#with it thus being a point of contention between them

[unicornpopcorn14]

So we all know by now that Dazai is comfortable enough around Chuuya to show nervousness/worry.

Enough times for Chuuya to pick up on that pattern. The pattern, may I remind you, that doesn't have evident correlation to either nervousness or worry to most people. One that can even be interpreted as misplaced given the situation.

Which means that Dazai has done this in front of Chuuya so often, that Chuuya at first was hella confused, before he finally made a connection between when and why it happens. And still remembered that connection after four years of separation. Which gets us to my point:

What if this isn't the only emotion Dazai displays weirdly?

What if he has multiple unconventional patterns he displays for sadness, frustration, content, or disgust? The times he really feels them, and they become too strong for him to just deal with normally? What if these are the only times he's actually being genuine with his emotions?

And Chuuya is the only one who is familiar with them all?

Dazai would be jumping rope and Chuuya would be like, "quit sulking, let's get icecream"

Dazai hanging upside down on the couch and Chuuya going, "It's okay, mackerel. You can cry."

Dazai actually crying, full on heart-wrenching sobs, and Chuuya unironically going, "What, good news?"

It's just... comforting, for one person in Dazai's life to read him like a book. Everyone else would look at him like he's crazy, displaying wrong emotions/behaviors at the wrong time, but Chuuya knows that it's just how he processes feeling properly, and thus he's the only one Dazai can count on to put things into context and understand, which makes him display them even more openly.

Because Chuuya never shamed him for his quirks, as much as Dazai never did his.

[sailorsoons]

Hello, Darling (c.hs)

PAIRING: Vernon x afab reader

SUMMARY: Vernon has been one of your best friends for years. Shy, quiet and calm, he’s always been a steady rock for you. He has no idea you’re in love with him, but that’s neither here nor there. After a strange series of events on Halloween night, Vernon seems a little… different, and the new version of him both terrifies and thrills you. 

WC: 21,558

AU: Supernatural, Friends to Lovers, Thriller

GENRE: Smut, Angst

RATING 18+ Minors are strictly prohibited from engaging in and reading this content. It contains explicit content and any minors discovered reading or engaging with this work will be blocked immediately.

WARNINGS: Under the cut

❀ A/N: This was an original request fill for my Haliween event on my first blog for @eoieopda. Thank you for letting me write you 20k+ of this Vernon :)

A/N 2: I AM NOT WRITING A PART 2 TO THIS ON PURPOSE. IT'S SUPPOSED TO BE AMBIGUOUS.

Reader Notes: This reader is never explicitly gendered as girl/she/her etc. so I have listed them as an afab reader.

MASTERLIST | ASK | PERMANENT TAG LIST | READ THE SEQUEL

WARNINGS: Explicit language, recreational drinking and smoking, crude humor, some of the members of SVT are a bit of an asshole in this - it is not a reflection of how I think of them, mentions of occult practices, a NOT ACCURATE spirit summoning/ritual, mentions of a murder suicide case/event, mentions of murders, light mentions of blood, mentions of infidelity, catching someone in a sexual act (not the main couple), Vernon is a bit of an asshole at times, mentions of insecurities/confused feelings, I owe Chan and Mingyu an apology for how I wrote them, sexual tension, some angst, sexually explicit content including thigh riding, oral (f. receiving), nipple play, a lot of biting and scratching, choking/breath play, vaginal fingering, a lot of spit and cum mentioned, unprotected sex, references to sub space, Vernon takes a dom role but it is not explicitly established, Vernon gets a little bit possessive, calls reader a slut a total of one time, some light finger sucking, reader is at several points annoyed with the women in this fic which can come off a lil bitchy, general creepy scenes in woods and in some dark spooky places. 

ADDITIONAL WARNING: It is implied by the end of this fic that Vernon is possessed to some degree by a spirit in this. I make zero distinction as to whether it’s Vernon or the spirit calling the shots or if there is even a difference/distinction between the two, which poses the fair question of consent in parts of this that I do not address or provide nuance to. The lack of clarification is due to the POV of this fic being entirely from reader’s perspective and she doesn’t have a clue what’s going on until the very end, and thus we are unable to unpack to what degree this character is or is not himself. If that lack of nuance bothers you, that is valid but this is not the fic for you. 

COOL WIND TUGS AT THE PAGES OF YOUR BOOK, THREATENING TO FLIP THEM OVER. You press your fingers flat to the page, fighting to keep them from flitting over and losing your place in the story. There’s not much daylight left in the sky as the afternoon dies to make way for the evening, but you’re eager to finish the chapter, craving to unravel the mystery you’ve been working your way through the past week. 

Atmospheric sounds play in your headphones as you read. Your legs are crossed, book in your lap as you sit on the concrete wall separating the quad from one of the sidewalks on campus. Now that there’s a chill in the air, you crave being outside, finding the opportunity to sit wherever you can on campus to crack open a book before the sunlight finally fades. 

Flipping the page, you only get a split second warning of the shout you hear through your headphones before something hits you in the back of the head. You yelp, dropping the book to the ground as your headphones clatter from your head to the grass from the impact. 

Scowling, you swivel around to see Mingyu jogging over, his hand over his mouth as apologies start pouring out of him. A flush creeps up your neck as he approaches, his friends and fellow fraternity brothers watching from afar. Some of them are bent over cackling, the others have their hands on their head, visibly stressed from hitting you with their football.

Again. 

“I am so sorry,” he pleads, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “Seungcheol threw wide.” 

“Maybe play on a rec field, then?” You snap, sliding from the wall, picking up your headphones and book. You kick the football toward him, irritated. “There’s literally so many other places you can play. Don’t you have a yard at your little frat house?” 

“It’s being used for float building for the Halloween parade.”

“Convenient.” 

For the most part, Mingyu isn’t so bad. He’s a little loud and obnoxious, but he’s always nice and he does seem to mean it when he picks up the football and apologizes again. It’s more than a lot of his fraternity brothers would do, though it’s not much now that they’ve managed to hit you twice with the same ball. 

Someone like Mingyu wouldn’t even pay attention to you if it weren’t for Vernon, though. As Mingyu retreats, the reason you’re even friends with Mingyu appears on the sidewalk, coming toward you with his hands in his pockets, hood pulled up on his head and headphones on. He lifts his chin in greeting to Mingyu, but Vernon’s brown eyes focus on you, his true destination. 

Vernon pulls his hood and headphones down when he’s within a few feet, jerking his thumb at Mingyu. “What did he want?” 

“He was apologizing for hitting me with the football. Again.”

“Again?” 

“Yeah. They hit me earlier.”

Vernon hums, displeased. He doesn’t say much, instead turning to lean against the wall, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets again.

The last embers of sunlight hit his side profile, stunning you to momentarily silence. In a halo of fiery light, Vernon looks like a god. His light brown eyes turn burnished gold, reflecting the dying sun. His hair is spun copper, strands dancing in the breeze as he watches the world around him. 

Not for the first time, you think that you understand why Helen of Troy inspired a thousand ships to come after her. Vernon’s face is the kind of thing you’ve read about in all of your mythologies and folktales for your Occult Studies major, so beautiful that it can’t be real.  

If Vernon notices you staring, he doesn’t say anything. Instead, his eyes watch the other members of his fraternity play football, one of them crashing into someone on a lawn chair. He shakes his head and mutters under his breath, wearing his second-hand embarrassment silently as he watches them apologize for the millionth time. 

Vernon is nothing like the rest of his fraternity. You’re still unsure why he even joined. It was something he had done his freshman year going into school, wanting to put himself out there and make friends. 

He certainly looks the part - he’s handsome and in shape from playing soccer in highschool, and he’s got good fashion sense for a college student. But he’s quiet and a little awkward, unsure how to navigate conversations with most people who aren’t in his immediate circle of friends and shy to an almost crippling point. 

It had taken Vernon seven weeks of being your lab partner before he finally spoke more than three sentences to you. For the longest time, you’d assumed it was because he thought you were beneath him. It wouldn’t have surprised you. Greek life on campus tended to stick with their own. 

Now, you know it was because he didn’t know what to say or how to start a conversation. You’d only managed to get him to talk to you when he noticed a song by Frank Ocean bleeding from your headphones, piquing his interest. 

Four years later, talking to Vernon is easy. Well, maybe not easy. You’ve got years of friendship between you now and you know what makes Vernon tick, but the butterflies you get when you’re around him and the way your heart swells when he does something so simple makes it a little harder. 

Like now, as day fades to evening and the world is awash in purple and gold, and he’s looking at the watercolor sky like it's the most fascinating thing in the world, completely unaware that while he’s in awe of the sky, you’re in awe of him. 

Vernon jerks forward, making you flinch. You have no idea what he’s doing until his hand is in front of you, smacking down the football that has been sent your direction again. You huff in frustration, watching as this time it’s Chan who jogs over to get it. 

“Are you all fucking serious?” You demand. He slows his approach, eyes darting to Vernon as though looking for help from his friend. Vernon says nothing, bending over to pick up the football and toss it to Chan. “I should shove that football up your ass.” 

“Maybe not the football,” Chan quips, catching it. He looks you up and down, head cocking to the side a little. His mouth lifts at the corner and there’s a glint in his dark eyes that makes you even angrier. “I’m open to other things, though?” 

“You’re so gross.”

“What? You’re hot when you’re mad.” 

“Go away, Chan!” You shriek, flustered and angry as you spin around to grab your things and storm off. You only get a few feet before realizing Vernon is still leaning on the wall. “Are you coming or not?”

He scrambles after you, nearly tripping over his own feet to catch up. Chan is snickering as he runs back toward where the others wait for him, yelling a trilling bye toward you and Vernon as you charge north toward the main campus parking lot. 

“He’s so annoying,” you gripe, shoving your book in your bag. Vernon hums, noncommittal. You glance at him. “Nothing more to add?” 

He lifts a shoulder. “It’s cause they think you’re hot, Lovecraft.”

You smile at the nickname, fondness sweeping through you. He’d started calling you Lovecraft your freshman year after learning about your major, deciding that it just fit. You like it - at least coming from Vernon, who understood Occult Studies was more than just spooky and magic and the metaphysical. 

“They think anything with a set of tits and a hole to stick their dick in is hot. I’m sure a blowup doll would blow their fucking mind.” 

Vernon’s mouth twitches at that. “You’d hate Chan’s room.”

“Don’t give me that visual!” 

His laugh is warm. He bumps shoulders with yours, grinning at you as the two of you walk. You feel the telltale sign of your traitorous heart beating extra hard at his closeness, your gaze shooting to the floor as you try to hide any evidence of your feelings that might lurk on the surface of your expression. 

Thankfully, Vernon never seems to notice. You’re glad that he doesn’t. You don’t think you’re very good at hiding how you feel, but he is equally bad at picking up on it, totally oblivious to the long stares and the way you fumble over your words when he gets too close. 

Vernon has that effect on a lot of people. His proximity to being attractive has always outweighed his inability to make small talk among the female population on campus. The amount of times you’ve watched girls openly flirt with him and whisper about what it would take to get him to crack was insurmountable. 

Autumn wind kicks up leaves at your feet. Neither one of you says anything as you walk, simply content to be together. It’s one of your favorite things about him, never feeling pressure to perform or to have conversation. Being with Vernon is just… easy. Natural, even. 

The parking lot is slowly emptying as the rest of the late afternoon classes end. A few unlucky evening class students pull in, slamming their car doors and rushing off to their auditoriums. Vernon’s car is easy to find and you let yourself in, sliding into the passenger seat like it’s yours - it kind of is. 

“Pizza?” he asks, engine humming to life. 

“Please.” His lips twitch in a soft smile as he nods, flipping on the radio. You hum, leaning forward and turning up the volume. “I love this song.” 

Vernon’s smile increases as you lean back, the sounds of Emotional Oranges filling the car. He rolls the windows down once he’s on the road proper, cool wind kissing your skin. You pull your feet up onto the seat, leaning toward the window as the fading twilight brushes past you. 

Outside the car, the world smells like pine. You take a deep breath in, loving the way the October air feels just right. Fall is always your favorite time of year, and with the music playing in the background, wind in your hair and Vernon drumming on the wheel, you don’t think there could be anything better in the world. 

Sal’s Pizzeria glows against the dark, a beacon of hunger and hope against the night. The giant pizza slice on the roof blinks rapidly, the neon a little bit broken. Gold light glows through the windows as you climb out the car, gravel crunching beneath your feet. 

A bell chimes as the door opens and a group of students pour out, laughing and carrying boxes. Vernon catches the lip of the door and holds it open for you, gesturing you to enter first. The smell of bread and warm air hits you in the face, your lips curving as you tell the girl at the host stand two.

College students and local residents fill the restaurant. The hostess leads you to a booth in the corner, the vinyl seats creaking under you as you hop-slide your way in. She hands you the menus, her eyes lingering on Vernon as she does, lips twitching when she asks if there’s anything else you need. When he doesn’t answer, you shake your head, shooting her a thin-lipped smile. 

She’s hesitant to leave but she does, casting one last look over her shoulder as she heads back to the stand. You look at Vernon too, studying him. He’s none the wiser, brown eyes scanning the menu even though you know he’s going to order the same thing. 

When the server comes, Vernon does as expected: orders a diablo pizza with a side of fries. You shake your head a little, asking for the white feta pizza, handing over the sticky menus. When the server is gone, Vernon leans back in the seat, sipping his coke as he drinks you in, wordless. 

You kick your feet up on his side of the booth next to him and he lets you, patting your ankle fondly when he sets his drink down. He has no idea how torturous that alone is, the simple comfort of his familiar touch enough to send your eyes averting across the room, trying to control your breathing. 

“What are the favorites and least favorites this week?” he asks, balling up the paper his straw came in. 

Favorites and least favorites is a game you like to play with him. It’s not so much of a game as it is a routine where you tell him your favorite piece of material from your classes and your least favorite. Most people dismiss your major as too peculiar for interest. No one knows what you’re supposed to do with Occult Studies but it fascinates you.

And Vernon, who has always had a keen interest in the goings on in your classes and homework. 

“We’re in the psychology of the occult module.” He nods, eyes fixed on you. “Mostly covering the psychology of community as it relates to the occult. We have sections on covens, clans, actual cults, sects and more modern mass followings.” 

“Hmm. So like… Twitter stans.”

You smile a bit. “Something like that. We covered the maenads in class today. Ever heard of them?” He shakes his head and you lean forward, elbows on the table. “They were women in Ancient Greece devoted to the god Dionysus and they were believed to be possessed by the god. They were said to have wild parties in the woods with one another where they’d do all manner of sordid things, all while under the influence.” 

“A Friday night for Chan.”

“Exactly. A lot of historians call them crazy and speculate they were raving mad, but if I was a woman under the thumb of men in Ancient Greece…”

“Shit, I’d get fucking crazy in the woods with my friends too.”

“Exactly. It was more about reveling in female companionship and being unfettered from the male-dominated societal norms.” 

The arrival of your dinner interrupts the conversation. Both of you lean backward, making room for the hot plates and Vernon’s basket of fries. You slide your feet down from his side of the booth, leaning to grab the red pepper flakes from the corner of the table. He grabs salt, immediately dusting his fries.

“Ugh, you could have at least let me have some first.” He looks up at you through his lashes, brows raised. “They’re already salted, Vernon.”

“Not enough.”

“You know, if you were haunted or possessed you’d never want the salt.” He gives a questioning hum. “Salt is used in purification rituals. It’s believed spirits hate it because it’s used in banishing spells and rituals. It’s why a line of salt keeps them out.”

“Good thing I’m hungry, not haunted.” 

You snort, taking a piece of your pizza from the tray. “Speaking of haunted, are we going to your Halloween party this weekend?”

“My halloween party?”

“You are in the fraternity, Vernon. Yes, yours.” 

He makes a face and tears into his pizza. You shake your head as he lets out a sound, huffing and tilting his head backward as he tries to deal with the too-hot food in his mouth burning him. “Ya,” he says around the slice. “I guess so.” 

“What are you going to wear?” He raises a brow at you, swallowing down the hot bite. You pout, sagging in your seat. “Dude, you have to dress up. You can’t just go in a black shirt and a baseball hat.” 

“Why not?” You kick him under the table and he winces, ducking down to rub at his shin. “Shit, fine. Okay, what do I go as?”

You grin, picking up your appropriately cooled pizza. “Leave it to me.” 

-

“This makeup itches,” Vernon mutters, looking up at you through long lashes. You hush him, putting the finishing touches on the black line down his mouth. “Couldn’t I have gone as something easier?”

“What is easier than black jeans and a jacket you already own, huh? Stop talking, I’m gonna fuck up this line and this makeup is perfect so far.” 

It’s true. You’ve outdone yourself on turning Vernon’s face into a skull, taking inspiration from American Horror Story for the costume. Vernon is a low effort kind of person, so getting him into costume is a lot easier when all it requires are clothes he already owns and makeup that you have to do anyway. 

Stepping away from him, you admire your handy work. His eyes are painted black, hollowed out for the skull. His dark hair is slicked back, the perfect skeleton. He looks… good. Painfully good, which makes you nervous and turn away quickly, heart flipping. You’re not sure what it says about you that Vernon staring at you while painted as a deadly skeleton makes your heart race but… it does. 

“How do I look?”

“Terrifying,” you admit, turning back to him. “But good.” 

He grins and if it were anyone else but Vernon, you’d be terrified. Maybe you did a little too good of a job. 

“What are you again?”

“One of the witches from American Horror Story Coven. Close your eyes, I’m going to use setting spray.” 

Darkness blankets the sky by the time you’re both scrambling down the steps and into an Uber. The driver does a double take when they see Vernon, eyes watching nervously in the rearview as you give him the address. 

“That’s at a closed down gas station.”

“Yep,” you agree, leaning back into the seat.

The driver mutters something about fucking college kids and fucking holiday but otherwise says nothing about the questionable location. He doesn’t need to know that a mile from the abandoned gas station is also an abandoned farmhouse notorious for unsanctioned parties and being distinctly haunted. 

Haunted isn’t your favorite thing in the world. You didn’t like to mess with ghosts, despite your area of study. You were infinitely more interested in the intersectionality of occult studies and modern culture and society and less enthused about the idea of drinking stale beer from a foamy tap in the middle of a murder house. 

If the driver thinks there’s anything weird about other people being dropped off at the gas station - you’re sure he does - he says nothing, ignoring the two of you as you get out of the car and dive into the night air. Vernon is close behind as you take a few steps away from the car, eyeing the old gas station.

The windows have long since been broken and cracked, foggy with time. The stations are stripped of their labels and stickers, just white residue left behind and no pumps. A few people lounge around the building smoking, dressed in a variety of halloween costumes. 

Nervous, you look up at Vernon. His smile is small and he juts his chin toward the dirt road that leads through the woods. Nodding, you both fall into step, sand and gravel crunching beneath your feet as you go. Vernon recognizes a few people associated with his fraternity and others, throwing a casual wave or a nod as you pass by people.

Music echoes down the road. It’s a little less foreboding in the dark trees when you can hear Michael Jackson’s thriller coming down the way and the dull roar of voices. The bend in the road straightens out, the line of trees giving way to flat land. 

The farmhouse is pretty, even in old age. It’s two stories, glowing from within from all of the battery lanterns and lights being used to light the party. A generator roars somewhere behind the house, light flooding the yard where people mingle and crowd the kegs. 

A chill slithers down your spine as you enter the yard, the broken gate doing a poor job at keeping trespassers out. Even with the lighting, shadows dance as you navigate through people, the strange anxiety crawling up your throat worsening as you near the house. 

Vernon pulls the sleeve of your dress so that you’re closer to him, his fingers steady and calm as he leads you up the steps where you can clearly hear Mingyu’s howling laughter inside. 

Bright light fills the house. As do a crush of people and beer pong tables, the abandoned home turned into a raucous display of drinking and debauchery. If you weren’t so distracted by the wave of people pushing you into Vernon’s arm, you might be impressed at how much you could forget the farm home was abandoned because someone had been murdered here. 

“I need a drink,” Vernon announces, continuing to pull your arm after him as he plunges toward what used to be the kitchen.

It’s where you find Mingyu dressed as a lifeguard - and loudly yelling directions. He blows his whistle shrilly when he sees you and Vernon, pointing at the two of you and spitting the whistle out of his mouth to scream, “NOT WET ENOUGH!”

