I was an underpaid salaryman but then I died and was reincarnated into a new world as the strongest in a reverse-harem novel and forced to follow the whims of a deranged pope???
headcanon/drabble thing idk before I recommit to my baby pendulum
art creds: noredemptionarc on x
pairing: pope sunday + male reincarnator reader
warnings: none, just some obsessiveness ig and violence
wc: 4k
HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
⊠. Each person has their own unrealistic daydreams about things they want to experience: a day with unlimited money, exacting revenge on a particularly insufferable coworker, or perhaps the advent of superpowers. Paltry things, naturally, in response to the endless mundanity and strife present in a vast world.
⊠. Naturally, youâre no different: an overworked corporate pawn that fits uncomfortably in the statistical median. Each ambition of yours is imprisoned in a charcoal suit, and your only solace is escaping to other worlds to forget this one. Thatâs your daydream, wrapped neatly in a bound volume of novels and the cracked screen of your phone.
⊠. Except, the situation is very serious now. Shoved into the body of one of the male leads? You couldâve dealt with that hand. Reborn as the villain responsible for the situations that inevitably ended with each male lead getting closer to the heroine? Sure, youâve read enough of those that you have a comprehensive, cited manual on how to turn around your fate. But⊠being born as a commoner in a fantasy setting, a good twenty years before the story actually starts, in a village that would likely be stricken by the plague or wiped off the map as a plot device? Youâre screwed.Â
⊠. Or thatâs what you mightâve thought, if the plot wasnât so predictable.Â
⊠. Itâs simple. You wait for an inevitable war with demonic hordes that probably contributed to a tragic backstory in the main cast, and do your best to get recruited by the grizzled veteran who conveniently spots you training with a stick in one of the fields. Either you die and leave this stupid world, or you get lucky and rise up in the ranksâa win-win situation, really.
⊠. It hurts. The magic sword that you found located suspiciously in the forest looks into your soul and determines you are not in fact pure of heart and will wallop you until you are, thus the golden-haired Southern Dukeâs heir Gepard Landau misses his opportunity to acquire the legendary Harpe, and you get to be beaten up in his stead. You donât complain thoughâthis is all part of the convoluted process that is mentioned once (never in detail) that creates a stupidly overpowered character.Â
⊠. It hurts. Magic circles brand the tender walls of your heart when youâre thinking about the physics degree you started but never managed to complete, and you pass out a few times as they stabiliseâbut itâs fine. Pain is temporary; those sweet gains will be your plot armour.Â
⊠. Guilt might have wracked your heart if you were one of those irritating protagonists that firmly believed they should stick to the plotline no matter what, but you arenât. If itâs truly a fictional world you are in, then your actions wonât matter; and if itâs a real world, then your actions merely represent a parallel divergence in this universe, and the world actually doesnât revolve around the main cast.Â
⊠. You are the first to find the demonic stone that is meant to be absorbed by the Duke of the North, Yingxingâone of the more disturbing male leadsâand consume it to catalyse the formation of additional magic circles around your body. Heâs just some guy whose demonic heritage and extensive training created a ridiculously strong and edgy lead who is fixed or whatever by the sunny protagonist.Â
⊠. It is when you accidentally-on-purpose stumble across the statue of an old goddess Idrila that your ripples culminate into a tidal wave of change. Within the subtle planes of the stone, a mythical being slumbersâmeant to be the driving force behind the knight-turned-second-lead Argentiâs actions, yet will now be used to your full advantage as you drip your blood into the offering plate. No, she doesnât grant wishes, but she does give him a pretty neat technique that creates a water-tight defense.
⊠. You may have gone too far. The paltry details youâve robbed from the storyâmere plot devices that only accelerate the male leadsâ growthâhave forged you into a war hero, practically capable of standing toe-to-toe with the Demon Queen herself. Well, not really. You wonât push your luck, even as youâre being awarded a medal of honour and a title for turning the tides. Itâs a viscountyâfar more than you expected, but youâll take it, even with the whispers in high society about you. A commoner turned noble. Oh, the scandalâthe horror. Truly, you could not care less as you return to the battlefield to find even more spoilsâexcept, you almost crash into a herald on your way and stare incredulously as he delivers the kingâs edict.Â
⊠. Guard His Holiness.Â
⊠. You were fine dealing with the murderous stare garnered from the Northern Duke as you politely bowed to the protagonist, fine with interacting with the two more rational male leads (though it was a controversial case when it came to Sir Argenti, if you were totally being honest), but His Holiness? Now, this wasnât a plotline you could have predicted. If memory serves you correctly, mad dogs of the battlefield are, you know, kept in the battlefield slaughtering demonsânot, you know, on guard duty. Is the king being for real?
⊠. He is, in fact, being for real. Part of you wants to take the rolled up parchment from the herald and bash it over your head, but another part of you appreciates the unexpected nature of the request. Or perhaps itâs expected, as the natural enemy of demons is the Church of Order, and they will likely be targeted by the hordes next. Except, youâre not quite sure why the most dangerous of the male leads, Sunday, needs protection. Of the unfortunate quartet, he is the most obsessiveâthe papal figure of Ena the Order, with his deluded faith coming only second to his absolute devotion to the heroine.Â
⊠. Though, on second thoughts, heading to the church might be the only plausible course of actionâyou know, consult with whatever god is running this place, get some answers to the questions that have really been bugging you, like the logistics of this world, and perhaps why this feels far too like an easy mode on a video game with all the clues laid in front of you. You want a real head scratcher, now that everythingâs fallen neatly into place: your wealth, title, and sick powers.Â
⊠. Except, as youâre kneeling before a statue of Ena and fervently wishing for some explanations and perhaps an answer for why things continue to be easy mode, a sickening chill spreads over your bodyâalmost as if THEY are laughing at you. Easy mode? THEY seem to scoff, before the feeling fades away and you stand up, feeling dread pool in your stomach.Â
⊠. Youâre just some guy. You took this job and didnât run away to the neighbouring kingdom, purely for the reason that your soul is about as clean as pond waterâmuch like all the other people who frequent the templeâand Sunday views these ordinary people, these sinners, with a benevolent sort of sympathy. Nobles and commoners alike are lumped in together as the âlambsâ who require salvationâincluding you, of course. The pure-hearted main character is a general exception to this ruleâsomebody who in his eyes, absolutely embodies light. Sheâs far purer than he is, which ironically serves as the sun to his wax-adhered wingsâcatalysing his imminent destruction and advent as someone whoâd do anything for her. The Sunday youâd read about with mild fascination will inevitably grow distant to the plight of peopleâwhich is perfect for you, either way, as you will be reduced to white noise, befitting of a mere guard.Â
⊠. Well, itâs not like he needs a guard, regardless. If you had to pick one positive of that novel, it would be evenly distributing the power levels of each male leadâmeaning that Sunday was comparable to the other three in his own right (or he might even be slightly stronger, considering your hijacking of key level-up materials of the other three). And in true novel fashion, heâd likely just dismiss you as soon as you announced yourself.Â
⊠. Which he does. Heâs not necessarily a tall man, but the way he dresses pristinely and talks in that clipped manner makes him exude a certain type of presence that makes you wary of numerous facets of his character: the almost-too-angelic image he presents himself with, the dark expression he wears when nobody can see him, and finally, the uncanny way he spots lies within someoneâs words. Of course, youâre not necessarily important enough to exchange words with, therefore itâs not like he can glean lies from your brief greetings when you come to fulfill your duties each day and are promptly dismissed from your post.Â
⊠. Thereâs no way of telling what point of the story youâre in. With how many things youâve screwed over, it could be over for all you knowâor there could be a parallel story culminating from all the butterfly effects youâve unleashed. Ah, whatever. Youâre strolling through the well-maintained courtyard with a divine treatise in one hand and the constant droning of Harpe in one ear, attempting to find a nice little shady nook to lurk and read in, when you see itâthe protagonist, presumably meeting the papal figure of the Order for the first time. The slight flutter of the wings by his face that denote him as part of an angelic race confirms it, and you turn on your heel abruptly, leaving them to talk.Â
⊠. Except, the protagonist is far too friendly for her own goodâand hasnât in fact forgotten about a commoner-turned-viscount who met her properly like once. She waves at you cheerfully, calling out your name, and you turn around slowlyâlike youâre in some horror movie, which you probably are.Â
⊠. âI didnât know you got transferred here!â Each time you see her, youâre reminded of the interns at your companyâfriendly, not yet crushed by the depressing reality of corporate life. It makes you feel bad for her, but then youâre reminded of who exactly stands next to her when you politely take her hand and bow your head over it in a perfunctory greeting.Â
⊠. âYes, as per His Majestyâs orders.â Youâre laconic in your usual state, which seems to cut you some slack with Sunday, who observes each miniscule shift of your emotions like some damn psychologistâthe general apathy you feel to the both of them, the yearning to go somewhere else (anywhere but here). You can feel the intrusion, and itâs a double-edged sword. If you succeed with this, you can successfully convince him youâre not a threat.Â
⊠. âWhat are you reading?â She spotted the book youâre half-heartedly keeping tucked by your side, and you can feel the intensity of Sundayâs stare increase. Shit.Â
⊠. âSome of the interpretations made by the Prophets.â You mutter truthfully, feeling as though youâre being interrogated. You hesitantly show the worn coverâwanting to be anywhere but here, under the Popeâs intense scrutiny of his guard.
⊠. âOh, really? Thatâsââ âThe manuscripts in the library arenât meant to be taken out of the building.â Sundayâs cool voice interrupts her, and you practically wither.Â
⊠. âMy apologies, sir. I was unaware of that.â Itâs best to smooth things over instantly: pathetically bowing your head to the Pope. âItâs Your Holiness, viscount. And itâs unseemly for a guard of mine to be unaware of two such crucial pieces of knowledge.â As expected, heâs meticulous about everything pertaining to his imageâso unbelievably fastidious that it mightâve irritated you had you not had so many years of working under irritating superiors.Â
⊠. âYes, Your Holiness. Then, Iâll excuse myself to return the treatise.â Thereâs not a trace of annoyance in youârather, a profound relief at him providing the convenient excuse for you to exit. It was probably on purpose that he did so, hoping youâd take the hint and leave, but it works very well for you.Â
⊠. âWaitâ is that the ancient language of âŒâŒâŒâŒâŒ?â Thereâs a brief pause, before you stare at the book again, prompted by her curious words. Itâs not in the fictional language of this place, but the ancient tongue had always been denoted in the novel as square brackets around the original English of the text for convenience, which indirectly manifested it as English when you reincarnated here.Â
⊠. âI suppose,â you mutter. Itâs rare to find clergy who can both read and speak it well, and even rarer for a regular layperson to do so. Itâs far too time-consuming to learn with the current alphabet of this place, and the pronunciation isnât intuitive at all based on how the words are constructed, considering the language here. It makes you wonder at the sloppy linguistic developments of this world, further supporting the hypothesis that youâre still in a fictional world.Â
⊠. [Youâre fluent and not just loitering about to waste time?] Sunday speaks, maintaining his even tone and crisp cadenceâthough theyâre tinged with some Argonian ways of speaking. The protagonistâs head swivels between the two of you, and you sigh internally at the prolonged disruption.
⊠. [Yes, Your Holiness. If I wanted to waste time, Iâd beat up your knights templar. But as it stands, itâs not like youâre letting me perform my job regardless, therefore I am in a state of loitering perpetually.] You bow your head once more, feeling a strange sense of vindication. [Now, if youâll excuse me.] Then, you leaveâparticularly refreshed after the little spat.Â
⊠. That is your first mistake.Â
⊠. The second comes from having befriended the Saint, Robin. Though formally, sheâs meant to be in isolationâguarded in her tower save for days where she descends to the realm of mortalsâyouâve felt sorry for the faceless girl and her quiet complaints, so youâve taken to spiriting away sweet foods from the outside and leaving them on her windowsillâusing the special footwork arts youâve trained in for such paltry purposes. As it turns out, Templar knights are more than willing to leave guard duty to a war hero, which means you become more or less a constant in her terribly lonely life. You feel horrible. Her voice has been blessed by the gods, and thus sheâs been reduced to a songbirdâshackled to a birdcage by the corrupted elders of the church.Â
⊠. Yet, she canât even escape, for the hold they have over her brother makes her unable to leave.Â
⊠. You only realise what a horrible mistake it is when the two of you end up bonding over literatureâon one side of the table, a veiled Saint eats some of the strawberry cheesecake that you baked after sneaking into the Temple kitchens at night, while on the other, you sit with a cup of hard coffee to knock some energy back into you. Wellâitâs not exactly then that you realise you fucked up. After all, youâre enjoying a pleasant conversation on the most mundane of things: the birds that fly past her window and occasionally stop by to bring her flowers, the weird sort of stiffness that the priests move with outside, and the unique taste of the cakes the pĂątissier in the village makes.Â
⊠. You donât bring up your past, nor her situation. Itâs the only respite she gets from her solitude, and itâs the only respite you get from your ownâtwo misfits within a strict hierarchy.Â
⊠. YetâŠ
⊠. âExplain exactly what you are doing here.â Cold fury vibrates through Sundayâs voice as he stands in the stone doorway leading into the Saint room. You freeze under his yellow-eyed, boreal glare; every second stretches into an infinity, and the cake on your fork wobbles in tandem with your hand.Â
⊠. Shit, isnât this breaking some kind of taboo? The veiled Saint pauses, then places down her fork tooâyet, sheâs not shaking in her boots like you are.Â
⊠. âDonât yell at him.â Youâre staring at her incredulously, and your fork clatters against your plate as you drop it. Sundayâs gaze swivels to her, and his brows furrow.Â
⊠. âAnd youâwhat have I told you about being careful?â Itâs not exasperation in his voice, but something else that you canât quite put your finger on. Concern? Nahâcanât be.Â
⊠. âSheâs not at fault,â you argue. But upon reflection⊠âNeither am I, actually. Iâm fulfilling guard duty whilst being her friend.â
⊠. Friend. You can tell her eyes are fixed upon you from beneath her veilâthough you canât tell theyâre brimming with some emotion. Sunday only scoffs at your wordsâhis unmoved mask wavers in the face of the Saint, it seems. âGuard duty? Youâre flagrantly disobeying protocol, again, while being a bad influence on the Saint. What are you doing here in the first place?âÂ
⊠. âStop it, Brother!â Her words send a shocked shiver down your spineâand sheâs pulling off her veil, showing you a face and wings that are practically a carbon copy of her brotherâs. All angry and red and yelling, and youâre left staring at two siblings squabbling over you. âHeâs one of the only things that have been keeping me sane in this misery. Iâm old enough to distinguish who I can trust and befriendââÂ
⊠. âRobinâŠâ he murmurs, wings agitated and flattened against his face. His lips part and close once more, before his eyes swivel to yours in a renewed glare. âAnd youââ
⊠. [Follow me.] His icy tone clearly translates into the tongue he switches to, and youâre essentially marched out by the ear. You haplessly look back at Robin, but all she mouths is âIâll see you laterâ. Itâs barely an assurance that youâll survive the encounter, but at this point, youâll take any assurance you can get.Â
⊠. You get your answer when he practically slams you down into a chair in his office, wiping his dove-grey gloves off as if youâre dirt reincarnate, and you scowl.Â
⊠. âAnswer me honestly,â he demands, and you nod with a swallow. You can feel the familiar intrusion rooting around in your mind, drinking in every change in emotion. âAre you seeking to harm Robin?â
⊠. âNo, Iâm not.â You hold his gaze. There are two sides to his personalityâthe apathy he feels towards everyone, and the care that he bequeaths onto those close to him. Itâs been like that in the novel throughout the duration of his arcâthis new, irritated side to him is one youâve never seen.
⊠. âI wouldâve thought a war hero would have a spine, but youâre far more pathetic than I thought.â Itâs a cutting remark, but honestly, youâre marvelling at the change.Â
⊠. âAll due respect, Your Holiness, but youâre my employer and this is a feudal system,â you reply neutrally, gazing at the floor as if itâs captivating you. The glare focused on you intensifies.Â
⊠. âI changed my mind. Report to me each morningâIâll put you to work.â
⊠. He lives up to his words. Rather than guarding him, youâre entrusted with translating manuscripts into this worldâs tongueâa task that had previously been split between him and two other cardinals, yet has now been unceremoniously delegated to you. Youâre paid, naturally, yet not for the damn job that you were meant to do.Â
⊠. âPour me some tea.â Itâs another flippant side to him that you only ever witness when youâre alone with him. If anyone walked in, all theyâd see after politely knocking would be a paragon of hard workâSundayâand his aide. Thatâs what youâve been reduced to from a mad dog of the battlefield.Â
⊠. âWhat am I, a maid?â you mutter under your breath, and his yellow eyes hone in on you in the precise glare that makes your spine prickle.Â
⊠. He only softens when he sees his sisterâinviting himself to the designated âtea timesâ the Saint has set for you, and merely staring at you whenever you speak, never deigning to reply to you but only Robin when she speaks to him directly.Â
⊠. âI think youâre the closest to a friend that heâs ever had,â she tells you one time, when heâs busy with the inevitable duties that come with being the pope. You donât say anything, laughing off her words internally. You? A friend? To Sunday? The maniac obsessed with divinity, the Order, and the protagonist? Itâs ridiculous. He challenges you to a duel that very nightâand you think itâs over. Heâs never shown his hand like this in the novel; those who witness him fight might as well be dead.
⊠. His divine power manifests itself as thornsâlooping and weaving in dangerous ways you barely manage to block with Harpe and Idrilaâs defense, crashing into the secluded ground of the Templar knightsâ training hall.Â
⊠. âWhatâs wrong?â he taunts. âDidnât you say you could beat templar knights? And here you are, struggling before a mere member of the clergy?â
⊠. You donât fall for his provocations. No, actually, you do. A magic circle activates. Another halo appears around his head.
⊠. Itâs a narrow victory, you think, but heâd claim it as hisâtwo bodies lie heaving in the sand, surrounded by the rubble of a training hall.Â
⊠. âYou know magic. Fix it,â he pants, looking down at his sweaty body in mild disgust. To be in such a stateâyou read his thoughts amongst the affronted flutter of his wings.
⊠. âIsnât divine power better for repairing things?â you comment sardonically. âI think Iâm all spent.â
⊠. âShould I report you to the king for lapsing in your duty?â he glares, sitting up.Â
⊠. âYou could,â you settle your hands beneath your neck contentedly. âIf anything, Iâd simply be fired and sent back to the battlefield. Iâve got armies to command, donât I?â
⊠. Thereâs a crack, before a pillar (that had been precariously canted at an angle) comes crashing down against the billowing grime of the hall. You startle, and whip your head to gaze at Sunday, who merely looks at you placidly.Â
⊠. âIs that so?â he murmurs. Thereâs something buried deep in his eyesâsomething implacable, as though he was the one that caused the pillar to snap in a fit of anger. Anger over your impudent words, most likely, and nothing elseâright? Right?
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âThink of what it could have been,
Think of all the suffering,Â
Nights of crying, wondering,Â
Tell me what awe youâre in?â
Deception comes second-nature to incubi; twisting serpents lay dormant in their flesh. This is truth. It is also true that for a wayward incubus, it is particularly hard to disguise one's demonic nature in the presence of an angel and an irritatingly sharp human. You don't recommend it at all, actually.
I MADE IT BEFORE MIDNIGHT!! halloween babyyy!!! anyways I promised to deliver a halloween fic and I did :3 this idea lowkey came to me in a dream and I think it's singlehandedly the freakiest shit i've ever written
edit: see I knew I was rushing to post when I forgot art creds
Moze drawing by @ma_mori74 and sunday is by @nai_pizx
pairings: angel sunday, human moze + incubus m reader (+ some foxian jiaoqiu)
warnings: nsfw, male reader, voyeurism, lowkey stalkerish moze, mentions of death/hell etc, religious imagery
wc: 16.1k
HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
. *àż
Tinny music crackles in your earphones that knot haphazardly at your chest, almost in sync with the subdued spark from your lighter. The song isnât particularly good (neither is the weather: a drizzle that always seems to drip from a perpetually ultramarine sky), but any shitty song would do to liven up the ambience of the smoking area in this particularly bleak corner of the campus.Â
Itâs blue, you note boredly. The smoke, that is, mingling with the vapour wisps of condensed breathing. Thereâs a certain meaning to be found in standing outside in subzero temperatures, finding peak entertainment in the clouds produced from your mouth as if you were some child. You just havenât quite found it. Meaning, that is.Â
Youâre sure thereâs one or two bad songs about it, if you scroll through the playlist enough.Â
Inhale. Bitter menthol washes over your tongueâyouâve long gotten used to the flavour. Of course, the glaringly red car that slows down on the road in front of you also helps in forgetting to appreciate any new notes of the stick between your lips, but you digress.Â
A window rolls down. The street-lamp glowing a frigid lazuline flickers precariously. You exhale, watching the smoke trace shapes over the bloody carâsome boxy shape that could totally be used as a muscle car. These things happen simultaneously. These things also wash the murky taints of calculus from your mind and instil some form of amusement into your week.Â
If you donât count maintaining your cover at a human university as being thrilling enough to regale anyone with.Â
Brusquely, a hand sticks out into the drizzle to wave at youâself-consciously, you wave back with a question clouding your mind. Though, it is almost immediately answered when street-lamp strains a bit more and you finally see the outline of an acquaintance you met while hauling boxes into your new dorm room at the beginning of the semester.Â
A tentative alliance, more like, with the both of you sniffing something off about the other.Â
âYo, Jiaoqiu,â you greet back after he beckons you closer. His glasses are slipping off his face, and your hand itches to push them back up.Â
Of course, it perhaps doesnât hurt in establishing closeness by being guts deep in him just a week ago.Â
âYouâll be there for the Film Fair, right?â he murmurs. You canât possibly miss how his eyes flick to your lips briefly: how his pretty throat is wrapped tight with a scarf tonight to protect from both the boreal chill and prying eyes, how his glasses canât seem to hide his incandescent gaze on the marks on your body, barely hidden by the loose shirt draped over you today.Â
He was on the culinary course, heâd told you a week ago, but you couldâve figured out that much from the exquisite breakfast heâd cooked for you in the morning: one you didnât need to eat. Instead, the sanguine flesh of berries had ended up being smeared on his skin alongside the mellow creamâyou couldâve surmised his degree from the divine taste of his body, easily. That, in your opinion, had been your best meal for a good while yet.Â
âYou want me there?â You take another drag of your cigarette, watching him watch you. In his eagerness, your keen eyes pick up on the glamour disguising his fluffy ears starting to wane; and unbidden, a memory rises to mind of a night much like this. Those same ears, pressed flat to his head, with that lilt of his voice sounding far less confident.Â
A friendship is forged with a good fuck, you wisely conclude.Â
âYeah, duh,â he breathes, and the vapour coming out of his mouth mingles with the smoke pouring from your own.Â
Or two.Â
âSend me the details,â you smile, a slanted one that mirrors your lax attitude. âYou still have my number, right?â
Of course he does.Â
âYeah, I do,â he clears his throat, almost shaking himself out of a stupor that he never noticed he was in. Thereâs a tense dance occurring between both of you constantly, and unfortunately for him, he can never quite outpace you. Itâs present in the regretful line of his mouth as he glances at the time on his phone, the lingering gaze that traces your being, and the downturned mirage of his earsâas if he forgets that you can see through his glamour. âIâll see you.â
âSee you,â you return, savouring the rich scent of energy that exudes from himâone he can never mask, for he cannot himself tell that it even exists.Â
As the cherry-red Mustangâor whatever car it isârolls away, you stroll back to the smoking area to appreciate the remnants of your cigarette: something you hadnât been able to due to all the distractions, as youâd like to put it.Â
But all is not well.Â
Instead, you resume your road-and-cigarette-smoke watching only to discover another pair of eyes meeting your own from the shadows cast by the lamplight across the street. With the prussic overcast to the sky, you once more donât recognise the figure afore you initially; until a car drives past and its glaring headlights reveal him for all but three seconds.Â
Moze.Â
You think youâve seen him around Jiaoqiu several timesâperhaps enough to rationalise that they are indeed friends, forged with something a bit more innocuous than a one-night stand.Â
But regardless of how you stand tangentially with your mutual buddy (or fuck-buddy in your case), the common threads that bind you also included that as of this year, he is your roommate. And classmate, too, in perhaps one of the most obscure classes to ever be known to man. If you had less of a spine, you mightâve wavedâbut as it stands, the wintry chill between the two of you suits you just fine. If anything, the fact that he hasnât beaten you up for sleeping with his friend leaves a positively amicable aftertaste in your mouth.Â
Absent-mindedly, you stub the cigarette into the already-bleak wall, leaving a rather abstract trail of ash behind. His nose wrinkles in distaste, but you ignore it. Â
Is it a sin for an incubus to be any more addicted to human creation? Wow. You really shouldâve been a philosopher.Â
Well, any more than it is being an abomination, you muse one final time, almost ruefully.Â
Almost.Â
. *àż
This ill-fated relationship begins as it does ordinarilyâby the two of you both taking an elective nobody else takes.Â
Well, more accurately, it begins the morning you see a poster for the strangest night class youâd ever seen.Â
Humans and their machinations.Â
This is truly a special version of hell.Â
Fragile wisps of breath condense in the autumn chill as you carefully read the poster pasted on the bulletinâformal black and white typeset, so painfully tasteless amongst the vibrant leaflets nestled around it. Though, the size eight lettering and bland format soon becomes the least of your irritations as your eyes wander down.Â
âWhat a joke,â you scoff incredulously, a bit too invested in your human persona to truly grasp that youâre losing the plot. Just a bit. Â
Really? âIdentifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midstâ was granted approval to be introduced as a new class, whereas the Cryptology course had been defunded and subsequently discontinued? The thought burns your mind, your soul, your very being.Â
âHow stupid,â you mutter, swiping open your phone.Â
The irritation surges, until it gnaws and bites at the cartilage of your sternum in a desperate attempt to free itself from the confines of your chest.Â
âReally, are they crazy?â you shake your head, typing your name right onto the form that finally materialises.Â
You may be loyal to your Cryptology elective, but itâs not like it ultimately makes a difference.Â
A class is a class, and your tenure in the human world relies on your ability to assimilate into this stupid place.
