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autumnalwalker · 1 year ago

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Empty Names - 21 - Old Flame

Author's Note: In which Eris gets a phone call from her ex, hunts down an eldritch horror and gets backstory trauma put on display. And backstory happy stuff too. Lots of Eris backstory this chapter all around. I think this might be one of my favorite chapters I've written so far for this story, even if it did come out more like three chapters in a trenchcoat. Maybe one of these days I'll go back and split this chapter and the other overly long ones into separate parts/posts to be more digestible. More spoiler-y commentary in the tags. Wordcount: 16,606 Content Warnings: Fantasy fight scene violence. Blood. Trauma flashbacks. Loss of sense of self. Suicide mention. Mild body horror. Brief mentions of sex and kink without detail.

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For all the pocket dimensions Eris has passed in and out of, somehow these past few days have been her first time leaving the country while, strictly speaking, remaining on Earth. Their last mission - somehow the word feels less silly when Road is around - involved helping a young man sort through the collection of cursed and haunted artifacts filling the house he’d just inherited from some mysterious distant uncle. The unlucky heir had found the experience harrowing enough that he took the amnestic Road offered him afterward, but that still left a couple dozen dangerously enchanted items in need of proper disposal. Eris had been able to call up Preacher from her monster hunter contacts for a good old fashioned Catholic exorcism on a few, others were handled by Road and Ashan performing some more esoteric rituals, and three were set aside for storage in some basement of the Bridgewood Manor for Sullivan to take care of. That all left seven objects that Road insisted would be best handled by returning them to their rightful resting places.

Hence the current international road trip with Road while Lacuna and Ashan stayed behind to watch the office. When Road had said they could just about get anywhere on the planet in three hours or less, Eris had taken it for a boast. After seventy-two hours of making more jumps through bridges and pocket dimensions than she’d previously made in the seven years since she first found Crossherd, she’s reminded that Road doesn’t make boasts. France, Peru, Kenya, Romania, India, Korea… and who knows how many other countries they technically passed through for a few minutes between bridges in between those stops.

“So, what’s the fastest way from Seoul to Vancouver?” Eris asks Road as she climbs into the driver’s seat of her van.

The third-to-last artifact on their dropoff list - a spirit of a blacksmith haunting the last sword it ever made - has been picky about who it will allow itself to be passed down to. It’s been insistent about being in the hands of “a true craftsman of its bloodline,” and so far none of its descendents in its home country that she and Road have talked to have made the cut. Hopefully a cousin in Canada with a 3D modeling job and a resin printer for making tabletop wargame miniatures will satisfy the spirit more than a restaurant owner who’s long since given up doing his own cooking.

“If we were walking, there’s a noodle place I know a few blocks away that’s in six different cities and once. Depending on what we order and how fast we eat, we could probably get there in twenty or thirty minutes. Driving through, probably best we go back through the bridge we came here from, then a series of brief transits from Mumbai, to Dubai, to Cambrai, to Quebec, to Vancouver. Should be about an hour if traffic is good.”

“Rhyming our way to France, and then making the French connection to Canada?”

“It might be silly, but it works,” Road says with a chuckle. “Bridges and pocket dimension links have sprouted up from stranger things.”

“Are you sure we’re actually on an achor world? This has been a whole lot of holes and folds in space we’ve been going through. It’s all starting to make the firm bedrock of reality that everything’s tied down to feel more like a sponge.”

“Now you know why the powers that be in Crossherd and similar hub dimensions are so insistent on the Masquerade. Not even most people in the know Backstage have any idea just how… loose… everything really is.”

Eris stays silent for a bit to let that sink in. And to concentrate on driving in a city with street signs in a language she’s had scant opportunity to practice since her parents kicked her out nearly a decade ago. She knew better than to expect anything familiar here, in the birthplace of a grandmother she’d never met that looked nothing like how it would have back before that grandmother met her grandfather and moved with him back overseas. A grandmother she herself probably looks nothing like. Allegedly her father had taken more after his father and passed that on to her. Still, both the arrival and the leaving of this city brought an irrational twinge of hope that she might glimpse something of one of the heritages her parents had been so weirdly insistent about cutting out of their lives in favor of a futile attempt to blend in and assimilate. She’d gotten the same feeling when stopping in India on this trip too, and nothing had come of it there either. It’d probably be the same if she ever went to Mexico, although that unmet grandparent had supposedly been a second generation immigrant.

But hey, on the bright side she’s driving again, even if it is in city traffic at the moment. Between Crossherd’s walkability, the trees at the Bridgewood Estate, and the unexpected lack of monster corpses in need of disposal since joining up with Road, she’s barely been behind the wheel in the past two months. Fortunately, the heavily refurbished van turned out to be just about perfect for transporting a pile of cursed artifacts that were too volatile to shove into bigger-on-the-inside containers. Maybe one of these days when they all have some downtime she’ll talk the others into a more recreational road trip somewhere. It’d get Lacuna out of her basement lab and would probably be a brand new experience for Ashan.

“By the way,” Road says at a red light, snapping Eris out of her traffic-induced musings, “I’ve noticed these past couple days that you’ve been changing up how you refer to me mid-conversation.”

“Just going with what felt right. My bad for not running it by you first though.”

“No, no, I’m just surprised is all… How could you tell?”

“There’s this thing you do with your voice. Your body language and posture too, but mostly your voice. You’ve got three or four different modes of presentation, I guess you could call it, that you’ll settle into as a default for most of the day and shapeshift your jacket to match, but then throughout the day in shorter bursts you’ll shift in and out of those other modes while your appearance stays the same.” Eris raises an eyebrow at him before turning her gaze back to the traffic that’s begun moving with the greenlight. “Am I wrong?”

Road lets out a laugh that peters out into a bemused sigh. “You’re the first person I’ve met other than Sullivan to pick up on that,” she says to Eris. “It feels nice to be seen like that. I knew you were the right one to bring along on this trip.”

“I’ve been wondering about that actually. Why did you pick me for this? Sure, I’ve got the van, but we’ve got one in the office’s garage that we’ve still never taken out for a spin and I know you know how to drive.”

“Partly I figured you would be the best at resisting any influence our backseat passengers start acting up.”

“I’d think the wizard would be the ideal choice for that.”

“Sure, he has his defenses, the same as any other properly trained mage, but even before putting this team together, I’ve always felt you were strong-willed enough not to need such techniques.”

A rapidly shifting sky seen through bloody water. A sense of peace and warmth despite the icy depths. A steady fame from the tip of a white wand. Active thought flowing out to feed the fire. Smooth skin where a scar should be. A flood of lost memories. A sun held between her -

Eris pushes the memories of helplessness back down.

“I wouldn’t be so sure of that,” she replies.

“And I wouldn’t be so sure of selling yourself short,” Road says. “Nevertheless, the bigger reason I asked you to come with me for this is that you know how to talk to people.”

“Eh, my Spanish is fluent and my German is passable, but we just saw that my Korean is rusty as Hell and my Hindi is even worse. I never did get around to learning French beyond a handful of tourist phrases, and I don’t know a lick of Romanian. Again, Ashan seems like the better fit with the translation charm.”

“That’s not what I meant, and you know it.”

“You’re right.”

“Then why play dumb?”

The van reaches another intersection just in time for the light to turn red.

Eris turns answers over in her mind.

Why?

Reflex? Humility? Habit?

Why would that be a reflex? When did that happen? How did she let it?

It’s been a long time.

Was it when she started hanging out at a bar full of adrenaline junkies with a deathwish?

Was it when she chose the bloody rush of killing monsters with her bare hands over college despite her scholarship qualifications?

Was it when she got accused of secretly being a boy and on drugs for being too good at sports in junior high?

It’s been a long time.

The light turns green.

“I guess I’m not used to anyone wanting me around for much other than to be the big strong one who’s good at hitting and breaking stuff,” Eris answers.

“Again, you’re selling yourself short. Do you think that’s what Lacuna wants you around for? Or how Ashan sees you when the two of you linger in the kitchen after the rest of us leave?”

“Those are personal relationships, it’s not the same thing. Besides, Sully’s made it abundantly clear what he thinks of me and what I got hired to do for you two.”

“He has, hasn’t he? I’m sorry about that, I really am. Sullivan, for better or worse, has some consistent blindspots with his biases and isn’t half as good at reading people as he thinks he is. Especially anyone that’s even remotely similar to him.”

“Okay, now that’s a low blow. He and I are not alike”

“I mean it as a compliment, really. I’ve never met anyone so loyal or so fiercely protective of the people he cares about. I see that in you too, except you still have it in you to have some compassion for anyone outside those close to you. And, of course, you’re both incredibly skilled at doing violence and enjoy it, even if the reasons are different. But you’re both more than that too. Even with this mission he’s the one who’s been doing the genealogical digging and messaging me with suggestions of where to go and who to take these artifacts to, despite that taking time away from his ongoing investigation.”

“Speaking of that,” Eris says, “what have you had Sully working on that’s so secret? Not that I’m complaining, but I don’t think I’ve seen the guy since the office opened up.”

“You don’t know?”

“Obviously not. And every other time I’ve asked something’s conveniently come up for you to change the subject.”

“Strange. I could have sworn I told you. It must have just slipped… my… mind… again…”

A handful of times, on particularly bad nights, Eris has sat with Lacuna when she just sort of shut down. Those instances were always rough, but seeing Road of all people do it out of the blue like this is chilling. Like the sun going out and revealing that it’s just been a big light bulb hanging from a poorly-painted ceiling this whole time.

Lacuna never snapped back to normal abruptly enough to make Eris question if she'd just imagined it though.

“Anyway,” Road resumes, “remember our first mission as a team?”

“It’s barely been two months.”

“So it has. Regardless, he’s been investigating what caused a dragon and a Culescun bone ship not outfitted for inter-world travel to get drawn into a crossover point and try to occupy the same space at the same time. More specifically, he’s been tracking down whomever it was that blew up the nearby lighthouse shortly after we left and trying to figure out if they’re connected to a different case of an unknown party picking off and stealing the contraband from inter-world smugglers.”

“He’s what now?” Eris asks, keeping her tone carefully level. How is this her first time hearing any of this? “Is that why we’re playing cursed delivery service right now? So we can be bait?”

“In all honesty, that thought hadn’t occurred to me. But now that you mention it, there are worse plans.”

Another red light. The last intersection before the turn into a series of side alleys for the bridge.

“We can come back to that after you explain everything you thought you already told me,” Eris says, “but for now, what was that about the lighthouse bl-”

A custom ringtone that Eris hasn’t heard in years plays over the van’s speakers and cuts off her question. She doesn’t need to look at the caller ID displayed on the dashboard console to know who it is. A part of her is surprised the caller still has her number, but then again, Eris still has hers. And the two of them do still speak from time to time.

She considers letting it go to voicemail. Or even hitting the button to hang up altogether. She has more important things to focus on right now than a phone call from an ex who might have been trying to flirt with her a week ago.

An ex who wouldn’t call unless it was an emergency. An ex who, if she really wanted to get back together, would more likely rope mutual friends into arranging a “chance meeting” where they would “just so happen” to have the opportunity and reason to do something romantic together like walk through a botanical garden, fix an engine together, or fight each other until they can barely stand. An ex who would drop everything if Eris were the one to call.

Godammit.

“We’ll talk about this later,” Eris says to Road before tapping the green call icon on the dashboard screen. “Yo, Gretchen, I’m driving right now with Road, so I’ve got you on speakerphone. What’s up?”

With any luck, knowing Road’s on the line should keep Gretchen from trying to dredge up old relationship history that Eris is even less in the mood to deal with right now than normal. And if it really is an emergency, it will be good to keep Road in the loop.

“Great,” Gretchen’s voice says through the van’s speakers, “that saves me the trouble of making a second call. Do either of you know anything about non-euclidean, shifting, tesseract-esque architecture of the sort Lovecraftian horrorterrors like to make nests in?”

“I know that eldritch-warped spaces should never be entered without the proper training and precautions,” Road offers, “and even then they’re incredibly dangerous to go into alone and nigh-impossible to find your way out of without an anchor back to realspace.”

“Right. Pretty much what I already guessed then.”

“Gretchen,” Eris says in exasperation that hasn’t yet turned into concern, “for the love of God, please tell me that’s not where you’re calling from.”

“Not yet it isn’t, but I am camped out inside the theater department of a Midwest liberal arts college staring at the door to a dressing room that was bigger on the inside when I opened it to chase the tentacle monster I’ve been hunting.”

“In that case,” Road says, “I would strongly advise closing the door, waiting an hour, and then checking to see if it’s gone back to normal by then. The eldritch aren’t mere beasts to hunt.”

“Not happening. I’ve already tagged this one so it can’t fully escape the world into voidspace. It’s my quarry to claim, and while I really would love the assistance if you want to come jump into the proverbial eye of terror with me, I’m going after it either way. And before you start lecturing me about acceptable targets, I’ve already verified that this one’s not sapient; it’s just a passing scavenger that stopped by to feed on the psychic torment of undergrads going through finals week.”

The traffic light turns green.

“Give us an address and we’ll be there as soon as we can,” Eris says. “Don’t you dare go in there alone before we arrive.” She just had to turn this into an ultimatum, didn’t she?

“Thanks E, I’ll text it to you. Be seeing you.”

The call ends, and the ensuing text message arrives immediately enough that it was almost certainly typed up in advance. Eris taps to display it on the screen and glances at Road.

“Do I still want to make this turn up ahead?”

“Do you really think she’ll really go in on her own if we take too long?”

“I hate to say it, but yes. I’d know if she were bluffing and she’s not. She’s leaving something out, but she’s serious about that.”

“In that case go three more blocks and then take twelve right turns in a row. There’s a witch I know who owes me a favor.”

“Got it. And thanks for helping with this. I know it’s a detour from the current mission cleanup.”

“It’s practically on the way, and besides, there’s not a rush with the deliveries. It’s not like they’re going anywhere if we leave them unattended for a short time. Wrong kind of hauntings for that.”

“All the same, I appreciate it. Things between me and Gretchen are weird, but I’d still rather not see her lose her mind trapped in some impossible labyrinth.”

“I wouldn’t want to see that happen to anyone. Do you want to loop in Ashan and Lacuna?”

“Nah, someone’s got to watch the office in case something comes up. Besides, it’s like two a.m. there right now. Let them sleep. Between you, me, and Gretchen, we should be fine.”

“Right you are,” Road says with a smile that shows more teeth than his usual. “It’s been awhile since I’ve dealt with one of the eldritch. This should be fun.”

Fun… Yes, Eris supposes it will be once the hunt gets going. No more effective way to forget her worries for a little while. But first…

“Now about that exploding lighthouse…” Eris leaves the implied question hanging.

“I can give you and the others the full explanation when we get back.”

“You can give me the abridged version while I drive.”

“Fair enough.”

Eris could almost swear she hears them whisper something under their breath about it being refreshing to be called out.

*******

It has long been observed that artists, writers, performers, and other such creative types tend to have a statistically significant increased rate of contact with the extra-dimensional entities collectively known as “the eldritch.” While the theory that creatives are somehow possessed of some special spiritual elevation or metaphysical sensitivity has been largely discredited, the actual cause of this phenomenon remains hotly debated. The most popular theories are variations on the proposition that the act of creating art gives of psychic resonances that the eldritch can sustain themselves on similar to how deiform entities (more commonly known as “gods”) are sustained by - and by some indications potentially created by - sapient faith. Others propose that the act of creation is a reshaping of our otherwise relatively stable baseline reality that either draws the eldritch in via a sense of familiarity to their own ever-shifting domain of existence or fascinates them with its alienness.

The most radical theories of why the eldritch seem to be drawn to art and artists is that they are not truly so different from us, and just find it neat.

Such is the potentially relevant trivia that runs through Eris’s mind as she picks her way down a dark hallway strewn with a web of tripwires and enchanted chalk drawings, trying not to catch any of the higher-strung wires on the spear strapped to her back. Less helpful but equally persistent thoughts include stories of victims going mad from merely looking at the eldritch and irritation at Gretchen for setting all this up when she knew Eris and Road were coming to help. And, Eris will begrudgingly admit, thoughts admiring the skill it takes to turn thirty feet of straight hallway into a virtual labyrinth to navigate.

“Okay, stop,” Gretchen instructs her. Golden hair and golden eyes catch the glow coming from the one open door in the hallway while black leather and kevlar blend the rest of the monster huntress into the shadows. Her spear, with its exaggerated bladed crossguard below the main blade, lies resting against the doorframe. “Take two steps to the left, two steps back, another to the left, four forward, two to the right, and then you should be clear.”

“Was this all really necessary?” Eris asks as she catches up with Road and Gretchen in front of a door to a theater dressing room whose contents keep multiplying and folding in on themselves.

“Maybe not, but I had the time waiting for you to get here,” Gretchen answers, “so I figured I may as well account for the possibility of this thing fleeing back outside once we find it in there. These Lovecraftian tentacle monsters are slippery like that, this way we either catch it in there or we chase it back out here where it slithers headlong into a magic net.” She flashes Eris a wickedly playful grin painted poison apple red. “Besides, if you were to accidentally set one of these off it’d be fun to see how long it takes you to break out.”

“Lovecraftian is a slur,” Road points out without looking away from the threshold of the warped space, saving Eris from having to reply to that last part.

“Huh?”

“Old Howard Phillips was a racist xenophobe even by the standards of his time who thought air conditioning was unnatural and scary,” Eris clarifies. “A guy like that was obviously going to interpret any contact with a genuinely alien consciousness in the worst possible faith, and whether it was coincidence or a failed attempt at breaking the Masquerade, he wound up having an outsized influence on the collective consciousness and how the eldritch have even been able to interact with this world over the past century.”

“I never did understand how the other hunters couldn’t see you were a giant nerd at heart,” Gretchen says.

“Not in a flirting mood right now, Gretchen.”

“Spoilsport.” The word comes out as a joke rather than an accusation.

“Anyway,” Road says as they drop their duffel bag on the floor and begin rifling through it, “I think I’ve seen enough to get a handle on the situation.”

“Do tell,” Gretchen says.

“At a glance this appears to be a fairly standard eldritch spatial warping, anchored enough to this world to be merely confusing instead of completely incomprehensible. That said…” he pulls a scrimshaw carving of a deep-sea fish from the duffle bag and sticks his arm through the doorway, holds it there past the threshold for a few seconds until the bone starts glowing, and puts it back in the bag. “Like I suspected, the space is psychically reactive, so we’ll need to be careful about mental feedback loops in there. Luckily I have some countermeasures for that. Just give me a few minutes to stabilize this portal so it doesn’t close behind us and we should be good to go.”

“Cool, while you do that…” Eris says to Road and then turns to Gretchen, “Gretchen, I need a word with you in private.”

“Not a lot of privacy in here, E, unless you want to go walk through the web again.”

Eris stalks over to where the person who coined that nickname for her and all it entails stands lurking just past the edge of the light spilling from the warped space beyond the door. She comes to a stop close enough that the shorter woman has to crane her neck up to look her in the eye. When she does, Eris can see that her pupils are dilated beyond even what this darkness should elicit. Black circles that nearly reach the edge of their sockets with just the faintest rim of yellow iris and hardly any room for the white of sclera.

“We can whisper,” Eris hisses. “And I am not in the mood for you to make a joke out of that.”

“What’s got you all worked up?” Gretchen whispers. “A hunt with rare prey and working with Road? I’d think you’d be enjoying this as much as I am. Or has working with the celebrity hero gotten boring for you?”

“What are you leaving out?” Eris prays that she’s wrong about already knowing the answer to her own question.

“Perceptive as ever. It always was one of your best qualities.”

“Stop dancing around the answer.”

“Tell me how you figured it out.”

“Do I look like I want to play this game?” She used to love playing this game.

“You already know the answer.”

“I want to hear you say it.”

“You want to hear me say literally anything else. I want to hear you say it.”

A request with two meanings if there ever was one.

“Fine,” Eris growls. “You called me.”

“Just that?”

“That was enough to suspect.”

“But there was more. What are you leaving out?”

That same wonderfully wicked smile that always accompanied every inside joke between them.

“If this was just about a hunt gone weird you would have called Road directly. We all have their number, it’s literally posted on the wall at 121813. And you certainly wouldn’t have turned it into a threat to go in alone. You’re smarter than that. You wanted me here, and Road’s an excuse at best and distraction at worst.”

“Go on.”

“You’ve always been good at setting up snares, but not even you could have rigged all this up in the time between the phone call and now. You had these traps ready before you ever picked up the phone. You prepared this for us as much as for your prey, but you made a point of helping us get on this side of them.”

“And why would I ever do a thing like that?”

“We show up and you’re lurking in the shadows like you’re setting up a dramatic reveal. You love being dramatic, but that’s not your flavor. You burst into rooms with flashy entrances and get all eyes on you. You’re two thirds my size and take up twice as much space. You’ve got a miniature bluetooth speaker hidden in your gear so you can play goddam theme music in a fight. You don’t lurk for drama. You only lurk when you’re hunting. When you’re closing in on prey and waiting for it to get in position. When you want to build up your own thrill of anticipation before you come down like lightning with all the flash and thunder that goes with it for your perfect moment.”

“But we’re on a hunt, aren’t we? Why shouldn’t I be lurking outside the hole I’ve run my prey down into?”

“But the eldritch in there isn’t what you really want to catch.”

“My my, my. E, are you calling yourself my prey? I know you’re delicious, but -”

Eris reaches out and grips the flashlight clipped to Gretchen’s shoulder, twists it towards Gretchen’s face and turns it on. There’s an unmistakable flash of eyeshine in the moment before those unnaturally dilated pupils contract into sharp vertical slits, leaving Gretchen more golden-eyed than ever. A predator’s eyes. A hunter’s eyes.

“Now who’s the dramatic one?” Gretchen purrs.

“You were practically showing them off when we got here.”

“They’re lovely aren’t they. It’s amazing what autogenesis can do. But what does it all mean?”

It’s the reason they broke up.

“I almost hit my tipping point on my last hunt,” Gretchen speaks up when Eris doesn’t.

The fifth fate of hunters.

“I changed, and it felt wonderful.”

To get so lost in the hunt, in the thrill of violence, that one becomes no different from the monsters they hunt.

“But then the rush faded, and it was horrifying.”

A recognition of identity that triggers a self-reinforcing feedback loop of autogenesis.

“That’s why I want you here tonight.”

Those who fight monsters and live are doomed to become monsters themselves.

“So you can help pull me back from the brink when I start to go over again.”

“Bullshit,” Eris says flatly.

“Excuse me?”

“You picked out a difficult and dramatic target for your last hunt that you knew had a reputation for making people lose their minds in the hopes that it would be a sure thing to seal you into the fifth fate, and then you called me up so I could witness you change and then tragically have to put you down the way you always romanticized and fantasized about. Bonus points if I die too right after from injuries you inflicted. Your perfect fucked up fairy tale ending.”

“E, that’s not the only way it has to go.”

“Oh, and me turning into a monster too so we can go on a mindless rampage together is so much more -”

“I’m done!” Road calls from the door.

Eris turns around to see them holding an intricately embossed knife in one hand and a smoking censer dangling from a chain in the other. Behind them the doorframe is now surrounded by geometric sigils drawn in glowing chalk.

“Good. So are we,” Eris says.

Road nods in misunderstood affirmation. “Now then, then incense should ward off any eldritch influence to keep our minds stable and bodies intact, so we’ll need to stick together while we’re in there.”

“About that,” Eris says. “Change of plans. Gretchen is staying out here.”

“I absolutely am not! This is my hunt!” Gretchen shouts. The sudden change in demeanor would be jarring if Eris hadn’t expected it.

“I’ve read up enough on these things and talked to enough wizards to know that getting out of weird space like that works best if you have someone on the outside as a lifeline or beacon to follow back. Gretchen’s the one who set up all the traps out here, so best if she takes on that duty so she can manage them if the eldritch comes back out before we do. Better to drive it back out and into her traps to finish it off here than to kill it in an extradimensional space that might well collapse with its death.”

“Oh, now who’s talking bullshit?” Gretchen snarls. Her teeth are sharper than they were three minutes ago. “If anyone should stay behind it should be Road since they’re the one who knows how to keep the door open. Just give us the incense to take with us and we’ll be fine.” She shakes her head. “But no. You’re just trying to poach my prey. Well, I’m the one who found out it was haunting this place! I’m the one who tracked it down to begin with! I’m the one who lured it into realspace! I’m the one who tagged it so it can’t escape! I’m the one who backed it into a corner! I’m the one who kills it! It’s mine! My prey! My hunt! And you can’t take it!”

Eris rounds on her. “Good God! Would you listen to yourself right now? You’re raving. This isn’t you. Not the Gretchen I know. You’re on the brink and that’s the feedback loop talking.”

“And you know me so well, don’t you? In spite of being too afraid of letting go of yourself to see what I see.”

“I know that there’s more to you than just joy of the hunt, and if you go in there you’re going to fall over the edge and lose all of that. And I am not going to help you commit an elaborate ego suicide.”

“It’s not-” Gretchen starts to say before getting interrupted by Road stepping between the two monster hunters.

“Eris, you’ve got a point about someone staying behind as a lifeline beacon,” Road says before taking Eris’s hand in hers to give her a crystal amulet on a silver chain, “but if it’s the hunter’s fifth fate you’re worried about then maybe you should both stay out here while I go in.”

“Me?” Eris balks. “I’m fine.”

