed you again, cupping your face just  as you cupped his, holding you in place and bending down further so you didn’t have to strain so hard to meet him. The tears you had tried to whole back were flowing freely at this point, mixing with the kiss as it turned slightly sloppy. It took you only a minute to pull away again, eyes wet as you gasped for air. “S-sorry the pregnancy hormones they—“ but Suguru hushed you, using his thumb to wipe away the tears as they fell. “You have nothing to apologize for, my sweet girl.” He kissed your forehead, pulling back as he guided you away from the edge of the platform and closer to the barren altar behind him. “There are not enough words in the universe for me to convey how sorry I am for everything I’ve put you through. I’ve said it already, but so long as I am alive, so long as you are willing, I will do everything in my power to make it up to you.” 

“Keep me by your side, Suguru. That is all I ask of you.” You sniffled, tears flowing even faster as you restated your earlier request. Tenderly, Suguru brought your knuckles to his lips and kissed each one softly. “I will do more than that, my love. You will never have to work another day in your life, you will know nothing but love and comfort.” He promised as he flipped your hand over and placed a kiss on the center of your palm. “You, me, Nanako, Mimiko, our baby… our future babies.” He added with a small grin, causing  you to laugh softly through your tears. “The five of us, and whoever else may join us in the future. I will keep you safe, happy, loved.” He promised as he kissed your wrist, feeling your pulse race under his lips. 

You nodded, using your free hands to wipe your face as Suguru’s lips trailed further. You felt a shiver pass through your body as Suguru’s lips made their way up your arm. “I’ve missed you.” he repeated, tone huskier than before as he placed a kiss on your bicep. “So many nights alone…” he placed another kiss but this time it was on your shoulder. “I’ve been dreaming of you…” This time his head was dipping to nuzzle into the crook of your neck, inhaling the smell of you and groaning. “I missed you.” he murmured again, lips pressing to the pulse point in your neck as he let himself get wrapped in the scent of you. The scent he had missed so desperately. You felt it then, something you hadn’t felt in months. The bubbling heat pools in your gut, spreading throughout your body as Suguru’s tongue licks up your neck. Arousal. 

“S-Suguru please…” Your hand found its way into his hair, holding him in place as both of his hands wrapped around your waist. “Please what?” he murmured, teeth scraping your neck as he moved his head up towards your jaw. “Please… make me yours again.” He groaned, so low you could feel it vibrate against your jaw as he kissed it slowly. There was a tremor in his hands as he held you tighter, pulling you closer until the swell of your stomach was pressing tightly to his. “You’ve always been mine, my beautiful girl.” He promised you as he moved to kiss your lips again, the kiss was gentle but sloppy, your fingers twitching as you buried them in the fine silks of his robes. You gave in, body melting into his familiar touch as you let his tongue slip past your lips letting him dominate it, just as you always had. 

The feeling of his tongue sliding against your own drew whines from your lips, clinging on to Suguru just a little tighter as he began to guide you. The steps were awkward, drawing a breathy laugh from Suguru as he pulled away from you. “This will be a lot easier.” He assured you before bending down a bit to haul you up into his arms. You couldn’t help but squeal, surprised he was able to pick you up so easily even with the extra weight of your baby. “Suguru!” You cling to him, curious about his intentions as he moves to sit you on top of the bare altar. “Isn’t this a bit…” but he shook his head “don’t worry about it.” He placed you on top of the smooth wooden altar with a grin, making it so you were equal height now. 

“It’s a special Christmas offering.” 

He offered you as your brows were still creased in concern. “Suguru!” You squealed after, face feeling hot as his hands landed on your thighs, squeezing the flesh and making you shiver as his lips found yours yet again. “I’m taking my time with you.” He muttered between quick kisses, lips shiny with your saliva as your breath mingled. “I wouldn’t want it any other way.” You encouraged him, heart doing backflips at the idea of Suguru having his way with you again. You knew you missed him, of course you knew that, but sex hadn’t even been on your mind lately. Now, in this moment, you realized how badly you ached to be touched again, loved again.

Suguru left out a breathy moan, head falling forward for a moment before looking up to hold your gaze. “Have I mentioned just how badly I’ve missed you?” he teased, watching your lips quirk up as you tried to wiggle closer to him from where you sat on the altar. “I think you may have mentioned it once or twice so far…” You grinned, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer since you weren’t getting anywhere fast. “But that's enough with the talking, Sugu.” You moved so your lips were ghosting his ear, whispering seductively “Show me how badly you missed me.” He shivered, only fueling your desire as you got a little more bold. “Show me how badly you missed my body.” Suguru’s knees nearly buckled, you were too good to be true. 

Suguru took your request to heart, not wasting another moment by talking. His fingers easily found the hem of your shirt, pulling it up and over your head with your assistance. He couldn't help it, taking a small step back just so he could admire how you looked with your stomach swollen, carrying his baby so prettily. You felt your heart beating, chest rising and falling just a little faster than usual as the anticipation in your gut built. The warm amber of his eyes seemed to be swallowed whole by his dilated pupils, throat feeling dry as his eyes trailed up to your breasts. “These swelled up, didn’t they?” He asked in a teasing tone, mouth watering at the sight of your engorged breasts spilling over the top of your bra. “S-suguru.” 

“Well, they have, pretty girl. They’ll be full of milk soon enough, to nurture our little baby.” You couldn’t breathe, the overwhelming need for him to touch you nearly dizzying. “They’ve been so sore.” You offer quietly, looking at him through your lashes just to see his lips part. He seemed utterly entranced, warm hands sneaking around the back of you to find the clip of your bra. “Well, we can’t have that now, can we? Let me make them feel better, my love.” You nodded, feeling no shame or embarrassment as your bare breasts were exposed to his hungry gaze. Suguru had seen you naked so many times over the course of your relationship. Even with the rather extreme changes your body was going through, you still felt gorgeous when he looked at you the way he was now. “So pretty… they look so heavy… let me.” He breathed out carefully. 

You could feel the air getting caught in your lungs as Suguru’s hands gingerly cupped both of your breasts. The noise you made couldn’t be helped, lips wobbling as you whimpered at the sensation. “Oh? Are they more sensitive?” Suguru teased you, shamelessly fondling your breasts just to see you squirm. You nodded, one hand gripping the edge of the altar to balance you while your other hand shot up to grab his wrist. “Please, Sugu, they're really sensitive.” You whined, heat throbbing between your legs as he moved to pinch your nipple. “Even more sensitive than before?” He murmured, eyes focused only on your face as he rolled one of your perked buds slowly. “Y-Yes!” your back arched, forcing your bump to press into Suguru. “That’s good to know, pretty girl.” He squeezed just a little harder, smirking as you cried out. 

“So mean to me…” you wailed, as if nothing had changed at all. Suguru hushed you with a kiss, lips slotting against yours sloppily as he toyed with your breasts. You felt dizzy, completely intoxicated by the feeling of Suguru’s hands on you. You wanted him bad, needing to feel his skin rather than his robes. “Suguru…” you pulled away, trying to catch your breath as you uttered “Take your clothes off, please I don’t want to prolong this part.” He could take as much time with you as he wanted, but you were certain you would lose your mind if you didn’t see and feel his skin. “Whatever my lady wants, my lady gets.” He kissed you again before backing away. You sat on top of the altar, watching intently as Suguru undid the mildly-intricate layers to his robes. 

“C’mere” you murmured as Suguru was left in nothing but a pair of flowing navy colored pants. The material matched the robes, hugging his waist tightly and accentuating how broad he was. You hadn’t forgotten how he looked, but the last time you saw Suguru in person, he had thinned. Now, he was broad, covered in muscles, tanned even in the winter. It was the Suguru you had known before the world had changed his views. He walked towards you, a sense of pride in his steps as he displayed his new physique to you. “My handsome boy.” You murmured again, hands making contact with his soft skin and feeling him release a shuddering breath in response. 

Your touch never got old, every single time it felt like it was the first time you were laying your hands on him. You were mindful of where you put your hands, letting them dance across the plains of his chest before moving to his biceps. Suguru watched your hands move with baited breath, goosebumps erupting in their wake as your fingers moved lower. He couldn’t suppress the shiver that passed through him as your hands left his arms and moved to run along his sides. You were always so unpredictable with your actions, maybe that was why you were so elusive to just about everyone you met. Even when he thought he knew you like the back of his hand, you still managed to catch him by surprise. He could never get enough of it. 

Your hands rested on his waist for a moment, leaning forward to the best of your abilities to place a chaste kiss on his chest. One kiss led to two, then three. Before he could even utter a word, you were littering his chest and neck in soft, sweet kisses. There was no hiding his arousal, even in the loose fitting pants of his daily attire, Suguru’s cock was straining heavily against his briefs. “Y/N…” it sounded awfully similar to a plea, making his cheeks flush pink at the sound. You looked up at him, placing one last kiss on his sternum before moving back. Your hands left his waist, but not before trailing all the way up his sides and slowly sneaking around his neck. “Suguru.” you finally stated once you were pleased with your actions. 

“It’s my job to please you, you know. I don’t deserve any of this.” but you shook your head, hushing him softly. “Suguru, I love you with every fiber of my being. I have missed you for the nearly five months you have been away from me. I am going to shower you in the love I have been holding onto for all this time. Don’t you dare let your guilt taint the way you feel about me giving you my love.” You could tell he was struggling, after a moment of silence he nodded. It was a reluctant nod at that, but you knew it would take time for Suguru to overcome the weight of his guilt for leaving you in the first place. That was a battle for another day. 

What mattered was this moment. “Kiss me, please.” His request was so gentle, you couldn’t say no to him if you wanted to. Arms still wrapped around his neck, you pulled him to you and crashed your lips together once more in a heated kiss. Your body seemed to thrum with desire, every nerve ending sparking with electricity as the anticipation of what was to come built. You craved him like you craved air, so much so that if you were ever to go without him again you were certain you would not survive. Suguru’s hands lost their heistance once more, dull nails dragging up your back and causing you to arch into him. 

You couldn’t pull away, not when one of his hands found their home on the back of your neck. He kept you in place while his other hand snuck around from your back and found its way to your breasts once more. Your lips part easily, a cry ripping from your throat as Suguru’s fingers pinch one of your sensitive buds. He took the opportunity before him once more, tongue dancing around yours as he pulled and massaged the tender flesh of your swollen breasts. You squirmed on top of the altar, feeling your arousal clinging to your underwear as you moved. It only caused you to feel hotter, the deep rooted desire to feel him inside of you once more was becoming too much for you to bear in that moment. 

Your legs spread to accommodate him better, scooting yourself forward so your covered sex was pressing to Suguru’s abdomen. He could feel the heat radiating through your bottoms, making his head spin with the desire to feel your cunt once more. “Fuck I missed you.” He nearly hissed as he pulled away from you with spit covered lips, swollen from where your teeth had been pulling at them. “Show me how bad.” You slurred, eyes lidded as you tried pulling him back to you. Suguru doesn’t hesitate anymore, letting you bend him to your whim. His lips find their home on yours once again, teeth and tongue clashing together as your hands wander his body. 

Suguru’s teeth are sinking into your bottom lip, pulling at the pliant flesh and trying his hardest not to smirk as you whimper at the sting. His hands are mimicking your own, gliding over every ounce of bare skin he can reach, dull nails scraping until he feels you erupt in goosebumps. He pulls away again, leaving your head spinning from the constant changing contact. Before you can even open your mouth and complain, Suguru’s head is burying itself in your neck. He knew your weak points like the back of his hand, teeth scraping against the column of your neck before finding the perfect point to bite down. A shrill moan left your lips, no longer muffled by Suguru’s lips on your own. His canines were creating the perfect amount of pressure, sending your heart into a frenzy as if you were preparing for him to pierce your skin.

Suguru eased up a moment later, his hand slipping down between your bodies to press his fingers against your covered cunt. The sensation sends sparks of arousal through you, making your thighs twitch as he lapped greedily at the teeth indents he left behind. “Mine…” he gasped between licks “all mine.” Your mind blanked the moment his fingers found their way to your nipple again, twisting and pinching the sensitive bud until you felt tears burning your eyes. “Sugu, please!” You tried to jerk away, fingers threading in his silky locks as you tried to create some sort of relief for yourself. Everything was too sensitive, the ache forming so deeply within your body that you were certain you would lose your mind before he made you cum. 

“Please what?” He rasped, sucking at your skin until it bruised. “Fuck me.” You begged, tears pricking your pretty eyes and driving him absolutely wild. “Fuck you?” Suguru smirked, tugging your nipple until those pretty eyes shed the tears you were holding back. “Fuck me… oh fuck please, Suguru.” Your tone turned whiny, higher than usual as desperation won over your pride. You’d get off this altar and beg him on your hands and knees if you had to. Even if it would be a bit of a struggle with your rather round stomach.  “How am I supposed to say no to that?” he soothed you, hands abandoning  your breasts to cup your cheeks. He kissed you again, this time it was softer, with the intent to take his time even if it killed you. 

You felt drunk, chasing his lips even as he pulled away. Shakily, Suguru’s hands moved down your body, holding your hips as his head lowered to trail wet kisses down your neck. You caught on to his intentions as he moved lower, kissing your collarbone before moving to your chest. Suguru’s tongue ran along your sternum, pulling a whimper from you as he placed not one but two loving kisses on your sensitive breasts. “You’re so perfect.” He smiled up at you, lips hovering over the swell of your stomach. “Such a good mama already.” So gentle it nearly made you cry, that sadistic side of him fading quickly with the overwhelming desire to please you took over his original intentions. Months apart didn’t allow for him to tease you in the way he once did. Not now at least. 

“So beautiful.” He added one last time before kissing your stomach. He showered your pregnant tummy in kisses, nose nuzzling you softly as your baby’s fluttering kicks reached him. You felt your face burning up as Suguru moved lower, as if he hadn’t been all over you for the last few years of your life. “I missed this cunt…” he mewled softly as he lowered to his knees before you. “Dreamt of it every time I got lonely…” he huffed out a laugh “which was very often.” His fingers were hooking into the waistband of your pants, eyes meeting yours as if to confirm one last time that this is what you wanted. You nodded, lips parted as quiet gasps shook you. “Take me, Suguru. I’m all yours, always have been.” His eyes fluttered closed, inhaling deeply to try and ground himself before he lost all self restraint he had. “Whatever you want, you’ll get.” 

You lift yourself awkwardly, giving Suguru enough room to pull your pants and underwear off in one easy swoop. You grimaced slightly as your bare skin met the smooth wood of the altar, it still felt rather wrong, but now wasn’t really a time to be questioning your morals. Suguru was shameless as he admired what he had been missing so dearly, not even his wildest fantasies could compare to you. “Fuck.” So soft you barely heard it, but still enough to have your thighs twitching as you spread them further for him. Your hands met the smooth wood behind you, leaning back to get comfortable and push most of your weight on your hands and arms so Suguru could access you better. “May I?” His breath was hot on your inner thigh, nearly panting. “Of course you may, is that even a question, Suguru?” 

“I guess it’s not, but I just want to make sure.” He didn’t give you a moment to respond, lips pressing to the plush of your inner thigh and sucking softly. You felt your lips tremble, eyes nearly tunneling as you focused on the top of his head over your baby bump. Suguru sucked bruises into your skin, inhaling your natural musk as he did so. One hand rested on your thigh, thumb brushing the skin beneath him tenderly as his other hand sank lower. Suguru groaned, vibrating your skin as his own hand brushed over his covered cock. Your heart was beating erratically, waiting not-so patiently for Suguru to do what he really wanted. Which was to devour you whole, but still, ever the patient man, he was taking his time. “Suguru…” you breathed out, hips moving forward just a bit to silently encourage him to cut the teasing. 

He didn’t answer you, nose trailing along your inner thigh as he palmed himself through his pants. He was savoring every second of you being before him again, so much so that he couldn’t help but take his sweet time with this part. Though, his self control could only be stretched so far before he, too, couldn’t take it. Your hands nearly balled into fists as he retracted, a moment later his warm  breath was fanning over your glistening cunt. “Thank you for this blessing.” He offered slowly, dragging each syllable out until you felt its message vibrating the base of your skull. Finally, after what felt like an eternity of torture, Suguru placed an open mouth kiss on your slick folds. One kiss led to two,  three, four, then his tongue was slipping between and running along your slit. You moaned, loud and unashamed as Suguru collected your juices on his tongue. 

One hand was still groping himself, alleviating some of the ache but not nearly enough to satisfy him. His other hand was now squeezing your thigh rather than gingerly rubbing it. He had missed your taste, fuck had he missed your taste over these months apart. Your arousal was sticky, its flavor unique and utterly addicting. He could do this for hours if it meant tasting every drop of your cum. Your head was falling back, your thighs no longer twitching and tense. Rather,  they fell apart with no resistance, leaving your cunt completely at his mercy. Suguru’s tongue was still gliding up and down your slit, stopping at your clit every few passes to flick at it, feeling your muscles jump under his ministrations before moving down towards your entrance. This was just another game of him teasing you until you were making a mess atop the altar without even coming. 

“Suguru…” you choked out, the arousal in your body thrumming with the need to be satisfied not tortured. Maybe he could hear that desperation in your tone, his nose bumping your pulsing clit as he pushed his tongue past your entrance. “Oh fuck.” You mewled, eyes nearly rolling back from the pure sensitivity. You hadn’t realized how reactive pregnancy would make you. Even the slightest of touches had your toes curling. It had always felt good, Suguru’s tongue had always managed to work unspeakable wonders on you. But now? It felt as if everything had been amplified, your lips trembling as the faintest signs of your impending orgasm began creeping up on you. Suguru was mindful of his position, using his nose to his advantage as he began to tongue fuck your cunt. “P-please… oh fuck…” your arms were feeling weak, causing  you to adjust you your elbows in order to not fall flat. 

Suguru’s tongue buried as deep as he could manage, using his nose to nuzzle your clit until your pants had turned to rapid gasps. If he wasn’t so preoccupied, he’d tease you for how sensitive you had become. It seemed every little action he made was causing your hips to jerk, a shrill cry leaving your pretty lips as he toyed with your cunt. Feeling you twitching beneath him, Suguru pulled his tongue  away from your entrance to focus on your clit. His nose could only do so much, after all. You couldn’t take it, the dizzying  feeling of Suguru’s lips wrapping around your aching clit and sucking so harshly your back arched. Pleasure shot straight through you, making your thighs tense as you clenched around nothing. He was going to make you cum in record time at this rate. That realization had you burning up, eyes squeezing shut as you tried not to scream his name for the whole temple to hear. 

Though that didn’t really help you much, loud and unrestrainable cries left your lips amidst a jumble of pleas. Suguru’s name was intertwined into every profanity, begging him to let you cum. Suguru’s hand left your thigh, instead shooting up to dip two fingers between your drenched folds. You sucked him in greedily, your cries only turning shriller as he began roughly massaging your walls. Tears leaked down your cheeks in fat globs as you clenched around him, causing his fingers to stutter their pace in the process. Not that you noticed, your vision was already spotting with stars as your orgasm grew nearer. “S-Suguru fuck… I’m gonna cum… you’re gonna make me cum Sugu… please… fuck please let me.” You were drunk off of your own lust, eyes lidded as you pleaded with him in nearly incomprehensible babbles. 

He responded by curling his fingers, digging into your walls just right. His tongue was still flicking over your clit, the varying sensations were making your head spin. “Sugu please…” You cried again, walls clamping around his digits so tightly he struggled to thrust them at all. He moved even faster, how that was possible you didn’t know, but stars were sparkling across your vision as you came hard. That didn’t cause him to slow down, actually it was quite the opposite. Suguru continued to fuck his fingers into you at a rapid pace, moaning wantonly as your slick squelches only turned louder in volume. Your orgasm had reached its peak but it wasn’t slowing, your wails turning into silent gasps as Suguru began to overstimulate you. It wasn’t until he finally pulled his lips away from your cunt that your body relaxed. 

“Good girl… such a good girl.” Suguru murmured, eyes memorizing the sight of two of his fingers disappearing inside of your glistening cunt. You couldn’t form a coherent sentence if you wanted to at that moment, arms feeling shaky as you tried to keep yourself propped up. Suguru caught on after another few seconds, pushing up from his kneeling position to stand before you again. You watched him stick the two digits in his mouth, sucking them clean before speaking again. “Don’t tell me you’re already worn out, my love.” He smiled at you, chin and lips covered in your shiny cum. You shook your head slowly, despite clearly wanting to utter a weak “yes”. Suguru’s arms wrapped around your waist, pulling you into a sitting position so he could kiss you properly. You let him do as he pleased, just like you always did, letting his lips sloppily cover yours so you could taste your own release. After a minute, he pulled away with reddened cheeks. 

“Fucking you… it…” he stuttered a bit, suddenly turning shy as he tried to figure out how to word his question. “It won’t harm the baby… will it?” You felt your eyes widen, lips twitching into a smile as you shook your head. “Sex while pregnant is actually very safe, Sugu.” You assured him, not at all ashamed in the research you had done on the matter only a few weeks back. “Positive? It won’t harm you or the baby?” He asked for your reassurance despite having his fingers buried in your cunt moments prior. Not that his fingers were anything in comparison to his cock. “I’m positive, no harm can be brought to me or the baby during the act… You’ll just have to be easier on me, Sugu… I’ve gotten a lot more sensitive.” You felt your cheeks heating up, regardless of everything you’d just gone through. “Alright…” he kissed you again, softer, before pulling away.

You watched him with lidded eyes, a ghost of a smile on your swollen lips as Suguru began undoing the waistband of his pants. You were focused on the way his veins seemed to jump out as he undid the buttons, the sight making your jaw clench. Inch by inch, tanned and toned skin was revealed to your hungry gaze. Suguru was trying to hide his excitement as his cock was freed from the confines of his pants. You whined at the sight, even your fantasies did nothing to compare to the real thing. For a moment you nearly groaned about how much you had missed him. You managed to hold it in, not willing to subject yourself to his endless teasing, at least not right now. Right now, what you wanted was “Please… you’re taking way too long, Suguru. I want you so bad…” You were repositioning yourself the way you had been when he went down on you, this time forcing your legs up to rest your feet on the edge of the altar. 

A position that you typically didn’t have to think much about was now causing you some difficulty, but you could push that aside if it meant he’d move a little faster. Suguru stepped out of his bottoms and discarded them off to the side with the rest of your crumbled up clothes. “Old habits die hard, you know. I can’t help but draw things out, my pretty girl.” He closed the distance again, hands resting on your knees and unintentionally alleviating the pressure with his support. “I know, but I want you so bad… I want you inside of me, Sugu.” He was twitching, precum leaking steadily from his irritated looking tip. “Fuck… okay… okay…” one hand left your knee to wrap around the base of his neglected cock. Carefully, he gave himself a few harsh tugs, groaning as mild relief flooded his veins. You wanted to grumble about how you couldn’t see him over the swell of your stomach, especially since he knew how much you enjoyed watching him. 

“May I?” Suguru asked, eyes meeting yours but you tilted your head. “Words, Sugu… I can’t exactly see down there right now…” You held in a giggle as his lips parted before closing again, rosy cheeks deepening as he realized his fatal mistake. “Oh.” laughter was laced with those two words, causing you to smile back. “May I use your cum as lube?” Suguru spoke slowly, smirking at you as your small smile turned into a look of surprise. “I-Oh… fuck.” You choked, the back of your hand pressing to your mouth for a moment before you squeaked out a “yeah.” Suguru moved a second later, guiding the dull head of his cock between your folds and spreading them. You breathed out, low and stuttering as his head passed over your still sensitive clit. He repeated the motions a few times, watching you jump as he’d get caught on your entrance before moving up again. Suguru only stopped once he couldn’t tell what was covering him more, his own pre-cum or your arousal. 

His fist began dragging up his length, spreading it until he felt it was good enough for your comfort. “Lay back… if you can.” Suguru’s tone had turned soft, yet again giving you whiplash from the constantly revolving tones and emotions. You nodded, pushing yourself further up the wooden altar. You weren’t quite sure what Suguru had in mind at that moment, watching you get yourself situated so your whole body was on top of the platform. You leaned back, resting your body weight on your elbows but stopping when you felt your body begin to strain. “Kinda hurts…” you mumbled, cheeks feeling warm as you tried to find a comfortable position with your swollen belly. “I bet it’s too much pressure to be on your hands and knees, right?” His eyes had softened, admiring you with a small smile as he watched you nod. “Would it be easier if you had support under your back?” Your brows creased, contemplating for a moment before nodding. 

“It wouldn’t hurt to try.” Again, you didn’t quite know how Suguru was going to go about helping you with that. But he was walking away from you, over to his discarded silk robes, and you felt your face burning up with the realization as he began to fold them. “These are soft, if I place them under your back it should offer you some comfort.” he grinned as he walked back towards you on the altar, the fine robes folded in a neat pile. “Sugu… what if we get them…” but he shook his head, helping you sit up again so he could place them behind you. “If they get dirty, they can be cleaned. I have a few backups of these, you know.” You shook your head, fighting off your laugh as he motioned for you to try and lay back again. “How is that?” Suguru watched you carefully as you tried to get comfortable. “If it doesn’t help, I can figure something else out.” You had to avert your gaze for a moment, eyes lingering on his leaking cock before meeting his eyes.

“I doubt you’ll be able to think straight for much longer, Suguru.” 

His eyes widened, cheeks flushing red as he was rendered speechless by your comment. “This feels fine, Suguru. Just get up here with me.” You were leaning back on your elbows again, this time to watch him climb up on top of the altar with you, opposed for comfort purposes. “Show me how much you missed me, Sugu.” He couldn’t help himself any longer, moving to climb on top of you as you leaned back completely. It certainly wasn’t the most comfortable position or location you had been fucked in, but it would do. Especially when he was right there in front of you again. Nothing else mattered but him. “Fuck I love you.” he nearly choked as he pressed his lips to yours, hands bracing himself by flattening on either side of your head. Your legs fell open easily, allowing him to press up against you as you locked your ankles behind the small of his back. Your hands found their home on his biceps again, the warmth of your bodies pressing to one another was as dizzing as the kiss. “You good?” he rasped as he pulled back. 

“Yeah, I’m fine.” You assured him, knowing he was worried about putting any weight on you. “I’m a little sensitive but I’m not fragile, Sugu.” You would say anything at this point if it meant he’d get inside of you quicker. “Please just… tell me if something isn’t right.” You could feel his hips grinding up against you, cock sliding along your cunt but not going further. “I will… fuck I promise I will but Suguru please… I need you inside… so bad…” you whined, losing sense of your own rationality again as he teased you unknowingly. “Okay…okay…” desperation was lacing his own words, one hand moving down to wrap around his shaft and guide his cock to your entrance. “It’s been a while, I’ll try to go slow.” You grumble out some sort of response, too worked up to care as his head pushes between your folds. Suguru feels your breathing stutter as he slips in, your cunt stretching to accommodate him. It didn’t hurt, but you could feel the pressure ebbing its way down to your thighs, inhaling deeply as you tried to relax. 

Suguru was focused, leaning back a little bit so he could watch himself disappear inside of you. “Almost half way, sweet girl.” you whined out an “okay”,  eyes looking past him to the ceiling of the temple above you before moving back down to the top of his head. It felt like you needed to keep making sure this was real, that he was really in front of you, nevermind inside. Your walls were suctioning to him, clenching involuntarily as he finally bottomed out after what felt like an eternity. “There we go… oh fuck…” your face was contorted in pleasure, watching Suguru fall apart from simply entering you was more than you could handle. “Fuck I missed you… I almost forgot how good you feel… shit.” He couldn’t move yet, even though his hips were restless. Suguru was certain if he moved, he would cum then and there. He wasn’t even sure how he had managed to keep it together while entering you, cock twitching so harshly he was certain he would have blown his load half way in. “Suguru…” 

His name was one of the few words you could remember at that point, the most your brain was willing to offer as it melted into a puddle of mush. “I’m right here.” he cooed, leaning down again to press his lips to yours once, twice, three times before showering the rest of your face in chaste reassuring kisses. “You’re doing so good for me, sweet girl. Taking me so well after so many months… you’re so perfect… so fucking perfect.” he breathed, forehead pressing against yours as his body contorted around the swell of your stomach. “Just tell me when I can move, okay?” he had gotten himself together somehow, now all he wanted was to hear you tell him it was okay. You nodded, inhaling deeply before uttering out “okay… you can move… just start slow.” Suguru let out a shuddering breath, kissing you one last time before he drew his hips back halfway. 

Suguru had always relied on harsh, quick snaps of his hips for you, knowing you enjoyed things rather rough. The request to be easy, start slow, be gentle with you, it was a change of pace he hadn't been prepared for. You whined for him, finding pleasure even as he rolled his hips into you to try and find a pace that felt good for him. Your cunt hadn’t changed, still warm and tight, squeezing him to the point it was nearly hard to move. “A-are you okay?” breathless “You’re so tight… it’s not uncomfortable for you, right?” You nodded, face warming as you tried to find the right words. “I-i’m okay it feels really good… just… sensitive…” you moaned as he rolled a little deeper, brushing that one particular spot. You clenched, somehow growing even tighter and causing Suguru to groan loudly. “Y-you’re doing so good, Suguru…” His eyes opened, meeting your gaze to make sure you weren’t just saying it to appease him. 

“I mean it.” you added, lips falling open as another breathy whine left you. Suguru’s hips continued to roll into you at an agonizing pace, sending shivers straight down your spine as molten pleasure settled in your gut. “Y-you can speed up when you’re ready too…” It was your not so subtle way of showing your impatience, earning a low chuckle from Suguru as he rolled his hips at a faster pace. Your whines only grew in pitch, words of encouragement falling from your lips as Suguru worked towards a pace where he’d be able to thrust into you without overwhelming you. “I missed this cunt so bad…” he choked out, eyes lidded and mouth hanging open partially as he let himself get lost in the embrace of your body. “So fucking soft…” he coudln’t get over it, the way your velvety soft walls clung to his cock with each movement. 

It wasn’t until his hips began to snap into you, watching your breasts bounce with each connection of your hips that Suguru realized how close he was to coming. 

“Oh fuck…” he choked, face heating up as his hips stuttered in their pace. “Is something wrong?” you nearly cried out, eyes welling from pleasure as you looked at him. “I-Shit.” he gasped, hips unable to stop their movement. “Gonna… fuck I’m gonna cum.” he got it out finally, head falling foreward because of embarrassment. He hadn’t had this issue since the first time you two slept together, back then it was from pure inexperience. Now, it was because he’d gone too long without you. “O-oh…” you gasped out, back arching near painfully as he passed over that one particular spongy spot again. “...s’okay if you cum…Sugu… I don’t mind… ha…”  You were close again yourself, pregnancy causing you to become more sensitive than you thought possible. You couldn’t recall a time where you had cum without any other stimulation to pair with Suguru thrusting into you. “I-are you sure…” his head lifted, face completely red as he tried to concentrate on not making an absolute fool of himself. 

“J-just because you come it doesn’t mean you have to pull out.” you added weakly, accidentally clenching around him and causing you both to moan in unison. “G-give me your all, Suguru.” Your plea was enough to have him curling into you, head resting on your chest as his hips stuttered into your cunt. You couldn’t decipher what he was saying as he came, the words sounding like nothing more than mumbled nonsense. It was only when your own breathing settled that you realized what he was saying. “Thank you… thank you… thank you…” Over and over, quiet praises, thanking you again and again. Shakily your hand came up to run through his sweaty hair, your other hand resting on his bicep. “I’ve got you…” you added softly as you felt wet tears littering your chest. How odd it felt to see a grown man fall apart in every sense of the word. Suguru relaxed on top of the altar, slowly pulling himself back together as he looked at you. “I love you.” he uttered with pure adoration in his eyes. 

“I love you too.” You whispered back, hand slipping from his hair to his cheek, cupping it. “You’re so pretty, Sugu.” you smiled as his eyes closed again, nuzzling into your palm. “So are you… ya know.” he cleared his throat a bit, hips still buried deep. “I’m…” he laughed a bit. “I’m still hard.” You laughed with him, a bit worn out already “I know, I can feel it.” Your hips wiggled, Suguru watched as your face contorted in pleasure as you pushed him further into that one particular spot that had you seeing stars. “You still need to come, pretty girl.” he was regaining his composure with each passing second. “You’ve already made me come once.” But you knew he was having none of that, five months apart did not equate to one orgasm. “We both need to get off still.” he corrected, watching that pretty smile take over your features as your hands moved to wrap around his neck. “Alright, if you still have the energy…” You teased him softly, pulling him closer to ghost your lips across one another. “Make me yours, again and again.” 

“Always.” he kissed you, softer than any kiss you had shared that night. Slowly he found his rhythm for a second time, hips drawing back and forth into your spent cunt. Everything was hotter, wetter, thanks to Suguru’s release. Every moan was swallowed by his lips, tongues dancing around each other as Suguru’s hand slipped down between your bodies. Even with your pregnant stomach, even with the position you were in, he still managed to sneak his fingers down to your clit, rubbing it harshly until you were nearly yelling. Your body reacted to every touch, your orgasm building again, this time much faster than before. “Oh-oh fuck…” you were babbling again, fingers clawing at Suguru’s arms as your cunt clenched tightly around him. Saliva was smeared across your swollen lips, Suguru broke the kiss just to hear your noises properly. “Come for me… fuck I know you’re close… come for me…” Suguru pleaded with you, hips growing sloppy again from his own sensitivity. You let out another loud cry of his name before spilling all over him, cunt clenching tightly as a warm gush of your own arousal dripped down to the altar below you. That was enough for Suguru, a string of curses flooding his mouth. 

Still sensitive from his first orgasm, Suguru seemed to feed off the aftershocks by spilling into you a second time. You both laid there for a moment, panting heavily in the large, echoing chambers that surrounded you. “Merry Christmas.” You offered weakly, a hint of laughter coating your words as Suguru’s head fell to your chest with a breathless laugh. “Best christmas gifts I could have ever received, ya know.” He looked up at you, cheeks still a bit flushed as he pressed a kiss to your forehead. “I know it’s still a lot to process… but you’ve got a home with me if you’re willing to take it… I know I said I wouldn’t let you go but…” Still hesitant, you smiled softly at him, hand cupping his sweat cheek as you soothed his worries. “My home is with you, Suguru. From now on, where you go, I go.” Suguru’s shoulders visibly sagged in relief, leaning down to kiss your forehead for a second time with his eyes closed. 

“Let’s get cleaned up and go home then, my sweet girl.” 

Despite everything, you found yourself praying once more that this wasn’t just a dream. “Yeah, let’s go home.” You smiled as his eyes opened, watching him straighten and kneel before you. You felt him slip out, making you both groan before his hands were reaching to help you up. “What a mess…” you were quiet as you looked down at the ruined altar top. “It needed to be replaced eventually.” Suguru reassured you, getting down off of the polished wood and assisting you to the best of his abilities. “Do you think you can walk?” you felt your brows creasing at his question, wondering if your legs would be able to support you and your baby if you were to get off of this altar. “I… guess we’ll find out.” But Suguru’s arms were on you in a second, supporting you almost entirely as he helped you get down to the floor. You had to admit your legs did feel jello, shaky and weak as you tried to stand without support. “That won’t do.” Suguru chided, more so mad at himself for not taking it easy on his pregnant girlfriend. 

“It’s okay, just help me get dressed so we can get out of here… I need a shower.” Suguru’s release was starting to drip down your thighs, warming your face as older memories entered your mind. “Yes ma’am.” He grabbed your things one at a time, helping you get your bra on, then your shirt. Next he got his own robes on so he could leave the room to get you a washcloth for the mess he made between your thighs. He returned a minute later with a warm, wet cloth in one hand and a fresh dry one in the other. “My stuff is at a hotel, Suguru. We’ll need to get it before heading home.” While you could survive on Suguru’s clothes for a day or two, you desperately craved the silky maternity pajamas you had bought yourself a while back. “Alright, I’ll have the driver called to pick us up. He’ll bring us to that hotel and I’ll retrieve your things. Then we’ll head home. Nanako and Mimiko are going to be so ecstatic to meet you, sweet girl.” 

Your heart skipped a beat at the thought, the two little girls Suguru had taken in would be waiting for their honorary father to return home. But what about you? “Are you sure? They know I exist?” you questioned as you spread your legs, letting Suguru gingerly clean up the remnants of his release and your own. “I’ve told them all about you, they refer to you as Mama Y/N.” Mama. You blinked, maybe it was the pregnancy hormones making you sensitive, but that brought tears to your eyes. Suguru had never once spoken badly of you in your time apart, going as far as to speak about you so lovingly to these two little girls that they referred to you as mama without even meeting you. There was still so much that needed to be sorted out, so many emotions to pick apart, but for now it was christmas eve. Those things could wait for a day or two, for now all you needed to focus on was you, Suguru, and your baby growing within you. 

December 24th, 2007 [Somewhere around 6:30pm]

“Cheer up, Satoru. It’s christmas eve and you’re moping around.” Shoko pressed his arm, watching his unfocused eyes snap back into reality just to see her. “What?” She sighed, shaking her head as she moved to lean against the wall Satoru had planted himself against. “I feel bad that she isn’t here, too, Satoru. But she said she wasn’t feeling good…” But Satoru shook his head, pushing himself off the wall for the first time that evening. “She’s withdrawing from us, she has been for the last few weeks… ever since…” But he couldn’t say it, for some reason he found himself choking up trying to utter Suguru's name. “Ever since she saw him, I know.” Saying his name wasn’t exactly smart given the people in the room with them. “She’s just… she’s alone on Christmas Eve, Shoko. That’s not fair… we should be with her or she should be with us.”  He began shifting from foot to foot, for the first time that night he felt antsy enough to get off the wall he glued himself to and move. “I agree, Satoru, but she doesn’t feel good…”

“I think she's full of shit, using it as an excuse.” he spat with more venom than necessary, not really directed at you but more so directed at himself. Shoko studied him for a moment, unsure of how to continue considering they were in a room full of close friends. Friends who all felt the absence of three particular people… Haibara, Suguru, and of course, you. It was a much quieter Christmas eve than previous years. So, reluctantly, Shoko pushed off the wall “Let’s get some air, Satoru. I think you could really use it.” Satoru met her gaze, lips parting before closing again and shoving his glasses further up the bridge of his nose. Without a word, he unpeeled himself from the wall and trailed after Shoko. The two had barely stepped foot into the cold air before Satoru was seething again. “She’s distancing herself from us, Shoko, don’t you realize that?” Shoko was pulling a cigarette and lighter out of her pocket, bringing the cylinder to her lips as she mumbled out “Of course I recognize that, Satoru.” for a moment he bit his tongue, the urge to scream at her for her casual nature was making him feel weak to his own emotions. 

“Then what do we do? We’re going to lose her if we don’t figure this out…” if he hasn’t already. Satoru couldn’t shake the pit in his stomach, the feeling that he had already lost you was weighing him down. He had let Suguru slip through his fingers, and now it seemed he was letting it happen all over again with you. “I have no idea, Satoru. I won’t lie, I’m not as close with her as you are… I mean you guys just seem to have a much deeper bond than friendship…” Shoko corrected when Satoru’s head whipped in her direction. She loved you dearly, and she knew that you loved her right back. But she would be an idiot to deny the fact that you and Satoru seemed to have a bond much deeper than friendship. “I don’t know what you mean–” Satoru choked, lips pressing into a thin line as he nervously pushed his glasses up again. “Don’t lie, Satoru. You know exactly what I mean.” But Satoru was not going to openly admit to his feelings for you right then. “You love her in a different way than me, Satoru. You have since our first year here.” But it seemed Shoko was more than willing to take the opportunity for him. 

“Now isn’t the time…” but he could feel his voice trembling as he spoke, head turning away from her to glance across the courtyard. “Then when is it time, Satoru?” Again, something he didn’t have the answer for, something he probably would never have the answer for. “I…fuck I don’t know okay? But right now definitely isn’t the time.” He looked as if he wanted to jump out of his own skin, Shoko inhaled her smoke deeply before pulling the cig away and letting out in one breath. “Go to her, if you think that is what’s right. But don’t come back at me if she bites your head off for waking her.” Maybe Shoko had a little too much faith in your capabilities to remain strong. Satoru, on the other hand, felt like he was racing against a timer that may have already hit zero. “Alright.” Was all he could push out in that moment, feet moving before his mind could even process it. “But we do need to have this conversation at some point, Satoru!” Shoko called but he was already halfway across the courtyard. “Some Christmas Eve this is.” She huffed, watching the smoke slip past her lips again as she let her head fall back. 

If she could, she would run to you right now and hold you close. But things had grown so complicated, for some reason she couldn’t find the strength to sit down and pull the information out of you. Deep down, even though she didn’t want to admit it, she knew it was only a matter of time before you disappeared just as Suguru had. She couldn’t say she blamed you, had she been in your shoes she would likely do the same. She knew how dear he was to you, how much love you held in your heart for him even after his deflection. Now you were carrying his child. Shoko could come to terms with the fact that her support and her presence was small in comparison to the support and love Suguru would shower on you and your unborn child. Satoru, however, could not swallow that pill and keep it down. He loved you, much more than a friend. Shoko has known that since your first year at Jujutsu Tech, as much as Satoru had been pining, Suguru had beat him to you… and inevitably won your heart. She knew it ate him alive to this very day. 

—

Satoru couldn’t figure out why his hands were trembling as they gripped the railing. Every step he took, every step that carried him up towards your dorm floor had his legs threatening to crumble. He couldn’t shake the doom gripping at his heart, as if he somehow already knew that something was terribly wrong. Still, he pushed forward despite his heart threatening to break out of his ribcage and fling itself out the nearest window. It was quiet as he hit the landing, so quiet it felt empty, as if there was no human life inhabiting the floor. Satoru’s stomach was dropping with each step he took, forcing air into his lungs just to exhale slowly as he approached your dorm’s door. His hand raised, knuckles rapping against the door. “Y/N? You Awake?” 

No answer. 

Satoru’s hand wrapped around the cool metal of the doorknob before twisting and pushing it open. “Y/N?” he took a step inside, surprised to see your desk lamp on. It took Satoru another second to process that you weren’t present in the room. He blinked slowly, eyes traveling over a room that now felt foreign to him. Inch by inch, he noticed that things were missing. Your room feels emptier than usual, and not just because of your absence. “Shit.” He chokes, walking further into your dorm room to assure himself that he wasn’t imagining it. Usually, he’d never invade your space in such a way but Satoru found himself ripping your closet door open and cursing louder when he realized a majority of the hangers were empty. 

He couldn’t see straight, not as he stumbled backwards and out of your room. Satoru’s legs carried him on autopilot, straight down the hall to Shoko’s empty dorm room. He pushed the door open, flicking on the lights and checking her bed to make sure you hadn’t snuck in to it. As expected, it was empty. The door slammed so hard it rattled the frame, but Satoru couldn’t even hear it, not over the roaring of blood in his ears as he stumbled down to his dorm room. He swung the door open so hard it hit the wall and ricocheted back at him, but he was already in the room and out of its path. His eyes were frantic, wide and unnerving as he looked at his empty bed… a note neatly sitting on his pillow, his name written in your scrawling font. 

Bile burned Satoru’s throat, without even picking up the envelope he knew it was a goodbye. 

The bile burning his throat wasn’t going back down, panic ebbed through his veins as he turned on his heels and stumbled into the bathroom. Satoru puked the little contents he had left in his stomach, tears blurring his vision as he tossed his glasses onto the tile floor. It wasn’t until he heaved a third time that his knees gave out on him, hitting the cold tile below him with a sickening thud. He couldn’t see through the tears, a mix of broken sobs and curses falling from his lips as saliva filled his mouth and his stomach squeezed painfully tight. For a minute he thought it would be impossible to pull air into his lungs, maybe the universe would grace him with blacking out. Maybe when he woke up he’d realize this was all a bad dream. 

But the universe wasn’t that kind to Satoru, it probably never would be.

There, on the bathroom floor, the strongest sorcerer was reduced to a crying mess. All because of you, all because of his mistakes, all because of things he had let slip through his fingers. How childish could he be? To mess up so badly the first time that he failed Suguru. The eyes that were supposed to see everything had let his best friend fall with no one to catch him. Now, it was you, right before his very eyes he watched you slowly decay into a shell of your former self. But, again, he ignored the warning signs and you had slipped right through his grasp. He couldn’t process anything else in that moment, fingers gripping the sides of the toilet as he heaved again. 

Satoru wasn’t sure how long he remained a crumpled heap on his bathroom floor, but eventually there was nothing else that could come out of him. In a daze, Satoru pulled himself off the ground, flushing the toilet’s contents, standing to grasp for the faucet’s knobs and pulling until cold water rushed from its opening. The cold water grounded him, forcing air into his too-tight lungs, one after another, until tears were flowing freely down his cheeks again. Was this a panic attack? Is that what it felt like? Like you were drowning on dry land? He wasn’t sure, but he knew he needed to read whatever you left behind in that envelope. 

He needed to have some idea on why you did this, even if he knew why you did this. He turned the water off, silence ringing in his ears as he dried his shaking hands and stumbled into his too cold bedroom. Satoru wiped his eyes, over and over and over until the tears stopped long enough for him to see clearly. Grabbing the envelope, he sat himself down at his desk, letting the lamp’s golden glow illuminate the words he was too scared to read. He stared at it, blinking slowly as he looked over your handwriting. How did he let this happen, not once but twice? That anger from earlier was bubbling in his stomach again, threatening to reduce him to a scared child as he hurled anything left in his stomach. This time he swallowed it down. 

