Hawkluv

You haven’t done this in years. Decades, maybe.

You swore you wouldn’t. Swore that whatever you are, you wouldn’t be that. Wouldn’t lure sailors to the rocks, wouldn’t feast on the drowned, wouldn’t become the monster the stories warned about.

But the hunger doesn’t care about your morals. The hunger only knows that the ship means food, and the song means the ship will come to you.

So you sing. And the song that pours out of you is everything you are—loss and loneliness and the desperate need to simply survive—and you feel it land, feel the ship begin to turn toward the rocks.

You rise from the water, ready, and find a man at the railing looking directly at you. Awake.

That stops you cold.

He should be entranced. They all are. You can see the rest of them behind him, swaying, glassy-eyed, caught in the current of your voice. The song doesn’t fail. It can’t fail. It reaches into the deepest part of a person and pulls.

But this man is watching you with clear blue eyes and an expression of frank, unhurried interest, like you’re a curiosity he’s decided to examine rather than a horror dragging him to his death.

And you find yourself looking back.

He’s tall. Broad through the shoulders in a way that speaks of someone who works, who fights, who doesn’t simply give orders from behind a desk. Blond hair, longer than a soldier’s, pulled back from his face but loose enough that the sea wind tugs strands of it free.

A dark coat hangs open over a white shirt left carelessly half-unbuttoned, sleeves pushed up corded forearms. He is wearing black trousers, worn leather belt, boots built for decks and danger. There’s teal in the trim of the coat, deep as the deeper water, and a wide-brimmed hat that shadows his eyes without hiding them.

He looks like the sea itself decided to put on a man’s shape. And he looks entirely unbothered.

You should be the dangerous one here. You’re the one who lures. Who drowns. Who sends the silver bones of ships to rest in the dark.

So why is it your pulse that’s racing?

He leans his forearms on the railing, entirely too comfortable for a man who should be drowning. “That’s quite a voice,” he says.

You bare your teeth.

His eyebrows rise. Not in fear, in something closer to delight.

“Easy,” he says. “I’m not steering toward your rocks. Though I’ll admit you nearly had my whole crew doing it for me.” He glances back at his men, frowns, then raises his voice into something that cracks like a whip. “Wake up. All of you. Now.”

Something in the command cuts clean through the song. His men shake themselves, blink, look around in dawning horror at how close they’ve drifted to the black stone.

“Hard to port,” he says, calm as anything. “Bring us about.”

They scramble to obey. And they obey fast, the way men move for someone they trust with their lives.

And he turns back to you like none of it was urgent at all.

You stare at him, chest heaving, song dying in your throat.

He’s still affected—you can see it now that you’re looking. There is a tension in his jaw. A faint roughness to his breathing. The song touched him. He simply refused to let it take him, the way a man might plant his feet against a current strong enough to drown him.

That should be impossible.

“How,” you demand. Your voice cracks, unused for anything but the song. “The song should have—you should be—”

“Drowning?” He says it mildly. “Mm. I felt it. Don’t mistake me—” His gaze sharpens, and for half a second something flickers there, something that says the song reached him more than he’ll admit. “It’s a beautiful thing, what you do. I just happen to be very difficult to move once I’ve decided where I’m standing.” A faint smile. “Stubbornness has its uses.”

You don’t know what to do with any of this. You’ve never been seen before. Only obeyed, or feared, or fled.

This man is doing none of those things.

He’s just looking at you with those clear blue eyes. And you, traitorously, can’t stop looking back.

His expression shifts. The amusement doesn’t leave entirely, but something else moves underneath it. “You’re starving,” he says.

It isn’t a question.

You hiss at him, pride flaring even now. “I don’t need—”

“When did you last eat?”

“That’s not—”

“It’s a simple question.”

You don’t answer. Can’t. The shame is worse than the hunger, somehow. Being seen like this, reduced to this, by a human who should be afraid of you and instead is looking at you like you’re a problem he intends to solve.

He straightens, then turns to one of his crew. “The catch from this morning. Bring it up.”

You go very still. You expect a trick. You watch, wary and coiled, as a crew member hauls up a netted bundle. Fish, fresh, silver-bright and gleaming in the morning light. More than you’ve seen in weeks. The smell of it hits you and your whole body shudders with want.

The captain takes the net and crosses to the railing. “Come closer,” he says.

“So you can spear me?” Your voice is venom. “I’m not a fool.”

“If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you keep singing and put an arrow through your throat while you worked.” He says it without heat, a simple fact. “I don’t. So.” He holds out the net over the water. “Come and eat.”

You hesitate. Every instinct screams that this is wrong, that humans don’t help, that kindness is a hook with bait on it, but the hunger wins.

You dart forward, fast and ready to flee, and snatch the net from his hand. He lets it go easily. He doesn’t strike. He just watches as you tear into the fish with a desperation you can’t be ashamed of, can’t do anything about except eat.

He says nothing while you do.

When you finally surface again, he’s still there. He is leaning on the railing. “Better?” he asks.

You stare at him. “Why,” you manage.

“Why what?”

“Why would you do that?” Your voice shakes despite yourself. “You should have killed me. Or run. Humans always—”

“I’m not most humans.” He says it simply. “And I don’t kill starving things that sing like the whole ocean is grieving.” Something gentler settles in his face. “That wasn’t a hunting song. Not really. That was something else.”

You don’t have words. No one has ever heard it.

His name is Varka. He gives it freely, which surprises you.

“You’re not afraid I’ll use it?” you ask.

“Should I be?”

“Names matter. To things like me.”

“Mm.” He considers this, head tilting. “Then it seems only fair I’ve given you mine.” He nods at you. “And yours?”

You almost don’t tell him. Then you do.

He repeats it once, and something about the way he says it, like it’s worth saying correctly, makes your chest ache in a way the hunger never did.

“Suits you,” he says.

“You don’t even know me.”

“No,” he agrees easily. “But I know what it’s like to hear a name and feel it fits. Yours does.” He says it without weight, like it costs him nothing, and then moves on before you can decide whether to be flustered or furious. “You’ve been out here a long time, I think. Alone.”

“How would you know that?”

“The song.” His eyes are steady. “It wasn’t a hunting song. Not really. Hunger drove it, maybe, but underneath—” He pauses, choosing words. “That was the sound of something that’s been alone too long. I’ve heard grief before. I know its shape.”

You go very still. No one has ever heard it. You change the subject because you have to. “What are you, then? You sail under no banner I recognize.”

“A privateer.” A wry tilt of his mouth. “Sanctioned. Papers and all. Which makes me a pirate the way a sword is a letter-opener—technically accurate and entirely beside the point.” He gestures at the death-waters around you, the black rocks, the wreck-strewn deep. “I sail where honest men won’t. Through places like this.”

“And what is it you’re looking for? No one comes to the death-waters for nothing.”

Something flickers across his face. “A sword,” Varka says.

You blink. “A sword.”

“An old one. Lost a long time ago, in a wreck somewhere in these waters.” He says it lightly, but you hear the weight underneath, the thing he’s not saying. “A family blade. My father carried it. His father before him.” A pause. “It went down with a ship I wasn’t on. I’ve spent longer than I’d like to admit chasing where it fell.”

“It matters to you,” you say slowly. “More than a sword should.”

He looks at you. A little startled, like he didn’t expect to be read so easily. “Mm,” he admits. “More than I tend to say out loud.”

The honesty sits between you, unexpected and warm.

You find yourself studying him: the longer hair tugged loose by the wind, the open collar, the way he holds himself even at rest like something coiled and ready.

There’s the easy confidence of a man used to being followed. But underneath it, in the way he spoke about the sword, something quieter. Something that grieves.

You understand grief. “There are many wrecks here,” you say, before you can think better of it. “The rocks take ships. Always have. I know where most of them lie—which deeps hold what, which currents guard which bones.” You lift your chin. “Better than any map you’ll find.”

His whole attention sharpens onto you. “You’d know where my father’s ship went down.”

“I’d know where to start looking.” You hold his gaze. “These are my waters. I know them the way you know your own hands.”

For a long moment he simply looks at you, weighing something. “Why would you help me?”

It’s a fair question. You don’t entirely have an answer.

Because you fed me when you could have killed me. Because you said my name like it mattered. Because you’re the first thing in years that’s looked at me and seen something other than a monster.

“Because I want something in return,” you say instead, which is also true. “A deal.”

A slow smile. “Go on.”

“I’ll help you find your wrecks. Tell you which waters hide what.” You hold his gaze. “And in return you keep bringing the catch. Until the fish return to these waters.”

“And the singing?” he asks. “The luring sailors to their deaths?”

You lift your chin. “I haven’t done it in many years. Today was—” The shame again. “I was desperate. I won’t, if I don’t have to. I never wanted to be that.”

Varka studies you for a long moment, then nods. “Then we have a deal.”

He extends his hand down toward the water. You look at it. At him. At the strange impossible warmth of a human offering his hand to a thing the stories call a monster.

You reach up. His grip is warm and careful, and when your hand meets his, something passes between you that has nothing to do with sirens or captains or swords.

— ✦ —

The first days are not easy.

The deal is struck, but a deal is just words, and your body doesn’t trust words. It trusts the hunger, which has ruled you for weeks, which doesn’t simply vanish because a stubborn captain promised to feed you.

And the death-waters don’t make it simple. Storms roll through, days of them, churning the sea so violently that the ship has to run before the wind, leaving the stretch of water you know.

You lose them. You spend two days, three, fighting currents and searching, the hunger creeping back with every hour, sharpening you down again into that feral, narrow thing you hate being.

When you finally find the ship, you’re past thinking. You’re not reaching for the song, not eyeing the crew, nothing like that. It’s simpler and worse than that: you’re on edge, every nerve scraped raw, the desperation back in your blood like a fever.

And then you see Varka at the railing. And something in you goes wild. You don’t decide to move. You surge up out of the water fast and high, almost onto the deck itself, close enough that the nearest crewman shouts and stumbles back.

“Whoa.” Varka’s hand comes up, palm out. “Easy.”

You snarl at him, teeth bared, the sound tearing out of you before you can stop it, and then you catch yourself. Catch the wild thing by the throat and drag it back down, chest heaving, horrified at yourself, sinking back toward the water with your pulse roaring.

“I—” Your voice is wrecked. “The storms. I couldn’t find you. I haven’t—” You can’t finish.

Varka doesn’t flinch. That’s the thing that undoes you.

A creature of the death-waters just came at his deck with bared teeth, and he hasn’t reached for a blade, hasn’t done anything but watch you with those clear blue eyes and that infuriating, impossible calm.

“The catch is already up,” Varka says, like nothing happened. He nods to the net waiting at the rail. “Figured you’d be hungry, wherever you’d got to. Eat.”

You don’t have the pride left to refuse. You take the fish and you eat with a desperation you can’t hide and can’t be ashamed of, and the whole time you’re aware of him watching with a kind of intent, arrested fascination.

When the worst of it passes, you finally meet his eyes.

He’s still watching.

“You shouldn’t stare like that,” you say roughly. “I nearly attacked you a moment ago.”

“Mm.” He doesn’t look away. “You didn’t, though. You stopped.” A pause, something thoughtful in it. “That can’t have been easy. Hungry as you were.”

You don’t know what to say to that. No one has ever given you credit for the stopping. “You’re a reasonable man,” you manage. “By all accounts. Reasonable men don’t lean closer to the thing that just bared its teeth at them.”

A faint, wry curve of his mouth, aimed more at himself than you.

“No,” Varka agrees. “They don’t.” He still doesn’t move back. “I’ve been told my judgment occasionally takes the night off.”

And there is that current under everything again, that thing neither of you will name, pulling at you both even now, even like this, even with your hands still trembling and your pride in tatters.

You make yourself look away first.

The silence stretches. Varka is still watching you with that arrested, against-his-better-judgment intentness, and you can't stand it.

“Why are you still helping me?” you ask. It comes out sharper than you mean. Still half-feral, still raw. “You’ve fed me for days. You don’t have to. The deal would hold without the kindness.”

“The deal’s the deal." He says it easily enough. “You guide my charts, I keep your belly full. Fair trade.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

Something flickers behind his eyes. “I help people who need it,” he says. “Always have. Doesn’t much matter to me whether they walk on two legs or—” a glance at the water “—don’t. Someone’s starving in front of me, I feed them. That’s not complicated.”

You bristle, the wild thing rising again. “I don’t need your charity.”

“Good thing it isn’t charity, then.”

That stops you. “It isn’t?”

“No.” He’s blunt, and there’s an edge to his voice you don’t yet have a name for. “Charity is something you give and might forget. I haven’t forgotten a single conversation we’ve had. I think about the things you tell me. I look forward to—” He stops himself. “It isn’t charity. Don’t insult us both by calling it that.”

You don’t know what to do with the honesty. So you do what you always do. You go prickly. “You shouldn’t get attached to a thing like me,” you mutter. “It never ends well. For the human.”

Varka doesn’t reply. Instead, he looks at you with an expression you can’t decipher.

It’s getting dark. You hadn’t noticed until now. The sun has gone down behind the rocks, the water turning to ink, the first stars surfacing overhead.

And in the dimness something shifts in the way Varka is looking at you. “You glow a little,” he says quietly. “In the dark. Did you know that?”

You go still. No one has ever told you that. No one has ever been close enough, or unafraid enough, to notice.

For a moment you just look at each other across the dark water, and the silence is so charged it’s hard to breathe.

“Still,” he says, leaning back, “you’re remarkably aversive for someone who keeps coming back.”

You hiss before you can help it. “Can you blame me?”

“Mm.” He tilts his head. “Can you blame humans? For being careful? The stories about your kind aren’t gentle.”

“Yes,” you snap. “Exactly. The stories.” The bitterness surprises even you. “Everyone knows the stories. Everyone’s so sure they know what we are. Drowners. Devourers. Monsters with pretty voices.” You bare your teeth. “No one ever wonders if the stories are wrong. No one ever asks. They just decide, and reach for the harpoon.” You look away. “Most of my kind never touched a human in their lives. But it’s easier to believe the song than the silence.”

Varka is quiet a moment. “That,” he says, “is the most human complaint I’ve ever heard.”

You glare at him.

He studies you a moment longer. Something thoughtful working behind his eyes. “I’ll admit,” he says slowly, “I didn’t expect it. Your kind. The—” he gestures, searching for the word “—the feeling. The bitterness, just now. The way you talk about being misjudged like it actually wounds you.” He pauses. “It’s almost human.”

You go still.

“I wouldn’t know,” you say, quieter than before. “I have no comparison. I don’t know what humans feel. I only know what I feel.” You look away. “Maybe it’s the same. Maybe it isn’t. No one’s ever asked me before, so I’ve never had to wonder.”

Varka is quiet. Then, almost in passing, offhand, like he’s only just realized it himself, he says: “Mm. Maybe they’re not so different. The core of it.”

He turns the thought over. “Hunger. Loneliness. Wanting to be more than what people decided you are. Wanting—” he stops, then continues “—wanting to survive, and not be hated for it.” His eyes flick to you. “That’s why I keep feeding you, if you must know. It isn’t pity. I just don’t see much difference between a starving siren and a starving anything else. A thing that wants to live isn’t a monster for wanting it.”

The honesty unspools something in your chest you’d rather keep wound tight. So you reach for the old armor. Dry. Defensive.

“You should be careful with that thought,” you say. “There are stories about us too, you know. Our own kind tells them.”

You trail your fingers through the dark water. “That the first sirens weren’t born in the sea at all. That we were human, once—centuries ago. Cursed. Drowned and remade into something that sings instead of speaks, that hungers instead of loves.”

A bitter little laugh escapes you. “If the stories are true, then everything I feel is just a human heart that never stopped beating. Twisted up. Made sharper. More—” you search for it “—more. We feel too much and too hard, the old songs say. It’s why we’re dangerous. Why getting close to us is a bad idea.” You meet his eyes, daring him.

For a moment Varka doesn’t answer. He’s processing it, filing it away somewhere, the way he files the shape of a coastline or the set of a sail.

“Noted,” is all he says. “Dangerous creature. Feels too much.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “I’ll add it to the list.”

You hiss at him, and the moment passes, but the words sit in the water between you, planted, waiting.

Human once. We could be again, some small buried part of you doesn’t quite let itself say. You bury it with the rest.

And then Varka moves. Fast and sudden. Not a real strike, you realize that even as it happens, but your body doesn’t know the difference. The wild thing surges up, instinct screaming threat, and the old memories claw at the edges of your mind.

You hiss, recoiling, teeth bared, every nerve alight, and then he stops. Hands up. Calm. “Easy,” he says. “Just showing you something.”

“What,” you spit, “could you possibly—”

“That’s a feint.” He says it like an instructor. “You read the motion, not the intent. You committed to the dodge before you knew if it was real. A clever opponent would’ve used that. Would’ve drawn the reaction, struck where you weren’t.” He nods at you. “You’re fast. But you’re all instinct. No reading. Same thing I told my crew this morning.” A beat. “If you ever do have to defend yourself against something with hands and a blade—you’ll want to know that.”

You stare at him. The fury drains, replaced by grudging interest. Because he’s right. And no one has ever bothered to teach you anything but fear.

“I don’t need lessons from a human,” you say. But there’s no venom in it now.

“No?”

“No.” And then, because the prickly pride demands it, because you want, fiercely, for him to understand that you are not the helpless starving thing he keeps feeding: “Watch.”

You lift a hand from the water. And you call, just a little. The sea answers: a current curling up at your command, lifting a rope of water into the air, coiling it around your wrist like a living thing before you let it fall back with a slap against the hull. The ship rocks, gentle, at your whim.

Varka’s eyebrows climb.

“The sea listens to me,” you tell him, and you can’t quite keep the satisfaction out of it. “That’s what your stories never mention. We don’t drown sailors with our hands. When the sea listens—” you let the water curl once more, then still it “—we don’t need to.”

He’s gone very quiet, looking at you with something new now. Something closer to awe. “...Remind me,” he says slowly, “never to make an enemy of you.”

“Try your best,” you say, a smile creeping up on your face.

It startles a laugh out of him. And just like that, something between you has changed. The wild thing has settled. The wariness, on both sides, has cracked a little further open. You showed him a piece of what you are, and he didn’t reach for a weapon. He marveled.

You find that you want to tell him things, now. So you do.

“I heard something,” you say, the prickliness gone soft at the edges. “While I was lost in the storms. Passed close to a trade route, a fishing village. Sailors talk.”

You drag the conversation back to something safe, something transactional, something that isn’t the way he’s looking at you right now. “There’s word of a wreck off the northern shoals. Old. Carried something valuable down with it, they say. Might be nothing. Might be worth your charts.”

It works. Mostly. His attention sharpens onto the information, the captain surfacing over the man.

But not entirely. Because even as he asks his questions—where, how old, what the sailors claimed—there’s a part of his gaze that hasn’t left you. That’s still turning something over. Still, against all his better judgment, interested.

You tell yourself you don’t notice.

— ✦ —

The days that follow settle into something you don’t have a name for.

The deal holds. Each morning the catch comes over the railing. Fish, fresh and silver and plentiful, more than enough to dull the screaming hunger down to something you’d almost forgotten existed: an ordinary appetite, easily fed.

Your strength returns. The hollow in your cheeks fills. You stop counting time in absences.

Sometimes it’s Varka who brings the catch.

Sometimes it isn’t. There’s a sharp-eyed first mate too. He’s blue-haired, perpetually amused, and calls you the captain’s mermaid in a tone that makes you want to drag him under purely on principle. He hands the net down with a grin and a comment you don’t dignify with a response.

You decide you don’t like him. You decide this several times, mostly because he keeps looking like he knows something you don’t.

And sometimes there are no words at all. The fish come down, you take them, the ship moves on to chart another stretch of wreck-strewn water you’ve marked for them. A transaction. Nothing more.

Except it never stays nothing more for long. Because Varka talks to you. Not always but often enough that you start, traitorously, to look for it.

You also learn the ship’s name. The Dandelion’s Flight.

It’s a strange name for a pirate’s vessel. The flag that snaps above her mast is a single dandelion seed-head scattering on the wind, white against deep teal. But the longer you know Varka, the more it makes sense.

Varka is never quite the same twice.

Some days he’s easy, almost teasing, leaning on the railing with that open-collared confidence, drawing the wild out of you just to watch it spark. “Careful,” he’ll say when you snap at him. “Bare your teeth at me like that and I’ll start thinking you like the company.”

And you’ll hiss something cutting back, and he’ll laugh brightly like your sharpness is a gift rather than a threat.

One morning you arrive to find the deck in motion. Sparring. The crew paired off across the boards, blades flashing in the early light. Varka is in the middle of it with his coat discarded and his sleeves shoved up, drilling them the way you’d drill anything you intended to keep alive.

You stay low in the water and watch. You can’t help it.

Because this is different from the captain who leans on railings and teases. This is the man underneath the ease. He moves through his crew correcting a grip here, a stance there, then takes on two of them at once just to prove a point, and disarms them both without ever quite seeming to hurry.

There’s no glory-seeking in it. No showing off. Just a man who has decided his people will come home alive, and intends to make sure of it.

The white shirt clings to him with sweat by the end. You become aware that you’ve been staring for some time. That your tail has gone still in the water. That something warm and inconvenient has settled low in your chest.

Varka catches you looking. “Enjoying the view?” he calls, not even winded.

You sink immediately to your eyes, glaring over the waterline. His laugh follows you down.

Other days he’s serious, stern, even, the weight of command settling over him, the privateer-captain who’s responsible for every life on his deck. On those days he asks careful questions about the waters ahead, the currents, the hidden rocks, and listens to your answers with a focus so complete it makes your scales prickle.

And some days he’s simply wondering and quiet, watching the water like it holds answers. Asking you things no human has ever asked. What it’s like beneath the waves. Whether you remember being anything other than what you are. Whether you’re lonely.

(You never answer that last one. Varka never pushes. But he asks again, another day, gentle as the tide.)

You’re meant to be the dangerous one. Instead you find yourself surfacing earlier each morning. You’re lingering longer each evening, memorizing the different shapes of him and being unable to decide which unsettles you most.

“You’re staring,” Varka says one evening, not looking up from the rope he’s coiling.

“I’m assessing a threat.”

“Mm. And?”

“The threat is irritating.”

That earns you the laugh again. You tell yourself you don’t swim a little higher in the water to hear it better.

(You’re a liar.)

— ✦ —

The ship is not your whole world. It only feels that way, lately.

When you’re not trailing Varka’s hull, you do what you’ve always done. What you did for all the long years before a stubborn captain sailed into your waters and refused to drown. You roam.

You drift along shorelines at dusk, close enough to watch the lights come on in distant windows.

You explore the caves that honeycomb the black rocks, cool and dark and full of the small glowing things that live where the light can’t reach. You follow the great slow currents out past the death-waters and back again, mapping the sea the way you’ve always mapped it.

And you visit the wrecks. There are so many. Centuries of them, scattered across the deep. Ships the rocks took, ships the storms took, ships that simply vanished and came to rest here in the dark. You know them the way you know your own scales.

You drift through their broken hulls, past the coral that’s reclaimed them, and sometimes you find things. A name carved into a beam. Cargo that survived the drowning. Charts gone soft with seawater but not yet illegible. The small persistent evidence of who a ship was before the sea unmade it.

You never used to care what any of it meant. Now you find yourself lingering. You’re reading names, noting which wrecks are old enough, deep enough, the right shape to maybe be the one a certain captain is looking for. You catch yourself memorizing details to bring back to him, as if his quest has somehow become a thing you carry too.

In one of the deeper wrecks—an old merchant vessel, half-swallowed by coral—you find a strongbox that the sea hasn’t quite managed to ruin.

Inside you find jewelry. Tarnished but fine. Rings, a chain, a brooch worked in silver. And a belt, the leather somehow preserved, the buckle heavy and well-made.

You tell yourself it’s practical. The sea will only ruin them, given time, and a pirate—a privateer—surely has use for such things. It’s nothing. A scrap of the deal, perhaps. Repayment for all the fish.

You very carefully do not think about the fact that you noticed, days ago, that Varka’s own belt is worn nearly through at the buckle. That you found yourself looking at this one and thinking of him.

You don’t usually take things. You take these. You don’t examine why.

— ✦ —

You are not the only one of your kind in these seas. There are others. Scattered and rare. Sirens don’t gather. You don’t build, don’t share, don’t keep each other company the way humans crowd their warm little ports.

You drift through the vast dark alone and cross paths so seldom that years can pass between sightings. It’s simply what you are. What you’ve always been.

You tell yourself you prefer it.

You meet one of them while roaming the cold currents north of the death-waters. Another like you, rising pale and luminous out of the deep, regarding you with eyes that hold nothing you recognize.

You greet her, in the old wordless way your kind speak.

She answers strangely. Distant. As though something in you reads wrong to her. She looks at you the way you imagine humans look at you: warily, like you’re not quite the thing you’re supposed to be.

When you find yourself asking after the warmer waters, the inhabited places, the ships—she recoils, faintly. As if the question itself is a kind of sickness.

You linger near them, she seems to say, without saying. Why?

You don’t have an answer she’d understand.

The exchange leaves you unsettled, lost in a way you can’t name. A sense that you’ve drifted somewhere your own kind can’t follow, and that the distance is in you, not the water. That you’ve become a stranger to the only beings who share your shape.

You shake it off. You keep roaming. But the feeling lingers, cold at your edges: the dawning suspicion that you don’t quite belong anywhere. Not among humans, who fear you. Not among your own kind, who find you wrong.

You bury that, too. (You’re getting good at burying things.)

You don’t understand it. That’s the part that unsettles you most. It would be easier if you could explain it. If you could tell yourself it’s only the deal: fish for information, a fair trade, nothing more.

But the deal doesn’t explain why you swim a little faster on your way back to the ship. Why you find yourself wanting Varka to find his sword. Why the thought of him sailing north and not coming back sits in your chest like a stone.

Humans have never been kind to you. You remember that much. Short, sharp memories that surface unbidden in the dark. Nets and spears and faces twisted with fear and hatred. A harpoon that grazed your side once and left a scar that aches in cold water still. The certainty, learned early and learned hard, that to them you are only ever a monster, a danger, a thing to be killed before it kills.

That’s why you came to the death-waters. To be left alone. To stop being hunted.

And then a captain fed you when he could have killed you, and said your name like it mattered, and leaned closer when you bared your teeth instead of reaching for a blade. And something you’d sealed away a very long time ago has started, quietly, to crack open.

There’s an older memory, too. Vaguer. From so long ago you can’t be sure it’s real and not something you dreamed. Warmth. A shore. A voice that wasn’t afraid. Hands that didn’t reach to hurt. A feeling you don’t have a word for anymore because you’ve gone so long without it.

You don’t know what it was. A kindness, maybe, before the world taught you to expect cruelty. A memory from before you understood what you were and what that meant.

You’d buried it. It was easier not to remember that humans could be gentle, easier to believe they were all nets and spears, because then the loneliness of the death-waters felt like safety instead of exile.

But Varka keeps cracking the seal. And the old memory keeps drifting up through the dark, insistent, like something rising toward light. And this memory is turning into this new feeling you have no proper explanation for.

You tell yourself it changes nothing. You’re a siren. He’s a human captain. He’ll find his sword and sail away and the death-waters will close over the strange interlude like water closing over a stone.

That’s how it has to be. You tell yourself this, alone in the cool dark of a drowned ship, running your fingers over a name carved into salt-soft wood.

Then you memorize the name—just in case it’s useful to him—and turn back toward the surface. Toward the ship. Toward him.

— ✦ —

The next time you reach the ship, you wait until the deck is empty. Then you rise just enough to set them on the boards near the rail—the jewelry in a small bright heap, the belt coiled beside it—and you sink back down before anyone can see.

You don’t mean to be there when he finds them. You are anyway, lurking in the dark water, telling yourself you’re only passing by.

Varka comes up at dawn. He stops, looks down at the small pile of salvage on his deck. He picks up the chain, turns it in the early light, then scans the water, and finds you immediately. “Yours?” he asks.

You bristle on instinct. “I found them. In a wreck. They’d only rot down there.” Your reply is defensive, too fast. “You’re a pirate. I assumed you’d want them. Treasure. Isn’t that the whole point of your kind?”

Something crosses his face.

“That’s not what we do,” he says. Mild, but firm. “Not really. We run cargo the honest ships won’t risk. Clear waters of the things that prey on them—you’ve seen that part. Carry word between ports that don’t trust anyone official.”

He sets the chain down. “Treasure’s nice when we find it. I won’t pretend otherwise. But we’re not the story, either. We don’t sink ships for baubles. Most of what the songs say about pirates is about as true as what they say about sirens.”

The parallel lands. You hadn’t expected it.

“Still.” His voice softens. “It’s a kind thing. Thank you.”

You’re already retreating, oddly stung. Because he glanced at the jewelry when he said treasure’s nice, set it aside, and you read it as I don’t need your gesture. The wild prickly part of you decides he’s humoring you.

“It’s nothing,” you say, distant now. “Do what you like with it.”

And you slip beneath the surface before he can answer.

— ✦ —

It’s an ordinary morning when you notice. Varka’s at the rail, sleeves shoved up, going over charts, and around his waist, holding everything in place, is a belt with a heavy, well-made buckle. Not his old one, worn through at the clasp. Yours. The one you left.

He’s wearing it. Has been, you realize, for who knows how long because it’s already softening to the shape of him, already his.

Something turns over in your chest. Warm and entirely unwelcome.

Varka catches you staring. He glances down at the belt, then back at you.

“Mine gave out,” he says. “This one’s better made. Seemed a waste to leave it in a box on my deck.” And then, quieter, with the ghost of a smile: “The jewelry I gave to the crew to trade at the next port. Didn’t think you carved it up out of a wreck for me to hang baubles off myself.” His eyes hold yours. “But the belt I kept. Use something every day, you don’t forget where it came from.”

You don’t have a single thing to say. Varka goes back to his charts like he hasn’t just undone you completely.

You sink lower in the water, watching the way the buckle catches the light at his hip, and feel the odd warm thing settle deeper. The understanding, unwanted and undeniable, that he chose to keep the piece of you he’d use. The practical one. The one that stays close.

You tell yourself it means nothing. (You really are getting tired of lying to yourself.)

— ✦ —

The rhythm changes, as rhythms do.

You range wider now. The storms have passed and the silver has begun creeping back into the death-waters. Small schools at first, then larger, the sea slowly remembering how to feed you.

You find new grounds, too: a cold trench to the east thick with fish, a kelp forest where the currents herd them into easy reach. You don’t go hungry the way you did.

Which means, some mornings, you simply drop the day’s findings on the deck and go. A wordless transaction, the deal humming along in the background of two lives that have their own business to attend to.

Varka has his charts, his lead to chase, his crew to drill. You have your wrecks, your wandering, the wide dark sea that’s always been yours.

You’re each doing your own thing. It’s only that your own things keep, somehow, bringing you back to the same stretch of water.

— ✦ —

You don’t always follow the ship. But you’ve started swimming closer to the inhabited places than you used to. The harbors, the trade-islands, the lantern-lit docks where humans gather.

You tell yourself it’s for intel. Sailors talk, and talk is currency now, something to bring back to a certain captain. But the truth is murkier than that. Some part of you has started to like it. The warmth of it. The music that drifts out over the water. The strange, bright, fragile life of people who don’t know a siren is listening from the dark.

You don’t examine that feeling too closely.

So when the Dandelion’s Flight puts in at a trade-island to restock, you drift in after her, keeping to the deep water beyond the docks, watching the lights.

It’s a rough place. Privateers and honest sailors and the occasional overdressed nobleman, all crammed into taverns that spill noise and lamplight onto the water.

You hear a brawl break out in one of them: shouting, breaking glass, the ordinary violence of too much drink and too little sense. Nothing remarkable. The crew of the Dandelion’s Flight drifts to a quieter tavern down the quay, and you settle in to wait and listen.