. *àż
You lied earlier, by the way. The piddling number of students in âIdentifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midstâ is not two, but three. Your moody roommate (whom you barely saw yesterday), you (who, as an incubus, really shouldnât be here) and the distinguished Sunday (who is also weirdly out of place but in the opposite way). Honestly, he probably knows this tooâglancing at the way your clothes are never weather-appropriate and always tousled as though you were wrestling in bed for a nap (given your nature, you probably were doing some form of wrestling), whereas his own shirts and slacks are always immaculately pressed and ironed. Heâs even got a damn overcoat for every day of the week, for fuckâs sake. Honestly, youâre half convinced the guyâs running some cult.Â
Regardless of how mismatched the Professorâs three students are, the bigger problem is how awkward the lecture hall is when the damn chairs outnumber the students. You can barely concentrate on Professor Hopkinsâ droning on selkie characteristics when you, Sunday and Moze are arranged artfully in an equidistant triangle from one another. Any more civil person would perhaps sit next to one of them to make the air a tad bit warmer, but youâre not even a person.Â
Youâre a demon.Â
You think you can afford to be uncivil.Â
Or at least, itâs the very bare minimum of rudeness you should maintain. Youâve suffered enough askance looks from both of them (which they never seem to level at each other) to comfortably assume that they have some sort of problem with you that theyâve formed a business partnership over. Shaking hands, all for the pursuit of disliking you more efficiently.Â
During the next lecture on kelpies, itâs the same story. Even the damned coordinates of the triangle are the same, thus when you stride in a minute before the Professor, you make the creative decision to shift one chair to the left to ruin whatever coordination theyâve got going on. It doesnât deign a glare, but you can feel the air grow even frostier. Amused, you stop paying attention to the information you could probably recite in your sleep, and instead decide to just people-watch the three sad individuals before you.Â
Thereâs Professor Hopkinsâperhaps one of the most insane people youâve ever had the displeasure of meeting. Heâs human through and through: reeking of such a scent that would put most madmen to shame. Alas, this madman is perhaps one of the most unrecognised in the realm of mortalityâconsidering only three people are taking his class, and a solid third is the very thing he is lecturing the dangers of. Youâve met your fair share of people who believe in monsters, but youâre amazed every time you walk into the elective: both by his zealousness and by the fact this class even got approved.Â
What a strange world the human world is.Â
Thereâs Moze. Over to your far left, and one row upâthe perfect place to observe the whole hall, but also the perfect place to look like a weirdo considering there are only three students and one stout little teacher yelling his wee lungs out at the front. You donât actually know why heâs taking this class, considering his other class is something on forensics. Or something. Youâre not exactly on amicable enough terms to interact with him, but youâd hoped that you had a somewhat sane roommate.Â
Itâs somewhat hard to hold onto that hope when he shoots you that look whenever Hopkins starts speaking. Actually, you canât exactly see the look considering heâs behind you, but you can feel the white-hot stare pierce your back: rolling energy tainted with suspicion.Â
Perhaps it was stupid to disguise yourself in an institute of higher learning where one would hope its students had an ounce of critical thinking.Â
But youâre choosing to ignore his glare to protect your own peace. The only person whoâd ever believe his deductions would be the madman lecturing now. Or not even him, since youâve been such a model studentâalready knowing so much about these creatures of the night.Â
Then thereâs Sunday. Youâve perhaps had half an interaction with the man, earning a polite, utterly distant âthank youâ as you arrived before him for once and held the door open behind you. Impeccable manners, straight-A student, and perhaps the most confounding. Your suspicions of him running a cult are only confirmed when you overhear he also studies Theology.Â
Heâs polite. Very polite. A bit too polite, so much that it honestly creeps you out more than any eldritch stuck in hell does. Because, why be that courteous to someone if youâre not planning on sacrificing them? However, youâre half convinced that behind those eyes, heâs planning some elaborate exorcism that nobody apart from himself knows about. And maybe you now.Â
Itâs unnerving.Â
Up close, the flow of his energy is humanâtoo perfectly so. Thereâs never any malice, or anger, or even boredom that taints the low thrum running through his vessels. Yes, the base is undoubtedly mortal, but with none of the complexities that make up the average human experience.Â
He regards you with a similar look to Mozeâsâfixing you with a stare that appears to be figuring you out and picking you apart. A scrutiny that should fall under its very own brand of suspicion, one that makes the heat under flesh and sinew only increaseâfor you donât think youâll be able to predict his next move, not if you canât ever read how he truly feels.Â
Or maybe that is how he feelsâand you donât know if thatâs more terrifying.Â
Unfortunately, these three profiles suggest your lunastic of a professor is the safest to be around, since the ebb and flow of zealousness pretty much remains consistent for each lecture (seriously, they approved this guy?). He poses a far lesser danger to you (the one who took this elective for fun) than the two other students (who took this elective for nefarious purposes, youâre sure). And he actually likes you; despite him conservatively eyeing the attire you wear in subzero temperatures, youâre a pro at his essays!Â
Alas, your propensity for avoiding your classmates has not worked out for you, you miserably conclude.Â
. *àż
You shouldâve stuck with your regular dinner of passively absorbing peoplesâ horny thoughts like some weird fucking sponge.Â
You really shouldâve, and now youâre cursing yourself as you morosely shovel what appears to be some inscrutable form of soggy college food past your stony lips. The food isnât the problem, though any self-respecting college student would probably be wincing and picking at it rather than dispassionately taking bite after bite like you are. Itâs a bit disheartening to know your cover could be blown from how you seem to truly appreciate the cooking, but in another life youâd argue your soullessness befits the statistics analysis youâre half-reading, half-doom scrolling past.Â
But the differential equations arenât the fucking problem either.Â
The problem is the man sitting across from you. Or more accurately, across and one seat to the left, because apparently heâs gracious like that.Â
You thought nothing of the flash of soft, dove-grey that you saw from your peripherals at firstânor the fluttering scarf that brushed ever so slightly by your bare shoulder. You were, after all, too preoccupied with clicking and unclicking your pen in irritation at the thick stack of paper by your tray. A bit too preoccupied, but you look up and suddenly youâve got a cult member all up in your face with way too many slices of raspberry cheesecake on his plate.Â
Thatâs what you notice at first, then you look up and itâs fucking Sunday of all people, resembling a word problem a bit too much with how many pieces are on his plate.Â
You disguise your shock. You hope itâs successful, but judging by his soft cough of surprise, you donât think you are. Mind racing, you turn back to your own plate and equations, connecting some dots far better than others (judging by the mindless scribbles on the sheet). Just to check, you observe his energy fluctuations a little longerâtheyâre still as incomprehensible as ever.Â
Inordinate amount of food. Emotions you canât read. A penchant for ignoring the finer points of human assimilation, such as staring at others a bit too fucking much.Â
âDo you need something?âÂ
Quit staring.
Of course, you keep the quiet part quiet.Â
Youâre sitting opposite an angel, after all.Â
Well, opposite and a seat away.Â
When you finally look back up, his usually cold gaze is even colderâyou wish you never said anything, even if itâs making your concentration in statistics flounder. With bated breath, you pray itâs simply because he doesnât like you, not because heâs about to possibly exsanguinate youâthen you laugh at yourself because youâre a demon, therefore no god will listen to your prayers. No matter how earnestly you try, nobody will hear your plea.Â
No demon would knowingly provoke an angel like this, or at least you hope they wouldnât. But youâre not most demonsâyou donât actually want to be sent back down to hell.Â
You hope that small fact erases whatever suspicions he has.Â
âNo,â he finally replies. His voice is strangely soothing, but you know that angels are never depicted as the temptation your kind are painted as. And as your eyes flick to your surroundings, you notice that some of the people sitting nearby are glaring daggers at you for even breathing in his presence. You half wonder if heâs recruited them into his cult already. âProfessor Hopkins told me to notify you that weâll have a group project briefing for the next lecture.â
âRight.â And he couldnât send an email? And this was important enough to break your silence for? And this merits your staring? The words, though poignant, die down on your tongue, but youâre sure he can feel the vexation contributing to global warming, just a little. Angels are unable to discern the rich nuance of lust and love, but even a plant would wilt from the shockwaves bursting from your tension headache. âMessage duly noted.â
He does not leave like youâd hoped. His fork instead cuts deep into the raspberry cheesecake, and you watch it bleed out on his plate.Â
Heâs no longer staring at you, but you know he is just as keenly aware of you as you are of him.
. *àż
Itâs not like you can avoid your damn roommate either, because that would probably raise more questions than youâre comfortable answering.Â
Youâre thankful Mozeâs quiet, though that gratitude is somewhat abated by him in general. Heâs too quiet, and in contrast anything you say will be far more incriminating. And while he stays in his room most of the time, you canât help but notice he seems to hang around on the living room couch a little too often whenever you stumble home late at night: reeking of a perfume not your own with kiss-bitten lips and a satisfied smile on your face. Like some fat cat licking its chops after a particularly gratifying meal.Â
Except youâre avaricious, and you come to the dorm often enough to recognise the pattern.Â
Not tonight though. Devil forbid you whore yourself out on a respectable Sunday evening (itâs totally not because the angel named thusly will know somehow, spotting the faint shimmer of tattoos, horns and a tail materialising in a brief mirage). Somehow.Â
On Sunday you rest. Or more accurately, you study from homeâglasses carefully perched on your nose, pen substituting a cigarette as you teeth at it with canines a little too sharp to be comfortable. You canât be expected to be biblical about itâfor good measure, you crack open a bottle of red wine with it, drinking straight from the bottle as you stare down the thick pack of proofs that are due tomorrow morning.Â
Itâs not hard to imagine why so many humans in hell become overseers, rather than good, hard-working demons.Â
Humans can simply be more evil and still convince themselves that this is for the better.Â
It may be foolish to display your vices sprawled in the living room armchair, but you blame both the wine, the record player you brought, and the sensuous ambience youâve carefully curated in the space. Is it a sin to do work in an environment that makes your heart pump just a beat faster?
Well, the seriousness of your crime is weighed against the salient fact of the matter: that youâre trying to avoid your roommate, not maximise your chances of encountering him.Â
What a pickle.
You, like the hard-working demon you are, would prefer to not fail your degree and thus decide prudently to remain where you can wallow in both languor and academia. With cherry wine staining your lips, and the flicker of a warm cedarwood candle perched on the coffee table, itâs no wonder youâve settled into a strange rhythm. Or maybe itâs something in the air, like the doleful sounds of old records youâve collected throughout the yearsâones youâll always regretfully dismiss as replicas, but who knows?
What a pickle indeed.Â
Tonight, the roles have switched. At around ten, you hear the almost-silent glide of keys in your lock, and you brace yourself for the maelstrom that Mozeâs presence will inevitably bring. Like clockwork, you scrutinise the flow of energy that you can dimly feelâonly to be completely blindsided when you feel a distinctly familiar one beside it. Two presences that are much too observant, but one thatâs withdrawn and almost curling in on itself, whereas the other flows with ease.Â
Brusquely, the door is shouldered open. You lock eyes with the Moze who prowls in, the Moze who is uncharacteristically gazing right back at you, the Moze who still for the life of him canât soften that guarded expression that casts deep shadows onto his eyes. Then, despite yourself, your focus shifts to the one behind himâJiaoqiu.Â
The waves radiating from the Foxian seem to expand on seeing you, and almost immediately the taste feels warmer as you absorb itâa perfect consistency you know heâs feeling as an embarrassed prickle beneath his skin. Even if you werenât an incubus, you could put two and two together from his slightly parted lips, the peony gently brushing over his features like watercolour, and his tentative steps into the dorm.Â
He murmurs your name in surprise, and perhaps thatâs the most conversation these walls have ever heard since you and Moze became roommates.Â
âI didnât know you and Moze were rooming together,â he begins with that soft cadence of his. Subconsciously, you sit a little straighterâkeenly aware of him, after learning the signs of his body so well.Â
But before you can reply, Moze answers for youâthe most youâve ever heard him speak.Â
âDidnât get round to telling you.â Each word is heavier than you can comprehend, tainted with a bluntness that suits him. It makes your gaze snap back to his face, and you swear the corner of his lip twitches upwards before he turns to you to talk. âHope you donât mind me having him over for a bit.â
âItâs fine. I like him,â you shrug, and the corner resumes its neutrality once more. Not like you see itâyouâve turned back to your work as if there isnât a gnawing hunger slowly uncoiling under fragile dermis, as if you canât smell every speck of desire and bashfulness slowly undulating within Jiaoqiu. You do like him, and not just as a meal. His tongue cuts sharp, beneath his fumbling, clumsy touches that seem so graceful when not encumbered by sheets.Â
You just hope you wonât die of starvation before you wrap up the calculus. That would be an embarrassment for the ages.Â
Alas, you donât actually end up finishing your work. The sanguine liquid pooling into your mouth may not be enough to intoxicate you, but you can feel a pleasant warmth buzz through your veins. Of course, thereâs warmth from that and warmth coming from sitting close to two heated bodies in a tipsy screening of some horror movie youâve never seen.Â
Calculus can wait another day. When Jiaoqiu stumbled from Mozeâs room with a sweetness on his breath and a tight grip around your wrist, you gladly let yourself be rescued by the surprisingly strong Foxian. He led you right back in, and you were practically floored at how easily you just⊠stepped into the space, with Moze simply eyeing you rather than that cautious glare he so often wore.Â
The Foxian pushed you into soft carpet, and you could feel Mozeâs body tense up as your side collided with his ownâthe floor space was just about large enough for three guys to sit, but he made no move to move, thus you attributed it to the buzz he felt.Â
Itâs dark.Â
Itâs dark, and youâve got your reticent classmate on one side of you, and the acquaintance-or-not on your other, practically curled up into your body with how heâs draped himself.
Naturally, you donât end up paying attention to any of the movieâsome flick you think you saw a century ago. Sure, the screams are totally realistic, but who can blame you for being distracted? Youâve got the object of your avoidance on one side, and then someone you think is deliberately pushing himself into your âhungryâ radar.
You would be quite partial to imploding, but unfortunately that is not a power you possess.Â
But despite all your gripes, this is nice in its own, painfully ironic sort of way.Â
. *àż.
Of course you donât end up stealing a kiss outside the buildingâMoze taking the opportunity to clean the bathroom obsessively while buzzing from the liquor, while you walk Jiaoqiu out.Â
Of course you donât mean to, but youâre drunkenly complaining of the professor for your statistics module, and heâs merely gazing. When the sunâs long gone to its slumberâand the only light available is the halo around your head from the flickering streetlampâwho can blame him for the way his eyes drink your pout in, the way heâs getting lost in the way you smell? Menthol cigarettes and something sweeter, something his nose picks up that could be caramel but could also thrum deep in your veins to intoxicate others.Â
He cuts you off when it gets too much for him, right when you push your glasses up to continue to ramble comfortably.Â
ââevery lecture, I swearâmmphââÂ
You swear up-and-down you werenât planning this; youâre taken completely aback as he surges, pressing you up against the rough brick of the building. Heâs warm, you think deliriouslyâwith his hand cradling your cheek and his other nestled in the back of the loose pullover youâre wearing, youâre warmer than youâve been in weeks.Â
Itâs not desperate, but you can feel the build-up of emotion behind it: taste the cherry on your breath, the tequila on his. Alcohol may have prompted this, but even a fool could savour the heavy yearning on his tongue.Â
âJiaoqiu,â you mumble, but he merely tilts your head, nipping at your slicked lips with an eagerness he only seems to display when itâs the witching hours. Heâs shorter than you, yet tonight heâs the one caging you in an inescapable lockâso hungry, so avaricious and naturally, you oblige, raking your hands in his pink hair.Â
You taste blood. You taste life as you feel his steady pulse against your body, lust as he groans and melts into your touch, desperation as he entwines his arms around you with the sole goal of pressing himself into you even further.Â
You are equally insatiable, gradually feeling the vivid colours flow from his tongue onto your own.Â
You are equally gluttonous, but your work isnât going to finish itself and youâre quite a good demon, if you do say so yourself.Â
You are equally voracious, and perhaps completely degenerate, yet still you wistfully and regretfully ease your lips from hisâthough your hands remain white-hot on his body.Â
Itâs enough energy to get through the rest of this day and then some. Itâll do. It has to do.Â
âIâll see you at the Film Festival,â he murmurs, but the two of you know the encounter between you both will be soonerâa clandestine encounter between sheets, in fact.Â
Heâs walking home, so you watch him disappear into the nightâand when his small figure is swallowed up in the void space between street lamps, you watch a little while longer.Â
Unbeknownst to you, someone else has been watching this entire time too.
*àż.
Film - demons, seduction, succubi and incubi, you scrawl in your notebook, already feeling a healthy dose of apprehension, amusement and mild horror at Professor Hopkinsâ chosen group project.Â
â...due a week from now. Since there are only three of you, why donât you boys work together?â Clearly, he is impervious to the chill that still lingers between you and your fellow classmatesâthe triangle is still at its maximum area, and you donât envision it changing any time soon. Horror upon horrors, he then adds something that makes you shiver in your seat. âIâll play it as our departmentâs submission for the Film Festival.â
Once more, you wonder how the department was approved in the first place.Â
Then, the thought slips your mind as you first lock eyes with Sunday, then Moze only a minute later. Iâm screwed. You donât think youâve ever been on such a tightrope before: wildly cartwheeling your arms back-and-forth while dangling over a fatal precipice. You will not survive thisânot the research on incubi, nor the actual group project.Â
You can only pray your two intelligent classmates do not put two and two together for once. After all, youâre the mathematician out of this mismatched trio. Any semblance of hope you had at making it through the year is slowly dissipating.Â
*àż.
ââŠedit it documentary style. Itâs professional, organised, and will suit the Professorâs tastes.â Sundayâs mellifluous voice washes over you as you sit in the campus library with your classmates, desperately trying to look engaged.Â
It does not work.Â
Sundayâs fountain pen wavers in the air and turns on you, and your heart jolts and skips past a few beatsâit looks far too close to a weapon for your liking, and you would not trust an angel with a dagger for the life of you. Or without the dagger. He does not inch it closer, but itâs rather an unconscious mirroring of his thinking that betrays that heâs about to scold you for falling asleep. Youâre thankful for the table that separates the two of you, but you fear wood can only do so much to counter flames of divine punishment.Â
But before he can lecture you, Moze beats him to it. And for the record, you donât know how he ended up sitting right next to you, and youâd like to complain.Â
Leaning across his chair, he gets unnecessarily close to talk to you, and itâs not like whatever heâs saying is important.Â
âDo you have anything to addââ and here his leg ghosts up against yours, but you donât flinch. At least, you donât think you do. ââor did you not get enough sleep last night?â
His voice is lowâenough that thereâs an undercurrent of tension without him even trying. You choose not to reply directly to him; instead, you look at Sunday once more, and you swear you feel a spike of irritation from the angel. But, surely not, right?
Mulling your words over, you carefully select a sequence that wonât land you a one-way ticket back to hell. Thereâs a certain trick to this, you seeâand thatâs crossing your fingers and thinking of an escape plan in the event you fail, or the shameless cowardly demon approach. It may not land you a spot among the Lieutenants, but it sure is better than being skewered by some angel.Â
Especially one named Sunday. You disguise your grimace.Â
âUhh,â you wrack your brains, before settling on the first thing your mind falls uponâyesterday night, all cozied up with Jiaoqiu. Fuck. âA horror movie.â
You can feel Mozeâs stare burn into dermis, sizzle a bit, then singe your very bones.
âThatâs anâ unconventional idea,â Sunday coughs, and you remind yourself that angels are way meaner than youâd expect.Â
âIf you think itâs ill-founded, then I would like to remind you our professorâs maturity doesnât necessarily mean heâll enjoy an orthodox style,â you argue, suddenly remembering that angels are also ill-suited for debates and âgotchasâ, and also that incubi can honey their tongue to saccharine degree.
Fuck. Youâve really spent too much time in the human realm.Â
Before Sunday can get a word in, you keep talking, desperate to look enthusiastic to discuss incubi and possibly give yourself away. âIf itâs being entered into the Film Festival, a mockumentary or a horror film could be both informative and entertaining. Or even a silent film.â
âItâs succubi and incubi,â Moze mutters. âIf there were more people Iâd bet thereâd be one group submitting porn.â
You stifle a cough, but you donât think you did it well.Â
âWhat, with Hopkins as the intended audience?â you glance at him, and see the traces of laughter on his mouth, and suddenly your own feels somewhat dry. Just a little.Â
âYeah, imagine,â he matches your airy toneâand the proximity forces your heart to lapse. Just a little.Â
Sundayâs glare bores into both of you. âCan the two of you take this seriously? We are absolutely not doing that.â
If you ever forgot he was an angel, this is a poignant reminder. Should you squint, you think you can see a faint halo around his head, but that could also honestly just be the library light causing the incandescence.Â
âYes, which is why we should do horror or a mockumentary,â you interrupt. This is the only fight youâd ever attempt with an angel, and boy do you deserve a medal for it like the humans do. âThe topic isnât particularly⊠uh⊠safe for work, so horror would convey the right message that we investigate in each class, while still having space for detail. Think something like found footage horror films or something.â
âYou raise a good point,â Sunday deliberatesâif there was anything good to say about angels, it would be that they are gracious with their concessions. Some concessions. âFine.â
Fine.Â
Fine.
Fine.Â
With glee, you save the moment to brag about when you next visit downstairs. I got an angel to agree with me.Â
But simultaneously, you compose your face, knowing the next item on the agenda will inevitably be the very topic of the proposal.Â
Suddenly, you no longer feel the glee of just a minute ago.Â
Oh shit.Â
*àż.
The most abject misfortune in your long life, it should be duly noted, does not in fact occur that particular night.Â
It occurs the next night. Perhaps it was too much to ask for when you pleaded for just this year: uninterrupted, normal, uninterrupted. It mightâve stemmed from you spamming omg on social media too much, but itâs not like you could realistically use any other alternative without getting flagged as suspicious. Call it a habit caused by humans, or whatever.Â
Disregarding the blasphemy, the day starts normally, and gives you hope (ill-founded, you know). Like all mornings, you begin with breakfast, a coffee and a cigarette outsideâand a quick dose of Mozeâs early-morning glare. As with all days, you ignore itâbut there seems to be something underlying beneath its surface. Something deeper, as if heâs trying to figure you out; as though his eyes are meticulously stripping away your dermis with forensic precision, paring away sinew from your bones and finding the interweaved remnants of your blackened soul.Â
Itâs a Friday, with exactly one morning lecture on probabilityâthen a project research session with Hostile and Hostiler in the comically empty lecture hall.Â
Or Hostile and Slightly Less Hostile.Â
Or even Awkward and then Tentative Teamwork.Â
The bowl of cereal from this morning does nothing to suppress the ravenous feeling thatâs slowly taking over your mind. It would be fine if you didnât have a morning class, but alas nobody ever seems to hear your prayers as you sit through two hours of quite possibly the most onerous yammering youâve ever heardâand youâve heard the Avatar of Pride yap.Â
Every day your hypothesis seems to be proved rightâhumans would do a fine job running hell.Â
But no one will ever listen to the humble incubus, you muse as you sling your books onto your bed and pick up the folder youâve compiled on incubi, succubi and demons of seduction. Itâs detailed, but everything is neatly cited and completely untraceable to your brains specifically. If you rang up your friends and falsified a few sources along the way, who could possibly be able to tell?
Strewn within the sheets is some inaccurate information. If they correct you on it, itâs all well and good, but perhaps even better if they gain some misconceptions along the way.Â
You donât mind cheating a little in academia, if the subject is idiotic enough.Â
And if your perfectly perfect human life stays intact because of it, you donât mind being a little unethical with your information practices.Â
Just a little.Â
Irregardless of your questionable academic ethics, youâre beginning to feel light-headed by the early afternoon. Some would say itâs karma for defiling the sanctity of this fine learning establishment, but you know full well it was the measly kiss youâve had as a proper mealâsomething insubstantial and far too light to count as a true dinner. Jiaoqiu was more of a snack, and already youâre reminiscing over the flavour of his lips.Â
Really, you should be a gourmet.Â
âŠItâs also becoming increasingly clear that your thoughts are veering substantially off-track, though who can blame you when your head is beginning to throb and your mouth is becoming more parched by the minute.Â
You donât think itâs ever been this bad before, but then again youâre one of the oldest of your speciesâyour full maturation is only moons away. Or more. Or less. Itâs hard to conceptualise the time of the underworld when youâre on the surface.Â
Tonight, your skin will likely burn like molten rock, reshaping and rekindling you into a form better than yesterdayâs. Hunger will only intensify the process, making it far more painful. And you are hungry, with a body practically screaming at you to absorb some emotion. Anger. Hatred. Misery. All of these are copious in this highly pressurised environment, but these are fleeting on your tongueâbitter and grainy and not worth the effort of satiating yourself with.Â
The clock is only ticking forward. You canât not make it to your project meetingâthat would for sure rouse the angelâs suspicion, and you cannot afford that. Not tonight. Not any night, actually, if you can help it.Â
You donât want your time here to end. Â
With each step towards the door, your ribcage feels like itâs about to swallow you wholeâso insatiable it mightâve been easier for you to be labelled as an Avatar of Gluttony instead. Not a lot of sand remains in your hourglass, though youâre not stupid.Â
There are contingencies for times like these.
Jiaoqiu has class, you wrack your brains. If thereâs anyoneâŠ
It would probably be the Avatar of Lust whoâd be able to help youâyou think youâve seen her several times around before, feeling the familiar âfingerprintâ of demons amidst a crowd of human energy.Â
The walls are far too grey as you roam the halls. At some point, you think you start seeing the people you pass morph into a singular identity, filled with the same struggles, crises and misery as everyone else.Â
Itâs barely enough to sate the throbbing that beats in tandem with the secondsâa dull ache that only grows more poignant with time. If you tried, you could probably manually take your mind and crack it like a pomegranate to quell the pain, but alas you havenât quite figured that one out yet.Â
There.Â
âWow, you look a mess.â Bleary-eyed, you watch as the colours coalesce into a faint figure, but it may just be delirium. Her cold hands brush across your face and tilt it from side to side, and you hear her whistle lowly at the heat from your skin.Â
You think youâre delirious.Â
âMost definitely are,â the woman shrouded in purple replies. Can she read minds? âPoor little incubus, babbling his little heart out. So, what will it be? I can bring you the finest strains of human joy and wreckage, or I can send you straight back from whence you came for your metamorphosis. Pretty boy, I could even get you set up for the night with a few humans.â
Her words merge and plume into smoke in your brain.
âGot a meeting for a group project right now,â you slur. Your sluggish register of your surroundings makes it impossible to sense the faint, familiar energy so far off in the distance. Itâs a soft dove-grey, and utterly neutralâso removed from the filth of the human realm that youâd stop and admire it any other day. âCould you make this go away for a bit? Iâm screwed if I donât.â
âOh?â Lust bursts out in a too-loud peal of laughter, slamming her hand on the wall behind her to stabilise herself. You wish someone would do the same to your head. âI see. Iâve heard the rumours, but I didnât think youâd be this deprived.â
She doesnât make any sense, you note wonderingly, but strangely her giggles make you slightly more reassured.Â
âI make all the sense,â Lust informs you. âWhat a rude little demon you are. But donât worryââÂ
Her nails dig into your skin, and you feel the air grow slightly colder, as if some equilibrium has finally been disrupted. Or maybe youâre stupid, and youâre finally succumbing to whatever this process will require.Â
But she glances behind you, and brings your face closer to hers a brief second later. ââI just found somebody very interesting to help you out, and I barely need to do anything to help you.â
âWhat?â you mumble. The strange feeling youâre getting from the distance is growing stronger. Just a bit, but you donât really think it matters.Â
What truly matters is that your group project meeting is only twenty minutes away, and youâre barely holding on to the wisps of your sanity that still linger.
âYou havenât been very helpful,â you add, but then her eyes roll exasperatedly and Lust kisses you with all the weight of a butterfly. You donât think youâve ever kissed anyone this casually, as though itâs the absent-minded brush of powder across oneâs nose, or the faint tap of blotting lipstick. She tastes like the rich last bite of cake, and she pulls away with the speed it typically gets eaten with.Â
âUh, thanks?â you mutter perplexedly, for the emotion of other demons simply doesnât satiate incubi the same way other speciesâ do, but it is appreciated nonetheless. At least, it temporarily soothes the faint pounding of hands against your cranium like an Ibuprofen does a head-splitting migraine. Sheâs still close to your face, and you can see a self-satisfied smirk slowly unfolding under that maraschino glossâall pink and conniving.Â
Lust. What a strange woman she is.