The paper was cold in his hands as he ripped open your neatly put together work. Inside the envelope was one piece of paper. One piece of paper was all you needed to say goodbye. His heart clenched, lips forming into a scowl at the very thought. Maybe he had been a fool all this time, a fool to think he meant anything of significance to you. The urge to rip the single page nearly overtook him, not willing to let you explain yourself and just throw it away. You had thrown everything away, after all. What harm was him ripping up one, useless, pathetic letter? 

He set it down before doing something that irrational, his mind going through a mix of emotions that he could only describe as grief. Mourning someone who wasn’t dead all over again. 

Satoru stared at the letter, heart squeezing so tightly in his chest as he spotted water marks. Water stains where your tears had smudged the ink slightly. Every ounce of anger in his body seemed to vanish the moment he saw them, something so small that delivered such a big message. He inhaled deeply, trying to find some sort of sanity to cling to before picking up the page and reading everything you had written for him. It was you after all, no matter how upset he got, he’d never be able to do any of the things he had contemplated only seconds prior. Shakily, he picked it up, holding it at an angle where he could easily read its contents. 

Satoru, 

I don’t know where to start, so maybe it’s best if I don’t even try. If I were to sit here as I am now, writing down every single thing I ever wanted to say to you I’d run out of paper and time. So, although you deserve far better than this letter, I will try and keep it short and to the point. 

You have done everything for me over these last five months, and there is nothing I can do that will ever amount to something worthy of returning the favor. I will forever be thankful for everything you have done for me. I would not have survived these last few months if it weren’t for you, Toru. 

I don’t want you to blame yourself, because my choice is completely my own. There is nothing you could have done to change my mind. I think we both know that, whether you want to believe it or not. I can’t imagine the pain I’m causing you by doing this… I’m not going to ask for your forgiveness because truly I don’t deserve it and I don’t expect it. 

I cannot go about my pregnancy without Suguru knowing. This is something that is meant to be precious to me, cherishing every minute of my baby growing inside of me… but I haven’t been able to enjoy it. My child deserves a happy mother and their father to be in their life. The only thing you are unable to provide for me, Satoru, is bringing Suguru back to our side. 

I have no choice but to go, for the sake of myself and the sake of my baby, I need him to know. 

This isn’t how I wanted things to happen, you know. I don’t think that needs to be said because of course I didn’t intend on getting pregnant and Suguru losing his mind. I didn’t intend on leaving you or Shoko. I didn’t think I’d ever have to say goodbye to you, Satoru. Nevermind having to say it through a shitty letter. God this is fucking stupid. You deserve so much more than a fucking letter. 

Please, find your happiness, Satoru. I love you. 

Your Y/N

Tears were burning his tired eyes, distorting your words as he tried to read it for a second time. Time seemed to stretch on forever in that one moment, leaving him to feel like a hollow shell of the person he once was. His heart was no longer within his chest, he was sure of it. Half of it had been taken by Suguru when he deflected. Now, the other half was long gone, tucked away in whatever belongings you had taken with you when you left. Nothing but a hole was left in its place, the broken halves of his heart were somewhere far away with the two people who meant more than anything to him. Maybe they’d do him a favor and stitch the halves together again. 

~ END OF PART 2 ~

Thank you so much for reading, I hope I didn't hurt you too much. As always, likes, comments, reblogs, and asks are always welcomed and greatly appreciated... till we meet again in part 3 :) - May 🩵

[prentissluvr]

abstract (psychopomp) — sam winchester

cw : gn!reader, angst, hurt/comfort, idk just like a lot of feelings, animal death, some descriptions of injury, blood, crying, mention of character death, 1.9K words. listen to abstract (psychopomp) by hozier.

summary : sam realizes that he loves you as you hold a dying cat in your arms and cry over its loss.

your gasp startles sam. all had been quiet after the hunt, the cruel, clawed monster killed and the rumble of the impala filling the space in the silent air. the street is slick with fresh rain and clouds block the moon and stars.

“pull over,” you insist suddenly. sam glances over at you, eyebrows furrowed in confusion. you’re very serious.

“what is it?” he asks, tearing his eyes from you to focus on the road. he’s already easing up on the gas.

“pull over, sam,” you repeat with more strength, voice imploring. he obliges, expression concerned as he swiftly brings the car to a stop on the side of the road. the tires screech from the effort because sam thinks something is horribly wrong. he’s worried about you, and that feeling only increases when you rush out from the car, leaving the door open as you run down the empty street back the way you came. it’s lit solely by a single flickering street lamp and the impala’s headlights.

“wait, hey, what are you–” he can’t get in a whole sentence before you’re gone. he puts the car in park and follows after you. greeted by the sight of you kneeling on the side of the road, back facing him, his frown deepens and he breaks into a jog. his long legs get him to your side in moments. you sit right underneath the orange light of the street lamp, your form illuminated by the gold of october leaves.

there’s something in your arms. something small and shaking and reflecting the light of the lamp. the smell of rain and grass is heady and delicate all at once.

your eyes are shadowed until you look up at him. then they’re shining with the threat of tears. sam crouches next to you and places a gentle hand on your shoulder.

it’s a cat, its tabby brown fur marred with blood and these deep, horrible gashes. its blood stains the road and mixes with newly fallen rain. it shines in orange light above you. the cat's eye glistens, and it’s still alive, barely, moving in your arms. clearly, the monster you just killed got to it, before you even arrived, and the poor creature’s been bleeding out slowly on the side of the road.

sam imagines that its body isn’t as warm in your arms as it should be. you hold it so gently, your hands so delicate and full of intention. with a pang to his heart, sam realizes that you just want to hold it as it passes. its eyes must’ve held fear as you gingerly lifted it into your arms. but that fear is gone as you softly, so softly, brush your fingers over the fur of its tiny head.

“shhh,” you hush sweetly, quietly. sam wonders how everything could be this silent. sam knows it would be wrong if it weren’t, though. “it’s okay. i’ve got you now. you’re alright.” your voice is lulling and murmuring and trembling.

it slows in your arms. it stills. sam puts a hand over yours and he feels where its fur is soft and silky, untainted by blood. the cat doesn’t breathe in again.

sam looks at your face, and as a tear rolls down your cheek, past the shadow over your eyes, it catches the light. his heart aches. it aches and it aches and it aches.

for the sweet, small creature, innocent and swept aside by unnatural claws. discarded and truly nothing more than collateral damage. its tiny paws and darling brown ears and its good-natured animal heart which all deserved nothing but soft and unconditional love. cat hearts are small, sam recalls. about fifteen times smaller than a human heart. he doesn’t remember where he read that.

he doesn’t even realize that he’s begun to rub small circles over your back. while he has a soul full of compassion for the pretty tabby cat, his heart aches for you the most.

you look so distraught. you’re still crying. there’s a dead animal in your arms.

the way that you hurt makes him feel it too, makes him desperate to fix it for you. he wonders if the tip of your nose is starting to get cold like it always does when it’s windy outside.

and there’s just… your humanity. all he can see in this moment is how it shines. how you’re better than anything he’s ever known. 

he thinks that sometimes it feels like the two of you choose what you’re doing. and then he realizes that it’s tearing at your hearts. he remembers that he’d choose anything but this if he could.

he knows you would too. you’d always choose a home and a purring brown tabby cat and house plants over this view; mangled bodies of the innocent, blood in the road, and weeds through the concrete. then again, it’s that humanity of yours that keeps you going. you can’t just leave it all, knowing you could save even one life with the knowledge that you have. you keep him going too.

sam wishes more than anything that this wasn’t it for you. sam knows better than anything now that he loves you. and this is the moment he realizes it. in orange light and a dark blue sky. in a haunting shadow and a soft brilliance. 

you are the soft brilliance. in all of your pain and weariness and honest devastation over the loss of a small animal you never knew. that’s what makes him love you, so fully and truly and with no room for a drop of doubt.

he’ll remember this view. it’s fucked up and horrible. it’s the most genuine display of unconditional love and humanity that he’s ever seen. it makes him wonder if someday he’ll be you, and you’ll be the cat, curled up and cold in his lap. the blood drains from his face and he almost starts to cry with you.

but he loves you too much now to go back. it’s strange, he’s loved you a long time. a long time, and now he finally knows it. and he loves all of you. his love for you just rushes through his veins, it overwhelms his senses, it multiplies the aching of his heart.

he sits all the way down, pressed close against you as he wraps his arm around your shoulder and draws you to his chest. the cold wet of rain that’s stuck between the grooves and bumps of the asphalt soaks up into the thick fabric of his jeans. his warm hand smooths up and down your arm. the other stays splayed over yours and the poor cat, like he can somehow protect you both. that hurts him because one of you is already gone.

sam doesn’t just let you take the time to mourn. he mourns with you. he lets go of the part of him that fights to push it all away, to pretend it isn’t there, to just play through the pain. instead, he lets himself feel it. the loss and the sadness and all the wishing that this never happened. that so many things never happened. you always bring sam back to himself.

eventually, sam realizes you need a bit of help with moving on. as soft and quiet as he can, he peels off his jacket to wrap the cat in. you shouldn’t have to keep staring at its bloody wounds. the cat shouldn’t have to be so cold. he lays the jacket on the ground in front of you.

“here,” he murmurs. you inhale sharply, like you’re coming out of a daze. when you look up at him, your eyes still shine. ever so gently, you place the poor thing over the fabric of his jacket. sam wraps it up, safe and warm for you. he tucks it carefully into one arm, silently and sadly marveling at how small it is. then he holds out his other hand for you.

he exhales softly through his lips when your trembling hand meets his. you look so tired, so worn as he pulls you to your feet. but a bit of burden has been lifted since he took the cat from your lap. there’s streaks of blood on your clothes, smothered over your gentle, calloused hands.

your hand doesn’t slip from his as you walk back to the car. you open the trunk and pull out salt, gasoline, and matches. sam locks the car and you walk out into the grass until you can barely see the road. the lump of sam’s jacket, with the cat’s sweet head and closed eyes framed by the fabric and the rest of its body hidden away, is set gently on the ground. it’s silent as the two of you build up a tiny pyre of sticks and dried leaves.

sam softly covers the animal’s face when he sets it over the sticks. the cat receives a proper hunter’s funeral. sam lights the match and sprinkles the salt. he doesn’t want you to have be the one to set it alight.

you sit on the dewy grass and watch, rather than stand so you can be closer to the small thing. sam sits beside you and wraps an arm around your shoulders. he’s a bit cold without his jacket, but he doesn’t care. the heat from the fire reaches him, though it's mostly swallowed up by the wind.

he looks at you, quiet and subtle in his movements. your features are lit up by orange light for the second time tonight. the fire flickers in your eyes and the shadows cast a haunted look over your face.

sam is afraid of losing you. he’s terrified. and he’s still glad he met you. all of his love and terror is poured into you. he won’t tell you that he loves you today. he’s unlikely to tell you tomorrow. he wonders if he’ll tell you the next day, or the next month or year. he will tell you. and before that, he’ll show you.

every moment from now, he’s utterly dedicated to you. to your humanity, love, passion, kindness, and soft, immovable goodness. he’ll hold you close and kiss that goodness and make sure that no one can touch it. he’ll make sure you know that it is seen and loved and honored so that you don’t ever feel that you have to tuck it away for the sake of looking strong. really, your strength is undeniable.

maybe any other day, you’d take a long, deep breath, then stand and walk back to the car before the fire flickers out. but sam’s understanding and willingness to do all of this for you is so unwavering and true that you don’t do anything at all. instead, you let yourself be.

the night is so slow. the clouds in the sky shift and swirl and reveal the stars sometimes. the moon shines bright and clear in the a.m.s once the storm clouds clear. tonight’s fire is stubborn and long lasting. it still sparks and crackles as the sky ever so slowly lightens. deep and heavy blue turns to soft purples and baby blue. the straggling clouds are wispy and sweet cotton candy pink as the sun touches the horizon. sam notices the lingering tears in your eyes as you gaze up at the honeyed tenderness of the morning.

the earth from a distance. see how it shines.

[shadowtriovibes]

fever (what a lovely way to burn)

Pairing: Sebastian Sallow x f!MC

Word Count: 4.8k

Rating: M

Warnings: 18+, aged-up characters, friends to lovers, character with fever/illness, mild sensual content

Summary: request: "since you saved Sebastian from Azkaban, he has met you in the common room every morning and you have gone to breakfast together. One morning he isn't there so you go to his room looking for him to find him in bed, poorly."

“I’m disgusting,” he groans. “I can’t stop coughing, I’m sweating everywhere, I feel like I’m going to be sick but there’s nothing to–” He cuts himself off with several dry, pathetic coughs. “Here’s what we’re going to do,” you tell him firmly. “Ominis is going to go to class and come back this afternoon with some Muggle medicinals. In the meantime, I’m going to help you eat a bit of food and have a bath.” “N-no, absolutely not,” he stammers. “You think I want you seeing me like this any more than you already have?”

Monday, October 5, 1891

Even a month after the start of term, it’s unseasonably warm in the Highlands. The heat from the dog days of summer persists well into the arrival of autumn, permeating the ancient stone walls of the castle and settling like a thin layer of fog across Hogwarts’ students.

Professor Sharp’s N.E.W.T.s-level Potions class meets promptly at nine o’clock every morning. Despite the early time slot, the dungeon-level classroom starts to become warm rather quickly thanks to the heat of two dozen bodies and six potion stations, each with their flickering flames preheating the students’ pewter cauldrons.

Your little trio is usually the last to arrive from breakfast. Sebastian sidles up to the doorway just as Professor Sharp is preparing to close it, gallantly offering to hold it open for you and Ominis as you take your time sauntering down the hall, arms linked together and chatting happily about the latest gossip to have surfaced in the Great Hall.

Then you settle in at the potions table squarely in the middle of the classroom, which you’d unabashedly claimed at the start of term. (Ominis can hear Professor Sharp most clearly here, and Sebastian, as always, gets to remain the center of attention.)

Finally, with Ominis’ dictation quill hovering over his parchment, Professor Sharp begins his daily discourse.

“Dittany, as you’ll recall, is one of the most useful herbs for creating a wide range of healing draughts,” he explains, showing off a tendril of the fiercely pink plant clipped from Professor Garlick’s greenhouse just that morning. “Can anyone give me an example of one?”

“Wiggenweld Potion, sir,” Amit chimes in.

“Very good, Mister Thakkar,” Sharp replies with an approving nod. “Another?”

Adelaide Oakes timidly raises her hand. “Essence of Dittany, sir?”

“Well done, Miss Oakes,” he murmurs. “Though not as effective as a properly-brewed bottle of Wiggenweld, dittany on its own can be used to craft a powerful restorative tonic – especially useful in preventing the occurrence of scars. Five points to Hufflepuff.”

Then Professor Sharp glances around the room expectantly. “One more, perhaps?”

“Moustache paste, sir?” Sebastian mumbles under his breath, and you quickly elbow him in the side.

“What was that, Mister Sallow?” Professor Sharp drawls.

Sebastian bites the inside of his cheek. “Er, the Antidote to Common Poisons, perhaps?”

Professor Sharp levels Sebastian with a dubious look. “I’m afraid not. While dittany is a broadly useful herb, its powers are generally limited to healing, not curing. When considering its uses, think ���paper cut,’ not ‘influenza.’”

You raise your hand and ask, “Sir, are there any potions that do cure illnesses?”

“Yes, in fact,” Professor Sharp answers. “The Pepperup Potion will quickly resolve any common colds or cases of the flu, with the enigmatic side effect of generating steam that will pour from your ears for hours on end.”

You wince a bit. “I suppose that’s worth being over a cold in a day.”

“I should think so,” he replies with a slight grin. “So has the majority of the wizarding world since the twelfth century.”

As Professor Sharp segues into a lecture on the history of healing potions, you pull out a piece of parchment and start to take down some notes.

“Sebastian,” you hiss. “What does Pepperup Potion taste like?”

“I wouldn’t know,” he says. “I’ve only had it once, and it was a decade ago.”

You frown. “Why’s that?”

“I can’t drink it,” Sebastian says simply. “I’m allergic to bicorn horn.”

You blink, surprised. “You’re… allergic? How did you even discover that about yourself?”

“Oh, it was gruesome,” Ominis chimes in gleefully.

Sebastian rolls his eyes. “Well, I had my suspicions as a child when my parents gave me Pepperup Potion and steam poured out of my ears, nose, and mouth for a full week. Simply suffering through the cold would have been better.”

“And then?” you prompt.

“Well… in our third year, Anne and I made some Polyjuice Potion,” Sebastian admits, glancing around furtively. “We wanted to see if we could attend our classes all day as each other without anyone noticing the difference.”

“And Polyjuice Potion has bicorn horn,” you surmise.

Ominis looks delighted. “They were both in the Hospital Wing for three days, stuck as half-formed versions of each other.”

You gasp in disbelief. “That sounds awful!”

“It was the one and only time in their lives they were truly identical!” Ominis crows. “‘Sebastianne,’ we called them.”

You can’t help but giggle at Ominis’ delight while Sebastian sulks.

“In any case,” Sebastian grumbles, “I can’t take Pepperup Potion anymore, but luckily I never get sick.”

“Really?” you ask skeptically. “Everyone gets a common cold once in a while.”

“Not me,” he says proudly. “I haven’t been sick since I was a child. At the very least, if I have been sick, it must have been so mild that I wasn’t slowed down in the slightest – no need for Pepperup, thanks.”

“I’d be careful, Sebastian,” Ominis demurs. “Wouldn’t want to tempt fate, would we?”

With a lazy shrug, Sebastian turns to his potions station and begins to roughly chop some dittany leaves for a new healing potion Sharp intends to teach that afternoon. He glances up surreptitiously while you tie your hair back with one of those green ribbons you like to keep around your wrist for when the Potions classroom becomes especially humid with cauldron steam.

Though it’s unwise to lose focus while holding a knife, Sebastian has become quite skilled at multitasking while tending to his lovesick heart with stolen glances and half-formed daydreams.

He becomes so distracted staring at the column of your neck that when he suddenly feels a bit dizzy, he merely attributes it to the thick, heavy air in the room.

—

Tuesday, October 6, 1891

“You look dreadful,” you tell Sebastian cheerfully as you take a seat at breakfast.

Across from you, Sebastian looks a sight. His generally unruly hair is sticking up in every direction, and his face, which until this morning had still been sun-kissed and freckled from his time carrying out summer chores in Feldcroft, is ghostly pale.

“Cheers,” he grumbles, his head in his hands as he stares down at a plate full of untouched tattie scones.

You know for a fact they’re his favorite. In fact, you’ve stolen countless scones from the Great Hall on weekends when he treats himself to a bit of a lie-in just to make sure there are some left for when he finally emerges, hair rumpled and cheeks creased with pillow lines.

“Late night?” you ask him as you pour yourself some juice.

“The opposite, actually,” Ominis explains. “Sebastian was asleep before I even finished my Runes assignment last night, and I practically had to drag him out of bed this morning.”

“That doesn’t sound like you,” you comment, frowning. “You’re usually up half the night reading. Are you sure you’re alright?”

Sebastian shrugs weakly. “I’m fine, I just… It’s dreadfully warm in the castle, and my head is aching.”

Without thinking, you reach across the table and press the back of your hand against his forehead.

“You’re quite hot,” you mumble.

“Wh-what?” Sebastian stammers, his eyes going wide. “What did you do that for?”

“You have a fever,” you explain to him. “Old Muggle trick. And your eyes are quite glassy. I think you might be coming down with something.”

Ominis unsubtly slides further down the bench.

“I’m not sick,” Sebastian protests. “It’s just the heat, it’s making me tired.”

You eye him warily, and as if to prove that he’s not ill, Sebastian lifts one of his hoarded scones to his mouth and takes a bite.

“See?” he asks with his mouth full. “M’fine.”

You grimace. “Lovely.”

Sebastian determinedly joins you and Ominis for Potions and manages to remain upright until the very end of class. He sways just a bit as he gathers up his belongings, and you offer him your shoulder while you make your way toward the stairs to Divination.

He balks when he sees the twisting spiral steps.

“On second thought,” he mumbles, “I think I’ll skive off today and get some rest.”

“Will you be alright?” you ask him concernedly. “I can come with you…”

“No, it’s fine,” he insists. “I’ll just lie down for a bit and then I’ll be grand, I promise. Save a seat for me at dinner, will you?”

Later that evening you linger in the Great Hall until the last of dinner melts through the tables down to the kitchens below, but Sebastian never shows up.

—

Wednesday, October 7, 1891

“You do not want to go in there,” Ominis tells you warningly. “Trust me, he’s a mess.”

You scoff. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Sebastian still hasn’t emerged from his dormitory in nearly eighteen hours, and you’re starting to worry for him. Ominis had brought him back some food from dinner the night before, but according to him, it had gone untouched.

When he’d failed to show his face at breakfast, you knew you had to step in.

“He wouldn’t want you to see him like this,” Ominis tries. “Sebastian is hardly a gentleman, but some things are sacred.”

“He’s our best friend,” you remind Ominis. “I really don’t care if he’s not entirely put together.”

Ominis opens his mouth as if to say more, and then seemingly changes his mind.

“Fine,” he sighs. “I’ll tell Professor Sharp you’re tending to Sebastian, and I’ll ask Amit if you can borrow his notes.”

“You’re a lifesaver, Ominis,” you breathe, quickly pulling him in for a hug. “What would we do without you?”

“Rot in Azkaban, most likely,” he grumbles, which… is fair.

Once Ominis leaves for class, you gently knock on the seventh-year boys’ dormitory door. “Sebastian? Can I come in?”

Through the door, you hear him whine, “Go ‘way.”

“Sebastian,” you call out patiently. “Ominis told me you’re sick, and you haven’t gotten out of bed in too long. I’m coming in.”

He protests weakly from his bed as you open the door and slip inside, carefully pressing it closed behind you. As you’d expected, his other roommates have all gone for the day. Only Sebastian remains – or at least, you think it’s Sebastian.

All you can see sticking out from underneath the pile of pilfered blankets on his bed is a mess of curly, brown hair.

“Oh, dear,” you sigh.

“Jus’ leave me alone,” he mumbles from beneath the covers. “...I think I’m sick.”

“Finally facing the music, are you?” you tease him, taking a seat at the foot of his bed. “How are you feeling?”

“Like death warmed over,” he groans. “I’ve never been this ill before.”

“Should I take you to see Nurse Blainey?” you ask him. “I know you can’t have Pepperup Potion, but perhaps she has something else that would help.”

“No,” he sighs. “Ominis already sent for her, she said I’m a dafty and I’ll be fine in a coupl’a days.”

You bite back a laugh at Sebastian’s deteriorating accent; for how posh he usually sounds, apparently that rougher Feldcroft vernacular tends to slip out when he’s feeling poorly.

“Poor lamb,” you croon. “Can I do anything for you? Have you eaten?”

“M’not hungry,” he sulks. “Ominis made me drink some water before he left.”

You hum softly as you start to slowly pull his piles of blankets down low enough that you can see his face. Quickly you realize that Ominis had been exaggerating – Sebastian doesn’t look entirely a mess.

His eyes are a bit wet and glassy, you observe, and his nose is bright red from persistent rubbing with a handkerchief abandoned on his bedside table. He looks a little swollen beneath his jaw, but otherwise, he looks like he’d merely stayed awake all night, and you’ve seen a sleepless Sebastian countless times throughout your friendship.

There’s a bit of stubble along his jaw that you’ve never noticed before; it’s the same rich brown color as his wild, unkempt hair.

(Honestly, how dare he still look handsome even when he’s ill.)

“Hello, you,” you tease him in a voice just above a whisper. “Was beginning to wonder if you were even there under all those blankets.”

“I’m cold,” he complains.

“That’s the fever talking,” you tell him. “You should probably–”

But before you can tell him that he’d be better off with less covers, the blankets shift lower and you realize he’s not wearing a pajama shirt.

(Your disobedient mind immediately raises the question of whether he’s wearing anything at all, and subsequently, if you could get away with having a look. Immediately you scold that particular thought away.)

“Er, you should… don’t overheat yourself,” you finish lamely.

He’s flushed down to his chest, fever-pale skin burning red where the blankets had been piled on top of him. You discover that he’s got a thin smattering of hair here, too; he’s grown into the body of a man much sooner than many of your classmates, you imagine.

Sebastian watches as you swallow, your own eyes raking down his body.

“You’re missing class,” he observes. “You never miss class.”

“It’ll be alright, just this once,” you say softly.

For a moment you aren’t sure if you’re talking about missing class or being in Sebastian’s bed.

Then Sebastian suddenly starts to cough and hastily reaches for his handkerchief. He sounds utterly pathetic as he coughs and groans in discomfort, rolling onto his side and looking for all the world like a kicked puppy.

“My chest hurts,” he whimpers. “I’ve been coughing all night.”

You reach across him and gently stroke the backs of your fingers down the middle of his chest. His skin is noticeably hot to the touch and damp with sweat.

“I can put some Muggle herbs in a warm compress for your chest,” you offer. “I know they’re not as effective as a potion would be, but it always helped me feel better when I was a child.”

“Alright, I suppose that’d be nice,” he mumbles.

But when you move to stand, he quickly snags your wrist.

“Wait,” he says. “Er… where would you go? For how long?”

“Well, I’ll have to go see if Nurse Blainey has any, and if not I can go look at the edge of the Forbidden Forest,” you explain. “It might take a bit of time, I’m afraid.”

“Then, just… stay,” he whines. “Keep me company? That’s better than some plain old herbs.”

You shift onto the bed, curling up on your side behind Sebastian. It’s a tight fit, and you’re dangerously close to falling off the edge, but you’re able to leave enough space between your bodies that you can make the argument that it’s friendly, and it’s fine.

“Can I rub your back?” you ask him softly. “It might help with the soreness.”

You have no idea if it will help his aching body, but you’re eager to try it nonetheless.

“Go on,” Sebastian rasps. “I… I might fall asleep.”

“You should,” you croon. “Your body’s telling you that you need to rest.”

“S’pathetic,” he grumbles. “I never get sick.”

“You had a good run,” you tease him. “But the common cold comes for us all eventually.”

He falls silent after that, his leanly muscled arms curled around a pillow while you stroke your hand up and down the length of his back. He’s so warm, and you’re a bit anxious about letting him ride out a fever as long as he has, but soon he drifts off to sleep.

You learn two things while he rests: he snores when he’s on his back, and he frowns whenever you take your hands off of him.

—

Thursday, October 8, 1891

Ominis had managed to talk you into returning to your own dormitory for the night, promising to look after Sebastian while you got some rest. When you return the following morning, you find him in even worse condition.

His sheets are bunched down to his hips, and he’s still bare from the waist up. His entire body is covered in a thin layer of sweat, and the bags underneath his eyes have worsened – despite how much rest he’s getting, he seems more fatigued than ever.

“What happened?!” you ask Ominis.

“He’s had a fever all night,” Ominis says grimly, looking just as worn out as Sebastian. “He hasn’t eaten a thing, and I’ve barely been able to get him to drink some water.”

“Oh, Seb,” you sigh, taking his clammy hand and resting it in your lap as you sit on the edge of the bed. “You poor thing.”

“I think I’m dying,” he rasps. “This is it, right?”

“Hush now, there’s no need to be so dramatic,” you gently scold him, pressing your hand to his forehead. “You’re quite warm, but I’m not worried about your imminent demise.”

“I’m disgusting,” he groans. “I can’t stop coughing, I’m sweating everywhere, I feel like I’m going to be sick but there’s nothing to–”

He cuts himself off with several dry, pathetic coughs.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” you tell him firmly. “Ominis is going to go to class and come back this afternoon with some Muggle medicinals. In the meantime, I’m going to help you eat a bit of food and have a bath.”

“N-no, absolutely not,” he stammers. “You think I want you seeing me like this any more than you already have?”

“You’ll feel better,” you promise him. “And I swear I won’t, er… look, if that’s what you’re worried about.”

You argue back and forth until Sebastian, utterly depleted of his typical stubbornness, loses energy and gives in. Ominis promises to stop by J. Pippin’s to see if the shopkeeper has any draughts suitable for Sebastian’s allergies before leaving to go to class, and you help Sebastian get out of bed with his arm around your shoulders and your own around his waist.

(He’s got pants on, thank Merlin, but you have to help him into a pair of pajamas to make the walk to the Slytherin baths.)

Sebastian balks when you enter the boys’ baths, but you both quickly learn there are no enchantments in place to keep you from joining him. You offer him an arm to lean on while he takes off his pajamas and coughs – this time pointedly – for you to turn around while he sinks into the lukewarm bath you’d drawn.

“This does feel nice,” he finally says once he’s settled in the opaque, murlap-scented water.

“Good,” you say, hoping he doesn’t notice how your voice has gone up a bit higher than usual. “I’ll be back in a few moments with some fresh pajamas for you.”

“I’ll try not to drown while you’re gone,” he drawls, and even though he still sounds exhausted, you smile to yourself knowing that the bath is already helping him feel more like his usual self.

Hogwarts’ house elves were exceptionally fast in tidying up the boys’ dormitory while the two of you were out, so when you finally lead a clean, dry Sebastian back to his room, you’re thrilled to find freshly laundered sheets and a new pair of pillows waiting for him.

“Gods, I love magic,” he groans as he collapses into bed.

You stay all afternoon and into the evening. Ominis returns shortly before dinner with a brew from Parry Pippin himself, similar to the Pepperup Potion but with cinnamon instead of powdered bicorn horn.

(Sebastian seems to emit thin tendrils of steam straight from the top of his head after he drinks it, but he perks up all the same.)

Feenky herself brings a tray of soup and some leftover scones from breakfast once Sebastian regains his appetite. While he eats, he tells you about how he used to sit with Anne during the summers when she was particularly ill from her curse.

“At the time, I wondered if my being there was more of a help or a hindrance,” he says ruefully. “She was… hard to read, then. I couldn’t tell if she was annoyed by me or appreciated me staying.”

You pause before shyly asking, “Am I helping? By being here?”

“Of course,” he says without thinking.

“Then I’m sure you were helping Anne, even when she was annoyed,” you tell him reassuringly. “That’s all we ever want to do really, isn’t it? Help the ones we love?”

Sebastian glances up at his tray with an inscrutable expression on his face. His eyes are still glassy and he’s a bit peaky, but the cinnamon-laced, not-quite-Pepperup Potion has restored some of the usual warmth in his gaze.

“Right,” he echoes. “Help the ones we love.”

You end up staying the night in the boys’ dormitory. Only Ominis knows you’re there, as he draws the curtains around the both of you before the boys’ other roommates return from the common room. Given that Sebastian seems to be feeling better already, it’s not strictly necessary.

But it feels nice all the same.

—

Friday, October 9, 1891

Sebastian’s fever finally broke during the night.

When you wake up he’s wrapped around you from behind, one of his legs jammed between yours with his arm curled possessively around your waist.

You’re sweltering, but he’s cool to the touch.

“Sebastian,” you whisper, but he doesn’t answer.

Judging by the way sunlight pours over the top of Sebastian’s bed curtains, it’s well past when you’d usually wake up during the school week. You can’t hear any other snoring boys around you, either.

“Sebastian,” you hiss. “Wake up.”

He groans tiredly into your hair as his arm tightens around your waist. “No.”

“N-no?!” you sputter. “It’s morning! We… we should, er.”

You trail off when you realize you aren’t quite sure what you should be doing. Evidently you’ve missed breakfast, and you’ve likely missed the start of Potions for the third day in a row. Professor Sharp will have no choice but to give you a detention; just as well, you suppose, as you can use the time to make up what you’ve missed.

But now that the damage is done…

“How are you feeling?” you ask him softly, your eyes still fixed on the green curtains in front of your face.

“Loads better,” he says, only this time his lips are pressed against the sensitive spot behind your ear.

You gasp as he rolls more of his weight toward you, pressing you more firmly into the mattress.

“Sebastian…” you sigh.

“I had a dream about you last night,” he confesses, his voice barely above a whisper beneath your ear. “I’ve heard Pepperup Potion can give one strange dreams.”

“St-strange?” you whisper back. “Why was it a strange dream?”

“I suppose it wasn’t really ‘strange,’” he acquiesces. “But it was nice. Really nice.”

“Tell me about it?” you ask breathlessly.

“Perhaps I’ll show you instead,” he asks, and when you nod, he slides his hand down to your hip and turns you onto your back.

Then quite suddenly he’s leaning over you, one knee still between your thighs. He rests on his elbows so his face is just centimeters from yours, and it’s the first time you’ve gotten a good look at him since the boys put out last night’s fire.

Sebastian looks so much better. His cheeks are flushed, his eyes are clear and bright, and the sickly sheen of sweat he’d worn for days is entirely gone. (His hair is still a bird’s nest, but that’s to be expected.)

“We were like this,” he tells you.

“Were we just talking?” you ask him, but you’re met with only silence.

After a beat, he asks you, “Why have you been so kind to me this week?”

“You’re my best friend,” you tell him softly. “I – I wanted to help you feel better.”

“Is that all I am?” he asks. “Am I simply your friend?”

You bite your lip hesitantly and his gaze dips down to your mouth, his brown eyes nearly black in the soft morning light.

“Do you want to kiss me, Sebastian?” you ask.

Rather than answering, he surprises you by leaning down and pressing a sweet kiss to the corner of your mouth. Then he lifts one of his hands to gently tip your face toward his, cradling your jaw while he deepens the kiss into one that’s hardly sweet at all.

It feels like it’s perhaps the first time in days that Sebastian has felt hunger.

You gasp his name into his mouth and then he’s the one biting your lip, just a quick graze of his teeth before he soothes your ensuing whine with another slow kiss. He shifts his weight onto his hip to rest on the mattress beside you, using that leg between yours to coax you into lying next to him. He rewards your body’s assent with a filthy kiss – the kind you’ve only read about in those Muggle romance novels you hide under your pillow, the kind where the hero kisses the girl with his tongue in her mouth and his hand in her blouse.

“Seb,” you moan.

“I didn’t know,” he confesses against your lips.

“Didn’t know what?” you whine.

“I didn’t know you loved me until last night,” he says, pressing his forehead against yours.

You’re so distracted by how red and swollen his lips look that you nearly miss him saying, “You stayed with me all week, you held me, practically healed me, and I still didn’t know.”

“Of course I love you,” you tell him.

“You love Ominis, you love Poppy,” he counters. “This – us – is different. Right?”

And the truth is, you would have done anything you’d done for Sebastian for any one of your friends. You would have helped Poppy into a warm bath and back into bed, and you would have sat at Ominis’ bedside all day and torn up pieces of scone to float on the surface of his soup.

But you would not have let them press you into their bedsheets and trace their lips along your neck, and right now Sebastian is eagerly doing both.

“Yes,” you whimper, both in answer to his question and as a plea for more.

“I love you, too,” he sighs against your jaw. “I have for ages, and I didn’t want you to see me all pathetic and poorly, but you still love me anyway.”

“I’ve loved you through worse,” you quietly remind him.

He nips at your throat for that remark; you’ve both agreed to speak of your fifth year as little as possible. Truly, the only reason you’d ever bring it up now is to remind Sebastian that you’ve long since made your choice – him, over duty and the law and perhaps even reason.

“Stay with me,” he pleads. “We have all morning, we have the dormitory to ourselves. Let me take care of you now.”

He pulls your thigh across his own and tangles his fingers in your sleep-mussed hair, holding you against his warm, bare chest.

“That’s tempting,” you breathe. “B-but perhaps we should check with Nurse Blainey, to see if you’re ready to return to–”

You cut yourself off with a gasp as he grinds his hips against yours. There’s no mistaking that he’s aroused, and that alone convinces you that he must be feeling well – you’re positive that he would’ve been too weak for this type of debauchery yesterday morning even if you’d gotten fully nude before him and begged.

“Trust me, I feel excellent,” he moans into your mouth. “Love, please.”

You don’t come up for air for a long while after that. By the time Ominis stops by during lunchtime to check on Sebastian, he nearly trips over your skirt, hastily tossed near the doorway.

“I take it you’re feeling better,” he deadpans.

“That potion of yours worked like a charm, Ominis,” Sebastian drawls. “Cinnamon, who would have thought?”

“I don’t suppose I mentioned that Muggles find cinnamon to be an organic aphrodisiac?” Ominis says innocently. “At least, that’s what Mister Pippin said. He told me you might have some rather amorous dreams while you recover.”

“No, I think you forgot to mention that,” Sebastian replies just as innocently.

Ominis simply hums and says, “Well, now that you’ve been made aware, I’ll be off to Herbology. I’d recommend locking the door if our dear friend is going to be keeping you company this afternoon, Sebastian.”

You’re too embarrassed to say a word, but Sebastian cheerfully thanks him as he pulls the door shut and reaches for his wand on his bedside table to magically lock it behind him.

“We’ve become menaces,” you whine as he rolls on top of you once more.

Sebastian grins wickedly down at you. “Not yet we haven’t, but thank Merlin we’ve got all afternoon.”

[undercoveravenger]

The Haunted House

Pairing: Remus Lupin x Male!Reader:

Requested: Yes

Request: “getting dared to go into the shrieking shack on Halloween (wow, a full moon on Halloween? How weird...) and finding a big scary werewolf waiting for you. Except he's really not all that scary, he just won't let you leave because Remus really likes you and his wolf form can't quite say that, just wants to keep you there.”

A/N: This is post number 4 for the 2023 Spooky Month event. Y’alls trick or treat is coming next Tuesday, October 31st. Hope you’re ready.

-----

The Shrieking Shack had well earned its name throughout the years you’d been at Hogwarts, with guttural screams and groans echoing from it each month around the time of the full moon. You’d heard dozens of different stories- ghosts, ghouls, poltergeists like Peeves. Someone from your Transfiguration class even thought it was some long-abandoned merfolk in a tank that’d grown too small.

Whatever it was though, you were going to find out.  The lot of you had had to sneak out of your commonrooms and were nearly caught by patrolling professors or prefects a couple times, but now here you are with your friends crowding around behind you clamoring encouragingly, you stand just past the fence separating the Shrieking Shack from the rest of Hogsmeade. The full moon looms ominously just over the ramshackle eaves of the decrepit building, providing just enough light for you to pick your way through the snowy yard and up to the front door.

A mumbled spell is enough to break away the locks and rotting boards holding the door closed and you’re able to force it open the rest of the way with a forceful shove. You only allow yourself one fleeting glance over your shoulder at your friends before making your way into the house and closing the door behind you, resolved to completing your friends’ dare and staying the night in the haunted house.

The floorboards creak with every step you take, wavering slightly under your shoes as your weight puts pressure on long-damaged planks as you make your way deeper into the house, each room revealing deep gashes carved into the walls and floors. Tattered strips of fabric from what might have been blankets or clothes are strewn about, stained a dark rust color in places from what you can only assume is blood. Some rooms even have shards of what would have once been furniture, a splintered chunk of wood that may have once been the arm of a couch tossed thoughtlessly against one wall of a ruined living room and the stuffing from a gutted chair cushion decorating an old bedroom, but no matter how many torn apart rooms you explore, you aren’t been able to find the source of the screams.

It finds you.

You’d wandered into what you think was once-upon-a-time a study, an ancient oak desk sitting on two broken legs in the middle of the room and its chair upturned nearby. The contents of the desk had proven uninteresting by the time you’d dug through the second desk drawer and you’ve gotten to the point of boredom that you’re considering just leaving altogether when you see it standing in the doorway. You’re not sure how long it had been watching you, but it stands, still as a shadow, with pitch dark eyes locked squarely on you.

You can see the beast’s raised hackles over the top of its head, lowered so it can fix you with a brutal stare, and a growl so low it rumbles through you like thunder fills the room as it takes a looming step closer. As it creeps forward, a brush of moonlight from the cracked window pane behind you catches it, giving you just enough light to make out further details of the creature.

At first glance, you might’ve thought it was just a wolf, but the longer you look the more your situation begins to sink in. The creature before you was nearly double the size of any wolf you’d ever heard of, back easily brushing the doorknob as it stalks into the room. Its legs are long and its paws splay when it walks like they’re not quite right, but the real telling point are its eyes. It doesn’t look away from you as it approaches, not even for a second, weaving through discarded furniture and debris like it was second nature until it stands just on the other side of the desk from you. It doesn’t look like it’s questioning whether you’re a threat like any other wild animal would, and the growl has started to subside now that it’s gotten a good look at you. The look in its eyes, while certainly somewhat wild, is too human to be anything else.

You’re not quite sure what to do at this point, not with a massive werewolf between you and the door, but being in a werewolf’s den during the full moon certainly can’t be a good idea. With that in mind you begin to move, edging slowly around the corner of the desk in order to not spook the wolf, already surprised by its calm demeanor and unwilling to test its good graces. The wolf allows you to pass by it and slip from the room, though you can hear the heavy footfalls of its paws as it follows you. You move back toward the front door, intent on leaving the same way you’d come, but you’re stopped by the massive wolf letting out another thunderous growl and shoving its way between you and the door. It bullies you on with more furious growls and pointed nips to your heels and hands, further into the house and up a narrow back staircase into a near demolished bedroom.

You obey when it gives you a pointed glare, settling down against the wall opposite the door. A satisfied huff escapes the wolf and it pads after you, flopping carelessly down to lay beside you and resting its large head heavily on your lap. The reason behind the werewolf’s behavior was confusing, certainly, but werewolves had been known to be territorial and prone to violence from what you’d heard, so if sitting here for a few hours while you waited for the wolf to shift back meant it’d keep you safe, then that was a small price to pay. 

-----

It’s not the watery morning light that wakes you, but the shift against you. The aching, tortured gasp of pain that escapes as the person curled against you moves. The sound has you on high alert straightening against your back’s own cry of pain from sleeping sitting up all night, eyes blinking open blearily and finding the now-human werewolf trying to shift away from you.

It takes you a moment to recognize him without his signature posse of idiots and the bright red Gryffindor robes, but you are able to place the jagged pink scars across his face and his curly brown hair from some of your shared classes - Remus Lupin. 

“Remus?” His name escapes you before you can stop yourself from speaking and you can see the way the tension takes root in him, joints and muscles coiling under his skin like he was preparing himself to run from some threat.

He seems to have to force himself to settle before he can speak, dark chocolate eyes examining you thoroughly. “I didn’t hurt you, did I? When I was-” He cuts himself off with a clear of his throat, eyes dropping back to his lap. He must’ve managed to track down his clothes from before he’d shifted since he was using them to cover himself. “I can’t really remember anything when I’m… like that.”

“No,” you say, and you can see the relief wash over him, tension easing in his shoulders and he no longer looks like he is going to accidentally shred his jumper. “No, you, uh, well you brought me here and then decided it was a proper time for a cuddle apparently.” You try to force a laugh, though the situation is certainly still awkward, “I thought that werewolves were s’posed to be scary, y’know? Think you’re just a were-lapdog instead?” 

A startled laugh slips out of Remus and he looks almost as stunned by it as by your words, “I- I don’t know. This is kind of a new reaction? I’m, uh, I’m usually not so nice when I’m not myself.”

“Huh,” you say, more curious than ever about the wolf’s odd behavior, “I wonder why you were acting like that then? It didn’t really seem to be aggression, even when you growled at me - more like herding behavior like my uncle’s collie.”

Remus flushes at that. This close you can see the dozens of tiny freckles that scattered over his cheeks and down his jaw and neck. “I… have a theory,” he says quietly, like he almost can’t bring himself to say it. His gaze drops back to the bundle of cloth in your hands and you almost wonder if he would’ve tried to sneak out before you had woken up. You wouldn’t have blamed him if he did. “I think it’s some sort of passively shared consciousness? I can’t really connect to it at all, but maybe it can get a sense of my feelings? Like if I strongly disliked someone, it would probably act accordingly, and if I liked someone…” Remus trails off at that, flushing impossibly redder.

An amused little snort escapes you then and you lean forward, supporting yourself with your arms as you push yourself into his field of vision. “Is this you saying you like me, Remus?” You can’t help the chuckle that escapes you at the way you can already see him scrambling for a response, but you lean forward to press a light kiss to his cheek before he can find the words. “Cute,” you say, grinning as you watch the realization hit him. “Sit with me at breakfast?”

He nods slowly as he wraps his mind around your words, eventually letting you help him to his feet and back into his clothes. The two of you eventually make your way back to Hogwarts through the secret passage under the Whomping Willow that he shows you, taking breaks when he needs them and trading banter and kisses all the way.

And while your friends were curious about the shy Gryffindor sitting beside you at breakfast with his hand curled tight with yours, none of them questioned what really happened to you during your night in the haunted house.

[koqabear]

Lamb To The Slaughter

♫: Gods & Monsters, Lana Del Rey

"An act of kindness goes a long way, your parents told you once; their words stuck with you all your life, your pure heart never failing to follow their philosophy— though, it seems your naive self was left unaware of just how far an act of kindness can go."

wolf hybrid!beomgyu x lamb hybrid!fem!reader x herding dog hybrid!soobin

Genre: smut, hybrid au, angst, porn with the world's smallest amount of plot

Word count: 15.8k

Warnings: barely edited oops, heavy predator/prey themes, injuries/blood, use of scents, scent glands and scenting, mentions of kidnapping and murder, psychological abuse i guess… this fic doesn’t let you forget that they’re hybrids btw, (showcases animal-like behaviors and habits), soogyu are stronger than the mc, obsessiveness, manipulation

Smut Warnings: DUBCON. threesome, mean dom!gyu, soft dom!soobin, sub!mc,inexperienced!mc, pet names (pretty, doll, good girl, etc.) manhandling, marking, subspace, possessiveness, choking kinda, dry humping, praise, praise kink, humiliation, dacryphilia, fingering, exhibitionism/voyeurism, degrading, orgasm control, dumbification, finger sucking, cum eating(?), spanking, begging, mind breaking, unprotected sex, jerking off ig, jealousy, hair pulling, rough sex, corruption kink maybe, multiple orgasms, overstimulation, double vaginal penetration… brief mentions of breeding, creampies, knotting, claiming, mc blacks out. (lmk if i should add anything.)