It’s much later when you see him.

Varka. Alone. He is moving fast down the dock. Not the easy, unhurried stride you know, but something tight and furious, shoulders rigid, a bottle hanging forgotten from one hand.

He is not drunk. You can tell that much even from the water. But he is not steady, either. Tipped just enough that whatever’s burning in him has slipped the leash he keeps it on.

You’ve never seen him like this.

He reaches the end of the dock and stops. He stands there breathing hard, staring out at the black water like it’s done him a personal wrong. And then he grabs an empty barrel from the dockside and hurls it into the sea.

You’re so startled you nearly give yourself away.

Because this is Varka. The man who didn’t flinch when you bared your teeth, who is, by every account you’ve gathered, the most maddeningly composed person to ever sail these waters. And here he is, on an empty dock at night, throwing barrels into the ocean like a furious boy.

You’re fascinated. You’re a little shocked. You call out before you can think better of it. "You know, most people just yell. The barrel seems excessive.”

He whirls toward your voice. For a moment he just stares at you. And there’s no warmth in it, none of the easy interest you’ve grown used to. Just raw, unguarded anger, looking for somewhere to land.

“What,” he says, low and sharp, “is it to you?”

You bristle. “I happen to live in the thing you’re throwing your tantrum into.”

“Then move.” He turns away. “I’m not in the mood.”

“Clearly.” You surge closer, stung. “What’s wrong with you? You’re not—you’re never like this."

“You don’t know what I’m like.” His voice is cold. “We’ve known each other a couple of weeks. Don’t pretend you’ve got me figured out.”

That lands harder than it should.

“Fine.” You bare your teeth at him, the wild thing rising. "Throw your barrels. Drown your bottle. Sulk on a dock like the whole sea owes you something. I don’t care.”

“Then why are you still here?”

“Because—” You don’t have an answer, and that infuriates you more. "Because you’re being an idiot, and someone should tell you!”

“You’re infuriating.” Varka rounds on you fully now, and there’s something almost desperate under the anger. “You know that? You appear out of nowhere, you nearly capsize my ship, you save it again, you sing like the whole ocean is grieving, and now you won’t even let a man be angry in peace—”

“You sound like you’ve got plenty of practice not being angry!” you snap back. "Maybe that’s the problem!”

The words hang there. And just like that you both stop.

Varka drags in a breath and lets it out slow. You watch him visibly take hold of the fury and force it back down.

“You’re right,” he says finally, rough. “That wasn’t fair. None of that was about you.”

You’re still coiled, still stung, but the calm in him pulls the wild out of you too. “No,” you agree, quieter. “It wasn’t.”

A long silence folllows. The water laps at the dock. And then—because the moment is too heavy and you don’t know what else to do with it—you tilt your head and say, dry as you can manage:

"Well. If you intend to pollute the ocean, you should know I might have a say in the matter. Territorial rights. The barrel’s an act of war.”

Varka blinks. For a heartbeat he just looks at you, thrown completely off his stride. Then something in his face breaks. A startled, helpless huff of something that’s almost a laugh. “An act of war,” he repeats.

“I’m prepared to escalate.”

He sits down heavily on the edge of the dock, then scrubs a hand over his face. And for the first time since you spotted him, the rigid set of his shoulders eases. “You,” he says, “are unbelievable.”

“You’ve mentioned.” You drift closer, settling in the water below where he sits. “What happened in there?”

He’s quiet for a long moment.

You think he won’t answer.

“There was a man in the first tavern. Someone I knew, a long time ago—back when my father was still alive.” He turns the bottle slowly in his hands, not drinking. “He had something that belonged to my family. An old piece. The family sigil’s on it—a wolf.” A flash of bitterness. “Don’t know how he came by it. Stole it, most likely. Picked it up cheap when the household was broken up and sold off, after.” He doesn’t say after what. “Either way. He had no right to it. So I took it back.”

“That’s what angered you? Getting it back?”

“No.” His jaw tightens. “What angered me was what he said. About my father. Casual. Like he had any right to the man’s name.” He stops. “I don’t lose my temper. Not like that. Haven’t in years. But he said it so carelessly, and I just—”

He doesn’t finish.

You understand more than he knows. The way an old grief can sit quiet for years and then surface all at once, wild and ungovernable, at the smallest careless word.

Varka talks, after that. Not easily. But the night is dark and the anger has burned down to embers and maybe there’s something about a creature who lives outside the human world that makes it easier to say things he’s never said on his own deck.

He tells you about his father. The wolf sigil, generations old. The sword, the one he’s chasing through the death-waters, that his father carried and his grandfather before him. How it went down with a ship Varka wasn’t on, and how some part of him has never stopped trying to bring it back up.

He tells you about the household that was broken and sold. The pieces of his family scattered to careless hands like the one in the tavern. How the Dandelion’s Flight and her freedom-flag are the life he built after and how the sword is the one piece of before he refuses to let the sea keep.

“It’s not really about the sword,” Varka admits, somewhere near the end. It’s the most honest thing he’s said all night. “It’s about not letting them take everything. Keeping one thing that was his. That was ours.” A pause. “Stubbornness has its uses.”

The words strike something in you. He said that once before, standing at the rail of his ship while your song tried to drag him toward the rocks.

Back then you’d thought it arrogance. Confidence, perhaps. The sort of easy certainty that seemed woven into him. Now you hear something else in it. Devotion.

You think of the names you’ve read carved into salt-soft wood. The wrecks you’ve started searching with new eyes.

The anger’s burned all the way down now. What’s left is quieter. Looser. Varka turns the bottle in his hands, looks at you, sidelong. “Can I ask you something?”

“You will regardless.”

“Mm. True.” A pause. “That anger. The kind that makes you bare your teeth—the way you did on my deck.” He’s watching you carefully now. “That’s not all instinct. There really is something under it. A person, feeling something. Same as I was, in that tavern.”

You tense. “We’ve already talked about this.”

“Easy.” He lifts a hand, softer than usual. “I’m only trying to figure something out. No need to go defensive on me again.”

And then Varka goes quiet. But it’s not the angry quiet from before.

It’s something else. Something you can feel, even through the dark water. An aura coming off him that isn’t fury, that’s rawer than fury, almost wild at the edges. The same untamed thing that lives in you, surfacing in him.

He doesn’t say anything. He just shifts and leans forward where he sits on the edge of the dock. Closer.

Close enough that if you rose even a little, you’d be near enough to feel the warmth of him, to count the new salt-dried strands of hair against his jaw.

Close enough that something in the air goes taut and humming and dangerous.

And then his hand comes up. The backs of his fingers brush along your cheek, warm and impossibly gentle for a man who hurls barrels into the sea.

You go utterly still.

Varka is not looking at your eyes anymore. He’s looking at where he’s touching you, with an expression you’ve never seen on him. Unguarded and almost lost.

His hand lingers. The whole world narrows to the warmth of it.

You don’t know what breaks it. A shout from a distant tavern. The slap of a wave against the pilings. Something. But you feel the moment he comes back to himself, feel his hand still against your cheek as he realizes he’s doing it.

You break first. You’re sinking back, sending yourself gliding off through the dark water along the line of the dock. Retreating. Your heart is pounding for reasons that have nothing to do with hunger or fear.

Behind you, Varka laughs, warm and amused at your escape. “Hey,” he calls after you, and there’s a tipsy ease in it, an unguarded fondness he’d never let slip sober. “Come back here.”

You slow and glance over your shoulder.

He’s still sitting at the dock’s edge, lit by the harbor lanterns, watching you with that raw open look he hasn’t bothered to put away. “You should never leave good company behind,” he says.

It’s a small thing. A throwaway line. The kind of thing a man says when he’s had a little too much and forgotten to be careful.

But you hear what’s underneath it.

I like having you here.

I don’t want you to go.

You—you specifically—are good company.

I’d rather sit on a cold dock with a siren than be anywhere else tonight.

He doesn’t say any of that.

He thinks about something else, too. You can see it move across his face, there and gone, the thought he doesn’t voice and won’t act on. His eyes drop, just once, to your mouth. Then back up.

He doesn’t move. He’s too disciplined, even now, even tipsy. Even with the wild thing loose in him.

But you felt it. The almost.

And the worst part, the part you carry back into the deep water that night, turning it over, is that you wanted him to do it. Whatever it was. You wanted it so much it frightened you.

Cursed things feel too much, the old songs say.

You’re beginning to understand what they meant.

You drift back toward Varka anyway, closer than before. Because good company goes both ways, and you’re done pretending otherwise tonight.

“You’re maudlin when you drink,” you inform him.

“I’m more direct when I drink.” He settles back, the moment banked but not gone. “There’s a difference.”

“I’ll find it,” you say then. And you mean it. “Your sword. I know these waters. If it’s down there, I’ll find where it fell.”

He looks at you for a long moment. “Why?” he asks. “Why would you care about a dead man’s sword?”

You don’t have an answer. Or you have one, and you’re not ready to say it. “Territorial rights,” you settle on. “Can’t have you cluttering my sea with your unfinished business.”

He huffs that almost-laugh again. “Right,” he says. “Territorial rights.”

You continue talking after that. And above the dock, the dandelion flag stirs in the night wind while you and Varka sit in the dark and let one more wall come quietly down.

— ✦ —

One evening you surface to find the crew gathered on the deck. They are just sitting. A lantern is lit between them, the day’s labor is done, the ship rest at gentle anchor in waters you’ve assured them are safe.

And they’re trading stories. The first mate is in the middle of one that has half the crew groaning and the other half laughing, and Varka is leaning back against the mast with the loose ease of a man entirely at home.

You hover at the edge of the lantern-light, uncertain.

He sees you and lifts a hand. An invitation.

You drift closer. For a while you only listen. They tell stories of ports you’ve never seen, storms they’ve survived, a tavern brawl that grows more impossible with each retelling. It’s strange and warm and utterly human, this circle of light on the dark water, and you find yourself aching at the edge of it in a way that has nothing to do with hunger.

“You’re quiet,” Varka observes eventually. The crew has drifted off in twos and threes. It’s only the two of you now, the lantern burning low. “Sirens don’t tell stories?”

“Sirens don’t usually have an audience that wants to stay near them.”

He huffs a laugh. “Fair.”

You hesitate. Then, because the night is soft and the warmth has loosened something in you: “We did once. Long ago. Before the stories made us monsters.”

You look out at the dark water. “I’ve seen things, you know. It isn’t all hunger and drowning men. I’ve watched whales sing to each other across an entire ocean. Swum beneath ice so clear the moon shone straight through it. Found a city, once, sunk so long ago the coral had made it beautiful again.”

You sigh softly. “My life hasn’t only been this. This empty place. The fear I put in people’s faces. There was wonder, too. I have to remind myself of that, sometimes.”

Varka has gone very still, listening. “Tell me,” he says.

So you do. You tell him about the whales and the ice and the drowned coral city, and he listens completely like there’s nowhere else he’d rather be.

“Are they all like you?” Varka asks, somewhere in the warm lantern-lit quiet. “Your kind. Do they all see the things you’ve seen? Sing the way you do?”

You’re quiet a moment. “No,” you say finally. “We’re not alike. Not really.” You think of the pale stranger in the cold current, the wrongness in her eyes. “We don’t gather. We don’t talk, much. And the ones I’ve met—they don’t—”

You search for it. “They don’t wonder. About any of it. The ships. The shores. The lives up here in the light.” You look away. “I met one not long ago. She looked at me like I was something broken. Because I linger near the human places. Because I’m curious.” Your voice wavers. “I don’t think I’m like the rest of them. I never have been. I just didn’t have a word for it until she looked at me that way.”

Varka is watching you across the low flame. And he doesn’t say I’m sorry, or that’s sad, or any of the soft useless things a person might. He just looks at you and says: “Well. I knew that from the start.”

You blink. “Knew what?”

“That you weren’t like the stories. Like anything I’d heard.” The corner of his mouth lifts. “First time I saw you, the whole crew was halfway over the rail and you were singing the saddest thing I’d ever heard, and I thought—that’s not a monster’s song.” He pauses. “You were something else. Something I hadn’t met before.” His voice goes quieter. “Unique. I knew it before I knew your name.”

The fire pops. The water laps the hull. And you sit there in the dark, the creature who belongs nowhere, looking at the one person in any world who’s ever made you feel like not belonging might be the same thing as being special.

You don’t have a word for that, either. But for once, you don’t want to bury it. So you keep talking.

At some point, Varka tells you stories too. And your conversation carries on naturally. Quieter than all the other times, and yet charged with something that makes your skin tingle.

Somewhere in the middle of it you both seem to realize, at the same moment, what’s actually happening.

You stop mid-sentence. He notices the same instant.

“This is strange,” you say slowly.

“Mm.” He scrubs a hand over his jaw. “I was just thinking that.”

“You’re a human captain trading stories with a creature you’re supposed to fear.”

“And you’re a siren who saved a ship instead of sinking it.” He shakes his head, something rueful and warm in his expression. “I’ve sailed a long time. Seen most of what these seas have to offer. I never once imagined I’d spend my evenings talking to one of the death-waters’ own like she was—” He reconsiders the word. “Like an old friend. Or, actually, like—” He stops.

Your heart does the painful, bright thing again.

“Every day out here brings something I didn’t expect,” he goes on, quieter, looking at you and not the water. “I thought I was past being surprised by the sea.” He pauses. “Apparently not.”

He doesn’t say you. You both hear it anyway, sitting there in the lantern-light, neither of you willing to name the thing that’s so plainly settling between you.

“Don’t make it strange,” you finally manage.

His mouth curves. “Wouldn’t dream of it.” But he’s still looking at you like you’re the most unexpected and fascinating thing he’s found in all his years at sea.

And you’re still letting him.

— ✦ —

The shift happens quietly. You find a wreck off the northern shoals. The one the sailors whispered about. The one you went looking for after that night on the dock.

An old warship, deep and broken, its hold long since claimed by the dark. And in it, half-buried in silt and the bones of the sea, a chest bearing a sigil you’ve come to know better than you’d like to admit.

A wolf.

You don’t open it. You know what it means.

You bring Varka the location the next morning, and you watch his face change as he understands what you’re telling him.

“That’s it,” he says quietly. “That’s where she went down. My father’s ship.” His hand tightens on the rail. “You found it.”

“I found where,” you correct. “The recovery’s yours. It’s deep, and the currents are bad, and you’ll need divers and time and a great deal of luck.” You pause. “But yes. I found it.”

He looks at you for a long moment.

And you both feel the thing settling between you, unspoken.

The deal is complete.

You guided his charts. You found his sword, or near enough. He fed you through the lean weeks until the sea remembered how to feed you itself. Both halves fulfilled.

Both of you free, now, to go your separate ways—him north to raise a dead man’s blade from the deep, you back to the wide dark solitude that was your whole world before a dandelion flag sailed into it.

That’s how a deal ends. That’s how it’s supposed to end. Neither of you says a word about it.

Instead, you keep coming back.

The reasons get thinner. You don’t need the fish. You tell him about the eastern trench, the kelp forest, and Varka stops sending the catch up as often, and it changes nothing. You come anyway.

Varka doesn’t need your charts—he has his bearings now, his crew already preparing for the long haul north—and still he lingers at the rail when you surface. Still he saves the day’s small stories to tell you, still his eyes find you in the dark water before you’ve even called out.

You’re both pretending not to notice that the thing holding you together has quietly dissolved. That whatever keeps bringing you back now isn’t a bargain. It’s just want.

— ✦ —

The wind is wild the day you almost don’t stop. You’re only swimming a wide arc through the choppy water on your way somewhere else, the sea restless and white-capped, the Dandelion’s Flight riding hard at anchor with most of her crew below decks, sheltering from the gusts.

Most of her crew. Not her captain.

Varka’s up near the wheel.

You slow without deciding to.

He’s training. Alone. He’s just moving, for himself, the way you’d almost forgotten a body could move when no one’s watching it. A slow, deliberate sequence of strikes and turns against nothing but the wind, sleeves gone, shirt half-open and snapping around him, the muscle of his back and shoulders working as he flows from one form to the next.

The deck pitches under him. The gale tears at his hair. And he moves with it, using the roll of the ship, letting the wind be part of the dance instead of an enemy.

You forget, entirely, where you were going. You watch far too long before you find your voice. And when you do, it comes out sharper than you mean, because being caught staring makes you defensive even with yourself.

“You do know the wind’s wild today?” you call up. “Or are you too absorbed in whatever that is to notice the sea’s trying to throw you off your own deck?”

Varka doesn’t stop mid-form, exactly. He just turns and looks back at you over his shoulder, hair whipping, a grin breaking across his face. “I’m a captain on a ship,” he says, “who, once in a while, helps out sirens, as it seems.” The grin sharpens. “I can assure you—I thrive in the wild.”

And he holds your gaze when he says it.

You are, for one humiliating moment, completely stunned. Because of the way he tosses those words at you, daring and bright. No one has ever spoken to you so freely.

It does something to you. Something unraveling.

Before the prickly part can stop you, you say: “Careful, Captain. The sea’s thrown wilder things than you off their feet.” You pause. “I’d know. I’ve been most of them.”

Varka blinks. Then he makes a delighted sound. “Did you just make a joke?”

Heat rushes up your neck. “The wind must’ve been whispering things to you.”

“No. No, that was definitely—” he’s grinning so wide now it’s infuriating “—that was a joke. From the fearsome siren of the death-waters. I’m honored.”

“Don’t get used to it.”

“Of course not.”

And then, because you can’t let him have the last word, you give your tail a single sharp flick beneath the surface and throw a sheet of water up the hull, a wild glittering arc of it that catches Varka square across the chest.

He staggers back a step, soaked, laughing, head thrown back, the sound of it ringing out over the wind.

“That’s for the harpoon comment I’m sure you were thinking,” you inform him primly.

“I wasn’t!”

“You were.”

“I—” He wipes water from his face, still grinning. “Mm. I might’ve been.”

You’re both laughing now like neither of you has ever been dangerous a day in your lives.

It doesn’t fit. That’s the thought that surfaces through the laughter, sudden and unsettling. This doesn’t fit. None of this fits. You’re a creature of the deep and he’s a man of the surface and the world has spent centuries insisting you’re meant to drown each other.

And here you are, soaking him through on a wild bright afternoon, more at ease than you’ve been in longer than you remember, possibly your entire existence.

You catch the same realization moving across his face, the laughter fading into something more careful. Both of you are suddenly aware of how natural this was. How little either of you reached for it. How neither of you is remotely prepared for whatever’s happening here.

“I should go,” you say.

“Probably,” he says although his voice suggests otherwise.

Neither of you moves.

The wind howls. The waves crash. And you stay a moment longer than you should, two wild things blinking at each other across the rail, apparently equally confused and equally unwilling to be the first to leave. Then you slip under, finally, your heart doing the inconvenient thing again.

Behind you, faint over the gale, you hear him say to no one in particular: “Huh.”

You understand the feeling completely.

— ✦ —

In the spaces between, alone in the deep, you’ve started looking for something of your own.

You tell yourself it’s idle curiosity. You’re a liar. You admitted this to yourself by now.

You seek out the old places. The drowned shrines, the ancient wrecks, the rare cold currents where the eldest things drift. You’re chasing the lore you threw at Varka that night like armor: human once. Cursed. Drowned and remade.

You want to know if it’s true. You want to know if the old songs say anything about the curse running the other way.

You even seek out the pale stranger again who looked at you like you were broken. You ask her, in the wordless way, whether the stories are real. Whether a siren can become what she was before.

She recoils from the question like it burns.

Why, she seems to say, horror and something like pity in it, would you ever want to be something so small? So mortal? So easily drowned?

You don’t have an answer she’d understand. But you have one.

You just keep it to yourself, the way you keep the buckle-light at his hip and the almost on the dock and the sound of him saying good company. A small, fierce, impossible hope, gathered in the dark and guarded like a pearl.

Human once, you think, drifting back toward a ship you have no practical reason left to visit. Maybe human again.

You don’t know if it’s possible. You’ve decided to find out.

— ✦ —

You should have known the death-waters wouldn’t let it stay so simple. They never give anything freely.

The storm comes from the south, faster than any storm should.

You feel the pressure dropping, the currents turning frantic, the deep going cold and wrong in a way that prickles every instinct you have. The sea you’ve lived in your whole life suddenly feels like a stranger.

You’ve felt this before, only once, a long time ago, when you first came to these waters and learned why even other monsters avoid them.

“Varka.” You surge up against the hull, voice cutting through the rising wind. “Varka!”

He’s at the railing in an instant, reading your face. “What is it?”

“You have to get out of these waters. Now. Whatever’s coming—”

The sea answers before you can finish. The water erupts.

A tentacle the width of a mast breaks the surface fifty yards out, streaming black water, suckers the size of shields catching the storm-light. Then another. Then another. Rising and rising until they blot out the horizon, until the thing beneath them lifts a bulk so vast the swells it pushes nearly capsize the ship on their own.

A kraken.

Old. Enormous. Woken from the deep by the storm, or by hunger, or by nothing at all but the ancient cruelty of the death-waters.

The crew doesn’t panic.

That’s the first thing that strikes you, even through your own terror. They don’t panic, because he doesn’t. Varka’s voice rises over the storm, hard and clear and absolutely steady, and his men move, fast and certain, because their captain has not for one instant looked like a man who expects to die.

“Hard to starboard! Get us out of its reach! Loose the deck cannons—aim for the eyes, nothing else will matter!”

He fights.

And now you understand the legend of him, the famous captain who sails where others won’t. He’s everywhere at once, hauling a man back from a sweeping tentacle, putting his own blade through a limb thick as a tree, shouting orders that turn chaos into something almost like a dance.

The cannons roar. The kraken shrieks—a sound that shakes the water in your bones.

For a moment, you almost believe he’ll win.

He’s that good. That fearless. That impossibly, brilliantly alive in the middle of something that should be his death.

But the kraken is the sea’s own child, and the sea does not lose in its own house.

A tentacle catches the mainmast and pulls. Timber screams. The ship lists hard, taking on water, and you see Varka go down, just long enough for your heart to stop, before he’s up again, blood at his temple, dragging a half-conscious crewman toward the rail.

And you realize, with terrible clarity, that fearless is not the same as invincible.

That he is going to die here. That all of them are.

Unless.

You promised yourself you wouldn’t sing again. Not the luring song. Not anything that used what you are as a weapon. But this is something older.

You dive into the heart of the churning dark where the kraken’s bulk hangs vast and ancient and you open your throat and you sing.

To the sea itself.

You sing the death-waters the way you’ve never let yourself sing them. Every rock and current and bone you’ve memorized in your long loneliness.

Every secret of this drowned and dangerous place, pouring it all into a song that isn’t a lure or a threat but a command, because these are your waters, this terrible empty place that starved you and sheltered you, and it will listen.

The currents answer. The sea turns.

You feel the kraken’s confusion as the water itself seems to push against it, as the storm bends, as the deep that birthed the creature now seems to call it home.

You sing of darkness and depth and the cold quiet far below where ancient things belong. You make it a lullaby, you make it a tide, you make it irresistible.

The kraken stills. Then, slowly, it sinks. Down. And down. And gone. The storm breaks apart above you like it was never there.

You surface, gasping, spent, the song having taken more than you knew you had to give.

The sea is calm.

Varka is staring at you like he’s never seen you before. “Out there,” he says, and his voice isn’t quite steady, “that was not luring.”

“No.”

“You commanded the sea.”

“I told you. It listens to me sometimes.” You hold his gaze. “When it matters enough.”

He’s quiet for a long moment, taking you in—the exhaustion, the way the song has hollowed you out again, the fact that you spent yourself completely to save a ship of humans you have every reason to fear.

“You saved us,” he says quietly.

“I’m aware.”

“You could have let the sea take us and gone back to your peace.”

“I’m aware of that too.”

The look on his face is anything but strange. It’s wonder. He’s quiet for a moment. “Thank you,” he says.

You only find gratitude, plain and warm. You don’t know what to do with it.

The Dandelion’s Flight is hurt. Badly but not dead.

The kraken took the mainmast halfway down. The rigging hangs in ruin and there’s a breach below the waterline where a tentacle caved the hull. She’s taking water. Under any other circumstances she’d be following the kraken down into the dark.

But the sea is glass now. Still as a held breath, because you’re holding it. You’re keeping the currents gentle, the swells low, the water that should be flooding her hold pressing in slow instead of fast. You bought them the calm. The calm is the only reason she floats.

“She’ll sink if we stay out here,” Varka says, bloodied and soaked, already doing the grim arithmetic of a captain counting his losses. “We need land. Somewhere to beach her, patch the hull—”

“East,” you say. “There’s an island. Half a day, no more, if you run with the current.” You’re already moving, already certain. “Sheltered cove on the leeward side. Shallow enough to beach her, calm enough to work. I’ll guide you through the rocks.” You smile. “And I’ll keep the sea quiet the whole way. She won’t go down. Not while I’m under her.”

He looks at you. “Then lead,” he says.

So you do.

It’s slow, careful work: a wounded ship limping east through waters you smooth ahead of her like a hand pressing wrinkles from cloth.

You swim beneath her keel the whole way, singing the currents soft, easing her over the worst of the shoals. When the hull groans and the water gains, you press the sea back and buy them another mile.

By the time the island rises green out of the haze, you’re exhausted in a way the kraken-song alone didn’t manage. But she floats.

You bring them into the sheltered cove as the light goes gold, and the crew runs her gently aground on the pale sand, and the Dandelion’s Flight settles at last. Broken but whole enough.

Alive. Like her captain. Like you.

They make camp on the crescent of beach.

The repairs will take days. You hear them tallying it that first evening, around the fire: timber to cut, the hull to patch, a jury-rig for the mast until they can make a proper port. Days of work before the Dandelion’s Flight can sail again.

You tell yourself you’re only staying to be sure the cove stays calm.

You’re still a liar. But the lie buys you days, and you’ve learned to be grateful for what the sea gives.

— ✦ —

You shouldn’t come back. You know this.

You should slip back into the deep and let Varka sail away and forget the strange days when a starving siren and a stubborn captain made a deal in death-waters.

That would be the sensible thing. You’ve never been good at sensible.

So you come back. The night before he’s meant to leave, you swim to the little island and find him already there, sitting on the sand, looking out at the water, as if he’d been waiting. As if he knew.

“You came,” he says.

“Apparently.”

His mouth quirks. “I’m glad.”

You settle in the shallows near him, close enough now that closeness has stopped being frightening. The moon lays a silver road across the water. The fish have started coming back—you noticed it days ago, the silver returning to the dark, the hunger finally easing.

Varka notices you noticing. “The waters are recovering,” he says.

“They are.”

“So you’ll be alright. After I’m gone.”

You don’t answer right away. Because alright isn’t the same as unchanged, and you don’t know how to explain that the empty dark felt different before it had a stubborn human leaning over a railing in it.

“There are stories,” you say instead. “Old ones. About my kind. That under the right circumstances—rare ones—we can become something else. Walk on land. Lose the song. Trade the sea for—” You stop.

He’s watching you very closely now. “For?” he prompts.

“I don’t know if they’re true.” You look away. “Probably not. Just stories sailors tell.”

“Mm.” He’s quiet for a long moment. “I’ve found that stories sailors tell are wrong about as often as they’re right.” He looks back at the water. “Which is to say—not always wrong.”

Your heart does something painful. “You have a sword to find,” you say.

“I do.”

“North, then. Past the rocks,” you say. “Once she sails again. To raise your father’s sword from the deep.”

“North.” He nods, watching the firelight on the water. “It’ll take time. A proper crew, a proper port to refit. But yes. I’ll have it. Finally.”

“And after?” The question lands softer than you mean it.

He goes quiet. For long enough that you think he won’t answer. When he does, there’s something in his voice you haven’t heard before. Not the captain. Not even the man who opened up on the dock. Something younger. More uncertain.

“I don’t know,” Varka admits. “I’ve never let myself think past it.” A rueful breath. “That’s the truth of it. There’s always been a next thing—a next mission, a next stretch of water, a next piece of my family to pull back from wherever it scattered to. The sword was always the end of the road. I never bothered imagining what’s beyond it, because the road never ran out before.” He turns the thought over. “It’s about to. And I find I don’t know what I want.”

“You must want something.”

“Mm.” A long pause. Then, quietly, like a confession, he adds: “There’s a place. I read about it once, years ago—an old account, half legend. An island, far past the charted waters. They say the wind there never stops singing and the whole sky goes green with light at night, and that no flag has ever flown over it because no one’s ever stayed long enough to plant one.”

His mouth curves, almost embarrassed. “A free place. Beholden to no one. I used to think about sailing there just to see it. To stand somewhere no one’s ever told me what I’m supposed to be.” He shakes his head. “Foolish. A captain’s daydream.”

“It’s not foolish,” you say.

He glances at you.

“It sounds like the most honest thing you’ve ever wanted,” you go on. “More than the sword. The sword is for him—your father. The blood. The past.” You hold his gaze. “But that island. That’s for you.”

Something moves across his face. Like you’ve named a thing he didn’t have words for himself.

“Maybe it is,” he says slowly. “Maybe that’s where the sea leads us, after. Find the sword. Settle the past.” His eyes find yours in the dark. “And then go looking for a place that’s only mine. That I chose.” Quieter. “I think I’d like that. Having something I chose, for once. Sailing toward something instead of back to something.”

The fire crackles. The unspoken thing sits between you, warm and enormous.

Would you come, Varka doesn’t ask. Would you be part of the something I choose.

I don’t know if I can, you don’t answer. But I’m trying to find out. I’m trying to make myself into something that could.

Neither of you says it. But the dream is out in the open now, and it hangs there like a horizon you might both, someday, sail toward.

“When you find it,” you say instead, “the singing-wind island. You’ll have to tell me if it’s real.”

“You could come and see for yourself,” Varka says lightly.

“Maybe,” you whisper. “Maybe I will.”

It feels like a door.

The horizon suddenly feels less distant than it did a moment ago. And for the first time in longer than you can remember, you want to give something freely. “Sit,” you tell him. “And listen.”

Varka raises an eyebrow but obeys, settling back on the wet sand.

You take a breath. And you sing. Something you haven’t let yourself sing in years, something with no purpose at all except its own beauty. Just a song.

The kind your kind sang once, long ago, before the stories made monsters of you. When sirens sang simply because the world was vast and strange and worth singing to.

You sing the moon on the water and the silver returning to the deep. You sing a stubborn man at a railing who refused to drown. You sing the small impossible warmth of being seen.

It’s not a weapon. It’s a gift.

When you finish, the night is very quiet.

Varka hasn’t moved. He’s watching you with an expression you’ve never seen on him. Something raw.

“That,” he says softly, “was the most beautiful thing I’ve ever heard.”

“It wasn’t meant to do anything.” Your voice is unsteady. “I just wanted you to hear it. Before you go. The way it’s supposed to sound. When it isn’t trying to hurt anyone.”

“I know.” He hasn’t looked away. “That’s what makes it beautiful.”

The space between you has gone very small.

“You’ll forget it,” you say. “Out there. Chasing your sword. Looking for that island. The sea’s a big place and I’m just—”

“I won’t forget it.” Quiet. Certain. The same voice that turned chaos into order on a dying deck. “I’ve spent my whole life sailing toward things. Glory. Duty. A blade at the bottom of the sea.” He pauses. “I don’t think I’ve ever wanted to sail back to something before.”

Your heart does something painful and bright. “That could take a long time,” you whisper.

“It could.”

“You’d come back anyway.”

“I’d come back anyway.” No hesitation. “I’m told I’m difficult to move once I’ve made up my mind.”

Varka reaches out, slow, giving you every chance to pull away. You don’t.

