am rat

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According to A Comparative Study of Kin Metaphysics, witch telepathy and nightbound telepathy don’t work the same way. This is the case for all techniques you share. Their bodies process, store and harness magic differently than yours does, and many chapters in this musty yellow doorstop of a tome are dedicated to meticulously cataloguing and contrasting these peculiarities. You’re not here for all that. You just want to know about telepathy because according to the section on “mental magics,” witch telepathy can be especially aggravating for nightbound.

Athanasius, you think, trying to call out to him with only your thoughts. No answer. No metaphysical stir in the back of your head. You focus your thoughts, picturing him in your mind, but you never get a response or any sense that he heard you. You frown and flip to the next page. 

You have the parlor to yourself this evening. No hatchlings are around to complain about the light so the chandelier overhead shines the burnt gold of dusk, just bright enough to read by. Stretched out on the sofa with a bowl of snacks in your lap and a pile of books spread across the coffee table, you study intently how to be a more effective nuisance. 

The nightbound need a connection to speak in their minds, a bridge of mesmerism for meaning to travel along. All a witch needs is a target, a bit of magic, and something they want to say. The book warns that inter-kin telepathy should be initiated by the nightbound to avoid irritation or discomfort. Young and inexperienced witches can be loud, their thoughts chaotic, their clumsy attempts at communication headache-inducing. There are mental magics for shielding the mind and preventing unwanted intrusion, complex skills you’ve made a note to return to once you have a better grasp on your magic, but the nightbound’s principles are more limited in scope. 

In other words, there’s no tuning you out. It’d be like having a megaphone or cranking up the TV too loud. There are other spells you could be learning, enchantments you should try to memorize, but testing Athanasius’ patience is one of the few simple pleasures remaining in your life. This absolutely has to come first.

Athanasius! you try again. You imagine threads, roots, slithering tendrils of connection, your thoughts unspooling like spidersilk. You don’t know if it helps. You can’t tell if you reach him or not. With a frustrated huff, you abandon your study hovel and trudge the mansion’s halls in search of him. Maybe you need to see him first and keep the distance small until you get the hang of it. Maybe it’ll help if you know what it feels like first. Maybe—

Something shrieks. 

You freeze. It sounded close. Not inside but nearby, maybe out in the garden. Was that one of the hatchlings? Are you in danger? You call for Athanasius with your mind again, then feel hot with shame when you realize you’ve done it. He doesn’t answer anyway. You wait to see if it happens again. You can’t figure out which way to go if you don’t even know where it’s coming from. 

Then something moves in the dark. Your pulse picks up. Someone’s here, inside with you. Not Orion; he would’ve said something. Probably not Renaud, either, he’d come closer and tell you what he wants or keep moving wherever he’s going. Caught in the long, windowed corridor where the moonlight trickles through in curtained slivers, you stare down the person you least wanted to see. Mihai is easy to miss. He keeps to the dark space between windows and silver light, the glint of his eyes partially hidden by long, unruly bangs. He’s the smallest of the hatchlings, shorter and slighter in build than either Orion or Renaud. You would’ve missed him entirely if he hadn’t moved.

Was that on purpose? Did he want you to know he was there? You stare at each other in the dark. He stands perfectly still in the middle of the hallway like he doesn’t intend to let you pass. 

“Hi,” you say awkwardly. You don’t particularly want to talk but the silence feels oppressive and dangerous. Mihai shifts slightly; a nod. “I’m looking for Athanasius.” 

He makes a rumbling, almost animal noise, a throaty, “Hm,” that’s not quite a hum or a growl. He says something else you don’t catch, a quick, hoarse rasp too quiet to decipher. When you continue to stare, uncomprehending, he huffs. Like a dog, you can’t help but think. It’s the exact noise a puppy makes in the face of mild inconveniences.

“You’re loud,” he repeats irritably. “And I’m not a dog.” 

It’s working! you think excitedly, which makes Mihai groan and clutch his head. “Oh. Sorry,” you say sheepishly. “I didn’t mean for the whole house to hear me.” You shut your eyes and imagine everything folding back inward. Flowers closing; seams stitching shut. When you open your eyes again, Mihai has crept closer. He stays just out of arm’s reach, a single stripe of moonlight falling through the curtains between you. “So have you seen Athanasius?” you try again.

“Hm,” he says with a curt nod.

You wait a moment but he doesn’t continue. “Where?” you ask.

“Outside.”

You peer through the curtains but don’t see anything. Mihai lurks in your periphery, staring intently. “Where outside?” 

Another bloodcurdling screech makes you both flinch. It’s not a human noise. Mihai looks in a seemingly nonsensical direction, staring at the wall, but you trust his hearing. Whatever’s going on, it isn’t happening on the front lawn. “He was in the garden. Now…” He pauses, tilting his head. You watch him turn, tracking something you can’t see. “Hm. He’s handling it.” 

“It?” you echo. 

He doesn’t answer. He steps back from you, tilting his head sharply in a beckoning gesture. “Follow,” he orders. When you don’t move, he really does growl. “Athanasius sent me to get you.” 

“Why?” you ask.

“House meeting.” 

“Why didn’t he tell me about it himself?” 

Mihai scowls. He lets out another long-suffering, dog-like sigh and starts to hum under his breath. You’re confused, trying to make out if you recognize the melody or not, when your awareness suddenly goes fuzzy at the edges. It’s the pleasant fogginess of waking up without urgency, luxuriating in blankets and birdsong on a day when you have nothing to do. Your muscles unclench, your shoulders sag, and your eyelids flutter shut. Your head is full of warm fur and soft moss. 

