#I’ve been developing this au for a while now | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 01, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ TAGS: second person perspective, female reader, ballerina!Y/N, stalker!taehyung, obsessive devotion, psychological tension, fixation, worship dynamics, Paris setting, religious imagery, voyeurism, sacred/profane dichotomy, slow burn, touch starvation, ritualistic behavior, gradual corruption, power dynamics, mirror imagery, water symbolism, sensory details, clean/unclean fixation, contamination OCD, professional dancer, self-destructive patterns, compulsive behavior, unhealthy coping mechanisms, possessive tendencies, praise addiction, spiritual yearning, toxic attraction, dangerous adoration, self-loathing, body discipline, mental health issues, self-harm, mental deterioration, unresolved sexual tension (for now).

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: first sight, obsessive observation, ballet practice scene, initial fixation development, mirror dynamics, ritual beginnings, sensory fixation, internal monologue, self-loathing, self-discipline, cleanliness obsession, OCD, asocial/antisocial behaviors.

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 2.9k

➔ A/N: Before we even begin, let me say this loud and clear: This story explores dark themes, toxic dynamics, and morally fucked behavior. If that’s not your vibe or you’re in a vulnerable place right now, please prioritize your mental health and click out. I have a trigger warning + author intro linked above in pink—read it before diving in. Know what you’re getting into. Once you scroll past this note, you’re responsible for engaging thoughtfully. This is not an endorsement of anything. This story is an exploration, not a statement of belief. Don’t absorb it at face value. Think critically. Or log off. Either works. Okay now that the serious voice is out of the way—WELCOME TO ASW. Yes. We’re doing this. Yes, Taehyung. No, I don’t know why either. He just… is. This fic has been rotting in my brain like a cursed wine cellar, and he fit the flavor of psychological mess I needed. It’s the velvet-soaked, morally gray, low-light, mid-cigarette kinda vibe. And you’re invited. This isn’t a longform fic like Fuck Me Up—it’s a series, a slower, tighter pace, same chaos engine running under the hood (hi, it’s me, Kiki Nation). If you’ve read my stuff before: buckle in. If you’re new: …I swear I’ve written fluff before. Maybe. No but seriously, if you like character-driven, trauma-informed, unhinged-but-meticulous messes with literary undertones, welcome. You’ve found your swamp. Also. I beg you to listen to the ASW playlist I linked. It’s essential. Think: Paris—but not “Emily in Paris.” More like the kind of Paris where you haven’t slept in three days and your eyeliner’s smudged and some man with secrets is staring at you across a neon-lit dive bar while Edith Piaf plays from a busted speaker. That Paris.

See you on the other side. You’ve been warned.

➔ SERIES : NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Worthless.

The word sits in Taehyung's skull like a rotting tooth.

Not painful anymore—just there, decayed into the bone, a permanent fixture. Worthless. His mother's voice, twenty-something years later, still echoing.

Sometimes he imagines cutting into his brain, finding where that word lives, and scrubbing it clean. But nothing ever gets clean enough.

Paris is outside—pavement slicked with cold, the breath of a morning rain barely dried. In here, the air is flat.

Fluorescent.

Everything smells faintly of mop water and dying batteries.

He exists behind the counter, with his wrists tucked close, thumbnail grinding against the seam where the plastic laminate splits. It’s not a conscious movement. The itch just collects there—under his skin, inside his jaw, everywhere his mother’s voice ever landed.

(worthless)

The shelf by the door coughs out its contents: a can rolls, then a bottle, another bottle, a clatter that jars the pulse behind his eye. Sticky leaks on the tiles. No one looks at him—customer, manager, pink-haired girl behind the second register sketching with a dried-out pen. He’s the quiet one. The shadow. The clean-up.

He counts the droplets on the ground. One. Two. The stain widens. Beer and cola. A chemical amber, eating its way along the grout. His fingers twitch for the cheap blue rag balled up under the till. Sticky spots, dirty dots, broken thoughts. Three. Four. Five. It’s spreading. Marcel’s voice always comes before the panic does.

“Kid! Clean that shit up, come on! Clients don’t have all day.”

He sees the world in surfaces and stains. Every footprint etched in last night’s grime. Chewing gum slicked flat under a boot near the cooler. The way someone’s fingernails left half-moons in the tape over the torn cereal box. Small atrocities. He is intimately acquainted with the way filth lingers—in the cracks, yes, but also in his chest, in the language of his own hands.

He moves without thinking: rag in hand, knees bending. The bottle neck is sticky. His palm leaves a ghost on the glass—oily, ugly.

(dirty, dirty, dirtydirtydirt)

He swears he can hear her voice; the echo that raised him sharper than any cradle song.

He wipes too hard, more circles than necessary, like there is any chance of making the world new.

One. Two. Three. Seven. Seven. Seven again. If the number is right, the feeling dulls.

Nothing makes it right.

The rag soaks up sugar, cheap wheat, that thin acrid scent that reminds him of old men on metro benches. The stickiness clings to his fingers, seeping past skin and nail, as if he’s absorbing the world’s waste molecule by molecule.

If he had a choice, he’d bleach the whole city. Himself first.

Someone steps around him—he feels the shadow before the person—a grunt, a grumble in French about the mess, about incompetence. He shrinks into the crouch. Tries to take up less space.

Sometimes, he wonders what it would take to be truly invisible.

Sometimes, he thinks he’s halfway there already.

(worthless)

He doesn’t know when the word started looping. Was it, really, at two years old? Maybe three. Maybe four, when he dropped a bowl and she made him hold the shards, blood trailing into the grout as proof of his clumsiness.

‘If you were worth anything, you’d be clean. You’d be careful. You’d be quiet and good and wanted.’

He’s quiet. He’s careful. He’s so good at disappearing he startles himself when Marcel barks his name—the only time he hears it, sandpapered into a reprimand.

Sometimes the sound of it makes him nauseous.

He presses the rag into the floor. Bleach sting in the back of his throat. Nails scrub until knuckles ache, the line between diligent and desperate lost years ago. He likes this better than standing—the way knees grind bone against bone, the ache that says he’s solid, present, here.

It almost feels like penance.

He glances up—Sophie sketches him again, glancing once, twice, pausing on the curl of his neck. He will become a line in her notebook, a story she tells at parties, a tragic fixture in the background of her real life. He hates that he has thoughts about being observed. If anyone really saw, they’d peel back layers until nothing was left but the word.

(worthless)

The store’s radio coughs static. Some old pop song limping its way through a broken speaker. The world blurs at the edges—what is Paris, if not concrete and piss and distant sunlight, leaking slowly across linoleum? He wishes the tiles here would just dissolve.

Wishes his skin would too.

He wrings the rag out in the bucket, watches beer foam swirl with grime down the cheap plastic drain. His hands are pink, raw, stained with the same feeling that never quite leaves. His fingertips burn. Sometimes they bleed. That’s good.

Pain is clean. Pain is honest.

Marcel doesn’t say thank you. Doesn’t look at him. Sophie tucks her drawing away, eyes flickering elsewhere. Taehyung straightens, wipes his palms on his trousers, and returns to the counter. He exists to erase.

Counting in his head—seven steps to the end of the aisle. Seven minutes until the shift ends. Seven letters in the nine his mother wrote under his skin:

Worthless.

Sometimes he thinks it’s the only word he’ll ever earn.

And outside, the city is gray. Inside, he is nothing. Inside, he is clean.

(For a moment. For seven counts. That’s all.)

The water makes patterns like fractured light.

His shift ends like they always do—uneventful, almost unregistered in the library of his mind.

Paris is set in a brooding mood, rain stalking down the windows carelessly. Taehyung watches each droplet make its slow descent, leaving dirty trails on the glass he'd scrubbed this morning.

Seven hours ago. The bleach has worn off. Everything wears off eventually.

He'll have to clean the windows before going home. Marcel doesn't really care. Clean windows mean cleaner space. Cleaner space is good for Marcel's business. Or its reputation at least. Not that Taehyung cares about reputation or lack thereof, he just needs to quiet down the bubbling pressure that builds in his chest when the water droplets remove the bleach he's injected into the glass this morning.

The streak marks form constellations he doesn't know the names of. Names have never mattered much to him. Except when they belong to ghosts.

(worthlessworthlessworthless)

The register drawer sticks when he pulls it, a metallic scrape that makes his molars ache. He counts the bills by sevens—one, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. Again. The rhythm is comforting, like a metronome he can set his pulse to. His fingers leave no prints on the paper. He's careful about that. So careful.

Sophie comes by his counter, as she usually does at this time. Her hair is wet at the ends, dripping onto her shoulders. The moisture makes him twitch. He knows the pattern, knows how her hand raises to pat him in the shoulder, so he moves. Just lightly. A shift to the left. His body tilting away from contact like a plant bending from shadow.

She notices. She always notices. But she never says anything about it.

"Marcel left early," she says, tapping her pen against her lower lip. "Something about his daughter's recital. You know how he gets about that little prodigy of his."

Taehyung doesn't respond. He doesn't know what it's like to have a father proud enough to leave work early. He doesn't know what it's like to have someone watch you with anything but disappointment.

Sophie sighs into the silence. The sound scrapes against his eardrums. He counts the register one more time, even though the numbers are perfect. They're always perfect. He makes sure of it.

"You should really come to the dinner tonight. Would do some good for you to socialize," she says with a grin that shows too many teeth.

Her lipstick is smudged at the corner. Imperfect. He wants to hand her a tissue but his hands stay where they are, counting, ordering, fixing what isn't broken.

He doesn't blame her for trying. He doesn't blame her for the invitation that comes every Friday, the same words in slightly different arrangements. He doesn't blame her for not understanding that socializing feels like drowning with an audience.

Taehyung doesn't respond, simply nods. He's learned the minimum requirements for human interaction. Nod. Blink. Breathe. Exist without being noticed.

She sighs, signals two fingers over her forehead as she exits the store, all while saying, "Don't stay too late, and close before you leave!"

Taehyung didn't need the reminder. He always checks seven times before he leaves, that the door is closed.

Sophie knows. He knows she knows. He still doesn't say a word, just nods. Then, Sophie is gone.

Solitude, at last.

Empty store, peace restored.

His fingers move to the cloth under the register. It's damp from earlier, beer and soda and whatever else the world tracked in. He should get a fresh one. Clean things with clean tools. His mother taught him that, at least, between the lessons about worthlessness.

The rain comes down harder now, drumming against the glass. The windows will need extra attention. He can already feel the itch building under his skin, the need to make everything spotless before he leaves. Before he walks through the rain and into his apartment, where everything is already clean but never clean enough.

He moves methodically. Counts each step. One, two, three, four, five, six, seven. Again. The mop bucket rattles as he pulls it from the back room. Water sloshes against plastic sides. He measures the bleach precisely. One cap. Two caps. The smell burns his nostrils, familiar and comforting. It smells like absolution.

The store is empty now. Just him and the endless task of erasing evidence that anyone was ever here. He likes it this way. Prefers it. People leave messes. People notice things. People try to touch his shoulder and invite him to dinners where he would have to speak and be seen and remembered.

No one remembers the person who cleans up after them. That's the beauty of it.

The mop makes wet streaks across the floor. He counts each stroke. Seven in one direction. Seven in the other. The pattern matters. The rhythm matters. If he gets it wrong, something terrible might happen. He doesn't know what. He just knows the fear tastes like metal at the back of his throat.

The windows come last. He saves them because they're the worst. Because they connect inside to outside. Because they're never truly clean, no matter how hard he scrubs.

He sprays the glass, watches the solution drip down in rivulets that mirror the rain on the other side. Seven sprays. Seven wipes. Seven circles clockwise, seven counterclockwise. The ritual matters. The counting matters.

When he's done, the store gleams under the harsh lights. No evidence that anyone has been here. No evidence that he exists at all, except in the absence of dirt.

Then, a sound.

It comes from behind the door nobody opens.

Not the storeroom where Marcel keeps the cigarettes he thinks no one knows about, not the employee bathroom with its perpetually damp floor—the other one. The abandoned space where even Marcel refuses to go.

Taehyung freezes mid-wipe, cloth suspended against glass. The sound isn't loud. Just different. A disruption in the pattern of silence he's grown accustomed to.

He finishes the seventh circle, completing the ritual. Can't leave it unfinished. Bad things happen when rituals break. His mother taught him that—one of the few lessons that wasn't delivered with a slap or that word.

(worthless)

The sound comes again. Not a crash or a thud, but something lighter. A scrape, perhaps. The shuffle of something being moved after years of stillness.

His bleach bottle is nearly empty. The level has dropped below the label, and the thought of finishing his cleaning without it makes his chest cave inward. The supply closet—the forbidden one—holds what he needs. Marcel put the cleaning supplies there because no one else wants them. Because Taehyung is the only one who uses them. Because Marcel knows he'll go, no matter how much it terrifies him.

The handle feels wrong under his palm. Not cold or hot, but somehow both. The metal leaves an impression on his skin that he'll need to scrub away later. Seven times. With soap that smells like nothing.

The door creaks—not dramatically like in films, but with the quiet protest of hinges that have forgotten their purpose. The smell hits him first: dust and mildew, ancient paper, and something underneath it all that reminds him of childhood.

Not his childhood—someone else's. Someone who was allowed to be happy.

Taehyung doesn't step fully inside. He hovers at the threshold, one foot in darkness, one in light. Liminal. The word appears in his head unbidden. He knows it from somewhere. A book, maybe. Something he read in the quiet hours when sleep refused to come.

The bleach is stacked against the far wall. Seven bottles. Always seven. Marcel orders them in sevens now without being asked. It's the only kindness Taehyung has ever noticed from the man.

He'll have to cross the room to get there. Step fully into the space that feels wrong.

His skin prickles with contamination.

One step. The floor creaks.

Two. Dust motes dance in what little light filters through a grimy window.

Three. His breathing shallows.

Four. The sound comes again, clearer now. Not from this room, but beyond it.

Five. His hand twitches at his side, wanting to count on fingers but knowing better. Counting out loud is for children. Counting visibly is for the insane.

Six. He sees the wall isn't solid. There's glass embedded in it, cloudy with years of neglect.

Seven. He stops, right where he needs to be. The bottles wait, patient as saints.

He crouches, careful not to let his knees touch the floor. It's filthy here. Beyond salvaging. The kind of dirty that lives in the bones of a place, too deep for even bleach to reach. He imagines gutting the room—tearing out floorboards, scraping walls down to bare structure, burning it all and starting fresh. The fantasy calms him enough to grab a bottle.

That's when the melody starts.

Piano notes, distant but clear. A practice scale, then something more complex. The music doesn't filter through the wall—it seems to emerge from it, as if the plaster itself remembers a tune.

Taehyung stands, bottle clutched to his chest. His eyes find the glass panel naturally, drawn by the sound. It's a mirror, he realizes. Or it was meant to be. Years of grime have turned it into a cloudy barrier between this space and whatever lies beyond.

Curiosity is dangerous. His mother taught him that too. But the music pulls at something in him—a thread he didn't know was loose.

He approaches the glass, steps measured in sevens. The closer he gets, the clearer the sound becomes. Not just piano now. There's movement.

Without thinking, he raises his free hand—the one not clutching bleach like a lifeline—and wipes a small circle in the grime. The action is so automatic, so ingrained, that he doesn't register the contamination until it's done.

His palm is gray with dust. He'll need to wash it. Scrub it. Make it clean again.

But then he sees through the cleared space, and everything else falls away.

The room beyond isn't abandoned. It's alive with light—not the harsh fluorescence of the convenience store, but something softer. Golden. The floors are wood, worn but cared for. Barres line the walls. A practice room.

And in its center, a figure moves.

You don’t dance to the piano.

You are the music.

(worthyworthyworthy)

Your body creates shapes he doesn't have names for. Arcs and lines that make his breath catch.

Taehyung doesn't know ballet. Doesn't know dance at all. But he knows beauty when he sees it. Knows holiness. Recognizes glory.

The glass, he realizes, isn't just dirty. It's one-way. A mirror on your side, a window on his. You can't see him watching. Don’t know you’re being witnessed.

The knowledge makes him feel profane. He shouldn't be here. Shouldn't be seeing this. It's too intimate, too sacred for someone like him.

(worthless)

But he can't look away.

Your hair is pulled back, severe and perfect. No strand out of place. Your leotard (is that the word? he thinks it might be) clings to a form that seems impossible—all angles and curves existing together in defiance of what bodies should be able to do.

When you turn, your face catches light. Features like a doll. But your gaze is nothing like that. Eyes focused on nothing but your reflection. On perfection. On control.

You are everything he is not.

Clean.

Worthy.

Then, a series of turns that make his head spin just watching. You’re counting, he realizes. Your lips move slightly with each rotation. One, two, three... he can't tell how high you go. Can't follow the complexity of it.

The bleach bottle is cold against his chest. His palm still dirty. His breath fogging the small clear spot he's made in the glass.

He should leave. Should run. Should take his bleach and go back to his world of sticky floors and meaningless tasks. Should never come back here again.

But even as he thinks it, he knows he will. Knows that he'll return tomorrow, like he has to now. And the day after. And every day the store is open. Just to stand in this filthy room he can't bear to be in. Just to watch you move like water, like air.

Like everything pure in a world of contamination.

goal: 150 notes.

taglist: @cannotalwaysbenight @taevescence @itstoastsworld @somehowukook @stutixmaru @chloepiccoliniii @kimnamjoonmiddletoe @annyeongbitch7 @mar-lo-pap @mikrokookiex @minniejim @curse-of-art @cristy-101 @mellyyyyyyx @rpwprpwprpwprw

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

232 notes · View notes

wintrwinchestr · 22 days ago

Text

strangers | part 4

summary: you never would've snuck out of bed last night if you had known it would lead to this—becoming a pawn in joel's sick, depraved game, playing the role of both victim and accomplice. how can the sparing of your life feel so much like a death sentence? how can you ever forgive yourself when your hands are as soaked in innocent blood as his are? how can the kind, gentle man you thought you loved, turn out to be such a monster?

!!PLEASE READ WARNINGS, THIS IS A VERY DARK FIC!!

I've tried to label this fic as detailed and as boldly as possible. I will not be held responsible or bullied off the internet if you choose to read this potentially upsetting/triggering work of fiction anyway.

warnings: joel miller x f!reader, 18+, smut, age gap (reader is college-aged, joel is mid-50s), no outbreak au, serial killer!joel, dark!joel, !!GRAPHIC!! DESCRIPTION OF MURDER AND BLOOD, NON-CON PIV (gonna say rape just in case, reader does not verbally consent), JOEL IS A SICK FREAK WHO GETS OFF ON KILLING, lying/gaslighting, manipulation, stalking, heavy dose of Joel POV, fingering, pussy slapping, edging, breathplay, degrading language used in an unsexy way, consumption of blood, Joel comes on your face, brief mention of somnophilia, reader has hair long enough to grab, reader can be carried by joel, development of stockholm syndrome, pet names (baby, darlin', babydoll, sweetheart), story inspired by "preacher's daughter" by ethel cain, vaguely set in the 70s, please respectfully let me know if i missed anything and i will rectify the tags

word count: 11.5k

a/n: this is a dark one, folks. if i haven't lost you already, i might lose you after this one. if this is the stop you get off on, i'm okay with that :) thanks for coming along for the ride. we've still got places to go from here, i'll be glad if you do decide to stick around. i feel very fortunate that the conversation around this story has been positive and respectful and i look forward to keeping it that way <3

divider by @saradika

series masterlist/moodboard

read this chapter on ao3

The office looks so different in the daylight.

The key to the room you’ve been staying in is still the only one missing from the corkboard, but the previously empty coffee pot is now half-full of this morning’s brew, and the ominous ticking of the clock is now mostly drowned out by the sounds of an afternoon football game, playing loudly on the television in the little lounge.

Joel has only let go of your hand twice since you left town—once to help you up into the truck, and once to help you climb back down. Your fingers have remained interlocked otherwise, even while he was driving, even right now, as you stand in front of the desk and wait for somebody to respond to the sharp sound of the little golden bell reverberating throughout the room. Joel hits his fingers against the top of it again, with a little more agitated force this time, but still, no answer.