His hand finds yours in the shallows. Warm and careful, the way it was the first time. But this time his fingers close around yours, and he pulls gently, leaving you all the room in the world to refuse.

You don’t.

You let him draw you up out of the water, up the slope of wet sand to where he sits, until you’re tucked against him, your back to his chest.

His arms come around you, and he holds you there, in the place where the sea meets the land, where neither of you quite belongs and both of you somehow fit.

The water laps around you both. You feel the sea wicking up through his shirt where you’re pressed against him, the cold of it, the wet.

Varka doesn’t shift away. He doesn’t try to keep some dry part of himself clear of you. He just holds you, and lets the sea soak him through.

You nuzzle closer and press your cheek against his chest, over the steady drum of his heart, and feel his arms tighten in answer. His chin comes to rest atop your head. And you stay like that, both of you looking out at the silver road the moon lays across the dark water.

The waves come and go. And the sea holds the two of you gently in its shallows, patient as the tide, for as long as the moment can last.

He’s warm against the cold water. You’re cool against his warmth.

And in the place where you meet, something settles that neither of you has the words for.

It isn’t a promise spoken aloud. But then, the sea carries some things farther than words ever could. And for now that’s enough.

⋆ ✦ ⋆

A/N: Thanks for reading. :) I had entirely too many ideas for this concept, which is probably obvious by now. Somewhere along the way this stopped being “the pirate Varka fic” and turned into a story about loneliness, belonging, sea legends, impossible hopes, and two stubborn people who kept finding reasons to come back.

There are still a lot of unexplored waters out there for them (and for me). For now, though, I wanted to leave them here. :) Thank you for sailing with me. I hope you enjoyed the fic.💙

The room falls quiet, the weight of silence settling around you. It takes a heartbeat too long to realize that Keigo has stopped speaking. Looking up again you see him looking at you with concern written over his face, thumb brushing over your hip—when did it get there?

“You okay there, dove? You spaced out for some time,” his voice softens when he says ‘dove’, like the nickname holds more than just teasing now. And your heart, the traitorous thing it is, beats a little faster at it.

He grins, small, boyish and a little shy. Of course he could feel that, the feather still pressed over the spot where your heart is, but he could probably also feel it with the way your chest is pressed up against his.

You hope he can’t see your cheeks flush (he can, damn him and his good eyes even though it’s dark inside), and just nod once. “Mm. ‘Was just thinking about the time you lost your tooth because you flew into a wall.” Liar, you were thinking if it would still be like this if the commission gave you two more time for yourselves.

Sometimes you wonder if what you feel is love, being in love with your best friend, what a classic trope. But then you push that thought aside, quickly, like it's dangerous. You can’t afford to let yourself want that.

You two are seventeen years old, getting groomed to be the perfect weapons the commission wants you to be. You know if you were to fantasize about it, they would strip it away in the blink of an eye. No, you can’t be in love with Keigo, for it would only end in heartbreak.

Within a second your world tilts. You're now laying on Keigo’s chest, him laying flat on his back, one of his wings dangling off the bed, the other draped over you. The wing twitches slightly, brushing against you as if it’s trying to reassure you, but it only makes your heart race a little faster. Both his arms wrapped around your waist.

“Liar,” he says with a grin on his, stupidly handsome, face. “C’mon dove, tell me. You can tell me anything, you know that right?” The sincerity on his face makes you move your mouth before even realising it.

You gulp once “I was just thinking about what life would be like outside these walls. What our lives would look like. If you—” you trail off, looking to the side, to the same industrial gray wall you’ve seen all your life, not daring to meet his eyes when telling him the next part.

“If you would still be here, with me,” you finish your thought in a whisper, and the room feels heavier somehow, the silence wrapping around you like a blanket.

You hear him sigh before his hand comes up to cup your face, gentle, as if you’re made of glass. You feel yourself melt into his hand slightly, before you catch yourself. His thumb brushes against your cheekbone, an action so soft compared to the actions they’d made him do just earlier today.

His voice is quiet, barely above a whisper, when he finally speaks, “Yeah, dove. I’d still be here. With you.”

His words make your face heat up under his hand. Words are stuck in your throat, because it shouldn’t be like this, the two of you can’t be like this. Still, you look at him, first at his eyes, filled with pure adoration, and then that traitorous part of your brain—your heart really—looks at his lips for a heartbeat too long before ripping your gaze upwards again. Shit.

You can only hope he didn’t notice, but of course you're not that lucky. His soft smile, turns into a teasing, smug one that still has hints of softness underneath. You feel his thumb move down to your jaw. His gaze half-lidded now.

A whisper in the back of your mind warns you of the danger, of how you two shouldn’t do this. There are only seven more months until you two get sent off into ‘the real world.’ Just seven, and then your lives would change, no longer living inside these gray, sterile, walls.

“You’re right, we shouldn’t, dove,” Keigo speaks out, startling you, quickly looking up at him again—when did you look away? Did you say that out loud? You don’t know, all you know is that you’re warm, Keigo’s wing still draped over you, feathers whispering against your skin like soft little love notes, his chest steady and warm underneath you, hearts syncing to the same beat.

Still, you slowly start closing the distance between the two of you, murmuring a “We really shouldn’t.” His head lifts from the pillow, one last whisper, before meeting you halfway “We’re not doing anything.”

The first brush of his lips steals your breath, a clumsy meeting of warmth and want. He tastes like something sweet and sharp, adrenaline and something softer hidden underneath. His wing tightens around you, pulling you closer until you can’t tell where you end and he begins.

It’s desperate in the quietest way—the kind of kiss you give when you’ve both spent your whole lives being told you can’t have this. His hand finds the back of your neck, thumb tracing small, grounding circles there, and you think you could drown in the feel of it.

When you finally pull back, the world feels different. Brighter, maybe. Dangerous, definitely. But you’d do it again in a heartbeat.

Your eyes flutter open, looking straight into Keigo’s. Lips a bit red and swollen, drawing your attention to them once again. There’s a slight flush on his face, creeping down his neck and disappearing into his Commission issued shirt.

Hands tighten in the fabric, his wing still tight around you, the little feathers puffed up a bit on your back. He pulls you up a bit more, nosing along your jawline. “We shouldn’t do anything more often,” he murmurs against your skin.

You laugh, small and breathy. It skims across his face like a gentle breeze, making him think of the clouds he sometimes flies through when the Commission lets him out—only for him to do his mission, which most of the time involves something teenagers shouldn’t be even thinking of doing.

“We really shouldn’t.” with that you capture his lips again, stealing his breath—and heart—once more. Eyelashes fluttering against cheekbones, tongues entangling a bit more expertly now, but still awkward. Noses keep bumping into each other, and you exhale a laugh into his mouth. You feel him smile in return before he tightens his hold on you once more.

The rest of the time together is spent like that, adrenaline filling the both of you. This shouldn’t be happening, you shouldn’t even entertain the thought of kissing someone, much less Keigo—or Hawks, as they call him here.

He shouldn’t even be in your room right now, having snuck out of his own earlier that evening. How the two of you haven’t been caught over the years is beyond you, but then again, the two of you aren’t perfect weapons for nothing.

By the time you pull away from him—still close enough to feel and hear his heartbeat beneath you, feel the way his chest rises and falls with every breath—it’s way past the time he normally sneaks back into his own room.

“You should probably go,” you whisper, and his eyes are still on you—on the way your hair is a bit messy now with the way he was running his hands through it. On the way your lips are red and kiss-bitten. On the way your cheeks are almost as red as his wings. “You’re already later than normal.”

And oh, how he wishes he can just stay here, in the same bed as you, wrap his around around you and fall asleep with your head on his chest. But that isn’t reality, is it? The two of you are still in this mindless dungeon your parents sold you off to. Industrial gray fills his vision when he looks around your room once more. The only thing that makes it seem brighter is you—even if what you’re wearing doesn’t have any color in it.

He’s been thinking about this moment for years. Just being alone with you, having you all to himself, away from the watchful eyes of the Commission. He’d buy an apartment for the two of you, living together to save expenses.

Of course he’d have to feed the Commission some bullshit lie about the two of you working better together. Team building isn’t something they’re fond of, but with the right twist of words he can definitely work something out to keep you close to him.

But for now he knows he should go back to his room. Be mindful of the handful of handlers that sometimes walk through the hallways—always watching, except for when they’re not. He’s memorised their routines. How many steps each handler takes. When they do their rounds. Knows the way the camera’s are angled, and how to avoid them.

He knows, but still he can’t seem to let go of you. His hands on your hips, tracing small, invisible shapes into your skin. He surges forward once more, giving you a small peck this time. “Goodnight, dove.”

“Goodnight, Kei,” you whisper back, before pushing yourself off him so he can get out of the room. He glances back toward you one more time, feathers angled towards you like they’re reaching out, before he dips out of your room and towards his own.

Rolling over you bury your face into the pillow and let out a small squeal—one of the only feelings you let yourself feel while inside of this building. It’s so unlike you, so unlike the person the Commission wants you to be. But you can’t help it.

And then you feel it, under your shirt, pressed over your heart—Keigo’s feather. The one he keeps on you to make sure you’re safe. It wiggles a few times before sliding up and slipping out of your neckline. Right, he can hear you. Huffing through your nose you look at it hovering right in front of you. “What?”

The feather shudders slightly, as if laughing. Dickhead. Then it moves towards your face and taps you on your nose once—a small gesture Keigo loves to do when you’re frowning, and now apparently when you’re squealing, too—before it brushes feather-soft over your lips and disappears into your shirt once more.

Rolling your eyes you finally situate yourself in the bed. But your smile never leaves your face, and even in your sleep you can still feel fingers and feathers all over you.

The next few weeks are spent tense. No secret glances, no lingering touches, no acknowledgement that you and Hawks know each other as more than just two perfect weapons in the making. There are handlers constantly watching the two of you, so if your gaze would fall onto him a second too long, they’d know something is off.

Inside of these concrete walls you cannot show your true emotions, face blank at all times of the day, despite you wanting to reach out and hold Keigo.

You’re not sure what the two of you are right now—except for children that are being groomed by those who are supposed to protect heroes—as you haven’t had a chance to talk to him about it yet. There have been no more talks in your bedroom.

But every time you walk past him, that one small feather at your ribcage wiggles just slightly. A small acknowledgement that he’s seen you, that he can still feel and hear you, despite not being there with you.

It’s harder than you expected it to be. Never in your life would you’ve thought that you’d share a kiss with the boy you’ve spent most of your life with. And never in your life would you have thought you’d come to the conclusion that you are, in fact, in love with said boy.

That doesn’t mean you haven’t talked to him, though. Well… talked is a big word, it’s mostly you who did the talking while he would hover his small feather in front of you, sometimes tapping on your skin if he agreed or disagreed with something. It was a small language the two of you had configured when younger.

A smile threatens to take over your face, before you smooth it over and look ahead again. Your handler is walking behind you—an older woman in her fifties—hands clasped behind her back, clipboard in hand, her heels click click clicking on the linoleum floor below, suit crisp, not a single wrinkle in sight. Her expression schooled—the same way yours is, and everyone else’s in this entire building.

Another set of footsteps can be heard from the other side of the hallway, one a bit more lax, and the other right on their heel. You know that gait anywhere. Hawks.

The two of you walk past each other and bow your heads towards one another. Custom, something they drilled into you. There’s nothing to be seen in his golden eyes, not a glimpse of emotion, nor can it be found in yours.

His birthmarks seem darker in these lights, almost as if they had filled them in with an even darker shade of black before he had to train. You’re sure people will think that it’s simply eyeliner, when it’s not.

One of the little kids here—around six—had asked him if it was, and he’d laughed at them. Small but genuine. It was one of the only times he’s ever shown emotion outside of your room, and it made your heart flutter inside of your ribcage. Something that didn’t go unnoticed by the blond, whose feathers puffed up behind him a little.

The footsteps disappear behind you, indicating that Hawks and his handler are away from earshot, which makes your own handler finally speak up. She talks about quirk swapping the kids, aged ten to fourteen. There are only four in total—seven children in the program, including you and Keigo—but they need to know what it’s like to not fight with their own quirk.

It’s your quirk, being able to swap quirks of others. The first time you told Keigo that, he absolutely lit up and asked you if you could swap quirks with him, which you did without a second thought. You’d warned him it meant he didn’t have a quirk, at all, but he just beamed and told you he wanted to see his wings on you.

Seven year old you had done so after confirming he really was okay with it. When he nodded, you focused and swapped them around. Crimson wings sprouting from your back, while Keigo’s disappeared. It went fine for all but 2 seconds, then it went wrong.

Keigo was so used to his wings, he instinctively leaned forward to keep balance. Without his wings, he toppled forward, center of gravity having shifted, no longer being dragged back by his wings. You in the meantime fell backwards, the heavy wings dragging you down, not having braced for the extra weight you’d be carrying on your back.

Keigo landed on top of you, while you landed on one of your—technically Keigo’s—wings. Pain shot through your spine, and up your skull. Tears pricking at your waterline, and one even slid down your temple and disappeared into your hair.

And then came the noise. It was as if everything was tuned up to the max—you could hear the buzz of electricity in the ceiling lights, keypads, electric doors. Could hear your own heartbeat, blood rushing through you, the sound of the feathers twitching behind your back. And you could even hear his heartbeat and blood rushing through him.

Putting your hands to your ears you tried blocking everything out, but it didn’t help. You could hear everything around you, even when you curled up in a ball.

The boy above you was touching your shoulder, speaking, but even that felt like it was too loud—not registering the words he was desperately trying to tell you. You laid on that floor for what seemed like hours, crying about everything being too loud.

It was only when Keigo started whispering, so soft no one else would’ve heard, that you finally heard what he was saying. ‘Swap it back. Give me my wings back and it’ll be fine.’ And you did just that. The red plumes disappearing behind you and reappearing behind their rightful owner.

“Sorry, I should’ve warned you,” Keigo’s voice was trembling a bit, fingers wiping under your eyes to rid them of their tears. “I forgot. I’m used to it now.”

That made your heart stutter a bit. That’s what he hears at all times? It wasn’t something you accounted for. You’ve seen his quirk in action—flying, though it was more hovering in place, and him controlling th individual feathers to slice through objects with precision it scared you—but you never actually asked what it did.

“That’s what you hear all the time?” you breathed out, fingers trembling slightly beside you. Keigo nodded his head, his golden curls bouncing with the motion. The two of you are silent for a bit before you finally spoke up again, “I’m sorry you have to hear all of that.”

He merely shrugged, as if this was normal. As if it’s normal to be able to hear footsteps the floors down. To hear the electricity travel through appliances. To hear your own blood pump through you. And it made little you so incredibly sad. While it’s quiet in the building, it is still loud for him. You always thought it was eerie with how abandoned the building seemed—not because it was falling apart or because there was ivy growing everywhere, but because of how empty it was inside. But for him every single thing is noise.

You’d pulled him into a hug right then and there, and whispered in his ear that you’d talk to him if he ever felt lonely. He merely smiled at you and returned the hug. Just two weapons in training that found solace in each other.

The kids inside the facility, despite being older than you and Keigo were at the time, still remind you of the two of you. The first time you swap their quirks around, they all look confused, still used to how they fight with their own quirk, only to quickly realise they have to adapt.

On one hand it’s a good lesson, you’d never know when you’d lose your quirk during a battle, on the other hand it’s absolutely disgusting that they’re practicing this on barely teens.

You keep swapping quirks around once they get used to how the new quirk feels, just to throw them off. It’s not something you do with great pleasure, but you can’t exactly go against whatever your handler assigns you to do.

It’s something you’ve tried before, only to be put in solitary confinement for a week. In there they still had you practice all sorts of things, but you just didn’t get to be around people anymore. You still shudder every time you think of the place.

Once the handler deems the exorcise to be enough for the kids—almost two whole hours later—you get steered out of the room, onto your next assignment.

“Since you and Hawks are about to debut in a few months, we need to make sure the two of you are desensitized, him moreso than you,” she flips through the papers on her clipboard, occasionally nodding her head at something that’s written down. “You’ll have to act like fans without boundaries. There will be other people pulling him into every direction. Just make sure he doesn’t sharpen his feathers.”

With that she pushes the door open, and in the middle of the room stands Keigo—or Hawks, right now—his red wings spread out into a brilliant arc, showing off all the way from the primaries down to the dowry feathers he has.

His handler is checking his wings, ensuring the strength and health of them, twisting and turning some pieces, and tugging on others. You know he hates that. Hates anyone that touches his wings, except for you. It’s something he’s told you since the two of you were young, said it hurt with how they disregarded the fact that he could feel whenever people touched his feathers, as sensitive as nerve endings.

It took him a while to trust you enough to let the pad of your finger skim over one of the primaries while they were in their half-sharp state. He wasn’t sensitized enough to let you touch his feathers when they were in their resting state just yet, but he did trust you enough that he at least let you touch them. Ever since that moment he started trusting you more and more, to a point where you can now preen him without any problems.

He’s fallen asleep once, when you were preening him after a brutal day. They had him run simulations all day long—fly through rubble and falling buildings, soot and smoke clinging to his feathers turning the brilliant velvet into ash. He had to save hundreds, if not thousands of dummies that were stuck in the wrecks—to a point where the skin at the base of his wings were inflamed.

You’d wanted to trace the skin, soothe it somehow, but you thought better of it. He’d snuck out of his room later that day to get into yours, and the moment you saw him you patted the limited space beside you on the bed.

He’d all but flopped onto the bed with a groan, telling you about how much his wings were hurting him. It’s not something the two of you did often—complain to each other—but after particularly hard days you just had to vent to someone, and who better than your best friend.

So you’d combed your fingers through his wind-swept hair, untangling the obvious knots in them. Sometimes you accidentally tugged on a strand a bit too hard, but he didn’t complain about it even once; merely sighed out into your duvet and kept talking about whatever his mind could conjure up.

At some point your fingers slid down to his wings, and you’d started to carefully preen him. While his wings were cleaner now, there were still some stubborn pieces of soot clinging to them—something you yourself couldn’t get off with just your hands—but that wasn’t something you were after. No, you just carefully started to put every feather into their rightful place, sometimes that meant twisting the feather at the base a bit, and other times that meant getting rid of the keratin casings on the newer feathers.

You weren’t sure when, but somewhere when you switched to preen his other wing, he’d stopped talking and his breath had evened out, eyes fluttering shut. Smiling you continued to preen him.

The sight of the handler tugging on some of the feathers makes you more mad than you should be. Not that you can show it, though. If someone were to suspect anything going on between you and Hawks, you were in some deep shit, whether it be just surface-level friendship, or something deeper. So you swallow and steel your expression.

Your own handler gives a squeeze at your elbow before she leaves the room to go to the monitor room. Once Keigo’s handler steps back, he nods once and walks past you, thrusting a piece of paper and a pen into your hand.

With that, the two of you are left alone. Well… you know there are tens of pairs of eyes upon the two of you, watching, waiting.

And then the simulation starts. A pro hero walks beside Hawks, chatting. The entire room transforms into that of a city, cars buzzing past, people leaving little shops—just a normal day in a city. Not that you and Keigo really know what that looks like.

If you were gonna do this, you could at least have some fun with it. Inhaling, you put a smile on your face, before absolutely squealing. “OH. MY. GOD. IS THAT HAWKS?!”

The simulation responds. People stop on the sidewalk, looking back at ‘the two heroes’, cars slow down slightly. And then you move. Fast. You cross the sidewalk in no time, getting all up in Hawks’ space.

“You’re my favorite hero! I can’t believe I get to meet you— can I get an autograph?” you gush, not giving him a moment to respond before thrusting the pen into his face and holding out the paper the handler gave you.

Hawks, for his part, just smiles, and it makes your heart beat a little faster—something he can definitely hear. “Of course, what’s your name?”

You mumble out a random name before your hand shoots out toward his wing. “These are so cool. And so soft! Do you think I can get one?” You tug on his feathers a bit forcefully, not going as hard as you probably should for the assignment, but you also don’t wanna hurt him.

There’s a slight bristle from his feathers before he smooths them over again. Keigo just chuckles at you, signing your piece of paper before giving back the pen. “Ah, sorry, no can do. Wish I could, though.” He winks over at you before he gets absolutely hoarded by other people—fake or not, they still feel real.

The rest of the day is spent like that, you throwing your arms around him, tugging on his feathers, squealing and screaming. Anything and everything to show the handlers that he’s sensitized enough to be able to walk outside without any problem.

Once the two of you are done, your handler pulls you aside. “We’re gonna run another simulation. Tomorrow. Your turn.”

Right, because they have to know if you’re good enough to swap quirks with him if needed. Luckily the two of you have practiced that many times after the first time.. The Commission telling you that no one else should ever get their hands on his wings, except for you. If he ever loses too many feathers during a fight, you have to jump in and swap quirks. You’ll get his feathers while you give him one of the quirks from the fight—leaving one of the villains Quirkless.

So they have to know you don’t completely shut down in an environment like that. Which you get, but it’s still annoying as fuck.

By the time your handler lets you go, Keigo is already gone. Probably towards his own room for the night. It’s only when you walk past a supply closet that an hand encloses around your wrist and tugs you into it.

The first thing you do is try to twist whoever’s arm it is behind them, but you’re quickly spun around. Your back hits the door with a thud, one hand is covering your mouth while the other is on your hip. “Shhhh, dove, it’s just me.”

Your hands fall to your sides. Blinking a few times your vision sharpens enough to see Keigo’s silhouette. “Fucking hell, Hawks, what are you doing?” you hiss at him once he removes his hand from your mouth. Keigo just smiles at you, small, but dangerous. “What, you think you can just touch me all day without driving me absolutely crazy?”

Right, you did do that, but that was for the assignment. Trying to get an reaction out of him. So what if your fingers skimmed over his most vulnerable parts—the base joints near his shoulder blades—that was all for the assignment, of course.

“You can’t just pull me into a storage closet, what if someone saw us?” you ask him, still not moving from where you’re pressed against the door. “No one saw us, and the camera’s have a dead spot here.”

Damn him and his smart brain. His thumb is tracing small circles on your hipbone, while his other hand creeps up to cup your jaw. Your own arms enclose around his neck, fingers playing with the hairs at his nape.

He surges forward, lips crashing against yours in a frenzy. You kiss him back just as eager. It’s been weeks since the last kiss, and you’d be lying if you said you didn’t miss him.

“Missed you,” he mumbles against your lips, nose bumping into yours when he angles his head a bit. “Missed you, too.”

His wing wraps itself around you, feathers whispering against your skin over the fabric. They tremble slightly while your tongues entangle, puffing up slightly in affection he can’t hide.

A string of saliva connects the two of you when you pull away from him. It snaps a second later, leaving your lips shiny and slightly swollen. His aren’t any better, small teeth indentations on his bottom lip from where you pulled it between your teeth.

His forehead drops to yours, eyes halflidded and hazed over a little. Your breaths mingling, but mouths not touching any longer. Your chest rises and falls against his, heartbeats syncing, before it stutters once he looks at you like that—pure adoration filling his eyes.

“Hated not being able to see you for so long,” his voice is breathy, a slight groan pulling from his chest when your finger wraps around one of his locks of hair. “Heard you, though.”

And he did. You talked to him almost every night, but that doesn’t make up for the fact that he wasn’t there in person with you.

“Only five more months,” you reply. Five more months before the two of you are finally free from this prison they keep you in. Those industrial gray walls you’ve seen almost your entire life. The slightly cold rooms that keep you on edge constantly. “Just five before we can get out of here.”

Keigo just smiles at you, not replying with words, but rather by pressing his lips to yours once more. It’s quiet and full of love. “Then let’s endure them and we can finally stop sneaking around like this, love.”

The nickname has you blinking a few times. Maybe it was a slip of the tongue, ‘dove’ and ‘love’ are so similair, after all. But your cheeks heat up all the same. Nodding your head you peck his lips once more before finally letting go of him.

He steps back slightly, fingers lingering on your hip before retracting completely. You twist the doorknob before looking over your shoulder and smiling slightly. With that you leave him in the supply closet, alone.

Keigo presses his forehead against the door for a few moments to let his heart calm down. He didn’t think he would miss you so damn much, but after that once kiss the two of you shared weeks ago, he hasn’t been able to think of anything but you.

Cursing he runs his hands through his hair once, before opening the door and slipping out. Wings dragging behind him like a cape that holds every little sign of affection he’s had for you since the first day he saw you.

It’s only a few days later when Keigo comes to your room again. You honestly hadn’t expected him today. They’d sent him out on a mission that from the looks of it, was going to take all day, if not all night. But here he is, standing in your door opening.

Sitting up you pat the space beside you, inviting him in like you always do. He crosses the room quickly to go sit beside you. His fingers are playing with each other—a small habit you haven’t seen him do often—while he looks at everything but you.

“You okay?” you ask, your hand reaching for his shoulder, only for him to jerk away before you can touch him. Blinking a few times you let your hand fall back beside you. “Hey, what’s going on?”

He takes a deep breath in, stops fiddling with his fingers, and looks you straight into the eyes. You get slightly lost in everything that they are—golden with those amber specs in them, all predator when he narrows them—before you shake your head slightly.

“I think we should stop seeing each other,” he states, still holding eye contact with you. And you can feel your heart drop to your stomach. Freezing slightly, everything around you seems to slow down—the way you’re breathing, the slight electral buzz that’s always there in the walls somehow feels muffled and distant, hell even Keigo looks far away.

“What?”

“It’s just not going to work. Not with the way the Commission is always on our asses. And- and I don’t think I really have feelings for you,” he vomits the words out like they’re acidic, burning his tongue if they don’t leave fast enough.

It doesn’t compute for a second. The words sound foreign. As if some random stranger came up to you and told you the sky was purple. “I- what? But what about the five months? You said we only had to wait for five more months before we could stop sneaking around.”

Keigo just shakes his head, standing up from your bed. The distance between the two of you feels greater than it actually is, as if there’s a canyon between the two of you, whereas you two were normally all up in each others’ space.

“Just… don’t. This is better. For the both of us.” With that he starts walking toward the door. You feel under your shirt for the red plume that’s pressed to your ribs.

“Then take this back,” you spit towards him, throwing the feather in his direction without a care. He picks it up before slipping out the door, just as quietly as he came in.

When you hear the door click shut behind him, you let yourself fall back onto the thin matrass, staring up at the cold ceiling. There’s this quake in your chest you refuse to acknowledge.

Almost twelve years. Almost twelve years of knowing the boy with his crimson wings. Almost eleven years of being friends. Ten of being ‘best friends’. And yet, two months of being more than best friends, and everything crumbled.

You knew. You knew the friendship you and Keigo built was based on a house of cards, one wrong move and everything would collapse, but never did you think the collapse would look like this—like him being the one pushing the house to collapse.

All those smiles and giggles. All those memories made in corners the Commission could never reach. And now it’s all gone.

All because you let yourself fall in love with your best friend.

The next few months are a hell on earth—not that you weren’t used to it by now, but it’s definitely different not having Keigo by your side. You pushed yourself into assignments more and more; any free time you did have was spent asking for more assignments, or just training in general.

You couldn’t dare to sit in your own room, forced to sit in the silence that feels more suffocating than ever. The walls still carry the laughter. Still carry the gentle warmth Keigo somehow left behind, almost as if his feathers spanned the walls, feather-soft to the touch.

Whenever you’re in your room you just stare blankly at the ceiling, listening to the buzz of the electrics around you. There was one time you had your pillow clutched to your chest, unable to sleep, because you kept seeing golden eyes staring back at you. Crimson wings touching your skin, and those unruly tufts of wind-swept hair.

The pillow still faintly smelled like him at that point, and you tried so hard not to bury your nose into it and inhale like your life depended on it. You were so lost in thought, trying—and failing—not to think about him, that you startled when you felt something prick into your chest.

Moving the pillow you felt something soft brush over your skin, something that felts suspiciously much like a feather. Heart pounding in your chest you ripped the pillow from your chest, hoping to see that familiar crimson plume you threw back at him in a fit of anger, only to see a singular, sad white feather.

Right, pillows are filled with feathers.

Your hands were shaking when you picked it up, swallowing around the lump in your throat, you laid it under your pillow, which you put under your head again. It was something you couldn’t explain, but it just felt right to keep it there, with you.

It’s still under your pillow, even now—almost five months later. Sometimes you pick it up and twirl it around in your finger, watching the way it droops down like it’s sad. And with the right imagination you can imagine it being red, but even when you do that you know it isn’t his.

His feathers were a little harder, not fanned out as much. They were sturdy and so brilliantly red, you couldn’t imagine it being his.

Despite that you still held onto it like it was worth anything more than it actually was. Sometimes you put it under your shirt while you slept, waking up with an itch, almost as if reminding you it shouldn’t be there. Other times you just… talked.

But this feather doesn’t respond to what you’re saying. Doesn’t hover in front of you, shuddering with laughter when you say something stupid. Doesn’t tap your nose or skin in agreement. It’s just there, clutched between your thumb and index finger.

You sometimes wonder if he misses you as much, but then quickly push the thought away. He broke it up for a reason, so you can’t let yourself go down that route.

Whenever you saw him in the hallways, you didn’t look at him. Didn’t nod like you used to, just stared blankly ahead. Teeth clenched, hands balled, leaving small indents on your palms.

He didn’t look at you, either. Always staring ahead. Hand in his pockets while avoiding eye contact. While the two of you never lingered on each other, there were some glances. Now it’s like the two of you are merely strangers.

So no, you wouldn’t admit you miss him, because he’s clearly doing fine without you. The Commission’s golden boy. Now getting even more praise. You hear it from the ‘kids’ all the time—missions he went on, the absolute control he has over his quirk, anything and everything.

You tune everything they say about him out. Never listening too much about what they’re saying. Not the handlers, not the kids.

The two of you had a mission together two weeks ago, which went… okay. Hawks did most of the work, to be completely honest. Something about not needing you there. It honestly stung when he said that, but you pushed the feeling away, merely telling him he could do whatever he wanted. Which he did.

You’d gotten reprimanded about not participating, while Hawks got all the praise. He’d looked over at you with a smirk on his face—not the one he used to give you, no this one was radiating smugness from him—and you wanted to punch it clean off his stupidly handsome face.

Now it’s time for you to step out into the real world. The Commission had gotten you your own agency with a few sidekicks in the Sendai district, while they had sent Hawks to Kyushu—the other side of the country.

You weren’t sure how to feel about that, feelings conflicting in a tight knot inside your chest. On one hand you were glad he wasn’t with you, on the other hand you felt sad because the two of you had dreamed of running an agency together, or at least close enough to each other that you two would be able to frequently see each other.

And with the way the Commission had sent you out on missions together from when you were younger, to training together, you’d absolutely believed they would let the two perfect weapons stay together, strengthening each other. But alas, the two of you had drifted away from each other.

Now you’re looking at the building that supposedly ‘yours’. You know damn well it’s the Commission’s, but you let yourself believe for just a moment that it’s something of your own. They own you, though, so you’re not sure you’ll ever get something of your own.

Stepping inside the lobby you step into a new part of your life—alone.

The first year goes well. You quickly climb the rankings, no doubt the Commission having something to do with it, but it’s still something. You recently just breached the top 10. Your name being everywhere.

The rookie hero who debuts in the top ten!

But wherever your name is, his follows. Hawks being more popular amongst the masses, purely for being so charismatic. You roll your eyes at that, as if you didn’t know damn well how charismatic he can be. And from everything you’ve seen, the smirks, the winks, the little murmured sentences to his fans—all fake.

You’re muttering to yourself about how his real smirk is more awkward, it has that little adorable tilt to it that makes it more cute than sexy. His wink normally isn’t as smooth. The little dimple doesn’t appear on his face when he smiles.

But not that you notice that. Of course not. He’s made it very clear with what the two of you are, which is absolutely nothing. So you don’t look at it too long, always clicking away whenever his face pops up on the screens.

