#this was a challenge to write

[copia]

Flood Gates 🔞 — 3.6k, copia/cirrus, angst and (attempted) hurt/comfort, dom/sub dynamic — more tags on ao3

Copia angled his head against her shoulder and kissed a spot on her neck below the mask, where her collar had slipped and a patch of grey skin peeked through. I need your help, he should have said. I need it all to disappear. Frater Imperator makes a detour on the way to welcome his successor.

part 3 of I Fiaschi

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

reblog if you have skilled writer friends and you're damn proud of them

[bebx]

[catmask]

when u go to write a mentally ill person in ur story you are presented two options. the first option is to write your mental illness realistically as you actually experience it with all the ups and downs and people who are like you will resonate with it and feel seen. except every person who reads instagram infographics on mental health that uses the phrase narcicisst for anyone who does anything that crosses them and unironically call themself a dark empath will call you scary and tell you that youre demonizing mentally ill people

the second option is to lie and write inspiration porn for those people to get hard to

[whumptober]

WHUMPTOBER 2024: PROMPTS LIST

Welcome to Whumptober 2024 — Seventh Time's a Charm!

Please make sure to read the Event Info and FAQ below carefully, as most of your questions will be answered there already. For everything else, you are welcome to come to our ask box or ask questions in our Discord server here.

This year’s AO3 Collection can be found here.

This year's playlist can be found here.

The 'Anatomy of a Whumptober Prompt' post can be found here.

And our 'Resources for Writing Sensitive Topics' post is here.

We’re very excited to see the community come together for another year of Whumptober! Go wild with the prompts, and support your fellow creators - we wish you all the fun!

Best of luck and happy whumping,

Mods Vanne, Yenn, Kitty and Surro

(Text versions of the prompts, as well as event information, rules and FAQ are posted below the cut!)

Whumptober 2024 Prompt List

No. 1: RACE AGAINST THE CLOCK

Search Party | Panic Attack | "If only we could hold on.” (Icysami x Renegaderr, Strangers.)

No. 2: TRUST ISSUES

Amusement Park | Role Reversal | “You got away with the crime while the knife's in my back.” (Charlotte Sands, Rollercoaster)

No. 3: SET UP FOR FAILURE

Fingerprints | Wrongfully Arrested | "I warned you."

No. 4: HALLUCINATIONS

Hypnosis | Sensory Deprivation | “You're still alive in my head.” (Billy Lockett, More)

No. 5: SUNBURN

Healing Salve | Heatstroke | "If my pain will stretch that far." (Lottery Winners, Burning House)

No. 6: NOT REALISING THEY'RE INJURED

Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms | Healed Wrong | "It's not my blood."

No. 7: ONLY FOR EMERGENCIES

Unconventional Weapon | Magic with a Cost | "It's us or them."

No. 8: SLEEP DEPRIVATION

Isolation Chamber | Forced to Stay Awake | "Leave the lights on." (Coldplay, Midnight)

No. 9: OBSESSION

Broken Window | Bruises | “Frame me up on the wall, just to keep me out of trouble.” (Fall Out Boy, Irresistible)

No. 10: BLOW TO THE HEAD

Slurred Words | Passing Out from Pain | "I can't think straight."

No. 11: SEEING DOUBLE

Convenience Store | Loneliness | “Leave no trace behind, like you don't even exist.” (Taylor Swift, Illicit Affairs)

No. 12: STARVATION

Underground Caverns | Cannibalism | "Just a little more."

No. 13: TEAM AS A FAMILY

Familial Curse | Multiple Whumpees | "Death will do us part." (Set It Off, Partner's In Crime)

No. 14: LEFT FOR DEAD

Hunting Gear | Blackmail | “Because I want you to know what it feels like to be haunted” (tiLLie, kooL aiD mAn)

No. 15: CHILDHOOD TRAUMA

Painful Hug | Moment of Clarity | "I did good, right?"

No. 16: NECROSIS

Swamp | Wound Cleaning | "No, I can't feel anything."

No. 17: NOWHERE ELSE TO GO

Ruined Map | Shipwrecked | "We had a good run."

No. 18: REVENGE

Unreliable Narrator | Loss of Identity | “I see what's mine and take it.” (Panic! at the Disco, Emperor's New Clothes)

No. 19: BLOOD TRAIL

Abandoned Cabin | One Way Out | "Is there anybody alive out there?" (Bruce Springsteen, Radio Nowhere)

No. 20: EMOTIONAL ANGST

Shoulder to Cry On | Giving Permission to Die | "It's not your fault."

No. 21: BODY HORROR

Body Horror | Tattoo Gun | Spirit Possession | “Let the bedsheet soak up the tears.” (Apparat feat. Soap & Skin, Goodbye)

No. 22: BLEEDING THROUGH BANDAGES

Tourniquet | Reopening Wounds | "Oh that's not good."

No. 23: FORCED CHOICE

Public Display | Broken Pedestal | "I'm doing this for you."

No. 24: RADIATION POISONING

Collapsed Building | Equipment Failure | “I never knew daylight could be so violent.” (Florence + The Machine, No Light, No Light)

No. 25: SURGERY

Stitches | Being Monitored | "It's for your own good."

No. 26: NIGHTMARES

Breakfast Table | Parting Words of Regret | “I'm haunted by the lies that I have loved, the actions I have hated.” (Poe, Haunted)

No. 27: VOICELESS

Laboratory | Muzzled | “I have no mouth and I must scream.”

No. 28: DENIAL

CCTV | Exposure | "They caught me red handed."

No. 29: FATIGUE

Labyrinth | Burnout | "Who said you could rest?"

No. 30: RECOVERY

Hospital Bed | Holding Back Tears | "What have I done?"

No. 31: ASKING FOR HELP

Therapy | Making Amends | "I'm alive, I'm just not well." (Elliot Lee, Alive, Not Well.)

Alternatives List:

Body Swap

Communication Barrier

Finding Old Messages

Forgotten

Friendly Fire

Motion Sickness

No-Holds-Barred Beatdown

Regret

Secrets Revealed

Shivering

Survivor's Guilt

Time Loop

Used As Bait

Venom

Vermin

Event Info & Rules

WHUMPTOBER is a month-long, prompt-based creation challenge (think: Inktober, but whumpier). There are 31 official themes this year - one for each day of the month - which can be used, skipped, or combined in any way you’d like. They are meant to serve as inspiration without being taken literally (e.g. you don’t have to include the exact wording of prompts into your work). Feel free to run rampant on interpretation. For example, if the prompt is “flame", you could create something with reference to a candle/campfire, your character could have suffered a burn, or the flame could be a reference to an ‘old flame’ - an old relationship. It’s truly down to you!

In total, there are 4 prompts for each day. These are optional suggestions and can be used in conjunction with the theme, or as options/alternatives.  We want to give everyone as much creative freedom as possible, as well as increase event accessibility for folks with triggers and squicks. There is also a list of 15 alternative prompts that can be subbed in for any day, again to give participants as much creative freedom as possible.

Creators can PRODUCE work in any media they choose, including but not limited to: writing, visual artwork, photo/video/audio edits, paper crafts and elaborate recommendation lists (not just a list of links). Creators can PARTICIPATE as much or as little as they want (i.e. you don’t have to do ALL the prompts if you don’t want to) and prompts can be used in any order. They are also free to use even after the event ends.

When uploading Whumptober content to your blog, be sure to tag it with:

#whumptober2024 …..(the event tag)

#no.1, #no.2, #no.3, …..(theme number)

#bruises, #stabbing, …..(the theme or specific prompt you chose)

#altprompt …..(if you use an altprompt, tag the post with the number of the prompt you replace)

#fandom or #OC, …..(ironman, original content, oc, etc.)

#medium …..(gifs, fic, podcast, art, etc.)

#teeth, #etc …..(trigger warnings & any additional tags. Keep in mind not to add “tw” in front but only use the word/trigger itself)

#nsfwhump …..(only for nsfw content)

#your own tags go here

PLEASE BE DILIGENT WITH YOUR TAGGING. Only properly tagged posts are considered for archiving on the official @whumptober-archive blog. They must be tagged in the order above. An elaborate post about our tagging system can be found [here]

Unfortunately, due to the sheer number of participants in recent years, we cannot guarantee your work will be archived. A random selection of properly tagged posts from all genres will be reblogged each day.

Whumpers who produce content for 31 total theme days are considered event completionists and will be tagged in a masterpost at the end of the month. A form will be published at the beginning of November asking you to tell us if you completed. This is based on trust and we will not check this.

Frequently Asked Questions

Please read this before you send an ask!

TIMELINE

July: Trope voting form released. Late August: Prompt list is released for at least four weeks of preparation time. Tropes cannot be posted earlier than August 25th because of Moderator obligations in real life. (But, you know, go ahead and start writing/drawing, and add the themes in later, if you want!) September: Do as much or as little on your works as you want. You can prepare everything in advance or let September go by with vibes and start working in October. It’s up to you. October 1st: Challenge begins! A storm of whump breaks upon us all! During this time, some posts will be reblogged to the whumptober archive blog. We open the yearly AO3 collection for posting (optional). November 1st: The challenge is officially over! Completionist form opens for those who want to be included in the hall-of-fame. Early November: We release completionist and participant badges, solicit feedback, and post a hall-of-fame list of completionists by the 10th.

PARTICIPATION AND COMPLETION

Q: What counts as participation? Create or continue at least one work inspired by one of this year’s prompts. Q: What counts as completion? Creating work(s) inspired by at least one prompt from each day (or alts), for a total of 31 unique prompts. Q: Do I need to create 31 works? No. You can, if you want. Or you can create one work that you add to every day with a new prompt. Or several works that combine prompts. You can also update an existing work by adding new material with the current prompts. Q: Do I need to post my works somewhere to be a completionist or a participant? No. Q: How do you know I actually completed the challenge? We’ll take your word for it! Q: Do I have to finish my work(s) to be a completionist? No, you can post WIPs. And you’re not obligated to finish them in October, but if you want it to count towards being a completionist, you must have completed 31 prompts by the end of the month. So for example, if you’re writing a long fic and you fit 31 different prompts into the writing you did in October, it’s okay if that fic isn’t finished by the time October ends, you’ll still be a completionist. Q: Is co-writing/illustrating allowed? Yes, absolutely, and it would count towards being a completionist for both/all of you. Q: Is there a min/max limit on word count for written works? No. Q: Is there a min/max limit of quality for art? No. Q: Do I have to do something each day to be a completionist? No. You can skip days whenever you want, and as long as 31 daily prompts (or alts) are in your works done in October, you can be a completionist. For example, if you wrote a 1000-word ficlet that covers prompts in days 2, 3, and 17, you can check all three days off your list even though it’s only one work. Q: Is this challenge just for fics? No! Artworks, GIFsets, headcannons, rec lists, poetry, moodboards, or any other creative work is encouraged. Q: Can I combine Whumptober with other creation challenges? Absolutely, as long as the other challenges allow it too.

PROMPTS

Q: How do the prompts work? There are FOUR prompts per day: a theme and three ideas. You can use one, two, three, or all four prompts for each day. If you don’t like any of the daily prompts, you can substitute one of the ALT prompts instead. Q: How strictly/literally should we interpret the prompts? As literally or as figuratively as you want. For example, if the theme is WATER, that could mean drowning, waterboarding, raining, swimming, take place underwater, be lost at sea, construct a metaphor about a character’s mood that changes like a flowing river, crying, or whatever else you can think of that fits that theme. Q: Can I combine prompts? Is there a limit on how many? No limit and combine as many as you’d like. If you create a work that checks off multiple prompts, that work will count for a fill of multiple prompts. You need to address 31 different prompts to be an official completionist, but you don’t have to produce 31 separate works.

WORKS

Q: What’s whump? Hurting a character, whether that’s physically, emotionally, intellectually, psychologically, or any other way you can think of. Comfort afterwards is optional. Angst is emotional whump, so it counts. Q: How do I know if it’s whumpy enough? If your character is just mildly inconvenienced, it probably needs more whump. However, no participant has to prove whumpiness to the mods. Whatever you write is up to you. Q: What kind of characters can I create for? Anything. Generic “whumpee,” OC, PC, NPC, major characters, minor characters, or whatever you want. There are no limits. Q: Does it have to take place in a specific fandom? No, you can create works for your own worlds or for fandoms or for both. You can also create more generic or pan-fandom works. You can do cross-overs or use OCs, whatever you want. Q: Can I create AI-created works? We will not reblog or promote any works we know to be generative AI-created. Q: Is there anything we’re not allowed to write? As long as it contains whump and is based on our prompts, it’s fine. Please courtesy tag your works if you post them so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences. Q: What about sex, minor characters, and potentially disturbing content? You can create whatever works are legal in your country and post them accordingly. Please courtesy tag anything you think might be objectionable if you post to Tumblr so people who follow the #whumptober2024 tag can filter according to their preferences.

POSTING

Q: Where can I post my work? Post where and how you want. You don’t even have to (cross)post it to Tumblr. Just keep in mind if it’s not on Tumblr we will not be able to add it to the blog archive. There is an AO3 archive for Whumptober 2024, as well as the parent collection for works completed outside of the event. Q: Can I start posting early? You can, but this is an October event and wouldn’t it be more fun with everyone doing it at the same time? We won’t be reblogging any work predating October 1st. Q: Can I post late? Yes. For the sake of our hardworking Post Fairies, only a day’s themes will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive each day of October. But you can post whenever. Some of us are still working on and posting Whumptober fics from years ago. Q: Do I have to use your tags? Only on Tumblr and only if you want us to reblog your work on @whumptober-archive. Q: How do I have my works reblogged to the archive? Properly tagged posts will be reblogged to @whumptober-archive. If you want the official archive blog to reblog you, post on Tumblr and tag correctly (see this FAQ link for more info on tagging). Please note not all posts will be reblogged each day. Q: Can we @ you? For questions and comments, of course. We’ll be getting a flood of notifications, so if you really want us to see something send an ask. Q: Can I cross post on other blogs? Yes, multiple platforms and blogs are perfectly acceptable, as long as they allow cross-posting (to us). You can also post different works to different accounts under different names, without posting them everywhere at once. If you post some works under your main and others under an alt blog, that’s fine for completionist purposes. Q: Can I upload/repost my Whumptober content to other social media platforms? Of course! We’ve created an AO3 Collection to archive any fics posted there, which can be found here. The blog is the official archive, so please respect the personal boundaries of any whumpers in your social circle (don’t out anyone as a participant who would prefer not to be outed).

Most importantly, have fun, create, and enjoy all the whump posted this October!

[martyfive]

SHHH… ma’s looking for you!

[inkskinned]

i hate to say it because i'm neurodivergent and a chronic-pain-haver but like... sometimes stuff is going to be hard and that's okay.

it's okay if you don't understand something the first few times it's explained to you. it's okay if you have to google every word in a sentence. it's okay if you need to spend a few hours learning the context behind a complicated situation. it's okay if you need to read something, think about it, and then come back to re-read it.

i get it. giving up is easier, and we are all broken down and also broke as hell. nobody has the time, nobody has the fucking energy. that is how they win, though. that is why you feel this way. it is so much easier, and that is why you must resist the impetus to shut down. fight through the desire you've been taught to "tl;dr".

embrace when a book is confusing for you. accept not all media will be transparent and glittery and in the genre you love. question why you need everything to be lily-white and soft. i get it. i also sometimes choose the escapism, the fantasy-romance. there's no shame in that. but every day i still try to make myself think about something, to actually process and challenge myself. it is hard, often, because of my neurodivergence. but i fight that urge, because i think it's fucking important.

especially right now. the more they convince you not to think, the easier it will be to feed you misinformation. the more we accept a message without criticism, the more power they will have over that message. the more you choose convenience, the more they will make propaganda convenient to you.

[ervotica]

hot rod — a.donaldson & p.zweig

pairings; art donaldson x fem!reader, patrick zweig x fem!reader, art donaldson x patrick zweig

summary; patrick comes to visit you and art at college. he finds college life is a lot more adventurous than once anticipated

warnings; mdni, 18+ only, SMUT, threesome, overstim, oral (m receiving), sub leaning!reader and art, more dom leaning!patrick, established throuple, polyamory

a/n; i’m not so sure how i feel about this tbh. i love the dynamic though so i pushed through even when it got away from me a little🥲 there will be another drabble for older!art and his pretty girl soon!!

you and art fuck until you’re brain dead and passed out from exhaustion. always have. neither of you possess an off switch, and when patrick’s not there to rein the pair of you in, things get a little… messy.

his cum is dried in your hair, the sticky substance smeared across your cheek, his knuckles still wet with slick.

patrick walks in, full belly laughs and peels you from art’s sweat soaked form, gives your cheek a pinch when you stir and whine.

he doesn’t clean you up because he likes to leave you naked whenever he has the opportunity — which is more often than not. seriously, you two need close supervision.

he just carries you with him to that shitty little armchair in art’s dorm, the room still stinking of sex and the humid summer air clinging to your skin; art shines with perspiration where he’s face down on the bed.

pat makes do with the lack of room, hooking a bare leg over the backs of your thighs until you’re squeezed snugly against his torso, face smushed to his chest. you’re snoring, and it makes patrick smile, slumping down in his chair to rest his lips against your cheekbone.

you wake slowly, eyes sticky and crusted over with exhaustion. your face is almost nestled beneath patrick’s armpit where you’ve been writhing in slumber and you grumble at the scent of sweat, layered with cheap aftershave. his hard-on presses to the center of your stomach and you can feel everything— the curve it makes now it’s hard and weeping, the feel of the spongy head, the vein that runs through the middle.

“you smell, pat,” you grumble, reaching up blindly to snatch the cigarette from between his teeth and take a long pull from the stick.

“yeah, well you’re not so hot yourself, babe. the whole room reeks.” he reaches down to tug on a loose strand of hair at the crown of your head. “there’s cum in your hair.”

“not my fault.” you stretch upward like a cat, curling into patrick’s chest. “where’s art gone?”

“still sleeping, baby.” he lights another cigarette, sacrificing the first one to you - still resting between your lips - and the clicking of the lighter draws your head upward to gaze through heavy lashes at him.