“I know this ain’t a five star joint or nothin’, but goddamn…” Joel grumbles, leaning around to peer into the room where, by the sounds of it, a touchdown has just been made. “Hey, buddy! Lil’ help in here?” He shouts, and the sudden intensity of his voice makes you jump. The volume of the game diminishes almost immediately, and a scrawny-looking teenage boy emerges from the lounge, wiping Cheeto dust onto his jeans.

“Sorry about that, sir. Eagles game, you know?” the boy tries to jest, but Joel only hums in response. “Anyway, what can I help you guys with?”

“Was wonderin’ if you might know anythin’ about a girl named Chrissy who was workin’ the night shift in here last night?”

“Chrissy? Sure, she’s pretty new around here, but I’ve worked the mornings after her a few times… Why do you ask? Is she in some kinda trouble?”

Not yet, she isn’t.

“Nah, nah, nothin’ like that,” Joel reassures, then maneuvers you to stand in front of him. “Quite the opposite, actually. She helped my lil’ girl out last night when she wasn’t feelin’ too well. We’re awfully grateful to her, ain’t we, sweetheart?” He prompts, nudging you in the back.

You nod, but keep your head down, fiddling with the hem of your dress.

“Oh! That’s right. She, uh, left a note on the coffee table in there, saying something about keeping an eye on the girl staying here, and the, um…” You flick your eyes upwards as the boy’s sentence trails off, and watch him look Joel up and down once, swallowing hard. “Yeah, just the girl. Guess that was you, huh?” You avert your gaze again quickly when he addresses you, feeling your pulse quicken in panic.

“Mhm, sure was,” Joel answers for you. “That was awfully… kind of her, bein’ so concerned like that. Anyway, we just thought we’d stop by, see if she was around so we could give her a proper ‘thank you’, but I take it she ain’t here anymore? Any idea where she might be this time o’ day?”

The boy expels a sigh, tapping his fingers on top of the counter while he thinks. “I mean, I don’t know her too well… But I know she’s got another job at this bar down the road, The Rattler Room. I think she trades her nights between that place and here, wouldn’t be surprised if she’s got a shift there later tonight.”

“Well, how ‘bout that,” Joel says, clapping his hands on either one of your upper arms. “Guess we know what we’re doin’ about dinner tonight, don’t we, sweetheart?” Goosebumps raise on your skin even in the warmth of the office, and a nauseous feeling swirls in the pit of your belly. You feel somewhat fortunate that Joel wasn’t actually looking for a response from you, because if you were to open your mouth right now, you can’t guarantee that the minimal contents of your stomach wouldn’t come spilling out all over the muddy-colored carpeting. You would’ve never gotten out of bed last night, never tiptoed into this suffocating little room and asked the friendly-looking freckle-faced girl for help with your stupid idea—or hers, as Joel seems to think—if you had known that you would be putting more than just your own life at risk. You know what’s coming next, why Joel wants to hunt her down and stalk her like the predator that he is, and it’s all your fault.

“Let’s get goin’ now, baby. Thanks for your help, son, ‘s much appreciated.” Joel grabs hold of your hand again as he leads you out the door, and you nearly trip over the threshold as he tugs you across it.

He has a sick kind of spring in his step as he drags you back to the room, licking his chops and wearing an amused expression as he shucks off his boots and collapses onto the bed with a groan. You stand at the foot of the bed, frozen, as he grabs the remote off the bedside table and flicks the little square television to life.

“Whaddyou wanna watch, babydoll, huh? Signal’s kinda spotty out here, but one’a these channels has gotta be playin’ an old Western or somethin’...” You just blink at him, dumbfounded, watching him surf through the staticky channels as if the previous five minutes had never happened. Joel had just started the countdown on the remainder of Chrissy’s life right before your eyes, and all he wants to do now is… kick his feet up and watch some fucking TV?

“What do you mean, ‘what do I wanna watch’?” You ask, unable to hide the disconcerted edge in your voice.

“Baby, it ain’t a difficult question. Gotta kill time somehow, don’t we?” Joel turns his head in your direction as he addresses you, but otherwise keeps his eyes glued to the television screen, which now seems to be stuck on a snowy channel filling the room with loud, unsettling white noise. “God—dammit,” he curses, smacking the remote against the palm of his hand a few times. Your stomach churns both at the way he beats the inanimate object for its disobedience, and at his ironic choice of idiom.

“Kill time until… what?”

Joel looks up at you from under his lashes, halfway rolling his eyes at you before giving up on his endeavor altogether and clicking the TV screen into darkness again. “Did you think I was just makin’ shit up last night? You’re gonna bring her to me. Not right now, ‘course. Later, when the sun goes down, we’ll head on over to that bar. I’ll buy you some dinner or whatever kinda shitty food they have, but dessert’s on you, you get me?”

Your vision starts to go a little dark around the edges, and you feel unsteady on your feet as the grim reality sets in that he wasn’t just prattling off some depraved fantasy to you last night, he wants to make it real. He wants to spear a hook through your abdomen and cast you out to sea, dangle you in front of something empathetic and pretty and fragile and lure her straight into his gaping jaw. You can hardly live with yourself as it is, the way you’ve already been so consumed with survivor’s guilt for the past twenty four hours that you can feel the physical weight of it on your soul. But actually being responsible for adding another girl to his collection, your hands just as soaked in her blood as his would be? It will fucking break you. It won’t just be the images of the polaroids that will haunt you, it’ll be the shattering sounds of their screams, the metallic scent of their blood, the nauseating visions of their contorted bodies that will be your own tangible memories now, seared onto the backs of your eyelids because you were there. You’ll never get a decent night’s sleep for the rest of your life, and you won’t deserve one.

“But… you—we can’t take her. It can’t be her.”

Joel sits back against the headboard, crossing his arms, like he wants to see where you’re going with this. “No? Why not, babydoll?”

You cross your arms back at him, widening your stance in order to look more sure of yourself. “Well… That kid. He saw our faces, right? When Chrissy doesn’t show up here again tomorrow night, the police will question him, and he’ll tell them that we were asking about her. They’ll know we had something to do with it.”

Joel scoffs. “Yeah? Well, maybe they will. Then what’re they gonna do about it, hm? Two of us’ll be long gone by the time tomorrow night rolls around.” He knocks down your logic as easily as he would a house of cards, and you can’t think of anything else to say that might be able to convince him not to do this. The thought of it alone is like a drop of blood in the water, and once he’s gotten a whiff of it, there’s nothing you can do to stop the frenzy.

“B-but—”

“But what, sweetheart? How long d’you think I’ve been doin’ this, hm? Think I don’t know the rules of the game by now?”

He has a point. Joel has managed to evade capture for this long, surely he isn’t going to start slipping up now. He probably has his ritual down to a science, knowing exactly which type of girl to take, the right place to get the job done, and how long he can stick around for afterwards before his face shows up as a crude drawing on the evening news. The only thing on his mind now is the exciting prospect of being able to get his rocks off in just a few hours, while yours is running a mile a minute thinking about the lifetime of trauma and guilt you’ll be setting yourself up for if you do this, how many different ways it can go wrong, and what could happen to you if it does.

“Here, c’mere, baby,” Joel beckons, spreading his legs and patting his hand on the mattress between them. “You’re thinkin’ too much about this. Lemme show you how easy it’s gonna be, hm?”

He raises his brows at you when you don’t obey immediately, and you reluctantly crawl onto the creaky bed toward where Joel’s toned arms are reaching out to you. He grabs onto your waist when you get close enough and pulls you against him, situating you so that your back is pressed against his front. He wraps his arms around your middle, and rests his scruffy chin on your shoulder.

“You remember passin’ that bar on our way into town today, don’t you, babydoll? Had a big ol’ neon sign out front, a bright green rattlesnake waggin’ its tail back ‘n forth?”

“Um…” You close your eyes, trying your best to sift through the memories of everything you had seen during the drive. But it’s proving difficult, especially with the way one of Joel’s rough hands is sliding down your belly, finding its way underneath your dress and settling overtop of your panties. He begins to circle his middle finger around your clothed bud, and you hate the way it makes your breath hitch.

“C’mon, think for me, sweetheart. You remember, don’t you?” Joel prompts, a condescendingly teasing lilt in his voice.

A blur of neon green streaks across the backs of your eyelids, and you do remember, kind of. A divey looking place with a few motorcycles and pickup trucks parked out front, relatively isolated and unassuming aside from its kitschy signage.

“Mhm,” you hum, and it comes out more like a whimper. “I… I remember.”

Joel’s swirling finger picks up its pace, increasing the pressure against your clit as he continues to quiz you. “Yeah… And a few miles down past it, there was that abandoned lookin’ lil’ neighborhood, right? Houses were ‘bout fallin’ apart, all the yards were real overgrown… You remember?”

This, you can picture more clearly. It had reminded you of your own starved out hometown, every street lined with boxy two-story houses covered in peeling paint and climbing vines. Some of the homes so decrepit-looking, with their crumbling foundations and boarded up windows, and yet still with an assortment of sun-bleached children’s toys littering the front porch, a wind-chime still singing even if nobody was around to hear it anymore.

All you can do is nod in conformation, too afraid to make any more noises that might sound like you’re actually enjoying this, like it feels good, like you want him to keep going. Fuck.

“That’s where we’re gonna do it, baby. So you gotta listen real carefully, okay? Gonna tell you the plan, ‘n I want you to repeat it back to me, alright? Can you do that, babydoll?” Joel tugs your panties to the side as he questions you, exposing your damp core to the air conditioned room. “Fuck, look at that…” He muses, now using two of his fingers to spread your puffy lips apart and admire the way they glisten.

“Uh huh, I… I can,” you confirm breathily.

Joe’s fingers travel downwards, focusing their ministrations around the rim of your leaky hole instead. “Here’s what we’re gonna do, sweetheart… Gonna head down there, park the truck ‘round the side. I’ll give ya some cash to go sit up at the bar, ‘n I’ll hang around in the back, keep an eye on you… You’re gonna chat up lil’ miss Chrissy, tell her all about how I snatched you up, made you mine, won’t let you leave my side… You’re gonna use your manners all pretty ‘n nice, and ask her to please, please take you back home, help you get away from that big, scary, mean old man who hurts you so bad—“ He presses a thick finger inside your opening, and you can’t help but moan at the burning intrusion. “Just don’t tell her how much you like it, huh, babydoll?”

“Y-you… You want me to tell h-her… All of that?” You ask, confused that Joel would instruct you to tell her the truth, when so far, he’s been hellbent on hiding from the world who he truly is, only bearing his teeth when provoked, like a caged animal.

“Mhm, want you to tell her the truth, sweetheart, everything. Not like she’ll be able to do anythin’ about it later, hm?” Joel grabs onto your chin with his unoccupied hand, and shakes your head for you. “No, she won’t. Tha’s right, baby…” He laughs darkly, and you understand his intent now—to taunt you with an opportunity to finally be able to ask for help, to force you to pantomime what could be a real chance at escape, knowing that nothing will come of it. Joel begins to piston his finger in and out of you, and he holds you tightly against him as you squirm and sob.

“You’re gonna work your magic on her, and she’ll take such pity on you, sweet lil’ lamb that you are, of course she’ll take you back home… You’re gonna give her directions to that row of houses, have her take you all the way down to the one at the very end of the street, ‘n I’ll be followin’ close behind in the truck the whole time. Two of you’ll get outta the car, and then—” He sinks a second finger into your warmth alongside the other one, and you make a pained little noise at the stretch, arching your back against him. “Then I get to have my fun,” he snarls into your ear.

You didn’t realize how much tension you’d been holding in your body until now, until Joel had begun using his skillful fingers to render it all down, along with any rational thought you’d had left. You want to fight, want to spit and bite and scratch and push yourself away from him and never let him touch you there again, but you can’t. Your limbs feel weaker and weaker as the muscles in your abdomen draw tighter and tighter, and all you can do is melt against him, let him siphon out all that worry and pain and trauma and replace it with pleasure, at least just for a little while. You’ll grapple with yourself about it later.

You can feel the rumble of Joel’s voice against the skin of your neck, but you don’t register what he says, too consumed by your own pleasure to hear him. You just continue to mindlessly buck into the movements of his fingers, until he yanks them free from your walls and issues a sharp slap to your aching cunt.

“I said, repeat it,” Joel hisses, and you yelp at the sting, your hips stuttering as they continue to chase after nothing.

“S-sorry, ‘m sorry, Joel, please—” You pant.

“You want me to keep goin’? You wanna come? Then repeat it back to me, babydoll, all of it, or I ain’t givin’ you shit. Need to know that you understand, that I can send you out there to bring me some fresh meat and you ain’t gonna fuck it up.”

“Okay, okay, okay, um… Fuck—” you curse as Joel slowly reinserts his fingers, resuming their beckoning motion against that spongey spot deep inside that makes you dizzy. “I-I’m gonna… Tell her… About you…”

“Uh huh, tha’s right… What about me, baby?” He encourages, his fingers working their way back up to the pace they had been moving at before he had deprived you of them.

You try to wade through the dense cloud of fog in your mind, your ability to think slowing down as the heel of his palm stimulates your clit with each rhythmic thrust. “T-that you, um… That you took me, you h-hurt me. And I’m gonna ask her to… To take me home—” “Good, good girl…” Joel praises. “Doin’ such a good job, almost there, babydoll. What comes next, hm?”

You take in a shuddering breath, closing your eyes tightly as you force your brain to recall the steps he had just walked you through. “I make her d-drive me to, um… To that house—”

“Which one, baby? Lots’a houses on that street, which one did I say?” Joel stills his movements, holding your pleasure hostage while he waits for your answer. You try desperately to twist around in his hold and continue to chase after your high, but his grip around your jaw remains ironclad.

“The one on the… The corner?”

Slap.

“Ain’t what I fuckin’ said. You think I want everybody drivin’ by to be able to hear her fuckin’ screams? Try again.”

You cry out, your abused little hole constricting around nothing. You dredge the depths of your short term memory, desperate to come up with the right answer.

“At the end! T-the one at the end,” you shout, and you’re rewarded with the replacement of his fingers, petting against your walls with just the right amount of speed and force that he knows will have you seeing stars with just a few more strokes.

“There we go… And what’s the last thing I said, sweetheart, hm? Last thing I need you to do…”

You draw a blank, your head filled with nothing other than almost there, keep going, please, please, please. You whine, bracing yourself for another swat to your sensitive cunt as you force yourself to admit, “I-I don’t… Don’t remember.”

Slap.

A debauched, animalistic cry leaves your lips, one that you can’t bring yourself to feel embarrassed of at the moment. “Yes you do, baby. Not gonna let you gush all over my fuckin’ fingers ‘less you tell me. Think. Can’t do shit if the two’a you get to the house and just twiddle your thumbs in the car, can I?”

“N-no, I gotta… Get her out of the car… Right? Is that it?” You’re heaving, completely breathless and covered in the dampness of your own sweat and arousal. At this point, you think you’ll say whatever the fuck he wants to hear if it means he’ll reinsert his fingers and finally let you fall over the edge.

“That’s right, sweetheart…” The hand that was gripped onto your jaw migrates downwards, wrapping itself around your neck. He presses his thumb and forefinger into either one of your pulse points, and you feel like you’re floating as he resumes the movements of his soaked fingers, drawing your orgasm closer and closer to the surface again. “One last thing… Tell me what I’m gonna do to her, hm? Then you can come, baby,” Joel growls, and you can feel him pressing his hard length into your back as he does.

His voice sounds muffled, like it’s coming from underwater, but it resonates clearly enough for you to understand what he’s commanding of you. A whine forces its way through your constricted throat as you plead, “D-don’t make me, please just—” “Say it, or you’re gonna be watchin’ me do it with an achy, unsatisfied cunt leakin’ all over the fuckin’ floor. ‘S that what you want?”

You don’t want to watch him do it at all. A more sensible part of your brain knows that this is all so wrong, that it’s sick and horrifying and completely deplorable, but the pleasure-seeking part of it doesn’t really care right now. Joel is playing with you like a doll, pulling your strings and posing your limbs as he molds you into his perfect victim. He’s breaking you down, slowly but surely, and although you can feel it happening in real time, he’s proven to you time and time again how defenseless you are to his manipulation, how just a few gentle words and swirls of his fingertips can have you falling apart against him, so that he can put you back together just a little bit differently than you were before.

“N-no,” you whimper ashamedly.

“Then say it.”

You swallow, and you can feel the cartilage at the front of your throat moving against his hand as you do. “You’re gonna… Kill her,” you rasp through half-full lungs, the words hardly meaning anything to you at all with how close your release is, being dangled in front of you just barely out of reach.

“Sure fuckin’ am,” Joel growls through gritted teeth. “Gonna enjoy every second of it, too, ‘s been so goddamn long. ‘M fuckin’ starvin’ for it, babydoll, you got no idea… Can’t wait to watch that lil’ bitch bleed.”

You ignore his perverted rambling to the best of your ability, the rocking of your hips becoming more spastic as the movements of Joel’s fingers increase in intensity, alongside his own excitement.

“C-can I… Please, Joel—” you beg hoarsely, your own voice sounding distorted and far away as you fuck yourself on his hand.

“Yeah, babydoll, come for me, such a perfect fuckin’ girl…”

Both of Joel’s hands maintain their pressure as the knot in your belly tightens, then unravels all at once. You come undone on his fingers, the motel room filling with the obscene sounds of your wetness and your pathetic mewling as you drench Joel’s hand. He shushes and praises you through your climax, his fingers only ceasing their onslaught once your twitching body finally relaxes and slumps against his broad form.

Your skin feels cool, tingly all over as the blood rushes back into your head. Joel pulls you into his lap, bending your knees close to your body so that he can cradle you like a child. You must be crying again, because he’s using his knuckle to wipe moisture from underneath your eyes as you shudder against him, reality coming crashing down around you again all at once.

“You’re so good for me, baby, such a good girl… It’s gonna be just fine, you’ll see. It’ll get easier every time we do this, won’t seem so scary anymore…” Joel rubs your back and kisses the top of your head, and you let him believe that you are crying for fear of the brutality you’ll have to bear witness to tonight, and not because you’ve dared to feel pleasure at the hands of the person who will be doing the brutalizing. You feel so fucking ashamed in your post-orgasmic state, but you’re so dehydrated and exhausted that you don’t really have enough energy to scold yourself right now.

Joel holds you close as he rocks your curled-up form, and you feel too weak to resist the way your eyes begin to flutter closed, the release of tension making way for your poor night’s sleep to finally catch up with you.

“Get some rest, babydoll, gonna need it. I’ll wake you up when it’s time to go,” is the last thing you hear before you allow yourself to succumb to the temptation of sleep.

—

You were never supposed to find those polaroids.

Could Joel have taken the precaution of dumping his box of jerkoff material into a ditch somewhere before you could ever get the chance to find it on your own? Of course. But he didn’t know if he might need it again, if he might someday find himself with another itch that only his little collection of keepsakes could scratch. He had kept them hidden from you for a reason, tried to toss them in the trash and convince you that they weren’t worth getting curious about for a reason—because things were going perfectly well, better than it had gone with any of them. Joel had never planned on adding your photo to the pile.

He had known you were different, that you were the one, from that very first night you’d spent together. You’d been nothing but polite, grateful, and appreciative, even when he’d slid beside you in bed and stolen a taste of all that sweetness you were made of.

His whole life, Joel has searched for someone like you—someone to submit to him, to rely on him, to need him. That latter trait is the most important one, and the one that all the others seemed to be lacking. They liked feeling cared for and protected, liked bleeding his wallet dry while they spent a few weeks using him as some kind of rebellious experiment to piss off their parents one last time before they moved out of the house. But none of them ever made it very long before they decided that they didn’t really need him after all, that the fling was over, that the spark was gone, that they missed the shitty town he had picked them up from and wanted to be taken back. Ungrateful brats, they all fucking deserved it. And now they never get to go home, they get to rot in the fucking ground where their families will never find them, and he gets to keep their pretty pictures all to himself, asserting his control over them even in death. See how much they fucking need him now, when he is the one thing standing in between a cold case and a funeral.