That’s right. That’s how it is right now. There’s nothing you need to do. Nothing to worry about in the meadow of your mind. There’s only whispering leaves and clattering branches and the song the wind carries. Nothing more.

“Sacrament?”

You look up. There is the canopy, the leaves almost blue in the night, and stars in the spaces between, and him, lovely and wise. The leader of the flock strokes your cheek with a soft, adoring smile and you lean into his touch with a contented sigh. 

“Mihai can be rather heavy-handed with his mesmerism. But it is pleasant, is it not?” You have some sense of movement; of the world tilting, adjusting, another body and mind folded around yours. You feel caged and protected. You hear the flutter of great wings. “Focus on my voice. I will help you back to the surface. Mihai, if you would—yes, very good. Gently now.” You feel yourself rising, carried skyward in the grasp of sheltering shadows. You drift higher, beyond the leaves and branches of the canopy, beyond the clouds, into silver light, into crimson stars, into eyes wide open, eyes upon wings upon a nightmare, hunger of eons, destroyer of dynasties, King-Breaker, Blood Dancer, He Who the Ancients Dread—

“Sacrament?” Athanasius says.

“Huh?” You blink, bleary-eyed. You feel heavy and half-asleep. You find yourself in the little seating area just outside the kitchen, potted plants and patio furniture scattered around a wooden table. You sit up slowly, rubbing focus into your eyes. Athanasius looms over you, examining you with a patient smile. 

“Back with us?” he asks. 

The hatchlings are all across the table. Orion and Renaud both sit hunched and guilty-looking, avoiding each other’s eyes. They’re shirtless, showing off Renaud’s tattoo sleeves and the scrapes and bruises mottling their chests. Mihai sits between them but he stares at you. He’s wearing a long-sleeved shirt, plain black and slightly too big for him. The sleeves fall all the way to his knuckles and he seems content to leave them there, nothing but his fingertips and sharp, claw-like nails peeking out. 

“What was that for? You could’ve just asked me to go with you!” you snap.

Mihai shrinks back like you lunged at him but there’s anger mixed in with the fear, his face marred by a glaring snarl. “You were defiant,” he says. His voice never rises above a hoarse murmur. “Waste of time arguing with you.” 

“You may blame me, sacrament. I would have retrieved you myself, but there were other matters that required immediate attention.” Athanasius looks pointedly at the hatchlings. Orion and Renaud carefully look anywhere else. “You have all made tremendous progress since arriving at the convenire. I am proud of you. But these recent incidents must not go unaddressed. Orion.” 

The hatchling flinches. He sneaks a look at you and then quickly looks away. 

“Orion,” Athanasius repeats more gently. “Now would be a good time to apologize.” 

Orion stares at the table. “Uh. Right. So.” He clears his throat. “Sorry for, uh. You know. The whole, like, coercion thing. And trying to make you like me more. And not letting you go when, um, you wanted to.”

You glance back and forth at all the nightbound seated at the table. You’re not sure why Orion’s the only one apologizing. They’ve all used their mesmerism in ways you find distasteful and the one most at fault for not letting you leave isn’t a hatchling. Then again, Athanasius has been careful about everything. There’s a schedule, a hierarchy, a particular way things are meant to go under his roof. Orion must’ve crossed a line when he cornered you in the hallway the other day.

“Do you think I’m weak?” he asks suddenly.

You’re completely blindsided by the question, even more shocked by the expectant looks you get as the silence stretches on. Are you supposed to answer that? Orion watches you so intently that it makes you nervous. “Uh. No?” you say. 

“But you like him better even though I’ve been nicer. Is it because I’m the youngest? You don’t think I can protect you? But if that’s all it was, you would’ve fucked Athanasius by now.” Orion frowns at you, eyes darting around to every micromovement of your expression as your face twists in confused embarrassment. 

“Or perhaps,” Athanasius says gently, “every witch is different. And because we are not traditionalists, there is no need for a witch to offer themselves in the hopes of ensuring survival, nor is there any need for these dominance scuffles you keep initiating. This convenire is safe for the sacrament and for you, Orion. All of you are safe in my care.”

Orion smiles half-heartedly and shrugs. He doesn’t believe him, you realize. Is that why he’s been so clingy, following you around and acting friendly? Does he think he can get you in bed that way? Does he think that’s normal? Is that how it was, wherever he came from?

Does he miss it? you wonder nervously. 

“Renaud,” Athanasius says.

Renaud takes a deep breath and lets it out slowly and resignedly. “Yes, sir,” he says.

“I am concerned for your health. You have become avoidant again since your last incident.”

“I’m drinking—”

“Proper blood,” Athanasius stresses. “Cannibalism will starve you slowly.” Renaud doesn’t take the accusation well. He gets out of his chair, glaring, and opens his mouth but never gets the chance to speak. “Do not lie to me. You reek of your dalliances when you return from the bar. You gorge yourself on that which cannot sustain you and you do so with malice. There are many humans who are eager to feel our bite—”

“I don’t want them,” Renaud insists. He hunches over the table, rubbing a hand over his own face in embarrassment. “I don’t…can I talk to Rowan? Here? Not just over the phone.”

Athanasius’ gaze softens. “Rowan has yet to return from Envred, but he has assured me he will be here as soon as he is able. I can arrange something with Dr. Griffiths in the meantime.”

“I’ll wait,” Renaud says quietly. 

No wonder the household is such a wreck. They’ve all got the same counselor and he’s apparently out of town. You shift in your chair uncomfortably and look at the door to the kitchen. Do you really have to be here for this? You feel like you’re lurking at the edge of someone else’s therapy session, hearing things you’re not meant to. 