“come to bed,” you murmur, kissing his knuckles. your free hand coasts a long line across his jaw and you dig your thumb beneath his ear, giggling when he scrunches his features and relents, and pushes you to stand with a swat to your naked backside.

art curls into you instinctively when you roll onto the mattress, your hand threading through the curls atop his head. you scrub sweeping circles across his bare back and he hums a pleased sound, smearing a kiss to the corner of your mouth. patrick splays himself over the pair of you, all long limbs that sit askew to cover as much of your naked frames as possible.

art squints through the yellow light that illuminates the room, bright and artificial on his sensitive eyes. your movements against him don’t halt, a slow, rhythmic, loving sweep of your hands that he’s come to look forward to in moments like this. his jaw tilts upward as he mouths at your neck like a starved man, like you haven’t just gone five rounds and collapsed from overstimulation.

“you two need supervision,” patrick snorts. you quirk a bemused brow. “i’m serious, look at what you’ve done to each other! you look like you’ve been mauled.”

“jealous, much?” art mumbles sleepily, the sound muffled through your skin. you’re laughing and it splits your expression in two, eyes crinkled with amusement as the strawberry blonde boy snipes at patrick.

“should’a come to college with us, pretty boy,” you giggle. “could’a had this twenty four seven.” you dip your head until your brow presses to art’s. “poor pat, with no one to stick his dick in. how will he ever cope?”

“you could help me out, sweets,” he deadpans, the nickname saccharine and sour on his tongue all at once. art watches you through heavy lids. you huff, biting playfully at art’s lip before you tilt your head to face patrick,

“okay,” you chirrup. art’s quick to sit up, separating from your warmth in favour of nuzzling against patrick. patrick tips his chin down, slanting his lips against the blonde boy’s.

meanwhile, you’re working his cock through his shorts, palming the muscle until it chubs up beneath your hand, drooling a wet patch through the fabric. patrick groans, hips rolling up into your touch when you hook your fingers beneath his waistband and tug his cock free.

he moans into art’s mouth and your mouth goes dry at the sight. you’ve always loved to watch them like this, the way they get lost in each other, the way they start fervently pushing into one another’s space until patrick inevitably makes the first move and sticks his tongue down art’s throat.

patrick turns to putty beneath art’s roaming touch, huge paws that squeeze and grope and push at every inch of skin they come into contact with, not stopping even as you press your face to the seam of patrick’s balls, inhaling the sweat-soaked musk that creeps up your nostrils.

art’s hand snakes downward, flicking over pert nipples and ridges of muscle before he’s flicking a thumb over the weeping slit of his cock. patrick’s back bows into an arch as you lave your tongue over his sack, humming into the sensitive skin, full and heavy and begging for release. his hips rock upward into you as you seal your lips over him, eyes heavy with lust as art comes down to meet your mouth over his mushroom head.

it’s filthy and messy, downright pornographic as art licks over patrick’s cock, tongue pressing flat against the corner of your mouth and letting his spit pool there. you’re moaning - unable to help yourself - pressing your face forward to slant your lips over art’s fully. it’s all spit and drool as you lick into art’s mouth, the heady taste of the brunette boy still on your tongue, and then patrick’s bracing a hand against each of your heads and easing his cock through the seam where your spit slick mouths mesh.

you gasp and your damp lashes flutter, heavy with tears, and art’s tugging you frantically by your waist, pressing your bare chest to his own as patrick throws his head back and groans, shallow thrusts deepening. his breath stutters out in short, sharp bursts, chest heaving when your face slides down, down, down, all the way to the base of him until your pretty plump lips are wrapped around his sack.

you suck it into your mouth just as art takes patrick down his throat, the head of his cock bulging through the hollow of art’s throat as spit stretches and bows from the corners of his lips and lands in globs across your face.

you’re too drunk on the pleasure to care, the vibrations of your little sounds shooting right through patrick until you feel his balls tighten; he groans, long and loud, pushing closer to the pair of you as his cock pulses rhythmically and he releases down art’s throat.

you push your way through until your mouth is on art’s again, tongue licking into his mouth to taste patrick, wanting to be marked, claimed by both of them. his lips part, nose pressing to your cheek, and then he’s lifting you into his lap, his cock an angry red and pressed to the seam of your thigh.

patrick groans. there’s no fucking way he’s hard again.

“no more, you horndogs!”

[centaurianthropology]

Murderbot as a ‘Cringe’ Litmus Test for the Audience (a.k.a., we are culturally the Corporation Rim)

One of the more interesting things I’ve seen in discussions of ‘Murderbot’ are how many people are not happy that the show made the Preservation team more explicitly hippies.  After all, per our current cultural zeitgeist, hippies are silly, over-earnest, over-feeling, over-EVERYTHING. Why is this team of scientists holding hands and humming?  Why are they taking breaks in the middle of a tense situation to reassure a colleague that they love him? Why do they stand around playing music and dancing during their downtime?  Why did the show make them “Cringe”?

And that got me thinking again about the current cultural antipathy toward sincerity and openness.  People who are seen as open and sincere beyond a fairly narrow scope of emotional expression are treated as deeply weird, off-putting, and most importantly for this conversation, as INCOMPETENT.  You can’t be goofy and competent.  You can’t believe in the power of love and friendship and holding hands and taking a dance break, and still be a good scientist.  You can’t have one of the unsexy sorts of mental health problems (panic disorder) and be a good leader.  In our current cultural moment, you have to be Cool.  You have to be unaffected by both the horrors of the world and the day-to-day joys. 

I think that a lot of people see themselves in ‘The Murderbot Diaries’, and a lot of them understandably love the very anticapitalist tone of the books.  And they wanted Preservation to be Cool Space Communists.  Hypercompetent at all times, serious, without flaw.  Because any personal flaws might be taken as flaws in their cultural and political leanings, right?  And we can’t have silliness or goofiness or fun in our Communist Utopia, or people won’t take us seriously.

But to me, the tension is so much better, so much more real and human and FUN. And it makes the audience question their own implicit biases as much as SecUnit is going to have to contemplate its implicit biases.  This team is comprised of highly talented scientists from a culture that values emotions and, yes, activities that we the audience have been culturally trained to think are Cringe.  They do have a humming consensus circle—so that anyone in the team can have veto power over a decision that has major ramifications not only for a research project, but for their own ethics.  They do like to play music and dance when they’ve got some free time, even if that music would be considered embarrassing or offputting to outsiders.  They do openly love one another and support one another, even in—no, especially in—challenging times.  It’s good to have that tension, both to tell the story and to give the characters and the AUDIENCE an emotional and thematic arc.

Let’s use Dr. Mensah as a the best example so far of this tension. Mensah is a good leader.  In every scene where she’s with the group, she’s the heart of it.  She’s always weighing the fears, the thoughts, the feelings, and the arguments of her friends to come to a decision.  She doesn’t feel like Gurathin’s right about not trusting SecUnit, but she’s also very aware that he knows more about the Corporation Rim than she does, and that his arguments, while rooted in his fears, are rational.  So she ends up deciding that they’ll leave the SecUnit behind for their mission. 

And it’s the wrong call. Going out to the dark site in the map without the SecUnit almost gets her killed. But her decision to climb the scree pile alone makes sense, because she doesn’t want to further endanger Bharadwaj, and if she doesn’t climb up there with her equipment, they won’t get important information about what’s going on with their survey data. And yes, while she’s climbing she has another panic attack. But she keeps climbing through it. Hell, she even takes a moment to encourage the teamwork between SecUnit and Gurathin, because that’s an important part of being their leader.  And, yes, they both roll their eyes because they still don’t like one another. But the important thing is that she’s created this sense of openness, of acceptance, of love.

Being a good leader doesn’t mean making the right call all the time.  It means learning from both right calls and wrong calls.  It means creating an environment where people can be wrong, and learn from their mistakes, and try again to get it right.  And it works!  Gurathin may roll his eyes, but he also has the space to apologize for getting it wrong. He has the space to fuck up and try again. And that is created by her encouragement, by her openness, by her caring even when it becomes embarrassing to a man raised in our culture the Corporation Rim, where open emotion is something to smirk at.

And when she’s alone, Mensah falls apart.  When no one can see her, she has panic attacks, because things are starting to go pear-shaped for these people she loves.  Because one of her dear friends nearly died, and she wasn’t there, and apparently that could happen at any time because their maps are faulty, and the only real rescue is an untrustworthy bond company that is a week away at best.  That’s a perfect recipe for a panic attack, but she hides them because she knows what she needs to be for her friends and colleagues.  She is the leader, and damned if she’s going to let something like her panic disorder stop her from doing that.

That’s not incompetent, that’s incredibly courageous.  Her bravery lies in being afraid and pushing through, not being flawless from the off.  The bravery and the competence and the things that eventually are going to win Murderbot over to loving these humans ARE their flaws and the fact that they don’t let those flaws stop them from trying to be the best people they can be, while also being true to a culture of being open and loving to the point that they can come across, to the jaded construct or audience member, as Cringe.

I think we’re going to see more and more of that as the show unfolds.  We’ve only just laid the groundwork, and established the initial impressions of all the characters.  They are being set up for arcs, and by electing to let the Preservation team be more out-there, more earnest, more Cringe, they’re setting the audience up for an arc too.

Anyway, loving the show, can’t wait for the DeltFall storyline to kick off tonight.  And I love this crew being highly-competent space hippies with realistic human flaws, who love and support one another.  In an unrelentingly Cool, Bleak, and Edgy television landscape, it really is nice to have kind characters be free to be their kooky selves without the show judging them for it.

[bachissidehoe]

in which you're Reo's princess, and Nagi's his treasure. (w.c. 1049)

At first, you found it strange the way Nagi Seishiro would so casually throw his arm around your shoulder and hold you close to his chest. You were Reo’s girlfriend, after all. The girlfriend of his best friend.

“What are you playing?”

He sighed. “It would be a hassle to explain. You can watch though.”

And you did. You sat next to him on the couch, forcing your gaze past his toned muscles and shaggy, tangled hair to watch his little mobile game.

“Come here. It’s hard to play when you’re leaning on my arm.”

And he wrapped his arm around you, pulling you into his side so he could access his screen better. Apparently, this position made him more mobile.

You were flushed. You didn’t think something like this would be allowed. You were nestled into the gorgeous, soft body of your boyfriend’s best friend.

“Oh cute! My princess and my treasure.”

That’s all Reo had said when he saw you. It surprised you, to say the least.

But it’s not like you were complaining. Where lying on Reo’s chest was warm, Nagi’s was cool. Where Reo was obvious with his praise, Nagi was nonchalant. You found yourself wanting the affection of both of them, in a weird way.

And it started to be less surprising when Nagi asked to hold you. In fact, you started to hope he would.

“Your thighs are soft, like pillows. I need a nap.”

And Nagi collapsed, right there on your thighs, letting his eyes flutter shut. So calm.

“Aren’t they?” Reo agreed from the opposite couch, encouraging the physicality.

What the two didn’t notice was how you shifted in your seat, affected by the warm breaths that dusted your inner thighs. It wouldn’t be comfortable for the snowy haired boy to sleep in a puddle, so you held on for dear life, your hands clenched around the fabric of the couch rather than tangled in his messy hair.

You hadn’t realized the effect Nagi Seishiro really had on you. How his subtle, casual affection had trained you to become a secret mess for him. For your boyfriend’s best friend.

But Reo- your smart, charismatic, beautiful boyfriend- he had realized. In fact, he’d been encouraging this for a reason.

“You’re bothered, aren’t you princess?”

For a moment you thought you may be in trouble. It’s wrong to get turned on by your boyfriend’s best friend. But the look on Reo’s face, the devious smirk, said otherwise.

So you nodded.

“How cute.” He moved to hover over you, Nagi still restful on your thighs. “My princess and my treasure get along so well.”

It became pretty obvious what your boyfriend wanted after that. You just didn't realize how you didn't notice it before. The way he looked at Nagi. The way he encouraged you two. He wanted Nagi just as badly as you did.

The burning growing between your thighs wasn't enough for just Reo to satisfy anymore. And he knew that.

"Princess, hm? That what you want me to call her too, Reo?" Nagi mumbled, his groggy eyes opening just enough to look up at your flushed face.

"You should." Reo pulled Nagi upward by his shirt, removing him from the comfortable spot he created on your thighs.

Nagi complained the whole way up, of course, he was never one to enjoy being forced out of a cozy position.

"You should also let her ride you." Reo smirked, bringing Nagi's face close to his, nearly touching his lips.

You gulped.

But Nagi Seishiro was less than nervous, the nonchalant type of person he was. He only glanced back at you, not struggling at all under your boyfriend's tight hold on his shirt.

"Yeah fine." Nagi agreed.

It was hard for you to tell whether Nagi really wanted to fuck you, whether he was interested in you at all or if he wanted to shut Reo up. But as it turned out, Nagi Seishiro was stubborn and ruthless. He wanted you just as badly, his cock constantly straining against his shorts whenever you were close to him, wanting any excuse to stuff his face into your pretty thighs. But he'd never admit it.

Not until you were bouncing on his thick cock, mouth hung open and hands relentlessly tugging on his hair. Right there on that couch. With your wet cunt soaking him, your movements squeezing juices into a messy coating for Nagi's bare thighs.

That's when Nagi Seishiro decided to be honest. "Fuck, I needed you. Fuck~ yes I need~ ah-"

And Reo couldn't have been happier about the beautiful scene he created. "You don't mind, hm? Can't expect me to just watch." He lined up behind you, letting his familiar, flushed tip plunge into the depths of your unused hole, forcing you to lean forward onto Nagi's chest.

"I'll get ya both off. Fuck~" Reo spat, his thrusts creating the friction both you and Nagi so desperately craved, your heavy breaths mixing into each other in the small space between you.

And you kissed him, because you couldn't help it. Your sloppy, drooly lips pressed to Nagi's in a desperate display of hunger.

As it turned out, Reo had been thinking about this for a long time. Longer than you had. Longer than the stubborn Nagi Seishiro had.

He rocked his hips in perfect rhythm, your cunt sliding and squeezing around Nagi's perfect cock while your ass was lubed and stuffed by your pretty boyfriend.

Reo was right about getting you both off, too. It took him practically no time, with your clit rubbing against Nagi's skin and the friction forcing Nagi's tip into your g-spot over and over again, it wasn't difficult. But that didn't matter to Reo, he never specified how many times he expected to get you two off. And it became clear very quickly that once wasn't enough for him.

He'd been holding back his desires for too long, he deserved to see you shaking, tears streaming down your face, cum dripping from all your holes. He deserved to see Nagi fucked out, hair sticking to his forehead, arms wrapped around you and lips attached to your bruised neck.

Your boyfriend deserved that much. After how long you made him wait to fuck his princess and his treasure.

[bernard-the-rabbit]

Oh alice..you would have loved Tim pls don't end up like him <3

[allthingswhumpyandangsty]

you know a fic is good when it has this

[bebx]

reblog if you’ve read fanfictions that are more professional, better written than some actual novels. I’m trying to see something

[slowdivinqs]

Presentiment

Stalker! Joel Miller x f!reader ( 18+ MDNI )

summary : no one is truly alone in the world, especially not you.

w/c : 12K

warnings : no use of y/n, horror themes and elements DDDNE, stalker behavior, feelings of isolation and depression, existential crisis? Kidnapping, cynical thoughts about life described, abuse, violence against the reader by Joel, old!Joel. slowburn-ish. dub-con?. unprotected PinV. Oral f!receiving. Manhandling. Hunter / prey kink. Twisted daddy kink but no use of the word 'daddy'. Joel popping a viagra. VERY Large age gap ( 35+ years ) . Manipulation. Obsession. Reader’s mother is described as a drug addict. Shitty men, harassment and pervertedness from a co-worker. Murder / death of side characters. Stockholm syndrome. Reader is toxic too. Religious imagery. Can be pixel or pedro Joel. The reader is implied as being thinner due to life long poverty, but her body type is not described or stated.

a/n : This was made for @pedgito's writing challenge and kind of ran away from me. It was such a blast, I've never tried horror or a specifically dark fic and it was sm fun! I’m sure the characters I wrote will stick with me forever. I sat with this fic for a long time before posting, and it's the longest thing I've ever written!! Not sure how I feel about it still. Thank you for letting me participate! Happy birthday ♡

if you don’t like dark themes, listen to the warnings and don’t read the fic.

masterlist

—— ☓ ——

Something feels wrong before your eyes have had the chance to open – a kind of warning, an omen, baked into the morning light stabbing your iris through moth-eaten curtains.

It was the way your body ached as you tried to sit up, stomach screaming for food you just don’t have. Your mother hasn’t been home for a week and you know she’s either run off with some incest-bred asshole who’s promised her a beer or she’s passed out in a crack-house miles away.

Your shift at the diner starts in thirty minutes. 

The men that pass through this town are all the same. 

Truck drivers – men who think all women in the world are there to satisfy their needs. Iagos of the world, the dark underbelly. 

The men that stay in this town are not dissimilar, your days a monotonous blur of wondering when something better will drop into your desperate palms.

There is one man who feels like your only friend in the world. 

Standing at a whopping five foot seven, and still kicking up the diner’s jukebox at eighty three, he makes sun shine out from your soul. You can confidently say that Jerry is the best. 

He usually sits with you the entire day at work, and makes sure to fill your empty time by teaching you to dance to El Toro Rabón, and La Bamba. His rich hands, littered with wrinkles yet full of life, hold yours while he makes you laugh. Clapping as you finish off with an animated twirl and curtsy. 

Jason usually eyes you from the kitchen, rolling his sleazy eyes at the sight of you having so much fun with your elderly best friend. Going back to making greasy burgers and puffing on a cigarette that’s gotten him in trouble with the owner before. 

You never agreed with the sentiment that old people were cute until you met Jerry and his late wife during your first shift at the diner : fourteen years old and composed of an exhaustion that was ill fitting for someone so young. He’d been your first ever customer, seventy seven and still wearing that cowboy hat of his.

The first thing you noticed about him was his mustache, the way he uses wax to curve up the tight white curls into points, how it covered his top lip when he spoke, making him look like a cartoon character –  his oak brown eyes that has gotten increasingly red and yellow around the corners as he’s gotten older. The way his warm skin has developed patches of darkness, yet he still looks the exact same as the photo of him he showed you from thirty years ago : fresh off his racing horse in Mexico, holding the same cowboy hat over his chest that he adorns now, smiling brightly. He kept his hair looser back then, his ringlets looked shiny even in those black and white photographs.