Seems like despite not working together you still can’t get away from him.

The Commission drowns you in assignments. You do your normal patrols, go out when you get paged, and after that you have to do the dirty work no one ever would even think of heroes doing. Granted most heroes don’t do the things you—and Hawks—do.

It makes for a good distraction, though. You’re simply too exhausted to even care about a certain blond-haired crimson-winged hero at the other side of Japan.

That is until the annual hero billboards come around. Your days have been so swamped that you didn’t even realise it was that time of the year already.

So here you are, walking backstage, waiting for the event to start. Number ten.

You know the Commission definitely messed with the numbers, but you aren’t complaining. There’s a lot of things you do that go unnoticed, so maybe this is a way of them telling you you did a good job. Or maybe they’re trying to keep you under their thumbs by putting you in the spotlights so you can’t slack off for even a day.

The perfect weapons.

That’s all you’ll ever be to them. Not a person. Not a hero. A weapon they created to use at their disposal. Same for the guy you spent almost your entire life beside.

Speaking of— your shoulder collides with another, making you stumble slightly. It’s not something that has happened often, your handler always being on your ass to be alert. Vigilant. Stay aware of your surroundings at all times. But with how tired you are you can’t really focus. Seems like even the strongest sometimes need a break.

You’re bowing a full ninety degrees, mumbling out a ‘sorry’ before straightening up again. And all the air seems to leave your lungs.

A pair of golden eyes is staring straight at you, lips pursed, bushy brows furrowed slightly. An annoyed look you weren’t familiar with. Never in the thirteen years of knowing him has he ever looked at you like that—or anyone for that matter, because handlers would have his head if he so much as disobeyed them.

“See you made the top ten,” he mutters out with a scoff, disdain lacing his voice. But you can’t hear him, not really anyway. Your mind already far, far away from the billboards and rather back in those industrial gray rooms that you were so familiar with.

Eyes that are golden with amber specks in them are looking at you. There’s dark marks around the eyes that has your head tilt a bit. Your hand is fisted in the fabric of this tall stranger’s pants—you’ll later learn that it’s your handler, one of the many you’ll get over the years that you’ll stay in that rotten place you’ve never escaped—while you step away from their legs just slightly when you see the boy stand there.

His golden curls bounce on top of his head, a single curl falls into his eyes, which he swipes away with one hand while the other is clutching a plushy of sorts. You’re not familiar with what, or who it is, but it’s clearly a man with a flaming beard.

Your voice doesn’t come to you, throat hoarse from all the screaming you’ve done when your parents told you to stay here with the nice lady while they went out for errands. You just couldn’t understand why they didn’t want to take you with them and rather let you stay with a stranger.

Eyes welled up with fat tears that rolled down the round apples of your cheeks that were blotched red with the way you were crying for your parents.

Why didn’t they want to take you with them?

Nose snotty and eyes completely red-rimmed you were staring at this boy that seemed to be your age. He wasn’t that much taller than you were, but he was calm, looking at you like you were something interesting. And in that moment you calmed down slightly.

The hiccups stopped after a while, when the handler nice lady told you you could play with the boy. That seemed more fun, for a second forgetting your parents just left you here. Maybe being here for a few hours wouldn’t hurt all that much.

Said boy told you his name was Hawks, and you’d giggled then and told him your real name—something you got reprimanded for by the lady, and your little mind just couldn’t understand why she was scolding you for simply telling him your name—in turn.

The rest of the day was spent with giggles and hushed voices. There might not have been much to play with—only giving the two of you a few blocks to play with—but it was enough to keep your mind off the fact that your parents pretty much had abandoned you here.

It was only when the lady came back and told you two to go to bed that you were brought back to reality. Your little fist rubbing your eyes while you asked if mama and papa were there for you. The lady gave you a look, something between disappointment and reprimand, and told you that you were having a sleepover today.

Your lips pursed while your eyebrows furrowed together. As much as you liked this new boy, you weren’t a fan of sleeping over here. Your parents said they would only go out to run some errands, never saying anything about you staying here for the night.

When you’d pleaded with the lady to just go home, she got angry and told you to behave, almost scolding you like a mom does.

That seemed to do something to the young boy, though, because he immediately clamped his mouth shut while his eyes turned blank—the signs of him being happy were simply erased from his face like a light switch was turned off—and he stood up to go to, what you presumed was, his room.

From then on out there were no more playdates, only people testing your quirk out on different people, trying to gauge your power from when you were a mere five years old. Your parents never came back for you, and you later found out that you’d simply been sold off.

But through it all, from that first day up until almost the last, was one person you could always rely on—Keigo. Or as the masses call him: Hawks. That name makes you shudder, for multiple reasons, but mostly because you know what it meant for him to get a name like that. A prisoner in a corrupt system that should’ve never existed to begin with.

And now he’s here, looking at you like you’re a pest in his life. Like you’re one of them. Not trying to hide his disdain for you, and you can’t help but feel a nerve in your jaw tick at the sight.

Sure, you were the person who fell in love with your best friend—which you knew was stupid to begin with, not just because he might not love you back, but also because the Commission would never allow the two of you to be distracted to begin with—but he’s the one who broke whatever it was the two of you had off.

So why is he glaring at you like you’re mere gum on the bottom of his shoe, or that one little barb he never can reach in his wings that you always had to preen for him otherwise he’d get agitated.

“Mhmm. See you did, too. Must’ve been easy, charming every women to get a little more popularity over there,” you smile at him through gritted teeth, trying so incredibly hard not to let anyone who’d walk past see that there’s any animosity between the two of you.

He smiles at you all condescendingly. It makes your eye twitch just slightly, but his eye see the movement—of course they do, the two of you have been trained to look at little tells like that since you were young, always so in tune with other’s emotions—and his grin widens, almost as if he’s won something.

He’s about to retort something when his wings twitch on his back, a movement so minuscule, no one else would catch it, but you know him better than anyone else, even if you don’t want to acknowledge that part right now.

The two of you straighten up and smile at each other—one of the practiced, fake ones that no one would be able to tell was fake to begin with—pretending to chat about the rankings. One of the heroes walks past and nods his head at the two of you, while the two of you bow back to him.

When he’s out of sight you drop the entire persona, not bothering with the fake smiles and niceties. You note the way Hawks relaxes slightly, feathers betraying his every being no matter how much he tries to hide from you, too.

Your hand shoots to your ribs, fingers skimming over your hero suit. The fabric dark with gold details—just like his, because the two of you might not do things together, but the HPSC still has their claws in the two of you—but it’s empty underneath. Just flesh and bone. No red feather that flutters against your skin whenever the blond saw you, or missed you. No longer replies to your sighs.

It’s easy to get lost in all that’s him. The blond and red. The cocky smirk he has on his face, and the slight stubble he’s beginning to grow. It’s easy to get lost, and then get pulled back into the present when he scoffs and walks past you, shoulder deliberately knocking into yours.

You want to spill your heart out when you once again see him walk away from you, just like that night. Wings held high, feathers trembling slightly and the back of his head turned towards yours. Want to tell him that it meant nothing, that the two of you could still be friends, like old times sake. But you know that won’t happen, no matter how much you want it to.

The two of you have simply… grown apart. No longer best friends, or that more-than-bestfriends thing the two of you had before he broke it off. Right now the two of you are colleagues. Strangers with history. Enemies competing for the better spot on a leader board the two of you don’t care about.

Your hand falls from your ribs to your side, and it’s so easy to make him stay, but it’s also easy to let him walk away. Because what good would it do? He’s made his stance very clear on the matter. No longer wanting you in his life, no matter what he had promised you.

Walls no longer industrial gray, but rather a muted white, but they feel more lifeless that the prison that you called your home for years, because a certain someone isn’t there to brighten them up. Only the sun setting into hues of violet and peach paints the room in colors.

He said he’d still be here with you, yet you watch him walk away from you the moment the two of you see each other again.

Fine. So be it.

And that’s how the competition really begins.

After the first hero billboard comes the petty revenge. Flirting more with your fans—showing him that you can use his tactics to become more popular, too. The hero rankings are constantly fluctuating, you and Hawks surpassing each other every time, trading ranks like you’re trading stock.

People online have started putting bets on who will be higher ranked this year. The two rookie heroes going head to head, making for an exciting race, or whatever it is they’re saying.

He garners attention by flirting with his fans, you garner attention by doing a shoot, face plastered on every billboard across Japan. It’s petty. It’s stupid. It’s the only way you can keep him close to you despite being hundreds of kilometers apart.

There’s a nagging voice at the back of your head now every time you see his face or name anywhere on the internet. No longer associated with Keigo but rather with Hawks the hero who you’re competing against.

The second annual billboard ranks you at five while he’s at six. The saccharine smile you plaster on your face when the two of you are on stage ticks him off. You can see it in the little tells, one of his feathers near his scapula is razor-sharp one second, while soft the other.

People start asking the two of you questions—rookie heroes, dating scandals, anything and everything they can get their hands on. You deflect with a smile and a wink, and he does the same.

Later that same night there’s hundreds of clips posted about how the two of you would make such a good team or would be so good together. Your eye twitches at that, fingers cracking with the way you’re balling your hands so hard your nails breach the skin on your palms and blood steadily trickles down your forearm.

What would they know about you being ‘such a good item with him.’ They do not know Hawks the same way you do, and over your dead body would you go back to him. The feud you have with him is at this point more important than anything else.

So you start doing other things on your off time—which you already barely have, but for the sake of winning this god-forsaken competition you’d give up all of your free time—such as going into schools and telling children about safety and what to do in villain attacks.

Your popularity numbers are climbing by the day, more of you can be seen in tabloids. Face plastered all over social media for helping a cat get out of a tree. Bringing in groceries for the nice old lady on the sidewalk. Things you would never do out of your own volition, purely because that hasn’t been trained into you to do.

Seems like you underestimated how low Hawks would step, though. It’s during one of your regular patrols, the sun is blistering down and sweat is beading off your temple and down your jaw. There’s a marker in your hand while a kid is jumping up and down in excitement to get your autograph.

You’re smiling, already thinking of where you could get something to hydrate, the cold surely feeling nice against your parched throat, when a big shadow falls across you.

People starts squealing and pointing into the sky, and sure enough there he is. Hawks. All red wings and cocky smirks, hovering in the air. He circles a few times before touching down, immediately getting mobbed by tens of fans.

Hell, even the kid you were giving an autograph just… runs away from you. Your pen hovering uselessly in the air. The stench that comes from the marker fills your nostrils, and it finally snaps you out of your reverie.

Pinching yourself once, you confirm that Hawks is, in fact, really here. Standing on your turf, talking and taking pictures with your fans. And you can already hear that stupid counter climb up by the second, getting more popularity by just touching down here.

And as if he can feel your gaze on him, he lifts his head lightly, golden eyes finding your form. For a second he just stares blankly, then he smirks and throws a wink into your direction. Fucking dickhead.

Sighing you continue your patrol while already thinking of how you’ll get your revenge.

Kyushu is… different than you expected. You never read up much about it, but you knew it was an island—duh—so you didn’t expect to see high rise towers litter everywhere you looked. The buildings so high you would almost be able to touch a cloud if you opened the window; an over-exaggeration, but still.

You thought the place Hawks chose, or well, the HPSC chose for him would have more sea. You thought the air would smell salty, like the ocean, and hear the waves crash ashore, but nothing is less true.

Fukuoka is a heavily populated city. There’s buildings, cars, and street life everywhere. When you got sent here you thought it might be different than back in Sendai, but nothing is less true.

The mission had been simple. Go undercover for a drug ring, get the info, let the President know what’s happening, and turn the whole thing upside down before they even know someone infiltrated their home.

What you’d failed to consider, though, is the fact that this is the home of a certain crimson-winged hero who could spot you from hundreds of meters away.

Looks like he didn’t spot you, but rather you him. Tiny feathers slicing through the air at lightning speed, multiple civilians getting pulled out of the way by their clothes while the number two hero fights the villains.

It’s a sight for sore eyes, wings almost down to little nubs, no longer able to fly, and it seems like these villains aren’t gonna stop any time soon.

He’s exhausted. There’s too many innocent bystanders nearby that he has to keep track of while also fighting off two other villains. His wings are almost non-existent, most of the feathers having been used up at this point. One feather-blade is in his hand, luckily still able to use it.

There’s sweat beading down his brow, nearly falling into his eye before it drips to the ground, which is littered with debris from the wreckage the villains have done to the city. It’s honestly more than he’s encountered in the years before—here anyway.

Villains of this size were normally more common in Tokyo, but seems like they decided to bother his district this day.

He deflects one attack while scooping up a child that had fallen trying to run away with one of his feathers, returning the child to his mother who was in tears, officers holding her back from running onto an active villain site.

Then he hears it, a sharp whistle he hasn’t heard in years. It’s music to his ears. It grates him. Almost like he can’t decide if he loves you for being here right now, or if he hates the fact that you’re even here to begin with.

He knows you wouldn’t come here out of your own volition, just like he doesn’t go to Sendai unless ordered, so you’re here on a mission. And here you are, seeing him in this pathetic state, nearly losing to two villains.

You’d probably laugh at him when you have the time, tell him he’s gonna drop a rank and you’ll sprint ahead of him again. The swapping of places hasn’t once stopped. The number two and three, constantly swapping places but never getting that number one spot.

But he knows. He knows he should give you the go-ahead. Get this over with. The civilians are the most important thing right now, so he should do what’s best for them—even if that means you get a tally added to the score.

So he gives his signal that it’s okay to swap. His wings slowly disappearing from his back. The feathers that he has in his hand goes limp—just an ordinary red feather right now—just like all the others that he’s used to get the bystanders out of the way.

Some people gasp, while others are already filming. He can feel the way his quirk has been swapped for someone elses—one of the villains, though he doesn’t know which of the two.

The villains in front of him look confused for a split second before they grin again, certainly thinking they have the upperhand now. Hawks can only grin in turn, tucking his feather in his jacker sleeve—a souvenir he can give to fans if they want it.

And then a flurry of red feathers come down—sharp as can be. The villains get pinned down almost immediately while Hawks goes in to put quirk-cancelling handcuffs on them. He sees you walk up to him a few seconds after, whistling with your hands in your pockets—a sight so him it pisses him off. Of course you’d try and mock him while he’s already down.

More people are gasping and screaming each of your names now, but neither of you give them any attention. You stop in front of him, a lazy nod given while the police officers rush onto scene, dragging away the suspects.

There are some words exchanged while you still have his quirk, crimson stark against the dark fabric of your hero suit. And he can see the way the feathers are trembling, just like your fingers. There’s a slight tick in your jaw you never could hide, not even from the Commission.

You’re overstimulated. His quirk simply picking up too many noises at once, while he can’t hear anything at all. It’s something the two of you haven’t done in a long time—swapping quirks. While you did this on a regular years ago, it’s now something foreign. Still, he has to applaud you for keeping your face as neutral as you are right now, because he knows how rowdy people can be.

After the officer is done talking with the two of you he walks away, leaving the two of you to fend for yourselves. Masses crowd around the number two and three, as if you two are merely circus acts and everyone can just do whatever they want.

People want pictures where you have the wings, others are touching the feathers to see if they really are as soft as Hawks’. And he notes how uncomfortable you are right now, shivers running up your spine when someone tugs on one of the feathers, and he sees the way your—technically his—wings are twitching like they want to lash out.

So he whispers, as low as he can go, that the two of you can get out of here if you just fly away with him. Which is exactly what you do, picking him up with ease—ease that was never there to begin with since he was heavier with the wings dragging behind him—and flying away from the crowd to one of the high-rises.

It’s an bumpy, unsteady flight all the way up to the tallest building there is, and he has to cling onto you to not plummet to his death. Once you land, clumsy and everything, you set him down.

Your wings shudder behind you before they disappear from your back and form back onto Hawks’—only for there to be stubs instead of actual, massive wings he normally has.

There’s sweat clinging to your spine and beading down your temple. You’d forgotten just how loud his world actually is, not having had to bother with it for years on end. That of course doesn’t mean you forgot what his quirk can do—things no one else in the world except for the President and a few handlers know.

You straighten up, swallowing past the bile that was threatening to come up if you stayed down there any longer, you nod to yourself. You’re okay. This is okay. Everything is okay.

The blond is just watching you, for once having no quip ready on the tip of his tongue, but rather just… looking. There’s a hint of concern he can’t quite seem to hide from you, but you don’t focus too much on that.

Walking up to him you pat him on the back, just between his scapulae where he’s the most sensitive. A little payback you’d say, not just for the fact that you had to get the two of you out of there since he didn’t have enough feathers to even fly, but also for all the bullshit he had pulled this year to get ahead of you.

“Well, see you later, number three,” your voice mock-cheerful. You were the number three hero currently, but with today’s save, or whatever you want to call it, you’re sure your rank will rise once again, surpassing Hawks’. “Gotta do stuff.”

Before you can even walk away a gloved hand wraps itself around your wrist, tugging you back. Another hand finds itself on your hip, warm and familiar in a way you don’t want to acknowledge right now. “Where do you think you’re going?”

Clenching your jaw you look over at the blond, brows furrowing and lips pursing into a straight line. You don’t bother to conceal your expression right now, there’s no one around to see, so you can just show your disdain on your face whenever you want—one of the special occasions.

“Oh I’m sorry, I forgot. I… gotta… go,” you slowly annunciate every word, almost as if you’re talking to a deaf person with dementia who has to lip read. You know he can hear you just fine—while he might not be able to hear everything, his ears still work perfectly fine.

The next instant you’re backed onto a brick wall of the bulkhead. Rough stone scraping against your back through the fabric of your hero suit. It has you gasping out slightly, not thinking he would do something like this.

“You’re such a brat sometimes,” he breathes out, pupils almost like slits, and oh, he’s pissed. Not his normal relaxed self, but rather actually annoyed at something you did—and if you had to guess it was to hit him where it hurt the most. “You should be happy I even gave you the go-ahead to use my quirk.”

That ticks you off. It’s not like you want to use his quirk, but he was in a bind and he knows it. If it were up to you, you would never even think of using his quirk. So you do what you know best—hands coming around to his back to where the little wings are still uncovered, one of your fingers tracing over his feather. Slow and teasing.

He groans out at the sensation, eyes fluttering closed for just a second before he opens them again, pupils dilated slightly. Then he turns you around, your chest pressing up to the stone while your cheek lays flat against the rough texture. A gasp rips itself from your throat.

His breath ghosts the shell of your ear while he presses his chest against your back, and you feel the bulge in his pants on your ass, making you gulp out. He cannot be serious right now.

“You sure you wanna do this, birdie?” the nickname has you close your eyes for a split-second. For a moment you can hear it echo in your head, distort it until you hear that all too familiar nickname: ‘dove’, but he doesn’t, he just uses the same nicknames he gives his fangirls.

You scoff out at it, and try to wiggle your way from him, only for your ass to brush his bulge. He moans out at the sensation before pushing his hips further into you—pressing it right against your ass so you can feel just how hard he is. “Tell me to stop, and I will.”

Pressing your thighs together, you can feel yourself getting hot and bothered. Even after all these years he still gets you going like no other—not that you’ve ever even looked at someone else. The competition between you two has had your focus so much that you haven’t even had the time to go on a date, and honestly you didn’t care to go on one, either.

When you don’t say anything he chuckles. It comes deep from his chest, rumbling it with the sound that’s completely foreign to you.

“Who would’ve thought,” he whispers, fingers slowly tracing up and down your side, not groping, not grabbing, just tracing featherlight touches along your sides while he humps against your ass. It’s almost as if he isn’t aware of his own ministrations, simply rutting against you like a dog in heat—better yet, like a bird in heat. “Bet you flew us here just to rile me up.”

One of his hands slowly goes to the front, fingers skimming your ribs, just where his feather always used to lay. He makes a little shape there before his fingers trace upwards, squeezing your tit once over the fabric. Shivers run down your spine, straight into your core, and you can feel yourself getting wetter by the second. Panties sticking uncomfortably to your folds.

“Hah, you wish—shit,” your head lolls back onto his shoulder when he finds your nipple over the fabric, pinching and rolling the bud between his forefinger and thumb before he tugs on it slightly. “You’re so full of yourself.”

“You’re gonna be full of me in a second,” he murmurs against your cheek, hips never ceasing their motion, while his other hand finally trails down, stopping just at your pants. It’s only when you nod at him that he slips his fingers inside them, digits finding your heat immediately. “Oh? So wet for someone who’s ‘so full of himself’.”

His fingers move over your panties, lightly caressing it, almost like he’s preening himself—careful not to press too hard, nor move too fast, and it has you absolutely whining out for him.

“R-really, that’s all you can come up with. Thought you’d have some—fuck just keep them there—more practice with your l-little fangirls,” you moan out when his fingers skim over your clit, not pressing or rubbing, just featherlight touches that drive you absolutely crazy for him.

Chuckling his finger finally presses down onto your clit, moving it in small circles while pleasure shoots up your core. Your hand clamps itself onto his forearm, not trying to move it, just holding onto it while you gasp out into the open air.

“That’s itttt, love it when your rival plays with your pussy hmmm?” his finger doesn’t stop, just keeps circling your nub until you’re whining out. “Just put them in already, Hawks.”

He makes a thoughtful sound in the back of his throat—something between a hum and a groan—before he finally moves your panties aside and glides one finger through your slick folds. The feeling of the pads of his fingers directly on your skin has you arching into his touch, trying to chase his fingers even though he keeps sliding them through your folds.

One of his fingers finally slide inside your snug walls, warm and wet around him. It has you struggling to catch your breath. When was the last time you even got time to get yourself off? The feeling of his singular finger so much thicker than your own, eyes rolling to the back of your skull.

He slowly starts to pump in and out of your pussy, walls clinging onto him every time he tries to slide his finger out. Soon another one joins the first, stretching you out even further. Blunt nails dig themselves into his forearm, making him hiss out.

“F-feels so good,” you whimper out, careful not to be too noisy. There might not be anyone around, but if someone living in the apartments below, there’s a possibility they’d be able to hear you, and you’d rather not get caught getting fingered by your so-called rival.

His hips pick up pace behind you, still rutting against your ass like a damn animal in heat. Groans fall from his lips like an open faucet, never once stopping. He curls his fingers up while his thumb grazes your clit before it presses down onto it—adding all the more stimulation.

Trusting his fingers in and out a few times, he finally finds a spot that has you actively keen out, your other hand slapping itself over your mouth when he continues to attack your g-spot with his fingers. “F-fuck, please keep them there.”

Hawks just groans while his hips stutter behind you, fingers keeping their pace. Your thighs are starting to shake, knees buckling slightly. Suddenly there’s a tug on your nipple, completely forgetting his hand was still on your breast, and your eyes roll to the back of your skull. “Cumming, cumming— oh shit.”

Your orgasm shoots through you, and it’s so much more powerful than ever before. At the same time his hips cease behind you, warmth seeping through his pants while he muffles a moan into your shoulder.

It’s only when you catch your breath that you look at him from the corner of your eyes. “Did you just cum in your pants just by rutting yourself against my ass?”

His fingers slip from your heat, cunt clenching around nothing after his fingers retreat, when they come down with a quick slap to your clit. You jump slightly at the feeling, yelping while your head turns to the side to look at him.

“Shut up,” his cheeks are blotched pink, not once daring to look you in the eye, confirming what you thought had happened. He eyes his hand, spreading his fingers slightly, looking at the way your arousal webs between his fingers before they snap!

Almost in a trance he pops his fingers in his mouth, lips wrapping around the digits while his tongue licks the wetness right off. He moans out at the taste, eyes nearly rolling to the back of his skull while he can feel his dick twitch to life in his pants again.

Your mouth falls open at the sight, so sinful it makes you all the more hornier. Without realising your hips are moving back, ass brushing against his hardening cock, which he gives a quick slap. He pulls his fingers out of his mouth, lips shiny with a mixture of spit and cum, having your eyes snap to them. “Still haven’t had enough, thought you hated me?”

You roll your eyes at that, not bothering to confirm nor deny his accusations. Turning around your hand cups his member, palm pressing against it while you smile sweetly up at him. “Could say the same thing for you, Hawks.”

He growls—actually growls—at that, eyes narrowing down at you before his fingers make quick work of your pants. You unbuckle his belt, fingers fumbling slightly with how they’re trembling, and you can only hope he doesn’t see it.

He frees his cock from his underwear, mushroom tip angry red and shiny with cum. Giving it a few tugs he gets himself fully hard again. His other hand creeps down your thigh before he grabs just below your knee and hoists your leg up to put it around his waist. Your other feet shuffles around on the ground slightly, trying to find your balance again, while your hand shoots out to grab his shoulder—this time careful not to touch anywhere near his wings.

“Sure you’re ready for this?” he asks, fingers toying with your panties that are soaked through at this point, flimsy material doing nothing to hide your swollen folds.

“Just put it in already,” you roll your eyes at him, watching the way he once again pulls your panties to the side while he lines himself up. There’s anticipation and slight dread running through you now. Are you ready? Did he prep you enough? How are you even sure you can take him?

He glides his shaft through your folds a few times, skin getting shiny with your slick, when his tip rubs over your clit, shooting more pleasure through you. It’s only when he glides over it once again that you feel it—something metal.

Dickhead has a dick piercing.

“Bet your f-fangirls love that,” you whimper out, still eyeing the way he’s gliding through your folds, tip catching on your entrance only to move it up again, and again, and again. “How many compliments did you ge—fuuuckk.”

He doesn’t let you finish your sentence, instead finally deciding to push inside. The stretch feel insane, walls clamping down immediately, tip pushing past that first ring of resistance. Tears immediately spring to your eyes, and your hand tightens on his shoulder.

“S-shit, ease up, d— birdie,” he grunts out, not trying to push in any further. His hand comes down to your hip, thumb rubbing circles on your hip while he lets you adjust to the stretch. “You always this t-tight, or is it just me who has that effect on you?”

“Shut up,” you whine, not caring how you sound right now. You let your body slump to the wall behind you, sweat starting to collect at your nape again. Never in your life did you think it would feel like this. “Y-you can move.”

Looking at you for a few more seconds he slowly inches in, the stretch torturous, and he isn’t even half-way in yet. You claw at his shoulders, trying to find anything to hold onto while he was splitting you open.

“Just a few more inches,” he murmurs down at you with—is that concern? in his voice, thumb sliding from your hip to your clit, rubbing small figure eights on it to help you relax slightly. A few more inches? Looking down you see the way his skin is wrinkling at the base, and yup, he still had two more inches give or take left.

Once he finally bottoms out he lets his head fall forward, straight against your collarbone, breath hot even through the fabric. His tip is smooched against your cervix, and you can feel the two barbells of his piercing sit snug against your walls, even when he isn’t moving.

It’s a weird sensation—the metal cool against your warm cunt, smooth surface rubbing you just right. After a few moment he finally pulls his hips back—just slightly—and thrusts back in. It’s a shallow thrust, but it knocks the breath right out of your lungs.

“Y-you always this weak when fucking your girls?” You shouldn’t ask it, you don’t even want to know his answer to it, but your mouth is moving before your brain can even catch up. Luckily for you he doesn’t reply, only pulls out further before thrusting back in, making you moan out.

He sets a steady pace after that, hips pulling out halfway only to thrust back in, tip hitting your cervix each and every time, pre clinging to your walls. Moans and groans fill the air while the two of you are too lost in the pleasure to even taunt each other.

“F-fuck, pussy gripping onto me—shit look at that—like she doesn’t want me to leave,” he groans out, eyeing the way your lips are wrapping around him every time he pulls out.

“Maybe she just wants you to cum so she can get away from you,” you mutter out, which he hears loud and clear. The stubs on his backs flutter slightly, not bothering to hide any reaction you pull out of him any longer.

His eyes narrow at you before his hand that’s still rubbing circles stops. The pleasure dwindles slightly, only for him to set a more brutal pace, balls slapping against your ass while he pummels into your poor pussy.

“Yeah? Well then maybe— oh fuck… maybe I shouldn’t get you off,” he changes his angle slightly, hiking your leg further up his waist before he starts pistoning his hips in and out of you, an audible squelch can be heard every time he bottoms out.

“Don’t need you—there, please there,” your eyes roll back while you babble out ‘please’ and ‘there’ over and over again. Your mouth falls open, high off ecstasy while Hawks keeps bullying your g-spot with lethal precision.

“There, yeah? Fuck feel her clamping down on me. What was that… hahhh, about not needing me?” he grunts out while he can feel his abs start to tighten.

Your own hand comes down to your sensitive clit, rubbing circles on it while you’re incoherently babbling now, cock-drunk on the way he’s pummeling into your weeping hole. “Gonna—” you gasp out, before it cuts off with a choked cry. Your walls spasm around him while you get thrown into your second climax of the day, thighs trembling slightly.

“F-fuck,” he chokes out before he thrusts once more, hips stilling while he paints your entire walls white. His wings twitch and flex against his back, and you’re pretty sure you can see the left over feathers sharpen and soften against his back through your hazed-out mind.

The two of you stay like that for a while, just breathing in each other’s presence, not daring to move. It’s only when he pulls out with a hiss that you realise the situation. Looking down you see his seed bubble out of you, a bit of red mixed in the mess.

Hawks also sees it, looking down with concern at you. “Shit— fuck, are you okay?”

Rolling your eyes you let your leg fall from his hips, and your thigh almost immediately seizes up. Luckily you can deal with cramps—having been through enough training that this doesn’t feel like anything anymore—but the foreign feeling of your pussy having been stretched out has you grit your teeth.

“That’s your blood,” you mumble out, swiping your thumb on a cut just on his eyebrow. It leaves behind a trail of red, staining your finger in the crimson substance. Holding it up for him to see you just swallows and nods once.

Wiping it off on your uniform, you put your panties back in place, grimacing slightly when you feel the sticky substance ooze out of you. Pulling up your pants you pat everything down to see if you still have everything before straightening up.

There’s an awkward beat where the two of you just look at each other. And it finally sinks in what just happened. You fucked Hawks. Your ex-bestfriend, ex-lover, current rival. The one person you swore you would be done with.

Swallowing you quickly push yourself from the brick wall, finally noticing just how much your back hurts at the moment. Running your fingers through your hair you nod once towards the hero before you open the door and walk away from whatever all of this is.

And while you awkwardly walk down the stairs—gait off and your hole pulsing around nothing—you know that you’re absolutely and utterly fucked.

The time after that moves weird. You hadn’t seen anything of the crimson-winged hero while you stayed in Kyushu, only hearing people whisper about him in passing, but never once seeing that blur of red move through the sky.

You know somewhere deep down that he’s avoiding you, and you’re honestly doing the same. The night in the safehouse after what happened made you unable to sleep, eyes blinking up at that same industrial gray you’ve seen your entire life, and for just a moment—just one—you could feel him beside you on that bed. Only this bed was bigger than the one you had for twelve years.

When you closed your eyes you could feel the way his breath would ghost your skin while laying beside you, his wing flopped over you like a soft, unique blanket that sometimes twitched whenever either of the two of you moved.

Could still feel the way he would trace soft patterns over your arms when he thought you’d fallen asleep before he was out of the room. Could still feel the gentleness in his gazze whenever he looked at you.

But when you opened your eyes you were met by silence. No soft whisper of feathers ruffling or the soft breathing pattern he always had around you—something that had been trained into the two of you. There was still that small electral buzz you were familiar with, but it made your heart only do more complicated flips.

It was like you were suddenly thrown back to when you were seventeen years old and got told that the two of you shouldn’t see each other anymore.

And just like then, you have a feather in your hand. Soft, white, and itchy. Not the crimson, alive feather you used to wear like a shield. Like a promise etched onto your skin. But rather just a dead feather from god-knows-where.