“Mihai,” Athanasius says. 

“Hm,” you hear. Then a choked sound, an awkward clearing of the throat. “Y…yes, sir.” Athanasius looks pointedly between you as if Mihai has looked anywhere else this entire meeting. His gaze steadily burns into yours. “I can’t apologize. I’m not sorry,” he says bluntly. 

Orion snorts, stifling it when Athanasius glances at him. “What, precisely, are you not sorry for?” Athanasius asks.

Mihai blinks slowly. That’s a cat thing, isn’t it? He doesn’t look particularly friendly or trusting right now. “Any of it,” he says. 

“What bothers you more? My inattentiveness, or the potential danger the sacrament poses?” Athanasius asks.

“Both,” Mihai says immediately. Then he frowns, glancing away from you for the first time and looking meekly at Athanasius. “No. It’s the witch. But you’re not careful enough, either. Witches are dangerous, elder. Especially the young and willful.”

You’re surprised that Mihai speaks so boldly to Athanasius, and even more surprised that Athanasius tilts his head in consideration. “And yet you subdued them easily. You held them so deeply in your thrall that it took both of us to bring them back out again. What did you see while they were unguarded?”

Mihai looks at you again. He’s still nervous, studying you the way a person studies anything volatile and potentially fatal, but there’s pity there, too. “Sadness,” he says quietly, “and profound loneliness. A lifetime of fear, of isolation. Of searching and never finding anything. A desire for destruction, for…vengeance. And yet a reluctance to do true, lasting harm.” 

You’re too stunned to even try refuting him. Are you really that easy to read? Do they all see that whenever they peek into your mind, or just when they go looking for something specific? 

“We probably won’t be killed in our sleep,” Mihai says, not sounding fully confident. “But most animals bite when provoked, and you like provocation.”  

Athanasius smiles. “Then your ire shall be for me alone. Are we agreed, sacrament?” 

You look at him and he looks back at you, and something stirs in the connection between you. He doesn’t send a message or an image through telepathy or try to nudge you into any particular answer, but there’s something there. Wisps of emotion. A feeling unfurling. It feels vast and endless, smothering, consuming. It fills your mind and tingles across your skin. The word “mine” never fully takes shape but you sense the implication; the shape of hands. The weight of chains. Slits of light and dark, sky and birdcage bars. 

He wants you with such ferocity that it leaves you speechless, frozen in fear until he repeats, “Are we agreed?”

“Uh. Yeah. Sure, yeah,” you say nervously, squirming in your seat. Mihai is unreadable but he’s watching carefully.

The rest of the meeting is thankfully uneventful. Athanasius spends some time reassuring the hatchlings, praising them for the things they’ve done well. Orion’s coworkers at the bakery are enamored with him. Virgilio was recently mentioned by name in a travel vlog after he gave a tourist nightlife recommendations. 

“And Mihai,” Athanasius says proudly. “The Lord Regent tells me the Council greatly appreciates your insight. I would not be surprised if you are approached for an advisory position of some sort in the near future.” 

Mihai shrugs, letting out a quiet, almost shy, “Hm.” Dismissed, the hatchlings drift back inside. Renaud leaves first and Orion waits a while before he follows dejectedly, giving you one last thoughtful look. Mihai lingers and so do you. Making peace has been in your best interest so far so you let him stare as hard as he wants and clear your throat. 

“So,” you say.

“Hm,” he says.

“You must be pretty, uh…” Interesting? Knowledgeable? What’s he helping the Council with, anyway? “I didn’t know they let hatchlings join the Council.” 

“They don’t,” he says. 

You blink. He doesn’t. Mihai glances up at Athanasius like he wants or expects him to step in, but Athanasius is too busy tucking in Orion and Renaud’s chairs, pretending he isn’t eavesdropping.

“I’m…older,” he says slowly. “Renaud and I are similar. Hatchlings by other definitions.” He stands up suddenly, looking uncomfortable. “I don’t want to talk about it,” he says, sounding seconds away from turning into a pile of leaves. 

“Hey, okay, no problem,” you assure him. Curiosity gnaws at you but you’ll leave it alone for now. “Well. It was nice to meet you. You know, properly. We haven’t really talked much before.”

He cocks his head in the sharp nightbound headtilt. It’s the first time you’ve seen it on him. Somehow, it strikes you as more intimidating than usual. His gaze is piercing. You feel like he sees things the other hatchlings miss. The dog comparison comes to mind again, but now it seems insufficient. That’s a wolf, you think. He’s been skittish but now that he’s tested you, sniffing around and prodding to see what you’ll do, he’s getting bolder. 

“Hm. We’ll speak more,” he says. For once, he walks away instead of shapeshifting and stealthily vanishing. His movements make your pulse pick up. He doesn’t walk like Orion or Renaud, confident, graceful, but ultimately human. He looks like Athanasius. Like Virgilio or Avudim. That’s a beast barely constrained by human skin, a predator that’s tasted centuries of blood.

He probably thought he was being subtle. You’d fled to the front porch shortly after arriving, but even that meager distance did little to help when you could see him out of the corner of your eye, stealing glances at you from the living room couch through the water-stained window as he played some terrible first-person shooter with a couple members of the fraternity. You were making a considerable effort to ignore him, but it was easier said than done. Try as you might, you couldn’t seem to concentrate on anything other than the weight of his gaze, the knot of anxiety forming in the pit of your stomach, the memories of his voice calling out to you in—

“Are you good?”