“What a weird way to offer drinks,” you mutter. Chan, who seems to be on lifeguard assistant duty - while dressed in a horrid felt dinosaur costume - scrambles to get you drinks, spilling rum as he tips it over into a cup. “No ice?” 

“There’s not a fridge,” he pouts, shoving the cup in your hand. His eyes drink you in. “Are you a hot goth or?” 

Instead of answering him, you roll your eyes and turn to Mingyu, who blows the whistle again. Both you and Vernon wince, the latter throwing back his drink to chug it all before thrusting the cup back at Chan. “That’s gonna get real tiring.” 

Mingyu comes around the corner of the old island countertop, pumping his fists in the air to the music rattling through the house. “Vernon you look fucking sick!” He and Vernon do the little hand-clap-to-half-hug men do. Mingyu turns to look at you, eyes dark. “Are you like, a hot goth?” 

Your smile is plastic as the whistle around Mingyu’s neck. “Sure.” 

Mingyu, dancing and moving toward the living room, reaches out to you. “Come dance with me! This song fucks.”

“Decidedly not!” 

“Go ahead, Lovecraft!” Vernon urges, pushing you toward the obnoxious lifeguard with a shit-eating grin as he imitates Mingyu’s voice. “This song fucks.” 

Before you can chastise him for egging his fraternity brother on, Mingyu has you sucked into the dancing crowd, throwing his hands in the air as he swivels his way through the crowd. You try to knock back as much of the lukewarm drink as you can, cringing at the burn of cheap rum and not-iced coke. 

Bodies pressed in. Mingyu is close to you, a hand going to your waist. You frown and look over your shoulder, eyes scanning for Vernon. You know he’s probably lingering on the edge of the crowd, watching you with a smirk over the rim of his cup as he watches Mingyu roll his hips toward you.

“Mingyu,” you snap, turning back to him when you don’t find Vernon. “It’s the Monster Mash, it doesn’t require grinding.” 

“I mean, if you wanna graveyard smash…”

“You’re all insufferable! All of you!”

Still, you sway back and forth, trying to stomach finishing the rest of your horrid drink. It takes an effort, but shaking your head at Mingyu and judging him silently gets you most of the way through it until Soonyoung - dressed in the same tiger costume from last year - crashes through the crowd into the pair of you, thrilled when he realizes who it is he has slammed into. 

“Hot goth!” he screams, pointing at your outfit. “Where is your other half?” 

You don’t have to ask what Soonyoung means and both the drink and the accusation have you flushing. You shrug a shoulder, eyes surveying the party. Before either of you can find Vernon, Joshua appears at Soonyoung’s side, leaning to his ear to murmur something. Soongyoung’s face lights up and he grins at you, grabbing you by the wrist to yank you through the crowd. 

“Hello?” you demand, pulling your wrist from his grip. “Have you heard of asking?”

“Come on, I want to show you something.”

“The last time I heard that was promptly followed by you showing me that stupid peach tattoo on your ass.”

“First of all, that tattoo is amazing.” He heads to the stairs, which you eye warily. “Second, Vernon is already upstairs, come on. You like weird ghost shit, you’ll like this.”

Without waiting for a reply, Soonyoung thunders up the stairs. You cringe, waiting for a foot to go through a dry plank and send him falling. It doesn’t happen, though. Tentatively, you creep up the stairs after him, eyes glued to each of the steps as you go. 

It’s colder upstairs, the windows in the rooms open to the elements. You shiver, looking down the hall to Soonyoung heading into a bedroom. You tentatively follow him, stopping at the threshold of the doorway to survey the people inside.

Vernon is one of them, back pressed to the wall near the window, his eyes focused on his boots in front of him, hands tucked into his pockets. A girl next to him dressed as Red Riding Hood is leaning close, speaking to him rapidly. Nothing on his face indicates he’s listening. Then again, his expression is hard to read while painted as a skull, mystifying and dark as you follow Soonyoung down the hall. 

Soonyoung goes straight toward a pile of things on the floor next to Seungcheol’s feet in the corner of the room. The president of Vernon’s fraternity pays Soonyoung no mind, eyes totally focused on the pretty fox in front of him, bottom lip tucked between his teeth. 

Suddenly, the room feels too intimate for you, like everyone is a couple tucked away. You have half a mind to go back downstairs when Vernon looks up at you, dark eyes zeroing in. His face is ten times more intense with the skull paint, pinning you to the spot. 

Everything dulls to the background for a second. You don’t dare breathe, too afraid to shatter the moment as he stares at you, unblinking. His eyes glitter in the darkness of the room, two amber pools reflecting the moonlight. 

Joshua enters the room behind you, shattering the spell as you step out of his way. You turn back to Vernon, clearing your throat. He pulls a hand from his pocket, beckoning you over. Mouth dry, you obey, skittering over toward him quickly as you observe the materials that Soonyoung is sifting through in the corner. Candles. Matches. Salt. A bell. 

“Soonyoung,” you say sharply, slowing your step. “Why do you have ritual materials?”

He looks up at you, his grin wide. “Told you that you’d like this.” 

“What is this?” You turn back to Vernon, who shrugs one shoulder. 

Hesitantly, you take the unoccupied space next to him, casting the girl at his side a cursory glance. She observes your costume. “Are you a hot goth?” 

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, head thunking against the wall as you watch Soonyoung stand, materials in hand. Vernon coughs next to you, trying to cover his laugh. You glare at him sidelong and he says nothing, but his skeleton mouth is screwed up in a smirk. “What is he doing?”

“No clue.”

Soonyoung walks over to the bedroom door, looking down the hallway before shutting it. You fight a shiver, disliking how quiet the room becomes, cut off from the rest of the world. The window near you is the only source of light, and the only one shut on the second level of the abandoned home. 

“What time is it?” Soonyoung asks Joshua.

“11:45.” 

“Perfect.” Soonyoung spins, eyes falling on you. “Want to talk to a ghost?” 

All eyes turn to you in the room. You open and close your mouth, confused. “What?” 

“Do you want to talk to a ghost? Like someone who died?” 

Your eyes drift to the candle, bell and matches in Soonyoung’s hand. A tingle spreads over your skin and your spine stiffens. “Soonyoung that better not be to invite a spirit in.” 

His grin grows. “Come on, you are the ghost major or whatever. You should be thrilled to do this.”

“Occult Studies. And that doesn’t mean I fuck with the unknown or make a mockery of the dead. We’ve been over this.” 

“It’s basically the same thing, come on. You learn it all in class.” 

“No.” 

He pouts. “You’d be best at it, though. Rumor has it that when the veil is thinnest, you can talk to the spirit that haunts this house.” 

“The murderer? Or the murdered?” Soonyoung shrugs. “I doubt either would be very happy a bunch of drunk college kids are trying to bother them. My answer is no.” 

“Ugh. I was kind of counting on you doing it.” 

“Do it yourself.”

“I don’t study ghost shit!”

“Occult! Studies!”

“Ghost shit,” Soonyoung assures the room confidently.

“I’ll do it,” Vernon sighs, pushing off the wall. “Leave her alone.” 

Soonyoung’s eyes are alight as Vernon steps toward him. You reach out to grab his wrist, pulling him back. “Don’t.” 

“It’s fine.”

“Vernon.”

His eyes are soft when he looks at you. As soft as the terrifying makeup allows, anyway. “It’s fine, Lovecraft. Let me. He’ll stop asking.”

“I’m right here.”

“We know,” you and Vernon say in unison. You feel warm, chewing the inside of your cheek before nodding. You drop his wrist and turn to Soonyoung, eyes hard. “Give me that, you’ll do it wrong. Tell me what the mythos is.”

“What math? You need math?”

“The story, Soonyoung. What is the fucking story of this house?”

“Right. Apparently some dude murdered his girlfriend in here and then hung himself in that closet.” He points to a door you didn’t see when you walked in, dark and far away from the window. “Legend says at midnight, ring the bell three times and step into the closet with a candle. If the candle blows out, the spirit is with you. If it doesn’t, it didn’t work.” 

Grabbing the items from Soonyoung’s hand, you look at Vernon. “When you’re done, ring the bell three times again and say: Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.” 

“Thank you,” Vernon repeats gently, taking the bell from your hand. “I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Everyone else take candles,” you direct, voice rough with irritation. You glare at Soonyoung and Seungcheol in particular as you shove candles in their hands. “Stand in the four corners of the room. Did you bring sage, Soonyoung?”

“Bring what?”

“Of course not, why would you?” Everyone starts moving to the corner of the room, using matches to light their candles. The room feels unnaturally cold now, despite your long sleeves. Turning back to Vernon, you say, “It’s probably a stupid rumor.”

“Probably.”

“If your candle goes out, just ring the bell, say the words, and dismiss it.” 

“Right.” 

“You don’t have to do it, Vernon.”

His mouth kicks up at the corner. “I’m not worried, Lovecraft. You are.” 

Letting out a breath, you give a laugh that’s only half-there. You are nervous. You don’t like the idea of inviting a spirit into Vernon’s space, and though Soonyoung’s little ritual doesn’t really sound right, you’re not going to correct him. 

Still, you feel unsettled as you light your own candle and then Vernon’s. He cradles it in his hands as you escort him to the door. Tucked under your arm is the canister of salt. Crouching down, you pour the salt in a thick white light in front of the door, careful to ensure that there are no breaks and that it covers the entire entryway from corner to corner.

“Be careful when you step over it and when you open the door,” you instruct, standing up. The candle in your hand flickers unsteadily. “Don’t break the line. The idea is that if Soonyoung’s stupid summoning works, the spirit can’t get through the salt.”

“Banishing and all that,” Vernon recalls with a smile. Your heart flips. “I remember.” 

“Come on, you only have a minute!” Soonyoung calls eagerly. 

Shooting him a glare that silences him, you turn back to Vernon. “Ring the bell three times. Thank you, I dismiss thee. Go in peace.”

“Got it.” 

Unsettled you shuffle back from the door a little bit. You don’t go to a corner of the room like you’ve asked everyone else, unwilling to totally leave him by himself. Heart hammering, you hold your candle in front of you, cradling the warmth like a second heart. 

Vernon is unbothered. You can see it in the loose set of his shoulders and the way he sighs, already tired of Soonyoung’s antics. The party downstairs feels a million miles away as you watch Vernon stand in front of the closed closet door, looking up at it, unimpressed.

“It’s midnight,” Joshua whispers from the corner. 

Vernon doesn’t make any sound that he’s heard Joshua, but he lifts the little bell in his hand. It’s a hand bell, the wood grip worn and cracked. You wonder where Soonyoung got it from, having half a mind to ask him when the first clear ring of the bell disrupts your thoughts. 

The note sings through the air, your blood turning to ice in your veins. It feels like your pulse is throbbing in your neck as Vernon rings the bell hard a second time, the sound chasing the echo of the first. The third ring feels like a tremor in the air, warbling as Vernon quickly sets the bell on the floor, careful not to extinguish his candle flame. 

You hold your breath when he sets his hand on the doorknob. No one makes a sound as he twists it open. He pulls on the door and it comes away with a silent swing. The darkness on the other side is gaping, like there’s no back to the closet, just a wide hole of nothing. 

Vernon doesn’t seem to mind. He steps over the line of salt carefully until he’s in the middle of the closet, pivoting to face you. The orange flicker of his candle casts a haunting glow over his skull face. You swallow down a brief moment of fear before he winks and leans forward to pull the door shut.

For a long moment, there’s nothing. You feel your heart hammering in your chest, the thudthudthud so loud you swear everyone else in the room can hear it. No one moves, everyone fixated on the door. The silence is so piercing that your ears start to ring, the sound of the party completely unreachable over your mounting anxiety. 

“Well?” Soonyoung whispers somewhere behind you. “I guess it didn’t work.” 

Vernon begins pounding on the door. Someone screams behind you followed by a bunch of curses. You leap forward, heart in your throat as Vernon screams something unintelligible on the other side. You drop your candle, completely throwing caution to the wind as you grab the doorknob and twist. 

It doesn’t move.

“Vernon?” you ask, voice spiking with fear. “Let go of the doorknob, let me turn it. Vernon!”

The pounding doesn’t stop. He is screaming in a way you’ve never heard before, his fists rattling the door against the frame. You shriek his name back, yanking at the door frantically, your panic mounting as he screams and- 

When the door opens, you nearly fall backward with the force of it, stumbling over your feet. Soonyoung steadies you, to your surprise. You hadn’t realized he had left his corner of the room to help, his hand warm and firm. 

Vernon stands on the other side of the door, mouth pressed in a firm line. 

“You fucking asshole,” Soonyoung swears, throwing his unlit candle at Vernon. Vernon laughs, dodging it. “You fucking suck.”

“Yeah, well don’t ask me to do stupid shit.” Vernon steps out of the closet, eyes dropping to you. His mirth is edged with something sharp, a glint in his eyes that is wholly unfamiliar. “I was kidding.”

“You fucking asshole!” You screech at him, slamming your hands into his chest and knocking him back a little. He smirks and says nothing, letting you hit him a few times. “Why would you do that to me? What is wrong with you?” 

“Sorry.”

“Yeah, you sound really fucking sorry.” Anger sours your mouth. Turns your words to poison. Your throat tightens up and you feel the telltale sign of tears, equal parts livid, embarrassed and offended that Vernon would do such a thing. “Fuck you, Vernon.”

Someone laughs awkwardly as you storm off. Vernon calls your name but you ignore him, bolting down the hall and down the stairs. The wood creaks uncertainty under your feet but you don’t care. You want to be anywhere but here, the hot lick of embarrassment burning your heels as you go. 

You blow past Chan on your way out, his bleary eyes following you. “Nooo,” he whines. “Hot goth, come back to me!”

“Shut up, Chan!” You scream, slamming down the steps as you go.

People nearly dive out of your way, swiveling to watch the wake of your wrath as you leave the party. You ignore them, not wanting anyone to see the hot tears that spill over as you hit the dirt road, boots crunching. 

It’s hard to tell what’s worse. The fact that Vernon had played a joke on you he knew you wouldn’t like, or the way you had panicked and lost all resolve to be the one in charge. Both feel awful, but the sting of Vernon’s joke is the sharper of the two, cutting you to the quick.

Vernon has never dared to do something like that in your entire friendship. You have no idea why he did it now. Was it because he had an audience? Was he drunk? Was he actually like the members of his fraternity he associated with? 

You had no idea, which only made things worse. Above anyone else, you thought you knew Vernon best. But perhaps, you didn’t know Vernon at all, which was far worse than any sort of haunted spirit you could imagine. 

-

The next morning, you don’t hear from Vernon. It makes your blood boil, a nasty feeling forming in the pit of your stomach as you put your phone on Do Not Disturb. You put on a big set of headphones, blaring music to keep you sane as you set about cleaning your apartment furiously. 

It’s an okay distraction. The lull of clinical cleaning is nice and the music soothes the sting that nips at your heels like an incessant hound. When you run out of things to clean, though, you’re forced to face the fact that it’s nearly evening and Vernon still hasn’t said anything to you.

You don’t want to text him first. Your pride is wounded from the night before and you’re shocked he hasn’t apologized - he should apologize. The silence only makes you angrier, and with nothing left to clean in your apartment, you decide to think of all the things you’re going to say to him when he does finally reach out to you. Because you’re not saying anything first. 

Vernon’s radio silence makes it nearly impossible to sleep. You toss and turn in bed, unable to get comfortable, checking your phone and social media. It’s difficult to remember the last time you went over twenty four hours without hearing from Vernon, and the realization forms a pit in your stomach.

Maybe the silence was good. Maybe you were too reliant on his friendship, the one constant that you had grown far too fond of. Maybe he was into that girl last night, making a show of you because he wanted to make her laugh or maybe he was just putting you in your place.

The insecurity wars with your logic that Vernon wouldn’t do that. He’s never had a history of that kind of behavior before, and though he might tease you on occasion, you have never been the butt of his jokes or the target of his humor. 

Jokes like that aren’t even Vernon’s style. He doesn’t like cruelty, and that’s what pretending to be screaming for help was. It was cruel, and strange and it hurt. 

What hurts more is the silence continuing into a second day. By the late afternoon, though, the hurt has morphed into something else. You sit on your couch, staring at the phone on your coffee table. Your pride was begging you not to text him, but your worry was starting to chip away at you. 

Heaving a sigh, you pick up the phone. The tap of your nails against the glass screen is loud in your quiet apartment, the final rays of sun melting through the blinds while a candle burns on the counter. 

[You 5:14 PM]: So are we not talking? 

Setting the phone down, you immediately start making dinner. It doesn’t matter that you’re too early. You’re nervous waiting for his text back, which makes you feel ridiculous. Then you feel ridiculous for feeling ridiculous, validating yourself that it is totally okay to have feelings and be nervous.

“God,” you mutter under your breath. “I’m exhausting.” 

By the time you’ve had dinner and watched a full episode of Alice in Borderland, Vernon has said nothing. Worry eats away at the lining of your stomach. You pause the show and pick up the phone again, dialing his number.

On the other side of the line, the phone rings. And rings. And rings. 

You hang up when you get the automated voicemail, frowning. It’s all strange, and a nagging feeling tugs at your nervous system but you can’t put your finger on it.

Just as you set the dishes in the sink, your phone starts to ping. You’re grateful no one can see you in your apartment as you lurch to the phone, picking it up and unlocking it to see if it’s Vernon. It isn’t, but your heart starts to thud when your group chats with other friends and classmates in projects flood with the same rumor over and over.

A dead body had been found on campus. 

Vernon doesn’t live on campus, but it doesn’t stop you from calling him again. And again. And again. When the voicemail turns on a fourth time, you seethe into the phone, fingers gripping it so hard it feels like it’ll break. “Call me back you fucking asshole! Someone died on campus and you’re not answering and I just need to know it’s not you. Fuck!” 

Time passes and you get so desperate you do the one thing you didn’t want to do unless it was dire circumstances. You hit dial and bring your phone up to your ear, pinching the bridge of your nose to prepare yourself for when Mingyu answers the phone. 

“Am I dreaming?” he says by way of greeting. “It was the life guard costume, right?” 

“Mingyu, it wasn’t a costume. You were shirtless with board shorts.” 

“But it worked, right?”

“Have you heard from Vernon?” 

“Nah, why?” 

“Like you haven’t seen him at all since the party?” 

“Mmm. I don’t think so.” There’s a muffled sound on the phone like he’s trying to cover it when he yells, “Chan, have you seen that fuck head Vernon?” You wait impatiently, holding the phone further from your ear as Minguy yells. “Chan hasn’t seen him either.” 

“Isn’t that weird? I haven’t been able to get a hold of him.”

“Nah, I mean we never really see him. Usually he’s with you.”

“Right. And he isn’t with me, I haven’t seen him since the party.” 

“Well have you checked his apartment?” You hesitate. “Helloooo?”

“No.��

“Well. Do that. He’s probably sleeping or some shit, who knows.” 

“Great. You were so helpful,” you deadpan.

Mingyu sounds genuinely happy when he says, “I’m so glad!”

You hang up the phone before he can say anything else. 

Chewing your nail, you stare at the wall, mind racing.  Mingyu has a point that it’s normal for them to never see Vernon. He is usually with you, or he’s solitary. There is little in between. He also has a point that most of the time if you were looking for Vernon, you’d just swing by his apartment. 

The thought of seeing him again makes you want to curl in on yourself, but your concern weighs out. You get dressed and grab your keys, trying not to let your fear of what you might find there keep you from leaving. 

Opening the door to your apartment, you get one foot out the door and then slam directly into Vernon. You reel backward, eyebrows shooting up as he steadies you by the elbow, equally surprised to see you as though he wasn’t at your doorstep. 

“Easy there,” he greets, a half smile on his face.

Vernon looks totally normal. He definitely doesn’t look like he was murdered, and he’s dressed in his usual jeans, plain black shirt, and a backwards hat. For a second, you just stare at him, totally shocked and utterly relieved he isn’t dead.

Then, the anger comes. 

You slam a hand into his chest, cursing at him. “Where?” Slap. “Have?” Slap. “You?” Slap. “Been?” 

He takes the blows in stride. His chest is firm beneath your palm, heart beating steadily. Alive. And now that you’ve established he’s not dead, you feel so much anger ripple through you that you don’t let him answer before you’re pivoting on your foot and storming back into your apartment.