He calls you bumblebee, and you think he’s the first person that’s ever loved you – and he’s the first person you’ve ever loved. He’s your sunshine, a tether to the world past your 18 hour work day. 

Every morning he’s seated in the diner at 8:30 AM with a joke to tell you, stories of his racing days, growing up in Cuajinicuilapa, his time travelling around South America before settling down in this small town near Wyoming. He tells you of his late brother, his views of the world and the people he’s met. He talks of humanity and how love is what is most important in life.

You feed off of the stories he tells you : meeting people from all walks of life under the pretense of coffee, sitting around the same food stand, chatting to strangers who would play guitar on the side of the street for no other purpose than passion. 

You feel the desire for this ideal world thrum in your veins vicariously.

He used to come in with his wife Dolores until she passed two springs ago – he talks of her jewelry often, thinks that you should inherit it : they were never able to have children. You serve his coffee fresh and hot – asking Jason in the back to make his eggs perfect and his toast golden brown. You sit across from him at the counter to play bullshit with him while he eats – he always knows when you’re lying, his cheeky smiles catching you out, and his joy wraps it’s warm arms around you.

Your days are filled with giggles and smiles whenever he comes to see you, and he never leaves without a hug. 

Jerry does not like Jason one bit – eyeing the skinny, pale cook through the serving counter, telling you that a man like that is ‘no good, honey’. You don’t blame him – Jason had tried to coerce you into giving him a blowjob a few weeks before your 18th birthday – but never forced you when you had threatened to go to the sheriff and have them run a much needed background check. Jason has steered clear of you since then, knowing you weren’t shooting empty threats. You never told Jerry about that, but you think he knows regardless. 

He jokes that the forest behind your house has eyes – the kind only the old and the dying could feel. You never found it funny. 

Your clothes were not too crinkled this morning when you pulled them on : giving you a small mercy as did your almost-dry mascara surviving one more day. That hadn’t quelled the uneasiness you’d felt all morning, the whole drive to the diner. All you could think about was seeing your friend, and hoping that he would give you a hug and tell you all those happy stories again.

The second you clock in, and Jason comes back in from his third smoke of the hour, Jerry opens the door to the diner. 

You float over to the counter with a genuine smile, but it flickers when you see the look on his face. 

He talks a lot that day – about his wife, about his old job, even the time a fight broke out in his hometown and his father died, how the horses he looked after got caught in the crossfire : admitting he had hurt the perpetrator afterwards and it haunts him. He tells you everything, even the things he’s told you time and time before – forgetting he ever mentioned it. He’s never forgotten a thing about you, but he talks as though he’s in a hurry, as though he needs to get everything out.

He does not come in the next day or the day after that, and when he doesn’t arrive on the third day you take time off to confirm your fears at the hospital. You do not hear it from a nurse, or a doctor, but from the silence you are met with when you ask for him. That silence, the loneliness that instantly sunk into your bones, shattered your heart into millions of pieces. It is destroying.

You did not come to see him when you could, there was still time to be had, stories to be told. He never saw you make something of yourself, he will never walk you down the aisle like you dreamt he would one day. 

You are all alone in the world. No one to speak to, no one to comfort you. No one to make you think life might not be as meaningless as the whispers of your mind seem to believe. The warmth of him is gone, and you feel as cold and grey as the forest that surrounds this town, as if the sun has gone into eternal hibernation.

You want to bury yourself in your room for hours, to not surface for months and months until your body reflects the rot you feel on the inside. Hollow. Your sunshine is gone. 

You tell yourself Jerry is now with Dolores, and laugh at the fact that your mind even supplied such a deluded thought. You never believed there was something better up there, not for long anyway. 

You still go to his new tombstone, next to his wife’s, and speak to them. They were both religious, crosses carved into the place their names will stay forever, and so you ask any god out there to let them rest peacefully as though they are back in their hometown with their horses and not worry about you. 

That evening you sit on your porch, chain-smoking the packs of cigarettes you had been saving, staring at the stars caged by thick trees. You realize you do not have a purpose. You don’t have a want – can’t have one, there’s not enough money for the luxury of wanting something. You’ll live and die in an 18 hour work day.

Your thoughts are scary and boring at the same time, so you begin to look out at the illuminated forest. The sounds of the night – it scares you as well sometimes, an entire empty forest just outside your door, nothing but rotten wood and locks keeping you safe.

Today you found out you will be alone for the rest of your life, but when you sit out on the porch, flicking your third cigarette – you don’t feel entirely alone at all. You feel as though there is something out here with you, your skin rippling with bumps. 

You blame it on the Grim Reaper licking at your heart today.

The cabin on the other side of the forest you’re staring at now has been vacant since you were born. Never a light, a sound – it haunts you.

The closest you’ve gotten to it was at the ripe age of 8, venturing through the forest to explore. You had come to the front door until the house moaned at you, and the forest went quiet. You can still vividly picture the glance you got of the cabin while you ran all the way home. 

You leave the shadow of the cabin in the dark forest behind, you need to get dressed for your shift. Money waits for no one, not even for the death of your best friend. 

Down the empty highway, not a car in sight – the image of your headlines whirring past the thousands of trees burnt into your retinas from seeing it every single night. Your eyes are puffy and raw from crying, a headache pounding behind them.You pass the single off–ramp road you’ve never been stupid enough to take, the one that winds through the forest, all the way to an open clearing, a small path that can barely fit your sputtering car – leading all the way to the back of your rotting house. You used to play in that clearing as a child, pulling out grass and flowers and making huts out of branches until the day the forest went quiet for a second time – and you knew something was out there with you. 

You had told your mother after running inside, but she pushed you away from the comfort of her arms and told you it was just jackals – you knew it wasn’t, even then. 

It had seemed you knew something was coming your whole life, constantly looking over your shoulder – watching, listening. Sensing all and any kind of movement anytime, wary. You didn’t like the silence, you didn’t like being alone – yet you were singled out, not a soul or sound to comfort you through your isolated existence. 

The gas station is empty as it is every night, you use the time to read. To think, to wonder what it’s all for in the end. If you should run away, leave and never come back. Go and find the ocean, let it swallow you whole.

The sliding doors of the entrance ding as they open. Your eyes flick up so quickly it hurts. A man walks in, and your stomach swoops. Everything falls quiet, and you think of the thing that your mother called the jackals, you think of the forest falling silent : baby birds quieting in the face of danger.  He disappears behind a shelf, a glimpse of a Carhartt jacket that sparks a warmth : a remembrance of your dear friend who is now gone, the once comforting material on someone foreign, scary.

Your breath shallows. You don’t know why. It’s not just the quiet – it’s the kind of quiet that makes your blood congeal. Like the silence before a scream. 

You glance to your side, below the counter, a bat sits for emergencies. You’re not sure why you are panicking the way you are, if it’s the hour, Jerry’s passing, the presentiment you’ve felt all week. 

There is something silent, and something wrong. 

When you look up, you still don’t see him. The light behind you flickers, and you almost want to cry at the fear that’s bubbling up in your throat, your hair is standing on end. Your ears prick at any sound, a fridge door opening and shutting. 

Your body is shutting down on you, your heart crawling up your throat by claws : fighting and fighting for a chance to survive while your body quivers with the force of your instinct to run. Grab the bat, over the counter, out the door to your car. 

You blink, realizing you haven’t been seeing a damn thing, and he’s on the other side of the counter. Looking at you with a blank expression. 

Your heart fizzles and falls back to its place, your hands are shaking. 

“Forgot milk.”  His voice is entirely too flat, disarming and discerning. 

You glance down at his hands, calloused and holding a single jug of full cream milk. He’s waiting for you to scan it. 

“Right, sorry.” You mutter, sliding the milk over the scanner and taking the cash from him before returning the change. He hasn’t looked away from you once, he seems tired and bored : a normal milk run, but you’ve never seen him before. It’s shocking for a town with under five hundred residents. 

He nods his thanks and leaves. The sound of his car sputtering away allows you to finally exhale. 

You cash out and go home soon after that, shaken, like every ounce of fear you’ve felt in your life crashed through you the second he entered the store. An omen, a warning. 

You wake up to a box at your door the next morning. In your sleep-shaken state, you have half the mind to stomp on it, fearful it came from The Man last night. Fortunately, curiosity seemed to be on your side this morning, as upon opening the box you find Denise’s necklaces, bracelets, rings and books. Paintings, antiques, and most importantly - a cowboy hat. Your favorite hat in the entire world. He had left everything of his to you, when he wrote his will you do not know. Maybe Jerry knew what was coming, he always was wise, connected to everything there is in a way you wish you could be.

You cry all morning, through your miserable shift at the diner. You must look like some sort of slug, because Jason asks you if you’re okay, as does the girl from your old english class who came in that morning all the way from New York : in town and visiting her parents. She dyed her hair and found her style. You see the sparkle of the world in her eyes, and your dirty fingers itch to steal it, to run outside with her car keys, assume her role as a real person. You do not feel real at all. 

When you return to your rotting home you watch an old western - Jerry’s favorite - while you wear his cowboy hat, toying with the new jewelry that was sent to you when the police must’ve got around to acting out Jerry’s will. You feel loved and, oh, so lonely at the same time. You are a ghost in your own home, and the appearance reflects it. No real girl would live in a house of mold and quiet, where it is abandoned despite having a resident. 

—-

The Man returns this evening as well, in the moment you were humming the iconic tune from your new favorite movie. Jerry had good taste. The world goes silent, and he grabs a pack of beers before heading to the till. “Marlboro Reds, please.” He has a Texan accent, and you stare at your hands as you give him what he wants. He leaves after that again, your only customer of the night. 

 

The next night, he takes his time browsing the store. You watch him, watch how he languidly moves, scanning the items like his eyes would not eventually land on you. Approaching the counter with his chosen trifle.

 “You don’t get scared workin’ nights?” He asks, and now you know your concerns were not unfounded. 

“No.” you lie, meeting his eye for the second time since the first night. He does not have facial expressions, you realize. Blank, revealing nothing. He is a handsome man. An eerie man. He nods, holding eye contact as he grabs the useless item and goes back to his sputtering truck outside. He looked like he wanted to call you a liar. 

You do not show up for your shift the night after that. Your gut tells you to stay home, to lock your doors and keep your father’s old pistol near you. To close the blinds – sit and listen to every sound of the night. Check under your bed just in case.

You’re late to the diner the next morning, greeted by Jason’s complaining that he had to serve the first customer’s coffee, asking for you to make it up to him. When you peep through the corridor, your heart drops at the only customer in the restaurant. 

The Man has come to the diner. He knows you, he knows where you work – probably where you live. 

Maybe he lives here, maybe it’s all some coincidence. Maybe it’s not what you think. 

You bring him his eggs and bacon, and when you look up to his face he’s already looking at you. He does not move, does not touch his knife or fork. He’s staring at you. 

“Leave me alone.” You say, quiet yet firm, standing over him as he blinks and looks down at his food. Your fear is making you angry, fire spitting in your eyes. He doesn’t answer you, and after two moments of being unable to bear the energy that exudes from him – you walk away, into the back of the kitchen to watch Jason work, peeping through the slits of the serving station to watch The Man eat his food. Your body hair prickles into points.

Jason eyes you, glances at The Man, and raises a faint eyebrow at you. 

“That your daddy?” he asks, staring at the popping bacon. You watch the grease heat and solidify, the sweat sticking on Jason’s skinny yet defined triceps, coated with wiry hair that’s never been tended to. 

“No.” you whisper, tucking your hands under your legs : they are cold, and your skin is overridden with goosebumps, hair standing. You feel as though you’re about to be swallowed, like large claws will pick you up and drop you into a maw of sharp, hungry teeth.

“Why’s he givin’ me the stink eye, then?” Jason grunts, picking at his gold tooth with a grimy finger as he lazily looks over to your thighs, then your face. Raising an eyebrow at how fearful you look, he glances back at The Man. Something like concern flashes across his face, and he lifts his cap to rub over his short, receding hair. It’s the first time his eyes have ever looked soft.

“Dunno.” is all you manage to mutter as you brace a peek to find The Man has looked away.

He’s slow, takes time to eat every piece of food while staring blankly out the window, like he’s watching the world as though he’s never seen it before, unnatural. You want to tell Jason about your all consuming fear that this man is going to hurt you, but his eyes have changed and he makes another comment about how good you look in the plaid dress that happens to be your uniform.  You choose to wait outside of the building instead of enduring the male specimen of your species. It feels like you are alone in a world of monsters.

When you return inside, there’s a fifty dollar tip next to the spotless plate, everything stacked for you to carry. 

You don’t return home that night : you ditch your job at the gas station for a second time,  leaving your car at the diner to book a room at the shitty motel. It feels as though you died the same day Jerry did, maybe you are dreaming : alone in an empty world, your only companion being the monster. Nothing feels real.

You fall asleep to the sound of ugly moans, watching the handle of your door : your heart beating faster than your body can manage. Rocking yourself back and forth, humming a soft tune your father used to play on the guitar when he was sober enough to think. 

You feel as though you are living on borrowed time, as though this opportunity to wait is a mercy.

He is not at the diner the next morning. Neither is Jason, it’s closed up and the lights are shut off – it is Jason’s job to open up and get the stoves burning. You try to call the owner with the small amount of change you have on the payphone, but no one answers. The sound of the dead line ringing in your ears as you look around in a panic. 

You suddenly feel as though you’re back in that patch of forest, surrounded by tall trees and a monster waiting to swallow you whole. Watching. A fear so curdling you fear you’ll throw up over the plastic phone. 

You’re wide awake standing behind the counter of the gas station. Watching the fluorescent lights flicker. You parked your car out back. You’re holding the bat in your right hand under the counter. You are waiting for him to come in. You should have driven far far away, but you have a sinking feeling he would have followed. 

The night is completely quiet. No people, no sounds except for the humming of the fridges. 

You glance at the back door, and the moment your eyes turn away from the sliding doors they ding. Your hair rises and stands violently. Skin alight and blazing as the first footstep echos in the store.

You don’t think about it, your body tells you to run and you do. 

Out the back, to the edge of the concrete until your feet are pounding along the road, bat gripped tightly in your fist. The sound of your own feet are drowned out by the ones behind you, big and stomping. The trees framing your attempt at an escape as they yawn and stretch above - caging you in, suffocating. They grow tall as you sprint, closing like they will eagerly crash down and trap you like a wave from the ocean you’ve never seen.

You push with all your might, and you thank the lord you took track during school, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you run so fast the sound of feet behind you fade. It feels like victory, like being free – your chest blooms from the burn and the success. You think of the gun in your bedside drawer, and turn down the off-road into the woods you’ve never been brave enough to take before. The only sound is the one of your own feet : you’re not stupid enough to look behind you.

The moon lights up the forest floor, you don’t trip over a single root or branch. You’re moving faster than you ever have in your life : your lungs screaming, fear rising in your lungs like bile. You break into the clearing, the one that has always been haunted by Jackals. 

You’re almost home. 

A force heavier than you think you’ve ever felt crashes into you from the side, you’re slammed down into the one patch of grass you often picked, the bat flying out of your hands and rolling to the dirt in front of you.

“Knew you’d run here.” A deep, breathless voice says right into your ear, your hair is pulled as a hand clamps down on your struggling wrists, excited. “Always liked playin’ here, didn’t ya?” he grunts, pulling something out of his pocket. You swing your elbow up, knocking him straight in the jaw. He sways for only a moment, but it’s all you need. You dash forward, crawling away from him before you find your feet, grabbing the bat and smashing it down over The Man’s skull. He groans and stumbles, gripping the back of his head as you trip over your own feet to stumble away. You run towards your rotting home, you can’t think about the fact he knew where you played as a child, all you are thinking about is the gun. 

You don’t even get to the steps of your back porch before he’s tackling you to the ground again and hitting the side of your face hard enough to make you cry, your head fuzzing. Your face stings and your eye throbs. You want to bring your hands to cup over the hurt, hold yourself in an attempt to make it better, but he is holding your hands. He curses at you, spitting vile words for managing to get solid blows at him.

“Come on, darlin’. You think that little gun ‘s gon’ do anythin’? It don’t even got any bullets.” He grunts, you feel zip ties around your wrists, your mind racing as you continue to struggle and kick until his hand is around your throat faster than you can think. “Don’t make me hit that pretty face again, bitch.” 

You go still, and slumped. Trapped in a wolf’s jaws. 

His hand squeezes tighter and tighter as you squeak a protest, until you can’t think anymore and the last of your squirming falls away. 

The first thing you smell when you wake up is smoke, the kind that comes from a fireplace. The first thing you see is rich, dark wood. You’re on a bed and you glance up to see you’re handcuffed there. Your skin isn’t just throbbing – it's raw, the skin bitten where the metal has scraped against you. Your head pounds like it’s been split open, the ache thick and blinding.

You can feel he is somewhere within the room, the twist of your stomach and the lingering presence on the back of your head tells you he is there. A creak of a chair behind you finalizes his presence but you can’t be bothered to do anything besides slump back against the mattress, curling up into a tiny ball. 

He says your name to get your attention, and you don’t attempt to look at him, your skin is already crawling with what you think he wants to do to you. Future years of using and hitting flash through your mind, wishing for the mercy of death.

He walked next to the bed too fast, too silent. A wall of muscle and heat as large as him should not be so quiet.  He is touching your hair, stroking down your cheek. His hand is rough and warm, he smells like a cologne that reminds you of your father. You think you might be sick.

“I was bein’ nice. I waited.” he says softly, pressing down with his pointer finger on the bruise that has molted under your skin, making you wince and shuffle away from him, glancing up at him to find his striking, dark eyes on you. His jaw is bruised where you hit him with your aching elbow, a trickle of dry blood still stuck on a piece of his salt-and-pepper hair. You made a crack in his head – a small trickle of pride filling your veins at the fight. 

It is small lived, and dies out at the next throb of your wrists.

He sighs at this reaction, before walking out of this bedroom and shutting the door behind him. 

You lie there for what feels like hours, only moving when you notice the water and ibuprofen on the bedside table : still in its packaging. Your whole body aches, the last throttles of your adrenaline were beaten out of you with his hands. 

It’s only when you sit up that you notice where you are. The view outside the window is the forest behind the cabin that groaned at you, that haunted you as a child. 