You blinked. Nobara was squinting at you, her head cocked to the side. Nodding hastily, you rushed to answer before fully processing her question. “Yeah, I’m fine. Just a little—” You paused, forcing yourself to laugh. “Just zoned out, I guess.”

She hummed, unconvinced. Next to her, the other girl you’d been talking to - Maki - smirked and slung an arm over Nobara’s shoulders. “Blame your friend. He’s got a bit of a staring problem.”

She glanced into the living room. “Yuuji? He’s harmless.” And then, to you, “You know him, right?”

The panic was a ice-cold stake to your chest. You shook your head, moved to tell her that no, really, it was alright, you were just having an off-night, you’d give her all the money in your wallet if she just didn’t do this, but it was already too late. Nobara turned to the window, raising a hand, and you watched in frozen horror as she waved to Yuuji, gesturing for him to join you.

He was off the couch and out the door before you could so much as think to make a run for it.

Maki was greeted with a nod, Nobara a hasty fist bump. You were pulled into a hug before you had the chance to object - his smothering physical affection saved for you and you alone. Even when he drew back, it was only far enough to position himself behind you and drape his arms around your waist. You could feel his breath on the dip of your shoulder, the scar at the corner of his lips ghosting over the base of your throat. It felt as if you were about to crawl out of your skin, but if your discomfort was visible, Maki and Nobara were both kind enough to ignore it. The former seemed disinterested while the latter only grinned.

“So you two do know each other.”

“Obviously.” Yuuji couldn’t have sounded happier. You felt yourself shrink underneath him. “We met last semester, in that class I failed.”

Nobara laughed. “So, like, any class you’ve literally ever taken.”

“Shut the fuck up.” The words were harsh, but his affection was light, cheery. Nobara brightened. Even Maki cracked a smile. Yuuji had that effect on people. He made them happy. He made them like him.

You weren’t sure why it didn’t work the same way, for you.

“We had this project together, and—” His hands dropped lower, falling a little too close to your hips. “Do you want to tell them what you said when I asked for your number, babe?”

“It wasn’t necessary for the assignment,” you recited, flatly.

“I got it anyway, though.” You cringed at the reminder. You’d changed it, since then, but that’d only stopped the flood of texts for a few days. All innocent things - questions about your day or pictures of cute dogs on campus. Nothing you could show to anyone else without seeming like you were crazy one for being bothered. “And we’ve been inseparable ever since.”

He was leaving things out. All the times he’d sat next to you in class, always more than happy to move along with you whenever you decided to switch seats. How often he’d coincidentally show up at the library while you were studying, despite never having reviewed for a test in his life. The hours of sleep you’d lost to dreading the next time you’d see him, the next time he’d stand too close or stare too long or talk about the two of you like you were good friends. You might’ve been able to cope, if you had someone to talk to. But—

Maki’s chuckled. She met your eyes, and her grin widened. “That would’ve been pretty scary, if it’d been anyone else. Bet you’re glad you’ve got the nicest guy on campus for a stalker, huh?”

You wanted to scream.

But everyone loved Yuuji.

You shrugged him off, starting for the front door. “I need to—”

“You’re right. We should dance.” Immediately, he was in front of you, grabbing your wrist. “C’mon, Toge’s getting the speakers hooked up out back.”

"I’m good. Maybe later.”

You tried to pull yourself out of his hold. His grip tightened.

“Do you want something to drink? I made sure we’re stocked up on everything you like, just—”

He glanced over his shoulder as he spoke, and you made the mistake of looking up - of looking at him. That was what had made you keep your distance, before the following and the touching and the harassment.

No matter how brightly he was smiling, his eyes were always so, so cold.

"Stop touching me.”

Heads turned in your direction. Nobara whispered something to Maki. Yuuji’s hand vanished from your wrist, as if it’d never been there at all.

Fuck.

You’d made a scene.

You shouldered past him, trudging into the house proper. Inside, disparate conversations melted into a constant pulse of voices and laughter and noise. You shouldered through bodies packed too tightly together, muttering apologies as drinks were spilled and balance was lost. Yuuji tried to follow, but the crowd was thick and you lost him quickly in the tangle. Hopefully, it’d stay that way until you’d done what you needed to.

It didn’t take long for you to find your roommate. Yuuta was in the basement, sprawled out on a well-beaten couch, passing a joint around with a few of his anemic friends. The current holder - a younger guy with spiky black hair and a perpetual frown - offered it to you as you approached, but you shook your head. Any other time, maybe. Right now, there was only one thing you wanted.

“C’mon, Okkotsu.” You reached over the back of the couch, taking him by the shoulder. “We’re leaving.”

His dark eyes were wide and unfocused. He had to blink a few times before his gaze shifted to you. When he spoke, his speech was on that same type of drawled delay. “Already?”

Agitation sparked, but you stamped it out. He was high. You’d been here for less than an hour. Some resistance was fair. “Yeah, it’s—” His name got caught in your throat. You did your best to choke it down before going on. “It’s Itadori.”

Of all the people you’d considered confessing your Yuuji-centered issues to, you’d gotten with Yuuta. You’d lived with him since freshman year. He was always so level-headed, so calm, so sympathetic. When someone spoke, he listened. You’d always liked that about him. You’d always trusted him to do the same for you.

Yuuta groaned, clenching his eyes shut and crossing his arms over his face. A knot formed in your chest. You repeated your mantra. Some resistance was fair. You had to believe that this was fair. “Again?”

“I know it’s early, but—”

“It’s too early. And Itadori’s not even that—” He broke off, whining into his sleeves. “Have you tried talking to him?”

The knot tightened.