âI think youâll be fine,â she whispers one last time, before traces of bergamot and vanilla seep into the candy-tinged air. She really doesnât make any sense, you drowsily reaffirm, but before you can ask her to elaborate on her cryptic message, something vice-like tightens around your wrist and wrenches you from Lustâs clutches.Â
Youâre being dragged, practically, by something attached to a soft pearl-hued glove. A hand. No, a person. No, an angel whom you were so careful to not touchâwho is now gripping onto your arm as if you could possibly run away.Â
It takes you precious few sand grains to realise the true gravity of the situation.Â
Shit. Shit shit shit. To make matters worse, your lucid thoughts are limited to only one section of your brainâthe rest are all struggling to keep up with his fast pace.Â
âWhatâs wrong?â you ask the wall of grey before you, and for a brief moment you think you see the flash of a halo in the dim hallway. You think you can feel the impenetrably icy wall of his composure crack, just a little.Â
But thatâs impossible.Â
Angels arenât subjected to the sorrows of human experience.Â
âSunday.â You say his name for the first time, tainting the angelâs identity with a tongue that has been coated by filth and sweetened with the most saccharic honey. âSunday.â
He casts a long look over his shoulder, one that reflects his usual disapproving stare. Without looking, he easily fits the key into the  âIdentifying and Apprehending Olde Monsters in Our Midstâ lecture theatre, and you must remind yourself once more that this is the most simple of childâs play to a being like him.Â
âIt is time to work on our project, is it not?âÂ
Can he feel your fever? Can he feel the tense energy that youâre struggling to control?
Your eyes slip past him onto the clock, which still indicates a good ten minutes remain until the pencilled slot. âAlmost. Mozeâs not here, either.â
His grip tightens, minutely. âHeâll join us later. Iâve asked him to purchase some film and get a better camera from the Media department.â
Then, he lets you go abruptly as though burntâyouâre left clutching your folder and with a profoundly confused expression on your face.Â
âRight,â you mention awkwardly, rubbing at your wrist and wincing at the painful feverish heat youâve been emitting. Thereâs still that awful dry feeling in your mouth, but youâd rather keel over and die rather than give yourself away in front of an angel. âNo time like the present, am I right?â
âThat truly is the principle we should strive to embody.â Sundayâs voice grows muffled as he carefully rummages around in the cupboard at the front of the auditoriumâyou take the opportunity to both pat your back for diffusing the tension, and place your folder neatly on the large table that also loiters at the front. Youâd normally take your seat at the back of the lecture hall, but tonight the eve grows dark and the only light is the harsh fluorescent one that shines from above and casts only the table in a clinical ambience.Â
âWe can start slightly earlier,â he murmurs, closer than you anticipated, standing right behind you as you sink into the swivel chair by your research. You fight back a scream at his sudden appearanceâthe unexpected pop-up of an angel never bodes well, after all.Â
âThatâs⊠not a problem,â you smile, ignoring the pounding headache that seems to have decided to make itself known once more. âDo you want to compare research first to make sure weâre on the same page?â
âNaturally.â His voice is slightly lower than it normally is, and you attribute it to the lull of the lecture hall and its secluded location within the building. Even on the most busy of days, you never actually see anyone walk past the glass windows that panel a strip in the doorâyou swallow nervously at the thought of being sequestered here with an angel. âIs it alright if I record the behind-the-scenes process of our progress?â
âLike to bolster the found footage feeling, or using it to bolster the mockumentary?â you probe, trying to conceptualise his earlier ramblings of sending Moze off for a better camera. He appears to notice the puzzling expression you sport.
âThere was a rather grainy camera in the cupboard here. We should record with both to compare the texture,â he explains, and you accept it with relative ease.Â
After all, angels canât lie. âAlright.âÂ
He murmurs something under his breath, a low âperfectâ before heâs setting the camera up to capture both of you.
Perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.Â
The word lingers in your mind. You donât quite know why.
*àż.
â....incubi are thought to feed on the life force and emotions of their victims, and may also cause sleep paralysis. They are male demons who seduce their victims, particularly women, and have sexual intercourse with them,â Sunday pauses. Youâre acutely aware of his knee brushed up against yours, how he monitors your face and notes between reading out whatever heâs written in neat, looping handwriting.Â
Heâs warm. Heâs warm, but youâre scalding to the touch: feverish and more than somewhat delirious. Sundayâs words fade in and out like the two of you are underwater; you can only curse at Lust for misleading you, as help is nowhere in fucking sight. Instead, sheâs doomed you to be stuck with an angel scrutinising every move you make.Â
âThatâs what I got too,â you mumble, shuffling your sheets to find the relevant information. Your glasses slip down your nose, but before you can push them up, a pale glove gently slides them up your faceâand you startle. âAh, thanks.â
âNo problem,â he smiles, yet it doesnât reach his pale eyes. âDid you get any more information?â
âNot that I can think ofâŠâ you trail off, mind going blank at the most critical time. âSorry, Iâm a bit under the weather tonight.â
âDonât worry,â he chuckles, but thereâs something thatâs sharper than usual in the cloud of energy surrounding him. Something off in the angel masquerading as human, in the computer designed by the creator. âIâve already got some ideas on how to portray these ideas in the film.â
Thereâs a slight sheen on your faceâhalf nerves, half the fever thatâs consuming mind and body at a ferocious pace. With glazed eyes, you can only nod.Â
âPoor thing,â he hums, sympathetically distant in the way only angels can be.Â
Somethingâs wrong.Â
The cold back of a gloved hand touches your forehead tenderly, like if he were cradling the divine metal of his weapon.Â
âDidnât get enough emotions lately?â he asks condescendingly, and you freeze.Â
âWhat?â you squint up at him through the lenses, still trying to play it offâbut really, youâre attempting to process what he said.Â
âIâm joking,â he smiles once more, but thereâs something awfully false in the curl of his lipsâsomething wrong and twisted in how his hand shifts to cradling your face in his palm. Still so gentle, but now with a terrifying sort of control that was not there a mere second ago.Â
âRight,â you mumble, peering up at him with wide, hazy eyes. Itâs no longer the fluorescent lighting thatâs hurting your eyesâbut rather the emergence of a halo behind his head that you force yourself not to react to. That would be a dead giveaway.Â
You can barely breathe. No longer does oxygen circulate through your vesselsâthere is only the thick undercurrent of tension you swallow, only the suffocating grasp he has on you, both physically and mentally.Â
Too close. Heâs still smiling like nothingâs wrong, as though you arenât a filthy demon and can still be forgiven if you merely clasp your hands like the humans do and confess your sins.Â
Hell is filled with humans like these.Â
âIt must be so hardâŠâ he breathes. A soft, gloved thumb strokes your cheek, feather light, but you barely feel it over the hummingbird thrum of your heart and mind beating in sync. Like trapped prey, youâre honed in to each and every move; and like trapped prey, youâre wondering why the executioner chooses to trace the path of the arrow over your body.Â
Your tongue is leaden.Â
There is nothing you can say to save yourself.Â
âIt must be so hard being a demon,â he purrs with that quiet, lenient tone of his.Â
A feather brushes past your cheek; the angelâs wings have now unfurled.
An Archangel.Â
You pray your end is quick.Â
His hand moves up, and with demulcent grace, he thumbs the ridged edge of the horns that spiral from your head, ones that you didnât even notice had appeared.Â
Your mouth opens and closes, but embarrassingly the honeyed tongue you so valued has failed you with your neck on the line.Â
âNow, now, you didnât think youâd get away with it, did you?â he soothes, and you feel each and every ministration the Archangel delivers to the manifestations of your otherness on your head.Â
This only feels more cruelâa disturbing mercy to grant a prisoner about to be executed.Â
âIâŠâ the sinner closes his mouth, already knowing itâs futile.Â
âYou,â Sunday repeats, tilting his head. The halo tilts with himâlarge, unblinking eyes interspersed with smaller ones, all honed in on you. Theyâve all got the same psychedelic quality, and in any other life you may have been fascinated with how they gaze so earnestly at somebodyâs soul. But not tonight.Â
Tonight, theyâre the eyes that will see through you and judge the very mettle intertwined with sinew and flesh and blood.Â
âPlease kill me quickly,â you murmur. Perhaps the Archangel will grant you a final mercy thatâs never afforded to even the most pious of humans. The uncertainty of death is infinitely longâgrain upon grain upon grain of sand. If your soul burns up in those divine flames angels so like to use on your kind, youâre not sure youâll even regenerate back in hell.Â
His hand pausesâitâs settled on top of your head now, brushing past the hair and merely resting upon it. Heâs not looked away from you all this time: watching how your eyes grew wide with denial, with fear, and now how your eyelids lower with the weight of resignation. What a heavy burden, he may be thinking, but you wouldnât know for itâs impossible to guess what an angel thinks, and an Archangel specifically.Â
Your breath catches in your throat.
Slowly, experimentally, his gloved hand bows your head far enough that youâre forced off the chair and onto the ground with your knees scraping the frigid linoleum. Like this, youâre a sculpture of repentance: hands desperately clutching each other, lips open in what appears to be grief, and perhaps the anguish of the unknown that resides deeply in each pupil. Of course, if you were human that would be one thing, but on your head lie two jagged horns, sweeping the ground is a long tail, and inked across your arms and lower back are constant reminders of your sin.
You are an abomination masquerading as human, gazing up at the being who holds your lengthy life in his hands.Â
Thereâs a painful sort of irony in this situation.Â
You canât even beg for your life.Â
âPoor little lamb,â he repeats, with an empty sort of pity in his eyes. Empty, for what youâre finally feeling rolling off him in waves isnât pity, nor sympathy, but something that makes you believe youâre truly hallucinating. Maybe the shock made you go mad.Â
He leans down to examine you, and the wings that flutterânestled in dove-grey hairâbrush carefully over your face, with softness you still remain puzzled by,Â
Bitterly, you smile at himâa wretched thing, tasting acerbic and of your birth on caustic brimstone.Â
âThereâs no point in dragging this out,â you mutter, too tired from the pain of your growth and the exhaustion of fear to prolong this any longer.Â
Thereâs a sudden jolt of irritation in the tranquil waves emanating from the angel, and youâre starting to think that maybe that first emotion you felt from him wasnât a hallucination.Â
You glance up finally, and the expression on Sundayâs face is mired by shadow with a faint flush beneath it: like heâs the one besieged by a fever and not you.Â
âI could help you, you know,â he breathes, and itâs then youâre able to finally put a name to the feeling clouding whatever the hell was going on with his energy waves.Â
Lust.Â
Thereâs also something so painfully ironic about thisâthe emotions youâre absorbing from an Archangel are enough to snap you out of your trance. In fact, their purity and abundance are hastening your transformationâheâs aiding you, and the very fact makes you quiet.Â
âYou wonât survive even if I donât kill you, demon.â His gaze is cold, but heâs entrancing.
You focus your attention on his legs spread in the chairâthe pressed and meticulously ironed grey slacks he wears in particular. Theyâre soft, wool-blend, worth several thousand easily. Imbued within each strand is the intrinsic scent of him: the bergamot, the vanilla, the faint vestiges of cake. But beneath that is a clean scentânot quite the fragrance of fresh laundry, but one that seems to perfume the air with sunlight.Â
Heâs an Archangel, you remind yourself.
âGo on,â he goads, voice all breathy. An Archangel far too used to authority, whoâs currently cradling your life in glove-covered hands.Â
âSunday,â you murmur, trailing a finger along the neat crease in his slacks. While he stares down at you stonily, there are monumental cracks in his composure that you detectâthe tensing of his thighs, and the sudden spike in vitality from your readings. âYou really wanna make a mess of these?â
His face flushes a more delicate pink, yet to his credit the angel doesnât waver at the implication.
âThey can be cleaned, can they not?â Heâs pristine. Without a doubt, you ruining the almost sacrosanct cleanliness of Archangel Sunday signals a shift far too corrupted.Â
You swallow, resting your hands right where each thigh is plush with muscle. Heâs watching: every move carefully documented, every sin filed away, every blasphemy to be recited at the confessional. The first wrinkle in his clothes by your fingers marks the irreversible transgression youâre about to commit. The camera, too, silently records this clandestine affair.
(âWill your creator see this?â you want to ask.)
(More importantly: will he forgive you, Archangel Sunday?)Â
You wet your lips, tasting the residual cherry gloss that lingers on the flesh. He keeps vigil: taking in how your tongue darts out, how you lower your head until your cheek is a mere breath away from his thigh.
He feels it, the hot air slowly being blown onto the muscleâas evidenced by the further hues decorating his energy. A twinge of impatience now taints the otherwise unsoiled intensity; it causes far more marvel in you than you wouldâve thought.Â
Every minute shift of hands against fabric is distinctly felt. You know thisâyou see it in his slacks growing a little tighter, in how his chest briefly stops its rise and fall.Â
Sunday is no better at playing an angel than he is at playing man.Â
Pointedly, you peer upwards as you let your mouth finally osculate the fabric. Once soft, grey and perfect, they are now stained and miredâan ever-tangible reminder of the decision of two non-humans in this lecture theatre. You hope the camera captures the small, strangled noise Sunday lets outâsomething halfway betwixt cough and splutter, approximating to a gasp.Â
Kiss after kiss you press to his thighs, inching closer and closer to his half-hard dick: so agonisingly slowly you can hear his teeth grind in frustration.Â
âIncubus,â he breathes in a horrified sort of fascination. âYouâre doing this on purposeâahââ
You easily cut him off, letting the heat from your mouth linger on his hardon as you gradually unzip his slacks: tooth by tooth, until the poor man practically shivers in his seat. No, you forget. Archangel. Thereâs an Archangel whom youâre scraping your knees forâwhose undiluted energy is allowing for you to safely undergo your maturation. This situation is ludicrousâonly spotted in the most sordid of underworld printings, and even then youâd be hard-pressed to find something as blasphemous as this.Â
His fingers wrap tightly around your horn, and you suppress a groan at the frigid sensation. Maybe if you were a better man, youâd keep your composure and remain sluggish for him to get used to every new sensation.Â
But you are neither better nor man, so you ignore the thought. Instead, you increase your pace, just as he so desperately wanted. Hooking his briefs down, you take a moment to appreciate his hiss as the cold air hits him, followed only by how pretty his dick looks in the fluorescent light: flushed the same delicate pink cast across his features, trimmed neatly and already a drop of pre is pressed against the very tip like pearls.Â
âYouâre evil,â he gasps as you experimentally twist your hand, and the length of flesh twitches. You smile.Â
âYou think?â You finally speak, gently circling the flushed head with your thumb.Â
His amber eyes glare down at you like two suns, and that is perhaps the warmest youâve ever seen him. Those boreal fingers practically fracture your horn as he squeezes, and you glare back.Â
âTaking advantage of a defenceless demon,â you chide; every syllable is accompanied by the motion of your hand as it begins moving up, then back down again. Sunday bites down on his lip, clearly attempting to stifle the sounds that would no doubt emerge when you speed up. âHow shameful, Archangel.â
âMmhââ Sunday shuts his mouth, and the camera takes it all in: how you lower your mouth to the head, licking the salt from his skin and the pre, and how he squeezes those slacks around your shouldersâfuck. Thereâs heat crawling all under your skin like millions of fire ants.Â
You move deeper, rocking yourself against the floor to quell the ache in your lower stomach: sucking and using your hands at the base to elicit more of those sounds from him. He tastes like rays of light on a cold winter morning: a clean energy you canât help but swallow eagerly, ravenous for this stupid, misguided angel. Your hands roam his thighs, the smooth curve of his waist, and finally settle right where it begins curving into his plush ass: gripping the fat tightly as you continue taking him down your throat.Â
âYou were born for this, werenât you,â he mutters, and you can hear his wings flutter and rustle at your ministrations. His low voice forces your eyes shut, but itâs not just that. Gazing at the long strings of precum that are leaking down is beginning to stir unbearable warmth in your chest, while your breathing is slowly becoming more laboured as you choke on his girth. If anything, youâre the one getting off on this: tightening the muscles in your thighs to keep feeling that dull ache in your gut.Â
He notices.Â
Of course he does; those hawkish eyes that shine from his face and from his halo are attuned to every little move you make, every little sigh that leaves your nose.Â
âHow shameful,â he mocks, echoing your previous words. Adjusting his leg, he presses a polished shoe against your bulge, and you moan around his dick.Â
Fuck.Â
He rocks the sole onto you, hard; you canât help but grind up into the impeccable leather, already feeling a damp patch growing on the front of your pants. Each sensation is only exacerbated by the lack of airflow caused by his fat cock in your mouthâamplifying your senses to a dizzying, heady state.Â
Youâre gazing with teary eyes right up at him, and you swear he throbs in your mouth; but the thought leaves just as quickly when his hand comes to cradle the side of your face, wiping the salty liquid away with a gentle thumb and bringing it to his own lips to taste.Â
âYou want to get off too, huh?â he coos sympathetically: a pink tongue darting out to lick his thumb clean. In tandem, his foot presses even further down, and you can feel the frigid linoleum press up against you.Â
âAh,â you choke around his dick. No words dribble from your lips, but Sunday feels the plea regardless. Those gloved hands of his pull you off his length with a pop and retract just as quickly. He grabs your arms as if he were handling a ragdollâsitting you up on the desk in front of him as though you only weighed that muchâand you need to remind yourself that he is not human, he is something far superior in strength and agility.Â
Itâs also aptly demonstrated in how he handles the buckles of your pants: deftly and expertly opening each clasp with monstrous speed, before tugging on them until they pool on the auditorium floor.Â
You shiver.Â
âGo on,â he encourages. âSince you so clearly canât focus, why not entertain me?â
Why not entertain me?
âWhat?â you mumble, but he levels you with a stare that feels far more sadistic than anything youâve faced before. Youâre not faced with a human, nor the warmth of your fellow demonsâbut rather a damn Archangel thatâs making you feel more exposed than ever.Â
âWhat?â Heâs the picture of innocence, though heâs got his dick in his own hand nowâkeeping his hand slowly moving as he speaks, and your eyes hone in on the motion. You canât help but focus on it, how it looks against the pearl-white glove, how it tasted in your mouth. âYouâre desperate, arenât you?â
His words and the crude tone behind them stir a coiling tension in your stomach; you can only stare at the sudden change.Â
Angels, too, can be deceptive.Â
âGo on,â he repeats, tilting his head. âHereâs your opportunity.â
Damn it.
Hesitantly, you pull down your boxers: exposing your cock thatâs slowly been dribbling precum in your pants, exposing everything to the angel. Heat rises to your face, but his eyes on you also make the heat pool at your gut; you canât help but slip a hand down your body to wrap around your dick, so desperate to be attended to.Â
The effect is immediate. With a hand already slicked wet, the tight grip you have on yourself, and the voyeur whoâs watching each and every one of your moves with his pairs of eyes, itâs apparent you wonât last long. You gaze at him, embarrassed, with a face sheened with sweat and eyes clouded with lust on your own.
âSunday,â you bite outâthe fist heâs making clenches ever so slightly, and you think his breath hitches.Â
He reaches over for the camera, tilting it towards you and capturing each and every expression, every single moan you let out as you succumb to the soothing rhythm of getting yourself off.Â
âBeautiful,â he murmurs, and you feel your abdomen tighten. âBut you can hold on a little longer, right?â
Your eyes snap wide open as a slick, gloved finger trails the curve of your ass and around your hole; Sundayâs expression is of utmost concentration as he records each minute detail.Â
âWhatângh,â you whine as he probes just the fingertip in; the glove has been dampened by his precum already, but still feels so powdery and dry as it slowly enters deeper. Heâs cold, and his fingers are downright glacial; the sudden change in temperature has you tightening around the digit as your hand flies to steady yourself on his shirt.Â
So close.Â
You can feel his breathing fan across your face; itâs shallow and reeks of lust, the kind thatâs always the most dangerous.Â
âKeep going,â he hums, gradually pumping the finger in and out until itâs almost completely covered with the wet precum leaking from your tip and down your cock. The burn in your abdomen is indescribableâyou can barely focus on the simple, mindless motion of up and down, when heâs so close like this, when heâs pressing another finger right in and stretching you out with ease that belies his inexperience.Â
In. Out. In. Out. You can barely breathe with the pace that heâs setting, seeming to deliberately miss that particular spot inside you that would end this oh-so-quickly.Â
The camera captures it all: the oozing, non-human precum that trails and coats his gloves, the careful scissoring motions heâs doing to ease you open, and the desperate heaves of your stomach as you fight off the tightening of your abdomen.
 âSunday, please,â you moan, and you jolt as his fingers pull out and the same damp hand wraps around your tail to bring it to where he was just mere moments ago. Sluggishly, you barely register whatâs going on until he opens his mouthâand his proximity makes his words reverberate and coalesce in your sternum, tightening your very chest.Â
âI wonât do it all for you,â he croons, but heâs setting the camera on the desk next to you and adjusting his gloves once more. Your scaly tail is further pushed in, and the strange sensation forces your eyes back into your skull. What the fuck? The Archangel uses your own tail to get you off, and the conflicting sensation between your legs and inside you is hurtling you towards an orgasm you donât think youâll ever forget.Â
But heâs not done.
His wet hands trace up your sides, bundling the shirt youâre wearing until itâs at your neck. âOpen wide.â
Blearily, you do as youâre told; fabric is shoved into your mouth as he uses you to hold your own shirt up, while he appreciatively hums at the metal pierced through your nipples. Cold, slick hands massage your tits, and even with the thick wad of material in your mouth you canât help but moan loudly.Â
âSo sensitive,â he mutters condescendingly. His thumbs brush rough circles against the pierced nipples, and involuntarily you feel your legs tighten around his waist. Heâs callous with his motions; itâs slowly growing overwhelming for you, what with the tail stuck inside you, your hand still moving, and now his hands stimulating the tender skin around your chest.Â
Itâs not until you look down that you see his dick rubbing up against your own, and the sight almost makes you let go right there and then.Â
âMmphââ you groan as he lowers his head to your chest, rubbing one areola affectionately while his tongue swirls around the other.Â
With the hand now freed up in place of his mouth, he presses both your dicks together tightly, just barely moving his hand for the minimal amount of friction.
You think that makes it worse.Â
Tears leak from your eyes uncontrollably, and the tautness in your stomach feels as though itâll claw out by itself if you donât let go.
You move your tail just a whisperâitâs growing unbearable, just how overwhelming the rush of stimuli is. Sundayâs teeth graze your tit in such a way you desperately grit down on your shirt to not cum right there and then, but itâs growing impossibly hard when the motions of both his hands speed up: stroking you both in such a way that rubs precum everywhere and feels like fucking heaven.
You mewl as he bites down on the flesh, hard, leaving a throbbing mark as he laves his tongue right over it. Â
âPlease,â you babble incomprehensibly through the fabric. âSunday.â
His gaze meets your despairing one.Â
âPoor little thing,â he whispers, which only blows air over the saliva-slicked area and forces even more tears from your eyes. âGo on.â
He wrenches his hand particularly tightly, and you wailâa choked, garbled thing that comes right from the chest. Your back arches as your orgasm washes over you and blinds you for a brief moment: mind completely blank with only the purest form of pleasure hazing it, scalding robes of white staining your shirt, his shirt, and ending up on your face.Â
âWhat a mess,â he murmurs, rocking his hand as the waves hit you with full force.Â
âAhââ you sob out as he continues through the waning ebb and flow: your legs twitch around him, and youâre sure he can feel the shallow, heaving breaths youâre taking to desperately cope with his continued movements. Your tail slips out from between your legs, and the sudden exit is followed by even more white dripping down your legs and onto the desk.Â
âThere, there,â he coos. âThat wasnât so hard, was it now?â
He peels off the ruined gloves and tosses them to the side, tenderly wiping away the tears that streak your faceâyouâre still reeling, still feeling the aftershocks of intense, mind-ruining pleasure.Â
What the fuck?
He handles you like a proper loverâan absurd scene between lowly incubus and overmighty Archangelâsettling his hands on your waist in something that could almost resemble an embrace. Some bastardised, corrupted version of one, anyway.Â
Heâs not your lover.Â
Heâs not even his own person.
You meet those deceptive eyes: as old as you, yet far more lonely.Â
âIs it my turn now?â he asks, a smile curving on his face like it truly was nothing that you witnessed in his amber gaze.Â
The Archangel, true to his inquiry, lulls in his movements: body freezing in both motion and temperature, while he tilts his head in a silent question. Do you want to continue?
The nature of an incubus is simple. Every act of consuming energy inevitably makes the incubus far more alluring, while it naturally replenishes whatever fatigue the demon has.Â
In the case of consuming an Archangelâs energyâŠ
Well.Â
Suffice to say, it only fuels your libido.Â
In response to his question, you wrap a scorching hand around his dick; now a furiously flushed red, with a desperately leaking tip thatâs practically begging for attention.
âNot like that,â he says lowly, and itâs not until heâs lifting you with strong arms and sitting you on his spread thighs that you vaguely realise what heâs doing. âYouâre nice and stretched out now, right?â
Those long fingers of his trace the slope and dip of your waist, rubbing small circles in wait of your response.Â
This canât be Sundayâs first time, you instead wonder; those piercing amber eyes of his make you feel the blushing violet instead. His heavy gaze burns where it lands: taunting and prickling your skin with a nervous fire that further kindles the one that revived in your stomach mere moments ago.Â
âNeed something?â He tilts his head, and the taunting smile stretching on his face brings up the words you spoke all those days ago.Â
You scowl. âShut up.â
âI thinkââ he trails off, lifting you partially out of your straddle with ease. Even as your mind goes blank, you feel each and every sensation that fires within your neurons. ââyou have a problem with being honest with yourself.â
âStick to your theology degree, angel,â you bite out, looping your arms around his neck to stabilise yourself and your racing heart. You quit breathing, momentarily. Thereâs something hard pressed onto the bottom of your thigh, imprinting stiffly and hotly into the flesh like some brand; naturally, you squeeze your eyes shut. Waiting. Anticipating Sundayâs movements, just as he anticipates yours.
âWhich psychology is studied in,â he returns, goading you. Heâs got his hand underneath you now, adjusting himself but still not pushing the engorged head in. Your frown deepens. âWhat, no please?â
âYou canât seriously be lecturing me about manners rightâahââ
Your sharp nails dig into the muscle of his trapezius as he cuts you off by stuffing the tip right in; he groans low in his throat at how damn tight you are, but also the feeling of poignant pain thatâs beginning to sting across his shoulders.Â
You think you can smell the faint coppery scent of blood, but you only half-feel bad.Â
âYou have a damn problem in not listeningâhngâto others,â you pant. Heâs tightened his grip on your ass, kneading and squeezing so tightly as he struggles to control his own breathing. The two of you linger in the lull for precious few moments; it seems time has capriciously stopped for the pair washed in fluorescent light, so desperately entwined yet ever at odds with each other.Â
âAnd you think youâre any better?â he counters. If you were more lucid, youâd be able to properly understand the tension in his arms and how he leans fully back on the chair, letting those wings brush past your body and practically engulf the two of you.Â
You shiver.Â
âYes,â you hiss indignantly. âI actuallyâfuckâ
You paw uselessly at his chest as he slams you down, and your sore throat lets out a choked out wail at the sudden sensation of being filled to the hiltâstuffed so full you almost feel him in your throat.Â
Each vein, each stupid ridge is vividly felt with every motionâhis chest urgently rising and falling, your own spiralling into a sweat-slicked display of ecstasy, and his face. It contorts into the basest expression youâve seen yet: flushed, mouth half-open, with a burning gaze honed right onto your own.Â
He looks like sin itself.
Sundayâs losing his composure, fast (you are too). Â
âFuckâoh, shit, Sunday.â Imprecations cascade from your lips like waterfalls as the angel begins his movements, building up from a slow roll of his hips to accustom both of you to the sensation.
Like this, with his face mere inches away, you canât help but stare a little at his faceâhoned in on his soft lips that wobble despite his struggle to keep his composure.Â
You wonder what they taste like.Â
Tea? Raspberries? Salt, like your own?