Joel had known you wouldn’t end up like them, because you do need him. You have nobody, whether you’ll ever be able to admit it to yourself or not. You have no friends, no future, and no family, or at least not any left alive that actually care about you. You have no choice but to rely on him. Who knows what would’ve happened to you if he hadn’t stumbled upon you that night, looking so weak and lost and vulnerable and alone? There are much worse men than Joel out there, men who rape and kill just for the sick pleasure of it alone. At least Joel has some method behind his madness. It’s not like he’d invite a girl into his truck and immediately begin to fantasize about what her windpipe might feel like collapsing underneath his fingers.

Or, he didn’t used to. Not when he first started taking them.

He’d thought the desire had just disappeared on its own, once he’d found you, his perfect little doll. Joel had meant what he said when he told you that he was going to be done after the last one. But then… Then he’d had you pinned underneath him last night, starving your lungs of air, your eyes red and watery as you’d begged for your life, and he’d realized that he missed it. He craved it. Needed it. The itch was still there after all, demanding to be scratched. But no matter how aggravating and persistent it may get, Joel had decided a long time ago that he’ll never use you to make it go away. It’ll never be you. Even when he’d had his hands wrapped around your throat, he’d never planned on finishing the job. After all, how could he ever live without you when he’d spent so long trying to find you?

And this is the one thing he needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go. Joel had thought he’d gotten it through to you well enough last night, when he’d given you a taste of the consequences the others had suffered when they’d tried escaping. But you must be stronger than he’s been giving your credit for, judging by the way you still decided to fucking act up today with that dumbass little letter of yours. That’s okay, though. He can handle it. It just means you’ll take a little more effort to break down than he’d previously thought. If he can’t convince you that the only version of your life you were ever destined to live is the one with him in it, then he’ll just have to make you think that it’s your own idea to stay, to submit. He seems to have made some pretty good progress chipping away at your resolve today already. At this rate, he’ll have it whittled down to nothing in no time at all, and you’ll be right back to the pliant little babydoll he fell in love with all that time ago. The one who needs him.

You’ll come back around soon enough, when you finally realize that you don’t have any other choice.

So, maybe Joel is a little glad you found the polaroids. He wouldn’t have ended up here if you hadn’t, skulking around the pool table in the back of the Rattler Room, practically vibrating with anticipation and foaming at the mouth like a rabid dog. He flicks his gaze between the end of his pool cue and where you’re perched at the bar on a cracked leather stool, occasionally catching your eyes when you look back at him nervously. Joel just gives you a nod and a wink every time, and it’s enough to make you turn back around and take another sip of your drink to quell your anxiety.

You’re probably getting antsy because the two of you have been hanging around here for the better part of an hour, and Chrissy still hasn’t shown yet. But this is just one rule of the game—waiting. Patience. A predator doesn’t go in for the kill the second they lay eyes on their prey, do they? They have to study their movements, make sure they’ve got the little creature right where they want them, with their belly up or their neck exposed or their back turned, and then they pounce. You’ll learn the rules soon enough. With each of these little hunts that you accompany him on, you’ll learn. There may even come a time when you pick out the girls yourself, because you see it as an act of service, of love, satiating his hunger like this.

The next time you look back at Joel, you move like you’re about to get up from your seat and walk over to him, but he gives you a stern look that says “Stay put.” He jerks his chin upwards, toward where his pretty piece of meat is now emerging from behind the bar. Joel wonders if you believe the web of lies he’d spun about her today, if they were enough to convince you that Chrissy had taken advantage of you, that she’d manipulated you, that she deserves this. He hopes that you do, so that her death might weigh a little less on your conscience, so that you’ll put up a little less fight the next time his itch needs scratching.

God, that slender neck of hers is just begging for Joel’s blade. His upper lip twitches as he imagines the sight of her deep crimson blood dripping down her ivory-colored skin, her face becoming impossibly paler as her heart flutters out its last few beats before stopping altogether. Joel usually saves his knife for special occasions, when he needs the execution done quick and dirty before her screams wake up the entire fucking neighborhood, or in instances like his last girl, when she just needed to be put out of her fucking misery. But he might use it tonight, just because. Because he’s hungry. Because he’s so fucking hard he doesn’t think he can make himself suffer through the amount of time it takes to strangle a girl.

Joel watches from the shadows as Chrissy seems to recognize you right away, reaching for your hands across the bar as she says something to you that he can’t make out. Judging by the pitied expression she wears, the way she leans into you, he guesses it’s something like, “I’m so glad to see you. Are you okay? Are you hurt? Do you need help? Do you need me to save you from that big horrible monster who’s making your life so miserable?” Joel rolls his eyes at the imagined conversation. He sets his pool cue back on the rack and takes a seat at a small corner table, keeping his head low as he sips his beer, adjusting himself while he watches the way the tendons in Chrissy’s neck tighten and flex as she speaks. He can practically see her carotid artery pulsing underneath her skin, can already taste the iron on his tongue from the flecks of blood that will inevitably splatter onto his lips when he slices it open.

Calm the fuck down, Miller. It’ll be playtime soon enough.

The two of you talk for another minute or so, and Joel gathers that you must be reciting the lines he’d taken such care to teach you today. Chrissy’s brows furrow, her lips part, and she places one of her small hands over her chest as she listens, as if your rehearsed little sob story is just too much to bear, so tragic and devastating that it’s actually causing her physical pain to hear. She retrieves a paper napkin from underneath the bar, and hands it to you so that you can use it to dab underneath your eyes. Jesus, are you crying? You’re even better at this than he thought you’d be.

Your shoulders shudder as you finish drying your tears, and Chrissy glances behind her at the clock on the wall, pausing to think for a moment before she turns back to you. Whatever she’s saying, she looks sure of herself, determined, and you nod your head on just about every other word. “Okay?” is the only one he can read on Chrissy’s lips, the last one she says to you before she begins serving the other patrons sitting at the bar. You continue to sip at your drink with your head hung low until she disappears into the back again, and when you swivel around in your stool, Joel is already staring at you. He makes a beckoning motion with two of his fingers, and you hop down from your seat, scurrying over to him as if he were whistling at a dog to come.

“She, um…” You start, checking behind you once to make sure Chrissy is still out of sight. “She said she’ll take her first break early, in an hour or so, and then… Then she’ll drive me home.”

A satisfied grin tugs at the corner of Joel’s mouth. “Alright, ‘nother hour it is, then. That wasn’t so hard, baby, was it?”

You shake your head, avoiding eye contact while you swirl your finger around the condensation from Joel’s beer bottle that’s collected on the lacquered table. You open your mouth like you want to say something else, but close it again quickly, seeming to think better of it.

“What is it, sweetheart, hm?” Joel prompts, curling a rough hand around the back of your bare thigh.

“I just… Wish it didn’t have to be her. She’s really nice.”

So were the rest of them, Joel thinks, until they tossed him aside like a chewed piece of gum. “Nice” doesn’t mean shit to him. Lots of girls are nice. And pretty. But they all fucking sound the same when they’re begging him to stop.

Joel bites his tongue, despite his supply of faux sympathy running dangerously low, and musters up what little there is left of it in order to give you the last little push that you need. “Oh, babydoll… You shouldn’t feel bad about somebody who did you wrong sufferin’ the consequences of their actions. I know she seems nice, but she ain’t a good person, baby, I told you that already—”

“I know, but—”

“But nothin’. It’s already been done, sweetheart, you gotta stop thinkin’ about it so hard. Just get back up there, hm? Be over before you know it.”

Joel uses his grip on your thigh to spin you around, and sends you back up to the bar with a lewd swat to your ass. He stares at the way it bounces underneath the too-short skirt of your dress, and leans back in his chair as he takes another sip out of his sweating bottle.

The next “hour or so” passes at such an excruciatingly slow pace, he’s stopped himself nearly a dozen times from flagging down a waitress and requesting another beer. He’ll have to make do with just the one, if he wants to be sharp, present, so that he’ll be able to savor every moment of both the hunt and the slaughter. Joel had forgotten how exhilarating the entire process is, how arousing it is to lurk quietly in the shadows, without the little thing having any idea that he’s there, until it’s too late.

He bides most of the time by just sitting, staring, thinking. About if Chrissy will be more of a begger or a screamer, if she’ll waste any of her breath trying to plead with him and change his mind, or if she’ll just cry herself hoarse in hopes that somebody will hear her pathetic wailing and come to her rescue. Joel chuckles to himself when he remembers the one who kept insisting that “I have a boyfriend, you know. I bet he’s been looking for me, he’ll be here any minute now and he’ll fucking kill you.” Joel had doubled over laughing as he gestured around to the isolated patch of woods he’d dragged her out to, nearly pitch black and dead silent, save for the pale light of the waning moon and the sounds of her heaving sobs. “Oh, you got a boyfriend, do you? Tight lil’ virgin cunt was tellin’ me otherwise, but nice try, sweetheart,” Joel had taunted. Her photo was one of his favorites—a neck-down view of her kneeling form, featuring her chained together wrists and her filthy hands and knees, dirt-stained from how he’d taken her on the ground one last time.

Well, her first time. Whoops.

He’s got a white-knuckled grip around the neck of his empty bottle by the time he’s pulled out of his trance, the movement of two bodies up at the bar distracting him. Joel’s eyes refocus in time to see Chrissy draping her coat over your shoulders, ushering you out the back door after giving the room a once over. Not a very thorough one, considering she had basically looked right at him and didn’t seem to recognize him, but that’s more situational awareness than he can give most of the others credit for.

Too bad it won’t do her any good.

Joel feels like he’s got an electrical current pulsing through his bloodstream as he gets up from his seat, allowing the two of you a few paces’ head start before following in pursuit. He spots the flame of Chrissy’s red hair as she hurriedly helps you into the passenger side of her shitty Pinto, the door’s rusty hinges squealing loudly into the night. The back parking lot of the bar is poorly lit in contrast to the neon illumination from the rattlesnake out front, allowing Joel to slink behind Chrissy’s car and over to his own truck undetected. He situates himself behind the wheel, making sure to keep an eye on his rearview mirror as he rummages through his backpack and sets the tools he’ll need on the side of the bench seat that you usually occupy—his knife, a length of rope, and his camera.

Just like Joel had promised you earlier, he pulls out of the parking lot just behind the two of you, and keeps a close—but not suspiciously so—distance as he chugs down the poorly paved road, maintaining a speed-limit obeying pace and keeping his headlights off for good measure. He even refrains from having any music playing as he chases after you, the choice partly because he’s too dialed in to bother futzing with the tape player, and partly because he doesn’t want to risk making any noise that would raise even a modicum of suspicion, aiming to disappear into the shadows altogether for the next couple of miles.

Joel is nothing but a ghost, Death himself riding his pale horse into the silent dark, in pursuit of yet another sacrificial lamb to add to his flock. He’s lost count of just how many he has in his possession now, but he never gets tired of the way they bleat and cry and thrash as they struggle to escape his scythe. None of them ever seem to understand that they were each promised to him a long, long time ago, when Joel was already grown but they had only just been conceived. They’d been born onto a path that would eventually lead them directly into his waiting arms, where he would show them love and affection and pleasure and ecstasy and whether they were to reject his offerings or not, Joel would always take what was rightfully his, in the end.

Joel holds his breath as Chrissy’s car approaches the intersection of the rundown neighborhood, but releases it when she makes the sharp left turn that you must have directed her to take. Good girl. He turns his own wheel more slowly, creeping carefully down the road until he finds a large, overgrown shrub to tuck his truck behind, out of sight from the two little creatures now exiting the Pinto and crushing mounds of dried grass under their tentatively stepping hooves. Joel kills the truck’s engine, his teeth chattering in anticipation as he swipes his tools from the seat beside him and slides himself out from behind the wheel. He reaches behind him to slot his knife underneath his belt, then begins his prowl towards the house with the rope and camera clutched in either hand.

“No offense, but… You live here? Are you sure?” Joel hears Chrissy ask you, bending over to peer into a hole near the house’s foundation where some of the siding has rotted away.

That’s right, stay down, just like that.

Joel is only a few paces away now.

“W-well, it’s um… I h-haven’t really been here in a while, to be honest,” you respond, stuttering your way through the first lie you could think of in order to keep the charade going. You sound like you’re making it up as you say it, but that’s okay. Joel is closing in on his target now, it doesn’t matter if your trembling voice had set off the trap or not. Chrissy is already caught in it.

He’s so close he can smell the redhead’s rosy perfume that she had applied before her shift, can practically see the fine hairs raise on the back of her neck when she hears the snap of a dead tree limb coming from behind her. She lets out a little gasp, and whips her head around just in time to see Joel’s icy expression as he shoves a filthy boot into the back of her knee, making her yelp as she collapses onto all fours. Her hands scramble desperately for purchase in the thicket of dead foliage, but Joel is on her before she can regain her balance.

“Yeah, tha’s right… Down, bitch,” Joel spits, straddling her back and using his weight to push her body flat against the ground. “Hold onto this, babydoll, will ya?” He passes his camera off to you, not taking his eyes off Chrissy’s squirming form as you accept it quietly.

Joel grabs hold of Chrissy’s flailing wrists and wrenches them behind her back, squeezing her abdomen hard between his thighs as he does. “Hold fuckin’ still, ‘less you want me to break some bones while I’m at it,” he barks, but it does nothing to deter her futile efforts. She kicks and bucks and thrashes underneath him, making pathetic struggling noises as he winds the length of rope around her wrists, binding them together.

“Get the fuck off me! Help me, get him off!” She pleads with you as she yanks against the rope and writhes around in the dirt. All you do is look at her with wide, watery eyes, your chest heaving as you clutch his camera in both of your small, shaking hands. “Are you with him or something? What the fuck is this? Help me, please!” Chrissy shouts, her voice terrified and guttural.

“Yeah, somethin’ like that,” Joel growls into her ear, before pushing himself up off the ground and using his grip around the rope to pull her up with him. He wraps one arm tightly around Chrissy’s middle, and clamps the hand of the other one over her mouth. “She ain’t gonna help you, she knows better ‘n that... Did such a good job for me, sweetheart, such a good fuckin’ girl… Open the door for me so I can get her inside, now.” Joel watches the muscles in your throat constrict as you swallow hard, your eyes shifting from Chrissy’s terror-stricken ones up to Joel’s as you process his command. He smirks to himself when you do obey, the ribbons in your hair fluttering behind you as you scuttle up the stairs and wrench the door open.

Chrissy is still shrieking incessantly into the meat of Joel’s hand as he shoves her up the creaking steps, and he supposes that he has the answer now to the pondering he was doing back at the bar—screamer it is. They piss him the fuck off the most, are probably most of the reason why his hearing isn’t as good as it used to be, and why he ends up using his knife more often than he’d like. Strangling is his preferred method—it’s more intimate, more hands on in nature, and makes less of a mess—but sometimes the cleanup is worth it if it means he can get them to shut the fuck up and quit shattering his eardrums with all their annoying fucking screeching that they know won’t do them any good. He’d made a good choice, sharpening his knife earlier while you were still asleep back at the motel this afternoon. Joel wonders when you’ll notice that you’re wearing a different pair of panties than the ones he’d made you come in, having tested the sharpness of his blade by slicing them off of you before cleaning up the mess you’d made with his tongue.

Joel wrestles Chrissy inside the house, kicking broken glass and sloughed off sheets of yellowed wallpaper out of his path as he walks her into the living room. He turns his head as he instructs you to shut the door, and Chrissy uses the opportunity to bite into Joel’s palm and slam the back of her skull into his temple, hard enough to break the skin.

“Ah!—Fuckin’ bitch,” Joel hisses, forcibly shoving her onto the decaying hardwood floor. Chrissy tries to get up, but he presses the tread of his boot into her chest, keeping her down. He touches a finger to the side of his head, bringing it in front of his eyes to examine the droplet of blood that came with it, along with the indents in the flesh of his hand that are beginning to sprout little crimson beads. “Just fuckin’ askin’ for it, ain’t you?”

Joel looks over at you again, to where you’re standing with your back against the door and wearing the same deer-in-the-headlights expression as when he’d handed the camera to you. You have it clutched against your heaving chest, your eyes impossibly wide as you stare at the scene unfolding before you. He can practically see the gears turning in your brain as it cycles through the options of fight, flight, fight, flight, seeming to have landed on freeze instead. Joel observes you for a couple of seconds, waiting to see if one of your shaking hands will eventually snake its way back to the doorknob, but it doesn’t. Since you know what’s good for you, and all.

“C’mere, babydoll, where I can see you,” Joel orders, jerking his head into the room. Your eyes flutter out a few rapid blinks as you seem to shake yourself free of your petrified state, but your feet remain planted firmly underneath you. You’re standing so rigidly, with your knees locked in place, Joel is surprised you haven’t passed out yet.

“Can’t I just… wait in the truck or something? I’ll stay right there, I promise—”

“You know damn well I can’t take you up on any of your lil’ promises anymore, sweetheart. Besides, seemed awfully interested in how I do things last night, why the sudden change of heart, hm?”

You shift your weight, trying to come up with some excuse while you watch Chrissy try and fail to wriggle herself out from underneath the weight of Joel’s boot compressing her ribcage. “Just don’t do very well around b-blood, is all,” you squeak out pitifully.

Joel rolls his eyes, frustrated at the precious seconds you’re wasting by suddenly complaining about being a little squeamish.

“Well frankly, baby, I don’t really fuckin’ care. You’re gonna have to learn to get the fuck used to it, I ain’t doin’ this with you every time. Get in here. You can face the goddamn wall, but you’re stayin’ put until this is over, are we clear?”

“Y-yes, Joel, thank you,” you concede shakily. Joel’s eyes follow you as you flit across the room, nearly tripping over chunks of fallen drywall before tucking yourself into a little alcove behind the fireplace and hugging your knees to your chest.

“Alright… Where was I?” Joel ponders aloud, removing his foot from Chrissy’s chest and crouching down to her level. He grabs a fistful of her shirt collar and yanks her back up to a sitting position, looking down at his bleeding hand and sighing before harshly slapping Chrissy across the face with it. Her head whips to the side from the impact, and he grips onto her bloodied face with his injured hand to turn it back towards him again. “Y’know, I don’t take too fuckin’ kindly to feisty things like you who don’t know their goddamn place. Ain't so gentle with bratty lil’ cunts who think it’s a good idea to fight back, leave their marks on me. Am I, babydoll?” He says the latter part a little louder than the rest, brushing the forefinger of his unoccupied hand across the scar on the bridge of his nose as he speaks. You don’t respond, but he can tell that you hear him, that you know what—who—he’s referring to. “Yeah, she knows… One of her lil’ friends gave me this pretty thing, can you believe that? Suppose she gave me that pretty thing, too.” Joel chuckles to himself at his own double entendre, gesturing to where you’re cowering in the corner. “Poor thing had a friend go missin’ a while back, never knew what’d happened to her. Trail was cold, but she decided to follow it anyway. And Lord, am I glad she did, ‘cause it led her straight to me…”

Joel turns Chrissy’s head this way and that in his grip, enjoying the way she squeezes her eyes tight and flinches as she braces for another impact. She whines and whimpers as his fingernails dig into her freckled cheeks, now smeared with his orange-red fingerprints. “W-why me, then? Why not h-her, how come she gets to live? J-just take her, let me go, I won’t tell anyone,” Chrissy sobs through her teeth, hardly able to move her jaw in Joel’s firm hold. He reaches behind himself and slides his blade out from under his belt, raising it up in front of her face. Her eyes go wide as she lets out a horrified noise, thrashing against him and crying while he examines the way the sharp edge glints in the moonlight coming in from the broken windows.