It droops to the side sadly, like it’s reminding you that this isn’t what you were familiar with for half your life. But still you put it on your chest and begin talking to it like it can respond. The stories are quite silly, and you would never actually say all of these things out loud—when you’d done grocery shopping online, the latest villain arrest, a short story about how your sidekick had put soap in the food instead of olive oil.

You’re gesturing around the room wildly, a small smile on your face while your eyes are closed. It’s easier that way, telling stories to a feather that can’t respond. But for a moment you just let yourself believe it can. Let yourself believe that you’re seventeen years old again and that you’re ranting to your friend.

The golden-eyed boy across the hall that always looked like you were more than the weapon they were trying to make you out to be. The one who you shared secret glances and giggles with. The one who put a warm hand over your stomach whenever your cramps got too much, but the handlers just kept pushing you to do more more more.

And when you open your eyes, there’s a slight part in your heart that yearns to see that red feather hovering in front of your eyes. But you’re met with air. The white feather still laying on your chest, not moving an inch from where you last put it.

A tear slides down your face before you can stop it. Quickly wiping it away you chuckle into the empty room. No one can hear you, after all, so why would you care?

There’s a slight throbbing between your legs, soreness running through your muscles—an type of sore you’ve never been before, and it scares you slightly—while there’s no one to tell you it’s okay.

Rolling over you look at the empty spot beside you in the bed. It’s cold and pristine, not a wrinkle in sight. How many times have you imagined there to be someone beside you? It’s honestly too many to count, and you can’t help but let another tear slide down your face.

There’s a slight discontent in your heart that tells you that after today he’ll never even look at you anymore. That this will be just like what happened seven years ago, where he told you the two of you couldn’t be together and walked out of your life.

You had this silly competition, chasing after numbers the two of you knew didn’t matter. While other heroes yearn to be in the top 10, the two of you treated it as an game to one-up one another. Taunting the other with whoever has the higher rank that year.

That was the only time you talked to him, honestly. The annual Japanese Hero Billboard Chart. One of the only times you’d see him in real life instead of on a screen with an update on his latest endeavor.

And somewhere deep down you know that even that will cease to exist after today. The silly competition will be over, no more trying to get more popular, but rather just actually focusing on what the two of you are—heroes.

You grab your pillow, squeezing it to your chest. Of course you had to fuck it up once more.

The pillow feels to hard. Too many feathers stuffed into the thing, and without thinking about it you rip it open, hundreds of little feathers spilling from the casing. Sitting up you look around the room knowing that each safehouse had a small kit with a thread and needle stored somewhere.

Searching around for it, you find it under the sink. Sitting on the bed once more—a few feathers poking you in the butt and your legs—you get to work.

Hours pass, the dark night sky changing to the soft break of dawn that paints the entire sky hues of orange, to daylight where the sun is shining onto the sealed windows.

Your hands are cramping and bleeding slightly, small spots of red against the stark white feathers that make you just wanna cut your hand open to stain them red entirely—something you decide against when you repeat it in your head.

When you finally lay down the thread and needle you look up at your nightstand. It’s just past twelve in the afternoon, which gives you plenty of time to still get ready for the mission. Scrubbing a hand over your face you look down onto the bed.

An entire sheet of feathers lay there, neatly sown together in something that resembles the form of a wing. The entire thing is soft and way too itchy, but you still run your hands through it, hoping that one of them would twitch.

They never do.

Leaning your body back you look over at the wall, just… staring at it for a good few minutes. Since when were you so lonely that you had to sow together a whole feather blanket just to be reminded of when you were younger?

A small chuckle escapes your lips. Hollow and heartbroken. Of course, of course you would go ahead and fuck him after what happened when you kissed him last time.

Hands shaking you put the feather blanket over your legs, trying to feel the warmth in them—but they are too different. Even your brain knows this isn’t what you want, but it’s the closest what you can get. Sighing you get up to get ready for the day.

The mission comes before anything and everything else.

After that night you haven’t been able to focus, quickly losing sleep and some of your popularity considering you haven’t been doing that good of a job interacting with your fans. You were short and snappy with them sometimes, almost like a bird that’s being cornered into a cage.

Your number two rank—because you did get to two after that save—quickly dropped to four over the span of mere weeks. Tabloids printing out more and more articles about you. Speculations, your latest mishap, you name it and it’s there.

And of course wherever your name went, his was not far behind. Hawks, the number two hero, charming his way with the ladies once more. His ruby studs catching the light just right in the latest picture, and you know his magpie brain loves to see it.

Clicking the screen off you let yourself fall backward. This isn’t what you wanted, not even close. And just like you expected, there’s no more real competition. But maybe that’s also because you’re not letting there be competition.

The Commission has been on your ass about your latest endeavors, scolding you and even putting cameras inside of your own agency, just so they can keep track of what you’re doing in there.

Your sidekicks have been eyeing you carefully, but you just smile at them and tell them everything is fine. Because it is, isn’t it?

No matter how much time passes, every time you get home—if you even get the time to go back to your own apartment, nothing Commission owned—you look in the almost-empty closet and fish out the little feather blanket you made weeks ago.

Every time you can’t sleep, you lay it over you, just to try and trick your brain that everything will be okay, even when it will never be again.

The Hero Billboard Chart that year felt brutal. You fell down the rankings—now the number five hero—while Hawks was at his number two spot. It’s been the first time in years since the two of you didn’t stand next to each other. And oh boy, didn’t people have their opinions about it.

There’s speculation, children and adults alike screaming at the two of you asking if something happened. Others are more bold and ask if the two of you had a falling out of sorts. And of course there are the shippers who are making sad edits about you and Hawks, compiling every picture the two of you are in together to throw a sad song over it while unrelated pictures get used.

It’s honestly… something. Never in a million years would you have thought that people cared like to this extent. The two of you weren’t that close. Not in the public’s eye anyway, and no one knows about the history you have with the birdbrain.

So why is everyone always trying to get you two together anyway? Is it because you two debuted at the same time and rose the rankings together? Or do they see something deeper you yourself are refusing to admit?

Whatever it is, it doesn’t matter, because the HPSC is once again calling a meeting. Walking in you see that one face you were dreading to see, but you can’t just walk back out. Steeling your face you go to sit down at the long table that’s filled with people in business suits.

The meeting drones on and on. Beginning with reprimanding you for losing rank so fast. Rolling your eyes you let them talk about how they are going to rectify things, as if being the number five isn’t good enough.

A pawn. That’s still all you are to these people. Just a little piece on a much bigger board they can use any time they want. Same goes for the crimson-winged hero across from you. He’s leaning back, arms behind his head while he leans back.

There’s a beat of silence before your handler finally speaks up. “The two of you will do an ad together. Just to show everyone there’s no bad blood.”

That makes you freeze up slightly, hairs standing on end like someone threw a cold bucket of water over you. The blond across from you also halts for half a second—one you’re sure everyone around the table saw—before he smiles, big and bright.

“And what would this ad be?” he almost purrs across the table, canines on full display while he sits up a little straighter. The lax position from minutes ago disappearing completely.

The handler looks you over for a second, then him, then looks down at the tablet, just to create a little suspense. You know she knows what the ad is about, everyone here, except for you and Hawks do. They never call in a meeting without being prepared to the max.

“It’s an underwear ad. They want to advertise their new matching sets—for partners. The two of you can do that, right?”

Of course. Of course they would throw you in the deep end like this. It isn’t even just the fact that you have to do an ad with him, but the forced close proximity and underwear. Fucking great. Across from you Hawks’ eyebrows shoot up.

“An underwear ad,” he echoes, dragging every syllable like he’s chewing on taffy and trying to figure out how to get it out of his mouth. “For couples.”

Everyone at the table looks at him before his own handler smiles, cold and devoid of any emotion. “The two of you can do that, right? Show the world there’s no bad blood like they think there is. Just two heroes who are competing to be the better hero.”

You nod slowly, mechanically. There’s no saying no to this, and he knows it as well. His golden eyes flit over to yours, and for the first time in forever you can see a glint of emotion in there. It’s gone as quick as it came, but you swear there was some relief in there.

Which is why you’re here now, two weeks later in a warehouse that doubles as the set. There are people everywhere around you. Two are working on your body, lotioning it up so it looks good in the lighting—or whatever they said, you weren’t really listening to begin with to be completely honest—while there are another two people working on your hair and makeup.

The underwear is plain. A little heart cut out on your ass—nothing scandalous, just something cute—while there is a little bow on the front. Your bra also has a cute little bow at the front, tits sitting snug in it, and it’s honestly cute.

You can hear the assistants whisper to each other about everything and anything, but most of the time yours and Hawks’ name fall from their lips. Straining your ears you can just about hear what they’re saying—He’s adorable’ ‘adorable? he’s so hot.’ ‘I think I like her more’ ‘Fine then, more for me’.

They’re giggling as if you can’t hear what they’re saying, and if you can hear it, you’re certain he can, too.Speaking of, looking in the mirror you can see him walk up and lean against the doorframe, arms over his chest, biceps bulging.

He’s in nothing but boxers, and you have to keep your eyes up to not ogle him. Lean frame gotten a bit more defined over the years, but nothing extreme. He has to be able to fly, after all, and it would be more difficult if he was on the bigger side.

The stylist puts on some lipgloss before she steps away with an watchful eye. Once she determines everything is fine she nods at you to go stand up. Walking over to the guy who fills every room without even trying—though his wings certainly had something to do with that—you stop just short in front of him.

He lets his eyes rake over you, stopping just slightly when he sees the cute bow before he whistles. Low and sharp. A catcall if you ever heard one. Your hand shoots up and hits him on the back of his head, a small little flick of your wrist.

There’s a small, sharp sting on the back of his head. Not hurting him enough to complain, but enough to get him back into the present. The two of you are not alone, and when he looks around, he can see almost every eye on the two of you.

Right. Just an ad campaign and not just the two of you.

“Ready?” he murmurs, pushing himself upright before stepping aside slightly. You roll your eyes at him before pushing past him to make your way to the set. He flicks two fingers into the air to everyone in the dressing room before he turns to follow you. And, oh—oh now that’s unfair. The little heart cutout has his eyes drawn to it.

It’s cute, small enough to be inconspicuous, but enough for him to notice. And notice he does. His feathers bristle slightly before he has to calm them down. Memories of months ago filling his head. You pushed to the brick wall, your warm, wet walls clamping down on his fingers, on his dick—shit.

He flexes his arms in hopes to get the blood rushing to there instead of down there. And he already knows this is going to be a long day.

The director is absolutely delighted when he sees the two of you walk in, immediately shaking your hands and thanking the two of you for coming, since he knows how busy hero work is. He’s absolutely beaming when you start talking a bit more, but then remembers he has to actually put the two of you in positions for the shoot.

It starts out with Keigo sitting down, muscled thighs spread oud, and you have to perch on his lap. Of fucking course. This is a couples ad, after all. But that didn’t mean you weren’t hoping it wouldn’t be like this.

Still the shoot goes on, running through multiple poses. Sitting on his lap, standing in front of each other, standing in front of him while you were with your back turned toward the camera, one of his hands on you waist, which slid lower lower lower, until he was grabbing your ass—which the director absolutely loved to see.

‘Make it more sensual.’ ‘Good, good, look each other in the eyes like you mean in.’ ‘Oh, yes yes that! that’s it!’ ‘Put your hand on his chest—there we goo.’ ‘This is looking good guys.’ ‘Okay now I just need something that shows off the front. Ohhh that’s good!’

He was… energetic to say the least.

By the time the two of you are done with the shoot—having had solo shots done as well—it’s already late at night. Most of the people have packed up already with a promise to go to dinner together, while there are still a few people walking around.

You’re in your dressing room removing your makeup when the door opens. Looking up through the mirror you can see Hawks leaned against the door, crimson wings spread open slightly while his arms are over his chest. Still in just his underwear—same as you.

You’re not sure what happened next. One minute he was talking to you—taunting you, really—and the next the two of you are stumbling to the couch, fingers groping and touching everywhere your eyes can see.

You’re laying on your back, hair splayed out underneath you while Hawks stands over you, teeth in the wrapper of the rubber that he— “Where did you even get that from?” He walked in here in just his boxers, so unless he was hiding it in there you have no idea where he got it from.

“Sent a feather to retreat one from my wallet,” he chuckles before he drops the last piece of clothing, dick springing free and hitting his bellybutton. He’s already hard and leaking for you—a sight you cannot get used to—and the soft amber lighting of the mirror shows you the two barbells just under his tip.

Fuck, if that isn’t hot. Your thighs squeeze together while you feel yourself start to soak through your underwear, white fabric almost turning translucent, sticking to your folds that leaves nothing up to the imagination.

Rolling the condom on he positions himself between your legs, hand at his base tapping his tip on your clit over the fabric a few times. Each tap has your thighs jolt, almost clamping them shut before you feel multiple feathers on them, keeping you nice and spread for him.

“You always like to tease this much or— or are you trying to keep me here longer?” you ask him through your teeth, annoyance dripping from your voice. It just makes him chuckle, golden eyes trained on where you were dripping for him. “Hmm, just wanna get you nice ‘n wet for me, but seems like I don’t have to do much, do I?

You roll your eyes at the statement. It’s not like he’s wrong, though. There’s no hiding it, either, not with the way your spread out for him.

He finally takes your panties off, hooking his slender fingers into the waistband before he lets it snap against your skin once, having you jolt out, before he finally takes them off. He looks down at the way you’re spread open for him—wet slit spread open for him with the way his feathers are keeping you open, and he can’t help but pry your lips open ever further with his thumbs.

Your hole clenches around nothing, more arousal dripping out of you and down the couch. He’s just staring for a few seconds, pupils blown out at the sight, and it would’ve made you chuckle—taunt him about hypnotizing him with your pussy—if it wasn’t for him putting his thumb in your weeping hole.

“Fuck, Hawks. Wanted your cock,” you mewl out when he slowly moves his finger in and out of you, totally transfixed on the way you’re swallowing him whole. “Seriously, just g-get this over with.”

You grab the base of his cock, manicured fingers wrapping around the appendage, before you move it over your slit, head bumping your already-sensitive clit. That finally snaps him out of it, retreating his thumb from your snug walls with a pop!

Positioning him at your entrance, he finally moves his hips, pushing in slowly. The stretch is still overwhelming. Leaning down his teeth sink into the fabric of your bra before he pulls it down just enough to bunch under your tits. Your nipples pebble immediately after they get exposed to the cold air, which just makes him groan before wrapping his lips around one of them.

The dual sensation has you mewling out, hands finding purchase on his back, fingers skimming the base of his wings making them arch out, the red plumes the only thing you can see right now. He whimpers at the sensation, feathers bristling slightly before he folds them back in.

His cock throbs inside of you once he bottoms out, flushed head steadily dripping more pre. The feeling of the rubber is different, the layer between your walls and his flushed cock has you whining out. The little barbell also feels weird, not like last time.

“Stop clenching— fucking hell… like that,” his hand smacks your thigh, aa sharp sting running up your thigh and straight to your core, having the exact opposite reaction he wanted—walls clenching down on him further.

“Just move already,” you moan out when his tongue flicks over your nipple, still waiting for him to move. His hips start to move, pulling them back he thrusts forward again. A deep and brutal thrust that has you clawing at his back, leaving behind angry, red marks. The red that matches his wings.

Your hips move in tandem with his, skin slapping against skin, heavy balls hitting your ass while his mouth finally finds your other tit, peppering it with kisses and bites. “So good for me, love it when I fuck you, don’tcha?” he murmurs against your skin.

Your legs wrap around his waist before you flip the two of you around, his body hitting the couch with an ‘oomf’. Straddling him you grab him at the base before sinking down on his girth, weeping hole swallowing him greedily. “Hate you. Hate you so much.”

His hands come down to your hips, helping you move up and down his cock. His eyes are transfixed on where the two of you are connected, lips stretching around him. “Yeah, hate me? That why you’re bouncing on my cock right now?”

His thumb presses onto your clit while two of his feathers come down to play with your nipples—feather-soft brushes against your skin making you keen out into the air, not caring who could possibly walk by and hear the two of you.

“T-this doesn’t mean anything,” you moan out, ass slapping against his thick thighs with each fall of your hips. Your pace slowly dwindles down, hips not lifting as far up as they did before, which is a wrong move because Hawks tightens his hold onto your plush hips and starts moving you.

“C’mon now, birdie. Wanted to ride me so. ride. me.” he slams you down with each word, tip hitting your cervix every time he bottoms out. You throw your head back at the feeling, back arching to the point where your tits are basically smothering him. Not that he cares though, he just happily groans while licking off the sweat that’s beading down the valley of your breasts.

“You’re—shit—dirty,” is all you can get out while he’s bruising your walls, fingers digging into your flesh in a way that you know will leave behind marks the next day. Luckily your hero suit covers it, because otherwise people would definitely know what happened.

Your thighs are starting to strain, knot in your stomach coiling deeper and deeper until it finally snaps. Body trembling above his, walls constricting around him. “Shit— tryna milk me even when you know you can’t get filled?”

He holds your body against him while he plants his feet on the ground. Pummeling his hips into yours, he chases after his own orgasm. You’re whining out at the overstimulation, hips writhing above him trying to get away from the feeling, only for him to lock his arms around your waist, keeping you still for him.

With a groan he finally cums, rubber preventing you from feeling him fill you up. The only sounds filling the room is the two of you greedily gulping in some air, and his feathers twitching against his back—puffing up slightly with affection before they go down again.

That’s the way the two of you begin this… arrangement of sorts.

Instead of taunting about rankings, the two of you began doing… favors for each other. He ate you out after you shot up the rankings again, and you sucked him off when he was still the number two—above your ranking—the next year.

You can still remember the way he was teasing you about sounding hoarse during patrol. Your throat was constricting around him a mere ten minutes before you had to go out, so there was no time to even look for something to soothe your throat.

And then you had the times where he came over just to take his frustrations out on you, hips pummeling into your ass from behind, grunting about how overworked the two of you were. The Commission still on both your asses, giving you assignment after assignment.

Your ass was red and swollen by the time he was done, puffy cunt absolutely abused while he watched his cum drip out of you only for him to lick it out of there mere seconds later.

Sometimes he came inside of you, other times he pulled out just in time, painting your skin with ropes of white, rubber having been ditched after your third time together. You were whining about not being able to feel him, telling him that you were on the pill so he couldn’t get you pregnant anyway—thank you Commission for doing something good for once.

Which is leads you to today, you’re laid out on a bed. Not the small beds the two of you had in the safehouses, nor the couches backstage somewhere or the rough bricks scratching against your back whenever the two of you find yourselves outside again. No this is Hawks’ bed, massive, just to comfortably fit his wings onto.

He’s pounding into your poor, overstimulated pussy. His hips coming down to grind against you before he pulls back and slams back in. The headboard is hit hit hitting the wall behind you, luckily for the two of you he lives in the penthouse, so there will be no noise complaints.

“Fucking hate them,” he grunts while sweat is beading down his temple, wings spread out behind him in a brilliant, crimson arc. Your fingers are clawing at his biceps while he continues his rant. “No, Hawks, it isn’t enough. Nothing you ever do is enough. We’ll just keep on sending you on missions, because that’s why you’re here. To be a hero means to sacrifice,” he mocks one of the handlers.

It’s not often that he reaches out to you, much less when he actually calls you over. Hell, this has been the first time you were even in his apartment, and you had no time to actually admire the place before he had you pinned to the wall already.

Sinking to his knees he muttered out a, need this. need this pussy to suffocate me. before he all but yanked your shorts and panties down in one, swift movement. His lips immediately latched onto your sensitive nub, making your hand fly to his hair while your head thunked! onto the wall behind you.

“Fucking hell, what’s gotten into you?” you asked him through a moan. While he’s eaten you out before, he was never this desperate to get his hands—or in this case lips—on you. It was always filled with teasing and taunting remarks. But this time he just groaned into your mound like it was the answer to all of his questions. “Seriously, Hawks… what happened?”

You’re pulling on his hair trying to get him to at least acknowledge you, but all it did was make him whimper out into your slit while his wings shuddered behind him. Well guess you found out something new about him.

“Commission was on my ass,” he mumbles through licks, his tongue flitting over your clit while one of his hand is groping your ass like it was his personal stress-ball. “Fuck you taste so sweet.”

Your eyes rolled to the back of your head, hips starting to grind down onto his face while he plunged his tongue inside of you, wiggling the muscle around into your tight walls. “Want me t-to talk about it?” you breathed out, swinging one leg over his shoulder—careful not to pin his wing to his back—to give him more access to your slit, which he happily takes, pressing his mouth further into your pussy.

“Jus’ need you right now,” he grunted out, continuing to eat you out. It was messy, spit dribbling past the corners of his mouth while the lower part of his face was shiny with your arousal. “Pussy loves me, doesn’t she?”

You couldn’t answer that, too busy trying to focus on your upcoming orgasm to even think of responding to him talking to your pussy like it was alive instead of just an organ. Gripping his hair even tighter you began gyrating your hips down onto his face which he happily let you, groaning out while he angled his face so his nose would nudge your clit with each roll of your hips.

Once you came on his face—thighs trembling, tummy clenching, moans flowing free out of you—he dragged you to the bed where he took no time to slide into you. You’re still not used to the way he stretches you out, despite it having been years since you first began fucking him.

He’d filled you up once already while you’ve cum three times, weeping pussy sensitive to each roll of his hips, and you can feel your stomach starting to tighten once more.

“Haven’t I sacrificed enough already?” He’s still talking, still asking rhetorical questions that you could answer—that you would answer if he wasn’t pounding you into oblivion—but all you can do is moan out at him. “D-did everything for them.”

Nodding your head you run your hand through his hair, trying to soothe him slightly, but you just tighten your grip once he finds that spongy spot inside of you again, bullying it when he realises he’s found your g-spot once again.

“F-fuck, Hawks. Wait. Feels weird,” you’re trying to get him to slow down, to get that weird feeling building up in your lower stomach to go away, only for him to continue babbling about the Commission and how they ruined his life. If you weren’t so busy you’d give your two cents on it, but you can’t. Legs starting to tremble around his waist while your toes curl.

He presses his thumb to your clit, and that does it. Your orgasm crashes into you like a lighting strike. Clear liquid gushing out of you and onto Hawks’ abs, thighs, balls and bedsheets. Your hands tighten in the sheets beside you while you sob out his name. “Fuck, Keigo— Kei. Pleasepleaseplease. Love you— shit.”

That makes him still. Just completely still against you. You don’t notice, though, too busy riding out your orgasm to even see the way his eyes are wide open, mouth agape. The pleasure shooting through you has you crying, tears rolling down your cheeks and disappearing into the pillows below you.

“What did you just say?” His voice is so small, unlike his normal, cocky self that you finally open your eyes. Blinking a few times you note the way he’s hunched over you right now, a few feathers suspended in the air while his golden eyes look at you like you’re made of glass. He says your name—not birdie, not dove, not your hero name, just your actual name. The one you haven’t heard in years.

“Say it again,” he breathes out, almost begging you. “Please.”

Gulping you look at those golden eyes you’ve seen your entire life, the ones that always meant that you were safe. The ones you’ve hoped to see beside you every day, but got taken away from you when you were a mere seventeen years old.

“I love you,” you murmur, trying to gauge his reaction. The next second his mouth crashed onto yours, plump lips groaning out after he finally tasted you. It’s been ten years. Ten years since the two of you last kissed. You two hadn’t kissed even once after debuting, despite the two of you having been fuck-buddies for years.

It’s filled with warmth and lust, his tongue clashing against yours while you drink up all of his sounds. The wings on his back unfurl and furl back in, almost as if he has no control over what’s happening to them.

“Love you, love you, love you,” he mumbles out against your lips while slowly starting to trust back inside again. The overstimulation has you keening out, but you just wrap your legs further around his waist while pulling him back in. “Mine, all mine.”

His pace picks up, hips snapping against yours once more. One of his hands gropes your breast while the other squeezes your waist, pulling you down to meet every thrust.

Your body is completely pliant against his, bones feeling like jelly with the way he’s made you cum multiple times already. The last sunrays catch your eyes, and it has him gasping out. You look like an angel beneath him—his angel.

He spills inside you not soon after, a second load filling you up. And you coax him through it, hands running through his hair while his lips latch onto your throat.

You thought he’d be done now, but you can feel him twitch inside of you. “Are you still hard?” you whisper, incredulous.

Keigo merely smiles down at you before he pulls out of you, his thick seed immediately bubbling out of you. He gives you no time to even realise what’s going on, picking you up into his arms and setting you down in front of the big window that overlooks the city.

Your body tilts forward, tits pressing against the cool glass while you turn your head to the side to look at the man behind you. “What are you doing?”

“Gonna show everyone you’re mine,” he growls before nudging your knees apart and slips back inside. Your mouth falls open when he starts moving again, the cool glass a stark contrast to your overheating body.

The streets below are still busy, and if someone were to look up they would be able to see the number two absolutely railing the number three hero. Your nipples brush against the smooth surface, adding all the more pleasure to your core.

Inner thighs are slick with a mixture of your and his cum, and you can see him in the reflection of the glass. The crimson almost getting swallowed by the burnt-sienna of the sky outside, but his eyes are transfixed on you. He chuckles when he feels you clench down onto him, walls fluttering uselessly around him. “You like the thought of people seeing you like this?” he murmurs into your ear, breath warm against the shell.

Your hips move back against him, knees weak with the way he knocks you forward with each thrust. Wrapping his arm around you, he lifts you up, feet dangling uselessly above the ground. You gasp out at that—at him using your body like you were merely a doll he could just pick up whenever he wanted.

“Shit— Keigo,” you whine out his name, forehead thumping against the glass, eyes fluttering close when that piercing passes over your sweet-spot with each pass of his hips. Nails leaving angry indents into his forearm.

“I know, dove. I know,” he murmurs against your cheek, he pounds into you from behind like a man possessed. “Let go for me. Show me how much you want me.”

Your eyes roll to the back of your skull, mouth opening in a broken moan that sounds so unlike you. White-hot pleasure shoots through your core, whitening out your vision for what feels like an eternity.

Keigo is not far behind, hips snapping against your ass like a punctuation. “S-shit, trying to milk me for all I’m worth.”

He spills into you for the last time that night. Hips ceasing their ministrations completely, his sweaty chest pressed flush against your back. Letting your head loll back against his shoulder you look at him, tired eyes blinking over his form.

He’s flushed from his face down all the way to his chest. Sweat beads down his body and he’s panting against your neck. His hair is plastered to his forehead, eyes blown out wide.

Moving the two of you back to the bed, he carefully lays you down before walking away, only to return with a washcloth seconds later. He carefully opens your thighs for him and begins to clean you up. You trash slightly at the sensation. “I know, dovey. Will be over soon.”

He throws the washcloth somewhere to the ground, and it lands with a wet schlap! somewhere in the corner of his bedroom—something you’ll probably reprimand him for when you have more energy, but right now you couldn’t care less.

Shuffling into the bed, he pulls you to his chest. One of his wings wraps itself around you—just like old times. It takes you right back to that too-small bed where the two of you would talk into the late hours of the night.

Feathers are twitching against your skin as if trying to kiss your entire body. It makes you relax, body sinking more into his chest while he traces small shapes in your skin.

“That was… a lot,” you mumble out, not quite sure if you should even address it, but you can’t stay silent any longer. The way he said your name, told you he loved you, gave you your old nickname back. It was, quite frankly, a lot. And even if that all didn’t happen, he also made you squirt for the first time. The memory has you flushing bright red.

“Mhmm, nothing I said was untrue, though,” he mumbles out into your hair, pressing his lips feather-soft against the crown of your head. It has you closing your eyes for a few seconds before opening them again.

“Why did you even leave in the first place, Kei?” It’s been bothering you ever since he walked out of that room. The way he was so fidgety, no longer wanting anything to do with you when the two of you only had a few more months before the debut. A few more months and the two of you could’ve just stopped sneaking around.

You can feel him lean back a little, head angled down before his fingers find you chin and nudges your head up so he can look at you. “What are you talking about, dove? You’re the one who told me that we couldn’t be together.”

Furrowing your brows you look at the golden eyes you’ve known your whole life. Shifting slightly—and hissing when you accidentally rub yourself against his thigh—you sit up a little, just enough to look at him.

“No, no. You came into my room telling me it couldn’t work any longer,” you start, eyes darting around his face, confusion settling over you. You can still remember that night vividly, and it was him who broke it off with you. “Said you didn’t have feelings for me and then just… walked out.”

“Now why would I do that when I’ve been in love with you for all of my life?” He asks you, bushy brows furrowed together. There’s a slight crease between them, and you want to rub it away, but you’re still racking your brain.

He continues, voice lower now, more sad, “I came back from that horribly long assignment and you were waiting for me on my bed. At first you were just… quiet. Then you told me that it was a mistake and that it was just the proximity that had made you kiss me.”

You chuckle at that, hollow and sad all at once. “Just the proximity? Keigo I’ve liked you ever since I realised what it meant to have a crush on someone.”

He just purses his lips at that, not moving an inch. The feathers that are still on your back twitch a few times, a shudder going through them that he doesn’t bother to stop.

“Then why would you—” he trails off, golden eyes almost bulging out of his skull with realisation. “The Commission.”

“Wait, what?” You’re confused now. What does the Commission have to do with any of this? It was just you two that knew about everything, the Commission has never even known that you and Keigo even knew each other outside of any assignments.

“Think about it, dove. You’re saying it was me who broke it of, I’m saying it was you—”

“I never broke up with you. God I was so heartbroken.”

“—and neither of us is saying we did that. Hell, we’re both saying we wanted to be together. So what else could it have been? You know how the Commission is, they could get their hands on any quirk user, and I would bet there’s someone who could shapeshift, or something like that.”

You’re still looking at him, mind racing now. You honestly can’t believe neither of you thought about this earlier, but then again the two of you didn’t really talk. Just played stupid games to be close to each other.

“The feather,” you finally breathe out, fingers ghosting over your ribs where he always put the small feather. The one you’ve been missing on your skin for years. “It didn’t float when I threw it back at you. It just… fell to the floor. And ‘you’ picked it up. Picked it up.”

How could you have missed it—that small detail that would tell you something was wrong. Sure he was acting strange, not letting you touch him and just being twitchy in general, but his feathers were the dead giveaway. They never could quite hide everything he wanted to, despite having been trained for years.

How did it never occur to you that he had telepathic feathers and he picked it off the floor rather than just bringing it toward himself.

“You gave that feather back,” he murmurs, his own thumb coming to your ribs. Then a small, sad chuckle falls from his lips. “Even after all the training we’ve had, we still got outsmarted by the suits. Purely because we couldn’t see past our emotions.”

Tears spring to your eyes, because it’s true, isn’t it? You let the emotions get the better of you, throwing out the small feather that could have solved everything. What would’ve happened if you never threw it back at ‘him’ in that fit of anger? Would the two of you still have been best friends? More than best friends? Or would he not have believed you?

“How did they even find out about it?” you whisper. His thumb comes up and wipes away some of the tears that are gathering on your waterline, the action so soft compared to how he used your body mere minutes ago. “We’ve never gotten caught in twelve years.”

“Must’ve been the supply closet,” he answers, pulling you back to lay on his chest. “Maybe they realised that us walking back took longer than needed.”

And how stupid could the two of you have been? Of course they would know how long it takes for the two of you to walk back—especially considering Keigo had left before you and went out of the supply closet after you.

That’s the exact thing the two of you were trained on noticing, patterns and behaviours. Yet it didn’t occur in your minds that they would be using it as well. Didn’t think about much but him at that moment, to be completely honest.

“Can’t believe secret kisses in a supply closet is what has gotten us caught,” you groan out into his chest, the words slightly muffled. And he laughs at that, a small breath through his nose that rattles his chest. “At least you were my first everything.”