His lust-stricken gaze darkens somewhat as he appears to look over your shoulder briefly, but youâre too lost in the way heâs rocking himself into you to notice. But you do notice when his soft hand slides up your spine and cradles your nape. You do notice when he pulls you down so his breath mingles with yoursâas he searches your eyes for any signs of discomfort and finds none.Â
âThe fuck are you planning?â you murmur, and this time he actually lets you finish speaking before he cuts you off. Except, this time, it differs from his usual modus operandi. One moment, youâre staring intently at the angel beneath you; the next, heâs capturing your open mouth with his, and the effect is instantaneous. You moan into his mouth upon tasting him: not quite placing the saccharic flavour, but heâs fucking divine.
Heâs languorous with his motionsâto any outsider, it would look like heâs done this a thousand times and still wishes to savour the rest, pulling you so youâre finally flush with his chest.Â
Youâve never kissed an angel before.Â
You may not even be alive right now.Â
Itâs only natural, then, that your eyes flutter shut and your head tilts to kiss him more deeply to relish in this final mercy. Heâs biting at your lips, and the iron tang of blood combined with your dick rubbing against the soft material of his shirt begins the slow spiral into maddening pleasure.Â
You cannot see. Your eyes are shut, thus the only semblance you have of the visual situation is the light shining through the blood vessels in your lids; not the way Sunday isnât looking at you, but glaring at the door far behind you.Â
Practically on cue, it opens, and you hear the clatter of wood against woodâsomeone stumbles in, then abruptly freezes in place.Â
Eyes blown wide open, you attempt to pull away from Sunday, only to have his hand keep pressing firmly against your neck to keep you in place while his mouth begins exploring lower down your neck.Â
The person behind you doesnât leave like you expected.Â
âIgnore him,â Sunday breathes against your neck, and itâs then you look to your left and see your roommate shrouded in the shadow not reached by the clinical lighting. Heâs holding a camera and film, and clearly fell into the roomâjudging by his hand steadying himself on the desk, and from what you can see, the dishevelled look on his face.Â
What you miss, concealed by the darkness, is the deep red flush that mires his face, and the straining hard-on against his pants.Â
âWhat the fuck?â you attempt to sit up, but Sundayâs next words make you freeze in place just like Moze. âMoze?â
âDid you enjoy the show?â
The question is quiet, but Sundayâs soft voice makes it carry across the auditorium regardlessâand despite its polite form, the cadence beneath it hides a frightening sort of irritation. No surprise like you mightâve thought, but exasperation.Â
âWhat are you talking about?â you mutter, but itâs hard to concentrate on your roommate when Sundayâs busy thumbing your slit.Â
âHeâs been watching for the past few minutes. I was wondering when heâd reveal himself,â he sighs, less bothered than you wouldâve thoughtâwhat with the horns coming from your head, and the wings and halo sprouting from his own body.Â
Moze is human.Â
Heâs human, so you finally turn your eye to him and watch him make his way closer, until you can easily identify the most prominent emotion that radiates from his body.Â
Lust.Â
You swallow. Despite the new information, youâre not a mind reader. You canât tell exactly what Moze is thinking as he sits just a few seats away, irritably tapping a finger against the camera heâs holding.Â
âYouâre early,â Sunday comments, making sure to sit up so Moze has a full view of how well youâre taking himâand the angel doesnât miss how you tighten around him.Â
âDid you plan this?â Mozeâs voice enters the hall for the first time this evening, and Sunday definitely doesnât miss how the low reverberations make you practically flutter against him.Â
âSo what if I did?â the angel replies boredly. âItâs not like you havenât figured out who I am. And itâs not like you werenât eagerly lapping up what was going here when you were watching us through the door.â
Moze stays silent, but you swear you can hear your roommateâs teeth grind as he shifts in placeâand this time, his bulge is prominent in the blinding lights. The sight, though Moze doesnât hear, makes you whimper quietly in Sundayâs ear; the angelâs eyes turn to you, each and every pair.Â
âWhat a slut,â he murmurs, and you shiver at his tone: so crude, so mocking. âYou just canât stop, can you?â
You moan as he tightens his grip around your weeping cock and slowly begins circling a stiff nipple with his other hand. On your back, you can feel a burning stare, and the knowledge that Moze is getting off on this only makes you feel it deeper in your gut.Â
âYouâre lucky heâs all hard at the thought of someone watching,â Sunday coos, and through your hazy thoughts you barely work out if heâs talking to you or Moze. His thumbnail presses right onto the side of the headâwhich makes you almost fucking writheâbefore you flop onto his shoulder in a daze.Â
Sunday goes quiet as he focuses on moving; it seems heâs said all heâs needed to say to the man, and you really donât mind having an extra energy source to draw such salient waves of lust from. With that being said, you take the opportunity to sit back up and gaze at Moze while Sundayâs moving his pelvis beneath youâonly to find that heâs already staring at you.
Heâs pretty like this, you realise, dazed. His pupils are almost completely blown out as he takes in every inch of you; thereâs hardly any hints of opalescence left in those eyes. Deep cerise coats his cheeks, and heâs almost trembling as he keeps vigil of the scene afore himâwith hands that desperately crack the arm rests, intensely avoiding his lower body.Â
His breathing is in tandem with your own. Shallow. Fucked-out.Â
Those pretty eyes of his flick up to meet your stare directly, and you tighten around Sunday; heâs hissing and digging his nails into your waist once more as he manoeuvres you. As if to distract you, he slams himself deeply inâand you fucking buckle as you sob out a moan, blearily watching while the man at your side picks up the camera he came late because of and looks through the viewfinder.Â
âPerfect,â he breathes.Â
The coil in your stomach tightens with each flash.
âFuck,â you sob; the harsh tug of Sunday is gradually overwhelming you, and the quiet snap of each photo numbs your mind. You know Mozeâs getting each shot in detail; his meticulous nature comes through in the way he murmurs âjust like thatâ and âbeautifulââsyllables that only contribute to the heat you feel in your body, spreading effortlessly throughout your face.Â
Any train of thought is cut off when the angelâs lips brush against the junction of your shoulder, and he bites. Sharp pain will undoubtedly be followed by a deeper bruise, but in that moment the ache makes the wave of pleasure increase twofold.Â
âSundayâah,â you groan, knotting your hands in his grey locks. âPlease.â
You donât quite know, in the end, why youâre begging.Â
You donât, but when Sunday pulls back with his soft mouth stained red and a hazed look in his eyes, you think youâve got it figured out.
Snap.
Blinding white goes off behind your eyelids as you slam your lips desperately into the Archangelâs. He tastes of iron, of an intrinsic saccharine flavour that nobody else could possibly replicate.Â
Snap.
With each roll of his hips against yours, you feel him lazily pressing up against that spot inside youâinch by inch, building up on slow pleasure that trickles viscously through you like honey.Â
Snap.Â
You lock eyes with Moze, and the intense look he wears while he gazes at you feels like heâs parsing through the layers of dermis, sifting through the nerves and sinew, and finally exhuming your bones and tendons. Itâs quickly driving you past the brink, everything about him is. His laboured breathing, the way his eyes remain honed on you despite the faint agony tainting his deep lust.Â
Snap.Â
âRightâ there,â you choke out. Mozeâs still staring, absorbing each minute detail: the sheen of sweat on your body, the way your torso and legs tremble as you attempt to keep it together, and perhaps most poignantly the expression on your face as you stare at him.Â
Snap.Â
âPerfect,â he repeats, and itâs this particular version that finally pushes you over that precipice.Â
You sob out as your vision blurs, pawing uselessly at Sundayâs chest. His hands are firmly back on your hips, letting you rock the waves outâuncaring of the white ropes that ruin his shirt, or perhaps savouring them instead. Or perhaps heâs not paying attention. After all, you hear him swear for the first time since meeting him, and a mere moment later you feel spurts of heat leaking into you.Â
He shudders. By the god you donât pray to, this angel groans so sweetly as he comesâthat fact alone has you twitching around him.Â
More.Â
He still hasnât softened, but that isnât enough.Â
By chance, or maybe the best timing of your life, your eyes land on your roommate againâhis eyes, too, meet yours through the screen on the camera.Â
Snap.Â
âMoze,â you whine, and the camera ceases in its photo-taking and filming. Well, except for an image of you looking so sweetly at him as you call his name out.Â
âWhat?â your laconic roommate murmurs, standing and casting his shadow over the two of you.Â
What a joke this is: a human watching an entangled demon and angel, and being completely captivated by it. Thereâs a buzz in his veins tonightâsome from an awe-ful sort of fear at having his conjectures confirmedâbut most of it is from the object of his desire finally within his grasp. An insufferable idiot, he may add, but one he cannot help but be captivated by.Â
Maybe heâs the fool, reaching for the moon, but tonight he no longer feels so foolish.Â
Your clawed hand fists his shirt, and he swallows: stone-still, watching with bated breath for your next move.Â
What will you do?
He gets his answer when you drag him down: tasting of blood and that inexplicable caramel sensation you always seem to carry. Your tongue is hot against hisâimpatient enough to keep your mouth open, but he is too. His hands, cold from the biting wind and the frigid irritation heâs been building within, fly to cradle your face.Â
Moze has enough sense to memorise this feeling of your lips on his, moaning and twining a lazy hand around his neck.
He thinks he feels a particular angel glaring at him, but it's none of his business, really.Â
âHeâs not enough?â he mocks when you pull back, poignantly aware of the front of his pants ever-so-slightly brushing against youâhow he fucking bites down on any sound attempting to escape his mouth.Â
âDonât you want me to help you out?â you slur your words, clearly dazed from getting fucked by his stupid classmate. Yes, he wants to say, but he feels like some damned second place prize. Your hand brushes his crotch, and he bites his lipâhardâuntil the skin breaks and warm blood runs down his lips.Â
âShit,â he hisses. Mozeâs self-control is normally iron-hard, but itâs been so incessantly worn down today by two certain idiots that he canât help but let the damned thing snap. Within moments, his hand is deep in your hair, tugging as he nips at the flush of your lipsâletting copper entangle you two together in something he hopes can twist your fates together forever, even if he ends up in hell for it.Â
âAhâMoze,â you groan, and it really doesnât help his situation: dick pressed against your side, painfully hard due to a combination of factors that all have you (in bold, capital letters) written all over them.
He canât help it. He really canât.Â
He canât help it when you pump him from base to shaft with hands far warmer than hisâhe canât help stealing your lips away from the angel youâre still fucking riding. He canât help it, either, when you gaze at him like thatâhe just has to press his tip against your ass. Youâve been complaining about it not being enough, havenât you? Whatâs the problem?
Thereâs a mutual agreement between human and heavens for just this night. That being, to make you spiral into a mess.
Thus, Moze doesnât baulk at the thought of sharing this nightânot when youâre sinking down on both of them, not when the added tightness makes his head black out for a moment. Fuck.Â
Thatâs all his brain is clinging to.Â
How fucking good you feelâhow warm your back feels pressed to his chest. Heâs desperately trying not to bust, doing so by biting over the mark in the juncture that damned angel left. If you ever think of the man in front of you, you need to think of him too.Â
This is far better than any stupid pornoâastronomically so than fisting his cock and imagining you in his handâs place.
Moze buries his face in your shoulder, letting his hands roam around your bodyâsupple skin that yields beneath his greedy fingers. His hands find your nipples, rolling and twisting the peaks to hear you let out sounds far louder than what heâs heard so far. That little fact makes him smile despite himself.Â
On the other side, Sundayâs grown accustomed to how your breath hitches when his finger scrapes past a particular vein on your weeping cock, how your pupils dilate just a little more when he squeezes particularly tightly. No, heâs grown accustomed to youâall the small tells of your body. Itâs why he endures the arrogant human across from him, for all humans deserve grace.Â
They do not know better.Â
Itâs just for tonight, he rationalises. If he wants to successfully remain undercover to achieve the goal of his operative, he must not do anything to draw attention. Thatâs why heâs helped you out, nothing else.Â
Angels cannot lie to others.Â
It doesnât mean they cannot lie to themselves.Â
Despite Sundayâs heart that skips a beat whenever you look his way and all you see is him, he doesnât acknowledge the racing thrum of the organ. In fact, as heâs sucking and licking marks into your skin as a reminder of thisâof your sinâhe reminds himself that heâs doing you a favour.Â
Heâs doing the rest of the pitiful humans a favour as well. The more he takes up your attention, the less time you have to seduce them.Â
Actually, this is probably the most rational solution for getting one of the oldest incubi under control.Â
Good job, Sunday.
A plethora of broken imprecations are forced out of your mouth as they slam into youâwhen one slips out half-way, the other nails your prostate, over and over and over. You donât think youâve ever felt so fullânot by any other demon, and certainly not by any human.
This counts for your mind tooâstretched tight by what seems to be an eternity of satiation, and perhaps on the verge of breaking. Youâve forgotten the name of your project, the class youâre in, and why youâre here in the first place; and these broken trains of thought are interspersed with the quiet flash of the camera as it captures your fucked-out state.Â
âPlease.â
It seems to be a permanent fixture on your lips, though you still donât know what youâre asking for. No, you do knowâmore.
More, as streaks of white stain your thighs and drip onto the cold linoleum floor. More, as your lips bleed from the number of times youâve been kissed, and kissed them yourself. More, as you wind up on the outskirts between consciousness and unconsciousness.Â
Youâre barely lucidâhaving gone through a metamorphosis safelyâbut they seem to be more insatiable than you are. The energy store that pulses behind your heart has never experienced such satiation; in your drowsy state all you can focus on is the drunk high youâre getting off this.Â
Itâs well into the night now, and perhaps the only thing that fully snaps you back into consciousness is the feeling of something wet laving away the mess between your legsâMoze. His tongue is warm as he clears the salt and white globs from your thighs, and when he sees those eyes of yours finally focus on him, he leaves a chaste kiss pressed against the side of your leg: continuing while you drowsily stroke the strands from his sweat-slicked forehead.Â
Only then are you aware of the warmth at your back: the angel behind you holds you fast to his chest with wings that envelope the two of you in a damn cocoon.Â
And finally, beside you and displayed on the laptop on the desk, is a video file paused with the name across the title bar:Â
The Catching of the Incubus.Â
*********
There has long existed a pact between a certain human boy and a pink-haired Foxian. Well, itâs not truly a pact, but more like a casual agreement thatâs never been broken: the exchange of emergency keys, for the two trust the other will have his back.Â
Itâs used today, when Jiaoqiuâs looking for the culinary textbook he left the last time he came around, a mere week ago. He may have been frustrated with himself for it, but thereâs something about coming to Mozeâs dorm that he looks forward to each timeâand if he said the incubus that lives in the room opposite the reticent manâs, he wouldnât be lying.Â
In any case, nobodyâs home.Â
Jiaoqiu quietly slips his shoes off, checking first the living room. Nothing. Your room? Also nothing, though he lingers a little longer and takes in the burnt caramel scent that pervades the spaceâone thatâs only gotten stronger, it seems.Â
Mozeâs room it is.Â
The first thing he sees is the thick book, neatly aligned on Mozeâs dresser with a meticulous pile of forensic texts. The next is two cameras, tucked away on the shelf behind it. Theyâre just sitting there innocuously, but Jiaoqiuâs curiosity is piqued. The man seemingly never takes interest in things other than crime scenes and keeping everything tidy, so the Foxian carefully picks up one and turns it on.Â
These Succubi Suck, the file reads, and heâs immediately hit in the face with unedited footage of what appears to be the most slapdash mockumentary heâs ever seenâclips and retakes and bloopers in a long reel that he skips through amusedly, gazing at your face a little too long when youâre speaking.Â
This is their film submission? He whistles lowly, impressed by the quality despite only having three people in your class.Â
Heâs about to turn it off, when he spots the only other file that remains in the camera, something something incubus.Â
Just like before, he presses the fast forward buttonâ
The Foxianâs face suddenly heats up, and he presses a hand to the lower half of his face.Â
Hi! If you're not taking reqs then feel free to ignore this but could you write Kim dokja angst? Maybe we're switching the roles and the reader is dying instead of dokja for once lmao
HOUSE OF CARDS ăă»KIM DOKJA
"A house made of cards, like the fools we are."
In which a gambler finally pays the price for his bet.
never actually written angst so I hope this is good enough anon
art creds to kim28_dokja on twt!
pairings: kim dokja + gn reader
warnings: blood, injury, death, references to child abuse/dokja's past
wc: 2.4k
ORV MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
Dokja is shit at games.Â
Itâs clear to the dealer. Even on the best day, those omnipotent palms that allocate fate will grow clammy (which they never do) and that ever-present smile slowly turns into a profound grimace. They know. They feel it instinctually, on a cellular level: that hand was terrible.Â
Itâs clear to the people around him. The salaryman stumbles into the building as though heâs just learned to walk: in never-polished shoes, slacks that perpetually crease further with each nervous wipe of his hands, and the clinging scent of smoke that preludes his entrance. Heâs not got his life together, they observe, behind stony poker faces he can never quite master. Thatâs why heâs here.
Most of all, itâs clear to Kim Dokja himself. Every irregular heartbeat pulses in his throat as he gazes at his cardsâtwo seven offsuit. In his sweat-streaked fingers is the short straw urging him to enlist. On the table before him are all his chess pieces, lined up neatly: spectators to the constant check, his inevitable downfall.Â
Despite his atrocious luck, the thin red string binding him to this world never quite severs. A fire befalls the casino. A bullet embeds itself in the shell of his helmet and not a hair further. The chess game is postponed by a phone call and the poignant sound of shattering glassâand Dokja is left to shoulder the limbo of an unfinished game.
Heâs shit at games, but never truly loses.Â
Is it simply up to chance? A coin is tossed into the air: another foolish plan devised, another chip placed that equates to one of his lives. Crisis after crisisâDokja, that harbinger of misfortuneâyet each time, he resurrects. He bets on it, in fact: quite literally gambling away everything.Â
It is just how things are. He cuts corners. He smooth-talks the fates into letting his transgressions slide just a little longer. For once, heâs winning, and the grand prize is something beyond his wildest dreamsâan ending, to mark the indefinite uncertainty of chapters that seem to grow like nebulae.Â
âDokja.â Itâs a sigh each time when he defies the end. Anyone else would interpret it as exasperation, but he likes to think he knows you better than that; itâs relief you greet him with, no matter how many times he sacrifices himself. âYou idiot.â
Itâs nice to know his long-time friend cares about him.Â
No matter how many times he places his bets, the value of his life never seems to deprecate for you. Sacrifice is something youâd rather avoid (so does he, but it cannot always be helped, right?). If Dokjaâs life can be used to save more of the people he cares about, all the better.Â
In fact, heâd rather keep you away from any front line.Â
Thereâs a story of its own between the two of you: years of scraped knees and violence, of gazing up at your shoulders while you bruise your knuckles with whoever bruised his eye, of friendship pacts forged with spat-on palms and corded bracelets.Â
Your very soul is entwined with his scrawny one from years past, and itâs always been the case that yours has fought the battles in his stead. âWhy?â heâd once asked, and he still vividly remembers the cool response you attempted to give, only to end up fumbling the words.Â
Because I can. Because I want to. Because you deserve it.Â
Itâs his turn to repay his debts. These fights are no longer about a bloodied mouth and spitting red onto the asphalt. They donât end with bruised ribs and broken noses.Â
You sit out. This one, he thinks grimly, is his fightâone that will guarantee both you and him turning the page on âŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒ. Every factor has been considered. Each risk is carefully mitigated at the expense of himself. None of the contingencies fail to prioritise his oldest friend.Â
These are chips he cannot afford to bet on.Â
Naturally, he keeps them close to his chest.Â
ăăă»
Dokja is shit at games.Â
His friends know it all too well. Those disbelieving laughs they let out, their fists clenching and unclenching as they debate whether to hit him across the headâDokja, the herald of despair, he isâand finally the rush of words leaving their mouths like air deflating from a balloon: âNever do that again.â
All in, his chips goâeach and every time. There is no other way about it: not unless you shackled Dokja to you in vain to make him listenâto stop the endless deaths he goes through. Over and over, until you feel his mind wear into recklessness, until you see the emptiness that taints his eyes as he slips into quiet contemplation.
How will Dokja die this time?
Youâd rather erode into nothingness than clip his wings, though. That book he gushed about to you (syllables rushing over themselves in his excitement each update) gave him back his lifeâif you ruin his painstaking âŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒ, you donât think you could forgive yourself.
Even if heâs ratcheting to Icarian heights. Those feathers of his are beginning to streak wax-hot down man-made frames, made of pages upon pages of a book obsolete to all but one dedicated reader.Â
You think he can see the pain in your eyes, before he turns away with lips pressed together tightly. Youâll be safe, he reassured you. Youâve got me. Iâll create an epilogue for you to witness.Â
Dokjaâs changed.Â
Those scrawny shoulders have become something that the very sky settles on: ones that no longer shake behind your own arms. The world has bruised you, and Dokja shall bruise it back. Every favour, repaid tenfold.Â
Dokjaâs changed.Â
Heâs still got the same facade of the boy youâve called your oldest friend. If it werenât for that, youâd think the man who coldly settles his death were a stranger. Someone you never shook hands with, childishly grimacing at the remains of a spat-upon pact rubbing into small palms.Â
Dokjaâs changed.Â
He thinks he no longer causes misfortune with each risk he takesâas if his life were a mere trifle, as if each shred of news about him doesnât shatter your heart over and over.Â
When will it end?Â
You havenât seen him for months.Â
Is it finally time to grieve?
ăăă»
Dokja is shit at games.Â
It seems you are too. He turns the page of his book, and beside him the house of cards is carefully stacked on the glass table. Itâs a precarious matter: high stakes against yourself, an unsafe tightrope that threatens to give way any moment now.Â
Your eyes meet his.Â
Like magic, the house collapses.Â
ăăă»
You are shit at games.Â
You take a deep breath, and begin organising what could be the final legacy of Dokja. Itâs something he treasured even over his life, evidently: the ending, which you allow into your soul in the Kim Dokja-shaped hole left behind.Â
Itâs the first time you take a gamble: carefully picking up the shards of his ideas while rivulets of blood run down your fingers. Itâs your turn.Â
The battlefield in the scenarios is a sanctuary: white noise washing out Dokjaâs ever-persistent voice in your head. Thereâs a perpetual, acrid smell of ash and smokeâa reek that is far better than the dust of buildings Dokja leaves you behind in.Â
Itâs hard.Â
Gambling is not for you; in the sense that it sickens you, rather than just invoking disaster like it does for Dokja. The only good thing about it is that Dokjaâs dream is finally being realisedâa tribute to your oldest, dearest friend. Like funerary wine, metallic iron fills your mouth (a once-familiar taste) with each battle, every step closer to the story Dokja wove for you. A fabric so salient you couldnât help but be entangled in it.Â
I can do it. That is your gamble.Â
You do it.Â
You cut down monsters the size of buildings. You cling to life with bleeding fingernails, scraped raw with tenacity. Tentatively, you begin fleshing in the husk of yourself: talking with the friends you made in the apocalypse once more.
And like Dokja, you begin defying death.Â
It starts off smallâan arrow that you saw coming but didnât feel like dodging. Jung Heewon almost blew a gasket when she took a glimpse, but then her eyes met yoursâfilled with the same distance that Dokjaâs were, as though you too were peering through an impersonal screenâand she looked away for a brief moment.Â
âIdiot,â she whispers. âDonât treat yourself like Dokja.â
Your chips pile up.Â
Except, you donât quite have the same privilege that your dearest friend has.Â
You will incur the cost, rather than somebody else. There is a reason Dokja is called a harbinger of ill fortune to others, and you are not. In the end, your downfall will be at your own hand.Â
âFool,â Yoo Joonghyuk grimaces as he cuts down a wolf you let claw your arm. The coppery stench is thick in the air, but there seems to be a manic grin on your face as you slice and chop and stab: a madness that slowly spreads like illness through your body. âThere is nothing more worthless than sacrifice without cause.â
The debt accrues.Â
Kim Dokja dreams of your knuckles, bloodied once more as you stand to face the world. But, itâs just a dream.Â
He bets on it.Â
ăăă»
You are shit at games.Â
Bitter, arterial blood congeals on your hands as you try in vain to staunch the flow. There is nothing quite as caustic as the realisation that you fucked up, because now all the signs of your hamartia are clear.Â
The house has long collapsedâitâs that final card that still hasnât hit that glass table yet.Â
Is this what Dokja feels? The thought runs wonderingly through your sluggish mind. Is it what he felt, you mean to say, but your throat grows thick whenever you speak about him in the past tense. You canât quite accept the reality that heâs gone. The shock anaesthetises your mind: cradling your neurons with such gentleness that itâs hard to conceptualise youâre about to follow him to wherever heâs gone.Â
Will I see him again?
Everything reeks of iron: from the massive corpse on the ground, to the claw impaled through your abdomen. It was inevitable. Youâve grown tired of the endless fight, and itâs cost you dearly.Â
Your chest heaves desperately.Â
Dokja.Â
âDokja,â you croak, collapsing onto the rubble freshly decimated. Despite the rough surface, your blood-slicked hands scrabble for purchase on the concreteâsomething that doesnât quite feel like youâre the one puppeteering your strings.Â
Deliriously, you watch as the same hand urgently attempts to apply pressure to your wound; it goes against rationality, but then again youâre not really yourself anymore.Â
âDokja?â you try again. Perhaps if you speak loudly enoughâsyllables soaked with sanguine that dribbles from your lipsâyouâll be able to reach your dead best friend.Â
There is a pressure behind your eyes.Â
It may be tears; it may be an unwelcome guest in your head.Â
Itâs too late, you think. Heâs dead, and soon I will be too.Â
âDokja,â you whisper, and there is salt on your tongue as you feel your limbs grow colder. Everything hurtsâyour pounding head, the thrum of your pulse as you marr the asphalt with crimson, and finally that stupid bleeding heart of yours that swears you can hear the spirit of your oldest friend.Â
You canât die, you think he saysâa quiet scream drowned out by the static of your mind.Â
âIâll see you soon, though,â you slur, and the weight in your mind liftsâblurring and coalescing into a mirage you could recognise blind.Â
Frigid fingers pass through the hologram, and you smile, bittersweet.Â
âDokja,â you breathe. âItâs been almost a year since I last saw you.â
His hands grasp your shoulders desperately, though his frantic mouth goes unheard upon your ears. You⊠canât⊠die, his lips readâbut thatâs silly, you think. Doesnât he want you to meet him again?
Horns curve out of his head, while his wings fluff outâshoulders shaking, with an expression youâve only seen once on his face before. Utmost grief, when he came soaked in congealed blood and a haunted look in his eyes: murmuring she killed him, over and over.Â
Heâs your best friend. He was your best friend.Â
Kim Dokja has lost his final gamble, and the bullet in the chamber has finally been spun into place for you too.Â
âI can see you soon, right?â you murmurâthere are cold fingers brushing against your forehead, and you think death is unexpectedly gentle.Â
His lips wobble.Â
Incorporeal fingers trace the tear tracks on your faceâones that mirror the slow stream of salt from his own eyes. You didnât even noticeâtoo caught up in the gradual greyness that spreads through each vessel, weaving through sinew and bone and brain.Â
âI did a good job, right?â Your sword rests across the ground, heavy after almost a year of fighting. âMaybe itâll help with the ending that you wanted.â
Dokjaâs face crumples, and you can feel your own throat growing thick. Dokja, Iâm scared, you want to admit. For the first time in your life, thereâs a choking fear that grips you as the red surrounding you blooms into a field.Â
Your own wings are rapidly coming apart.Â
âDokja, I donât want to die,â you mumble. Struggling, you curl and uncurl your hands into fists, but you can no longer feel them.Â
âDokja,â you try again. You can no longer see him, but whether itâs from the salt clouding your vision, or the haze of limbo, you cannot tell.Â
There is a phantom pressure that lingers on your face.Â
âDokja,â you gurgle, mouth iron-hot with arterial blood. âDonât leave me aloneâplease.â
No response is given, but that sepulchral presence seems to remainâthis time, those hands brush and cradle your face.Â
You cannot tell if itâs him or death itself, but you donât think death would kiss you like that.Â
As if he could possibly breathe life back into you, his ghostly lips move against yours. Desperately, so urgently you half-wonder at his panic.Â
Dokja, you want to ask. Youâre already dead, right?