“Look me in the eye and tell me that you are one hundred percent sure of that. Tell me that if you go in you won’t wind up being the one falling over the edge when eldritch exposure starts eating away at your capacity for rational thought.”

Heat. Rage. Ecstasy. The smell of smoke and steam. A cloak of flames. Hair alight like clouds at sunset. A heavy, wet, crunching sound repeating over and over.

The contextless memory leaves Eris gasping. She pushes it back down lest context arrive.

Road nods. It’s the first time Eris has ever seen them look sad. It’s unsettling.

“Gretchen’s liable to run in right after us anyway if we leave her out here unsupervised,” Eris says.

“I would not!” Gretchen protests. “Not that you’re going to leave me out here.”

“Gretchen,” Road says, turning to her, “Eris is right. You’re not well right now. I’ve seen this sort of thing happen before firsthand, so I would know.” He raises a hand to forestall another objection. “I also know that, on some level, you know that too, or else you would have come up with a way to just get Eris here and not me. You know how the arrangement I have with the 121813 crew goes; if I’m called in it’s not a hunt anymore and it’s out of the hands of whomever it was that made the call. It’s out of your hands.” Road steps back and gives one of those warm, reassuring smiles of theirs. “And maybe you even meant it earlier about wanting Eris to be here to pull you back from the brink. Yeah, you two weren’t exactly being quiet by the end there. But maybe you don’t have to be all the way to the brink for someone you care about to pull you back and help you.”

Maybe it’s the incense bringing her back down to her senses, or maybe it’s just Road being Road, but something in Gretchen relaxes. Deflates.

“Maybe…” she whispers, eyes downcast.

“Now then!” Road says in a sudden shift from serious to chipper. “You two obviously have a lot of baggage to unpack, so why don’t you take the opportunity to sort that out while I go sort out getting our squiggly visitor back to its home in the Void? Alright? Good. I’m trusting you, and I’ll see you on the other side.”

And with that, Road turns on their heel and heads toward the door with a jaunty wave. By the time they cross the threshold their jacket has finished folding and flowing outward to completely cover them in plated purple armor with green trim. The incense smoke billows around them and trails behind, creating a pocket of stability in the chaotic space that was once a theater dressing room. And then the bubble gets too far away from the door, the room inverts itself, and Road is gone save for a subtle tugging sensation coming from the amulet they left in Eris’s hand.

“So…” Gretchen grasps at the words to say next. Her eyes remain downcast.

“So…” Eris prompts. Her eyes remain trained on Gretchen.

“Is Road always…”

“Like that? Pretty much.”

“And here I thought they were just doing a bit the couple of times I worked with them.”

“Nah, they’ve got that vibe going pretty much twentyfour-seven.”

“Sounds exhausting.”

“For me or for them?”

“Both.”

“Eh, it’s endearing, and I’m not convinced they actually sleep.”

The silence of thoughts not yet formed into words descends. Gretchen steps away from Eris to go lean on a section of wall that hasn’t been tripwired or graffitied. Eris shifts her own position to keep herself between Gretchen and the door and pockets the lifeline amulet.

Seconds pass.

Minutes.

Gretchen finally looks back up at Eris.

“I’m sorry,” Gretchen says. “Like you said, I wasn’t really myself when I was going on like that.”

“No, you weren’t.”

“It’s just… You know what it’s like. The rush, the thrill, the anticipation. The drumbeat in the back of your head that seems too loud to be simply your own heart. The electric tingle down your spine that spreads through your whole body. The way smell and taste start blurring together and your other senses all start feeding each other so that the whole world seems more. The craving. The memory of blood’s viscosity and the way a drop’s trail down the back of your hand catches on all the little hairs and gathers in the pores and creases. The constant knowledge of how good the climax of the hunt feels. Has felt. Will feel next time.”

“I do. All the more reason for you not to go in there.”

“It’s like that all the time now. Even basking in that moment right after a kill, it only ebbs away to a murmur. It’s enough to make you think it might not be so bad if you never felt anything else.”

“Only ever feeling one thing? Sounds like death to me, and I’d rather die as myself.”

Gretchen’s laugh is soft and bitter. “You always say that. Have you ever stopped to think that it might be becoming more yourself, not less?”

“I have, but I’ve seen what someone becoming more herself looks like, and this? What you’re talking about? This ain’t it.”

“How do you figure?”

“Becoming more yourself is about letting yourself grow, and while you might shed some masks that were never really part of who you were in the first place, everything that makes you you is still there in some form, for better or worse. What you’re talking about isn’t taking off a mask, it’s hacking off your nose, ripping out your tongue, and mangling your ears. It’s becoming a caricature of yourself. Maybe if this was a not wanting to be human anymore thing I could understand, but that’s never been what you wanted. It was always that single perfect moment stretched out to infinity that you’d always wax poetic about.”

“How do you do it then?”

“Do what?”

“I’ve seen you in action E, I know you love it just as much as I do. Maybe even more.”

“I’m not the one trying to accelerate losing my mind here.”

“That’s my point! I’ve seen you covered head to toe in blood with a look on your face I only wish I could have ever gotten you to make in bed, and it’s the hottest thing I’ve ever seen. That’s not even flirting, it’s objective fact. So how are you not the one rushing headlong into trying to feel that way all the time? Where do you find that strength to resist?”

Eris shrugs. “It’s not that complicated really. I wouldn’t even call it ‘strength’ per say. I have other things I care about and I know that there’s more to me than being the strong one who rips out hearts and crushes skulls with my bare hands. I love the hunt - and the kill - sure, but I don’t let my life revolve around it.”

“I could make an argument to the contrary, but…” Gretchen takes a deep breath, throws back her head, and lets out a long exhale in time with sliding her lean against the wall down into a seated position. “Maybe you’re right. Maybe I should try to take a break for a while. Find myself a new hobby.”

Eris crouches down to get closer to eye level with her and grins. “I’d suggest gardening, but you and I both know your track record there.”

Gretchen’s laugh is sharp and sweet. “You’re never going to let me live that down, are you?”

“You almost let a cactus die of dehydration before I stepped in.”

“In my defense, we were living in a humid area at the time. I figured that would be enough for it.”

“Not in that case.”

The silence of familiarity lost and found changed descends. Gretchen fiddles with the area on her arm where sleeve meets glove. Eris cracks her neck.

Seconds pass.

Minutes.

Gretchen’s eyes drink in Eris’s presence, only flickering their focus to the open doorway behind her for a moment.

“So, finally got yourself a new pair of boots,” Gretchen observes.

Eris glances down, catches herself, and snaps back to watching Gretchen. “You should have seen the rest of the armor they came with. It was an offworld import, a real sci-fi space marine type look just a step shy of full on power armor.”

“What, did you order it in the wrong size and just keep the boots?”

Eris shakes her head. “You know the trope of jumping on a grenade to save your teammate?”

“Yeah?”

“Replace the grenade with a miniature exploding sun conjured by a wizard. It was hovering though, so instead of throwing myself on top of it I just sort of grabbed it with both hands and squeezed.” Eris mimics the motion. “The boots were the only part of the armor that were still salvageable after.”

“That’s my E, walking off a supernova to the face.”

Light piercing through skin down to the marrow. Heat beyond pain’s ability to register. Flame inseparable from flesh. A heavy, wet, crunching sound repeating over and over. A soft bed. The fog of painkillers. A request for a mirror denied.

“Eh, that’s overselling it. Remember the salamander den the Lor twins asked us to help clear out that one time? Now that was some fire.”

“Yeah, in Yellowstone. God, I can still smell the sulfur just thinking about it. Was it you or Lornegna who had the dumbass idea to smash a hole in the wall to flood the cave?”

“That one was on Loreghaste for once, if you can believe it. Not that they’ll ever admit to it.”

“Oh really? I always took them for the reasonable twin.”

“You’d think that, but half the wild shit Lornegna pulls is something that Loreghaste said in passing earlier, knowing full well that they’ll take it and run with it.”

“Even plugging a geyser with that oversized hammer of theirs to turn themself into a human cannonball?”

“Okay, that one was one hundred percent Lornegna.” Eris’s laugh is rough and mellow. “Regular pair of menaces, those two.”

“Like you’re one to talk.”

Eris gasps in mock indignation. “Me? A menace?”

“You got an amusement park shut down.”

“Miraclezone Fun Park had already closed its doors for four whole days by the time we got there, thank you very much. You know, on account of all the mysterious deaths that got our attention in the first place.”

“Maybe, but derailing a roller coaster so that it crashes into the middle of an amphitheater certainly didn’t help their odds of reopening once the weird ape spider things that were eating the night shift employees were dealt with.”

“Says the woman who decided to draw the beasts out by plugging her phone into the sound system, turning on all the stage lights, and doing a solo dance number without realizing how many there were infesting the park. You’re lucky my aim was good enough to take out half of them when I landed.”

“More like you’re lucky I was fast enough to dodge that mess. I’ll hand it to you though, you made one helluva first impression climbing out of the wreckage, ripping off one of the coaster’s safety bars one-handed and using it as a club to lay into the rest of the… what even were those things anyway?”

“Some alchemist’s escaped mad science experiments. It was in the Crossherd papers a few days later when the guy got bagged for a gross violation of the Masquerade after the cops showed up and found a bunch of dead eight-legged monkeys.” Eris shakes her head in exasperation. “I still can’t believe we didn’t get caught for that.”

“Fitzy’s always been good at covering for his bar’s patrons. It’s half the point of 121813.” Gretchen pauses, searching her memory. “That night was your first time there, wasn’t it?”

“Yeah. You offered to buy me a drink and I was too busy trying to hide the fact that my arm was broken to turn you down.”

“Your arm was broken?”

“And a few ribs. Did something to my ankle too, but by that point I already had a good grasp on how fast I heal and I was trying to look cool for the chick who was killing rabid chimeras with a spear in time with the bassline on metal music blasting from stadium speakers.”

“Speaking of impressive spearwork…” Gretchen pauses just long enough for both of them to think of innuendos that are funnier left unspoken. “Is that the new ice spear you mentioned the last time you were at the bar?”

Eris reaches back and traces two-fingers along the sigil-engraved haft sticking up over her shoulder. “Sure is. Intent-activated ice conjuration on contact capable of full encasement without long term damage after thawing out. It is a bit finicky about which part of the spear causes the freezing, but that’s got its advantages once you get used to it. Come to think of it, this thing would have been real handy back on the Miami job.”

“You mean the time some rich kid showed up at the bar begging for someone to do a live capture on his lost pet? Oh yeah, that would have saved us so much time with that slippery little bastard.”

“Oh, be nice, it was adorable.”

“It was a blob of ooze capable of squeezing itself through a showerhead that had us running in circles around that resort all day like a slapstick routine.”

“But it made itself dog-shaped and licked the kid’s face when we got it back.”

“You are such a bleeding heart.”

“I wonder if I still have a video of that. I bet Lacuna would love it.”

“Right, Lacuna…” Gretchen trails off. “How long have you two been together now?”

“We’re not a couple,” Eris says. The sentence is practically a reflex by now with how often the mistake’s been made.

“Really? Well crap, I owe Old Vic twenty dollars.”

“You made a bet with Old Vic? That Lacuna and I were a couple?”

“Me and half the regulars. Separate pool for how long until you bring her in to show off.”

“You’re kidding.”

“I wish right now.”

“I don’t even bring her up that much.”

“I was going by quality over quantity. Seriously, have you heard yourself talk about her? Adorably fragile little mess of a genius hacker witch that you protectively fret over who lets you indulge your inner nerd and play the experienced worldly butch while you teach her how to be a woman.”

“First off, I have never once in my life called Lacuna ‘adorable.’ Second, the witch thing didn’t work out for her and she hates being called a hacker. And third, that whole description is infantilizing. She is pretty smart though.” In certain areas anyway, Eris bites her tongue from adding. “She’s got a whole server farm set up and programmed to enchant stuff for her. She’s the one who made the spear.”

Gretchen’s self-satisfied ‘You just proved my point’ look is as insufferably smug as ever.

“Look,” Eris says, “Lacuna’s like a sister to me. Maybe in another life, if we’d met under different circumstances, then maybe, but I wouldn’t trade what we have, given the choice.”

The silence of sore subjects and inarticulate hope descends. Gretchen pushes herself off the wall to sit a little closer to Eris and leaves one hand resting in the space between as a clear invitation. Eris shifts her own position to meet Gretchen’s without touching.

Seconds pass.

Minutes.

“Old Vic says it’ll be behemoth season soon on his homeworld,” Gretchen says without meeting Eris’s gaze. Looking more past her than at her. “He invited me and some of the other regulars to come join him there when it does.”

“Sounds like a party,” Eris says, keeping her eyes locked on Gretchen’s hands.

“It really is, to hear him tell it. A solid week of festivals before and after the culling hunts. Dancing, feasting, games, rituals, all that good stuff. Not many offworlders get invited, but we wouldn’t be the only ones, so it’s not like we’d be intruding either.”

“I hope you get to enjoy it.”

Gretchen raises her hand until her fingers brush Eris’s. Her fingers curl slightly. Eris’s curl into them.

“Obviously, you’re invited too, E. It’ll be the first words out of Old Vic’s mouth the next time you show up. I know you’re busy these days with your new crew, but you really should think about joining us. It’s a once in a lifetime hunt for anyone without a triple-digit lifespan.”

“Whatever happened to taking a break from it all?”

The curled fingers become clasped hands.

“That’s the best part. Imagine, one final hunt grander than anything we’ve seen before or ever will see again where we’ll bring down walking mountains and flying rivers of scales. One last hurrah to get everything out of our system, and afterwards once everyone else goes home the two of us could stay for a while and take a real vacation for a hard reset. Spend a month or two in some tranquil hidden elf village, get in touch with nature, calm down from the hunt.”

“Make a fresh start.”

One of them rises to her feet. The other follows. It is unclear who does which.

“Reconnect.” The word is said in unison.

Gretchen places her free hand on Eris’s shoulder and rests her head on Eris’s chest. Eris places her free hand on Gretchen’s wrist and rests her head on Gretchen’s. A foot wraps around an ankle.

“If I could give it up,” Gretchen whispers, “do you think things could work out between us again?”

The silence of past actions considered.

“Think about it, E. Has anyone else ever been as good with you? No one else has for me. And it was just that one thing between us.”

The silence of chance weighed against choice.

“What if, for each other, we really could get out, E? Have one last hunt and mean it. And if it does call us back again, then if we’re both trying to avoid letting it consume us and watching out for each other, who knows how long we might last? Maybe we could even keep each other alive long enough to get tired and settle down.”

The silence of exceptional circumstances accounted for.

“E… What if neither of us had to die young? What if we got to grow old together?”

The silence of a conclusion reached.

Eris pulls Gretchen further into their embrace. They both lift their heads, faces nearly touching. Brown eyes stare into gold.

“Oh Gretchen, you always knew how to say what I needed to hear.”

“E-”

The embrace becomes crushing. Gretchen’s pained gasp at the vice grip on her hands and wrists is made shallow for want of air.

“Never were good at lying though,” Eris laments. “You know that stun gun you still keep strapped to the underside of your wrist isn’t enough to take me down, right? Or was it going to be the retractable blade in the toe of your boot going for my Achilles tendon? Come to think of it, that lipstick’s the poison apple red I bought for your birthday that one year, isn’t it? ”

Gretchen’s laugh is hard and sour. “Could’ve been all three at once.”

“Still wouldn’t have worked.”

“Can you blame me for trying?”

“No, and that’s the problem.”

“One more thing to say in my defense?”

“It won’t make a difference. You’re not getting through that door.”

That same old deliciously wicked grin. For the first time, Eris gets the feeling she’s not on the inside of the joke.

Gretchen intones a quick chant with no literal translation and looks up.

By reflex, Eris looks up into the uniform shadows of the ceiling.

The sole set of graffitied warding sigils that Gretchen neglected to point out earlier light up the ceiling’s shadows.

By reflex, Eris dodges to the side of the blade of light that comes piercing down.

Gretchen slips her hands free of her gloves and out of Eris’s grip.

By reflex, Eris lunges to grab her again.

Gretchen reaches over Eris’s shoulder and grasps the haft of the enchanted spear with intent. Ice spreads from the points of contact where the spear is strapped to Eris’s back. The sudden conjured weight causes Eris to stumble and then - when the ice encases her hips and shoulders - to fall.

It is only one third of a second that Eris is on the ground. By two thirds of a second Eris has shattered the ice, rolled to her feet, and unslung her spear in a single motion.

It only takes Gretchen one half of a second to reach the open door to the eldritch-warped space and collect her own cross spear that she left leaning next to it. She wastes a quarter of a second turning around to look back.

“I’m sorry E, but I’m not as strong as you are.”

Having finally turned around to see the door, Eris realizes that sometime while she’d been watching Gretchen the space on the other side had grown more chaotic until it gave up all pretense of resembling a room, now looking like nothing so much as the white noise of television static. She almost reaches Gretchen in time to stop her from stepping through. The tip of the spear brushes against the back of Gretchen’s knee mid-stride, freezing it and dropping her to what passes for the ground on the other side. And then the feet of distance between the monster hunters becomes miles and Gretchen’s receding black and gold form is swallowed by the static.

Eri swears, pulls the lifeline amulet that Road gave her out of her pocket, and drops it on the floor. She figures that as long as it stays out here in realspace, then Road can always get out and come back with Ashan and Lacuna to pull her and Gretchen out later.

She wastes no further time on hesitation before running into the static after Gretchen.

*******

Eris is hunting.

A chill wind howls across a moonlit prairie. The rush, the thrill, the anticipation, are almost too much to bear as she chases down a pack of lupine shadows. One falls to a spear. Another is caught by its tail and dragged to the ground. A third turns and raises itself on two legs to face its hunter. Its claws meet with only open air. Her claws meet with its heart.

There is a disappointing lack of blood. They are naught but shadows afterall.

The pack’s lone survivor sprints for the treeline, wild with fear, only to find a chainlink fence between itself and safety. She is still half human, and her eyes are fully so when she looks back at her hunter.

There’s a name Eris should remember and call out at this part. She doesn’t, but what does it matter? It’s just a beast.

What was she hunting again? It doesn’t matter. It’s all just prey in the end.

High above, tiny flames swirl and writhe. Its watchful eyes are blinded.

The chainlink fence rattles and shrieks when she tears it down and stalks between the support struts of the rollercoaster. The drumbeat in the back of her head seems too loud to simply be her own heart. Perhaps it is the music pounding from that amphitheater over there. Eight-legged shadows leap from support strut to support strut and skitter along the tracks above. What an annoyance, that noise is luring her prey away from her.

A freezing from the spear, a few good kicks, and a mighty heave are all it takes to knock out the nearest pylon and set the entire rollercoaster around her crashing down. The music of the collapsing metal all around her is enough to drown out the metal of the music from the amphitheater, but the drumbeat in her skull is louder still.

She steps on one of the wretched chimerical shadows trying to free itself from the wreckage as she stalks toward the alleyway behind the amphitheater.

Oh, yes, that’s right. She’s hunting Gretchen. The snake, the spider, her lioness.

Amidst the wreckage, tendrils of flame coil around a thorn that will not burn. Its teeth cannot piece this.

The alleyway is awash with the scent of buzzard meat, skunk perfume, and pine scented car air freshener emanating from the dumpster at the far end. An electric tingle runs down her spine and spreads through her whole body as she walks past the garbage truck that has taken her to so many trailheads with signs of new quarry within the dream-born city. The shadow that erupts from the refuse is all horns, claws, spines, and teeth. It is long enough to wrap itself around her, heavy enough to pull her down to the ground when it does, and vicious enough to keep wrestling with her even after she snaps off its saber fangs.

She recalls a dim memory that this thing once hurt her badly enough that she called for help to return to her home lair afterward. The one who answered should never have had to see her like that. She will make this shadow pay for that.

By the time she realizes the shadow is dead and gone, the pavement is shattered, the dumpster is rent in twain, and the engine of the garbage truck she was once responsible for is totalled. There is no proper satiation to hunting shadows. All chase and fight, but no release. She retrieves her spear and vaults over the wall at the end of the alleyway. Perhaps when she finds her true prey at the end of this she will bring satisfaction.

No, that’s not right, she’s supposed to be searching for Gretchen, not hunting her.

Behind her, the flame lashes out at a person-shaped hole. Its claws have fought against the other’s for so long now.

Moonlight reflects off the lake and into the whispering of the trees that brushes against her cheek to welcome her home with the scent of blood in her mouth. Smell and taste blur together as her senses begin feeding into one another until the whole world seems more. Was she really even alive before this?

Her oldest dance partner rises from the lake to greet her on the shore. The one who tried to hunt her and in failing to do so taught her the joy of being the predator rather than prey. Their dance begins again. As it always has. As it ever will. Her dance partner is a gaunt and stretched out figure of tongues and teeth that still resembles a man. Her dance partner is a beast of scale and shell with jaws that bite and claws that catch. Her dance partner is a cacophonous evolution of forms between as the two of them drive one another to learn and adapt with each dance.

Her dance partner is a mere shadow, frozen in a block of ice and thrown into the back of her van to be stowed away and forgotten. She has long since grown beyond it. She slams the rear doors of the van shut.

And yet still the hunt always cycles anew. She is always hunting.

Beneath the water, the ancient flame roils against a timeless knight. Its arms will crush the misbegotten parasite and then the thing beneath.

The air in the candlelit cavern smothers like a damp blanket. A drop of blood trails down the back of her hand, catches on the tiny hairs, leaves bits of itself gathered in the pores and creases, and falls from her fingertip into the crystal clear pool the same as any other drop from the cavern’s stalactites. It seems the shadow of her old dance partner left her with a final parting gift.

She approaches the cavern’s shrine and the wounded shadow praying at its moldy offering plate skitters away. She weighs whether it is worth pursuing but is distracted by a shambling pile of bones. The bones snap and crunch so pleasingly and the soft shadow beneath rips apart so delightfully. But when the bones are ground to dust and the shadow they failed to protect are gone she is still hungry.

The wounded shadow taps a pattern on the ground. Its eight eyes are not human at all but they hold fear all the same.

There’s a kindness Eris should offer at this part. She doesn’t, but what does it matter? It’s just a beast.

Still not satisfied, she turns her attention to the shrine and the small, forgotten god it venerates.

Blood and hearts and bones and stone and ichor and mold. What would a god taste like?

In the reflection on the surface the upturned offering dish, a thousand tiny flames flare to a thousand stars. Its song echoes in triumph over the foolish nothing that thought to hurt it.

The air in the desert tries and fails to sap the moisture from her body. Neither the heat of day nor the chill of night can touch her through the craving.

Feeling like the only person in the world, she lingers in a space only ever meant to be passed through until she hears the howl of an almost-human voice that almost sounds like a song. Feeling the weight of her spear fall from her hand, she steps out beyond the edge of the parking lot pavement to the edge of the edge of the furthest lamplight, that twilight border between known and unknown. Feeling no need to announce her presence, she locks eyes in the dark with a shadow and utters a growl that almost sounds like words as she circles her prey and blurs the line between beast and self.

There are only claws and teeth for the thing whose face is almost human. A stinger strikes through the air with a whipcord whistling but is a step too slow. An inhuman growl from a once-human throat accompanies the tearing sound of a sting ripped free from its tail and plunged into its owner’s neck. Deed done, she retrieves her spear and walks back to the truck whose cargo has been her excuse to travel the land’s liminal spaces for prey like this.

She opens the door to the sleeper cab and finds herself face to face with a squawking peacock.

The avian incongruity leaves Eris shocked enough for the bird to shuffle out past her and take to the wing. She blinks. Waking up to find a peacock in her cab wasn’t even the same year as hunting the manticore. That was in Vermont and this was in Arizona. Why are those two memories mixed together?

Wait. Memories?

Cautiously, she climbs into the cab. Something about it feels too small, but otherwise all is as it should be. Neatly made bed in the back, movie poster from her old bedroom on the ceiling, air plant hanging from the rearview mirror… The mirror! Her reflection! Her eyes! She turns and flees into the dark tunnel in the back of the cab until she can no longer feel that awful piece of glass staring at her.

No. This isn’t right. She’s not…

Somewhere in the long darkness, a core of flame is trapped and pinned. Its heart withers in fear and thrashes until the instinct to survive leaves nothing but…

Rage.

There has ever been constant knowledge of how good the climax of the hunt feels. Has felt. Will feel next time. And few things have had are having will have a death so sweet as the pile of garbage before her that calls itself a man. It is not even fit to be prey, but the righteousness of ending it will more than make up for that. It has captured, enslaved, and sold the innocent. It has hurt one of her own. It has arrogantly tried to summon the sun itself.

She swallows that sun. Lets it burn away that which is not needed and bring light to what remains. Its fire erupts from her scalp to become her hair and tumble down past her shoulders. Its core melts down the flimsy scraps of armor and becomes her carapace. Its hunger welds with hers and becomes yet more fuel for the hunt.

Her charred lips pull back nearly to her ears in what is both a snarl and a grin and in any case is all teeth.

The flash of her brilliant metamorphosis alone was nearly enough to dispose of the garbage, but not quite. What is left of it continues to cough and twitch on the steaming ground. She walks over to it and raises a foot in anticipation of a heavy, wet, crunching sound repeating over and over.

No!

This is not her!

This has never been her!

This can never be her!