“…it’s not really like that. We don’t—”

“He’s so nice.” With effort, Yuuta managed to sit up. “And sweet. And everybody knows he likes you. Couldn’t you just…?”

The insinuation was clear. You felt the knot grow tighter and tighter still before the cord snapped and something deep inside of you unraveled.

Your voice was flat, blank, confusion dulling anger into frigid apathy. “You want me to shut up and fuck him so you can… What? Smoke in his friend’s basement for another twenty minutes?”

Yuuta grimaced. “That’s not what I said.”

“It’s what you meant, though, right?”

“He’s nice.” Sulkily, now. As if you’d done something wrong. “It just— It wouldn’t be the worst thing in the world.”

Your expression hardened. His eyes widened, his mouth falling open as he scrambled to apologize, but it was too late. You were already climbing up the basement stairs. With or without him, you were getting out of here.

Someone had started playing music. You couldn’t see any amps, but deep bass blared through the house, loud enough to shake the foundations. People were beginning to dance. Not that any of that mattered to you. You kept to the walls, skirting around the edges, doing what you could to fade into the background. You didn’t want attention. You didn’t want to make a scene. You just wanted to—

Two arms, appearing out of nowhere, caging you in on either side. You froze, pressing your back against the drywall. Panic blurred your vision, but you would’ve had to be blind not to recognize the man in front of you.

Yuuji, obviously.

It was always fucking Yuuji.

He had a drink in his hand. The usual frat part mixer - reddish, brownish, smelling vaguely of Kool-Aid and gasoline. And he was smiling. Of course, he was smiling. You weren’t sure he was capable of doing anything else.

You did your best to be blunt, to keep your voice from shaking. “What do you want?”

He didn’t say anything. Slowly, with the type of care you hadn’t thought he was capable of, he held his drink in front of you. For an embarrassingly long second, you stared at it blankly, uncertain if you were supposed to take it or slap it out of his hand. Then, his smile widened, and in one unfaltering movement, he turned his cup over and dumped its contents down the front of your shirt.

The revulsion was hot and instantaneous. You cursed, grabbing at your shirt and pulling it away from your skin. You moved to dart away from Yuuji, but a muscular arm cut off your escape. It was all you could do to bare your teeth, glaring at him as you snarled, “What the fu—”

“Yo, Itadori.”

You snapped to your left and found Yuuta, the spiky haired kid from the basement trailing after him. He paid Yuuji a nod and a smile before his eyes fell to you, his expression dimming.

You opened your mouth, but Yuuji was faster. “Just a party foul,” he explained, nodding to your ruined shirt. “Mind if I borrow your room for the clean-up, Megumi?”

The spiky haired kid - Megumi - looked to you, his bleary eyes suddenly prying, evaluative. For a moment, he seemed to take you in, from the cheap booze dripping down your chest to the rigidity of your posture to the way you were pressed into the wall, clearly scared, clearly trying to keep your distance from a lurking threat. For a moment, you let yourself hope, even if you weren’t entirely sure for what. Help, maybe. More realistically, bare-bones acknowledgement, some kind of unspoken sign that he recognized what was happening. That something was wrong and it wasn’t your fault.

And then, the moment passed, and your amorphous hopes solidified into familiar disappointment as his gaze slid to Yuuji, softening in an instant. He nodded, and immediately, Yuuji’s fist was cuffed around your wrist, hauling you away. In your peripheral, you watched Yuuta raise a hand and start to say something, only to fall short. Megumi’s lips moved, the words lost underneath the music, gesturing in the direction of the drinks’ table. Yuuji’s grip tightened and you glanced toward him on instinct, finding only disheveled pink hair and the corners of his grin. By the time you looked back over your shoulder, they were gone.

Yuuji weaved seamlessly through the crowd. You were made to stumble up a too-thin staircase, then down a narrow hallway. The floor creaked under your weight as mold-infested carpeting tapered into ancient wooden boards, the music fading into a muted pulsing and the crowd thinning until you were alone save for the handful of lost, inebriated party-goers who’d wandered farther than they were supposed to. Never pausing to explain himself, Yuuji shouldered open an unmarked door, shutting it again as soon as he’d pulled you across the threshold.

Distantly, you heard a lock click into place, but couldn’t bring yourself to care. A little privacy didn’t sound all that bad, at the moment.

The room was dark. The walls were a deep, depressing shade of charcoal gray and the sole window was swallowed by a thick, black curtain. The sole source of light came from a lamp on a surprisingly neat desk, its harsh white light almost jarring after wading through the technicolor haze downstairs. You collapsed onto the foot of the bed, burying your head in your hands and groaning into your palms. Even that moment of catharsis was cut short as the mattress dipped beside you, Yuuji settling into place.

“We should get this off.” His hand curled around the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. “Can’t be comfortable, like that.”

You crossed your arms over your chest. “Why are you doing this?”

An airy laugh. Another tug - more insistent, this time. “‘cause we’re friends, obviously.”

“Don’t lie to me.”

“Alright.”

It was terrible, how calm his voice was, how little warning were given before his hands were on your shoulders, your back on the bed, his knees planted on either side of your waist. His weight settled onto your stomach - heavier than you’d expected. Of course. Yuuji was an athlete. In the haze of all his other positive accolades, you must’ve forgotten.

And he was staring at you, his eyes as cold as ice.

“Do you remember the day we met? Not the phone number shit. I really couldn’t care less if some—” He gestured dismissively, then let his hands fall to your midriff. “—fucking loser doesn’t want to talk to me. Afterward. When the lecture let out. You’d forgotten something, so I called your name. Must’ve caught you off guard, because you turned around and looked at me like…”

He trailed off, laughing.