Right?Â
With the final scraps of your vision, you watch as he pulls backâhis tears pattering across your faceâwatch as his mouth moves for a final time.
I canât live without you.
But by then, it is too late.
The words go unheard, and Dokja is alone once again.
Hi could you write a (platonic) Yoo Joonghyuk x Constellation M!Reader
Reader is Secretive Plotter's husband and he helps KimCom for a scenario, I hope I don't ask you too much, I wish you a good day/night đž
LORD OF THE MYSTERIES * â â â SECRETIVE PLOTTER
The foreign stars that cluster the night sky like vultures preying on the demise of humans are hard to equate to the protostar that had been born in this particular round.Â
* â â â  Â
HELLO ANONN!!! listen I was going to do the requests sooner but I was swamped with a work and a larger project, so I'm apologising preemptively to the requests still in my inbox and post-emptively to the ones that have waited for TIME
without further ado, I shall be working on completing the other requests (and yes the name of the constellation was intentional, no I have not read the lotm novel fully though I have tried)
art credits: hellmirrart on X
pairing: secretive plotter x male constellation reader, '3rd round' yoo joonghyuk x reader (platonic)
warnings: none, except spoilers for orv
wc: 1.8k
ORV MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
There are many tales that make up a person.Â
First, there are the superficial adjectives lingering just outside the dermis: little epithets mentioned in passing. Stoic. Quiet. Stone-faced. These words are shared between humans: surface-level stories that allow one to select a person in a line, yet ultimately fail when confronted with the amorphous, exponentially-growing mass that is humanity.Â
Next are the anecdotes: the involvement of various characters, that canât exactly be surmised just by looking at them. He swung a sword at me. He glared at me. He was rude to me. These lurk below the skin, forming an impression, yet not a complete picture: as a few congruent curves are to a fingerprint, as a shadow is to the object.Â
Finally, deep under sinew and flesh, located in the very marrow of the matter are true stories. These encompass many things. The particularities of somebodyâs disgusted expression. The precise gestures of their hands when they are nervous. The order of emotions one displays on their face as they receive good news. Storiesâeach microscopic detail is a tale that forms the very structure of a person, which can never truly be replicated.
Except, of course, when it can.Â
âLook, heâs just like you.â These syllables are murmured into your palm: a sentence he should feel insulted by, yet heâs more preoccupied with how youâre lying on the bedâleaning on your elbow with a smug number 41 on your right side, and a more reticent 999 curled up on your left. It becomes disproportionately difficult to comprehend whateverâs going on when the man in the doorway is greeted with such a rarely peaceful, picturesque scene in front of him: so utterly removed from the mess that is indubitably occurring in each wing of the house. Itâs⊠domestic, really, in a way he doesnât quite feel he deserves.Â
âOf course heâs like me,â he finally retorts. âWhy would he not be?â
He rarely feels childishâor at least, he should rarely feel childish. Heâs lived through hundreds of millenia, seen the falls of countless constellations, died thousands of times, yet still, his steps petulantly take him to your side to see just exactly what youâre finding so fascinating.Â
Predictably, Yoo Joonghyuk is on the screen that 41 is propping up for your leisure. As if winning over the squabbling, stubborn kkomas that roam this place wasnât enough, youâre now observing yet another variant. A face identical to the one on your phone scoffs.Â
[Secretive Plotter is becoming increasingly irate.]
[Secretive Plotter donates 1,000 coins.]
These contradictory âtalesâ are, naturally, owed to the man behind you beginning to seethe, while number 41 paws at the screen whimsically to adjust it to your sight better. A few stray donations here and there when the not-so-dexterous kkoma hand slips, and thus the contradiction forms.Â
It does not help the simmering annoyance he feels when youâre so busy, as you had put it earlier.Â
[Lord of the Mysteries donates 3,000 coins.]
[Lord of the Mysteries waves his hands towards the portrait, motioning with growing frustration.]
The man behind you wouldnât have been so generous to give any hints in this fiendishly difficult escape room, but you always did have a soft spot when it came to the hims of this world and all his companions.Â
[Lord of the Mysteries donates another 4,000 coins, telling the Incarnations to turn the frame rather than gawk at the paint strokes.]
But this. This is too far: ignoring his rhetorical, sarcastic comment while you continue to spoil the Kim Dokja Company rotten in this sub scenario. Outer gods forbid you save your tendencies for main scenarios.Â
There isnât even a time limit for this room!Â
The bed dips under the weight of another constellation as he joins you, and to his strange, vindictive satisfaction, the wayward kkomas scatter; in their stead, three eyes glare at him (though, itâs difficult to take palm-sized beings seriously, as a rule of thumb).Â
âScram,â he utters triumphantly (though, itâs equally as difficult to take him seriouslyâa constellation who has gone through hundreds of millenia, who looks like heâs melting in your presence). It is quite obvious that they donât listen to himâ999 is helped over your body to your right side by the traitorous 41, and you let them, much like you let him sink into your left side, breathing in the scent that carries tales of both your life and his.Â
The ink you write with. The food that he cooks for you, and only you. The faint traces of books, mingling with the vestiges of clean soap.Â
A heavy arm wraps around your waist, while an impatient face buries itself into your neck. Yet, despite his obvious preoccupation, he still makes the time to shoot the kkomas a look that they have unfortunately become quite familiar with when it comes to you and your time. They cannot do the same things he does: namely, hold you like this.Â
I win.Â
It is as he has said. Seldom does he act childishly, but he canât refrain from having capricious whims when he is faced with your presence.Â
Pay attention to me, my love. This is the look the kkomas now read on their Plotterâs faceâno, not merely his face, his body. Itâs pathetically pathetic, yet they canât help but understand.Â
âSee there,â you comment laconically, and despite his growing aversion to the distraction in your hands, he is compelled to observe, just like you have asked him to do. âHe is far more cautious than the third. Without knowing it, he is a shadow away from you.â
He is faced with a mirror of himself, glaring up at wherever the omnipresent cameras areâthough he merely looks perplexed when he is faced with the screen displaying your name.Â
It makes sense.Â
You are a perplexing entity, and one that this particular Yoo Joonghyuk would not have encountered before.Â
He sheaths his sword, and just like that, the Plotter who breathes you in recognises the telltale glimmer of trust in his eyes that the Yoo Joonghyuks of the worlds have towards your existence.Â
Heâs not for you, he chastises silently, though the him in the screen will never hear him. Â
The Plotter presses a chaste kiss to your shoulder, and finally, finally, you turn your gaze to meet his own, fervent one.Â
âWhere is the time youâve reserved for me?â He knows heâs being far too jealous. He can hear it in the sluggish pulse that only ever seems to quicken whenever youâre aroundâhe can feel it in the heavy tension in his sternum.Â
I win.Â
Heâs taken the victory once again when he feels you shift to switch the offending device off; a rare smile paints his face, just as a frown breaks out on the face of the Yoo Joonghyuk still within the scenario.Â
[Lord of the Mysteries has temporarily disconnected from the channel.]
* â â âÂ
âFor a Lord of the Mysteries, he sure doesnât act like he likes them.âÂ
Jihyeâs confused voice is the first to reach his ears as his sword slices through the particular barrel the constellation warned them about mere moments ago. Before he left, that is.Â
The man known as Yoo Joonghyuk, going strong in his third round, is perhaps even more confused than his discipleâand that never happens. Never. He could blame it on the walking bucket of bad luck that is Kim Dokja, but this is still too unusual to pin it solely on that man.Â
In purely pragmatic terms, it could be said that Yoo Joonghyukâs memory is impeccable. It has to be, if he ever had hope of escaping the cursed cycle he has been trapped in.Â
When event after event that he knows from two previous rounds go awry, it is uncannily easily to point Dokja as the culpritâyet, these familiar eyes that watch him were present from the very moment he awoke in that compartment on the train, eyes that were strangely empathetic for a constellation.Â
It is easy to feel pity for lesser beings: a cloying, disturbing emotion to witness when lives are purchased with arbitrary coins.Â
It is not easy for a constellation to seem so human.Â
Amongst the entities that crowd the channels of the third round, he recognises many names. All were ones he had witnessed in the past two roundsâbickering amongst themselves like he had predicted, bidding on the struggles and turmoils of humans with an apathy akin to monsters.Â
All⊠but one.Â
The foreign stars that cluster the night sky like vultures preying on the demise of humans are hard to equate to the protostar that had been born in this particular round.Â
[The Lord of the Mysteries hints at the Incarnations that they have already passed the right path.]
[The Lord of the Mysteries agrees to the bet proposed by the Incarnations.]
[The Lord of the Mysteries votes in favour of the formation of the Kim Dokja Company.]
Favour doesnât seem to be currency when it comes to this particular star; rather, favour is endowed freely amongst those he likes, without asking for anything in return. Itâs disturbing: complex in a way he doesnât quite know how to deal with, much like he doesnât quite know how to deal with Kim Dokja, and all the anomalies that seemed incessantly tied to that man.Â
[The Lord of the Mysteries assumes what appears to be the night watch.]
Itâs bizarre. He canât quite trust the constellation. He canât even begin to comprehend what goes on inside his head. Though, whatâs perhaps the most perplexing of all was the fact that he canât sense any trace of malevolence in the constellationâs actions.Â
Heâs shady, his intuition screams at him. He makes no sense, his Sageâs eye confirms. Heâs fattening us up for the final slaughter, his gut proclaims.Â
Yet, unfathomably, both eyes flutter shut. It wouldnât hurt, his heart murmurs against the turmoil.
The sword slips from his tight grasp and clatters against the floor, but the man doesnât stir from his upright slumber against the wall. A lone draught carries its songs through the abandoned building, but his breathing remains calm and undisturbed.Â
For once, the tempestuous landscape of his mind has stilled: nightmares grinding to a gradual halt, clammy skin drying in the gentle evening breeze. For once, the stories that make up his dreams are doused in balmy tranquility: the smell of sunlight in a field, the warmth of a song playing in the distance, the taste of literature while turning a page.Â
Under the watchful eyes of a singularity in the heavens, the 1864th Yoo Joonghyuk sleeps peacefully for a night.
Kim Dokja with a Sung Jinwoo!Reader and their supporting constellation is Six-Eared Macaque
BAKHT âș ⊠KIM DOKJA
"An existence as lonely as yours... chance has not been kind to you, it seems."
It was neither choice nor good fortune that flung you into the rift that divided worlds: suspended in a limbo not of your own making, in a world with no dungeons like yours but 'scenarios' instead. Only the Story reaching its [âŒâŒâŒ] and you protecting the protagonist would guarantee your return, but how were you supposed to do that when the 'protagonist' you were meant to protect kept dying?
honestly it's been a while since I read both solo levelling and orv so the plot is a bit hazy. I told myself to focus more on the actual interaction so it wouldn't snowball into storybuilding like the rest of my works... but alas... honestly this ask was extremely interesting like I've never read journey to the west but a sung jinwoo/six eared macaque collab??? damn
me when I focus on tense first encounters rather than the lovey dovey aspect of relationships.. jokes aside it does get somewhat soft at the very end
fun fact bakht refers to fortune in arabic, or rather finding luck in 'chance'; which unfortunately our reader doesn't seem to have a lot of...
art by @ 1L9l2Aa8UCL0IGJ (blackbox) on x!
pairing: kim dokja + sung jinwoo gn reader
warnings: canon typical danger, mentions of death, also they're not really on the best of terms initially?? quite graphic depictions of blood
wc: 2.7k
ORV MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
Tonight, the wind carried only premonition in its whispers. It started like all the stories didâthe ones that reached your ears, at least. Beginning as a gentle breeze, the songs twining past and future turned coarse as a gale once they encountered the pixelated appendages that seemed to have a life of their own: six downy auricles that were unable to decide whether to stay in the virtual realm or materialise themselves.Â
Most of the time, they hid in the umbrous kingdomâmuch like the rest of your shadows. When you donned the façade of the humans from Planetary System 8612, the tales you could eavesdrop on were mere gossip slinking in from the future and the bygone pastâtidbits of paltry information that were perhaps divine retribution for not proudly donning the Six-Eared Macaqueâs âcrownâ, as he seemed to put it.Â
But tonight was different. Tonight, the mellifluous litany of your flute was sharper than usual as you idled the time away. Tonight, with only the vast night shielding you and the countless shadows skulking on the rooftop, their dance appeared wilder. There was frenzy in the air, and prophecy tainting the cold, canorous wind.Â
It tasted acerbic.Â
âDanger⊠horizonâŠ. DokjaâŠ.â
The frequency soured the melody that brushed past the fur of your six-ears, and they flicked, irritably.Â
[The Fake Monkey King warns of something afoot.]
âI know,â you bitterly commented. Something was always afoot when it came to this world in which you did not belong. Falling past the veil separating a dungeon from nothingness wasnât meant to happen. Your system subsequently trapping you in this limbo until you reached [âŒâŒâŒâŒâŒ], too, wasnât meant to happen either. Let the Story run its course and protect its âprotagonistâ, and this dimension will naturally collapse just enough that youâll fall through back into yours.Â
Kim Dokja, youâd repeated like a mantra while you lost your mindâover and over while your system glitched and protested in this limbo. Over and over, while he died and died and died some more. Youâd bought and earned and fought for various potions, weapons and clothes to help him with his scenariosâleaving them in his vicinity where you knew heâd stumble across themâbut it was all so fucking futile.Â
Each time, he returned past the veil; each time, you sank into a deeper mire of restriction. You hadnât spoken to another soul in months: imprisoned in the very shadows you controlled. It wasnât as bad, initially: you could still talk to people uninvolved in the âStoryâ, the poor souls dubbed as extrasâso long as you didnât cause any ripples with your actions. If Dokja was accounted for through both the soldiers in his shadow, and the whispers that reached the six ears that fanned out behind your head, it would be fine.Â
âHazard⊠kilometre north of Dokjaâs campâŠ.â
A kilometre. Youâd be quiet. You always were.Â
Dokja. Dokja. Dokja. Your face soured as you exchanged places with Beru: ready to silently act as his guardian shadow, though if he was determined to sacrifice himself⊠Both of you would pay a price.
The silence in the city was razor-sharp and just as deadly, to the point you could hear the ionic buzz of your summoned demonic knives. Their ozonic scent bitterly filled your mouth, which only amplified the acerbic profanities mingling on your tongue as you glanced around for the danger. What danger? Youâd be damned before you were sent back to that empty desert to reflect your wrongdoings. There was no chance to gain anything thereâjust endless time, chipping your sanity away and stirring up derision for the one who couldnât solve anything without dying.Â
Because in the end, both of you would pay the price, and he didnât even know it. He became a constellation, while you were shackled to a prison that was never of your own making.Â
Examining the wreck of this urban landscape that felt too much like the Seoul you knew, you came to the abrupt conclusion that there was nothing. Even when your six-ears flicked this way and that, it was too silent. Not a whisper, nor any trace of danger lingered in this space; such an occurrence was nigh-impossible in the scenario-laden dome of this city.Â
[The Prisoner of the GâŒâŒâŒen Headband expresâŒâŒâŒâŒ his mistrust.]Â
Sun Wukong. A flash of hatred that was not your own wracked your body, complete with a burning envy and something far more insidious than anything youâd ever experienced,Â
Crackling messages began interfering with your system screen. Youâd only seen this onceâwhen you accidentally intruded on the fringes of the âStar Streamâ as an âunauthorised oneâ. An anomaly if you ever saw one.Â
âThereâs nothing,â you muttered callously, scraping the tip of your blade against concrete ruins. If it had been a false alarm, then it was time to leave before you risked paying the penalty. Your job was simpleâkeep watch of the âprotagonistâ from the shadows, and make his life somewhat easier.Â
[A nameless constellation argues that advertisements are simply a part of life, and that itâs not a big deal to build suspense.]
Thatâs weird. The messages were getting clearer, but the warning signs that typically appeared in the system windows werenât there.Â
Your own supporting constellation was far too quiet as you sheathed your knife in the shadow dimensionâthe darkness cradled the weapon softly before it vanished, though the familiar whish could not soothe the unease that distorted your mind. Never had the six-ears failed to pinpoint hazards, as close to omniscient that they were.
âGot you,â somethingâsomeoneâwhispered from afar, the moment you stepped on the next broken slab of pavement and triggered a tripwire. A paltry toy, golden string that was incandescent in this darkened city, wrapped tightly around your body; right before you were shoved against a concrete wall. âYouâre not the only one to see the âoutcomeâ.â
Stand down, Igris, you commanded as the stranger continued to press into you; you could sense the turbulent shadows growing even more agitated at your position, though all of them could feel the ease with which you couldâve snapped out of the rope that was no more than a thread. The stream was eerily silent, while the glassy window only you could see kept its cold azure colourânothing like the glaring scarlet that informed you of your penalty.Â
Who is this?Â
In the darkness, you made out the shape of a mouth pressed into a thin line. Dark hair partially swept over the strangerâs eyes, while a long white coat draped itself over his shoulders. But it wasnât the garb, nor was it the features that alerted you of just who this was.Â
It was the umbrous cloud of his soul, the very one youâd been tracking all these weeks.Â
âKim Dokja,â you greeted, half-placidly, half in intrigue. If he could bend the rules of life and death to suit him, you supposed that bending some more rules wouldnât hurt. The interest was quickly replaced by irritationâfor this was the very charge that had continuously shackled you to the in-betweens of the Seoul dome. Not quite a human from this planet, nor a monsterâjust an abominable anomaly that didnât belong in this âStoryâ at all. âI wasnât expecting this.â
There was a polite smile on your face, but he only scoffed in disbelief. âWhat the hell are you playing at? Who are you? You think leaving all those materials for me to find will somehow increase your chances to survive? Why are you doing this?â
Incredulity laced each syllable. The Ugliest King stared hard at the face of the Shadow Monarch, though he didnât know it.Â
You sympathised, you really did. Having someone trail after you (though he hadnât mentioned your shadowsâdid he even notice them?) and leave you useful items might have been convenient to some, but chronic overthinkers (as Beru had reported to you from his shade) wouldnât see it as such.Â
But it wasnât like you had a choice not to, either.Â
âI just want to get back home.â For the first time, there was a hint of the welling annoyance that seeped through the cracks in your courteous expression: in your grinding molars, in the slight squint of your eyes. Babysitting this guy should have never been part of your job.
Donât affect the story.
You pressed your lips together to avoid the tide of complaints that swept in. Why do you keep dying? Do you know how much it sucks whenever you do? Why the fuck was I put on babysitting duty?
âJust take the things,â you gritted out instead; to which a sharp blade stung the side of your neck. Quick, but not quick enough to pose a true threat to you. âThey were annoying to farm, you know that?â
âI never asked for them, nor do I need them to reach where I want to be. You were never in the originalâ I canât exactly trust you now, can I?â he scowledâmore ill-tempered than Beru had included in his periodic reports. In a mere second, you surged: as fluid and fast as quicksilver, slamming the guy youâd grown to abhor into the cold, harsh asphalt. There was no apology dripping from your lips this time, only a snarling, bloodied grit of teeth when the penalty began etching into your skin as a direct consequence of laying hands on the âuntouchableâ protagonist.Â
Sensing your distress, the six-ears materialised around your faceâlike they were countering the drip-drip of sanguine that slinked from your nose and onto the shirt of the man beneath you. You watched as you sullied the protagonist you were forced to stay away fromâtainted in a way that was sure to finally end you. His dark eyes, too, traced the motion of each crimson rivulet: chest rising and falling desperately as he felt the very real, razor-sharp edge of his own knife lightly against his jugular.Â
âListen, I never asked for this either,â you hissed. âBelieve it or not, I too want you to reach the conclusion of this shitshow so I can get back home. You need to stay alive for that. Iâll wait.â
The pressure in your head intensified.Â
âI donât know how you got past the restrictions on meââ Your grip on his shirt loosened as carmine began seeping into the system window. ââbut I canât stay here any longer without repercussions. Neither can I interfere with the story nor escape this hellââ Dark spots began floating in your vision, and the blade sliced into the concrete a hair's breadth away from his neck with a low-resonating chime. Maybe this was your only chance to make your job easier, without the loss of sanity that came with rule-breaking. ââbut if you canât trust me, trust that your accomplishment of your goal will allow me to get back to my own world as a result.â
âWaitââ Your body swayed as you stood, feeling the familiar frequency of the Stream boot up against the fine down of the six-ears. I donât have time, you wanted to say, but iron was beginning to leave your lips too.Â
[The Prisoner of the Golden Headband complains loudly that fraternising with the enemy is a horribly stupid move, pulling out his hair.]
[The Demon-like Judge of Fire is unsure of this development, and would like to be filled in on this strangerâs connection with the Prisoner of the Golden Headband..]
The Star Stream was⊠clear. Not filled with static like it had been before, but cogent enough that you could observe each message coherently.Â
[The Star Stream has its eyes on you.]
A terrible foreboding surfaced, while your chest constricted with the sudden onslaught of red that assaulted your eyesâa cacophony of warning signs, all targeted at you.Â
âWhat is that?â A hand that wasnât yours reached for the crimson glow, and you jolted as the cerise shattered: reverting back to the familiar blue interface. The ache in your head, too, vanishedâyet the buildup of fatigue was still present in your hazy mind. Though, the only thing you could register was the change in his voice as he observed the screen, an inkling of understanding as he watched the characters fade from existence:
Protect the âprotagonistâ Kim Dokja. Let the Story run its course, and you will be able to return to your home world.Â
{The Fourth Wall quietly observes the remnants of its meal.}
Gone, in a wave of his hand. That same hand, now held out to you as if it hadnât just erased weeksâ worth of strain from your body: long, deft fingers reaching out to you. You could only stare as the world grew dim around you, as a faint voice brushed past the soft fur of your six-ears.Â
âError⊠error⊠due to unprecedented actions âŒâŒâŒâŒ taken by the protagonist, the system has now⊠updated to provide for a deuteragonist model⊠consiâŒâŒder standby⊠updating⊠updating⊠âŒâŒâŒâŒâŒâŒ  âŒâŒâŒâŒ objective updated⊠reach the [âŒâŒâŒâŒ] alongside deuteragonist Kim Dokja to catalyse homecoming.â
âWhat the hell⊠did you do?â you slurred. The misguided loathing towards him had dissipated into a tumultuous state of frenzy; you could feel the shadows within stir with the agitation of your mind, though you fought to keep your cards at bay. Rather than the hilt of your familiar sword, you thumbed the worn edge of your flute in a last bid to stay calm.Â
ââReach the [âŒâŒâŒâŒ] alongside deuteragonist Kim Dokja to catalyse homecomingâ, huh?â The incredulity you felt at him repeating the words that only you ever heard was overshadowed by the bone-deep exhaustion you felt.Â
âWas⊠being honest,â you mumbled for the last time, fully expecting to feel the frigid asphalt as you collapsed and your eyes came to a close. The lingering penalties had finally taken effect, yet you didnât quite hit the hard concrete like you anticipated. Rather, you collided against a wiry frame that, despite its initial gauntness, was far warmer than anything youâd felt in these apocalyptic weeks. âI mightâve died if I continued interfering.â
âYou wonât die.â The words ghosted over your ear as he stared down at the person in his arms whoâd been tracking him for weeks. Theyâd been a constant pain and irritated him to no end, especially with all the gifts he received that heâd never read about in TWSA; and there was nothing he hadnât read about in TWSA save for the epilogue. âI wonât let you.â
His very headache was now slumbering in his arms, with only the ambition of going home on their mind.Â
What a lonely existence.Â
Maybe you heard him. Maybe you didnât. All he knew was that he was crafting an epilogue that would shake this very world to its roots, and perhaps there was a small, you-sized shape cut out just for the person snoozing their little heart out. He had a feeling he had only breached the outermost layer of you; peeling back only the very dermis to reveal someone far too overpowered to compete with most of the dome.Â
Dokjaâs thumb traced the bloody lines staining your face. You could faintly feel them; then, abruptly, the citrus smell that lingered on him grew sharper. Closer. A soft pressure applied itself to the crown of your head: fleeting, silvery. What was that?
It was everything that had been forcibly taken from you after you were brought past the void.Â
With something that was suspiciously close to a smile, your mind drifted away in the arms of someone who both damned you and saved you.Â
ăâș âŠ
âIf Igris and Yoo Joonghyuk fought, who would win?âÂ
âIgris,â you answered without missing a beat. There wasnât a hint of hesitation in your face as you opened your mouth, and it was so strong that he almost believed that your Commander could beat the true âprotagonistâ of this world. âAnd if he lost, Iâd win for him.â
This! This was his chance to get back at that squid bastard!Â
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Testing... testing... is this thing picking up sound? On this fine day in the middle of Argonian summer, a rather unlikely interview subject has been selected by the author to provide impartial evidence of the existence, or rather, the impossibility, of an even more unlikely relationship.
wanted to play about with a more unconventional way of writing and had the honour of interviewing several agreeable light fixtures thanks guys
art creds: ahriii7 on x (sunday), kotteri (teacup/candle sconce)
pairing: sunday + male reader
warnings: none except they're not friendly to each other whatsoever and I mean this sincerely
wc: 1.7k
HONKAI STAR RAIL MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
There exists a certain lamp that illuminates the way between the doorway to the left and the doorway to the right. A small thing: bronze, affixed to the wall (a sconce, really, yet it insists on being a lamp). If one were to ask it what leads in either direction, it would not knowâand if it did, it would not be able to tell. âI cannot see where my light does not reach,â it might insist, eager to be helpful, but it is far too foolish to read between lines and form a cogent explanation.Â
The lamp is better suited for sharing observationsâshedding light on matters, so to speak.Â
For example, who passes along this corridor each day?
The lamp thinks.Â
A man with imposing footsteps. He has a cheerful voiceâhumming the tunes that occasionally slip out of the door to the left, announcing his presence to the one named after a bird. Sometimes, the light catches on the food he brings: sweet, small little cakes; a tray of tea and sandwiches; and maybe a few flaky pastries. More often, he brings out an empty plate. The lamp has no idea how he does itâit counts and counts, but it seems the food has simply appeared in that room at the end more often than he brings it in, and heâs merely taking the residue out.Â
Who else?
Thereâs a shorter one, clad in the softest of greys that incandesce so gently when itâs evening and only the lamp shines dimly. His steps are softer, too: partly due to the difference in shoe choices between the two, partly due to the more regal way he carries himself.Â
And what do you hear?
Theyâre definitely not friends.Â
âCarry yourself with more decorum,â the soft-grey one says. His amber eyes should be warmâlike the hushed blaze of the small lampâbut theyâre staring at the other man with such coldness that the bronze cladding of its metallic body almost shivers.Â
âYes, Your Holiness,â the other replies, sing-song.Â
It wasnât always like this. The lamp has been observing for a long time, and it recalls the man who holds the sweets used to be more reticent when following behind the grey one: hands folded behind his back, walking as neatly as a soldier.Â
Nowânow, itâs an easy dislike between the two. The lamp cannot see the other manâs face, but he imagines itâa false smile shrouding an unhappy heart, and both of them know it.Â
The lamp thinks it changed after the two got covered in (hastily patched-up) scrapesâand that quiet fear that clung to the man like smoke simply dissolved in the air, replaced with something the lamp cannot quite place. Arrogance? No, perhaps not. Contempt? Maybe.Â
What else do you hear?