Notes: look at these stupidly long paragraphs of warnings oh im gonna kms. this story almost had me plucking my hairs out one by one, i’ve never been so stressed out by a pwp before. it was originally an ot5 au and was supposed to come out during october but… yk. shit happens. (i saw a post that changed the entire trajectory of this fic)

[This story contains dark content. Please read the warnings carefully; I am not responsible for the content you choose to consume.]

The forest at the edge of the village is something that should’ve been closed off long ago— but there’s no resources, no men to work on the border, no money— so the townspeople have resorted to old myths and tales to ward off wandering children and defenseless women instead.

There’s a killer in the forest— fairies will lead you down the wrong path and trap you in the woods forever; there’s a hidden pond so deep that if you fall in, you’ll sink forever. Typical tales that are told around the bonfire, where people cower and whisper from the thrill of the stories. Yet with each varied warning, one thing stays the same.  

There are wolves in the forest.

Large and strong and invincible, with a terrifying bloodlust and noses so keen they could spot you the moment you cross the barrier; tearing you to shreds, eating you alive and forcing you to feel the pain all throughout it. The wolves are always hungry, insatiable, and lurking about for its next prey— anyone who would enter the woods willingly would be deemed suicidal. 

You’ve never been one to believe such tales; how could you, when you’ve grown alongside the forest?

There are wolves in the forest, that much you’re sure of— but the fantastical tales and myths are nothing but a farce, crafted from the fear of the unknown and the dark, entangled landscape that lies past the backyard of your small cottage; belonging to your deceased parents, now left to fend on your own and care for the gardens and lush plants your mother had carefully cultivated since you were a child. 

She taught you everything you needed to know about the forest; which paths to take, which areas led to steep cliffs or poison ivy, and where to find herbs and plants that would aid to the medicinal business your family ran— you were fascinated by the craft, even as a young child, learning with eager eyes and an even more eager mind as you stored all the information in your small, worn down journal; the pink material of the cover faded and torn at the corners, filled to the brim yet still useful to you as you took it with you on every trip.  

Tonight, you pull on a warm coat dress; it’s thick and durable, a cute piece gifted on your birthday by the baker’s son, the border collie family always making sure to look after you since the day you were left on your own. The shawl sewed into the coat hangs over your shoulders like a small cape, adding in extra warmth as you look out the window and onto the cold scenery; the leaves have begun to abandon the trees, and if you hadn’t memorized the forest layout like the back of your hand, the covered paths might’ve concerned you— but you’re confident as always, grabbing your wicker basket and perching it on the crook of your elbow, glancing down to make sure your journal is already inside— and with one last mental check to make sure you have everything you need, you slip on your boots and make your way outside. 

“Soobin,” you say in surprise, swinging the door open, getting scared at the sight of someone already waiting for you outside— the said man only smiles at the sound of his name, laughing fondly at the way you press a gentle hand against your startled heart; his ears perk up at the sight of you and his black hair is slightly disheveled, though you guess it’s probably from his habit of running a hand through it whenever he’s restless— he holds a basket of his own, and your eyes fall onto it with a curiosity you don’t bother to hide.

“Hello pretty,” he smiles softly, the nickname never failing to make a heat flush up the back of your neck— you really hope he doesn’t notice your flushed expression, his eyes narrowing with fondness as he brings his basket up, opening it to show you the contents, “I made an extra batch of bread, and I thought you’d like some. Business will get busy for us both soon, and I’d hate for you to get hungry because you don’t have time to eat.”

He’s sweet and caring, and it never fails to leave your knees weak— he looks at you with nothing short of affection, raising a brow in curiosity and glancing down at your already occupied arm— his brows furrow, biting his lip in thought as he finally pieces everything together. 

“Are you going to the woods?” he asks softly, reaching past you and into the doorway, placing the basket of bread on the table next to the door— his hands are immediately coming up to your shoulders, smoothing out the soft material of the coat with narrowed eyes— and they’re filled with worry again, ears angling down and tail swaying slowly from side to side, searching your face that can’t seem to lie to him, “It’s dangerous to go at this hour, you shouldn’t.”

“It’ll only be dangerous if you continue to stall me,” you tease, shrugging his hands off and wrapping your own around his elbow, tugging him until you’re both stepping out of your home; he allows you to, and you’re locking it up with ease, even as he continues to tell you not to, to go another day, another time— you huff, shaking your head and frowning at the way he begins to offer to come with you; his instincts must be kicking in again, eyes filled with a calculated look he only sports when looking out for your safety— and with you being nothing but a fragile little lamb in his eyes, this look was something you’ve become very familiar with. 

“No, you mustn’t come with— it’s dangerous, and I’m the only one who knows my way around the woods,” you scold him, and even though he stares at you with that intimidating, stern look, murmuring about something about his keen senses, you stand your ground, “I’m too one-track-minded to guide someone else through these woods— I’d hate for you to get hurt because of me.”

He sighs— and you know you’ve gotten him good by the way he remains silent, stalling his leave as he tries continuing to reason with you— but you keep refusing in return, cooing softly that you’ll be okay, that you’ll be quick. 

“I’ll wait for you,” he finally says, refusing to back down even as you express your worry; after a moment of bickering, you finally give in. Your eyes widen in surprise as he gently pulls you in for a hug, engulfed entirely in his embrace as he rests his chin on your shoulder, inhaling your scent with a content sigh— warm, comforting and pure, like jasmine with the hint of a pure, soft vanilla, his nose subconsciously poking at your gland in search for more— and you shiver at the feeling, engulfed in his calming scent, a sage and rich pine, allowing yourself to melt in his arms and hold you tighter, ignoring the way your heart begins to race the longer your remain there. 

“Come back to me safe.”

Soobin is just as solemn and loyal as he was the day he declared that he would always protect you— and it makes your heart race a bit faster, a dopey smile stuck on your face as you wave him goodbye— you sigh pathetically the moment you’re finally in the woods.

The leaves crunch under your feet and birds chirp in the distance; it’s comforting to you, humming softly to yourself as you walk the paths you need to take without much of a thought, gathering herbs and plants as you slowly check them off your list; everything goes as smoothly as it always does, your mind in awe as you witness the sun beginning to set. 

You should get going soon; it was never ideal to be in the woods after dark, no matter how familiar you were with the landscape. The thought makes your steps quicken and your eyes sweep over the land in acute concentration, looking for the last plant on your list— you’re freezing entirely when you hear a shift against the leaves. 

You’re still; was it a false alarm, or a harmless rabbit passing by? You’re not entirely sure, wicker basket heavy in your hand as the other presses firmly against your heart; trying to settle your heart rate, breathing deeply as you look for any signs of movement, any signs of life around you. 

Just when you think the coast is clear, you hear it again; rustling against the leaves, harsh and erratic as something else greets your ears— sharp pants and sounds of struggle, a pained yelp resounding into the vast space and sending you into action before you can think twice. 

You round the thick oak tree ahead of you, searching for the source of the sound— and stumble back in surprise, an involuntary gasp escaping you as sharp eyes and equally sharp teeth point your way— a man lays before you, injured and weak.

Except, he’s not just a man; that much is made clear to you the moment your eyes sweep over his frame once more, taking in the ears that press flat on his head and his fangs that remain bared at you, the injured man—wolf hybrid— growling lowly at you and shuffling back to curl against the thick tree that once covered him; your hands shake as you hold onto your basket a little tighter, wide eyes sweeping over his figure and inevitably landing on the source of all this commotion; a twisted ankle, rendering the man before you immobile. 

You must run— you must, and it’s all your instincts seem to yell at you, your muscles becoming rigid with tension, white ears pressing flat against the top of your head and fluffy tail quivering with fear— but you have yet to, something about the look in the wolf’s eyes making you ignore your instincts, just for a second; behind the dangerous fangs that glint beneath the remaining light and his eyes that are narrowed threateningly, you can still see the pain he’s found himself in.

Something inside you clicks— your weak heart twists and your hands grip your basket a bit tighter, a voice in your mind telling you that you can’t just leave him like this; you can do something to help. Next thing you know, you’re taking cautious, slow steps toward him, hands held out to show that you’re nothing close to a threat— though you’re sure that the smell of fear that rolls off you in waves is enough of an indicator— and your soft voice is whispering out your intentions, continuing your approach even as he bares his teeth at you in warning. 

“I want to help you,” you say softly, finally at his feet as you place your basket gently next to him; and he growls at you once more, though you don’t find yourself to be afraid— if he were dangerous, he would’ve attacked long ago. It’s the only thought that repeats itself in your mind like a prayer, pretending as though your hands don’t tremble as you reach into your basket, as you grab the herbs you were just stocking up on and the bandages you carry for emergencies. 

He lets out a particularly harsh growl that makes you jump; it makes you hesitate to touch his skin, bruised and broken and bloody, eyes jumping to meet his— and though the action was meant to be confident, nothing can hide the fear that taints your eyes, the way your frame shrinks slightly when you’ve found that he has no issues holding eye contact— and after a standstill moment, you finally continue, ripping a piece of the bandage and attempting to clean the wound as best as you can. 

You’re a bit clumsy at first; unable to look away from the man, his strikingly dark red hair that's matted to his head from a thin layer of sweat, dirtied clothes and face that’s twisted in a mean glare— but eventually, it softens, the deep heaving of his chest calming as he watches the way you tend to him with deft hands, not seeming to care if he’s soiling your pretty coat as you tug him closer to you. 

The bandages are tight on his ankle and you’ve placed herbs within to help soothe the swelling— all tricks you’ve learned from your mother, from the times when you would run about carelessly and twist your ankle in some hidden hole, only calming your cries to see her work her magic on you.

Reassuring words don’t do much in the grand scheme of things, but you still whisper them sweetly to the injured man before you, dry bandage cleaning along the rest of his calf as you tell him to rest, to try and not overexert himself. And though you don’t know if he can understand you, though you’re unsure of where he came from— because as far as you know, wolves have been banished from your village for decades— you still find yourself caring for him. It’s something he can pick up on in your eyes, gentle and reflecting the last of the sun’s golden rays that leak through the woods. 

It’s quiet; it’s peaceful. Warm fingers lingering on his skin much longer than you intended, a curiosity leaking through your wide eyes as you take in his figure, the tall dark ears that stand on his head, the tail that lays on his side, thumping rhythmically— and you think you’ve finally found the courage to ask who are you? Lips parting to speak, you’re cut off by the sound of rustling, a new overwhelming scent overtaking your senses; something is approaching. 

The man before you doesn’t seem to be worried; it’s you that’s whipping around to the source of the sound, shrinking pathetically once you spot something emerging from the dark, thick mass of trees behind you; eyes, multiple pairs, glowing and angry as they stare at you like you’re their next meal— you’re not sure how many pairs there might be, but you’re stumbling to your feet quickly, eyes widening as you realize that the sun has set long, long ago.

You almost slip on the leaves beneath you; one last glance at the man behind you shows that his hands were out as though to catch you, expression twisted with what you’re surprised to see is… concern. But as a rough growling begins to surround the two of you, a sharp pang of fear courses through your body, the gravity of your situation finally sinking in as your eyes sweep around the area in one last, terrified glance.

They’re targeting you.

Before you can think twice, you’re turning on your heel and running— though nothing follows behind, you still let adrenaline take its course, shallow breaths and teary eyes guiding you back to your home; you don’t realize how crazed you must’ve looked until you’re finally reaching your front door, a worried Soobin immediately interrupting your flee and scooping you into his arms, whirling around to shield you away from the forest.

“Are you alright? Are you hurt? Dear, what happened?” he’s breathing out the concerned questions against the crown of your head, arms wrapped tightly around your middle and the only thing keeping you up as your knees buckle with fear; his gaze sweeps down to the state of your cute coat, the once pristine and pink material now dirty and bloodied; his hands hold onto it with a newfound panic, lifting the coat and attempting to find the source— it isn’t until you’ve let out a few pathetic sniffles that you can finally reassure him the blood is not yours.

“Is everything okay? Did something happen to you? Oh, I should’ve—” Soobin has pulled away to cup your face in his hands, wiping away the tears that escape your sweet eyes like a fountain; thumbs caressing your tear-streaked skin lovingly, brows knitted together as his concern pours off him in waves— and you shake your head softly, attempting to dissuade the guilt he must’ve felt for leaving you on your own. 

“It’s fine, I’m not hurt,” you croak out, grabbing onto his waist for support as you finally regain the strength in your legs, “I just— had some encounters with a wolf— but I’m safe, they didn’t hurt me, I’m just a bit shaken, is all.”

“A wolf?” Soobin asks, much more concerned by your words as he pulls away to inspect you once more; his hands run gingerly over your shoulders, running along them until they’ve stopped at your neck, eyes honing in on the spot for a moment before he sighs in relief. His gaze is hardening once more, cupping your face and looking at your sternly as he speaks. “Where were they? Did they follow you? Did you interact with them?”

“No, no— it’s alright, I’m alright, I promise,” you breathe out, hoping that Soobin doesn’t notice the way you shrink under his gaze, the way your body warms up at his touch— but he’s much too concerned about your safety to pick up on it, dismissing every cue of your body as nothing but fear, instincts heightened as he looks behind you and back at the forest you just came from. He watches the woods carefully, eyes narrowed and ears perked in concentration— but nothing happens, and he’s left to reluctantly believe your words, even if he wants nothing more than to run into the woods himself and make sure there’s no threat to you. 

After a moment of observing the forest, Soobin is turning back to you, and his gaze immediately softens at the sight. The brave front you put up isn’t fooling him, and it’s quite obvious that you’re still shaken from your encounter, delicate ears still pressed close to your head, eyes wide and scent muddled with distress— like rotten flowers, earthy and pungent— and with all the adrenaline ebbing away from your system, you’ve found that your legs have become pure jelly once more; Soobin is quick to catch on to the way you tremble and hold on to him tightly. 

“Oh, my doll,” Soobin sighs softly, fishing for your keys in your coat pockets and unlocking the door for you, leading you inside with a careful hand— as though you were made of porcelain, still shaken and anxious as he leads you to sit down, “it’s alright, you’re safe now— I’ll keep you safe.”

Soobin insists on taking care of you long after you tell him you feel better; he’s keen to protect you through and through, keeping his distance yet still doting on you as he makes you tea, helps you out of your coat, and even offers to wash it for you— the sight replaces the heavy fear in your stomach with butterflies. 

When he bids you goodbye, his eyes are soft, his movements slightly reluctant— but he must, it’s unlawful for him to stay the night with you; an unclaimed little prey like you, spending the night with Soobin, even if he was nothing short of perfect and kind, was enough to have the town gossiping like a storm. The very thought has your cheeks hot and your tongue stumbling on words, telling Soobin to get home safe with a shy, sweet voice— and he brushes his thumb against your cheekbones, smiling fondly before he leans in to press a kiss to your forehead; he lingers there, and you think you might just melt against him before he finally bids you goodbye. 

Your heart still races long after he’s gone; you suppose all this makes up for the fact that you forgot your basket in the woods, mourning the fact that you’ll have to go back to get it tomorrow— but for now, you’re content with giggling softly at the memory of Soobin’s lips against your skin, completely unaware of the eyes that watch you twirl around your kitchen happily.

 ≪ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

When you wake up, you find something peculiar at your doorstep; your wicker basket is placed before your feet, pristine as it was when you first took it out. 

Your brows furrow, looking around the area and wondering how it got here— your mind is going back to the wolf you tended to, eyes slowly sweeping over the dense forest, ears twitching in attention, listening for even the slightest rustle of leaves, wondering if he’s still lingering— but the world around you is still, and it seems to be only you here. You bend down to pick the basket up carefully. 

Everything is intact— your herbs, your bandages, your worn down pink journal— and the closer you bring it to your face in order to inspect it, the better you’re able to catch something peculiar; a scent, your nose twitching in curiosity and your eyes narrowing. The unknown scent only grows stronger the closer you get to the handkerchief you used to line the inside, and only then are you able to get a good sense of it— light and heady, like an amber and smoky smell filling your nose, finding yourself oddly enticed by the scent. 

You’re far too wrapped up in attempting to decipher the complicated notes of this new scent to notice someone approaching; your senses have gotten so used to Soobin’s presence you no longer find yourself alert around him, only perking up at the approaching sound of leaves crunching and the familiar, sage filling your senses— tucking the basket behind your back, you send him a meek smile, cheeks heating up as you silently hope he didn’t see you curiously nosing at your basket. 

“Hey, pretty thing,” Soobin rumbles out lowly, smiling fondly at the way you practically preen at the name; you’re terrible at hiding your expression, the way your ears twitch at his words not helping your attempts to seem nonchalant before him. 

“Hi Soobin,” you smile, fingers restlessly playing with the wicker basket behind your back as you tilt your head curiously, “what’re you doing here today?”

“I needed to check on you,” he says immediately, a soft oh leaving your lips at that, “I couldn’t sleep well knowing I just… left you here on your own. I needed to make sure you were safe.”

“Soobin, it’s fine, really,” you reassure him softly, fluffy tail wiggling behind you at the fact that he confessed how worried he was about you, his dedication to keep you safe, “Nothing happened— as long as I’m in my home, I’m safe.”

Soobin wants to argue against that, you can tell. But you don’t give him a chance to, inviting him in with a tug at his arm, smiling at the way he immediately relents; you tell him about your plans for today over a cup of tea, that you have to make a few deliveries to some homes across the village— Soobin practically jumps to offer to come with. 

“You– won’t you be busy?” you ask shyly, staring down at your teacup and stirring your spoon in  a feeble way to distract yourself. 

“No, I’m not needed at the bakery today,” Soobin immediately reassures you, reaching over the table to place a delicate hand over your own— and you stiffen, a heat rushing through your body at the sudden contact; the smell of sage wafts over to you as his thumb rubs soothingly over your skin, your mind mulling over his offer as you bite at your lip in thought. 

He’s eager to hear you say yes; his tail wags slowly behind him, ears perked up and eyes honed in on your every expression— and after a moment, you finally nod meekly. 

“It’s only a house or two, but the walk is… it’s far,” you say, standing at the doorway and reaching over for your basket, placing the bottles and jars filled with homemade remedies inside carefully— but before you can continue your explanations and tuck your basket snuggly into the crook of your arm, Soobin is taking it from you, his brows knitted together as he stares down at the item in confusion. 

“I thought you lost this,” he says quietly, rotating the item in his hands, taking in its pristine condition with a frown— his ears are perking up and his tail is straightening, head whipping over to you with wide, concerned eyes. “Did you go into the woods to retrieve it?”

“No!” you say, oddly defensive as you shake your head adamantly, “It just— it was at my doorstep this morning, I think someone might have found it—”

“The wolf,” Soobin sneers, his tone much darker than it was mere moments ago— it makes your ears flatten against your head and your figure shrink, his scent turning earthy and thick and rendering you docious and pliant— his eyes are darting from the basket and back to you, only to go back to the basket in order to examine it closely; the moment Soobin brings it closer to his face, you’re able to see the very moment where that same, smoky scent enters his senses— his pupils dilate, and his nose twitches. 

The same scent as before. Soobin recognized it as the same scent that you were drenched in the moment you found him, shaken and face aghast— your coat and skin reeked of nothing but that scent, wanting nothing more than to take you inside and replace it with his own— but the most he could do in the moment was hold you close and hope that it would wash off. 

The owner of this scent must have brought you the basket back; Soobin’s head races to find meaning, to find reason, adrenaline coursing through his body that yells at him to take action; this must be a threat—you’ve been followed, they know where you live.

“It isn’t safe for you to stay there anymore,” Soobin proceeded to tell you, only confessing how he felt once you were far, far away from your home— from the woods. And you could only shake your head at that, the reassurances an automatic response in your head at this point. 

But Soobin wasn’t going to go down without a fight this time; knowing that the wolf was out there somewhere, that he knew where you lived and even went as far as to visit your home— it made Soobin tense with anger. 

“That wolf was at your doorstep without you knowing,” Soobin continued to reason, all throughout your walk back, “you don’t know who they are— what their intentions are.” 

It was only then that you decided to mull through his offer to stay, or for you to stay with his family— images of a bloodthirsty wolf at your doorstep filled your mind, and you couldn’t help but feel like your nine year old self again, sitting at a fireplace and telling each other scary stories about the forest only a few feet away from you— your young self would always be left shaken and paranoid, asking your parents if you could sleep in their bed. 

Maybe you’ve become too used to being independent; you’ve survived this long on your own— most lamb hybrids you knew couldn’t walk around at night without having a trusted predator around to protect them, just in case— yet you were so used to depending only on yourself that you seem to have forgotten how truly vulnerable your species is; Soobin made sure to remind you with a stern look and crossed arms. 

“I don’t see why you’re insisting so much, binnie— I promise nothing happens here, this place is dead,” you tell him as you make dinner for the two of you, the sun now long gone and the man still stuck to your side, leaning against the counter beside you and watching you cook dutifully— his eyes drift over to the window behind him, looking over his shoulder and at the dark, gloomy forest that obscures his view; his eyes can’t help but narrow and pick apart each shape he sees, nose keen and eager to sense any changes, any hint of that smoky smell— but he sees nothing, and he’s turning back around to catch the way you send him a slightly incredulous look. 

“I understand why you might feel this way— you’ve been on your own for longer than you can remember, after all,” Soobin says softly, taking in the way your eyes remain downcast and you shy away from his gaze. Hesitantly, he shifts to stand behind you, a gentle hand placing itself on your bicep before his head lowers to rest on your shoulder; his forehead rests against you, able to smell the restless, flowery notes of your scent— despite the strong front you put up, Soobin’s keen senses are still able to pick up on the tenseness of your body, the way you keep glancing out the window and into the forest unsurely. 

“You have to allow yourself to be helped— there’s nothing wrong with that, doll,” he coaxes softly, ears atop his head twitching at the sound of the shaky sigh you let out— the stove is turned off, and the food is done— but you don’t seem to care about that much. 

Carefully, Soobin nudges at your jaw with his head; allowing your neck to tilt slowly, to expose it to him as his nose runs along your skin delicately, until it’s pressed against your scent gland, inhaling slowly and taking in the intense mix of smells and emotions within you— and he presses his lips softly against it, a gentle kiss that turns your scent sweet and fresh like a blooming flower; your heart pounds against your chest for a second, then proceeds to relax against Soobin’s hold the moment his scent invades your senses. 

“I’m here to protect you.” 

His words stick to you for the rest of the night— as does he, his presence reassuring enough to make you forget of why he was here in the first place— enough to allow you to miss the glowing eyes that peek from the edge of the forest as you get a glass of water in the middle of the night, taking in your drowsy figure and eyes that are heavy with sleep; unaware of the pair of eyes that take you in hungrily, the tongue that runs along a sharp set of teeth, nose twitching to get another gust of your sweet, clean scent, the muddled vanilla that makes his mouth water. 

With Soobin lying in the guest bedroom, you’re almost able to forget that there are wolves in the forest. That there is one that has now set his sights on the cute little lamb that tended to him with wide eyes and an innocent heart. 

 ≪ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

It’s early in the morning when you bid Soobin goodbye; your cheeks are flushed and you’re barely able to look him in the eye, despite not having done anything more than talk the whole night. He finds your shyness nothing short of endearing, placing one last affectionate kiss on top of your head before he tells you to call him if you ever need anything— to never be afraid to ask for help. You nodded to his words with a soft smile. 

Watching him leave had left a bit of an empty feeling in your heart; you couldn’t seem to help but watch him leave pathetically, standing at your doorway even after he had long gone; his scent still drifted around in your senses, the warm and sturdy scent helping you remain calm as you finally went back inside— closing the door behind you, you were pleasantly surprised to see that your home still smelled strongly of him. 

You had over ten different orders you needed to work on; you were able to busy yourself with making medicine throughout the rest of the day, boiling herbs and making remedies for colds and illnesses and burns. It was a tedious and slow process, and as you finally began to reach the end of your list, you couldn’t help but frown. 

You ran out of two different herbs needed for these next three orders; without them, you wouldn’t be able to make the medications at all. 

Glancing out the window, you gulped; it wouldn’t be another thirty minutes before the sun set, but after your encounter a few days ago— paired with Soobin’s warning and harsh reality check— you were much more hesitant to go into the woods on your own. 

You could call Soobin— ask him if he’d like to accompany you, stay put until you finally had proper protection. You mulled over the idea for a moment, your traitorous mind whisperering encouraging words in order to see him again; it’s just for protection, you told yourself, walking over to your landline phone before you began to dial his number, tangling the long cord around your fingers absentmindedly as you did; you tried to dismiss the nervous pounding of your heart, the way you bit at your lips in anticipation of hearing his voice again.

“Hello?” you’re gulping slightly at the sound— part of you wasn’t expecting him to actually answer. Clearing your throat softly, you muster up the courage to do what you’ve been hesitant to for so long. 

“Hi Soobin,” you start softly, listening to the small hum of acknowledgement from the other side, “I— I’m sorry to bother, but I just wanted to ask; I have to make another trip to the forest— it’s urgent— and I… well, I was wondering if you’d be able to accompany me. For protection.” 

The shyness and hesitance in your voice is horribly apparent; it makes you face burn and your hands grow clammy, feeling as though there’s a lump in your throat as you wait for him to respond— it feels like eternity, but in reality, it’s merely seconds—- and you’re practically slumping against the wall in relief when he gives you a soft of course I can in response.

“Wait for me inside until I get there,” he says, and you nod, letting out a sound of affirmation as well, “I’ll be quick.” 

Soobin hangs up promptly after; you’re left to scurry around your home in preparation of your trip, changing out of your sullied work clothes and into something more comfortable— inevitably, the same coat from before finds itself wrapped around your form, and as you wait by the doorway with your wicker basket in hand, you realize with a smile that the item is practically drowned in Soobin’s scent— the item is wrapped around you tighter and your nose is burrowed deeply into the soft plush-like material, your senses spinning with the warm, earthy smells that belong to the man. 

The sun is setting— but he’ll be here soon, a fact only proved by the sound of footsteps your keen ears manage to pick up on; you’re practically racing to make it to your front door, only to pause at the sound of something else— more footsteps. 

Instinct brings your body to the floor and away from all windows; your back is pressed up against your door, ear pressed tightly against the wood as you remain alert, subconsciously holding your breath in fear of getting spotted in any way— but whoever is currently surrounding your home knows you’re here, judging by the way they take careful, calculated steps closer to your door— you will your heart to remain calm, to not alert them that you currently lean on the very item separating the two of you, but the fear that courses through your veins is simply too strong. 

Your mind is racing a mile a minute; you try to calculate who it could be, why they’re here— and you’re thinking back to Soobin’s warnings the night before, eyes widening as you scold yourself for being such a naive idiot— because as you pick up of the soft sounds of sniffing and low growls, you realize that you’ve managed to lead a pack of wolves right to your home. 

It all happens too quickly; you’re running from the door at the sudden spike of scents, like a dirty smoke that approaches your door in the blink of an eye— the wood practically flies off its hinges with the way it’s broken into, a scream involuntarily leaving you as you grab the nearest thing to you as a weapon— the fire pit poker is thin and old in your hands, but that’s the last thing on your mind as you back away slowly, taking in the wolves that make their way into your home with sheer terror. 

One, two, three— it’s only three of them, but it’s enough to have your limbs trembling and your ears pressed flat against your head; tall, broad figures, disheveled in appearance and looking at you with eyes dilated, filled with nothing but a carnal hunger that makes your stomach twist into knots. 

It’s a standstill. They watch you with coy smiles and blown out eyes, watching as you press yourself against the wall, wondering if you can make it to the back exit of your home if you try enough— but they’re perceptive to even the most miniscule movement, every twitch of your muscle garnering a step closer from any one of them; you remain still, and so do they. It’s silent, save for the ragged heavings of your chest and the low grumbles that resonate from theirs— they have yet to make a move, locking eyes with the tallest and watching as his lips quirk into a smile.

You feel nauseous. They’re toying with you.

They could easily take you— kill you— in a split second; the second you try to run, they’ll be hot on your heels, outmatched three to one and left at their mercy entirely. And judging by the way they practically salivate at the smell of fear that radiates from you, you don’t think your fate with them will end well.

You gulp. They watch you, keen eyes taking in the way your throat bobs, the tears that fill your eyes— the way your legs look as though they’ll give out on you any moment now, the flimsy poker in your hands nothing but a joke as you point it at them in warning— as though it would do anything, they muse. 

One of them, with a head of ginger hair and eyes sharp as a knife, begins to approach; you tense, bringing the poker forward more, inhaling sharply and taking a step back— but that only garners a sharp growl from another, with pitch black hair and a gaze so threatening it renders you pliant; hesitantly, you meet the eyes of the man who stands before you, narrowed eyes taking you in with amusement. 

He reaches towards you— again you tense, flinching at the movement and weakly yelling at the wolf to stay back—! But it can only come out as a breathless whisper, your entire being rendered useless, instincts doing nothing but telling you that this is it; accept your fate, it tells you, weakening your muscles and sending off waves of fear so thick the room reeks of death and rot; your figure shrinks the moment he grabs your poker, ignoring your clearly empty warning as he lowers it forcefully, fighting easily against any strength you had left. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he smiles, baring his teeth that only makes your blood run cold— sharp canines, strong and in great condition to bite and chew even the toughest of meats— “We’ll take good care of you.”

A sharp growling impedes the man before you from closing in on you, from taking away what little space was left between you— the sound is loud and furious, making the three wolves before you turn immediately in search of the source; including you, the foreign sound making your knees buckle and the poker fall from your hands as you paralyze with fear. 

Standing in the doorway is a figure you remember quite well— the sight of him makes your eyes widen and you heart flicker a dim light of hope, watching the way he sends the three wolves before you a pointed glare, enough to make the two nearest to him avert their eyes the moment his gaze lands on them. 

“Beomgyu,” the wolf near you sneers, “what the hell are you doing?”

He doesn’t bother answering the question; his eyes land on you, on your figure that visibly trembles with fear, nostrils flaring at the scent that radiates from you and fogs the room— and he growls. 

“Get out.” 

It’s a simple command given by the man— Beomgyu—  to the others, eyes filled with an unbridled rage that makes the others flinch; they’re confused, glancing to where you remain frozen before they’re turning back at the man, as though waiting for him to back down on his words— instead, he bares his teeth, jaw clenched and eyes narrowed with rage, and repeats himself. 

“I said, get. Out.”

Silence; you can hear your heartbeat thundering in your ears as you watch the two wolves glance at the man with the bright head of ginger hair— as though looking to him for their next move. The two remain in a standstill, refusing to look away from the other, as though silently communicating. And after what feels like eternity, the wolf near you scoffs, lips upturned in annoyance as he finally looks away— he turns back to you, eyes scanning your shaken figure, and he smiles the moment your eyes meet.

“Don’t expect any mercy from him.”

You’re sure you might be on the verge of fainting as you watch them all exit, one by one; tails practically tucked between their legs, only wolf to make a fuss being the orange-haired one from before; you watch the two of them bare their teeth and make comments you can’t quite pick up on, pressing yourself firmly against the wall and jumping the moment they snap warningly at each other— a threat to bite, the sight of their sharp fangs enough to have you retreating slowly to the exit of your backyard. 

The second his back is turned from you, watching the wolves retreat to the forest, is the second you make an attempt to escape— hurried steps leading you to the kitchen, walking backwards in order to keep an eye on him— your shaking hands remain pressed against the wall in an attempt to keep yourself upright, keen eyesight taking in any small movement from him, body alight with adrenaline as you wait for the moment you can book it. 

His ears, a dark auburn just like his hair, twitch; his head snaps over to where you stand, dilated eyes meeting yours in milliseconds. 

You’re turning around to make a run for it— the floorboards creak behind you from the very sound of Beomgyu running after you, a yelp leaving you involuntarily; your feet are falling harshly on the cool tile of your kitchen, but before you can so much as outstretch your hand and reach for the doorknob of the back exit, strong hands are wrapping around your middle and spinning you around, away from your last taste of freedom. 

“Please!” you cry out aimlessly, a pained groan falling from your lips as your back collides with the wood of your counter; you’re pinned into the very corner, tears pricking at your eyes and weak hands pressing against the strong chest of the wolf before you— your eyes remain glued to the floor, soft tail trembling with abandon and ears willing hopelessly to hide your face. 

“You’re running? After I just saved you?” is all you get in response, his voice gruff and genuine as he remains unfazed at the weak pushes against his chest; his arms cage you in, body impossibly close to yours as he looms over you, watching the way you cower and make yourself shrink with wide, interested eyes. “Why do you run from me, my flower?” 

The pet name makes your stomach lurch; a soft sob escapes you, eyes closing in defeat as your mind makes peace with your demise— your shoulders shake with every attempt of yours to breathe properly, every inhale only flooding your senses and clogging your mind with the scent of the wolf above you, like a thick smoke that burns your lungs and leaves your thoughts impaired.

Beomgyu is all but salivating at the sight of you; your soft, fragile body, the tremble of your limbs, your pure and fluffy ears that are pressed flat atop your head, hands subconsciously gripping onto his shirt in a feeble attempt to keep yourself upright— your heartbeat overwhelms him, quick and panicked just like your scent; it makes his brows pinch together and a confused pout form on his lips, the familiar, delicate flower no longer radiating from your figure.

“Are you scared of me?” he murmurs, ears twitching in curiosity as you remain silent; he leans down, willing to get close even after you continue to shrink away in response, curling into yourself and keeping your chin tucked in dutifully; his hand flies to your waist in attempts to prevent you from shifting away any further, rough claws digging in through your dress and making you jolt in surprise— a shaky breath leaves your lips, the wolf that continues to inch closer to you, cocking his head in fascination. His eyes all but burn through your skin. 

“Don’t be afraid,” he whispers, lips brushing against your temple as he speaks; you remain frozen, stiff, feeling the way he continues to wander down, nosing at you softly in search for a sign of that sweet, intoxicating smell you once gave off. 

“You’re safe with me— remember?”

Your voice remains stuck inside you— all you can muster is another shaky breath as you feel his lips brush against your jaw, wandering along until he’s at your ear— then he trails down, forcing your head to tilt as his nose runs a soft line along the column; a weak whimper falls from your parted lips the moment he presses down against your pulse point, feeling him inhale slowly before he presses a soft kiss against your sensitive neck— like an automatic reaction, warmth blooms from the spot, spreading through your body, your heart telling you to calm down— but you refuse, and though Beomgyu is able to smell the sweet vanilla and the flowers that blooms from his action, it all dies into one muddled mess that leaves him to huff frustratedly. 

His hands have begun to wander— large and warm, sharp claws scratching at your garments and running up your sides before he hugs you tight, pressing your figure flush against his— and as have his lips, pressing soft kisses against your scent gland repeatedly, in search of the scent that he was only granted a mere glimpse of— soft, careful kisses at first, listening to the way you whimper and cry against him, trembling hands balling up his shirt in your fists— only to feel himself grow more desperate, out of control, his lips parted and harsh as he presses his kisses against one of the weakest points in your body. 

Beomgyu’s nose is sharp, is able to pick up on even the slightest changes within your scent— so when he picks up on the warm, subtle twinge of vanilla that peeks through everything else, he’s unable to find himself exhibiting restraint. Warm and wet, you feel his tongue press against your skin, the sharp, accidental scratch of his fangs following after— and you gasp, eyes wide open and staring at the ceiling above you as your mind finally processes what his intentions truly are, feeling your instincts take over soon after— the moment of clarity passes, and your vision fogs; your body melts against Beomgyu’s.

You’ve been sandwiched between the counter and Beomgyu’s body; even more so now that Beomgyu’s felt you submit to him, head lolling to the side and displaying your most fragile part to him, a smell of vanilla, warm and sweet like a pastry, filling his lugs soon after— you’re presenting yourself to him, eyes glassy and lips parted as you simply let out a shaky exhale. 

Your legs are parted with every attempt Beomgyu makes to get closer to you, feeling him stand in between them as he continues to cage you in, continues to kiss and lick along your exposed skin, huffing and sighing in satisfaction with every soft keen you let out in response, your mind and soul still convinced that your time has come to an end. 

From a distance, Soobin senses it; he sees the dim lights of your cottage, the door that is left ajar, crooked on its hinges— most of all, he’s able to pick up on the intoxicating sweetness that escapes from the cottage, the innocent jasmine that’s intertwined with the scent that travels with the wind— and his ears stand straight, keen senses straining to hear the soft sob that leaves your delicate lips— his body reacts before he can, and he runs straight to you. 

The sharp call of your name is all Soobin can get out before he stumbles to a stop at the kitchen doorway— his eyes remain wide and focused on the sight before him, body on edge and tail stiff as he grits his teeth in rage. 

Your doe eyes meet his instantly— they’re shining and incoherent, and Soobin wonders if you’re even conscious of where you are, of the way you whine out his name in the most fragile tone he’s ever heard. The rest of you is covered— you’ve been pressed tightly against the kitchen counter, back arching backwards due to the sheer pressure of the body that weighs you down; ragged clothing covers your own, the pink coat obscured by a white flowing, dirtied white button up, falling off the owner’s shoulder and pooling at his elbow— Soobin’s eyes follow the line of movement, taking in his arms disappear behind your waist, forcing your lower halves to be glued together, your dress bunched up at your thighs from the crude way they’ve been forced open. 

“Soobin,” you whine again, taking his attention as he watches a hand of yours appear from where they were caged in, outstretching shakily toward him before it falls limp, hanging over the arm that pulls you closer against him. 

Dark, long hair covers the face that is buried in your neck— ears of the same color adorn the top, twitching with interest at the sound before they stand forward— roughly, the head emerges from its hiding place, eyes blown open with nothing short of hunger; the wolf before Soobin bares his teeth and growls, hugging you tighter against him, stepping back and shielding you away from the dog’s view. 

Soobin doesn’t hesitate to mimic the other’s threats— he means every bit of it and more, face alight with rage and body poised in an aggressive stance— and though your face has been tucked into the wolf’s chest, though the arms that wrap around your body attempt to prevent you from being seen at all, Soobin is still able to catch glimpse of your tail that quivers with fear, of your figure that shakes pathetically from instinct. 

Loud, angry growls and spiked scents fill your senses and leaves you docile; Soobin’s sharp, strong pine mixes with Beomgyu’s thick, intoxicating smoke, painting the scene of a burning forest as they continue to warn the other, narrowed gazes and sharp canines creating yet another standstill. 

Beomgyu’s eyes catch onto Soobin’s restlessness with ease— and before he’s able to make a move, Beomgyu is manipulating your body once more, spinning you around and pressing your back firmly against him, feeling the way you follow his every command without a second thought— and when you present yourself to him for a second time from pure instinct, Beomgyu grins; his eyes lock with Soobin’s and his head cranes down, dangerously close to your scent gland that continues to release its tempting smell.

“Stay.” is all Beomgyu growls out, eyeing the way Soobin freezes immediately, wide eyes watching the way Beomgyu’s mouth opens, tongue lolling out lazily before it’s running slowly against your shoulder, gliding along until it stops dutifully against the joint of your neck, pressing down to feel your pulse— Soobin flinches, undoubtedly wanting to lunge forward, but is stopped again by the wicked smile Beomgyu sends him, sharp canines meticulously on display. 

You’re all left frozen— Beomgyu’s arm that has been thrown around your waist toys with the hem of your cute coat, the other that presses against your heart feeling the quick pounding against his palm— and he laughs, inching his hand up slowly until it’s around your neck, his index and thumb exuding little effort to keep your head upright, watching your eyes slowly meet Soobin’s.

“Any sudden moves,” Beomgyu begins again, eyes flickering down to your neck, watching the quick rise and fall of your chest with fascination, feeling the way your throat constricts with every swallow against his palm— and he smiles, looking back at Soobin and allowing his tongue to run over the top row of his teeth leisurely, “and she’s mine to claim.”

Silence; Soobin takes a moment to weigh his options, to inspect the scenery before him— the wolf means it, Soobin is quick to realize, seeing the way he all but drools over your exposed neck and faint figure— and he meets your eyes again, attempting to decipher what you may be thinking, only to realize that you’re not composed at all; you’ve been stripped down to nothing but your basic survival instincts, and yet it seems as though your brain has told you that it’s best to give up any fight you have left inside you.

Soobin feels his jaw ache from the way his teeth grit together angrily— and with a soft huff, he becomes the first to look away from Beomgyu entirely, turning his head in defeat and forcing his body to back down. 

“Good dog,” Beomgyu coos mockingly, grinning unabashedly at the sight of Soobin’s face twisting up in anger; he turns to you, placing a slow, lingering kiss on your cheek before he murmurs softly into your ear. “My flower, don’t you want to show him how perfect you are for me?” 

Beomgyu doesn’t expect a response from you; the way you whine and shift restlessly against him is enough, having already felt him rutting against you the moment he had you caged against the counter— and he continues to do so, even now, the hand on your throat forcing you to tilt your head, allowing him access to suck and bite on the clean canvas of your skin; your eyes flutter shut, and you’re left to rely on his strength to hold you upright, body rocking gently with every thrust that is delivered from the wolf behind you. 

“So sweet for me,” Beomgyu groans, his hands letting go of their respective places before they begin getting busy; your legs feel shaky and you’re left to watch as he undoes the ties of your coat, slipping it off before he reaches to bunch your thin skirt at your waist— you gasp softly, face heating up at the feeling of being so exposed, hands flying to pull down your skirt on instinct— but you’re granted no such reprieve, stilling immediately as a growl leaves Beomgyu’s lips at your action.

Soobin’s head is snapping back at the two of you at the sound of the threat— his eyes widen and he inhales sharply, a clear mistake that only makes Beomgyu grin— your scent, thick and progressively needier, clouds Soobin’s mind, clouds his judgment, unable to do anything more than stare at the way Beomgyu has you in his arms, canines still glittering under the soft lights of your home as a constant warning. 

“You smell it too,” Beomgyu speaks, his words less of a question and more of a fact— Soobin’s eyes dilate and his nostrils flare that moment Beomgyu’s lithe fingers begin to wander around the hem of your panties, feeling your thighs press together and your hands grip at his forearm shyly; from Soobin’s distance, he’s able to pick up on the tears that hang on your waterline, the way your lip quivers from the humiliation of being exposed so crudely. 

“Innocent thing…” Beomgyu murmurs, dipping down to swipe the pad of his middle finger across your slit, listening to the yelp that escapes your lips, feeling your body buckle against him— and sure enough, a spike of your scent follows after, like an addicting toxin that only fuels the desire of the two canines before you, “So tempting. So good.” 

You’re crying softly at the way he continues to tease you, overwhelmed by the foreign sensation, mouth parting in shock as his hand sneaks past the waistband of your panties; you feel as though shocks of electricity flow through you the moment he brushes against your clit, teasingly at first, only to begin circling it steadily soon after— and you can only moan and whine for more, unknowingly bucking your hips forward in search for something else that can satisfy you. 

When your eyes meet Soobin’s, you can only feel a hot wave of shame flow through you— his expression is unreadable; is he embarrassed of you? Disgusted, ashamed that you have already given in to the simplest threats? You’re not remotely near as strong as he is, you defend yourself mentally, you’re sure that it was either this or— or…

“You filthy mutt,” Beomgyu spits out beside you, laughing softly at the way Soobin has yet to take his eyes off you, eyes narrowed meanly and brows tugged together, an expression that could be easily read as rage— but Beomgyu knows better, watching as the said man jumps at the sudden sound of the other’s voice, gaze hardening the moment they lock eyes; Beomgyu huffs out another mocking laugh. 

“You like this, don’t you?” Beomgyu asks, as though he were sharing a secret— behind you, you feel his hips buck against you, able to feel the hardness of his cock as he uses his free hand to press just below your navel, forcing you back on him— and you gasp, his ministrations against your clit never ceasing as he continues to fuck against you slowly, groaning breathlessly at the feeling of your warm body against him; Beomgyu’s eyes never leave Soobin’s, however, pupils filled with nothing but a mocking joy as he continues breathlessly.

“You want her.”

Another wave of arousal floods though you at his words, filling the room and reaching the two men before you with ease; you’re able to see and feel the way their chests rise slowly, the way they take in your essence before letting out pleased sighs, their own strong, heady scents filling your senses as you simply flutter your eyes shut and whine with need.

“No need to deny it,” Beomgyu grins, leaning his head against yours fondly, middle finger abandoning your clit to tease your entrance, your mouth falling open and hips twitching in surprise at the feeling— the man behind you simply watches with amusement, watches the way you meet Soobin’s gaze shyly, body heated up with embarrassment as you can only let out pathetic cries and breathless gasps with every new stimulation— and Beomgyu’s finger enters you slowly, meticulously, angling himself just right; your vision is fogging at the stretch, hands gripping onto the strong forearm that helps keep your upright as you merely beg for more. 

“I’m sure she’d love to give you a show,” he continues, palm pressing against your clit, other hand guiding your hips to roll steadily against his hand— he chuckles softly at the way you’re pliant for him, following his every command without a second thought, “filthy, greedy thing.” 

Though Beomgyu directs those comments at you with a voice of acid-like hatred, the way he stares at you is anything but; his eyes are just as keen as the rest of him, willing to not miss a single reaction you make for him, from the way your voice breaks with need to the way your fingers twitch helplessly against his skin— his body buzzes with a desperate energy, his cock pulsing and begging to be inside you the longer he feels you rock helplessly against him— lucky for him, you seem to be getting just as desperate. 