He’s lived here the whole time : he’s been here the whole time. The feeling of impending doom that curdles your skin when he’s been near. The jackals you felt as a child, the forest going quiet. 

It’s been him. It’s always been him.

Your skin feels as though it will turn inside out, every hair on your body standing to a rigid point. The fear feels as though you’re dying. 

You don’t have to look to know he’s silently opened the room again, and you speak.

“You some kind of pedo?” You spit as your head throbs, sitting up on the bed, tugging on the cuffs, rage curdling and bubbling up on your skin – you think of your mother. 

He stops moving at your words, “what?” 

“You’ve been watching me since I was a child.” 

“It wasn’t like that, Jesus.” He grunts, sounding uncomfortable at the idea. You almost want to laugh. In your periphery you see he’s ditched his canvas jacket, wearing a navy flannel that shows you just how large he is - as if you didn’t feel it the night before when he tackled into you so violently, stealing every inch of breath in your lungs.

“Oh, well sorry for assuming some old, sick pig stalking a young girl since she was a child isn’t a fucking pedophile.”

He smacks you over the throbbing patch of your skin, and you finally glare up at him with every bit of ire in your body. It was not any kind of hit, it was the kind that made you feel like dead weight, that knocks all the air out of your body as if you are a puppet with it’s strings cut. 

He’s staring down at you.

“I’m not –  christ, it ain’t like that.” 

“So you’re just going to kidnap and keep me? You’re not going to – to do anything, is that right?” You scoff the words out, holding your hand to your cheek. The ache under your skin feels like it could stay there forever. 

“I don’t want to do anything to you.” He seems to notice the irony of his words when you let your palm drop, face swollen. “I didn’t want to have to hurt you.”

You look out the window and go silent. 

“You didn’t have to hurt me, this was your choice.” You spit, and he looks almost surprised by your words. There’s goosebumps that break out over his skin, and the energy in the room constricts as he backs away from you.

He glances out the same window before handing you a warm bowl of stew, pieces of meat and potato bobbing up from the thick, stock smelling liquid. You stare down at it, and then glare back up at him. 

“Is it poisoned?” You’re not serious, you’re angry.

“If I wanted to kill you I would have done it earlier.” He says it as though it’s as casual as the weather, as though killing something – a person – is as boring as can be. Idle reassurance. 

“You seem to like the waiting game.” You huff, staring at his large, twitching hands. His watch is broken.

He looks like he wants to smile at your quip, eyes crinkling in the corners.

“Eat.” He tells you, closing the bedroom door softly as he leaves you be.

—

You have been here for two weeks, only knowing this due to the little alarm clock next to the bed that he brought you from your house. 

True to his word, he hasn’t touched you – in fact, he’s been taking care of you in ways you have never been before. It’s intimate, and a sick hunger has begun to heat low in your belly alongside the fear. 

You feel as though you’ve been living in a small bubble where time never passes. He watches you at all hours of the day, asking you questions about the men you’ve worked with, if there’s anything from your house you want him to fetch. He tries not to hit you when his anger bubbles up at your persistent silence. He asks you questions about yourself, not ones like favorite colors, but if you think all people in the world are unsavable. 

He looks like he’s hoping you will tell him he can be saved. You do not. 

He makes you eat dinner with him every night, bathes you as well. The first time he tried it, after letting you rot in bed for three days, he had to wrestle you into the bathtub after trying to be nice, held you down while you kicked and splashed and scratched at him until he pressed his fingers over your injured face in an unforgiving manner until your cries went quiet, and you almost fainted from the pain. He made you apologize for making him have to hurt you. 

You swallowed the clawing, raging voice at the back of your throat and did it. When he kissed your forehead and told you it’s okay, a warm sickness swirled in your stomach, nauseating and tentatively delicious all at once.

You have not tried to fight him after that night, scared of what would happen if he were to comfort you. 

He tucks you into bed most evenings, pressing the blanket to cushion you and arranges the pillows. In the first nights, it had scared you : you hadn’t slept a wink, terrified he would slip into bed and his patience would wear thin. Now, it feels like something nice. He tries to tell you happy stories, he usually fails – but it makes you think of Jerry and you feel better regardless, it makes The Man seem more real, like a human rather than a monster. 

He asks you to curl up next to him on the couch so he can read aloud to you, books you’ve heard about in passing but never read : he has a liking for Cormac McCarthy and the Wild West. He bakes cookies for you when you ask him your first question, letting you sit at the table with a glass of milk to enjoy them. You feel warmth radiating from inside of you, spiked with fear – no one has baked cookies for you before. You finish them, and he says he’s proud.

—-

The sinking feeling comes slowly. Seeping into your bones whenever he holds you. It gets worse when you begin to dream of him, a possible reality, one of him holding you and kissing you – telling you you’re lovable, perfect, worthy. Six months have warped your brain, slipping out of your grasp like sand. You wake up to slickness between your legs, a desire to go find him in the kitchen making breakfast and nuzzle under his broad arms, let him squeeze you tight and surround you with his scent. You don’t have to beg him to make you feel loved, he’s always loved you : he’s made that clear. 

You had realized long ago that he is too big for you to fight, he is all consuming and overpowering. The sinking feels like acceptance, and you think it’s close to dying. 

It’s a sunny day when it all hits you. He’s been out for half an hour – at the grocery store a few towns over – the moment he said goodbye you had felt a twist in your stomach. You didn’t want him to go. He hugged you and told you he would be back soon, kissing your cheek when you got teary, his whiskery beard tickling your soft skin. 

You don’t know when the terror began to feel like safety. You only know that when he’s gone, it feels like you’re alone with the jackals instead of how it was when he found you. When he was the monster.

The worst part was you knew why you reacted that way. Sitting in the sunny room, you forced your mind to constantly think of escape routes, of the disgusting actions he had committed, the way he has trapped you in this little house. Your mind adamantly hates The Man, but that large pit, the self that was unloved and uncared for – alone, has already started to need him, to ignore the stupidity in believing he loves you. To latch on like a leech and suck up all of the love and care he has, not caring if it’s real or pure, to see if it’ll make you round and fat with it – satisfied.

 

The hunger for what he has to offer you makes you feel like you might be the true monster in the house : your desperation for what you have never tasted knows no bounds. You think you’d kill for it. You might have been the jackal the whole time, the hole that lived inside you might have turned you ugly from a young age. 

You are scared of your own desperation. 

He bathes you every night – ritualistic and precise. Guides you under the water until you reappear, clean and new to a kiss on your cheek, hands scrubbing you clean. Every time the surface breaks and you come back to him, the forest grows denser : tighter and vast while the home, your home, becomes all the more simple and clear, exactly how it is supposed to be. 

You need him, and you think you love him. What that makes you, you’re not sure and you no longer care. 

He goes out months later, telling you he needs to get food and soap, baby - he leaves the window open and the door unlocked : he knows you will not leave. He says he’s going to grab soap, but he is carrying a prescription slip with a little baggie, what he’s actually going to get remains a mystery to you. 

The nightmare you had in the middle of winter had shifted something deep in your foundations – the fear that licked up your spine at the thought of being alone – the much lesser, flickering fear that your body had instinctually looked for him in his room, the dull scream your mind let out at the way you climbed into his bed, burrowing under his large, comforting arms until your brain went quiet and he pulled you closer. Those dull screams of fear and resistance from a lifetime ago have been washed away from his hands, and now a need so gravitational has birthed in its place. You want him.

Dusk comes softly in the weeks after taking residence in his bed. He still has not touched you, and you are beginning to feel ire towards his morality. A wrongness in the way he tries to be right. The cabin is warm with firelight, the smell of smoke wrapping around you like a blanket, similarly to his flannel that stretches over your skin. He jostles open the door slowly, grocery bags lining his fingers in a way that is dangerously domestic – his hair is tousled. His eyes catch onto the fabric, and he pauses.

“You’re in my shirt.” He states, but you know it’s a question. Your eyes search for the little baggie he had, wondering what he put in there. 

You close the book he gave you to read, the cover sliding across your fingertips, “It smells like you.”

Something in his expression shifts. You think it might be guilt. Or pride. Or both, layered on top of each other until they’re indecipherable. He sets the bags down and moves to you, slow and steady – crouching to your level in front of the couch. 

“You missed me?” He asked, eyes wild and dilated, hands skirting over your exposed thighs. Up and down. 

You look away, unable to meet the gaze that is burning into you, to admit how far you’ve gone to his face. Yet your head nods, eyes flicking to his as your chin wobbles, bottom lip jutting out before tightening in a grimace. He wipes a tear from your eye.

“’s okay to miss me, I’m the only one who’s here f’you, darlin’.” He cups your cheek, rubbing the skin there. You meet his eyes this time, close them before you’re leaning in, resting your head on his shoulder as he sits next to you, guiding you onto his lap and telling you it's okay, and it’s natural, baby and finally I love you, don’t cry sweet girl.

You’re tired of the tears, of the fight. Tired of the empty woods and the silence – the loneliness that lives in your bones. You’re tired of running from the thing that makes you feel whole and real.

You wonder if Jerry ever saw this coming, and if he did – why didn’t he ever warn you something so soul destroying would be waiting to swallow you? Why didn’t he tell you the most human monster in the world would be the only one to see you without the shiny idealism behind cataracts? You feel guilty for admitting that The Man knows you better than Jerry ever did. The Man knows you are not made of sunshine and flowers, he sees the hole carved in your stomach that makes you so achingly hungry, and shows his own back. 

— 

You noticed the loose floorboard on the second day, and now you pry it open. While you care for The Man, you are acting on instinct.

He had shouted at you this morning while you were still curled in his arms, gotten rotten and angry, called you a stupid bitch when you had asked him to come with him to the store, wanting to see the world again. 

You were hopeful he would trust you, that he would prove you are, in fact, not living in a cage. 

He had stormed off, and for the first time in eight months he had locked the door on his way out, shoving a small plastic bag in his pocket. 

Spiders crawl out from the floorboard, and you jump back, standing on the couch while you throw The Man’s shoes at them, you wish he was here so he could take care of it, could laugh softly at your fear and hold you in his arms – away from the floor – to protect you. 

You remind yourself you do not know his name and that you’re trapped here, a jarring reminder of the way you have settled.

You need something to prove he was a real, living man before his life revolved around you. You need to rebel against him, like a petulant, scared child because of his rudeness this morning. 

Once you feel safe enough, you roll up the sleeve of the lacy undershirt he gave you and stick your hand inside. Searching for some sort of ocular truth amongst the bones of his own rotted cabin.

A pair of old boots with a ‘J’ engraved in the sole is the first thing you pull out. An army knife next, then a bunch of guns and weapons. 

No matter how strange it is to find guns and knives buried in someone’s house, for The Man it’s quite boring.

You pull out a shoe box next, placing it next to you on the floor before blowing the dust off of the top. It doesn’t help much. From the amount of grime, it looks as though you are the first person to touch this box in years.

The lid sticks to the rest of the compartment from cobwebs, but you discard the thing anyway, desperate and careless.

 

A photo is the first thing you find, old and yellowed.

A little girl.

At first you are fearful she is a victim, until you see the photo of The Man - much younger - holding her in the hospital. Your stomach curdles, and it feels like rotting, eating itself from the inside. 

A daughter. 

Your heart swoops low, pensive. You think of the room he keeps locked, the warm light that streams under the gap of the door - reflecting something pink inside. The way you would watch the beams dance on the floor like a whole soul was trapped inside there, wilting as the sun set.

Her birth certificate is the second thing you find. 

  Sarah Miller : 1983 / 03 / 18   

  City of origin : Arlington, Texas. 

  Father  : Joel Miller  

A name, a life, a whole world buried in the foundations. 

You gawk at the fact that The Man – Joel – is 60 years old. 

Her missing poster is what you find next. Bile rises like acid on your tongue, a smiling, happy girl plastered with information about her last whereabouts, the pink shirt she was wearing and how tall she had gotten. She went missing on your third birthday. Your head swims. You drop the documents back into their casket with trembling hands and weak knees.

 Stupid, stupid girl – why did you have to look?

The last thing you find is a golden tooth, familiar in its grime and dullness. You can imagine a sleazy tongue gliding over it in irritation. Jason’s golden tooth. You drop it immediately and slam the loose floorboard shut, burying what was meant to stay that way once more. 

The room looks as though nothing has changed, yet everything inside of yourself is different. A storm of fog and clarity, adrenaline pumping for running and the desire to stay still.

You throw up outside the living room window.

Everything feels like a blur after that, grabbing your boots he stuffed away - a coat and a knife from his kitchen.

Run, just run. Don’t look back. Get away, fast fast fast. 

You climb out of the bedroom window and run all the way to where you left your car the night he caught you, cold wind whipping past your face and sending a burn through your nose. Your feet pound along the ground like the whole world is weighing you down, like every stone is hoping to trip you and let you fall, to cut your knees open and stop you. 

You eventually arrive at the gas station.

You're stunned that the place is closed and rotted, not a single soul in sight.

Your lungs are burning, you feel woozy, and you let out a pathetic cry when you see he has slashed your tires. 

Stopping at the rough concrete of the shop, you attempt to open the back door, only to spot a poster plastered on the side of the wall. 

A missing poster. Your missing poster, with not a single person in the world to care for its presence besides a man who you ran away from, who would tear it down and remove you from an existence that is not with him, that would try to come find you to bring you back.

You decide to keep running in the opposite direction of his home. A large part of you is screaming at you to run to the Sheriff’s office and tell them what happened, that Joel will find you if you try anything else, but a shamefully large part - a sick part of you does not want to run away from him. He has cared for you - he has watched you all your life, and you know – regardless of purity or morality – he loves you. All that is left for you without him is a town that would freeze in time if you were to vanish, fake in its existence, a facade for the life you were always meant to live.

To your horror, the twist in your chest tells you that you love him too, it’s a surety now.

You think of the soft kisses he pressed to your hair, the way you got used to him telling you of things he liked about you, that he only would have known from watching. The way he told you he too liked Jerry, and liked the movie you watched after his passing. He let you watch it every night for a month, and began to quote the lines with you in an exaggerated version of his accent to make you giggle.

He saw you, he has always seen you. He loves you and wants you and needs you enough to take you for himself. 

You have stopped running, standing still for a moment before slowly turning around, feet shaking in your soul’s indecision. Torn and trembling. The forest is completely silent, yet this time you feel all too real – too alive. 

Your mind is not what it used to be. The shake of your hands comes from the part of you that is pleading for you to run, to see the clear manipulation : the rose coloured glasses that have been forced over your eyes. The other part – the part that you are starting to believe is the truth of who you are – wants to run back to the cabin before he sees you ever left, to cup his devastatingly handsome face and let him take what has always been his, to be made a real person.

It is consuming, this primal want.

A twig snaps.

You don’t need to turn around to know he his standing close behind you. 

You clench your fists and turn around, fear curdling and boiling in your belly, making your knees weak and shaky. 

The look on his face clears your rational thought once again, and you quickly attempt to scramble away from the monster. He looks absolutely, impossibly, livid. 

You do not know why you ever thought you could run, why you thought he would not find you, that he would let you go. 

You burst into tears the second he has you against the forest floor once more. The ground ripping the skin from your cheek as you fall, crushed under him once again – worse this time : you knew better.

“Why’d you do it, angel?” He says softly, entirely contrasting from the way his arm is curled around your head, large biceps restricting your breath. 

“I-I was scared.” You cry, trying to stop the hiccuping of your lungs to keep the breath you have. 

“I know baby, I know.” He soothes, deep voice right next to your ear, his mostly salt and slightly pepper beard tickling the skin. “You made me so scared, sweet girl. Thought you cared ‘bout me.” he whispers. You do not know if the tightening of his arms was intentional, or if he is so upset at the idea you could hate him that he is consumed with it. 

“I’m s-sorry,” You gasp, clawing at his arm, “I do care, ‘s why I–”

He raises his hand quickly, yet it hangs in the air for a moment. Hesitation, guilt – trembling like he’s stuck. You see something raw flicker in his eyes before it’s gone and he’s striking the ground next to your face, barely missing you – a last second decision. 

“Don’t fuckin’ lie to me.” Desperate, angry, scared.

You need to placate him before he does something stupid.

“I turned back– I was going to go back home I promise, please.” you cry, looking into his eyes. You loathe the fact that your words aren’t lies, that the care he sees reflected in them is real. You want him, you need him.

He watches you silently, frowning. Waiting to see what you have to say to him. 

“I snooped, I’m sorry. I was angry about this morning and I saw– I saw Jason’s tooth and–” 

The sound that leaves him is punched from deep within his chest.  

He is silent for a long time. Pulling away from you. 

You do not breathe, scared – the back of your neck is bared to him. Your life depends on his reaction. 

“You saw my girl.” 

You tremble in his slackening grasp. He seems to be staggering for a moment, unprepared and assaulted by the memories you have brought back. His hands grip tighter and tighter. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to – I didn’t know.” you whisper, tears streaming out of your eyes as you look up at the setting sun, these must be your last moments. Your body trembles and your hiccuping noises are ugly. You wish you could take this all back to before. 

“You ain’t supposed t’see what’s down there.” he’s lifting his hands off of you, and you think the scariest thing about this moment is how human he finally seems. Like you are the one seeing him after all this time. You stay down, turning to look into his eyes – all you can see is grief.  “You know what it’s like to be lonely, that’s why you were brought to me, baby.” His hands wrap around your neck again, and you shriek a small protest, scrambling. Your nails crack and bleed as they attempt to rip yourself away from him by holding onto the ground and pulling.

You feel drops against the back of your neck, and fear lurches in your stomach at the fact that he’s crying. “She would have hated me, she was so good.” His hands are constricting, crushing. You choke and gasp for breath. “But I ain’t got her anymore. I got you. And God help me, I need you, sweet girl.” 

“I’m sorry.” you whisper again, looking into his sad eyes with your teary ones. 

“I know.” He says softly, and you whimper as his hand comes to your face. He rubs the skin for a few moments, letting himself breathe and feel you. It feels like an eternity, lying under him, trapped.