âI donât appreciate you shirking your duties in favour of disturbing others fulfilling their own.â
âOh, you heard about me helping the chefs?â His easy tone is meant to distractâlike two hands placed firmly on somebodyâs shoulders to turn them towards a predetermined conclusion. âDid you enjoy todayâs lunch?â
The grey man presses his lips together. The lamp has seen enough of his expressions to gauge approximately the incredulous irritation that seeks to spill from his mouthâheld back only by the tight seam that forms its distinct line on his face.
âIt was far too acerbic.âÂ
âOdd,â the other murmurs. âPlate came back clean.â
âI donât waste food,â Â he snaps. âI wasnât talking about that, regardless.â
âThe knights? You always do seem to drag me away by the scruff of my neck whenever you see me rolling around with themââ
âSuch vulgar language,â he clicks his tongue. âYou instill bad habits into them.â
âWhat, survival? Your Holiness, the swordwork of the temple may be beautiful, but it is inflexible inâŠâ
The words trail off suddenly, punctuated by the distant closing of the door.Â
What do you notice?
He likes to argue.Â
Which one?
The one who brings the food. He speaks informally, without an ounce of shame.Â
The lamp thinks hard.Â
There was once a voice, drifting in from the ajar door in the distance. Her words floated through the creviceâjust about in reach of the rays of light after the lampâs oil was topped up. It doesnât remember much of the conversation, only that she mentioned friendship briefly.Â
Maybe this is his idea of âfriendshipâ.Â
And if one were to ask its cousinsâthe Temple of Order, naturally, needs its lightâthen, what would they say?
Is this friendship?
The sconce by the offices would say yes. In the steady stream of people who walk by, the one with small wings aflutter and the one with a sword resting on his hip always act cordial with each other.Â
âHow far has the Entreaty been translated?âÂ
âFar.â
âFar? It was supposed to be finished by now.â
âIâm soârry,â the one who looks like a guard drags his syllables out, clearly genuine.Â
The winged one looks stern, but perhaps itâs all a joke between friends.Â
The sconce in the office would disagree.Â
Oh? What do you think about the situation?
Thereâs hatred between the twoâvitriol, disguised as normal chatter, invades each conversation. Only when both are buried in a mountain of paperwork does the office of the one dressed in fancy robes quieten down: filling it with the sound of pens scratching against parchment, and the soft crinkle of pages turning.Â
Just not today.Â
âWhy were you absent from the grounds?âÂ
The man cornered against a desk glances at the sword haplessly leant against the wall behind his chair, as if it could save him, as if it could offer him answers for the uncharacteristic way the other is acting.Â
âI was told to stand down for what shouldâve been my duty at the Synod,â he replies bitterly, but the sconce notices that he doesnât quite answer the question.Â
âAnd you went out gallivanting with the Northern Duke?â
âIâd like to remind Your Holiness of my ranking as a viscount. Should I needlessly irritate the sword of the King?â
The feathered manâs lips press togetherâa grim line, like the kind of flame when the oil is sputtering and the fire in the lamps canât muster up the energy to flow warm and fat and lazy.Â
âYou have no problem irritating me,â he says, quietly, and his gloved hands creak as they dig into the wood of the desk either side of the aide: almost crushing the poor thing. Look, itâs practically shaking at the tense silence between the twoâat the nerve steeling the aideâs spine as he boldly stares back at the other, at the warmth being leached out of the room, even with the blazing fireplace. Theyâre so close that the sconce can almost feel their atoms minglingâand briefly, the aide looks at the sconce as if he can hear it. âYou donât mind acting insolently when it comes to me.â
He swallows, and the sconce is sure that his superior feels his throat vibrate; despite his valiant efforts, the aide is human like the rest of them, cowed in the face of someone with more power.Â
âYou forgive the insolent,â he breathes. The sconce didnât think it was possible, but he approachesâcloser, yet not quite touching, as if a veil were separating the two of them, just barely tickling against their bodies and rippling in on itself. âTranscendental, omnibenevolentâeveryone you interact with seems to be a misguided, pitiful lamb to your omniscient eyes, Your Holiness. You forgive them. Each sinner is allocated a special type of patience.â
The flames crackling in the fireplace shift, and the feathered manâs face is shrouded in shadow. In turn, the sconce glows more insistently, yet it still canât make out his expression. Bitter anger? Incredulity?
âWhereâs your patience for me? Go on, tell me to repent. My sin was leaving to aid the blade of the king in exterminating three wyverns near the Holy Grottosâtell me, Your Holiness, what should my penance be?â
He grins, but it is not a friendly thing. Snarled, causticâthe sconce can tell the enshadowed man is approaching the end of his wick. Trembling hands, so politely wrapped in dove-grey gloves, itch to moveâto grab the man in front of him, shake him down, breaching the invisible boundaries between them.Â
Are you curious about whatâs happening?
Does his breath taste like the blood speckling his freshly ironed coat? When he leans towards the feathered one, is he radiating the heat of adrenaline, or does one feel a chill as he approaches? Theyâre almost nose-to-nose now, touching as one would with a priceless piece of artâwhich is to say, not at all, or with the faintest of touches disguised in the most delicate gloves.Â
âLeave,â he replies, finally, and the sconce doesnât know whether the word is in tangent to the otherâs question, or if itâs completely disjointed from the conversationâa full stop to end the overstrung atmosphere (like a tightrope carrying far too many people, braced in limbo against the inevitable snap of overworked fibres).
Ironically, these are the only times where the dissident obeys, just barely grazing the otherâs bodyâand the man who had the last word falters. He doesn't turn back, doesn't even stop to collect the sword behind his desk. His coat flutters behind him, and those gloved hands reach out: fingers not quite kissing the hem, receding back to his side as though he burnt them.Â
The door slams shut.Â
Have things changed?
Perhaps. The one left behind stares at the hand that betrayed him, unconsciously curling and uncurling themâthe act of grasping at straws. Nothing but the thin air responds to his touch. He looks up, and the sconce can see his face now: a placid thing, cruelly beautiful. Heâs not frowning, like the sconce half-expected. No.Â
Thereâs a frightful pensiveness painting his features, and the sconce cannot help but feel something far more sinister lurks beneath the dermis making up this mask.Â
Fortune. It is a humorous concept for Moze: tasting of a fleeting childhood dream and the dregs of hope. Fortune, as some know it, comes in all forms. From gilt wealth and corruption, to finding a strale dropped on the street and getting to bed on timeâeveryone, it seems, tastes good fortune somewhere along their paltry lives.Â
Mozeâs good luck surmounts to meagre things: not getting blood beneath his nails after a mission; evading the prying eyes of the Yaoqing as he slinks into the shadows; working by himself; and most of all, not running into you. Good luck equals a tidy house and leftovers in his fridge. Good luck equals not needing to stock up on the tools of his trade and knives that donât need sharpening. Good luck equals a fresh steamed bun and a slow day perched on the roof of a building.Â
The point must be made. Moze does not experience auspicious encounters often.Â
Conversely, those afflicted by confirmation bias might say misfortune comes in threes. Misfortune, for Moze, is significantly easier to quantifyâbut to stratify it into threes grossly underestimates the cesspit of chance heâs been allotted.Â
One: being outside currently at Jiaoqiuâs food stall while rain drizzles down on him. It could be argued itâs only by his own volition that heâs slurping on steaming chilli-infused noodles as petrichor stains the air, yet that stupid fox decided this was the way to go in terms of conveying intelligence from Feixiao. This was the hell crafted by Jiaoqiuâs hands seeped green with pungent herbs.Â
Two: getting his apartment lease renewal rejected a week ago over a development project at his block. Though he had been planning on starting afreshânever one to stay in the same area for too long, just like the rest of the Shadow Guardsâhe quite liked the nondescript studio. Itâs a tidy place: plain and unassuming. What a pity. Heâs read the message from his landlord over and over: growing a tad bit more incensed each time.Â
Three: the sudden absence of suitable apartments in the districts that he sticks to. None of the flats he browsed were innocuous enough, and the ones that were perfect for his schedule and profession were in dismal condition.Â
Four: you purchasing a flat a month ago which perfectly fulfilled his conditions. Two-bedroom, in the lower districts of the Yaoqing, with reclusive neighbours and a walking distance of the Seat of Divine Foresight. Had he gotten the notice for his lease rejection earlier, it mightâve been him there.Â
Five: upon asking about his dilemma, Feixiaoâs eyes gleaming bright. This was the indicator for certain disasterâan omen as ill as he ever saw. And unfortunately, her gaze next fell on the scripts you were working on, before flickering back up to you. Shit. That was the only thought running through his mind, before she pitched her idea to have him simply move in with you. Say no, he pleaded mentally, but alasâ
âSure,â you mutter, red ink spilling from your pen onto the parchment. Bold characters sign the form off and the letter is folded neatly onto a cycrane absent-mindedly; before you finally look up at the assassin who flinches as your eyes land on his. âSâlong as he pays rent.â
Six: you agreeing to this stupid deal. Why? Why? It canât possibly be the deep veneration for the Arbiter General. Surely your adoration of her cannot be deep enough to let this guy room in your houseâan assassin, at that. You arenât a follower of Qlipoth, but where the hell is your sense of preservation?
Seven: him not actually finding any fault in the building. Not in the surroundings, nor the modest room across from yours, nor the lazy grin on your face as you showed him around the apartmentâstill expecting him to vehemently shake his head.Â
He signed the damned contract, and that was that.
âWhatâs got you sighing?â Jiaoqiu eyes him from where heâs pulling noodles: sleeves rolled back to avoid dusting the salmon hues with flour. Fragrant red wafts from the pot on the stove, and heâs suddenly reminded of the crimson shirt you wore just this morningârippling around the taut lines of sinew and muscle as you worked diligently on decrypting ancient alchemical texts. âI thought you found yourself a place to stay, so why the long face?â
Moze keeps his silence. Well, tries toâbut itâs not like a singular word will make him any less laconic. Tapping his chopsticks against the rim of the blue-toned porcelain, he evades the question and focuses right on the middle of Jiaoqiuâs sentence. âSomehow.âÂ
âRight! Your dearest partnerââ Jiaoqiu drags the word out, characters stretched tight until they wind right against Mozeâs eardrums. He glares: visibly annoyed, yet this only makes the man in his peripherals close his own eyes in satisfaction. ââtook pity on you, didnât he?â
âMaybe.â The assassin slams down the rest of the piquant broth: lips dripping with sanguine. His response is a question in itselfâbecause why the hell did you agree to Feixiaoâs request?
âCurious?â Of course heâs curious.Â
âItâs not much of a surprise, really,â the foxian sighs, twisting the strands into a neat circle and letting it drop into the boiling water. âPoor thingâs probably still in shock from his breakup. I think he wouldâve agreed to pretty much anything coming out of Feixiaoâs mouth at that point.â
The man can only stare incredulously. Every part of that sentence is laden with a bombshell.Â
âWow, I thought you wouldâve known. Guess whatâs said at Qiuâerâs stays there too.â Jiaoqiuâs golden eyes gleam slightly at the mention of the downtown bar. No, Moze didnât know. No, Moze isnât currently outright staring at the man no longer in his peripherals. No, Moze cannot hear his chopsticks creaking beneath his grasp. âWoah, donât break those.â
The fox eyes the crow warily. âSeriously. Cool it.â
Eight: youâre still not over your boyfriend cheating on you. In the drizzle beneath the canopy, this is how your new roommate diligently listens to how his work partner and resident cryptologist really canât catch a break from bad men.Â
âThat includes you, you know,â Jiaoqiu squints at an unusually contemplative Moze. Flickering amber lights and the buzz of cicadas makes the assassin seem even more shady than usual. âYou donât have a chance, so donât even try.â
âThe hell are you talking about?â For someone like Moze, his piece of good fortune is that his voice remains steady in almost any sort of situation. This means that anyone hearing this man speak right now would naturally presume heâs affronted at Jiaoqiuâs response out of its complete implausibility. But on the flip side, those whoâve known Moze longer have learnt to watch for other irritated tells of his rather than a wavering voice. The subconscious flex of long fingers. Minute shifts in the elbows propped up on the bar. Biting the inside of his lip, just enough that itâs unnoticeable. But these arenât things the assassin really takes stock of.Â
For a brief moment, Jiaoqiuâs friendly smile drops and he peers at the man askance. Is he brain dead? â...Okay.â
And that is how the tall manâhunched over in the downpour to not let his noodles get too coldâfirst learns of matters of a more personal note of yours. In the rare grey skies that cast over the Yaoqing, itâs a chance to digest this information heâs learnt.Â
But he doesnât care.Â
He doesnât.Â
ă»ăă
A painful month passes for Moze.Â
Thereâs nothing else to describe itâpsychological torment is the only fitting description of your behaviour. Outwardly, nothing changes. He still hates you, and you still hate himâtwo arguing peas in a pod with a mutual dislike being the only thing in common between the two of you. Outwardly, behaviour-wise, nothing changes. Outwardly, appearance-wise, something does.Â
He first notices it about three weeks after that waterlogged conversation with Jiaoqiu. Thereâs a faint aroma of sweet-smelling smoke on youâa long cigarette holder between your fingers as you read a thick book on the couch. Heâs never seen the thing before in all your months together. Sure, the Yaoqing tobacco scent fades quickly away to not linger in the case of a borisinâs especially sharp sensesâbut heâs never seen that sort of heavy-lidded expression on you before. When you glance at him, itâs usually irritatedlyânot like this, where your glance is hazy and your lips are parted to blow plumes from your mouth.Â
Shit. He doesnât quite know why his heart speeds up.Â
The second thing he notices is that every week or so, thereâs a clinging perfume to your body: never your usual clean scent, one that clearly belongs to a different person. This is the same time he starts noticing you slipping on shirts with longer necks on missionsâa darker imprint just about peeking above the material.Â
Heâs not an idiot. He can put two and two together.Â
The third instance of misfortune is your habit of wandering around after a shower with nothing but a towel wrapped around your waist conservatively. Sure, the area from your hips to your knees is coveredâbut what about the rest? He finds himself growing more irritable during work hours. Marks not caused by injuries still bruise your skin; as you turn your back in the kitchen to make yourself a mug of tea, his eyes rove the dips and valleys of your back. Categorising each wound. Systematically detailing each little infringement on your skin.Â
He doesnât particularly know why. Maybe his obsession with tidiness crosses over to people too.Â
ă»ăă
It happens like this. Occasionally, a man as ill-fortuned as Moze receives gets a break.Â
Thereâs a tumbler of whiskey on the low coffee table in the living room. Polished chestnutâif you had to describe itâwith the light shining through the amber liquid just so, until it reflects onto the varnished surface. A cube of ice sits dainty in the middle, clinking as you tip the glass this way and that.Â
âDonât spill it,â the assassin murmurs. From behind the couch, breath ghosting just past your ear. You donât shriek (perhaps he hoped you would)âyou donât even glance his way.Â
âI feel like that was a redundant warning,â you remark brusquely, taking a swill of the liquor. Itâs sweeter than it wouldâve been normally: courtesy of the saccharine pipe nestled betwixt your fingers and the smoke still lingering in your mouth. âWere you hoping Iâd jump?â
âYes.â Short. To the point. Laconic. Thatâs how those outside this home would describe the man currently leaning down, hands splayed on the backrest of the couch. âWeâve got a mission tomorrow, and you still havenât done the dishes.â
âItâs your turn,â he adds, because he likes seeing how this manâs expression wrinkles in exasperation, likes that stupid cant of your headâfor it means Moze has won this little encounter. Itâs all because he strongly dislikes his roommate, no other reason.Â
âYou suck.â Syrupy plumes ghost his face as you exhale into his face aboveâhe doesnât move back, even as the traces of burnt caramel become far more prominent, even as it feels like youâre blowing him a kiss more than anything.
âAnd you need to clean and go to sleep before youâre late,â he grits out, more annoyed than he was a moment ago. Heâd say it was due to your lack of responsibility, but this angle allows the loose robe to expose your bitten collarboneâlike some stupid fucking trophy. âLike you always are.â
âIâm never late, A-ze,â you enunciate each word in such a way that makes it clear youâre not drunkâso clearly the nickname is just to piss him off. A last-ditch middle finger; a threat that hasnât worked for some time, one that makes his stomach churn uncomfortably but not enough to admit defeat. âYouâre just up stupid early.â
He goes silent, in the way he does when youâre right. Instead of saying anything, he instead plucks the glass from your hand: downing the smooth alcohol from where you drank it, enjoying how for once your mouth closes just like his. The pipe in your hand tilts this way and that as you take a drag thoughtfullyârecovering far too quickly for his liking.Â
âA-ze.â Like this, with wisps exiting your mouth and silk draped over you, you look good enough to eat. He freezes at the implication of his thoughts, freezes at the sound of the name blanketed in some gruesome replica of affection. He hates it; hates how his heart squeezes and a faint flush of red dusts his cheekbones. Aeons.Â
It is common knowledge to not toss a starving dog a bone before it hungers for more.Â
âWhat, you donât hate it anymore? Here I was, hoping youâd turn tail and leave,â you sigh, theatrically despondentâmuch like you normally are. Too damn dramatic for your own good.Â
So desperate, drinking your sorrows away as if thatâll possibly work. He scoffs, striding the short distance over so he can tower over from the front.Â
âMaybe you just like calling me that,â he breathes. Thereâs a smile playing on his lips: the rare one he gets when he knows heâs got a point, knows when heâs right. Itâs unconsciousâheâs far too oblivious to notice it only occurs around you.Â
âI do,â you murmur. âBet it warms your heart though. No one likes you enough to call you that.â
âSo you like me?â Thereâs an odd buzz in his veins tonight. As the orange lights from the street blink into existence, and the room is no longer illuminated by âdayâ, heâs glad for the darkness that conceals the heat in his face. Your clothing rustles as you standâpractically nose to nose with the man in front of you.
âDonât get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze,â you mutter, and the heated breath from your lips fans over his sensitive skinâmingling with the tobacco wisps and alcohol vapour. He swallows. âItâs pity.â
âPity?â he sneers. âLike how you sleep around to get over your boyfriend? Thatâs not pitiful?â
âLike I saidââ your tone becomes frigid as you shift closer: until his chest brushes up against yours, until he can count every lash that glows amber in the incandescent street lamps, until he can practically taste the rolling fury off your tongue. Warm. Scalding heat ebbs from your body and flows right into his own. ââdonât get ahead of yourself, Xiaoze.â
His breath comes in ragged waves. So close. When he stands so near to a human, it typically means heâs feeling life flow from them. Not like this; but he cannot bring himself to get away.Â
Heâs never been more thankful for his unwavering voice.Â
âDonât give bones to starving dogs,â he murmurs, mellifluous rather than jarringly annoying. âTheyâll bite.â
Smoke wafts into his face as you survey his expression: flushed, brows knitted taut, lips still slick with liquor.Â
âSo youâre a dog, now?â Your fingers graze his chin, canting his head this way and that as he makes no moves to evade your grasp: heart beating miserably in his chest. Thereâs a strange sort of hunger in your gaze.Â
Heâs never seen it before.Â
âNo, it was proverbialââ Like itâs the most obvious thing in the world. ââyou know?â
âJust as desperate as one,â you mutter. Trailing your finger down until they graze his collarbones, itâs no wonder he flinchesâand you stare at him, unimpressed. âIf I tell people about this, your reputation would immediately disintegrate. How many years have you cultivated that stupid mysterious image?â
âHahâwho would believe you?â Itâs true, not many people wouldâbut alas, the important ones have already witnessed this man looking at you.Â
âJiaoqiu, but I guess he already knows what a loser you are.â And you miss how when he lowers his head, he looks like a completely different personâflushed visage mired in shadow, like the assassin he truly is. Heâs staring right at you, unblinking as he watches the cruel movement of your lips.Â
âDonât talk about him right now.â
And so, you donât.Â
ă»ăă
This is the prelude leading up to this particularly humiliating scene.Â
Humiliating, because propping himself up on his elbows on your bed isnât a position he thought heâd ever find himself in. Humiliating, because he never gets drunk, so why the hell is his head spinning? Humiliating, because for once the mellow deep of his voice is pitched a note higherâlarynx taut with suppressed groans. Unsteady, in a way his voice has never been.Â
You taste like the pipe still tipping in your fingers: candy-sweet and saccharic. But thereâs also the heavy aroma of liquor on your breath, mingling bittersweet with the plumes of smoke wafting from your fingers. Beneath that, blood from a scrape on your lipâacrid and metallic. That is what he knows, so your lips moving gently against his feels so utterly foreign: and not just in the way they taste.Â
When you pull back for air, his eyes are blown wide in surprise; his mouth has only ever been used to bite, after all. You seem to instinctively know this as you take a long drag from the stick, blowing the curls of vapour into his mouth when you pull back in: to induce a slight tingle into him presumably (but Lan knows he doesnât need aid to feel that buzz).Â
Languorous. Thatâs how heâd describe itâfor it seems you only ever work lazily. Thereâs no hurry as you lick past the seam of his lips. Thereâs no hurry as both your scalding mouth and your arid fingertips trail downwards, past the vales of his tense abdomen. Thereâs no hurryâbut Aeons he wishes there was, for your hand slipping under his shirt and against his stiffened nipples are much too damn slow.Â
âDo youâdo you even know what youâre doing?â he mocks, like he isnât currently jolting as you roll the pink flesh between searing fingers. You raise a brow: lucid against the otherwise irritated thoughts.Â
âDo I?â you copy his broken whine, gripping the fat of his tits coarsely while the rise and fall of his chest becomes ever so slightly more shallow. If only he could see himself right now: jarred at every turn, pupils blown out, and the residual sheen on his lips. Every damn hue of purple littering his neck and collarbone. And if only you could see better in this darknessâspot that obsessive fervour in his gaze, one neither of you are quite aware of.Â
âDo you have any experiences to compare it to?â you counter, twisting your hand while he glares at you heatedly. Nothing. Quiet as a corpse when you make an irrefutable point.Â
No, thatâs right, you grin sardonically as you slip the long cigarette back into its place on your nightstand. Syrup drips from your mouth as you twine your free hand in his hair, tugging until he groans into your lips with his own in that mellifluous cadence.Â
Youâre harsh as winter.Â
No, cruel.
Cruel, as you trail your hand from his chest to his waistbandâpalming him roughly through his pants. Cruel, as you pinion his hips against your bed to prevent them from bucking into your handâfingers digging desperately against your sheets as you grind against him. Cruel, as you swallow each whine with your warm mouth: so sweet, so gentle even as you wrench your hand into sinew, flesh and everything beyond. He can taste the arid heartbeat through your mouth, and heâs sure you can feel his ownâpulsing hotly as he yields his worries to you, just for a moment.Â
Or two.Â
Heâs inexperienced, but even he knows what the tension in his abdomen signifies. The distinct tremors in his legs, the pain as he digs his nails into your thigh, the tightness coiling his body into rigidity. Puppet-like beneath your machinations: manipulated this way and that way with strings unseen.Â
Fucking his hand has never felt like this.Â
As he writhes, he greedily swallows you whole. Taking everything, including your bloodied lips, including the faint caramel tracing your tongue, including the strangled gasp as he grasps your nape with burning urgency. Aeons. Heâs breathless; judged human lust far too soon. Against your brutal palm, the fabric of his trousers is slick with his releaseâwet patch a testament to his sin.Â
Yet still you rock against him as he rides out the mind-numbing pleasure: limbs infinitely heavier from the tension suddenly all releasing.Â
But he forgets how cruel you are.Â
One final sweet kiss laterânails raking past his scalp and the other hand warmly pressed against his cheekâand you pull away with a lazy smile.Â
âGo to sleep.â The directive jolts him awake, like a bucket of ice-cold water breaking apart a dream. Dissolved like candy, like the damn fluid in Penacony connecting the conscious and unconscious. âWeâve got a mission tomorrow, remember?â
Like the cat that got the cream, you smile Cheshire-bright. A fucking riddle on your lips. âAnd I still have to do the dishes, remember?â
Heâs left stupefied: numb lips, a reeling head, and an impercipient body. Once more, the shower he douses himself in is frigidâbut nothing could be as cold as what just occurred.Â
What the hell?Â
He presses his palm to the lower half of his face in shock.Â
What the hell?
Seriously, thereâs something wrong with you. And as he glances down, he realises with utmost horror that his problem has not yet died down yet.Â
What the hell?
Important things must be said thrice. Duplicitous in nature, Mozeâs fate both turns for the worse and better simultaneously.Â
The bone has been tossed. What will the starving dog do?
ă»ăă
All actions have consequences.Â
That is a proverb universally recognised by all walks of life: trodden on by kings, revered by alchemists, and vowed by the weak. You reap what you sow. What goes around comes around. Equivalent exchange.Â
The natural outcome from that night is mutual silence. You donât speak of that evening, and neither does heâface flush with implication, yet unwilling to actually divulge his thoughts on the matter. Sure, he finds himself with his hand attempting to recreate your rough friction (teeth clenched around his shirt as he paws at his lean chest)âbut it never quite works, and all of his colleagues are privy to his especially curt mood.Â
Joint missions with you are now a thing painful. Tense.Â
The strings that bind him to you are taut with the feeling. Constricting, tightening, until he can sense their imminent breakage.Â
This leads this unusual pair to this scenario. You, fresh out a shower and post the nth mission of this month. Itâs only been three weeks since that night, and watching you meander about the kitchen with only a towel slung low on your hips is giving him heart palpitations. Steam curls from your body; each time you shift, heâs excruciatingly aware of how it appears just like that smoke from that night.Â
âA-ze. What do you want?âÂ
Thatâs the golden questionâwhat snaps him out of the tranceâand makes him realise heâs practically pressed up against you from the back. No, scratch practically. His arms are on either side of the counter, pinning you in position as you continue stirring the fragrant drink. Feeling that damned sear of your skin is driving him into the throes of madness.Â
He wraps his arms around you, burying his face in the crook of your neck and not heeding the rivulets that seep into his clothes. So warm, he wants to murmurâbut talking is for those who want to speak, and he does not want to. Not in this moment, where heâs appreciating the soap you used, the lotion spread onto damp skin, the inherent smell of you.Â
His teeth graze the vulnerable juncture. You turn, and he can see your eyes waver, feel the rapid thrum of your pulse as you become aware of just how desperate he is. âA-ze.â And your hands roam his waist, tracing the taut muscles betraying his anticipation.Â
His lips are heated as he leans into you: a snarling mess. Trembling fingers trace the expanse of your soft body, like youâll ghost away just like the wisps you smoke.Â
âNeed you.â Itâs not a pleaâthe rough deep of his voice makes him sound demanding, as arrogant as ever. âHavenât I behaved?â
Heâs so damn desperate as he grasps your body: bruising and fatal. Heâs desperate as he kisses you heatedly, desperate while your hands brush past the feverish skin of his stomach, desperate as you push him against the couchâtoo hasty for the bedroom. Now, he chokes out. Now, now, now. Please.Â
Pliant beneath your hands, itâs not exactly the longest time until heâs gasping beneath you. So tight, you may have commented: drunk on the sensation of him fluttering around your probing fingers. Aeons.Â
Heâs so malleable: arching into you as soon as you line yourself up. It almost makes you feel bad for him: feeling him flinch whenever you brushed past him, watching his face bloom scarlet as he saw the marks on his neck in the hallway mirror. Almost.