“Wait what?” He looks down at you, looks at the way you’re burrowing yourself further into his chest, trying to find his warmth. His wing instinctively tightens around you, feathers whispering against your skin from where they’re puffing up slightly. “You mean to tell me that time on the rooftop was your first time, too?”

You hum slightly, a small, drowsy thing that comes deep from your throat. His words still have to catch up with your brain, but when they finally register your head snaps up. “What do you mean, too?”

“I never fucked anyone beside you,” he says, not even a tremble can be found in his voice. Looking at him for a little while longer, you let a small chuckle escape your lips. He never fucked anyone else?

“Then why do you have a piercing there?” Your leg shifts slightly over him, making him groan out, wing tightening a fraction. He grabs your leg with one hand, halting your movement, because he can already feel blood rush south again—way too sensitive from the multiple rounds the two of you had earlier.

“Got it so I could jerk off faster—why are you laughing, you out of all people should know that we don’t get any time to get any release. Especially with the way the Commission keeps throwing more and more missions at us.”

“It’s just… I thought you had fucked half the population here in Fukuoka City, and here you are telling me you were a virgin and just got a dick piercing to make yourself more sensitive?”

It’s ridiculous, honestly. And everything makes sense—the way he would never respond to your taunts about other girls, just like you wouldn’t respond to any of his taunts since you wouldn’t just tell him he was the one to take your virginity.

“Guess we have a lot of catching up to do, love.” There it is again, that nickname. Not a slip of the tongue as you thought it was ten years ago. He really did call you ‘love’ back then.

Your eyes close against your will, body finally going boneless against him. “Mhmm, but first we should go to sleep.”

“I don’t care what we do as long as I have you beside me,” he murmurs out against your skin, lips brushing your temple—feather-light, almost like it was never there to begin with.

You don’t know what’ll happen tomorrow. All you know is that you got the boy you loved back and that this time nothing will come between the two of you.

©CursedKisss do not copy, steal, plagiarize, or feed my works into AI. I will send Shigaraki after you if you do.

Perm tags: @tojiscreampie @etheralpanic @yoonsucks @liliklei @dollieadored @starsforvia @iinvivible @jiyuspassion

MHA tags: @mousedit @pukicats @yorikae

Well, you’re sure he must think something is up. It’s not like it’s particularly easy for you to just sit around and pretend like you haven’t heard a couple of his thoughts. Ever since you came to the conclusion that he was batshit insane, you’ve made it your personal mission to make sure he never knows that you know.

You think you’ve been doing a pretty good job. You have been polite. Cordial. You’ve offered to make him coffee a few times. In fact, you’ve been so discreet about your aversion to him that he even invited you out for lunch today, and you accepted. Because there was no valid reason to decline, and because you are so dedicated to making sure that he stays clueless about the fact that you know he's crazy.

This could be your first mistake. When dealing with paranoid and sadistic people, which you have plenty of experience doing, you should always assume that they assume the worst. Which means that you should always assume that Tamsy somehow knows that you know he’s crazy, which means he’s definitely trying to get you alone so that he can kidnap and/or kill you.

But then you remember that he definitely asked you to lunch in front of at least three other cleaners, so if he does kill you, everybody will know that he was the last person seen with you alive. So you decide to go to lunch with him, and you let Semiu know about your plans before you head out. Checkmate.

The only other issue is just that… even though you know Tamsy is crazy, he’s still really pretty. And it’s not easy keeping your cool in front of incredibly pretty people. Seriously, the amount of times you’ve almost let it slip that you had accidentally read his thoughts and knew that he was crazy and maybe a murderer (you aren’t sure) are too many to count. Hell, you’ve almost told Semiu multiple times, because you’re just that weak to pretty people.

That’s how you end up walking the streets of town with Tamsy. Even though he had invited you to lunch, he hadn’t told you where exactly you were going to eat.

“Do you head into town often?” you ask if only to fill up the quiet that has begun to settle in between you two.

“Well, you should know,” he smiles at you. His smile is so handsome. It’s a shame he's evil and possibly onto you. “There aren’t many jobs that need us in the city.”

“I meant for leisure.”

“I come out every now and again, to satisfy a craving.”

Wow. He’s giving you nothing. Maybe you should be glad he’s giving you nothing, because then you can ask as many questions as you want and he won’t think it’s odd. “Okay! How far are we from this restaurant?”

“Not too far now,” Tamsy maintains a genial smile, even when you aren’t talking. Maybe that’s how he’s fooled everyone all along. “I’m glad you agreed to come with me. It’s nice to have companionship, isn’t it deary?”

It’s nice to have companionship when your companion isn’t a crazy lunatic. But you don’t say that, because you’re doing too well at maintaining your secret. “Yes, I’m sure Semiu will appreciate the break. I think I've talked her ear off these past few weeks.”

Tamsy laughs softly. How cute. Even his laugh is pretty. It’s just not fair, really. Even though you know he’s crazy, you still feel your heart fluttering whenever you look at him. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he poisoned you.

Eventually, Tamsy stops in front of a small restaurant. He ushers you into a booth with a hand on your shoulder, warmth seeping through your sleeve. “Pick whatever you’d like. My treat.”

That’s suspicious. Why would Tamsy treat you? What is his goal here? His objective? There’s no way you’re gonna crack just because he’s paying for your lunch. Semiu has paid for your lunch hundreds of times, and that still isn’t enough for you to share all of your insider knowledge. Information doesn’t come cheap after all.

You pore over the menu given to you in silence. Every time you take a peek up at Tamsy, he’s already looking at you. How creepy. “Did anything catch your eye?”

“I can’t decide. What do you normally get?”

Tamsy shrugs. “It’s my first time here, too.”

The confusion must show on your face, because Tamsy lets out another pretty laugh. “Sorry, did you think I’d come here before? I had passed by after a mission recently and thought you’d enjoy it.”

That’s surprisingly sweet. If Tamsy brought you here in order to open your heart, he may have just slightly succeeded. Slightly. You lay the menu flat in between the two of you, spread open by his thoughtfulness. “Okay, well I can’t decide between these two dishes. What are you interested in?”

For the first time since you’ve sat down, Tamsy shows a lick of interest in the menu. He bows his head next to yours to take a closer look at the writing. His bottom lip juts out in a slight pout, and his long eyelashes fan across his cheek. You have to hold your hand to keep from pushing back a strand of his hair. He really is too pretty.

“I think I’ll get this,” he points at one of the dishes you were considering, but his eyes stay locked on yours over the menu. He’s got an unwavering surety, one that almost makes you question his definite insanity. You nod, the choice made for you.

“Then I’ll get the other one. Nice!”

Tamsy orders for the both of you, and then returns to his straight posture. There’s nothing better to do, so you take to examining the restaurant. “It’s a really nice place.”

He hums in response. “Isn’t it? I’m glad you like it.”

You did not say you like it, but you’ll let him believe what he wants. When you take a sip of water, Tamsy makes his move. His sleeve pulls back to expose his arm as he raises it. He brings his hand up from underneath the table, and sets something down with a metallic clank. It’s a voice recorder.

Your jinki.

It takes a surprising amount of self control to school your expression into neutral. It takes even more self control to keep from reaching out for it like a child. Instead, you peer up at him through your lashes, calm and demure. “What’s this?”

“It’s yours, isn’t it?” Tamsy gestures towards you. “Go on.”

Of course it’s yours. That’s not the issue. The issue is how he even knows it’s yours, why he even has it. It’s painful to reach across the table to grab it. The metal is warmed from being pressed against his skin. “Why do you have it?”

Tamsy hums, his hand coming up to his chin in thought. “I just found it laying around, and I thought I recognized it. I’ve seen you passing it back and forth with the boss, and figured you must have misplaced it.”

That’s a lie. You know it’s a lie because Tamsy is a pathological liar, and because you gave your tape recorder to the boss just yesterday. There’s no way it was just laying around, especially not in someplace Tamsy would’ve come across it. Still, there’s no way for you to call him out on it, not without showing a few cards in your hand. “Well then, thank you.”

He smiles again, unbothered. “It’s no problem. Oh look! There’s our food.”

You take back every good thing you ever thought about Tamsy. He’s definitely onto you, and you can’t prove it, but he’s definitely deriving some joy from watching you squirm. He digs into the food with a light in his eyes you’ve never seen before. You have no choice but to do the same.

The worst part of the entire lunch, even with the knowledge that Tamsy definitely stole your jinki in order to hold it hostage, is that the food is genuinely delicious. Tamsy was right when he thought that you’d enjoy it. “Is it good?”

Speak of the devil. Tamsy is watching you eat. You push your bowl towards him. “Yeah, try it.”

That shocks him. Tamsy’s smile slides off his face, and is replaced with a look of utter shock. Good. It’s nice to know that you can throw him off his game too. He lifts his spoon and dips it into your broth. His eyebrows raise appraisingly as he takes in the flavor. “Oh, that’s really nice.”

“Guess I’ve just got good taste,” you look at him expectantly. For once, he’s kind to you, and slides his bowl over for you to try as well. As you had guessed from his initial reaction, it’s good. “Guess you do too, since you picked this place out.”

“You’re right,” Tamsy preens, his smile growing wider at your praise. His eyes are almost closed shut from how big his smile becomes. “Perfect! Then let's come back here again soon.”

Oh. You’re screwed.

---

Tamsy must love watching you squirm.

He’s got to derive some sort of sadistic pleasure from it, you’re sure. After the two of you finish your lunches, paid for by him, he leads the two of you back to base. He keeps a warm hand on your shoulder, guiding you through the streets.

It’s not necessary. You know your way around, enough at least to avoid getting lost. Still, you can’t bring yourself to shrug him off. It’s just until you get to base.

Except, it’s not. Tamsy keeps hovering over you even as you get settled into your desk. If there wasn’t paperwork strewn everywhere, you think he’d perch himself upon your desk just to get your attention.

“Don’t you have any work to do? Any jobs to go on?” you ask him after a complimentary fifteen minutes have passed. “Shouldn’t you at least rest?”

Tamsy looks at you with shocked, wide eyes. He may be cruel and sadistic, but you can’t call him expressionless. “I thought I’d help you out today. You’re always swimming in files. You wouldn’t mind an extra pair of hands, would you?”

You squint at him. Tamsy maintains eye contact, even when your head moves to get an appraisal of him. After a moment, you pick up a file full of finished paperwork. “If that’s the case, then take this to the boss for me.”

“The boss is out right now,” he hums placidly. His shadow falls over you as he steps nearer to your chair. You’re trapped between him and the desk. There’s no way for you to get out without tackling him. Tamsy squints down at you. “And Semiu is still on break.”

“And…?”

“Let’s have dessert and gossip,” Tamsy muses. His hand reaches for a loose thread by your shoulder to play with. “I’ll help you file in exchange for your thoughts.”

This is the last thing you want to be doing. If you ignore the paranoid mania you’ve been in ever since Tamsy invited you out, you can admit that you did enjoy your lunch with him. He’s a sociable guy, even if you suspect it’s just a front to hide clinical sadism. But having him close by while you work is dangerous. Who knows what loose thought you might voice while distracted?

But just like with lunch, there’s no way for you to decline. In all honesty, you are drowning in paperwork. Having an extra set of hands would help you tremendously. The only issue is…

“Don’t you have work you should be doing?”

Tamsy shrugs. If you didn’t know any better, you’d think he didn’t have a care in the world. “I’ve got the day off.”

You can’t argue with that. “Grab a chair then.”

You let Tamsy figure out where he wants to start with files. There are worse things he can be doing, even if he is getting in the way of your real job. Now that you have your tape recorder back, you have no doubts that the boss has new records that need deciphering. The only issue is that there’s no way for you to do that in front of Tamsy without giving away your power, and in turn, ringing at least a few alarm bells.

After all, he can’t know you read his mind if he doesn’t know that you’re a giver to begin with. Even if he suspects you, it’d be impossible to come to any conclusions unless he sees you use your jinki. For once, you’re grateful for the secret keeping between you and the boss.

Even if it does mean that you’re forced to do all the paperwork you’ve let get backed up. Even though it’s a part of your job, you've never felt particularly motivated to get through all the filing. It definitely shows.

You’re so lost in your thoughts that you barely even notice what Tamsy is doing next to you. When he had suggested making conversation, you expected that he would talk your ear off, or prod you incessantly with questions at the very least. But he’s silent as he gets to work next to you, already familiar with the filing system you have in place. You suppose you’ll take your blessings where you can get them.

When you check in on Tamsy’s progress after an hour, you can’t find a single mistake in sight. Leave it to him to do your job better than you. You’re about to praise him when he turns to you with a cloying smile. “We’ve been working so hard. How about a break?”

“We literally just came back from lunch.”

Tamsy’s smile turns into a small pout. He even bats his eyelashes, the princess that he is. “I didn’t know you were such a workaholic.”

“I didn’t know you were such a slacker,” you mutter. You slip your hand into your pocket, relieved to find your tape recorder still in there. The metal is cool to your touch as you cradle it in your palm.

His pout deepens. In response to your (immature) jab, Tamsy stands up to stretch. His body rolls into a motion not dissimilar from a cat. “Oh dear! Sound’s like someone’s a bit cranky. I think dessert would cheer you up.”

You lean back in your seat to look up at him. Despite the banter, his eyes are clear. If you hadn’t read his thoughts, you would have thought that he was evil or cruel. Even when you poke fun at him, he never responds with genuine hostility. How odd.

“I never would’ve pegged you for a sweet tooth,” you admit. “Is there anything you had in mind?”

“Anything sweet will do,” Tamsy leans against your desk. “Macarons, chocolates, cake… which is your favorite?”

“Something small would be nice, so I could eat it while we work.”

You follow Tamsy’s example and stretch, your arms raised over your head. The only real complaint you’ve got about the job is how exhausting it can be on the body. Staying hunched over those files all day is no good for your back. As you start walking towards the dessert pantry, Tamsy falls into step with you.

“How’d you let the work pile up so much, anyways?” he asks. He looks genuine this time around, so you cut him some slack, even if you know this is a roundabout way of asking if you’ve actually been doing your job.

“I read through all the files before I sort them,” Even if you don’t reveal much about yourself on principle, this is one of the things about your job that isn’t kept under wraps, so you don’t mind telling him. “Sometimes while you’re battling trash beasts, you notice things the Supporters don’t. I read through Cleaner and Support reports to corroborate accounts, and then file them away.”

It also helps whittle away the time whenever you’ve given the boss your tape recorder, and gives you something to occupy your mind. The essence of your job is to gather information and file it, with or without your vital instrument.

“Oh!” Tamsy moves forward a half step, leaning into your space. “So you know about every job we get sent out on? That’s a lot, isn’t it?”

“Yeah, my job is like a compliment to Semiu’s,” you shrug. “I just read through reports after everything is said and done, though. She has to assign every one of you to cases that would best fit your skills. That takes way more familiarity than whatever I do.”

The door to the dessert pantry is already cracked open when you arrive, and Tamsy takes the liberty of searching for a suitable snack. When you enter, you find him already deliberating between three different packages.

A pack of assorted chocolates, a basket of chocolate covered cookies, and a packet of brownies. He doesn’t look up at you as you enter behind him, but he does make space for you to look at what he’s seeing. “I can’t choose.”

You make a flash decision, your hand settling over the cookies. “Best of both worlds, and we can share.”

Tamsy moves to put away the other two packages, but you grab the chocolates before he can. “This’ll be nice for later too.”

“You'll get cavities,” he teases, his free hand pinching your cheek. The oddest thing about Tamsy, outside of his sadism and affinity for hiding it, is definitely how comfortable he is with touching you. He's been leaning on you with a familiarity he’s barely earned for the whole day. It’s not something you would have expected from him.

“Indulging never harmed anyone,” you say, and then reach up to pinch his cheek too. His eyes grow round and his lips part in shock. What you would give to know what he’s thinking right now. “You’re not my mom, Tamsy.”

He recovers quickly, you’ll give him that. His hand covers yours before you can retract it, pulling it down in between you. He doesn’t let go. “Let’s head back.”

---

With Tamsy’s help, you organize and properly file away almost all of the paperwork that was originally strewn across your desk. The two of you work until the sun starts to set, at which point you both agree to call it a day. Because you did not feel the need to maintain a steady conversation with Tamsy while working, the silence was comfortable enough that you often forgot that he was even next to you.

Regrettably, it was not comfortable enough for you to forget why you may have ever felt uncomfortable in the first place. After the two of you split ways and you’ve returned to your room, you finally find it in you to take out your jinki and use its powers.

Your tape recorder, your jinki, records voices and thoughts. It can replay the thoughts of anyone present during the recording of the tape. While you dread to learn what that means about you, it’s very well equipped for espionage. Even if you are not the one to start or end the record, as long as it is in your tape recorder, it can relay people's internal monologue.

Your real job is really quite easy. You lend your tape recorder to the boss, and he uses it to record meetings with… more suspicious individuals. Arkha Corvus has a good intuition, and it becomes a lot harder to deceive him when he has a record of someone's very thoughts. Because the power of your jinki can only be activated and used by you, most givers don’t even notice that it is a vital instrument when it’s not in your hands.

Amongst the cleaners, the only ones who are privy to the knowledge that you even have a vital instrument are Semiu and the boss. You’d like to keep it that way. Anyone in their right mind would guard themselves against you if they had even an inkling of what your jinki can do. While it is useful, your jinki is best kept a secret.

It’s also how you know that Tamsy is crazy.

The initial recording of his thoughts had been an accident. The boss had given you the recorder while the tape was still running, and you ran into Tamsy on your way back to your office. You held a brief conversation with him about his plans for the day, about his workload, about any problems you had adjusting to the cleaners. He had been polite. Overly curious, but polite.

It wasn’t until you returned and began reviewing the tape that you realized just how much trouble you were in. If you were a little less nosy, you would have stopped the tape as soon as you realized that it recorded Tamsy’s thoughts. But you are very nosy, as evidenced by your vital instruments power. Well… who could fault you for making good use of your jinki? So you listened. And listened. And learned.

Tamsy is expressive in his thoughts. He likes to give off the aura of someone unbothered and relaxed, but your initial glimpse into his mind revealed that he is anything but. Throughout what you had thought to be a polite conversation, Tamsy’s internal monologue revealed… quite a bit about himself.

When you told him you were an office worker: Aw. I would’ve loved to see you in a fight.

After you told him you liked your work: How cute. I wonder how long you’d last against trash beasts. “I love passionate people. I hope to see more of you.”

After you’d asked about his day: Boring! I wonder what it would take to make her frown. “T’was alright, better now that I’m off work.”

Most damningly, after he’d asked you if you were a giver and you’d lied: She’s lying. I can tell she’s a giver. Why is she lying to me? If she’s a noncombatant, it could become an issue. It’s always the noncombat abilities that become the most insidious. There’s no other reason for her to lie to me. “Oh, well I guess you just had that kind of aura.”

As you’d listened further, Tamsy’s thoughts began to devolve into a paranoid mess that you could barely make sense of. It was only when you’d bid him goodbye that he thought of a final coherent sentence.

I wonder how hard I could press before you break.

It was the last line that had truly given you chills. The only small comfort was that there was no way for Tamsy to even begin to know what your ability is. As long as you refrain from showing your hand, Tamsy’s paranoia will be simply that. Paranoia.

It was easy, from then, to begin to read Tamsy’s thoughts. It became almost a habit, the way you’d hit record during the silence in your conversations. It was initially born of self preservation, but with time… well… you may have gotten too comfortable prodding around his brain. Despite Tamsy’s innate cruelty, he is incredibly entertaining.

You had toyed with the idea, once or twice, to try and figure out why exactly he’s so paranoid. It didn’t slip past you that he hated being lied to, but there was something more serious to the way Tamsy appraised you. It wouldn’t be hard, in truth, to figure out why.

But then you remembered that it’s way outside of your pay grade to care about what Tamsy of all people is up to. Being nosy is good and fine, but knowing too much is what gets people killed. You have heard enough of his thoughts to know that Tamsy would do away with you if he thought you were getting in his way. He can search for the truth as much as he wants. He is not getting anything out of you.

So start up your tape recorder, and find it open on the newest record left by the boss.

You listen to the recording left by Arkha, taking note of what isn’t being said to review with him in the morning. It takes a considerable amount of time, with multiple rewinds required for you to properly pick out overlapping thoughts and voices. By the time you finish, you’re exhausted and ready for bed. Out of habit, you swipe through the recordings you have stored. Any changes will be attributed to Tamsy’s meddling.

To your surprise, almost everything is as you left it. The only notable change is an extra recording dated after Arkha’s. It's a short recording, and you still have your headphones plugged in, so you decide to let it play.

The first thing that registers once you hit play is the sound of someone’s throat clearing. Then, Tamsy’s familiar voice rings out through the speaker.

“Hello hello! Y’know, it’s pretty hard to think about what kind of message you want to leave for somebody when they’re not in front of you. I wonder how you’ll react when you find this. Hmm… what to say, what to say.”

“You should be more careful with your things. I was worried when I found this just laying there in the kitchen.” Who knew it’d be so easy to swipe things from the boss’s desk? “You’re lucky it’s not damaged in any way!”

I know this is your vital instrument.

“Y’know, it wouldn’t hurt you to be more open with me.” Stop lying to me. “Let’s spend more time together from now on. Buh-bye!”

The recording ends abruptly in the middle of Tamsy’s disjointed giggling. Through the cacophony of his laughs, you can make out one final whispered thought.

I’m having so much —

You didn't answer, but somehow, Enjin already knew. He just sighed. "My God."

★ Rudo was mesmerized the first time you ruffled his hair. His eyes widened, and he stood completely still for a moment, his stern expression slowly softening. Rudo closed his eyes and hugged you cautiously, still half-expecting rejection. When you didn't pull away, he stayed there, burying his face in your chest.

"Hey, love, have you seen—" Enjin's voice echoed through the room, but you quickly cut him off, raising a finger to your lips in a silent request. The blond stopped, a small smile forming as he saw Rudo nestled in your arms. "I'll come back later," he whispered before leaving the room.

★ The first time he called you "mom" was an accident. You were tucking him into bed, and he was already half-asleep. The word just slipped out. A heavy silence filled the room, followed by Rudo's deep embarrassment. But you just smiled, stroked his cheek, and said, "It's okay. You can call me that if you want."

He never said it again, and his cheeks still burned with shame whenever he remembered it.

★ Rudo became your "shadow." He didn't just watch you—he internalized a fierce instinct to protect you. On missions, he was always one step ahead, scanning the surroundings even though, as your apprentice, he should've stayed behind. If anyone dared raise their voice at you, Rudo would appear instantly at your side, hurling insults like a rabid dog. He didn't care what others thought of him; all that mattered was defending you.

"Say that about her again and I'll smash every one of your teeth, you bastard!" You held the boy back before he could lunge at the person, watching his arms and short feathers flail wildly. "Let me kill him!"

"Calm down, Rudo. It's alright." You then kissed the top of his head, and he stopped immediately. Rudo fell silent, drawing surprised glances from the others.

★ Rudo was still haunted by nightmares. Some nights, he'd appear silently at your bedroom door, wrapped in a teddy bear blanket, unable to sleep. You never said a word, just made space for him to lie down beside you. Enjin would grumble, cracking his eyes open as Rudo settled between the two of you. He'd raise a sleepy eyebrow, blinking slowly. You'd pull Rudo close, holding him snugly against your chest. Enjin said nothing and went back to sleep, too tired to fight his girlfriend for attention against that brat.

★ Rudo was used to having nothing, so when you gave him simple things—a warm meal, a clean shirt, or something old for him to restore—he'd freeze, unsure how to react. Little by little, you taught him that it was okay to accept kindness. He began treasuring those gifts with almost religious care, like priceless relics.

★ Rudo grew deeply worried whenever you got hurt. If you were attacked in front of him, he'd likely lose his mind and act completely irrationally. Later, in the infirmary, he'd sit in the chair beside your bed, his scarlet eyes filled with anguish and concern. He'd touch your hand, his face full of sorrow.

"Get better soon..." he'd murmur, small tears beginning to burn in the corners of his eyes.

★ Rudo spent weeks hidden away in the Cleaners' scrap depot. You'd find him covered in grease, focused intently on something in his hands. He'd always hide it when you approached, his ears turning red. One day, he walked into your room and tossed an object onto the bed, avoiding your gaze.

"Take it. It's for you."

It was a music box, assembled from broken clock parts and polished ceramic fragments. When you wound it up, a trembling, beautiful melody filled the room. Rudo watched your reaction, a mix of hope and fear in his eyes.

"Rudo... Did you make this?" He nodded silently. "It's beautiful. Thank you so much."

You pulled him into a hug, ignoring the grime on his clothes. Rudo didn't know how to respond, so he just buried his face in your shoulder, allowing himself, for a moment, to believe he was loved.

★ Rudo misses you whenever you don't go on missions together. When he returns, he makes sure to tell you everything in detail, every little thing he experienced. He's still learning how to express himself, and for some reason, he finds it easier with you. Maybe it's your patience, or the fact that you never judge him, unlike some of the others. With you, he feels truly safe.

★ Rudo always smiles when you praise him. He gets all flustered, his cheeks tinted with a soft blush. One of his biggest goals was to make friends, and having you as his first friend felt like a huge achievement.

"Will we stay together forever?" he asked, his eyes shining with hope.

"Yes, forever," you replied, laughing softly as you tapped his hands.

Since he fell from the sky, he had never felt so whole. You made him feel welcomed, cherished. And deep in his heart, Rudo hoped to repay your kindness one day.

♥︎ Your first argument came after his stubbornness on a mission nearly cost them dearly. You didn't yell, but the disappointment in your eyes was worse than any scolding. Rudo was devastated. He spent the whole day depressed and no one could cheer him up. Not sweets, not a pile of junk could grab his attention. The next morning, you found him curled up in his bed, dejected.

"Hey, Rudo. Look at me." You sat on the edge of the mattress, making him lift his head, his red eyes heavy with sleep. He hadn't slept well at night. "I was worried, but that doesn't mean I'm angry with you."

"Sorry..." he murmured. You just opened your arms, and the boy soon clung to you, whispering a muffled "I promise I'll do better." into your shoulder. He took a deep breath, hugging you tightly.

"I know, I know."

♥︎ Rudo watched the other children playing with what looked like beads. They were making bracelets, rings, and colorful necklaces during their break, their voices forming a cheerful and distant sound. After some excited invitations from Guita, Rudo finally joined them. In the end, with careful hands that were more accustomed to fixing machinery than handling delicate threads, he managed to make a bracelet. It was relatively small and less colorful than the others', but perfectly sturdy.

The boy looked at the accessory for a while, feeling a certain satisfaction. The colors matched you, after all, they had been chosen with that sole purpose. He imagined your reaction upon receiving it. It was a simple thing, it's true, but Rudo knew you liked pretty much everything he gave you.

"Oh, it's so beautiful, Rudo!" Guita exclaimed, her reddish eyes shining with enthusiasm. "Are you going to give it to someone?"

"To ( name )." he thought, but said nothing. Instead, Rudo just got up and left, with the bracelet in his hands. He had someone to find.

♥︎ One day, Enjin made a joking comment that he now had to "share his woman with another man." Rudo was scandalized, his face burning with shame and anger. "I'm not just any 'man'! I'm her SON!" His voice echoed through the room. Rudo himself seemed surprised that he had shouted. You laughed at the situation, while the two "men" in your life exchanged looks of pure embarrassment.

"What have I gotten myself into." Enjin sighed, laughing softly.

♥︎ After a cold front, exposure to rain, and exhausting missions, Rudo ended up with a cold. The fever that knocked him down softened his edges, making him more vulnerable and sensitive. As a result, infinitely more clingy with you. He watched you with glazed and heavy eyes while you changed the cool cloth on his forehead, and whispered timid requests for you to cover him better or give him another sip of water. Of all the attentions, however, his favorite was the soup you made.

It had a little bit of everything, an organized chaos inside the bowl. Still, somehow, it was the most delicious thing in the world. He drank it slowly, warming his hands on the bowl, feeling a pleasant warmth. It felt as if he were at home.

♥︎ When the Doll Festival arrived, you joined the team with a special outfit, made exclusively for the occasion, just like everyone else. Rudo was adorable in your eyes, visibly more expressive in those extravagant clothes. Your boyfriend, Enjin, on the other hand, seemed more elegant than usual — something that, of course, did not go unnoticed by you.

And you? Well, you were simply impeccable. The outfit was a striking combination of red and black, with long sleeves that flowed smoothly with every movement. The edges were adorned with detailed floral fabrics, and the obi — a wide, structured bow — shone in tones of vibrant gold and orange, like a sunset captured in silk. A scarlet ribbon tied at the back gave the final touch, while the cross-collar neckline revealed a necklace of interlaced straps.

When you found them, Rudo turned immediately. His large scarlet eyes widened, fixed on you as if he were beholding something truly radiant. Enjin, beside him, thanked the heavens internally for having such a hot girlfriend. How lucky he was.

"That outfit suits you so much, Rudo!" you said, smiling at him, who still seemed hypnotized. "And how do I look?"

The boy blinked a few times, as if trying to recompose himself. "So beautiful..."

He was completely dazed, not really knowing how to act. Through the festival streets, he took on the role of your little bodyguard, warding off with his gaze anyone who dared to get too close to his mother. Ah, yes. He really sees you as his mother. That became more than obvious, didn't it? The only one who could approach and touch you freely, without receiving his interference, was Enjin. With him, Rudo had a tolerance... but only a little.

Author's Notes 🌸

But blazed or not, Enjin still has a job to do. Umbreaker sweeps him across the trash dunes in a speedy blur, but by the time he arrives he is already too late and the show is over. 

All that’s left is you: a young woman passed out in a pile of demolished trash beast remains and other junk. The giant kaiju-like plushie—now inanimate and no bigger than a hand—lay beside you tethered to your person by a keyring. 

Happening upon another giver in No Man’s Land wasn’t out of the ordinary, sure, but if Enjin thought he was high from seeing your jinki in action he had to be damn near in the clouds once he recognized your clothes.  

Similar to when Enjin discovered Rudo, he could immediately tell by your dress you are a Spherite. But unlike the threadbare attire of the scrappy tribesmen teen, yours practically screams wealth. They are the finest clothes Enjin has ever laid eyes on. Appearing as if they are woven from gold itself, despite the fresh layer of grime that settled on them.

You aren’t just any ol’ Spherite—you’re a Spherite noblewoman.

Keh, interesting. 

With a shake of his head Enjin scoops you up, heading back to HQ. They aren’t gonna believe this…

Enjin digs out a backup mask from his satchel—clearly not made for your face, because it slides right off. With an annoyed sigh, he holds it in place himself. Guess that’s his job now… at least until you wake up.

Although Enjin soon discovers a pattern of how unnecessarily difficult Spherites can be upon arriving to the Abyss—as the first thing you do upon waking in Enjin’s arms is to slap the everloving dogshit out of him. 

Fuck, you have a mean right hand. 

Enjin tongues a tooth to make sure it’s still there. 

“Let me go this instant, you filthy kidnapping degenerate! I demand you to take me home!” You cry out. 

Tears fog up the mask on your face as you clearly mistook Enjin for some kind of criminal with his ‘full face’ on. Enjin sighs, tightening his grip on you and taking the not-so-painless beating you’re dishing out until you reach the nearest city. 

The very second you both are in a habitable area for breathing, Enjin unceremoniously dumps you to the ground. He catches the mask, yet he leaves you to fall straight on your ass. The fall shocks you but Enjin’s sure what’s really got you stunned is the strange bustling city surrounding you.

Removing his fullface, Enjin crouches down to eye-level with you. Overwhelmed and overstimulated by the foreign place, your eyes dart around helplessly. You’re frantic, looking everywhere for some sort of bearing of where you are and avoiding the man in front of you.