“I’m goin’ to give you a choice, sweet girl. I ain’t given you one before.” His voice builds up as he says it, like the memory of his daughter drives him to formulate a plan – a way to somehow fix everything he’d done. Your heart stops as he slides off of you, picking you up with him and holding you, the tips of your boots brushing the ground. He stares at you seriously, and he looks so different from the monster, like he’s trying his best to do the right thing after all this time, pretending it’ll take everything back. 

“I’m goin’ to let you run, sweet girl. You can choose to go to the sheriff– or, or steal my truck, do what you want.” He swallows thickly, eyes wild. “I’ll let you go, I should let you go.” He whispers almost to himself. “But if you choose t’go back home…I won’t let you leave me again, baby.” He smooths his hand over your hair after setting you down. “You’ll be mine, honey. And I’ll be yours, we can be fair and make this right. I’ll take you, and I’ll tell you everythin’.” 

You thought your heart was going to rip out of your chest. Everything is primal, it’s all desperate and ugly and raw. He lets go of you, taking a few difficult, staggered, paces back. His fists are clenched tightly at his sides. 

“Go,” he nods slowly, like he’s trying to assure himself this is the right thing to do. “If you run now, I won’t stop you, I swear.” his voice breaks like he’s not sure of it himself — scared of what he’s capable of yet consumed with need. His eyes are soft and round, vulnerable in a way you’ve never seen. You are scared, but more importantly you are tired.

For the first time someone has loved every rotten bit of you – so desperately they leave morality behind. How could you run away from this? 

You hesitate, stagnant and unsure. Your heart and your brain have gotten so tired from fighting it feels they have turned off all together, what happens now is primal – instinctual, you feel out of your own body, vaguely aware of the blood pulsing through you. 

You turn around and run swiftly down the road, scrambling over a few loose stones. You glance back at him once, surrounded by the trees, watching you like a dead man watches water. Your heart lurches. He looks heart broken, shattered and as alone as you’ve always felt, like this is the last time he’ll ever see you. 

Silly old man, you think. 

You were always going to run back to his cabin. 

You’ve got no need to disappear into nothing for the sake of rightness when everything you’ve ever wanted lives in the warm, wooden walls of his — your — home. 

He underestimated just how hungry, how broken and corrupt you are. 

You know now that you love him, and you know that you have always been just as much of a monster as he is. Rotten and broken and impure, tainted and shattered. 

You have always been his match. 

Your boots carry you home like you weigh nothing, light as air as ribbons of your past fears and wishes string and rip behind you. A flurry of ideas and thoughts until there is nothing except for yourself standing in that same flowery spot with plucked grass and no-more- monsters. 

  You bask in the silence of the forest. You have since lost track of the hurt, the burn of fear rising in your throat. You think of gold teeth and little girls and bright, wrinkled eyes surrounded by rich, dark skin – before your thoughts fall silent too.

You are under water. By the time you see his cabin : dim with no lights on as it always was until he found you – your mind is somewhere else, hollow and empty and replaced with something molten in your stomach. An ache, gnawing away at your belly. 

You don’t knock, you let the stairs creak as you silently open the door. 

  He had not followed you, true to his word. The house is just as you’d left it. 

You feel settled, clam and composed as you slowly begin to strip. Boots at the door, jacket in the living room. A trail made from your scarf leading to shorts and small socks. At the side of Joel’s bed, a lacy undershirt and bra. 

  You have already started to drift off by the time the cabin door opens. Two shuffles of feet before they stop short. 

He takes time to make a fire, the sound of crackling wood creating a comforting blanket to your sleepy state, in and out of the haze, yet aware. 

You are silent and waiting, your breath fanning softly as your eyes struggle to stay open. Somewhere deep, your heart throbs – the last fizzling jump of fear before it dies and fades away for good. You hear the opening of a small, plastic bag somewhere in the kitchen, little taps of what sounds like a pill falling against the counter top– a gulp of water a few seconds later. 

The mattress dips as he climbs into bed behind you. 

His callouses catch on your skin roughly as he traces the side of your face, bare chest pressing against your lower back while he buries his face between your shoulder blades. 

You let your eyes flutter shut as he places open-mouthed kisses up your spine, wet and shaky. His hands grip your hips like you’ll turn to smoke if he doesn’t hold on. His beard tickles your shoulder as he continues, cradling you against him as if he is trying to stitch himself back together again, to become real and whole.

You let him. 

He is shaking when you turn to face him. Neither of you speak, words unnecessary in the softness and stillness of the night : no need for words when there are only two people in the world who are so entwined already. 

His palm cups your face, turning you to look at him, thumb stroking over the corner of your mouth like a prayer. You whisper his name to him for the first time, a shaky breath escapes him as he whispers yours back. A small ruffle of the familiar duvet as you turn to face him, his warm palm cups over your tit – your pounding heart – as you turn to face him. Eyes shining as they meet yours. He looks so human.

He presses his nose against your own before his chapped lips finally meet yours in hesitation, like he’s trying to confirm that you’re really here next to him, that he hasn’t lost the only thing he has. 

It’s soft for only a moment before you both let the hunger take over – hot and wet, lips moving faster and faster as his tongue swipes across the seam of your lips. They part without hesitation, taking the warm wetness of it inside your mouth and sucking gently, rolling over the other’s until your tastes are the same. 

  You gasp as his hands – rough and trembling – slide down your body, tracing every feature he studied from afar that is now finally his to touch. His mouth nudges along your jaw, nipping at the skin before he’s burying his face in your neck and inhaling. 

When you whisper his name softly, he shudders like you’re the first person to ever truly call for him. 

Your hand glides down to his stomach, running through the silvery hair that coats it desperately, trying to ground yourself to him. To pull him impossibly closer like you want to merge your bodies into one, consuming. 

His hands are everywhere as he groans into your mouth, surrounding you completely. One grips your hair, pulling back gently to bare your throat to him as the other runs down your breasts, pulling and squeezing your nipples into tight points, breath panting from the intensity. He paints your neck with bites, blooms where he’s sucked and tugged on your skin until his mark has been made – groaning as he licks over the skin, like he’s trying to infuse you into his bones. Your skin tastes like his surrender, like the salt of his prayers. It’s not forgiveness he asks for – but belonging, trying to carve a place for himself in the crook of your neck. 

Your fingers slip under the band of his boxers, searching for that rigid warmth that’ll complete you, retreating slightly on a shaky gasp as his hot, wet mouth envelopes your nipple, pulling and licking. 

He’s on top of you within seconds, hands splaying across your shoulder blades as he shows equal treatment to each breast, arching you against him. His heavy sighs travel across your skin as he exhales. Groin slotted against the warmth of yours, he lets your hands tangle in his hair as he moves Southwards, kissing as he goes.

You whine a protest, whimpering for him to join the two of you together, and he answers your previous curiosities in a deep rumble, “Gotta give it time to work, sweet girl. I ain’t young no more.” 

You let your head fall back against the pillows, a spark of electricity running through you at the reminder of his age, wetness seeping out into the gusset of your panties as you try to close your legs – an attempt at alleviating some of the heat that’s been building there. 

He grunts at this, large hands gripping your soft thighs as he plants them wide and flat against the mattress, “Easy, darlin’ – gon’ take care of you now.” He rumbles against your lower stomach, right over your womb as he reaches up to pinch your tit, prompting you to look down at him between your thighs. Those eyes you once used to fear with such intensity now only make more slickness spill into the cotton that conceals you. 

“Want you t’look at me while I taste this pretty little cunt for the first time.” He whispers on a kiss against your mound, dragging your panties down by latching his teeth onto the little bow adorning the front and pulling. You moan softly at the sight, hands fisting the sheets next to your head as his broad, muscular shoulders keep your legs spread wide, baring your warm pussy for his taking. 

  His eyes meet yours as his breath falters at the first glide of his tongue through your cunt, breaking off into a deep groan as he tastes you. A small cry of his name leaves your lips at the new sensation, hands immediately going to tangle in his soft hair. His tongue is ravenous, licking up every ounce of arousal as his eyes stay on yours, only dropping down when your head falls back once more. 

He sucks your clit into his mouth, beard tickling and stimulating you – sending head through your bones. His lips tug on your bundle of nerves, pulling so deliciously your hips cant up onto his face, letting your wetness coat his beard until it’s soaked.

He lets go of your throbbing bud with a pop, licking his lips as he lets his mouth glide lower. 

“Taste so fuckin’ perfect, my angel.” He groans as his tongue digs over your hole, an obscene sound of him slurping up all you’ve given him echoes through the humid room, and your moan of approval follows soon after. His nose digs into your clit as he pushes his tongue inside you, letting it glide into your gummy walls as you clench around him. His moans of approval course through you, heat rising blindly through your bones as you cry out for him, hips bucking as he presses against your lower stomach with a large palm. The rough material of his watch-strap scratching your tummy as his brows furrow, focused on eating you alive. The smacking sounds of his lips against your wetness make your eyes roll as he digs his tongue inside. His hand moves lower, skirting against your entrance before he’s pulling his tongue out with a slick pop, replacing it with his fingers as he sucks on your clit once more. 

“Joel I-I’m gonna…” You trail off into a high pitched gasp, body trying to twist away from him as his thick fingers curl, pads of them bruising a spot inside of you that makes wetness gush out onto his wrist. 

  “Cum f’me, sweet girl, look at me.” He grunts, waiting until your eyes meet his to suck on your clit harshly, tongue running against the underside as he spreads and lifts his fingers to press against your gummy walls.

Your first orgasm crashes into you when you realize he’s humping the bed, his hot tongue desperately lapping up the slick that gushes from your spasming hole. He moans at the taste, making sure to drink it all down before he’s pushing up the bed – capturing your mouth in a wanting kiss as his thick hardness leaks against your leg.

His pill must’ve worked.

“Joel.” You whisper against his lips, nails dragging down the muscles in his back as you try to paw his underwear off with your foot, cunt clenching around nothing, desperate to grip and coat his cock in your slickness.

He offers his body to you in a way that feels holy, the glide of him through your messy folds makes a sound so perfect leave his mouth you feel as though you’ve gone to heaven. 

“I’ve got you.” He whispers against your lips, the hand that is not cupping your face is notching his fat, drooling tip at your entrance. “I’ve got you, baby.” 

The first time he pushes into you, it’s gentle. A broken sound rips from him like he can’t bear it, face strained as he takes his bottom lip between his teeth, watching his cock sink into you at a sinfully slow speed. Only when your nails sink into the skin of his back does he look into your eyes, seeing his own want, need, obsession painted in your irises.

He rocks into you like he’s trying to carve a home for himself inside your body, bringing your hand up to cup at his face while you lose yourself to the delicious stretch of him – cunt gripping him so tightly he can barely leave. You were always meant to be wrecked by hand like his – hands that tremble, hands that destroy, hands that worship. 

His moans fan across your lips, shaky as they exit. He’s slow, letting you feel every inch of him, every vein, as he glides into your soaking cunt. His eyes have rolled, but you lean up to bite your own mark into his neck, pussy clenching as he moans raw and deep at the bright red mark you suck into his skin. 

He watches you now, staring into your eyes. You want him to see the hungry, ugly, ruined thing he’s made. You want him to love it. 

And when he leans down to kiss you like this night has changed him forever, you know he loves you. He is searching for his salvation in your body. 

You anchor yourself to him like the earth is shaking, moaning a soft gasp as his forehead pressed against yours. Reveling in the feeling of his sac slapping against your backside, the sounds of lewd smacks and wetness – his own moans and whispered words of praise floating around you as the sheer size of him swallows you whole. He fucks you like he’s praying at an alter and you devour him whole. In the darkness, there is no difference between love and need, no line between hunger and worship.

Every thrust feels like a prayer, a confession, like he’s spilling the truth of himself into you on every plunge, letting you see every crack of his soul, the ugliness through the pounding of his hips against yours. Rocking together, bound by the loneliness and hunger and something older than love.

You cry under him, silent and open as he digs into you, so big and taking that your body can hardly bear it. He kisses every tear like an apology, licking up the salt as he coos above you, kissing the tip of your nose as he lets the heavy weight of his cock sit and twitch inside you for a moment, pubic hair sticky from your arousal as it grinds against your clit. He buries his face against your neck as he begins thrusting shakily again, and you know he’s crying too.

“I love you.” He whispers against your skin, broken and raw as he shakily moves his hips, eyes flitting to you, hopeful and soul-crushingly vulnerable.

Your breath is shaking, heat coursing through you at the glide of his cock against that place, tailor made for him. Your eyes falter, fluttering as the last of your tears stream down your cheeks, clenching around him so tightly. Every shared breath tastes like forgiveness neither of you have earned.

“I love you too.” You whisper, shattered. Body light as a feather as you let yourself fall. 

His breath hitches as he comes inside of you, unprepared for it – hot pulses of his seed spurting quickly, flooding you as he sobs out moans against your skin, gripping your hips so tightly you think you’ll break. You follow immediately, arching into him as his arms wrap around you, pulling you impossibly closer to him as you ride out the waves of your pleasure together, knowing it is so much more than this. You are no longer a scared bunny, alone in the world, and he is no longer a jackal hunting you down — you are only two humans, connected in a way that ascends your lives : cosmic. 

It’s not just sex, it’s not just lust – it’s your whole life that has led up to this, to him. Two people who are too broken to live, yet too stubborn to die.

He’s made you his. 

You’ve made him yours.

And lying in his arms, letting his hand rub up and down your back, you know neither of you stood a chance.

-------

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed please reblog and comment, it's great encouragement for writers ♡

extra presentiment lore if you’re interested after reading ;)

[porcelainbirdss]

paper heart

summary: you thought he was just kind. everyone did. what you failed to discern, however, was the visage of something darker lurking underneath the man’s grinning face. such a pity, it was.

cw: fem!reader, yandere Phainon, mentions of death, descriptions of violence (not towards reader), grief, manipulation, stalking, obsessive and unhealthy behaviors, emotional dependency, hinted depression, open ending. ||wc: 13k

a sorrowful melody filled the air as your fingertips slowly dragged across white and black tiles. they were covered in a sheen layer of dust, probably because you abandoned your small hobby some time ago. you don’t know why your instincts told you to sit there, and play when you obviously should be doing something else — but they did. it was only logical, in a way — people upon meeting with peril often freeze. their reason fails them, and instead of acting rational, they begin to work their most favored instrument, for example.

once you reached the end of notations, tune abruptly stopping, you flipped the music sheet, and a very brief thought passed your disarrayed thoughts.

you needed to run.

it all began so long ago — the horrors, hidden below veils upon veils of primitive happiness and joy. all the dangers and pain, tucked away under the cloth depicting a face of your beloved (well, perhaps you should be using a past tense when referring to him in such an affectionate way).

you don’t know where the line between normalcy and insanity began to blur. where the borders separating an ordinary feeling and something much more unsettling crashed, becoming one. no matter how perceptive you were, it slipped past your notice.

maybe mulling over your demise was never the point — you could have been as well as doomed the second your eyes first met.

it has been thirteen months since the death of your mother.

a year and one month, then. you didn’t like counting the time in such a trivial way, though. a mere numer 'one' could never possibly depict the sorrow dragging your whole body down. numbers of a bigger scale were suitable — thirteen may be a large quantity. it surely was, considering the context of your current situation. thirteen months, so three hundred ninety six days filled with woe. enough to showcase all the seconds you spent on practically falling asleep within yourself.

your day to day life was the same, always following a routine you didn’t have the strength to change. it’s not like you were particularly crushed under the weight of your experiences, no, you just… got used to it. the silence. the dust gathering on the shelves. unused cups, and too many utensils in your drawers. abandoned music sheets, sitting obediently on your piano, opened in the middle — their melody never to be finished by the original musician.

it wasn’t well, nor good, and your existence seemed to lack in any rhythm — but it was bearable.

and, truth be told, you wholeheartedly believed it would continue to stay like so for the unforeseen future. except it didn’t.

as your shoes clacked over the cobblestone road, eyes trailing after all the cracks under your feet, you began to think about dinner. another feeble attempt at composing your life together, and it would probably end up in vain as any other — but hey, everything starts with something, and food was the most fundamental part of staying on your legs (at least in the physical sense).

the market spread widely before you, stalls upon stalls standing next to each other, filled up with various fruit and meat. people were yelling over the clamor, exchanging goods for currency. if that wasn’t the prime example of a beating heart, then you don’t know what is.

you stepped forwards, vision taking in your possible options. money was never a problem for you — except you took far too little this time, so perhaps it would be good to stick to something on the cheaper side. strong wing carried over the intense scent of peaches, instantly making your mouth water. huh, you hadn’t had them in a long time. they were always your favorite. maybe not the most suitable for dinner, but still satiating enough.

as you dragged your feet over to the stall, a group of children ran by your side, one of them accidentally knocking against your hip. they didn’t even turn to apologize, too absorbed within their fun. you could briefly discern the nursery rhyme they were singing, happily prancing around and skipping by multitudes of people.

"one for sorrow, two for mirth,"

you meekly greeted the vendor, gently grasping a singular peach within your fingers, and inspecting it with your keen gaze.

"three for a wedding, four for a birth,"

the colors were intense, orange and red seeping together into a flury of shades, creating appealing streaks. you almost smiled to yourself.

"five for silver, six for gold,"

once you pressed your joints, the fruit easily caved in. ah, on the other hand, perhaps it was overripe? considering how strongly it smelled, it was a possibility.

"seven for a secret ne’er to be told,"

you asked the seller for the cost — and seriously, was he a lunatic? who in their right mind would spend so much on peaches, especially when they were mere days away from practically rotting?

"eight for a wish, nine for a kiss,"

you scoffed under your breath, complaining about how unreasonable the price was. the man told you to take it or leave it.

"ten for a bird you must not miss,"

still, you kind of wanted those peaches — from what you deduced, no one else in the closest proximity was selling them. you either bid goodbye to all the money in your wallet, or…

"eleven for hope, twelve for health,"

with that, you offered to bargain. the vendor agreed. it of course didn’t go as you would have liked it to, and now you were getting irritated. soon your conversation changed into something resembling a barking match, with you yelling at the man and saying he was a scammer. he snarled back at you every time. people were staring. at some point you wanted to back out from the pitiful charade you caused, but your honor didn’t let you.