“Oh, sweetheart…” Joel muses, turning over the blade in his hand a few times before looking up at Chrissy’s terrified face, his expression shifting from something wistful to something sinister, cold. “It ain’t ever gonna be her.”

Joel cranks her jaw upwards and slides his knife across her throat before she can even expel an entire scream from her lungs, the piercing tone of her voice becoming wet and garbled in just a few seconds as she chokes on her own blood. It sprays through the slit in her skin, some of it splattering across Joel’s face and landing on his lips, before coming out as a steadier stream that spills down her pale neck and dribbles from the corners of her mouth. Joel watches on as she convulses and gags, her eyes rolling back into her skull before becoming dead weight in Joel’s grip, and she collapses onto her side when he finally lets go of her jaw, still agape with a silent wail. Her muscles spasm as she bleeds out, the ruby-colored liquid pooling underneath her head and saturating the ends of her auburn hair. Joel licks his lips clean as her wound pulses in time with the beating of her heart, the rhythm becoming slower and slower before fizzling out altogether. It only takes a minute or so for her body to still completely, her gurgling breaths eventually morphing into the death rattle that he’s come to recognize so well. Joel swipes his bloodied blade across his tongue before sheathing it under his belt again, glancing over to where you’re now rocking back and forth, your spine hitting against the fireplace’s stone structure with dull little thumps.

He stalks over to you, ignoring the startled yelp you make as he grips onto your upper arm and drags you to where Chrissy’s cooling corpse is lying in the center of the room. Just like he had done to her earlier, he pushes you onto your stomach and straddles your hips. Only this time, he rucks up the skirt of your dress and yanks your panties to the side, swiftly freeing his painfully hard cock from the confines of his jeans and slotting into you with nothing more than a mouthful of his own saliva to help him ease inside. “Oh, f-fuck, Jesus fuckin’ Christ,” he moans, gripping one hand onto your hip and using the other—the one with a still-bleeding bite mark—to press the side of your head into the filthy hardwood, so that you’re facing Chrissy’s glazed-over expression while he takes and takes and takes. He doesn’t have it in him to be gentle with you, blinded by adrenaline and arousal as he uses you to get himself off.

“God, you’re so fuckin’ tight when you’re scared,” Joel snarls, snapping his hips into your backside with such force that the clap of skin-on-skin echoes loudly throughout the empty house, nearly drowning out the sounds of your cries. You’ve got your hands splayed out on either side of your head, having dropped Joel’s camera when he’d forced you into a prone position. You make a disgusted gagging noise when the expanding pool of Chrissy’s blood reaches your fingertips, but you can’t pull away with Joel’s body weight holding you in place. You shut your eyes tightly as you sputter and sob, but Joel won’t allow that. He pulls you up onto your knees, pressing you against him and prying your eyes open as he holds your head up by a fistful of your hair. “No, no hidin’ from this, babydoll. You fuckin’ look at her… I do this for you, baby, you see? So that it won’t be you. I just get so fuckin’ hungry, I can’t help myself. I can’t fuckin’ stop. But as long as I live, I swear it’ll never be you. That’s why it’s them instead. You understand, sweetheart? I love you, babydoll, I love you so fuckin’ much.” Joel mumbles the last bit into the supple skin of your neck, sloppily kissing and biting into your flesh, until he isn’t sure to whom the iron taste that fills his mouth belongs anymore.

He gropes and grabs all over your pliant body, grunting curses into your wet skin while he uses your tight, warm hole like a toy. He’s practically been edging himself for the past several hours, starting from when he’d rubbed circles around your swollen clit and used the reward of your own pleasure to manipulate you into doing his dirty work. Joel is surprised he didn’t cream his jeans before now, the release of finally pouncing on his prey and the taste of her blood on his tongue almost enough to make him come untouched. His hips begin to stutter only a handful of thrusts later, but instead of allowing himself to spill inside you like he had last night, he slides himself free of your walls and maneuvers you onto your back, reaching for his camera.

“Smile pretty for me, babydoll,” Joel says, holding the viewfinder up to his eye while he jerks himself off over your used body, his knees planted on either side of your ribcage. The dazed expression you wear looks enough like a smile to satisfy him, and he snaps a photo as he paints your face with his come. Thick white ropes splatter against your skin, already smeared with the blood from his hand and the filth from the neglected floorboards, and you look like the most gorgeous fucking thing he’s ever seen—his perfect doll, his fallen angel, his most precious and favorite lamb, the love of his fucking life. “Startin’ a new collection today, darlin’, since I got rid of the other one… This’ll be the perfect one to start it out.” Joel removes the blank polaroid from the slot, and sets it back down along with the camera to give the image time to develop. He sits back on his haunches as he catches his breath, running his bloodied hands through his damp hair and zipping his spent cock back inside his jeans. Joel stares down at you while you blink slowly, looking ruined with your tangled hair spread out on the floor and your hands resting up by your ears in surrender. Your breathing is slow, shallow, and he trusts that he can leave you there to come back into yourself while he takes care of Chrissy’s body.

Joel pushes himself back up to his feet with a groan, his knees cracking and aching in protest, and he walks around the first level of the house, peeking into different rooms until he finds one that used to function as a bedroom. There isn’t much left inside, but the wrought iron bed frame still has a moldy sheet draped haphazardly over the mattress. He yanks it free and bunches it up in his arms, carrying it back into the living room and spreading it out on the ground beside the corpse. Joel rips the top hem of the bedsheet from its seams, and wraps it around his injured hand before tying it off with his teeth. He rolls Chrissy’s stiffening figure onto the now-frayed edge of the fabric, tucking it under one of her arms to hold it in place before tumbling her down the remaining length of the linen. He performs the task monotonously and with little strain, as if he’s done so a dozen times, because he has. It doesn’t take very much effort to lift her onto his shoulder; she was already a wisp of a thing to begin with, weighing even less now that nearly her entire blood volume is soaking into the wood beneath where she had been laying.

Joel navigates to the back door of the house, kicking it open with his boot and letting it slam behind him. He walks several yards into the overgrowth behind the house, dodging low-hanging branches and stepping over fallen logs until he reaches a small clearing. He deposits Chrissy’s body onto an area of dried, yellowing grass, before returning to the backyard where he had noticed a dilapidated shed, nearly completely fallen over from several years’ worth of dry rot. Joel grunts as he pries the doors open, and yanks on a rusted metal chain hanging from the ceiling. A single light bulb illuminates the contents of the shed—a decades-old lawn mower, a few bags of grass seed, and some basic gardening tools, including exactly the one he was looking for. He brushes several thick spiderwebs out of the way before grabbing hold of the shovel, and lets it drag behind him as he treks back to Chrissy’s soon-to-be makeshift burial site. Joel digs a shallow grave, not wanting to take the time to complete the entire six feet with you still on your own inside the house, and uses his boot to send her cloth-wrapped body tumbling into the hole, where it lands with a dull thud. He stares down at her bloodied chrysalis, exhaling a shuddering breath as he revels in the final stage of his ritual.

Over the course of his life, Joel has done a lot of thinking about what exactly it is about the slaughter that he finds so titillating. On a particularly sleepless night several years ago, he’d finally landed on the transformation being what arouses him so. Taking a life is not unlike the procedure of sex, he’d realized—there is a start and an end, a before and an after, and an intangible, in between state, where the soul of the other person is slightly separated from their body, placed into the palms of his hands to do with as he pleases. There’s a reason the French came up with that clever little phrase—la petite mort—because sex and death are inexplicably intertwined, at least for Joel. He experiences such a rush, such a release, from taking part in the gruesome metamorphosis in which a girl is transformed into a body, that he can’t help but chase that high again and again and again, even though he always seems to forget that as much as there is the before and the during, there is also the after.

That troublesome, uncomfortable after.

Joel shakes himself out of his stupor, tossing the shovel in after the body and doing a half-assed job of kicking the dirt he’d excavated back inside the pit. He scatters some fistfuls of grass and a few dead branches on top of the pile for extra camouflage, and then trudges his way back through the woods.

When Joel returns to the house, you’re in the exact same position he’d left you in, just as he’d thought you’d be. He approaches you slowly, crouching beside you and brushing some of your knotted hair away from your soiled face. Your eyes are frozen, as if still looking into Chrissy’s own glassy ones, and you don’t even so much as twitch when Joel pulls a rag from his back pocket and uses it to wipe his arousal and as much of the blood as he can manage off of your skin.

“You okay, sweetheart? You with me?” Joel asks you, his voice barely above a whisper, as if trying not to spook a small animal. You look almost… shell shocked. Traumatized. Out of your own body. “Talk to me, babydoll, please.” He rakes his fingers through your hair for another silent minute or so, during which time you continue to lie perfectly still. Unblinking. Unflinching. A husk of a girl.

Joel sighs, reaching across your body to grab his camera and the now-developed polaroid. He shoves the latter into his jacket pocket, deciding that he’ll examine the image later, once he reconciles with the unfamiliar feeling in the pit of his stomach—something like remorse, he thinks.

He slides his hands underneath your body, cradling you in his arms and carrying you bridal style across the living room, over the threshold, down the steps, and along the stretch of fractured asphalt until he reaches the truck. Joel sets you down on your feet so that he can open the passenger-side door, but your knees buckle underneath you almost immediately, requiring him to support your weight while he fumbles with the handle. He lifts you up onto your seat once he gets it open and buckles you in, and you don’t look anywhere except directly in front of you the entire time. Joel smooths out the skirt of your dress, now stained with dirt and blood, and shoves his camera into the backpack sitting at your feet before shutting you in. He crosses in front of the hood and retakes his place behind the wheel, taking a long look at where you sit nearly comatose beside him. You’re here, but you’re not. He doesn’t know where you are, or how to pull you back from it, back to him.

Joel fidgets with his keys, jingling them in his hand in an effort to fill the cabin with something other than a silence so loud it’s making his ears ring. “It’ll feel better in the mornin’. You’ll get used to it, after a few more of ‘em, I promise.” He places his linen-wrapped hand on the side of your head, pulling you closer to him so that he can plant a whiskery kiss in your hair. Joel lets his eyes flutter closed as he breathes in your scent, inhaling a stuttering breath. If remorse is truly what he feels, then that would warrant an apology, he supposes. But it would also require taking action to rectify the wrongdoing that warranted the apology in the first place, to make sure that it never happens again. And that, he cannot promise.

He pulls away from you, licking his thumb once to wipe a dried smear of blood from your temple. “You wanna get that old map outta the glovebox, babydoll? Decide where we’re headed to next?” Joel prompts.

Silence.

“I’ll take you anywhere you want, darlin’. Long as they got hot coffee and color TV,” he chuckles.

Stillness.

“Well… Alright, then. Next state over it is.” Joel sniffles, feeling around in the dark for the truck’s ignition cylinder, the engine finally sputtering to life after a few misses of the key. Your head falls against the window as the tires begin to rumble over the uneven pavement, and you don’t bother to reposition yourself, even though the sensation of your skull rattling against the glass must be uncomfortable.

Joel doesn’t steer the truck in any particular direction, just away. Away from here, toward the life together in California that he’d promised you, hoping that he can collect all your broken pieces and put you back together along the way.

As it turns out, there are two things that Joel needs you to understand—that he’s never letting you go, and that he will never be able to stop himself. As instinctually as Joel needs to blink, breathe, sleep, he needs to kill. He needs to spill blood and feel it underneath his fingernails and taste it on his tongue, needs to bite into the soft pink skin beneath white wool and feel the precise moment when a creature becomes nothing more than flesh and fur.

And he needs you. Joel cannot live without either one, he’s decided, and so he must be in possession of both.

He regrets the way in which he’s broken you tonight, but not the way that you will be reassembled in his image.

Transformed.

tag list: @beefrobeefcal @iamasaddie @rebel-held @dilfgestivo @joeldjarin @kamcrazy123 @hellowoolf @rexamongthestars @stevie75 @luxurychristmaspudding @noisynightmarepoetry @mewantpeepaw @pedritoferg @evolnoomym @annoyingmarvelreader @joelsdagger @natalieispunk @mermaidgirl30 @untamedheart81 @galway-girlatwork @pinkiec6-rubi @wand-erer5 @arminsbf @shivispunk @gigistorm @theoreticalfreak @vinceelser @always-andromeda @path0logicalpeoplepleaser @old-logan-and-old-joels-slut @atjlovverr @zliteraturehoe @k1l4ni @hjzghi-blog @xkyxkyxxlylcylulucuflfluclu @kay1805 @alex-does-art-things (if your name is crossed out, it won’t let me tag you!!)

#my writing #joel miller #joel miller x reader #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller smut #dark!joel miller #dark!joel x reader

192 notes · View notes

bunnywoodsworld · 1 month ago

Text

So, AU i’ve been cooking. Ghost Brother Stan.

Stanford’s twin dies in infancy, and the ghost that’s left behind can only be seen by Stanford. Growing up, it’s sweet, but as they grow it turns into a toxic codependent relationship that’s destructive for both of them. Stanford cant handle the burden of being Stanley’s only source of interaction, and Stanley becomes very clingy, very fast.

Continued Concept under the cut

Eventually, Stanley’s ever-growing ghost abilities end in Stanford’s science fair project malfunctioning. All this culminates in Stanford deciding to place a sigil on the house, and locking Stanley out for good.

Now Stanley’s on his own. What does he do?

At first he wanders pretty aimlessly, stalking people and observing how other people love their lives.

But 3 years into his pseudo-banishment, he meets him. Jimmy Snakes.

Neither of them know why Jimmy can see him, but they quickly form a strong bond and become partners in crime. Jimmy is the distraction, while Stan uses his powers to steal anything and everything.

Jimmy helps Stan a lot with becoming his own person and not just Ford’s abandoned shadow. But all good things come to an end.

A fight. A gunshot. Stan tries to shield Jimmy from the bullet, but it goes through him. And now, he’s lost another person. He’s alone again.

A year passes, and nothing happens. Stan has developed his powers to the point of being able to live, but he’s so, so lonely.

But then, a tug. Ford, up in Gravity Falls, has placed a summoning circle, and is calling for him. And what is Stanley to do, but obey the circles call?

#stanley pines #gravity falls #stan pines #mullet stan #ghosti doodles #gravity falls aus #grunkle stan #ford pines #ghostbrother!stan #jimmy snakes #jimstan #stangst

242 notes · View notes

astraljedi · 28 days ago

Text

The First Night (Miss Americana - Joaquin Torres)

President's Daughter AU Series | Joaquin Torres x Female Reader

Warnings: political setting, sexism/microaggressions, emotional vulnerability, reference to past injury

Word Count: 2.6k

Song: Vienna by Billy Joel

A/N: I grew up watching First Daughter and Chasing Liberty all the time! And this idea has been storming my thoughts the past few days and I just had to sit down, plot it and write it. I hope you guys enjoy my version of this trope and let me know your thoughts!

Chapter 1

Chief of Shade Podcast: "DM from Anon says: What’s the deal with the First Daughter? She’s everywhere—charity events, White House galas, but we never see her out on dates. Any rumors if she’s seeing someone? From what I hear, the President’s daughter just finished her PhD, and Miss Americana doesn’t exactly have time for dating with that hectic schedule. And honestly, who wants to date with the Secret Service as chaperones? No thank you."

The champagne in my palm is growing offensively low as I try to smile and half-listen to Senator Williams ramble about how things were done in the old days. Of course I get cornered by the most conservative man in this entire gala while I’m trying to keep my opinions to myself for the rest of the night. I pretend to care, to actually look like I’m taking all his words into consideration and quietly reconsidering my entire political identity.

My father—well, the President—eyed me earlier with his usual tense stare when I accidentally let my tongue loose in a debate with another sixty-something white politician about basic human rights. Someone who wasn’t exactly on my dad’s good side to begin with. I promised him—and the chief of staff—that I’d keep my mouth shut for the evening if I was allowed to sneak out of the event early.

Even though my father moved into the White House two years ago, I’ve learned from his long political career to bite my tongue and focus my energy where it actually matters: outside, with the community.

“Your father tells me you’re a doctor,” Senator Williams says, and I try not to laugh. I shake my head, placing my empty champagne flute on a silver platter a passing waiter offers.

“Not really. I’m not a medical doctor,” I say, forcing a polite smile. “I have a doctorate in environmental engineering. My research focused on developing technology to reduce emissions and improve the air quality.”

“Oh.” He steps back slightly. Now he’s the one who wants out of the conversation. “You’re one of those.” His entire face shifts, scanning me with that familiar brand of disapproval. Even his tone changes, from civil to presumptuous.

I shift on my heels. My feet are starting to ache from all the standing, and I scan the room for an excuse—anyone—to rescue me from this sleep inducing conversation.

That’s when I feel a shoulder brush against my back. I turn around while the man mumbles an apology, and I latch onto it—onto him—without thinking. My hand finds his solid, muscled bicep, and I pull him into my vicinity, not bothering if he was having another conversation with someone else.

I focus on the confused dark brown eyes looking down at me, my eyes scanning him entirely. He’s my age, maybe a few years older, but the odds are in my favor tonight.

Clean-shaven jaw, dark hair styled back—though a few curls have stubbornly broken free—and a black tailored suit that fits him too well. This gorgeous man is my escape plan.

“I’m sorry, Senator, but I did promise him a dance,” I say, stepping closer to the stranger. A hint of his cologne hits me, warm and woodsy, and I close my eyes for just a second, letting it sink in.

“Is that right? Well, I mustn’t take more of your time. Enjoy the dance, kids.” Senator Williams quickly forgets me as I lead my unexpected savior to the dance floor—whether he can dance or not.

His hand is large and warm in mine, but he lets me lead us into the center of the room, surrounded by other couples chatting and swaying.

The quartet plays an elegant version of They Way You Look Tonight as he pulls me in, one arm resting on my waist, the other holding my hand in an almost perfect ballroom frame. He leads and I follow, surprised—and a little impressed. I fix the position of our hands slightly, perfecting our posture as we fall into the rhythm with the music.

“I’m sorry,” I begin, glancing up at him. “For making you my escape plan. I couldn’t handle another conservative man telling me to find a husband and shut my mouth.”

I exaggerate—kind of. No one says it outright, but the intentions are there.

My handsome partner laughs, a real jubilant laugh. A few couples glance over, eyes wandering over to us as I can’t help but laugh too, the sound escaping me before a second thought.

“It’s an honor to be your victim,” he says, flashing a smile that nearly makes me miss a step and step on his polished shoes. “Now I can proudly tell my mom that those dance classes finally paid off.”

“A little rusty,” I tease, “but luckily I’m a pro. Comes with the territory from attending more than a handful of these galas.”

The music shifts, something slower, softer, more intimate—but neither of us stops. We draw closer and the crowd around us thins, but we’re still in the center of the floor, like the moment belongs to just us.

“This has been my favorite song for years.” I confess, as the nostalgic, bittersweet notes of Vienna by Billy Joel fill the room. “I always make sure to dance at least once at these galas, for the photos, you know. Don’t tell anyone, but I always ask the quartet for the setlist so I can at least get one dance to my favorite before the night ends.”

His hand settles against my lower back—not too high, not too low—his warm fingers grazing the skin exposed by my backless black dress. We move easily together, like we’ve done this before.

“It’s a beautiful song,” he says, leaning closer. “And the perfect song to dance with a beautiful woman.” He whispers into my ear, sending shivers down my spine.

We sway through a couple more songs as he talks to me more about his mom. How she signed him up for dance class, saying that it would help him get all the girls in high school. Additionally, he admits that he was the class clown in school, always getting in trouble for interrupting the class, but that always worked hard for his grades.”

“I’m thankful for the sacrifices my mom made,” he says. “And I regret how I made it harder for her everytime the teacher called her while she was at work to complain about me distracting my classmates. Even though she would scold me, she didn't tell me to stop, just help me direct my energy somewhere else and that was football. ”

I nod, my eyes softening noticing his face light up. He was grateful.

“Now she’s having her payback,” he adds with a grin. “Trying to set me up with all her friends’ daughters every time I come over.”

I laugh again, cheeks aching in the best way. I don’t even remember the last time I smiled this much at one of these events. Or laughed genuinely.