“Get your filthy hands off her,” Soobin seethes, though he’s unable to make a move to get you away— a single twitch of his tail enough to garner a harsh sneer from Beomgyu, teeth snapping together in warning— the idea of having you claimed, taken, and possibly killed by the monstrosity that holds you hostage is enough to keep Soobin complacent for now, undoubtedly waiting for the moment the wolf no longer has easy access to such a vital part of you to make his move.

Beomgyu doesn’t heed the other’s comment— if anything, he laughs, prodding a second finger at your entrance, forcing the other to listen to the way you perk up and cry in panic, poor inexperienced body not used to the stretch, to the curve of his fingers as he presses against your soaking, tightening walls, calloused skin making you shiver as he forces you to grind against him, to fuck yourself on his fingers. 

“Hmm? Don’t touch her?” Beomgyu asks, curious fingers stretching you open slowly, grinning at the way you throw your head back against his shoulder and whine, a hand slapping over the arm that currently fucks your slowly, pressing against it in feeble attempts of getting more, “What, does it upset you that you won’t be getting to her first?” 

With a particularly calculated thrust of Beomgyu’s fingers, you’re jolting up and letting out a broken moan; he proceeds to continue to abuse the weak spot within you cruelly, watching with an amused gaze as you continue to fall apart against him like clockwork. You’re getting wound up quite quickly, not used to the intense feeling of pleasure being provided to you— and Beomgyu takes in the sight eagerly, smiling in amusement before he’s stopping abruptly, watching your head hang and your chest heave from the sudden loss of stimulation. 

“Does it anger you?” his fingers slide out from your cunt slowly; you twitch at the feeling of emptiness, barely processing the way his hand slowly snakes its way back up, grabbing at your neck and forcing you to look forward again— his fingers, covered in your arousal, prod at your mouth, and in your dumbed state, you can only follow his commands and part your lips dutifully; your tongue circles around his digits and your lips close around them, flushed face painting a lewd scene that only makes Soobin tense; beside you, Beomgyu smiles wickedly. 

“Knowing that you’re about to watch her get fucked open— get knotted good— by a wolf?” 

Soobin thinks he might be seeing red at this point; his hands remain by his side, closed into a tight fist that has his nails threatening to break through his skin— but that’s the least of his worries, especially with the way your ears twitch and your body perks up at the wolf’s words— both of the men are able to pick up on your reaction with ease, one clearly much happier than the other at the sight. 

“You know, if you behave, I might give you a turn.” Beomgyu looks over at you, chuckling softly before he removes his fingers from your mouth, only to grab at your face and turn it roughly to look at him; his fingers dig into your cheeks and his forehead presses against yours, taking one glance at your hazy expression before he’s cooing softly. “I’m sure you’d love that, wouldn’t you?”

All you can do is muster a broken whine in response. 

Beomgyu is letting go of your face with a soft chuckle; slowly, you muster the courage to look forward once more, inevitably meeting Soobin’s gaze as a result— his expression is unreadable, and it makes your knees feel weak— your mind races to try and decipher what he may be thinking about, left unaware of the way Beomgyu has let go of your dress, letting the skirt fall slowly over your front as he busies himself in lifting it from the back instead, allowing himself access and grazing your skin curiously; it is only then that you’re coming back to your senses, heart rate picking up with a panic and body bristling the moment you feel the wolf’s hands wandering across the swell of your ass, muttering soft praise that doesn’t quite reach you— a firm hand grabs at your waist, keeping you in place the moment you tried to shift away from him shyly, tried to cover yourself with a weak protests that only garnered yet another growl; with wide eyes, you looked to Soobin, unaware of the helplessness that coated your glassy pupils. 

“Soobin,” you cry yet again, blood growing cold at the way he simply seems to stand and watch; his gaze seems to have wandered, seems to have been following Beomgyu’s every action, adam’s apple bobbing at the sudden sound of impact that filled the room, the sound of your yelp followed by the sight of your pathetic hands attempting to swat Beomgyu away, easily overpowered the moment the wolf gathers your wrists in his tight hold and scolds you to stay still, his claws digging threateningly into the soft skin— and again, your head whips back around to look at Soobin, ignoring the keen stance of his ears and the slow, interested sway of his tail as you simply call out to him again, “Soobin, please…”

You’re not sure what you’re begging for any more. All you know now is the feeling of Beomgyu’s broad chest pressed against yours, the muddy feeling of your brain as smoke fills your lungs, allowing your head to loll back against his shoulder, allowing your hips to begin to grind back against the hard bulge that has begun to tease you, shivering softly at the way Beomgyu’s head remains buried in your shoulder, pulling you back against him firmly— you barely register the way your voice whines in protest the moment you feel his lips pull away from your delicate skin, abandoning the gentle kisses and sucks to sneer triumphantly, his low voice a half-hearted replica of yours as he proceeds to parrot your words softly. 

“Soobin…” Beomgyu sing-songs, reaching his free hand down to tug at the waistband of your panties, soaked through with arousal that leaves your inner thighs shining pathetically; the said man is snapped out of his trance immediately, enticed gaze hardening the second his eyes find Beomgyu, chin perched on your shoulder leisurely as he continues to tug your panties down, feeling the way they slip down your hips ever-so slowly, “Soobin, come here.”

When Soobin refuses, Beomgyu scoffs— though, he doesn’t seem to be surprised in the slightest. 

“Come on Soobin,” Beomgyu repeats again, softly this time, eyes half-lidded as his mouth dips down to kiss your skin; right at your scent gland, tongue darting out before his eyes dart up to lock eyes with Soobin— you can feel goosebumps form on your skin as Beomgyu laughs breathily, mouth still open as he proceeds to nip at the spot gently; not enough to break skin, not enough to leave a mark, but enough to make you squeal and jolt in surprise. Soobin flinches. 

“Come.”

It takes a pleading look from your tear-brimmed eyes for him to move. A slow, hesitant step first, pausing momentarily to gauge Beomgyu’s reaction— the said man quirks a brow in amusement, a silent encouragement to continue— and Soobin finally finds himself looming over the two of you, eyes dark and narrowed as he watches you reach out for him with a trembling hand— curling his shirt into your fists, leaning forward and resting your forehead against his chest, body unintentionally arched forward and left in the perfect position for the man behind you— Beomgyu simply coos softly at the action, a false sense of endearment that makes Soobin’s teeth grit with rage; when their eyes meet, the wolf simply smiles. 

“Kiss her,” Beomgyu says, the words almost inaudible from how softly they were uttered— but then he’s grabbing at your head and forcing you to look back up, ignoring the sound of protest you make and holding you up by your jaw as he tilts your head to look at Soobin, fingers squeezing your cheeks and forcing them into a soft pout, “Go on. She’s dying for you to touch her.”

Beomgyu speaks as though he were the one in control of your body and mind— and perhaps he is, you find yourself thinking, teary eyes unable to communicate anything more than want as you feel your panties slowly dragging down your thighs, the wolf behind you hissing softly at the sight of the string of arousal that sticks to the fabric, your slick cunt tightening around nothing in response— Beomgyu’s fingers find themselves teasing your entrance again, three this time, dipping in and out of your cunt, stretching you yet leaving you craving for more.

“I…” Soobin breathes out, reaching out slowly for your face; Beomgyu’s rough hand retreats, and it’s replaced by Soobin’s large, gentle ones that cup your face and stroke your cheekbones, watching the way your eyes flutter up to look at him, tears clinging to your lashes like crystals; his eyes follow the path one makes as it falls, thumb wiping it away softly as he finds himself leaning closer, watches the way your lids fall and leave your eyes hazy and obedient.

This is it, Soobin realizes, eyes flickering back to where Beomgyu continues to tease you, much too lost in the sight of your cunt trying desperately to suck in his nimble fingers to pay much attention to the two of you, this is his chance— he can save you. 

You seem to catch onto Soobin’s calculative gaze quite quickly this time— and your heart flutters with a slight hope, your chest falling in quick, shallow breaths as your hands tighten against the fabric of his shirt— his eyes flicker back to yours from the action, taking in the way they hold that innocent light of yours he’s always adored— and his heart breaks. 

“I’m sorry,” he whispers. 

There’s nothing you can say to that; his lips are on yours before you can so much as let out another breath. They’re soft, hesitant, as though you could shatter if he touched you wrong. His hands shake slightly as he holds your face close to his, feels the way your mouth remains frozen for a second, only reciprocating once you’ve felt the soft pass of his tongue against you— and your overwhelmed mind blanks entirely. For the final time tonight, you submit. 

The kiss is slow, it’s deepening out of your control, and it’s everything you imagined many moons ago, when you first began to feel a spark of desire for the man before you— when you swooned and flustered at the comfort you found in him, the warm feeling that always settled in your chest when he was next to you, knowing you could always go to him for protection. 

So as you feel his hold on you become firmer, feel the way he sighs against your mouth with no intentions to let you go soon, you wonder what it is you feel now— trapped between the two canines, lungs burning and and mouth left open as you allow Soobin to venture inside, not allowed any reprieve from the man who keeps you close, a soft groan leaving your lips as your sensitive ears pick up on foreign, slick sounds behind you, hisses and sighs of pleasure from another— because the feeling that pools in your stomach isn’t remotely reminiscent of the gentle, delicate warmth you always felt around Soobin; it’s hotter, angrier, greedier— it begs to be satiated and throws away the last good sense of judgment you had within you. 

“Soobin— oh god, Soobin—” you hiccup suddenly, finally able to escape from the said man’s mouth that seems to chase endlessly after yours; even now, you still can’t help but cry for him, your body unprepared for the sudden feeling of a cockhead swiping at your slit, the wet noises that arise from the sheer arousal that continues to leak out of you. You cry and you beg with hot shame burning at your skin, unsure of whether you plead for mercy or for more— your body arches and your hips seek for more, cunt throbbing at the feeling of Beomgyu’s tip pressing at your entrance, his rough hands rubbing circles along your ass absentmindedly, but your heart twists and makes a thick lump build in your throat, wishing nothing more than to be experiencing this all differently, in the comfort of your room and in the secure, warm embrace of the man in front of you— you wish for something more intimate, something as gentle as the love you felt. 

But all Soobin does is watch. He strokes your hair with a slow hand and cups your cheek fondly, presses a lingering kiss to your forehead before wandering down to press another at the tip of your nose— and he soaks up the pitiful sounds that make your voice break, feeling your hands attempt to steady themselves against him as Beomgyu begins to enter you; slowly, salivating at the way he feels your walls stretch around him, struggling to adjust to merely the tip— he stares down at your dripping pussy with a parted mouth, letting out a slow breath at the sight of your legs that threaten to buckle and your fluffy tail that goes wild with every inch he eases in— and he finds himself having to take deep breaths to not take you as he wants then and there.

“It’s okay. I know, I know— I’m right here, I’m right here with you,” Soobin murmurs against your skin, placing slow kisses along your jaw, allowing you to duck into the crook of his neck for solace— and he smooths your hair as he feels you nuzzle into him, eyes hooking onto the sight over your shoulder of Beomgyu entering you, the feeling of his hips flush against your ass bringing about another shuddered sigh from your lips, nails digging into Soobin’s chest as you attempt to overcome the new sensations. 

“I got you, don’t worry my doll,” Soobin utters, a hand going to place itself on top of your own, intertwining his fingers with yours before he begins to weigh it down, to guide it down his chest— he lets out a shaky sigh, feeling you cry and squirm against him, “It’s okay… just relax and you’ll feel good, okay?” 

“Don’t you wanna feel good?” Soobin coos against your temple, eyes fluttering shut as he feels you nod against his shoulder, feels the way your hand has successfully breached past his underwear, pants already undone and still guided by his much larger hand as he brings you to palm him slowly, wrapping your shaky fingers around his length; you’re hesitant, unsure of your actions as you allow Soobin to show you what to do— though, you don’t think your brain has truly processed what he’s doing with you yet, preoccupied instead by the thick smoke along with another smell that leaves you feeling lightheaded, along with the feeling of hands groping and smoothing over your skin as a heavy cock continues to twitch inside you. 

Beomgyu isn’t quite fond by your sudden shift of attention; his lips remain upturned in distaste, watching intently as Soobin continues to use you however he likes, your face that remains hidden in his neck directly able to smell the calming, dizzying scent Soobin exudes, placating you and dumbing you down to nothing but a fuckdoll for him— his eyes trail down to where he has you jerking him off slowly, Soobin’s lips pressing kisses to the top of your head as he continues to murmur soft praises that have you melting against him— an unfamiliar, hot streak of rage courses through Beomgyu’s system at the sight. 

“So ungrateful,” Beomgyu scolds suddenly, reaching forward to grab a fistful of your hair and bring you back— he’s forceful, uncaring of the way you protest, an arm that’s wrapped around your stomach pressing you flush against him as he forces the two of you to move— and you’re left bent over the counter, face pressed against the wood and wrists secured behind your back as Beomgyu bunches the skirt of your dress at your hips and bottoms out inside you once again; you hiss at the feeling, looking to the side to see that Soobin is unfazed by the action— if anything, his eyes cloud with lust at the scene before him, taking in the way you’re stuffed full and arched prettily with a gulp. 

“Why won’t you pay attention to me?” Beomgyu asks breathlessly, looking down at your pliant figure with blown out eyes, tail whipping side to side in anger as he catches the way your gaze still seeks out Soobin’s, eyes unknowingly pleading for reassurance— and he growls, low and heavy in his throat, catching the attention of both of you successfully— but he only cares to have your eyes on him, fully engrossed in the way your mouth falls open and your eyes roll back the moment he ruts into you with rough, slow thrusts. 

“Look at me,” Beomgyu groans, pulling out slowly as he speaks, all the way out until the tip of his cock is the only thing catching at your entrance. You’re squirming, trying to move your hips back against him, but the brutal hold Beomgyu has on you keeps you in place; ears pressed flat against your head, you look over your shoulder, back at the wolf who continues to fuck his tip into you with subtle thrusts, sneering at your glassy eyes that continue to look at him with a jarring innocence. 

“That’s right,” he breathes, sinking into you oh so slowly, filling you up and laughing cruelly at the way your hands scramble to hold onto something for stability, for a simple comfort Beomgyu denies, “Eyes on me.” 

Beomgyu fucks you to prove a point; he fucks you so your eyes roll back and your mouth spills moans and whines dumbly, cock filling you to the brim and stretching you out in a way you never knew was possible— the sounds are lewd and has your skin burning, slick, wet sounds of skin against skin filling up the room and mixing along with your cries of pleasure. Beomgyu doesn’t seem to be doing any better than you, transfixed entirely on the sight of your cunt sucking him in eagerly, dripping with slick that makes his cock shine and falls to the floor in a mess, of your ass that ripples with every smack of his hips against you— this is all so new to you, he can tell, your body buzzing with an insatiable need that turns you into nothing more than a cock-hungry whore, your tail wiggling desperately with every harsh thrust of his, as though hypnotizing him to keep going.

The sight of you— a drooling, crying, moaning mess— is the polar opposite of your sweet, naive self, your trusting self that got you into this situation in the first place— and it makes Soobin’s cock twitch with raw lust, the spectacle of you becoming ruined so easily something he never thought he’d witness; such a pure thing, Soobin always felt as though you needed to be treated like glass— but Beomgyu is more than willing to prove that’s not the case with you, growling pure filth at you as he continues to fuck you into the counter, watching the way he hovers over you, practically caging you in with his body, as though wishing for the two of you to become one. And just like before, Soobin watches. He stands to the side and listens to every sweet mewl of yours attentively— after all, he’ll get his hands on you soon enough.

“Tight little cunt— fuckin’ takes me so well,” Beomgyu murmurs into your ear, panting and groaning at the way you tighten around him, “such a good girl for me— shit, you like that? Like it when I talk nice to you?”

Beomgyu is quick to catch onto every little reaction of yours, including the way you tighten hopelessly around him every time he sings soft praises into your ears; it makes you want to hide your face in shame and deny his questions, but you barely get a chance to speak with the way he fucks you— fat cock stretching you out, leaving you speechless as he continues to pound into you firmly, sloppy mouth nipping and marking all over your neck; feeling him on your shoulders and back, canines brutishly ripping at your clothes to get more access to your innocent skin, feeling the way your walls squeeze with every scratch of his sharp teeth against you, eager to get his lips onto any part of you he can. 

“Fuck, fuckfuckfuck, you’re— shit– you’re squeezing me so tight, can barely fuck you,” he rambles off, hand letting go of your wrists so he can grab your hips and pull you back onto him— you’re wailing at the feeling, hands failing to stabilize you as you hold onto the counter, eyes screwed shut as you babble at Beomgyu to slow down— but of course, he doesn’t listen, too caught up in the feeling of you to pay any attention, “Oh, are you close, sweet thing? I can feel you— can feel you getting closer.”

“Do you wanna cum?” He asks you in that same, sweet voice laced with faux pity, smiling unabashedly at the way you immediately nod in response, giving in to his brutal pace, “tell me how bad you want it then.” 

“Please… please let me…” you trail off, unable to communicate properly with the way Beomgyu continues to fuck you, not granting you any mercy as he watches you struggle, “need– need t’cum, want it, feels so good.” 

Beomgyu laughs, the sound labored and breathy from the way you clench around him throughout it; he finds himself glancing over to where Soobin continues to watch, the sight of him focused entirely on your figure making him sneer— his eyes are hypnotized by you and his ears twitch at every weak word that spills from your mouth, lips parted as he all but drools for you— the drastic contrast in character has Beomgyu’s lips twitching in amusement, wondering just where that overprotective bodyguard of yours has gone.

“Yeah? Am I making you feel good?” he mocks, watching as your bowed head nods instantly; he huffs, glancing back at Soobin before he coos softly at you, “Who’s making you feel so nice? Tell me, pretty thing.”

The sudden mention of the pet name is enough to set you off unexpectedly; your mind goes blank entirely, save for a single thought that continues to roll of your tongue like a mantra: 

“Beomgyu,” you cry, sobs wracking at your body from the intense feeling, your voice interrupted with loud, uncontrollable moans, “You— it’s you– Beomgyu— please, please— too much…!”

Beomgyu continues to fuck you until your legs tremble and your body weight is placed entirely on the counter, hips held up entirely by the strength of the man behind you as he finally heeds your pleas; he slows until he’s bottomed out inside you, feeling the way your walls continue to pulse as you whimper quietly at the sensitivity— such a touchy thing, Beomgyu muses to himself, looking down at your messy cunt and feeling the way his cock twitches, still in need to fill you up properly.

“Can’t take anymore?” Beomgyu asks apathetically— and though you weakly let out a sound of affirmation, you can tell he doesn’t really care to hear your answer; not with the way he strokes at your skin in fascination, wandering hand pulling at the base of your tail and watching you squeal in surprise, body arching in an attempt to get away— you all but slump into a pool of overstimulation once he finally lets you go, foggy mind barely able to pick up the way he tsks. 

“Don’t lie— you can, I’m sure you can,” Beomgyu tuts, watching with amusement as you pout and petulantly shake your head, “you’re a good girl, you can take whatever we give you.” 

You don’t seem to process the meaning of his words to a full extent— you’re too far gone to do so, body turned weak as you continue to try and stabilize yourself, chest heaving with every breath you take. But it doesn’t matter if you’ve caught on to what’s happening around you, your every movement taken care of by the two men that cage you in— your shudder at the feeling of Beomgyu pulling out of you, the slick sound drowned out by the crude praises Beomgyu growls; two, strong hands are pulling you up next, proceeding to maneuver you so you sit on the counter— Soobin stands between your legs, looking at you with eyes filled with want and an undeniable pity; he takes in your worn, marked and messy figure intently, watching as his eyes linger on the rips of your dress and the marks all around your shoulders. His hands go up to the area, and your eyes flutter shut, body craving to be covered, to be coddled and tidied. 

“Such a perfect doll for me,” Soobin sighs out, beginning to tug down at what’s left of the material, watching the way you shudder and open your eyes with a slight shock— a whine bubble up at the back of your throat, but you can’t really find the strength to protest the way you’re slowly left undressed before the two pairs of hungry eyes before you, no longer able to find the energy to feel embarrassment from being left bare— Soobin’s voice is as gentle as his movements, feeling him lift your hips so he can slide the dress off you properly; it wasn’t very hard to do anyway, the fabric practically hanging together by a single thread, “It’s alright… I’ve got you.” 

When Soobin wraps your legs around his waist and hoists you off the counter, you can only wrap your arms around his shoulders and lean your forehead on his shoulder, seeking for more of the scent that calms you down and leaves you mindless; your grip tightens the moment you feel the head of his cock poking at your entrance, painfully hard as he sighs out shakily at the feeling of your sensitive walls fluttering at the feeling— he’s stretching you out slowly, filling you up, and all you can do is bury your head into his neck and try to calm your breathing, taking in the thick sage that fills your senses.

Soobin stays buried deep inside you for a moment, cursing at the tight embrace of your heat around him; you allow yourself to relax— it doesn’t last long though, body jolting with shocks as you feel another head poking at your already stuffed cunt. 

“Wait— wait– I can’t— too full, it won’t fit…!” you cry out, looking at Soobin in a panic; a broad chest pressed firmly against your back, familiar lips pressing a chaste kiss to your shoulder— Soobin’s eyes are dark as he takes you in, ears forward and twitching at your pleas; softly, he shakes his head in reassurance.

“You can,” is all Soobin murmurs, watching your face twist as Beomgyu begins to push into you— little by little, stretching you past your limits, resting his chin on your shoulder and shutting his eyes at the sensitive feeling— tears stream down your cheeks freely, soft hiccups escaping you as Beomgyu’s hips press flush against you from behind; Soobin reaches up to caress your head, to pet gently at your ears, and smiles. “See? You’re doing so well. You can take it.”

You shake your head to refute his claims— but it’s not as though that would change the way they’ve begun to slowly pull out, setting their individual paces that inevitably work together, leaving you full no matter what— and it has your head falling back, mouth falling open dumbly as they begin to fuck you; slowly at first, gently, only because your poor cunt has yet to adjust to the size of them. But once they feel the way you leak onto them, the way your cunt begins to clench as their tips ram into places that have your eyes rolling to the back of your head, they begin to find the confidence to use you how they want. 

Eventually, you’re nothing but putty in their arms; weakly grabbing onto anything you can for support, one finding a firm grip onto Soobin’s shoulder as the other ventured to tangle itself in Beomgyu’s hair— the said man continues to keep his head buried in your neck, lips having a mind of their own as he continues to nose at your scent gland; the action of him nuzzling against it, of him scenting you, is enough to have you a whining mess, fingers tugging at his hair desperately; it only serves to have him fuck into you harder, hips snapping ruthlessly against yours and rough groans escaping him from the pleasure. 

“Fuck, such a good cunt, so tight— ah,” Soobin groans, watching as your eyes flutter open to look at him, teary and catching the moonlight that shines down through the window; he cups your cheek, stroking at your cheekbone fondly as he speaks, “so pretty… you’re so pretty, all I’ve ever wanted— god, you’re perfect.”

The look of adoration Soobin gives you isn’t lost on you entirely— but there’s something else that rears its head within his gaze, hungry and desperate, threatening to swallow you whole— and you realize that, for the first time ever, Soobin seems to be staring at you as though you were nothing but prey; something for him to claim and own. 

But it seems as though he’s not the only one who possesses those particular feelings— Beomgyu’s pace seems to be growing erratic behind you, knocking you forward against Soobin’s chest and leaving you to wail at the feeling of his cock ruthlessly pounding into you, uncaring of the rhythm the other has set in place; he mumbles gruff words against your neck, but it’s all muffled and interrupted by huffed out moans he lets out in between— but your poor cunt seems to catch onto what he might be saying quite clearly. 

“C-close, oh shit, ‘m so close,” Beomgyu says, finally perking up from his place in the crook of your neck to speak directly into your ear, placing sloppy kisses at your jaw as he does, “Ah, d’you feel that? Yeah? Want me to cum inside you?”

You know what his question really entails— you know what your answer should be. But your body simply trembles and your brain short circuits at the thought, traitorous to the last bits of reasoning within you as you dumbly nod at his request; he lets out a moan at the sight. 

“Yeah, you do, don’t you? Want my knot, wanna be bred— ffffuck, I’ll give it to you, I’ll knot you, make you mine,” his every movement has become erratic; Soobin finds it hard to continue fucking you, undeniably sensitive to the harsh pace the other has set— but Beomgyu doesn’t care, leaning in close to your ear to whisper his next words. 

“I’ll claim you,” he breathes out, enjoying the way your little tail thrashes against him at the sound, panic filling your tone for a second before you melt into the idea, too fucked out to be able to refuse anymore— if anything, you tighten like a vice around the two, bringing out sensitive sounds from the two; Beomgyu continues to ramble into your ear, much bolder now that he’s taken control of the situation. 

“You want it— oh fuck, yeah, you’ll make such a pretty mate, all for me,” he growls, his words slipping to the other’s ears and alerting him, his eyes widening yet his pace not stopping, “all mine— mine, mine mine— o-oh, shit—!”

It all happens so fast. The swelling of a knot inside you, stretching you out to the point where you find yourself sobbing, pawing at whatever you can and begging for them to slow down, to be gentle— hot cum fills you, your cunt only able to handle so much as Soobin’s cock is pushed out, just enough so his own knot doesn’t catch, his orgasm triggering immediately after— it’s so much, yet it’s not enough, your whole being pulsing with desire for the final thing to push you to the edge— and it comes in the form of sharp canines digging deep into your neck. 

The right side of your neck stings— then, your left. Two sets of teeth have found their home within your skin, the last of your freedom stripped away as your orgasm swallows you whole— you tremble and you twitch within their hold, cunt filled and leaking with their cum, unable to do anything more than lie within their embrace and take what they give you. 

Your eyes feel heavy; you will yourself to stay awake, but your vision becomes spotted within moments— for the first time in a while, your mind is able to find peace.

 ≪ ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆≫  

When you finally wake, you find yourself surrounded by warmth; with heavy blankets over your figure, you’re able to recognize the place as your room. You attempt to look around, but are immediately met with a searing pain— the night’s events flood through your mind all at once, and suddenly, you’re able to sense the presence of two others next to you; their arms wrap around you and they remain glued to your side, one embrace much more familiar than the other. 

Through your line of sight, you’re able to spot the moon that peaks through your window, hovering just above the dark, looming canopy of the forest. You stare and you stare, unsure of what to make of everything— of what you’re feeling, of the bodies that shift beside you, pulling you closer to them, as though it could never be enough. 

Your eyes sting, and after a second, you find yourself mourning. Mourning for your loss of freedom, for the overwhelming amount of sensations you were put through, and for this complex, dangerous situation you’ve been thrust into. 

You were warned of the forest; you were warned that nothing good came from venturing within. 

But even then, nothing could have saved you from the creatures that roamed beyond.

[centrally-unplanned]

This article about Hamas's strategic planning in the lead up to the October assault was at least a partial mind-changer for me. So far I had been viewing Hamas as executing a "bait" attack on Israel for international & domestic political reasons. Kill enough Israelis, and in particular take some hostages, to force Israel to invade Gaza; which you want because that will re-inflame radicalism, tank Israel's growing coziness with Arab states like the Gulf Monarchies, and keep the Palestine Question front-and-center on people's agendas.

What it was not about was achieving any sense of a military victory; Hamas did not think they would be able to defeat the IDF on the field, or even truly hold them back. They thought they would do better than they have in defending Gaza, to be honest, but the goal wasn't to "win" in that way or anything. The actions of Israel, in their inflamed bloodlust, would be the fulcrum of progress for Hamas. It was the most logical interpretation of their strategy, because tbh its working, Israel's strategy void has bungled this war at every level. Of course if it is "worth it" is a completely separate question - Hamas is playing a game from deep, deep in the red, if you aren't going to fold and pack it up from that position these are the hail mary plays you make.

This article, a long (and sometimes overly windy) interview with two career members of the Palestinian governing orgs (primarily Fatah), shines a very different light on that. They outline that over the past ~decade, Hamas leader Yahya Sinwar coalesced power around his own faction of highly fundamentalist adherents that convinced itself that divine favor was shining on them and they would be able to actually defeat Israel in the field. The most compelling evidence for this is a conference they held planning the post-conquest occupation of Israel:

So detailed were the plans that participants in the conference began to draw up list of all the properties in Israel and appointed representatives to deal with the assets that would be seized by Hamas. "We have a registry of the numbers of Israeli apartments and institutions, educational institutions and schools, gas stations, power stations and sewage systems, and we have no choice but to get ready to manage them," Obeid told the conference.

They even called people up to ask if they would take the job of governor of this-of-that province! This was not a bored-Friday white paper by any means. They discussed defensive plans and counter-offensives like that was on the table. Sinwar outlined conquest as the goal.

If we accept this premise, it naturally lends itself to the question "okay how did they get the rest of Hamas to go along with this?" Because Hamas is not all These Kinds of People, its a governing state that does politics on the international stage after all. One of the reasons I leaned towards my interpretation was that, for the past ~decade, Hamas has actually been doing a glam-up rebranding of the org to make it more moderate & respectable in international eyes. The 2017 Charter Revision is the biggest example, which included say disavowing the idea that this was a religious war (distinguishing between zionism & judaism), and loosely admitting to the idea that they could recognize Israel as a country if terms were met. Actions like these show actors who are pretty level-headed. Were they inauthentic? Did they change their mind?

Maybe a bit, but its more than they aren't the same people. Right alongside the build-up to the October attack was a purging & sidelining of whole swaths of Hamas leadership. Many were not even informed of the attack - though they knew something was coming. Apparently it leaked on October 2nd, and a bunch of leaders just immediately fled the Strip for safety. This one is the most amusing:

Haniyeh's eldest son took a similar course of action. Around midday on October 2, Abed Haniyeh chaired a meeting of the Palestinian sports committee, which is headed by the minister of sports, Jibril Rajoub. Suddenly he received a phone call, left the room for a few minutes and then returned, pale and confused. He immediately informed the committee – whose members were in a Zoom conference with counterparts in the West Bank – that he had to leave for the Rafah crossing straightaway, as he had just learned that his wife had to undergo fertility treatment in the United Arab Emirates. (He was lying.) He granted full power of attorney to his deputy and left the Gaza Strip hurriedly.

That is one way to duck out of a pointless meeting, take notes people!

So instead of my hail mary politics play, what you have is a story of an institutional coup by a radical faction - which for extremist resistance groups is an ever-present threat. None of this means the "bait" strategy part is wrong of course, that was definitely still the point - but this argument here claims that goal of the bait was to bring the IDF into Gaza where it could be defeated in the field with their extensive fortifications, and then presumably inspire others like Hezbollah to jump on the moment of weakness and besiege Israel proper.

So....is this true? There are two gigantic caveats on this article: the first is that the people being interviewed do not primarily work for Hamas - they are members of Fatah, the leading faction of the PLO. They hate Hamas, they are not Hamas leaders themselves, they have every incentive to paint Hamas as irredeemable. You really can't take this story simply at their word. But they aren't outsiders - they hate Hamas but they work with them constantly, that is how it works, people rotate around in the Palestine orgs. They have met personally and worked with dozens of Hamas leaders; one of them was even called to be offered one of those post-war occupation governorships! (He said no lol) So its a big red flag but not a damning one. And things like the fleeing leaders, the conference on the occupation, those all 100% happened. They released press on it, they weren't hiding it.

The second caveat is that its just really not uncommon for large organizations, particularly extremist ones, to engage in mainly performative actions at scale. The South Korean government still maintains a department that plans for the administration of North Korea for example! Not totally useless ofc, but it writes exactly the reports you think it does that get put in a bin and never touched. Sometimes its appeasing internal factions, sometimes its PR, sometimes its just institutional inertia. Its absolutely believable that Hamas would make a big plan for how they would conquer Israel because otherwise...what do you tell the commanders, exactly? Why are they fighting again? A significant percentage of the lower-level fighters need that belief, so you give it to them. While certainly there is a fundamentalist faction in Hamas, are they ones winning? Or are they just another faction being played against?

I don't see enough evidence to say, but there is enough to make me pause. I'm not sold on it in the end, that is my final conclusion. I think more brains than Sinwar were involved in this and they had more realistic aspirations. And yet the level of commitment and disorganization does suggest that at least some of what was pushing events forward was a group immune to doubts being at the wheel. Certainly interested in researching more.

[24kvlaks]

Haunted House

(Michael Myers x Fem reader!) WARNING! Fluff, Angst, Worded gore, Killing, Flash backs, S3xual! frustration.

Alone in Haddon-Field, It was early October and you lived in the Myers house, sounds dumb but it was listed for a cheap ole' price because of the history and that's what you needed in order to get back on your feet.

Though you could've never expected what was awaiting you, now you're feeding some mysterious presence who swoops up the food you leave around.

At first you were spooked, thinking it was some huge rodent but then came to your senses and realized no mere rodent could demolish such food in ease and in such a barbaric way.

You even thought about calling the cops, but then it made you realize it could've just been some poor child or teenager that had been starving for the longest, so you kept feeding them.

Yet the longer you fed them, you began to wonder what huge child could be devouring this much? They nearly ate six meals a day! And seemingly was still hungry.

So you called the cops and came to the best conclusion some homeless man was living in your home!

Sadly they found nothing, not a single trace of a person or even a rodent! You were never into anything that revolved around spirits but eventually you thought you might've had a hungry one.... Sounds dumb you thought.

So you tried not feeding them, keeping the fridge empty and only ordering takeout, whilst throwing the left overs away,

It must've angered whatever you had been feeding, because there was broken glass scattered everywhere when you woke up, and the trash created by you're leftovers had been rampaged and eaten.

You almost felt bad but the police commanded you to stop feeding whatever it was a stating it would likely go away on its own. But it was clear the poor thing was starving, so reluctantly you kept feeding it.

One day you decided to be smart about it and leave a note. stating "Whoever you are, or what. You clearly are hungry I'll continue to feed it as long as you don't bring destruction to my home, our home.''

Though you couldn't help but wonder what they were thinking... If only you had known.

"Our home? this is my home." It thought, demolishing the food and writing on the note with the blood on his hands stating. "ThIS IS nOt YoUr h0me" in sloppy writing.

And he refused to listen and broke the plate anyway, yet what he least expected was to come. He heard small footsteps jog down the stairs and a lower voice commanding him.

"Hey! What did I say about destruction?!" she yelled, she had her eyes closed trying to be brave by not looking at the stranger, yet she heard a loud thump as it stood.

she opened her eyes trying to be bold only too cower in fear as she realized the size of the thing, not just anything, a man. A myth? He wore a pale mask and a jumpsuit. He stared at her.

"Holy shit." she gasped, backing away slowly, only for him to walk slowly towards her. Knife in grasp.

"Food, I bought some more food for you in the fridge."

He was starving even though he knew you were just trying to manipulate him, so he started walking away, though suddenly she called his name.

"Michael, is that you?"

she was curious, wondering if this man was the reviving legend she heard so much about. He knew she was oblivious to how utterly dangerous he was, and he was not a person any soul should be around.

So he drew his knife, and walked towards her. As scared as she was she bolted upstairs, locking the door. Though if he was Michael Myers, this was his home so she had no way of escaping.

He knew this place better than you could ever.

Scared? Yes you were. The man was nearly 7'0 and he was big and burly. If he wasn't such a maniac he would be considered attractive.

You heard loud thumping, coming towards your room. Well whoever it was before it belonged to you. The door slammed open, breaking the lock as you cowardly hid under the blanket like a child.

Peeking out of the side of it to watch him, he walked right past which was so obviously you. Just too stand near the window.

Was this what they were talking about? They said he didn't attack kids, because he didn't see them as a threat, even though you were an adult did he not see you as a threat?

So you carefully lifted the blanket and spoke.

"I'm sorry for intruding its just this was really the only place in my budget!"

He thought you were stupid for talking to him, to a killing monstrous machine. No emotion what so ever, but its not his fault. He was born this way.

"I'll move out as soon as I get stable, I swear!"

Move out? For some odd reason he didn't want you too, likely for the food he thought.

You didn't know what to do so you just sat there.

Eventually you found yourself asleep. And God did he think you were stupid, going to sleep, in front of one of the most evil individuals known to Haddon-field.

Obviously you were weak and dumb, so he had no interest in killing you.

He stood over you, you were so fragile and small compared to his frame. He walked out, and into the new added basement when they re-modeled the house.

He just couldn't understand why would she easily go to sleep around an  individual 'like him?' did she feel safe? No fucking way, he cursed. almost slashing himself for that pitiful thought.

And why would someone like him want that anyway?

-

Eventually this became a common thing for the two of you, to randomly see him in the corner of your eye, and making food for the two of you.

Leaving his plate in the microwave wrapped up for him to eat, he at least had enough sense to put the plate back.

Though the farther you went into October, the more he disappeared. And sometimes there would be tiny red smudges that resembled blood, yet you didn't dare call the cops.

Well because it could be your blood on his hands next if you do.

You started to notice he hadn't been eating your food. And honestly you began to worry, wondering if he was hurt or captured. So as dumb as you were you went out too look for the missing murderer.

At night, so it'd be more likely to see him even though he was hard to spot in general. Though u didn't see him so you just put all the plates in the mini fridge in the basement. You notice his little things down there so you left it alone.

As you walked upstairs you heard a knock on your door, and hoping it was Michael you jogged to it, opening it you were met with an unfamiliar face, they wore a police uniform.

"Sir?"

"There's been a series of murders ma'am we have reason to believe he's coming here soon, so evacuate."

"What? No way! I live here and no ones gonna drag me out of it."

Of course you knew what he was talking about and honestly you had hoped the killer would come back home, it got lonely with him gone.

"Jeez I wonder if he's okay"

you accidentally said out loud and the officer questioned what you meant but you obviously dismissed it. Taking a closer look at the officer you realized he had a warrant unfortunate for you he had a asked to come in.

So you agreed, and walked him to the table, completely unaware someone had been watching the both of you.

He wondered if you called the police, angered he still watched. But realized you didn't so he calmed, yet he couldn't but help realize how flirtish you had been with the officer.

Smiling, giggling and seemingly the officer shared the same feelings, for some odd reason he was filled with rage, wanting to grab the man by his vest and slice his throat but he knew it would be a dumb move.

So he waited, the officer explained since she didn't want to leave the house he'd patrol it for twelve hours of the day, she reluctantly agreed and bid her farewells. The officer was on his way out and Michael had vanished, waiting for night to come.

Though on his way out, Michael heard something. "Poor Michael, I hope the poor guys okay." He never heard someone speak of him so fondly before, not even as a kid.

He ignored the beating in his lower area, and the throbbing on his heart and went away, he thought so fondly of that woman he didn't know how to react,

obviously he was a grown man so he had gotten aroused and angry because of it. He didn't know how to deal with such a thing, he ignored his thoughts yet not his actions, watching her sleep and shower.

Just to make sure she didn't drown, or die in her sleep.

He had no clue why he cared, or why she cared about him but the feeling was mutual.

He went into the basement and ravished on the food she had put in his little fridge, she even put snacks and drinks, new blankets and pillows. So odd that she really cared.

He noticed everyday before he left out she did too, he followed her as she went to the library, and he watched her look him up, he almost found it amusing, she wanted to know about him.

He remembered she looked up if teleporting existed because of how fast he moved, to be honest he didn't know how he did it, he really just left when he wanted. And he was so big he wondered himself how people didn't notice him.

He was interested in you, you were funny, and considerate.

Sometimes he shamefully let his guard down around you and your comfortable presence, he didn't notice he just did it. Like all his senses went blank once he was with you.

He was a psychopath, he couldn't enjoy something. So what was this? Obsession, Desperation?

quickly it got late, and the officer had been on his phone in the car. Not patrolling shit. Michael stood in front of the car, and eventually the officer took notice of him, stepping out the car with a taser in hand.

The officer told him to speak, which obviously he didn't do. Michael pulled out his knife and the officer tased him, obviously it didn't do much. So Michael put his knife right in the mans abdomen,

the man collapsed, on his knees, Michael being as ruthless as he was he ripped of the mans dispatch so no one could contact him until he bled out.

He put the bottom of his boot in the mans mouth and placed on his weight down on one foot dislocating the whole of his bottom jaw.

Quickly Michael vanished into his home. Hearing a thud and scream come from upstairs, he went towards the sound, wondering if you had been in danger.

And he supposes he was right you had attempted to lift your bed on your own and was crumbling under its weight.

Michael scoffed and lifted it, you were surprised he had helped but you thanked him. Yet you smelled a strong stench of metal and you had blood stains on your mattress.

Yet the most obvious sign was the knife dripping.

"Michael."

A gasp left her lips and the taser head was stuck in Michaels stomach.

"You didn't"

She was backing away, what did she expect. He was a cold blooded murderer.

"I thought-"

Thought what? That he'd just stop killing all of a sudden?

You can love a monster all you wish, the monster can even love you back, but that doesn't change it's nature.

she took a deep breath, inhaling the stench of death, what did you expect. You mentally cursed yourself, and for a glimpse Michael saw a hint of disgust in your eyes.

Yet he stood there breathing heavy, covered in blood and sweat. You turned your back to him, grabbing the blankets and pillows throwing it on your bed.

Trying to pretend you weren't terrified even though he saw your body shaking.

He took a step towards you, your back on his chest and breath on your neck, his knife near your arm when suddenly both your eyes snapped towards the sirens.

And to his surprise even though you were terrified you told him to hide in the closet. The police barged in the door, yet instead of hiding he grabbed you with a knife to your throat.

You were a fucking idiot because even in this position you trusted him, so you didn't fight back.

The police kicked the door down and aimed the gun at Michael.

"Let the woman go!"

He pressed the knife on your throat, not deep enough to cut you. He tossed you towards them causing most of them to drop their guns, quickly you rolled out the way running down the stairs. You were going to fast and knocked yourself unconscious.

-

You woke up dizzy and in a bed, Michael standing in the corner. He was drenched in blood, and it was obvious it was not his.

[igotanidea]

One step closer: Jason Todd x reader

Summary: Jason being terrified of the storm and reader helping him.

***

At first the sky was crystal clear blue and without a single cloud.

The weather, however has a unique ability to change in a blink of an eye – maybe that’s why people believe nature is a woman, with its specific humors and whims.

The droplets of rain started hitting the pavement when Y/N was walking home from work. Deprived of the umbrella, as usual. And even thought she liked a little bit of precipitation it was one thing to enjoy the musky scent of ozone and ground, and the other to be drenched. Therefore, taking cue of the other people, rushing to find even a makeshift shelter, upon realizing that the rest of the evening was going to be filled with October like weather, she took off running. In her best hope to get home before all hell break loose.

As the raindrops started to intensify, she swiftly swiveled on the puddles, miraculously avoiding slipping and stepping into the treacherously shallow waters, only to discover it was ankle depth.

Getting home in time to save her porous hair from frizzling into a mess on her hair, but not soon enough to miss the lighting and thunder echoing through the space.

“Oh no…” she muttered to herself, opening the door to the tenement, where she was sharing a an apartment with Jason.

Jason. Precisely.

She climbed the stair jumping two steps at a time, all to reach their place faster, knowing well enough what she was going to find there.

“Jace?” she called his name, kicking off her shoes and hanging the wetted coat on the hanger. “Jace, are you here?”

“In here…” weak, shaky voice came from the living room.

“Oh, baby…”

Jason was crouched on the couch, away from the window, almost paralyzed by the flashes of light and sounds outside. It was nothing new to her. After all, her poor boy was scared of the storm, not that she could blame him.

When they started dating, hanging around in the city and having fun, the first time the storm came in during their time out, he just stopped in the middle of the street with wide eyes, unable to move a single muscle. Scaring the shit out of her making the girl believe he was going through a stroke or something. Using whatever strength she could gather, Y/N grabbed the arm of the mountain of stiffened muscles Jason turned into and dragged him into the nearest roofed place.

In between ragged breaths and trembles, Jason tried to explain himself and prevent the damage of her thinking he was crazy or something. And even though all she was doing was holding his hand, soothing him with her voice, trying to ground him and not demand any words, he managed to stutter that the storm was reminding him of the time Joker was hitting him with a crowbar.

Lighting was like a flashes in his eyes, recollection of blood and pain.

Thunder was like a sound of a vicious laugh, echoing in his ears, a remnant of incoming ending.

And that broke her heart.

Since then, there was not a time she allowed Jason to be alone during the storm. Reaching him in any way possible. When at work – text or call. When at home – cuddles and kisses. When out – immediate retreat and doing anything possible to help him focus on her rather than surrounding.

So now, her course of action was almost innate.

Closing the windows, which he was unable of, due to immediate panic attack. Drawing the curtains. Sitting on the couch next to him. Opening her welcoming arms and surrounding him with her warmth.

“It’s okay Jason…” she whispered pulling his head to her chest. “It’s okay. Just listen to my heartbeat, baby.”

“I’m so scared, Y/N.” he almost sobbed, like a 15 year old he was when Joker was mutilating him. “I don’t want to –“

“Shhh. Shhh, my love.” Her fingers danced in his hair, touch as soft as possible to not startle, but help him. A single wrong move, too intense or in the wrong place could be catastrophic, considering he was one foot in the past “I’m not letting anything happen to you.” A gentle soft kiss placed on his forehead was supposed to serve as an assurance of her love, presence and protective shield “I got you, Jason. I got you…”

“He’s coming after me!” as another thunder tore the sound of humming rain he snuggled closer to her chest “He’s coming!”

This was worse than anything she has experienced before and she was forced to think and act quickly and with new methods, to avoid him spiraling out of control and rooting in the tragic memories.