Upon her shoulder, a gentle hand removes the thorn. The flames dwindle to embers and scatter.

Eris is not hunting.

Eris is searching.

Eris is herself.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

Out of the corner of her eye, Eris catches sight of a tiny flickering flame amidst the endless static that surrounds her. It darts out of view and she turns her head to follow it. Rather than finding the flame in the middle of the white noise once more, she finds herself in the middle of a living room she hasn’t seen in nearly a decade. It’s been even longer since she last saw the mottled green-brown shag carpet sticking up around her boots.

“But why do I have to only speak English at school?”

Eris turns around to find a family of shadows standing in the soft morning light that shines in through the bay windows. Outside, a schoolbus waits on the suburban street for other small shadows to join the ones already piled inside and blurred together. But these shadows in the room with her now are far more interesting. A mother, a father, and a child with a backpack. Even just as silhouettes she knows them.

Her mama.

Her papa.

Her.

“Because,” the shadow of her papa answers the shadow of her childhood, “that’s all any of the other kids speak and it’s important for you to fit in.”

“But I already don’t fit in!” Eris’s shadow whines. A petulant response, but a true one. She remembers this conversation - or at least the impression of it - from her second week of first grade. Even by then she was acutely aware that none of her classmates looked like her.

“If you really wanted me to fit in, you would have given me a normal name,” she and her shadow grumble in unison. Her shadow’s parents don’t seem to hear that part.

“All the more important for you to make an effort,” the shadow of her mama admonishes. “Just because you’re perfect as you are, that doesn’t mean everyone else is ready for it. So until that’s different, blending in is safer. You’ll understand when you’re older.”

“But then why do you make me practice all those other languages that we speak at home?”

“They’ll be useful when you’re an adult and trying to get into college and find a job,” her shadow’s papa hastily answers. “Now hurry before you miss the bus.”

Eris’s shadow ducks her mama’s kiss on the forehead and turns away from her papa’s hug. Her shadow only pauses for a moment, just past the door’s threshold when she hears a pair of “I love you’s,” in two different languages. She smiles for a moment at the tears that don’t quite form and didn’t manage to back then either.

Then she remembers where she is and what Road said about psychically reactive spaces. Eris has never been good at keeping psychic entities out of her mind, but she’s consistently found herself to be very good at telling and resisting when they’re trying to change or insert anything. Save for that one time with whatever Lacuna did, but she tells herself that’s because she was intentionally letting her most trusted friend poke around in there for the sake of healing. As for the looking, she tells herself that she has nothing to hide or that she’s afraid of being thrown in her face and used against her.

She follows her shadow out the door.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

Her shadow is taller now, taller even than the shadow of the boy she just knocked down. She’s in the eighth grade and she’s just gotten in her first fight in the middle of the school cafeteria. Not that it was much of one. One punch and the boy was down on the floor rolling and clutching his nose.

Eris made a point of forgetting the boy’s name a long time ago (it was Justin) but everything else is burned into her memory. After a year of taking rumors and accusations in silence this last bit of harassment finally hit the tipping point. And damn, had it felt good to finally let it out. She can’t see the creeping wild grin on her shadow’s lack of a face, but she can feel the temptation to mirror it. Now’s the part where her shadow’s nonexistent eyes should be flickering to the fleck of blood on her knuckles. There’ll be an intrusive thought to lick it, just to see what it tastes like. Not that she will, but it suddenly occurs to Eris to wonder if what she is now was always in her, even back then.

Was she always a monster in waiting? She dismisses that intrusive thought for what it is and turns around and walks for the door as the shocked silence permeating the cafeteria erupts into chaos. She turns around before she has to see the horrified look on the shadow of her best friend at the time. Dylan.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

Her shadow’s in third grade and Dylan’s shadow is teaching her how to talk with her hands. It’s after school and they’re sitting at his parents’ kitchen table, homework already done. When his family moved in down the street last summer their parents got together and started setting them up with playdates in hopes that the two misfits would at least have one friend apiece going into the new school year.

Eris smiles and signs the alphabet along with them. Her shadow mastered it months ago, much to everyone’s surprise, but at this point it’s a game for the two of them to see who can get through forwards and backwards the fastest before they move on to anything else. Eris is only halfway through the reversal when the shadows finish their game. She’s gotten rusty these days with only video calling Dylan two or three times a year to catch up and get the latest news on how her folks are doing.

Eris’s breath catches when she notices Dylan’s shadow addressing her - no, her shadow - with a simple thumb over palm with fingertips curled. He’s got a more specific name sign for her these days and she’d forgotten that it used to just be an initialization.

When the shadow of Dylan’s mom walks in to get the cookies out of the oven, Eris remembers where she is, stands up, and heads for the nearest door.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“Eris.”

“That’s not my… Present.”

Her shadow is in second grade and she has just given up. If the teacher can’t even pronounce the shortened nickname she came up with correctly, then what’s the point of fighting it anymore? May as well just go along with whatever people decide to call her than constantly struggle over something that doesn’t really matter. She knows who she is regardless.

Eris opens the door and leaves the classroom. She may not have anything to hide, but that doesn’t mean she has to stick around and give whatever’s manifesting all this a guided tour of her childhood either.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“Is she really even a girl?”

Her shadow is in seventh grade and it’s unseasonably hot outside. She’s sitting on a bleacher bench trying not to cry while the shadow mother of the girl who’s not accepting her apologies has it out with her mama’s shadow.

It was an accident, really. A car drove by and the glare got in her eyes, throwing off her aim.

“What girl can even throw a softball hard enough to knock out a tooth?”

It was an accident, so why isn’t saying sorry enough?

“Just look at her! What girl her age is that tall or has shoulders like that?”

It was an accident, but the shadow is talking too fast for anyone else to get a word in.

“Or maybe she’s on steroids? You should get your daughter tested!”

Eris tunes out the rest of the conversation while she slips on a pair of fingerless black gloves. Just because she’s made her peace, that doesn’t mean she has any interest in sitting around watching this trainwreck all over again. She traces the silver-stitched runes on the gloves with one finger. Back of the hand then the palm. Left hand then the right. There’s no door to exit through on the softball practice field, so she’ll just have to make her own.

Eris claps her hands together and twin jolts run through her palms and up her arms to meet at the base of her neck. She throws her head back involuntarily at the shock and bares her teeth in a grimace that lacks any of the usual excited edge from using these. The initial sensation fades as she crouches down low to the ground but her hands are tingling now and will be until she takes off the gloves.

One punch is all it takes for the ground beneath to crack and shatter into the white noise void for her to fall into.

Å̶̹̱̈́́Ȓ̷̦͚̳̱̗͐̒̍̈͠T̵̛͎͓̲̠͎̭̉̅͒̅͑?̶̜̰̮̺̖̕

Her shadow is in her bedroom with the door locked. She’s in her sophomore year of high school and staying up far too late on a school night in front of a mirror with a makeup kit she bought at the drugstore. She meant to do this earlier, but her AP Calc homework took longer than expected.

Eris lands in the room, takes a look at the decorations, and shudders at that phase of her life. All that work to be someone else for the sake of burying a reputation that never actually went away, just hid in the whispers behind her back. She can still remember how alien her own body felt, soft from making a point of never exercising anymore after being banned from school sports, yet still too big to be fashionable. Who was she ever fooling besides herself?

Her shadow hisses in frustration as she tries to figure out how to bridge the gap between how her mama taught her to do makeup and the styles in the magazine one of her friends that weren’t her friends gave her. None of the models in the magazine look anything like her.

The room has a door, but punching a hole in the wall to step through into the static is more in line with Eris’s mood.

Å̶̹̱̈́́Ȓ̷̦͚̳̱̗͐̒̍̈͠T̵̛͎͓̲̠͎̭̉̅͒̅͑?̶̜̰̮̺̖̕

Her shadow is in sixth grade and her teammates are all hugging her and cheering. They just won their game. For once she’s the star instead of the outcast.

Eris punches another hole in the illusion.

Å̶̹̱̈́́Ȓ̷̦͚̳̱̗͐̒̍̈͠T̵̛͎͓̲̠͎̭̉̅͒̅͑?̶̜̰̮̺̖̕

“From whence comes the starlight in the Dark Forest?”

Was that Road’s voice? This time the static doesn’t resolve into another shadow of a memory.

“Yo, Road!” Eris shouts into the void. “Can you hear me? Gretchen’s lost in here somewhere. Have you seen her?”

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“Not art. Pigments. Raw materials. Kindling for the spark.”

“Road, who are you talking to? I can hear you, but I can’t see you!”

“I’m glad to see you’ve calmed down now. You gave me a scare when you ran off like that after I got that tag off of you.”

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“I understand you need that, yes, and I’m sorry I had to be rough with you earlier, but you can’t go forcing what you need out of mortals like that. It’s not good for them.”

Ā̶̜̬̼̄̚̚r̵͉͓͗͒̉͝t̶̖̞́̍̆!̷̲̦̱̩̆̐͌͗

“I’d help you with that myself if I could, but I can’t.”

Ā̶̜̬̼̄̚̚r̵͉͓͗͒̉͝t̶̖̞́̍̆!̷̲̦̱̩̆̐͌͗

“I’ll see if I can get her permission. These things work a lot better when the mortal agrees to it, you know. They can even help and cooperate.”

Eris scans the white noise all around her, but still finds nothing, save for a tiny flame that quickly gets lost again. Or was that just her brain trying to find an image in the noise where there is none?

“Road, what are you getting at here? What do you need me to do?”

“Hey there Eris, sorry to put you on hold. I’m with the eldritch right now and I can see you and Gretchen, but I can’t get to you.”

“Is Gretchen alright?”

“Physically, yes, but mentally she’s not handling this place nearly as well as you are. Nothing irrecoverable yet, but it’s… not good.”

“Where is she? If you can see us both, maybe you can help me reach her.”

“The concept of ‘where’ is subjective at best right now. Our best bet is going to be helping the eldritch get what it wants - maybe needs, communication is tricky - in exchange for it leading all of us out of here.”

“And if we don’t cooperate?”

“You and I will probably be fine, but it’s not too happy with Gretchen right now. There’s a good chance it’ll leave her in here when this space collapses upon its departure.”

“Of course it isn’t happy with her,” Eris mutters under her breath. “Fine. So what does it want? It sounded like you were saying something about art earlier. Is it going to conjure up a paintbrush and easel for me, or am I about to get sent on another trip down memory lane?”

“More likely the latter, unless you’re a painter or musician on top of everything else.”

“Nah, I was always more of a STEM girl before I dropped out, I’m afraid.”

“That’s something. Gardening can be an art.”

Gardening? Oh, right. “Not what I meant, but go on, let’s get the brain probing over with.”

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“Yes, art. But she’s going to choose what to show you, and you need to respect that she’s trusting you not to invade her privacy or touch anything.”

T̸̤͛r̶̭̲̥̠̫̼̒̐̌̀͆͂u̷̮̿̋̈́̆̈ś̷̡̬̝̠̮͙͊̿̓͘͘ẗ̷̘̙̲͋.̸̤͕̯̹̫̪̏̑̆͠

“Good. Now, Eris, just focus on what art is to you. What is the art in your life? What have you created? What have you experienced? What have you shared? Everyone has something. Just let your mind find it and then let it flow.”

Eris nods. Focus on art. That shouldn’t be too hard. She’s no artist, but she’s seen plenty.

She closes her eyes…

She is locked in a dance of death on the lakeshore with the hateful spirit of a thing that won’t stay dead. She is using a tire iron to spraypaint the lifeblood of a rabid fae crossroads hound into a mural of autumn leaves on the side of a truckstop rest station. She is standing on top of a moving rollercoaster and doing the on-the-fly math to calculate the optimal location and angle to hurl a broken flagpole in order to launch the ride, herself, and the dozen bloodthirsty ape spiders on the cars behind us into the amphitheater next door. She is admiring her handiwork in the aftermath of a percussive demon exorcism that looks so very much like a tornado just tore through the gas station. She is at the bar, arm wrestling two other monster hunters at once and winning. She is at Doc’s clinic one of the few times she’s ever been hurt badly enough to need it and is thinking about how much the X-rays of her shattered arm look like a river delta. She is holding the sun between her hands and feeling like God.

Ā̶̜̬̼̄̚̚r̵͉͓͗͒̉͝t̶̖̞́̍̆!̷̲̦̱̩̆̐͌͗

“Yes. Destruction, too, is an art.”

She is destruction. She a hunter. She is a beast.

She is gasping and trying to open her eyes. She is finding them already wide and staring. She is afraid to look down at her hands.

She is something other than that. She is something more than that. She is something greater than that.

She is protection. She is an avenger. She is a shield.

She is still just violence. She is a danger. She is a threat.

She is unwanted. She is an outsider. She is a disowned child.

She is scared. She is hypocritical. She is…

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

“E.”

She has never been only one thing. She is what the world shaped her into. She is what she chose for herself.

She is walking back home practicing the name sign Dylan came up with for her. She is in the library reading a book on Greek gods and reclaiming a teacher’s laziness. She is driving back and forth across the country, trying out a new name with the same initial at every stop.

She is in her parents’ kitchen, loving the rhythm of the name they gave her every time they ask her to pass the dishes or how her day went and the way that rhythm changes when the language shifts. She is teaching that name to Lacuna. She is sheepishly asking her best friend not to use that name afterall, but holding back tears over the fact that her friend took the time to master the pronunciation.

Ā̸̧̙̔r̷̭̤̤̊̀̽t̶̳͉̓?̵̼͙̻̋̾͜

She is planting seeds in the huge backyard garden with her papa. She is hanging a tillandsia air plant in the sleeper cab of her truck. She is watering the tiny balcony garden of her apartment.

She is working with her mama in her garage to repair the engine on the family car. She is performing emergency roadside maintenance on her truck near a corn field. She is renovating a barely-drivable van older than she is into something as new as the stage of life she just entered is.

She is watching a movie in the theater with her parents, eyes wide and hands full of popcorn. She is crying in a motel a month after leaving home because that movie just came on the television when she was flipping channels. She is lounging on the couch with Lacuna for movie night, excitedly explaining everything about that movie and the underappreciated nuances of the genre.

Ā̶̜̬̼̄̚̚r̵͉͓͗͒̉͝t̶̖̞́̍̆!̷̲̦̱̩̆̐͌͗

She is listening to her favorite song on the radio while driving down the highway. She is singing her favorite song on karaoke night at 121813. She is laughing as Gretchen unpacks a record player and puts on her favorite song for the two of them to unpack boxes to in their new apartment.

She is learning the four different languages her parents learned from their parents, still unaware that they aren’t all one. She is learning ASL alongside Dylan, growing up together with something that feels all their own. She is learning German from Gretchen, teaching her a few things in exchange and talking about how they’ll travel the world together someday.

She is learning to tie knots at summer camp and practicing over and over again with her eyes set on a merit badge. She is tying a makeshift harness onto a cool statue she found next to a dumpster to the side of her garbage truck so she can take it back home to her apartment. She is in the bedroom with Gretchen, undressed and discussing the hypothetical logistics of trying to tie knots in industrial steel cable since she keeps accidentally breaking the ropes.

A̴̡͓͙̺͙͛̔ͅR̷̺̠̲̞͌͐̿̎̏͋T̷͇̣̹͖̐͛͘!̸̜͖̲̂͜

Eris is in a dark place that she does not recognize from any memory of her own. The only light is a faint starshine spearing down through gaps in the canopy to create ghostly counterparts to the surrounding tree trunks. Just at the edge of her hearing she can catch the sound of something lurking in the shadows. For half a heartbeat, she spots a flash of gold.

Eris grins and shows what she knows is too many teeth for most people’s comfort. Looks like that last set of memories got the desired reaction from the eldritch.

“Still hungry for more, huh?!” she shouts. “Fine. One last performance for the road!”

The nearest shaft of starlight becomes Eris’s spotlight as she takes the stage and steps into a ready stance with her spear. She taps her foot in time with a remembered opening bassline from the track Gretchen always kicked off their exercises with. She gets the rhythm down until she can almost hear it, and then starts the show.

Eris has heard of spears being called the oldest weapon. She’s always felt it to be a dubious claim at best, when there are plenty of heavy and sharp rocks just lying around, but it’s true enough that the basic concept of “sharp pointy bit on the end of a long stick” is old indeed; old enough that just about everywhere you care to go has some variation on it. She starts with the forms out of the illustrated Renaissance manuals that got Gretchen into the art to begin with. She moves through the pike and lance devices, even though her own spear is too short for them. She shifts to the staff swings, then the halberd techniques, then the peasant stick. She works her way through the memorized Germanic style manual and moves on to the Italian.

In the dark, between the trees, a lurking presence closes in. Eris keeps her view straight ahead. The flashes of gold in her peripherals are enough to confirm she has her audience’s attention.

Eris skips across the globe to Filipino kali. Stabbing their way around the world, Gretchen always liked to call the workout. The point was never to master any given style. Staves, pikes, lances, poleaxes, sibat, halberds, naginata, guandao, bō; it didn’t matter if the device, form, or kata was made with the types of spear the two of them happened to be practicing with in mind. Martial arts were made for fighting people, and all that technique disappears when you’re fighting beasts. It was about the novelty of finding new ways to move your body and learning all the ways the weapon can feel in your hands as an extension of yourself. It was about acknowledging the human universality of finding interesting ways to swing a stick. It was about compiling a wishlist of places to travel to one day.

It was about an art the two of them shared.

“I know you recognize this,” Eris whispers. “Come join me.”

Eris traces her performance over Asia. Through the Indian subcontinent and into Africa. She crossed the ocean into the Americas. She ventures into the Pacific, lands in Australia for a single stance, then returns to Europe where she started. All along the way she feels the buildup of thrill for what comes after this opening act. For what comes from having kept her eyes locked forward and back unprotected.

In the moment Eris stops moving, Gretchen comes down like lightning with all the flash and thunder that comes with it. Eris steps forward and turns around, denying the lightning strike its perfect moment, its perfect kill.

Gretchen is crouched low, modified boar spear impaling the ground instead of Eris. She rips the weapon from the earth and sparks arc between the spear’s tip and bladed crossguard. Her shadow cast by starlight and sparks is too large; it coils like a serpent and handles its weapon with too many arms. Her face is furred, her neck is scaled, and her arms are chitinous. She hisses and her jaw unhinges to expose her fangs. She blinks, and she is simply Gretchen. She blinks, and she is a beast. She blinks, and she is something caught between.

Eris could swear that the trees and starlight are humming a reprise of the music in her head.

Gretchen lunges forward and Eris sidesteps. She skitters sideways, as close to being on all fours as she can get while still holding her spear. She strikes again and Eris parries.

Strike, retreat, skitter, strike, repeat. Thus go the steps of the dance’s first movement.

A strike is parried. A hand grabs a neck. A body is thrown.

“Is this the best a beast can do?” Eris calls. “You’ll have to do better than that if you want your kill!”

Gretchen grips her spear with both hands now. Circles more thoughtfully. Thrusts with the full length of her weapon to maintain the safety of arm’s reach while she stays outside the light.

Circle, thrust, parry. The dance’s next movement is a slow one, defined by distance and separation.

A thrust is dodged. A boot drives a haft to the ground. An icy speartip peels a scale off a neck.

“I know that’s not all you’ve got!” Eris shouts. “You taught me better than that!”

Gretchen adjusts her grip closer. Stands more upright. Steps inward and swings her spear, catching Eris’s between the cross blades to see her opponent’s muscles twitch and hair stand on end until their weapons freeze together and pull apart in a shatter of ice.

Step, swing, shock, shatter. This movement’s tempo is lively and its notes are loud as the words unsaid.

A cheek is cut. A hand is slashed. A fleshy palm emerges from broken chitin.

“Now that’s more like it,” Eris growls. “You made me bleed, now come taste it!”

Gretchen shakes her hands free of the coverings that got between her grip and her spear. Settles into a stance meant for close-quarters footwork. Rushes in too close to swing or parry and stabs.

Stab, redirect, cut, grapple. The dance’s final movement is an intimate one.

Hands grab wrists. Spearpoints rest at necks. Eyes lock.

“There you are,” Eris breathes. “I knew you could do it.”

Ą̸̥̥̘̪͈̗̥̬̒̿͂̐̌́̔Ắ̶̪̼̞̳̼͉̰̘͙̹̍̀͛̈́̿͘͘Ą̵̝̳͚͈̺̟̬̻̗̟̓R̵͈͍̙̘̰̽̀̚Ř̵͉̝͉͉͇̇͊̃̃́͗͝R̷̛̗̫̙̎͌͐̇̅̈̇̚͝͝T̵̜̘̻̓̈̓̋T̵̙̆͂̎́̆Ţ̵̥̗̩̲̂̆̄͊́̍̿̂̄͘͘!̴̤͓͔̫̼͙̰͚͇̀͋̉͌̀̒͝!̵̧̞̟̜̝̳̳͑̇̂̀!̴̡̨̬͍͚͉̮̈́̊͊͊͂̈́͛̈́

The two of them maintain their embrace, breathing heavily.

Gretchen attempts to move in closer still, but is stopped by the blade still at her neck.

For a moment, Eris considers letting the blade shift out of the way. She was able to bring her back from the brink, so could it work? Without that one thing between them, could they? Looking out for one another, could they grow old?

Eris’s grip on her spear loosens. Gretchen’s does the same. Blades shift away from necks. Distance closes. Smoke fills the air with the smell of incense.

Eris blinks and sees Gretchen’s face anew.

That expression on her one-time partner’s face says all the reasons it could never work. Pulled back from the brink but not yet fully lucid. There’s still hunger there, and while it’s less bloody now, it’s still enough to draw her into an intertwined spiral if she were to let it. She can picture it now: Overconfidence in their ability to pull one another back morphing into enabling one another to ever greater risks until they both fall at once.

Eris takes a deep breath. Lets it out. Lets go. Steps back.

Maybe if they could both give up the hunt, but neither of them are that strong yet.

“Good job,” a familiar voice says from behind her.

Eris turns around and finds herself gazing into a person-shaped hole. A suggestion of identity without truth or core. And then it’s just Road, a smoking censer dangling from one hand and the match to the lifeline amulet dangling from the other. A rock of stability in the middle of the chaos while the rest of the scene dissolves back into the white noise.

“Something wrong?” Road asks.

“No, just taking a minute for the incense to kick in and clear my head. Thanks for that.”

“Of course, although you were holding up remarkably well without it. Not many people could. Speaking of...”

Eris turns back around, following their gaze to where Gretchen has discarded her spear in favor of curling in on herself and shaking with silent sobs. Her words are barely coherent as Road comforts her, but Eris can make out enough to piece together a picture. With the incense slowly clearing Eris’s own fog over the memory of what she’s been through since entering this space, not having a similar reaction is a matter of well-practiced effort, and she wasn’t the one who went through a near ego death.

Eris slings her own spear back over her shoulder, picks up Gretchen’s, and then offers her other shoulder to lean on. The two of them follow Road back to the door to realspace in silence. On the real side of the threshold, Eris spares one last glance back to see a swirling mass of tentacles, eyes, and tiny ancient flames.

*******

Eris leans on the outside of her van, surrounded by cursed and haunted artifacts and answering a wall of text messages and pile of voice mails through the glare of the late afternoon sun and listening to the hum of the engine. It turned out they were in the eldritch warped space for the better part of a day and only the grace of the campus having just started its break between summer and fall semesters has saved them from some uncomfortable Masquerade-endangering questions from students and faculty that might otherwise have walked into a booby-trapped hallway and a door to nowhere.

“How’s she doing?” Road asks.

Eris looks up from her phone. Has she ever heard them approach?

“She’s sleeping it off,” Eris answers with a thumb cocked over her shoulder towards the back of the van. “I’ll wake her up and get these loaded back in when we’re ready to head home. How’s the eldritch?”

“Doing as well as it’s possible to tell with one of them,” he says. “Communication’s always a bit tricky, but seems like no permanent harm done and no grudges held. I had a good long talk with it about more responsible feeding habits, consent, safety, and the wide range in mortal tolerances to eldritch contact. And I was able to talk it into helping with the cleanup in the hallway before it left, so we’re good on that front.” She gestures toward Eris’s phone. “News from the office?”

“Yeah. A client came in this morning, but Ashan and Lacuna handled it. Sounds like it turned into this whole thing with some fairy lord getting involved, but it all worked out. They’re on their way back now with a changeling and their human counterpart, so we’ll have some more followup to do there. I figure I can get the rest of these delivered while you handle that.”

Road smiles warmly and shakes their head. “You should get some rest too when we get back. You deserve it after today.”

Eris tries and fails to meet Road’s eyes. A question burns. She struggles to voice it.

“What was all that about starlight in a dark forest?”

“Oh, caught that, did you? I guess you could call it a code phrase of sorts between people that do a lot of travel between worlds. It’s also a question that should only be asked by those who already know the answer. But that’s not what you really want to ask about, is it?”

No. It isn’t.

Eris closes her eyes. Breathes. Opens her eyes. Does her best to meet Road’s eyes.

“How much did you see?”

Road nods in understanding. “Bits and pieces. Enough. I did what I could to keep it from prying too deeply or to shift its focus when it looked like things were getting too private.”

“And before that?”

“I was busy trying to subdue a panicking eldritch within a warped space under its control at the time, so my focus was elsewhere. But,” they admit, “I did feel some of it. I felt Gretchen too.”