“I never had a rebellious phase,” I whisper, resting my head lightly on his shoulder. “Never snuck out to meet friends or secret boyfriends. I was valedictorian, President of the debate club and the Environmental Science Club in high school. I’ve always tried to live up to my family’s image and I tried not to be a burden, so I did everything right. I was the perfect daughter and left no mistakes for the media to broadcast and spin it into something it wasn’t.”

“Are you a rebel now?” he asks softly, and I can hear the smile in his voice as he guides us around the floor.

“Sometimes I forget I’m not in the debate club anymore and don’t bite my tongue when someone’s spitting ignorance about climate change, women’s rights and gun control...” I pause, breathing out the frustration that’s been bubbling all night.

“I need to remind myself that if I want to make real change… it starts out there, not within these architectured walls.” I nod toward the window, where D.C. glows alive in its chaos while the rich sit, drink and gossip behind these highly protected walls.

“It starts with the people, the community.” Joaquin adds, validating me.

I remove my head from his shoulder and I look up, the chandeliers glistening sequin stars across his rich chocolate eyes, lighter than they looked earlier.

The quartet announces their break, the crowd disperses–but we don’t. We just keep looking at each other like we’re in our own world.

My mind sparks and I realize I don’t even know his name. We spent a couple of songs talking so openly that asking him for his name didn’t even cross my mind, or his apparently.

But as I open my mouth to ask his name, Sarah—the White House press secretary—abruptly taps on my shoulder, pulling me out of our trance.

“Sorry, it’s time for the press photos before the event ends.”

I sigh, stepping back from the warmth of his body. “Duty calls.” I pout, already missing the way his body melted with mine.

Our hands linger, fingers squeezing once before I force myself to let go. I follow Sarah off the dancefloor, and I don’t get a chance to look back.

Carmen, my favorite agent, falls into step beside me as we head down the hall toward the photo corner, already decorated for the official family portrait for the press to display on the front cover tomorrow morning on every newspaper and newsblog.

“This is the first time I’ve seen you have more than one dance,” she teases, opening the door for me.

But before I can get swept away into the sea of flashes, I grab her wrist. “Can you find out his name?”

She smirks. “Sweetie, I can find out way more than just his name.”

Before I can say thank you, my mother appears and pulls me into a sea of cameras, my media smile planted on my face like a professional.

The next morning, I sip my coffee, trying to shake the exhaustion from my body. I never dance more than one song—and now my aching legs and back are paying for it.

“Good morning,” Carmen sings, energetic for someone who probably went to sleep at four in the morning. She closes the door behind her and strides happily into my spacious loft. “I come bearing gifts, my lady.”

Carmen slaps a navy-colored folder onto my white counter and stands proudly, a wide smile on her face. She wears her usual work attire: a fitted black blazer and pants set, a neat white shirt underneath, and the tiniest United States flag pinned to her blazer, right over her heart.

“You found him?” I don’t know why I sound so surprised—it’s the Secret Service. Of course they’d find him. The odds were even higher since he had to be cleared to get into the party last night.

“For someone so smart, you sometimes forget the power the government has,” Carmen says, shaking her head.

Trying to act calm, I pour her some coffee. What if I don’t like what’s in that file?

“Hey, this is the first time I’ve used my privilege for something like this,” I defend, my fingertips lingering over the file.

“It’s not going to attack you,” Carmen teases, hiding a smile behind her cup.

I shoot her a glare and finally open the file.

I look at the picture clipped to the side. Joaquin Torres.

“Spoilers—he’s actually a decent guy. Sam Wilson vouched for him,” Carmen adds.

“You talked to Sam about him?” I place my almost-empty cup on the counter, careful not to spill it on the file.

“Joaquin was invited by the White House with Sam. Joaquin is The Falcon, sweetheart.”

It all clicks.

I remember the news, reporting on The Falcon’s condition after a horrible incident during a mission overseas. It was almost a year ago—I was finishing my thesis. The news was the only thing that didn’t distract me in the middle of the night, not like The Nanny that never failed to brainwash me away from my laptop screen.

I flip to the next page: A photo of him in his suit, in the clear blue sky.

“I remember. Didn’t he have a horrible accident?” I read through his accomplishments, security access and his basic information.

“He did, but Sam says he’s better. Physical therapy helped. He’s a strong guy, if anyone was going to make it out of that, it was him.” Carmen scrolls on her phone, coffee in hand.

“Do you know what happened?” I ask.

“I do, but that’s not my story to tell. I’ve got to get back to work, my break is almost up.” She moves around the kitchen and washes her cup. “His number’s on the Post-it note. You should call him.”

“What? That’s crazy—and a complete violation of his privacy! What if he doesn’t want me to call him?” I ramble, eyes wide.

Carmen grabs my shoulders and meets my gaze.

“Trust me, he’s probably asking about you to Sam,” she chuckles. “And I think,for the first time,you should do something you want. Not for your mother or your father. For you. This feels like something that could be good and fun. Maybe even for him too.”

“You know you just said not to do something for the President of the United States—your boss—while on the clock.” I try to change the subject. I shut the file and look down at my feet.

“He’s my boss, but you’re my responsibility. But as your friend, I’m telling you to live. You’ve done so much in your life—aren’t you tired of not having someone to celebrate your wins with?”

“I’ll think about it.” I bite back a smile, and Carmen claps her hands together, content.

Once she leaves, I grab the file and drag my feet across the wooden floor toward my bedroom. I crash onto my bouncy mattress and open the file again in front of me.

None of this is normal.

155 notes · View notes

sakuralovespossums · 9 months ago

Text

Ever since I watched Randomalistic’s Turbo/King Candy video, I’ve been sinking back into my Wreck it Ralph hyperfixation which then made me come up with a crack au of dad Turbo

Like imagine if Turbo never went…..well…..turbo and his game remained plugged in the arcade with Felix over the years. He’s still an egotistic asshole but isn’t as murderous like in the film and sees himself as a role model for the newer racing game characters

But then Sugar Rush is plugged in and he now has a little hell spawn rival who is Princess Vanellope. She’s just as cocky as he is and they’re always spitting insults at each other with the little racer calling him “grandpa” and “bug face”. To her, it’s all fun and games while Turbo is so done with her!

But then he notices her racing and realizes she actually has skills. Maybe not as good as his (no one can ever be better than him) but still impressive. So he gives her tips on how to improve her speed, perform tricks, drive dirty and rough, etc. and then eventually bringing her to practice on his own game’s race track. Everyone is so astonished by this. Turbo not only openly acknowledging another racer but also teaching them?!

Whether they realize it or not, they develop a mentor/student or pseudo-father/daughter dynamic that has everyone in the arcade giggling at how funny and kinda endearing it is

Every time Vanellope wins a race, Turbo brags about it to everyone, saying how “She learnt that from me!” And “Of course she won! I’m her teacher after all!!”

He is the ultimate soccer mom who brags nonstop about his winner child and is such a bad role model (encourages cheating and being a show-off) and always spoils her

#wreck it ralph #sugar rush #vanellope von schweetz #wir vanellope #turbo wreck it ralph #turbo wir #turbotastic #disney #turbo

476 notes · View notes

jellybeanusstuff · 3 months ago

Text

Firelight AU Claggor and Mylo + headcanons :D

Hey yall! I finished my concept drawings of Claggor in the firelight AU! although i’m a mylo enthusiast, im a huge Claggor fan too! So cheers to my fellow Claggor fans! This is for you :D

I compiled all my new headcanons thus far of Firelight Claggor and Mylo in this post. My other headcanons of Mylo are in previous posts and comments in case you wanted more and haven’t checked them out yet :)

I hope y’all enjoy reading because I’ve got a LOONG list. Also, from now on when i say firelight, i mean this is an au where Mylo and Claggor were to survive in the MU.

Firelight Mylo Headcanons

• Mylo puts his creative mind to use and is determined to prove the things he finds aren’t junk. He loves the idea of finding potential, something he wished others had seen in him growing up.

• Inspired by Ekko’s work, he collects scraps and turns them into gadgets or art. (I like to think his art is similar to Dean’s from the Iron Giant) However, his tinkering doesn’t always go smoothly and he fails a lot. This deepens his guilt over how he treated Powder.

• Ekko’s support helps him focus and sharpen his skills. Eventually, he converts a nose hair trimmer he found at his last “job” from S1 into a taser, and crafts a replica with Ekko’s modifications. The tasers stun on contact (suitable and convenient for Mylo, bc he’s aware he’s not the best fighter or shot), and if needed, they can fire plasma beams strong enough to cut through metal. While deadly, Mylo refuses to use them on people unless absolutely necessary (he’s never been one for gore.. it’s too messy for him) Instead, he reserves the plasma beams for nonliving things. The plasma beams are also highly energy demanding and need a lot of time to recharge. Another reason why Mylo doesn’t use it often.

• Physically, he’s built solid muscle, especially in his core and legs, for high-speed hoverboarding. The faster you go, the more control you need.

• He ties his hair up on missions since loose hair and sharp turns don’t mix. But he’s tender-headed (his hair is stubborn, and only wants to point in one direction), so the second he’s home and takes it down, he feels instant relief.

Firelight Claggor Headcanons

• Claggor is a powerhouse, both in mind and muscle. He strategizes with Ekko, fights off Silco’s men, specializes in search and rescue, and maintains the Firelights’ hoverboards.

- Claggor hates when Mylo goes on recon missions by himself or in general. He won’t say it outright, but you can tell by the way he stress eats in private and watches Mylo like a hawk when he returns. He makes sure he is the last to see Mylo set off for work, and the first to meet and check if he’s okay. Losing another family member isn’t an option.

• He’s also developed a passion for smithing, helping build weapons, armor, and parts for Ekko’s inventions.

• Strength-wise, he carries the heaviest gear on missions, fights like a tank, and could crush a skull with his bare hands. Over the years, he’s packed on over 50 pounds of muscle, surpassing even Vander in terms of strength and size. Although, you can tell by his belly he wouldn’t turn down a cupcake.

• The downside is that his size has slowed him down. He can still run and climb, but he wasn’t as agile or quick as he used to be. He can hoverboard but his balance isn’t the best either. So, he prefers fighting on solid ground whenever possible and will rely on Mylo for quick getaways.

Note: I’ve seen a looot of different opinions and takes on Claggor’s body in the Firelight AU and AU, and I wanted my design to be as realistic as possible. As a competitive powerlifter myself, I’ve seen firsthand how exercise can impact people of all body types in powerlifting, bodybuilding, and strongman communities. I also love watching Arnold Strongman competitions and when I look at how Claggor moves and fights in Arcane S1, he reminds me a lot of strongmen and heavyweight powerlifters.

The biggest and strongest athletes aren’t just jacked but they tend to have a higher fat percentage, which helps with stability and sheer power. That’s why I chose to draw Claggor with the atlas stone, bigger muscles, wider frame, and a big belly to really capture that strength. If he had survived I truly believe he would have trained his strength to its fullest potential. Bro is a BEAST

Firelight Mylo & Claggor Headcanons

• Together, Mylo and Claggor are an unstoppable duo. Mylo stuns enemies with his tasers, while Claggor finishes them off. If Claggor is in danger, Mylo swoops in to pull him to safety.

• For fast getaways, Claggor modified Mylo’s hoverboard to fit both of them by adding extensions that can be turned on and off (Mylo steers, Claggor fights) Claggor even tinkered Mylo’s mask with a tracker to monitor his safety.

• They’re fantastic with kids. The kids at the firelight hideout love the two of them! Claggor gives piggyback rides and plays the “big bad villain,” while Mylo takes the kids on hoverboard lessons and playfully tackles them during tag or another chasing game. They love the rush.

• When they argue, they duel. No petty bickering just straight-up fights 💀 It’s usually over stupid stuff, similar to how they argued over the bat in S1. It got so intense once, they almost cut down the tree and Ekko had to step in. Now, they take it elsewhere. (if you have an idea where, lemme know!!!)

- When Mylo has the time after his recon mission, sometimes he flies to Jericho’s to pick up snacks for himself and Claggor, and treats for the kids. Claggor likes to ask Mylo for certain food items or to “just get the usual”

————————————————————————

Those are all my headcanons!! Lemme know what you think and if you have anymore to add :D!! I wanna hear all your thoughts!!

#arcane #arcane mylo #mylo arcane #arcane league of legends #league of legends #arcane fanart #arcane firelights #mylo and claggor #arcane claggor #arcane concept art #arcane lol #I LOVE MY SONS #CLAGGOR WOULD HAVE THE MOST LETHAL LAT SPREAD #arcane au #au arcane

252 notes · View notes

sturnmeovr · 3 months ago

Text

♡‧₊˚ Neighbor!Matt x Brat!Reader - Love Bites

The light from the tv flashes throughout Matt’s bedroom, the faint smell of his cologne wafts over you with each subtle movement of his. Matt lays sprawled out across the bed, his face pressed firmly against the inside of your thigh, your other leg propped lazily across his opposite shoulder, as he stares up at you. Redness forms at the base of your cheeks, his gaze being too intense for you to endure.

Being in such an intimate position with him like this wasn’t something out of the ordinary but it wasn’t in either of your guys' daily routine. Granted you had been hooking up with him for a while now, you still had those stomach-churning butterflies anytime he was in close proximity to you. An unwanted natural reaction that always left you a nervous mess when he was around.

You reach a hand out, tangling it through his loose, brown coils. Letting the air dissipate from your lungs as you rake your fingers through his messy locs, “missed you,” you hum, your voice small and sweet, something he adored about you. Angelic was how he described it when he talked about you in your absence.

Matt gently caresses his thumb along the outside side of thigh, lowering his head to press a light kiss to the inside of it. His lips were soft to the touch, like he had been moisturizing with his vanilla space camp lip balm every day since you had been gone. The feather-like sensation of his lips against such a sensitive spot sends goose bumps forming in rows down your arms. That same unwelcome natural reaction that makes your body shiver against its own will.

He fixes his gaze on you — eyes so blue, you could skydive in them if you really put your mind to it. A playful smirk pulling at his lips before he connects his mouth to your skin once more, this time grazing his teeth against you. Shocks of electricity wave throughout your body, burying themselves deep in your core as Matt sucks and nips at the delicate spot.

“Ma — Matt,” your breath catching in the back of your throat and your grasp around his chocolatey strands tightening just enough for him to feed off of your reaction. Sinking his teeth into your skin ever so gently, making you squirm in the process. Lightly gliding his tongue over the tender spot, kissing and sucking at it — replacing the pain with a yearning for more — as you arch your back, bucking into his touch subtly. You missed it more than anything, almost like a homesick feeling.

Matt pulls away, a barely audible popping noise softly bounces off the walls of his room as he does so. He studies the love bite he left you, rings of red and light purple quickly forming around the edges. Matt looks up at you, “I always miss you,” he coos, his words tantalizing if anything.

Moments like this were journal-worthy to you. The intimacy you and Matt shared was out of this world, it didn’t matter if it was sexual or not. It was comforting. He always gave you some type of newfound need for his affection, it was foreign to you. Nobody ever left you aching for more.

♡‧₊˚ Chey’s Note - just a sweet little blurb while I work on developing this au a bit more! I’ve been getting lots of requests for these two. Let me know what you guys think. Possibly a part 2?? & don’t be afraid to send me questions and suggestions! Or just talk me, I love talking to you guys! 🥹🫶🏻

Wc - 543??

Masterlist

Neighbor!Matt Masterlist

Neighbor!Matt Bot

Taglist (comment to be added)

179 notes · View notes

kathaynesart · 2 years ago

Text

Replica Anniversary DTIYS!

Well, it was one year ago today that I started Replica! It’s been a wonderful experience so far and I wanted to do something fun to show my appreciation to you all! So in celebration I want to do my very first DTIYS, but we’re going to do this one a little differently.

YOUR MISSION: to design a comic cover for the upcoming Replica Holiday Special that is all about the birth of Casey Jr:

The year is 2028, eight years before the start of Replica. The Central Park Colony is still going strong and the turtles now must protect an expecting Cassandra Jones from the very people they are sworn to defend.

As far as theme that is entirely up to you! I’ve always found comic covers to be fun because they don’t necessarily have to show what happens in the actual story. So if you want Casey Senior holding up Junior on Pride Rock, Lion King style? That’s great. You want to do an epic pose of the turtles battling Krang while trying to defend the Caseys? Perfect. You want to have Casey Junior bursting out of a Krang’s stomach like a Xenomorph??? Okay weird, but I’ll accept it so long as it’s not too gory! Also the cover doesn’t have to be Casey centric, I just want to see what you all come up with! (Note: please no NSFW art)

I have included character sheets and some visual development as reference for how the characters will look at this point in the story (though you do not need to strictly follow it. Feel free to give it your own artistic twist). I will also include a PNG of the logo in case you have a vision for how you want it to be incorporated. Note you don’t have to use the logo but if yours is picked as the winner I will be putting a logo in there somewhere!

PRIZES: 3rd Place: an OC of yours will get to be a bg character in Replica (note the character cannot be an AU version of one of the main cast for obvious reasons). 2nd Place: a black and white commission of one character of your choosing. 1st Place: your cover front and center in the Replica lineup (with credit of course) as well as a 1-2 character commission w/ color (please no nsfw requests for either commission).

DUE DATE: NOVEMBER 19 (gives you all 2 months)

IMPORTANT: please use #replica DTIYS hashtag for easy search Also please DM me with your finished cover on Tumblr (otherwise I might miss it!)

NOTE: while not mandatory you’ll probably want the piece to be around the typical comic cover vertical 2:3 ratio (10x15" for example).

DISCLAIMERS:

I’ve never done an event like this before so I’ll admit I’m a little nervous. Don’t know if this will even gain any traction but I just want people to have good time and get creative :)

This is all just for fun so please do not push yourself too hard!

Let me know if you have any other questions and have fun!

#replica DTIYS #kathaynesart #rottmnt replica #replica #rottmnt #save rottmnt #rise of the teenage mutant ninja turtles #unpause rise of the tmnt #bad future rottmnt #tmnt #future leo #future raph #future mikey #future don #future cassandra #rottmnt casey jr #casey jones

2K notes · View notes

stariekis · 4 months ago

Text

what are we?

pairing : non idol!sunghoon + fem!reader . genre : fluff, childhood best friends to lovers . cw : kissing . wc : 4.9k

check my other works ₊⊹⁀➴ masterlist

synopsis — falling in love with your childhood best friend doesn't always have to be something bad.

uri's note — taking a break from the texts just to post this little sunghoon au ! nah i love him i giggled while writing this.. hope you guys do to jeje

Sunghoon and you have been best friends since day one. Both your and his parents met in highschool and since then they became inseparable, just like him and you.

You share all your childhood memories with him; every trip, every birthday and every first day of school there is always Sunghoon by your side. And it happened, you didn't want to, but it did happen. As you grow up together with him you develop feelings for your childhood best friend.

He was pretty handsome since he was young, and everyone knew that he would be even more attractive once he became older. And that's exactly what happened. His delicate features, his tall and broad complexion, he was like a porcelain doll. And you couldn't help but fall for it, along with his sweet personality.

Now, both of you are in college. You remember feeling so sad when you discovered that he had to move out of town to study. Even more because the summer before he left you finally realized that, in fact, you like him. Maybe more than like. You loved him

Being apart from him was going to be a torture, you were so used to have him around by now. But you kind of wish that not having him so close to you all the time would help you get past your little massive crush.

But, to your dislike, that didn't happen.

Each facecall, each message he sends you talking about his day and how cool his new college is, every picture he published on his Instagram did not help you at all. You couldn't stop falling in love with him every time.

Summer break finally came and Sunghoon went back to your hometown. He, of course, called you as soon as he reached his house. You didn't waste a second and hopped into your parents car and drove straight to him.

“Y/n?”— The front door opened, Sunghoon’s mom was standing right behind it with the prettiest smile adorning her face. He looked just like him. “He is in his room, go and say hi darling”— She moved aside and, after thanking her, you runned up the stairs to Sunghoon’s room.