Pulling him closer, Y/N started to hum some melody. Quietly as first, but then letting it grow a little louder and more intense, leaning towards him to make sure it was the only sound reaching his ears.

“I have died every day waiting for you, darling, don't be afraid, I have loved you for a thousand years, I'll love you for a thousand more…..”

His hands tightened on her waist, almost bruising but she didn’t care.

“One step closer, one step closer….”

Slowly, her voice started to replace the bad memories.

One step closer – to her.

One step closer – to the present and not the past.

One step closer – to breaking from the nightmare.

“Y/N….” he whispered, allowing himself to relax under her caresses.

“Yeah, I’m here.”

“Thank you.” He nuzzled into her chest, loosing the grip but not letting go. Never letting go.

“I’m here…” she only responded, with a tiny smile, as if that was the entire explanation needed. And it was.

“Stay.” He whispered, not opening his eyes, not changing the position, not moving even in the slightest to avoid breaking the fragile peace.

“I’m here.” She said for the third time.

She was there. And the weight of her dedication, devotion and touch the made the door to the past close. Like a book that still describe your life, but stays on the shelf, being nothing but a memory. Painful, gory and traumatizing, but still – just a memory, making place for the new story.

And maybe it was time to commence it.

She was there.

[separatist-apologist]

Long Live

Summary: All archeologist Elain Archeron wants is answers about the past.

Fate is determined to give them to her

MASSIVE thank you @abbadinfluence for having the idea AND allowing me to write - I've had the time of my life, this has been so fun.

And @octobers-veryown for being my personal Rome/Italy consultant- thank you for your knowledge, your time, and most importantly, catching when I used a particularly offensive and/or wrong swear word

For @elucienweekofficial | Read on AO3

Italy in July was miserable. Rome itself was even worse with all the blacktops and the people crammed together. Tourists mingled with locals, moving in crowds so large Elain thought it was a wonder no one got lost inside. How many parents lost track of their children that way, she wondered?

Elain sidestepped a vendor thrusting flowers into her face, one hand up as she shook her head back and forth. She’d lived in Rome for the past five years and thought she knew it like the back of her hand. All its imperfections, the warts it hid, the secrets it tried to keep buried—Elain knew it all.

Or, she thought she did. But when she got a call from University higher-ups that a couple had accidentally uncovered a mosaic floor that, at least on first glance, looked as though it belonged to the Imperial period, which Elain found exciting. She’d been tapped to lead the excavation, her first ever. 

She was prepared, ready to go…and wandering toward the Spanish steps for reasons that were still unclear to her. She ought to be in her office running through her plans one last time. Something called her the way it so often did, pulling like a thread tied to her ribs. Elain often found herself jerking awake at night covered in a thin sheen of sweat, trying to recall what, exactly, woke her.

It was driving her fiance crazy. Graysen was ready to leave Rome altogether and return to the United States where Elain would spend more time teaching than she would doing actual archeological work. It sounded miserable to her…and yet she’d promised when he’d slid that ring on her finger.

She didn’t want to go back. She was buying herself time with the mosaic floor but once that was done, she knew Graysen’s patience would reach its end. Maybe that was what drove Elain into the hot Italian sun with only a half-filled bottle of sunscreen taking up space at the bottom of her bag. At least she had her hat.

Battling tourists, Elain made her way up the steps, skin sweat soaked before she’d made it even a third of the way up. Why did she keep doing this to herself? 

Because you’ll miss it.

Even the heat, miserable as it could be, was a welcome friend Elain didn’t want to lose. Gray was from the rainy northwest and spoke often about how he longed to return to cloud cover and days that rarely topped the mid-70s. 

No more sunburns, he’d reminded her cheerfully just the night before. And sure, the bridge of Elain’s nose was sunburned so often she suspected she’d be in trouble when she was older, but it wasn’t from a lack of trying. And she tanned so nicely in the aftermath that she almost didn’t care. 

As she reached the top of the steps, a new, yet persistent thought wormed its way through her mind. You don’t have to marry him. 

Catching her breath, Elain banished it. She did have to marry him. They’d been together for years, he’d moved across the world to be with her, had stayed the last five years when it would have been easier to leave. He’d never acclimated to Italian culture, could barely speak the language despite being immersed in it, and he loathed the weather, the tourists, and the locals on scooters who did, on occasion, attempt to mow down a pedestrian in their way. 

As if life in the US was so much better. It was merely familiar to him. Elain thought it would all feel foreign and strange, too bright and too loud for her eyes and ears. She didn’t want to return, didn’t want to find a new job or give up a career she was passionate about.

But she couldn’t tell him. Elain knew if she told him, Graysen would ask why they were even getting married, a question he’d broached the first time she’d dug in her heels and said she didn’t want to go. Maybe he’d known it would scare her—she’d certainly folded fairly quickly—or maybe it was how he felt.

All she knew was that if he left, no one would ever be able to love her again. Not like he did. No one would have done even half of what Gray had done for her and she knew she’d never find another man willing to tolerate her obsession, her long hours, and her unwillingness to leave Rome. 

Her whole life was a love letter to the city. Elain still remembered how the love affair had begun. She’d heard a story about the goddess Diana turning the hunter Acteaon into a deer when he’d accidentally spied her bathing and Elain had been desperate to hear more. Learn more. It had started with mythology, which spawned an interest in the emperor's themselves. So much of their lives had been mythologized that it felt like listening to a particularly bloody story on par with the gods themselves.

That had spawned a love affair with Roman architecture and history that persisted even to that day. Elain had a doctorate in archeology, was tenured at [Roman University], and lived in the city. It all felt like a dream—one that was slowly becoming a nightmare.

Elain took a breath, intending to return to work if only to get her out of the sun and out of her head. She turned, delighted to see a familiar blonde grinning as she made her way toward her.

“You’re not working today?” Arina asked in her thick, Italian accent. She was the first friend Elain had made when she landed in Rome, bright eyed and so painfully American that people could clock her on the street. 

“I should be,” Elain replied, falling into step with Arina. Arina wasn’t from Rome, but Florence, though Elain never would have been able to tell given the way Arina moved through the city. She wasn’t concerned with the men constantly trying to stop her to talk, nor did she care about the vehicles on the road not paying attention when she was in the street. Elain had once watched her scream at a man, hands in the air, curses flying as vicious as any knife.

Arina joked that Elain was the lover, she the fighter. 

“What are you doing out here?” Arina demanded, eyeing a woman in khakis with that familiar, Roman judgment Elain hoped to never be on the opposite end of. 

“Graysen got a job up in Oregon,” Elain told her, earning an eye roll from Arina.

“Let him go,” she said dismissively. “As if there aren’t men in Rome. They’re all awful, but they’re here. Maybe you could find the one good one, wherever he is.”

“I don’t want another man,” Elain said, a familiar refrain. Arina rolled her eyes again, mumbling something Elain didn’t quite catch under her breath. 

“Explain it to me again. Like I’m stupid,” Arina ordered, weaving in and out of crowds without batting an eye. “What about him is so special?”

“You’ve never been in love?” Elain questioned, certain they’d had this conversation a million times before.

Arina shrugged. “Every time I see a beautiful face. So what? What does love have to do with anything?”

“Love is everything—”

“He’s holding you back. He’d see your career crumble to dust if it meant he could be comfortable. Let him go back if that’s what he wants, and let him realize the best thing that ever happened to him was this city.”

“You just don’t understand,” Elain said without anger. Arina didn’t—Elain knew her friend wasn’t lying about how often she fell in love. The problem was how easily Arina fell out of love, too.

The light would shift, dawn would break, and Arina was over it. A lifetime had passed in her mind and whoever she’d imagined herself to be while she’d been with that man was gone, too. Elain envied Arina’s ability to put herself above everything else, to walk away when things no longer suited her.

A greater woman wouldn’t let a man dictate her entire life. Was she pathetic? She’d wondered that many times throughout her relationship with Graysen. Elain simply did not know how to love herself more than she loved him. She wanted love, the kind that people wrote songs about. The kind that transcended time itself. Elain knew that Graysen wasn’t that kind of love, and yet she still couldn’t leave.

She simply wanted to be with him more than she wanted to start all over again. What if there was no one else? What if no one else could love her? She was scared and if she was honest with herself, she knew that was what would convince her to resign and return to the United States. 

“I understand perfectly well,” Arina disagreed, pulling Elain from her thoughts. “We lose too many good women to these losers that have nothing going on for them. He’ll have you in his kitchen, pregnant while your research is dustier than Cicero’s writings and the world will be a worse place for it. You’re on the verge of something big, Elain. What if this is the missing estate of Emperor Lucius—”

“It’s not,” she said firmly, heart pounding in her throat. Arina had hurt her feelings just enough that Elain didn’t want to play the what-if game. Finding the missing home of the late Emperor would give Elain the one thing she’d always wanted—true insight into the missing Empress Helena . Every piece of research she’d done over the past five years had centered around the two of them.

In the later writings before Lucius died, he lamented the loss of Helena , though he never spoke of what happened to her. Only that she had gone on the eve of a great battle, leaving scholars to speculate she had returned to the fringes of the Empire, back to Britania where she had been born. There was no record of her departure, no writings that confirmed she’d ever arrived. Elain’s thesis had been that Elena had been slaughtered by Saxons before she made it home and could write to the Emperor, and Lucius had been so heartbroken, he’d never been able to write the whole story down.

Not everyone agreed, of course. A myriad of other scholars believed she’d died in childbirth or Lucius had divorced her, bending to public pressure around his foreign born wife. The one thing they all agreed on, however, was that he’d loved her. If Elain could find the home he’d had outside the city—the home it was rumored that she often stayed in during the final months of their marriage—Elain could piece together the final days of the Empress and validate her research.

Finding proof of the Empress right as Graysen wanted to leave would put Elain in a terrible position. Did she stay and end her relationship? Or did she pick Graysen and leave someone else to finish what she’d started, taking all the credit while she became exactly what Arina accused her of? 

Elain could think of nothing else that night as she made her way back to the little apartment she shared with Graysen. He had the shutters closed tight like he always did because he hated the sounds of the city that Elain loved so much. While he stared down at his phone, she made her way methodically through the home and unlatched the windows, ignoring the heavy sigh he exhaled behind her.

“So,” she began, Arina’s words still ringing in her head, “tomorrow is the beginning of the excavation.”

Graysen seemed to perk up. “How long will it take?”

Months. Elain shrugged. “A month, maybe less.”

Better to lie and drag it out than tell him the truth and let him tell her no right away. 

“I’m looking at houses,” Graysen told her as he rose from a black leather chair. “I want you to look at some of them, tell me what you think.”

Elain’s heart began to race all over again. “Houses?”

Graysen stepped around her, shoes still on, to make his way toward the kitchen. “Yes, Elain. Houses. Aren’t you tired of these tiny ass apartments in these dirty fucking cities?”

No. “Where are you looking?”

“Outside Portland. Close enough to commute but quiet. A place with a lawn, and neighbors for our kids to play with.”

Elain thought she might be sick. “Kids?”

Graysen whipped around so fast Elain stumbled back a step. “We’ve talked about this, Elain. Kids, a family, a life.”

“I know…I just thought…” She didn’t know what she thought, honestly. Biting her bottom lip, Elain said, “I’m not ready for kids, Gray.”

“Let’s just get out of here, first, and get married. This is just a plan, okay? Don’t freak out, baby.”

But she was freaking out. Even as Graysen pulled her into his chest, all she could think about was Arina’s accusation that Graysen wanted to turn her into his housewife. “In a year, who knows? Maybe you’ll be tired of all this, yeah?”

“Yeah,” she lied.

Elain knew she’d never be tired of it. 

—

Lucien glanced over at his brother, lounging casually against a pillar. They weren’t alone. As they waited just outside the Curia. Voices echoed off the high ceiling, slipping into the ether before any one could be untangled for a curious eavesdropper. Normally, Lucien would try and pick out the philosophers from the politicians but today he was focused.

If they succeeded—and it was a big if—he needed to be entirely focused. The same was true if they failed, honestly. If their plot was revealed before they could carry it out, Lucien would be jailed for treason before being made into a public spectacle. 

Beron would see the Empire laid to ruin under his madness. The people starved, their coffers were dwindling by the day, and the city was still reeling from a recent fire. They needed stability. They’d tried other means first. Eris had poisoned multiple goblets of wine, they’d sent snakes, assassins—everyone failed.

It was time to get their own hands bloody. 

For the sixth time that day, Lucien adjusted the fabric of his toga draped over an arm, careful to ensure the purple stripe was visible. Across the room, Jurian glanced out the open bronze doors, cheeks flushed from the heat. It was a miserable day already, the sun bearing down on them unbearably. Lucien wanted to retreat to the countryside where he swore to the gods it was never this hot.

The entry went silent as Beron swept in, devoid of the guards Octavian had once commanded. Beron believed himself to be divine, more god than man. Lucien intended to show him otherwise. 

Eris stepped forward, immaculate despite the heat, and bowed his head in a show of deference. “Are we ready?”

Beron’s brown eyes swept the room. “Is this everyone today?”

“There’s a war, if you recall,” Lucien reminded the Emperor, trying not to grind his teeth. Another costly war with the gauls that was unlikely to yield anything but more widows and wasted money. Beron was going to cost them Britania if he wasn’t careful—Lucien knew the Saxons were watching, waiting to see how things shook out on the Germanic border. How long before Beron was sending Lucien out to war, too?

And Eris? 

Before every enemy he had in Rome was marching on a battlefield where a knife to the back was much easier to orchestrate? Lucien didn’t intend on dying that way. No, if he died it was going to be in his bed because old age had finally come for him. If he was lucky, he’d be surrounded by children and grandchildren, though that assumed he had a wife and Lucien had not been lucky on that front.

If he let himself think about Jesminda, Lucien would utterly fail in his part in their plot. He couldn’t help himself, ruminating on his failures that had led to her death. It had been no one's fault…and yet he blamed himself anyway. Married for just a year—the best year of Lucien’s life, if he was honest with himself. He’d been just a junior Senator then, a nobles son from the Galatia province desperate to cut his teeth on Roman politics.

And Jesminda had been…well. She’d been wild. Too wild for patrician life and yet she’d tried anyway. If Lucien had been smart, he would have given it all up and taken her far, far away from the city. He’d merely loved it too much and assured himself she would learn to love it, too. Everything had been for her. The money, the social climbing—everything.

She should have been with him, listening to him plotting from beside him in their shared bed. And their child…he should have been there, too. He’d have been toddling around by then, speaking his first words with a mop of Jesminda’s dark curls. Lucien thought of them often, wishing Jesminda hadn’t lost her life trying to bring his son into the world. 

By the time Lucien realized what was happening, it was all too late. Jesminda was gone, hair stained red from all the blood she’d lost. He hadn’t even been able to tell her goodbye. And the babe…the baby hadn’t lasted the night, taking his last, frail breaths from Lucien’s trembling arms. He’d prayed on his knees to the gods, begging them to let the baby to live.

And then he’d prayed to bring her back. He’d offered a trade—his life for hers. He’d go into the underworld himself if he could only just find it. The gods were silent, their decision final. So he raged, instead, and then he fell silent when it was clear there was no undoing what was done. No bringing either of them back, no happiness the way he’d envisioned it. 

And he knew eventually he’d marry another Senator's daughter, likely to cement some powerful alliance between them. Lucien dreaded it all the same. 

Lost in thought, he’d forgotten where he was or what he was doing until Jurian’s elbow connected with his rib. No words were exchanged between them, but Lucien knew what Jurian was asking.

Are you still coming? 

There was time to back out if he wanted. Lucien might have if he’d been a coward, but he wasn’t. He was going to see Eris crowned Emperor if it was the last thing he did and it might be. Beron wasn’t known for being merciful. In one particular instance of lunacy, Beron had decided to wage war with Neptune himself, marching an army all the way to the shores of Britannia only to slash at the sea with his sword.

That had been Lucien’s final breaking point. He’d read the report through clenched teeth and decided right then and there that he’d had enough. Beron made a mockery of Rome’s greatness and threatened to undo everything their predecessors had worked for. Lucien would be damned if he let the Empire fall to ruin when there was a simple fix.

He followed Jurian into the Curia, closing the bronze doors behind him with a heavy click. Dragging his eyes around the room, Lucien focused on the bright green and red tiles adorning the floors rather than look behind Beron at the fountain of Saturn bubbling cheerfully in a stream of bright, golden light. In a few moments—just as soon as Eris gave the signal—those same tiles would be soaked with blood.

“Is this everyone who means to attend today?” Beron demanded, unaware this session had been called in secret. Of the six hundred Senators, only fifty were in attendance and that was by design. By the time the rest learned of what happened, Eris’s guards would have taken the city and he’d be crowned Emperor. 

Eris only shrugged, fingers flexing over his chest. That was the signal. The rest of them made their way toward Beron, still unaware, while Jurian stood against the door to keep Beron from getting out or his guards, were they to show up, from getting in. 

Eris’s blade connected with Beron’s stomach first—he’d wanted the first cut given Beron had raised him. He’d been a cruel father before he’d been a crueler Emperor. It was only right that Eris got the satisfaction of looking Beron in the eye and Beron knowing the plot had been orchestrated by Eris. 

Beron’s knees buckled, eyes wide not with fear but blazing, burning hatred. “Omnis homo mendax,” he spat, clearly caught off guard. Lucien joined the fray, his blade bloodied by the time Beron gasped out his last. 

It wasn’t the first death he’d ever seen—but it was one of the more satisfying ones. Panting, arm aching from the effort it took to pierce flesh and bone, Lucien looked up at Eris. 

“We must go, brother,” he warned as Jurian pushed off the door. “Quickly, before this was all for nothing.” They’d made it five steps across the room, Senators trailing behind Eris, when the doors shoved open. Armed guards with familiar faces made their way into the room. They weren’t Eris’s men, but Lucien’s and when they saw him, they immediately took a knee. 

“What are you doing?” Lucien demanded. This wasn’t how things were supposed to go.

“Beron’s men swept the city,” Antonius began apprehensive, looking from the pooling blood to Lucien. “Say the word and we’ll secure the city in your name.”

“Where are my—”

“Dead, Senator,” Antonius told him, jaw set with determination. They had seconds to act before word spread—before one of the Senators standing behind them had a change of heart and declared himself Dictator. “Say the word.”

Lucien turned to Eris, thinking of Beron’s last words. Omnis homo mendax. Every man is a liar. Eris must have been thinking it, too. Would they become enemies? Lucien needed Eris’s support, not just politically, but generally. They were brothers in every way that mattered, though also technically as Lucien’s mother was Eris’s mother. He’d been sent away when he’d been born rather than shame Beron’s good name and Lucien imagined it must have rankled Beron to see the product of his wife’s infidelity turn up in Rome as a man.

Lucien wouldn’t give the word until Eris did.

“Better you than anyone else,” Eris finally said, sweeping aside the fabric of his toga to kneel before Lucien. “Take the city.”

“Go,” Lucien ordered, heart racing. This wasn’t how it was supposed to go. It should have been him on his knees while Eris was crowned, not the other way around. Lucien had never been so ambitious, hadn’t spent the years cultivating allies and purging his enemies. Right then, Lucien wasn’t sure if he could trust anyone in that room. Even as Antonius stood, barking orders to lock the city down until everyone loyal to Beron was removed, Lucien wondered if there wouldn’t be a dagger in his back by the end of the day. 

There was no taking it back. Only Jurian had a sense of humor about the whole thing, laughing loudly as Lucien approached.

“Well,” he said with a broad, unrestrained grin, “long live the Emperor.”

Lucien very much doubted he’d live long at all.

And still.

Long live the Emperor. 

ELAIN: 

The whole drive out into the countryside, all Elain could think about was Graysen and the plans he’d made. She felt like a doll in a toy box, one that could be moved around at will but had no say in where she went or what she did. He’d sent her the houses he was looking into, aided by his parents who were already touring them back in the states and sending pictures of each room. 

This would be perfect for a nursery. That had been the message his mother had sent over, showing off a large room with bay windows overlooking a spacious, lush backyard. Elain’s stomach was still churning as she thought about it. Her future was decided—all she had to do was smile and nod her head.

Truthfully, she probably didn’t need to even do that much. Just stay with him and Graysen would decide it all for her. She could be passive, even in her own life. A leaf blown along stronger winds until she was a stranger even to herself. If she thought about it too hard, Elain started to cry though she didn’t understand why.

This was what she wanted. She’d told Graysen so for years—she wanted kids, wanted marriage, wanted the white picket fence and the house in the suburbs. So why did it fill her with panic now that she was so close to getting everything she’d ever wanted? 

The bus jostled, tire slamming into a pothole. Arina slammed against Elain from the seat beside her, elbow hitting her rib as Elain’s temple collided with the glass. Arina mumbled out a quick apology, her own expression as moody as the sky overhead. Elain didn’t think it was going to rain, though the cloud cover was a welcome relief after the week they’d had. She didn’t think she could withstand a straight month of nothing but sun. 

Though, she would. Elain needed good news. She wanted to excavate a whole estate, with statues and a fountain—and if she was lucky, and the current homeowners unlucky, a bath house too. 

For now, though, she had a mosaic floor and that was enough to keep her busy and away from home. She and Arina had booked a room in the village and would stay for the next week before returning to Rome for the weekend. Elain considered, briefly, telling Graysen her cell reception was bad. 

And yet there she was, right then, texting him.

Miss you already.

What was wrong with her, she wondered? She ought to be studied. Crack open her skull and see where the disconnect between her heart and mind was because rationally Elain knew what she needed to do. It was emotionally that tangled her all up. She still loved him, still wanted everything they’d talked about. And part of her hoped, foolishly, that she could have everything if she simply refused to make a choice.

“I can hear your thoughts,” Arina complained when Elain remained uncharacteristically quiet. “You might as well scream them at me.”

“Shut up.”

“No, I won’t shut up,” Arina replied without malice. “What did he do now?”

“Nothing,” Elain said, resting her head on the window of the bus. “He’s looking at houses in Portland.”

Arina wrinkled her nose with distaste, though Elain was willing to bet if she laid out a map of the United States, Arina couldn’t tell her where Portland even was. It didn’t matter when Elain also knew that Arina simply thought there was nowhere better to live but Italy. Elain agreed, though she had no intention of admitting that to Arina just then. Her smugness would be unbearable.

“Did you tell him you don’t want to go?”

Elain sighed, earning an even heavier sigh from Arina.

“Why not? What are you waiting for?”

“I don’t know? A sign from Jupiter?” she joked weakly. “If he could just…tell me what I should do—”

“That’s what your gut is for but you’re not listening,” Arina replied, poking Elain in the ribs. “He’s already there telling you to dump Gray and step into your destiny.”

“What a cliche,” Elain lamented, turning her eyes back toward the green Italian landscape. “She’s married to her work.”

“Better than being some man’s slave,” Arina muttered darkly.

“How do you do that? Turn it all off, I mean?” Elain asked curiously. “My parents were so in love and I just want a sliver of what they had.”

“Well, my parents were not in love—not like that, anyway. My father was loud and mean and my mother tolerated it. Abuse wasn’t in her vocabulary, and she’d been taught that was just how men were. And I told myself I would never let a man steal my life from me. You’re going to die one day, Elain. Is this how you want to spend it?”

“If I could make myself love him less, I would.”

“You don’t have to love him less, just love yourself more,” Arina told her softly. Her words struck Elain harder than any physical blow, robbing her of breath. Love yourself more. Elain didn’t know how. Her whole life had been in service of others—keeping the peace between her two sisters and their loud personalities, taking care of her father when her mother died, making sure everyone was happy no matter what. When Graysen came along, Elain was working toward something that made her happy at the expense of what everyone else wanted for her and he’d seemed supportive. How many times had Gray said he wanted to take care of her, for once?

He’d encouraged her to apply for the professorship in Italy, had been so willing to pack up his life and move that she felt selfish, suddenly, for denying him something he clearly wanted.

Relationships were give and take, right? 

Arina shook her head, reading Elain’s mind like she always did. Elain wore her every thought against her expression, making it easy for the rest of the world to know what she was thinking. Or maybe Arina just understood Elain better than anyone else—she couldn’t be sure. 

They arrived not much later, arriving in idyllic Caprarola. From there it was a decent walk hauling all their supplies toward the home nestled among rolling hills and the remnants of the Italian Renaissance. Arina was in heaven, pointing out this architectural style and that type of stone while Elain tried to stay present in the moment.

Her thoughts kept shifting back to Gray. Glancing upward at the cloud-filled sky, she wondered if it was foolish to send a prayer to a god she didn’t believe in. Still, as Elain climbed out after Arina, she decided to try.

Saturn, if you can hear me- give me a sign. Anything. I’ll take any sign at all. 

Elain didn’t know why she settled on Saturn other than she was thinking about Rome, still, and the old temple of Saturn that had once stood in the forum. It didn’t matter. Saturn didn’t exist and there would be no divine intervention. No signs, no watchful gods trying to steer her on the right path. 

“Are you ready?” Arina whispered, lacing her fingers through Elain’s for a moment to offer an excited squeeze. Elain was desperate, her plans tucked up under her arms. The first few days would be carefully excavating the existing floor and looking for anything else that may be nearby. Elain felt a little bad for the homeowners—if their home was on top of Roman ruins, it belonged to the Italian government. 

Arina had no business being there other than Elain had invited her. They didn’t need an art historian this early in the process and yet as they all descended on the backyard, Elain was glad she’d brought Arina.

“Wow,” Arina murmured, eyes as bright as the midday Italian sun. Time had faded the once vibrant blue and red tiles and still they were visible beneath the scattered layer of dirt. There, a good six feet or more underground, lay the one glorious floor of a Roman. If she was lucky, the rumors would be true and she'd uncover it belonged to Emperor Lucien.

And if she was less lucky, she’d still get to excavate a piece of Roman history. 

“Let’s get started.”

So much of the day was inching along carefully—Elain spent the vast majority of the day creating a grid of the site and assigning her grad students to each square. From there they took pictures in an attempt to see what lay beneath the soil, all of which was noted very carefully in logs. Though she was desperate to start digging, it was important to ensure nothing was damaged.

There was more than just a floor there—Elain was certain that it had a whole bath house within that yard and the one connected to the neighbors. No matter what happened next, Elain knew she had a patrician’s home under her feet.

She didn’t sleep well. Her dreams were drenched in color so bright she woke with a pounding headache and aching eyes, her skin so sweaty the sheets stuck to her body. Elain had fallen asleep texting Graysen, frustrated he wasn’t more excited about her potential discovery. He’d mustered a, that’s great, babe! before going right back to sending her house listings and pictures from his mom.

Make a choice.

Elain wanted to throw her life to the wolves and see what happened. She was frustrated and tired and if she was honest with herself, bored to death. The idea that this was the future waiting for her made her stomach tumble viciously, not with excitement but dread.

Wasn’t that enough of a sign?

She still loved him. Loved him enough to want to want the life he was offering her. What was so bad about it? Other than the dreary monotony and the fact that it was only her sacrificing her dreams? People went their whole lives without the kind of security Graysen was promising. Why couldn’t she just decide? Why couldn’t she get over herself and be the right woman for him? Elain vowed that night she’d show more enthusiasm, pick a house, and get on board. It wasn’t fair to punish him for her indecision and she couldn’t stay with him if it made her unhappy. If they were going to be together then they needed to be together. 

Elain shook the thought from her head and laced up her boots. Today she was getting dirty, which meant utility pants and a white shirt tucked neatly into the waistband. She’d pulled her thick curls into a messy french braid and slathered sunscreen over her face before jamming her wide brim sun hat against her head. 

Arina was waiting in a soft, blue cotton dress that looked beautiful against the golden brown of her skin. She’s left her hair down, her face uncovered and a little mascara slicked over her eyelashes. Elain envied Arina’s ability to seem effortlessly put together regardless of the circumstances, though she was absurdly overdressed for excavating. 

“I’ll leave the dirt to you,” Arina said with a grin, reading Elain’s thoughts as she so often did. “I want to see that Roman bath.”

“I think we’ve got a genuine hot tub,” Elain said, pulling out some of the pictures taken the day before. “Intact and well preserved, though we won’t know until we’re looking at it.”

“Let’s get to it, then,” Arina replied.

And so they did. The morning was spent carefully digging. Her grad students were obviously frustrated by the afternoon, having grown up on a steady diet of The Mummy and Indiana Jones. Real life archeology was slower, careful and precise. After all, no one wanted to be the person who destroyed a priceless piece of history because they’d been too eager and careless. 

And Elain was desperate at that point—she’d been right. A whole bath house was emerging, pieces crumbling from centuries of disuse, its lead pipes cracked, the tiles chipped. She’d resketched their area to include the new discovery, demolishing nearly the entire back garden. The owners of the home watched from the window, scowls on their faces. Maybe it had been unkind of Elain to send the grad student she liked the least to let them know what had been found. She’d been in that position, once, though not to this degree, and decided it was a character defining moment. 

The afternoon was spent going layer by layer in the soil, careful not to accidentally miss anything that may have shifted over the centuries. They dug up a couple necklaces and the broken pieces of an amphora that once had held water or wine—or maybe oil. It was hard to tell given the few shards they had.

Elain worked well into the night, turning overhead lights on as she crept closer and closer to a true, Roman bath. Arina stayed with her, even after they cut their grad students loose.

“Should we be here this late?” Arina asked, climbing gingerly down into the trench Elain had dug.

“No…but I want to see it before anyone else.”

Elain swore the world felt different down in that hole. Surrounded by the white and red mosaic, cracked and in some places completely gone, Elain could almost imagine what it would have been like. 

“Look at this,” Arina breathed, running her fingers over a half ruined fresco on what was left of an archway. 

“What’s the time period?” 

“Imperial for sure,” Arina told her, echoing what Elain already knew. Still, the confirmation was nice. There would be no narrowing it down tonight, though they both were thinking the same thing—this could belong to the period Lucius had ruled. This could be the home he’d died in, where he’d penned those journals lamenting the loss of his late wife Elena. 

“Look at this,” Arina said, beckoning for Elain to follow after her. Careful of where they stepped, the pair made their way to the furthest wall to look at what once would have been a vibrant fresco. The reds had faded to a rusty colored orange, the faces worn away by time.

“It’s Chronos,” Arina breathed, fingers hovering without quite touching. “See how he hunches over? His beard is still there…just barely. And here, it’s Kairos I think. Usually a younger, handsome man beside Chronos would be Kairos—”

“Greek?”

She shrugged. “The Romans borrowed a lot from the Greeks. Perfected it, I’m sure they’d say. The wealthy would have known all the Greek philosophers and they would have been familiar with Greek mythology. I suppose our Emperor was a fan.”

“Why have the Greek god of time on the wall?” Arina looked around in the dark, trying to make out the rest of the wall. “It’s probably some larger theme. Maybe he was worried about the years passing? Or not seizing an opportunity?”

Static had caused pieces of Arina’s blonde hair to stand on end and the smell of something sulfuric had begun to fill the air. Elain, like Arina, was transfixed by the image and the space they currently stood in. 

Arina glanced at Elain. “No one would know if we just—”

“Carefully,” she said, heart thudding with excitement. “If the oil from our fingers—”

“Think about how they used to excavate things. No gloves, just dirty hands,” Arina said as she pulled a thing of vanilla scented hand sanitizer from the bag wrapped around her waist. “We can’t be any worse than them.”

Elain didn’t know about that, though she didn’t argue. With one hand, she clasped Arina’s, linking them inextricably and with the other she reached for the wall at the same moment Arina did. 

A hook jerked just behind her navel, ripping her forward so quickly Elain’s eyes slammed shut to avoid the inevitable crash against solid, Roman concrete. She was going to be in so much trouble—the university would be irate when they realized she and Arina had destroyed a priceless piece of Roman architecture.

Elain and Arina tumbled to the ground, elbow connecting with the solid floor. The smell of sulfur was more present as heat danced along her skin. Elain felt condensation on her cheek, mopped up  from the floor she was sprawled against. 

Arina groaned, dragging her lower body off of Elain. “I’m sorry…” she began, voice trailing off. Opening her eyes, Elain expected to be engulfed by darkness. Instead, she found bronze lamps hanging from the ceiling blazing, illuminating a truly magnificent room. A bath room, complete with a massive pool with glittering blue water that wafted steam up toward the vaulted ceiling. Empty chaises with plush, red fabric were set along the wall painted in colors so vivid Elain was certain she must be hallucinating.

Arina stood, her white dress ripped just above the knee from where they’d fallen. While Elain remained on the ground, desperately trying to catch her breath, Arina went to look at the painting.

“Look,” she said, her voice too breathless for Elain’s liking. “It’s the same fresco. There he is…Chronos—”

“Qu quidnam facis?” 

Elain and Arina turned, Elain clambering to her feet as the latin words slithered through the warm air. There, just outside an open bronzed door, stood two men in belted brown tunics and worn, leather sandals. Dark curls spilled over olive skin, while two sets of brown eyes stared at them accusingly.

“We…” Elain trailed off, unsure what to make about any of this.

“Chi sei esattamente?!” Arina snapped back in sharp Italian. It was the wrong thing to say in perhaps the wrong language, because the two men began calling for guards in Latin. In Latin. Elain couldn’t get her mind to keep up with what was happening because Latin was a dead language and no one spoke it outside of academia. She was dreaming, she decided, and not even having iron cuffs clamped around her wrist could convince her otherwise. 

“Elain,” Arina whispered when the doors to the room they were being held in were locked, “I think we’re in trouble.”

“Wake up,” Elain whispered to herself.

But she never did.

—

Lucien was in hell. Declared Emperor by the cohortes praetoriae, Lucien found himself standing before a packed Senate, about to be crowned. Among the gathered crowd of patricians, Lucien found his older brother looking back at him, cheeks reddened from the heat. There was no taking it back, not without making his whole line look weak and painting a target on their backs.

He didn’t understand how it had happened. Somewhere in the very back, Lucien saw his father talking with another Senator, deliberately not looking at his son. 

This kind of maneuver had his father written all over it. 

It was tempting to touch the golden fibula on his shoulder, each bearing the symbols of Rome. Lucien still felt like he was dreaming and had ever since the purple paludamentum had been brought to him, now fluttering behind his armor. He was the picture of Roman strength, the promise of the Roman future. And as he stood before his peers, Lucien felt like a fraud.

He hadn’t been born to rule. And still, he had the recognition and support of the Roman Army—all he needed was the Senate to declare him Imperator Caesar and Lucien as he’d once been would be no more. 

The room went silent as Eris stood, the only living consul available to Lucien at the moment—they’d executed the other just the morning before. Lucien could still hear the wails of the man’s widow as Jurian had dragged him cowering from his home where Lucien had been waiting, sword in hand. He may not have considered himself worthy of the title, but he’d be damned if some sniveling coward put a knife in his back. 

Eris could refuse. Could spit at Lucien’s feet if he’d wanted. Lucien knew he wouldn’t, though he could see the furious resentment burning in Eris’ gaze. The only thing that would spare Lucien was the knowledge that Lucien had not been the one to betray Eris. He doubted it would save his father from Eris’ wrath, and it had occurred to Lucien that he might be better off sending Eris to a far-flung province and forgetting him entirely.

He needed his brother. Eris was just as cunning, just as conniving, but with a talent for surviving. Lucien wanted Eris at his right hand until the day he died, and so when his brother who should have been Emperor approached, Lucien let him. He knew the vipers surrounding them were half hoping for a spectacle—a little more blood spilled on the floor, a little more violence to satisfy their hunger.

Eris held a golden crown made to look like laurel leaves. “Behold,” Eris said, his voice echoing off the vaulted ceilings overhead, “Imperator Caesar Augustus Lucius. Long may He serve Rome.” Lucien inclined his head just enough for Eris to set that crown atop his head before his eyes swept over the room, trying to meet the eyes of everyone who was still living. I let you live, he hoped his expression said, I will not be so generous if you betray me. 

And then he launched into the speech he’d spent the night working on. Lucien had read from predecessors long past, looking at those who had done the job well and the words they’d spoken. He wanted to evoke a sense of safety and trust—he was here to take care of the Roman people, not enrich himself at their expense. And to that end, Lucien had ordered a month of games starting on the next kalendes to give him time to prepare a true spectacle and get himself mostly settled into his new position.

His proclamation was received with thunderous applause—everyone loved an excuse to celebrate and it had been a long time since they’d had cause for it. Beron had all but banned the games, calling them too expensive and too distracting to a populace better suited for work than pleasure.

It wasn’t the Roman way. Had Eris not orchestrated his death, Beron was well on his way to being declared enemy of the people much like Nero before him. Lucien had been content to wait and watch before Eris put his foot down. Did his brother regret it, he wondered? 

With the Senate convened, Lucien was free to accept congratulations from his fellow patricians. Jurian and Eris hung back by the door, waiting for the rest to file out so they could descend on Lucien like wolves.

He needed to speak with his father. Catching the older man by the wrist, Lucien muttered, “Was this your doing?” Helion was unrepentant. “Blasphemy, son.”

“You—”

“Not here. Dinner with your mother and I? I assume our new Imperator isn’t so busy he can’t spare a little time for his mother?”

Lucien ground his teeth together before nodding. “Fine. Send word when you’d like me.”

“You have a standing invitation,” Helion reminded him before sauntering out, the last of the stragglers. 

 “How does it feel?” Jurian asked once Helion was gone. Lucien glanced toward Eris. 

“I didn’t—”

“I know,” Eris said, jaw set all the same. “That dead bastard guessing my plan is my fault—I should have planned for that inevitably.”

Lucien opened his mouth to offer to step down but the scathing look Eris shot him silenced him. Eris had always been good at reading his mind.

“What’s done is done,” Eris said, his disappointment clear. “I won’t be wasting any more time on what might have been. The gods have spoken.”

“Well I—”

“Princeps,” a servant bowed low, stopping Lucien in the hall leading out of the Curia, eyes on the marble below them. 

“Speak.”

“Word has come from your estate in Eturia. Two spies have infiltrated and are being held while we await your instruction.”

Already? “Spies? From where?”

The slave winced, olive skin already burned in the sun. They spoke like a Roman, though their accent betrayed them. They sounded suspiciously Dacian, though he couldn’t be sure and truthfully, he cared very little. 

The servant shrugged beneath their brown tunic. “They are difficult to understand.”

Eris and Jurian cut a glance to Lucien. “Germanic?”

“Possibly.”

“Bring them to Rome,” Lucien ordered. “I’ll question them myself.”

They waited for the servant to depart before they began speaking among themselves. “A barbarian this close to the city?” Jurian asked with amusement as they stepped out into the bright sunlight of the late morning. Light reflected from the marble, blinding Lucien temporarily before his eyes adjusted. Bustling crowds jostled for space, their conversations blurring into a murmuring jumble of words. 

Slipping past a group arguing passionately about rising olive prices, Lucien continued his conversation with Eris and Jurian.

“Do you really think two germanic barbarians came all this way to rob you?” Jurian questioned, eyes sliding upward toward the markets, built not with marble like the rest of the forum, but with brick directly against the hillside. Lucien could smell cooking meat, mingled alongside sweat, leather, and citrus. 

“No,” Lucien replied. “Scouts would have been swept up in Gaul before they ever made it this far.” If he hadn’t just been made Emperor, Lucien would have gone himself just to keep things quiet. He didn’t need word spreading and causing a panic–though, if he was clever, Lucien saw a future in which he could deploy troops back to the Rhine and take more territory. 

“Assassins, then,” Eris said with a little too much amusement. “You’re better off cutting their throats before they ever reach Rome.”

“I’ll make them part of the games,” Lucien declared, running his fingers over a large pillar depicting the accomplishments of an emperor long before him. He needed one of his own—a project for later, he decided privately. “If they’re assassins, the lions can have them, and if they’re barbarians, the gladiators can show them what happens when one attempts to challenge Rome.”

It was settled, leaving Lucien to make the rounds. His praetorian guards trailed just behind, their mere presence a warning to anyone who thought to get too close. Those, Lucien kept a weapon on his person as well, paranoid of every face he didn’t recognize—and many he did. 

He didn’t sleep well that night—nor the next one. Everything was happening quickly. Decisions needed to be made and a legacy built. Lucien, like so many before him, was interested in expansion to add to the glory of Rome and prove to the Romans he was worthy of his title and position. 

Lucien commissioned works of art—and not just of himself—and began his preparations for the games. Animals needed to be brought in which took time—of which he had very little. Lucien had nearly forgotten about the intruders until Eris came around Palatine Hill, strolling into the palace that had once belonged to Beron—and every emperor that had come before him—as though it belonged to him.

“Your captives have arrived,” Eris said, a grin on his face. 

“What’s so funny?”

“Apparently your captives have been giving your soldiers a difficult time.”

“And that amuses you?”

“Come with me,” Eris said, beckoning Lucien to leave his place at his desk. “You’ll see why.”

And indeed, Lucien did find the source of Eris’s amusement when they descended into the bowels of Mamertine. It reeked of human suffering and filth and was so dark and damp that despite the heat of the day, Lucien felt cold. 

Eris ordered for the door of the cell to be opened, revealing not two barbaric soldiers itching for blood…but two slim, dirty women peering back at him from the gloom. Lucien turned to look at Eris, exasperated.

“Is this supposed to be funny? You wrangled two prostitutes—”

The blonde woman began snarling words in a language he didn’t recognize, though the tone conveyed just what she thought about what he’d said.

The brunette, however, spoke Latin. “We’re not prostitutes,” she said earnestly, leaning forward in an attempt to really look at him. “This is a misunderstanding.”

Eris held his hands up, iron ring glinting in the firelight. “I had no part in this.”

“You were caught trespassing,” Lucien informed them, stepping a few feet into the tiny cell. “How do you account for that?”

The women exchanged a glance and Lucien knew, without needing to read their thoughts, that they were about to tell him a lie. What would they invent, he wondered? 

“We’re from Britannia,” she said—and Lucien believed that, given the fairness of her skin and the blonde hair of the woman beside her. “We were overtaken on the road and forced to continue alone on foot. When we saw your estate, we hoped someone might welcome us inside—”

“And instead we’ve been imprisoned, assaulted, and accused of prostitution!” the blonde beside her bit out. Their accents were unusual, tinged with an inflection he didn’t recognize. They weren’t even the same accent—the blonde’s words were sharper while the brunette spoke with a rolling drawl he found oddly charming. 

“Prove you’re not a prostitute,” Eris said, clearly willing to provoke an angry woman. Lucien didn’t move, still curious as the blonde offered him a deceptively sweet smile.

“Come and see for yourself,” she offered. Lucien wouldn’t have dared—he knew an armed opponent when he saw one. Eris should have known better and yet he crossed the stone floor and reached out a hand, perhaps curious about the mass of blonde hair tangled around her face.

“Arina—” the brunette tried to stop her friend, but the woman bit Eris hard enough that Lucien saw the blood before he heard Eris’s furious curse. 

With bloody lips, the blonde looked up at him and said, “Biting is bad for business.”

Eris turned to look at Lucien, mouth agape. 

“This whole thing is merely a misunderstanding,” the brunette told him. “If you let us go—”

“Where would I release you to? A husband? Father?” Lucien questioned.

Both women exchanged a glance. “I…”

Liars, the pair of them. He could leave them, of course—it was tempting to wash his hands of the entire thing and return back to a world filled with daylight. The light from the hall shifted, through firelight onto the brunettes features and Lucien found himself unable to do so. She was…well.

She was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen, even with dirt staining her features. And she was looking at him with soft pleading, brown eyes and Lucien simply could not bring himself to treat her cruelly. 

“You’ll stay in my household as guests,” he declared as Eris swore softly beside him, shaking out his injured hand. “Just until we can find a relative to place you with.”

The blonde muttered something to the brunette in a third language—not the sharp constants from before, but something harsher and angrier sounding. 

“Um,” the brunette began, gaze darting between the three of them. “Will we stay here in Rome, or can we—”

“In Rome,” Lucien said, nose burning from the stench of suffering. “That is where you were headed, is it not?”

The brunette didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”

“Then there should be no problems.”

Whatever these women had been doing would reveal itself in time, and until then, keeping them in his household allowed Lucien to keep watch on them. He swore that was all he cared about—the safety of his city and the security of his position. But as the brunette stood, in clothes so strange he couldn’t figure them out at all, he knew this was more than pragmatism. She was beautiful and Lucien was still a man. 

Eris, too, was taking in their clothing, his nose wrinkled with distaste.

“Be careful of your next words,” the blonde warned, eyes wide.

Eris scowled. “Be careful of yours. Is this how men are treated in your home?”

“Worse,” she replied with a savage, bloodstained smile. 

“You look like a whore,” Eris snapped, clearly still pissed. Lucien’s head whipped around, a warning to silence himself on his tongue. The brunette clearly had the same thought because she gripped her friend’s wrist and whispered a clear, harsh warning in the ugly native tongue of hers. She was too beautiful to speak such a barbaric language, and more beautiful still when she turned to him and said, in Latin, “We’re so grateful for your hospitality.”

“Your name?” Lucien heard himself asking. Tell me the truth. 

“Elain,” she said, the word easily the most beautiful thing that had come from her lips since they’d met. “And this is Arina.”

Eris’ scowl deepened. “The soldiers. Did they touch you?”

Elain and Arina exchanged another glance, a yes if Lucien had ever seen it. It was unlike his brother to care and yet it was clear Eris wanted an answer, and intended to exact punishment on those who he felt had done wrong. 

“And if they did?” Arina demanded, crossing her arms over a ripped, white shift that made Lucien uncomfortable to look at. 