“Oh. I see. Could you… maybe not mention any of that to the others? Some of the stuff from when I was a kid I haven’t even told Lacuna about.”

“Of course. I’ll do my best to forget I saw any of it.”

“Thanks.”

“And if it helps, I’ve seen firsthand what it’s like when someone completely unravels and loses themself, and I don’t see that ever happening to you. Especially not after today.”

“That… does help, actually. Thank you.”

It helps more than it should.

“You’re welcome. You want to wake Gretchen while I get these boxes?”

“Sure thing,” Eris says, moving towards the van’s sliding door. “Oh, but one more thing?”

“Yes.”

“I know you meant well, calling out to me when I was on the edge back there, but E isn’t a name for you to call me.”

*******

Gently as she can, Eris closes the door to Gretchen’s room and heads back downstairs. She steps lightly over the one board she knows creaks so as not to wake the changeling and their brother sleeping in the other two guest rooms of the bed and breakfast above the office. The thought crosses her mind that the creaky board might have been a security feature left in on purpose with all of Sullivan’s renovations on the building, but she doesn’t follow it. She’s too tired and it doesn’t matter.

Lacuna is waiting for her by the reception desk.

“Hey.”

“Yo.”

“So, uh, didn’t get the chance to talk, really. Since we all got back. What with the clients and all.”

“I guess not.”

“So… Are you… Okay?”

Blood between her teeth. Hunting. Names forgotten. Burning. Hunger. A heavy, wet, crunching sound repeating over and over.

“Been better. You?”

“Tired. But what else is new?”

Eris nods. What else indeed? “The others head out already?”

“Yeah. Bridgewood Manor. Road mentioned Sullivan might be back soon.”

“I should probably be there for that.” Eris leans on the reception desk. She’s so tired.

“I’m sure they’ll fill us in.”

“Probably.”

Lacuna Looks over at the living room. “We’ve got a couch.”

“Huh?” So tired.

“If we’ve got guests, we probably shouldn't leave the office unattended. So reason to stay here. But all the beds are taken. So couch.”

Eris pushes off the reception desk, staggers over, and throws her arms around her best friend. She feels Lacuna stagger under her limp weight. She feels a shaking hand stroke across her back. She feels a chin rest in the curve between her shoulder and neck.

“Sis?”

“Yeah, E?”

“Do you think,” Eris’s voice cracks, “we could do movie night early this week?”

*******

“This one?”

“This one.”

“You realize it’s your turn to choose the movie, right?”

“I know. And. I chose this one.”

“...”

“I’m surprised this one was even on the shelf here.”

“I figured it’d be good to get a copy to leave here. Just in case.”

“...”

“Sis?”

“Yeah, E?”

“Just this once, do you think you could say my other name?”

<-Previous Chapter Masterpost Next Chapter->

#This originally opened with showing one of the deliveries but it was going on too long without being the real point of the chapter.#I swear at this rate Eris's POV is going to have a quarter of the chapter count by half the wordcount.#writers on tumblr #writing #original fiction #urban fantasy #web novel #Writeblr #Empty Names #serial fiction #creative writing #literature #writers #fantasy #fiction #my writing #emptynameswriting #If Gretchen keeps this up she's in danger of becoming a recurring major character.#I worry this chapter loses a little bit in the Tumblr post formatting not letting me play with the alignment on the eldritch text #Just pretend the indented text is right-aligned for the eldritch and center-aligned for Road.#Not to stroke my own ego too much but I'm very pleased with how much this chapter builds on itself and prior chapters.#Recurring phrases imagery and such. And foreshadowing.#The long sequence of Eris losing herself to the hunt is all retellings of events that have either happened or been referenced earlier.#I'll confess I'm kind of nervous about having finally made more concrete references to Eris's ethnicity.#Worried about accidentally being disrespectful in some way.#Same with the inclusion of Dylan as an explanation of how Eris learned sign language.#I am pleased with how the childhood flashback segments turned out though.#And the “Art” flashbacks. And the last dance with Gretchen.#Mostly I think I just really like playing with repeating format/structure for paragraphs and sentences.#Makes me feel like I'm dabbling in poetry or something.

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mcflymemes · 1 month ago

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"EVEN IN ARCADIA" BY SLEEP TOKEN PROMPTS * assorted lines from the album, some slightly reworked to suit a roleplay format, adjust as necessary

i could die here.

now i know why i woke up here on the shoreline.

everything looks the same.

you'll find me with half a mind to get violent.

don't say it's over.

give me the edge of a blade.

nobody knows where i came from.

how can i already lose my way like this?

i used to know myself.

you used to know me well.

you wish that you could make me whole.

i have a feeling we're close to the end.

come out from underneath.

go ahead and wrap your arms around me.

godspeed to my enemies.

tell me what you meant by "living past your half-life."

you're well-versed in the afterlife.

you might be the one to take away the pain and let my mind go quiet.

nothing else is quite the same as how i feel when i'm at your side.

are you gonna dance on the line with me?

you know it's not a game or a fantasy.

i don't even know who i used to be.

nothing is the same.

some things have to change now.

i'm apologizing for shit that, frankly, i stopped thinking of years ago.

i still need a dark side.

they just need a reason.

keep me alive.

now is the time to take it or leave it.

did i get this far for nothing, or are you the reward?

if this is love, then i am out of hesitation.

i just don't want to be lost again.

i wish i could have known that.

when was the last time i felt like this?

it's like you're dangerous to me.

i notice every time we meet.

you've got me talking in my sleep.

i thought i could resist you.

when's the last time you tasted blood?

i might lose my mind.

won't you show me how to dance forever?

i swear it's getting harder even just to exhale.

i'm sick of trying to hide it.

i'm lost.

i guess that's what i get for trying to hide in the limelight.

everybody wants eyes on them.

if you don't think i mean it, then i understand.

i'm still glad you came.

let me see those hands.

i'll take what i'm given.

tell me, did i give you what you came for?

everything's the same.

somehow i knew my fate.

have you been waiting long for me?

no matter how we feel, we've got a taste for one another and a few good years to kill.

i wanna be your provider.

just let me know that you're mine.

do i wanna go there?

i wanna do more than just bend the rules.

you're the only game that i like to lose.

i'm going under this time.

i can give you what you want.

surely we know the difference.

how will i know if i can't see the bottom?

no one else knows that i've got a problem.

what if i can't get up and stand tall?

who will i be when the empire falls?

nobody told me i'd be begging for relief.

i've learned to live without it.

i no longer feel surrounded.

you never listened to me.

i was your undercover lover.

you never saw me naked.

you wouldn't even touch me.

i'm caught up on the person i tried to turn myself into for you.

i was trying my best.

i was in love with the thought.

do you wanna hurt me?

we used to be a team.

i don't wanna stick around.

please just let me go.

what are you afraid of?

are you the method in my madness?

i have fought so long to be here. i am never going back.

i could be stuck here alone.

i'm so tired inside.

i'm never leaving this time.

#sleep token #rp prompt #rp meme #mcflymemes #rp memes #rp starters #roleplay memes #roleplay prompt #ask memes #ask meme #roleplay meme #roleplay inbox prompts #rp inbox meme #inbox prompt #inbox meme #sentence starter prompt #sentence starter #sentence starters

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ceilidho · 1 year ago

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take me home, country road

[ao3]

You have nothing on your person apart from a hastily packed suitcase and the dress you came into town wearing, on the run from trouble back home. Too bad John's missing a bride that matches your description. Or: the 1800s (mistaken) mail order bride au (part 8)

part 1, part 2, part 3, part 4, part 5, part 6, part 7

Now a nocturnal animal emerges into the daylight hours.

A week becomes two and your shoulders untense. It’s not something you notice at first because you’re used to an ever present strain between your shoulder blades and an ache in your jaw from grinding your teeth at night. Then a fortnight goes by without so much as a missive with your name on it floating across John’s desk or a stranger appearing in town after tracking you down, and you wonder if maybe the world really is big enough to hide in.

It sure feels that way at times. The woods beyond the bounds of John’s property stretch out farther than the eye can see and even walking it feels like you could disappear into another realm. Old spruces shoot up high into the clouds, and deeper into the woods, huge rock formations grow more and more prominent as you near the mountains. John takes you through the woods on horseback, following the rough trails carved into the dirt by a century of wagons and carts using the same path. The footprints of a different time.

Up in the trees, birds warble and chirp, talking to one another in songs that you’ve never heard before. A woodpecker drills into the side of a tree. Pinecones snap out of the upper branches and drop to the forest floor.

There is only a single trail and it’s easy to lose. You grow a bit nervous when John takes you off the trail and deeper into the woods, but he does so with the confidence of a man that knows these woods like the back of his hand. You go quiet when he stops Buttercup to let a herd of deer wander by, the stragglers hurrying to catch up with the group, throwing the two of you nervous glances before they disappear into the thicket.

“Should we be out this far?” you ask in a whisper, reluctant to disturb the silence. Though the woods are full of animals that bleat, chirp, chatter, and hoot, the sound of your own voice feels preternaturally loud and shrill.

“We won’t get lost, darlin’. I know my way around,” John reassures you, curling an arm around your waist to hold you to him. These days, you hardly worry about tumbling off the horse. Not with him at your back anyway.

“That wasn’t really my worry,” you mumble, trailing off.

“Then what’re you getting all worked up about?”

“Aren’t there wolves out here? Or bears?”

He snorts, the sound making you jolt. You don’t topple over because he has such a firm hold around your waist. “They don’t usually come this close to town. They’re more scared of you than you are of them.”

“That sounds like something mothers tell their children to stop them crying,” you say flatly. You draw your legs up automatically when John directs Buttercup through a shallow basin, a shortcut back home. It makes you anxious for a moment, but the water barely goes up to her ankles, so you relax when you realize that you’re in no danger of being swept away by the current.

“That doesn’t mean a bear or wolf can’t wander by, but it’s rare.”

“And there it is.”

You can feel the heat of his glower on the back of your head. “We could spend the night out here if you want to see for yourself.”

At that, you shut your mouth. Even if he were to prove his point, you have no interest in camping out in the woods now that you’ve become accustomed to the luxury of a soft bed. Granted that you’re forced to share that same bed, still you’ve never slept half as well as you do these days. You wake up rested after nine hours of blissful shut eye, a sleep so deep that your dreams only come in half-remembered flashes. Often they involve the man you wake up wrapped around, and for that you’re grateful that they remain submerged.

A new desire has started to burrow its way into the back of your mind in recent days. It starts out as a thought so brief that you hardly notice it before it skitters away.

And then it lingers.

You wake up in the middle of the night hot, sweat dripping down the nape of your neck and a fire burning in your loins, a red-hot coil wound around itself, fit to burst. Pulsating. At some point throughout the night, you must have thrown a leg around John’s waist because it rests there now, your hand planted in the middle of his chest and your sex all but rubbing up against his thigh. Under your hand, you can feel his heart pump strong and steady.

You hold very, very still, waiting for him to wake. But John sleeps on, his palm loose where it rests along the curve of your hip, fingers curling into the flesh of your backside.

You can hardly look at him these days without shaking. You’ve come to fixate on the sway of his hips when he walks and the flecks of silver in his beard. The grooves in his weathered hands. The way your head fits in the palm of his hand when he cradles it to his chest. The fond glimmer in his eyes that shines the brightest when he puts his hat on your head and it slips past your eyes, too big for your head.

When you tip it up in order to see, the folds around his eyes become more pronounced with the force of his smile.

“There you are, bug,” he says, taking the hat off your head to set it back on his and reeling you in for a kiss.

Bug, love, honey, darling. The constant flux of endearments makes your head spin. John never calls you by the name on your marriage license. It’s like that name means nothing to him, cast away at the first opportunity and replaced by an endless stream of pet names.

He hasn’t touched your sex since making you come on the porch swing the week before. He pulls you into a chaste embrace at night, the only evidence of his own desire being the stiff shaft nestled against the small of your back in the early morning hours, which he takes care of on his own in the bathroom downstairs after pressing a kiss to your cheek. You feel robbed of something, though you don’t know quite what.

You’re tempted to offer your help, but you don’t know exactly what that would entail. Inexperience and fear of rejection hold you back, stay your tongue. In the two weeks you’ve been married, he hasn’t once tried to pin you down and rut between your thighs like you expected and dreaded that very first night.

Now that that time has passed, you don’t know how to initiate that moment again.

John promises to teach you how to ride a horse. You can’t see a reason to protest, much to your chagrin. Despite your apprehensions, even you can’t deny that it would be a helpful skill. A train only goes one way after all, confined to a single track. A horse has no such laws to obey.

The thought stays nestled at the back of your mind as the days continue on.

You flounder around in the kitchen on the day that John invites his deputies over for supper. You’ve met the big one—Simon—now a small handful of times, each encounter marked by a silence that sucks the air out of the room when he turns his gaze on you and holds it. Perhaps you’ve simply ascribed too much importance to his person, given that every time you’ve seen him, your life has changed irrevocably. His presence is always followed by revelation it seems. The archangel of vicissitude. A harbinger of uncertain times.

The other two are new. John introduces you to them when you bring out the cutlery and crockery to set the table, and you nearly go cross-eyed when they reach across the table at the same time to offer their hands. You go to meet them halfway, but flinch when John brings his hand down on the table with enough force to make the silverware jump.

“Sorry, darlin’,” he apologizes to you first before turning his glare on the other two. “That ain’t proper, boys. You wait for the lady to offer her hand first—you don’t treat a woman like she’s a mutt you’re teaching to shake.”

“Ah, sorry, hen,” the one on the left says, his voice a thick Scottish brogue like a purr. He’s possibly the handsomest man you’ve ever met, but there’s something dangerous and wild in his eyes. When he smiles, it curls up in a roguish sort of way that makes you falter, like he’s in on a joke that you aren’t. “Dinnae mean to offend. No’ often we get ta meet such a pretty lady.”

“Sorry—” the one on the right apologizes in a voice far more earnest than his counterpart’s. “And sorry for him. We think he was raised by wolves.”

“What’s yer excuse then?” the Scot sneers, knocking his knee into the other man’s under the table. “Dinnae see ye waitin’ for her fuckin’ hand like a gentleman—apologies, hen.”

“Christ,” John sighs, leaning back in his chair and staring up at the ceiling.

Simon stays silent at the other end of the table, but the whole table jumps when he aims a kick at the Scott’s leg. He hisses and blurts out a word in a language you’ve never heard before, the word unmistakably vitriolic. He clutches at his shin and shoots a nasty look at Simon, though he doesn’t make a move to retaliate.

“Name’s Kyle. Kyle Garrick,” the other introduces himself, and you finally reach across the table to offer your hand. His hand is warm against yours when he takes it, dark skin burnished in the candlelight. There’s something inviting about him; something about his eyes, so dark that you almost fall into them. Thick lips curl up into a smile. “And this here is Soap.”

You frown. “Soap?”

The man in question runs a hand down his front, emphasizing the cut of his shirt and the way it clings to the muscle of his chest. “‘Cause of how well I clean up.”

Simon barks out a laugh at that. The sound comes so sudden and sharp that it startles you. “You got it ‘cause your mum had to wash out your mouth with soap.”

It’s the most you’ve ever heard out of him and you can only stare wide-eyed at the lot of them as they dissolve into bickering and squabbling after that. It’s almost a relief to head back into the kitchen to finish cooking.

Dinner is a similar messy affair, punctuated by the sound of Soap practically gnawing the meat off the bone. He only apologizes when John barks at him for making a mess, more food on the floor around him than on his plate, but his table manners don’t last very long. John doesn’t seem so much embarrassed on their behalf as annoyed, but it’s an annoyance that comes with an aftertaste of warmth. You can tell without asking that they’ve known each other for years.

There’s room enough in you for food and envy. Back home you had friends. Never close friends, but acquaintances at least. Maids you could recognize by face. Small talk while ascending single-file up the servants’ staircase. Perhaps little more than that. You’d never been particularly close to any of them, but how could you? You worked from morning ‘till night, up and down the stairs, moving in the shadows. Never making too much noise lest your employers take notice of you.

Like he did.

You shake it off. That’s no matter now. You’re hundreds of miles away and living under a new name. A married woman, to the county sheriff no less. It only sometimes hurts your heart to think of how lonely you’d been.

When they leave, you stand at the window and watch as they disappear into the black of the night, Simon at the front of the pack, his torchlight leading the way. The sound of horse hooves beating against the dirt recedes the farther they get.

His hands warm your shoulders. You don’t know how long he’s been there, standing behind you while you stared out the window after the boys. All you know is that his hands are warm, and the kiss he presses to the back of your head makes you arch back into him, unconsciously gravitating closer to him. Needing to be near.

In bed, you curl your fingers against his chest. On a rough exhale, you wake. You dream still of something terrible that happens somewhere else, in another city, in an old life. His heartbeat lulls you back to sleep.

John takes you to the local seamstress to have you fitted for a pair of pants and suddenly you’re out of excuses. They fit you comfortably, like a second skin, and you find yourself pulling at the legs at your final fitting as if to stretch out the material. The seamstress nearly jabs you with a pin and glares up at you until you stop fidgeting.

You come to terms with it when he brings you into the stables and makes you fetch the saddle from where it rests on its stand. It’s heavier than you expected. You stumble back over to where John now has Buttercup standing in the middle of the stable, holding her by the lead fixed to her bridle.

“I don’t know if—” you start, trepidation climbing up your chest until it grips you by the throat. For as many times as you’ve ridden her, you’ve never done it alone.

John fixes her lead to a post and walks over to you, taking the saddle from your hands and letting it drop to the ground. He cups your face in both hands to tilt your head up. “Hey, honey. We’re not doing much of anything today, alright? Just a walk around the paddock so you get used to sitting on Buttercup on your own. I’m not gonna smack her ass and send you down the trail at full tilt..”

That gets a laugh out of you. “You promise?”

He smiles. “Promise, darlin’.”

And he keeps it. The only thing you do that day is learn how to tack a horse and how to properly mount and dismount her. The latter part of the lesson is devoted to you trying to find your balance while John leads the two of you around the pen at a leisurely pace. He calms you down when he sees you grow too stiff, stopping to coo and rub your thigh until you gradually relax. It’s heartwarming until Buttercup begins to tense up too for a reason unbeknownst to you and you watch in righteous fury as John calms her down the same way.

John gets you a hat to keep the sun from beating down on you, but there’s little he can do about the soreness between your thighs and the stiffness in your legs the next day. All you can do is hiss and moan in pain, hobbling around the house until he forces you down into a chair and hikes up your dress in order to apply an arnica salve to your inner thighs.

It’s a relief and an affront at the same time. The duality of man. The salve soothes much of the ache, but you twitch nervously around John for the rest of the day, the memory of him pinning you to the chair and forcibly spreading your thighs haunting you. The lingering ache in your core is just the salt in the wound.

It rains another day. A light drizzle while the sun is still out.

Every day you sit and you think, will it be today? And then the wash basins are emptied out in the field, the horses are taken out to the paddock, you pin the laundry up on the line to dry, and John presses a farewell kiss to your forehead when he leaves you with Kate and nothing happens. Every inch of you waits for more, anticipates more. Throbs when he leaves you wanting, only a chaste kiss and a squeeze around your waist before he’s off.

You can feel it coming to a head. An itch you can’t shake.

That day comes with another ache you can’t shake.

“Please,” you beg, clasping your hands in front of you. “One day of rest. That’s all I’m asking. I can’t do this anymore, John.”

John snaps the lead in his hands. “Let’s get a move on. We’re burning daylight.”

You hang your head low on the march over to the stables, John taking up the rear like he expects you to bolt. An executioner’s walk. The thought of escape has never seemed further away—not even because of its feasibility, but because all you want to do is lie down and rest.

“You can quit your moping,” he says as you tack up Buttercup, a pout on your lips. “Got something special for you today.”

That makes you perk up, regardless of the fact that he doesn’t specify what that is. Anticipation mounts in you when he helps you up onto Buttercup and then climbs up behind you himself. He steers her away from the paddock and towards the trail leading into the woods, the sun at its zenith now, illuminating everything as far as the eye can see.

You’ve ridden this trail before. A week ago, with John at your back as he is now. Through the fields and over the hills until the trees start to number in the tens and then the hundreds, no clear delineation between plain and forest. Simply there and then everywhere.

By now, after hours of sun beating down on the path, the trail is mostly dry, yesterday’s rain long since having sunk into the earth. You think it’d still be a tough hike on foot, but on horseback you cover acres of land at a brisk pace, Buttercup hardly breaking a sweat. You cross paths with a small group traveling by horse and wagon, but John breaks off from the path not too long after that, steering Buttercup deeper into the wilderness, where the only gullies are the ones carved out by years and years of rainfall.

You only see it when the land begins to dip and you’re forced to hold onto the horn and tighten your thighs around the fenders to keep steady. At the bottom of a hill, a small stream opens up into a larger river, narrowing out at the other end where the land rises again and the water can only trickle over the pebbly riverbed. On the other side, a rocky outcropping cuts the stream off from view.

“Is this where you used to come to bathe?” you ask, recalling an earlier conversation.

John sighs. “Thought I’d take you for a swim as a treat, but if you’d rather just tease me—”

“Well now, let’s not be hasty,” you say, already trying to dismount on your own, eyes glued on the stream glimmering in the sunlight. John chuckles, keeping you pressed to him until he guides Buttercup under a tree for shade and dismounts first, helping you down after him.

All you want to do is wade in the stream up to your ankles, so that’s what you do. Boots kicked off, Buttercup relaxing in the shade of a tree, John standing by the water’s edge with his hands on his hips and watching you tiptoe over the smooth rocks below. You roll up your pant legs, but eventually you feel the ends grow damp as you venture farther out. At its deepest, you would probably sink up to your waist.

“Don’t you want to swim?” John asks from somewhere behind you.

You splash around a bit, kicking your feet through the water. “Hard to do that with clothes—”

When you turn back around to face him, your eyes dart down momentarily at the sight of skin before you squeak and whirl back around, sending up an arc of water. Twice now you’ve seen him naked.

“You’ve no clothes on,” you state, bluntly enough that it almost sounds stupid.

You hear the water splash and ripple when he takes his first step in. “Right—you better think about doing the same if you don’t want to ride home soaking wet.”

“I was perfectly fine just getting my feet wet,” you say indignantly.

“We came out here to swim, not get your feet wet,” John laughs. You stiffen when his hand comes down on your shoulder, conscious of the fact that your husband is standing right behind you, entirely divested of his clothes. “So best get to steppin’.”

“You can’t make me.”

“Oh, honey,” he says pityingly. “Yes, I can.”

You squeeze your eyes shut as you make your way back to shore, careful not to allow yourself a glimpse of him. Your boots are stacked beneath the shade of another tree, John’s clothes folded neatly beside them. You strip slowly, attentive to the world around you; though unlikely, it’s not impossible that someone might wander by. Your only consolation is that John is still within sight, though you keep your back to him because in recent days, you’ve developed a hunger for him that even now makes your stomach hurt.

Though the air is warm, you shiver. When you turn around with your arms crossed over your breasts to hide them from sight, you find John wading in the river up to his waist. You’ve seen him like this once before, the hearty body of a man in his prime. Sturdy and strong. The hair on his chest is darker than that on his head, wet too from the dip he must have taken when your back was turned. His hair is slicked back too, a wet hand combing it back.

“Come on, darlin’,” he calls, beckoning you forward with his hand.

The water is a cold shock when you step in past your ankles. Ice cold tendrils wrap up your legs, sucking the warmth from you.

You suck in a soft breath when he pulls you into his arms and heaves you up, big hands gripping under your thighs. Your breasts press against the wet skin of his chest, nipples already pebbled. The river is deeper than you assumed; John pulls you deeper in until it pools around your waist and then your chest. Cold enough that you shiver until John dips his head down and the kiss he presses to your lips melts you from the inside out.

You can’t escape the intimacy of water-slick skin. When John drags you up his chest, your nipples brush over his and the shudder that passes through you is violent, toe-curling. You know that he can feel the heat of your core even underwater. With your legs wound around his waist, every inch of you is plastered to his front. Even your fingers play with the ends of his hair, arms draped over his shoulders. You can’t look away.

“C’mon,” he murmurs, breath hot on your face. “Eyes on me.”

As if you could look anywhere else.

He reaches down under the water to readjust himself and you gasp when his shaft is suddenly right there, trapped between his belly and your heat. It’s the closest you’ve ever gotten to coitus, his glans nestled between your folds. You’d only have to shift slightly for him to slip right in. The thought makes your breath quicken.

He doesn’t make a move to take you though, even knowing that he could. How easy it would be. How it’s due to him. Your husband that’s waited a fortnight to take you as his own. John kisses you until each slick pass of his lips grows sloppier, clumsier—his lips barely parting from yours before they’re on you again, rendering you a creature of base needs.

But his hands don’t shift from your backside where he holds you in place. His fingers dig into the flesh hard enough to bruise, but they don’t move to part your folds to make room for his manhood. You expect him to—practically yearn for it and squeeze him around the neck all the harder when he subverts your expectations, doing no more than letting you grind your heat against the base of his shaft.

“John—John, please,” you beg, mindless for what. You don’t know what you’re asking for.

“What d’ya need, darlin’?” he asks into your mouth, stealing your answer with another kiss.

You fall under the swell of another wave. When the root of his cock glides over your clit, your core clenches on nothing, a sob half-bitten off in your mouth, ripped from your chest.