You opened the door, revealing a pretty much shocked boy sitting on his bed. He didn't expect for you to come this fast, but he surely didn't wait a second to jump out his bed and hug you.

“I missed you so much” — You said, while hiding your face in his neck. He chuckled, slowly pulling away to take a glance at your face. One of his hands tucked your hair behind your ear.

“You look so pretty” — He whispered. You blushed at his words, of course you did. “You look even prettier than the photos you sent me” — He was admiring your face, every detail of it making sure to remember every single mole even.

Once you pulled away completely he took your hand. “Come with me, we have a lot to talk about” — He said, pulling you towards the door.

He took you to the park near his house, both of you spent your summer days there when you were little. It was kind of your special place.

Sunghoon and you sat on the swing as you talked about everything that had happened while you were apart, even though you talked to him every single day.

As the sun sets a comfortable silence falls between you two. A silence that was soon broken by him.

“There is actually one thing that I haven't told you about, and I need to be fully honest with you” — You looked at him confused, and scared too. Did something happen? Have you done anything wrong?

He stood up, standing now right in front of you as he took your hands. He pulled you slowly towards him, making you stand up. Your confused looks never left your face.

“I’ve been thinking about it for a long time and since I moved it has been the only thing in my mind” — His fingers trance round shapes in your hand, he was nervous. He sighs. “Y/n I like you, a lot, and I feel like this might be mutual but I didn't wanted to talk to you about it because I wasn't sure, and I also was far away from you and, if by any chance, you felt the same I knew I wouldn't be able to be away from you at that moment” — He looked away as soon as he finished his speech, not able to look at you, at least not now.

You smiled, your cheeks were tinted with a slightly red color. Your long time crush liked you, as much as you liked him. Was this a dream? If it is, you hoped you never woke up from it.

“Sunghoon” — You grabbed his chin, making him look at you. “I've had the biggest crush on you for the past years, i don't know how you didn't notice, even your mom knew it” — You swear his eyes almost pop out of his face.

You giggled at his reaction. He then took your face in between his hands, now looking directly at your eyes. “What are we?” — You cracked at his response. Was this really the first thing he had to say after your confession?

“Whatever you want us to be, but I would love to be yours Sunghoon” — He smiled, his pretty fangs showing slightly. And just like that, he closed the distance between you two, giving you the sweetest kiss you've ever received in your life. And the first one too.

Now Sunghoon was part not only of every memory of your childhood, but also the most important parts of your adulthood.

taglist : @layzfy @laylasbunbunny @yuminako @sugarikiz @rikiontopofme (open ; send an ask to be added)

175 notes · View notes

iamthesilentwriter · 5 months ago

Text

In Shadows We Meet

Draco Malfoy x Weasley!Fem!Reader

Summary: You know you’re not meant to, but you do. You and Draco have been secretly dating since the summer. What happens when your secret relationship is almost exposed? Or, the one where Ginny finds out.

Warnings: slight angst, some kissing

Authors Note: Hello! Sorry, I've ghosted you all. I have started/been writing a Marauders Era High School Foster Care AU, centered around Regulus and Sirius Black, over on AO3, under 'iamthesilentwriter'. It has literally become my newest hyperfixation and I've been really enjoying writing it. That doesn't mean I've completely stopped writing over here on tumblr, it's just posts will occur (hopefully) once every month, maybe more if I have multiple ideas. Thank you all for all your patience, and please enjoy my first Draco x reader oneshot!!

Word Count: 6,878

Navigation | Masterlist

Being Ginny’s twin is like living in the world’s worst nightmare.

Your mother only wanted one daughter, so when she found out she was having twins, she wasn’t particularly thrilled. And if she had to have two, why couldn’t they at least be the same?

You and Ginny are complete opposites. She is funny, outgoing, charismatic, while you are the polar opposite. You’re quiet, anxious, and observant. She thrives in the spotlight, while you prefer the shadows. Where Ginny rushes into adventure with reckless excitement, you hesitate, overthink, and hold yourself back. It has always been that way.

So, it was a surprise—even to yourself—when you started developing feelings for a certain boy your family despises.

Draco Malfoy.

He gets you in all the ways your family cannot. He understands things about you that even you don’t understand. The way silence isn’t always loneliness, how words aren’t always necessary, how there is strength in restraint.

You weren’t sure when it started—maybe it was the stolen glances across the Great Hall or the times you found yourself unconsciously searching for him in a crowd. But if you had to pinpoint the moment you truly met, it would be in Potions.

He’s fairly good at Potions, you are absolutely not. You were barely scraping by and the end of last year, and Professor Snape—never one to waste his time on hopeless cases—paired you with Draco for tutoring.

A Malfoy and a Weasley. The irony of it wasn’t lost on you.

"You’re quiet today."

Ginny’s voice pulls you out of your thoughts as she flops down beside you in the Gryffindor common room, her gaze sharp and searching.

"I’m always quiet," you mutter, staring into the flickering fire.

Ginny snorts. "Yeah, but this is different. You’re brooding. You only do that when something’s on your mind." She nudges your arm. "Spill."

You hesitate, your fingers tightening around the hem of your sleeve. Ginny knows you too well. But telling her? That’s a dangerous game.

Because if she ever found out the truth—about Draco, about everything—you’re not sure she’d ever forgive you.

You’re not sure if anyone in your family would ever forgive you.

Sure, your eldest brothers—Bill, Charlie, and maybe even Percy—might forgive you. Considering the fact that they’ve always been more accepting, more willing to see beyond the surface. But Ron? The twins? Even your mum and dad?

You can almost picture their faces, a mix of disbelief and betrayal. Loving a Malfoy, of all people. It would be like tearing apart the very fabric of what it means to be a Weasley.

Ginny nudges you again, harder this time. “Hey, don’t go drifting off on me. What’s going on?”

You force a smile, but it feels more like a grimace. “It’s nothing, Ginny.”

Her eyes narrow, and you know she doesn’t believe you for a second. “It’s not nothing. You’ve been weird for weeks now. Even Mum noticed.”

Your heart sinks. Of course your mum noticed. Molly Weasley has a sixth sense for when something is off with her children. It’s only a matter of time before she corners you, demanding answers you can’t give.

“I’ve just got a lot on my mind,” you finally say, the words tasting half-true. “Schoolwork, you know?”

Ginny raises an eyebrow, her skepticism palpable. “You’ve never worried about schoolwork before. Even when you were failing Potions, you didn’t look this stressed.”

You wince at the mention of Potions, the memory of Draco’s steady gaze and patient explanations flooding your mind. How his fingers brushed yours when passing a vial, how his rare, soft smiles were like secrets shared only with you.

“Come on,” Ginny presses, her tone softer now, almost pleading. “Whatever it is, you can tell me. I’m your sister.”

The words hang in the air, heavy with the weight of expectation and trust. She’s your sister—your other half, your constant. But this? This is something you’re not sure you can ever share with her.

“I know, Gin,” you whisper, your voice barely audible over the crackling fire. “But some things are just… hard to explain.”

Ginny watches you for a moment, her expression a mix of frustration and concern. Finally, she sighs, leaning back against the couch. “Fine. Keep your secrets. But just—don’t shut me out, okay?”

You nod, the guilt pressing down on your chest. “I won’t.”

But as you glance back into the fire, the flickering flames seem to mock you with their restless dance. Because deep down, you know that as long as Draco Malfoy remains your secret, there will always be a part of you that Ginny—and the rest of your family—will never truly know.

It’s not like you want to keep your relationship with Draco a secret. It’s the fact that you have to. If his father ever found out about the two of you, he most likely would be disowned… or worse.

Draco started sending you cryptic letters the second summer started. It was your way of communication. Every letter was written in a carefully crafted code, disguised as harmless, impersonal conversation.

To anyone else, they would seem like the ramblings of two bored students discussing Potions and Quidditch. But hidden between the words were secret messages, phrases only the two of you understood.

You remember the moment you realized what he was really saying.

The first letter had been vague, almost like a test. “The potion ingredients you mentioned… I think they have more meaning than you realize.” You had been confused at first, rereading the words over and over until something clicked. He wasn’t talking about Potions at all.

And then the flowers started arriving.

At first, you thought they were a mistake, but no one in your family ever mentioned them. They would appear outside your window at The Burrow, tied with silver ribbon. A single stem at a time—deliberate, chosen with care.

You had to buy a book on flowers just to understand what they meant.

A blue cornflower—hope and anticipation. A white camellia—you’re adorable. A red tulip—declaration of love.

That was the one that made your heart stop.

That was the one that changed everything.

You kept every single one, hidden away in an old box under your bed. Pressed between pages of books, tucked into letters you never sent back. Proof that, for the first time, someone saw you. Not just as Ginny’s twin. Not just as another Weasley. But as you.

The fire crackles beside you, but your mind is elsewhere. With him.

“I’m going for a walk,” you say suddenly, standing from the couch.

Ginny frowns, tilting her head. “Now?”

You nod, grabbing your cloak. “Yeah. I just need some air.”

She watches you for a moment, as if trying to decipher something unspoken, but eventually sighs. “Alright. Don’t stay out too late.”

You murmur a quiet “I won’t” before slipping out of the common room, your heartbeat steady but quickening.

The castle is quiet at this hour, most students tucked away in their dormitories. You keep your footsteps light, making your way through familiar corridors, down winding staircases, until you reach the spot.

A small, tucked-away alcove near the entrance to the dungeons. A place no one ever pays attention to.

And he’s already there.

Draco leans against the stone wall, arms crossed, his pale hair illuminated by the dim torchlight. The moment he sees you, his expression softens.

“You’re late,” he murmurs, but there’s no bite in his tone.

You step closer, barely suppressing a smile. “I had to be careful.”

He studies you for a moment before reaching into his pocket, pulling out something small. When he extends his hand, your breath catches.

A flower.

A pink carnation.

I’ll never forget you.

You take it carefully, fingers brushing against his. Neither of you speaks for a moment, the silence filled with everything unsaid.

And then, softly, he says, “I missed you.”

Your fingers tighten around the delicate stem of the flower, your heart beating a little too fast. It’s ridiculous, really. You’ve met Draco here more times than you can count, exchanged letters all summer, deciphered secret messages meant only for you. And yet, every time, the sight of him makes you feel like you’re standing on the edge of something vast and terrifying.

His stormy grey eyes hold yours, searching, like he’s trying to commit every detail of your face to memory. Then, before you can process what’s happening, he leans in—just slightly, just enough that you can feel the warmth of him, the scent of expensive cologne and parchment and something unmistakably Draco.

And then, softly, he presses a kiss to your cheek.

It’s brief—chaste, even—but it leaves your skin burning.

You’re sure he can hear your heartbeat. It’s embarrassingly loud in your ears.

You swallow hard, staring down at the pink carnation still nestled between your fingers. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you finally say it.

“I’ve missed you too.”

Draco exhales, like he’s been holding his breath, and when you dare to glance up at him, there’s something unbearably tender in his expression. Like you’re something precious. Like you matter.

For a long moment, neither of you speaks. The castle is silent around you, the dim torchlight flickering against the cold stone walls. The world beyond these walls doesn’t exist. Not your family, not his, not the expectations, not the war that lingers in hushed whispers in the halls.

Just this. Just him.

Draco reaches out, his fingers brushing against yours, hesitant but certain.

“You know,” he murmurs, a ghost of a smirk on his lips, “one day, I’d like to do that properly.”

Your breath hitches, heat rushing to your face as you look away. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet, you’re still here.”

You roll your eyes, but there’s no real annoyance behind it. Just fondness. Just the quiet kind of happiness you’re not sure you’ve ever had before.

You don’t say it, but you think it. I hope I’ll always be here.

It’s not some act of defiance you are trying to display. And, yes, you are aware of the fact that Draco has been nothing but horrible towards your family.

But he’s changed.

He’s stepped back. He’s stopped saying nasty things, he’s stopped bullying others, he’s stopped being… that person.

And, maybe, you had something to do with it. You don’t think Draco would ever admit it, though—however true it is.

You lean against the cold stone wall of your usual meeting spot, a quiet alcove near the entrance to the dungeons, just out of sight. It’s late, and the castle is hushed with the weight of the sleeping students inside it. You’ve just finished your prefect rounds, and exhaustion lingers in your limbs, but the anticipation of seeing him keeps you awake.

You think back to the first time you truly met him—not in passing in the halls, not in the context of family rivalry, but really met him.

Fourth year. Potions tutoring.

He had been annoyed at first, at Snape for forcing him to help a Weasley, at you for being so hopeless with brewing. You remember the sharp remarks, the condescending sighs. But you also remember the moment something shifted—that first time you understood something because of the way he explained it, the way his expression changed when he realized you weren’t as dull as he thought.

And now, here you are.

The sound of approaching footsteps pulls you from your thoughts. You barely have time to react before Draco steps into the alcove, his familiar scent washing over you—cologne, parchment, something distinctly him.

He doesn’t hesitate.

His hand finds your waist, drawing you close, and before you can say a word, his lips are on yours.

It’s still new, this thing between you—the kisses, the way he touches you with something close to reverence—but it’s welcome.

Your breath stutters, but you melt into him easily, your arms winding around his neck. You tangle your fingers in his hair, soft and fair between your fingers, and he hums—a sound of quiet contentment that makes your heart swell.

When you finally pull back, your face warm, you barely manage a shy, “Hi.”

Draco doesn’t let go. He keeps you close, his thumb brushing slow circles against your waist. “Hello,” he murmurs, his voice lower than usual, like he doesn’t want to disturb the fragile moment between you.

You stay there, pressed against him, basking in the rare peace of just being. No expectations, no secrets to keep, no families to disappoint—just the two of you.

Then, after a long silence, he speaks.

“I think my mother knows.”

You freeze. Your entire body tenses in his hold, but Draco doesn’t let go.

You pull back just enough to look at him, your hands still resting against his shoulders. Your voice is barely above a whisper when you ask, “Not about us?”

“No,” he says, shaking his head. “But… I think she knows I’ve been seeing someone.”

You swallow, trying to push past the lump forming in your throat. Of course she knows. Narcissa Malfoy is no fool. If anyone would notice the changes in Draco—the way he sneaks away, the way he seems lighter somehow—it would be her.

“How?” you whisper.

Draco sighs, running a hand through his hair. “She asked me the other day if there was ‘a girl’ I was spending time with. She was… careful with her words, but she knows me too well.” He pauses, his gaze searching yours. “I didn’t confirm anything, obviously, but she knows.”

You nod slowly, your heart hammering against your ribs.

“What do you think she’ll do?”

Draco is quiet for a moment, his grip on you tightening slightly. Then, with surprising certainty, he says, “Nothing.”

Your brows furrow. “Nothing?”

“She’s not like my father,” he murmurs, his voice softer now. “She’s never cared about blood status the way he does. She wouldn’t approve, not openly, but… she wouldn’t stop me either.”

You exhale, a slow, measured breath. It’s not reassurance, not entirely, but it’s enough.

Draco watches you carefully, then leans in again, pressing a lingering kiss to your forehead. “I won’t let anyone take this from me,” he whispers against your skin.

And for now, that promise is enough.

But that promise doesn’t last long.

You’ve been agitated. Studying for the O.W.L.s is no joke.

Draco has been understanding in every way that matters.

He doesn’t complain when you’re too exhausted to sneak away as often as you used to. He doesn’t sulk when your letters become shorter, your handwriting rushed. Instead, he presses a kiss to your forehead when you do meet, tells you to take care of yourself, and reminds you—without words—that he’s still here.

But you haven’t been as careful.

You tell yourself it’s because you’re tired, distracted, too busy to think about every step you take. But deep down, you know it’s more than that. You’ve let your guard slip, just a little.

You’re just finishing up your meeting with Draco now, his hands warm on your waist as he lingers, reluctant to let go. He presses one last kiss to your lips, slow and lingering, before murmuring, “Go. Before someone catches us.”

You nod, exhaling softly, before slipping away from him.

The castle is quiet as you make your way back, the corridors dimly lit with flickering torches. You let yourself relax, just slightly, as you turn a corner—

And walk straight into someone.

You stumble back, heart leaping to your throat, and when you look up, panic surges through your veins like ice.

Ginny.

She crosses her arms, her brows furrowed. “There you are. I’ve been looking for you all over.”

Your mind races. Does she know?

You force yourself to stay calm, to school your features into something neutral. “Oh. Sorry, I was just—”

Ginny’s eyes narrow, scanning you, and you realize with horror that your lips are probably still a little swollen, your hair a bit mussed.

Think. Say something.

“You were just what?” she presses.

You swallow hard. “I—uh—prefect rounds. I lost track of time.”

Ginny doesn’t look convinced. “Really?”

Your stomach churns. You’ve been slipping up, you know you have. And now, with your sister standing in front of you, suspicion written all over her face, you’re not sure if you can lie your way out of this one.

“Uh-huh. Yep,” you say, nodding a little too quickly.

Ginny raises an eyebrow. She doesn’t have to say anything—the look on her face is enough.

“Sure you were,” she says, and then, with a tilt of her head, she adds, “but you’ve still got an hour.”

Your stomach drops. She caught me in my lie.

“Uhhh,” you stammer, scrambling for something—anything—to say. But your mind is completely blank.

Ginny watches you, her expression unreadable. Then, just as your panic reaches its peak, she does something unexpected.

She loops her arm through yours and starts walking, dragging you along toward the Gryffindor common room.

You blink, caught off guard, but let her lead you without resistance. The silence between you is thick, almost suffocating. Your heart pounds in your chest, and you’re not sure if it’s from the near-disaster you just avoided or the fear that Ginny isn’t done questioning you yet.

Then, after a beat, she finally speaks.

“You have a boyfriend?”

You sigh, shoulders sagging. There’s no use denying it.

“…Kind of.”

Ginny hums. “How long?”

You hesitate. Then, quietly, you admit, “Since summer.”

She nods, as if that makes sense, then glances at you again. “Is it… Michael Corner?”

You shake your head. “No.”

Ginny nods again, almost thoughtfully. “Huh. He’s been acting weird lately too.”

You don’t know what to say to that, so you keep your mouth shut, hoping she’ll drop the subject.

No such luck.

“What year is he in?”

You hesitate for half a second before answering. “…Sixth.”

Ginny hums. “Is he in Gryffindor?”

You shake your head.

She exhales, looking at you out of the corner of her eye. “Are you gonna tell me who he is?”

You swallow. “I’m… not ready for anyone to know.”

Ginny studies you for a long moment, then nods, squeezing your arm gently. “I understand.”

You reach the Fat Lady’s portrait, and Ginny mutters the password. As the portrait swings open and you step inside, you can’t shake the unease curling in your stomach.

I’ve got to be more careful.

It wasn’t supposed to go like this.

You didn’t mean to get upset with Draco.

But you did.

It had been a stupid argument, one that shouldn’t have escalated the way it did. You can still hear the sharp edge in your own voice, the way Draco’s expression had hardened, his frustration evident as he raked a hand through his hair.

“Why are you acting like this?” he had asked, voice laced with exasperation.

You had crossed your arms, your own irritation bubbling over. “I don’t know, Draco. Maybe because I’m exhausted? Because I have a thousand things to do and I can’t afford to get caught sneaking off every night?”

His jaw had clenched. “I never asked you to.”

And that—that—had been what set you off.

“Right. Of course you didn’t. But it’s still me risking everything, isn’t it?” you had snapped.

Draco’s expression had flickered—hurt flashing across his features so quickly you almost doubted it was ever there. But then his face had gone cold, distant.

“I didn’t realize I was such a burden.”

You had opened your mouth to say something—anything—but he had already taken a step back.

“I’ll give you space,” he had said, voice quieter now. “Since I’m clearly just making things harder for you.”

And then he had left.

That was nearly two weeks ago.

You haven’t spoken since.

It’s now the Christmas holidays, and you haven’t received a single letter from him. Not even the smallest, coded note. You’ve debated whether or not to send him something, but every time you pick up a quill, doubt creeps in.