Eris nodded, pointing a finger in her face. “You will point them out to me—”

“That’s not…we’re unharmed,” Elain hastened to assure him, but Lucien found himself agreeing with Eris. If they’d been touched unwillingly, maybe he might like to see some justice done, too. 

“You will tell him which of my soldiers harmed you,” Lucien said, his word law. Did they know? Or had they departed believing Beron was Emperor. He gestured toward his brother and added,

“This is Consul Eris,” Lucien began, strangely pleased to tell Elain who he was, “and I am Lucien, Caesar Imperator Augustus.”

Elain and Arina both inclined their heads, knees bending strangely. Were they bowing? That was wholly unnecessary though…Lucien allowed it. He couldn’t explain himself, certainly not to his brother who was watching…but he liked the sight of Elain sinking to her knees before him. He beckoned for them to follow him out, gulping down fresh air the moment they were back outside.

“See them to my home,” he told his brother, wanting a minute to himself. “Ensure they’re made comfortable.”

Eris nodded. “You’ll regret this.”

Lucien smiled.

He had no doubts about that.

[broomsick]

Self-care & connecting with nature deities during the wintertime

Is it still possible to connect with harvest and nature deities such as Freyr during the cold season?

Long answer short, yes. Obviously, absolutely. But you all saw that answer coming, right? So I’m here to give you some ideas, as the person who’s favorite season is winter and who made it their mission to help everybody like winter just a little more. And since I feel especially close to Yngvi-Freyr when it comes to the Gods, I will use him as an example throughout this post, though a lot of the following could apply to most nature deities.

Let us first examine a common misconception before we get to the bottom of this topic: the fields don’t die when the sun sets on the 31st of October. The earth still lives under thick layers of snow. The process of dormancy is absolutely crucial to the cycles of nature. And if, like me, you find Freyr to be a sort of guardian of these cycles, then you’ll know he manifests himself in so many ways, even where you might not think to look.

Have you heard about the holly and ivy tradition? It was common during the European Medieval times to decorate houses and halls using holly and ivy, because they were the two plants with leaves that stayed green, even in the dark and cold of winter. This type of practice is often referred to as "bringing the outside in", and it's something I'm quite fond of. I've no doubt it could be a great help if you're the type to feel depressed during the winter time. It's a way to remind oneself of how everpresent nature actually is. Lots of greenery remains despite the snow! And to ackowledge this fact and to work with it is such a great way to connect with nature Gods in general! It goes to show that you appreciate their blessings all year round, not just during spring and summer. While it's true that in many cases, the presence of deities such as Freyr may feel somehow "dimmed" during the winter time, I assure you, they don't disappear once the first snow falls! On the contrary, they are every bit as present and active as when spring comes! They simply manifest themselves in a different manner.

When winter comes, I love to work with evergreen spirits. I incorporate spruce, fir and cedar into my practice and in my offerings. I won't go into too much detail for this topic however, because I've written posts that pertained to it in the past (namely, this post on tree work and this one on land spirits). Since I don't have easy access to holly or ivy, I make due with evergreen! Not with any actual branches, except when I'm lucky enough to find some that were torn away by the wind. But rather, using representations of it. In the same manner, and in the spirit of "bringing the outside in", it's also possible to decorate using representations of the sun! Harvest deities such as Freyr are often associated with it due to its crucial role in the cycles of plant growth. Candles also make for great solar symbols, and to place them around the home is like lighting a handful of little suns to bring much needed light and warmth inside. What's more, lighting candles on the winter solstice night is a widespread practice among pagans today! It serves to symbolize the return of the sun, as the days start to grow longer again. Until then however, it can be soothing for one to light a candle every morning before school or work, and to call upon any harvest, nature or solar deity of their choice to ask for strength and motivation throught the day. Even when it's difficult for us to feel their presence, they always hear us.

Now, how to actually feel more connected to nature? Oftentimes, connecting with nature and connecting with Yngvi-Freyr are one and the same. And on a more personal note, a lot of the advice I received from him pertained exactly to that: I believe he's often urged me to go spend more time in nature when I am going through rough patches. I know the cold and the cloudy weather can make it depressing for a lot of people to go out. My advice on this is to take it step by step: no need to go on long, four-hour long hikes right away! After all, there is already much beauty to be seen close to home. And I can't put enough emphasis on that: dress warmly! Also, as a tool for motivation, prepare a treat for yourself to enjoy after you've gone out. Part of what makes me enjoy winter so much is the thought of the warmth and light which await inside after I’ve gone out into the cold. The home is as sacred as the outside world! So why not buy, or prepare a batch of cookies, a cup of hot chocolate or a spicy dinner! It's something I love to do as a way to motivate myself to go out more often. And I like to offer part of these to local land spirits and to the Vanir, to show my appreciation for the beauty of this season. Just as an aside, I find snow water to be a great such offering as well!

I know that I’m not revolutionizing the pagan scene with this post, as there’s only so many ways to connect with nature during winter. I think it’s important to keep in mind that the snow, rain and cold that this season brings is just as much part of nature as the greens and lively colors of spring and summer. For this reason, they are just as much a part of nature deities and what they represent. Deities have so many facets and depth, and it can be so fulfilling to explore these different aspects, and the way we perceive them. While it’s true that spiritually speaking, it often feels to us heathens as if Skaði is somehow “taking” Freyr’s place in the order of things for the time being— much like the Holly King takes the Oak King’s place in Celtic folklore. This doesn’t make it so he disappears! In my experience, he presides over the cycle of seasons as a whole, and he is every bit as present for his followers as he is during the winter. I can connect with Skaði during the summer in a similar manner. And I’m sure that the same can be said for so many other harvest deities.

[galamalion]

୨୧. 𝐏𝐔𝐌𝐏𝐊𝐈𝐍 𝐏𝐈𝐂𝐊𝐈𝐍'

summary. you and sanji go on a date to pick out some perfect pumpkins for the season.

⤷ contents. vinsmoke sanji x gn!reader, fluff + romance, sanji being a sweetheart

⤷ notes. hello! i'm going to try and write a lot until the end of october in order to get out all my halloween ideas, so this'll be the first! enjoy this little pumpkin date <3

autumn was your favorite season for a very long list of reasons.

first of all, its beauty had no comparison. watching the leaves change colors from emerald to cherry red all over the course of a couple weeks was a sight you could never tire of, in awe of nature’s power over its creations.

secondly, the anticipation for halloween was impossible to ignore, and you already had both your costume picked out and a list of activities to take part in the moment the calendar turned october first.

and lastly, the flavors that arose during the chilly season were absolutely exquisite. a hot apple cider for those cold afternoons, or a slice of pumpkin pie made by your one and only personal chef.

“ah, mon chou~! how about this one?” he called out, holding a pumpkin high above his head for you to see.

sanji really was a dream come true, acting as your prince during your weekly fall outings, participating alongside your autumnal activities. he would find you the most brilliantly red leaf among a raked up pile, helped to sew your matching costumes, and he would make your favorite fall treats for you! he was attentive, elegant, and the greatest boyfriend you would ever get.

“a little bigger, sweetie! i wanna do some pumpkin carving with it!” you shouted back, scouring the field for your dream pumpkin,

“oui!” he exclaimed, gently setting the pumpkin back onto the ground. 

you grabbed a nearby small pumpkin, “how about this one, sanji?” you asked, spinning it around for him to see.

“less blemishes, sweetheart! i’m looking for firm and plump!” you didn’t miss the way he wiggled his eyebrows at you, drawing an eye roll from you in response.

an hour of pumpkin judging passed between you two, and a few contenders had risen to your high standards. you carried around five tiny pumpkins in your tote bag, though sanji was aiming for ten due to luffy’s voracious appetite. sanji was hauling two perfectly symmetrical pumpkins, one for each of you to use.

the sun hadn’t quite set yet, a glow still rested on the field for you and sanji to continue picking, but the sky was slowly beginning to fill with oranges and pinks which cast a pastel shimmer of color across your face. sanji stared at your appearance from across the field, taking in the way the soft light struck your visage and framed you beautifully, like a divinity choosing to grace him with your presence. 

“you think ten will really be enough for luffy?” you shouted, picking up a pumpkin to examine it.

sanji snapped back to attention, blinking rapidly as he formulated his thoughts, “i- well i suppose no, when taking his prior portion sizes into account…and if we invite sabo and ace there as well…” 

“at least sabo has manners!” you yelled, chucking any spoiled pumpkins over your shoulder. “i once saw ace use someone else’s pants as a napkin! not even his own! can you believe that, sanji?”

sanji’s focus once again faltered, watching as your lips moved wildly in your frustrated-amused rant. god, how he wanted to kiss you right now. i mean, you both deserve a break right now, right? you’ve been working so hard these past few hours…a little break never hurt anybody, right?

you continued raving and skipped across the fields, unaware of sanji’s devious musings, searching for some more perfect pumpkins for your perfect boyfriend. your deep and intense focus on your little pumpkin hunt led to you missing your perfect boyfriend disappearing from his row of pumpkins, silently creeping up behind you. 

“oh mon ange,” he whistled, “i believe just found the prettiest pumpkin in the pumpkin patch!” his slender, long fingers wrapped around your waist, lifting you high above and eliciting a shriek.

“put me down, you sneak!” you teased, jokingly kicking your legs in an attempt to get loose of his hold.

“but then my pumpkin might run away!” he lamented, twirling you around in circles, sidestepping any precarious pumpkins in the way of his feet. 

“as if i’d run away from you,” you replied, trying to ruffle his blonde locks up in the air.

sanji contemplated your words, throwing you down into a bridal carry while he pondered your response. after a minute of totally-real reflection, he flashed you a big ol’ pout.

“you pinky promise?” he whined, kneeling to the ground with you still in his arms, slipping his arm out from under your knees to offer a pinky.

“i pinky promise, my love.” you kissed him on the forehead, causing a heavy flush to don his cheeks and he rolled around the dirt-covered fields in bliss.

you approached his squirming body and gently touched him with the tip of your foot. “get up, mr. prince, i still need someone to carry our pumpkins!” you sung, slinging your bag across your shoulders and attempting to heave sanji to his feet, “unless you’d like me to leave you here…”

immediately sanji arose in dramatic fashion, sprinting back to grab the pumpkins he had abandoned. with ease he lifted them, returning back to your side as if he wasn't carrying two extremely heavy gourds.

“your prince is here! now what are your next commands, my liege?” he announced, dropping to one knee and kissing your hand.

“hmmm…” you brought your hand to your chin, tapping it in 'deep' thought, “you have to help me find more of your pie-pumpkins, and then we can go home and make cider!” you cheered, grasping his hand and running towards the baby pumpkins.

“anything for you, mon amour,” he swooned, watching the sun cast a luminous amber glow across your skin, “anything for you.”

[magitober]

Hello everyone!

With the announcement of Magia Record's ending I do want to say that I plan on hosting Magitober again this October. Even though the game won't be running, the event is still a good way to honor its memory and create fanworks for the community.

Once Magia Exedra launches and if there are still enough people willing to participate, then I would love to keep Magitober going even longer and add prompts from that game while still paying tribute to Magia Record.

Thank you all for the past 3 years of Magitober and all the wonderful works that have come from it!

[see-arcane]

Blood of My Blood: Domestic

For those keeping tabs on the Blood of My Blood AU, this is currently just a fanfiction of that fanfiction. Also a doorstopper. Only @ibrithir-was-here can call whether this massive sucker is canon or not. But it's out of my head now and I can ice my hand.

Summary: A portrait of a special night for the self-appointed patriarch of Castle Dracula. One of strange intimacies, stranger revelations, and secrets hidden in stone and cemetery earth.

Warning: This contains mature material in the way of profanity, attempted assault, violence, and very dubious consent.

Happy reading.

His first attempt was also his last.

After his good friend had sold himself, after the baffling enigma of the pregnancy, after the boy, child of three bloodlines, was upright enough to not be an anchor in the arms of his parents. After all this, he made his attempt.

Months had crawled past the obvious point of action. Almost a year. Had the caravan with their burden of wagons been there, he knew he would have to laugh along with questions as to how he could hold off so long. She had chosen the airiest of her departed Sisters’ attire to glide in, her face was voluptuous in its venom, and she could not even speak aloud! A blessing, they would laugh, more so for being the spoils of war.

A warlord’s right. Yes, yes, it was so.

Had he a mirror and a reflection to find in it, he would have mocked it. Why this hesitation over a collared pet? Let her bite, let her hiss—her Sisters had done that and worse in their centuries—it would come to the same conclusion. Her will was his property as much as her veins, her teeth, her flesh. What was wanted could be had at the first impulse. Now the impulse was here. Enough of one, at least.

Already took her woman in Whitby. Her groom offered himself on a silver plate. May as well.

He frowned to himself. What was that? ‘May as well?’ As though it were a chore to get on with. He shook his head and wasted another quarter of an hour pretending to care about a choice of oil for the job.

Job?

A curse caught under his tongue and he twisted a coil of hair before his eyes. Black as tar. Black as hers. No, he couldn’t blame this dawdling on a waning prime. Such a thing was hardly a hindrance but a few summers ago. Not with his dear friend who had come willingly, fled fearfully, and slunk so docilely back into his arms.

Perhaps that was it. It was hardly the same affair without Jonathan himself in the scene. Was there any way to make him watch? If he was drained enough, he could be flung back from the bed like a child should he scramble to intervene. Or they could dust off one of the dungeons and drag in a mattress. Or, while the spouses were mid-tryst, the woman could be slipped on like a skin at his will, and Jonathan could look up to find his Master’s eyes in her skull, his grin in her lips…

For he would know. If not in that exact instant, then when their Master used the whole of the woman as his personal apparatus. Such games had been played before, once upon a time. Back when his Loves had excited anything from him. The idea held the same potential as the tableau of the three of them as a chain of warming skin, playing as adults do once children were tucked away in their dreaming. A notion that nettled something giddy awake in him.

Finally.

This time he cursed aloud and wished there was something at hand to break.

No, no, it wouldn’t do to herd them all into such games ahead of the rightful order of things. He was Count. He was Master. He was owed his claim. The Bridegroom had that particular flag planted in him years ago. Now for the Bride.

…The baptism was near enough, no? You claimed her that night in October. You collected in November. You told her yourself after your little indulgence that there was nothing you truly wanted of her. All that was wanted was the ownership of her, which you have. She is beaten. Can that not be enough?

On second thought, he no longer wished for a reflection. He wanted a doppelgänger whose throat he could wring like a chicken’s. Such whining! Such foot-dragging laxness! The ghosts of a thousand grumbling wives seemed to reach out as one to sneer at him. They had gone into their grim arrangements with less fuss than he put up now.

And why is that?

In lieu of answering himself, he pocketed a bottle at random and tore out of the room to find her. There was no need to fret over Jonathan or the boy. Both were out in the courtyard, enjoying the late spring night. Doting, Jonathan had brought home chalk for the child to scratch at the flagstones with. New words and prancing little figures. A cloying scene he was happy to leave them to.

To his surprise, the woman had left them to it as well. She was nowhere to be seen in the great moonlit square.

Instead, he found her at one of the furthest ends of the castle. Skulking around the chambers that had ostensibly belonged to her Sisters between daylit drowses. In all her time here, he had yet to see her paw over the littered jewelry and gowns left behind. Once or twice he had borrowed her eyes and seen her glance dully at the English books. Relics of the time when Castle Dracula had turned into a grammar school in preparation for a time of travel that would now never come for their lot. Beside these were glimpses of the trio’s pastimes. Unfinished paintings, a dust-caked violin, a frayed bit of tapestry with its threaded demons left half-made in Hell. Nothing had interested her bar the change of clothes.

Again, he thought of what he would have to grin along with the next time Old Danil and his men were beckoned. Did he tell them he had ordered her into the flimsy falls of silk and sheer? Or would it be better to tell the truth, that she slipped them on herself? The latter might earn some words of congratulation. They did not have to know she wore it for her husband and herself; for where had she to go out smothered in layers for strangers? What difference was there now between a nightgown and the full raiment of human decorum her useless career in etiquette had primed her for? What, beyond the allowance or removal of comfort?

Throw one of the heavier dresses at her, the internal voice tried to chuckle. Dress and shawl and cloak and all. Bury her in it. Ha. Ha.

The humor of the thought was so shallow as to be vapor. Yet he truly would prefer that she go about in the same elaborate cover as her Sisters. Her Sisters, who had chosen the dresses themselves from their fashion plates. Her Sisters, who he had foisted the scantier costumes on in younger centuries, back when they’d interested him. What was this in interest’s place now?

Later. He would answer his own nonsensical queries later. For now, conquest and consummation. He craned his head over his shoulder, eyeing the distant windows over the courtyard—

How long must he play nanny out there?

—before forcing himself to stroll rather than storm up to the room she hid in. She didn’t hide all that well, of course. There was no point when he could follow the thread between them or yank her to him with a tug. Most conveniently, she had chosen an area clotted with bedchambers for her den.

Less conveniently, she had let herself into a room he had forbidden her Sisters from on pain of punishment. Had he ever warned her against it? It did not matter, naturally, for he had not given her permission, but he wondered. He sighed. Pandora will always open what she’s not meant to. Such a pair, his Harkers.

He peeked through her senses and into the room as his stroll turned into a quicker stalk. Relief hit him first upon seeing that the space was unmarred. No more than he had left it, anyway. He had moved out the broken or burnt furnishings, leaving only bed, wardrobe, and portrait behind. The latter was the only one left of that likeness and he preferred to have it around for the occasional glare. Any further intrusion was cut short when her line of sight flicked down.

His mind snapped back into itself with a flinch. That it was a flinch made him want to laugh and strike himself at the same time. As if he had not seen flashes of her bare hide before!

When she is with him. When her skin is an inch from being a costume.

Even so. He had seen it all before. Worlds more with her Sisters. What a child he had become to grow skittish at seeing the woman below, gasp, a bit of décolletage. The gawping shame of the Englishmen had infected him on his single visit. He grinned it away. And why not?

She was out of tonight’s white dress and donning something else. He’d caught a glimpse of rich black. Odd, for he recalled nothing but heaps of white and red in the Sisters’ wardrobe. Blood on snow. He must have gotten them a splash of night to go with it once upon a time and forgotten. Ah, well. She would not have it on long.

He did not waste the gesture of a knock. Jonathan might bristle at the sound, his limited senses allowing him to occasionally be taken by surprise. Not so here. He let himself into the room and settled for clicking it firmly behind him. And, if only for punctuation, bolted the lock.

She did not move from her place behind the folding screen, only paused to slide the garnets of her eyes to him. A withering thing that might have stopped a mortal intruder’s heart. It pleased him to see.

It confused him when the glare caught on the brandished oil and, rather than flare in rage or horror, simply rolled away from the sight of it and him. She resumed her fumbling behind the screen, either shedding or fastening. An unplanned silence unfolded as he kept his back to the door and she kept her back to him. The oil sloshed in its bottle as he turned it.

Well?

The word fell in his head like a jabbing hand against a stuttering understudy on the stage.

“Well,” he bit back, “you take me by surprise. I had thought there would be more theatrics when we came to this.”

I have not come to this. Given even an atom of free will, I shall certainly not come to you.

He thought of and discarded a particularly juvenile rebuttal. It was something he might have reserved for Jonathan, but it felt cold and unctuous in trying to fling it at her. At least to say it out loud. He flicked it at her like a psychic worm instead. Another roll of the garnets.

Aloud, “You have only as much will as my will allows.”

So you love to remind us. Which is why the larger share of surprise is my own. You are so adamant in your role as Master of the Castle that even you cannot avoid bowing and scraping to it.

The oil froze mid-twist in his fingers.

“You have a gift for talking fluent nonsense. No doubt something you took from the Dutchman.” His gaze leapt to the crescent scar that still blazed in echo of the Eucharist. “Prior to the parting blessing, I expect.” Her ruddy lip curled like a warning wolf’s. His own curled back in delight. Better, better. “Do you think it would be him or the fawning doctor who swooned more at the state of you? We know already the lordling and the American would simply have killed you outright, but the supposed men of medicine would have a sermon apiece to wail out before grabbing the saw and stake.” He feigned a pondering stance. “I believe, if we think in volume of wasted breath, it would be the Dutchman who languished more. But his pet student would likely have an actual point to it, being so wrapped up in the effort to cry demon while also struggling not to play with his tool at the same time. His blade as well.”

Are you four-hundred or fourteen?

There was less ire than annoyance in the words. The mental equivalent of shooing a fly. More fabric shifted. She had gone through the formality of lighting a lamp for the room rather than trusting her vision alone. Its glow revealed the shadow puppet of her silhouette in the screen. Yes, she was dressing. But there was no bell of a dress as yet. Not even a chemise.

He withheld a sulk. Half the fun of the act was the prelude and half the fun in that was the peeling away of layers or circumventing them entirely. There was a certain pleasure in opening and shedding the frail shields of an ensemble—he admitted to some strange internal leap that equated it with the old work of skinning and dressing one’s kill in the forest—and almost as much in proving those shields protected nothing. A hand slipped under a hem was child’s play. Working that and other anatomy into place when making a mist of himself was a unique treat.

Had Jonathan told her so yet? If so, he likely needn’t have bothered. Not when such memories might be dropped neatly in her head as she paced and hissed. At last, she could experience it firsthand!

Ha. Ha.

The oil was fidgeted with again.

I cannot imagine this was the ‘charm’ you dragged out for her.

Her?

Ah.

Unbidden, his head craned to face the faded portrait. The figure in it was now all but a ghost on the canvas. A representation not too many brushstrokes removed from how she had been in life. Considering her appearance in the mausoleum, it remained an ironically perfect likeness.

A maiden of snow, alive and dead, with the artist’s dancing ice seeming to radiate from her rather than the backdrop of a leaden sky. Behind her loomed the Mountain where they had learned so many Lessons and taken their parting forms. Strigoi had held no appeal for her, even with its many gifts. Instead she’d chased the hardy vourdalak with its wan corpse-skin and its eternal voracious passions. Chased it and wore more names through the ages than even he had invented to wear the guise of his own descendants.

She who had spread love like a disease until settling on her resting place in 1801. Her precious little nothing-village, all turned. All free from mortal ills. All asleep and dreaming into each other in their graves. Content to be confined. With love.

For them.

Doting fool of a Countess.

How much a fool, really? She burned from the lightning. She once suffered the stake to her heart, the blade through her throat. And then she was up again. Unmarred and unbothered without a drop of blood upon her tongue. Bloodless and unbound to you, she stood whole after you’d shooed Jonathan’s idiot predecessor on his way. She would not have a scar from a spade still on her brow.

 Her painted eyes found his as he mulled this. That impossible glacial blue. His gaze shied from it and trailed down the flax fall of her hair, braided away to show the throat where his kiss ought to have gone. Up again to her lips. The only point of color that blazed on her, turned down in perpetual sorrow. This or disappointment.

All this woolgathering passed in an instant. He shrugged out of it with his own dismissing glance.

“There is a difference between you and her. One is maiden of noble blood, who was once worthy of courtship. The other is a trophy long overdue to be enjoyed.”

Where is she?

In a graveyard in a pauper’s village that dragged her down like a colony of filthy feeble vermin.

“Not here. If you wish to play comparison to my women of old, it should please you to know that none are of your particular measure. None of my bedmates thus far have been at once the downed enemy and the stolen wife. It—,”

In the painting.

As if he had not spoken. It was not even the pitch of one trying to distract from the topic. He followed her stare back to the portrait and its grim setting. The Mountain. An obsidian peak that seemed at once a mouth and an eye over her fair shoulders.

That peak isn’t one in this range.

Ah, fishing. The Dutchman had mentioned the Scholomance, he recalled. Tricky thing. But not by enough.

“Says the Englishwoman.” He clicked his tongue. “You know nothing of the land that holds you. You shall not for very long yet. What good fortune you have, you and your clever mind, to now have so much time in which to learn. I think by the end of the next century you shall know a third of the crags in the Carpathians. Maybe half!”

At the rate you dawdle, it will take twice as long before you get around to the same epiphany I have had to reconcile with since I first climbed out of the box. The same revelation that has been sitting out in the open, free for your voyeurism to trip over at any opportunity, only for you to go on strutting and preening at yourself. As though you still had a reflection to impress.

She had ceased dressing behind the screen. The outline of her did show the fall of a cloak, but still no dress. He found he did not much care. Not for her choice of attire or her tone.

“Do forgive me then. As you are suddenly consort and counsel, please, do enlighten me. What grand epiphany am I overlooking?” Then, in a moment of inspiration, he capped with, “Feel free to lecture between positions.”

Finally, a wave of disgust radiated from her. Hate. Wrath. Check, check, check. But buried under it all was an uninterrupted core of exasperation. Even disbelief. As if she had handed him an apple and he’d declared it was a grape. Indeed, though he couldn’t know it, she was kneading at her brow the way she had in private when a particularly dense group of girls was foisted on her to teach. There was a very clear and grousing sensation from her that spoke of desire for the ability to enjoy liquor again.

A lecture? Fine. You do so love hearing yourself talk.

Before he could grasp her meaning, she shoved the screen aside. Everything in him crashed against a stone wall as he recognized her ensemble.

You never brought them anything in black, piped the inane inner voice.

She wore the proof head to toe. If only because she was wearing one of his own suits. Being almost as long-boned as Jonathan, it needed only a few folds of the cuffs to fit and his stolen cloak masked whatever else begged for tailoring. On the whole it was…it was like…

Ah, see? You do still have a reflection.

His mind scrambled in something near to panic for salvation. He dug up memories of his Loves in nights long gone, when he had let one or another wrap herself in one of his capes in lieu of cover. That had carried some fine thrill once. But the fresher, the brighter thought, was of Jonathan in their private summer.

Back when his dear friend found his few English pieces disappearing one after the other until his courteous host began slipping his own clothes into the wardrobe. How well they’d suited him then. Better still today, when the rules of the house dictated he peel away the set of modern tailoring he kept for the town errands and sheathed himself in his Master’s uniform. White. Red. Black.

Once, in an older age, the red was swapped for blue. The death shades of necrosis, of walking winter. Their velvet was worn with the ease of cold Morena awaiting her yearly demise at the birth of spring.

He clung to all of these connections for a blink before the overwhelming memory tipped them over. A memory made precious only by its rarity in the murky sea of his human recollection rather than sentiment. Chiefly because it was one of the first times he began seriously considering murdering his brother. His little brother, who had snuck into his quarters, shrugged on his best raiment, and laughed as he was caught en route to some infantile play at the daughter of their father’s guest. At her.

This was not that. It wasn’t, it wasn’t, of course it wasn’t, he should be flattered, should be enticed, should be—

“You thieving bitch.”

If I am such, it is only because you set such a fine example in both the action and the role, O Kin of my Kin. On top of all the rest of your aggravations, you have even soured the daydream I once had of proving my former students wrong. My poor girls who swore up and down that to have siblings was a curse. I almost had a brother in spirit, once. It was a nice thing of sentiment and foam. But now here you are, smashing the fantasy and proving the girls right all along. What have you done since entering my life but steal what is rightfully Mine?

Something horrid was curdling in his stomach. A sensation he’d thought was outgrown centuries ago. What was this? What was this? In answer, a scrap of inspiration drifted to him. He nailed up a grin.

“Oh dear,” through teeth clamped so tight the words had to squeeze through, “you do take our boy’s idle talk too seriously. If dark hair and rosy eyes were all it took to make one a relative—,”

Three years. Three years ago, my son made that guess of brother and sister. You did laugh then. Laughed as if you might choke. But you have remembered it too.

“Hardly an effort when I can recall the last four centuries.” More or less.

And the last four years, no doubt. Years in which the nearest you have willingly gotten to me are when we lay down in our boxes or when you want to turn my Jonathan’s head.

 “Our Jonathan.”

So you delude yourself. Just as you thought Lucy was yours. Just as you think to welcome yourself to all that is Mine.

“Have we not gone over this Lesson before? Does it not follow that if one owns a dog, they own the creature’s toys? Its pups?”

She had been resting her hand atop the folding screen. The hand snapped shut and sent fragments flying. A reflex that he himself had needed to train himself out of lest he shatter or crush every bauble under his roof. For her part, she seemed not to notice the runnels of blood escaping the healing palm.

“Such a temper,” he chided. “Shall I kiss it better?”

Immediate bile rippled into him at the words.

Yet the bile did not belong to her.

Shall you?

She flapped her hand at him, streaked with dark coagulation. Her claws had grown out and the knuckles bunched up into a talon. The nails holding up his grin loosened.

Ah, but that is just the hand! Surely this is what you want?

As he watched, her face changed. Muscle and bone shifted like clay until a bestial deformation replaced the sharp beauty. A product of his own form of vampirism. While those he conscripted could not assume an animal’s full form, his efforts in the Scholomance bled down into them, filtered into countenances that overtook in a rage. Here was rigid and stretched flesh, a bristling forest of fangs in a beartrap maw, the huge and hating pits of the eyes. A bat’s face stretched into grotesquerie.

Now let us get on with the craved rendezvous! Come, where is my kiss? This is what you came for! What you have, with so much anticipation, withheld yourself from all these days and weeks and months and years! Delayed gratification must be the sole reason, no other.

Then, in a tone that did not carry her soul’s voice, but another’s he had known all his life, whispering up from his own mind:

Is it not so?

In asking, she had taken a step forward.

The back of his heel struck the locked door as he started back.

Enough.

He had initially thought to order her to the bed. His Loves of the past had needed the Lesson. An example as to how strong the chain their Master held was, as much as the rightful collection of that treasure that rests between a maiden’s legs no matter their surplus or absence of appeal in other regards. Now he had no patience for such puppet strings. His spare hand took her by her cravat and shirtfront—

Mine, these are MINE—

—and stopped just short of taking her by the neck as he had done to soldiers and subordinates in ages past. That much would be injury. And he did recall the laughable conditions his dear friend had laid out. So careful, his Jonathan. In all but his choice of spouses.

He thrust the latter on the postered bed along with himself, pinning her the way the wolves wrestled over each other to get at the throat. Before she could get tooth or claw into him, he brought down an anvil of his will onto hers.

“Take off that face. Now.”

The monstrous face twitched, half-smoothed.

You are squeamish over such a thing? I had not realized you were so delicate!

Her mouth, still jutting with spire teeth, managed to grin.

I wore the whole of that face before Jonathan once. Brandished it like Medusa’s head. The proof under the husk that passes for subsumed humanity. I wanted him. I want him. He was, he is, he shall ever be Mine. But the Vampire is made only of extremes. In that mood, I was at the extreme of self-loathing for what I had reduced his wife to. For the thing I had allowed myself to be. Yes, you were the infection. Yes, the others warned me against taking my own life even as I cozened them to take it in my stead. So quick they were, seeing none of my terror at their quickness, the same mercy wielded for my Lucy. They made their killing oath while Jonathan swore his own.

“He did. He killed to see you whored rather than dead. Such is the loving loyal gallantry of our—,”

We both know I lied when I baited him with tales of old. When I spoke of the men who would kill their womenfolk to save them the indignity of the enemy’s touch. A clumsy hook. One I only half-believed. But I wanted him to have an out, you see. We have known each other to the soul for almost half our lives. Just as he permitted me to know what was not written in the diary. Those gaps.

Her face hardened again, the abominable ridges stretching into a demon’s mask.

It was all but code. Something I could say before the others. And while I do not doubt he feared a grain of truth in that requisite threat—of this pantomime we are limping through now—the reality was always there at the top. No matter how I might have begged, might have entreated, bribed, or gnashed my teeth.

Her fangs clicked together once. Hard.

For all that you took me for my brain, for my senses, for the petty vengeance over your spoiled earth, for the cliché of a hundred other despots who prey upon a woman to attack her men, these were mere filigree. You took me to take him. Is it not so?

“Fix. Your. Face.”

Her face resumed smoothing…slowly. All the while her mind ran like a broken spigot.

Yes, of course it was. It did work out so prettily for you in the end. Not because of the blood on his hands and mine, not even because of our child. It has happened because I was as great a coward as you. You, who ran from my Jonathan when you saw he meant to cleave you in a crowded street. You, who fled back to this roost when the first wrinkle came into your plans after centuries of sitting idle on your laurels. And I? I spoke aloud of suicide before them all. Baiting their worry, their oath.

‘No no, Madam Mina, it is too soon to think such things! And worse, risks rising as the Un-Dead!’

Ha. Ha.

I did not do as Jonathan had, who makes his resolutions in silence. He held out as long as he was able, until the only option was escape or undeath. At that point he trusted himself to be broken on the cliff or torn by the wolves rather than risk eternity with the Sisters, waiting for you to come back and collect. A death that would have ruined him past the point that vampirism, still a mystery then, could have saved him. All for the chance to come back to me. Me, now a thing almost as unworthy as you, who clung to hope of life without the excuse of ignorance.

Obviously I could have ended it before he ever set foot on your mountains again. I could have burned. I could have shattered myself after a long fall. I could have found a dozen ways to destroy myself past your intended use for me. And I didn’t. I was not even a Vampire by more than an ounce, yet there I was. Shying from my own destruction when it could have saved them all—when it could have stopped him from putting himself on your altar.

And because I shied, because I lived to follow the thread you left behind, this is where we are.

He is Mine. Our child is Mine. But because you hold my chain—this reason and no other—you can imagine they are yours. That he is yours. So I showed my Jonathan what was left of his wife. The monster he sold himself to Hell for, a thing not worth the love he gave or being mother to the son they’d made, a thing who would lose hold of her martyr-mood soon, so go, Love, go and take our boy, run from the Pit.

Instead, he kissed me.

And to this night he stays and plays your games, does your work, keeps the dust from gathering on your child-brain. For me. For our son. But any reason would have done it for you, wouldn’t it? Any lure or collar. Anyone you knew had hold of his heart. You’d have turned his grandmother if that was what it took.

Her face was at last reset. Still his dead stomach did not settle.

If it were half a millennium ago, all of us wearing the roles we are in spirit, you really would have held a knife to your own kin if it meant—

A flash.

Little brother, teeth bare in glee, talking of how sad a state it was to have the younger son find his bride first.

‘Do not fret, you have your books and your bloodshed and your future under the Mountain to keep you busy! Ah, you will be missed. Perhaps even by her, tender thing that she is. You have addled her, Brother, with your talk of the Powers under the Earth. A shame to draw along some poor maiden with your occult fairy stories, wasting her canniness on war and drivel. But her interest will pass and I shall take care of her while you go try not to die to your Devil’s Lessons. Best of luck.’

A lie, of course. It had to be a lie. He was eldest, he was the ruler-to-be, Weathermaker, rider of the Dragon, Dracula, of course their father would promise her to him. Union would come into it, the wisdom of the move was undeniable, but more, it was his right. It was his due.

It was her.

Under the titles and the trades and, yes, even the teasing thought that she too wished to brave the Mountain, to grasp its Lessons and bring home its gifts to guard those she loved, whatever the cost.

To the enemy or to her. Prepared for any altar, in marriage or blood. Pliant as the snow, cutting as the ice. The chill of her like the breaking of fever. An impeccable spur to the mind, forever turning me towards joy as she parried wrath with her tongue or talent; occasionally in unison. Even in fear, in our play, recognizing the monster before I ever ceased to be a man, she kept herself a gag in my teeth. Oh, I was no fool, Countess. How many lives were spared because you blocked my way in word and flesh? The idiot chattel will never know.

You did love me once. When our hearts beat with our own blood. When we bowed our heads under the Mountain. When we crawled from it, half-mad, damned in our own directions, cold hands clinging together as revenants of different breeds. Yes, I think you must have loved me. Why else would you think to chase the form of your homeland’s vourdalak? I joked that you did not trust me and my kiss.

We laughed and I was not bitter. You had chosen Love and I had chosen Conquest and so I thought I had you forever. Vourdalaks can only Love or Hate. And you loved. And I loved. And it was well. Until it wasn’t. Until the coin of extremes flipped in you, seeing all that I had become. Love to Hate in a single night. I could not hold you when my chains were not in your soul. I could not break you when your dead flesh shrugged every wound. I could only heal from the mauling you left me with, losing you in the fall of hail and sleet. Gone to throw yourself to mortal maggots. A quest that took you to the rotting village and its endearing diseased cattle, weeping for fear of loss of each other.

The cattle who you chose to turn and dream with in the dirt.

Like you nearly chose…

Thunder snarled outside.

Under him, the woman bared her teeth in a grin he would swear he had seen elsewhere. In a looking glass or on the whelp he called a brother?

Enough!

He dropped himself upon her, willing her mouth to pucker and part for him. Doing so, he thought wildly of sieged buildings, of broken windows, of smashed doors, of barriers sundered, wood, glass, stone, iron, that was all, that was all, he would break in and be gone and—and—

His eyes were closed. Why?

You know why.

Something was wrong. Her lips were there, but also not. It was another’s mouth, heavy and coarse with hair. He opened his eyes.

And saw himself.

Himself, seen and felt through her senses, now crouched and crushing his own face with graceless gnawing.  

Shall I turn you over first? We can oil a stake if you’re so eager to bow for yourself.

So saying, she pressed her knee up between his legs.

He threw himself away from her as if she’d turned to sewage. A ball of coagulation and bile even managed to lurch up his throat. It coughed out of him with a retch, splattering on the faded rug. Thunder was joined by lines of lightning. 

“Disgusting witch!”

I take after my kin.

He spat again. The taste of her was the taste of himself. And, as though she were somehow in his head despite the burning wall he’d laid between them:

We are monsters, both of us, and neither has a preference for themselves. A point you have been trying not to know as you fought to convince yourself that you wanted anything more out of me than a sentient shackle to keep on my husband. This, when you once so happily crowed about my cleverness and fate as a companion-to-be. How much was in earnest versus mere theatre for me to pass on? Do you even know?

“Caveat emptor. Is that your supposed Lesson here?”

I am a teacher by trade and I would claim such a Lesson if it were mine. But it isn’t. I am merely trying to spare us all the collateral of your pride.

She twisted herself on the bed until she sat straight and crisp in her stolen garb, the pose of a queen on an invisible throne.

Order her on the ground. Have her bay like a jackal on hands and knees, lick the bile from the rug, claw off her own damned face—

What do you think would happen after he found out, O Lord of the Castle? You would have kept to the letter of the agreement, I’m sure. I would not have bled, I would wear no injury. If you were feeling especially needy you might have had me mouth mute words of worship. But after? What of him?

“What of him, witch?”

There wasn’t as much vitriol in the words as he wished. It was too fair a question. One he had only turned over briefly that evening as he resolved to get on with this belated task.

Task. That really is the word for it. Was the word.

In his brisk consideration of the aftermath to the afterglow, he had thought of Jonathan’s face. The revelation there. Not merely of despair and impotent fury, but the far end of acceptance. Acknowledgment of what could be done to his woman—their woman—on an impulse. A single Lesson for his friend on what could and would be done if he thought himself unburdened enough to leave them, to cut his leash and run before the period of agreed respite ran out. Twenty years. That was the most there would be. Enough for the boy to reach his prime without taking a life.

Jonathan, their precious fountain, their boy’s nursemaid. The gag in all their mouths to play at penance while shielding the mountain people from their thirst. A lesser soul would have broken a year after the child’s birth. Broken and run, with or without the babe. Without the wife-thing he had damned himself for. But love held him pinned in delicious Purgatory between life and death, not merely chained, but a willing servant. Willing in so many ways.

Yes, Sir, of course, Sir, if Sir pleases. That professional veil that let him hide in the veneer of mere servitude. A series of duties performed for a client.

Still so shy, his Jonathan.

Less than twenty years left of this charade. And then?

The white down of the hair, the marble throat, spectral blue bruised to violet to red to bed and now there is no leaving, no running, never again, I will watch you drink from the weeping cattle whose names and pity you will have learned after twenty years, oh yes, you will gorge yourself, we will all indulge, and you will feed yourself back and back to now, to here, to youth, to my friend, my Jonathan, my Bri—

It was a winter night when she’d left. When they’d warred. Lightning and ice. He had tried to goad as much as wrestle her. Hanging the lives of thousands of bleating human sheep over her head. A slaughter to paint the continent red in her absence. Had she been human, perhaps this would have worked. But the creature in her place was only Love or Hate. It was this very threat and a thousand other proofs of his monstrosity before it that had locked her into the latter.

Hate. Hate.

It had struck him deeper than the ice that speared him like a great thrashing insect. Boulders of hail had fallen that same night, hammering the edges of his castle into crumbling stone and mortar. He had driven his hand through her chest and twisted out her heart. In retaliation, she had slapped him. The print of her hand went black with frostbite. Eating. Cracking. Shards of his face breaking as his castle broke. So much blood it had taken to mend!

But he had not thought of it then. Only of the blinding black-white of the storms, of how even his winds could not hold her as she cut back and away from him. A ghost in the snow. Gone.

Gone, because she was not his. Not in a way that could be trusted, that could not be broken. Love was a chain and that chain needed strength. He wound that chain around every throat he kissed and fed the ichor of his heart. His, his, his.

Even the wretched thing in her stolen suit would someday bend as the Sisters had; centuries, that had taken, but it had happened. At least enough to smile for him. Even to laugh with him. His Loves, been and gone, like infuriating and cherished cats.

And is it an accident you hunted for a fair girl first? She, with her white-gold waves and spring sky stare? No, old devil. You know better. How hastily you threw yourself at two dark ones after! As if you could hide your own weakness from yourself by overbalancing the collection against that first desperate theft. Then came the surprise in Piccadilly. The one that nearly froze you so long the kukri all but gutted you where you stood gaping.

The surprise of his Jonathan. His hair was dark as earth the night before, but the morning had left it white. His eyes were bright and cold and dead in their living sockets. That same cold had scarred the air around him as he lunged out of his pack of Cross-wavers, he and the blade coming to kill him for the Love and Hate that made up all that he was then.

That he was now.

He is here out of love, she thought at him.

He almost jumped. His mind was walled off, wasn’t it? Wasn’t it?

There is something like peace under this roof and endless hateful play for you because of him. Because you hold the safety of his family hostage. Because he is himself, and because you are yourself, he is prepared to take a thousand blows to his dignity and well-being. This you know. But you have forgotten the cost that comes with endangering what he loves.

“Hardly. He buried the corpses of that cost, did he not? He is paying his own price ad infinitum.” A fee that had come with the forsaking of the kukri. Such a fine toy. It was still whetted and gleaming in its scabbard for the night it was returned to him, the better to watch him split a few squealing targets open with it. But until then, confiscated. “Or do you mean to imply he shall again come at me with a shovel? Do you truly believe he can do me any harm, by day or night, that I could not immediately shield myself with using your mobile carcass?” At last, an opportunity to leer back at her: “Or little Quincey?” An absurd name on the tongue. The American was a curse even now.

Her face rippled in that hideous shape again. Then settled as she thought a truth she hated to offer almost as much as he hated to hear it:

I do not know. No more than I know whether you are justified or not in thinking you can pounce and turn him before he strikes a blow. The only guarantee is that everyone in this castle, bar Quincey, is damned. For our sins, for our Nature, we are hellbound. The only thing we have left to lose is…

She gestured dully at the room, the castle, the entire imperceptible trappings of a stage. A grimace of almost comical dissatisfaction rested on her.

…this. A penny dreadful satire of the family home. One held together because my son is owed a life that Jonathan and I have forfeited for ourselves. We are all living in a balance that is maintained by the chain on me, by a child’s needs, and by the ability of my husband to cater to all of us by a strength of will you would not find out of a million men. This he does because no one has broken the fragile eggshell of his faith that you can be trusted not to kick a hornet’s nest.

 If that eggshell breaks, everything breaks.

The agreement. Truce. Relative peace. Whatever you wish to call this. Whoever is left to survive after, the only certainty is that those parties will be in a state of constant misery and war. A generally unpleasant prospect to most. Unless you were the sort to consider a permanent state of trying to hold back an opposing will from sundown to sunup, unable to budge lest you be mauled or worse, for the rest of eternity, a positive outcome.

A silent sigh gusted from her.

Understand this: If I thought it would spare him, no matter how he protested, I would play concubine as best I could. Being bereft of the ability to lie or to act on anything but my own wants, it would be a feat. But you could rut and pretend you were enjoying yourself all you liked, supposing it meant he would be left out of that particular chore. Except we both know that wouldn’t happen.

There is no contract with us. No consent. And, let us be honest while we can, you have not cared about me since you scurried back to the castle in that blighted old November. I have nothing to barter with to keep you from abusing my husband’s willingness to be a barrier between you and what he loves. By any means.

“I need no reminder,” he hummed. And, unable to help himself, “His means do so sweetly justify the ends.”

Her teeth bared again.

Pig.

His bared back.

“Bitch.”

Imbecile. Or do you have another name for a man who would throw a brick through his own window to prove he can? Neither of us wants to bed the equivalent of a twin. Neither of us wants to risk the discovering what would happen if Jonathan discovers what you attempted to force on me tonight, and each for the same reason—we do not know what comes after. Who lives? Who dies? Who suffers? I truly cannot guess. Can you?

He opened his mouth. Closed it. Scraped his tongue across his fangs.

In his mind’s eye, he wandered through the most probable outcomes:

Here was Jonathan returning to that uncanny rage upon finding his wife was preyed on. Even unharmed, he sees the contract as broken. Fine. He attacks.

His Master uses mother and child as shields. Perhaps he has her hold Jonathan down while the bawling boy is held at the window, ready to be dropped and splattered. A loss of an experiment, if need be. But no need! The woman holds her husband. The Master pries the man’s mouth open and, already pocked with years’ worth of kisses, the ichor turns him quickly. Then what?

Does he keep them all? Can he keep them all? Even the Sisters settled enough that he did not have to be on guard at all waking hours.