Itâs because heâs so cute like this: drooling amidst all the broken noises as you slam into him. Youâve never quite seen him this dishevelled, not even during that night. Hungrily, heâs sucking you right inâpaying no heed to suppressing the almost-pained moans dribbling past his open lips.Â
What a mess.Â
Physically, it can only be described as such. White globs decorate his flushed skin messily: pearlescent in the dim lights of the living room. He canât even begin to count how many times his weeping tip has stiffened, not when youâre so damn insistent that he forgets how to speak properly. Itâs not like youâre any better; each time you look down thereâs that frothy ring that strings you two together.Â
Emotionally, itâs also quite the mayhem. You donât particularly know where to look when his eyes have that gleam in themâa sort of fervour that one rarely ever sees. Even nowâpupils hazed with lust and eyelids lowered heavilyâheâs staring right up at you, content as can be whilst you drill mercilessly into him.Â
Fuck.Â
âCome on, youâahâcan do better than that,â he taunts. As though he doesnât look completely fucked-out, as though there arenât tears leaking from his foggy eyes. Youâre not sure where he gets his audaciousness from.Â
Heâs beautiful.Â
âThis is why no one likes you,â you hiss, sharply tugging his hair back to hear his surprised whines. Supplicantly, he does exactly what you expect. Loser. Aeons, he sucks.Â
âYeah?â he grins. âWhat does that say about you?â
âThat Iâm a no one from the Intelligenstia Guild,â you answer against his neck, feeling his throat constrict as he swallows. Though itâs only minutely, his nails dig somewhat deeper into the flesh of your backâmarking you up just as much as youâve marked him. An acknowledgement of your words.Â
Well.Â
You suppose youâve always been drawn to the pathetic ones.Â
"So if you're lonely, you know I'm here waiting for you,
I'm just a crosshair, I'm just a shot away from you."
wc: 10.4k
JOJO'S BIZARRE ADVENTURE MASTERLIST
PENDULUM MASTERLIST
MASTERLIST ă»ăă»NAVIGATION
You never resented being right quite this much.Â
There was a certain tang of despair that was easy to pinpoint when the air ran thick with gaseous sprays of oily blood. However, this was an exceptional case. Rather than soul-shattering fear and trepidation thrumming through your gut, resignation and frustration were the most poignant.Â
Of course, there was a morbid dash of fascination you couldnât extinguish, no matter how hard you tried. After all, behind you stood a species that had long gone extinct: the early Cretaceous Utahraptor ostrommaysi. But you werenât interested in palaeontology enough to remember that; that knowledge was all fragmented memories from where Dr Ferdinand eagerly dated sediments where fossils were formed through radiometric dating (this was, after all, the Ferdinand Institute of Geochemistry).Â
You much preferred the tamer sides of your job.Â
Still, gazing at the Diego-saur before you was a rather interesting experience. Your mouth was dry, and your pulse wildly careened in agitation â but it was interesting, you desperately tried to convince yourself.
If your earlier conjecture was proven correct â that he was losing his inhibitions as a dinosaur, and thus didnât care about his dignity any longer â then all of you were in some pretty deep shit. Like a wild beast, his mind would currently be on hyperdrive and heâd be unable to recognise friend or foe. Not that he thinks of any of us as friends, you thought sourly.Â
âWhatâ what the hell is this? Heâs a Stand userâ heâ he transformed into this thing,â Johnny yelled out fearfully, and Zeppeli turned from where he stood in the doorway.Â
âJohnny,â you whispered frantically. âShut the fuck up.â
Though the blond was the one who had made the biggest racket, the raptorâs head had swivelled around to survey you and Zeppeli. If â if â he was truly without his usual brain, then surely heâd treat you and Zeppeli the same? Uniform discrete probability. A fifty-fifty chance, in laymanâs terms, of getting attacked. You sweated nervously as he seemed to reach a conclusion.Â
âMercury,â Zeppeli murmured, slowly inching away from you. âIs it just me, or is that thing looking right at you?â
The Diego-saur took a long inhale of the air: sampling the profile, experimenting with the various olfactory flavours of the wind.Â
You swallowed.Â
His eyes honed in right on you. Fuck what Johnny said about poor eyesight.Â
How were you supposed to know your attempt to throw off any people with ties to Valentine would lead to this?Â
âYou think I donât know that?â you hissed back. âYo, take Johnny, warn the villagers, and get to a less populated area. Heâs going to focus on me until Iâm dead, mauled and mutilated, so get the fuck out of here.â
It wasnât a noble sacrifice. You had no chance with your bare fists â that skin was stretched taut over steel sinew and muscles, it was virtually impossible to constrict or use your fists against. You werenât sure a gun would be of much use either; the lead would probably be more like bee-stings than anything.Â
Wrestling with that would be like tussling with a small truck.Â
Zeppeli lingered a few feet away from you.Â
âGo,â you snapped.Â
âWhat, and wait for our turn to be attacked?â he snarked back. âDonât let your pride cloud your rationale, dottor.â
You didnât even have a chance to reply. Diegoâs tail whipped round â as fast as the crackling plasma youâd seen in the lab â and struck you square in the torso. Blood pooled in your mouth from the impactâÂ
And you were fucking weightless: floating through time and space just like your encounter with the Void.Â
A corporeal form, scratching and tearing past the fabric of this miserable place. Rocks and branches caught at your clothing and skin: a haunting prelude to your demise. You could distinctly feel each second pass by in your palms.Â
Finally, your body slammed into the side of a stone cliff just past the courtyard.Â
It hurts.Â
You fought to keep conscious.Â
It hurts so much.Â
Copper bled past your lips, and the acrid stench of sweat dripped down your face. With blurred vision, you desperately slammed down on that small red button â waiting, waiting. It was too late to worry about revealing your cards to Diego; he didnât seem fully lucid, and you were eighty percent certain you had at least two internal ruptures from that collision.Â
The rolling of the slot machine was taking far too long.Â
You staggered to your feet, clawing your mauled fingers against the stone cliffs while your pulse thrummed everywhere except for your heart. God, you were pathetic.Â
[Second slot activated: Words Like Violence. Countdown has begun.]
Crimson seeped past the colourful tapes on your fingers, then receded slowly â viscously â as though honey was dripping in reverse. You swore just as colourfully; this ability was useless when it most counted.Â
This was a valuable experiment for looking at what a âprime fighting stateâ entailed, but what good was that? When you could still feel each burning sensation, each throbbing agony flash in distinct points across your body â what use was fucking data?Â
âFuck,â you swore loudly with each painful step back to the small house. Though the pain hadnât receded, you could ignore it somewhat with the IV drip of adrenaline right into your bloodstream through the ability.Â
Hey, isnât this really dangerous?
This wasnât good. Your thoughts were beginning to get loopy as Words Like Violence affected you: so clear yet so detached at the same time.Â
You brushed past the dead bear as though it was a mere ant pulverised against the concrete.Â
âMercuryâ about damn time you showed up again,â Zeppeli grinned mirthlessly. Johnny had somehow teleported to the window â evident scrapes on his face â while Zeppeli stood by the door with one of his steel spheres missing. Neither looked as banged up as you felt, and you supposed that was for the better.Â
âNone of our attacks are fast enough nor powerful enough to dent himâ wow, you look like shit,â he commented blithely. The man narrowly dodged a lightning-quick swipe from Diegoâs tail, before he backed out further into the courtyard. Slowly.Â
âNo sudden movements,â he breathed. âJust like that.âÂ
It seemed like the raptor was sensitive to kinetics. That sonic speed had all but dissipated â as Zeppeli moved one step back, he crept one step forward. That was, of course, until he tasted you on the air once more, and his eyes swivelled back onto you.Â
âYeah, thanks for your advice,â you bit out acerbically. âGo screw yourself.â
âIs it my fault he fucking hates you?â Zeppeli ground his teeth.Â
âI wasnât talking to you at the end there,â you lied.Â
âSure,â he deadpanned, but you ignored him.
Was this how adrenaline junkies felt? Nothing but your racing heartbeat and crazed grin made itself known to the world. Notice me, it yelled to the abyss. And then the abyss yelled back â filled with a rush in your blood and a faint awareness of this space.Â
[Donât go overboard.]
You ignored the fading rationality.Â
[I mean it. Seriously.]
Pain was left inside the pages as the story came to life. You rocked back and forth on your feet, keeping eye contact with the Diego-saur.Â
Thump, thump. Each heavy aberration left you reeling in a dazed high, and your eyes unfocused slightly.Â
âHey, hey, I donât like that look in your eyes,â Zeppeli muttered under his breath. You ignored him too. Like crosshairs, both you and Diego were finely attuned to the sight of the other. He slowly stalked towards you, while you led him backwards into open space. Just you, him and the Rockies.Â
You coaxed him, just like you would a skittish bronco. Though, instead of a halter, your hands were half unwrapping the tapes around your knuckles.Â
Just like all those nights ago, youâd play him like the cheap plastic yo-yo he was.Â
âGod heâs an idiot.â Faintly, you could hear Zeppeli talking to Johnny. âHeâs going to get himself killed.â
âStop him, then! Gyro, I know Dioââ
You tuned them out, until the only frequency you could hear was your breathing and the rasp of talon against stone.Â
Abhorrence. Loathing. Hatred. It was not a novel feeling.Â
Come hither, your fingers crooked â beckoning. And like the cheap plastic yo-yo he was, Diego lunged.Â
You mightâve heard a shout in the background. You couldnât be sure. You couldnât be sure of anything right now, not when you were nanoseconds away from impact.Â
This time â this time â you were prepared. Somewhat. The world had paused for a few fateful moments as the raptor crashed into you, and your body went into overdrive.Â
Between your hands, the tape took the form of makeshift reins as you twisted your arms and the conjured fabric around his scaly neck â once, twice. You didnât know how successful the constriction would be, but it was your only bet at surviving this.Â
Blood spewed out your mouth as you hauled yourself onto his back using the brief window of leverage you gave yourself. He kept twisting â phasing in and out of this plane as though he were nothing but a virtual hallucination â but somehow, somehow, you managed to wrap your legs tight around his long neck and hang on to your tapes for dear life.Â
Was this a bad idea?
Definitely, as Zeppeli had narrated so astutely earlier.Â
But what choice did you have?
He was a disgustingly tough bastard. Even with the phantasmal conjured tapes that somehow werenât tearing apart, you couldnât sense any changes in his breathing that would indicate asphyxiation. In fact, his wild bucking just indicated more agitation, more energy as he put everything he had into getting you off his back.
Your head rang. Your vision was just slightly swaying â Words Like Violence couldnât do much about this sort of damage, not without massively eating into your stamina.Â
Its efficiency had all been poured into maintaining a stable âfighting stateâ, after all, not into healing all your wounds and scrapes.Â
âJustâ goâ unconscious alreadyââ you grunted, each exhale being punctuated by you pulling him into a stranglehold. You wouldâve shot him in his gaping maw had he not attacked you like this; nothing about this situation was going your way, not even a tiny bit. Kinetic logic be damned â you were moving even slower than Zeppeli, yet his hatred had transcended his damned lizard brain and attacked you regardless!Â
You were pissed. Like clockwork, the two of you had seamlessly entered a business partnership with the sole intention of pursuing a more efficient mutual hatred. You understood the overwhelming feeling, you really did. But thisâÂ
Fuck whatever this was.Â
Sharp pain blossomed in your ribs as he jolted in his heavy lunging for a moment. When you looked up from the tape slowly indenting cerulean scales, you could see what caused it.Â
Two of Johnnyâs bullets shot by your nose; three pierced straight through his jaw. Just as you suspected, they barely drew blood. Actually, it made the situation worse â now, his neck was beginning to get slippery, and you were slowly losing your grip.Â
It was only when you saw the twisting sphere push into the raptorâs side that you figured out what had actually caused the man beneath you to jolt.Â
Accusingly, you looked up, just to be greeted by Zeppeliâs outstretched arm and Johnnyâs concentrated face.Â
âYou guys still havenât left?â you yelled, too exhausted to lower your voice as you were swung about. It wasnât like it would make a difference if you kept your mouth shut; the dinosaur was focused on you, and only you in this situation. At the very least, you could tire the creature out.Â
âYeah, you wish.â Johnnyâs grin was crazed, borderline feral as he lowered his star-speckled hands minutely.Â
âYouâre as arrogant as ever,â Zeppeli scoffed. âWe need to put some distance between us and him if we want to survive tonight.â
It was a nice sentiment. Us and him. As though you were part of something, much like in your previous life.Â
It didnât last long.Â
The barely-conceivable pattern of Diegoâs turning and tossing paused. You could feel it in your gut â that imperceptible change in the air as he shifted. Your mouth was dry as you attempted to figure out what his instincts would guide him to next; what other rodeo would he take you on?Â
His spines dug uncomfortably into your torso as he began lowering â slow enough that you recognised exactly what he planned to do. Just like the wild broncos youâd seen on Marthaâs ranch, he was planning to roll and crush you beneath his three hundred kilogram weight.Â
You weighed your options.Â
Too late.Â
Your mind went blank as he dropped suddenly, and you scrambled. Skin tore, and you bit your tongue hard; the hot, metallic liquid dripped down your gullet, and you fought to keep your head from pounding with agitation and blood.Â
âOw,â you groaned, too out of it to notice youâd been flung off onto the cold stone of the courtyard. No, you had noticed â youâd simply resigned yourself.Â
It would be over soon, anyway.Â
Just like always, youâd fucked things over for yourself and now you would pay the bitter price for it.Â
You could hear each of his steps reverberating through the frigid ground. You closed your eyes.Â
Faintly, the yells of Johnny reached you â as though the sound waves had hit the harsh frontier of deep water.Â
ââdamned overgrown lizardââ
ââdonât make any sudden movements, before you get him killed for realââ
Something heavy and sharp pressed against your collarbone: a talon. You winced â breathing distorted into something churning and ragged. Yet, contrary to your expectations, it didnât unseam you from shoulder to opposite hip bone; rather, a crushing pressure had locked itself around your ribcage, and you could feel his slow, methodical breathing against your cheeks instead of his jaws tearing into your throat.Â
The surprise forced your eyes open; and there you were, staring at the gaping maw of death as it stared directly at you.Â
You hadnât properly noticed before, but the markings on his azure body reminded you of the ugly clothes he wore. If you squinted, you thought you could make out his name â DIO â repeating over and over, etched into his tail.Â
His scaly corpus quivered slightly above you as those hate-filled eyes gazed into yours.Â
âYou gonna kill me?â you slurred deliriously. The adrenaline, slowly but surely, was wearing off, and you couldnât tell how far along it was until you could use Personal Jesus.Â
âGod, I hope your silver tongue doesnât piss him off any more than it already has,â Zeppeliâs whisper was sharp enough that it snuck past the whistling breeze and made itself apparent to you.Â
Diego merely scrutinised you â or at least, thatâs what it felt like.Â
Your breaths came shallow, as you scrutinised him back. Upon closer inspection, those scales were much smaller than you thought; they rippled and shimmered like rich fabric. It was a pity that you only saw them under these circumstances.Â
The two of you were locked in an impasse: a staring contest.Â
It was funny.Â
It really was.Â
Blood continued its steady trickle past your lips, and despite it all you continued this childish competition. He couldnât see the crimson liquid, but you knew for sure he could smell its acrid tang.Â
His eyes hardened into slits.Â
You braced yourself for an impact that never came.Â
ââI canât watch this shit any longerââ
A can rolled next to your waist: a regular, aluminium can you had stored grain in to cook later.Â
You watched, entranced, as it came to a smooth halt upon touching the edge of one of his talons.Â
Then, the metal promptly curled outwards â each fringe as beautiful as a blossoming flower â and couscous spewed everywhere.Â
Sensational.Â
Out of the chaos spiralled a familiar green sphere, careening right into where the raptorâs ribcage would no doubt be. Another spiral joined, just as quickly.Â
It had jostled the dinosaur with enough momentum that its foot was no longer pressing into your torso.
âI put the steel ball into the can,â Zeppeli commented in the distance. âHow I actually got it in there is a secret.âÂ
And with that tiny bit of leeway â and the pitiful scraps of adrenaline still coursing through your veins, electric â you wriggled free from your prison. The ribbons of your jacket bled sanguine with you; you seriously needed to fix the tattered garment, you noted absentmindedly.Â
Before you could regain your bearings, a firm, calloused palm closed around your wrist and pulled you into the stone house.Â
âDo you flirt with fucking everyone who tries to kill you?â Zeppeli asked you incredulously, all while trying to hurriedly lock and barricade the door. He let you go, and you could only reel in revulsion from his words. âIs that how you piss them off to the point where they decide point-blank to murder you?â
âWhat?â you snapped in disgust.
âWhat?â he retorted back icily. âDo you never think about the circumstances youâre in? If I hadnât thrown my spheres, would you have kept gazing at him while he tore your heart out?â
Probably.Â
You stayed silent.Â
âWow,â he scoffed. âReal resolute guy weâve got over here, already preparing to die while we do his dirty work.â
âHey,â Johnny interjected â the mediator. âWe can discuss this later. Letâs get out the back first.â
âLook,â he snapped, holding up your limp wrist â blood was visibly soaking through your gloves and dripping down your wrists. With his other hand, he briefly pinched the cloth of your veil â bloodied as well â before finally jabbing his finger into your sternum, where wounds littered you all over: gouges, scrapes and the beginnings of angry swelling. He said nothing about the internal injuries, but you knew he had guessed as much from the way heâd avoided pressing against them. All culminated in his fuming, pressed green lips and stony face. âYou think these can be as easily healed as hooks in skin?â
âYes.â Your voice was tired. Resigned.Â
âSo why arenât you healing yourself?â His hand dug further into your bruised wrist, but you refused to wince.Â
âIâll get to it.â You yanked your arm out of his grasp.Â
Itâs cold.Â
You worried at your lips with your teeth, glad he couldnât see the motions beneath your veil.
If you categorically looked at your body, you had several plum-sized bruises on your legs and at least a sprained left ankle. Moving upwards, your tailbone definitely had gotten injured, while both your collarbone and your upper right ribs had been cracked slightly. That didnât account for the spinal bruising youâd gotten whilst getting slammed into rock, nor did it account for the various ravines in your skin that spewed blood.
âSo get to it,â he crossed his arms. âUnless you canât, for whatever reason â and you went there knowing you couldnât heal yourself at that moment?â
You looked away at the door. Why is it any of your business if Iâm hurt? You werenât going to die. Until your goal was reached, youâd get back up again, over and over, until youâd achieved it.Â
âI wonât die,â you replied, but he didnât budge.Â
âWhich is it? Can you heal yourself currently, or are you purposefully bleeding out?âÂ
âWhatever I get is based on luck,â you shouldered past him. âYou think I enjoy this?â
âWhat?â he called after you, syllables jagged and sharp with anger. âYou just gamble with your life?â
You locked eyes with him, just as the slow, forceful thudding against the wooden door began.Â
âWhat choice do I have?â
The side entrance jostled open, and just around the corner was that poor, mauled bear â in another universe, it was you there bleeding out with flies covering your cadaver.Â
âTell me, Zeppeli,â you repeated one last time. âWhat choice do I have?â
Life was a gamble. It was frustrating that he couldnât grasp that. Every day, each mundane action could lead to oneâs death. For a race like this, the chances rose exponentially with each step closer to the finish line. What the hell does he expect?
âHide against that bear.â Your voice was quiet â out of exhaustion rather than caution. Perhaps that was why Zeppeli didnât deign to reply. âIâll bait him to think I escaped round that cliff.â
You peeled off the soaked-red undershirt and wrapped it around the dirty ethanol metal flask youâd carried since earlier. The chemicalâsweat combination, while not the prettiest, smelled like you, while the bloody scent on your body had the more generic tang of just injury.Â
It was a close call.Â
Youâd thrown the scent grenade far outwards, getting pulled down into Johnny just as Diego had turned the corner of the small house. He was warm, so unlike your frigid palms that you allowed yourself just the briefest of respites wedged against him.Â
[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
The pain distracted you from the spattered viscera by your face.Â
Zeppeli was right, in a very minute way. It was taking far too long for your internal wounds to heal.Â
But in that time, you were still and silent as a corpse as Diego tasted the air. This time, you were covered with such a thick layer of grimy scents â dead bear, fur, Johnny and Zeppeli, coagulated blood, dirt, stone â that he turned his great head from the pile of bodies by the stone house and in the direction of the cliffs.Â
You didnât dare breathe. You didnât dare blink.Â
And when he left in the direction of your infusion, only then did you exhale.Â
âWhat the hell is he, anyway?â Johnnyâs voice ghosted into the air, so lightly you thought youâd imagined it. âIs it a Stand?â
âItâs a dinosaur, Johnny â his bodyâs been fused with a dinosaurâs ability,â Zeppeli whispered back, keeping his eyes on the edge of that cliff in case the raptor decided to resurface.Â
ââDino-sore?â Whatâs a dino-sore?âÂ
You kept your mouth tactfully shut. Though, watching his curiosity despite this situation was endearing, in a life-threatening sort of way.Â
âTheyâre huge creatures, bigger than elephants â in the late 1830s, the scholar Owen coined the term and started calling them that.â
âWell, this oneâs smaller than an elephant,â Johnny remarked.Â
âShut up,â Zeppeli bit back. âAnyways, they existed before mankind was born to the Earth.â
He then paused, looking at you briefly. The words that had left both of you lingered heavy and dark in the air. âHave any secret knowledge on this topic too?â
A few heartbeats passed without anyone speaking.Â
âHeâs fused with a Cretaceous period Utahraptor ostrommaysorum,â you finally conceded with a drawn-out sigh. âTheyâre named after Utah, the state â and these mountains cross over state lines, so no wonder fossils of it could be found here.â
You pressed your lips together, holding back a wince as you felt your bones weld together.Â
âYou canât outrun it. Itâs carnivorous, and itâs the most dangerous of the raptors,â you choked out, digging your nails into your palm as your organs shifted in their positions and your spine realigned itself. âI didnât hold interest in palaeontology though, so my knowledge is limited to what I picked up from my mentor.â
âI was kidding when I asked, but fuck youâve got a freakish arsenal,â Zeppeli muttered, tapping his head with a finger. It wasnât an apology. Far from it. He eyed you cynically, but commented no more. âSometimes I wonder if youâre making it all up, but youâve always got such a serious frown on when you do.â
I wonder why Iâm frowning when I talk to you.
An uneasy truce lingered.Â
âWell, itâs better than Gyroâs knowledge, anyway,â Johnny remarked acerbically.Â
âYou littleââ Zeppeli sighed, then seemingly noticed something with a small âhm?â once youâd sat up and gotten off the disgusting hideout. It was a wonder you hadnât thrown up.Â
âJohnny â your arm!â
Movere crĆ«s.Â
The night sky was beckoning.Â
The corpse is near.Â
. ăâș âŠÂ
You werenât surprised when the dead bear turned out to be alive and secretly a Tyrannosaurus Rex. Really. Really. When it rumbled to life behind you and you heard the startled yelps of the duo still on the lifeless thing, you accepted it with the indifference that yes, something like this would inevitably happen as long as you stuck by them.Â
You were only slightly surprised when Zeppeli pulled his wits together to match the pinpricks of light inside the words of Johnnyâs arm to the stars in the night sky above. Seven stars â seven letters in movere â formed the Big Dipper constellation that arced low into the ground; the singular, pearly-bright North Star nestled into the curve of the âcâ in crĆ«s.Â
âThe location where the Big Dipper dips into the ground â thatâs where itâs pointing at! Combine the constellations with the mountain and the ground. The shape and placement are the very same â the crĆ«s is at the North Star â while the corpse is on the hill where the Big Dipper points.âÂ
At his words, both you and Johnny had glanced at each other, then at him.Â
âWow,â you finally got out.Â
âSo you can use your brain,â Johnny had added.Â
âWatch it,â he had snapped back indignantly. âWithout me the two of you wouldâve been screwed twice over. You especially, dottor.â
You werenât surprised when Zeppeli managed to flatten Johnny and you with one of his spheres to escape the aforementioned Tyrannosaurus Rex. Really.Â
Look. That one was a lie. You were mildly surprised when his body compressed into a neat sheet and slotted through the iron bars, and even more so when yours did the same.Â
You were more taken aback, if anything, by the sudden reappearance of the dinosaur you three had tried so hard to avoid.Â
He lunged at you, just as you entered the long, cramped stone tunnel.Â
Before you could even blink, Zeppeli pulled your wrist and dragged you further inwards where Diego couldnât reach. You couldnât even wince from your still-sore body, not when he met your eyes in a challenge: I dare you to say it hurts.Â
âThatâs a third time,â he whispered, and let go just as promptly, as though heâd been seared by your bruises.Â
âWhat the fuck is this?â Johnny muttered incoherently. âDioâs ability â he killed that bear â it became a fucking dinosaur!â
âWho knows?â Zeppeli scoffed back. âHurry and go deeper.â
It was cramped. It was dusty. That little waterway smelled like stale air, but it wasnât long until your ramshackle trio saw the midnight canvas of the sky. Well, not long until your trio and a small band of tiny raptors saw the midnight canvas of the sky.
âThat rocky hill at the Big Dipper is on the cliff across the canyon â the corpse should be somewhere in the dent of the peak, only a two-three hundred metre climb! Weâll get down this cliff and up the canyon in the dark,â Zeppeli muttered his plan slowly to the two of you as youâd dragged yourself through the tiny space. Â
In these circumstances, it was the most solid plan out of the many youâd run through and discarded.
âRight,â Johnny mumbled back. âWeâll get the corpse from the mountain and get out of here.â
He paused, and you could feel him turn around in the dark to stare at Zeppeli. âBut⊠Gyro. What about our horses? Theyâll be eaten by Dio!â
âHe wouldnât do that.â As much as you wanted to refute Zeppeliâs words, you unfortunately couldnât find fault in his words. If you, who was only an impromptu jockey for the past three or so months, couldnât bring yourself to leave an unknown horse without a rider for too long (even if that rider was the infamous Diego Brando), then he who had ridden for the past decade or so definitely wouldnât be able to harm a horse.Â
âDioâs goal is to get your âleft handâ, and our livesââ here he glanced at you, as if to remind you of your encounter with the crazed raptor. Because I needed the reminder. ââand a guy like him whoâs made his life as a jockey wouldnât kill a horse.â
If he did, then he truly was beyond redemption.Â
âValkyrie will come find us in the morning.â
âI think Group Four will come looking with her, then,â you murmured, half to yourself. âSheâs stubborn to a fault.â
âSheâs just like her rider, then,â Zeppeli remarked under his breath, and you elected to ignore it.Â
âI sure hope they find us.â Johnny, ever the cynical ray of light he was, had either chosen to ignore the other man or he hadnât heard anything. Not like you had.Â
You heard a rustle behind you, and your hand was immediately on your holster. Quickly, with slightly shaking hands, you filled the gun with ammunition and cocked the hammer, waiting.Â
Neurons were awash with paranoia â after getting caught off guard once already, you were keen to avoid any other surprises.Â
âYou hear that, rightâ woah, what the hell?â Zeppeli cursed, glancing behind him as well. âThereâs a bunch of smaller ones right behind us?!â
You could barely see them in the faint moonlight, but you could make out a dozen or so little raptors scurrying along the waterway like rats.Â
Maybe they are, you realised, casting your mind back to the bear, then regarding their size â about a forearmâs armâs length or so.Â
That didnât bode well.Â
What were the conditions for turning things into dinosaurs?
Were people included in the roster?