The sound of the door closing behind you followed by his shuffling as he takes his shoes off tells you he hasn’t left. A small part of you curls in satisfaction with the domesticity of his arrival, but it is blotted out by the hurt and rage at the surface of your emotions.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?” You demand. It isn’t as eloquent as your practiced rant, but it’s something. “You better explain yourself. And quickly.”

Vernon’s dark eyes connect with yours, simmering. You feel your heart lurch as he slinks over to the kitchen, never taking his gaze off you. The back of your neck tingles. Vernon never keeps this much eye contact and it’s both thrilling and unnerving. 

“I want to apologize,” he murmurs, pitching his voice low. You watch with trepidation as he reaches out to gather your hand in his. He folds your fingers under his, pulling your hand to his chest. Your breath quickens, pulse throbbing as he cradles your fist to his chest, his heartbeat steady. “I fucked up. I wanted to fuck with Soonyoung but I did it at the expense of you, and for that I’m deeply sorry.”

Warmth spreads from his hand to yours. You don’t know what to make of the apology - it’s so unlike him. Vernon has no problem apologizing when he’s wrong, but he’s usually not so confident, so well spoken. You stare and stare, that pitless gaze of his pinned on you. 

“I just…” You chew the inside of your cheek. “You really hurt my feelings, Vernon.” His hands tighten around yours and he tugs a little, pulling you closer. It’s harder to think when you’re this close, fingers wrapped in his. “You really scared me and then you vanished for nearly three days. Why did you do that?” 

“I wasn’t feeling well and I slept most of the days away. Honestly.”

“You weren’t feeling well?”

He gives you a look. “I see the skepticism. I’m serious, I just… wasn’t myself. I tried to rest and I didn’t hear my phone and I’m sorry. Really.”

Vernon’s apology settles around you like a weight. You watch him, contemplating what to do next. He doesn’t look ill, his gold skin as flawless as ever, his rosy lips tucked under his teeth as he watches you, waiting. His heart thuds under your palm, his thumb absently brushing back and forth over the top of your hand.

Breathing becomes difficult. Vernon isn’t overly affectionate, but the way he presses your hand to his chest now sends you down a dangerous path. The desire for him bubbles just below your surface and you’re terrified it’ll boil over, exposing everything you’ve ever thought about him.

“Alright,” you say softly, pulling your hand from his. He lets you. “Don’t ever do something like that to me again. It was scary and I felt stupid. And I thought you were dead.”

“Why?” 

Gesturing to the couch, the two of you plop down, seemingly back to normal. You’re still a little off kilter, but you report back to Vernon what your classmates had been saying. He grabs your remote and turns on the news, settling close enough to you that your thighs brush against one another. You shoot him a questioning look but he’s fixated on the TV, leaning forward to press his elbows into his knees.

The reporter on the news confirms the body of one of your fellow students had indeed been found on campus. Names and details were not yet available, but they were interviewing students about whether or not they felt safe on campus. By the second interview, Vernon was turning off the TV and leaning back.

“Freaky,” you murmur, tapping the arm of the couch. “Weird timing, right?”

“How so?”

“We just had a Halloween party in a weird murder house.”

Vernon goes silent. You turn to look at him, eyes searching. He stares at you, again the eye contact unsettling. Even though it feels like your Vernon sitting next to you, there is an edge to him that’s new. You don’t know what to do with it, shifting in your seat a little.

“Forget the murder house,” he says eventually, flicking his fingers in dismissal. “That party sucked and I’d rather forget it.”

“Yeah,” you murmur, eyeing him as he looks out the window. You swear he’s agitated, but you can’t pinpoint why. “Me too.”

-

Someone sitting down roughly next to you draws your attention away from your essay, barely audibly over the sound of Current Blue playing through your headphones. You raise a brow as Vernon slings his belongings on the table unceremoniously, uncaring how loud he is in the library.

You glance around, seeing that he’s attracted the attention of a few people at nearby tables, some scowling, others blushing. When you turn your gaze back to him, you see his mouth moving as he divests his bag of its contents, but you can’t hear him. 

Pulling your headphones from your head, you ask, “What?” 

“Can you help me with my organic chem assignment?” 

“I hate chemistry.” 

His mouth twitches as he opens his laptop. “Right, but you’re good at it. You’re the smartest person in school.”

Again, something nags at your instincts. You can’t pinpoint it, examining Vernon more closely. He looks totally normal, dressed in black jeans, a black shirt, and a jean jacket pulled over it. He’s without a hat today, his hair falling in messy strands over his brow as he sets up his area to study.

Sensing your gaze, he turns to look at you, eyebrow raised. “What?” 

“You seem different.”

“Different how?” He types on his computer to start bringing up his chemistry homework. “Different as in going to fail organic chem without your help?” 

“Oh shut up. I’m obviously going to help you.” 

His mouth is wicked when he grins. “Good.” 

When Vernon looks up at you, the world stops a little. His gaze today is fathomless, dark eyes smooth like the surface of a lake with no end. You tip into that gaze, letting yourself drown in it for a moment. Normally, Vernon would break eye contact by now, easily distracted or unrealizing that he’s got you stuck on him. 

Now, he doesn’t do that. He looks right back at you. Heat crawls up your neck and your breaths quicken. For the first time since you’ve known him, Vernon looks at you like he knows everything inside your locked-tight heart. 

You lick your lips and his gaze dips to your mouth. Inside your chest, your hummingbird heart hammers, threatening to break free. The corner of Vernon’s mouth tilts upward as his eyes meet yours again, and you watch, completely frozen, as he leans toward you. 

Vernon is so close you can smell the spicy cologne on his skin. It’s heady and makes you dizzy, and you watch, totally lost as he wraps his hand around the leg of your chair and tugs hard. You yelp, startling a few people around you as he yanks your chair next to his, your thighs pressed together. 

“What are you doing?” you whisper harshly at him, throwing an apologetic look at the people you’ve disturbed for a second time. 

“How are you going to help me from over there?”

“You could have asked me to move my chair.” 

The problem isn’t that he moved your chair. Not really. The problem is how close he is, leg pressed against yours and elbows touching as he shrugs and turns his computer screen toward you. The problem is how at ease he is with you nearly on top of him, his lazy smile making your thoughts tangle and your breath quicken. 

This Vernon is still the one you’re used to but there’s something about him that keeps you on edge. Keeps you looking at him when his hand brushes against yours to grab a pen, or when he leans back and puts his arm across the back of your chair, idly playing with the hood of your jacket.

It’s almost like he’s flirting, and you spend half the time stumbling through his homework, barely able to assist him in a meaningful way because you’re busy decoding the subtle touches and the light teasing. You feel yourself blush more and look the other way to collect yourself more in the hour you help him than you have your entire friendship, unsure what’s happening or how to handle it. 

Homework completed, Vernon stares off into the distance, his finger twisting in the string of your hoodie absently as you try to write the rest of your paper. It’s nearly impossible to concentrate like this, the intimacy more than you’re used to. 

“You’re very distracting today,” you comment as you reference a text to the right of your screen. “Are you aware of that?” 

He hums. “This is hardly a distraction. I could try harder, though.”

You cut a glance at him. He seems utterly serious, any sort of mirth nonexistent in his expression. There’s just that shadowed gaze, that spark of something right where you can’t reach it. You abruptly stand, surprising him as you knock his arm away from you and clear your throat. 

“I need a different text. It’s downstairs, though.” 

“I’ll come with you.” You raise your brows and he shrugs. “I’ve got nothing else to do.” 

“Sure.” 

Without another word, you pivot on your heel and nearly run for the far set of stairs that lead to the subterranean level of the library where all the old texts and books exist. Vernon follows you at a casual pace, still totally at ease despite the fact that you’re obviously unraveling.

You have no idea what his sudden interest in you is and it’s making you unspool, thoughts wild and racing as you reach the stairwell that leads down. 

Damp air greets you as you start down the steps and it smells like wet carpet. You cringe, hating every time you have to come here. It’s always poorly lit and damp, not at all what one would expect from a library trying to keep books from molding. But no one really comes down here anyway, only the history majors and people like you, who require weird books long retired from the main shelves.

It’s eerie in the old stacks. There are lamps above head casting a burnt orange glow over the green, shag carpet but otherwise it’s nearly impossible to see in the shadowy parts of the room. You certainly could never read a book down here. 

Vernon is silent behind you but you can feel him, his gaze burning into your back as you navigate toward the last set of rows. As you approach, you hear a sound, stopping you dead in your tracks. Vernon crashes into you, nearly knocking you over but his hands grab you, steadying you and holding you close to his chest. 

For the first time today, you’re able to ignore his nearness in favor of straining your ears for the sound you heard, a small whimper, perhaps. You hear it again, distinctly human. Your heart starts to pound as you remember that just the day before there was a body found on campus, mind racing with thoughts as you stand rooted to the spot, Vernon pressed against you.

Craning your head, you look up at him. His expression is unreadable as he looks at you through long lashes, face shadowed. There’s a soft bang, like someone knocking something over. He looks over your head and back at you, shrugging his shoulder as if to say your choice. 

Slowly, you move forward. Vernon keeps close, his heat radiating behind you like a furnace as you creep through the last few rows of shelving. As you near the third one, you stop and peer around the corner, eyes trying to adjust in the shitty lighting. 

What you see has you snapping back around the stack, mouth dropping open. Vernon, curious, leans around you to peer around the stack. He raises his brows and steps backward, mouth pressed in a firm line to conceal his laugh. 

In the next row over is a girl you vaguely recognize, naked from the waist down while someone who is very much not her boyfriend, pumps their fingers between her legs. Slapping Vernon’s chest you point toward the door, silently screaming at him to turn around and hightail it out of there. 

Vernon, for a second, bites his lower lip and wags his eyebrows at you, suggestive. You glare and shove his chest. He goes easily, grinning at you playfully as he turns on his heel and heads back up to the main floor. 

When you reach your table, you drop down in the chair, totally shocked. Vernon drops down next to you, laughing. “Listen, when the urge hits, I guess.”

“I guess,” you agree sharply, shaking your head. “That was not her boyfriend, though.”

“No shit?” 

“Yeah. She’s dating some dude in Sigma whatever.” 

Vernon’s gaze turns sharp and his eyes trail back toward the far side of the library, resting on the stairs. “Interesting.” 

“Not really. That seems to happen a lot among you Greek lifers.” 

“I would never do that.” The severity of his declaration has you looking up from your notebook. Vernon’s expression is cutting, his jaw flexing. “I would never participate in infidelity. Ever.” 

“I didn’t mean you, Vernon.” 

“I’m not like that.” 

You soften a little, guilt tugging at you. So often you remember that Vernon isn’t like a lot of the people around him and grouping him in is unfair and insensitive. 

“I know. I’m sorry, I didn’t mean it like that.” 

He nods once, turning from you to pack up his stuff. Somehow, you can’t help but feel like you’ve said the wrong thing. 

-

“Oh shit,” Vernon mutters. You look up from where you’re flipping a grilled cheese in the pan. He holds his phone out to you from where he leans against his kitchen counter. “They found another body. Same MO or whatever as the first.” 

“No way?” 

Putting down the spatula, you grab his phone from him where he has the article pulled up. Sure enough, there’s been another murder on campus. Your eyes drink in the details, similar as before: student victim, stab wounds, message written on the wall. 

“What is the Hello Darling Murder?” you ask, more to yourself than Vernon. “It’s linked here as a reference to these being copycat murders.” He says nothing. You read out loud, “The Hello Darling Murder is a case of a murder suicide that happened in the same town in 1979. It was the town’s first violent domestic crime in years, and drew national media attention for the gruesome crime scene in which a message had been written on the wall in blood.” 

Vernon makes an amused sound. You look up at him sharply, staring. He has his arms crossed over his chest, staring at the floor with a mildly bemused expression. You kick him and he looks up at you. “What?”

“Why are you laughing? That’s not funny.”

“The way people sensationalize murder is weird.” 

“I mean, I agree. But what is funny?”

“It’s not funny as in funny ha ha,” he clarifies. “It’s funny stupid. The media is going to sensationalize this and turn it into an entire thing.” 

“Yeah, well. That’s their job.” 

Off put by his dark mirth, you turn back to the article, reading further. You skip over the old murder, more interested in the details of the two new ones. Your heart seizes in your chest when you see the name and picture of the second victim, stomach roiling. 

He sees your expression, pushing off the counter toward you, hands shooting your arms. “What? What’s wrong?” 

In any other scenario, you’d be overwhelmed by the sudden care and affection. Now, you just turn the phone toward him, showing him the photo. “It’s that girl from the library. Her name was Sidney. She’s the one I told you was cheating on her boyfriend.” 

Nothing registers in his face when he looks at the phone, his hands still resting on your arms lightly. He looks away from the screen and at you instead, a sharpness to his gaze that’s there so often you’re starting to grow used to it.

“You’re burning the grilled cheese, Lovecraft.” 

-

Mosquitos nip at your skin as you walk down the narrow path between trees. You slap your hand against your neck again, muttering under your breath. Vernon chuckles next to you, keeping his pace even as you struggle to step over a fallen tree branch. 

You hate the woods at night. It’s not your first time going to a bonfire deep in the woods off campus, but you don’t know why you keep coming back. Tripping over another branch, Vernon catches you by the arm and steadies you, stopping to make sure you’re okay before he lets go.

Scratch that. You do know why you keep coming back. For as long as you’ve been friends, you’ve been Vernon’s permanent plus one to all of his parties, formals and events, even if both of you hate going. It’s become a weird obligation to show up at things like this as a pair. 

They aren’t always terrible, you have to admit. When Mingyu isn’t absolutely hammered, he’s mostly tolerable to be around. Soonyoung isn’t bad either, though you’re still pissed off at him for the Halloween party incident, unwilling to talk to him. 

But nights like this where you have to trek out into the middle of the woods using your phone’s flashlight to navigate, you sort of loathe your unspoken oath to attend with Vernon. 

Instead of focusing on the distaste and the inherent anxiety the shadows of the trees give you, you let Vernon help you slide down a ditch and climb up the other side. His fingers are firm on your wrist, not quite holding your hand but keeping you connected. 

Your skin is warm and tingles when he lets go, deeming it safe enough to let you walk yourself. It’s easier to see now, too, the orange light of the massive bonfire casting a circle of orange glow that only grows as you near the party. 

Party is perhaps too strong of a word for it. There can’t be more than twenty people in the small clearing surrounding the roaring fire the Soonyoung tends to, foldable chairs and coolers arranged in a circle. Chan is trying to roast a marshmallow and failing, the white snack immediately catching fire and singing in the heat of the fire. 

Mingyu whistles when he sees you, catching your attention to wave you over to a pair of seats by him and Chan. You make your way there, navigating through groups of people clutching plastic cups and stepping over various sizes of coolers. 

The heat from Soonyoung’s inferno is nearly unbearable, making you cringe back as he adds something that cracks and pops, sending bits of orange ash floating toward the sky. 

“Jesus Christ, Soonyoung!” Seungcheol complains from his seat where a girl sits on his knee. “Enough, it’s fucking hot!” 

“Sorry,” Soonyoung answers, sheepish. 

Backing your chair away from the fire a little, you sit down and curl into the folding chair, accepting the drink Vernon hands you before moving his chair closer to yours and sitting down. A shiver ripples through you at the cool can in your hands. You crack the top and take a sip, trying to cool down from the blast of heat you’d taken while passing the fire.

Mingyu turns to you and Vernon as Chan pops a burned marshmallow in his mouth, the two of them immediately launching into discussions of the murders. You shift uncomfortably in your chair, listening as they recount the details in the news mixed with the rumors on campus. 

So far, two bodies have been discovered and linked together. The authorities don’t want to call it a serial killer, attempting to avoid a media craze and inspiring the killer to go on a spree, but denying the murders are connected is impossible.

You’re unsure what the victims have in common. The first had been a male senior who was in the business track, discovered by the dorms near the lake on campus. The second had been the girl you’d seen in the library in her apartment off campus, and Sidney had been in the education track and a junior. 

Neither of them were friends. You don’t go to a large university, but there are enough students that it’s normal to have a ton of people that you don’t know. From what anyone can tell, there was nothing the two victims had in common.

Except that they’d been murdered by someone who had left a bloody Hello Darling written at the crime scene.

A chill sweeps over you as Mingyu mentions the Hello Darling Murderer. It was the same story as before - a man had murdered his girlfriend in the 70s, a shocking and violent domestic crime that had unsettled the citizens and local university. He’d promptly killed himself after that, leaving only a bloody Hello Darling on the walls.

Authorities didn’t even know who the blood had belonged to - it took them so long to realize the couple was missing before they did a wellness check that by the time they investigated, they’d been dead a week. 

Vernon snorts at that and mutters something about the ineptitude of law enforcement. You cut your eyes at him. Though you agree, Vernon is usually the last person to make degrading comments - or comment at all really. 

Not for the first time in the last two weeks, you can’t help but sense that honed edge to him he has now. You’ve attributed it to him moving with more confidence, talking to people directly and making actual eye contact. You don’t know where the sudden swell in self-conviction has come from, but you’d be lying if you said it didn’t look good on him.

Still, it’s got you a little uneasy, trying to adjust to this version of him. 

The topic shifts to football and you find yourself tuning everyone out, sipping your cider and staring at the fire as it warms your feet. More people arrive and drag chairs up. Someone hauls a few kegs into the firelight, cheers going around the fire.

Vernon stands and holds his hand up for your empty can. You give it to him wordlessly and he heads to get you a refresh, tossing the trash into one of the trash bins.

Turning to Mingyu as he goes, you ask quietly, “Has he seemed different to you lately?” 

“Who?”

“Steve Jobs,” you deadpan. “Vernon, obviously.”

“I don’t think so? He’s around a lot more lately and actually talks to us.” Mingyu pauses, thinking as he cocks his head to the side. “I mean, I guess that is kind of weird for him. He also actually goes to places with us now.” 

“Exactly what I mean.”

“Hey! We are friends, you know?” 

You hum uncertainty, your attention trailing back to Vernon. You observe him, noticing all the little details that are different. He stands a little bit straighter, inserts himself in conversations where he didn’t before.

Now, he stands near the keg, nodding along to something the girl next to him is saying. They’re standing close - you realize it’s the same girl from the Halloween party that had been talking to him, except this time, he’s talking back. 

Vernon leans in close to her and says something, making her laugh. He bites his lower lip a little, watching her with half-lidded eyes. Your stomach turns a little, eyes glued as he brushes her arm when he reaches for the cup that Joshua hands him. 

Turning away from them, you tune yourself into Chan’s conversation, needing a distraction. You try not to count the minutes until Vernon returns. When he does, the girl is with him. He drags a chair over so she can sit on the other side of him. 

It’s close, their knees touching when he sits and hands her the drink he was holding for her. He turns and holds out your drink to you, which sloshes a little when you snatch the cup from his hand. He arches his brows but you say nothing, taking a large gulp and turning your back on him to ask Chan about football instead. 

“You watch football?” Chan asks cryptically. 

“Sure. Go Green Bay Ravens.” 

He stares. “Packers. Green Bay Packers.”

“That’s what I said.”

“Hey, I’m not arguing with you. In fact, if you want to tell me what’s what more often-”

You scoff. “Shut up, Chan!”

Stuck between Vernon flirting with the girl next to him and Chan and Mingyu being - Chan and Mingyu - sours your mood. You try to lose yourself in your cup, going mute as you stare at the fire. Vernon hardly notices the shift in your mood, leaning in to the girl as they chat. 

You can’t help but notice everything about them. It’s impossible not to see the way she leans into him, bumping shoulders when she laughs. He lets her, watching her with a gaze you can only describe as hungry. The grip on your cup tightens as he knocks their knees together when he shifts in his chair, leaving it pressed against hers. 

It reminds you of the way he’d behaved in the library with you, brushing against you on purpose, making his words come out in a playful pur instead of what you’re used to, and seeing him do it with her now makes you snap. 

You stand abruptly, drawing the attention of Chan and Mingyu but not who you want. 

“I’m going for a walk.”

“Need company?” Chan offers. It seems genuine, but you give him a sharp no before you’re walking away, sticks snapping underneath your boots as you go. 