It doesn’t matter how close to him you get—he gives you nothing. The heat could very well burn you from the inside out. Cold water caresses your skin as it flows past, but the center of you runs so hot that you hardly notice it.

When he hikes you higher up against his chest, you clench your fingers in his hair, whining when he takes your nipple into his mouth. Your gasp comes out sharp and hurt when the coarse bristles of his beard rub rough against your breast. He sucks at your breast tender at first, gentle, eyes half-lidded like his mind has gone somewhere else, but there’s a glint in his eye that grows wild and dark, that turns him rough. You don’t know what to do except shake and let him use you how he wants.

Desperation nips at your heels, urging you up the length of him. If you had more nerve, you’d reach down and grasp him under the water, notch the head of his member against your sex and sink right down on him. You need him like you've never needed anything before. Every part of you aflame, searing hot under the sun at its highest point; right overhead, right on top of you.

His teeth sink delicately into your areola, tongue lapping over your nipple to soothe the hurt, and suddenly, you break.

“Please—” you gasp, wrenching his mouth away from your breast and whimpering when he resists at first, glaring up at you like he might bite. “Please, John—I can’t take it. I need you.”

His eyes darken, the pupil swallowing everything up. “Need me where, wife? Here?”

A hand dips between your thighs, pointer finger gliding over your sex, plump with blood. So tender that your mouth hangs open on a whine when he touches you.

“Y-yes,” you whimper, gaze swimming.

John’s breath comes out in a harsh, ragged pant. Completely undone in a way you’ve never seen before. “Get out, darlin’. I’m taking you home. Gonna give you what you need.”

#ceil writing #cod mw2 #cod x reader #price/reader #john price/reader #price x reader #price x you #john price x reader #john price

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fixated-cookies · 7 days ago

Note

I have been going back and rereading your burning spice heat post over and over to the point where its concerning, and now all I can think about is other cookies that would also have heats because of their anatomy… If beast cookies can have heats, you think dragon cookies can? or would it be more like a rut or mating season… omg pitaya breeding kink my beloved (I thank you for feeding the burning spice lovers with smut because there is NOT enough content for this man… and pitaya, PITAYA I LOVE YOU AUGH-)

ahhh how a dragon like pitaya would behave in a dragonic rut? i got youuu. by the way i havent reached the lore point of him but i heard he went undercover eventually sometime in the hollyberry kingdom, but i'll just do normal pitaya cookie.

Unlike beasts with isolated ruts, Pitaya goes through mating seasons. Longer, cyclical, and cosmically charged. Every few years, when specific solar flares or energy alignments in Earthbread occur, all of their draconic instincts rise to the surface. It’s inescapable.

He hates how it makes him lose control but he secretly waits for it too. His body heats up—he’s steaming, his scales glow faintly, and his breath becomes heavier.

His pupils slit tighter, always tracking you.

He gets scent-drunk. Smelling you makes him sway like he’s drunk on pheromones.

His cock is constantly half-hard even when he’s snarling about something unrelated

“Ssstupid mating season… Can’t even think straight when you walk by.”

The first few days? He’s still smug. Still full of pride and fire. But the longer the season goes on, the more it strips away his civility.

You might find him growling at his own reflection. You might find claw marks in the stone wall. You will find him breathing down your neck when you’re alone, sniffing at your throat and whispering filth.

“You’re myss… Mine. You belong under me. Sssstuffed full. I can’t—can’t focus until you’re ssstuffed.”

By the middle of the season? He can’t even sleep. Just paces, touches himself, grinds against pillows, and always thinks of you.

DRAGON FORM? TOO BIG.

They’re massive, scaled, a literal ancient creature of destruction—and they can't do a single thing to you in that form.

Not safely. Not gently.

Not without breaking you.

Imagine the frustration.

They’re pacing as a dragon, cock too heavy to twitch without lava pooling under them, breath ragged from the mere scent of you. But you're too small.

Too fragile.

“Tch. Ussselessss—this form is uselessss!”

So they transform down into Cookie form for relief.

Smaller—but just barely manageable.

Claws still too sharp. Tail still twitching. Teeth bared even as they try to be gentle.

And now their cock feels oversized even for their Cookie body, flushed dark red, angrily throbbing as if all that dragon heat got stuffed into a more limited shell.

“Even thisss body… it’s still too much for you.” As he pounds your guts out

“And yet… look at you. Splitting for me. Sssso brave…”

The Frustration of Holding Back

Every second Pitaya isn’t transformed feels wrong to them. They’re meant to dominate, to loom, to claim from above. But instead they’re forced to kneel just to stuff themselves into you.

Forced to press slow…

...when their instincts demand they maul.

They hiss in frustration between thrusts—trying not to shred the bedding, trying to hold your hips still with trembling claws. The heat of the dragon form still simmers under their dough.

“I’m doing this for you. Holding back. Crushing it down… So you can still ssstand tomorrow.”

But your tiny body clenching around them? Your scent on their tongue?

It’s not enough.

“I want to knot you and roar until the mountains ssplit. But thiss—Thiss will have to do. For now.”

AHABFEHSHAHFB DRAGONSSS

Also EWWW why is it formatted so weird on mobile

#pitaya dragon cookie x reader #pitaya dragon cookie #pitaya dragon cookie smut #pitaya dragon crk #crk smut #smut

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i2rizz · 2 months ago

Note

Hello!

I really like the Parts from "no way he pulled that" and i was wondering if you could do a Part. 4 but with Kurona? I am not Sure but i kinda think that Kurona fits for these oneshots? If not you can totally ignore this request,only write it if you are comfortable with it!

Have a great day!☆

Why are yall so invested in the no way he pulled that concept so muchh? Because atp i might as well have written for over half the bllk cast

Anyways sure kurona is such a bbg exept im losing ideas what to write for this concept

No Way He Pulled That Pt.9

The only reason Kurona even showed up to this godforsaken "mandatory team bonding beach day" was because Ego probably threatened to replace his organs with soccer balls if he didn't.

So now here he was, lying half-submerged in sand like a sad lizard, hoodie still on, trying to tune out the chaos around him. Bachira had already declared himself king of the volleyball net. Isagi was explaining beach ball physics like someone had asked. Rin? Sitting under a beach umbrella, silently judging everyone like Poseidon had wronged him personally.

And Kurona? He was sipping his coconut water, headphones in, eyes closed.

That is—until the chaos shifted. The volume dipped, the conversations faltered, and suddenly, the sun itself seemed to pause in the sky.

"Ranzyyy!" a voice called, sickly sweet and prob filled with mischief.

Every single Blue Lock boy turned.

Marching across the sand, dragging a leopard-print cooler behind her, came her. Loud, bright, effortlessly hot—like someone who would’ve been the lead singer in a punk-pop band and a part-time hot sauce reviewer. Everything about her screamed chaotic sunshine: crop top with rhinestones, skirt too short for decency, star-shaped sunglasses, glitter body oil. And the person she was looking at?

Kurona Ranze

Reo literally froze mid-sip of his smoothie. Bachira's head whipped around so fast he almost dislocated something. Rin blinked in a way that could only be described as existentially disturbed. Even Kaiser looked offended by the audacity.

She plopped beside Kurona like it was the most natural thing in the world, cracked open a soda, and leaned against his side with a smug, "Miss me, baby?"

Kurona—deadpan, unbothered Kurona—smiled. “Of course”

Cue utter collapse of everyone’s collective brain cells.

"That’s his girlfriend??" Reo stage-whispered like it was illegal.

"There’s no way. He doesn’t even speak" Isagi muttered.

"She looks like she eats glitter" Rin said flatly.

Bachira gasped. "She probably does! That’s so cool!"

The worst part? Kurona was so chill about it. Like he didn’t just shatter the entire universe’s understanding of him in five seconds. She poked his cheek and called him "Ranzeezy" He even let her braid a little piece of his hair and clip in a sparkly butterfly barrette—without flinching.

Actually? he was just vibing. Calm. At peace. Hands her his drink. Compliments her nails. Looks like he's about to propose right there on the beach towel surrounded by seashells.

"I'm sorry, what the hell is going on" Isagi mutters, too stunned to be fake polite about it.

Eventually someone-probably Reo, he was twitching the most-cracks.

“Brother. How??” he hisses.

Kurona blinked at him, lazily. "I said hi to her at a juice bar"

"JUST HI?!"

"She said she liked my socks"

"Socks???"

"And then she kissed me"

Kaiser, absolutely livid, turned to Isagi. "You’ve been breaking down every tactical formation in history for months and this guy scores because of SOCKS!?"

"Unbelievable" Rin mumbled, still staring.

"She kissed you because of your socks?"

Another shrug. "They had cartoon sharks on them"

Kaiser is one second away from rage-quitting reality. "You mean to tell me this entire time we've been training like lunatics and you scored a girlfriend because of shark socks?!"

Kurona: "Basically"

Bachira looked like he was about to start taking notes.

Meanwhile, she was now lounging on Kurona’s towel, making a sand heart around them and sticking little shells in his hood. He just... let her. Didn’t complain. Didn’t flinch. Just leaned back and said, "Looks cute"

And that’s when they knew—

There was absolutely no way he pulled that

#anime #blue lock #x reader #bllk x y/n #x y/n #bllk #blue lock x reader #bllk x reader #anime and manga #manga #kurona ranze #bllk kurona #blue lock kurona #kurona x reader #oneshot

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delilahsturniolo · 2 months ago

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⟡ ݁₊ welcome to the end of the world! (please leave your sanity at the door.)

𝒊𝒏 𝒘𝒉𝒊𝒄𝒉 . . . four friends: nick, matt, chris, and you—find themselves stuck together at the end of the world, trying to survive a zombie apocalypse with nothing but their wits, a questionable supply of snacks, and zero emotional maturity. you’re just trying to stay alive without losing your mind—or falling for someone on the team.

𝒘𝒂𝒓𝒏𝒊𝒏𝒈𝒔 . . . mentions of blood and weapons, cursing, romantic tension and slow burn, i don’t really know what else?

CHAPTER THREE: THE GREAT TWINKIE HEIST

read more parts here!

you’re not saying you’re fully adjusted to the zombie apocalypse, but you have accepted that your morning cardio now includes at least one near-death sprint, your social circle is three dudes and a cat, and the only skincare routine available involves rainwater and hope. still, there’s something kind of beautiful about the mornings. that weird quiet. the soft orange sky. the way the light bounces off broken glass and turns everything a little bit gold.

also, matt looks unfairly good in this lighting and it’s starting to piss you off.

you’re walking in your usual formation—nick leading with his clipboard like he’s navigating a hostile spreadsheet, chris arguing with a pigeon for dominance, and matt by your side, steady and silent, one hand always resting near his crowbar like he’s just waiting for something to go wrong.

and honestly? same.

“we need more snacks,” chris announces loudly, stepping over what was probably a person once and is now mostly goo and blood. “we’re running dangerously low on morale. and by morale, i mean twinkies.”

“we have one twinkie left,” nick says without looking up. “we are not wasting it on your emotional support sugar habit.”

“my emotional support sugar habit is the only thing keeping this group together,” chris snaps. “ask lieutenant whiskers.”

you pat the cat’s head, tucked awkwardly into the crook of chris’s arm. “you’re doing amazing, sweetie.” matt chuckles quietly beside you. you glance at him, and he meets your eyes for a moment longer than normal. it’s subtle. just a flicker. a heartbeat. but it’s enough to make your stomach flip like a bad mattress.

he looks away first. you pretend that doesn’t matter. nick stops in front of a busted-up gas station, holding his clipboard like it’s sacred text. “this is it.” nick says, you raise your eyebrows and look at the writing on his clipboard.

snack potential: high.

fuel possibilities: medium.

risk level: let’s just assume yes

“i swear if this one has another jump-scare raccoon, i’m quitting the apocalypse,” you mutter.

“you can’t quit the apocalypse,” matt says, smirking. you glance at him, and god help you, he’s got that same half-smile, the one he only pulls out when he’s teasing you. it’s annoying. and distracting. and also maybe the only thing giving you serotonin these days.

the station is surprisingly intact. shelves are dusty but not completely empty, and—miracle of miracles—there’s no immediate moaning or shuffling. nick starts scanning the area like he’s performing a forensic audit. chris immediately grabs a pair of novelty sunglasses with little flames on the sides and puts them on. “call me blaze.”

“no,” you and matt say at the same time. you glance at each other, amused. he looks like he wants to say something else, but instead he turns and disappears behind an aisle.

you linger near the snack section, picking through mostly empty boxes and wondering if anyone in this world ever stored something as useful as chocolate.

“hey,” matt calls quietly from the back. “over here.” you wander over and find him crouched by a half-broken shelf. he pulls out a dusty but very real box of twinkies and holds it up like a prize.

“holy shit,” you whisper. “told you they’d survive the end of the world,” he says, handing it to you. “figured you earned it.” you blink. “what, for my deeply sarcastic commentary and ability to not trip over my own feet for once?”

he smiles again—soft this time. quieter. “for always watching everyone’s back. even when you pretend you’re not.” and there it is again—that moment. the pause. the way the air changes, thickens, stretches between you like something waiting to be said.

you’re suddenly aware of how close he’s standing. of the way his eyes linger on your face, not just your eyes, but your mouth too. of how your fingers brush as he hands you the box and how neither of you pulls away right away. your heart is way too loud. you’re ninety percent sure he can hear it.

“you’re not so bad yourself,” you murmur, meaning it more than you probably should.

matt opens his mouth to reply—but then there’s a crash near the front counter and chris yelling, “i swear this is self-defense!” followed by the unmistakable sound of a keychain display being obliterated.

you sigh. romance? never heard of her.

by the time you reach the front, chris is standing over a now-defeated display rack, sunglasses still on, holding up a plastic toy shaped like a lizard. “i named him toaster.”

“why?” nick asks, voice filled with dread.

“because he’s warm and his head pops off.”

“we’re leaving,” nick says, pinching the bridge of his nose. “now.”

you step outside with your twinkies, still vaguely flustered from the whole almost-a-moment thing. matt walks beside you again, his arm brushing yours more than once. you don’t pull away. neither does he.

it’s fine. totally fine.

except for the part where four zombies shamble around the corner with that signature death groan and-eyed shuffle.“incoming!” you shout, already pulling on your blade.

“split up!” nick yells. “circle back to the alley!”

everyone bolts. chris takes off in one direction with lieutenant whiskers clinging to his hoodie like a tiny, judgmental backpack. nick follows him with a shout of “do not climb the fountain again!” and you and matt head the other way, ducking through a crumbling alley and jumping a low fence like apocalypse olympians.

you land hard and stumble. for a terrifying second, your ankle rolls—just slightly—but enough to make you wince. matt’s there instantly, steadying you with one hand on your waist.

you freeze. so does he.

his hand lingers a moment longer than necessary. you’re close. too close. his breath brushes your cheek. your heart is doing the macarena.

“you okay?” he asks, voice low. careful.

you nod, trying not to melt. “just graceful as ever.”

he smiles a little. “you always land on your feet.”

you don’t know if he means it metaphorically or not. you don’t ask. you don’t trust your voice right now. “come on,” he says finally. “we’ll catch up with the others.”

he doesn’t let go of your hand right away. you don’t let go either. and maybe it means something. maybe it doesn’t. but it feels like something. something that’s building. something slow, and quiet, and maybe just a little dangerous.

but then again, what isn’t?

you survived the day. you have twinkies. you almost held a boy’s hand on purpose. and only two zombies tried to eat you.

honestly? that’s a win.

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saeun · 1 year ago

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ㅤᡣ𐭩ㅤ◟ the infamous instagram live. . . ! ── gojo satoru ﹕ jujutsu kaisen.

﹙ rookie mistake ﹚ ⊹ being a new-gen actor had its perks. it's easy to gain a fanbase, gain recognition, and easy for your show to go viral. what's not easy, however, is privacy. someone's bound to expose..

love, ‘su › the comments are typed out like “@cuntcarti: heyyy” for authenticity bc i am not recreating a real ig live in smau format #lazy

“hey guys! what's up?” satoru's oddly close to the camera. his nose being the most prominent feature in everyone's screen.

he's been on tour for jujutsu kaisen's new movie and it's been far too hectic. if it weren't for the luxurious hotel's service, he would've died in between schedule. the hours the crew were allowed to slumber slowly decreased: from eight to five to three to twenty-five minutes — just unnecessarily busy.

aside from experiencing the dark side to being an actor, he enjoys the fame. the attention that comes with it is nothing compared to the lightheaded feelings he feels everytime it's 8pm. being a crazed attention seeker is the main reason why he's live when he really, really should be asleep.

@satonuts: tilt the phone down lets see whats there

@daily-jjk: back up a little..

@nanamiroleplay: how's it been?

@tojiggle: drop the pants

“god forbid a man gets close to his screen,” he jokingly grumbles, shifting his position to laying down on his pillow.

now the view's better: his arm's stretched upwards to allow half of his upper body to be in frame. of course, he's shirtless. what's an attention seeker without being half naked? nothing! there's a small-sized silver chain around his neck; dare the fandom admit, it adds a special flavour... perhaps this shall be their new lockscreen.

@daily-jjk: my fault king

@itasaki: i love you <3 i told my father about us <3

@tojiggle: drop the pants

@crazygetofan: is geto around?

reading the last comment, satoru does the lick -lips-and-bite-lower-lip combination.

“yeah, but he's in the shower—” he pauses and furrows his eyebrows, “no, i'm not gonna show you butt-naked suguru.”

@crazygetofan: worth a shot bye

@stsgshipper25: its bc he's hiding his bf!!

@fushigurosbitch: @stsgshipper25 wym im right here ??

@tojiggle: drop the pants

he doesn't respond to any comments, nor does he make any stupid comment himself. he's silently admiring himself while going through a bunch of saved filters. while satoru was too immersed in loving himself, he failed to notice suguru entering the room.

it's a win-lose situation that'll occur here. the win is obviously suguru making his entry which would mean that he'd join in satoru's live. the lose here is that he has a big mouth. suguru's mouth talks before his mind analyzes the outcome of what he'll say.

suguru walks over to the space in between his bed and satoru's, fiddling with the items on the bedside table until his hands fall on satoru's wallet. like a moth to a flame, he mindlessly opens it, counting the bills and how much it totals up to.

“damn, satoru, you only have ninety dollars?”

“don't out me like that, bro,” a sigh leaves satoru, “there's a reason i have a card.”

“alright bro.”

@crazygetofan: show me my man

@jjkhateropbetter: nah dawg u broke

@tojiggle: drop the pants

@satonuts: @tojiggle QUIT IT

“anyway guys,” satoru stands up, “let's have a mukbang.”

walking towards the television stand, satoru slams his hand on the chips, gripping it like it's the last time he'll ever have a meal. once he acquired his meal, he goes back to the bed, propping the phone with stacked pillows so he's in frame when he sits.

suguru can be seen in the background, pacing around the room in a white robe that's loosely tied. this was more than enough for the geto suguru fans that joined satoru's live for that purpose.

“wait bro,” suguru calls out to satoru but doesn't turn to him. he's occupied with rubbing moisturiser into his cheeks vigorously.

satoru hums, acknowledging his roomate. he, too, doesn't look at suguru.

“did you get the thing for (y/n)? you've been talking about that all day.”

satoru's silent. this time he's not falling in love with himself. the chip that's halfway into his mouth falls. can he consider this to be doxxing? no way suguru just did him like that.

“...oh come on, bro.” his shoulders drop. a clear indication of disappointment.

as suguru's still has his back turned to satoru, he's unaware of his expression and thinks that his comment was meant for him to shut up about the gift/souvenir. after all, suguru has been teasing satoru about it.

“seriously? you still haven't figured out what to get your girlfriend? lame ass.”

“can you say it any louder?!”

“YOUR GIRL— what the fuck?”

satoru forces him silent by throwing the air conditioner's remote at him. it worked, kind of. if only it had an effect on his rapidly beating heart. he's now anxious and a tad bit afraid to look at the comments.

slowly, his eyes glance at the comments. they sure are coming in fast!

@itasaki: killing myself <3

@fuckgojo_wasdailyjjk: cant have shit on earth

@jjkhateropbetter: nah dawg u gonna get jumped

@tojiggle: don't drop the pants

@miadollypie: check out twitter link in bio for spicy stuff

@chosoballs: couldnt be my man!

@kystoru: @chosoballs thats why yo bitch dying next season

@chosoballs: ?

@fwkuna: love seeing ppl i hate miserable

@fushigurosbitch: they gonna break up next two weeks

@satonuts: guys rmbr we do not know satoru irl, be nice

@fwkuna: @satonuts ykdw ur crying on the inside

@satonuts: @fwkuna DIE

the comments are overflowing in such a speed that it overwhelms even satoru. he swallows hard, switching his eyes to suguru.

suguru's back to busying himself with his skincare routine, unaware of the damages he's done.

‘fuck,’ he curses in his mind, nervously laughing before he speaks up.

“oh boy, would you look at the time!” he says ever-so enthusiastically. “i'll see you guys later, sleep well, ‘kay?”

“huh? why'd you end it?” the damager dealer questions, turning around to finally face satoru with a charcoal facemask on. it's good for whiteheads!

“ask one more fucking questions and i'm killing us both.”

the aggressive comments makes suguru recoil. he didn't expect that — he's also confident that he did nothing of the sort to result in such violence.

“damn, did she block you or something? i get it, i get it. i'd be mad too.” he nods, showing satoru that he understands and feels for his friend.

satoru's face twists in annoyance. the man gifts suguru a middle finger before he moves the chips onto the bedside table.

he's tired now. not in the sleepy way, though. in the ‘what am i gonna do now’ way. nothing good comes up in mind to lessen the damage on the internet, so he falls back on the bed.

with his phone face down and an arm over his eyes, he tries his best to sleep.

#. ae-generated: jujutsu kaisen #was scrolling kpop twt n lwk nctzens would be jjkfans if they were kpop #jjk x reader #gojo x reader #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x you #jjk x y/n #gojo x you #gojo x y/n #jjk fluff #jjk scenarios #gojo fluff #gojo satoru fluff #gojo scenario #jujutsu kaisen x reader #jjk x fem!reader

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astro-stars · 5 months ago

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can your horns be used as handles (TWST

The dimly lit, atmospheric common room of Diasomnia was alive with the faint crackle of a magical fireplace. Yuu sat at a table strewn with notes, quills, and books, working diligently on a project with Sebek. Well, Sebek was working diligently, his handwriting precise and his focus unwavering. Yuu, on the other hand, was half-distracted, their mind wandering as they stared at the intricate patterns of the dorm’s decor.

It wasn’t until Malleus entered the room, his regal presence as commanding as ever, that Yuu’s thoughts crystallized into a single, burning question that had been lingering in their mind for weeks. They glanced at Sebek, who was muttering about the importance of proper formatting, and then at Malleus, who had taken a seat on the nearby couch with Lilia and Silver.

Without thinking, Yuu blurted out, “Hey, Malleus, can you feel your horns?”

The room went silent. Sebek froze mid-sentence, his quill poised in the air as if someone had just declared open war on the Thorn Fairy herself. Lilia’s lips curled into an amused smile, while Silver blinked slowly, clearly trying to process the sudden shift in conversation. Malleus, for his part, tilted his head slightly, his expression one of mild curiosity.

“My horns?” Malleus repeated, his deep voice tinged with intrigue. “What an unusual question, child of man. May I ask what brought this to mind?”

Yuu flushed but pressed on, their curiosity outweighing their embarrassment. “I’ve just been wondering. Like, are they sensitive? Can you feel them the same way you feel your hands or something?”

Sebek’s face turned an alarming shade of red. “HUMAN! How dare you ask such a personal question of the Young Master?!” he bellowed, his voice reverberating through the room. “Have you no sense of propriety?!”

“It’s fine, Sebek,” Malleus said calmly, raising a hand to silence him. “I find the question rather intriguing.” He turned his attention back to Yuu, his emerald eyes gleaming. “To answer your question: Yes, I can feel my horns, though not in the same way I feel my hands. They are part of me, but their sensitivity is… limited, shall we say.”

“Huh,” Yuu said, nodding thoughtfully. “That’s kind of cool. So, theoretically, if someone were to, I don’t know, use them as handles, would that… bother you?”

The silence that followed was deafening. Sebek looked like he was about to faint from sheer outrage, while Lilia burst into laughter, his voice ringing out like bells. Silver sighed, rubbing his temples, as if wondering why he even bothered to stay awake for these conversations.

Malleus blinked, his expression unreadable for a moment before his lips quirked into a faint smile. “Handles, you say?”

“Yuu!” Sebek shouted, his voice cracking. “That is utterly disgraceful! Apologize to the Young Master at once!”

Lilia wiped a tear from his eye, still chuckling. “Oh, Yuu, you truly are a delight. I don’t think I’ve ever seen Sebek this close to imploding.”

“I’m just curious!” Yuu defended, throwing up their hands. “It’s not like I’m actually going to try it or anything. I just… wondered.”

Malleus regarded Yuu for a moment longer before nodding slowly. “I see no harm in curiosity, as long as it remains respectful. However, I would advise against using my horns as… handles, as you put it. They are still a part of me, after all.”

“Fair enough,” Yuu said, grinning sheepishly. “Thanks for answering, though. I’ve been wondering about that for a while.”

Sebek groaned, burying his face in his hands. “Why does the Young Master tolerate this insolence?!”

Silver patted Sebek on the shoulder, his voice calm. “Relax. It’s not worth losing sleep over.”