“Like I was gonna kill you.”

Again, he caught the hem of your shirt, tugging gently. The air hitched in your throat. “…are you going to?”

The corners of his mouth pulled back, baring fangs. He shook his head. Somehow, no relief accompanied the reassurance.

“I really do like you.” In one motion, he tore your shirt up and over your head. Resistance wasn’t an option. Fabric tore, and suddenly, you were exposed and unprotected beneath him. Calloused fingertips dragged over your bare skin. He pulled off his own, then let his head dip low, his mouth skirting over the curve of your chest. “Took me a while to realize that. You kept running away, but I never stopped wanting to chase you.” He paused, chuckled. “I’m sorry. That makes me sound like I’m just in it for— for this, I guess. I’m not. I like the way you react to things. Whether you’re pretending not to see me or doing that deer in headlights thing or—”

He broke off suddenly, his lips latching onto your nipple. You cried out involuntarily as his teeth dug into your areola hard enough to break the skin. His tongue lapped hastily over the puncture wounds before he pulled away, grinning from ear to ear. “Or that.”

Hot, humiliating tears were beginning to fog your vision. You could see the door over his shoulder - salvation in the form of a hazy black outline. His hand drifted lower, finding the button of your jeans. Half on purpose, half on reflex, you thrashed. Your nails caught his cheek, something tearing where you made contact. You managed to free one of your legs, to get enough distance between you and him to pitch your heel into his chest. Yuuji jerked back, letting you squirm free. You rolled onto your hands and knees, scrambling for the edge of the mattress. You just had to get your feet underneath you. You just had to get out of this room. You just had to—

You made it all of a few, pitiful inches before a strong arm curled around your waist, a heavy body draping itself over yours. Anchoring you.

Trapping you.

Yuuji laughed, burying his head in the crook of your neck, pressing an open-mouthed kiss into the side of your throat. You didn’t realize that he’d been trying to be gentle until he shoved your jeans down to your knees and palmed at your cunt with all the delicacy of a hacksaw, already in motion. A thumb slid into the waistband of your underwear, the flimsy article torn off with the same haphazard efficiency. You tried to scream, but Yuuji’s mouth was already on yours, swallowing any noise you might’ve been able to get out. At the same time, he forced two fingers into your cunt, the heel of his palm rolling against your clit. A humiliatingly wet noise echoed off the walls of the bedroom - slick and mortifying. Yuuji let out a low whistle, spreading his fingers apart inside of you.

“And I thought you hated me.” His breath was hot and smothering against your skin. You shook your head violently, and he laughed. “It’s okay. I love you, too.”

You tried not to react, not to give him what he wanted. You couldn’t get away, and so denial was the next best option — letting your mind go blank and dissociating until he lost interest, playing dead until the predator got bored and wandered off in search of more interesting prey. But Yuuji had always made himself difficult to ignore. He held you tight against his chest, pumping his fingers into you with all the delicacy and all the curiosity of a mechanical piston, carrying out its only programmed function. Your cunt clenched and he forced in yet another digit, threatening to split you open. A pained groan slipped through your sealed lips. You were wet, but you didn’t want this. It was a fear reaction, not the pleasure he’d been so happy to mistake it for. It was going to take more than his invasive touch, his stifling closeness to make up for that.

…and yet, you couldn’t seem to swallow back the little, pitchy whines tangling together on your tongue, couldn’t seem to stop your legs from twitching underneath you. You bowed your head low, but Yuuji followed you, keeping his chest against your back and his hand lodged in-between your thighs, not allowing for any amount of distance. He was so, so close. You could feel his heart beating against your spine. You could hear him panting in your ear, too reminiscent of some giant, lumbering beast. You could see his face in your peripheral, his gaze locked on your expression. His eyes were cold enough to burn.

You came with a single, miserable moan. Yuuji’s pace slowed as you came down from your unwanted high, eventually stilling inside of you. You hoped beyond hope that he’d stay like that, that you’d get a chance to at least start to recover, but the world wasn’t that kind and Yuuji wasn’t that patient. Drawing back, his hands found your hips and turned you over — all but throwing you down to the mattress. You heard fabric shift, metal clink. It was all you could do not to look. You would’ve given anything to never have to put an image to that sound.

If only you had anything left to give.

“Sorry we couldn’t do this somewhere more— more special.” He fit his body between your legs. You felt something blunt and searing press against your entrance. “Next time. I promise, I’ll make it more romantic, next time.”

You opened your mouth, but it was too late. He was already thrusting into you. In a single motion, you were split open on his cock, left bare and exposed and at his mercy. Yuuji groaned, falling against you. His lips found yours, his tongue forcing its way into your mouth, lapping into you. You were minded uncannily of the way wolves licked each others’ mouths, all instinct without the care.

The coach blew out the final whistle just as the ball flew into the net. The practice game was over, and there was one clear winner. Kaiser’s grin was feral as his team crowded around him, celebrating his amazing shot. It was an incredible play; you could hardly believe he pulled it off. Despite your reservations about the guy, he was incredible on the field. 

You wish he could just stay on it forever. 

The team gathers on the sidelines to take their much-deserved breaks. You’re quick to get to work, trailing behind the other managers as they begin to pass out towels and water bottles to the players. You make a beeline to Ali. He’s the biggest talker on the team; everyone hates being near him once he gets going. Maybe if you can get Ali to ramble about birds or something, he might not be too keen on bothering you. 

He steps in front of you. You nearly collide with his chest. He’s so tall, you have to crane your neck up just to look him in the eyes. You think that he especially enjoys that. His blue eyes sharpen with delight. 

