Yo, how's it going? Stygianlover here, with my first Fictionpress original story. I've probably updated this chapter like a thousand times already, but at this rate I'm doing more rewriting than writing anyway, so I figure why the hell not? Umm .. I don't care for savage reviews, so long as I get some sort of quality feedback – as a fourteen-year-old writer, I think I still have a lot to learn. There's always room for improvement. However, unconstructive reviews that are unnecessarily brutal [aka flaming] won't be tolerated. I will report you.

On a less threatening note, Counting Stars & Sheep is a fictional tale starring two species' of my own creation: weredaemons and otherkin. The main characters are Sasha "Stygian" Yakov and Joshua Reice Delaney. They're my boys and I absolutely love them – writing their story helped bring me out of a deep depression in '12, and to keep myself out of the woods after a recent relapse, I decided to publish the tale of their love [stop scoffing, Joshua] from its sort of kinda dark beginning.

It's still a major work in progress, so I'll probably be updating the chapters as I see fit. I cannot stress enough how much I'd love for my readers to take the time to review or comment. Feedback is crucial to keep me writing – plus everyone loves to have fans, right?

So! Read it and weep, my lovelies.

Something inside me had dropped away, and nothing came in to fill the empty cavern. There was an abnormal lightness to my body, and sounds had a hollow echo to them.

I shouldn't have been surprised. I shouldn't have been hurt. Hell, I shouldn't have been anything – but I was. I was both of those things and more: I was angry, hateful, surprised, hurt, disbelieving, terrified, disappointed, and perhaps most of all, first and foremost, I was angry. Angry at myself for actually thinking [that] anyone, least of all someone like him could care about a piece of shit like me — and angry at him for leading me on and making me look like everyone else, for treating me like he had. Like he'd cared. Like he'd really been thinking about keeping me, when in reality he'd just been calculating how much money he could leech off the system before they caught onto his lying ass.

"Bastard," I hissed through clenched ivories, stifling the urge to jangle my wrists against the oh shit handle, to which said bastard had handcuffed me. When I'd woken, I hadn't been able to believe it. Now I had no choice but to believe it, although a part of me still wanted to deny the cruel truth of what was happening, even with the evidence shackling my wrists and digging into my skin, bringing me up tight against the tinted window and car door. I wanted to go back to two days ago, to before the lying and sneaking around had started, back to the time when Paranormal and I had spent stormy nights half huddled beneath the covers like giggling children [siblings], squinting at the shadows on the far wall as if we could somehow convince them into telling us their secrets.

But that wasn't an option. Things were what they were; and there was no going back, no matter how much I yearned for the past. Nevertheless, I couldn't help but hate him for shattering the only genuine happiness I'd ever known.

I hadn't expected him to be paying attention, but of course he was. And of course he heard me. I caught a glimpse of his expression in the mirror, one slender brow quirked questioningly from where he sat in the driver's seat, dividing his attention between me and the road. Not like it mattered — we'd been idling in traffic for almost a full five minutes. Classic New fucking York.

"Watch your language," he finally said. I curled my lip contemptuously and spat. Granted, it was a petty gesture, but at this point I couldn't care less. Fuck me sideways, but I wanted him to notice. I wanted it to show, 'cause what the fuck was the point in keeping it all inside?

He was looking now, pale gold hues narrowed to dangerous slits. "You're going to clean that up."

I snorted, allowing my anger to steal into my voice. I armoured myself in it, hoping the sun would reflect off its ebon plates and blind the asshole who was supposed to be family but wasn't .. and never would be. "Like hell I am."

Suddenly he was putting the car in park, prompting the birth of an anxious whine inside my throat. I stifled it and shrank back against the car door, knowing the stance would probably cause some sort of long-term damage to my wrists thanks to the handcuffs but affecting it anyway; slouching defensively, baring crisp ivories in a warning snarl. This motherfucker was losing a hand if he touched me.

But instead of getting out of the car, the guy just fished out his phone and frowned at the vibrating device. The iPhone's screen displayed the slide to answer message that occurred with the reception of a phone call and my brows furrowed, confusion and curiosity effectively piqued. Who the hell was calling—? This couldn't be good.

And for once, I was right.