Yet Enjin just waits, clicking his tongue and rocking back on his heels, for you to quiet your hysterics enough for him to get a word in.

When your eyes, still wide with panic, finally meet, he has the nerve to raise a brow—like you’re the one being dramatic and not the guy who literally kidnapped you.

“So, as you may have noticed by now…this ain’t the Sphere,” Enjin says, balancing a cigarette between his lips. 

You look at him skeptically—he says it like it’s nothing, while your world is actively falling apart. What is he even talking about?!

“I know this ain’t the welcome wagon you posh Spherites are used to but…”

Enjin pauses, exhaling smoke to the sky. Your gaze follows up, widening once you see the oddly shaped dome covering the city, a strange yellow fog in the atmosphere.

“....welcome to the Abyss, Girlie. Name’s Enjin.” 

Blankly staring at Enjin, you say nothing. The both of you in a mini stare down. Although you’re the first to give by suddenly bursting into sobs.

Rolling his eyes, a thought briefly flashes in Enjin's head that he should have just left you for the raiders. Hell, he could still leave you now—you’re calling way too much attention to yourself.

However, Enjin also figures that with you all but swimming in luxury on the Sphere, you probably thought of the Pit—your so-called Hell, or its inhabitants as mere fairytale.

Enjin’s inkling is confirmed when you calm down enough to piece together that your now ex-husband had hired a bunch of shady tribesmen to kidnap and dispose of you—all to collect your inheritance. 

Yeah, not your fault.  Enjin thinks and cuts you a break. 

For your own sake, Enjin somehow convinces you to come back to Cleaner HQ with him. He can’t return you to the Sphere himself—but he knows another Spherite who’s trying to make their way back. That small glimmer of hope is enough to lift your spirits, just barely. This time, you follow him willingly—though you still cry the entire way to HQ.

Shame how prone to hysterics you are, otherwise Enjin actually thinks you’re pretty hot. Noting how the expensive silk of your dress clings so damn well to your every curve. He’d sell your clothes while you were near the shopping district—but unlike Rudo, he doubts he could talk you out of them. 

At least—not yet.

But that thought is drastically short lived as Enjin spends more time in your presence. Sure, you could have gotten along. You could’ve even been Enjin’s type. Yet there’s one glaring problem: 

You’re an annoying, needy-ass brat.  

Besides looks, you tick off nearly every one of his dealbreakers. You’re ditzy, dependent and whiny. Basically Enjin’s nightmare.

Plus your snobby little ass never once thanked nor apologized to him over the following weeks.

Not after he saved you.

Not after he brought you back to HQ where you were welcomed with skeptical, yet open arms—as a new, very reluctant (you had no other options really) recruit in-training.

And you certainly never thanked Enjin, even after all his shit luck, when he was assigned to be your teacher and look after your haughty ass. You have the most indignant pout on your face when Corvus announces that since Enjin found you, you're Enjin’s problem.

“You have to be kidding me? I’m stuck with Trashy Poppins here!?”

“Yo, Trashy—what!?” The reference doesn’t land with Enjin but he knows it isn’t good.

Semiu nods curtly in agreement of the pairing, amused that Enjin finally has someone to keep him on his toes as she ushers you off to get settled in.

The fuck?! 

Lamenting being stuck is supposed to be Enjin’s line. Enjin had figured the logical move was to pair you with Zanka—the closest thing to nobility among the Cleaners—and let you bond with Rudo, a fellow Spherite, even if he was a tribesman.

But it doesn’t take long to realize neither boy can handle a grown ass woman like you. One flutter of your lashes and they’re useless saps—like the big sister he never had, you could soothe Rudo’s worst moods with a mere head pat. 

While Zanka, older and appreciating your more ‘robust’ qualities, trips over his own tongue trying to talk to you.

Both ready to do anything just to earn a few sweet coos—unless someone steps in.

It had to be Enjin. He was the only one who could ‘resist’ your charms.

Still, Enjin’s got his work cut out for him when it comes to you—especially training you for combat and figuring out how the hell you’re supposed to use that so-ugly-it’s-almost-cute vital instrument.

He tries not to judge. Really, he does. Jinki are personal—he knows that better than anyone. But still…the fact that you even have one? That’s wild.

A Spherite? A noble Spherite, no less—the same pompous assholes who treat the Abyss like a dumping ground—actually caring enough about something to pump it full of anima?

Yeah, that’s impressive, he’ll give you that. What wasn’t though was the name you gave the lil thing: Bubu.

Tsk. Wack as hell. Vital instruments deserve names with some bite. Something like—Umbreaker.

Still, credit where it’s due—you’re picking things up faster than expected. 

However, that doesn’t spare him from your nonstop bitching, though. The complaints come daily: the strange smells your hair absorbs, the absence of your sacred skincare routines, not being able to take a 30 minute shower, and how everything down here always tastes just a little off.

But the most absurd? The cherry blossoms.

You complain the most about not being able to frolic in your lush, petal-covered garden full of rows of cherry blossoms. Enjin’s never even seen a damn tree like that, let alone the acres of grass and flowers you describe like some bedtime fairytale. You haughtily anoint yourself as a floral herbalist, an expert when it comes to your pretty little flowers.

It’s shit like that on top of everything else that irks Enjin when it comes to you.

And yet?

Enjin thinks the most irritating thing about you is the fact that he can’t seem to stay away from you. 

Sure, you’re annoying as fuck—but in spite of his own objections, Enjin keeps finding ways to keep your time occupied. He makes up excuses to train you longer and drags you along on missions that are solely meant for him. 

Moreover, since you can never keep that pretty little mouth shut, anyone you meet clocks you as a Spherite within seconds—which means you need Enjin’s constant protection, whether you like it or not.

Enjin ends up spending less time drinking or chasing women, finding a far more amusing pastime instead—the way your face twists in indignation every time the Ground doesn’t live up to your so-called “noble standards.” 

He gets a kick out of it, really. Agitating you on purpose, just to watch you squirm.

“Goddamnit, Enjin! Watch it!” 

You’d shriek every time your short skirt went flying from a sudden gust of wind he’d whip up with Umbreaker. Enjin saves that lil trick for No Man’s Land when the others’ backs are turned.

“That’s Enjin-sensei to you, Princess.” 

“Choke—slowly, Trashy Poppins.”

You’d lunge for his mask like you actually meant to rip it off, but at 6 '3, Enjin’s tall enough that you never have a chance at reaching it. It’s all worth it too—Enjin’s already got every pastel scrap of lace you own burned into memory, each one tucked away like a reward for getting under your skin.

It’s a little sadistic, sure—the way he taunts you nonstop, delighting in soiling that polished image of yours to grind you into the dirt of the ground right along with him. 

There’s a fire in your eyes every time Enjin dubs you as “Your Royal Trash Princess”—or just “TP” if he’s feeling lazy. You never fail to rise to his bait, eager to prove yourself—and prove him wrong.

Enjin feels he’s owed a bit of amusement for all his troubles.

Doesn’t mean anything.

Yet the more Enjin pushes, the harder it is to ignore that your bratty spark isn’t just an attitude problem. It’s energy. Real, raw passion. The kind that could actually cultivate anima. He sees it best when you’re snapping at him, flushed and defiant, too stubborn to back down.

It’s trouble to be sure, but fuck if Enjin doesn’t love coaxing it out of you.

All it took this time to get you going was him doubting your so-called knowledge of plants and remedies— “what kinda ‘floral herbalist’ hasn’t toked one?”  

So now here you are, in the HQ lounge, about to smoke your first joint as a ‘pre-game’ to the happy hour Corvus organized for all the Cleaners.

You and Enjin sit shoulder to shoulder on a worn, black quilted-leather sofa that’s seen better days. The cushions creak as you nervously smooth your skirt and settle in, unhooking your jinki—Bubu—from your belt to set her gently on the table.

Enjin rolls a few joints with unhurried precision—like he’s got all the time in the world, and watching you squirm is part of the ritual.

“Bet ya didn’t have anything like this in your lil’ garden, eh TP?” Enjin quips, breaking the silence.

Nose already upturned, your face scrunches as Enjin tosses an extra bud from his stash into your open palms. You hated the nickname ‘TP’ most of all, too easily mistaken for ‘toilet paper’ and Enjin knows that.

You shoot Enjin a dirty look before letting your focus drift back to the brittle sprig in your hands—the first real plant you’ve touched since becoming a Ground-dweller.

You think you actually recognize it. 

Back on the Sphere, your family was among the wealthiest, and your garden was massive. You took pride in your green thumb—like Delmon, whose garden you’ve been meaning to ask about. You want to help, if only to see what kind of plants can survive in conditions this toxic. But Enjin never gives you the space—always hovering, always cutting in before you can finish a full conversation.

You brush off those thoughts but your frown stays as your fingers trace the bud’s dry veins. Even for a dehydrated sample, it feels wrong—brittle in a way that hints of sickness. 

“Hmm. We had something like this—I think. But it’s just another weed.” You say shrugging.

“Heh,” Enjin smirks at your cluelessness, “Would you believe me if I told you ‘weed’ is exactly what we call it, Princess?”

You roll your eyes at the inordinately simple name. It probably has a proper scientific designation—but expecting Enjin to know it? Please.

“We always uprooted them—weeds are unsightly in gardens, you know. A weed, let alone one sick as this, would definitely be pruned right away so as to not syphon nutrients from the other plant life.”

“HAH?!”  

Mid-seal on his joint, Enjin stops cold, staring at you like you just dared to commit some sort of sacrilege before exhaling a theatrical sigh, shaking his head in pure betrayal.

He can’t believe Spherities are probably pissing away the dankest shit ever cultivated. The thought was maddening.

When Enjin’s eyes do meet yours again, there's no amusement as he takes a rather chastising tone with you.

“Princess, for your own good, never repeat that in front of anyone down here…I mean it.”

You huff, but Enjin doesn’t blink—just starts sealing the joint again, eyes never leaving you as his tongue drags slowly across the edge of the paper.

You squirm, and that’s all the reward he needs. 

“See somethin’ you like?” Enjin drawls, holding the finished joint out toward you like it’s a gift—and not a trap with your name written all over it.

Turning on teacher mode, Enjin decides to school you.

“I know we mostly have ‘reggie’ down here, but still, it’s worth its weight in gold for its purposes. Not just for fun ya know—chronic pain, nausea, anxiety—gives a bit of relief from the ailments of Abyss-living you Spherites have so graciously bestowed on us.”

From his pocket, Enjin produces a lighter, shoulders curling as he bows into the flame to set it alight.

Your eyes flick over the sinewy stretch of Enjin arms, the way his jacket strains across his shoulders—reminding you just how solid Enjin really is beneath all that shapeless fabric. Built like a weapon, hiding in plain sight.

You watch as his ringed fingers lift the joint to his lips. Drawing in a slow, steady breath, Enjin sinks back into the sofa like gravity’s got a tighter hold on him than usual. Smoke pools in his chest before slipping out in a long, deliberate exhale.

His gaze follows it, distant—like he’s chewing on thoughts far heavier than anything you said… but somehow still set off by it.

“That’s the problem with you Spherites….you don’t see things the way they are—you see things the way you are.” 

Enjin chuffs at his own words, closing his eyes to let his high settle. Not even completely stoned yet and he’s already spouting off pseudo philosophical one-liners.

“Everything else is collateral, amirite?”

Ouch.

Toeing at the floor, you sulk in silence. Wounded from the verbal licks Enjin just dealt you. Mulling over his words in silence though, you know it isn’t that simple. Horticulture can be complicated even in the most ideal conditions. Just because a plant is viable doesn’t mean it belongs in every garden—some plants are just incompatible.

However…

You sit silently, your teeth worrying your bottom lip as you study the brittle bud in your palm.

…that doesn’t make it worthless.

Instead of exploring any potential use, you tossed the so-called "weed" out—just like everything else the Sphere deemed useless. Not even considering how valuable it could be. You can see why Enjin wouldn't want you repeating that mistake. Enough people already looked at you with disdain as it is. 

Sure there’s a lot of things you miss about it, mostly superficial things that had to do with vanity, but overall life up there was super sterile and dull. You’d never say it out loud but you are glad you fell, it was hard on the ground but it was liberating.

Sighing, you quietly concede. You hate anytime Enjin actually has a point though. It’s the worst thing imaginable—for your pride and for his already unbearable ego.

Cracking an eye open, Enjin curses under his breath. Switching tactics, he decides to replace the long look on his Trash Princess’s face. Annoyance would do just fine. Besides, there was no need for you to pout over it, you actually had a shot at redemption here… heh, the kind that might just work out in his favor, too.

“Y’knowwwww, we’re always learnin’ better ways to grow things down here, faster too...”

Enjin moves so quietly, you don’t realize how close he is until you turn—and he’s right in your face, barely a breath away. Swiping his ringed thumb across your cheek, Enjin’s touch is surprisingly tender. However his expression is entirely obnoxious, full of amusement from how fast your pouty little face flusters.

“...could be a nice little hobby that would do alotta good…and if anyone could figure out how to grow this shit properly down here—”

Enjin plucks at the heat of your warm cheeks, pinching just enough to tease and drag the moment into something more lighthearted.

“—I do believe it could be you—Trash Princess.”

Your eyes catch something deeper than just teasing in his golden gaze—but before you can dwell on it, instinct kicks in. You jerk back, swatting his hand away, shoving whatever that was out of your mind.

Enjin just laughs, unbothered, as you glare at him.

“And why can’t you get Delmon to do it?” you counter, arms folding across your chest. By now, you’ve learned Enjin usually has an angle for everything.

Right on the mark, for a beat, Enjin actually pauses. He hadn’t expected you to bring up the obvious—Delmon, the gentle giant practically martyred to the idea of saving what’s left of the Abyss. But Enjin’s roguish grin slips back into place, spreading wider as he leans in, unapologetically invading your space.

“Why? Well...’cause I asked you, Princess. The ol’lug has enough on his plate as it is. You can handle it alone, can’t ya?”

Truthfully, even knowing your interest in Delmon never strays beyond roots and soil, it still irks every time Enjin catches sight of you with him. You look every bit the noble—graceful, composed, eyes soft and curious as you gaze up at Delmon, eager to learn. It grates on Enjin more than he’d admit, knowing he’s never once gotten that look, despite monopolizing most of your time.

“Ya know—unless, your skillset just ain’t up t’par?” Enjin finishes with a shrug.

Wholly unconvinced, you see this for the bait it is from a mile away. Nevertheless, you can’t deny that you are eager to get even the tiniest bit of normalcy back in your life from your old hobbies. Planting something, anything, would be nice—even if it ends up being contraband for Enjin. Although you still aren’t quite sure why you can’t consult Delmon. 

“Ugh! Fine!”

You fall back onto the sofa and Enjin follows, his arm settling behind you, practically draped around your shoulders. You don’t even flinch. He takes another slow hit, smoke curling toward the ceiling, but this time there’s a wicked glint in his eye as he watches you. Deciding he’s babysat the joint long enough, he leans in with a lazy smirk and holds it out to you.

“Enjin—your eyes!” You blurt out, disregarding his invitation. “Is that just from smoking!? I can’t go to happy hour looking like some kinda zombie!”

Enjin sputters mid-laugh, coughing as wisps of smoke leak from the corners of his smart ass grin.

“Eh, well duh. Why else would they get so red when I smoke?”

Enjin coughs out a few more chuckles. You roll your eyes.

“I don’t know, Trashy Poppins…I didn't make the connection since the air quality down here is 80% pollution! You could have anything.”

While Enjin is amused by your sass, the joint continues to burn down. Each second unsmoked is wasting precious bud. Leaning in, his voice drops to a low purr—the kind that makes your stomach flip.

Heh, time to pull out the big guns.

“Aht-aht-aht, c’mon now, Princess, you know the golden rule…”

You sigh, thinking you need that happy hour drink more than ever right now.

“You’re not serious.”

But you know he is, and of course you remember the silly motto Enjin makes an unspoken rule for his team. Although he mostly just uses it to get you to do something you’ll usually regret later.  You sigh, knowing you’ll never make it to happy hour until you appease the big man-child in front of you.

Enjin’s golden eyes shine with even more mischief than before and together like some damn mantra, you both repeat:

“...it’s not peer pressure—it’s just your turn.”

Resigned, you click your tongue, swiping at the joint in his hands. But Enjin is much faster as he pulls back with infuriating speed. You glower at him, snark locked and loaded.

“Nah, actually I’ll help you out since it’s your first time, Princess.”

Innuendo coils around his words, heat radiating off him as you tense under his gaze. You don’t want to argue with him though, the sooner you smoked, the sooner you both could be at happy hour.

“Open.” 

Enjin’s fingers graze the corner of your mouth as he holds the joint to your peach-glossed lips, eyes darkening when you part them obediently for him.

“Now breathe it in, nice and slow…deeper. Yeah, that’s it—hold it. Don’t let go until I say—good girl.”

You want to scoff at him, but you can’t—not with tears stinging your eyes and smoke burning its way down your lungs. By the time Enjin gives you the nod to exhale, you’re already choking, coughing it all back up in ragged plumes.

Yeah, this was nowhere in hell as easy as Enjin made it look.

The buzz rises in your head almost instantly, an airy haze creeping into your consciousness.

“See? Not a terrible cherry pop, eh?”

The glare you throw at Enjin is more of a squint. Still recovering from the fire tearing down your throat, your coughs earn you a few heavy-handed smacks on the back from Enjin. If it’s out of comfort or mockery, you can't tell. 

Everything in the room is spinning and becoming more distant, like a daydream.

“Easy there, breathe—it’ll hit easier when ya figure out how to grow it right, Princess. The dank shit won’t burn this hard.”

You want to bite back that even if you do figure out how to grow the damn ‘weed’ plant, you’d never touch it again. But the sudden heaviness seeping into your limbs drags you down, tilting your head on the axis of equilibrium.

“I think, no—I know, I need to lay down.”

Not waiting for permission, you flop down onto the worn cushions beneath you, curling up awkwardly with your head leaning against the armrest and your legs dangling off the seat at an angle. 

Enjin doesn’t miss a beat though—he scoops your legs into his lap, tugging off your boots so you can be comfortable.

Leaning back, perfectly at ease, Enjin holds the joint in one hand while the other rests on your stocking-covered shin, giving it a casual, reassuring pat. The way your arm drapes over your face tells him everything—yeah, you’ve got the spins.

“Keh, you’ll make it, Princess. Just let it all ride out.”

You’d make it alright, but not to happy hour anytime soon. Enjin supposes he might’ve let you take a bigger hit than you were ready for. 

Whoops.

Silence stretches in the aftermath but it’s not uncomfortable. Enjin takes a few more lazy tokes, one golden eye cracked open just enough to watch you, taking stock of your state. 

It’s in moments like this—rare ones, when you’re quiet—that he remembers just how fucking smoking hot you are.

Especially in that Cleaner uniform. Man, God bless August.

The eccentric tailor took special care in designing it thanks to a sudden burst of inspiration—August even convinced Enjin to allow him to keep some of the trim from your Spherite clothes that he repurposes. The outcome of your uniform is shinier, more fitted and much sluttier than standard issue. 

You took to it immediately, without much fuss and actually complimenting August. That was August’s gift though—whipping up pieces to suit even the finickiest of tastes—and Enjin had to admit, the man did his big one. 

But the real surprise wasn’t the craftsmanship. It was you—his oh-so-prim little Trash Princess—strutting around in something so damn naughty. Dressed up like a treat that Enjin can’t help but eat up with his eyes.

And whaddya know? Enjin has the munchies bad right now.

Left to his own devices, Enjin takes his time devouring the sight in front of him. His gaze lingers down the length of your legs sprawled across his lap, to the soft, exposed flesh of your thighs—spilling over the edge of your stockings just enough to make his jaw clench.

Fuck, they look so soft. He can't help but wonder how they'd feel locked around his head as his eyes climb to the next indulgence—your crop top. Rucked up to your ribs, the thin white cotton hugs just beneath your tits. Shit, the way your cute little nips poke through the fabric makes his mouth twitch with the urge to say ‘hi’ right back—with his tongue.

Is it hotter in here, or—?

Leering at you for too long is a surefire way for Enjin to pop a boner. Enjin knows he’s not alone in that either. That uniform of yours turns heads in every city you pass through. Consequently, Enjin has split more skulls because of idiots trying to hit on you or cop a feel than he ever has for anyone trying to snatch a Spherite.

Not that he’s jealous or nothing.

Nah. Just doing his job. Watching out for you. Plenty of unscrupulous assholes out there willing to pounce on a clueless little thing like you.

However, right now, Enjin’s just as unscrupulous—‘watching out’ only for a flash of your panties as each restless wiggle sinks you deeper into the lumpy cushions, bunching your skirt higher and teasing him with a glimpse of skimpy lace.

Man, just a little more and he’d know exactly which pair you picked today.

Sobering up a bit more, you sigh at your inability to get comfortable when you could feel the very springs in the sofa. Stretching, you straighten your leg suddenly and—

“Yo! Watch the feets, girl!”  

Though there’s amusement in his voice as he jolts upright, tatted hands grabbing your ankle before you’re able to land another blow.

“Ah, sorry—” You mutter sheepishly, reeling back your foot. “I didn’t mean to kick Umbreaker.”

For what it’s worth, the apology comes quickly—you’ve learned better than to mess with a man’s jinki, especially Enjin’s. You've nearly tripped more times than you can count over that bulky extension of himself that he always keeps within reach.

You know it’s serious too when he doesn’t even bother with the stupid nicknames he usually calls you. Nevertheless, you’re left puzzled when Enjin’s laughter comes out loud and sharp. 

“...that wasn’t Umbreaker, Princess.”

Huh? What does he mean that isn’t— 

You freeze. 

Carefully peeking out from under your arm, your reddened eyes squint down the length of your body and onto his. When the realization does set in of what exactly you kicked, it smacks you harder than any hit of ganja ever could.

“O…oh…—OH MY GAWD!”

Immediately springing upright, your vertigo swirls with how fast you’re scrambling to your knees as you gawk.

Time passes for what seems like a solid minute or two and neither of you speak. 

You’re staring at the crotch of Enjin’s baggy pants and Enjin is staring at you.

“Heh.”

The devious look on Enjin’s face right now could shame the devil himself. Yet you’re still in utter disbelief.

There’s no way that’s his dick!

Still, your brain won’t stop running the numbers—high girl math with clumsy calculations drawn from the fleeting brush of your toes against the long, thick mass hidden beneath the fabric of his baggy pants. Enjin’s words ring in your mind like a gong—‘that wasn’t Umbreaker…’

“You’re burnin’ a hole through my dick, Princess—”

Enjin’s voice unfurls seductively, like the smoke curling from his lips.

“—keep starin’ like that and I’m gonna think you wanna see it.”

Your eyes meet his dead-on. 

“I do.”

“Yeah, I’m sure yo—wait, come again?!”

Enjin’s grip goes slack, the joint slipping from his fingers. He was halfway to some sassy quip, ready to taunt your denial—but your delivery is so honest, with no teasing or angle to play off, he doesn’t know what to do with it.

The embers hiss against his thigh before he even registers he dropped it.

“Tch.” Cursing under his breath, he flicks it aside—it’s all roach anyway—and tries to pull himself back together.

You’re fucking with him. Yeah. That’s it. 

Smug again, Enjin leans into the bit you started.

“Ha ha…right. I know my stuck up lil’ Trash Princess isn’t asking to give me a dick inspection…”

Enjin adjusts his pants in a casual sweep that doesn’t fool either of you. He’s not brushing off the remaining flakes of ash—he’s palming his restless cock that jumped at the idea of you actually wanting to see it.

But both you and Enjin would quickly discover, despite your snobby Spherite upbringing, you lose any type of filter and sense of couth while high—blurting out your thoughts unabashedly. 

“I said I wanted to see it, Trashy Poppins. Or m’not gonna believe you’re actually that big.”

You fold your arms, huffing stubbornly.

There was no way an unbearably annoying man like Enjin was slanging actual horse cock! 

He had to be the one fucking with you here.

Well, wait, no—a cocky, stupidly sexy man having a big dick actually tracks, now that you think about it.

But still—you need to verify. For science, if nothing else. 

Yeah. Science.

Enjin blinks, taking stock of you—kneeling close, your tits straining like they’re about to burst free, and your skirt rides so high on your thighs this time, he swears one more millimeter and he’d see your panties for real. 

“C’mon now…”

Your sickly sweet coos needle at Enjin’s spine.

“...as if you aren’t always upskirting me just to see my panties.”

Shit. You knew it was intentional?

“At least you can show me your undies for a change. If you’re really that big, then I’ll be able to tell.”

The spark alight in your eyes is a challenge to Enjin, who loves pushing your limits. Now he needs to know how far you’ll go. Even if he’s completely unprepared for this turn of events, he’s sure as fuck not gonna be the one backing down first.

“S’that right, Princess? Well, I haven’t even seen yours today so—”

Enjin doesn’t even get the chance to finish before you’re lifting your skirt and spreading your knees wider. You stare up at the ceiling, the popcorn squares suddenly appearing super interesting to you. Enjin’s eyes however immediately zero-in on the pink lace stretched tight across your pussy.

Christ.

With a much closer view, Enjin picks up all the little details he usually misses—like how the hem digs into your soft curves or how the material is thin enough to see the split of your chubby lil pussy lips pressed underneath. 

Goddamn, are you intentionally buying them a size too small? 

Or is your pussy print just that fat?

Enjin gulps, mouth dry. 

His attention caught like a hook to your cunt, everything else is unimportant—including the irony of how he was just teasing you for the very same thing—it’s all utterly lost on him. His priorities shifting rapidly the longer he ogles you.

After a minute, giving him quite frankly more of his fill than he deserves, you let your skirt drop back into place. The alluring spell of your fatma breaks when your  knees snap shut and Enjin is yanked back to a world that doesn’t exist between the apex of your doughy thighs. 

All of his lecherous starring is worth it though—if only to be able to throw his own saying back at him for once.

“Now, how’s it go again? It’s not peer pressu—”

“—Yeah, yeah, I got it, Princess—My turn.” 

Enjin relents, cutting you off with a twisted grin as he shakes his head.

“Ya don’t gotta break my arm to see my dick, babe. Just makin’ sure you’re sure. Don’t need you runnin’ off telling Semiu I flashed ya.”

Semiu is already on Enjin’s ass for teasing you as much as he does. Something about him being ‘too grown’ not to ‘nut up’ and ‘come to terms with his reality’, but Enjin was never listening for long, zoning out as soon as a new lecture was underway. 

However, if your prissy ass really wants to see his dick that bad, of course he’d oblige. Hell, Enjin would get another kick outta watching your horror when you realize for real just how much he’s packing. It had been a minute since he'd seen that look on a woman.

For being as hot and charming as he is, Enjin didn’t get nearly as much play as he should’ve. He isn’t a virgin by any means, but too many women take one glance at his size and back off expeditiously.  

Life on the ground meant hustling to survive for most. Nobody could afford to be laid up for days just because Enjin’s wrecking ball of a cock tore through their walls, rendering them unable to walk—let alone go to work.

Yet with a clink, that all changes as the leather strap of his belt and gear slides free. Enjin lifts his hips enough to shove his pants down past his thighs and there it is—short red boxer briefs with a black waistband, the fabric stretched thin over the obscenely long, thick outline of his dick resting along his thigh.

Simply put, your jaw drops. There’s a static-like silence buzzing in your mind as you process the monstrous mass of phallic muscle before you.

You’ve never seen a dick that huge in your entire life. 

Clocking your shock, Enjin’s chest puffs like he’s just been crowned a king in the room.

“Relax, Princess…” he drawls, smugness saturating every word.

“I ain’t even all the way hard yet.”

Bullshit! 

Your eyes pingpong between his face and his cock before landing on the obvious conclusion—no overthinking this time.

“What are you waiting for then? Get hard.”

Enjin actually chokes for real this time, still not used to how blunt his demure lil’ Trash Princess gets when she’s high. He manages to laugh regardless once he finds his breath as he sure as hell doesn’t hate this new side of you.

“Hah?! It doesn’t work like that ya know…”

Enjin lies right through his fucking teeth. 

Just hearing that vulgar command from your prissy lil’ lips has his blood surging south, his cock swelling at rapid speed. Already on go, his dickprint thickens, straining against the fabric until threads stretch thin to form almost obscenely over him like second skin.

Yet unlike his past hookups you don’t flinch at the sight of him getting even bigger. 

There’s more than enough incredulousness on your face for sure, but Enjin half expected you to backpedal for the sake of your pussy’s self-preservation and book it out the door. Instead, the look you’re giving his dick is more akin to awe than fear.

Truly, though—you are in awe.

Men weren’t like this on the Sphere. Well, your husband certainly wasn’t.

Older than you by over a decade, your husband’s stamina was so poor he never lasted long. His size, his endurance, and his dismissive comments about your sexual appetite being perversely unbecoming for a lady of your station had you wondering if something was wrong with you this entire time—if you expected too much from sex.

But when your eyes drift back to Enjin—catching the thick vein running along his length, visible even through the fabric—you know better now. 

It was never you.

The realization brings a surge of boldness. Your gaze trails the pulse of his cock down to the wet patch blooming at the tip—so much pre spilling it seeps through the fabric. 

Enjin inhales sharply through his nose. He knows he’s proven his size, but your silence and the way you’re eyeing his cock like some kind of museum exhibit is starting to get to him. 

Enjin doesn’t want to back down as he impatiently waits for your final verdict of approval. But if you keep staring at him like that, with those big pretty eyes of yours, he’s going to come in his pants, untouched, like some fucking cuck.

“Well, Princess? Big enough for ya?”

You don’t even hear Enjin, too lost in your own thoughts. Your body, buzzed and reckless, has a mind of its own though. Reaching out, your hand leaves your lap to trace the thick ridges of his cock, mapping its shape through his briefs. 

“Oh, shiiii—” Enjin hisses. 

His lip catches between his teeth as all thoughts vanish the moment your delicate little fingers start stroking him.

“Argh—fuck. Can’t jus’ go grabbing a man’s dick like that ya know.”

Yet Enjin does nothing to stop you as your touch grows bolder. Your palm flattens around his girth—too thick for even your whole hand to wrap around, even through his boxers.

How would someone even get something that monstrous inside them!?

Encircling his leaky cockhead, you giggle as your index finger slowly tap-tap-taps the mess he’s made there, amused at how many of the small, sticky suds you can gather on your finger through the material.

Enjin’s own laugh is strangled. This can’t be real.

“Heh… fuck… you really tryna kill me, huh, Princess? Fuckin’ tease…”

You’re unfazed by Enjin’s provocations – too mesmerized by the obscenely large cock in front of you that has you squirming uncomfortably as your own panties turn swampy with heat. 

“May I?”

Meeting Enjin’s gaze, your polite innocence is accented by a wide-eyed pout that’s far too sweet for the filthy implications of your request. Like you’re nicely asking permission to play with your favorite toy—except you don’t even wait for him to give it,fingers impatiently snapping the edges of his waistband like some cockhungry slut. 

“Uh…” Enjin blanks while his dick is practically screaming at him to respond—even a damned head nod would suffice. Yet his brain blue-screens as it registers that look—the normally innocent, curiosity filled look that he's been craving since he found you in No Man's Land—now twisted into something debased and filthy.  And best of all?

Meant just for him.

Enjin’s so fucking hard right now it’s painful—and hell, if you’re planning to do something about that, he’s not about to stop you.

“Keh. Do you, boo.”

Enjin manspreads, giving you full access. You eagerly pull down his shorts just enough to release his cock, and it springs free, thick and heavy. 

Good God, he’s a big boy! 

Although you knew that, seeing the monster in all of its unleashed glory was an entirely different experience. Enjin’s dick bobs back to curve towards his abs, a shiny pubic piercing shining at his base under its shadow.