Kaiser tilts his head. “Got anything for me?” 

You look down at the water bottle and towel in your hands. Accepting defeat, you hand them over. His fingers brush over yours deliberately. As always, Kaiser makes a show of it. He languidly wipes at his neck and face. He downs the water like it’s liquid gold. Just when you’re about to attend to the next player, he snaps his fingers. 

Reluctantly, you look back at him. 

“Thanks.” He tosses you the towel. You barely manage to catch it. 

He pats your shoulder just before he passes you. “What would I do without our sweet little manager.” 

His tone is so condescending that you feel yourself heat up from embarrassment. Out of all the team managers, you’re the only one he calls that. 

Players aren’t supposed to return towels to managers; they’re supposed to put them in the bin. Kaiser, however, treats you more like his servant than as your actual job title suggests. You have to ball up your anger as you trek to the rag bin. 

One of your fellow managers gives you a sympathetic smile. You toss the dirty rag and grab another water bottle. 

“That bad, hm?” She asks. 

“No, just the usual amount of shitty.” You mutter. 

“He’ll get better,” she tries to assure. “He just needs a bit more time, since you’re new and all.” 

Yeah, more time. 

They’ve been saying that for the past year and a half.

You’re not sure why Kaiser has a hyperfixation on you. You’re pretty average, all things considered. Despite your normalcy, Kaiser has made it his personal mission to whittle you down. 

Everyone has acknowledged his behavior as abnormal. He’s never picked on any of the non-players of the team. He used to pretend they never existed until you came along. 

He’d make jabs at your clothes, ghost touches that lingered on inappropriate if he was any slower, and that dreaded title: ‘sweet, little manager’. 

“Ignore it.” Another fellow manager comes up to tell you. “He’ll stop eventually.” 

You shrug. You glance out the corner of your eye. 

Kaiser’s already staring at you. His grin is infuriating. 

“Yeah,” you say, “eventually.” 

~

You’ve talked to Noel Noa twice in your life. 

First: the day you got hired.

Second: the day you turned in your resignation. 

He’s still staring long after you stopped rambling. His stare is so heavy, practically crushing you, and yet you can’t tell what he’s thinking. Even as he studies you from his chair, he still feels bigger than you. 

He’d stepped down from playing a couple years ago, but even as head coach of the team, he’s yet to lose his intimidating stature. 

“Are you sure about this?” He finally asks, 

Noa has yet to glance at the slip you dropped on his desk. You drafted your resignation letter with a bold black pen and the neatest handwriting you could. He barely acknowledged it.

“I am.” You tell him. “Thank you for the opportunity. I’ll forever be grateful for all the experience I learned from this team.” 

It sounds rehearsed because it is rehearsed. You practiced in the mirror, mouthing the words over and over so you wouldn’t flail in front of Noel Noa. 

He only tilts his head, scanning you up and down. You wonder what he’s searching for. 

“Did anything particular happen that made you want to resign?” He prompts. 

You think of blonde hair with bright blue tips. A blue rose. 

“No.” You smile with tight lips. “Nothing at all.” 

He doesn’t believe you. You can tell. 

“It’s a shame to see you go.” He says anyway, standing up and reaching out his hand. “You were a wonderful asset for this team.” 

“Thank you so much, Sir.” 

You shake his hand with all the confidence you can muster. You loved this team. You really did. 

But it wasn’t worth it. 

He wasn’t worth it. 

~ 

When you leave the office, you aren’t surprised to find Kaiser waiting for you. 

He’s leaned against the wall, watching with sharp eyes as you continue to stare at the ground. Stupidly, you hope that if you continue to ignore him, he might not try to start anything. 

If anything, that makes him more eager. 

“Hey hey.” He grabs your arm, forcing you to stop. “Where do you think you’re going?” 

Your lips curl into a sneer, but you’re forcing it back down. 

“Kaiser, I have work.” Your voice is quiet even to your own ears. It prompts Kaiser to lean down closer to your face. 

“Hm? What’d you say?” His grin is even wider. 

You try to pull away, but he’s crowding you against the wall, lightly pushing at you. You're forced to take a step back, then another, then another until your back hits the tile. 

“I don’t have time for this.” You say, just as quiet. The bite in your words is mute. He relishes this. Kaiser grins, showing white teeth that glint. 

“Aw, C’mon.” He mockingly pouts and you bite your lip. “You were in the coach's office for a while. I was getting worried.” He cocks his head, assessing you. 

“You didn’t get in trouble or anything, did you?” 

“No,” you say firmly, “Stop it. I need to go–” 

“Go where?” He prods, and you feel his hand rest on your upper thigh, daring to creep up. 

You freeze. 

He’s saying something else, but all you can think of is his fingers drifting over your thigh. He gives a firm squeeze. 

“Get the fuck off me.” 

You push him away. He stumbles back. It’s not strength that gets him off of you. Your burst of anger just surprised him. He’s used to your meekness, willingness to be pushed around. You use it to your advantage, immediately turning away before he can say anything else. 

He doesn’t follow. You don’t hear the second echo of footsteps as you walk off. Relief singes at your fingers. 

Just for a moment, just for a peek, you glance back. 

He’s still standing right where you left him. 

His smile is gone. 

~

For the next few days, things are strangely peaceful. 

There’s no more beratement from Kaiser. You never suffered any more unwanted touches or annoying quips. It was like you were completely erased from his world. 

You weren’t complaining. For the first time in a while, you actually looked forward to working with the entire soccer team, rather than just huddling with the other non-players. It was a nice change of pace. 

It’s a shame the change only happened right when you were leaving. 