A coin toss between mother and child. At least one must go.

If the child, an immediate spur to the parents. An even worse strain. No.

Mother, then. Slain or preserved? Blood was necessary only for health, not existence. It would be an arduous process, but he wagered he could manage sealing her in her box and encasing it in concrete. No route for her mist through that. Let her rot in there a few decades while he wrangled the rest of the family.

But the boy himself would grow and be untethered. His Papa would strain like a rabid beast at every hour. A nuisance.

Fine. Dead mother, dead child. Put Jonathan in the sealed box. Wait. Talk to him through the concrete, the wood, the silk lining. Think at him. Check and check until he was ready to behave. Starved, insane, he would be broken out as a broken thing. Something to sculpt into proper form, into a companion who knew better, who would be a good boy, good Bridegroom.

Unless he really did find some way to end himself despite the grip on him. A Vampire was all want and Jonathan had wanted to die too many times as a human being to banish the notion, even with the undead form’s predilection for self-preservation. If anyone could, Jonathan would find a way.

And there he would be again. Alone.

Assuming other scenarios didn’t overtake these entirely. He had suffered much from results he was too sure of himself to even entertain. Now the potential outcomes included some which ended with him slain or abandoned. He couldn’t say which rankled more to contemplate.

The bed creaked. He looked up to see she was unlocking the door. She was in no especial hurry as one garnet eye regarded him blandly over her shoulder.

Your storm frightened my son, if you care. Jonathan has brought him inside. I will do us both the courtesy of not mentioning this farce to him.

‘This time,’ hung unmentioned between them.

She did already think herself living in Hell. There was little more to do besides count the hours or gamble. And if she truly thought this was a sword to hang over his head?

Well. That wouldn’t do.

His eye fell on a heap of white left behind the folding screen. The discarded dress. He hooked it with his boot, kicking up and catching it in a gnarled ball to toss at her.

“Do another courtesy and dress in a way that does not insult and sicken to behold. And, if you will humor me, bestow some clarification. The heart of the issue is, to you, the assumption of assault, yes?” Her eyes narrowed, but she gave no answer. He beamed at her. “If that is the case, you have my sincerest apologies for the misunderstanding. When I turn myself to acts of affection, I never dream of gifting them without consent. That much you should know from your husband. He is a selfless soul, so willing to accommodate. I shall be sure to make clear all intentions in our future together and to not make any advances without all parties’ allowance.”

He dropped a wink and sent a nettle her way. A hazy phantasm of the three of them, their spectacle condensed upon a single bed. Two bodies willing to trade themselves over the other. Only one being forfeit, lest horror and violence break him at the sight of his wife’s breaking. Him. It would always be him.

‘No, no, take me!’

‘If you insist.’

A loving wall between them. The living shield keeping their teeth away from each other. Their dear, dear Jonathan, knowing his wife would play out the scene expected of all martyr-maidens, trading their one universal coin for their beloveds’ sake. Knowing he would go mad to see her folded under their Master, the mechanics of the display made worse for it being an attempt to protect him. Their Jonathan would weep, would beg, would claw them apart and straddle their Master like a horse just to spare the woman the touch of him.

In contrast, she would be only too happy to wrench said Master’s head off. But she and her will could be held at bay. This he could do while she clung to her husband’s back, weeping precious red tracks as her Love loved another. For her.

A new storm roiled across the woman’s face. Claws ripped into the pale silk. Before she could linger for another mental barb, he willed a gust to rush from a window and down the corridor to suck the door shut on her.  

Good riddance.

He pondered the oil bottle still in his hand.

…Not an entirely mediocre play.

It wasn’t dissimilar from what he’d try in her position. Her grasp on the psychic angles of vampirism was also advancing at a pace that put her Sisters’ dabbling with the trance state to shame.

Ah-ah. She is not their Sister, is she? Surely we have established that by now.

His smile soured at the thought. What a waste to lose a harem and gain a relative. He wanted to spit again. Still, he could not grouse too much. She was a small price to pay for the prizes to be gained. He was Master of the lot, however much she might rankle at the notion. It was early nights yet and centuries enough would defang her.

In the meantime, there was the present to deal with. A little punishment for biting the hand and for the purloining of that particular costume. A theft that echoed days long gone. Perhaps he could deliver her a dream during the day, featuring all the many places one would have to dig around the castle to find the pieces of his covetous little brother. Just so she knew where he stood with regard to sticky-fingered siblings. But clothes were not the greater concern, much as he would prefer she think so.

Let her think it only a matter of pride and property. While she thought it, he would have to scour his room and be certain there was no breach of the hidden place where his souvenirs from the Scholomance rested. He hardly feared that the woman would decipher the texts within, let alone be able to limp through even their most basic instructions. But she was clever and ‘kin of his kin.’ She was therefore petty enough to set the ancient parchment ablaze in a fit of retribution.

Yes, it would need checking. Yes, she would need a crack of the whip in some way.

But first.

“Did that amuse you?” he asked of the portrait. “I’m sure it would have were you here. Would it serve your mood to know how many times I have failed to fill the hollow you left behind? You see I am never satisfied. Whereas you were content enough to settle for a village of half-dead bootlickers. It is a better thing to be gratified by only the best rather than to lower oneself to preen over scraps, don’t you think?”

The portrait did not say. Only stared on in that melancholy gleam of blue. So hard to think a creature like her had ever bloodied her hands. Out of love, of course. Always out of love. Such stories she had told under the Mountain, away from the eyes of a God who gave His flock mere trinkets to ward off the thousand monstrous and manmade evils of the world, the caring sins she had beggared her soul for already. Loved ones threatened. Loved ones rescued. Loved ones alternately grateful or aghast, but ultimately saved by her knife, her poison, or the lure of her chilled flesh.

Always there had been a chill to her. Even when her heart was alive.

The thought tugged him to the wall above the titanic bed’s headboard. His fingers traced the loose mortar around one stone. He thrice-checked that his senses were blocked from interlopers before moving it out. Three treasures waited inside.

The closest was a skull. Final resting place for a waste of time. Such a churlish solicitor he had first invited to his home! Had he ever introduced him to Jonathan? He had already thrown out the man’s name and redubbed him Yorick after his Loves and the wolves finished with his carrion. Were there less sentiment attached to it, he might have already gifted the lump of ivory to his dear friend, who so loved the Bard. It would make a fine paperweight as he bent over his myriad books and forms.

But the sentiment was there because she was there. She had seen the opportunity with the idiot wandering so close and had tried to herd him into her tearing hands. Love and Hate. She could not love a stranger, but she could hate that he was marked by the stamp of her Count, proof that he was intended for a task. There would have been no teeth in the man, no kiss. Just a disassembling of anatomy long before the wildlife tore him. With how poorly he’d received his host’s hospitality, perhaps all of them would have been better off if Yorick had never been rescued by the thunderbolt or the Wolf.

“You did tell me so, didn’t you?” Again he turned to the portrait. The skull turned over in his hands. “You told me not to go forward. Do not play Alexander, you said. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same. You knew already how it was back here. How I had not begun a true march upon the world, had not drowned it in its own blood.”

How he had stormed and slaughtered for only as long as the emptiness of the scarred castle could be ignored. This he did longer than any of the squealing countryside preferred. But not long enough. It had seemed only a blink. The frustrated lashing of a butcher mutilating the livestock until their fine cuts were mere pulp under his blades and teeth. And no gladder for the mess. He had stolen the first fair girl away before closing himself back in the high stone walls. A girl like sun on snow, who’d made her family laugh and her village swoon. With her collection the great conquest was brought to a halt.

Yorick’s skull gained a new crack where he gripped it. He tossed it on the bed in favor of the second treasure. Still shut in its jewelry box like a fairy tale’s secret.

Opening the ruby-pocked lid revealed a lump of stained linen. It swaddled the heart he had stolen from her chest. The meat had never rotted. Never attracted the vandals of fly and maggot. Simply sat there in the cloth, a dark red mound of muscle and dried blood. He remembered the hole that had closed up before his eyes as she vanished into the sleet. Had a new heart grown in her breast or had her form shed the anatomy forever? He still wondered. There were times when he thought of pricking it with the tip of a dagger. Vourdalaks were immune to a pierced heart. A cleaved head. One of their few advantages compared to the strigoi. It would feel good to halve the heart, he was sure.

But it went uncut. His thumb dragged over its curves as he convinced himself the pressure was felt all the way in that lightning-struck pit she still hibernated in. Bloodless and cold. Dreaming.

The heart was rewrapped and set in its box before the last treasure was perused. It too was still in its proper place. He caught himself close to a chuckle as he removed it.

How strange that his lifetimes before and after undeath had drawn so many little scholars to him, all with a penchant for bloating a journal with their personal scrawling. His Harkers seemed to have glumly hung up the pastime, refusing to pen anything which their Master would, naturally, have the right to peruse. A shame. There were blank volumes enough to fill another library with their prose if they wished. He had so enjoyed the few excerpts gleaned from their little manuscript that he’d tossed them a bejeweled book apiece to fill. Books that had found their way into the child’s eager hands, doomed to be ruined with crayon.

The book in his own hands had been a gift as well. A volume bound in dense old leather, the pages all thick leaves. Something to last through ages. He peered at the inner cover where her name was gouged. The one she had worn before the Lessons under the Mountain and after their vows were broken. She had given that name away to the worthless peasants of her necropolis to chisel in the marble. Not even another pseudonym, but her own maiden name, as though his title was a gangrenous limb to hack off.

“You do grow maudlin,” he sighed to the pages. The book returned to its place, the box after, the skull last. Back went the stone. Grudgingly, he resigned himself against forbidding entrance to the room. His own chambers were understandably forbidden, but this space would appear senseless to prohibit. Especially when it had been breached already and left unbothered with for nigh half a decade. It might be taken as an arbitrary thing—or worse, evidence to the woman that she had landed a blow with her act—but ultimately she might come sniffing around again. He would have to relocate the mementos soon.

But for now, there was more pressing work.

He found said work waiting for him in the library.

Out of all the cavernous rooms in the castle, it remained the nearest their strange brood had to a shared familial space. When it was allowed. He lingered a moment outside their perception as a shadow at the door.

The boy was tucked between his parents, insisting on reading to them from one of the books of fables and fairy tales. His Papa had brought home a version in every language he could find some while back. Mama had once tried to play go-between, fishing innocuous knowledge from their Master’s head to be secondhand tutor of the land’s many tongues. But it was a childish ploy and he had found them out with the ease of one kicking over a stone to watch the beetles scurry.

Jonathan, for his part, had made a more than admirable leap after his ‘brain fever’ left him in the care of strangers. The language barrier was one he had no intention of tripping over again, and so he had juggled his dead master’s business affairs and his first prodding at the Carpathians’ voices years ago. Now he was sharp enough to not only comprehend his paperwork and the talk of the townspeople without struggling on a given word, but to know exactly what he heard when his Master called:

“Draga mea. What has our little devil learned tonight?”

Jonathan showed no bristling of posture, no gooseflesh. Only the barest flicker of composure pulling its laces tight across the wan face. Even the smile refused to falter. The boy’s eyes flew up from the pages and bounced between fathers. He knew the term too, for it was one reserved only for his Papa.

“Father!” he chirped, holding up the book. It showed a painted girl in red walking through a wood with a smiling Wolf. “I have almost all of it! English and Hungarian and—,”

“Diavol.” His voice like a snap of fingers. The boy winced. His mother shot a look like a knife through his head. Jonathan spared a hand each for their shoulders. The boy’s back was to him now and so his eyes could flare in that grim crystalline way. Frozen lakes framed in whorls of snow. “Did I speak to you or your Papa?”

The child hung his head over the book.

“Please forgive me, Father.”

For I have sinned, the voice in him sing-songed. He swallowed an unbidden laugh.

“He has reason to be excited,” Jonathan’s offered. A soft roll of sound that now weighed almost as much as his Master’s in a room. “He has conquered the English, the Hungarian, half of the French and—,”

“The French?”

“Sweetheart,” Jonathan spoke lightly to the top of the boy’s head. “Show him.”

Sheepish but eager, the child brandished his new victory. Genuine surprise tumbled through his Father as he recognized the woodcut illustration. A view that stunned as much as tickled.

“So many of the best ones began in French writing,” the boy declared. “Charles Perrault wrote this one, Bluebeard,” he enunciated carefully, “Barbe bleue, forever and ever ago. It’s so scary! Like Mama’s ghost stories and your histories, Father. See?”

“I see,” he told the boy. And he did. The illustrator had done a fine job depicting the grisly chamber and its bounty of prying wives’ heads. “It is a good story to learn and a better one to take to heart.”

Like Pandora’s Box. 

Another surprise, hearing her tone chime through the mindscape. The surprise withered upon seeing the honed edge of her gaze. A warning that did not quite slip into the mental currents shared in the room:

Who here is Pandora? Who must mind the loose lid over the box of miseries?

Jonathan looked at her with only a mildly concerned curiosity.

Her word was kept. For now.

Fine, fine.

“Exactly so,” he said aloud. “And what is the Lesson in these tales, child? Do tell.”

The boy straightened where he sat, beaming, “Trick question! I know there is more than one. The first is that when you are told not to open a thing, it is for good reason. The second is that the terrible things inside are put there by a villain, who really does want the door or the box to be opened so that they can have something awful happen after. Third is that what’s scary does not last forever. Hope is in the box and heroes slay the villain in the end. And,” he wrinkled his nose at the book, somewhere between humor and annoyance, “it seems like people who made old stories really wanted girls to think they would only have an awful time to look forward to once they marry.”

“It can happen that way, Sweetheart,” from Jonathan, before Master or wife could jump to comment. There was no erasing the somber angles of his look for the boy this time. Even the smile he mustered was a solemn curve. “Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. Sometimes people find themselves with spouses they do not love or who do not love them. It is…uncommon to enter something so terrible as these storybook marriages. Most spouses are not monsters. But some are callous, some are dull, and some only wed at all because they see it as a chore.”

“A chore?” Another wrinkle of the nose. “Like putting playtime away?” Jonathan nodded, the smile an increment lighter.

“Or doing Father’s papers or minding the horses. Something like that, yes.” The boy sat up scandalized at this. He looked from his Papa to his Mama and Father as if hoping for one of them to tell him this was a joke. The scandal deepened as he saw, for one of the few times in his small life, that Mama and Father’s expressions were an utter match. Both on their faces and in their minds.

Still, he tried, “That can’t be true, can it?”

It is, from her.

“It is,” from him.

Each answer flat as a coin. Again, he had to tamp down bitter laughter.

The boy’s mouth dropped open on a glimpse of pearly needle teeth. A fever dream’s vision of a cherub being told by Cupid himself that all the arrows had been burned and they weren’t to make any more.

“That’s horrible! You mean there are families who just pick a mama and a papa and a father and just—just—,” A thunderhead came and went on the little brow. “Just sit there? Not caring about each other?”

“Child,” his Father hummed as he finally idled from the entryway, “you seem more distraught at this than the dead brides.”

“Because it’s different! Barbe bleue, he’s just a monster in a book! And even if—,” ah, how sickish he turned, “—if there are real villains like him in the world, they are rare! But you speak as if the whole rest of the world is out there,” he waved a frantic hand as if to encompass everything beyond the castle, “making families of each other and not enjoying it. Not loving each other at all.”

“Not the entire world,” Jonathan began. Before he could go on, his Master finished for him:

“But not a small portion either. Love does exist, but it is a precious thing like gold or blood. Many wish to have it for their own, but not everyone may claim it as theirs, let alone find it. Sometimes not even those who have died for it.”

He stood before the three of them on the couch now. His dear Harkers. Fire from the woman, wonder from the boy, a wary stillness from Jonathan. All braced, all listening for the lecture’s Lesson. He knelt until his eye was level with the child’s. The child sat forward, his mind at full attention while the spades of his ears pricked like a pup’s. He really was a good boy.

“Your Papa is right. Not everyone is as fortunate in love as us. There are unhappy homes where mothers and fathers battle with each other and do worse to their children. There are homes where bones are broken, where there are tears every night and day, where there is only toil and hate and, yes, even death. For you are right too. There are villains in the world who slay the ones they should love, out of madness or for sport.”

He watched the boy’s eyes first widen and then well. Bright red beads balanced on the edge of spilling. If they ran, he would go to bed with hunger and then grouse all the more as he waited for their feeding night. So he laid the wide white spider of his own hand upon the child’s other shoulder. Jonathan gripped his side tighter. The woman grasped the boy’s small fingers.

“But this home is safe from that. We would none of us have come together were it not for love. Your Papa, your Mama, myself, we are all creatures of singular will. We do not do what we do not wish to do, and so we would not be here if we did not desire it, if there was no love in these walls. You are the proof. We made you together.”

The boy sniffled. His scarlet tears did not roll, but settled back with a blink.

“Like Pandora? She was made out of lots of pieces from lots of gods.”

“That she was. And like Pandora,” his hand drifted from the boy’s shoulder to drum his fingers on the book, “you have gone and opened something which brought you to tears. But there is Hope yet. You shall not lack for your own Loves when the time comes, diavol. For now, know that you need not weep for others and their clumsy pairing. Your heart will bleed forever once you start. And if that should happen? Why, your poor Papa will never have blood enough to satisfy you again.”

The boy’s expression squirmed for a moment, uncertain.

“…Really?”

Jonathan bowed over him, smiling, “Your Father jests. I will always have enough for you.” In his shift, more of the mottled throat was laid bare while his hair hung in a silver-white curtain. Through it peeked those strange sapphire eyes; melting ice set in soot lashes and a cadaver’s sockets. The mollifying mien of a living corpse.

An image passed behind his eyes of that pale smile daubed with blood.

The oil bottle dug against him in its trouser pocket.

“But not tonight,” he intoned. His palm moved from the book of fairy tales and up to the hand Jonathan still had on his son. The man barely tensed as he was pulled up alongside his Master. “Feeding is not for another dusk and your Papa has work waiting. Your Mama shall hear out the rest of your progress.” He flicked a glance her way. “Perhaps she could introduce you to one of Papa’s own favorites. I believe it was, One Thousand and One Nights.”

This time he could not stave off at least half a chuckle as his Harkers all seemed to jolt as one. Loathing here, curiosity there, and, laughably, a prickle of incensed decorum from Jonathan himself. There was even a flush in his pallid cheek.

“Would that not be best to reserve until he’s older?”

“My friend, he is reading of murder already. What harm could your little adventures do?”

“Sir—,”

“What’s it about? What happens in the Nights?” from the boy. His gaze now bounced eagerly among his herd of parents. There were few things his Papa would deny him and so to hear of something even he would try to hold out of his son’s reach was more tantalizing than any forbidden chamber or pretty dowry box. “Papa, I’m old enough, you can tell me!”

I can tell you, came the woman’s rescue. The parts you are old enough to hear.

“But Father said!” If Father said, the family Did. That was one of the rules. A good Lesson to hold above all others. But Jonathan’s eyes pleaded with both the promise of bribery for mercy and, again, that absurd flame of parental dismay. Very well.

“Father said perhaps,” he corrected. “And I said introduce. You do grow fast, child, but not fast enough. There are secrets meant for men and women that you must wait to learn before you can access all there is to consume. Until then, you can see what you can wheedle from your mother on the matter. But first, give Papa your good-day.”

Another shocked descent for the boy, another raising of hackles for his Mama.

“Papa’s working all night?”

“Ah-ah, not all night. You took him up for half of it, did you not?”

The boy shrank guiltily against his pillow, mumbling, “Maybe…”

A third, from the woman. At most.

Her eyes and scars seemed to blaze as he knew his own to do. Now it truly was an effort not to think of her as kin and shudder for it. The air in the room seemed abruptly charged as her line of sight refused to drop from his.

You could make her. Walk her off to the bookcases, even. See if she cannot accidentally smash her fingers under a leaden tome. Maybe—

Jonathan’s hand gripped his. Cold against colder. Then he was on his knee, cupping the child’s face.

“It is my fault, Sweetheart. I should have kept better track of the time. There is something that needs working out tonight, very important for your Father’s own affairs.” Another smile for the boy. Spring come to thaw. “Now please, can I have your good-day? I should not like to head to bed without it.”

And just like that, the boy was up and folded in his free arm, squeezing back like he could pin the man there to stay and read of Scheherazade and her Sultan until the sun rose. But his Father was watching and so he consoled himself with the embrace and the good-days and their bloodless kisses to each other’s cheek.

“Mama’s turn!”

Jonathan scarcely had time to repeat him, nodding—“Mama’s turn,”—before the woman had snatched him to her. Not a common display, this. At most they knew their Master would suffer only some saccharine peck and a pining stare in his presence. Let the woman rut while he at least had some distance and a turned back. Now she seemed on the edge of eating him. Not that Jonathan appeared to mind.

His eyes were shut far more lightly than his Master’s had been not an hour ago. A gesture of bliss rather than nausea. Because his eyes were closed, he did not see his wife’s eye crack open and shoot a line of mingled hate and joy into her Master’s skull. Over Jonathan’s psyche and masked from the boy’s questing mind, he dragged a mental dagger and spill of salt over hers.

This he punctuated with a very clear, Curvă.

She winced under the twist of the spectral blade in her brain, but did not let her nails become claws in Jonathan’s cheek. Her eye narrowed. Another blade was sent back to him.

There was even a dimpled hint of a smile as she enunciated, oh so lightly, Încornorat.

Jonathan bit back a yelp as he was hauled to the door with barely time enough to call back a, “Good-day, Darling.”

He no longer had his hand in his Master’s, for his Master held him by the wrist. So it remained until three long halls were between them and the library. Then another hall after that. Stairs. Hall. Stairs. Towards the tower.

Where all dragons keep their maidens.

The thought’s attempted humor died before it even drew breath. Kin of his goddamned kin, indeed. He could hear his little brother cackling up at him from Hell. Who did the contemptible sow think she was to dare? To even conceive of vomiting such a label at his feet? She, the one with the wedding band!

Yes, the same plain ring as his. While you, barehanded, claim to own them both. You are Master, you are Groom. And yet…

Jonathan sucked a breath over his teeth.

Their pace halted in the moonlight of a window-loaded wall. A glance at the trapped wrist showed it was connected to a hand going blue as the mortal bones grinded and creaked. The white hand curled open to reveal a hint of the bruise to come. Jonathan kneaded the spot without recoiling from his Master’s side.

The man’s smile had fallen away like a veil. Here was only his face as it was. The sweet-bitter mark of surrender that was the mournful turn of the lips, the frozen dew under the hoods of his lashes. Tired but waiting for the next scene. Wisely keeping the obvious question tucked in his throat: What’s wrong?

Instead his Master heard, “I received correspondence from Vidor today. He says the delay is due to losing one of the horses. They had to comb two villages for a replacement, but he thinks they can make it by mid-July.”

So casual, so ironed out into the cadence of Agent and Client. Anything else, Sir? Anything we might discuss in arid tones before the inevitable, Sir?

There was such talk available, if his Master felt like bothering with it. Stony talk of setting stone. A long-belated repair of the old damage to the castle’s crumbled edges. He knew there were also pamphlets and science journals waiting tidily on the ebon desk with the usual bureaucratic flotsam. Dreary things about the advancements of pipes and electric wires that would be an arduous and superfluous hell to weave into the grand old stonework. Especially when, in fifteen years’ time, there would be no humans left to want them under Castle Dracula’s roof.

Still, it was a good sign, these tries at what the English called ‘homemaking.’ Renovating his cage kept him busy between bleeding and writing. More, it gave an excuse to be allowed out of the tower. The same tower where his life might have gone on even to this night, with only the hungry visits of wife and child to prove they still existed. 

His Master had daydreamed about it more than once. How it would be the dance of that distant summer intensified and expanded when Jonathan Harker found he was locked permanently in. There would not be so much as the meager freedom of the office, where he could scratch and type and imagine he was far away in his snug English firm. No, in his dreams, he’d left Jonathan only the tower and the bedchamber at its top. Only what food his Master brought, what clothes his Master offered, what sundry supple tasks his Master put to him in that narrow box in which the spoils of war lived and bowed. Unable to dare so much as the thought of escape, even with a will that was all his own.

But no, no. Better to leave that sword hanging. A punishment threatened did more work than the punishment itself. Really, for all the savory misery it might wring from him, all the placations that might be offered for release, it would hardly satisfy in the long term. Not unless he wanted a repeat of his missteps with his prior Loves, turned idle and useless but for proving the castle was not his dwelling alone.

All this musing passed within a heartbeat he did not have. In the present, he crossed his arms.

“A lost horse, he says. And how did they lose it?”

A calculating flicker of the blue. Careful, careful.

“A broken leg, Sir. It had to be put down.”

“A broken leg. On what mountains? In what ditch between here and the mason?”

“He didn’t say.” No quaver in the voice. No dropping of his gaze. But there was a hairline crack in what should have been the calm of one delivering dull news. Small, but there. Then, the fatal line: “Why does it matter?”

Ah, my friend. Sometimes I do wonder if you enjoy dangling raw meat before my nose.      

“It matters because you are hiding something.” His hand landed light and immovable on the man’s shoulder.

“I’m not lying, Sir.” Yes, that much his Master could tell. Except.

“We both know there are worlds of difference between speaking the truth and choosing not to lie. Even the boy knows that.” The hand did not tighten, but claws now scraped against the shoulder. “So. What was it that Vidor blamed for his poor lost horse?” Jonathan opened his mouth. What could have been a word was cut off as he was suddenly wrenched around and marched toward the office. “No, let us not exhaust you with recital. Surely you still have the letter. I shall see it myself.”

“Sir—,”

But they were already at the door and the door had already opened on a handy gust. The same breeze tugged the heavy wood shut and, in passing out a different crack in the office’s window, skirted between the man’s legs. Jonathan hardly had time enough to flinch before he was thrust in the tufted chair that stood facing the desk. His Master was already thumbing cheerily through the immaculate filing; here was another reason to neglect his little fantasy of the tower. Mr. Harker really was an artful organizer. Never a paper out of place. Even the ones he wished he might get away with tossing on the fire.

But such liberties were only for his client to enjoy.

Case in point, here was Vidor’s letter, folded back into its envelope, neatly slotted in the Pending drawer. He kept his attention halved evenly between the note and his wincing friend in the chair. My, but the latter’s intuition had honed well with the years.

“He writes to me and says wolves attacked and ruined the stallion’s leg. Wolves cause him to be late.” He refolded the letter until its edges could slit a lying courier’s throat. “Wolves. Along the route I mapped for him.” His eyes leveled at Jonathan’s head like twin pistols. “You would hide this from me?”

“No, Sir. Only—,”

“Only what? You wish to see me deceived? To see these vermin get away with wasting my time as they drink and chase the slatterns along the road? By all means, explain.”

“I thought only that he must have made an error. That what he thought were wolves were merely dogs. There are few small breeds here and some are bred to outweigh their lupine cousins. More to the point, I do not see the why of purposefully delaying your delivery, even for a drink or a dalliance. Vidor and his men know they’ll not wring more money from you in losing time. The trek to and from all the destinations involved takes up days and energy all of them would rather spend at his home or some attractive holiday.” The closing statement: “He is not a liar, Sir, only mistaken.”

‘Please do not kill them.’ If only you had a violin to play as you grovel.

Out loud he sighed and shook his head.

“Do you never grow tired of covering for the ineptitude of others?”

It wasn’t an unfair question. Jonathan and his woman had been the key to dredging up the exact methods by which his Master’s web around England was forming and been instrumental in tearing them away. The Dutchman had led the lordling, the doctor, and the American along in slaying his poor Lucy, his fetching first claim planted upon the land. But the pack of them would have been running in circles without his dear Harkers. Too quick, too canny, and all the while shouldering the brunt of the effort in the hunt. There was some chiding of kismet in that, he knew.

He recalled that nascent night’s exact words.

You dwellers in the city cannot enter into the feelings of the hunter.

Words from an unsuspecting old thing who’d had to run for his unlife for the first time in ages as Jonathan Harker slithered out the window of the Piccadilly house, steel thirsty and flashing. Coming to slay him. To pierce his heart and sever his head in the middle of a screaming street. Prepared for a cell or his own death as the chattel shrilled, not knowing there would be only dust where a carcass should fall. Yes, yes. He would have. He could have.

Once.

But Fate ensured he reserved that knife for his friends, who had sinned even worse against his woman. If Jonathan marked his Master as a thief, then the stalwart dogs who had dared to turn on the sole bitch in their midst were worse for daring her destruction. Such was the price of not recognizing a Jackal while busy hunting a Wolf. In fact…

“You say Vidor is mistaken? That he lost his horse not to wolves, but other beasts? If this is so, I would not wager it was a dog that did the work, but a jackal.” He folded his hands and smiled. “You wish him to be spared the punishment of a liar. Why not assure that the reality matches his words? It need not be done with the kukri. In fact, it need not be you at all. Dear Mina, she so regrets depleting you. Perhaps she would appreciate the sport of her own hunt.”

Jonathan did not blink. The fear remained in its careful place, the fatigue alongside it. But there, lurking just under the membrane of the willing prey, was something else. Cold and sharp.

“Even if such were not against our arrangement, Sir, there would be a dilemma.” There was no tremble as he said it.

“Oh dear. What dilemma is that?”

“The waste. Leaving aside the concern of relatives and friends raising an alarm about a group of missing workers, it will be counted as another strike against this place’s stability.”

It was an effort not to clap. Good boy, Jonathan. Follow the trail.

“Stability?” he pressed, doing what he could to drip with pompous ignorance. Jonathan did not crack.

“Yes,” he told his Master. “The stability of this place’s image as the home of a respected Count and not a guaranteed death trap. The people of the Carpathians live in the center of your influence. They understand what it is to risk angering you. But you know firsthand that this place exists inside a shrinking circle. More information flies faster, more straight lines are drawn that whittle the world down into maps that mark every dark corner down to its smallest inch. Which means that if Castle Dracula, to say nothing of its Master or those he controls, gain a reputation for erasing visitors in bloody fashion, people will just stop coming here. 

“Unless those people are in uniform and hail from tiers of governance above the one you choose to wear rather than frighten the human gentry with the reality of you. I know I say nothing you do not know. You have not kept these mountains under your thumb by being careless. That you would suggest the idea of Mina or I casually murdering innocent strangers as either their punishment for tardiness or to simply tug our respective chains to have us do a trick you already know we are capable of suggests only two things to my mind.

“The first, that you have more important issues on your mind than the delivery of a commissioned pile of rocks. The latter is an easier annoyance to deal with than the former, so you have laid it on the chopping block first.”

The white hands remained folded, but their claws grew again. His fangs ached. What blood he had left in his veins was all very busy rushing to a single extremity.

“How very astute, my friend. And the second thing?”

“The second thing,” Jonathan said with a precise note of exhaustion thrown like a comforter over his riskier patter, “is that you don’t know how difficult it is to convince anyone other than novice solicitors or loyal caravans to march up the mountains, even with what you’re paying. Modern men don’t need to be superstitious when they’re already skittish about known threats. Like the wildlife. Or the cliffs so high you cannot see the foot of them.”

“Or murderers?” The word was a purr and a knife. In answer, a whisper:

“Or us. Yes.” With this boulder pushed up the proverbial hill, Jonathan folded his own hands and stared back at his Master. Not to see whether the boulder would roll back down to crush him, but how best to lay in its path and cause the least amount of damage to those behind him. To that end, “I do not seek to belittle what you truly deem important, Sir. But Vidor and his troubles seem too small a thing to earn your genuine ire. If something more is wrong, I should like to help.” His eyes gleamed. His Master wondered if they might draw moths. “What can I do for you, Sir?”

The same pitch. The exact same. One echoed from back and back to—

‘Balaurul meu, you cherish your wrath more than your joy. You rage over having nothing to rage at. You rave only for the sake of baring teeth, tearing after whatever happens to be nearest. It is no good for you. You should devour only what is worth consuming. Tell me what that is, if you can name it.’

The chill of her hand on his. Her eyes deep and killing as the sudden crack of ice over a lake. Drowning him.

‘What is it you want to eat?’

He looked to Jonathan. The look tried to be a glare. A threat. A promise.

Jonathan’s look—

The lake, the freezing, pulling lake, drowning again—

—did not falter. An invitation to anything. To be and endure whatever his Master demanded.

The office had seen plenty of use before. A fine backdrop for the cliché of the mishandled secretary tucked under the desk on hands and knees or, the better to see him, said secretary bent and spread across the ebony. Other rooms had their turns, of course. Many others. Sometimes his own chambers, the ban lifted for such special occasions. But most often it happened in the tower.

Somehow he felt it would not be enough tonight. Even if he took his friend on a tour of the entire castle, every room and turret, even into the obsidian walls of his own coffin, it would not be enough, yet he could not place the why of it. There was the woman’s provocation to consider. Then the abrupt haunting from the ghosts his traitor mind had conjured to harangue him. The undead could not produce their own ghosts, he knew. Not counting those of the imagination.

That much would explain the leering vision of his brother.

Not so for her.

A wife whose unhallowed chamber was all her own while the dead brides in her wake were left to wander elsewhere. Bluebeard would balk. But Bluebeard had never had his Countess.

Perhaps the imagined whisper of her was right.

Perhaps he was only angry for want of something to pounce upon and feed his wrath. Something to overtake, to conquer, to crack a relieving fissure into the ever-denser callus growing over him and his unlife. Such restraint he lived under for the sake of a charade! For all that his subjects mewled over their lot, there was not a single devil in Hell who did not know how he now chafed under his friend’s ‘contract.’

So many ages he had spent withering himself, finding less and less point in the ownership of his genius loci and its shivering cattle, less and less point to the study and toil and terror of his manifestation. A Limbo broken only by his desperate planning for the taking of England, the modern Rome with its gluttonous hands sunk deep into the refined world and its culling colonies. It had been something to wake and drink and think for. A purpose to the infinity he had bought so eagerly only to grow listless with it like a cagey child bored of his gift.

Then had come his Harkers.

Jonathan, his blessed, blighted, bloodstained Jonathan, had come to show his belly and his throat to ransom his loved ones to his enemy’s mercy. A bargain made for the sake of the stolen woman who could not go from him, the raw newborn that she was. A newborn with a newborn; their impossible babe.

Oh, how fast it could have ended then.

How quickly he might have torn the Madonna and Child to ribbons—Better! Have her tear the latter apart in her arms first! Let his friend watch!—and fallen on the sweet screaming fool who had cast aside his blade. His friend might have been baptized against the red pool that had been the bride and brat he damned himself for with the slaying of innocent men. Then dragged down and away into his Master’s tomb to await the beginning of their new eternity together.

But he had done the wise thing instead. He had accepted the terms, had let them into the space once filled by his slain Loves. This he did not regret. Nor would he ever, for the sake of his mind. Oh, O, his mind! Damn them for a hundred little scratches as he bit into their throats, but the Harkers had saved and salved that much. Every night was freshly riddled with the promise of performance and pained fealty, of the warring of wills, of the crushing fist, of the rapid wheeling mental clockwork that he once chased so feebly while he rotted among his harpy Loves.

True, true. Except you have now grown too content in this little circuit you now walk. Walk, not run. Fed, not slaked. You became the nightmare of these mountains for a reason. The women had their helpings from the children’s sweetmeat veins. But you? You were the hungry shadow to watch for in the forest. In the roads. In the secret dark of the mountains. You were a horror who could be avoided when full, but brought death down on the unwary of any age when it came time to feed. Now here you sit. A pampered boyar like the rest, waiting on your helpings of flesh and succor while a Child is somewhere being tutored and a Woman makes a nuisance of herself and the only one carrying the whole thing is a Vassal playing duped and dutiful Atlas.

So much power. So much of him awake and thrumming. So much left caged.

A Wolf turned to a Dog.

Back in the office, time had passed only by another heartbeat. Plus the cracking of an armrest in the talon of his hand.

Jonathan did not react to the flying splinters, but did slowly, carefully, crane his head enough to steal a glimpse of the window. To his Master’s surprise, a twinkle of hope fell across his face. If not hope, enterprise. He faced the glowering shape of his Master behind the desk.

“The moon is full tonight.”

“What of it?” Each word a thorn. But this seemed only to draw Jonathan up another inch.

“How many hours are left until sunrise?”

“My friend, I am stung.” When he grinned it showed his teeth to the gums. “You wish to be rid of me so soon?”

“That is half my thought, Sir.” Jonathan leaned forward, gripping his hands so they couldn’t quake. “The other half being that you might benefit from a hunt.”

Tonight was a parade of surprises. Shock ruled his face while an agonizing ache struck him at the chest and groin.

“A hunt,” he parroted, already scenting the condition of the thing.

“Yes,” Jonathan nodded. “Though I am hardly a winning stag, I have not forgotten what it is to run from the demons of this place. Nor have I forgotten that my escape was built on luck rather than Providence.”

“My Loves were long since spoiled by then. Ravenous, yes, but comfort so often won out over craving. If it were not so, I should have returned to find half the Carpathians drained in their greed. Even here, our own home, they tried so many times to pin you rather than exert the effort of a chase. They could have pounced while you rested on the couch or at the window, but no. The trance came first. Lazy, lazy.” He clicked his tongue against a fang. “That in mind, I fear you would make a poor quarry. You escaped through lax claws and slow jaws, my friend. I would have you within the minute.”

Within this one, perhaps.

Jonathan risked a small shrug and looked again at the risen moon. Past midnight now.

“Perhaps.” A hard swallow. Then: “Or perhaps you are too used to easy meals to bother. I understand, of course, if you worry you cannot outpace me—,”

The chair slammed into the rug as Jonathan slammed into the tufting. A hand like a noose was locked around his throat. He neither gasped nor gagged. Only waited for his Master’s decision. His eyes drowning, freezing.

The oil bottle weighed more than a mountain now.

 ‘What is it you wish to eat?’

“You will have five minutes, stag.”

Out the window, down castle and cliffside, into the fringe of the forest. He willed the film of sparse clouds away to further free up the moon.

No lantern. No compass. There had been no pause to change shoes. Jonathan didn’t even wait to be asked before unlinking his pocket watch and passing it into his Master’s hand. This he did placidly enough. But his eyes gave him away, so wide and lambent in the gloom.

A wariness radiated from him now. The belated fear of one who has only just realized a foolish wager was made. It was not a fear of death—that particular aroma had lasted only so long even in their first faraway summer—but that unmapped dread of consequence which can make fatality seem a reprieve. His Master was happy not to relieve him of it.

“Five minutes, Sir?”

“Four and three quarters now.”

The last word had barely hit the air before Jonathan Harker dashed into the dark. A healthy pace for a trim young man. Remarkable, his Master knew, for one so routinely exsanguinated. It was almost precious to watch how his speed changed once the shadows grew dense under the canopy. As if the poor stag truly thought such a thing could mask his trick. But the hunter’s eyes were far keener than his prey’s and so he could tell at once when the healthy pace broke into the expected gait. From a mere quick jog to a fired arrow.

He had puzzled over the timeline of his friend’s escape from the castle more than once. Even among the plainer signs of that surreal metamorphosis, this aberration deserved attention. Such speed in a body that he himself drained the night before! Athletes of every era would have blanched at the idea of cutting across the Carpathians in their prime, let alone in the solicitor’s state. And that would come only after descending the towering face of castle and cliff without so much as a rope. Yet down and away his friend had flown. A powerful proof of the extraordinary.

One that went on to seem miniscule beside the scene of the men returning his soil.

The matter should have been equal parts tedious and amusing.

It had been the same men who had dug and boxed the earth in the first place, just as content to take his money and goodwill to reverse the process once the movers in England saw to collecting and shipping the crates. The Eucharists’ polluting presence had been ordered removed upon request. Jonathan himself had invented a delightful excuse that had been a joy to read:

‘In addition to a personal tragedy cutting short his intended transferal to London, my client has had the misfortune to discover an English variant of his homeland’s superstitious parties in the form of a band of modern-day zealots. They are apparently of a sort who regard Matthew Hopkins as an idol. While my client has not suffered overmuch from what he believes were failed attempts on his life by these individuals, they have taken pains to track the cargo that was delivered from a rich deposit of Transylvanian soil.

‘Irony seems to haunt my client, for his unwell hunting party seemed to regard this collection of scientific fodder as bewitched graveyard earth and so heaped—and, I may add, shamefully wasted—a loaf’s worth of the holy Eucharist onto the loam. My client requests that the movers sent to reseal and ship the abandoned crates do him the courtesy of removing the Wafers from his samples to the best of their ability. If the Wafers have attracted pests in the meantime or if any granules have scattered in the topsoil, feel free to clear these out as well. He sends his gratitude in advance.’

Words and money enough to reverse the shipment had brought the earth back home. A bitter victory for both sides, admittedly. Here was proof that Count Dracula had officially taken his bootheel off of England’s throat for the moment. But here too was the return of those men who had not only moved the earth to begin with, but had rushed their boyar out of reach. With their speed and aid, the woman was lost. The kukri had drunk. And all of this had come in the wake of their seeing the poor Englishman bleating and pleading in the window.

A sight that had rightly spurred them to laughter.

They had laughed again as they returned with the wagons, knowing what Jonathan was to their boyar now. Jonathan had already begun gleaning the language and so knew what commentary they had to share as he oversaw the arrival of the boxes and their unburdening. His Master had hidden to oversee him in turn. To watch his face and inhale the despair. Alas, there was too much dead in him for their jeering to stir much of anything in the way of insult. Jonathan Harker seemed a soul built for subservience and the polite receival of abuse. Even the caravan’s head, resplendent Old Danil, had frowned at his men the way a father scowls at his boys for kicking at a lame dog.

But that was the issue, wasn’t it? Seeing only a dog. A leashed dog, collared until he choked, crippled and toothless. Go on, laugh. They are safe.

Really, they had wasted much of their breath and time on laughter. Their boyar’s own grin had faded with the ticking of the watch as they lazed and drank and nudged the boxes only as breaks between the taunting chatter Jonathan appeared so deaf to.

Until they spoke of his wife.

The woman had not been present, needing to cradle her infant in the chapel to quiet his fit. But her Master had spoken of her in the correspondence with Old Danil. It was to be expected that she would leak into the men’s talk. Her scars, her silence, her beauty, how she had been ‘taken in bed’ as her husband slept through it all, how perhaps her Master would be good enough to have her share her hospitality with them, ha ha.

Jonathan’s stillness had changed. The late spring warmth had curdled around him as his head turned to those who spoke. They were clustered at the end of their wagon, two thirds of the boxes still stacked behind them. Jonathan had stared. The laughter had dwindled. Bluster had simmered in their tongue.

‘What, dog? Don’t like us talking about your bitch?’

Jonathan had not answered.

Jonathan, his Master knew, was silent as a flurry when there was a task at hand. Swift as a hailstone too. Between one blink and the next, the men had been hurled aside like flour sacks and Jonathan was on the wagon. A blink after this saw the men shouting and scattering as the earth-boxes were hurled off one after the other. The same boxes it had taken up to three men apiece to hoist. More shouts, more scurrying as the next wagon was emptied. Again, again.

Jonathan had turned to Old Danil, unmoved from his chosen post at the courtyard gate. A single iron brow had managed to rise over the whole scene. Jonathan had held up the purse full of pay his Master had given him for services rendered. His back was to one of those who had spoken of touching his wife. The man had his knife was out. The man took a step forward.

The purse of gold had flown back and cracked that man’s teeth. Then Jonathan himself fell on him as the man’s curse turned to a shrill. Other knives and pistols were scrambled for.

At the height of this, thunder had cracked in the clear night sky.

The Master of the castle emerged.

The men had jumped. Old Danil had craned his head. The man under Jonathan changed to a tone that ordered as much as begged through his bloodied mouth.

‘Get it off! Off off get it off me my hands please my hands damn you cowards get it OFF—!’

Jonathan had remained set upon his task. His Master could hear the crunch of it trapped in his fists.

‘Jonathan. Up.’

Jonathan had gotten to his feet, but without releasing the squealing man’s hands. It was a fascinating thing to observe now that he was not the one on the receiving end of…ah, but he still did not have a name for it. The enigma of Jonathan Harker, a man with a monster lurking in the chambers of his heart. A poet might call him a creature of Eros. Damned, empowered, and possessed by the weight of Love. But his Master was no poet and so admitted he had only his own title for the thing.

Jonathan, his Jackal. Obedient in all things—anything—but for the border of his Love.

When his eyes lifted, they had burned cold.

‘You heard,’ he’d grated in the men’s own tongue. ‘You heard.’

 ‘I did.’ Calm. Even. Easy, easy. Good boy.

Oh, the delicious balance of that moment. Did he dare shred the contract just to see if his friend would go mad at the rescinding of his one and only caveat while strangers lined up to have their turns in his wife’s coffin?

He had paused long enough to make dear Jonathan wonder. Just long enough to see his face harden to a full rictus. The unlucky fool in his friend’s hands let out a fresh shriek as something new broke and other bones crackled. Around them, the men had stood paralyzed in uncertainty, weapons half-drawn. Old Danil had checked his watch.

‘Let him go, Jonathan. Wait for me inside.’ He’d had to fling his will out at him. Hard. ‘Now. I shall see to the rest.’ Jonathan had released the man as if invisible fingers were fighting to pry up his own. Which was not too far from the truth. The man had scrambled away on knees and elbows, his head permanently turned to keep an eye on Jonathan—only to freeze again as his boyar clapped a white hand onto his shoulder. The courtyard had sucked in a collective breath. Every grip turned limp as jelly on their scabbards and holsters.

Jonathan had gone in.

His Master had chuckled, walking the broken-handed man to his wagon. To the blood-dewed pouch of gold abandoned on the ground.