What if he doesn’t want to hear from you?

So, you don’t write. And you’re miserable.

You’re snappish with everyone, your temper shorter than usual, your patience wearing thin over the smallest things. It’s only a matter of time before someone calls you out on it.

That someone, unsurprisingly, is Ginny.

She storms into your room one evening, arms crossed, her expression set.

“Alright, enough,” she says, planting herself in front of you. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

You glare at her from where you sit on your bed, arms wrapped around your knees. “Nothing.”

Ginny scoffs. “Oh, please. You’ve been in a mood since we got home. Snapping at everyone, storming around like you’re about to hex the next person who breathes wrong—”

“I have not—”

“Yes, you have,” she interrupts, eyes flashing. “And I’m sick of it. You’re not telling me something, and I want to know what.”

You open your mouth to argue again, but the lump in your throat is too thick. Instead, to your absolute horror, your vision starts to blur.

Ginny’s eyes widen slightly at the sight of your tears, but she doesn’t back down. If anything, she crosses her arms tighter, her stance firm.

“Oh,” she says, her voice quieter now. But there’s still frustration beneath it, an unwillingness to let this go. “So there is something wrong.”

You shake your head quickly, blinking hard, trying to push back the sting in your eyes. “It’s— it’s nothing, Ginny.”

She scoffs. “Bullshit.”

You flinch, and Ginny exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair.

“You know, I’ve been patient with you,” she says, voice clipped, pacing at the foot of your bed. “We all have. We all thought, maybe, you just needed some space. But you’ve been awful to everyone lately. You barely talk to me, you snap at Mum every time she asks you something, you completely shut down whenever someone even tries to—”

“I said I’m fine,” you snap, but it comes out shakier than you intended.

Ginny whirls around, her brown eyes narrowing. “No, you’re not. And I don’t get why you won’t just tell me what’s going on! I’m your twin, remember? The person who’s supposed to know when something’s wrong? But you won’t even let me in.”

Her words hit like a punch to the chest, and the weight of everything crashes over you all at once.

You suck in a sharp breath, but it’s like you can’t breathe. Your hands grip at your knees, your entire body going rigid as the pressure in your chest tightens, and suddenly—

The tears spill over.

You don’t mean to. You don’t want to. But once it starts, you can’t stop.

Ginny freezes. “Oh.”

Your shoulders shake, and you press the heels of your palms against your eyes, trying to will the sobs back down.

Ginny hesitates for half a second before sitting down beside you, her voice softer now. “Hey…”

You shake your head, still unable to speak.

The bed shifts slightly as Ginny shifts closer. “Look, I didn’t mean to— I wasn’t trying to make you cry, I just—” She sighs. “Talk to me. Please.”

“It’s stupid.”

Ginny sits on the bed beside you. “It’s clearly not.”

You exhale shakily, willing yourself to get a grip. But your voice is small when you finally admit, “I messed things up.”

Ginny stays quiet, waiting for you to continue.

You pick at a loose thread on your sleeve, carefully keeping details vague. “I got into an argument with… someone. And now, I think I’ve lost him.”

There’s a pause. Then, something shifts in Ginny’s expression. It’s like something clicks.

“…You’re in love with him.”

You freeze.

The words send a jolt through you, your breath catching in your throat.

Love.

You hadn’t— You weren’t—

Except… you are, aren’t you?

Your heart pounds, your entire body going still. You think of Draco—his sharp wit, his rare smiles, the way he looks at you like you’re something worth holding onto. You think of his hands at your waist, the warmth of his touch, the quiet, careful way he had let you set the pace.

You think of how much it hurts to be apart from him.

“…Oh,” you whisper.

Ginny’s expression softens. “Yeah,” she says. “Oh.”

You swallow past the sudden lump in your throat.

Ginny nudges your shoulder gently. “You should write to him.”

You hesitate.

“Apologize,” she says. “Talk to him.”

You nod slowly. “Yeah… yeah, I think I will.”

Ginny smiles, standing up and stretching. “Good.” Then, with a teasing glint in her eyes, she adds, “And whoever this boy is, if he starts treating you badly, let me know, and I’ll handle it.”

A surprised laugh bursts out of you. “I’m sure you will.”

Ginny smirks. “Damn right.”

And then, with one last knowing look, she leaves you alone with your thoughts.

You take a deep breath, then pull out parchment and ink.

You hesitate only for a moment before pressing the quill to the page.

My Knight,

I’m sorry.

I shouldn’t have snapped at you like that. I was stressed, and I took it out on you, and that wasn’t fair.

You are not a burden. Not even close. If anything, you’re the only thing keeping me sane. I’ve missed you, more than I can put into words. I don’t expect you to forgive me right away, but I needed to say this.

Please write back.

Love,

Your Supernova

You stare at the letter for a long moment before folding it carefully.

Then, heart pounding, you seal it and set it aside to send in the morning.

You wake up with the same knot of anxiety in your stomach, the one that’s been twisting ever since you sent Draco the letter yesterday. Your thoughts race, each one a worst-case scenario. What if he doesn’t reply? What if he’s angry with you? What if he never wants to speak to you again? The questions swirl like a storm in your head, and despite the bright December morning outside, the world feels impossibly heavy. You try to push them away, but they cling to you, relentless.

It’s already noon when you hear the soft knock on your door. You’re not expecting anyone, but you know immediately what it is. Your heart leaps in your chest. Ginny’s standing there, holding a letter, and the panic hits you again like a wave.

"Here you go," she says, her tone light, but the knowing look in her eyes makes it clear that she senses your unease. She offers you the letter with a small smile, not hiding the fact that she knows how much this means to you.

Your hand shakes as you reach for the letter. "Ginny," you murmur, voice barely a whisper, "I can’t."

She watches you with a raised eyebrow, crossing her arms. "You’re freaking out over a letter? Relax, sis."

"I—" You try to steady your breath, but your hands are trembling too much to be still. You want to tell her that it’s more than just a letter—that this could change everything. But the words don’t come. "What if—"

She cuts you off, her hand on your shoulder, squeezing gently. "Look, if it’ll help, I can read it for you."

Your eyes widen at the idea. "No!" You grab the letter from her hand, clutching it to your chest. "I want to read it myself."

Ginny laughs softly, shaking her head. “Alright, alright. Take your time.” She watches you with a mix of amusement and something more—concern, maybe. Her gaze lingers, but she doesn’t push, letting you have your moment.

With a deep breath, you rip open the envelope. The sound of it seems too loud in the quiet room. Your heart beats in your throat as you pull the letter out. The parchment is thick, the edges slightly curled from the fold. The familiar scent of ink and parchment fills your senses, but it's the feeling in your chest that’s the hardest to bear. The anxiety. The dread. The hope.

You unfold the letter, feeling the smooth paper against your fingertips, and begin to read:

Dear Supernova,

I’m sorry for not replying sooner. I’ve been thinking about everything you said, and I’ve realized that I shouldn’t have been so distant. You didn’t deserve that.

I don’t know where things are headed between us, but I want to see where it goes. I’ll do better, I promise. You’re worth more than the way I acted.

I’ve missed you.

Love,

Your Knight.

Your heart softens as you read his words, the relief flooding in with each line. It’s not as bad as you feared. In fact, it’s better than you’d hoped. The knot in your stomach begins to loosen, and you let out a shaky breath. For a brief moment, everything feels right again. He’s trying.

But then, something else catches your eye. A small, dried flower slips from the letter. You pick it up carefully, fingers brushing the lavender petals. It’s vibrant even in its pressed state, a perfect wild lavender, curled and fragrant, its purple hue still bright. The meaning of lavender strikes you instantly—devotion.

You smile softly at the gesture. It’s personal, thoughtful. Something Draco would do, if he was truly trying.

Your attention shifts again as something else falls from the letter—a piece of jewelry. You gasp softly, and Ginny leans forward as she notices it too.

You pick up the necklace gently, your fingers skimming the cool silver chain. It’s delicate yet sturdy, not too heavy but unmistakably expensive. The pendant is a small, intricate locket, polished to perfection, gleaming in the soft light of your room. You turn it over in your hands, admiring the fine craftsmanship.

It’s engraved with delicate swirls, floral patterns wrapping around the edges. When you open it, you find two tiny spaces, perfect for small photos. Your heart tightens as you wonder—did Draco have this made just for you? Or had he kept it all this time, waiting for the right moment to give it away?

A folded note slips from the locket, and you unfold it with trembling fingers.

Merry Christmas.

It’s Draco’s handwriting, neat and precise, though a little more formal than you’d expect for a casual holiday message. You smile at the simplicity of it, the warmth of the words, and yet, something unsettles you. Was he truly thinking of you when he wrote it, or was he just trying to smooth things over?

Ginny doesn’t give you much time to ponder. She snatches the necklace from your hand and inspects it, eyes wide in awe. “Ooooh, wow. This is gorgeous.” Her fingers glide over the pendant. “And… really expensive.”

You laugh nervously, your voice barely a whisper. “I—he didn’t have to—”

She holds it up to the light, her eyes glittering. "I don’t care what he had to do. This is way beyond what I’d expect from a… guy like him." She glances at you, raising an eyebrow, clearly surprised by the expensive gift.

You smile softly but it’s bittersweet. You’re not used to receiving gifts like this—not from anyone, especially not from someone like Draco. You glance back down at the letter, reading his words again, feeling the weight of them. I’ll do better, I promise. You trace the edges of the necklace absently, your chest tightening again.

Ginny stands there for a moment, watching you quietly. The room falls silent as you let the words sink in. But Ginny isn’t done yet.

She sets the necklace down carefully and gives you a sharp, knowing look. “So, is everything okay between you two?”

You freeze, unsure how to respond. The truth feels complicated, tangled in knots you don’t know how to untangle. “Yes... and no. For now, everything’s fine. But I still need to talk to him. I just need some time to figure it out.”

Ginny nods slowly, studying your face. “Alright. Just don’t let it go too long, okay? You deserve someone who makes you happy.”

You nod in return, grateful for her support. “I know.”

She stands, moving toward the door, then turns with a half-smile on her face. “Well, let me know if you need anything. And…” She glances back at you, a playful glint in her eye. “If he starts treating you badly, I swear I’ll take matters into my own hands.”

You chuckle softly. “I’m sure you will.”

Ginny smirks, then exits the room, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

You sit there, the letter in your hands, the necklace resting beside you. You should feel lighter now, but something doesn’t sit right. You can’t place it, but there’s a tension in the air you can’t shake.

You try to dismiss it as nerves. Maybe it’s just the weight of everything that’s happened, or the confusion you still feel. But it lingers, like a shadow in the back of your mind.

Things slowly start to unravel the second you step foot onto Hogwarts grounds.

Christmas break had been a nightmare. All you wanted to do was apologize to Draco properly, not some half-hearted apologies in letters.

And now, as you sit in your secret meeting place, tucked away behind the old tapestry on the seventh floor, you can’t stop fidgeting. The silver locket rests in your palm, cool against your skin, the chain sliding between your fingers as you move it back and forth. It’s become a nervous habit over the last few days—something to ground you as you run through every possible way to say I’m sorry without completely breaking down.

What if he doesn’t forgive you? What if you’ve messed things up beyond repair?

The thought makes your stomach churn. You clench your jaw, trying to steady yourself. You just need to see him, to explain everything, to tell him—

The sound of footsteps approaching makes you freeze. Your heart leaps to your throat, and you barely have time to compose yourself before the curtain of the tapestry shifts and Draco steps through.

The second you see him, you don’t think. You just move.

You surge forward, throwing your arms around him, clutching him tightly like he might slip through your fingers if you don’t hold on. He stiffens for a moment, surprised, but then his arms come around you, strong and sure, pulling you against him. The familiar scent of him—clean parchment, expensive cologne, and something unmistakably him—fills your senses, and you let out a shaky breath.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, voice breaking. “I’m so sorry, Draco.”

You feel him shift slightly, and before you can say anything else, his hands cup your face, tilting it up toward him. You barely have time to register the soft look in his silver eyes before he’s kissing you.

It’s not rushed, not desperate—just firm and reassuring, as if he’s telling you it’s okay without needing words. The tension inside you unravels, and you melt into him, hands clutching the fabric of his robes as you kiss him back.

When he finally pulls away, his forehead rests against yours, his breath warm against your skin.

“You don’t have to apologize,” he murmurs. “Not anymore.”

Your throat tightens, and you shake your head slightly. “I do,” you insist. “I should’ve never made you feel like—like you weren’t important. You are. So much.”

Draco exhales slowly, his thumb brushing against your cheek. “You drive me insane sometimes, you know that?” His voice is soft, teasing, but there’s no real bite to it.

You huff out a weak laugh, sniffling. “Yeah, I know.”

His arms wrap around you again, holding you close, and you let yourself sink into the warmth of him. For a while, neither of you speak. You just exist in this moment, the weight of the last few weeks fading as you press your face into his shoulder.

He’s here. He’s yours. And this time, you won’t let your fear push him away.

The next couple of days have really taken a toll on you. You’ve barely had time to see Draco due to all the late-night studying you’ve been doing.

Today had been a particularly tough day. And in a desperate need to see Draco, you completely forgot to keep an eye out for anyone who might follow you.

You weren’t thinking straight. How could you? All you needed was to see him, and maybe, because of that need, you let your guard down.

And now, you are suffering the consequences.

You’re pressed against Draco’s chest, his arms wrapped securely around you as you shake in his hold. His hand moves in soothing circles along your back, and you clutch onto his robes like a lifeline, your body wracked with silent sobs.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs into your hair, his voice warm and steady. “Everything is going to be okay.”

You don’t know how long you stand there, buried in his arms, listening to his heartbeat as he whispers quiet reassurances against your skin.

“It’s alright, love,” he says, voice softer now, full of something you can’t quite name. “I promise, it’s alright.”

Eventually, your tears slow, your breathing evens out, and the weight pressing against your chest lightens just enough for you to finally lift your head. Draco tilts your chin up gently, his silver eyes scanning your face as if making sure you’re truly alright.

And then, he kisses you.

It starts slow—his lips brushing against yours like a question, as if making sure you want this. And Merlin, do you want this.

You kiss him back instantly, pushing yourself closer to him, your fingers threading into his hair. The tension of the past few days melts away as he deepens the kiss, one hand sliding to your waist, the other resting against the back of your neck. It’s intoxicating—the way he kisses you like you’re something precious, something to be cherished.

You’re so lost in the warmth of him, in the way he holds you, that you don’t hear the footsteps approaching.

You don’t even register the presence behind you until—

Someone coughs.

You and Draco break apart so fast it’s almost comical, your head snapping toward the sound.

And there, standing just a few feet away, is Ginny.

All the blood drains from your face.

She doesn’t say anything at first. She just looks at you, her expression unreadable, which somehow makes it worse.

Your heart pounds against your ribs. Ginny isn’t stupid. She’s piecing everything together in real time—the secret meetings, the necklace, your constant evasion when she asked who you were seeing. And now, catching you like this, wrapped up in Draco Malfoy like he’s the air you breathe—

You try to swallow the panic creeping up your throat.

“Ginny—”

But she’s already turning on her heel.

Your heart lurches. No, no, no.

“Ginny, wait!” You break away from Draco and hurry after her.

She stops, but only just, turning around sharply. “What?” she snaps, her voice cutting.

You flinch, but you force yourself to meet her eyes. Draco is right behind you, tense but silent.

“I—I’m sorry,” you start, voice uneven. “I should’ve told you sooner. There was a reason I didn’t—”

Something shifts in Ginny’s face, like a realization hitting her all at once.

“I’m not mad at you,” she says suddenly, though her voice is still tight. “Well, I am, but I’m more mad that you didn’t think you could trust me with this.” She exhales sharply, running a hand through her hair. “I get why you didn’t say anything, because, yeah, it’s Malfoy—” her gaze flickers to Draco before settling back on you “—but you’re happy. I’ve never seen you this happy before.”

Your breath catches.

Ginny sighs, her voice softer now. “I see the way you act, like you’re my shadow. And, frankly, you’re treated like one. It’s not fair.” Her eyes search yours. “You deserve to have something that’s just yours. And if that’s him—” she jerks her chin toward Draco, “—then fine. But you should’ve told me.”

You blink at her, unable to speak. She’s not furious about who you’re dating—just that you hadn’t told her. The relief that floods you is almost overwhelming.

“I know,” you whisper. “I’m sorry.”

Ginny studies you for a moment longer before she finally sighs. “Yeah, yeah,” she mutters, shaking her head. Then, she turns to Draco, her gaze sharp as a dagger.

“If you hurt her, I’ll kill you.”

Draco actually chuckles—until he sees the look on Ginny’s face. He swallows, nodding. “Understood.”

Ginny hums, clearly satisfied. “I’ll see you back in the common room,” she says, glancing at you one last time before walking away.

Silence lingers in the air for a beat. Then, warm hands wrap around your waist, pulling you back into a familiar embrace.

You turn in Draco’s arms, looping your own around his neck.

“Well,” he murmurs, a small smirk playing on his lips. “That wasn’t so bad.”

You huff out a laugh. “I guess not.”

His smirk deepens, mischief dancing in his eyes. “Now we should tell Weasley about us.”

Your stomach drops. You swat his shoulder instantly. “Absolutely not.”

Draco chuckles, leaning in. “Fine, fine,” he teases, pressing a kiss to your lips. “We’ll save that heart attack for another day.”

#draco malfoy #x reader #draco malfoy x reader #ginny weasley #fluff #angst #oneshot

167 notes · View notes

doodledrawsthings · 5 months ago

Note

you. Oh my god, you. (Positive)

listen. Before I had internet access, all I had was 1 hour of allotted browser time, bing image search, and a single dantdm play through of a hat in time that never got finished. I googled fanart and got pretty much nothing, I googled fancomics and got pretty much nothing, but you know what I did end up finding?

your art.

from ages 11-14, my goal in life, in art, was your art. I can’t tell you how much I loved finding random screenshots of your posts, because I was always just so impressed by how clean and consistent your sketches are, how the characters always stay on model, the shape language, how you could somehow sketch a character in like 20 lines when it took me 50 to draw sans in my little spiral notebook— like! Holy shit! For years I have looked up to your art! There’s still a photos folder on my dads old huge-ass 12 inch work iPad labeled “holy crap” and filled with your art. Because it inspired me so much. It’s become an undeniable part of my artstyle, now — I still have fanart I drew way back in the day of Hattie and the rest, I didn’t even know anyone’s names because I couldn’t play the game, but you’re the reason I eventually did play the game. Your coffee shop au and different versions of the prince— one of those ieterations inspired the main character of my novel! Well, novel that I tried to write, I was 13 so it was eh, but I tried!!

I’m submitting this on-anon because I don’t want to out my age on the wide internet (I like my privacy) but. Your art has really meant a lot to me. It’s the reason I played hollow knight, and it’s the reason I kept trying to develop an art style I was happy with. You’re the reason I started scribbling comics in my notebooks. Being 13-14 was pretty much the worst two years of my life, but I had Bing image search and the occasional glimpse of your signature, and I’d be so happy every time I found a new (if crusty) three-times screenshotted jpg. You literally introduced me to the concept of polyamory and nonbinary-ness with the coffee shop au. I had no other access to that in my household, and. Yeah. It meant a lot to me.

Anyway. I’m so glad I’ve finally tracked you down (in the most non-ominous way possible) and I’m so glad you’re still active— Please never stop making art. Your art is incredible, and amazing, and also you never know who’s out there on Bing image search. Thank you for creating for as long as you have. You’re pretty much the reason I’m shooting for an art degree (Wish me luck!) so just…Thank you.

(Also I had no idea you were a professional storyboarder, which is insane because that’s what I want to be when I’m through college. Hey, maybe I’ll end up storyboarding a remake of something you’ve storyboarded! hehehe)

Hi anon!

So right off the bat, I gotta tell you that this message made me start bawling when I woke up and saw it. Like I had a full-on cry session while reading your message and lying in bed for almost an hour. I am crying as I am typing this response, on my phone, still in bed. It’s 11am and i woke up at 9. So I hope it turns out coherent.