Panting, your previously dormant inner size queen activates. You have to swallow down the bucket of saliva collecting on your tongue before you choke—you can’t help but salivate at the thought of what a huge cock like this tastes like… what it feels like. 

You’re pretty sure it could break you in two, and surprisingly, the thought excites you.

Lowering yourself on all fours, the first tentative lick you give Enjin’s length has his toes curling as he grips the sofa, ripping a chunk clean off the decaying material. 

You moan out a depraved 'ahhh' once you reach the top, a little smile playing on your lips as you tongue down the hole at his tip.  Greedily, you lap up all the little dribbles of pre beading at the tip and flowing out.

“W-Woaaah—ugh. FUCK!”

Enjin’s hand flies into your hair as he clears his throat. Sure, your mouthwatering stares made a blowie likely, but diving in this shamelessly? It’s enough to make him feel like he’s losing his damn mind.

You grip his base—an insurance policy to keep him from cumming—while your other hand cups his balls, giving them a gentle squeeze. His thigh jolts beneath you and you simper at how sensitive he is despite his massive size.

“T-There’s no way in hell they taught your prissy ass how to be this much of a slut up there.”

Pouting, you release his balls to cradle his cockhead against your puffed up cheek, uncaring of the amount of pre seeping across your jaw. 

“D-Do…do you hate it? My hus—um, ex said it was a turn off. H-he'd say I have 'the depravity of a slums streetwalker.”

Staring up at Enjin, your eyes are clouded with lust, yet edged with worry—like he’d threatened to rip something precious away.  But it’s only his cock you’re coddling tighter against your cheek, your lips parting just enough to chase the beads of pre that drip close to your mouth.

If you weren’t gripping Enjin’s base so hard he definitely would have blown a load all over your face. Fuck, if the thought isn’t tempting to him though – he doesn’t think you’d even mind in this state.  

Goddamn, you’re so much sluttier than Enjin could have ever imagined. 

And he’d imagined it plenty. 

Especially on nights Enjin stumbled back to HQ drunk and alone, having closed down the bar with Corvus and Gris. Left to sate his own booze-fueled boner, he’d shamelessly rut into his pillow. Yet, no matter where his perversions strayed, every faceless fantasy in the dark insisted on transmuting into you. 

You seriously think he couldn’t match your freak? 

Oh, sweetheart, you have no fucking idea.

“Hate it?” 

Enjin holds back the growl building at the back of his throat. There’s a torrent of thoughts swirling with his high all at once—all coming to settle right back into his dick. 

“Never. Show me who you really are, Princess—n’ I’ll give it right back to ya tenfold—that’s a promise.”

If you weren’t already trembling with arousal—finally free to let your freak flag fly—you might’ve shied away. Enjin’s easy acceptance of you stirs something deeper, something messy that you usually ignore before it can settle. Now, with his scent thick on your face and tongue, you’re not thinking at all—aching with the urge to all but inhale his cock.

You merely nod, flashing Enjin a coy smile before stretching your plush lips to wrap around him. Slowly, you swallow down his girth, mouth hot with suction so deliciously moist Enjin’s hips jerk up. You gag, but his firm grip on your roots keeps your head in place, forcing his length to breach your throat.

“That’s it, baby…open up f-f’er me—g-good fucking girl, Princess…”

Tears prick at your eyes as his cock pounds back of your throat. The stretch is brutal—but some desperate part of you craves more of his filthy praise. What you can’t take with your mouth, your hands make up for—stroking every thick inch your lips can’t swallow.

“Shiiiit, girl! You’re a pro at this.”

If you ask Enjin later, he’d probably call you a throat goat, however most of your “experience” came from the smutty paperbacks high-society wives hid in corsets and swapped under tea tables—not actual practice. You don’t really know what you are doing. You’re just following the book's explicit instructions. 

Still, Enjin doesn’t seem to mind being your test dummy. 

On the contrary, Enjin is more than happy to let you do your thing and he does just that. Although, the longer your head bobs along his cock, the more your skirt rides up—until it finally flips over your hips, giving him a perfect view of the cheeky lace framing your ass.

Enjin groans, gripping your ass with bruising force before sliding his fingers down to palm your pussy over your panties—fuck, you’re already dripping for him.

“Hah—uppity cunt gets this sloppy just from a lil’ dick sucking, eh?”

Enjin laughs, yet the gravel rattling in his voice betrays him. No one has ever fearlessly tried to deepthroat him and actually fucking enjoyed it. 

Unable to respond with your mouth, too busy still trying to do the impossible and fit more inside your throat, your hips respond instead—wiggling desperately against his fingers, begging for more of his touch. 

Enjin doesn’t hesitate. Slipping a tatted finger into your panties, he drags it through your folds, marveling at how wet and scorching you are. Pushing into your core, your walls clamp down, fluttering around his digit.

Oh fuck, even his fingers are big! 

A second ringed finger follows – the rough, callous fingers of a man who's seen too many fights scrape so good against all your gooey spots. Lewd squelches echo from your pussy as your throat tightens around him in tandem. The sounds, the squeeze, the heat—all of it is driving him crazy.

Shit he’s gonna cum for real this time. 

To his credit, Enjin tries to warn you—tries to pull you off before it’s too late. 

He doesn’t wanna risk pissing you off and having you refuse to ever do this again. Enjin still wants to fool around more;, he wants to fuck you. It’s that thought—your pretty pussy lips splitting open to swallow him instead—that has him busting his hot seed down your throat in thick, hot pulses.

“HAHH—FUHH!”

Releasing your hair, Enjin half expects you to pull away, furious he hadn’t warned you.  Instead, your nails dig into his thigh, steadying yourself. You moan around him, the vibrations rippling through his sensitive cock while you work him for every last drop, his hips jerking beneath you.

Only when you’re certain you’ve drained him do you pull back, swollen lips coming off his cock with a wet pop. 

“Allll go-neee S-Sheee? HAhhhhh~♡”

Tits jiggling as you heave for air, you present your tongue to Enjin as proof you’ve swallowed all of him. Every. Filthy. Drop.

“Oh fuck me… you’re a nasty lil’ Trash Princess, aren’t you?”

You can’t help but agree—your throat’s wrecked and your pussy’s aching to be used just as thoroughly. Enjin’s fingers aren’t inside you any more, although they are still on your pussy, running through your folds absentmindedly.  

“Ngh—n-eed m-more,” you slur.

All your decorum was lost to the wind the moment you asked to see his dick—you don’t even care that it’s Enjin of all people that you just gave head to. Suddenly, the obnoxious pain in your ass seems like your only deliverance. Right now, you're more frustrated that you've spent so much time bickering with him when you could have been fucking him.

You much prefer his moans to anything else coming out of his mouth.

You need him to get hard again—immediately!

Enjin, mind mushy with release, takes another joint out to light. As much as he wants to return the favor after that kind of sloppy top, the man needs a minute.  His high has his whole body tingling from the post release sensitivity.

But you can’t wait any longer. It’s been god knows how long since you’ve had a proper orgasm and those were only from your own small, fumbling fingers. Throat achy and raw, you quiver at the masochistic thought of how his cock is going to absolutely obliterate your pussy.

You slide your panties down before flinging off your jacket and top.  Taking a seat on Enjin's lap, you're now clad in just your bra, your skirt that's bunched up at your hips, and thigh highs. Grabbing his cock, you give his soggy, half-hard girth a few encouraging pumps.

Your pussy is already slobbering, a viscous string of syrupy slick drips down from your slit to land on his cockhead, connecting you to him as you line him up. 

Feeling your fingers around his length, Enjin's eyes fly open, balancing the joint between his lips as he quickly shrugs off his own jacket, checking the pockets.

“Woah, woah. Slow your roll there sweetheart—you’re skipping a few steps.”

You aren’t listening though, not giving a fuck what Enjin is talking about as you cry out, grinding your clit against his fat tip, before running it back through your folds.

Enjin grits his teeth, coughing out smoke as he holds the joint in one hand and your hips in the other. You’re being a brat again, not listening to a single word he’s saying. 

“Gotta find my rubbers…also gotta stretch you out better, Princess—you’re gonna split in two if I don’t.”

You whimper, petulant and needy. You press his cockhead against your entrance, swiveling your hips like you’re going to recklessly sink down on him at any second.

“Huh? Rubbers?” You shake your head in confusion, pouting. “m’Ennnnjiiiiin…I can’t wait that long—puh-leaseee don’t make me wait s’long, Enjiiiiin. I can take it, promiseee!”

The way you sweetly coo his name is shattering any sense of self-control Enjin has left. The urge to submit you to the ultimate corruption surges hot through his veins, but Enjin knows how big he is and while he did want to break you, he didn’t want to hurt you in the process. You are absolutely nuts to want to ride him with so little prep—now, on top of everything else, you apparently wanted him to fuck you raw.

Wait—did you just ask what rubbers were? Did you not have condoms on the Sphere?

But any lingering concerns dissipate the second you start fighting to get his tip inside you.

“Too s-slow!” You groan.

Fear is the last thing on your mind—evident in the way you impale yourself on him, defiant even against the impossible stretch. Your pussy is tight around the swollen head of his cock, strangling it as your nails dig into his shoulders. You grind in slow, desperate circles. Tears roll down your cheeks as you bite them to keep from crying out, your body fighting against every inch.

Enjin watches with a dark glint in his eyes – you trying so hard for him makes him want to flip you over and fuck you into the cushions. But he’d let you have it at your own pace…for now. 

Releasing your hip, Enjin spits into his palm, rubbing his slick fingers over your clit in slow steady circles. 

“Such a hard-headed girl—c’mere…”

Enjin takes a long drag from the joint, balancing it between his fingers as he grabs the back of your neck. His lips crash into yours before you can think.

You gasp and Enjin takes the opportunity to exhale the smoke deep into your lungs, taking the harshest of the hit himself. You're left with only the smooth, earthy flavor warming your chest before it melts through your limbs.

But it’s the way he kisses you after that really knocks the ground out from under you. His tongue pushes past your lips, tangling with yours—hungry, messy, like he wants to steal the little air you have left until you’re only breathing him in.

Your arms wrap around his neck, hands buried in his soft buzzed undercut, anchoring yourself. You moan into his mouth and he swallows it greedily, teeth nipping your lower lip before diving right back in. All the while, his thumb keeps grinding into your clit, faster now, like he’s keeping rhythm with the pulse that’s beating under your skin.

Why does it feel this good? How is he doing this to your body? S’not fair! 

Not realizing you could feel this good from a kiss, you're unraveling in real time. Your mind goes blank with every pulse, every word, every inch. You’re not even fully seated yet, but you can already feel the blunt head of his cock grinding against your cervix, the pressure building with each centimeter you drop. You never imagined you could feel this full—like he might actually breach your womb.

The thought alone has you trembling, unstable, your aching thighs giving out, causing you to slide down a bit too fast. The thick veins along his length rake across your g-spot and your body snaps. A sharp, helpless spasm rocks you as your breath catches and a small, unexpected orgasm rolls through you.

Enjin pulls back just enough to let you breathe, though your body doesn’t stop shivering, lost in a blur of pleasure and pain.

“Eh... did you just cum, Princess?”

The question is rhetorical, full of smug amusement, as he can feel the increasing wetness leaking down his cock, making it all the easier for you to slide down.    

Teasing your earlobe, Enjin’s tongue dips in to flick at the shell of it, making you clench.

“HA! Good fucking girl! A lil’ more and I bet she’ll be a real squirter f’er me.”

Enjin beams, proud of his Trash Princess. No woman had ever taken him this deep—not even close. Enjin hadn’t expected you to be any different. And yet…when Enjin looks down, he releases a groan deep from his gut.

The sight alone almost has Enjin nutting in you -- your drooling cunt spread so wide around his girth, sitting almost at his base. A thought flashes briefly – it's kinda like he’s a virgin again. Parts of his dick had never experienced this kind of molten heat so maybe, in a sense, he is? Enjin didn’t fucking care if he was though, as he ain’t about to be with the way your pretty pussy is giving way like it’s made for him. 

“Run that back.”

Enjin takes the final drag, pinching the smoldering end of the joint between his fingers before flicking it aside. He leans in again, slower this time. There’s no rush in how his mouth seals over yours. The second shotgun is less about the smoke and more about the feel of you—your lips parting for him, your breath syncing to his, and the small whimper you make as he sucks slowly on your tongue.

The haze spreads between you both, thick and warm. Simultaneously, his knuckles tease your clit, a soft schlick sound filling the space between you from you getting wetter by the second. By the strength of some unknown force, you finally bottom out, immediately collapsing into his neck. 

You both moan. Enjin feels you quivering from the inside out and you feel him everywhere—shifting your guts into your ribs. 

“I…I did it.”

Your smile blooms soft against his inked skin, lips grazing the spot where you can feel his own pulse hammering wildly.

Enjin’s in no state to congratulate you on your impressive feat. Completely sheathed in you raw, coring out your gummy walls into the shape of his dick—something in his brain chemistry fizzles. Like a bit of pussy juice, acting as a catalyst, slipped into his dick and traveled straight to his prefrontal cortex to corrode all of his previous thoughts about you. The result is clear.

Enjin doesn’t give a fuck if you are a snobby, annoying, needy lil’ brat who never let him get away with shit and bitches at him constantly—the furtherest thing from his type.

Because honestly?

Motherfuck a bullshit-ass type. Your slutty ass pussy is fuckin’ perfect. 

For the first time, Enjin realizes he might be in love with you. 

How could he even look at another woman after this?

One thing if for certain—Enjin is going to make damn sure you never have the desire to even look at another man.

Both his hands trail up your hips, groping and squeezing the plump curves of your ass before settling at your waist. His blunt black nails dig into your skin to pull you back from his neck.

Enjin whistles, admiring the stagnant stream of spittle lingering on your chin. Look at you—cockdrunk just from sitting on him. 

Enjin doesn’t think he’s ever seen you look more beautiful.

“Enjiiiiiin,” you whimper, not being able to hold yourself up. 

But your cries for him only inflame the predatory smirk on his lips, your honeyed cunt hugging his cock so beautifully. 

“Makes sense you fell from heaven, huh Princess?” 

Whether you're ready or not, Enjin forcibly winds you on his cock in slow circles. Your clit brushes up against the well placed pubic ring like a reward for being the first to experience it.

“—cause this pussy’s a fuckin’ angel.”

Your eyes are already lodged in your skull so you can’t even roll them at his cheesy line. But if your pussy is an angel, then Enjin's dick is most definitely a demon—his sinful cock tearing through your insides and condemning you straight to hell.

Moaning loudly, your body moves on autopilot—chasing more friction from the rhythm Enjin set. Good thing everyone was at happy hour or you would for sure be attracting some major attention now.

Although, to be honest you probably wouldn’t notice anyway. You don’t even notice when your bra falls away, your tits spilling out just so Enjin could watch them jiggle in his face. You only register its disappearance once his mouth latches onto one of your nipples, his tongue finally saying it’s ‘hello’.

“Shiiiiit!”

Your hips stutter, then stall when Enjin tugs at your sensitive bud with his teeth.

“Hey…I know my Trash Princess ain’t tappin’ out just yet.” 

SMACK!

Enjin brings a heavy palm down on your ass and your pussy clenches tighter around him. Enjin relishes the way your plush curves mold to his hands, each smack adding to the wet, messy sounds between you. You’ve already leaked enough on his lap to stain the sofa beneath you.

“Nah, ya just got on the ride, baby. Giddy-up.”

SMACK!

“NNNGH!” You weakly glare daggers at him. 

Any softness on Enjin’s face has since been replaced by something far more mischievous. If you thought he was obnoxious before—you’re about to learn he’s a full-blown menace inside of pussy.

Wobbling, you gather together what little resolve you have left to roll your hips forward. 

“HAAH! S’too biiiiiig,” you whine but your body can’t stop.

The juices saturated between you grant enough momentum to finally get a good, smooth bounce going.

“Fuck—that’s it, ride it like it’s yours, baby.” Enjin encourages you.

The way you cream harder every time he calls you 'baby' doesn't go unnoticed.

“Oh? You like me talking sweet to the pussy, baby girl?—Or do you just like being my filthy lil’ trash slut, hm Princess?”

Gritting your teeth, you grab on to Enjin’s shirt like reins, pulling him closer to you. 

“Y-You’re…gonna—ahshiiiit—hafta f-fuck m’better than thisss…if you want m-me to be your ‘baby girl’—Trash Daddy.”

Unfortunately, your sass falls flat—you can barely keep your head from lulling to the side. But Enjin’s thoroughly entertained nonetheless—he’ll take ‘Trash Daddy’ over ‘Trashy Poppins’ any day.

“Bet.”

Electricity runs through Enjin. He’s all charged up—now it’s his turn to unleash.

Your brow furrows from the noise Enjin makes—you’re not sure if he just laughed or snarled. But it's the only warning you get. 

Sliding down the sofa a bit, adjusting himself for stability, Enjin spreads his legs, planting his feet firmly on the floor as he bullies his cock up into you like he's breaking in his own personal fleshlight.

All you can do is go slack, falling forward on his chest. His grip bruising your hips, not allowing you to run from the way his blunt cockhead plows into your womb like a battering ram. 

The couch beneath you groans, its frame creaking under the strain. The wood and leather protest like the entire thing might fall apart at any moment.

“Enjinnnnn, m’slowwww dowwwnnn!” 

Your cries only fuel his frenzy and Enjin knows from the way you’re gushing on him you can take it.

Fuck—this sweet lil’ pussy is just so good for him. Imagine if he never met you. 

If you never—

Enjin cuts the thought off cold. 

Moving before you can blink—your world flips. One second he’s pummeling up into you, the next you’re on your back. 

Enjin peels away his shirt, muscles flexing as he looms over you. His hands curl around your ankles to keep them pinned overhead. A single bead of sweat catches your bleary eyes as it slides down his bare chest, gliding over firm muscle. The bold ink patterns seem to come alive on his skin. He looks so fucking sexy right now and you can’t help but to shamelessly ogle him.

Yet, there’s something much too serious and somber about Enjin’s current demeanor. You’ve been staring at him far too long to go unnoticed. The highly expressive, sassy powerhouse is rarely this silent. He should be teasing you right now, asking some smartass shit like if you’re ‘enjoying the view’. 

“Enjin?”

Your sweet voice hits his ears and instantly you have his attention again. Enjin flashes you a pearly white smile.

“Heh, enjoy the break, Princess? You wont get another.”

Ignoring the question in your eyes, Enjin folds you into a mating press, thrusting to the hilt all in one motion. The sound of flesh lewdly slapping against flesh fills the room, as do your cries.

But there’s still something else burning in his eyes. Enjin knows it’s unfair not to be honest with you, but taking out his unspoken feelings on your pretty pussy is the only way he can express himself at the moment. 

Suddenly, there’s a loud creak followed by a decisive snap and two of the sofa’s legs give out. If your sweat and cum weren't like glue on the old leather you’d surely slide off head first. You yell out in alarm, but Enjin doesn’t give a fuck about the damn sofa.

His mood is still soured by the thought that wouldn’t be shaken away until he confronted it—

If you never fell.

But you did. He found you—and now that Enjin has you under him like this, he needs to fuck the point he’s concluded into you:

If Rudo ever finds a way to the Sphere, Enjin will personally travel there and see to your ex-husband himself. 

Hell, he might even rail you in front of him a few times—show him what a real man could do. Maybe even a real…husband?

If the sounds of sloshing fluids and skin slapping skin weren't ringing so loudly in your ears that it drowned out everything else, you would have thought Enjin had lost his mind with the way he was cackling above you.  He sounds completely deranged, laughing at the idea of him finally wanting to settle down all while continuing to pound you deeper into the broken sofa.

But despite being high off weed and your pussy, Enjin’s mind has never been more clear—he wants to lock you down.

“Hah… P-Princess, can ya feel me in your tummy? Right…” Enjin’s golden eyes lock on the ever-so-slightly distended bulge from the monstrous intrusion in your guts.

“....right, here.” 

Throwing your legs over his shoulders, his large hands splay across your sweat sheened belly. You’re squirming under the heat of Enjin sandwiching your guts between his palm and his cock. Its all far too much—you’re too full, unable to really focus on what Enjin’s saying.

“Ahh, E-Enj—m’ c-cum, g-gonna mmm…” you hiccup, swallowing your tears.

Your nails rake down his arm to ground yourself but your body is thrumming too hard, adrift in the rush rolling through every one of your wired nerves. Your tits bounce obscenely every time your velvety walls devour his cock back down to the base. Enjin’s pubic piercing bucking against your clit has you clutching onto his dick like you were about to break it off.

You feel so fucking good. Enjin desperately needs to feel you creaming on his cock, and you would be soon if your kitten nails raking down his arms– adding more red to his already inked skin– were any indication. 

“That’s it, Princess, hah—fuck, baby, I got you. Squirt for your Trash Daddy.”

As if on command, the knot inside you coils to its breaking point, prickling every nerve, releasing a warm rush of fluids. Your body tingling in ecstasy, you quickly tumble over your peak, eyes blinded by speckles of brightness as you cum.

Yet Enjin hasn't slowed, his continuous pounding forcing more of your cum and squirt to gush out of you—the melody of his now drenched balls colliding with your wet ass only growing loude

“Fuck, that’s it. Pussy cryin’ like she wants my cum, Princess…” 

You’re barely conscious from all the pleasure, eyes rolling back into your head. 

“She’s jealous that slutty throat of yours got all my cum, now it’s her turn to swallow, isn’t that right?”

It’s a rather roundabout way for Enjin to ask if he can nut inside you, but then again, he wasn’t really asking. The thought of breeding you makes him feral. 

“Ahh—f’nnghhhh!”

Non-verbal and fucked dumb, you’d probably agree to anything right now. You’re an utter mess–pussy stretched beyond anything you thought possible, face sticky with slobber rolling down to pool in the folds of your neck. 

“O’course it is…gonna dump all these trash babies into my princess’ sweet lil’ cunt.”

Although you are super turned on by the thought of Enjin breeding you, there's no way you have any idea how serious Enjin is about putting a baby in you. How could you? You don’t even realize the love confession his cock is professing to you.

“FUHHHH—take it!”

Enjin pumps thick ropes of his cum into your tummy as his body thrashes on top of yours. The primal intensity has you vibrating as another orgasm rips through your overstimulated and overworked pussy. Filled the brim, his spunk overflows, sploshing out of your pussy as he rocks his hips, urging his seed deeper to plant right in your womb.

In the afterglow, the two of you lie off-kilter in a tangled heap on the broken sofa. There’s blood rushing to your head— not the worst place for it, you think, all things considered. Enjin’s weight is heavy, his chest heaving into yours, warm and sticky as he wraps you in his arms. 

Just as you feel you both might drift off like this, Enjin stirs. Flinching, you whimper as Enjin wills himself up, his cock sliding out of your pussy with a squelchy suctioning noise. Your knees part for him with zero resistance as he inspects his handiwork, peeling apart your battered pussy lips to reveal your dug out slit. 

“Whewww,” Enjin whistles at the sight of the thick creampie glistening in your core. “All this cum your cute pussy pulled outta me—you’d think she was my jinki.”

Sober, you likely would have slapped him for referring to your pussy as his vital instrument. But ecstasy clouds your logic, so high off endorphins and other substances, you only giggle. It is kinda funny you suppose.

“Yeah—squirtin’ on command like that. Definitely an attack type.”

Spread open, the thick plug of spunk froths out of you. But Enjin simply tuts, pushing it right back in, not wanting to waste a single drop.

“Yeah, how about that, ’mma duel wielder! Yup, definitely gotta name ‘er now—what you thinkin’ I should call her, princess?”

Enjin sees the way your pretty cunny is twitching, and in his pussy drunk mind, it's an approval. The spasms that still quake through you are like tremors of Morse Code—your slutty pussy agreeing with him, begging for more. Flipping you over on your belly, Enjin is more than happy to fulfill any request of his new vital instrument.

“Got it! Cumbringer! The Umbreaker and The Cumbringer. Nice ring to ‘em, dont’cha think?”

Cumbringer!?

Later, you would definitely regret being so thoroughly fucked out of your mind you didn’t put a stop to this. Enjin is most definitely going to be insufferably proud of himself for the next 3-6 business weeks. He’d lord this over you and tease you with not-so-subtle hints around the rest of the cleaners. 

Yet, as Enjin is swabbing his huge cock through your folds, you feel the ache of loss in your core, wanting to be filled again and you can’t seem to find the fucks to care—you just needed more of his dick, like…now.

Pleased with your compliance, Enjin thumbs the dips at the small of your back, perching your ass up so your back arches real nice.

“Trash Daddy’s gonna take real good care of Cumbringer from now on, too. Make ‘er live up to the name.”

When Enjin pushes into you again, the new angle has him bullying against your g-spot with even more intensity than before. Seeing the way you jolt, he holds back from going as deep this time to directly abuse the spot. Slick runs down your legs and despite how slippery the ruined leather cushions are beneath you, Enjin still holds you firm as his cock sloshes through your ruined pussy.

“Say, how much anima you think is in my nut, Princess?”

You don’t respond but Enjin, proving to have the stamina of a beast, feels like he should give you at least two more doses just to be sure.

⛓

Fading in and out of a euphoric stupor, you’re unsure how much time passes. Absolutely cockdrunk, at some point, you’d simply just surrendered. Your pussy clearly has zero complaints about being a jinki for Enjin’s cock and you are too dumb once you get a lil dick to stop him.

Somehow, you’ve ended up folded over the wide coffee table. It’s unstable beneath you, but Enjin doesn’t seem to care what he breaks when he’s fucking you. He only moved from the sofa when the back of it finally broke.

Straining, you think you hear voices but everything feels so far away and fuzzy. The room gets darker and you realize Enjin’s thrown his coat over you. Still sheathed deep inside you, Enjin’s cock plants lazy kisses to your womb as he speaks rather casually to someone.

Hmm, did he get a call? Is that Semiu?

Semiu is likely calling, wondering why you both haven’t shown up to happy hour yet—shit. There’s no way you’re making it in this condition; your limbs are toast. You can’t even move the weight of Enjin's bulky jacket off of you, the heavy material trapping you in the humidity of your own breath and sweat. But in a way, the warmth is comforting. Your cheek resting against the wood, you allow the tent of muggy heat and his cock moving languidly inside you to lull you into complacency— in your delirium, everything feels like a nice dream.

Yet Enjin is fully alert, a shit eating grin on his face as he stares down Semiu and Gris who had just walked in on Enjin shamelessly beating your doonies down. Enjin only spared your modesty by covering you up, but he has no qualms with either Gris or Semiu seeing him in all his glory and doesn’t even bother pulling out of you.

A fact that is painfully clear as he pats the pockets of his jacket draped over you for his cigs—he might as well smoke if he’s giving you a break.

“I win,” Semiu turns to Gris, hand out expectantly.

Semiu’s cool expression never changes but there is amusement in her eyes as Gris fishes into his pockets and places a stack of bills into her hand.

“Tsk, damn…” Gris shakes his head, although he’s not shocked. 

The two of you are down so horrendously bad for each other that this should have happened long ago as far as everyone else was concerned. The tension has been at an unbearable level for those around you, the way the two of you picked at each other non-stop like a kid’s first crush.

Alas, you’re an airhead and Enjin is so stubborn he’s delusional. So the older Cleaner members couldn’t help, but place bets on when and where you and Enjin would finally slip between the sheets. Its a shame that you weren't in one of your beds right now--in between actual sheets--instead of the lounge becoming collateral damage.

“You know, after all the game you talked about winning your money back at poker tonight, Bro said you were a no-show because you knew you were gonna lose…” Gris eyes the boneless, quivering lump that is you under Enjin’s jacket. 

Enjin really did a number on you. Your nonsensical babbles pouting for Enjin to ‘make sure to tell Semiu to bring you back some fries from the bar’ obviously means you have no idea that they are actually in the room.

“But it looks like you have your ‘ace in the hole' for an entirely different game.”

Enjin chortles. His hips stutter forward a bit too hard and you squeak in protest, he just hushes you.

“Awe, so you came back all this way to check-up on us? How sweet,” Enjin says sarcastically, taking a drag from his cigarette.

“Hardly. Rudo accidentally chugged an entire beer he thought was soda—then proceeded to throw it all up over Zanka,” Semiu says flatly. 

Enjin attempts to hold back his laughter as Semiu continues with a sigh. She explains thatGris helped carry Rudo back, promptly putting his little blacked out ass to bed. Zanka locked himself in the bathroom immediately upon returning.

“Although they're sure to be occupied for the rest of the night, since the kids are back in the building you need to wrap this shit up Enjin—she looks like she could use the break anyway.”

Semiu casts a sympathetic look your way. She did warn you about Enjin though, so he was your mess to deal with now. 

“Sure thing,” Enjin says, patting your form underneath his coat, “I’ve trained my new jinki well enough for tonight.” 

Semiu takes one look at the absolutely diabolical grin on Enjin’s face and decides she's already had enough of his shit for the night.

She sighs again. “Just hurry it up, alright?”

Enjin gives Semiu a cheeky salute. Yet the second her back is turned, Enjin mimes a dramatic chef’s kiss to the air for Gris. Enjin’s eyes roll back like he’s just had the best meal of his life. 

Gris snorts, shooting him a wink and a thumbs-up for a ‘job well done’ like a proud teammate before heading out of the room as well.

“One more thing.”

Semiu pauses in the doorway, hands resting on the double doors, surveying the crime scene-like state of the lounge. The sofa is toast, the coffee table’s on life support, and there's a growing puddle under you, spilling over to slowly drip off its edge onto the floor.

“If you’re just going to recklessly rawdog her, at least get her on the pill. Alice can sort that out tomorrow—right after you replace every piece of furniture you’ve both annihilated.”

Enjin simply shrugs, taking another drag of his cigarette.

“I suppose…we can stop by Alice’s too.” 

Semiu just rolls her eyes, only to wrinkle her nose as a wave of stale air wafts by.

“And for the love of god—crack a window. Smells like fresh ass in here.”

Once the doors finally click shut, Enjin rips his jacket off of you and smiles. You’re still blissed out in lalaland while your pussy, Cumbringer, is clenching around him like she has one more go left in her.

Grabbing your arm, he pulls you up. Still sheathed inside you, he sits back on his knees, bringing you with him, your back pressed against his chest.

“Mmmm—*yawns* Was that Semiu on the call, Enj?”

Call? Oh, heh.

“Ha, yeah baby girl, just Semiu on the line,” Enjin lies too easily. 

It’s for your own benefit though–no need to ruin your bliss with anything silly like embarrassment or shame from being walked-in on. Hell, unless Semiu says something, Enjin might be able to get away with not ever telling you.

“She said they ran outta fries though. I’ll get ya some later, yeah? Jus’ need Cumbringer to clock in one more time, Princess...”

Enjin rocks his hips with yours in a slow wave and your pout melts, no longer caring about the fries. Your head tips back onto his shoulder as he wraps his arms around you.

“Ah, mmmm, b-but—ngnh!  She mentioned something about hotdogs and getting pills tomorrow? Is that a mission?”

Enjin hums to keep from laughing as he turns your face towards him. He smirks devilishly against your lips.

Distracting you with sweet chaste kisses, Enjin rubs gentle circles over your womb. You’re gonna be so fucking hot waddling around HQ in your slutty ass uniform, tits leaking and belly full with his brats. 

The only pill he’d get from Alice would be a fertility pill.

“Nothing my slutty baby girl or my Cumbringer gotta worry about, Princess. Leave everything t’me.”

𝐚𝐧: ahh tysm for reading, especially if you are new to my writing. enjin brain rot is lethal. i needed to get this outta my system! jjk girlies forgive me for straying from my wip list and kinktober lol. definitely down to write more of him. i have a p2 and another enjin story (an AU) idea. but i have to focus on my jjk kinktober now! ♡