Chill air licks your face as you get further from the fire. There are plenty of people dispersed throughout the general area, some people pulled far away for intimate conversations, others pulled away to pass a joint in a circle, the pungent smell chasing you as you pass them. 

Away from the smoke and the noise, you feel like you can breathe a little more. You find a fallen tree, thick enough to sit on. You test your weight on it first before deciding it’s safe, swinging your leg to straddle it and look off into the dark trees.

There’s just enough light from the silver moon above your head and from the distant fire to feel safe. Wrapping your arms around your middle, you hug yourself and close your eyes, breathing in deep. The fire smoke isn’t strong here, the air clean and crisp.

Opening your eyes, you look at the sky. This far out in the country, you can see the stars. Out of habit, you start mapping out all the constellations you know, eyes tracing Orion the Hunter. You skip over to Andromeda, counting each star before moving to the east to spot Cassiopeia. 

It reminds you of the time you taught Vernon all the different constellations. He’d been a silent and attentive listener, watching as you’d pointed them all out while sitting on a bench at the park. You’ve caught him drawing them more than once in his chemistry notebooks, little dots of perfect constellations memorized. 

An ache you’re familiar with fills your chest. It’s the same ache you had when you realized you had feelings for him but didn’t want to tell him. The same ache you had when he’d hurt your feelings on Halloween. The same ache as when you’d seen him actually look back at someone who's interested in him, for once. 

Crying seems silly, but suddenly you have the urge to, throat twisting as you stare at the sky and try to puzzle out the direction your friendship has gone since that night. As you sit on the tree, a prickling sense of awareness creeps up your spine, tugging at you. 

Looking around, you see nothing. You can generally see in a good circumference, but the sudden instinct that something or someone is watching you drives you to get off the branch, hitting the ground with both feet to stride back toward the fire. 

As you go, your foot gets stuck in a tangle of tree roots again, making you stumble. You curse, bending down through squinted eyes to untangle your foot. Your fingers are a little cold and shaking, anxiety creeping up slowly as you pull the weeds and roots away from your shoe. 

Something snaps behind you. Your fingers freeze, head whipping around to look for the source of the noise. Again, you see nothing but your heart is hammering. You don’t dare to breathe, holding your breath as you strain your ears to hear anything else. There’s only crickets and an owl in the distance, no more snapping branches.

In that moment, it occurs to you that you’ve decided to wander out in the woods at night and alone after two recent murders. The stupidity of your actions land like a blow.

Turning back around, you wrench your shoe free and stand up, nearly colliding with Vernon who leans backward to avoid smacking into you as you shriek in surprise, stepping backward. Vernon’s hand darts out to grab you, catching you and tugging you forward into him before you can lose your balance fully.

Heart hammering, your fingers dig into his biceps, keeping yourself standing as you hiss, “What are you doing?”

“What do you mean what am I doing? You’re wandering out in the middle of the woods while there is an active serial killer in town.” 

“Oh please, like you noticed.”

He frowns. You drop your hands and try to step away from him, eager to put some distance between you. Vernon’s grip on you tightens though, keeping you where you’re standing. “I’m here, I obviously noticed.” You snort derisively and his grip tightens a little. “Is there something you want to say?”

You open and close your mouth, scowling at him. He’s never so direct you’re unsure how to approach the question. So you try for a little bit of honesty. “I wasn’t having fun.” 

“Okay, so let’s leave.”

“You look like you were having fun.” 

Silence hangs in the air. Vernon’s face is indecipherable. Then, “Are you jealous?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.”

Your response is so fast that it even sounds practiced and hollow to you. It’s hard not to wince, hoping that as always, he doesn’t see through your cellophane defense. Vernon’s touch drops from your biceps to your wrist, delicate. You’re afraid to look him in the eye, instead staring at the buttons on his jean jacket. 

“I noticed you were gone.” His voice is gentle, a low purr. You dart a quick glance at him to see the intensity of his gaze. It makes you squirm, unsure how to respond. “I always notice when you’re gone.”

“Alright. Well.” 

“I notice everything about you.” 

The way he says it is a soft whisper. A promise, a suggestion. Again, it feels like Vernon has discovered your loose thread, tugging lightly on it. If he tugs again, you think you might unspool all the way, showing him everything you don’t want him to see. 

It feels like he wants to, and that’s what scares you more. That suddenly he’s looking at you like he wants to see past the veneer of your words, like he’s ready to look inside. You hear the double meaning. It’s so terrifying that you look away from him, ready to hide. 

“Don’t tease me,” you whisper. 

“I’m not. If you’re not having fun, let’s go home. I came here with you.” He tugs your wrist. “Come on. You can’t be walking around out here alone with a killer on the loose, Lovecraft. I’ll be forced to fight them off.” 

The tension fades. You let out a breath and laugh, looking at him skeptically. “Yeah? You’re going to fight for me?” 

His grip on your wrist tightens. You wonder if he can feel the speed of your pulse under his thumb, the way it hammers when he smirks. “Yeah, I am.” 

-

Sal’s Pizzeria isn’t your favorite place to do school work. It’s too loud and bright, the promise of food is way too distracting for you to focus for much longer than a few minutes at a time, and usually your fingers are too slippery with pizza grease to type properly. 

You only have a narrow window to finish writing your paper before going to the bar for Jihoon’s birthday. You barely know him, but he’s someone Vernon is decently close enough too that you feel obligated to attend. More importantly, you’re finally almost done with your paper you’ve been working on for two weeks, eager to celebrate hitting submit. 

“You know that dude who was killed first was a rotten cheater?” 

The girls sitting behind you catch your attention. Your brows knit together and you turn your head a fraction to eavesdrop, eyes unfocusing on the words on your screen. There are four of them behind you that you don’t recognize but assume go to the same school as you, based on the attire and the backpacks. 

“Yeah! Sam told me about that. Apparently he was sleeping around with a bunch of freshmen. Maybe his girlfriend found out and went all psycho killer on him?” 

“Ew, how scummy. But what’s with the hello darling message shit? Can you say weird?” 

“I know, right?” 

Their words give you pause. The first victim had been someone known for his infidelity too? Turning back to your screen, you pull up your web browser and type in Hello Darling Murderer to the search. The original murder from the 70s hadn’t given you much thought beyond assuming someone was being a copycat, but now you feel something nagging at you. Something you’re missing. 

All of the top stories are of the recent murders. You amend your search to the 70s and get older articles and links to podcasts covering the initial incident. Clicking on a story from a reputable journal, you start reading in detail about the first murder and his victim, skin prickling as you go.

As an Occult Studies major, a lot of people think you’re into murder mysteries. In truth, you’re not. They have little to do with what you study, and you’ve spent countless times telling people that occult and people obsessed with true crime are two totally different things. You have no idea why they’re lumped together so often, but on more than one occasion you’ve had to explain you’re not interested in serial killers or their stories.

Except now. Chewing the inside of your cheek, you unwind the story of Thomas Ellswater, who had apparently murdered his girlfriend at the time before promptly killing himself. The initial investigation hadn’t dug up much, assuming that it was a case of domestic violence gone as bad as it could. 

But the journalist who had written the story had other details. Accounts from family friends that detailed Elsswater’s girlfriend, Maya, unhappy with their relationship. One even insinuated that she had been cheating on him for a long time, though with who, they were unsure. 

Further down in the article, you stop. Read the paragraph again. Look at the picture of the house. A sickly chill coats your skin as you lean forward, taking in the details of the house. You’ve seen it before, though your memory of it at night surrounded by floodlights and full of drunk college students makes it almost unrecognizable when you see it on the screen. 

Thomas Ellswater lived in the same house that you’d partied in on Halloween night, where Vernon had played that horrible prank in the closet. Thomas or Maya had been the haunting spirit Soonyoung had been attempting to summon.

And now someone was killing in the same exact style.. 

The server bringing you two trays of pizzas and a basket of fries breaks you from your trance. You close the article, a sick feeling in your stomach as you try to piece together the puzzle. Was it just a spurned lover who was paying homage to someone who related? Or was it a serial killer poking fun at the MO?

Vernon crashing into the seat across from you startles you. He gives you a grin, eyeing the pizza in front of him and rubbing his hands together. Rolling your eyes, you grab the red pepper flakes and salt, passing the latter over to him. 

“So I learned something weird today,” you venture, pulling a slice of pizza from the tray. 

“Tell me,” he answers over a mouthful of pizza, once again burning himself. You roll your eyes, shaking your red pepper onto your slice. “What is going on in the world of occult today?”

“Actually, not occult.” He gives you an appraising look, popping some fries into his mouth. “What, no salt today?”

He pauses, looking at the basket of fries. “Nah, I need to cut back on the sodium.”

“Good idea. Anyway, it’s about the murders.” 

“Do tell.”

“The girls behind me said the first victim was known for cheating.” 

“It’s college. Apparently there is a lot of that.” 

“But remember that day we saw Sidney in the library? She was cheating too.” 

“Right.” He rips into his pizza, gaze sharp as he looks at you. “So this town is full of a bunch of lowlife fucking cheaters.”

You flinch at his vehemence, leaning back in your seat. Vernon drops his gaze, tearing into his slice in silence. “Sorry,” he says after swallowing. “I’m hungry.”

“Right. As I was saying, I looked up that Hello Darling Murder.” 

He pauses, gaze flicking to you. “And?”

“And it was ruled as a case of domestic violence gone wrong, but there were some people who think the Maya Caravalo was cheating on Thomas Ellswater, who killed her.” 

“I’m sure cheating is the leading cause of crimes of passion.”

“In the house that we were in on Halloween.” 

Vernon frowns. “Ah. Weird.” 

He doesn’t elaborate. You watch him as he chews on more pizza, shoving fries into his mouth on occasion too. He seems totally at ease - and more normal than he’s been in weeks. You watch, mildly disgusted at the way college men eat. 

“That’s all you have to say?” You ask. “Weird.”

“It is weird.” 

“Kind of an insane coincidence.” 

He becomes still, only his eyes moving as he settles his inky gaze on you. For a second, you can’t help but think he looks a bit like the cat who ate the canary, eyes glittering. “So tell me what theory is in that pretty head of yours, Lovecraft.” 

Ignoring the way your heart leaps at him calling you pretty, you sigh, picking at the wooden table with a thumb nail. “I don’t really have one. I just think someone came across the original murder and thought I could write that at my crime scenes. I don’t study criminology, I can’t figure out motivation.”

“You’re the smartest person in school, Lovecraft. Try.” 

“I guess… I don’t know. The new killer was probably cheated on recently, came across what happened in the 70s, and has been taking out their rage on other adulterers because they feel some sort of kinship with Thomas. Maybe like finishing his work or ridding the world of a common enemy.” 

Vernon hums. “Maybe so. Do you think they deserve it?” You look at him sharply, mouth downturning. “The victims. Do you think they deserve to be killed for their infidelity?” 

“I don’t know that anyone is deserving of murder.” You chew the inside of your cheek, watching Vernon’s face for any sign of what he’s thinking. He’s totally closed off, a blank canvas. “This is why I’m in Occult Studies and not law, Vernon.” 

He gives a wolfish grin. “Touche. Come on, eat your pizza. We have a bar to go get drunk at.” 

-

The bar in question is teeming with people. You’re immediately overwhelmed, squeezing your way between chairs, tables and people as you navigate to your group of friends. Vernon keeps you close, his arm encircling your waist as pulling you to him as you go. 

He either ignores or doesn’t notice the sharp look you give him. Instead, he’s focused on keeping the two of you attached, shouldering his way through the crowd, the press of his fingers on your hip dizzying and steadying at the same time. 

At the far back of the bar, an entire section of people associated with Vernon’s fraternity crowd from wall to wall. Vernon manages to get you onto a stool at the bar top, shouldering one of the pledges off the seat with a narrow-eyed look. You raise your brows at him and he winks, leaning his elbow on the bar top to order you both drinks.

Spinning to face him in the stool, you give him a quick once over. You’d been so engrossed in your murdery mystery findings at the pizzeria that you haven't really looked at him until now. He looks good, dressed simply in dark jeans and a dark, long sleeve shirt that shows how broad he is. Has he always been that broad? 

Vernon catches you staring. “What are you looking at?” 

“Nothing.” 

He grins, accepting drinks from the bartender and sliding one over to you. You burn under the full weight of his attention as he pops his straw into his mouth. “Tell me.” 

“You look nice tonight.”

“You look nice every night.”

“Oh shut up.” 

“What?” he laughs. “I mean it.” 

“Whatever.”

Spinning in the chair again, you place your back to the bar, facing the crowd to watch people. Vernon is content to stand next to you in silence, both of you sipping your drinks as you observe the people around you. Someone jostles him a little closer, his arm shifting to lay across the bartop along your back. 

Heat creeps into your cheeks and you try to remain breathing normally. Vernon leaves his arm there, pressed against you but not exactly wrapped around you. There is a distinct difference, but this is still new. Still confusing. 

People who recognize you both come up and say hi. You keep the conversation polite and short, especially when you see the girl who has lingered at the last two parties slink toward you, her eyes only for Vernon. 

“Hi,” she yells over the crowd, totally ignoring you. “I didn’t expect to see you tonight!”

“Why wouldn’t you? I’m friends with Jihoon.”

The girl opens and closes her mouth, lips pursed at that. You sense the serrated edged to Vernon’s words, casting a glance his direction. He’s not looking at her, eyes instead scanning the crowd. Uninterested. Even you know she didn’t literally mean she wasn’t expecting to see him - it was just a conversation starter. 

Using the opportunity to sip from your straw to hide your laughter, you have to admit you’re a little relieved to see Vernon missing social cues again. It’s more him, a Vernon that you're used to. Maybe a little meaner than usual, but this is closer. 

“Right,” the girl says. Her eyes flicker to you for the first time. “It’s his birthday, right?” 

“According to the giant sign in the corner and all the balloons, yes.” 

Okay, maybe it’s not entirely normal Vernon. Usually he isn’t so callous. In this case, you don’t mind, watching as she tries to puzzle out how to keep the conversation going. Vernon decides for you, turning from her to press his mouth close to your ear. 

“I’ll be right back,” he murmurs, breath hot against you. “I’m gonna greet Jihoon really quickly.” 

All you can manage is a breathy, “Alright.” 

Vernon finishes his drink and pushes off the bar, fingers dragging against you as he goes. He ignores the girl standing and watching, her eyes darting from you to him until he vanishes in the sea of bodies. Without Vernon there, she has nothing to do. She tilts her chin up, sucking up her pride and turns on her heel to walk a direction distinctly not the same way as Vernon.

Alone at the bar, you swivel in your seat to order you both another drink. You assume Vernon is drinking a whiskey coke, hoping that’s right as you flag down the bartender. While you wait, someone slips into the spot next to you. You turn, thinking Vernon’s already back only to find someone you definitely don’t know. 

“Sorry,” he shouts over the loud voices and music. “Did not mean to get in your personal space, this spot was way smaller than I thought it was.” 

“That’s okay! Getting a spot kind of sucks.”

“No kidding.” He grins at you, turning his attention back to trying to get anyone to take his drink order. “How long do you think it’ll take for them to notice me?” 

“About seven years.”

“Yikes. I’m Seokmin, by the way.” You give him your name and he grins. “What brings you to this shit hole ass bar?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday. You?”

“A friend of a friend's birthday indeed.”

A bartender finally comes over to take Seokmin’s order. He leans forward to shout over the crowd, his shoulder knocking into yours. You don’t mind - he’s nice. He looks over at you, a question on his face. “You like tequila?”

“No!”

“Let me rephrase - want a shot of tequila?” 

“She doesn’t.”

Vernon slides behind you, his palm pressed flat to your back. You startle, looking up at him in surprise. He isn’t looking at you, his eyes zeroed in on Seokmin. You slide Vernon’s drink toward him, eager to dispel the sudden tension thrumming through him.

“Whiskey and coke?”

He looks down, eyes rounding out a little as he softens. “Mhmm. Thank you.”

Drink in hand, Seokmin turns to you both and waves. “Y’all have a good night!”

When he’s gone, Vernon leans against the counter again, his tone flat as he says, “He was nice.”

“He was, but what do you sound bothered by ?”

“Maybe I am.” 

“Why?” 

He lifts a shoulder. Instead of answering you, he picks up the lime in his drink and squeezes it, stirring it with his straw before taking a long pull straight from the rim of the glass. 

You nudge him. “I’m going to say this again: you’ve been different, lately.” 

“Different how.” 

“I don’t know. You talk more. You’re a lot more engaging. You’re a little…” 

“A little what?”

“Cockier?” He hims, eyes dropping down to your mouth. “Like that,” you point out, voice a little weaker. “You do that now, and you didn’t used to.”

“I always did. I’m just a little more obvious about it now.”

Tension crackles between the two of you. Your mouth feels dry as you watch him, reading the minute expressions of his face. Finally, when you can’t unpuzzle him, you say, “I don’t know what you’re doing.”

“What do you mean?”

“I can’t tell if you’re coming onto me or if it’s some sort of game to you.” That makes him frown as he sips his drink again. Your fear and frustration clash, wrestling for dominance. “It makes things confusing.”

“Why didn’t you say so? I’m happy to clear things up.” 

You grip your glass, trying to keep your fingers from quaking. This moment feels like it’s all or nothing. Vernon puts it out on the table so easily, leaving the option to you. Either you can ask for clarity, or keep playing this new game of cat and mouse. But you have to decide. 

“I would appreciate it if you did,” you say eventually. 

Vernon nods and finishes the rest of the drink. He sets the glass down before he leans forward, hand going to the underside of your chin to lightly tip your face upward with his knuckle so he can press the world’s most gentle kiss to your mouth. 

You freeze. When he doesn’t pull away, lips soft and warm, you sigh into the kiss, eyes fluttering shut. He feels you relax, mouth curling in a smile against yours. He steps into your space without breaking the kiss, finding the space between your legs as his lips press firmer to yours. 

Vernon smells like his cologne and something distinctly him. It makes you dizzy, and the way he tastes like whiskey and lime makes the room spin. When he pulls away from him, you feel like you’re going to fall from the stool, leaning toward him. 

His hands grip your thighs, squeezing generously as he leans in and drags his mouth to your ear. “Does that clear things up?” 

“Actually, no?” 

His groan is throaty, turning into laughter as he buries his face in your neck. Your hands tentatively settle on his waist, a little hesitant. “I always said you were the smartest person at school, but maybe not.”

“Hey!” 

“Come home with me.” He feels your delay, laughing. “Come home with me because I like you. Is that clearer? Because I want you to come home with me, and I don’t want anyone else here.” 

Your heart goes bolting like a rabbit, running in circles. Vernon pulls away from you to study your face. You watch him for any sign that he’s kidding, that he doesn’t mean it. You find none. In its place, you only see honesty. Hunger. Fiery desire burning at the surface. 

“Really?” Your question is small. Vulnerable. “Do you mean that?”

“I do.” He tugs on your thighs. “I’m not playing games with you. Come home with me - I’ll prove I’m serious about you. You are what I want. I just had to be sure.” 

Lightheaded and heart slamming, you let Vernon pull you from the seat and lead you out of the bar. 

-

Vernon’s apartment on the north side of town is a place you’ve been a million times. You recognize all the cars in the parking lot, and you know exactly what building and floor belongs to him. You even recognize his neighbors come in mat that you’ve always hated. 

He catches you staring at it with distaste now, laughing as he shakes his head and inserts his keys. “You and that mat.”

One hand works the keys into the door while the other is stretched behind him, fingers linked with yours. Your hand is warm and your heart is still racing as he gets the door open, pulling you inside the dark of his home. 

“They could be inviting anything in,” you assert, a little breathless as he pulls you to his chest. He kicks the door shut, the frame rattling as it slams. “You should never have a doormat that just welcomes whatever shows up at your door inside. You could end up with a vampire in your home.”

“A vampire, huh?” Vernon ducks his head towards your neck, lips skimming your throat. Your fingers twist in the hem of his shirt, eyes fluttering closed as his teeth scrape against your pulse point. “Sounds scary.” 

“It is. There’s nothing to disprove that vampires exist.” 

Vernon bites down and you whine, melting into him. His laugh vibrates through his chest as his tongue presses to the bite mark, soothing the pain. His mouth closes over the spot and he sucks gently, sending a shiver through your body. 