Lilia leaned back in his seat, clearly enjoying the chaos. “Well, this has certainly been the most entertaining study session I’ve witnessed in years. Carry on, Yuu. You make life in Diasomnia much more lively.”

Yuu laughed nervously, returning to their project. They made a mental note to think twice before letting their curiosity get the better of them again—though they couldn’t help but feel a tiny bit proud for making Malleus smile.

TAGLIST: @soramcduckahyucky

BORDER: me!

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twistedpink · 3 months ago

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DND/Fantasy Au! 1/2

I’m just scratching the surface of my dnd rediscovery, and Ofc I have to make it hot lolz,, Hope you enjoy! (I’ll make the other parts depending on my motivation. Expect freaky Riddle.) You’ll find the format is:

-How he joins the party

-What he does on your adventure

-How he keeps the captain happy ;) SUGGESTIVE

Half-Orc!Trey Clover

-Whether he’s some mayor’s son, or the blacksmith’s apprentice in town, even the milkman, you can’t remember. Trey Clover is your very best friend, and you can’t imagine setting off without him! He’s the most average man you’ve ever met, and you’re begging him to join your party. It’s just so tough being a beginner adventurer- No one’s willing to hire anyone less than meat shield size, and you’re far too poor for guild advertisements,, Isn’t Trey such a pal for offering to sleep in the woods with you? Just like old times, right??

-Trey doesn’t spend his time on the road just lounging, not when you have so much to do! It’s a once in a lifetime experience for a “vacation” like this for the two of you small town fish, and he’s determined to make the most of it- He wakes up early to cook, and carts your tools around until sundown. It’s exhausting, but he wouldn’t have it any other way <3 If you really need to make it up to him, you should try your best and have fun! This trip’s mostly his way of saving up for a home to fit the two of you in, but you don’t need to know that :D He’ll tie you down someday, just you wait!!

-He’s just SO big now in comparison to his awkward youth, it’s almost overwhelming,, You gawk at him being the team pack mule, and even if it’s just the two of you for now, it’s still a lot to carry. His biceps strain with effort- Sweat races across his brow, and you’re done for. You’ll forever be thanking gods above and below for not giving him eleven hearing, as it’d be impossible to explain away how many times you’ve casted “mirror image” in the night,, You can’t help wondering what the real thing tastes like, and he can’t wait to let you take a bite <3

Tiefling!Cater Diamond

-You’re ashamed to admit it.. But you, pretty boys, and alcohol don’t mix- Rather, they mix a little too well,, You’d left Trey at camp after a minor disagreement, he keeps jumping in front of you during battle, and it’s starting to become a problem without the presence of a healer. He really is too sweet for his own good,, The last time you saw him bleeding out, you were terrified of losing him. So you may have hooked up with a miscellaneous tiefling for comfort,, You’d always been into tails. When Trey came with you into town the next day, he was desperate for your approval, and you used it to move some coin around for hiring Cater Diamond- The “Lyrically devious arcane genius - The bard that doesn’t disappoint”. Today was a good day. NOT for Trey, mind. He famously doesn’t get along with the playboy type, and that’s exactly what you’re going for :)

-It’s a little underwhelming to watch Cater’s performance at camp, especially in comparison to Trey’s maximum effort philosophy. Sure, he’s handy in a fight and entertaining around the fire, but you’re totally getting the vibe he wants to jump your bones- Not that you’re opposed, but a certain half-orc certainly is.. In an attempt to rationalize using Cater’s sensitive horns for a “tactical advantage”, you indirectly neglect your best bud :( He can handle you having other friends, but nobody likes feeling abandoned,, He’s cheered up with song and dance soon enough, and they’re a bonded pair in no time! Nothing could ever disturb that balance, right?

-Cater, an everpresent plague on your life and party, gets the two of you “sex-pollened” at least every couple gigs- If you thought Trey didn’t like your group stray before, he sure as hells doesn’t like the damn gecko after having to feed your asses around the fire when he knows you’ve been sexed up (Magic Mushroom Style) the entire time he’s been training. You guys suck and he’d get better pay somewhere else- but seeing his captain smile’s the best feeling in the world :D Please stop inviting him for group sex in the woods. You can’t handle all of that.

Cleric!Leona

-You’re woken up at the swanky inn you’re staying in to a murder mystery in town square- Cater and Trey follow groggily behind you, guided by your insistence to catch the killer. A local temple offers to pay for your detective work, and give you a cleric for the road! He’s standoffish, and a little intimidating, but you’re no stranger to breaking the ice,, By the end of the ordeal, the killer is caught, and Leona is bequeathed to you- As a reward. You look him up and down, all ornate jewelry and lithe muscle. You’re going to have fun with this :)

-Every day, you wonder how this guy ever payed the bills without you. And every day, you’re reminded he didn’t have to. Fucking nobles. He sunbaths for hours at a time- Leaving everyone else to set his tent up and cook his dinner, and he’s such a brat about it! “Well, I didn’t ask you to do that” “and if I didn’t?” “I.. Wouldn’t like you very much, cap’.” Have you even mentioned his robes? Because god, the robes. He’s barely dressed half the time, and what’s worse, is that he’s a trendsetter. You barely see Trey with a shirt on anymore.. Not that you’re complaining, but it’s unprofessional!!

-You’re so, so lucky his service doesn’t require a vow of chastity, lest your healing stick (tm) be banned from use.. He’d be impossible to resist anyways, and you’re certain he’s used those swaying hips and skimpy robes against countless others- What his sweet, stupid captain doesn’t know though, is how much more effort he’s been putting into his appearance on the road. He’s never been ugly by any measure, of course, but he gets a wicked pleasure out of squashing the hopes and dreams of your “creepling” whenever the opportunity strikes.. He’s tired of the brat getting special privileges around camp, and Leona’s more than ready to show him just who’s top dog. That’s his captain, and he wants everyone to know it <3

@bju3c0re @echosofmortality

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dallaji · 2 years ago

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Control Freak.

♡ bada lee x reader / NSFW❗❗❗

SUMMARY: Your girlfriend doesn’t like giving up the reins, but perhaps with some gentle urging she will finally let loose. Even if it's just for a little bit.

WORD COUNT: 4.7k

CW: PORN WITHOUT PLOT (like leech rallay NO plot), established relationship, reader is a power bottom and bada is perplexed!! befuddled!!11, bada with a strap, toys.

AUTHOR’S NOTE: please don't kill me for not releasing a request. (〃´▽`〃) this has been in my drafts for a while, so i decided to finish it. kind of experimental / out of my comfort zone, but hopefully still enjoyable!!1 not proofread yet btw.

————— ୨୧ —————

Bada always needed to be in control.

You had noticed when you first met her.

That particular club had never been on your radar before, but your friends dragged you along and the crowd and music were decent enough. It had only taken fifteen minutes of you dancing around strangers, the heavy bass of the music controlling the sway of your body, until a pair of magnetic eyes met yours from across the room.

Something about her beckoned you, the anticipation blooming in your stomach. Even when her arm had snaked around your lower back, signaling to any passersby that she had staked her claim, Bada couldn’t help but glance over to her friends every once in a while; making sure they weren’t going overboard with drinking. Before she took you to her place she checked in on each and every one of them, her hand never leaving your lower back.

When Bada had invited you to watch one of her dance classes, you immediately picked up on her ability to command the room. When her students performed the taught choreo back to her, Bada's eagle-like eyes searched for any out-of-place formations or unsharp movements. If anyone was off the beat, she would make them redo the entire routine start to finish. Not in a draconian way, but with words of encouragement, only ever wanting to see them give their very best.

You noticed again on one of your first dates. After offering to cook for her that evening, Bada insisted on tagging along with you to the grocery store. She had wricked the basket from your hand straight away with a half smile. Without even needing to, she reached any tall shelf regardless.

Once settled in your small one bedroom apartment, Bada had lurked over your shoulder with curious eyes like a patient puppy, watching you prepare the meal. Before you could even ask, she handed you whichever utensils or ingredients were needed. All that despite your constant urging to have her sit back and relax.

Instead, Bada shook her head with a bashful smile: “I want to help.” Is what she had said.

You noticed in more private settings, too.

Whenever she made you orgasm, she would lock your legs in place and deliberately hold down the thrashing of your limbs. Bada wanted to feel you lose yourself to her, and never make you forget who got you to that point.

Her hungry gaze didn't leave your face, as if she needed to commit every expression to memory. “That’s it, baby,” She’d coax, “So good for me.”

When she wore the familiar harness with her strap-on, she immediately had you bent over in a perfect angle; a hand on the back of your neck to keep you exactly where she wanted you as she pistoned her hips against you. As soon as you got close, she would pull out with a giggle, only to move you onto your back; hoisting your legs over her shoulders to see how far she could edge you along.

Sometimes you wanted to return the favor: “Let me make you feel good,” You would whisper against her lips, Bada panting underneath you as her hands found purchase on your hips.

Despite her unwavering dedication in keeping you pliant, you were desperate to give back to her. So you would throw a leg over her waist in a foolhardy attempt to lock her into place, and Bada followed your every motion with a lovestruck expression.

However, once your fingers pressed into her, half-lidded eyes meeting yours, her hand would curl around your wrist: sometimes dictating your motions, and sometimes just to keep a tight hold on you. A silent reminder of who is in charge.

And despite this clear-cut dynamic in the bedroom, neither of you ever cared for strict roles. It wasn’t something you had ever explicitly discussed. You worked her up just as much as she did you. Some days you were both desperate for it, one shoving the other against a wall after a long week of barely getting to see each other; other days the two of you giggled under the sheets, the early morning rise peeking through the blinds as soft pants filled the room.

Yet the outcome was always the same. Completely surrendering yourself to her as she, almost obsessively, found new ways to have you exactly the way she wanted you.

You didn’t mind, though, as it was so inherently Bada. Soft, yet capable; kind, but forthright; sometimes shy, though always poised.

But sometimes, you wondered.

After a particularly stressful day, she would lay you down on the bed and put on her strap without you even imploring her to do so. Wearing her harness, she could sometimes come from just watching your eyes roll back as she fucked into you, the suction on the back of the strap rubbing against her mound at just the right angle.

Other times, you pushed your hand down her harness, fingers circling her folds in an attempt to keep up with the unforgiving pace of her hips.

But most of the time, she would hold your hands over your head or against your back, and intently watch you come undone, not paying attention to her own pleasure whatsoever.

It almost seemed to be cathartic for her, having such a control over you when her grueling schedule was something she simply underwent. When her professional life had become hectic, she barely found the energy to say ‘no’ to things. She would come to your place with tense muscles and a tired smile, but never too tired to pull you into the bedroom with a meaningful look in her eyes. You were more than willing to give her that release. What were you if not at her disposal?

But you still wondered. You believed that, from time to time, it was healthy to let go of the reins. Perhaps finding a way to relinquish at least a little bit, allowing herself to unravel in your hold, could help her blow off steam too.

You had an idea, and what better time to try it than today?

Bada had started her day with an early photoshoot and ended it with a filmed interview. Once she had reached your apartment, you already had takeout food laid out on the table for her. She greeted you with a warm embrace, pressing a tender kiss on your lips before digging in.

With a mouthful of fried rice, she complained about unfriendly hairstylists and bad traffic, rubbing at her temples to will away a commencing headache. You listened intently before sharing your own frustrations with a project at work; Bada squeezed your hand, urging you to take a break from time to time. You chuckled at the irony. Look who’s talking.

“I have a day off tomorrow,” Bada said nonchalantly, scooping some leftover slices of beef into her bowl.

“Good thing I changed my sheets today.” You replied teasingly, stealing some of her beef.

Bada looked up at you with a mischievous grin.

Soon after you were on your bed entirely naked, panting and sensitive all over, as Bada hunched over you in nothing but her underwear. She had been teasing you relentlessly, dragging her fingernails up and down your thighs as she scattered hickeys across your skin, tonguing at each bruise she created.

"Tell me what you want, princess." She mouthed against the soft skin of your inner thigh, before her teeth pressed down in a lovebite.

"Want to get fucked," You managed to rasp, your fingers tangling into the locks of her hair.

She hummed thoughtfully, as if she was deciding on what to eat for dinner, and you felt the reverberations against your skin: "It has been a while, hasn't it?" Her tongue licked a long stripe along the area where your cunt and thigh met, her fingertips squeezing into your quivering legs; holding them still.

It was difficult to stay focused with Bada winding you up as much as she did, but you managed to find a stable enough voice to speak: "I- I want to try something new, though..."

"Oh?” She glanced up at you from in between your legs, her mouth slick from the kisses she had left all over you.

You nodded timidly, slowly moving to sit up. Bada followed suit, watching you curiously with her hands resting atop your thighs.

From your bedside drawer you pulled a small box, quickly opening it and placing the contents on the bed. Bada raised her eyebrows.

It was a small pink bullet vibrator, and a remote.

You watched Bada do the math in her head.

“Do you want to have both…?” You almost choked on your spit, flustering not only at her suggestion but the way she seemed incredibly interested in the prospect.

“No! I want you to… wear this, while also wearing your strap,” You muttered, feeling more embarrassed by the second. Bada’s mouth formed a small ‘o’, and you continued hurriedly: “I think it would feel good, for the both of us.”

The way Bada smiled was almost cheshire-like, and she slowly pushed you down on the bed again, a newfound eagerness in her ministrations that let you breathe a sigh of relief. “Does my baby think she can handle it?” She spoke with a cloyingly sweet lilt to her voice, and you had to swallow the bratty remark on the tip of your tongue.

Of course Bada could not conceive of herself not being able to handle it- she was still under the impression that you would be the main receiver here.

Before you could think of something to respond, Bada placed the remote and the vibrator in your hand, pressing her lips into the crook of your neck.

“Go ahead. Put it in.” She whispered, and all you could do was obey with an eagerness that left you mortified.

As her lips parted against the sensitive skin of your neck, the tip of her tongue drawing circles, your hand moved into her underwear; you rolled the bullet along the front of her heat, fingers reaching to feel the wetness of her folds. Bada hummed encouragingly, her own hands clinging onto your hips.

You moved further down, coating the bullet with her wetness and letting it aid you when you slowly pushed it into her entrance with the tip of your finger. It earned you a soft moan from Bada, who let out a shuddered breath against your collarbones.

Before you retreated your hand, you made sure to cup her into the palm of your hand, fingers gliding along her folds. You loved how wet she got, and so fast at that.

She sucked in a breath at your lingering touches, the sound turning into a mocking giggle. “Are you trying to tease me?”

You shuddered at the silent threat that hid behind her words, and shook your head bashfully. You promptly removed your hand, and Bada clicked her tongue in feigned indignance; but her eyes were still glazed with affection.

It was part of the game the both of you played, but you were still intent on reversing the roles at least a little bit.

Her hand came up to grab a tight hold on your face, fingertips digging into your cheeks as she forced you to meet her in a kiss. You made a desperate noise, immediately parting your lips for her as she kissed your breath away, tongue prodding against yours.

But she ended the kiss much too soon for your liking, and you chased after her mouth. The taller girl chuckled, pushing you flat against the bed a second time by the grip she had on your face. “Patience” is all she said before moving off the bed and rummaging through the drawer for something familiar.

The strap is a similar bright pink as the bullet, and your shuddered in anticipation. You were always mesmerized from the way Bada stepped into the harness. Everything about her body language alluded to how often she wore it; she hoisted it up and expertly tightened the belts around her hips. Bada was lean, yet soft in all the right places, and the way the straps of the harness hugged around her figure complimented the subtle formation of her abs.

Nothing was ever lost on her, so Bada shot you a lopsided grin when she noticed your hungry stare. She stalked back over to you, much too patient for your liking, and climbed back to her rightful spot between your legs. You held your breath as Bada sat up on her knees, her hands curling under your thighs before she tugged you closer to her with an almost predatory look in her eyes.

She manhandled you in place, and you leaned back on your elbows in surrender.

Her eyes raked along your figure underneath her and she leaned closer; the cold strap pressing against your navel. You subconsciously ground against it, but Bada was just beyond reach for there to be any satisfying friction.

She tilted her head playfully, a hand coming up to cradle the side of your face: “Do you want my fingers first, or can you take it?”

You sucked in your lower lip, bringing your hands to the firmness of her stomach. “I can take it,” You responded confidently.

She hummed quietly: “Of course you can,” The look Bada gave you almost turned you into putty, and she pulled your leg around her waist, tilting her hips in such a way that the near end of the strap pressed to your folds. You wanted to rub yourself against it, but you knew better than to defy Bada in a moment like this.

Her other hand moved in between the two of you and she felt at your wetness, just as you had done to her prior. Bada, however, didn’t hesitate before drawing circles against you, your head lolling to the side with a sharp breath. She brought the strap lower on purpose, digging it between your folds before coating it with your arousal, slicking it up.

You tried to stay still, but every slight roll of her hips had you jump at the sensitivity and you squeezed your eyes shut. That only made it worse however, as Bada took the opportunity to begin gliding the strap up and down against you, relishing in the shudders of your body. You weren’t looking, but you knew she was smiling.

She pressed a wet kiss to your collarbones and brought her hand to the base of her strap, angling her hips at your entrance. Teasingly, she prodded the tip of the strap against you and you were almost certain she was going to drag this out until she hoisted your hips onto her lap; pushing into you without a warning.

You gasped, clutching onto her waist as you felt the strap stretch your walls. The glide was familiar enough but you couldn’t help but feel full already. You loved the way she stuffed you.

With murmurs of encouragement, Bada grabbed a hold of your hip to push in all the way to the hilt with a sharp jerk, and the movement punched a moan out of you. You clutched onto the sheets as you spread your legs further apart, and Bada greedily crowded over you.

She pulled out until just the head of the strap was still buried in you, and gave you barely a second to breathe before slamming back inside. You dug your nails into the skin of her waist with a drawn-out whine.

The pace she set was immediately ruthless; a slow retreat before punching into you, her hip bones knocking against the back of your thighs with a slapping sound. Soon you became slack jawed, almost feeling drunk on pleasure. Bada’s hands had found purchase atop your breasts, squeezing them as her hips fucked into you, your nipples peeking from between her slender fingers.

“You take it so well,” Bada groaned, teeth gritting as she accelerated her thrusts. “It’s fucking amazing.”

If you hadn’t initiated this with a clear plan in mind, you could feel yourself come incredibly fast this way: Bada dominating you, who was so open and willing. Your head lolled to the side as the sound of skin on skin got louder.

Through the daze of pleasure coursing through your body, your hand managed to find the remote belonging to the bullet buried inside Bada. The taller girl didn’t notice what you were reaching for, much more focused on fucking you faster and harder.

Your fingers somehow managed to find the ‘on’-button, your body rocking back and forth as Bada fucked you, and you pressed on the first setting without warning.

Bada faltered with a curse on her lips as she felt the vibrator set off, hips momentarily freezing. She was still buried deep inside you, and you gasped. You could feel the light pulsing of the vibrating as well, and the thought made you lightheaded.

Bada found her footing again fast enough, an incredulous laugh falling from her lips. She brusquely grabbed a hold of your face, forcing you to look at her as she stared down with fiery eyes. She slipped back into her previously unforgiven pace, almost as if she didn’t feel the vibrator at all: “You do want to— tease me.” She stated, cooing, but almost interrupting her own words with a moan as the vibrator pulsed inside of her.

You shook your head despite the grip she had on your face: “No,” You moaned breathlessly, fighting the urge to meet her thrusts because it would surely get you to your orgasm much too fast. “Jus’ wanna see you come…”

Bada groaned at your words, leaning down to meet your lips in a messy kiss that was more tongue than anything else. She angled her hips sideways, hitting into a spot that she knew could drive you crazy, this time being no different. You moaned into her mouth and she swallowed greedily, the pace of her thrusts turning faster as you felt the vibrations through her strap.

It felt so good it was dizzying, but Bada still clearly had the upper hand here, and that was not how you wanted this to go.

You moved the vibrator one setting higher.

Bada almost keeled over at that, pressing the palms of her hands at either side of your head as her lips parted in a silent gasp. Once again her hips stuttered against you. The vibrations were stronger now: you felt it well enough through the strap buried deep inside of you.

You watched her intently through half-lidded eyes, hands moving to her hips with the remote still in your hold, tenderly caressing along her sides. Her eyes fell shut and she wetted her lips, hips jerking in small motions as she zoned in on the pleasure. Soft gasps were slipping from you at the shallow thrusts, but you did not dare to make her go faster or deeper. The sight hanging above you was much too beautiful.

Bada snapped out of a daze, as if she could read your mind, wild eyes meeting yours. With a tight hold on your thighs, she tugged you impossibly closer to her; her body falling on top of yours, chest to chest, and then she forced her strap deeper into you with a sharp thrust of her hips. You let out a shocked gasp, ankles crossing over her lower back as she hit the spot that made your toes curl. You could feel the vibrations even stronger now, and it seemed Bada was well aware.

“Should I make you come like this? With me staying still?” There was bite to her tone, and you mentally cursed yourself for the lewd moan that fell from your lips as she gave another thrust. You had to actively fight the urge of grinding down on the strap. You knew that, if you did, you would lose this game.

Bada rested her forehead against yours as she remained frozen, watching your every expression, but you noticed her breathing growing heavier by the second.

It was the sign you needed to press the button again, activating the second-to-last highest setting of the bullet.

“FUCK!” She hissed, burying her face in the crook of your neck as her hips flinched immediately.

You could hear her whine, a sound you rarely ever heard from her, and your mouth went dry.

You brought a hand to the back of her head, keeping her in place as your legs remained tight around her waist, heels digging into her lower back. The vibrating was maddening for you too, already feeling a red hot tension building up in your lower stomach, and you knew well enough from alone time how strong the third setting on the remote was.

You could tell she was still actively trying to take charge, but the soft pants against your neck betrayed her true state. Bada began thrusting in small motions, trying to get back to fucking you, but she was so clearly oversensitive from the bullet between her legs that every motion came with stutters.

While rubbing soothing circles into her scalp, you felt her thighs clench together. Bada’s hands gripped onto the sheets, and the messiness of her thrusts became all the more apparent.

Still, you wanted to push her further.

With the hold your legs had on her, you maneuvered Bada onto her back in one swift motion. She gasped in surprise and you groaned when the strap hit deeper into you, the buzzing of the vibrator sending chills along your spine.

You sat up with an arched back and looked down at her. In turn, Bada was already staring up at you with wide, frantic eyes; her face entirely red and bangs sticking to her forehead. Her lips were parted, and even though she was entirely bewildered, the adoration was easy to read from her expression. She was looking at you as if you were the only person in the universe, almost all her bite from earlier gone.

In a last ditch effort, her hands came to grab a hold of your hips but before she could start thrusting up into you, you turned on the final and highest setting before dropping the remote next to you.

You could see her eyes roll back, her hand coming up to cover her mouth. She was gritting her teeth, and from the way you pressed down on top of her you could feel the vibrations even clearer. With your palms pressed right above her breasts, you began to fuck yourself on her strap, your back arching even further as the pleasure ran through your body.

Bada squeezed her eyes shut, uncharacteristically motionless under you and still hiding her moans under her palm. You promptly wrenched her hand away from her face, pinning it next to her head and you didn’t know her pupils managed to become impossibly bigger.

“Let me hear you,” You whispered on top of her, and with a particularly hard thrust you dropped your hips down on her, making Bada’s body shake.

With that encouragement, you opened her floodgates. Her thighs squeezed together below you, and the moans that began spilling from her lips were completely obscene. She was jerking her hips once again, but no longer in an attempt to fuck you into submission; instead, she was frantically chasing after the unbearable pleasure.

Bada did not know what to do with her hands, one of them clutching onto your hip for dear life as the other balled into a fist next to her head. You angled your hips a bit differently to reach the spot that spurred you on, deftly bouncing on the strap and fucking yourself to completion.

Bada was no longer closing her eyes, staring up at you half lidded as if she never wanted to forget the sight of you on top of her. You, similarly, found her completely irresistible. Bringing your hand to her chin, you pressed your thumb to her lower lip and Bada immediately took your digit inside her mouth.

She was clearly in a daze, intoxicated from her ecstasy, because she was barely able to suck; instead dragging her tongue messily along your finger through short moans. You dug your thumb into the hollow of her cheek, and with that Bada involuntarily jerked her hips with a groan, punching up into you. It felt as if electricity ran down your spine, and you almost felt yourself orgasm right then and there.

Her hand came up to curl around your wrist, keeping your hand in place as her eyes threatened to fall shut at how overwhelmed she felt; the buzzing of the vibrator seemingly getting louder and louder as the both of you got closer to your release. The redness of her cheeks had cascaded down to her collarbones and her eyes were uncharacteristically wet.

You pulled your thumb away, Bada whining at that once again, but you instead grabbed a hold of her face; your wet thumb smearing her own saliva across her cheek, keeping your pace on the strap steady.

“You wanna come?” You asked softly, the delicateness in your voice betraying how much of a novice you were to this dynamic.

Bada, who still seemed to be coming to terms with the switch of your positions, could only nod, though her eyes said it all: she was completely desperate.

You began gyrating your hips at that, spurring yourself closer and closer to your orgasm with heavy pants. You were feeling the familiar coil in your lower stomach, and your body was begging for release.

“Come with me,” You pleaded, and Bada tightened her hold on your wrist as she took your index- and middle finger into her mouth, moaning deeply around your digits.