"thirteen beware of the devil himself!”

as you opened your mouth to spit another insult at the seller, a hand gently gripped your shoulder. you jolted up, startled. your head whipped towards the one who decided to interrupt you, ready to snap at them too — and you’d probably do so, if not for who that was.

a familiar face with that ever-present kind smile. one of the Chrysos Heirs. the fair, tousled locks and rather outstanding garments left no question within you — Lord Phainon. you swallowed thickly, eyebrows narrowing.

"my, i’m sorry. did i startle you, miss?" he immediately jumped to apologies, confusing you even further. "i just wanted to see if everything was alright with you two. of course, i didn’t mean to pry, however…" he chuckled, taking a small pause, "well. it seems there’s trouble?"

you simultaneously wanted to shake and nod your head. for whatever reason, you felt slightly stunted — his voice sounded nice. it reminded you of the way mourning doves chirp in the morning, all soothing and sweet. then, there was his smile, maybe capable of competing with the very sun hanging above your heads. a row of white teeth along with twins of blue crinkling in the corners. a picture of perfection. how come you never payed any attention to him?

upon your lack of reaction, a hand waved in front of your eyes. "…iss. miss? you still with me?"

you blinked twice, rapidly pulled out of your temporary stupor. oh. it would seem he was talking to you, and you remained unresponsive. what a way to make a fool out of yourself.

"ah, yeah, sorry." you forced out awkwardly, scratching the nape of your neck. "just got lost in thought."

at that, Phainon snickered. his attention returned to the vendor, and he pointed towards the peaches — cursed objects of your dismay. "alright! kind sir, i’d like to buy a few." he smiled politely at the man.

you observed him purchase your desired fruit with the slightest of disappointment, paying without any complaints or hesitation. then, he turned to you, and practically pushed the paper bag into your arms. "i’m— is that for me?" you stammered, eyes widening.

"of course." the corners of his lips lifted even further upwards, forming into a grin. "i just hope you don’t mind?"

how could you possibly mind? even if he felt like doing charity work out of pity, it still meant a lot to you. for quite some time, you hardly received any sort of kindness. perhaps that’s what you’ve lacked for all this time.

when you noticed some other people lining up behind you, you stepped to the side, Phainon following in tow. "i don’t mind. thank you, Lord—"

"let’s not use the honorifics, hm?" he chimed in before you could even finish your sentence, swaying his hand dismissively.

you nodded, a somewhat bashful smile forming on your face. you felt kind of perplexed by the whole exchange, but nevertheless, it was a nice change of pace. "fine with me. oh, by the way, my name’s—"

he cut in again. "[name], am i right?"

upon hearing that, you let out a clipped laugh. how did he even know? well, it’s not like you’re alienating yourself from the rest of citizens, but hey. Phainon was at least a few ranks above you, and from what you could discern, people of higher status rarely concerned themselves with identities of the commoners.

you itched to ask: how’d you know?, but held your tongue — that would be surely impolite. "yes, you got that right."

"well, it was nice to meet you, [name]." he said, tone remaining light and jovial, mouth still stretched into a grin. you wondered how is it possible his cheeks didn’t hurt from the constant strain. "enjoy your peaches!"

Phainon was halfway swiveling on his heel, ready to walk away — and you, upon some godforsaken impulse, gripped his wrist. he stopped in his tracks, turning to you with a quizzical expression.

"uh— maybe you’d like one?" you queried, hastily reaching into the bag, and pulling the fruit out. "i mean… you bought them for me, so it’s only fair."

his irises took your face in (maybe a bit too intently for your liking), and he looked seconds away from bursting into a triumphant laughter. for what reason, you honestly didn’t know. "sure, thank you." he nodded, grasping the peach from your palm.

you followed in tow, because — why not? you were hungry, and the sight of his teeth sinking into the tender flesh caused your stomach to rumble, reminding of its discomfort. "oh, my! these are great." you remarked casually, wondering whether you should be acting so easy-going with a Chrysos Heir. anyway, you’re not the one to blame, are you?

"they are." he affirmed, smiling when he took another bite. juice seeped down his hand, slipping under the sleeve, which caused him to let out a dismayed yelp.

you laughed at the sight. he laughed harder.

the sun shone brightly, and you didn’t even know him, but felt a sting of familiarity in your chest. Phainon’s strands of hair billowed straight in his face, tousled by the strong gusts of wind, and nothing seemed to matter at that moment. thoughts of any morose kind left your exhausted brain, leaving you with that blissful emptiness. there was only him, you, and those damned peaches.

after that, your friendship with Phainon unfortunately only grew in its size. to this day, you aren’t sure what tempted you to let him practically snake his way into your life. perhaps it was the fact you were lonely, and grief-shaken — upon your mother’s passing, none was the same, and everyone seemed to turn their backs at you. it hurt like hell, so any kind of company satiated you. well, Phainon wasn’t just any kind. he was incredibly sweet, and helpful, and sometimes you caught yourself thinking he was everything you needed and more.

at first, your meetings were coincidental (but from the retrospective, they probably weren’t). you were doing some shopping, and he just happened to stumble across you on the street. the man was sitting in that lovely garden, surrounded by prancing chimeras, and you’d accidentally cross ways. things were falling into place, and fate seemed to be tethering you both — so you only got closer, and closer.

the bond between you tightened with every passing month, until you found out it’s already been a year, and your cursed brain decided to bestow you with its worst gift. a crush. an infatuation, of sorts.

sharing your sorrows came easier, and Phainon was only more eager to hear you out. it placated the thunderstorm in your heart enough to let the gates down — you invited him in, completely willingly. you initiated the acts that would later prove to be your doom, and now you couldn’t even find a suitable excuse. after all, no one forced you to spend most of your free time with him. not a single person gripped you by the shoulders, shaking, and commanding you: stick with him, and ignore all the times when that borderline manic smile failed to reach his eyes.

you think you’ll regret not backing out when you still had the chance forever.

air in the antique bookstore was thick, making your lungs heavy as you accidentally inhaled another portion of dust, the little speckles seating themselves uncomfortably in your nostrils. you wanted to sneeze, however held the insistent urge back, mindful of every other patron — there weren’t many people here, but still, you’d rather not startle anyone.

you flipped to another page of that certain memoir which managed to catch your attention. the paper seemed fragile and yellowed, already damaged by years of sun exposure, and the spine was pretty much cracked in half. that didn’t matter, though — a thing bearing so many profound memories will remain beautiful, even if it was to be tossed into a fiery pit.

memoirs and biographies alike were always your favorite. you don’t know why, but they carried a certain sense of comfort — death was inevitable in human existence, but if you write your life down, you’ll stay alive in the minds of others (at least to some extent). books, unlike people, do not have a lifespan. they will not perish, unless someone burns or destroys them.

that was soothing. literature won’t leave, nor will it abandon you. it is definitive. it is attested. it is a certainty which cannot be guaranteed in every case. memories will not slip you away, as long as you tuck them onto a piece of paper — be it a simple notebook, or a diary. human brain is unable of perceiving the recollections properly after some amount of time — it will mix everything up, having you debate whether it truly happened or not. books weren’t like that. they won’t fail you nor bend the reality.

you turned to another page when a doorbell rang through the space, the sound of silent greeting gracing your ears. somebody new came in. you decided to ignore them for now, intently reading through the sentences to discern if this specific lecture was genuinely up to your taste (because you didn’t feel like spending another sum of money on something you’ll drop sooner than later).

and as you were busying yourself with that, a pair of palms suddenly obscured your vision — you’d probably jump up in fright if not for the fact your nervous system was already used to such endeavors. you giggled meekly under your breath, gently shutting the book.

"guess who." rang the sing-song voice, so familiar and saccharine.

you rolled your eyes, a weak smile tugging the corners of your lips upwards. "hm, i’m not sure. who could it be?" you huffed, swiftly tugging the hands away from your face, and turning to see who decided on surprising you.

obviously, it was no revelation when your irises locked with the radiant pools of blue, already grinning at you so widely. or perhaps it was? you honestly didn’t expect to see Phainon here out of all places — sure, judging people by a stereotypical lens was wrong, but you would have never thought he took any interest in literature.

Phainon pouted at your words, the corners of his lips curling downwards in a pitiful expression. he honestly reminded you of a kicked puppy. "ah, [name], i’m so hurt. it’s me, obviously!" the man whined, one of his arms attempting to sneak around your shoulders. you eluded the touch.

"well, hello there." you sighed, wry amusement lacing your tone. then, you thought to ask: "what are you doing here?"

a silly question it was, because obviously he didn’t visit an antique bookstore to pick strawberries.

your friend hummed under his breath, eyes briefly flickering over the books, finally locking on the one you were holding. "i like reading from time to time. by the way, is that another memoir?" he inquired innocently.

you nodded. “yeah. why?"

"nothing, nothing." he waved his hand dismissively, a chuckle slipping past his lips. "you just read so much of them. don’t you ever get bored?"

your mouth opened to grant him with a response, but then your brain lagged. a very silent, practically non-existent alarm rang in the back of your mind, causing you to pause. when did you ever tell him about your fondness for this specific genre? well, it’s not like you were actively trying to keep it a secret, but still. you both rarely conversed about such things, especially your reading hobby.

anyway, you’re probably acting irrational right now. you must have told him before, and it simply escaped your memory.

you cleared your throat, putting the book back on the shelf. for whatever reason, you didn’t feel like purchasing it anymore. "no, not really. they’re interesting." you answered without much commitment.

Phainon gave a noise of acknowledgment, his smile growing into a grin. "is that so? well actually, i like them too."

"i have plenty at my house." you said, irises avoiding his face. the expression he donned was practically blinding. "if you want to, i can lend you some."

the fact he also enjoyed memoirs didn’t seem particularly believable to you, but you decided to indulge him nonetheless. after all, he was your friend. your only one.

(not to mention you may have been crushing on him).

"that would be nice!” he replied instantly, and you thought if you squinted enough, you’d manage to spot the tail wagging behind him excitedly. "do you have the time?"

"as in… right now?" you queried, but before you even affirmed, Phainon was already dragging you out of the store. you didn’t protest. whenever you did, saying something that didn’t especially please the man, the look on his face always fell so somberly. you hated that sight.

with that, the both of you went to your home. to be fair, you visited him more often than he actually visited you — so as you opened the door, you immediately began apologizing about the mess (which wasn’t overly prominent, but a lot of dust gather around, and you didn’t have the strength to clean up).

"again, sorry. i just didn’t really have the time to tidy recently.” you let the white lie easily slip off of your tongue, slowly putting your shoes away.

Phainon looked at you as if you were crazy. "[name], i already told you i don’t mind. my place isn’t the most perfect either." he laughed merrily, patting your back.

you reciprocated his smile, internally grateful for how understanding the man was. his gaze was always relentlessly kind (spare for the times when he stared blankly into the distance, blue irises completely dull), and never once you thought he appeared anyhow judgmental.

"well, anyway. about the books…" you began, stepping closer to the shelf in your living room, stuffed to the brim with lectures. "anything specific you’d like to read about?" you asked, knowing the memoirs spread across a rather wide range of topics.

"your favorite ones." Phainon chimed, following in tow.

you huffed out a hushed chuckle, quickly taking out at least five of your beloved titles. he was really sweet if he wanted to read your favorites, and it made your heart clench happily. "here you go." you handed him the books, carefully balancing them on the man’s palms.

you wholeheartedly believed he’d at least check out their backs, interested in the contents — but his intense gaze remained glued to yours. now that you think about it, this occurrence was somewhat common. one time you went to a restaurant, and Phainon, instead of seeing what the menu had to offer, continued to stare at you with a dumb grin. he ended up ordering the same dish as you. or, for example, when you visited him, and asked whether he could pour you some juice — that day was beyond scorching hot, so you were parched. Phainon immediately agreed, but as he was filling up your glass, he seemed to get distracted. the juice overflowed, spilling all across his lap, and he only stopped when you yelled at him.

the man either loved daydreaming, or analyzing your face contours in depth. you surely hoped it wasn’t the latter option (not because you’d mind — it simply made you feel overly exposed).

"don’t hurry with reading them all." you offered him a wry smile, receiving a nod of understanding in return. "anyway, maybe you’d like some tea?”

Phainon sat by the table, placing the books on its surface. "sure, why not." he replied, lazily opening one of them, and skimming through the pages without actually processing the words. if not for the fact his leg was bouncing, you’d think he was the perfect picture of peace now — light gently illuminating the galant features, long eyelashes casting shadows on his cheeks.

when he found you staring (even though you just internally berated him for doing the same thing), he sent you a knowing smile, eyebrows arching upwards. you cleared your throat awkwardly, hastily disappearing into the kitchen without a further comment.

once the tea was done, you settled it on the table, seating yourself as well. to no surprise, Phainon was distracted again, vision focused on your piano standing under one of the windows. it has seen better days — previously taken care of, its jet-black surface shone, reflecting all the light. now it was a mere imitation of its earlier glory, covered in dust and wilted petals of that flower you were too exhausted to water, and too unmotivated to throw away.

"something caught your eye?" you questioned, taking a small sip of the herbal drink.

he turned to face you, shrugging. "i was just wondering if you ever play this piano. i visited you multiple times, and it always stands…" he paused, as if weighting the words, "abandoned."

that much was true. you rarely concerned yourself with your hobby — after the passing of your mother, nothing seemed to draw your interest anymore. she was the one who taught you how to play, and now she was gone. no longer were the duets, or mirthful tunes resonating early in the morning.

she was much more talented and skilled than you could ever be, winning award after award. still, you cherished your shared passion for music — you learnt a lot, embedding the notes deep inside your mind. and she was proud. even if you failed, your mother would always cheer you on, patiently explaining what you could fix. life was good, back then.

but it was no more.

"i don’t play." you replied, voice a bit sterner than you’d like it to be.

Phainon didn’t seem anyhow deterred by your tone, sending you an encouraging smile. "really? that’s a pity. i’d love to hear you."

it wasn’t hard to deduce what he was insinuating. even though you swore to never touch that instrument again, your resolve chipped off at his words. "well… i suppose i could try for you."

your friend’s expression melted into a subtle triumph. "great!" he clasped his hands together, shifting on the chair to watch as you got up from your place, seating yourself by the piano.

you ran your palm over the dust and withered petals, shoving everything on the ground. you’ll swipe it later. then, you took a breath, attempting to recall anything familiar — it would seem you got rusty, because as you flipped through the music sheets, only one melody came to mind. why’re you so worried, anyway? you’re not here to impress Phainon (even if you’d like to, terribly).

with that, you positioned your fingertips on the tiles, shoulders tense from how his insistent gaze kept boring into your back. you winced upon the first sound, trying to remember how to play, and how to push back the memories haunting your sorrow-worn brain.

after a while of uncertainty, you finally fell into the right rhythm, smiling dimly at the forlorn tune. it was slow, and calm. all the world surrounding you seemed to cease in its existence, and now it was only you, and the piano. no Phainon, no birds flying outside of the window, no overcast skies, no memories of your late mother.

with each press on the tile, you felt as if you were discovering pieces of yourself anew, like a sacred ritual — playing made you happy. it truly did. how were you able of forgetting about such a simple fact?

as you regained the confidence, you worked your joints with more fervor. everything was going well, until two palms fell onto your shoulders, startling you.

a strained, prolonged sound filled the air as you accidentally hit the tiles, messing up the melody. your head quickly whipped towards Phainon, who was now looking at you with a surprised expression painted on his face. when did he even come up here? you hardly heard any footfall.

"i’m so sorry, did i scare you?” he chuckled, obviously without any remorse.

you sighed, fingers reaching over to touch his hands. "a little."

a smirk stretched his lips upwards as he leaned a bit closer, twins of blue flickering between your form and the instrument. "i didn’t mean to." he responded coyly, no matter if you didn’t sense any guilt coming from him. well, it’s not like you’d hold a grudge for giving you a brief spook. "i just wanted to look from up close. you played so beautifully."

you felt his joints interlock around yours, and now you were slightly hot, something summery itching at your cheeks. Phainon was way too near, and the worst part is — you wished to render the distance completely.

he appeared so pretty from up close. you could discern the faint dimples in his cheeks as he smiled at you tenderly, and how light coming from the window illuminated his radiant irises. if you were able to, you’d immediately snap a picture with your own eyes, because there was no way any sort of lens could ever truly mirror his prepossessing features.

"i can teach you." you blurted out on impulse, wanting to sink into the chair from embarrassment at your silly proposal.

you expected Phainon to laugh — except he didn’t. his face pulled even closer, effectively knocking the air out from your lungs. assuming your heart had legs of it own, it surely would bolt straight out of your throat.

"i’d like that." he murmured.

your breath hitched, and then his lips brushed against yours. you barely stopped yourself from digging your nails into his hands. upon some sprout of boldness, you moved to close your mouths together — but Phainon inched away. that caused your mind to lag, blinking twice at him in confusion — did you even kiss? it was so brief, and chaste in its nature. more like just… pressing your lips against each other, as if to exchange oxygen.

his palms left your shoulders, and he straightened out, stepping back. your thoughts spurred, wondering whether you did something wrong, or if you offended him — however, there was no trace of dismay on the man’s face. he kept smiling sweetly at you, slowly gathering the memoirs into his arms like nothing ever happened.