“I promise the only thing biting you will be me.”

The full weight of his words hit you between the legs. You feel like putty in his hand as he navigates you to the island counter in his kitchen. He presses your back into it, careful not to jam you too harshly against the marble. 

Heat licks through your stomach as Vernon steals your lips in a kiss. It’s different from the gentle one he gave you at the bar. This one drinks you in, pries you open and lets you spill out into him, all the feelings and bottled thoughts you have free for the taking.

You get lost in him, hands wrapping around his neck to pull him close, fingers sliding through his hair. He moans and you respond, curling your fingers to scrape your nails against his scalp. His hips twitch forward, pinning you between him in the counter as he sucks your bottom lip harshly. 

“Be careful,” he warns, a hand drifting from your chin to your neck. He doesn’t wrap his fingers around your throat, but his hand rests there, heavy and wanting. “I’m trying to be gentle.” 

You steal a kiss, nipping his bottom lip sharply. “Don’t be.”

His resounding groan makes you dizzy. His kisses become rough and heated, using his tongue as much as his teeth. He presses you hard into the countertop now, the marble digging into your back as he nearly folds you in half with the weight of his body. 

It feels like the air has left the room. Vernon is the only thing you need to breathe in, fueled by the way his tongue licks into you, the gentle squeeze of his hand at the base of your throat. His fingers press against your pulse, not enough to cut off any airflow but enough to send a bolt of pleasure and thrill through you. 

“You have no idea,” Vernon pants, pressing sloppy, wet kisses to your jawline. “How long I’ve waited to do this. I could have had you this entire fucking time, but I held myself back.” 

His thumb presses under your jaw, angling your head to the side. With more access to your throat, he peppers you in bites and kisses, tongue soothing each sting. “I have wasted so much time,” he mutters, almost like he’s talking to himself. “Being a fucking coward.”

“Don’t say that,” you gasp as his other hand presses between your legs. The ache in your cunt is already throbbing, and he does nothing but make it worse by adding pressure but doing nothing more. “Please don’t tease me.”

“I’m not.” He pulls away from you. Before you can complain, he gives you a quick kiss, tugging you toward his room. “I shouldn’t have waited until I had a little… encouragement to do this. I’m going to give you everything you want, love.”

A quiver slithers down your spine at the shortened version of your nickname. The new endearment hits home when you see the way he looks at you, the want and desire more unrestrained than anything else you’ve ever seen on his expression. 

Hand in yours, he pulls you into the bedroom, spinning you to sit you down on the edge of his bed. You look up at him through your lashes, admiring the shape of his face and the way you can just barely see his freckles in the soft glow from the nightlight in his bathroom as he slots himself between your knees. 

“I’ll give you whatever you want,” Vernon whispers, voice like velvet. He slides a finger under your chin, tilting your gaze even higher as he watches you, eyes blown. “I’m entirely devoted to you and you only. You know that, right?” 

Vernon’s thumb pulls at your bottom lip. You open your mouth on instinct and he growls low in his throat. He pushes his thumb past your swollen lips, pressing down on your tongue. You taste the lime from earlier and the hint of salt on his skin, closing your mouth as you suck gently. 

“Fuck,” he swears, thumb pressing harder. “You really have been a little slut for me this entire time, huh?” 

Hearing Vernon say it in that deep, whispered voice of his does something to you. There’s a note in his voice you’re unfamiliar with, a dangerous edge that you want to lean into and cut yourself on. So you nod, lashes fluttering as you bat them up at him. 

“Yeah, thought so.” He pulls his thumb from your mouth, dragging it spit-slicked down your chin. “Lay back on the bed for me, love.” 

You do so immediately, shuffling backward so that you can lean back. The sheets smell like him and you tilt your head to the side, nuzzling his comforter a little. You try to ground yourself, feeling a little staticky as he kneels on the bed, mattress dipping. 

Vernon plants a knee between your legs, leaning forward to cage you in with a hand on either side of your head. His kiss is all consuming, any sense of delicacy gone. You let him devour you, your hands pulling at his belt loops to bring him closer.

He’s not close enough, never close enough. 

Having him like this is everything you’ve ever wanted and more. He’s familiar, the scent of him and the warmth of his skin and the little sounds he makes but he’s also entirely new. He is rougher than you imagined, sharper than you thought. He drags his blunt nails over your collarbone as he pulls your shirt away from your neck, giving his mouth access to litter your skin with kisses. 

Your hands slip under his shirt, curious as you press the pads of your fingers into his stomach. You feel the muscles flex and he hums low in his throat, enjoying your exploration as you slide your hands around the perfect taper of his waist to the small of his back. 

Vernon slides his knee higher, pressing it directly to your clothed cunt. You twitch against him, a questioning sound leaving your lips as you breathe in sharply. 

“Go ahead,” he mumbles against your chest, one pulling sharply at your shirt. You hear the seams rip and you don’t even care. “Take what you need, love.” 

The rawness of his words fucks you up. You do as he says, rolling your hips against his thigh for any sort of pressure and friction. It helps relieve the tension a little, but not nearly enough. Your breathing turns ragged as he harshly bites and kisses his way to your bra. 

Yanking hard, he rips the rest of your shirt. You let out a throaty laugh and he looks up at you, eyes like burning coals. “What’s so funny, hmm?”

“I did not expect you to be able to rip my shirt.” 

“Oh?”

The dangerous note in his voice makes your hips stutter and stop. He runs the tip of his tongue around the soft curve of your chest, watching you all the while and fuck. If you’d realized that this was the type of Vernon you’d get, maybe you’d have been braver sooner. Because this Vernon is something else, confident and cocky and ravenous. 

“Want me to rip this too?” He teases, teeth pulling at the cup of your bra. Your chest rises and falls as you try to catch your breath, a little overwhelmed. “Say the word.”

“Maybe salvage some of my clothing, Vernon.”

“Fine. I will not salvage you, though.”

You believe him. Nothing about the way Vernon peels your bra off of you is gentle. Nothing about the way his hand cups your breast, squeezing before he lowers his mouth to give a generous suck to your nipple feels like he has your survival in mind. 

Squeezing your eyes shut, you let Vernon have his way. It feels like he’s peeling you open layer by layer, plucking every string connected to your pleasure that he can find.

His mouth is a weapon, tongue lazily circling your pert nipple until you’re whining and squirming under him. He laughs and drags his tongue to the other side of your chest, licking his way to your peak to tease you further. 

“Shit,” you whisper, one hand leaving his back to tangle in his hair. You don’t know if you’re pulling him away or pushing him closer - maybe both. “Vernon.”

His teeth scrape your nipple and you whine. He shuts you up by closing his mouth around you, sucking sharply. When he pulls away with a loud pop, you let out a shaky breath. 

“You can barely keep it together,” he observes. He placed closed mouth kisses on your stomach as he descends, pulling his knee from between your thighs. “What are you gonna do when I eat you out, huh?”

Flushed and embarrassed, you cover your face as his tongue licks the skin above your jeans. “Cat got your tongue, love?” 

“You - you’re - ugh!”

He chuckles, popping the button of your jeans. “I’m ugh?” 

“You know what I mean.” 

Vernon tugs on your jeans. You try to lift your hips to help him, but your thighs are like jelly already, turning you useless. He coos at you, pressing a kiss to your hip gently. “I got you.” 

Unsure if he means about your inability to get out your fucking pants or he understand what you mean, you let him peel them down the rest of the way. His hands skate up your calves, squeezing and firm as he sinks to his knees on the floor. 

Bracing yourself, you brave a look between your legs where he presses your thighs open gently with his palms. Veronon’s eyes are on the apex of your thighs, entirely focused on where your underwear stick to your folds. He licks his lips, hand brushing up and down your thighs. 

His gaze flickers to you. For a moment, the two of you just stare at one another. You feel overly exposed, naked from the waist up, cool air pebbling your spit-slicked chest. The weight of his gaze presses you down like a physical thing, but it’s comforting. Warm. Reassuring. 

The air is charged between you as he keeps watching you while he drags a hand up and between your legs. He presses a thumb between your folds and you whimper, feeling the way he prods at your aching entrance, only the thin fabric keeping him out.

“Are you always this wet for me?” he asks, thumb slowly dragging up the damp patch to your clit. He digs in sharply, pressing firm enough that your pleasure spikes and your hips pop off the bed. He hisses at you and smacks your thigh, making you lower your ass to the bed again. “Everytime we were together, did you get like this?” 

It takes effort to rasp, “Sometimes.”

Vernon hooks his thumb in the side of your pants, pulling. The fabric peels back achingly slow, cool air hitting your cunt and making you whine. He hums thoughtfully, placing the fabric to the side.

“Like what times?” he questions, blowing cool air against you. You thrash and he laughs, pinning you down by the hips. “I’m curious. Elaborate for me.” 

“Umm.” 

It’s the only word you can get out before he renders you speechless, the flat of his tongue sliding slowly up your pussy. You go boneless, breath stuck in your chest as his tongue lazily circles around your clit and drags back down. He repeats the motion, the slow-soft brush of his tongue driving you insane instantly. 

“You’re not elaborating,” Vernon notes. He presses a kiss that is far too sweet for the moment to your bundle of nerves. “I wanna know all the times you were with me where you felt like this. Go on.” 

“I don’t,” you breath catches when his tongue curls through your folds. He’s soft and slow as he licks you, a lazy smoothless to it that makes you see stars. “Know how to speak when you’re doing that.” 

“Should I stop?” 

“No.”

“Try,” he murmurs, dipping his tongue in your dripping entrance. “I want to know.” 

Fuck. Trying to pull together any coherent thoughts is like wading through thick water. You’re distracted by the way Vernon’s mouth closes on you, sucking gently. He takes his time, fingers pressed into the meat of your thighs as he keeps you open, enjoying you fully. 

“I - shit - I guess sometimes when we go out,” you manage. “I like when you wear your hat backwards.” 

He flicks his tongue back and forth over your clit, making you clench, toes curling. His mouth is wet and warm, closing around your throbbing bundle and sucking gently. Your hips lift but his grip is firm, keeping his mouth to you. 

When he pulls away, the suction is audible, a string of spit and arousal connecting his lips to your pussy. “Taste so fucking good,” he whispers. You think it’s more to himself than you, his tongue carving through you again. “Tell me more.” 

“Halloween night. When you were in skull makeup.”

His tongue starts circling your clit again, the indirect stimulation driving you wild. Your hands tangle in the sheets, sweat slicking your skin as Vernon works to firmer motions. You realize he knows exactly how you like it, gentle to start, working you to firmer motions, a little hungrier. 

It makes him all the more lethal, the way he can just figure you out like that. “Yeah?” he asks, sucking harshly against you. “Wanted me to fuck you like that?” 

“God, yeah.”

“You should have asked. I’ll fuck you however you want.” 

“Didn’t think you liked me.” 

Vernon is too busy to answer, increasing the attention of his mouth. Your hands slide down to his, nails digging into the tops of his hands where he holds you. He lets go of your hips in favor of linking your fingers, pressing your clasped hands to the mattress. 

His name drips from your mouth, eyes falling shut as you sink into the pleasure deep in your stomach. He makes little sounds of pleasure, grunting and groaning as his mouth becomes more fervent. You feel yourself toeing the edge of an orgasm, so so so close.

He can tell too. He finds a harsh rhythm, pulling you closer and closer to your high with each sharp suck of his lips. You twist in his grip, fingers squeezing his so hard you think you might break his hands. You don’t, feeling your breath catch and hold as you come hard, thighs squeezing as you writhe on the bed.

You draw in a ragged breath, desperate for air as he kisses your cunt once. Twice. His slick mouth presses against your thighs, teeth dragging against soft flesh as he mouths his way to your knee. He gives you a moment, letting you pant against the sheets. 

Fabric sticks to your skin as you wiggle against the bed. He stands up, crawling up you again to find your mouth. You lean forward, catching him in an open-mouth kiss that is more tongue than anything, your taste heady in the heat of his mouth. 

“Turn over on your stomach for me,” he groans. His hands squeeze your side as he gives you room to follow his direction. You do, but not without his help, your orgasm making you a little clumsy. “Can you get on your knees for me?”

“Maybe?”

“I’ll help you in a second.”

Instead of moving, you lay slumped on the bed, fully intending to let him do the work. You turn your head to watch him pull his shirt off, revealing firm, tan skin. Vernon is beautiful, the sleek lines of his body reminding you of a painting. He kicks off his jeans before shuffling back on the bed behind you, looking down and snorting.

“Didn’t want to move like I asked?” You shake your head. He pats your ass lightly. “Come on, darling. Help me get these panties off or I will rip them off.” 

Huffing, you do as he says. He does lend you his strength hauling you up by the arm as you lean up on your knees. The room is cold, making you shiver but he presses your back to his chest, mouth dusting kisses over your shoulders. 

Vernon’s fingers dance along your sides until he’s pulling your underwear the rest of the way down your thighs, helping you kick out of them. When he’s got you full naked, he presses your back to him, crowding your space as he angles your head to kiss you slowly. Fully. 

Behind you, his cock presses firmly into your ass. You push back against him, putting pressure against his shaft. He hisses, biting your shoulder harshly. 

“Careful,” he growls, teeth at your neck. “Or I won’t be very nice.” 

“Want you, though.”

“You’ll have me when I say you can.” 

One of his hands slides up to your neck, gripping your throat lightly. He pauses, leaning to catch your gaze. His eyes are round and soft. Honest. Open. “This okay?” He questions gently. He gives a little squeeze to indicate what he means. You nod eagerly, reaching a hand to close around his, making him press harder. “Fuck you’re perfect.” 

You lean your head back against his chest as he holds you by the throat, one of your hands dropping to his elbow, the other reaching behind you to sink your fingers in his hair and tug. The sound he makes is feral, the hand he has placed on your waist dropping between your legs, fingers pressing between them. 

“Oh,” you squeak, feeling his deft tough on your clit. His movements are aided by your earlier release, fingers circling smoothly as he squeezes your throat, thumb pressed perfectly, to make it just a little harder to breathe. “Shit.” 

“Can you tell me a safe word? Not gonna go hard, just wanna know if it becomes too much.” 

“Maenad.” He snorts and you huff. “I just wrote an essay on them, don’t start.”

He laughs, pressing a kiss to your shoulder. “Alright. Just please use it if it’s too much - any of it. If you can’t talk, pat my arm, alright? Just wanna do this right.” 

You nod, so in love with him it takes all of you to stop yourself from blurting it. 

Vernon shuffles behind you, letting you tilt forward a little. The hand between your legs leaves and he instead brings it behind you, prodding at your pussy with his fingers from behind. You let out a loud sound and you can almost feel his grin as he presses a finger into your heat. 

He’s slow at first, the same way he was with his mouth. He explores what you like, testing the way his fingers drag against your walls combined with different grip strengths on your throat. You feel light headed. The room spins as he finds a rhythm that draws the most noises from you, that makes you clench down on his finger the most. 

All of your weight is against the hand around your neck, barely able to hold yourself up as he presses another finger in. This time, his fingers prod right against that soft spot inside of you, making you see stars. He must realize he’s found it, because he starts finger fucking you in earnest. 

The grip on your throat loosens a little, careful not to keep you short of breath for too long as he works your cunt with his hand. His lips find your shoulder, peppering you with light kisses that are delicate and butterfly soft in comparison to the way his fingers fuck into you. 

“Vernon,” you whisper, only able to think of his name. “Vernon vernon vernon.”

“Doing so good, darling,” he whispers against your skin. He kisses his way to your ear, sucking the sensitive spot on your neck. “So fucking good for me.” 

His words hit below the belt. You shudder in his hold, letting him drive you toward another release. You never imagined Vernon to be talkative in bed, but he is, his voice like velvet. Just like that. Perfect for me. There you go, come on. 

Everything about him is perfect, driving you to mania. His grip on your throat tightens suddenly, sensing how close you are to your second peak. Your breath quickens until you can’t breathe, going mute against him as his fingers press hardly into that spot over and over and over.

A high-pitched ring winds in your ears. You hold and hold and hold and when Vernon lets go of your throat, a gust of air flooding your lungs, you shatter around his hand. You collapse backward against him, head knocking into his. You don’t even care, twitching and gasping against him as his hand stills. 

For a few moments, you just lean against him like that, sweaty and lost and in a dream. Slowly, you become aware of his pounding heart against your back and the slick between your thighs. Vernon’s mouth is pressed to your shoulder, waiting patiently as you blink a few times, the room swimming into view.

“Hi,” he murmurs, watching you with shadowy eyes.

“Hi,” you croak, voice rough.

“Good?”

“Very.” 

“Want to stop?”

“No. Unless you want to.”

His gaze darkens. “I don’t.” 

“I want more. I can take more.” 

He lifts his head and presses a sweet kiss to your temple. “You’re perfect for me. Do you know that?” 

Reverent hands help you lay back against the pillows. Vernon touches you like you’re something delicate - not because he thinks you’re fragile, but because you’re something important to him. Valuable. You see it in the way he looks down at you, taking a moment to drink you in. 

There’s something else there too. Something edged with a knife, a little wild. Covetous. There is something in the way Vernon grips your leg briefly, a language he’s trying to communicate to you with touch. 

Mine, it says. Mine and no one else's.

With hooded eyes, you watch him peel his briefs off. Your eyes shoot to where his cock hangs heavy, beads of precum dripping at his tip. You reach a hand up toward him but he shakes his head, careful as he shuffles toward you.

“Later,” he promises. “I like touching you.” 

“I want you to feel good.”

“You make me feel good. Seeing you unravel makes me feel good. I like seeing how much you enjoy me touching you.”

You can tell he means it. His lips are swollen and soft when he kisses you. You open your legs open for him, letting him settle between the softness of your thighs. Vernon runs the head of his cock through your messy fluids, earning a whine for you.

“Sensitive?” he asks against your lips, nose nudging yours. You nod and you feel him smile. “Sorry.”

“Feels good,” you assure him, pressing a kiss to his jaw. “Want more.” 

“Greedy thing.” 

“I’m Your greedy thing.”

Your words have the desired effect. You feel a shiver ripple through him, Vernon’s grip on your leg turning to iron as he opens you up wider. He presses his cock into your entrance slowly, pausing just as the tip pops in. You throb around him, whispering his name - begging him to keep going. 

Vernon’s grin is sharp as he sinks in further, the slide tortuous and wonderful and so much as he finally finds home, hips pressed as far as he can go. He stays like that, tangling your tongue in a messy kiss as he sits there, fully seated in your heat. Your pussy spasms around him, pressed open to the max. 

“Feels so good,” he whispers, dropping his forehead to yours. “I’m going to come embarrassingly fast.”

“So do it.” You wrap a leg around his waist, your hips tilting upward. Both of you moan at the angle change, so close to breaking. “I wanna see it.” 

Instead of answering, he nods. He drags his hips backward slowly before slamming back in. He punches the breath out of your lungs with each slide home, the stroke slow but deep. Your head falls to the side, breaths rasping as he sets a steady, slow pace. 

It feels good, your legs curling around him to keep you close, hands tangle in his hair to keep him tethered to you. His hair is damp with sweat, your fingers curled in the strands, tugging a little. He seems to like it, making a needy sound in his throat that has you grinning. 

“Mine,” Vernon whispers to you, words muffled by your neck. “You are only mine, darling. You will only ever be mine. You were made for me. No one else.”

“No one else,” you agree. 

His hips move faster, a little messier. You egg him on, legs squeeze, cunt spasming around him. He lets out a feral sound, driving himself further to his orgasm. He drags you with him, another swell reaching you. Vernon can tell, chasing it like a predator, pinning you down and slamming his cock into you until you’re melting around him again, vision blotted out. 

Vernon comes to the sound of his name on your lips. His movements become sloppy until he can’t go anymore, holding himself above you, trembling. Carefully, he drops next to you, pulling his cock free. You feel your joint fluids run down your leg, but you’re too tired to care. 

Reaching for him, your hand finds his chest. He wraps his fingers around yours, holding your palm to him, his heart thudding wildly under your touch.

“For you,” he mutters. “Only for you, darling.” 

You fall asleep like that, hand pressed to his chest.

-

Waking up in Vernon’s bed is not new to you. You’ve fallen asleep numerous times at his apartment or stayed the night after going out, but you’ve always had the bed to yourself, Vernon opting to take the couch. 