Something about that sight did you in. With a few more hard drops of your hips, the sound of your ass slamming down onto the top of her thighs filling the room, you came hard.

You dropped your head with a loud moan, fireworks coursing through your body and thighs shaking from the exertion of keeping yourself steady on top of her. In tandem with your orgasm, you felt Bada jerk violently underneath you.

She threw her head back, a silent moan stuck on her lips as your fingers slipped out of her mouth, but her grip on your wrist only tightened. Her knees came off the bed, and soon enough she was panting from the overstimulation of the vibrator still pulsing inside of her, while you were still grinding out your orgasm on her strap.

You had half a mind to grab the remote, your own motions coming to a halt when the sensitivity became too much, and turned off the bullet.

With a lot of effort, you managed to hoist yourself off the strap; hissing at the loss of fullness. Then, you dropped yourself next to Bada, who was trying to catch her breath, thighs absentmindedly rubbing together as she could still feel the phantom sensations of the violent vibrations from the bullet.

Bada turned her head to look at you, and before you could say anything she leaned over to kiss you deeply; head tilted and lips parted. Your hand came up to cradle the side of her face as her own arms circled around your waist, pulling you close to her.

“Thank you,” She muttered against your lips, her voice laced with something deeper as she scattered lazy kisses along your jaw, and you hummed in contentment.

“How are you feeling?” You asked, your fingers blindly searching for the belts of her harness.

“Tired…” She murmured, and you had to bite back a laugh. Now she knew how you felt after each time she had her way with you.

Finally, you found the straps of her harness and began to unbuckle them, helping her slip out of it. Subsequently, you lowered your hand down her panties and Bada huffed a breath, still sensitive.

You promptly removed the bullet and fixed her underwear back in place with a pat right on her crotch, purposefully forcing a reaction from her. She gasped once again, playfully glaring at you- or at least, attempting to do so. The taller girl was already on the brink of dozing off by the looks of it.

“Go to sleep,” You whispered, enveloping the both of you in a blanket with a final peck to her mouth; Bada pursing her lips a beat too late.

“You’ve got something else waiting for you in the morning…” Bada slurred with her eyes already shut.

#bada lee x reader #swf2 #bada lee #street woman fighter 2 #bada lee smut #dalla!writes #girlies....... . . i am sorry for whatever this is #2 out of 4 works ending with bada knocked tf out #i'm becoming a one trick pony

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solaiced · 7 months ago

Text

CASE 28: CHOSO KAMO AND YOU SHARE A POWER!

!content!: blood, period sex..?, eating out, choso is uneducated and not beta’d, literally drinking blood.

wc: 1,002

solace: the formatting is sooo weird…

｡･:*:･ﾟ★,｡･:*:･ﾟ☆

Choso, for his 150 years on Earth, does not know what a period is. Doesn't know why it happens, or how it affects someone. Sure, it hurts, he knows that. You've told him countless times. Cramps, you said.

But he somehow didn't understand that most people avoid having sex on these days, because, as you had explained, there's blood. Choso still doesn't get it. He means good. He doesn’t mind blood. But you did, apparently.

He thinks that you have connections to him and have a blood related cursed technique.

So you sat him down, one dreadful night, where you had your awful period, and walked him through every nook and cranny about having periods and the basics of the biological need for them.

"So... It's natural..." Choso inquires, and you nod, “but it hurts you? Because you’re not pregnant..." He seems salty about it, annoyed that women, when reaching a certain age, are pained because nature intended for them to get pregnant.

“Basically, yeah.” You’re happy he got it a tiny bit right.

"When did you get it?" He asks, and it takes a while to understand what he means.

“Uh, I think... At thirteen." You answer truthfully. Choso frowns.

“But that’s young…” Aw, he's so cute, worrying about this. Most men don't even think about it. You were so lucky to have him.

"Yean, but it's nature. Only way I can prevent them without getting pregnant is birth control and removing my uterus."

“So why don't you?" He pouts, cutie.

"Because I don't know if I want kids, and birth control has side effects I don't need right now." Chose looks at his phone and unlocks it, typing something. He's gotten used to phones, after Yuji taught him.

"Apparently, hot pockets are a good way to alleviate pain, did you know?" Of course you knew, but it's wholesome to know he's trying to help.

"Yeah, babe, I know."

"And making love, too!" The half curse exclaims, which could only mean one thing. He wants to help.

So, now you're in the shower with Choso, because you didn't want to wash the sheets, naked and bleeding on his cock.

"Does it hurt?" He asks for the nth time and you groan.

“No, babe, for the millionth time, move.” Taking that as the green light, he adjusts you, making sure you'd be steady in his arms and pulls out, dragging his long cock inside of your extra warm and wet cunt, your blood stains his pale skin and you moan.

Could this truly alleviate period pain? So far, you hadn’t had any cramps to report, so all's well. But that could change at any moment.

Then, Choso slowly enters you once more, dark eyes fixed on where you were connected bloodily. He exhales shakily, shutting his eyes, as if he was trying to hold back. And it's only now that you realize that you

were definitely more sensitive than before. Way more sensitive.

“Hey,” comes Choso’s strained voice, still painfully hard inside of you. "I don't want to hurt you, and…" He pauses, catching his breath like he just ran a marathon, even that was easy for him. “I know I’ll lose control. Can I eat you out?" Gosh, he was so polite, even

during sex. You nod, however. You didn't want a repeat of last time he hurt you. He cried so much it could’ve flooded japan.

"Are you sure, though? We can always stop, most guys don’t like touching their girls when they're on their periods.”

"I'm not like other guys, then." He carefully sets your feet down on the floor, opens the tap and lets the shower head wash in between your thighs, alongside his dick knowing the blood would crust. How sweet.

Choso gets on his knees, like he was praying for you, and swipes his tongue on your hot slit,

The first taste is addictive, forcing him to shove his tongue mside of your pussy while you gasped, throwing a leg over his shoulder. He places a securing hand on the outside of your thigh and kneads the fat as he slurped on your red cunt.

Your blood made its way to his lower face, and Choso doesn't hesitate to bury his head deeper between your legs. Your stomach churned at the idea of him consuming your blood like this.

But somehow, it was hot, and it made your pussy wetter, muscles taunter.

"Choso-ah! S'good... Don't stop..." You whine, pushing his head down and he looks up, showing his bloody canines off.

“Not gunnah." The half curse suckles on your clit, eliciting a loud moan, thankfully silenced by the sound of running water.

"Are you hurting?" Choso wiggles his tongue through your folds, you were so close... He can't stop.

"No! Faster, please!" You begs, whimpering as he bit on your cit lightly. And faster he did go.

He forced his tongue into your bloody cunt repeatedly, not even giving you time to realize you were cumming, seeing stars behind your eyelids and almost slipping from how weak your knees became.

“Fuck…” You sigh, throwing your head back against the shower wall. “Ch-Choso, you freak.” You giggle as you look down, pulling on his hair to make him look at you.

“Don’t.” The curse in question warns, his eyes seem to glow, but that’s impossible. He looked… monstrous. Feral, even.

“Don’t what..?” It’s surprising, how Choso can go from genteel and soft to mean and vicious. You could even consider it scary.

“Let me… let me eat some more…” He stares at your pussy, and you could even spot a small tear trying to slip out of his eye. “I just want to help with the pain.”

Right, the cramps. You haven’t felt any, maybe it did help, but that didn’t mean he should continue.

“It’s fine, babe. I’ll just be out of commission for a few days.” You reassure, patting his head.

“No.” Choso frowns, tongue dipping back in. “I want more.”

What have you done?

#jjk #kinktober 2024 #jjk smut #jujustu kaisen x reader #solace's works #choso #choso smut #kamo choso #jujutsu kaisen choso #choso kamo #choso x reader #jjk choso #choso x you #choso x y/n #choso my beloved

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hotheadedhero · 1 year ago

Note

i am absolutely in love with your writing style and i see requests are open hehehehe

perhaps a rise!donnie with a gn reader that is “high intelligence low wisdom”? like, theyre smart and all and can understand a lot of his work, but they next moment they do something absolutely idiotic?

anyway thanks for considering <3

AN: If I've got the right idea then oh, ohoho, I think I can do this. Kinda describes me as a person 😅 And thank you!! I'm glad you enjoy the spoils of my crazy brain <3

A Dichotomy in Donnie's Dearest

Donatello x Reader

Donatello has a field day with you. Finding another entity as smart as him is unfounded but you're an enigma altogether. You're not necessarily the next Einstein, but your ability to fathom even half of the stuff that comes out of his mouth is impressive. Some nights, you'll both have conversations about biomechanics, nuclear chemistry, or anything that weasels its way into the mix. It isn't uncommon for you two to stay up until the break of dawn when you get caught up in such exchanges. In fact, your propensity for science drew him towards you in the first place. You make quite a pair, like how a covalent bond is a formation of electrons shared between two atoms.

Although, he supposes that if that is the attractive force in this analogy, your disposition for thick-witted conduct is the repulsive force. The difference between your divine intellect and your misshapen ability to function in society is an astounding, if not worrying prospect. It's as though you completely forgot yourself and he can only speculate how.

Initially, he chalked it up to a faulty memory: forgetting to switch the socket on when you plug your laptop in, not realising your phone is in your hand whilst it's 'lost', completely losing your train of thought mid-conversation. Standard, everyday predicaments that aren't unfounded amongst the greater world.

That assumption was quickly abandoned when he took closer note of some things that come out of your mouth - certain "theories" of yours that he hopes are funny thoughts and nothing more.

"Do you reckon tissues get their name from the fact that when we sneeze, we say, a-tissue?" you ask him.

You can't be serious, surely. Perhaps it was merely a bad attempt at a pun. If so, he'll have to limit your spending time with his oh-so-dear brother, Leonardo. It's bad enough having one person galivanting around thinking they're funny, let alone two.

He can't even begin to form a base for what you've just asked him, and instead replies so, "Life is too short for me to answer such questions."

It doesn't end there. He wishes he could say it does but it doesn't.

"I just figured out why a peanut is called a peanut!" The unparalleled excitement in your voice is enough to shock him out of his mortal body but the content source of your jovial commotion is mind-boggling and not in a good way. When he does nothing other than stare, you continue, "They're like peas in a pod but the nut version!"

"A dazzling deduction, my love," he remarks tiredly, wondering how you're the same person he discusses string theory with. "The limits of your knowledge truly know no bounds."

He's just glad Aristotle isn't around to see this side of humanity. It isn't limited to what you say, either. Worst of all, it's the things you do. Such as, when you try to eat something despite the fact it's just come out of the oven. Bonus 'dumb-dumb' points if you try to take food out of the oven without gloves. To put it simply, he doesn't trust you in the kitchen - a caution further validated when you rubbed your eyes after cutting jalapeno peppers once. You have been effectively banned.

He's lost count of how many times you've elbowed your own hip whilst rolling over in bed, or the many instances you've attempted to pull a push door and vice versa. That isn't even taking into account the countless times you have visited the lair without waterproof clothing, despite how long you've been coming down. Let's just say that the already long list is seemingly never-ending.

His frequent sighs of annoyance never offend you. If anything, it makes you laugh that much more when he appears physically pained by your antics. It's as though you enjoy his suffering. From your perspective, there's no harm in the odd hiccup here and there. You're merely enjoying life for what it is and know when to have a giggle at yourself.

Donnie believes himself to be a prodigy and he is! He can solve most if not all conundrums thrust his way but you - you - are the one he can't figure out. Yet, no matter how many times you engage in these idiotic behaviours, he still loves you. Besides, thinking any less of you would be a stupefying case of hypocrisy if he weren't to acknowledge his own blunders. Granted, his mistakes are often in the name of science but you are truly a match made in imbecilically astute Elysium.

AN: Btw, the things about the tissues, peanuts, and elbowing hips? Real stuff from me. Idk how I function

#tmnt #teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise tmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #rise of the tmnt #rottmnt #rise of the turtles #tmnt 2018 #rottmnt x reader #tmnt x reader #donatello #donnie #rise donnie #x reader #donatello x reader #donnie x reader #rise donatello #rise donnie x reader

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siriuslysatorusimping · 22 days ago

Text

The Theft (Gojo Satoru)

They stood in silence, a decade of distance stretching between them. The weight of everything left unsaid hung in the air. Until he stepped forward. A single stride across the chasm separating them. ... “You know," he tucked a strand of hair behind her ear carefully, "on top of breaking my heart, she stole my favorite sweater." - WC: 3.4k

Kiko's Masterlist | AO3 💕 | ko-fi ☕️

AN: I talked about this briefly on the stream on Wednesday, and it's finally here! I wrote it with Goinko in mind. But no names are mentioned, so it can be read as an x reader, too. In fact, literally no one is specifically named in this one. Fic and title are inspired by The Theft by Atreyu, which is the song included in the story. It's not required to listen to it, but I think it would add to the experience! This is a different format for me, as I usually don't like including song lyrics in a story, but I felt it worked for the narrative! Fun fact: the basic plot of this story is one I've had in my drafts for almost fifteen years... but it hit me not too long ago that it would be perfect for Goinko! It's a lil angsty, a lil fluffy, a lil bit of tension, and a lil slow burn... Hope you guys like it :)

The Theft

“Hi everyone.”

The woman’s calm voice echoed slightly as she greeted the small crowd. She stood confidently in front of the microphone, a gentle smile on her face. Her eyes, however, darted anxiously around the room.

“We appreciate you being here tonight for our little spur of the moment show. And we appreciate them accommodating our silly request.”

The owner let out a loud scoff from where he stood behind the bar, rolling his eyes dramatically.

“It’s been a bit since we had the chance to ‘come home,’ so to speak, so we wanted to do something special while we’re here. For those of you who don’t know, we played our first-ever show in this bar more than ten years ago. Just a young cover band who had no idea what they were doing.”

“And you’re saying you do now?” the owner called, raising his eyebrows.

She laughed, along with the rest of the band, the sound resounding when all of their mics picked it up.

“You’re not wrong there,” the guitarist replied, playing a quick, playful riff.

The drummer tapped a quick beat in agreement.

“We’ve just gotten better at pretending we know what we’re doing,” the woman teased, drawing chuckles all around. “Anyway, we’ve got a short one planned for tonight, but we hope you enjoy a little walk down memory lane with us.”

As the evening wound down, she took a long drink of water before releasing a labored breath.

“I hope everyone else has had as much fun as we have tonight. We’ve got one more before we call it a night. Seems fitting to round things out with the first song we ever released, yeah?”

The sight of the small bar she’d spent countless hours in packed to capacity with people brought a hesitant smile to her face. Ten years later, it was comforting to know almost nothing had changed about this place.

“A fun fact about this song,” she began, licking her dry lips as she grasped the mic stand tightly, “is that I actually wrote part of it in this bar. I think I was sitting at a booth somewhere in the back when I scribbled a couple lines on a napkin and prayed that I wouldn’t lose it before I got home.”

She knew exactly which booth it was. The same booth they always sat in together. Except she’d been all alone.

Back where I started… I’m empty without you, and I want to disappear…

“I’ll admit I was a few drinks deep by the time I wrote it, so while I’d thought it was genius at the time, sober me the next day took a while to figure out what the hell to do with it.”

As the crowd laughed, she grinned sheepishly. She’d been more than a few deep. And really, the hardest part had been reading her half-legible drunken scribbles the next morning.

“It was worth it, obviously, because it got us to where we are today. Thank you all again for spending your evening with us. We hope to see some of you tomorrow at the show.”

She stepped back, taking another large gulp of water while the band began playing. As the music filled the room again, her eyes scanned the crowd absently, unseeing. Even after so long, she still struggled with her nerves.

Taking a deep breath, she rested her hands on the microphone, letting the words flow out of her.

He bends and he breaks If he gives, they will take away His passion, his pain, his grace He exhales… a thousand black flowers explode Into butterflies as they’re away

The untold piece of the story she’d shared weighed heavily on her mind. The fact that she’d written the song to cope with the heartbreak she couldn’t escape no matter how hard she tried. No matter how many drinks she used to try to numb everything. Heartbreak she’d had no one to blame for but herself.

Rip them out, take them Burn to coals as they crush him Leave nothing that resembles the soul of a man See him numb, see him crushed See him numb, see him crushed

Questions still haunted her. What-ifs that would never be answered lingered in her mind constantly. As she took a breath, her eyes moved to the booth she’d referenced, noticing the man sitting there, and she faltered before tearing her eyes away.

Rip them out, take them Burn to coals as they crush him Leave nothing that resembles the soul of a man Leave him numb, leave him crushed Leaves him numb, leaves him crushed

Her gaze was drawn back to the booth. Had he been there the entire time? A woman sat beside him, wide-eyed as she leaned forward in her seat, clearly listening intently.

One of a thousand of her questions finally answered. A reply she never expected to ache so deeply when it had been so long. A twist in her chest that she shoved down as deep as it could go.

Took the fire inside one too many times He’s burning over and out as he flails Up against the raging tides No more sides Everything you ever wanted to see: See it in his eyes One more time One more time

One last look at his eyes was all she allowed herself, a fleeting glance as she took a labored breath and continued.

Climb down to test the waters My hands feel like they’re rusting away, yeah So I’ll pace around like a lamb before the slaughter I’ll stay here as long as you’ll let me

The words she wished she told him. Words she wished she’d had the courage to say instead of running away.

Decisions been made obvious So I will return where I started I’ll stay there Unfinished I’ll wither away

Though she felt the pull to look back at that booth in the corner, she focused on everything else. Anything except the knowledge that he now sat in the booth they’d spent countless evenings together — despite his distaste for crowds, despite how much he despised the smell of alcohol — with someone else.

Rip them out, take them Burn to coals as they crush him Leave nothing that resembles the soul of a man See him numb, see him crushed See him numb, see him crushed

As the music faded, her eyes wandered back to the booth before she could stop them, only to find it empty. It seemed silly for her chest to ache, for it to sting so deeply when she knew better than to think any other outcome was possible.

She knew better than to hope that he might want to talk to her.

Blinking quickly, her attention moved to the audience before her as they clapped, her answering grin somehow feeling genuine and forced at the same time. She felt an arm around her shoulders as her bandmates joined her, bowing instinctively alongside them.

“Thank you all again for spending your evening with us!”

They moved to the bar, each of them ordering a drink and she faintly registered her bandmates’ voices as they joked with the owner about how much better they sounded now.

“Yeah, yeah, too bad for you, I had to listen to your soundcheck earlier–”

Her ears rang slightly as she stared forward, exhaustion settling in her shoulders and regret rising in her chest. She couldn’t help but feel coming here tonight had been a mistake.

The drink in her hand tasted sour, but she forced herself to take another sip, then another, and another, finishing it swiftly.

“Gonna get some air,” she informed the others, pushing herself to her feet and waving off the offer to join her. “I won’t be long.”

Stepping out into the cool evening, she pulled a deep, cleansing breath into her lungs. Her mind raced, the shock of cold air doing little to help ground her. Still, she lifted her head to stare up at the sky. The stars seemed dim as they twinkled weakly, but the moon shined bright enough in their stead, almost drowning the lamps along the quiet street.

A whisper of her name reached her ears, so soft she thought she imagined it until she noticed the shadow from the corner of her eye.

Turning, her heart stuttered as she faced the familiar figure standing just a few meters away, his hands shoved in his pockets.

They stood in silence, a decade of distance stretching between them. The weight of everything left unsaid hung in the air. Until he stepped forward. A single stride across the chasm separating them.

“I’m… surprised you’re here,” she finally murmured, her throat dry.

He looked down for a moment, seeming almost sheepish.

“Heard you were putting on a show like the old days, and I couldn’t miss it.” He lifted his head again, his eyes burning into hers. “You look beautiful.”

Another step, this one larger, and he stood directly in front of her, forcing her to tilt her head back to meet his gaze.

He looked just as handsome as she remembered. He still towered over her, his hair strategically messy and his face perfectly blemish-free. The only signs of his age were slight wrinkles around his eyes and mouth, obvious indicators of frequent smiles and laughter.

The weight of his stare anchored her in place, his eyes still more brilliant than the moon above.

Beautiful, flawless, untouchable. A statue carved from marble and far too precious to be around someone like her. His family had made that clear every chance they got.

“It’s good to see you,” she whispered. “How have you been?”

“Getting by,” he replied, his voice just as quiet. “Working. Old man is set to retire soon so I’ll officially be taking over when he does.”

No surprise there. He’d been expected to take over almost his entire life. One of many reasons his family had wanted him to have nothing to do with her. An odd sense of relief filled her knowing he’d been successful. It seemed to confirm she’d made the right choice all those years ago. All she’d wanted for him was to be happy and successful, even if those came at the cost of losing him.

Words escaped her now as she stood in front of him, feeling exposed and vulnerable under his observant gaze.

“What about you?” he asked, his eyes searching her face. “You made it big.”

A slight nod and a smile were all she could manage, but she couldn’t deny the pride in her chest at his words. She’d gone and made her dream come true despite everything saying she couldn’t.

“I heard the show tomorrow is sold out, too.”

“I’m… guessing you won’t be there.”

The statement made him hesitate briefly before he slowly shook his head.

“I don’t have tickets.”

Somehow even though it was the answer she expected, the words dug into her chest and nestled inside her ribcage. She hated that it bothered her so much when she knew it wasn’t something he enjoyed. It wasn’t his scene.

The treacherous part of her mind couldn’t help but wonder why life was cruel enough to put him in front of her after so long just to give her a sense of false hope before ripping him away again. But she knew that this was never meant to be anything more than a glance at what could have been in a different life.

Him being at the show tomorrow would have changed nothing, anyway. It wasn’t like she would have been able to see him.

Nodding, she stepped back, willing herself toward the door.

“I should get back inside,” she murmured, fighting the urge to lean into his presence. Staying near him was dangerous. “It was– it was good to see you.”

“Wait.” He grasped her hand, the simple touch sending a spark through her veins. “We should– let’s catch up sometime. If not now, then–”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

She wanted to. She wanted to catch up. She wanted to keep hearing his voice. She desperately wanted to pretend that things were different. But she knew better than to let herself be swept away by the fairytale that was them. There wasn’t a world where they caught up without her yearning for more. And she wasn’t willing to intrude on the life he’d built for himself. It wasn’t fair to either of them, or the woman she’d seen sitting beside him during the show — the woman she could only assume was his wife.

“Why not?” he asked. “It’s been years, and I’ve missed you.”

She’d missed him, too. More than she could ever say. But she wouldn’t be an intruder in his life.

“You know why,” she replied, ignoring how her chest ached as frustration threatened to rise. He knew she wasn’t the type to be the other woman. At least he used to know. But even worse if he thought they could just catch up because he felt nothing at all. “I won’t– where’s your wife?”

He blinked slowly, his brow furrowing.

“Wife? What are you talking about?”

“The woman who was here with you.”

“Her?” His face scrunched at her words before he released a quick breath through his nose. “You mean my assistant? She’s probably home, or at a friend’s, gushing about getting to see you live. I only sat with her because she’s the reason I found out about tonight and I didn’t want to be an ass and avoid her outside of work.”

Her eyes narrowed in suspicion, and he raised his eyebrows in challenge.

“You can talk to her and ask,” he offered drily. “She might faint from excitement at meeting you first, though. She’s a big fan.”

He held his free hand up, wriggling his fingers to emphasize the lack of a ring. It made no sense to her. It was one of the expectations on his shoulders for most of his life.

“But your family–”

“They’ve taken enough of my life from me,” he cut her off, rolling his eyes. “They tried to set something up a few years ago, but I told them I didn’t care if they gave the company away to someone else just because I wasn’t married.”

“You can’t just tell your family–”

“Well, I did.” His eyes seemed to twinkle down at her now as he tugged her closer. “I never wanted the company to begin with. I wanted to be with this girl I met in college. She was really pretty, had an incredible voice, and she put up with me and my dumb family with a smile. But they somehow convinced her she didn’t deserve me.”

Swallowing thickly, she tried to keep her jaw from trembling.

“She wouldn’t listen when I said I didn’t care what they thought, and I was too stupid to realize that they’d already done what they wanted.” He tucked a strand of hair behind her ear carefully. “You know, on top of breaking my heart, she stole my favorite sweater. Been waiting for a chance to ask for it back.”

A snort of laughter escaped before she could stop it. Leave it to him to bring up something so ridiculous and silly.

“You’ve been waiting a decade for a sweater?”

“It was a nice sweater,” he defended, a smirk pulling at his lips now. “And she looks really good in it. She always looked great in my clothes.”

The statement had memories flooding her mind, the countless times she’d plucked his shirts or sweaters from the floor of his room. How he’d always teased her about liking them more than she liked him. How he had looked at her whenever he said they looked better on her, anyway.

His arm snaking around her waist forced her back to the present, his breath fanning across her face as he leaned down.

“I–” She fought the heat climbing her neck, her eyes flitting down to the loose sweater she wore. She didn’t want to admit she’d worn it because she’d been thinking of him. That a part of her had hoped he would show up. Hoped deep down in a place she wouldn’t even admit to herself that he hadn’t forgotten her entirely by now. “It’s a comfy sweater.”

“That’s why it was my favorite.” His voice held a teasing edge as he lifted her chin to meet her eyes again. “I’ve missed you.”

The words had his lips brushing against hers, and her heart pounded at the familiar sensation. Her eyes slid closed as she tilted her head back a bit further– the door to the bar shot open, startling both of them, his hands releasing her as she jolted back.