A few days before you officially left, your little team of managers promised you a farewell party. You were looking forward to it. One last hurrah with your co-workers before you move into a new section of your life. 

Things were finally looking up. 

After hours, the club is pretty quiet. Most players just want to shower and go right home. You know, some like to stay behind to do a little more practice, but this is mostly when staff use the time to reorganize locker rooms and such. 

You like working alone. Someone else was with you earlier, but you’d kindly waved her off, insisting you could handle it. It was less than an official storage room and more of a closet. You stood in front of the equipment, your trusty clipboard in hand. Someone mentioned that the team was running low on some items. You might have to edit some orders if they were true. 

Loud footsteps echo behind you. You pay them no mind. Probably a coach. A player who’d forgotten their bag. 

They stop right behind you. You don’t even bother to look. 

“I’ll be just a second.” You tell them, assuming they wanted to set up some cones for last-minute drills. 

“You’re leaving?” 

Your fingers tighten on the clipboard. 

Slowly, you turn to look at Kaiser. He’s still in his uniform. The smell of sweat and rubber is faint in the air. His breaths are slow as he glares down at you. Your eyes trail to his hand. 

Your resignation letter is crumpled in his hand. 

Something keeps strumming through your arms and legs. You want to fidget: shake your leg, flex your fingers. You feel nervous, though you aren’t sure why. 

“Yes.” You respond as curtly as you can. “But that’s none of your business–” 

“The fuck it is.” He crowds you, forcing you to back up into the storage room. 

You’ve seen Kaiser angry before. On the field, or with his teammates. Never at you. There’s no reason to be angry at you. In his world, you barely exist. 

Kaiser wasn’t angry. 

That’d be too tame a word to describe him. 

His blue eyes almost glow with the way he looks at you. Kaiser has always forced you to feel many things: embarrassment, discomfort, anger, and frustration. 

Not fear. Never fear. 

Until now, at least. 

“You think you can just run from me?” He asks, but you don’t think he’s talking to you. His voice sounds rampant, unfocused. “You think there’s somewhere you can escape to? That I’d just let you walk away from me?” 

The way he speaks makes something awful grow into the pit of your stomach. His tone is vile, possessive, and something else you’d rather not name. You feel small, like you’re a toy a child is no longer allowed to play with anymore. 

You open your mouth, and then his lips are on yours. 

There’s no softness, no gentleness. Kaiser is nothing but harsh and full of teeth. By the time you’re able to pull away, your lips are sore and bitten. 

He lets you stumble back, reaching up to wipe your blood off his lips. 

You should’ve taken that time to run, but you can’t. Your feet feel like they’re cemented into the ground as you continue to stare at him. Your lips sting. Something burns across your face as he advances forward. 

You should’ve run. Even as he shut the door behind you two with a final thud, you knew that. 

The tiny sliver of light barely gives you a glimpse of his figure before you feel him against your chest, shoving you against the wall. 

“What are you doing?” It’s all you can say, all you can think. “Kaiser–what–what are you doing–” 

“It’s my fault,” he says, but it sounds more like he’s talking to himself than talking to you, listening to the words form in his mouth. “I was too lenient on you. Everyone else saw it, and I thought that was enough.” 

There’s a click of his tongue. “It’s clear you need to have some things spelled out for you.” 

Fingers crudely snap in your face. You flinch, trying to back up against the wall, but there’s nowhere to run. Maybe that was the case from the first moment he saw you. 

“Here’s how things are gonna go: You aren’t leaving. You are never leaving me. The minute you try, I’m dragging you right back kicking and screaming.” 

You wordlessly stare back at him. Kaiser isn’t finished. 

“If you want to try, I’ll make you understand just how hard things will get for you.” 

The threat is clear and laced with venom that stings. You stop breathing, but your timid fear isn’t enough for Kaiser. 

He leans into your space, lips right at your ear. 

“Do you understand?” 

Something about his tone makes your body snap up at attention. You close your eyes and nod, pressing yourself further up against the wall. 

“Okay.” You find yourself saying. “I–I won’t….okay.” 

You keep your eyes closed until you no longer feel him breathing down your neck. Even then, he doesn’t let up on his closeness. Strangely, his presence feels smaller, like he’s slowly calming down. You can still feel the rage emanating from his body, but the heat is a bit more bearable. 

“Better.” He tells you. You flinch as he lightly pats your cheek, like you were some rowdy mutt. 

“There’s this new restaurant that just opened up. It's too Americanized for me, but the food’s pretty good. Wanna go?” 

You blink at him. He’s back to how he acted just hours ago, slightly leaned against the wall, hands in his pockets, casual with the slightest hint of a playful tease. 

How was he so casual about this? Why was he so unafraid? The minute you got out of here you planned on reporting him until he got arrested. You should have done that weeks ago, but why was he so confident you wouldn’t. 

You glance down at his shoes. Yours were cheap, but you took care of them as much as you could. You wanted them to last. His were rugged and muddy and barely held together, but the brand was expensive. It probably cost an entire month of your salary. He’d easily buy another pair. 

Ah, that was why. 

That’s why the other managers brushed off his harsh words even though they edged on harassment. That’s why you still hesitate to say anything even though you desperately want to. You’re just a Pawn on the chessboard. 

Kaiser is the King. 

When you give a wordless nod, Kaiser preens, satisfied. He wraps an arm around your shoulder, jostling you to his side as he drags you out of the suffocating closet. You shrink under his hold, reluctantly following along as his head dips into the crook of your neck. 

“Should’ve done this sooner. Everything's so much easier now that you understand,” he says, his voice muffled by your neck.