The bed is empty now, but still warm. You stretch as you roll over in his sheets, groaning as you feel the soreness between your legs and mostly everywhere else. Pressing your hand to your chest and shoulders, you feel all the tender places Vernon mapped his affection with tongue and teeth. It makes you smile fondly as you lay in bed alone for a minute, breathing in the scent of his room.

Slowly, you peel yourself from his bed. With an awkward waddle, you make it to the bathroom, flicking on the light. You shield your eyes at first, going about your morning routine and washing your face to try and feel human again. 

On your way out, something catches your eye. You frown, walking back toward his laundry hamper where you see brass glinting in the light. You reach for it, pulling the bell from the tangle of his clothes. It has an old wooden handle with cracks, a little hand bell used for-

Well. Used the night of halloween. You have no idea why Vernon still has it, the memory of that night like poison in your mouth. You toss it back into the hamper on top of another shirt that catches your eye. It’s one of his dark green t-shirts, but the collar is stained dark brown.

Curious, you pull it out, shaking the shirt out in front of you. It’s mostly unmarked, save for the spatter of something dark brown and dried. You run your finger around the edge of it, puzzled. It looks like dried blood, but you can’t recall any injuries he’s suffered recently. 

You take the shirt with you into his room, tossing it on his bed as you get dressed, stealing sweatpants and a hoodie. Grabbing the shirt again, you trail out toward the kitchen where Vernon is making breakfast, the smell of bacon crackling in the pan.

You grin, leaning against the doorframe for a second to watch him. He looks so at ease, flipping pieces of bacon while he sings to some seventies song you don’t know the name of. 

Pushing off the wall, you head toward him. He catches you in his peripheral, turning his head and smiling at you. “Hello, Darling.” 

The nickname gives you pause. You slow as you come around the corner of the counter, stopping completely as the endearment pricks you sharply on the back of your neck. Vernon goes back to flipping bacon, singing along a song you vaguely know, but don’t know why Vernon does. He’s never liked music from the 1970s, and-

Your ears start to ring. Several things occur to you at once. 

The memory of Vernon screaming and banging his fists against the door, begging for help. You’d been so afraid that you ripped the door open, crashing through the line of salt. 

Vernon, sharp and confident, the new edge to him as he interacts with people, a little harsher. A little darker.

Nah need to cut back on the sodium had said when you asked about the lack of salt on his fries.

The way he’d called you darling the night before, whispering it against your skin. 

70s music that Vernon has never listened to since you’ve known him.  

The bell sitting in the hamper used to call a spirit on Halloween. 

In the house that belonged to the Hello Darling Murderer.

Brown stains - like blood - on his shirt. 

Carefully, you learn toward the middle of the counter, watching Vernon like a prey skirts a predator. With trembling hands, you gently grab the salt from where it sits next to the pepper. You hold your breath, trying not to draw his attention as you unscrew the top of it, placing the metal lid on the shirt to keep it quiet. 

With as silent steps as you can manage, you cross to the other side of the kitchen where you’re out of his line of sight. Tipping the salt over, you pour it across the tile from counter to fridge, eyes darting between the barrier of white and the man standing in the kitchen humming. 

Your heart hammers. 

Your hands shake. 

Salt shaker empty, you set it on the counter and take a few steps back. It’s an unbroken line of salt, and though it doesn’t trap him in the kitchen, at least it’s there. 

Vernon turns around with the pan of bacon. He sees you and his humming stops, cocking his head to the side. He notices the empty salt shaker. Frowns. Looks at you. Looks at the ground where you’ve drawn a line of salt. 

For a second, he just stares at it. His eyes flick back up to you, warm and brown but narrowed. 

“Why is there salt all over my floor?” 

“Cross it.” 

“Huh?”

“Step over the line of salt.” 

Silence stretches between you. He remains standing in the kitchen, pan in hand, music playing in the background.

When Vernon doesn’t move, you can see everything so clearly. 

Vernon hadn’t been joking when he slammed his hands on the door begging for help on Halloween. A sick feeling roils in your stomach as you remember the panicked screams, the way his fists hammered the door. 

Your next words come out as a hiss. “Cross the line of salt, Vernon.”

He looks at the salt and purses his lips before sighing and setting the pan down on the stove. He tosses the rag from his shoulder and shakes his head, striding over to the white line you made against his tile. He stops in front of it, looking at you with his eyebrows raised as if to say really?

“Well, do it.”

Vernon looks down at the salt. Looks back up to you. Down at the salt. 

And then he laughs. 

“Fuck, you really are the smartest person in school.” He sighs heavily, a gaze darker than anything you’ve ever seen on his face as he stares at you. “You know I can’t cross that line of salt, darling.” 

@ddaddunugu @ourkivee @tie-nn @cookiearmy @thesunsfullmoon @stray-bi-kids @ldysmfrst @onlywon4u @hopeless-foolery @iamawkwardandshy @gyuguys @codeinebelle @ateez-atiny380 @bultaereume @yoongznme @kaitieskidmore97 @coffee-addict-kitten @gyubakeries @archivistworld @asyre @kaepjjangiya @fancypeacepersona @beckyloveshannie @imujings @do-you-remember-summer-127 @jbluen @mingumis @kimsaerom

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[tsuutarr]

Demon Delinquents x Human! Reader

Here's my gift for @ozzgin (who organized the secret santa event, tysm)!!

Content is about 1K words about you and your new delinquent demon besties <3

You, a human, somehow ended up in a school filled with demons. Though, you’re surprised to see that everything is rather… normal? Despite your peers and teachers sporting horns and other demon-like features, your demon school really seems like every other school.

You’re introduced to your classmates who politely clap, before you’re ushered to your new seat. All normal stuff, really, except that you’re seated at the very back in between what looks to be two delinquent demons. And, just your luck, you seem to have caught their eye. They could probably drill a hole through your skull with how much they’re looking at you.

So it’s really no surprise when you’re called out to the back of the school when class is over. You’re trembling as the demons loom over you, sharp teeth glinting underneath the sun.

“You’re gonna be our hench human,” the demon with red skin cackles, smile wide. You’re pretty sure he could bite your head off.

“And you’re gonna like it,” the demon with yellow skin adds, his frown showing off all his sharp teeth.

You’re too scared to say anything, but they take your silence as agreement.

“Good!” the red demon guffaws, pointing to himself. “Name’s Rex.” He points to the yellow demon beside him. “This guy’s Lem.”

Lem juts his chin out at you. “‘Sup?”

You’re really not sure how to react, making the three of you just stare at each other.

Finally, Rex raises an eyebrow. “Yer name?”

“Oh,” you say, blinking, before stuttering out your name. Rex and Lem look pleased.

“A’ight, great.” Slinging an arm over your shoulder, Rex begins to maneuver you as he begins walking, Lem following behind closely. “First order of business…”

You’re going to die. You’re convinced of it. Why else would they be dragging you with them?!

Surprisingly, however, you find yourself in the cafeteria. Somehow, you expected demons to be more rowdy, but everyone seems to be minding their own business. Even Rex and Lem are standing in line, waiting for their turn despite being delinquents.

You’re not left too much time to ponder, however, since it’s soon your turn to order. You’re certain they’re going to make you buy their lunch, but they… don’t? They pay for their own food, before dragging you away again until you’re on the rooftop.

“Here,” Rex says, tossing you a sandwich. “A good hench human’s gotta be strong.”

“And ya only get strong by eatin’,” Lem adds, shoving a whole melon bun in his mouth.

You blink, sandwich in your hand, as Rex and Lem dig into their lunches.

Rex looks to you, before swallowing down his food. “What? Ya not hungry? Or d’you not like sandwiches?”

“Uh, no, just…” you purse your lips. “I guess I didn’t expect you to buy me lunch?”

“Tsk, tsk,” Rex says, wiping some mustard off of his bottom lip. “You’re our hench human now, ‘course we gotta feed ya. We can’t have a weakling followin’ us around.”

Lem nods in agreement.

“Uh, right.” You nod with a stiff smile. “Thanks.”

With a loud laugh, Rex rips open a bag of chips. “‘Course, hench human! Let us know if you’re still hungry, got it?”

“...Got it,” you agree, before digging into your own sandwich. It’s actually kind of good.

Since that point onwards, you continue to hang out with Rex and Lem. Contrary to their appearance, Rex and Lem are good students, always on time to class (and thus making sure you’re on time too). They’re not… really delinquent like, truthfully.

In fact, one time, you thought they were smoking, but they were just eating lollipops. Another time, you thought they were drinking beer, but it was just apple juice. Frankly speaking, they baffle you – other than their appearance, they don’t really… do anything delinquent-like. But they’re also convinced that they are doing something delinquent like.

“We’re showin’ up to class ‘cause we’re asserting our dominance,” Rex had explained when you asked why he wasn’t skipping class. 

Lem nodded sagely in agreement. “The class is all scared of us, y’see? We gotta show ‘em who’s boss.”

When you asked them about the lollipops and apple juice, Rex said, “It’s ‘cause lollipops and apple juice have a lotta sugar. They’re super dangerous, which is why we’re usin’ ‘em. We’re strong like that.”

“Yeah, we’re cool like that,” Lem agrees.

You honestly don’t really get their logic, but… they’re not bad to hang out with. They take you on bicycle rides (not motorbikes, though, since Lem is scared of them). They walk you home because, according to Rex, “No one’s gonna hurt our hench human!”

They’re strange guys, but they’re kind of fun in an endearing sort of way, maybe. You don’t really mind hanging out with them. Plus, they always buy you lunch. It’s nice eating with them on the rooftop.

“Man, I can’t believe midterms are comin’ up,” Rex groans, looking displeased as he tosses a chip into his mouth. “Gotta study.”

“You guys are studying for midterms?” you ask, making Rex and Lem nod solemnly.

“We hafta. How else are we gonna show the rest of them how scary we are?” Lem inquires, crossing his arms as he chews on his lollipop. “We gotta show ‘em that we’re the strongest.”

“Don’t worry,” Rex says, slapping your back with a grin. “Ya got us, yeah? We’ll make sure that no one can mess with ya. Lem and I are top five in the whole school – we can teach ya, no worries.”

You blink slowly, processing the information. They actually study despite being delinquents to the point that they’re top five in the entire school? Huh?! How does that make sense?

But as you watch them eagerly discuss how they’ll make study guides for you to help you study, you can’t help but let your incredulousness go.

Because, yeah, they’re not traditional delinquents… but they’re doing their best and they care about you a ton, so maybe that’s what really matters in the end.

Maybe.

[lavenderspence]

Cute, Outraged Genius | S.R.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x fem!reader

Content warning: fluff, Spencer being a bit of a technophobe

Word Count: 1.5K

Summary: Spencer comes home only to find you using a kindle…instant outrage

A/N: This is just a cute little story about Spencer being our little technophobe genius. I actually don’t own a kindle, so don’t know how those work or anything, but physical books are in fact superior, so.

The quote at the end is from “Book Lovers” by Emily Henry

masterlist

You loved his apartment, sometimes more than you loved yours. Being in his space, surrounded by his things - his books, his clothes, the silly art he indulged in. Being drowned by his scent, meters upon meters of space he’d touched, it soothed you like nothing else could.

The peace you felt whenever you were in his space was unparalleled.

You loved his bedroom, the plushness of his bed, his closed, where you found yourself stealing his shirts and cardigans, never giving them back. 

Your favorite place in apartment 23 was his couch, where he found you often enough, when he returned from a case, curled up with a book. You loved the blanket thrown on the back and the windows that allowed for the whole apartment to light up with the sunlight. 

And then there were his bookshelves, in clear view from said couch. Filled with his favorite books, special editions he held close to his heart, or some that brought him knowledge. The shelves, that now also held some of your favorite books too.

Reading, books, was the thing that had brought you together in the first place, so when he’d made space for your clothes in his closet and your toiletries in the bathroom, he’d also made space for your books to sit beside his own. 

He’d insisted it made the place feel less like it was his own, and more like it was shared, even though you weren’t living together. It warmed your heart to know, that he saw his apartment as a home for both of you.

Seeing your books among his own, made you fall even more in love with him because he knew what they meant to you. So much so, he tumbed through a few, leaving sticky notes with his little thoughts between the pages.

As for your first meeting, it was funny.

You’d met a year ago, at a cafe close to his apartment. Stuck in a long queue, waiting for your turn, your nose had been buried into a book, completely oblivious to your surroundings. Spencer had been standing behind you, and like the nosy dork he is, had been reading along with you, over your shoulder.

When he’d pointed out an inaccuracy in the plot, compared to real life, you’d screamed, slamming the book shut, and successfully making a fool of yourself in front of the whole cafe. 

He’d apologized bashfully, and asked to buy your drink for you, and then lingered for a short conversation before he’d been called away on a case. 

In his hurry to get to the FBI on time, he’d forgotten to take your number. Two weeks later, and after a lot of blaming himself for being a dumbass, he’d seen you again, nose buried into another book, sipping a beverage next to the window of the cafe. 

You hadn’t attached puzzling looks this time, and he’d gotten your number. A year later, you couldn’t be more happy for the fact that your boyfriend sometimes didn’t really get social cues.

You smiled, thinking back on that day. 

You focused on your book again, eyes dancing around the page, following with rapt attention. 

Reading was one of the few things that brought you peace, quieted your brain, and improved your mood. 

Sometimes you envied Spencer’s genius, being able to go through War & Peace at breakfast, without batting an eye. Reading, and reading, and still having the time for other things. If, in your lifetime, you could read as many books as Spencer had read thus far in life, you’d be happy. 

You were giggling, kicking your feet, and enjoying your book, when you heard the telltale sign of Spencer arriving home - his key being inserted into the lock. 

You didn’t move your eyes away from the book, having reached a great part of the book. 

The door opened, and in walked your boyfriend, a peep in his step, happy he’d get to see you and spend time with you after 6 days of being away. 

He left his keys in the bowl next to the door, freed himself of his shoes, and set his messenger bag down. 

He walked further in, noticing the vanilla and chocolate scent in the air - you’d followed tradition, baking a small tray of chocolate chip cookies as a welcome for him. 

He stood behind you, draping his hands around your neck, and leaned over to kiss the side of your head gently, finally diverting your attention away from the book. 

“Hello, sweetheart,” he murmured, warm breath tickling your neck next, as he kissed around your ear and pulse point. 

“Hi there, babe.” you were whispering too, finally happy to be in your own bubble. “How are you? How was the case?” you asked, just like you did every time, just like you did every day. You always wanted to know how he was, you wanted to know about his day, and he’d gotten so used to it and had done it so many times for you too, it had become routine, a way to show each other you cared and loved each other. 

“I’m good, a little tired maybe,” he nuzzled your neck, eyes shut in contentment, “The case was tough, but successfully closed at the end,” he rarely elaborated, only if someone was hurt, or the case had taken a toll on his mental health. Other than that, he didn’t like bringing the gory details of the cases home with him. 

Home was his space with you, where you laughed, and sometimes cried. Where you cuddled and made love, read together, or to each other, where you cooked, where you relaxed. It was no place for the realities of a BAU profiler. 

“What are you doing?” it was a simple question. 

“I’m reading,” and there was an even simpler answer, except if you were Spencer Reid, a doctor with three PhDs, three bachelor’s degrees, an FBI agent, and a complete, and utter technophobe. 

You felt him lift his head before he choked out a high-pitched “You’re what?” and you turned around to see him, shock and betrayal written on his face, his eyes as big as saucers. 

You looked at him like he’d grown two heads, but you knew you should have expected this. 

You’d made the decision to get a kindle last week, and you’d used the time he hadn’t been home to set it up and try it out. 

“What are you even reading on that thing? That’s not a book!” he was outraged, but at the same time, he looked so cute, that you started laughing. You brought a hand to your mouth, in hopes of muffling the sound a little because you were losing it, laughing with everything you had. 

“Stop laughing, it’s not funny. I’m serious.” you just laughed harder, even though you tried to reign it in and stop. 

Around a minute later, your laughter started dying down, and you looked up, only to see him with his arms crossed against his chest, an expression between bewilderment, and those deep brown puppy eyes staring straight into your soul.

“It’s a kindle, Spence, it’s all digital,” you told him

“No, I know that, but you can’t be serious,” your brows furrowed, a bit butt hurt, until he continued, “You know, readers prefer physical books. A recent study found that only 21% prefer e-books, as little as 14% audiobooks, and 65% are physical book readers. Another study found that your brain absorbs less when you read on a kindle than on paper.” You laughed again, loving his brain, and then patted the space next to you, waiting for him to sit down.

“I thought you were pro saving the planet Mr. Three PHD’s.” you joked, waiting for him to sass you back. After all, one of your favorite characteristics of his was how sassy he was. 

“Well, yes I am, but statistically, physical copies are superior. A book needs to be physical, not whatever bullshit that is. Come on, let’s just return this, and I’ll buy you all the books you want,” he went to stand up, and you pulled him back down by the back of his shirt. 

“Aww babe, I know you will!” Spencer loved buying some of your books for you, he loved seeing the smile on your face when he bought a book you’ve wanted for a while. You buried your face into his neck, hugging him to you. 

“Come on, let’s cuddle before dinner, get a cookie, and I’ll read to you for a bit, I just reached a good part,” you whisper into his neck, and he exhales, reaching towards the coffee table to get a cookie before you relax into each other, and you pick up the kindle, reading where you left off. 

“We really are two opposing magnets, incapable of being in the same room without drawing together. I want to scrape my fingers through his hair and kiss him until he forgets where we are, and everything and everyone that ever made him feel like he was a disappointment. And he’s looking at me like I could, like there’s an ache in him only I could soothe.” you read, hand running through his hair, happy to have him back.

Reblogs and comments are greatly appreciated!

[neoduelverse]

One thing I find interesting about Pantheon season 2 is the difference between Holstrom and Caspian. Now there are a lot of differences between them, but I’m talking about the the big one. The one that made it so that Caspian could cure the flaw, but Holstrom couldn’t. I’m talking about how each of them feel love. 

Now, throughout the entire second season it’s all, but explicitly stated that Holstrom couldn’t understand love and that’s why he could’ve never fixed the flaw.

It’s a good way to highlight how the two genetically identical men differ, why one is our secondary protagonist while the other is the main antagonist. It also shows the audience Caspians understanding of love though his growing relationship with Maddie throughout the season.

But some viewers may be confused by this difference. After all doesn’t Holstrom have a love interest in Renee?

In fact don’t they spent a large amount of time collaborating on Holstrom’s plan, with her essentially being his arm in the physical world? Does their love not count just because they’re evil?

Well no. At least that’s not the reason their “love” doesn’t count. But to explain why we need to talk about how the show conceives of love.

In Pantheon love isn’t just about people liking each a lot. Not even to the point of where they’re willing to do a lot for their partners. Love is when people push each other along with supporting them.

Real love, to Pantheon, is challenging each other to be better and making each other better. It’s give each other perspective that they couldn’t have on their own. Love is something active between the people sharing it, it can’t be mindless adoration.

We see this healthier love with several of the couples throughout the show. David and Ellen start with several fundamental disagreements over the UI situation, to the point where it drives them apart at first. But when they reconcile you can tell how much they love each other even if they never officially get back together. Then you have Olivia and Farhad, who the show spends an entire episode displaying how they challenge and complete each other.

And of course, we have Maddie and Caspian.

You could make a whole separate post about how their viewpoints change and clash throughout the series while strengthening their relationship. But suffice it to say that the show views their love as the truest it could be.

And taking all this into consideration it should be obvious by now why the show considers Stephen and Renee’s relationship not to be an example of love. Renee doesn’t contribute intellectually to any part of it, she is ok simply fauning over the eccentric genius. While Stephen is content with basically being a relationship with a yes woman who goes along with everything he says and does.

And the most insidious part of their relationship in my opinion also relates to why Renne was chosen to play the part of Caspian’s mother.

We see in the interviews with Holstrom about his past that he never really cared intellectually about anything his mother said. He saw her as someone to care for, and thus receive care in return. Some may call this unconditional love, but Pantheon considers it an unhealthy love.

And as you probably noticed, the way Holstrom described his relationship with his mother sounded awfully similar to his relationship with a certain someone.

Which makes their already messed up dynamic even creepier. Especially when you consider how they wanted to shape Caspian.