The last two years have been. weird. I say that a lot because I wanna say “rough” but that still doesn’t feel quite right. I’m almost hyper-aware that there are so many people that have it worse than me rn, so it feels hard to even acknowledge when I’m going through anything, myself, sometimes- REGARDLESS, it’s been kind of an all-time low for my mental health. There was a point within in the last year where I just HATED drawing. I struggled to bring myself to work, I struggled to bring myself to even draw for fun. It felt like I was posting just to post, trying to keep people aware of my existence and it almost felt physically painful to force myself to sit down and do it, sometimes.

I’m getting better now, I think, but. Yknow.

It’s so easy to get caught up in the “oh I can make money off this,” “oh I can get attention off this,” “oh I can prove myself a functional person in society with this,” of it all. I forget why I actually do this, sometimes, or if I even enjoy it. And then I get messages like yours, about the kid with limited internet access looking for A Hat in Time fan art on Bing image search, and I get taken back to when I was a kid scrolling Google images and deviantart for the same thing.

I don’t mean to like. Foster some kind of parasocial thing with you or any one of my followers. There’s a reason I’m saying all this, I hope it ties up in the end.

We don’t know each other. I’m not some mysterious legendary artist, or whatever. I’m a person who gets burnt out, and jealous, and insecure. I need inspiration to function, just like you, and when I don’t have it, I get art block. But I also really like to draw fictional characters kissing and hanging out. I like coming up with comics and stories and playing out dramatic and funny scenarios in my head like I’m mashing Barbies together. And when other people tell me they enjoy the stuff I put out when I do this, it makes me really, really, really happy.

I think I needed to read your message, probably. With the state of… Everything… Right now, especially recently, I feel like a lot of artists are also struggling with a sense of purpose, pride, and reason as the world makes it harder and harder to even BE an artist, these days. And when I read this message it was like Anton Ego at the end of Ratatouille, I got taken back to when I was a kid looking at my favorite artists and studying their style and striving to be better and better at it over years of my life. Not just because I wanted a job for it or cuz I wanted to be a famous Disney animator or whatever, but because it was fun and I just liked doing it.

Thank you, SO much. I say this in the most genuine and earnest way I possibly can possibly express. I wish you luck on your own path in art and art school. And if you decide that animation industry is your thing, then I wish you the best in that endeavor, as well. I think I will keep making art for a long time.

Peace and love on the planet earth ✌️✌️✌️

#alright I gotta get up and start my day I’m still in bed it’s almost noon lmao #you really never know who’s out there on Bing image search #rainy days tag #starting a new tag I wanna keep this

222 notes · View notes

jungkoode · 2 months ago

Text

ALTARS IN SHALLOW WATERS | 02

➔ PAIRING: Taehyung x Y/N (ballerina x stalker AU)

➔ MOODBOARD

➔ RATING: Mature, 18+, explicit themes and content.

➔ DATE POSTED: May 05, 2025.

➔ SUMMARY: Altars crumble faster in shallow water. But he still knelt like it was sacred. No one ever warned you that worship could look like love. Or that love could look like drowning.

➔ CONTENT in this chapter: self-demanding thoughts; perfectionism, self-critique, pushing oneself, expectations, dismissing praise, first encounter, lowkey sadistic streaks (lol you go girl), shaking, trembling, antisocial behaviors, anxiety, ocd, curiosity

➔ AUTHOR’S INTRO AND TRIGGER WARNINGS

➔ MASTERLIST | TAGLIST REQ | WORDCOUNT: 3k

➔ A/N: So, fair warning, I know the aesthetic needs work, I know there’s no color but it’s 3AM and I pushed myself to post this because I have been writing and editing all night and I needed this bitch out or I wouldn’t allow myself to sleep (tragic). SO. Here’s my baby number 2. What can I say about this one, truly… I think you can really pin down OC’s personality in this one a lot better, bahahahahaha. I know what you guys were thinking when you saw stalker x ballerina, and I’m glad to twist your expectations completely and be like ‘yeah nope’. You’ll see how this develops but… Yeah I don’t know, I fucking love her. I adore the water imagery, I adore the nicknames I’ve given these two and I can’t fucking wait for you guys to see more. I also adore him, no lies told here. He’s so pathetic and reverent and ugh my heart combusts everytime I write him shaking (I am mentally unwell, we all know that). Anyways, no more yapping from me. Enjoy this monster. As always, I’ll be maniacally laughing while reading your unhinged comments. Mwah mwah mwah. 💕

➔ SERIES : PREVIOUS | NEXT

KIKI NATION’S DISCUSSION THREAD FOR THIS CHAPTER

PLAYLIST

Another twirl.

Your body knows the motion by heart—the sharp pivot, the snap of head and shoulders following a fraction of a second later, the correction of your core that comes automatically.

Another twirl.

The floor beneath you creaks, just slightly. Just enough to notice. Just enough to hate.

Another twirl. Another twirl. Another twirl.

It's not perfect. It's not enough.

Your ankle wobbles one-eighth of a centimeter on the landing. Invisible to anyone else. Glaring to you. You will never achieve perfection if you don't master a simple fucking twirl.

Another twirl.

Camille sneers from the barre. Her reflection catches yours between rotations—that twist of lips, that narrowing of eyes. It is ugly, really, that expression on her face. The way her mouth quirks down at the corner, the way her nostrils flare just slightly. You would feel anger at the derision in her mouth, but it is so exaggerated it's pitiful, really. So you deviate your gaze, focus on the mirror in front of you, and continue twirling.

Another.

The studio’s windows are streaked with last night's rain—Madame never allows the cleaning staff to touch them during rehearsal weeks. ‘Too distracting,’ she says. As if anything could distract you from the absolute necessity of this movement.

Your leotard cuts into your hip, just slightly. You'll have a mark there later. You don't adjust it. Discomfort is irrelevant.

"Excellent extension,” Madame calls your name from the front of the room.

Her voice is crisp, just as usual. You don't register it. Praise means adequate. It is what's expected of you. Expected and therefore unremarkable.

The rest of the company has moved on to petit batterie. You remain in your corner, working. They glance at you between jumps. You don't look back.

Madame calls your name again, and then says, "join the others, please."

You nod once.

You take your place at the back of the group, not out of modesty but because it gives you the clearest view of yourself in the mirror.

You need to see the mistakes before anyone else does.

Jean-Paul catches your eye in the reflection. Smiles. You don't smile back. His smile isn't for you—it's for the image of himself smiling at you. Everything he does is performance. You recognize it because you do the same.

The piano starts. Your body follows. Jump, land, repeat. Your muscles know the pattern. Your mind catalogs each moment, each placement of finger and toe. It's automatic, this dissection. This constant evaluation.

Madame walks among the dancers, making corrections, yet she never approaches you. That's not a compliment. It's simply acknowledgment that you'll fix your own flaws before she can identify them.

Elodie, in the front row, keeps glancing back at you. Her form is flawless as always, but you note how tense she is. How she always is around you.

She knows you're gaining on her. She's thirty next month. Ancient, in ballet years.

The combination ends. The pianist pauses.

"Let's try that again," Madame says. "And this time, perhaps with some actual musicality? We are artists, not robots."

She isn't looking at you when she says it, but you feel the words land anyway. You've been called mechanical before. Precise to a fault. It shouldn't bother you—precision is the foundation of excellence—but something in your chest tightens.

Water break.

The other dancers cluster by their bags, talking in low voices.

You stay at the barre, stretching.

Your hamstring protests. You push deeper into the stretch.

Madame beckons you. "A word, please."

You cross the room, spine straight, chin level. Your reflection follows you, a pale ghost in black cotton.

"Your fouettés are improving," she says.

It's not a compliment. It's a fact.

"Thank you, Madame."

"The company performs Ondine next season. I'm considering you for the lead."

Your face remains neutral. Your pulse does not.

Ondine. The water nymph who gains a soul through love, only to lose everything.

Not just a lead—the lead.

"I'll work harder," you say.

Madame's mouth twitches. Not quite a smile. "That would be inadvisable. You're already overtraining. Work smarter, not harder."

You nod, though you don't agree. There is no ‘smart’ way to excellence. There is only work. Endless, punishing work.

You turn back to the center, Ondine in your head.

You’ll research her later.

The piano begins again. You take your place. Your custom Freeds creak slightly—you'll need a new pair soon. This one has perhaps two more hours of life in it. You've already prepared the next pair, scoring the soles according to your usual pattern, crushing the box to your exact preference, sewing the ribbons in the specific formation that minimizes blisters on your Achilles.

Camille watches you from her place at the barre, her freckles barely visible beneath her foundation. She performs friendship whenever others are watching, but you've caught her moving your water bottle from your spot, just slightly, just to see what you do.

Collecting weaknesses like souvenirs.

It is pitiful.

She is pitiful.

You are not.

Another combination. Another chance to fail. Another chance to be slightly less imperfect than yesterday.

L'heure bleue.

The hour, however, is not currently blue. Hours don't hold colors in themselves. The name is pretentious, like most things in this city. But the fluorescent sign flickers that particular shade of navy that matches the rain-slicked streets outside, so perhaps there's some truth to it after all.

You catalog the store methodically. Four aisles. One register. Three security cameras—one broken, its red light permanently extinguished. The floor tiles are chipped at the corners.

Imperfect.

Everything is imperfect here.

Rain slides down the windows in precise rivulets. You've been caught in it twice today already. First during your morning commute, then during the three-minute walk from the studio to this convenience store. Your hair—still pulled back in its regulation bun—is damp at the edges. The slight discomfort of wet hair against your scalp is familiar. Almost comforting.

Better the rain, anyway. You need to understand water if you're going to embody it.

Ondine.

It sits in your chest, the role, like a stone dropped into deep water, heavy like an anchor pulling you under.

You can already hear the applause, see the perfect arc your body will make as you take your final bow.

Another performance. Another success. Another inevitability.

Your eyes move across the shelves with surgical precision. Land on the protein bars. The numbers flash in your mind automatically: 20 grams of protein, 180 calories, 4 grams of sugar.

Excessive.

Unnecessary.

You grimace.

The bar goes back exactly where you found it, aligned with the others. Your stomach tightens—from hunger or discipline, you're not sure there's a difference anymore.

Your bun pulls at your scalp, the slight sting a reminder of structure. Beauty is pain. Excellence is sacrifice. These are not platitudes but mathematical certainties. Input equals output. You have the equations memorized.

The oversized cardigan hangs past your hips, concealing the lines of your body. Leotard, tights, canvas shoes—not pointe shoes, never pointe shoes outside the studio. That would be blasphemous. Disrespectful to the craft. You'd sooner walk barefoot through Paris than subject your pointe shoes to the indignity of street grime.

You move through the aisles with the same deliberate placement of feet that you use in adagio. Heel, arch, toe. No wasted motion. No unnecessary steps.

The cosmetics section is in the back corner, poorly lit. You need cotton pads. The ones at home are nearly gone—three left, to be precise. Not enough for tomorrow morning's routine. You glance down, locate them on the bottom shelf.

Crouch.

A blur of motion interrupts your descent. Someone reaches—faster than you, more impulsive—and retrieves the package. Hands it to you without a word.

You note the gloves first. Latex. Clinical blue. Worn at the fingertips as if from constant scrubbing.

Then the downturned face, completely obscured by ashy, wavy hair that falls forward like a curtain.

You can't see his eyes. Can't see anything above the bridge of his nose. Just the curve of his mouth, pressed into a tight line. The shoulders hunched slightly forward. The careful distance he maintains—close enough to hand you the cotton, far enough that no part of him risks touching you.

"Thank you," you say.

Your voice sounds strange in the empty store.

Too formal. Too precise.

He doesn't respond verbally. Just nods once, a sharp downward jerk of his chin. His face remains tilted toward the floor, hidden behind that fall of unkempt hair.

You take the cotton pads. The package is slightly dented on one corner. Your eyebrows furrow before you can stop them.

The reaction is immediate. He snatches the package back, so quickly it startles you. For 2.5 seconds, you stand frozen, watching as he examines the shelf with frantic intensity. He selects another package—perfectly intact—and offers it to you with both hands, like a supplicant.

His fingers never touch yours during the exchange. It’s like the avoidance is intentional. Thought out.

You straighten, the pristine cotton pad package in hand. Consider saying something else. Decide against it. What would be the point? Social niceties are performances without purpose. At least on stage, the performance means something.

The rain continues its assault on the windows. You'll be soaked again on the walk back to your apartment. Your hair will frizz at the temples. Your canvas shoes will squelch with each step.

Bothersome.

You approach the register, mentally calculating how many steps it will take. It feels oddly hollow, this convenience store…

Empty except for the cashier—a pink-haired girl with three facial piercings who hasn't looked up from her phone once—and the strange man with the latex gloves.

Seven steps to the counter. You take them.

The cotton pads make a soft sound when you set them down. The cashier doesn't move.

"Excuse me."

Your voice is clipped. Necessary.

She looks up, blinks, then sets her phone down with visible reluctance. Scans the package. Names a price that you mentally note is 0.20€ higher than last month.

Inflation. Even cotton isn't immune to economic decay.

You reach for your wallet—left pocket of your cardigan, where it always is—and find nothing.

A blank space where certainty should be.

Your hand slides to the right pocket. Also empty.

You left it at the studio. The realization arrives without emotion, just a fact to be cataloged. An error to be logged.

You never make this kind of mistake.

(You made this kind of mistake.)

"I don't—" you begin, but stop.

The sentence is a dead end. Unnecessary.

You'll simply return the cotton pads to their shelf and come back tomorrow. It's inefficient, but not catastrophic. You have three pads at home, which is sufficient for one more morning routine. You'll adjust.

The pink-haired girl sighs. Her lower lip has a small sore where the ring passes through.

Before you can pick up the cotton pads, there's movement to your left.

The man with the gloves steps forward. Not close enough to crowd, but close enough that you register the height difference.

It is inevitable, catching the scent of something warm beneath the clinical sting of antiseptic—roasted chestnuts, perhaps. The kind sold in paper cones along the Seine in winter.

He keeps his head down, that curtain of fluffy hair obscuring his features. One gloved hand extends, placing exact change on the counter.

His fingers are long. Elegant, even in those hideous blue gloves. You notice a slight tremor as he pulls his hand back quickly—as if the proximity to the cashier might contaminate him somehow.

The money isn't for him. He hasn't bought anything. It's for your cotton pads.

"I don't need—" you begin, but he's already retreating, backing away from the counter, from you.

His shoulders curl forward. The blue latex of his gloves catches the fluorescent light, making his hands look bloodless. He steps backward, once, twice, eyes still fixed on the floor.

The cashier shrugs, takes the money. "Need a bag?"

You shake your head. No. More plastic waste for something so small would be absurd. Wasteful. Undisciplined.

The cotton pads are yours now, purchased by a stranger who won't look at you.

You should thank him. Social convention demands it. But when you turn, he's no longer beside you.

You scan the store, methodical. Not by the register. Not in the front aisle. You spot him in the back corner, methodically straightening items on a shelf. The motions almost beautiful in their devotion to order.

Three steps and you're close enough to speak without raising your voice.

"Thank you for the pads."

The words come out stiff. Clinical. Ridiculous, suddenly. Thank you for the pads. As if there's any meaning to the gesture beyond simple efficiency.

He freezes completely. His back to you, shoulders gone rigid. You can see the line of his spine through his oversized black shirt. Too thin. His belt has been cinched to the last hole and still hangs loose at his waist.

When he doesn't respond, you consider walking away. You've fulfilled the social obligation. Acknowledged the gesture. There's no reason to prolong this interaction.

But something stops you. Some strange, unquantifiable curiosity about this man who won't face you. Who performs small kindnesses while visibly shaking. Who wears medical gloves in a convenience store.

You wait for a response that doesn't come.

A drop of water falls from your hair onto your collarbone. Slides down beneath your leotard. The sensation is unwelcome and bothersome.

He remains perfectly still, as if movement might shatter something crucial. His breathing is shallow. Almost imperceptible.

You should leave now. The exchange is complete. The social obligation fulfilled.

Instead, you tilt your head slightly. Study the slope of his shoulders. The precise angle of his neck as he stares fixedly at the shelf before him. The way his gloved fingers press against his thigh in a rhythm you can't quite decode.

Something about him is... delicate. Like a blown glass figure one breath away from shattering.

A strange impulse seizes you. You want to see his face. Want to know if his features match the fragility of his posture. Want to understand why he refuses to meet your eyes.

You step to the side. Just slightly. Just enough that you might catch a glimpse of his profile.

His reaction is immediate—he turns away, keeping that curtain of washed-out hair between you. Maintaining his anonymity with surprising determination.

The motion is too deliberate to be coincidental—as if he's preserving something vital through this avoidance.

You find it... interesting.

Most men stare. They always have. Since you were thirteen and your body first began to take the shape that others found worth watching. Their gazes slide over you like oil—unpleasant but expected. A toll you pay for occupying space.

This man refuses to look at all. Refuses even to be seen himself.

The novelty of it sparks something in you. A flicker of curiosity. A desire to press just a little further.

"Why are you helping me?" The question is direct. Almost rude in its bluntness.

No response. Just that same rigid posture. The same careful avoidance.

The cashier calls from the front: "We're closing in five."

You should leave. The cotton pads are secured. The errand complete. There's no logical reason to remain.

You take one step back. Then another.

His shoulders lower by perhaps two millimeters. Relief.

Your eyes narrow. What a curious reaction to a simple retreat. As if your mere proximity causes him distress.

As you turn to go, something catches your eye. A small plastic employee badge clipped to his belt. Mostly obscured by his shirt, but partially visible now that he's shifted position.

The convenience store's logo. A name printed beneath it.

Kim.

That's all you can see from this angle. Just a single surname.

You file it away. A data point that shouldn't matter but somehow does.

Four more steps and you're at the door. The rain is still falling, harder now. Your shoes will be ruined.

At the threshold, some impulse you don't examine makes you pause. Turn back.

He's watching you now.

Not directly. Not obviously. But you can feel the weight of his gaze from across the store. Can see how he's angled just slightly in your direction, observing through that muted veil of hair.

When he realizes you've caught him, he jerks his head away. The movement is so abrupt it's almost violent. As if being caught looking is somehow worse than looking itself.

Something unfurls in your chest. Something you haven't felt before and therefore cannot name.

It feels like power, but softer. Like command, but quieter.

Like the moment in rehearsal when you know—absolutely know—that every eye in the room is fixed on the perfect arch of your foot.

You watch him a moment longer. Note how his hands have begun to shake more visibly. How his breathing has quickened. How he seems to be counting something under his breath—his lips moving in a silent rhythm.

Afraid. He's afraid. Of you.

The realization should make you uncomfortable. Should compel you to leave.

It doesn't.

Instead, you find yourself... intrigued. By his fear. By his avoidance. By the contradiction of a man who will pay for your purchases but won't meet your eyes.

He's like a puzzle with missing pieces. An equation that doesn't balance. A phrase of music that ends on an unexpected note.

And you…

You’ve always been intrigued by seemingly unsolvable problems.

As you push open the door, the bell above jingles—a cheerful, discordant note in the tense silence of the store. The sound makes him flinch, though it's difficult to tell if it's the suddenness or simply the fact that it marks your departure.

But you file the reaction away with everything else you’ve noticed about him. Building a catalog of responses. Creating a framework for understanding.

You step into the rain, cotton pads clutched in your pocket.

The water hits your face in cold droplets. Your shoes squelch with each step. Your hair grows heavier with accumulated moisture.

None of it matters.

What matters is tomorrow's rehearsal.

What matters is Ondine.

What matters is perfection.

What matters is, strangely, the image of his downturned face.

The graceful arc of his wrist as he straightened those bottles.

The way he was utterly aware of your presence.

It was beautiful—his fear; his distance.

It makes you wonder what would happen if you shattered it.

goal: 250 notes

no reposts, translations, or adaptations

267 notes · View notes