‘You are to be envied, my friend. He left you with only a warning.’

‘Envied! Look at my hands!’

‘I see them. And you are lucky to have them still attached. As well as your head. He was being polite, you see.’ The hand on the man had tightened until the print of it bruised. ‘The last men to talk of laying hands on her did not get to live long enough to regret it. I do not know for certain what he did with the bodies, but I think they are buried. Wolves and jackals do so love to save their bones.’ Tighter. More than sweat had run on the man’s face. ‘He is such a loyal creature now. I have made him so. I have made him much more. And, like his Master, he does not take kindly to jokes made of touching what is his. What is ours. But perhaps he merely misunderstood, yes? Perhaps you and your brothers spoke of trying to bed another boyar’s property? Surely this is so. If it were otherwise…’

He had let his teeth show in full.

And the men had risen up in an assuring chorus that sang yes, yes, of course, they spoke of another castle’s woman, not his, never his. And the broken-handed man had scooped up the fallen gold with mangled fingers. And Old Danil, moved at last from his sedate constant enough to imitate curiosity, had approached him as the men fled back onto their wagons.

‘The Englishman. What is he really?’

‘Mine.’

Which was what mattered in the end.

Mostly.

He could possess so much without effort. Take where and what he liked. But that his friend, his Jonathan, was so alien a thing among the mortal flock made both the victory of his surrender and the temporary loss of England all the sweeter. For he had not run merely from the clamoring of the Dutchman and his pups or the waving of the Cross. Whatever Jonathan was in body and soul was as rare as…as…

Remember the sight of her in her loving throes? Before she was vourdalak, before you had ever whispered of the Mountain together, you had watched her at work. A favored serving girl left bloody after a visit from a soldier taking his due. An invitation to a dark room, unrecognized in her stolen serf’s guise. And then! Then! The art of it! The speed, the hush, the fruit of the harvested Adam’s apple! With this you saw her color her lips for the first time. And you had crept from your hiding place, offering to aid her in disposing of the corpse with the same tone as a courting youth offering his lady a rose.

Rare as a white stag, perhaps.

The initial defeat would have burned a thousand times more had it been the work of a lesser creature. The consolation—the whole concept of the contract—would have been cackled at before he gutted the wretched couple with his own hand. But his Harkers were worthy, curse and bless them for it. And Jonathan, his prize, his spoils, his quarry darting through the night for his pleasure, felt more worth the delay of conquest with each passing night.

He checked the watch.

The five minutes were gone.

In a blur, so was he.

It was easy enough work catching up. His poor friend had not thought to disguise his route by darting in new directions or taking pauses to steady his drumming heart. Every breath was a harsh pant. But for all this, he did not make the capture itself simple.

New bursts of speed came whenever he felt his Master’s presence press close. Each was a helpful lunge that would have left an ordinary predator snapping his jaws shut on air. It hardly hurt that his Master was enjoying the run too much to end it with a mere leap. Instead, he lingered over swiping his fingertips at the bare throat. A hand was pawed through the white cloud of hair. The teeth of a great bounding Wolf caught and tore the billowing shirt.

On and on down the slope they went, children at play.

He was at play, at least. Jonathan seemed to have found no fun in the game. Whenever his Master drew parallel there was always a look of anxiety bordering on terror waiting on his face. The eyes, like trailing ghost-light, stayed planted firmly on the terrain before him. Almost as though he were trying to outrun more than his hunter. It was when the latter politely allowed him another little lead that it became clear where the man was heading.

A chide and a chuckle rose up in him as he heard the rushing stream. The one meager haven the forest had to offer. Of course.

He let his friend leap down into the water, smiling at the muffled gasp that followed his splash. A sound that stopped short of becoming a curse. As if the noise would be what gave him away. Feigning a tutting posture, his Master idled to the ledge and let himself sprawl. He was halfway into his mist form and was not disappointed when Jonathan peered up at the effect with a shudder. Hovering between flesh and fog made a roiling giant of him, as though a great shadow cast by a candle were made solid.

Letting his eyes flare and his smile curl past the point where ordinary muscle should have permitted it, he shook the haze of his head down at the frozen figure in the water.

“Ah, now, now, my friend. That’s cheating.”

“Just…” Jonathan started. Stopped. Swallowed. “…endeavoring to give you a challenge, Sir.”

“Ah, of course. Always so considerate.” He let the smile become a maw as his arm unfurled down, down, down, the hand at its end wider than a man’s head. “My dear friend, Jonathan.” He solidified back into himself as Jonathan was snatched up onto land, the illusion of safety snapped neatly in two. “I believe that is you captured, stag.”

“It seems so.” The words were thin. His wide eyes seemed to both see and dismiss him. He actually shook in his Master’s hold. Taking notice, Jonathan forcibly settled himself by grasping his own arms. His head hung until the sodden hair could mask him. “Forgive me, Sir. I had hoped the water would be warmer.”

“Transylvania is sparing with her warmth, my friend. Even in spring.” His own gaze had ducked lower as he examined his catch. No, the stream had done no favors for the fish, but plenty for the fisherman.

He wears white far better than his wife.

Aloud, “But the nights are mild when hunter and quarry are wise enough to avoid such tricks. When the boy has grown out with a few years more, perhaps he should join us. He cannot subsist on you forever. Once our lovely family dinners are at an end, we shall all of us have to seek our fill…”

Jonathan stilled entirely. His hands gripped tight a last time before relaxing. Somewhat.

His head didn’t raise as he asked, “…You are certain you wish to invite him?”

“What reason is there that I shouldn’t?”

“There is none, I suppose. Nothing but my own mistaken assumption.” Jonathan moved to stand. His Master’s hand jerked him back down on his haunches. Still his head stayed bowed behind the pale curtain of hair.

“What assumption was this?”

“It is nothing, Sir. Please, forget I mentioned it.”

“What assumption, Jonathan? I am listening.” He heard silence. Sighing and smiling he whipped a mesmer hook into his friend’s will. “Jonathan. Speak.”

Jonathan’s lips twitched apart with a grimace.

“I had thought…that we might make use of this for something else…something private.” Finally, the head rose. The ice chip eyes had gone dark. “Where neither of us would have to be mindful of others.” He had bitten his lip in the effort not to speak. The skin had broken and painted him there. “My apologies for misunderstanding.” At ‘My’ the blood smeared without Jonathan appearing to notice, still dripping from the stream. His whole mouth was glazed red.

Looking back at the stream in what was either shame or—

No. No, it can’t be.

—disappointment, Jonathan did not see his Master’s eyes turn to lanterns.

“I love them. You know I love them. It’s why we’re here. Why I am here. And every night…” His fists balled into stones in his lap. The wedding band caught a sliver of moonlight. “Every night I must smile for them. For Mina. For Quincey. Sometimes for you. But it isn’t what it was between us in that summer, is it? When I thought I was acting only for my life and not my humanity. When you were seeing how far I could bend until I broke. Two months of pretending wasn’t bad back then. But that is old ground now. It feels ancient already. If you order a smile from me now, you order it. You couch it in pretense occasionally, but that much has been tainted by the comparison we live with every night.

“The playacting of it all. That’s for our son alone. A sweet theatre too cloying for the adults in the room to perform when his back is turned. And even with Mina I must—,” The lump of his throat leapt and choked him. “I have to give her something. Something we can both pretend is worth what we’ve given. So I smile for her too and she smiles back and I must try to bury so much under the bedrock of my mind to keep her from tripping over it in horror. Which leaves you. This.

“You can believe me when I say this or not. That doesn’t matter. I keep no diary to purge myself into and I have no doubt that if you show this memory to her, she will take it as a cruel joke you invented to hurt her with like so many others. Or else she’ll see it and know her husband has finally gone mad.” New wet tracks rolled over his cheeks. Clear as the stream. “You are the last refuge I have for admitting the worst of myself. The tower is no more than a box to rot in. My Mina, my Darling, how much worse would I become in her eyes if I were to be anything less than the Love paying his reparation for being too selfish to let her wishes be honored and have our friends live? And our boy. Our son. He will never know.

“There are only two monsters in your castle. Mina does not believe me when I tell her both of them strain under their performances. I cannot blame her. There is a slim line between the Count I first met and the one I serve now, but it is there. And for one who has spent lifetimes untethered by anything other than his own caprices, I understand this means much. I am grateful. I hate that I am grateful. I hate that I have just run from that great stone stage of a prison we call our home, and thrilled at the distance, knowing I was not merely dashing to a town in which to put on another act. I recognized my thrill and feared it and that fear did not stop it.

“Nothing is left, you see. Hope is out of the box and burned over a candle and there is nothing left that is sane or good to reach for but the safety of my Loves. Always, always that external greater good, never my own, and knowing such is deserved for what I’ve done doesnothing to soften my want of something, anything not nailed down to catering to the entire mess—to the fantasy that I’m anything other than what I am. Even if it is this. Two monsters in the dark with nothing good to intrude upon their abuses.”

Jonathan kneaded his eyes. Bloodshot blue.

“Ha. But I’ve ruined it already, haven’t I? Now that I’ve said I enjoyed it, it will be taken away. Perhaps that is best. This whole thing was foolish start to end.” Jonathan turned to look at his Master. “Perhaps we should…”

Jonathan saw his Master. Seeing him, there might have been an instant in which he realized he had said too much. Discarded some invisible ward without thinking or else let the current of his babble pull him into deep water. For something had happened during the pour of his words. Something which could not be taken back. Something that regarded him with a starving avarice that had been nurtured since the night two students clambered cackling and screaming from the Mountain, lightning and ice welcoming them back to the sight of a sky.

A new thunderhead rolled overhead. Abrupt and sultry as a tropic tide washing across the stars.

“You talk of monsters and their abuses as if you comprehend both. I fear you are acquainted only with one.”

One hand gripped the damp shirtfront.

The other thumbed open a glass bottle, spilling oil.

“Allow me to educate you on the other.”

Jonathan Harker was taught his Lessons.

He learned them on the thin bed made of his Master’s cape, with cadaver skin finally thawing in the tangle and grasp of each other, the only pause for words or breath allowed between the sealing of a nursing mouth on bloody lips. The castle had never housed a thing like this for them. Not under any command, any tugging of trance, any handful or taste stolen with the idleness of a man stroking his pet. Under the storm and worn by its maker, Jonathan seemed either to shed a husk or shut himself into an armor.

Whichever it was, it gave credence to his phrasing. Two monsters. They loved—

Hands, his hands are still cold, always, always her hands were cold, locked into my skin arms back can feel the lines drag there no matter no matter you can drink it away or let them stay a banner-badge-brand to bring home to the chapel do you see do you see little Sister you lose like the brother who came before and knew it when he died and oh oh it is the Mountain again out in the open after the years of work of horror of being Horror and here we are against the rocks and filth and grass again under the rain but oh O so soon so fresh from it all we could not be tender yet not yet and so we loved

—like they fought.

Jonathan turned them over first. The shock and strength of it let him manage it, the same curt motion as hefting an earth-box. He sat bent and digging his fingers into the undead hide as if to shred or cling. For a moment the view was enough to paralyze. Here was the white head thrown back against the marbled night, eyes bright as the lightning, howling a sound that could have been a shout in pleasure or fury or the harsh note of a lunatic that lost itself in the next thunderclap. His lip was bleeding again. The rain carried it over his chin and down a teasing line along his throat.

The moment passed and Jonathan was crushed on his back again. Still holding. Still held. He tried to rise again, that mystery of power straining against the pressure of his better, his Master, his Lord above God, his—

“Balaurul meu. Say it.” Had his voice shaken? No, a trick of the noise. So much thunder, so much drumming rain, so much balmy wind moaning in the trees.

“What?” A thrust. A cry and clutch.

“These are your Lessons. Now say it.” Another jolt, a snap of lightning. “Say it.”

“Balaurul meu,” in a gasp. “Balaurul meu. Balaurul meu.”

Good. Good. More.

“Eu sunt al tău. Now!”

“Eu sunt al tău.”

More.

“Sunt al tău pentru totdeauna.”

Jonathan repeated this and every line after, echoing and reechoing so that the two of them might only have been the ghosts of lovers reverberating in a cave. On and on, every oath that could be thought of, every line left branded in the walls of memory was poured out and engraved on the learning tongue. And his friend would keep to every word. Oh, yes. That was certain.

There would be no running beyond his reach, no raising of will he could not break, no leaving him injured and roaring a name out into the sleet, or begging the same name at the threshold of a cemetery where Hating eyes crawled like insects upon him, no, no, no. Not with him. Not with them. Not with the beginning of a new eternity here in the dark with his monster, his maiden, his victim vassal jackal bridegroom—

“What are you doing?”

—who fed him his draught of blood and drowned him in a lake of freezing eyes—

“Sir.”

—his Scheherazade who was prey and play and predator and anything everything all things with the magic of her talent on the altar of her Sultan’s lethal loneliness—

“Master. …Count.”

—and no, no, how could he waste such a thing, risk it slipping away—

“Stop!”

—over the stream and into a rotting future in a pauper’s graveyard, no no no, never, not him, no— 

“Dracula!”

He came back to himself as if slapped.

Perhaps Jonathan might have dared it if only his hands weren’t so preoccupied. The man still sat where he was slotted, but now with both palms flat against his Master’s chest while the pair sat upright under the rain.

The left side had been split open by a claw and now dribbled its dark fountain down his ribs. Its wound welcomed like a smile as Jonathan strained an inch from having his mouth crushed against the blood as his wife’s had been, two implacable hands clamped at his head and back. Pantomime of an embrace. If he snatched the man’s wrists up, if he took his hair for a handle and forced him down…

There’s still time. What say you, Count?

“Please,” Jonathan huffed through locked teeth. As if it would be barrier enough. “Please, not yet. They still need me as I am. Please.” The Arctic eyes slid up to the hellfire of his. “Please.”

The dead hands ceased their slow press, but did not move. Fingers twined and stroked in the wet snow of his hair.

“Draga mea. You know you only prolong your Purgatory as you are. I and my Loves, your ‘Weird Sisters,’ we were not without our pains at the start. Lifetimes as men count them came and went. It all turns to less than a heartbeat eventually. Even Mina,” a name he was proud to make sound like several other four-letter words, “for all her lovely vitriol, even she will someday match me in passing out of this shadow. Hate grows stale. Tiring. So too does despair. Do you think I laughed with my Loves outside your door because I ordered it? Do you think I let them get away with going behind my back to take what was mine, with mocking me to my face, because I remain forever in one mode?

“We three, we are in the middle of a long Lesson. The boy is a happy surprise, but even without the curiosity of him, it would still be us. Me and my Harkers, so hard-won. You and I in our sea of wonders. Whether or not you wish to hold onto guilt once you are free of humanity, time will still march, and you will still be mine. A moment will find you, despite how you drag your feet and cling to the miseries of an unclean Good Samaritan, where you will break as you broke tonight—and you will laugh and love as I do.” 

It was fascinating to see how responses rose, fell, and faltered at the edge of his friend’s tongue. Negations all, and all of them caught on the tightrope between lie or truth, both saturated with shame. Catharsis and comfort dangled out of reach only because he refused to crawl from the Pit he chose to burn in.

For his Love.

“You say it is inevitable?” Jonathan’s voice was now a croak. Gone raw with baying.

“I know it is.” 

“…Then it shall wait.” Four words made heavy with regret. The sheer weight of the latter, the dread of the hanging sword and the ached-for release of finally being free of waiting, were almost enough to stir another round. But even with the red taste lapped again and again from the torn lip, the well nearly ran dry. The bulk of remaining vitality was already going toward mending his split chest. A sight that made Jonathan sigh with what could have been relief or sorrow. “It must wait.”

“If that is what you will.”

“It is.” So saying, Jonathan paused. Then, so quiet it was almost less than breath, “Thank you for this.” Jonathan tried to stand. The white hands gripped again and threatened to shove him back in place. It was just a single day from the evening the family dined. The hunt could end with the intended meal and so provide the fuel for yet another gauntlet.

Or.

“Thank you, who?”

Jonathan’s tongue curled at the start of a Sir. But a creeping thread of mesmer reached out and prodded the proper response from him almost before he knew he was speaking:

“Balaurul meu, my thanks for the hunt. I look forward to being broken again. Te iubesc.” Jonathan leapt in his own skin as he heard himself. “That isn’t funny.”

“Of course not, my friend. Merely practice ahead of the inevitable. This is funny.” Jonathan had wobbled up to his feet and left himself open to a swat that made him yelp and stagger. The monster was asleep again, it seemed. Just as well. The fair maiden needed returning to the tower and some rest before the dragon broke his fast with the other suckling mouths.

It was as he mused on this and admired the view of his friend stretching and bowing to retrieve their clothes from the trees’ shelter that a stone broke against the back of his skull. Others pelted his shoulders. Wrath came to an immediate boil and just as quickly froze as he regarded the falling pellets. This freeze expanded until gooseflesh spotted him from the neck down. Jonathan’s voice reached him as if from the other side of the world.

“What is it?”

“Ice.” Then, because he needed to hear it said, “Hail.” He had unmoored his mind from controlling the sky and Nature had taken her reins back. Rain swept too high in the gale would freeze with or without orders. Fool. “It is only—,”

Looking up, he forgot what he meant to say. He forgot language. He forgot he knelt naked on his cape in the muck as he had once knelt before Powers older than any name for what Man called God. He forgot time and he forgot space and kept on forgetting until the only memory left was the one standing in front of him.

No, not memory.

Her.

She stood under the canopy of the boughs, her ice cascading by her as it did within the portrait. In lieu of the painted gown, she stood before him half-dressed. The garb she’d worn on the bier hung lightning-burned on her still. She looked as she’d been the night of the tug-of-war with the failed solicitor, Yorick saved from her rending, the thunderbolt thrown blind. He’d run as the Wolf. Slunk back as a Dog. He had dropped words of mockery and anger and hate and want and threat at the edge of her necropolis like a heap of bones, all of them amounting to the same frail skeleton of a plea as he pressed it into her mind.

Come back. Leave these chattel to their dreaming. Do not sully yourself in their earth. Come back. Come back. Te iubesc.

Și te-am iubit, balaurul meu, had come her answer. Her head bowed until the ice chip eyes whetted to points. But you broke that Love when you tried to break me. Your love is too much like war. Your cherished Conquest. You would have had me as a bound Bride. A partner made a prisoner. This I could not allow. No more than I could stay to help you march upon the world and slit its throat simply to exercise the ability to do so.

Lightning and hail had snapped at each other again. Tempest tempers raging.

Why, then? Why the Mountain? Why the peddling of your soul and self for what it offered just to consign yourself to this waste!?

The hail had softened to an almost gentle patter.

Certainty. Proof to myself that those I Love will be safe with my protection. Even if I must endure their Hate in the how of it, my Loves will never suffer while I stand guard. That is all. I need no more. Go back to your castle, Dragon, but know that it is better you kill your little Englishman or turn him away.

She had frowned then as she frowned in the portrait and as she frowned down at him here, now, stripped bare upon the earth.

Do not play Alexander. You will conquer nothing and weep just the same.

She moved toward him in the present. The hail did not touch her as she walked.

A dream! Yes, of course! Only a dream! It must be, she must be, do not fool yourself, old devil. Get up. Wake up. Now. Now!

But he didn’t. He was awake. And if he wasn’t, he would have snapped Morpheus’ neck if he dared to rob him now.

Close. Closer. Yet he remained on his knees, gawking up. Afraid that any motion might erase her like smoke in a breeze. His mouth was the only part of him that dared move. Not that he could hear himself. He didn’t dare speak so loud that he might miss something from her lips. But she came silently until his head was level with her skirts. A single hand reached for him, white and blue and grey with the pallor of her kind, cool as snow against the cheek she once rotted from his jaw.

But he felt her.

He felt her.

His arm snapped around the back of her like a vise while his free hand clapped against the fingers still resting on his face. She was not mist, could not be mist, for her kind were too solid, and this time, this time, she would not be gone, would not leave him, let her cut and freeze and skin him, but she would not go again.

Draga mea. Draga mea. How are you here?

You forget the time, balaurul meu.

Her trapped hand lifted his face from where he crushed it against her stomach. The eyes that met his were no longer ice or ghost-light. Only coins. The Ferryman’s toll.

Tonight is mine as it is yours. As it belongs to all our kin. The graves are open and the dead come forth to walk. And talk.

The scarlet sickle of her frown turned up.

Enjoy your Walpurgisnacht, my Dragon. I have enjoyed mine.

She was gone.

In her place stood Jonathan, caught and confused. Concerned. His mouth opened.

Do not ask me what is wrong, Jonathan Harker. Do not dare.

His mouth shut so fast his teeth clicked. Then, carefully, he offered the folded black bundle of his Master’s clothes. These were snatched away and their courier almost thrown more than released. Around them the hail thinned away. The rain ceased after it. Jonathan kept himself very busy with peeling up the muddied cape and snapping what muck he could from the exterior, doubtlessly wishing it had not been the velvet one that needed cleaning. But when he could help the cloth no more, he turned to his Master, still fighting with his buttons.

“Sir?”

“What?” No answer. His Master turned to bark the word again and stopped. Jonathan had rolled up his sleeve. Here was the tiny map of his son’s feeding. Kisses ringed with white and blue and grey.

“If—If you want it.” Jonathan gestured his gaze and his head at his Master’s face. “You have lost some. Sir.”

The meaning was lost to him for a moment. Then he realized his cheeks were wet with more than rain. In the same instant he took note of Jonathan’s right hand, the one that had been flattened and trapped against the bearded cheek. He’d fussed with the cape because he did so one-handed, trying not to lay the bloodstain on it too. The same was smeared onto the white of his shirt where his Master had set his head.

Even knowing what he would find, a white hand rose up and swiped under his eyes. Bloody tears came away on his fingers.

“Sir? Do you want it?”

‘What is it you want to eat?’

Jonathan was captured for a second time that night. This time the hunter feasted. Not from the wrist, but the bend between neck and shoulder, inhaling the scent of the nape. He was filled with heat and ache and when his teeth slipped back behind the sheath of his lips, the mouth stayed planted where it was. The same went for the cage of his arms, binding their catch for a moment that might have been a minute or an hour.

“…Are you sick?”

“No,” Jonathan breathed with what tried and failed to be a steady tone. The voice of someone trying not to sound as if they were scrambling for comprehension. “No, Sir. I feel well. Not ill, that is.”

“So you say. But I must have caught something from you to act so against myself. Perhaps it was something from your mouth.” A mouth finally scabbing. It left the bluish lips a mottled violet. “Or else the night itself is playing tricks. Too much lightning in my eyes. Do you disagree?”

“I don’t, Sir.”

“Yet you are not ill.”

“I do not believe so. But I could be mistaken.”

“Wrap yourself, then.” He stepped away and plucked the cape from Jonathan’s hold before twisting it into a cord tauter than steel. Rainwater fled it until it was all but dry. “Transylvania’s seasons are so very fickle. It would not do to have you unwell for tomorrow.” Before the requisite agreement could leave him, Jonathan found himself both swaddled and off his feet. His Master pondered the image of the hunter hauling home his quarry, his friend flopped over his shoulder like an indignant piece of game. But that would leave only one hand holding him.

That in mind, Jonathan was bundled up into the snare of both arms while remaining supremely unclear as to why. 

“This isn’t necessary, Sir. I am fine to walk.”

“Sunrise approaches. You are not up for a race back.” He said while dawn could be felt two hours away and his own pace merely ambled. “Rest, my friend.”

“I—,”

Rest.

An order that took his friend’s mind by the scruff and dragged it to bed. Jonathan furrowed his brow against the mesmer, squirming like a child even as his eyes drooped shut. The lakes iced over.

“I just…just wanted to ask what you meant…before…”

“What I meant?”

“Called to me… Didn’t know. Don’t know. What was the word? You never taught me…”

Sinking, sinking. Almost gone. He whispered down at him now, light as far-off thunder.

“What word?”

“Thought it must mean, ‘Come to me…’ So I came.” The lashes fluttered and fought with gravity. Lost again, showing only slivers of frost. “What does Dolingen mean, Sir?” He was asleep before he got an answer. Still, his carrier whispered.

“You misheard, my friend. That is all.”

Up to the tower, stripped and dressed, tucked into bed.

Plus ça change, plus c'est la même chose.

A far more fruitful occasion for the term than the debacle of battling trances. Such a bleak little comedy. The thought brought him back to the boy and that inciting matter of the snared wolf, his would-be pet. Something near to mirth made him grin. He knew he was to blame for the child’s initial fascination with the creatures. A seed planted in infancy when, as a taunt, he had willingly cradled the babe as his parents stiffened mid-kiss. He had stood teasingly close to the window.

As he did, the wolves had started to sing of their own volition. The boy had perked up at once despite his hunger.

‘Rrooo, rrroooo. Fah-rr. Rrooo!’

In his head, a muddled but excited impression of wolves traipsed back and forth across the shared mindscape. The pack outside had howled again.

‘Rrooo!’ 

His Father had opened his mouth on jaws of changed teeth. No longer a man’s neat rows and the hanging fangs, but the jagged mountain range of the Wolf’s. He’d howled lightly as the child all but glowed with recognition.

‘Roo? Fah-rr roo!’

As his Harkers watched, their Master had entertained the child in a way that would have left any other parents in the mountains squealing prayers. For he had changed first his jaws, then his eyes, then the whole of his head to mirror those fantastical Folk of the picture books where Herr Wolf could knock at his victim’s door with a paw in a glove. The boy had shrilled delight and scrabbled merrily at his fur, even tucking his head into the open muzzle to see if it was really just a trick. But the proof had been offered as his Father lost his arms and legs to be a Wolf in full. One the size of a small bear.

In his defense—as if it were necessary—it had kept the boy from pestering his Mama to hurry so Papa could feed him. Ah, how he’d sulked upon looking in his Papa’s mouth and finding no signs of the Wolf there.

‘No, diavol. I am the only Wolf here. Wolf. Lup.’

‘Wohll. Luhp.’

 ‘Very good. Now take your kiss.’

It had sprinted along from there. Now the boy had graduated from attempting to trance a wolf into permanent residence to trying to coax the entire pack into natural obedience. A friendship to span three generations. He really did have his head too deep in the fairy tales. Perhaps there was a Lesson waiting in that. A small one to assure he did not idolize the softness of things overmuch…

But that could come later.

For now, the night still lingered with, fine, he could admit it, a wisp of the fairy tale. Here rested a beauty, living and dead, the only color resting across the mouth. Gently, he pricked the scab of the bottom lip open again, smearing red. Jonathan slept on.

There was no witness as the man collected a last kiss in ignorance before his dragon skulked down from the tower.

Down and deep and into the dark of the chapel. He did not stop to change and so was pointed out at once by the boy, always so eager to stay awake. His current project, a lopsided schematic in charcoal, was abandoned.

“Father, why are you all wet?”

“I was out hunting. Your Papa nearly got away, diavol.”

The boy gasped while his mother, still sitting with him and his palette, narrowed her eyes.

“You were hunting Papa?”

“I was. He almost got across the river. But he was caught in time, not to worry.”

“But why were you hunting him? Papa isn’t a,” the boy tried to think of hunted things, “a rabbit or deer.”

“No, he is not. Your Papa is many things, but not such meager creatures.” He looked over the child’s head and through his mother’s skull. “We were merely at play, diavol.” This came as an even greater shock to the boy.

“Grownups play? I thought all you did was work. You and Papa were supposed to be working all night.” A statement that carried all children’s dread; the fear that age came with a great dull void where enjoyment used to be.

“Grownups do work a great deal. Sometimes too much. Your Papa and I had such a problem and so we went out to play. You and your mother are free to do far more play than work, of course, so such things are outside your needs.”

The woman smiled and hummed into the shared mindscape:

Our play has turned to work, as it happens. Rather, it is work he wishes to try.

A hand upon the boy’s shoulder.

Show him.

Bolstered, the child gathered up his drawings and stacked them as neatly as he’d seen his Papa’s papers. As he did this, his mother sent a private message to Father:

What did you do?

He thought of showing her. He’d been thinking of it since first stealing her husband out of his clothes. But tonight was dense with secrets even as the Veil had turned to gossamer. Moreover, it was important that a man held some things out of reach of his woman. For everyone’s good. Especially when it left the imagination free to conjure up far more creative possibilities than a collection of curious wives’ heads.

So the answer he tossed back was merely that of a closed door, a key thrown into the abyss, and a fraction of truth.

Nothing that concerns you, ‘Sister.’

The boy rushed him before anything more could be said. He offered his drawings with a small flourish.

“See?”

His Father flipped through the sheets.

“I see a book in the process of being torn apart.”

“No, no! Being made!” He pointed to what was, to him, a clear depiction of himself and his mother piecing books together with nebulous arms. There was also a wolf sitting on a crescent moon and a bat flying in the dotted outline of a star. “I want to try bookbinding with Mama.”

“Child, there is a grove’s worth of blank pages in spare volumes for you to use. Why would you bother?”

“Oh. Just—,” the boy flicked his line of sight briskly from his Father’s face. The cobwebs and stonework were suddenly enthralling. Likewise the state of his own toes. “Just to make something. A fun kind of work. That’s all.”

It was all his Father could do not to sigh. The boy still could not lie to save his unlife, let alone duck a punishment for the attempt at lying in the first place. But before he could form the beginnings of a sentence, the woman came into his head, away from her son’s reach. This time with a uniquely acidic edge.

He wishes to surprise you and Jonathan with a gift. He’s realized he missed an important date and wants to make up for it.

Walpurgisnacht—this night, her night—almost rose to the surface of his mind. He buried and burned it behind a wall of fire. Casually.

What date is this? His day of birth has been and gone.

The woman glared at him with a perfect blend of loathing and disbelief. When he continued not to guess, perhaps partially to watch how much her ire would grow, she handed him the answer as one might hand over a chamber pot.

Yes. But he posed a question to me and I did not give him a lie. St. George’s Day has two meanings for this family. The eve before, anyway.

For a moment the answer was as baffling as the question. But epiphany quickly fell in place. He almost laughed aloud.

The first solicitor he’d beckoned had his useless life saved from the undead on Walpurgisnacht.

Jonathan had been delivered to him almost a year later, just short by a week. This had been on the eve of St. George’s Day with the glimmer of the blue flames lining the mountain road like a wedding procession. The night the boy’s fathers had first met. A magic alignment of dates to a child’s mind. Shame on his Harkers, letting the date go unrecognized by half for so long.

He smiled for the boy and stroked his hair, declaring, “Child, I am merely the bank vault to loot in such a request. You must convince your Papa to bring you materials, not me. Ah-ah!” He hooked the boy’s nightshirt before he could dash for the stairs. “Not now. Your Papa is asleep already. Wait for evening.”

For once the boy did not sulk over the coming of morning. He flitted as excitedly to his coffin as he had aimed for the steps, taking his art supplies and another book to wait for sleep with. The poor silk within would be ruined with charcoal and crayon before the year was out.

Having deposited his treasure inside, the boy whirled around and rushed back to his Father who stood waiting on the tomb steps.

“Can you do it all the way this time?” He feigned interest in the dirt and coagulation still under his nails. “I do not know that you have enough blood in you…”

The goading was small, but enough. He watched the boy shift from flesh to fog mid-step and surge up to his Father’s shoulders. His Father clapped once. It echoed against the chapel walls.

“There you are.” And, because the boy had earned it, he opened his arms. The child-mist became a child again, dropping as a proud little weight into his hands. He let the boy hug tight around his shoulders while the fragile curve of the head nuzzled his neck. “Good-day, diavol. Well done.”

“Good-day, Father.” A moment later he’d leapt down and circled around to his mother who stayed low enough to let him simply crash into her arms. They exchanged a bloodless kiss apiece to the other’s cheek. “Good-day, Mama!”

Good-day, Dearest. Please don’t sleep on your palette.

The boy notably made no promises as he climbed into his box and moved to close the lid. He paused before it could shut, looking out at them from the gap with eyes like expectant rubies.

Neither Father nor Mama could tell when the child had decided there was a ritual to complete before he could allow himself to begin trying for sleep, but it was one of the few points of their coexistence which they agreed upon in their distaste. The effect was doubled on her Master’s side, what with the final thread of any nuptial framing so grimly torn away since that evening’s confrontation.

Still, they smiled and closed the distance between them.

Good-day.

She laid her hand inside his and sent a vision of him thrashing and howling in a bonfire.

“Good-day.”

He skimmed her knuckle with his lips and sent back the sight of her abandoned on a mountaintop, the Dutchman having successfully removed her head and staked her heart, leaving her to the wolves and flies.

Finally, the boy shut his lid.

Yet there was no parting of ways. The woman gripped his hand.

Is he hurt?

“Of course not.” The pinned-up smile curled to a more natural state as he twitched his fingers out of hers. “We were only playing.”

You—

“I,” he hissed, still through a grin, “am tired. Many things more, many clever epithets, yes, but mostly tired. Whatever lecture you think is worth droning at me, it will wait for moonrise. Now go.” He leveled a finger at her coffin. “To bed.” If she had any more venom to spit at him, he made himself deaf to it. The wall of fire around his mind was turned up to a full conflagration as his will forcibly shoved her back to her box. The most she could spare him was another glower before the lid shut. Peace at last.

Of a sort.

He carried that feeling into his crypt and his coffin. Settling into that familiar dark, he would have called the feeling wholly new if not for the certainty that he had experienced it before, so many ages ago. Not a mere settling, not a tallying of little victories. It was peace. Peace as it counted to him. Even with the brief rattling of his foundations in the wake of Walpurgisnacht. Of women endured or women craved. Even with that.

There was peace. There was thrill. There was Hope drowsing in his box.

Look at yourself. Scrape this saccharine filth out of your head at once.

He didn’t. Though he was happy to build over it. Scenes of a future that may not be centuries into the future, but mere decades. Perhaps less. A future of ruling night and bled oceans. A future that bowed its head and bared its throat to him. A future where he laughed and the sound was not alone.

Like music and crystal. Like thunder and ice. Like broken things ecstatic to finally be pieced together in his image.

His future.

Their future.

That was the core of it, he knew. Thinking and enjoying in a plural shape rather than solely his own. Such was the dulcet trap of the domestic life.

In this vein his thoughts turned to the evening’s waiting kisses, the cozening of the boy before his pliant Papa, a trading of barbs with the woman, and, since they both could use it, perhaps an overdue bath for himself and his friend. Exsanguination tended to make a body languid, whether from the loss or indulgence of blood. A sweet-sluggish cleaning away of last night’s evidences would be most welcome. Even if his friend went and did something silly, like washing ahead of time to save the trouble.

No, no, my friend, I insist…

From that thought he leapt to others and others, descending down the trail of implausibility until he found himself somehow on a balcony of the English’s gaudy confection of a palace. He knew with the certainty of a dream that the boy was grown and flashing the winsome lie of his smile at a pack of hunters who’d thought themselves safe behind the Cross and Wafer just before they began to lose pieces. Elsewhere, his Sister was watching her former ‘brother’ of a lordling writhe upon the lance she had pierced him with, the sweet logic of fantasy refusing to let him die quickly as he paid at last for the theft of their Lucy. And with him? With him were his Loves. Both folded into the sides of him, painted red from the lips down with feasting. Ice chip eyes soft against his basilisk gaze. Two heads of snowdrift hair resting over his heart.

Yes, yes.

Peace at last.

She felt the Dragon slip into sleep.

Felt the Scarred Love stir carefully in her box. Testing the psychic waters. Wait, wait, but not too long. Yes, she could wall her thoughts off better than he knew. No, she did not dare risk anything but perfect ignorance either way. Up traveled the line like a wisp on a breeze. Brushing the mind of her living Love.

Darling, from her.

Darling, from him.

Their minds spilled up and down to each other. It was one of many secrets the Dragon did not know. This secret was as simple as it was vital: There were no secrets between them.

They gave the Dragon hollow prizes in the night. Pandora’s Box was empty. Bluebeard’s chamber left unoccupied. Even as the scenes they endured for the other, for their child, for their Love, all conspired to raise a fury that would blister the sun in both their hearts, there was no doubt in them. No accusation. The only tears shed were for the other, as ever.

I should have been closer! Should have at least stayed inside, in earshot! Mina, he could have—he was really going to—

He didn’t. He never will now. Nor will he think the room ever mattered to me. Not when he frets over his master’s chamber being plundered. All was as he left it. As I left it.

It was a thin respite she’d had before the Dragon made his attempt on her. Time was too short for more than confirmation. The work had to come after. While the boy was busy in his books and his mother was busy in her own and his fathers were out and away and lost to anything else. On that note.

You did not have to give so much of yourself to him. To let him do worse than he already has and preen over it. As if he deserved more from us, from you, than what he was content with before tonight. Oh, my husband, my Love, he will expect the same and more from you now! You cannot—

I can because I must. I must because it worked. It will work again. Just give the date and it will happen.

Jonathan.

Wilhelmina. We must not merely hope, but know he is distracted for you to do what’s needed. We must have the guarantee that his eyes will not look through yours and see what you’ve found. What you have already learned. Or was the hailstorm truly an accident?

It was not. Only an experiment. One made at too dear a cost—

Then she did not lie?

She had not.

The key was in her book?

The key that was written in blood from her own hand. It penned the details of translation from the Scholomance’s text. This had not been part of the Lessons, but her own precaution. She had split the key across the borders of the journal’s pages, hiding them in the illuminated ink. Her blood was the dullest part of the lush illustrations and carried a chill when traced. She had not made them easy to parse.

Yet the pieces were found tonight. Once they were arranged into the whole, it allowed the reader, the Scarred Love, the one whose mind had carried in it a grain of Sight long before she was bitten by the Dragon, to make sense of the first scraps of knowledge left waiting in old pages.

True, the Dragon had his hoard to go over, given the chance.

Given the time that one Love would sell himself to buy for the other.

But there had been early prizes waiting in the book behind the stone. One whose theatre had aligned so beautifully with her own small addition to the show. It had taken much, stretching the vision so far. Not in blood, for she craved none when there was no Love to carry it in their veins, but in focus. In keeping her pressure subtle as she pulled ghosts through the Dragon’s mind like a haunted sieve.

Walpurgisnacht had helped, insomuch as the forces that surged behind the night could be said to acknowledge anything like a human calendar. Such things moved more like a tide or a season. All one could do was ride the crest of them when possible. It might have been possible earlier. One, two, three, four years ago.

Except the child would be too young then. Not old enough to be left alone, with his reading and play and the practice of howls at the window while his Mama drifted off to do whatever mothers did. This year he was old enough. This year he could be trusted not to be an innocent witness, there to mention to the Dragon that his Mama had found the strangest things waiting for her inside a wall.

It was this year that she’d come to the Scarred Love by a daylit dream. Explaining what the Dragon had planned for her. What might be planned for him in turn. They had walked the labyrinth of the castle and into the abandoned room that was so Hated and Loved with its mementos still resting where the Dragon left them. The Dragon would move them as soon as he could once he found the Scarred Love there. Perhaps somewhere no prying eye or misty figure could reach. If she was to take advantage, to piece the key, to note and save and use it again, it had to be done within Walpurgisnacht. And the Dragon could not know.

All this was delivered up to her Love in the tower. How to parry the Dragon’s advances? How to hold his body and mind at a distance?

Each Love had given their answer.

Each answer had been Hated.

Each answer had worked.

Now they were a step closer. A foothold in the side of the Mountain. Good, good.

She was already retreating with the coming sun when she felt the brush of that entreating mind again.

They stood beyond the mindscape now. The dreamscape allowed for more Sight. Here the Scarred Love was not scarred, nor of the undead. Only what she remembered of herself. A living woman, scarcely more than a girl, clasping a journal that no longer existed as if it were a rosary.

She, the visitor, stood only as she was. Still corpse-wan, fair hair left in a fall as eyes of frost stared on unblinking. But she was not the ragged thing the Dragon saw. Her friends had come up from the ground for her, finding a dress to change for what was burned, their hands mingling with her own as they rebuilt the mausoleum stone by stone. Their kind was immune to the wild rose and to the garlic blossom, and so they’d planted them in abundance for good measure. The ash sapling grew higher each year. Such they knew, even as they settled easily back into their rest. Into the vourdalaks’ serene torpor and its mingling of souls, their Loved and Loving phantasmagoria.  

You are going? from the Scarred Love. 

I am. I must. from her visitor. The year brings few hours where we are allowed even more than the lot that Supernature grants us. My will and Self can only hold here so long before it snaps home.

Where is your home? How far? The question buried underneath, too important to leave unsaid: Can you help us?

Her visitor showed her the waiting home. The dead village laced with its history of disease and suicide and so much cruel decay born of Nature at her most callous. A village whose people had huddled within their scant borders, refusing to carry their ills out to their neighbors. Who had seen her ride to them and pleaded with her to stay back unless she sought death.

I told them I did. My heart ached with want of Love. With the burden of Hate. I left the Dragon to seek reprieve from both. You know yourself how difficult the strigoi are to end. It is far harder for the vourdalak. Yet I was prepared to try for such a miracle if I could not sate my nature. Satiation came when I found home with them. My friends. My Loves. It is a place not far as we would reckon it. Horse or train, perhaps, but not us.

The Scarred Love swallowed a breath she did not have.

Then..?

Her visitor shook her head.

I cannot help you as you would wish it, Mina Harker. It would mean leaving my Loves. It would mean the Dragon warring with me, which would mean warring with you. Or do you think he would not sacrifice you as insulation against my frost? No, you know he would, contract or no. Just as he would endeavor once more to cage and break me, as he endeavors with your Love. The Dragon is the best student of the Scholomance. I can battle him, I can escape him, I can parry and dance around him. But I will not be what destroys him.

You are a student too! from the Scarred Love. Vivid and livid with the unvarnished core of herself. Her dreamscape bled. You have your numbers! Your storm! We live in his chains, with our child and my own mind at his mercy, with my Jonathan a slave and worse to him! Please! Please… In her coffin, the Scarred Love wept precious scarlet lines down her cheek. Please do not go. Do not leave us with him.

Her visitor ached. Of course she did. She had combed through the entirety of the Harkers’ souls at a glance like Psyche herself filtering Charon’s harvest. There was much to pity in them and more to Love. But.

Would you like to see what he did to me when last we crossed paths, Mina Harker?

She did not wait for an answer. Only showed the Scarred Love how wise she had been in choosing the vourdalak and its endurance as her shape of undeath. She could not scar, could not crumble from an injury. But pain came in its plenty. Especially when a lightning bolt powerful enough to shatter stone and set her ablaze came firing down.

The Scarred Love watched in horror as her visitor keened and roasted and died.

And stood.

And healed.

And scoured the burnt flesh off the new skin, dead though it remained.

That he did by folly. A bolt with intent would have done worse. As for my storm, I mastered only enough to slay the living, who are the far more industrious and plentiful villain. I once shattered half the Dragon’s face off with my cold. Yet it mended with blood and time enough. Meanwhile, the only scars I have seen on himself and his kind amount to three marks.

The Son left a brand with His forsaking of you.

You kept the muting cut upon your throat, made before you had changed.

And then there is the Dragon’s only unhealed wound. A scar left by a spade in your Love’s hand. Why is that, Mina Harker? More, why is it your mind has suffered his petty puppeteer strings, yet rebuffed the transformation’s inebriating influence? You have not dulled in the years since you turned. You have not diminished to the state of the ‘Weird Sisters’ or your lost Lucy. If the Dragon were not so preoccupied with himself and his Conquest, he might know to worry.

A student of the Scholomance is admitted only once, Mina Harker. The Lessons are not easy. Triply so if not given access to them beneath the Mountain. But you have seen it is possible. That you were able to use the key at all marks you as a student. ‘Studying abroad,’ you would call it. You have the freedom to learn and to master all that you can bring yourself to dare. Which means you can master what the Dragon has. The will of the Weathermaker, the Speaker and Wearer of Beasts. It can be done.

Worst of all for the Dragon, he does not remember that what is sacred is not always the property of an Abrahamic hand.

You and your Love possess a holy strength that is innate. It does not hail from any church. The gods who bless and burden you, who have gifted you souls so tightly knit, are as old and steeped in sacrifice as the tutors in the Mountain. Some have even taught there.

Here, the visitor smiled.

It was one of them who made the first vourdalaks. The Passionate Dead who exist in only Love and Hate. Our Loves are made prey and protected forever, those Hated are marked for destruction. Love and Hate are your whetstones, Mina Harker, as they are Jonathan’s. Whatever weapon you wield, it will be sharpened to an edge the Dragon cannot heal from. Do you understand?

The smile broadened into a bitter curl of sharp ivory.

The Scarred Love thought she recognized the look. Her husband had worn it once as he whetted the kukri and listened to yet another announcement of doom in their hunt for the Dragon.

 I am not leaving you with him. I am leaving him with you.

The sun was coming now. Her phantom grip loosened. Almost time.

Almost time. Is there anything more you wish to ask?

The Scarred Love thought. Her answer came fast.

…What side of his face was it?

 Her visitor’s eyes burned white-blue, ice and flame at once. There was no tinkling crystal to her laugh. Only joyful madness.

The left, Mina Harker. Aim true.

Years would pass. Twenty long years of domesticity, of a sort. It was at the cusp of those twenty years,

As a young man boarded coach and ship and train,

As a Dragon found his keep robbed of its living treasures,

As a vow was upheld in a baptism of blood,

As a storm brewed at the will of a new Mistress,

As a thunderbolt fell with the precision of a needle onto a shock-slack face,

As a scar as brilliant and agonizing as the lightning itself erupted in the weathered skin,

As a Dragon realized this scar was the second one due to stay until he was dust,

Countess Dolingen of Gratz dreamed of her husband.

And smiled.