TLDR: Holstrom couldn’t cure the flaw not because he couldn’t convince of love, but because his very conception of love was itself flawed.

[tanadrin]

I would love to hear the rant about social media doomerism and conspiracy

I’m on my phone right now but the summary version is something like:

Humans are bad at integrating information into their worldview accurately bc of various cognitive biases

Social media incentivizes us seeking out content that excites fear or anger or irritation

Social media thus causes us to form negative impressions of the world bc it mediates so much information consumption and discourse these days

This general negative affective impression is subject to high confirmation bias and ppl in general are really bad at divorcing an affective impression of a thing from their dispassionate reasoning abt a thing

(Bc one of the functions of an affective impression is to “cache” our conclusions about a topic to save time and effort later)

(In general if you are a cynic and pessimist you can fall prey to these biases w/o social media but I think social media makes more ppl susceptible to them)

People don’t want to be dupes so they seek refuge in cynicism. We treat cynicism as wise or worldly when in fact cynicism makes you a dupe and an easy mark for grifters. Cynicism and low trust foster conspiracism, paranoia, and antisocial politics

(This is why so many congenitally contrarian folks seem to flit effortlessly between the far left and far right; it’s not horseshoe theory, they’ve just cooked their brains on this stuff)

This is a world where populist anti-social politicians like Trump and the AfD thrive, bc they will lie about how everything is terrible and people will nod along, bc it explains why their social media is full of awful stories of, like, immigrants eating pets and shit

But it doesn’t just have to be insane lies only a moron could believe. It can be any impression about a fact in the world that it is difficult to personally check and which is vulnerable to being swayed by anecdote

This is how we get a word where people think crime rates are higher than they’ve ever been when in fact crime is falling

Or child predators lurk around every corner when in fact children are safer than ever

Or the American economy is in a recession when in fact it’s doing historically well by just about every available metric (now with full employment AND low inflation!)

Because in a big world even where things are in general good and getting better you can always produce infinite individual examples of shitty things and pipe those in a steady stream into people’s eyeballs, and then point to that and leverage people’s low trust attitudes and their cynicism which tells them they are smarter than the experts and go “statistics is just a fancy way to lie! The world is secretly terrible! Every bad thing is even worse than you thought and every good thing is a lie!”

(Nevermind the whole phenomenon where anything that is complicated or that someone does not themselves understand gets treated like it’s actually secret and a conspiracy.)

And here I know I have to include some disclaimer about how this is not to discount individual cases of suffering or struggle, which are real, or that there are indeed some really awful things happening in the world right now, which there are, but you know what?

I’m tired of doing that. People with reading comprehension operating in good faith ought to be able to deduce that general statements do not obviate particular exceptions, and people who cling to their doomerism as a kind of emotional life raft do not generally argue with me in good faith.

Sometimes doomerism is a load-bearing pillar of their politics, which I think is dumb—I think you can be a leftist or a progressive without being a doomer! In fact I think doomerism is antithetical to useful politics!

Sometimes they are just depressed and treatment-resistant. Sometimes they are just angry misanthropes who want to feel justified in their misanthropy. Some doomers are themselves in bad circumstances and feeling hopeless about that—to them I am enormously sympathetic. Though a lot of doomers will admit they personally are doing OK—this does not seem to be most doomers.

But I think in general cynicism and doomerism and a worldview dominated by a general nebulous air of Everything Is Awful and by abstract nouns with threatening auras is not conducive to wisdom or understanding or useful politics or leading a happy and fulfilling life.

[hell-fm]

As someone who is NOT touch-averse and moreso sex-favorable or sex-neutral (depending on my hormone level) and still discovering themselves when it comes to what my needs and wants in life are even though I am in my mid30s, I find The Ace Discourse around Alastor very stressful and unhelpful.

How both ends of this discourse talk about it and choose to portray Alastor feels very black and white to me, when that doesn’t reflect my experiences of romance and sex at all. And by this I don’t mean that theres a valid way of doing it and a nonvalid way of doing it. I think it’s more about how I would love people to understand relationships the way I see them and to explore the literal grey areas there.

I guess at some point we as a community need to spell the problems out, so I’ll try..,,

I think the biggest issue here mostly is that plenty of ppl who are ace and even sex-repulsed irl feel attraction to fictional characters and in many such cases that character is Alastor, they want to see him fuck or get fucked. So they like sexual and romantic content with him and try to write him to be demiromantic or sex-favorable or both or whatever else… and that is very valid and fair, because that does reflect the reality of many aroace people. Sometimes people completely erase the nuances there for the sake of smut and romance and I do not particularly like that, but I also lowkey just don’t care? My personal mantra after many years of being a messy fandom bitch is don’t like don’t read. People who like sexual and romantic content with Alastor often say they experience harassment from others who are lowkey just homophobic but use the fact that Alastor is ace as a reason to verbally attack them or threaten to dox them. The claim here is that those people are always allos, which I don’t think is necessarily true. However, I definitely have seen allos do this.

Other aces who are sex-repulsed even in fiction see Alastor as sex-repulsed and romance-repulsed ( I don’t even think theyre wrong at all, that is a very accurate observation from what you see in canon) and get annoyed because so much content with Alastor doesn’t reflect that at all. And that is also a very valid thing to be upset about! It is very unfortunate that Alastor is one of the few ace characters that fans get at all and he happens to be the most shipped guy. I understand why that is annoying, upsetting and feels unfair. I just also think that to claim the problem are allos and this is how allos mistreat ace representation not only erases aroace ppl who are Alastor shippers, but also conflates fanmade, transgressive content with the show. I just don’t think it’s healthy to get mad at people for liking the blorbo differently, especially considering that the ace spectrum is actually fairly wide and thus includes many, many different forms of handling sex and relationships and there simply isn’t just one way to represent it.

The issue here is getting into The Discourse about it, because it wont lead anywhere. Hence why people usually recommend that everyone stays in their lane, which I think is the startest thing you can do. At the end of the day it often seems like semantics to me anyways. One group claims *they said drawing Alastor smut is wrong because he is ace, but ace people can fuck!!!* and the other group claims *Claiming that it’s wrong to say this character is sex-repulsed because some ace people fuck is stupid!!!* and I think both are right. I just think you need to agree to disagree on this one, my dudes. Theres literally no way around it.

However, interestingly what oftentimes falls flat here is the most underrepresented form of aroace realities in fandom, which is the *somewhere in between*. The Alastor that I rarely see in fanfics or fanart, the one who fucks not for sexual pleasure, but to gain something. Or to be entertained. Or out of a masochistic of even sadistic desire. Or to form bonds, to maintain a relationship.

Point 1: sex-favorable doesn’t necessarily mean demisexual. And this is where it gets tricky.

I feel like many aces who maybe are younger, or have always been aware of being ace and/or who grew up with the identity labels maybe can’t imagine sex to be anything but something you consent to with great enthusiasm and desire for sexual pleasure. Many people who are so indifferent to sex or even repulsed by it consider this the only valid form of consent, because that is the line they would never cross. The problem just is that this is not what it’s like for many sex-favorable aces.

Point 2: Sexual attraction is not the same as a libido. You can be ace and not feel sexual attraction, but have a functioning libido

The reason why Heat/Rut works so well as a trope for aces who ship Alastor is because sometimes that is what it feels like for us. Hormonal fluctuations causing your body to seek out sexual stimulation while you personally really wouldnt know who to go to for it, because arousal is just a bodily reaction to you, not something that you want to happen. This might be confusing for many allos, because they also have a concept of difference between attraction and libido, but it’s important to point out that aces experience NO attraction. Or in the case of demisexuals, just very little attraction. Many aces experience attraction to concepts or if they are sexually experienced, they might have physical Pavlovian responses. But there’s no day to day attraction to people in the same way allos experience it.

Point 3: sex-neutrality and the problem if seeing sex as either inherently positive or inherently negative

Something I find myself relating to the most is a very neutral relationship to sex and I feel like that it something I never be talked about online. Not in fandom, not on Instagram. It feels like being a unicorn because if you are not either avoiding sex like the plague or enthusiastically consenting, you are not able to consent to sex somehow.

Idk if this has to do with people either never having had sex, or only having bad experiences or being a young allo and not understanding that sex is more than just plap plap plap uhn uhn SPLOURCH, but there’s a lot of reasons to have sex with someone CONSENSUALLY without it being about sexual pleasure. In my personal experience, I found the physical connection during sex very unique and powerful, it feels like a very neutral way of connecting to someone. It is very hard to explain with words, but I think it’s mostly about trust building and getting to know your partner physically in the most intimate way possible. Especially aces who arent aro often say this is why they have sex. It’s not something they need, but it’s about counting freckles, smiling at each other and feeling skin and just intimacy in general.

Having peaked into a few texts about psychoanalysis makes you realize that both allos and aces have sex for many reasons other than just sexual attraction.

In less romantic cases, ppl have sex because they enjoy the power dynamic, sometimes it’s to get your mind off of other things or because it’s a means to an end. Maybe even because you enjoy the vulnerability. Some people have sex because they think it’s just what you do, even if you technically don’t have to do it. And none of these scenarios happen nonconsensually to these people, because they just don’t think much of it and sex isn’t a big deal to them. That is the Definition of being sex-neutral. It’s also why some sex workers are ace and only find this out about themselves when they stop sex work and realize they don’t really miss having sex at all, but also don’t feel particularly bad about having done it.

Point 4: Aces love kink

I could write an entire essay about being ace and BDSM, this is still one of these topics where theres so much ressources online and people still get surprised when you tell them about it, but I already spend a lot of time on this post and would like to either never talk about this or maybe make a big post sometime in the future when people least expect it.

But just so you know: BDSM isn’t about sex, sex can play a role in it and does so for many people, but especially no-touch domsub, bondage, sadism and masochism can be activities that happen without sex being ever a part of it. Not even an afterthought.

I have read quite a few fanfics where any of these 4 points were explored with Alastor and I think it would do good for people to consider these options more for cool and interesting dynamics that are more unusual, especially considering the specifically weird flavor of Alastor. But at the end of the day people can write whatever they want and it’s not my business. If this post reaches even just one person and they feel like they gained new insights, that’s a win for me!

[lvmimis]

“So which one is it again?”

Luffy’s head rests on his hands, and his straw hat, carefully placed forward on the top of his head to stop it from creasing, almost covers his eyes, but you can see him glance upwards at the sky. Robin pauses at the sound of Luffy’s loud outburst, and you tense, your own head placed against his chest, but she smiles, starting over her guided tour. 

In the midst of all the adventure, it can be hard to steal away small moments like this, but as a crew you’ve managed to carve a night of calm in the treacherous Blue, and thus, the lot of you are sprawled haphazardly on the lawn of the Thousand Sunny, gazing at the stars. Even though Nami is the navigator and perhaps knows the stars just as well as Robin does, she lets the latter speak in her soothing voice to demonstrate where to look.

Robin sprouts her helping hands on Luffy’s free shoulder, and has it point. You and Luffy’s mouths draw open in unison as you follow the direction - you have to admit that you were confused as well - to one of the brightest stars in the sky.

“It’s not the brightest star in the galaxy, but it stands out,” she adds. Nami, from just a few feet away, sitting upright with her knees pulled to her chest hums in assent.

Chopper and Usopp make sounds of amazement, laying practically head to head on the grass, as Robin continues to guide you all through the Big Dipper, then point out other visible constellations. Zoro and Sanji have just gotten over arguing about whether or not they saw a shooting star first, and thus have fallen silent, the plume of smoke from Sanji’s cigarette rising high in the air. When you glance over, you’re surprised Zoro hasn’t yet fallen asleep. Jinbe IS asleep, still posed upright and cross legged in his seat, his arms crossed over his chest, and Brook sips tea quietly right next to him.

Luffy doesn’t ask another question, and you wonder if he’s bored, his attention span being one of the shortest things you’ve ever seen, but he reaches over and squeezes your hand. It’s an idle action, and when you turn to him, you realize he hasn’t even noticed that he’s done it, so you focus your attention back on the sky.

The stars twinkle and watch you, spectating your small little crew just as fervently as you watch them. Your chest rises and falls with every breath, the air filled salt and sky dust and the love between your crew.

The North Star always points North.

Your head repositions itself to rest in the space over his heart, your free hand on his stomach. He seems to let you sink closer into him and lets out a deeper sigh, filled with contentment. The sound of his heartbeat also guides you, another reorienting force.

“Do you see it?” he whispers to you.

“Yeah,” you whisper back. Your free hand points to the sky and he watches carefully, then sets his gaze back on you. “What?” you ask.

He doesn’t say anything for a moment, realizing he doesn’t have anything to say for why he’s suddenly looking at you with so much interest, then presses his lips gently on your forehead. The kiss is perhaps a little too long - one, then two full seconds, as though he forgets himself in the touch.

But then he turns back to the sky, and so do you.

The stars seem a bit brighter, a bit more curious as they look back at you.

Polaris is always North, the two of you are always Love and your crew is always Everlasting Friendship.

[w1ld-k4t]

Unhelpful

CONTENT WARNING: Nothing crazy. Pussy eating, some pet-names (i.e bunny, my light), and Xavier being a bratty dom. Go ham, folks.

SYNOPSIS: Xavier had an urge to be between your legs while you're trying to get some work done.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Okay, yeah, this is very self indulgent. Sue me. Once again, though, I'm sorry for any OOC-ness. I love writing (this one also just tore it's way out of my hands), but I haven't written for the lads until now. I think Caleb came out pretty good, so let's hope I did Xavier justice, too.

How are you supposed to think like this?

The laptop screen strains your eyes, propped up on your thighs as you lounge back in your shared bed. Any studying, writing or project you’d been trying to get done is nothing but a mindless blur. Your mind is wandering, unable to grasp and stick to any specific word or image reflecting back into your cloudy gaze.

All because you’d given into to those pretty, pleading blue eyes.

- ☆ -

“Xavier, I don’t know…” The words had felt twisted on your tongue, thighs unconsciously pressing together where you sit. His request has the heat flooding to your cheeks, but you really do have things you need to get done. And with what he’s suggesting…

“Mm… It’s alright if you don’t want to, bunny,” he nearly coos (and it makes your heart melt) as he rests his head in his hand, elbow bent and propped upon his pillow. For a moment, his gaze drifts away from your face and down to the plush rabbit sitting between you both. His free hand idly fiddles with the felt of it’s ear, “I don’t wanna make you uncomfortable…”

And it’s the way he returns his sights to your own that is your undoing, stars shimmering in his gaze and pupils blown into large, desiring pools.

“I just wanna taste you.”

- ☆ -

And thus, here you are.

He’s taking his time between your legs, head underneath the shadow of your laptop and hands lightly gripping, caressing the back of your thighs. As there always is when he’s even being gentle with you, there’s a subtle possessiveness in his touch. His tongue draws lazy circles around your entrance, gathering the escaping slick there and then agonizingly dragging it up to draw stars on your clit.

You haven’t gotten any work done. Or, if you did manage to in your haze, it must not be very coherent. You can’t hear your thoughts over the sound of his lapping and slurping.

Every twitch of your thighs trying to close is awarded with a tightening of his fingers, a gentle nip to your pussy lips and, if done too many times in a row, a low, displeasured growl. Whimpers have slipped past your own tongue far too many times to count at this point. The worst part is the lack of goal. True to his word, he’s just tasting you. Slow, leisurely and, dare he say, sleepily drunk on the flavor.

It’s driving you insane.

You’re brought out of your thoughts as he taps your thigh, mumbling something inaudible against your sopping cunt. You hadn’t even realized how your had had fallen back against the wall behind you, your laptop slanted without you holding it in place.

“My light…” He hums, and you can hear the infuriatingly teasing smile on his lips. Imagining it covered in your slick and his saliva has another spark of arousal swimming down your spine, “You haven’t been typing for a while… Do you want me to stop?”

“No,” you breathe out too quickly, hair standing on the back of your neck at the sound of his amused, close-lipped chuckle. He’s already layering another lick over your slit, “N-no, I just… I just needed a break.”

You can do this. … You think.

Refocusing your gaze on your computer screen proves to be even more difficult than you’d anticipated, but damn him if he thinks you’re giving up now. Your fingers begin moving on the keyboard again, slow and hesitant. His hair tickles your inner thighs as the words form on the page, your finger swiping across the mousepad to make a correction and-

Another slow swipe across your clit makes your thighs clench. He nudges them back open.

Taking a deep breath, you continue. Click, tap, tap - Your fingers are shaking as they graze the key-caps. Moving two fingers to the mouse-pad again, you scroll up what you’ve written to see how far you’ve gotten-

His fingertips graze your pussy lips and it has your breath hitching, a jolt of surprise attacking your spine.

“Xav, you said-,” Your worries are shushed, his lips kissing your mound as he softly pets your slit with two of his fingers.

“Jus’ relax, bunny…” He breathes, teasing your entrance by circling around it and playing with the wetness that’s accumulated there, “M’ not gonna put them in… not yet.”

A confusing mix of relief and need follows after. Still, you huff and carry on. Knowing him, he’s trying to distract you on purpose. But he does as he said, only petting your cunt with the lightest touch while his tongue and lips do most of the work. Suckling and licking at your clit while his finger scoop your growing slick into his mouth.

To your credit, you do manage to get some work done. Not nearly as much as you need to, the page still painfully empty, but it’s not nothing. And you were going steady until you noticed him following a certain pattern.

Click, tap - A diagonal line, down to the right.

Tap, tap tip - Another, down to the left.

And as you’re trying to type, your fingers slow down.

Another diagonal line, this time up and to the right. Immediately followed by a connected line going down and to the right. A quick line swept across.

By the time he reaches V, you realize he’s (staking his claim) spelling his name over your swollen nub. It has your thighs shaking and, with the way his hand tightens around the flesh of your thigh, he knows you’ve noticed. Knows by the way your fingers have stopped moving and your breath picks up.

The smile you feel against your cunt is devious.

You’re not going to be able to think like this.

AUTHOR'S NOTE: Once again, I hope I've done him justice. This quite literally came to thought as I was lounging back in this same position. Also; let me know if anyone's interested in a continuation or anything.

CREDITS: The dividers are from thecutestgrotto. Eye banner is from the Harper's Bazaar x LADS Collab. All writing is done by me, w1ld-k4t.

[blues824]

Twst as yandere brothers?

Hey… How y’all doing…?

These are headcanons for the Housewardens. Also, GN! Reader who is not Yuu. Platonic, for obvious reasons. 

Warning: I do not condone Yandere behavior in real life.

Riddle Rosehearts

Ever the perfectionist, you get the brunt of it, unfortunately

No time is spent outside of classes or Heartslabyul or any extracurriculars you took up just to make sure that no one ‘corrupts’ you

It sometimes seems like he doesn’t love you, but he does

He’s trying to protect you from the wrath of your guys’ mother when you both inevitably return home for breaks

When he overblots, his first instinct is to protect you and shield you away from everyone

Once everything is restored, however, he gives you an apology

That doesn’t mean you can go hanging around anyone aside from his trusted list of people: Trey. Just Trey.

Leona Kingscholar

For the longest time, his only source of joy was seeing himself as above you

Since you are the youngest, he essentially wanted you to worship him since he is your older brother

He’s not exactly strict, but he doesn’t want you messing around with the wrong crowd

This means that you have a detail of Savanaclaw members following you around

When he overblots, he realizes how horribly he has treated you… to the point that you would turn against him

After he recovers, he makes more of an effort to be a better older brother to you

The detail does not go away, though, because he needs to make sure you are safe

Azul Ashengrotto

He definitely depended on you for validation during your entire childhood

A lot of your time was spent in the Mostro Lounge, working so that Azul can keep a very close eye on you

Jade and Floyd definitely watch you closely as well, but only because Azul threatens to deduct their pay if they don’t

It’s hard for you to make friends because you have two scary eels trailing behind you at all times

When he overblots, it definitely opens up a lot of conversation between you two, especially when you don’t defend him.