âWhy are you hesitating?â Zeppeli questioned. âTheyâre nothing but creature-turned-raptors.â
âIâm thinking,â you bit at your cheek. âHe might be able to pinpoint a severed connection to him, or he might hear the shots of a gun which he knows I bought.â
AndâŠ
âAnd, weâve no way of truly verifying if theyâre creature or human.â
Your morbid deduction put an even further damper on the mood.Â
Not that there was much of one to begin with.Â
âBut these should be alright. Theyâre grey, and much too small to be humans,â you finally added.Â
Johnny fired his own shots first at your words, but the little raptors evaded his clumsy bullets. Heâs inexperienced. âTheyâve got the same dynamic visionââ his blue lips parted in surprise. ââand my âTuskâ isnât hitting them at all!â
[Tusk is one interesting name for a Stand.]
Soâs Depeche Mode, you noted.Â
Your humour didnât last long.Â
The ammoniacal smell of urine filled the musty air, and you lost any sympathy you had for the rats.Â
Johnny missed them due to his lack of training. You wouldnât make the same mistake. Using the flash of the shots, you pinpointed them scurrying â leaping and twisting through the cramped space with a speed reminiscent of comets.Â
Breathe.Â
No bullets were wasted as you nailed each rat-dinosaur clean through. Though they werenât bullseyes like youâd hoped, they were more than fatal.Â
You exhaled.Â
âMaybe you should teach Johnny marksmanship as well,â Zeppeli suggested dryly.Â
You gave him a withering glance.Â
âThereâs more of them.â His face suddenly changed into one of revulsion. âI think theyâre tracking the scent of the piss.â
Lovely, you grimaced.Â
âWe need to get the hell out of this gutter,â he continued, furtively glancing behind him before tossing his spinning sphere to crush around four more of those rat-dinosaurs. âCling onto the rocks in the shadows and be as still as you can â we need to finish them off before climbing down the canyon!â
You were at the rear of the group, so of course you hadnât noticed any problems at the lip of the cave.Â
Johnny had paused in his movements, so much so that the sudden stillness of Zeppeli wedged in between you caught you off guard.Â
âNoâ we canât go.â You could hear his grimace in those hesitant words. âDown that cliff⊠thereâs no way we can cross the canyon and get to the hillâŠâ
You pressed onwards.Â
There, below the jagged ledge protruding off the cliff, were significantly larger dinosaurs that had started their slow ascent.Â
You recognised the brightly dyed fabric that hung off their reptilian bodies.Â
That crimson cape, those scarlet ribbons â even that jaunty cap youâd spotted on that one kid who had attended your demonstration.Â
It was a grim realisation.Â
Your conjecture had once more been proven correct.Â
âWeâre surrounded,â Zeppeli cursed under his breath. âThe villagers. Theyâve already been turned into dinosaurs.â
A third party had not yet shown itself.Â
This was the worst time for your other conjecture to be proven wrong.Â
âTheyâve been turned using his ability,â Johnny sweated. âIt turned everything â human and animal â into dinosaurs under his rule.â
Gone was the anonymous antagonist whoâd shown up with clear motives to take the corpse and hinder competitors. No, in their place was someone whoâd thrown a wrench into your plans: Diego.Â
Was he fully in control of himself? Had he abandoned his precious dignity to subject himself to the instinctual urges of a dinosaur?
Your thoughts were in a disarray.Â
Your breathing came ragged.Â
âIf Diegoâs purpose is to side all the villagers with himself⊠and take my left arm,â Johnny began speculating. Donât say it. Donât. âThe âinfectionâ will spread, even through a scratch caused by Dioâs claws â thatâs the way it spreads.â
The two looked at you.Â
You looked back.Â
There was a tightness in your chest that didnât stem from just panic.Â
. ăâș âŠÂ
See, you knew this would happen. From the marrow of your bones to the uppermost dermis that covered your flesh, you knew sticking with the Troublesome Two would bring you just that: trouble.Â
It wasnât enough that the three of you had thrown yourselves off that ledge and hit side of the cliff on the other side; yes, Zeppeli had wrung a tree into a makeshift rope using his steel balls, and no, you werenât hallucinating the droves of dinosaurs that plummeted after you.Â
It wasnât enough that youâd accumulated more injuries that you couldnât even heal.Â
It wasnât enough when Depeche Mode was instead focusing all its efforts on the driving back of the slow cracks that were beginning to emerge on your skin.Â
No, what finally pushed your mind into teetering the fine line between disbelief and madness was the reappearance of the Devilâs Palm.Â
If you looked at the positives, there was only one â the fact that only you and Johnny had gotten hit by Diego, and both his corpse arm and Depeche Mode were able to stave off the infection. Temporarily, that was.Â
If you looked at the negatives, they were experiencing exponential growth.Â
There, shrouded by the shadows of the night and lit only by the fire of the Big Dipper â resplendent against the midnight tapestry â were those curling, crooked fingers. Those digits, as per usual, beckoned unfortunate travellers to their fates â just like what happened to you all those moons ago. Â
âFuck,â you breathed in despair. âIâm never travelling with you two ever again.â
You meant every word. Fervently. Most ardently. If you could pack any more meaning into each insufficient syllable, you would have done so.Â
And though it likely took every ounce of self-restraint from Zeppeli to not let out a melodramatic monologue, he didnât â or rather couldnât â refute your words at all. You were right, as you oft were.Â
Standing there was rather surreal. In the place where it all started â again and again and finally again. Rather than orange sand, rather than yellow sand, it was grey; grey all over, just like your mood.Â
And amidst the swirling wind, there it was.Â
It was a dirty-silver humanoid, set with two discs over its ears like cymbals. Its body curved and twisted into itself â not unlike the modern art exhibitions youâd occasionally witnessed being installed before the Institute. Though its exterior looked hardy, the Stand (for it could be nothing else) cushioned something ever so tenderly in its calloused palms.Â
No. It wasnât dirty-silver, and it didnât have a tough shell. That was the sand â covering and shaping the energy cloud in its midst into something that could be perceived.Â
âThereâs something in the part shaped like a hand!â Johnny exclaimed.Â
Two eyes.Â
Browned with age, they stared unblinking at the sky: so utterly glazed over and dull that you couldnât help but draw comparison to all those previous pairs youâd witnessed in the future.Â
âGet them,â Zeppeli insisted.Â
You wished it was that simple, you really did.Â
With your skin slowly crackling over your joints, and your nails extending painfully in your gloves, you watched. The twists of fate were never so unburdened â rather, they knotted and burred at every opportunity they got.Â
And this opportunity they took.Â
âDioââÂ
He emerged like a flash flood; you, as a human against a force of nature, could hardly respond with your sluggish reflexes as he pounced on the grey Stand. What were you to even do? The absurdity of it all made you laugh. Here you three were, steps away from acquiring another corpse part, when suddenly a third party who absolutely hated you became involved in the very thing you were trying to not get him involved in. Really, was there anyone with more terrible luck than you?
His clawed hands cradled the eyes as though they were a most precious commodity, to be treasured and adored and worshipped, as though they contained all the pulchritude in this world.
It was terribly ironic. Something so morbid as a cadaver shouldnât have been venerated. This body should have been buried and left at peace.Â
Your lips twisted downwards in a grimace.Â
Even after death, this holy figure remained to suffer.Â
Sacrifice, sacrifice, and more sacrifice.Â
After your death, what would become of you? Would you be cursed to never rest just like him?
You scoffed. So much for the sanctity of the dead.Â
Yet, inexplicably, implausibly, the Stand remnant didnât appear to care. Rather than act as a guardian â an Anubis guard to the tomb of this saint â it curved itself and slithered to where Diegoâs inner ear rested.Â
You watched in silence.Â
There was nothing you could do.Â
âThatâ thingââ Johnny choked out, clearly still out of it from the sudden seizure of their promised victory. âItâsâ whispering⊠same as with my left arm! The Stand is whispering words to Dio!â
But, more horrifyinglyâŠ
âThe letters on my arm are disappearing! Thereâs no more use for these â since that thing is speaking the location of the next âpartâ to him!â He hurled out that last syllable as though it had personally offended him â so packed with unspoken vitriol you almost recoiled.Â
The dinosaur in question began morphing. His hundreds of pounds of steel cord-like muscle rapidly condensed in on themselves; the mass shifted in ways that defied whatever you knew about physics.Â
It was his hair that changed first â the yellow spikes protruding grew in number, then became longer and rippled more in the wind. His longer nose flattened, and the stance heâd assumed as a dinosaur â torso bent parallel to the ground on two thick legs â streamlined itself into a y-axis. Though his mouth was unsettlingly wide, and his body was still scaly and blue, he looked much too close to being human once more.Â
You grimaced. What youâd tried to prevent â his involvement with the corpse â was slowly spiralling into a situation you could no longer salvage.
Well, that was wrong. As long as he didnât know how you were connected with the President, you still had an edge.Â
Your pulse was increasing at an alarming rate. You prayed he couldnât hear â though, judging by how engrossed he was with the eyes, it seemed like for once he was preoccupied with something other than attempting to maul you to death.Â
But fuck â though it wasnât the worst-case scenario, it certainly wasnât the best either.Â
Before you could pull out your gun, Johnny had already fired six shots through the humid air; blue streaks of light glowed radiant in the haze.
âI wonât let you have that corpse!â he yelled desperately, with a heaviness that came with a complicated interpersonal relationship. You pitied him, you really did: in a distant sort of way, through the miasma of reptilian instinct that was beginning to poison your body.Â
âTsk, tsk,â you heard from the distance. It carried such familiarity, such clarity despite the wind that instantly you became alert. âHey, JohnnyâŠâ
It was instinct. Your spine snapped to attention: straightened by the particular cadence of a disappointed tone.Â
âYes, you thereââ It continued insistently, getting louder and louder. âIâm talking to you, Johnny Joestar. What did you just do? You threw it away, didnât you?â
The smooth, methodical lope of each word shackled your feet to the grey rocks: nose twitching at the heady scent of esters that bloomed within the bloody stench.Â
[No way.]
Way.Â
âYou littered that ânailâ of yours on this ground?âÂ
Silence threaded through the scene, incredulous on both Johnnyâs part and your own.Â
âWhat?â he sputtered, propping his body up in the sea of grey. The same thought plagued your own mind, but for reasons vastly different.Â
That imperious expression. Thin lips pressed together in contemplation, or derision: you could never really tell. Sleek blond hair, pulled back in a severe bun. And then, your eyes refocused and it was no longer the Dr Ferdinand you knew.Â
âDonât be throwing away those sorts of dirty things. The fact that you carelessly throw away such trash like that ânailââwell, itâs proof that you donât respect this âgroundâ,â he continued, perched on a yellow, mottled beast. âAre you that great? Are you greater than this gracious âEarthâ?â
Your mouth was still dry with instinct: far too receptive to this tone of scolding, even after months of going without it. However, your eyes hardened at the flimsy logic in his words; were those nails not organic? Were they arguably worse than the fecal matter his legion of dinosaurs left behind?Â
A deep frown clouded your face, and you felt the skin around your eyes crack even further.Â
Diego leapt from where he stood, spheres proffered obediently in those monstrous claws. He did not glance at you, and you found no more traces of that human hatred within him: only the pure, animalistic instinct of a cowed beast. Submission.Â
âYouâve done well, âDiego Brandoâ,â your beloved supervisorâs ancestor remarked coolly, and you felt the shiver of contempt and longing war within your aching body at the tone in which he spoke. âYour plan and decisiveness in jumping across the cliff⊠I was right in turning you into a dinosaur and making you the leader.â
Fingers wrapped in velvet plucked the eyeballs from Diegoâs outstretched hand with no small amount of reverence. Time stilled, and you came to the unfortunate conclusion that this was the stand user youâd be forced to fight. UnlessâŠ
Was he working for the president? Or was he a free agent like yourself? Surreptitiously, your hand curled around your gun, mimicking the crooked posture of a fledgling: the half-dinosaur beast that was bound to be under his control soon. Beside you, Zeppeli had had the same thought: hidden in the shadows of a spire well enough that you could mistake the slats on his hat for cracks on his skin.Â
Cogs spun in your head, and you could almost hear his own, whirring and spinning with mechanical precision. You were in no state to attack, and Zeppeli was in no state to defend against hordes of prehistoric beasts.Â
âHuh? Who the hell is this guy?â Johnny muttered, lips parted in a perpetual gape.Â
âIâll take your left arm, Johnny Joestar,â he continued, words so empty of acknowledgement that it was downright disdainful. âBut, let me not forget my manners, even to scum who does not respect the Earth. My name is âDoctor Ferdinandâ, a geologist and biologist of ancient creatures. I acquired this ability two years ago in Arizona, while searching for the Devilâs Palm.â
The inner flesh of your cheek was scraped raw with how quickly you bit it: hot iron pooling on your tongue. Just like you. Was it fate?Â
You swallowed. Would your Dr Ferdinand even remain if you did manage to defeat this lunatic?
âIâve named this ability âScary Monstersâ, transforming Diego Brando into a dinosaur to collect that left arm, and then I traced him. Thenââ here, his eyes swept over the crowd of transfigured humans, only pausing brieflyâdisinterestedlyâover your and Zeppeliâs hunched forms. ââhe infected the entire village. I wasnât expecting you three to find the next corpse part⊠these eyes are for me, naturally.â
A cold, caustic rage trembled beneath your bruised skin. This man was nothing like her.Â
âSoâ you were the stand userâ this wasnât Dioâs ability, it was your rule!â Johnny furiously got out, straining his cracked face to deliver his words. He only received a small, withering smile in response: the kind that your Dr Ferdinand used when she read over a particularly obvious proposal.Â
He didnât even deign to give him a response, electing instead to examine the eyeballs in further detail.Â
âWhat a brilliant corpse,â he murmured. Even from this distance away, you could see his hands shaking as he held them up to the bright moonlight. ââSan Francisco Javierâ the evangelist has not yet rot⊠but this⊠this far surpasses that⊠hard to believe theyâre from a nineteen-hundred-year-old corpseâŠâ
He lost himself in the musings, and you repressed the disgust that roiled in your gut as he took on the same mannerisms of your Dr Ferdinand.Â
âNineteen-hundred? What are you talking about? This continent wasnât discovered then,â Johnny interrupted, and his voice carried a note of caution: the sort employed when talking to those whoâd lost their minds, just a little bit.Â
âYou⊠you were after these without knowing anything? Not even who this corpse belongs toâŠâ he trailed off, scornfully holding Johnny in his stare. âI may have said something unnecessary there. No matter, you three shall die on this earth.â
Johnny spat a mouthful of blood on the sand, inching forward on his elbows. âWhat the hell are you talking about? Who are you terrorists, anyway? Geologistââ
Here, his eyes darted to your general direction, and you could feel a sneer on your face at your grouping with this maniac.Â
ââthat ainât an ordinary terrorist. Two yearsâare you government related? Is the terrorist this nation itself?â
The question posed would determine the fate of the man before you. Cold metal pressed against your crushed body as you hid the gun in the tattered jacket half-mangled off your body, poised to shoot.Â
âTsk, tsk. What did you just do, Johnny Joestar? Were you listening, at all? You just spat, didnât you?â His eyes filled with self-righteous condemnation, looking at Johnny as though he opposed nature himself. âI thought I said to respect the Earth! The world is full of people just like you.âÂ
âDo you know why the dinosaurs perished when they were prospering on this Earth? Itâs because they were idiots who didnât understand the concept of respect! Anyone who violates the Earth will only penalise themselves! Iâm talking about something of scientific significanceâthat deep causal relationship canât be understood by their pathetic brainsââ he rambled, and Johnny glanced at you. Blood flowed through the cracks on your body.
It had long been ten minutes since Personal Jesus had been activated, and you had not gambled since with fate. Despite the haze slowly taking over your brain, you poignantly understood three things. One, Johnnyâs eyes were darting around the surroundings: analysing the situation like you would disassemble a particularly long, gruelling question. Two, Zeppeliâs eyes lodged on you, as though he were goading you to take this madman head-on: scientist-to-scientist. Johnny needed a distraction to properly think, it seemed, and Zeppeli had chosen you to take the diplomatic route first; Ferdinand still hadnât answered the question of his allegiance yet. You took a deep breath, wincing at the pain, and the roaring in your ears that was canting you lower. Figure that out.Â
Three, youâd heard enough.Â
âYouâre wrong,â you spoke, words measured despite their slurring as your vocal chords adopted a deep rumble. With each step forward, your skin shed in chalky flakes, and the pain receded into something close to a buried ache; you had no other option, much like a trapped bear, to rip out your paw and carry on your slow march to survival.Â
âYou,â he replied, scanning over you. His mouth opened as though to taste the air, and his teeth shone in something that wasnât quite a smile. âIâve seen you through his eyes. A fellow scientistâwhy would a mind like yours join these fools in their bid for suicide?â
His eyes. That demonstration you gave had been witnessed by an uninvited guest, after all. Perfect. You would command his attention until Johnny was ready.Â
âAs opposed to working for the government?â you probed, but your question didnât seem to land as he continued staring at you.
âHow could this truth be wrong?â he asked sharply, and you could feel his mania beginning to crest once more.Â
âThere is no objective truth to science,â you mulled over your words slowly, letting him hang on each word. There was a faint rustle in the sand behind you, but you made no acknowledgement of it as you gestured. His eyes followed your hand, and you swallowed with difficulty. âScience is an iterative method for finding models that are increasingly more accurate. We can only approximate, not find some universal explanation perfectly encompassing everything.â
[Keep going. Keep talking.]
Depeche Mode didnât transmit what was going on behind you, but you had enough sense to take its warning. Each word, however, felt imprisoned in your constricted throat, slowly becoming more and more garbled.Â
âDinosaurs died due to a catastrophic mass extinction event triggered by an asteroid impact and unfavourable climate conditions,â you continued, and immediately the air turned a few degrees colder.Â
âYou donât know what youâre talking about,â he scoffed. âOutlandish theories? Really?â
Shit. You bit your tongue, brains furiously wracking to figure out when exactly the smoking gun for the theory had been presented. You were at a loss, presenting anachronistic explanations, and your mind was only growing more cloudy by the minute.Â
âEven so. How do you define respect?â you asked, desperately digging sharp, elongated talons into your palm to fight off the urge to rip his throat out with your teeth. âWhile humans defiling the Earth has a reciprocal event, why does organic matter like blood and nails returning back to the soil count as a violation?â
âHonour the Earth like you would your mother!â he gritted out incredulously, sounding incredibly disappointed at your reasoning. âWould you spit on her? Would you shoot at her?âÂ
âWould you kill on her?â you countered. There was no use in trying to dismantle his analogy, not with the disturbing reverence he held in his voice. âGouge at her face with dinosaur claws?â
He was silent for a few seconds, and you saw a frown marring his sanctimonious expression.Â
âIâm telling you as a peer: if all the parts of this corpse come together, it will become the âcorpse that is respected by allâ. âRespectâ is âprosperityâ. The one who collects all the parts of this âcorpseâ will receive true power and eternal kingdom!â he instead replied, eyes glazed over with a particular venerance. âIt is not disrespectful for the Earth to help me in this.â
âWho collects it?â you pressed, searching for the slightest weakness in his crazed armour.Â
He did not answer.Â
âWhat makes you any different from us, then?â you slurred, and he turned the same scornful gaze on you as he did Johnny.Â
âI know the significance of the corpse. You fools do not.â And it was laughable, his confidence at being so loud and so, so wrong. You grinned a disgusting dinosaur grin, and its jagged vertices stretched beyond your ragged veil.Â
âYour⊠logic issss⊠flawed,â you hissed, and you raised your gun: consumed with hatred over seeing him desecrate the image of your Dr Ferdinand. The meter was ticking closer to severance with humanity, and you no longer wanted to stop it. âYou⊠are the true⊠fool.â
âDio!â he ordered scathingly, sensing your hesitation to actually pull the trigger. âCollect the left arm and deal with this bastardâ huh?â
You kept him in your sights, not daring to look at what he was looking at. The breeze rippled at your injured back, tracing a path of someone once there and now notâ
âLeftâ arm?â Ferdinand sputtered, backing away, and you shot clean through his leg. Each wave of screaming hit your ears with deafening acuity, but it was cut short by his startled yelp as blue clouded your vision. You were just as gobsmacked at the sight of a grey Johnnyâs back, leaping through the air: a stone statue with the features of a dinosaur.Â
âI let it goââ he gritted. âWas fixinâ to jump with this tailâbefore my heart was totally controlled!â
The heavy blue appendage stuck past Ferdinand and Diego, lashing out in a wide arc, and you lunged out of the area of attack.Â
âReverse the dinosaur infection with these!â Johnny tossed two objects at you, and you barely had the wits about you to catch one: diving to grasp the soft organs. The second rolled over the sand several metres away, and you fumbled.
It was a split second decision. What could you even do with the eye? You were already on the brink of death, and when you met Zeppeliâs eyes, it was a no-brainer.Â
With a reserve of strength you didnât know you still possessed, you cupped the eye like you would a baseball, and lobbed it in his direction, hitting him square in the chest.Â
âYou idiot!â Johnny yelled, and when you turned back to him, Diego had him pinned. âWhy would you do that?â
âDio! Finish off both of them, now!â Ferdinand hollered desperately. You panted desperately, aligning your poor sights with his head. You couldnât miss. He froze.Â
âCall⊠him off.â The three words took extensive effort to force out, and when they finally erupted, they were a garbled mess from a throat that had no business imitating human speech. âI⊠will⊠shootââ
Your vision blurred briefly, before you finally pressed your button. Personal Jesus, you vehemently prayed, but then you sensed the ripples of air distort, and a flash of green crashed into the geologist in front of you.Â
The air thickened once more with the explosive stench of iron: your body couldnât help but react. A pained groan left your lips as you lapped up the scent, butâ
[First slot activated: Personal Jesus. Countdown has begun.]
âyou hadnât lost your humanity.
[Youâve lost your mind. Why only now?]
ââI can see amazingly well! I can even see pieces of teethââ
ââthe corpse went inside of your right eye!â
You tuned them out as you fired quickly in succession, feeling your organs shift once more as Depeche Mode began its undoing of the extensive internal damage caused. Big, clumsy hands gripped the gun, and you were exceedingly careful to aim at where your nose pointed at, rather than where your poor eyesight led you.Â
ââprotect me from them! Encircle and protect me! Donât forget, your dynamic vision is beyond any creature in the universe!â
One shot through Diegoâs shoulder, forcing him back off Johnny. Another shot in the sand, and the legion behind Ferdinand scattered briefly, before enveloping him in their folds. You sagged, lowering your gun as your arms stiffened. You were becoming a statue, mindlessly beginning to obey the order: protect Ferdinand.
[Focus, idiot!]
âItâs as if thereâs a camera on the spinning wheel! The corpse mustâve pulled out a deeper ability to my steel balls!âÂ
Depeche Mode frantically pivoted to reverse the damage the transformation was doing to your psyche; in that instant, the pain almost made you pass out, but you raised your gun once more, only toâ
âWhere is he?â your words felt muffled, but your throat could finally handle being a person.Â
âShit!â Johnny swore loudly, and your head rang with his volume.Â
And they swarmed, rushing with garbled voices.Â
âHow dare you, Gyro Zeppeli?â
âJohnny Joestar, how dare you?â
âYou buffoon, I thought you were better than this!â
âDid he turn into a dinosaur, too?â Johnny asked frantically, head swivelling: watching the horde circle and having no other option but to do so. You pointed the pistol this way and that, feeling a great deal of trepidation. Two bullets, with low effectiveness unless you aimed precisely for soft vitals.Â
âI donât think so. If he couldâve, he wouldâve already!â Zeppeli shot back, and with your blurry vision, you could vaguely make out the sheen of gold surrounding his right eye.Â
âHeâs the commanding headâhe has to keep his wits about him to do so,â you interjected, and your tongue was leaden in your mouth. âHeâs hiding somewhere.â
âStronzo,â Zeppeli swore, and his arm created an arc as he lobbed a green sphere into the ground. Your skull vibrated from the impact, and not a second had passed before he murmured a soft I see that you wouldnât have heard had your body not been attuned to a dinosaurâs capacity for hearing.Â
What the hell does he see?
[Echolocation?]
âThere!â he yelled, and you and Johnny fired in tandem at the gaping maw of the creatureâone shot through his shoulder, and a plethora of nails peppering his face.Â
His body was flung out by the force, hurtling and tumbling into the sand, and you felt neither pity nor dread as you watched him, but rather relief at the sudden absence of his legion: as red clothed villagers began to take shape beneath your swimming gaze, lying in peaceful sleep beneath the sky.Â
You lowered your gun.Â
One shot left.Â
âWell, well,â Zeppeli mocked. âLooks like your dinosaur ability is all out of fuel.â
Ferdinand let out a strangled moan, and you watched the rivers of blood wash away his sins.Â
âWho sent you?â You limped forward, intending to get answers, but you were rigidly halted by the rough hand yanking you back.Â
âNo use. Heâs a babbling idiot. Kill him, quick,â Zeppeli muttered, and you reeled back, horrified. âYou were ready to do it a few minutes ago. What changed?âÂ
âI can get answers after healââ
âHave you lost your wits, you crazed bastard?â His raised voice in your ear caused your head to ring, and your eyes dazedly shook between staring at the gun and the man gurgling at your feet. âYouâve got severe internal injuries and this man is bleeding out! You would grant a slow death to him and yourself to appease your own guilt, rather than give him the quick mercy of a shot to the head, after he tried to kill us all?â
His body curved around you, right arm flush against your own. His palm rested steadily around the back of your hand, uncomfortably pressing your trigger finger. You swallowed heavily.Â
âYou bought the gun,â he murmured it this time, and you could feel that eye of his scanning you: the sweat and grime and blood caked on your face and veil, the tremble of your shoulders, and perhaps even the thoughts racing beneath your skull. âUse it.â
âNoâ Iââ You were interrupted by the sharp scrabbling of claws against rock, and you looked up to see three cougars prowling towards the bloodied Ferdinand, who could only scrabble for purchase in the blood-slicked sand to get away.Â
âFanculo,â he swore, and scoffed derisively. âClose your eyes.â
âZeppeli, what the hell are youââ There was a low warning in your voice, and you couldnât help but desperately shut your eyes as he pressed down on your finger.
The trigger was squeezed.Â
Executioner.
It was not your fault.Â
No.
You squeezed the trigger.Â
It was your fault.Â
Executioner.Â
The low growl of the cats and the sound of something heavy being dragged away were muffled by the death knell in your ears.Â
Executioner.
âHeâs gone,â Zeppeli commented brusquely, and his sudden departure from your side invited the boreal chill to crash in surges against your body. âStart thinking hard and fast about whether you actually want to survive this race or not. I wonât be there to hold your hand for each shot.â
Death left its fingers on your body: a bloody stench that lingered even as Depeche Mode mended your tattered clothes and cleaned you wordlessly. You knelt in the sand, staring at the trail of blood that disappeared before your eyes, staring at the gun that you had purchased for this exact reason, staring at Johnny, who looked at you with something you thought could possibly be pity.Â
âWe did it,â he murmured to the wind, carrying the gentle croon of his voice to your ears. You did not react. âWe got the second corpse part.â
It was a victory. You were hollowed with ecstasy. You felt everything. You felt nothing.Â
âZeppeli,â you croaked hoarsely, finally finding your voice. His eyes found yours instantly: one that acerbic lime-green, the other shining the hue of old parchment. His brows had knit low over them, neither apologetic nor pitying, but rather a heavy thing you couldnât fathom. âThere were two eyes.â
Johnnyâs gaze, too, had found you as soon as you spoke, and now he looked up at Zeppeli, too, finding the mismatched pair.
The victory was torn away as fast as it had arrived, and you laughed. It wasnât funny in the slightest.Â