"well, teach, can i see you tomorrow for a quick lesson?" he asked amusedly, eyebrows arching upwards.

no matter how perplexed you felt, you still forced the corners of your lips to stretch. "s-sure." you stammered out, fingers clenching around the material of your attire.

perhaps you imagined it, after all.

with that, time continued to pass, and for whatever reason you never again touched upon the topic of that barely-kiss. you remember being frustrated then, for pretty obvious reasons. still, Phainon didn’t seem to be in need of talking about that, so you kept silent.

now, from the perspective of time, it might have actually saved you from a fate much worse than what you had presented before you at this moment. your chance to escape Okhema remains unshaken, but what if you pushed Phainon earlier on? surely, the man’s fangs would clench around your neck, refusing to let you go.

he continued to visit you after that, and you taught him how to play. it was no revelation when he grasped the concept rather quickly — he seemed to be some kind of an omnibus, catching on everything naturally.

those shared moments were so precious to you, back then. when Phainon became confident in his somewhat stable skills, you both would sit by the piano, playing a duet. your sides touched as you slowly pressed on the tiles, sometimes even humming along to the tune. whenever one of you messed up, you’d laugh, bickering quietly.

you were enjoying yourself — more than you probably should. all the red flags and alarming behaviors slipped past your notice, and you genuinely thought you regained a long-lost part of yourself.

the dust was now gone from your home, wilted plants and trash thrown away. the piano shone like it used to, and the sun seemed to peek out from behind the clouds more often. your fridge was never empty, because Phainon always brought you some fresh food, and the bed in which you could lie for hours on end didn’t appear as alluring.

it’s not that you miraculously recovered from the grief and burdens of your doleful mind, however, it was progress. the heart remained heavy still — but the man’s fingers curled under its beating form, lifting it up. it was easier to function with him.

at some point, you thought a life without Phainon would be impossible.

everything was going well, and you no longer were carrying so much sorrow. previously, your brain practically drowned into a state of paranoia — every single person appeared as if they wanted to harm or betray you in some way. you scowled at the passersby, a bitter frown painted across your face. but now it was gone. all the wariness and disdain and chagrin lulled into something softer, more amiable.

alas, you should have kept it with you.

you stirred awake, pressing your eyelids shut at the dim light of early morning uncomfortably irritating your eyes. you don’t know why, but your stomach churned, and you felt unsettled by the thought that something was not right.

your room was way too cold. of course, it was chilly in the mornings, but this? this was beyond normalcy. you finally looked around the space, trying to control your trembling limbs. nothing was amiss. every single thing lied in its destined place, all of the windows closed.

still, the temperature made you wonder. with an uneasy feeling, you slowly dragged yourself off the bed, treading downstairs to check it out as well.

it’s a good thing you didn’t go back to sleep, because the sight there made you gasp out loud. your doors were opened — not widely, just slightly ajar — but they were, and it made your guts clench.

under any other circumstances, you would have blamed it on your forgetfulness, however right now that was simply impossible. you never once forgot to close the door, always making sure at least two times the locks were secure and tightly shut.

when you were little, you and your mother fell victim to a robbery — your whole home got practically destroyed, every single furniture toppled over once the thieves were satisfied with their search for any valuables. ever since then, your mother got paranoid about stuff like that. she instilled utmost awareness in you, and so, you adapted. the habit stuck with you to this day, and you took extra precautions just to make sure everything was locked.

wind flew through the gap, lapping at your bare ankles with its frigid tongue. someone broke into your house — and the worst part is, you don’t know whether that person was still inside.

untamed panic attempted to squeeze your heart, but you steeled your resolve, taking a deep breath. no, you mustn’t fall into a hole of fright. your eyes quickly jumped across the space of your living room, scanning everything up and down — nothing.

you took a step forward, jumping up at the low creak your floor made. you cursed under your breath, placing a shaky palm over your pounding chest. you tentatively dragged your feet over to the middle of the room, trying to gather your disarrayed thoughts. as you somehow managed to calm your nervous system down, you hastily turned back for your teleslate, gripping it in your hand as if your life depended on it.

you glanced around yourself precariously, too afraid of even checking out other rooms — after all, if that intruder were there, what would you do? you couldn’t fight. one hit from behind, and you’d be gone.

as carefully as possible, you started walking down the stairs, already dialing a familiar number. you needed him — he was way more capable than you. you were absolutely sure if that person who broke into your house would see him, they’d pass out.

you stood frozen on the cold floorboards, counting down the signals. one. two. three—

"hello, [name]?" resonated the slightly dazed voice, still half-asleep. you must have woken him up.

"Phainon," you began, trying to maintain your tone stable, "can you come to my place?"

you heard a noise of something on the other side, muffled and static. "you mean… as in right now?"

"yes, right now. i know it’s barely four in the morning, but—"

a loud thud on the window cut in the middle of your sentence, causing you to practically shriek in horror. it was a bird — you saw it so clearly, its small silhouette bumping against the glass — and yet, you bolted out of your house as if you were hunted by a pack of fiends.

you almost tripped over your own legs, bare feet falling onto the cold grass, freshly covered in dew. you heard Phainon’s voice calling from your teleslate, asking if you were alright, so you pressed it back to your ear.

"what in the hell happened, [name]?" he asked, probably for the fifth time now.

you took a shaky breath, running a palm over your face. "nothing, i just— just please, come here. i think…" you stammered, clumsily stumbling over your words in haze of trepidation, "i think someone broke into my house."

"wh—" the man began, immediately abandoning his track of thought, "alright. okay, i’ll be there. where are you now?"

you warily looked around, taking in the dimmed sight of your surroundings — the sky was still somewhat dark, periwinkle shyly peeking through the grayish firmament. "in my garden."

Phainon affirmed he’ll come as soon as possible, and you hung up, anxiously pacing around the patch of grass. you were torn between staying outside, and coming back home — but ultimately decided to remain in place.

you fidgeted with your fingers, eyes flickering to the door you forgot to even close as you sprinted out. you mulled over all the dark scenarios, clenching your hands into fists, imagining what you’d do if that intruder were to suddenly emerge, and attack you. their motives surely were odd — nothing was missing, your furniture unmoved, all the possibly valuable things untouched. it was different from what you had experienced as a young girl. if not for the money, then…

the grim realization struck you, and you breathed meekly, feeling your knees get wobblier. how is it you came out of this completely unscathed? as you continued to drown in morose reveries, you heard the fast footfall, head whipping to see who was coming your way.

Phainon, in all of his glory — ivory locks tousled in ever single possible direction, still donning his sleepwear and combat shoes that totally didn’t match. perhaps under different circumstances, you would laugh at the sight.

"[name]." he called, swiftly rendering the distance between you. his facial expression seemed somewhat distraught, but he didn’t take his sword with him, which was… well, somewhat weird. maybe he simply forgot it.

you stepped towards him, grabbing his palms into yours. "thank gods you’re here…" you muttered, feeling at his joints tensing. "why don’t you have a weapon? what if— what if that intruder is still—"

"everything is going to be just fine, alright?" he responded, interrupting your waterfall of hardly-coherent words. "i’ll go search through your place. you should, uh… perhaps stick to me."

you nodded eagerly, sighing with relief at the security Phainon’s presence brought you. with that, you trailed after the man, glued to his hip like a stray animal begging for a scrap of meat.

both of you carefully checked out every single corner of your house, and the more you looked, the more unsettled you became. the thief was not there, but a few things were missing. first of all — your pens. as you stepped into the study, you briefly noticed the disarray on your desk, soon finding out half of your utensils were gone. then, there was that handkerchief you spent so much time embroidering with intricate floral patterns — also no sight of it.

the disappearances were so inconspicuous, it terrified you way more than the vision of losing your jewelry or money. what person casually decides to break in, only to steal somebody’s pens and a piece of cloth? those things were not valuable whatsoever — the fact that this intruder took them was beyond off.

when you pointed it out, Phainon’s eyebrows narrowed with concern — and then his expression shifted into almost dismissal. he said not to worry, after all none of your actually precious stuff was gone, and that must be a good sign, no?

you were consternated at his suddenly carefree attitude, but didn’t point it out. since your friend told you everything was fine, then who were you to undermine his words? certainly, he knew better than you — even if something deep in your gut told you otherwise.

you pushed back the feelings of unease and ambivalent emotions, soon changing the locks and making sure all of your windows were secure. this accident has shaken you, and now your sleep was restless — but life goes on, and Phainon promised he’d never let any harm come your way, so at least you had an ounce of comfort to cling to.

you don’t know why you were so blind, back then. the signs were there for all of this time — you simply decided to turn a blind eye on them.

perhaps it was because you repressed the grief deep inside, but it still dragged you down. silently, innocently. it resurfaced only when you were alone, staring pointlessly at your own feet or a half-empty cup of water. you began to fear it, and so, you tethered yourself to the source of your consolation.

it has been twenty six months since your mother’s death, and thirteen months since your "friendship" with Phainon first bloomed. a number big enough to show the amount of conflict brewing within your heart — torn between everything your instincts were telling you, and ignoring them.

sometimes you wondered: if you kept your curiosity at bay, would anything ever resurface? would the ugly things finally appear, seated in your lap like an obedient lamb? he was an intelligent man, so perhaps not.

anyway, there’s no use mourning over spilled milk.

Phainon, being one of the Chrysos Heirs, was often sent out on missions of various kind. they never took him too long — he always came back in time, maybe a bit battered, but still in one piece. today, however, seemed to be different.

everything started out smoothly — you knew he was out of town, so you arranged to meet with one of your newly-formed friend. you got ready, actually putting effort in how you looked, and waited patiently for the hour of your little get-together to finally arrive.

when your teleslate vibrated next to your thigh, you believed it was your friend, letting you know to come out now — so once your eyes met with Phainon’s vague message, you blinked in surprise.

he asked you to come to the infirmary, only stating that he wanted to see you. naturally, you texted back — did something happen? — but the silence that followed was maddening. an utterly unreasonable flood of worry surged through your mind, each passing second stirring it into a thunderstorm. without wasting another moment, you grabbed your bag and hurried out.

by the time you arrived, every nerve in your body felt like it was set in flames. stress relentlessly gnawed at your thoughts, and a thousand of dark scenarios bloomed intrusively in your imagination. you barely managed to ask one of the nurses where he was, and she responded with a door numer — it already managed to dissolve in your thoughts. you walked upstairs, heart pounding with a single morose question: was Phainon truly in such a state that he’d ask for you? gods, you hoped he was just being dramatic.

you shoved the door open and exhaled a breath you didn’t know you were holding. there he was — alive, upright, and breathing. he sat on the bed with a slight recline, supported by a multitude of pillows, his gaze fixed on something outside the window. when he heard you come in, he turned, expression almost instantly shifting into a cheerful smile.

"[name], you came." he hummed happily, briefly running his fingers through the fair locks, maybe a bit self-conscious by how messy they were.

Phainon’s left cheek was covered by a piece of gauze, and you managed to spot a few bandages sticking from under his loose robes — but fortunately, nothing else caught your attention. he was all well, and now you were wondering why did he sent you such an ominous message in the first place. maybe he simply wanted to mess with you.

you nodded, rendering the space between you two. "of course i did." you spoke meekly, deciding to seat yourself on the small chair, standing just right next to the bed. "anyway, are you… okay?"

the blue irises studied you for good, prolonged three seconds before he thought answer. "could have been worse. accidents happen from time to time, even to me." he chuckled, a cough ripping from his chest abruptly.

you winced, fiddling with your fingers. you did not know what to do. "why don’t you lie down?" you asked, sending him a wry smile. comforting others was never your strongest forte, and now it was evidently showing.

he obediently took up on your offer, the corners of his lips remaining lifted. "[name], don’t frown so much. it’s not like i’m dying, or something."

you laughed at that comment, and he laughed along. whenever you as much as voiced any sound of joy, he always followed suit — at first it wasn’t very noticeable to you, but after some time, you recognized it as a habit of sorts. an unconditioned reflex.

"sorry. i didn’t mean to, i just…" you trailed off, eyes falling to your lap.

a short beat of silence passed between you before Phainon spoke again. "you look especially pretty today. any occasion?" he mused, a teasing lilt to his voice.

at that, you almost choked on your own spit. your relationship with the man was… well, somewhat questionable — but whenever he complimented you in such a straightforward way, you always felt as if somebody smacked you across the face with an electric wire.

you cleared your throat, trying to fight off the blush steadily creeping onto your cheeks. "maybe? i’m not sure. i was supposed to meet up with my friend today." you explained.

Phainon’s smile widened, and you didn’t fail to spot how the corner of his lips twitched. "sounds great."

you nodded, unsure of what to reply with. sometimes he responded with such vague sentences, it was hard to even come up with an answer. still, you forced your mind to muster up anything to keep the conversation going.

you talked for quite a while now, and you definitely lost the track of time — the sky darkened slightly, and you continued to ignore the buzzing of your teleslate. whenever you reached into your bag, your friend always began asking you some barely sensible questions, demanding your attention to stay focused solely on him.

you indulged him, naturally, but when you heard the sound of a ringtone, you could no longer pretend. what you were doing was hardly polite — looking at the hour, you were already fifteen minutes late to your meeting. even if Phainon was battered, he surely would understand, right? after all, he is the prime example of kindness, constantly gracing everyone with that cordial smile of his.

with a sigh, you grasped the device, ready to pick up. "sorry, i really have to—"

before your fingertip managed to even do as much as graze the teleslate’s screen, a hand suddenly locked around your wrist. you let out a mixture of surprise and confusion from your throat, vision returning to Phainon. he was smiling — alas, it didn’t encompass his eyes anymore. the man’s grip wasn’t hard, but it caused you to accidentally drop your teleslate, the thing slipping from your palm and hitting the ground with a clatter. it was still ringing a merry tune, so notorious and loud.

you swallowed, consternation painting itself across your face. "hey, what are—"

a vivid picture of sudden change grew in front of you, dull irises snapping back into their lively forms — he hastily let go of your limb, retracting his hand. did Phainon suffer some head trauma while he was away on a mission? he never once acted so erratically before, so you wouldn’t be surprised to find out his brain was in a concussed state.

"sorry. is your teleslate alright?" he spoke calmly, easing back into the stack of pillows.

you bend down to pick it up, briefly inspecting it. "yes, it is." you nodded, eyes avoiding him. when you glanced at the screen, you saw at least ten delivered messages, waiting for you to read. you felt guilty.

"anyway," he started, that lighthearted lace returning to his tone, "who were you supposed to meet up with?"

you sighed at the innocent question, turning the device off. "Phaoriseus. you remember him, don’t you?"

to be completely honest, you expected another burst of bitterness from your friend (and you wouldn’t blame him for it) — so it was a surprise when Phainon gave a hum of understanding, still smiling at you without a single waver. "i do remember him."

(you didn’t spot how terribly hard his fingers curled around the covers, nor the tight clench of his jaws).

"so, uhh, i guess i should…" you began, wondering why were you feeling so unsure, "i should go now. he’ll get mad if i just ditch him like that."

Phainon’s expression remained frozen for a good second — but soon the blank page of his face twisted into a pitiful frown, eyebrows knitting together. "really? but you just got there!" he protested, and you thought he looked like a mistreated dog. injured face, stitches, locks tousled messily — and those big eyes, practically begging.

he was not right. you didn’t just get there. it has been two hours since you stepped into infirmary, and perhaps it would be better to go now — but Phainon had this irresistible ability of tugging on your poor heartstrings. you felt torn, and when your teleslate began ringing again, you knew it was the high time you finally decide.

and the worst part is — it came so easily to you. just like that. without much hesitancy, you turned on the silent mode, tossing the thing back into your bag.

sure, you wanted to maintain friendships, and whatnot — but the man lying now in front of you was simply more important. you chuckled dryly under your breath, wondering how could you ever possibly leave his side — and when he heard the sound coming from your mouth, he laughed along. sweetly, like pure saccharine or sugarcoated apples.

"so you’ll stay, i presume?" he inquired, fingertips reaching over to yours. you squeezed his hand immediately, smiling at the warmth of his joints.

"of course i’ll stay." you affirmed, all remnants of internal conflict seeping away. it was good this way. you didn’t need much in life — as long as you had Phainon, everything would be just fine.

you could mock your past self for remaining so oblivious, but it would lack in any sense anyway. it’s not as if berating yourself for putting trust in somebody else could fix the old mistakes — none can undo the past.

now that you think about it, Phainon always was… somewhat quirky. beloved by everyone, cherished and praised highly in the general community of Okhema, he stayed as a picture-perfect golden boy. no one would ever suspect there was something more to him — not even you, at least back then.

however, sometimes his usually radiant eyes lost their glow, boring pointedly into the distance with dullness you couldn’t put your finger on, or discern where it was coming from. it was eerie in a way, seeing how the very life seemed to practically disappear from him — but you never thought to judge him. you understood better than anyone else that a human’s existence is filled with various hardships and grief. maybe Phainon experienced something akin to your loss, and simply attempted to smother the sorrow instead of letting it dissolve naturally.

then, there were his mood swings. they weren’t overly prominent, but it was quite apparent the emotions within him were in a constant state of swirl. for example, how quickly and rapidly he could burst into laughter at something mildly funny you said — you always wondered whether he seriously found your dry jokes so amusing.

not to mention, you perceived Phainon as someone relentlessly kind, but he just had that odd habit of glaring at whoever was talking to you. no matter if you were acquainted with them, or not — he’d stand a little behind you, eyebrows narrowing together lowly. when you caught him scowling like so, his look always shifted into a docile smile, innocently asking what was wrong — as if he never did anything in the first place. you let that slide, too.

perhaps this was not a very obvious sign, but from time to time, you noticed the slip-ups in his masterfully crafted masks. well, maybe not masterfully, because Phainon wasn’t all that great at controlling his facial expressions — but the fact he could hold them up with such a hell in his mind remained impressive. you stated something against his wishes — his eyebrow twitched. you did specifically what he told you not to do — his lower eyelid quivered, as if he was seconds away from losing it.

and finally, the vague responses Phainon offered you. previously, you had no clue why he got so mopey sometimes, but now you know it stemmed from pure, barely contained jealousy. the short "okay-s" and "fine-s" often sounded as if he practically forced them out. almost like there was something in his throat — obscuring the man’s windpipe, refusing him from mustering up anything more.

earlier on, when you were still so blissfully oblivious, you could live with that. you could swallow down all the doubts and questions, cherishing the company of your beloved friend — or something more. you ignored all the cracks, and wavers, pretending not to see the sharp eyes of a predator lurking from underneath sheep’s clothing.

you were so hung-up on the vision of remaining by Phainon’s side, you ignored the warnings — not only originating from your own intuition, but other’s as well.

the weather seemed a bit unstable today — you agreed to come out on a walk with Phainon, bumping into Mydei along the way, and dragging him with you too — and the sun shone brightly from one part of the sky, while the other remained darkened by the rain clouds. it was a little unsettling, watching as the gloom spread relentlessly fast towards your way.

still, you couldn’t exactly complain. you were having fun with both of the men, giggling under your breath as they bickered over the dumbest things. you already had to work as a mediator, and a judge — when their debates remained unsolved, they instantly turned towards you, demanding you decide which one of them was right.

and as you strolled through the main square, your eyes met with an ice cream stall. the temperature was quite hot, so you offered to buy some — Phainon agreed with you, saying that he can go wait in the line, since it was pretty long. you sent him a grateful nod, hiding with Mydei in the shade meanwhile he had to stand in the scorching sun, already appearing somewhat dazed by the hotness.

you leaned on the cool pillar, sighing with relief. the man next to you followed suit, glancing at you with the corner of his piercingly sharp iris. "[name], i have to ask you about something." he began, perhaps a bit tentatively.

to hear him speak up first was a slight surprise, especially since you weren’t particularly close, nor did Mydei seem to be overly social. still, you didn’t point it out — it’s not like it was a bad thing he attempted to strike up a conversation with you.