“There you are! We were getting worried– ope.” Her bandmate stopped abruptly, eyes darting between them as a sly grin formed. “Sorry. I didn’t mean to, uh, interrupt. Just letting you know we’re getting ready to head out for the night.”

They disappeared through the door before either of them could reply, and she took a deep breath to steady herself. They would never let her live this down. The others would probably be standing right inside the door waiting to ambush her.

“I should go,” she murmured reluctantly, meeting his gaze again as dejection bloomed in her chest.

This really was it. They’d gotten so close to… what? Reuniting? What did she think would happen? There had never been a real chance for them to work. Not really.

“When will you be back?”

“We’re touring for another six months,” she replied, “and after that… Well, this isn’t exactly home for me anymore.” Pausing, her gaze dropped to the ground, her hands fiddling with the sleeves of the sweater. Despite the part of her screaming not to, she just couldn’t help herself. “I won’t– I can’t ask you to– but if you want, we could stay in touch, and I could–”

“Yes.” He didn’t hesitate, cutting her off and pulling her close again. “I’d love to keep in touch. I want to talk to you.”

Relief filled her so quickly it made her dizzy, the smile on his face knocking the air from her chest.

“I’ve missed you, too,” she whispered, the admission feeling more like a confession. “I know it’s never really been your scene, but did you at least enjoy the show tonight?”

His smile grew as he nodded.

“Your voice was just like I remembered,” he replied. “It really took me back. Had me feeling nostalgic, wondering how things would’ve worked out if I’d told my family to screw themselves earlier.”

They both knew that never would’ve worked. Not back then.

“Still such a sap, huh?” she teased anyway, drawing a chuckle from him. Glancing toward the door, she released a quiet sigh. “I should go before more of them come out here to snoop.”

Retrieving her phone, she held it out for him to take.

“I… know it’s been a long time, and I travel a lot, but I– I really do want to stay in touch,” she said, watching him enter his contact. “I know it’s not fair to ask you to wait–”

“I’ve waited ten years, sweetheart,” he cut her off, smirking. His tone had a teasing lilt to it as he handed her phone back. “Another six months is nothing.”

She bit her lip to fight the smile, sharing her contact with him before shoving her phone back into her pocket.

“I guess that’s fair,” she conceded.

His arm around her waist tightened, and he leaned down again until she could feel his breath mingling with hers.

“Just don’t keep me waiting forever,” he whispered before pressing a lingering kiss to her cheek, “because I expect you to return this next time I see you.”

He tugged the collar of the sweater playfully, a smirk on his face as he released her and stepped back.

“You’ll have to take it from me,” she teased. Excitement shot through her at the sight of his eyes narrowing, and she quickly retreated to the door. Meeting his eyes over her shoulder one last time, she asked, “Until next time?”

“I’ll see you then.”

AN: What'd you guys think? I enjoyed writing it 😊 I thought it was cute and sweet. Thoughts? Questions? I might continue it to show some of their relationship in the past and/or write their reunion after her tour ends... 🤔

#gojo fanfic #gojo satoru #gojo x reader #goinko aus #goinko au #gojo satoru x reader #jjk x reader #jjk fanfic #goinko #satoru gojo #gojo angst #gojo and rinko au #kiko's writing #jjk fic #gojo fic #gojo satoru fluff

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nomie-11 · 10 months ago

Text

Chapter 3 - Secrets at Sunrise*

<- previous part | masterlist | series masterlist | next part ->

“Where are you going?” Violet’s voice slipped out in a whisper before she could stop herself.

Genevieve froze mid-step, the soft crunch of gravel under her boots the only sound in the still night. She spun around, her face unreadable in the shadows, though Violet sensed the flicker of annoyance.

“I’m sorry?” Genevieve’s whisper was sharp, a quiet challenge. Violet immediately regretted her question but pressed on anyway.

“I asked, where are you going?” Violet shifted uncomfortably, trying to hide the unease in her voice. Genevieve looked her up and down scanning Violet, silently begging her to back down.

Gotcha, Genevieve thought, her lips twitching ever so slightly.

“I’m going to watch the sunrise,” Genevieve answers, her voice steady, almost amused. “And you’re not going to tell anyone.”

Violet frowned, unsure whether to be offended or intrigued. “Why wouldn’t I?” she asked, half taunting, her tone suggesting "You don’t know me at all—I’ll tell whoever I want.”

Genevieve stepped closer, her eyes narrowing. “Because,” she said, her voice soft but cutting. “I see you wrapping that pretty little knee of yours. You’re hurt, and doesn’t that make you an easy target?” She let the words sink in as Violet’s eyes widened in surprise. “I won’t breathe a word, if you keep my secret. I like to watch the sunrise. Simple as that.”

Violet opened her mouth, hesitating, then asked, “Why do you like to watch the sunrise?” There was no taunt in her voice this time—just curiosity.

Genevieve rolled her eyes, clearly annoyed. “Why do you think? Stop asking questions. It’s simple. You tell, I tell. Or we keep each other’s secrets. Yes or no?”

Violet bit her lip, forcing herself to swallow her response. “Yes,” She muttered. “I’ll keep your secret.”

“Great!” Genevieve’s sudden smile was unsettling, genuine but fleeting. “See you at morning formation. And when you wrap that knee of yours, make sure you tuck in the end of the wrap. It’s too easy for someone to grab.”

With that, the smile vanished from her face as quickly as it had appeared. She gave Violet a final glance, scanning the rows of beds, then disappearing into the darkness without another word.

—----------------------------------------

The sky was still a blanket of deep indigo, the kind of dark that clung to the horizon before dawn. Morning dew shimmered on the front lawn of Basgiath, catching the faint starlight. It was so quiet, Genevieve could hear her own breath mingling with the night air. The moisture on the ground made her boots slick, and for a fleeting moment, as she climbed the stone wall to the top of the dormitory tower, she feared she might slip. The stones were coated in a thin layer of water, glistening like frost. The windowsills she passed were slick as well, threatening to betray her with the smallest misstep. It wasn’t a high climb, but the thought of falling, of losing her grip without even catching the first light of sunrise gnawed at her.

As she neared the top, the night sky began to soften. The dark hues gave way to shades of lavender and pale blue. The horizon glowed faintly, signaling the inevitable arrival of the sun. It was then that Genevieve saw him—a silhouette standing on the roof, a figure cut out against the shifting sky. She couldn’t make out his features, but his stance was enough to make her stomach drop. There was something about the way he stood, so still, that made her instinctively wary. Fight or flight stirred within her, but before she could decide whether to retreat down the ladder or confront him, he spoke, his voice smooth but unmistakably commanding.

“What are you doing up here, first-year?”

That voice. Of course, it had to be him. Xaden Riorson. She mentally groaned, feeling a mixture of irritation and dread settle in her chest. He always had a way of appearing when she least wanted him to.

“I could ask the same of you, wingleader,” she shot back, surprising herself with the steadiness in her tone. She sounded almost defiant, like she was talking to General Sorrengail instead of the infamous Xaden Riorson.

He raised an eyebrow, though she couldn’t see it in the dim light. His posture shifted, radiating authority. “I thought I asked first,” he said, his words dripping with the kind of superiority only someone in his position could muster. “And you shouldn’t talk back to those above you.”

Genevieve resisted the urge to roll her eyes. His presence was as suffocating as ever, and the power dynamics at Basgiath were always exhausting. “I’m watching the sunrise,” she answered bluntly, her voice laced with mild annoyance. She wasn’t doing anything wrong, after all. “Is that what you wanted to hear, wingleader?”

Xaden’s dark eyes narrowed, scrutinizing her. His gaze was sharp, almost calculating, as though he were piecing together a puzzle. The riders in this quadrant didn’t get up early for trivial things like sunrises. They used every spare moment to rest, knowing full well how grueling the days were. No one with any sense would climb a rock wall slick with dew to see the sun rise. No one, that is, except her.

“Most first years would rather be resting,” he said slowly, his tone tinged with suspicion. “Yet here you are, alone, watching the sunrise. Why?”

Genevieve met his glaze evenly, refusing to flinch under his intense scrutiny. It felt as though he could see through her, as though his eyes were searching for something deeper, some hidden motivation. “You can’t afford to miss a sunrise if you don’t know when the next one will come,” she replied, her voice steady, almost philosophical. “And maybe I prefer the peace of the sunrise over the tension of the dorm halls.”

Xaden’s expression shifted, a hint of something darker passing over his features. “Peace,” she said, his voice low and dangerous. “Is a luxury you can’t afford at Basgiath. Especially if you keep making enemies.”

Her eyes flashed with defiance. “Who says I’m making enemies?” she shot back, the words sharp. “I’m just minding my own business.”

And trying to carry out my mission.

Xaden’s lips curled into a smirk, the kind that sent a chill down her spine. His eyes, flecked with gold, gleamed in the low light of dawn. “Careful, first year,” he warned, his voice a whisper of amusement mixed with something else she couldn’t quite name. “Minding your own business doesn’t mean the rest of us will mind ours.”

Genevieve’s fists clenched at her sides, but she didn’t back down. “Is that a threat?” she asked, voice hard.

His smirk widened, but his tone softened, almost gentle now, though the tension between them was palpable. “No,” he whispered, stepping closer. “It’s a warning. You have no idea what you’re playing with.”

Her eyes narrow. What does he know?

“And do you?” she countered, her pulse quickening. There was something about the way he looked at her, like he was peeling back layers of armor she’d spent years crafting.

For a brief moment, Xaden didn’t answer. His gaze lingered on her face, taking in the scar that ran from her jaw to just beneath her eye. It was a scar that told a story of violence and survival, a story he seemed to recognize. It was a scar that told a story of violence and survival, a story he seemed to recognize. She wasn’t just a first year cadet. She was someone who had been through hell and returned, a kindred spirit in a way.

“I’m playing a game of survival, cadet,” he finally said, voice low, almost reflective.

“My name is Genevieve Hale, not ‘cadet.’” She snapped, frustrated with being reduced to nothing more than a rank, than a number.

“I know,” he replied, a strange glint in his eyes. “I knew your sister.”

The revelation struck her like a blow to the chest, leaving her momentarily speechless. Before she could respond, Xaden turned and walked toward a hidden door at the side of the tower. Just as he reached it, he glanced back over his shoulder, his expression unreadable.

“Oh, and just for future reference,” he added casually, “don’t climb the side of the tower. There’s a staircase for a reason.”

And with that, he disappeared, leaving Genevieve alone on the rooftop with nothing but the fading stars and the slowly rising sun. The dawn had finally broken, painting the sky in hues of gold and pink, but the warmth it brought did little to chase away the chill that Xaden’s words had left behind.

—---------------------------------------------

The reading of the death roll feels hurried to Genevieve, too rushed for her liking. These are names of the dead—people whose lives were snuffed out in an instant. Yet, they are only granted the briefest of acknowledgments before being commended to Malek, the god of death, for the small mistakes they made. Maybe they missed a step on a slick stone bridge, or maybe fear caught up with them at the wrong moment. Either way, their fates are sealed, and now their names are burned into fleeting memory, only to fade just as quickly. The moment is somber, but it passes almost as swiftly as the names themselves. The cadets are dismissed soon after, the wingleaders and squad leaders shepherding the first years with an almost mechanical precision. For the second and third years, the movements are routine, practiced—this chaos is second nature to them.

“First years, at least one of you better have memorized your academic schedule but now!” Dain Aetos, Genevieve’s squad leader’s voice booms, carrying over the squad with an air of forced authority that Genevieve can’t help but find slightly ridiculous. She fights the urge to roll her eyes as he continues, “Stick together. I expect every single one of you to be alive when we meet this afternoon in the sparring gym.”

Sparring. Genevieve’s heart skips with excitement at the word. Sparring? I forgot about that! Genevieve smiles, her time is coming. This is where she excels.

Meanwhile, Violet, standing just a few feet away, is having the opposite reaction. Sparring? Fuck! I forgot about that. A grimace pulls at her features, and she looks visibly uncomfortable. Rhiannon, caught between the two, shifts awkwardly, trying to manage the whirlwind of emotions on either side of her. Genevieve’s bubbling excitement is more than Rhiannon could ever imagine being on her face, and Violet’s distress couldn’t be more obvious.

“Sawyer!” Dain calls out, interrupting the moment. Sawyer, a repeat first year, snaps his head up at the sound of his name. Genevieve has heard the rumors—Sawyer failed to bond with a dragon during last year’s Threshing and now faces the grueling ordeal of repeating the first year all over again. Genevieve can’t imagine anything worse. She’d rather die than endure such humiliation.

“I’ll get them there,” Sawyer says confidently, stepping up as the rest of the squad prepares to move. Dain and the upperclassmen stay behind as the first years break formation, leaving the second and third years behind. Now, all eyes are on Sawyer.

“We’ve got twenty minutes to get to class,” he shouts at the group. “Fourth floor, second room on the left in the academic wing. Grab your stuff and don’t be late.” Without waiting for anyone’s response, Sawyer strides ahead, leaving the rest of them scrambling to keep up.

“That must be tough,” Rhiannon muses, glancing between Violet and Genevieve, who still refuse to directly speak to each other without her presence as a buffer. “Going through all this again, after anything.”

“Better than being dead,” quips a voice from behind them. Genevieve turns to see a smart-ass brunette from their quad, the first to put into words what she herself was thinking. A grin tugs at her lips—she likes him already.

“Ridoc Gamlyn,” he replies, falling into step beside her. “You’re Genevieve Hale?”

She nods, biting her tongue from saying something else stupid.

“That’s true,” Violet chimes in unexpectedly, clearly agreeing with Ridoc’s earlier statement.

“I heard that if a first year survives Threshing without bonding, they get another chance if they want it,” Rhiannon adds, still trying to engage Violet. “Isn’t that insane? They could just as easily die the second time around.”

Her comment hangs in the air, and at some point, Violet slips out of the conversation with a quiet murmur, but Genevieve barely notices. Her attention is elsewhere.

“Would you rather drop out?” Ridoc asks, a playful glint in his eye.

Genevieve lets out a short laugh. “As if that was ever an option once you’re here.”

Their conversation flows easily, without the tension that Violet’s presence seems to bring. Genevieve feels the squad beginning to gel, to form something cohesive and solid. In this moment, she knows that they’ll make it—that this group will stick together. It feels safe, steady, like no one here is going to die anytime soon. For the first time in a long time, Genevieve allows herself a sliver of hope.

—---------------------------------------

Geneiveve’s eyes swept across the sparring gym, meticulously noting who was present and who wasn’t. She labeled each of the squads, organizing them first by the amount of students per year—one group of first, second, and third years from each wing from various squads. Among them was Jack Barlowe, the boy Violet couldn’t seem to escape. Genevieve expected a fierce match between the two of them, especially since today’s challenges were chosen by the cadets themselves, and she was a Sorrengail—a thoroughly created and purposefully prepared weapon.

Today was just for assessments, but Violet’s anxiety was tangible, almost electric in the air. An off putting contrast to the preconceived notion Genevieve held of her.

”You’re really nervous about this?” Rhiannon asked, her surprise genuine. “I mean, you’re a Sorrengail, you’d think a Sorrengail kid would be bred for battle.”

Exactly my thoughts, Genevieve confirmed in her own head, but didn’t say it out loud.

“My sister and brother were,” Violet replied, her voice edged with frustration. “I was trained to be a scribe. That’s why I’m so good at battle briefings, history, physics, everything that’s based on knowledge. But hand-to-hand? That’s where I suck.”

“I could offer some tips on surviving combat training,” Sawyer chimed in from Rhiannon’s other side. “History’s not really my thing, though.”

Rhiannon’s eyes gleamed mischievously. “How about a trade? We help you with combat, and you help us with history. Deal, Sawyer? Violet?”

“Absolutely,” Sawyer said, extending his hand.

“Deal,” Violet agreed, though her throat tightened as her hand met his. She half-smiled, her mind still half-worried. “But I think I’m getting the better end of this.”

Sawyer turned to Genevieve, who had been standing nearby, quietly observing the conversation. “What about you, Genevieve? Are you in?”

“No,” she replied flatly, her attention fixed on the mats.

“Oh, come on, you must struggle with something,” Rhiannon teased. “What about battle brief? You didn’t say a word in class. Violet could help.”

My stamina is more than lacking right now, maybe I should– no! Genevieve, what are you thinking?

“No,” Genevieve repeated, more firmly. “I’m not asking Sorrengail for help, and I’m not training her.”

Sawyer and Rhiannon exchanged glances, sensing the rising tension between the two girls.

“What if I need combat help?” Rhiannon pressed, her lie barely convincing. “I could help you with physics. I saw how lost you were in class.”

Genevieve rolled her eyes but couldn’t deny it. Physics had always been a struggle, and Rhiannon’s offer was more than tempting. She sighed, rubbing her forehead in annoyance before giving in.

“Fine. But Violet’s your responsibility.”

Rhiannon and Sawyer exchanged satisfied nods, saying in unison, “Deal.”

The moment was interrupted when Rhiannon was called to spar with a boy named Tynan, and Violet was paired against a second-year with striking pink hair. As they left for their matches, Violet whispered a prayer under her breath, hoping today wouldn’t be the day she met her end.

Genevieve remained, her focus unwavering as she waited for her own match to be called.

“Hale! Barlowe! Third mat!” came Emeterrior’s call, snapping her to attention.

Jack Barlowe, despite already having fought earlier, looked ready for another round. He stood at the edge of the mat, grinning with overconfidence, his body loose as he stretched. He’d already killed one opponent today, and his newfound reputation for brutality hung in the air like a dark cloud. But Genevieve wasn’t shaken.

Her muscles coiled with anticipation, her heart hammering a relentless rhythm in her chest. She lived for this—the clash of fists, the thrill of the fight. She rolled her shoulders, loosening up as she locked eyes with Jack. His grin widened, a mockery of what was to come.

“Ready to dance, traitor?” he taunted, his voice dripping with scorn.

Genevieve didn’t respond. Her silence was her answer as she shifted into a fighting stance, light on her feet. The signal was given.

Jack struck first, a quick jab aimed at her head. Genevieve dodged it effortlessly, countering with a swift low kick. He blocked it with his shin, the force of the impact vibrating through both of them. They circled each other like two predators stalking their prey, exchanging blows without yielding ground.

Jack had power, each of his hits packed with raw strength, but Genevieve was faster. She wove through his attacks, ignoring the thrum of her heart and how out of breath she was, slipping just out of reach with each lunge. Jack tried to grab her, but she spun away, delivering a sharp punch to his ribs. He grunted, momentarily winded, but recovered quickly, his eyes narrowing.

“You’re out of breath,” he muttered through gritted teeth, taunting her. “It’s not even been ten minutes. You can’t keep this up.”

He advanced again, more calculated this time. Genevieve could see his tactic—he was trying to corner her, limit her space to maneuver. She let him think he was succeeding, catching a few fleeting breaths as she backed up toward the edge of the mat. His confidence swelled, and as he prepared for what he believed would be the decisive blow, she made her move.

In a fluid spin, Genevieve swept her leg low, knocking Jack’s feet out from under him. He hit the mat hard, breath rushing from his lungs. She followed with a precise knee to his chest, pinning him down, her forearm pressing into his throat. His eyes widened in shock, the weight of defeat settling in.

Leaning in close, Genevieve’s breathless voice was cold, barely more than a whisper. “If you ever even think about going after Sorrengail, I’ll make sure this mat is the least of your worries.”

For a moment, everything seemed to pause. Jack’s chest heaved as he struggled for breath, his gaze locked onto hers, searching for any sign of mercy. But there was none. She was unrelenting, her grip firm.

Finally, with a tap on the mat, he surrendered.

Genevieve stepped back, releasing him. Jack coughed, scrambling up to his feet, his pride more battered than his body. She extended a hand to help him up, but he ignored it, mumbling, “you’re lucky this ended before your lack of air caught up to you.”

“And you’re weak,” she shot back, her voice sharp as steel. “Next time you call someone a traitor, make sure you can back it up.”

As she walked off, Ridoc, Sawyer, and Rhiannon shared a glance, none of the daring to say a word as she passed.

“Remind me never to get on her bad side,” Sawyer murmured, still processing the scene.

“Poor Violet,” Rhiannon added, imagining what awaited her friend in the upcoming challenges.

Ridoc grinned. “Was it just me, or was that kind of hot?”

Rhiannon cast a side-eye at the boy standing next to her. “You’re weird.”

—---------------------------------

On the rooftop the next morning, Genevieve sat alone, a small, rare smile tugging at her lips. Above her, the sky was still painted with stars, shimmering clear against the deep blue of pre-dawn, and a silence enveloped her in a way that felt almost sacred. The world lay in a still slumber, save for the gentle calls of morning doves echoing from the treetops. This quiet moment felt like a glimpse of peace—a fleeting grace amid all the turmoil, a reminder of something she’d nearly forgotten.

The creak of the stairwell door broke the silence, followed by the soft thud of heavy footsteps. She didn’t need to turn to know who it was.

“I didn’t realize this would become a morning ritual, Hale.” Xaden’s deep voice broke the silence, and he settled beside her, leaving enough space for comfort. Together, they dangled their feet over the edge of the roof, letting the wind brush past them like a shared secret.

She shrugged lighty. “Neither did I.” Her voice was soft, stripped of its usual edge, as if it, too, was still waking up.

They sat in silence for a while, the sky brightening with every passing second, casting the world in a gentle glow.

“What happened yesterday, on the mat?” he asked, his voice almost hesitant.

Genevieve’s expression tightened. “Barlowe called me a traitor,” she muttered, bitterness lining her words. “I’ve done nothing to betray Navarre. Whatever my father did or my sister had done, I was kept in the dark.”

Xaden gave a slow nod, his gaze distant. “Yeah, it’s hard to be called a traitor, believe me I know,” he murmured. “You really don’t know anything about them? About your father, or your sister?”

“I mean, I know who they are, I just don’t know what they did.” She shook her head, her mind turning back to memories she rarely revisited. “When my father became a general, I was nine. My mom didn’t want us following him around, so we moved in with my grandmother in Aretia. My father visited maybe once a year after that. My mom trained my sister and I at her mother’s house until my sister had to leave for Basgiath, and the same week she left for Basgiath, the entire rebellion collapsed. My father died fighting General Sorrengail and my sister was somewhere along the road on the way to Basgiath. Three years later, my sister was killed in some petty skirmish.” She looked away, her gaze fixed on the horizon as the sun began to rise, casting a soft, golden warmth over her face.

Xaden was quiet, watching her. Then, he spoke carefully. “Our fathers believed in the same vision, the same freedom.”

And she looked back at him, her eyes narrowing as a surge of emotions overwhelmed her—confusion, betrayal, anger. She’d been kept in the dark her entire life, punished for things she’d never even know. Her fists clenched, nails pressing into her palms.

She was always hidden from that world. She didn’t know anything.

“So everyone hates me because of his choices. I’m guilty by blood.”

“It’s more than that,” Xaden nodded. “To them, we’re a symbol. A reminder of the wounds they carry—wounds that are still bloody and raw.”

Genevieve’s jaw tightened. “But I had no choice in this. I didn’t even know.”

His gaze softened, a flicker of understanding—or was that… guilt—flashed in his eyes. “I know. So I’m telling you now. You deserve to know just as much as I do. But it won’t change how they see you. You’ll always be fighting against their perception, their hate.”

She looked away once more, her gaze on the dawn’s growing light. As she took in the world bathed in the morning glow, she felt a strange clarity settling within her. “I won’t be defined by their hate or my father’s actions. I want to be my own person, make my own choices.”

Xaden’s tone was firm, almost challenging. “Then you need to decide what you’re going to do with your truth. You can let it weigh you down, or you can use it to prove them wrong. To rise beyond their hate.”

The words hung between them, and for a moment, she felt everything she had lost, and everything she had yet to gain. She took a shaky breath. “Easier said than done.” she huffed.

Xaden’s gaze flickered to her shoulder, but he remained fully in place, steady as stone. “You can.”

She met his gaze, feeling the fire in his eyes light something within her. “I guess then I’ll survive. And I’ll fight. But for me this time.”

A shadow of a smile touched his lips. “You’re so weirdly confusing and cryptic.”

She shrugged. “It takes one to know one.”

Silence settled once more, and the sun finally broke the horizon.

“I guess we’re both just trying to outrun our fathers’ shadows, aren’t we?”

“Maybe,” he replied, his voice gruff. “But maybe it’s not about running. Maybe it’s about learning to live with them and become something more.”

The golden rays of light stretched across the world, filling her with a quiet, determined strength. “So I’ll become something more. Something better.”

And as the morning rays of the sun crested the horizon, casting their warmth over Basgiath, Genevieve felt a new resolve settle within her heart. With each dawn, she would rebuild herself from the ashes of her past, a phoenix forged from fire and defiance.

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

Hey everyone! New update here~ I tried to get this out within a timely manner because I knew you guys were waiting!

If you enjoyed, please leave a like, kudo, heart or whatever it is called and comment! I want to know what everything is thinking!

see you guys soon~

#fourth wing #fourth wing imagine #fourth wing x reader #fourth wing xaden #liam mairi #violet sorrengail #xaden and sgaeyl #xaden riorson #xaden riorson x reader #garrick tavis x reader #garrick tavis #bodhi durran #ridoc gamlyn #sawyer fourth wing #liam mairi x reader #the wounded healer

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