"go ahead." you sent him an encouraging smile, quickly reaching to wipe the sweat off of your brow. the high temperature was seriously getting to you — any longer in the sun, and you’d probably faint.

he cleared his throat, letting out a prolonged sigh. "what do you think of Phainon?” he questioned, the tone of his voice more gravely than usual.

confused, you blinked twice, mulling over his words. what’s that supposed to mean? "well, i think he’s a… good person. i enjoy his company.” you replied, wondering if that’s the answer Mydei was looking for.

the man shook his head, eyebrows narrowing together. "is that all? don’t you think he’s been acting off?"

the more he talked, the more perplexed you got. "what?"

Mydei clicked his tongue in irritation, probably barely holding back a scoff at your obliviousness. "[name], i’m sure you are more intelligent than you let on. don’t tell me you can’t see how he looks at you?"

a nervous chuckle escaped your lips as you scratched the nape of your neck. where was he even going with all this? "sorry, are you—" you took a pause, weighting your words, "are you insinuating Phainon has a crush on me?"

this of course wouldn’t be any sort of revelation, considering the things you both have done before, however hearing it from somebody else’s mouth was certainly weird.

he huffed out a humorless chuckle, leaning in a bit closer, as if his sentence was some kind of top-secret. "more than just infatuation. there’s… there’s something uncanny to his gaze." Mydei murmured with a hint of cautiousness in his voice. "i really hate to talk of him in such a way, but i know him longer than you, and—"

your brain almost — almost connected all the circumstances and dots you were pushing back for a long time already, living in denial — but then a familiar voice caused you both to jump back, straightening out.

"i’m back!" you turned to look at Phainon who held up three cones, a triumphant grin stretching his lips upwards. "now, what were the two of you talking about, hm?" he laughed inconspicuously, handing out the ice cream.

Mydei sent you a glare so stern, you’d never dream of admitting the truth. "just… discussing our favorite chimeras." you forced out, making up some hardly-authentic excuse on the spot. you saw the blonde man cringe at your dumb lie.

Phainon’s eyebrows lifted, and he nodded slowly, as if silently messaging he didn’t believe a single word. "is that so? well, Mydei was frowning so much i thought you were conversing about the very death." he joked lightheartedly, licking at the already dripping ice cream.

"it doesn’t matter, Deliverer. [name]’s telling the truth." he retorted, and you winced when he took a formidable bite out of the cold food.

you observed them exchange heated looks, but neither said anything further. with that, you took a small step back, hunching your shoulders inwards as you slowly licked on the ice cream — for whatever reason, you lost your appetite.

funnily enough, no matter how ominous Mydei’s words were, you soon forgot them. an awful decision on your side, but hey — at least you’re aware now that he remained completely truthful, then. you could be almost grateful at his high perception, though it didn’t help much at that time.

you were never close with the crown prince of Kremnos — he always seemed a bit distant, and detached from the rest. the only reason you had any contact with him was because of Phainon. perhaps that’s the reason why his warning dissipated so quickly from your mind — assuming you were better friends, you’d surely take everything he told you under consideration.

as you slowly reached towards the end of your favored piece, fingers falling rhythmically on the tiles, you began to think you should have listened. you should have taken it all to heart, ridding yourself of the blindness, and accepting the truth.

alas, you didn’t do so, and the longer you sit by the piano, playing and mulling over events of the past year, the more evident your demise starts to appear. every single sound resonates like the oh-so familiar footsteps, and singing of the night birds outside reminds you of his voice.

maybe he’s standing right behind you, and you just don’t know it yet. a silly, paranoid vision that was — you made sure to lock the doors, barricading them with additional furniture. you’d certainly hear it, if he were to force his way inside — but still, you feared to turn your head.

after all, when it came to Phainon, your cognitive functions always seemed a bit faulty.

the storm season began, and you shining with utter intelligence, forgot to take your umbrella. again. you swear, at this point you’ll have to write it on your forehead in big, bold letters — remember about the rain!, or something of the sort.

fortunately or unfortunately, you were close to Phainon’s place, so you quickly ran to his door, almost slipping on the mud. with a huff of exasperation, you knocked energetically, hoping he was home. your limbs were trembling from the cold, and clothes stuck uncomfortably to your frame, encompassing you in their heavy wetness. you barely stopped the chattering of your teeth.

after a few seconds, the man finally opened the door, obviously taken aback to see you. "oh, [name]!" he called out in surprise, immediately ushering you inside with a kind smile.

once he shut the entrance, you sighed in relief, drinking in the tranquil silence. loud rainfall was no more, muffed out by the walls surrounding you — and the air definitely got warmer, a soothing balm to your shaky joints. then, you turned to look at Phainon.

"i got caught up in the rain." you stated the obvious, a humorous snicker slipping past your lips as you quickly shook off the water-filled shoes.

your friend’s expression turned fond, and he cocked one eyebrow up at you. "really? i never would have noticed." he chuckled, reaching for your soaked hair — he raked his fingers through the strands, and you swatted his teasing touch away.

"anyway, i’m cold and i want something to drink." you stated, hurriedly dragging your feet towards the living room. Phainon followed in your tracks, just a few steps behind.

you sat on the leather couch, barely containing the shaky breath threatening to escape you. he stood in front of you, clasping his hands. "alright, how about this— self-service today, and while you’re preparing yourself tea, i’ll run you a bath." he offered, before quickly adding: "oh, and maybe i’ll find some fitting garments for you…"

the vision of a hot bath and dry clothes was better than ever — you nodded earnestly, jumping up from the couch like a wind-up toy. "sounds good. thank you, Phainon." you smiled, grateful for such a considerate companion. whatever ethereal being was looking after you, they certainly made sure to bless you with an angel.

he reciprocated the gesture, saying he’ll try to be as quick as possible, soon emerging upstairs. you already took a step forward the kitchen — but then something caught your eye.

door, slightly ajar, just in the corner of the room — of course, you were aware of their existence, but didn’t know where they actually led to. they always remained tightly shut, and Phainon never seemed to use them (at least in your presence).

upon some tinge of uncontainable curiosity, you walked towards the source of your interest. it was extremely rude to pry and search through one’s home while they remained unaware — but your friend wouldn’t get mad even if he found out, right? sure, maybe he’d scold you, but it would end at that.

you opened the door a bit wider, studying the space — it was rather claustrophobic, to be honest. it looked like a larder, except it lacked in any sort of food. a rather obscure wall unit stretched on your left, devoid of anything useful in particular — empty jars, some scrolls, everything covered in a thick layer of dust and cobwebs. the only thing that didn’t seem abandoned was a carton box, situated atop a feeble chair.

you stepped forwards, prying its flaps open with the slightest of guilt — alas, the freshly ignited marvel won, and you couldn’t hold yourself back. at first it didn’t seem to harbor anything special, just a few books along with an innocent-looking wooden casket. you almost laughed, a bit disappointed to find nothing interesting — but then you saw it.

those were your books, the same ones you lent to him some time ago, and pretty much forgot about.

why would Phainon store them inside some dusty cellar instead of just giving them back to you? it was perplexing. you slowly reached for them, lifting the books up — everything seemed fine, and they lacked in any damage. you put them away, focus relocating towards the unfamiliar object lying at the bottom — a… diary?

you gently grasped it, your instincts screaming at you to abandon your task and go make yourself that damned tea. unfortunately, you decided to stay curious.

as you slowly opened it, you immediately got greeted with the familiar handwriting — it was loopy, and nice to the eye. you always envied Phainon because of it.

with a shaky exhale of thrill, you began to scan through the contents.

i finally spoke to [name] today. after all my hesitation, i can’t believe how gentle and kind she turned out to be. what was i so afraid of? i waited for the perfect moment, wanting to make a good impression — and i think it was worth it.

i bought her peaches, though i’m not quite sure why she was so hellbent on bargaining for them. she’s never lacked in money, at least from what i’ve managed to deduce. still, i bought them, and she surprised me by offering one back. such a small thing, and yet it meant so much. i nearly cheered out loud with joy.

it feels like a good beginning. earning her trust will take time, i know — but perhaps i can dare to believe i’ve already taken the first step. i dearly hope i’m not wrong.

your eyebrows narrowed together, and the air gone heavy in your lungs. what? just… just what the hell was he even writing about? yes, the piece of text seemed innocent enough, but it wasn’t hard to discern Phainon thought of speaking to you long before you personally met him. maybe you were simply exaggerating, and the man’s intentions remained pure — but still, you hurriedly shuffled through the pages, stopping on another one.

today was thankfully free from any obligations, leaving me with much time to devote to what truly matters: learning more about [name]. it’s not difficult to trace someone’s steps, honestly. i’ve always found it quite easy — some may say it’s somewhat unethical, but i never thought of it that way. ah, i digress, don’t i?

she doesn’t work — not surprising, really, considering her late mother’s fortune. if memory serves me right, that woman was once a pianist of some renown. still, i do wish [name] ventured out more often — her long absences complicate things unnecessarily. but i endure.

when she does take a walk, she moves as if without a particular purpose — never talking to anyone, never daring to look up from her feet. it fascinates me. what thoughts fill her head during those quiet strolls?

she has some sort of a fondness for that antique bookstore, near the main square. i paid a visit myself, naturally. the clerk, eager to please a Heir, shared the details of her last purchase — a memoir. i’ve never cared much for them, but if my [name] finds value in such lectures, then i shall too. it’s only logical, after all.

as always, i was careful today. our paths crossed — seemingly by chance, of course. i’ve gone to great lengths to ensure that every encounter feels like a mere coincidence. she likely thinks of them as such. there’s a certain naivete in her logic and understanding, a quality i find utterly disarming. it will certainly make things easier for me to ████ ██.

all in all, today was successful. i hope the following days will remain equally bountiful.

your hands shook now, jaw hanging slack as you barely stopped yourself from dropping the diary and bolting out of that man’s house. was this supposed to be a joke? if so, then it surely wasn’t funny.

he was a lunatic. Phainon — the one you considered your most beloved and only friend — was insane. he followed after you, tracking you down, as if you weren’t a real person with their own emotions, but a mere animal to hunt, shoot down, and put on display.

you were terrified. no, that was an understatement. you were terror-stricken. everything you took for granted suddenly crumbled over your head, rendering you frozen — but, perhaps, this really was only a joke? some… some kind of a fictional story Phainon decided to make up out of morbid boredom?

with that, you turned another few pages forward, hoping to see a revelation which could ease your anxiety, and finally clear up the misunderstanding. you had to squint your eyes a little, observing as the elegant handwriting suddenly took a sharper turn, erratic and barely able of discerning.

my hands tremble as i write this, the ink already smudging in places. it’s strange — i’ve faced peril more times than i can count — and yet nothing has shaken me quite like what happened today.

i met [name] at the bookstore again. i nearly commited a gravely mistake — i made a remark about her taste in memoirs, something she’s never confessed to me directly. for a moment, i thought i completely messed up everything i worked so hard for. i could see the faintest flicker of suspicion in her eyes, but she said nothing. thank gods for that. i had no excuse prepared, so i suppose i would’ve been doomed.

she invited me to her home to lend me some memoirs. as if the books mattered. of course i accepted — not out of my interest for the literature, but because the offer was simply too enticing to turn down. time with her, and [name]’s own beloved volumes in my hands. a chance like that cannot be missed out on.

i tried not to show it, but my eyes were drawn to her piano (i thought it looked quite proud and imposing). it stood abandoned in the corner, as if she completely forgot about it. i asked if she could play for me. [name] hesitated, but ultimately agreed.

what followed was something beyond music. her fingers moved with such grace, her posture so painfully poised. the room dissipated away. i watched, completely mesmerized. why did she not follow in her late mother’s footsteps? well, perhaps it’s better this way. the world doesn’t deserve her. not like i do.

as she played, i stepped towards her, putting my hands on her shoulders. she jolted up, stopping rapidly — startled, maybe. i should have felt guilty, but i didn’t. [name]’s surprise, her breath catching in her throat — it was alluring, in a way.

and then, i kissed her. not fully — just the brief touch of lips. but it happened. she didn’t pull away. if anything, i thought i felt her coveting for more. i backed out, though. if i haven’t, then i ████ ███████ ██.

[name] is driving me to the edge of reason. she doesn’t even know it, not truly. i am already hers. completely, helplessly hers. how could i not be? when i met her, i realized she was unavoidably special. ████ ██ i am sick with desire. she makes me ████ █████████.

so it wasn’t a jest, then.

you turned to another page.

what i did tonight would, by most standards, be considered shameful — depraved of any morality, even. but i feel no remorse.

ever since i first tasted the warmth of [name]’s kindness, i have found it impossible to resist my longing. could you believe it? she offered to teach me the piano. imagine that — her delicate hands guiding mine, her voice so close i could feel it brush against my cheek. we’ve started to play duets together. to be fair, it’s hard for me to contain myself with her sitting so close, side pressed into mine.

tonight, the ache became unbearable.

i broke into her house while she was asleep, and i observed her for quite some time. i wanted to take something from her — to soothe the torturous ache in my chest when she’s not near. i cut a lock of her hair. it smelled faintly of lavender and something sweeter i couldn’t name. i held it to my lips. it felt like worship.

i searched her study next — not to violate, or anything of the sort. i simply needed more. i settled on a few of her pens and a handkerchief, enthralled by the intricate embroidery. just little things, nothing valuable.

you couldn’t read it anymore. if there was a feeling comparable to being continuously stabbed into the heart, you certainly felt it now. shocked, you dropped the diary to the floor, practically throwing yourself at the innocent-looking box — your shaking hands reached for the wooden casket, prying it open without much finesse.

knowing what you would see at the bottom was more awful than remaining oblivious, and it caused your stomach to churn. exactly as it was written — a piece of your hair, tightly embedded with a ribbon of sorts. then, the pens you lost, along with the handkerchief.

you slowly put it away, careful not to make any sounds. Phainon was taking quite a long time preparing you this bath, or whatever the hell was he doing. running would be the wisest option — but something pushed you to bend down for the diary, and read another entry. you had to get some closure.

as you flipped towards the end of the filled pages, you noticed how messy it was — smudged ink, splatters of… something? on the paper, scratches so hard they ripped through. still, you forced yourself to decipher the following text.

i caved.

the restraint i fought to maintain finally tore. i’ve done something irredeemable, and yet i ████ █. perhaps that makes me ██. but if loving [name] this fiercely is madness, then let me descend into it without apology.

it began with my injury. she came to the infirmary, just as i hoped. the sight of her standing by my bed — so gentle, so beautiful — was almost too much to bear. i asked where she was headed, because obviously, she dolled herself up. i believed she’d say nowhere.

but no. she mentioned a meeting. a friend.

a friend.

████ █████████ ██ █████.

something cracked inside me then. who gave her permission to give her time — my time — to someone else? ████ ███ who was that man, to think he could occupy the thoughts and laughter that should belong to me alone? ████ █████████ ██ █████

i found him. of course i did. people like him are easy to track — even easier to silence.

i don’t remember much — the moment is a blur, as if my mind repressed it from the sheer disgust for that intruder. only the sound remains: a dull, heavy thud as his body hit the ground. after that, there was stillness.

he’s gone now. that’s all that matters. [name] is safe — untouched, unspoiled by others. ████ █████████ ██. she is mine.

i love her with a force i can’t contain. it consumes me. it burns like fire. but if she ever learned the truth — if she knew what i’ve done — i know she would hate me. she would curse my name. that, i cannot allow.

she must never see that side of me. no one must.

i’ll keep my secret buried deeper than that man i laid few meters underneath the ground. ████ █████████ ██ ████. and i will keep smiling when i see her. i will kiss her hands. [name] doesn’t need to know what i’ve done — only that i love her. more than anyone else ever could.

there was more — much more text to go through — an unhinged rant about whatever that maniac’s mind managed to come up with. unfortunately, you didn’t have the strength to read it. your stomach churned mercilessly, bile threatening to gather in your mouth. then, you heard the footsteps.

if not for that terrifying sound, you’d probably curl up on the floor and start wailing. you didn’t even have the time to process anything as you rapidly began to put everything back into the box, desperately attempting to recreate how the objects were laid out.

you began to count the steps. one, two, three, four, five.

he wasn’t in a hurry. you quickly put the casket back, placing the diary along with your books above it, wondering if you did that right — your vision obscured by tears, you fought tooth and nail to hold the waterworks back. if that man saw you crying, then he’d surely guess what you just found out.

six, seven, eight, nine, ten.

you shut the flaps of the box, stepping away to give that bedlam a last glance. you then turned, trepidation squeezing at your hammering heart.

eleven, twelve, thirteen.

as you opened the door, ready to walk out casually as if nothing ever happened, your face bumped straight into Phainon’s chest, causing you to stumble backwards. oh no. no, no, no—!

your eyes rose towards him, and you forced your expression to remain as neutral as possible. no matter for your heavy breaths, or the wet tears threatening to spill down your cheeks. at first, he looked equally surprised as you felt — but then, he smiled. a grin, more teeth than cheer, hardly reaching his blue irises.

"what are you doing here, [name]?" he asked calmly, the completely stoic tone of his voice causing your limbs to freeze.

Phainon’s eyes bore into your form as if he was a starving animal — a panting wolf, barely holding itself back from sinking its marred fangs into the hare’s nape.

you swallowed thickly. "nothing. i-i mean…" you stumbled over your own words, sweat dripping profusely down your temples. "i was just curious about this room, so i—"

"don’t worry, i’m not mad at you." he spoke, taking a step forward. "i’ve already prepared the bath, so why don’t you go and take it?"

against all your reason, you nodded obediently, trying your hardest to force your legs to move forwards. the man’s gaze refused to leave you as you dragged your feet over. then, a brief realization passed through your exhausted brain:

he’s not a poor dog, like i thought — he’s a full-fledged pack of rabid hounds, stuffed into a singular being.

you could only pray your sprint was fast enough.