Instead, you stand up to him, fed up with his treatment of you over the years

Once he recovers, he calls off Jade and Floyd, but he still makes sure any friends you make know that he’s more than willing to ruin them

Kalim Al-Asim

You were his favorite sibling out of the 30+ siblings that you both share, and for that, you regret being born

Sure, he acknowledged how unique you were, and often supported you in your interests, but he was very clingy all of the time

Jamil would often distract him so that you could have a moment to yourself

To say you were glad when he was accepted to NRC would be an understatement, since his affections were suffocating

After Jamil overblotted, and they decided to return home for a bit, Kalim was even more clingy… especially since he realized that everything he believed about Jamil was a lie

Now you have to constantly reassure him that you won’t betray him, especially since he’s the one set to inherit everything since he’s the eldest

Jamil is no longer a saving grace for you

Vil Schoenheit

Assuming that you are not a celebrity in your own right, he is working hard to make sure the public and the paparazzi know very little about you

He also makes sure that you are not a fan of Neige LeBlanche, nor that you ever become a fan of him

Uses you for daily validation, essentially, and it’s hella annoying for you

To retaliate, you team up with Epel or you ask Rook about Neige’s newest film so you could further piss Vil off

When Vil overblots, he also feels betrayed when you take the other side in opinion

Unvoiced emotions and feelings on both sides are definitely made known afterward during his recovery, where you told him that you were your own person

Thus, he lets you be your own person under very strict parameters… though, you are still unable to consume Neige LeBlanche content

Idia Shroud

After the death of your guys’ brother, Idia definitely grew more attached to you

There were new rules implemented at home in order to keep you safe, but you were forced to stay near him anyway due to the family curse

Of course, in the meantime, you were allowed to do your own thing, as long as he was able to keep a close eye on you as you did it

When Ortho is rebuilt, Idia lets off of you for a bit, but when you are accepted into NRC, it gets bad again

His overblot was bad, especially since you couldn’t do anything to help Yuu and Grim because of your need to stay near blot (family curse)

During his recovery, he gave a tearful apology, and you forgave him since he was your older brother

Unfortunately, because he’s your older brother, your still watched closely via Ortho and the school cameras

Malleus Draconia

We all know that Malleus grew up extra lonely, so if he had a sibling, he would definitely be very attached to them

All day, every day… you were trailed by a detail of guards because Malleus needs to make sure that his younger sibling is safe

Not only that, but the kingdom needs to make sure you’re safe in the case that something happens to Malleus or he abdicates the throne

At NRC, Lilia tries to convince Malleus to let you go out and have some fun and join clubs that weren’t the Gargoyle Club, but he refuses

His overblot made his clinginess worse as it was caused by Lilia leaving… and he thinks he would die if his sibling left Briar Valley to do something else

Once he recovers, he realizes that you’re going to find a way to get the freedom that he’s been depriving you of, so his first olive branch extension was allowing you to join a club apart from the Gargoyle Club

Slowly, he is getting used to the idea of being apart from you, and while it hurts, he knows it's necessary.

[aphrodicci]

ᴀQᴜᴀʀɪᴜꜱ ɪɴ ᴛʜᴇ ꜰɪʀꜱᴛ ʜᴏᴜꜱᴇ

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paid chart readings on sale! dm for the prices!

♅ aquarius ascendant people are seen as innovative and trend-setters. it's a stereotype, but it's definitely something that occurs. even if there might've been people who have done it before, zendaya is someone who popularised dressing similar to the movie's theme when it was time for PR and premieres. gabriette is also someone who popularised a specific make-up style, and with saint laurent...i don't need to say anything as we know of his influence. aquarius being in the first house also means that people usually think they stand out, like a coloured image between those that are black and white.

♱ they could likely identify themselves as people who really want to be set apart to those around them, and it's valid. they are people who make quiet noise, whatever they do or say is caught onto and people want to follow it, and this could sometimes make them annoyed due to the fact that they are likely people who APPRECIATE being different than the crowd they're around.

♅ this house placement shows the impression they make on other people is pure inspiration. as i have said in the first paragraph, they're people who are trend-setters and because of this, it pushes people to attempt to find themselves, and it could also indicate them having much copy-cats, or people who try and associate themselves with said aquarius ascendants. like whenever there is someone who is a look-alike to zendaya, they make sure everyone knows that.

♱ due to their "out of the box" behaviour, people usually tend to think people with aquarius in the firs thouse are funny people. seeing and pointing out things people didnt notice with humour, or being the one who points out things people are afraid to. on the other hand, their need to be unique/different all the time can sometimes make them do a turn of actually being a basic becky.

♅ by using modern astrology, uranus is the planetary ruler of the first house. and this means people usually are surprised somehow whenever they see them for the first time, whether it be their appearance, what they say and how they interact with other people dozens of individuals catch onto. this planetary ruler can either make them people who are very aloof or friendly, they're people who like to observe, and because of this they can be very judgemental, but they do it to protect themselves.

♱ when it comes to features, as i have mentioned prior, aquarius ascendants do stand out, and sometimes they do have that alien OR other-worldly look that makes people always want to take a second look at them when they walk by them outside. when i look at aquarius ascendants, similar to jupiter/sag. there's usually something exaggerated about them, whether it be breast size, ass, height or thighs, eyes or mouth, something sticks out and it compliments them well and makes them look more different to people around them.

♅ when it comes to their persona ambition, aquarius ascendants really do want to set themselves completely differently to other people. and it doesnt always have to be success and accomplishing goals, sometimes these people really do like to be left alone, but there's another scale of them that like to build a comfortable community for themselves and the people they care about.

♱ their strengths are weaknesses involve them being people who know how to build a strong foundation for themselves and their loved ones, being friendly and intelligent. aquarius ascendants tend to be very intuitive people, but what they could struggle with is actually believing in what their gut wants them to be revealed to. sometimes their pride and adamance can get in the way of many things and it could hold them back.

♅ thus due to their stubborness, they might sometimes project their personalities of being people who always know what is the proper right and wrong. some people could get annoyed with them being people who have a high horse, and not even being people who follow rules and orders they give to other people. on the other hand, sometimes their personalities could be projected into traits of people who think they can save everything and everyone, saviour complex.

♱ moving on to how they might see the world. similar to leo ascendants, aquarius ascendants might see the world as something they have to conquer, whether it be about understanding them and the dynamics of other people around them. sometimes aquarius ascendant could feel like they're an outsider looking in

♅ as stereotypically said, it is perceived that most aquarius ascendants might deem themselves to be better than the people around them, and it's not necessarily a surprising thing. as aquarius is the humanitarian side, sometimes this unintentionally makes them people who judge the miscondunct or simple human behaviours and comparing said people to themselves and how they'll never be like them. as aquarius is the second to last sign of the zodiac, perceive it in a way of aquarius ascendants unintentionally perceiving themselves as people who are almost the completion of perfection, on the other hand, there's the aquarius ascendant who have the self-image of them being people who want to help others and themselves, but aquarius is ruled by the planet of uranus, the planet of the extreme, so usually they have the most extreme views of themselves, negative or positive.

♱ lastly, when it comes to how they impact other people. people are either in competition with them or at awe. aquarius ascendants need for being innovative and independent gives answers to people who are wondering what they should do with their lives. though, it could also manifest in them being challenged in ways aquarius ascendants play devil's advocate to people's philosophies.

other aquarius ascendants ⬎

masterlist

aquarius in the houses masterlist

pluto

[n0n-sen-se]

💌 𝐉𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐚 𝐟𝐞𝐰 𝐊𝐍𝐘 𝐂𝐡𝐚𝐫𝐚𝐜𝐭𝐞𝐫𝐬 𝐛𝐞𝐢𝐧𝐠 𝐲𝐨𝐮'𝐫𝐞 𝐒𝐞𝐜𝐫𝐞𝐭 𝐀𝐝𝐦𝐢𝐫𝐞𝐫. . .

includes ;; genya, muichiro content ;; pure fluff. a/n ;; stresstember eh? the perfect time to indulge in some adorable escapism! (´｡• ◡ •｡`) ♡

☆☆☆ # genya shinazugawa !

genya regularly receives check-ups at the Butterfly Mansion, thus you tend to bump into him a ton!

this is where things start to take a turn. . . he stops getting so angry and quick to shut you down. . . and instead, he starts watching you train a little more, keeping idle tabs on your schedule, daydreaming of you when he should be focusing on training. . .

then it hits him:

he's got a crush ?!

to this boy love literally feels lethal.

he can't function. at all. he's unable to stand or talk to you for more than a few seconds without becoming flustered and wracked with nerves.

so loving you from afar is the simplest-easiest option.

he stares a ton, and tries hard not to get caught.

daydreams when he shouldn't- and at the worst times- you can only get punched in the face while training so many times before you start to wonder if having a crush is really worth it.

i'm pretty sure anyone could see the reason this quick-tempered boy suddenly turns shy when he's around you.

and he hates admitting it. (what is he supposed to do? he's never been in love before?)

there are times when he's 100% undoubtably sure that you're busy- or far, far away from the scene of the crime. . . he'll sneak into your room (after double checking that the coast is clear, again) he'll leave a few wildflowers next to your nightstand.

just the thought that he's showing romantic affection towards you has his heart palpitating. . . even if it is, technically indirect.

has him paranoid as hell, like somehow even after all his precautions, you'll just know it was him. if you suspect him, or bring it up, he'll vehemently deny everything.

(whenever he leaves flower btw, it'll be up to a week before he works up the courage to bring another bunch, and in between he tries to garner the courage to talk to you. . . without success)

he'd actually get pretty comfortable with this scenario, and eventually saves up enough to produce a small vase to hold all the flowers.

and it feels like the biggest step yet!

its a painfully simple pot, and he feels he could do better, but he's tied a woven red string around the neck to help. . . at least a little.

you know. . . in the future he could tie notes to it. the thought has his ears burning red hot, and he flees the scene just as quickly.

☆☆☆ # muichiro tokito !

honestly, it doesn't fully occur to him that he is a secret admirer at first.

he just one day happens to notice you because you caught his eye. nothing in particular, there was just something. . . bright about your presence.

your eyes? your smile? who could really say. all he knows is that your very interesting to look at when you're around.

even your voice catches his attention, like the sound of bells to his ears. its calming and also so alluring? how are you able to charm him like this?

the couple times you caught him staring he looked away quickly, then he starts wondering why he's afraid of being caught?

that's when the idea of an idea starts to form in his head.

a crush!

honestly, i think he'd smile to himself at the thought. its all very confusing and all very new and exciting!

he'd stare a ton and try to be subtle. . . but then fail at that too. (at this point he's just standing beside a tree rather than behind it?)

muichiro gifts you things that remind him of you: things that are eye-catching and interesting to him.

. . . something that holds his attention as much as you do. . .

mostly things he's found, like the shiniest shells or rocks, broken ornaments or porcelain he's found. the best would probably be a tiny pearl he. . . acquired.

instructs his crow to deliver them to you, which in turn means you get hit in the head with said object- you don't need a more obvious clue to know that his crow hates. your. guts. (don't worry she's just a little jealous)

at first, he completely forgets that he's sent anything to you at all.

until he see's you holding them and it all connects.

silently hopes you to make the connection too. and i don't think he'd mind being caught at all. (its kind of like a fun game he's playing, that subsequently causes the faintest blush to appear across the bridge of his nose)

thinks about you maybe a bit too much, and starts to get excited at the prospect of being in love or a relationship! what would it be like to hold your hand, or even have all of your attention for once? (now he's just smiling up at the clouds like an adorable idiot)

if he writes anything (a note?) its just doodles and drawings he's done that he then hands over to his crow to deliver.

actually very fond of leaving you snacks too. . . or straight up offering to share while (innocently) asking you what ❛all those things in your hands❜ are.

[lobotomiesatclaires]

Lighter Kink and Psychology Analysis - Zenless Zone Zero

Full disclaimer: I don’t play Zenless Zone Zero, but through my friend’s love of the game and Tumblr osmosis, I’ve learned a great deal about Lighter. I find the differences between his canon and fanon interpretations fascinating, so I thought it would be interesting to break down the psychology of kinks and what I think Lighter’s are. I’m going to focus on the ones I believe he has, and if people want me to go into further detail, let me know! Also if it was clear from the title 18+ content below

Exhibitionism – Subcategories: Semi-Public Sex, Secret Keeping, and Risk Play

Lighter is fascinating because he’s full of contradictions. He doesn’t like having his picture taken and prefers to keep a low profile, yet he wears flashy clothes and takes on high profile work where he cannot NOT be noticed. He wants to be left alone but craves connection with people. Part of this can be attributed to losing so many important people due to his own actions, but I think another part of it is Lighter’s hopeless romantic streak. He wants to die for love, and I think part of that is tied to finding someone worthy of that sacrifice.

He’s not interested in people who praise him or send him gifts because, to him, they don’t truly know him- and if they did, they wouldn’t want anything to do with him, he thinks. This low self-esteem and disorganized attachment style create a loop where he desperately craves connection, has opportunities for it, but never fully lets his walls down to allow a deeper bond. Because of his past and the fear of never being truly understood, Lighter communicates in subtle ways. In-game, he can give the player purple lilacs. In the language of flowers, purple lilacs symbolize one’s first love or the first time one feels love for someone. However he leaves on a job right after, to stop any possibility of asking him more about why he gave them to you.

When it comes to sex, Lighter has experience, but in romantic love, he’s very much a virgin, in my opinion.

In line with this, I think Lighter would be needy as a partner, in constant need of validation but unable to ask for reassurance. He hates when his friends are mad at him- it distresses him significantly, which reinforces my earlier points about his emotional sensitivity. Thus, I think one of his core needs would be for a partner to be very possessive of him. Not only would this push back against his feelings of guilt, but it would bulldoze past his tendency to panic at intimacy and distance himself.

While I agree he’d be into risk/thrill-seeking, I don’t think it would be extreme or involve pain. I believe it would be a form of intimate thrill-seeking - the kind that engages an overactive mind.

Imagine:Lighter and his partner in an elevator, on the way to a party. Four seconds before the elevator reaches the destination, his partner pushes him against the wall, kisses him, and whispers in his ear that they’re not wearing anything under their dress coat. The doors open, and they walk out into the party crowd - no one the wiser. Except Lighter.

For example: They’re at the party. Lighter’s charming, slipping easily into conversations with strangers. But every so often, his partner brushes their fingers lightly over the back of his neck, just once, fleeting. No one notices, but Lighter does. His spine straightens slightly each time, a silent acknowledgment: I know who I belong to.

Or: Club sex on the top floor behind a loud rock band. The balcony overlooking a busy street. Going to dinner with friends with a remote in his hand and a small vibrator in his partner’s underwear.

I think Lighter would enjoy all of these scenarios - not just for the risk, but for the inherent trust required to play and keep these secrets between him and his partner. It’s something completely his, something no one else can encroach upon, yet it’s right there, obvious to anyone observant enough to notice.

Marking – Physical and Psychological

Marking, both physical and psychological, would lean into Lighter’s desire for connection. Think: visible signs of his partner’s presence, like a hickey or a faint lipstick smudge on his collarbone.

While traditional marking overlaps with the possessiveness I imagine he’d enjoy, psychological marking might be even more appealing to him. This could involve embedding someone’s presence in his mind through habits, sensory triggers, or routines.

Lighter’s fear of being forgotten or unimportant could be countered by the constant reassurance that he’s always present in his partner’s thoughts. Non-sexually, his partner might leave voice notes for him to listen to during missions or spritz their perfume on his scarf. They might even snap a risky picture and set it as his lock screen so the next time he checks his phone on the job he’s left with a surprise.

Lighter is haunted by the dead, but I think what he truly craves is being haunted by someone living. He would adore his partner’s presence lingering in his personal space, feeding his need for connection without direct confrontation.

Domination – Receiving, Direction Taking

I firmly believe Lighter likes to be dominated. In terms of desire, I don’t think Lighter experiences much spontaneous desire; rather, he’s more connected to responsive desire (see the paper “Sexual Arousal and Desire: Interrelations and Responses to Three Modalities of Sexual Stimuli” by Katherine Goldey and Sari Anders). That man is too tired to be dominant, and as seen in-game, he prefers to take orders. He would definitely call his partner “Boss” in the bedroom.

Beyond the bedroom, I feel Lighter would continue this relinquishment of power through authority transfer dynamics as a coping mechanism for emotional instability, much like he does for the Sons of Calydon. This could manifest in routines or rituals where his partner makes decisions for him, offering a sense of control without the burden of autonomy. It’s both a reaffirmation of care and a release from the pressure of decision-making.

Given his tendency to overthink, delegating power outside of sex could ease his mental load and reinforce security in his relationships. I think Lighter would enjoy having his partner pick out his clothes, jewelry, ect, decide small daily routines, or even manage his finances in a consensual dynamic. This creates a structure where emotional care is embedded in everyday life, not just during intimacy.

Additionally, given Lighter’s need for emotional grounding and his craving to feel “claimed,” collaring - whether in a literal BDSM context or as an everyday symbolic gesture - would be something he could secretly obsess over. If Lighter were given a necklace, choker, or even a collar (especially since he loves jewelry), he’d never take it off. He’d wear it under his clothes, hidden from everyone else but always present. On rough days or when away from his partner, just feeling it against his skin would serve as silent reassurance, grounding him.

It would satisfy both his exhibitionist streak (a hidden “secret” between him and his partner) and act as a reminder: I’m not lost. I belong somewhere. To someone.

For example: if before a mission his partner was to kiss him goodbye, place a necklace around his neck and say “Come back wearing this” he would tug at the small chain subconsciously the entire time he’s gone. He would sleep with it on, shower with it, and when he returned, the metal would be warm and oxidised from his skin, his skin stained from the metal.

Praise Play

An extension of his need for domination and grounding, I see praise play as a huge turn-on for Lighter. While some believe degradation is one of his kinks, I think it’s the opposite. While he might engage in degradation play if his partner wanted it (and part of him might believe he deserves it due to his low self-esteem), I think he would emotionally shut down if it became a consistent dynamic. To me it would be a similar dynamic to the start of the Astarion romance, fulfilling a role as a tool rather than as a person.

Kinks often reflect core emotional needs. Non-consensual fantasies, for example, are about being desired so intensely that someone is willing to break laws and social norms. Degradation kinks often involve a need for others to see the worst parts of us and want us regardless. However, for sensitive individuals, this negative reinforcement doesn’t bring solace- it simply reaffirms their worst fears and destroys their fragile attempts at building a better self image. I also don't think Lighter would find any attraction in demeaning his partner, I think he would feel unworthy of their attention and trust, especially in the beginning.

Lighter is consistently wracked with guilt and desperately wants to know whether he’s doing the right thing, whether it’s in his job or in a relationship. For someone like Lighter, praise isn’t just arousing, it’s reparative in a way nothing else matches or soothes. Each compliment is a stone in the foundation of a self-worth he can’t build alone. When his partner says, “You’re doing so well,” or “You feel like home, like safety,” it’s not just about sex. It’s about rewriting the narrative he’s been telling himself for years.

Domestic Play

You cannot convince me that the image of Lighter’s partner cooking or doing general domestic chores wouldn’t awaken something deep within him, even though he might not admit it at first. In-game, he respects and surrounds himself with women who embody dominant, traditionally masculine qualities. He’s more than happy to take orders from them, but in terms of romantic or sexual attraction, he seems to have little interest in those traits. I suspect this is because these qualities mirror his old self, and that’s not something he finds much solace in, either romantically or sexually.

I think Lighter would be attracted to someone fundamentally different from those around him, someone softer and more considerate, yet still strong in a more traditionally feminine sense. Given his history of loss, trauma, and the absence of a stable family, I believe he harbors a profound urge for a family-like relationship. His partner would create an environment that feels like home, a concept Lighter likely yearns for but doesn’t fully understand.

Home-cooked meals, small domestic gestures of affection - these would make him unbearably needy, though he’d only show it when alone with his partner.

For example: During mundane moments, making coffee, fixing his jacket - his partner casually murmurs, “You belong to me.” It’s subtle, not always sexual, but it lights up the part of Lighter’s brain that craves validation without having to ask for it.

Things like his partner knowing how he likes his coffee without needing to ask, or grabbing the salt shaker from him because it’s bad for his cholesterol would make him unbearably turned on you cannot convince me otherwise. These small acts of care would hit him hard, far more than overt declarations of love.

For Lighter, being told what to do isn’t about submission- it’s about relief. In a life where his choices have often led to heartbreak, the absence of choice feels like safety.

Sensation Play – Both Sensory Deprivation and Service

Lighter is an overthinker. According to Emily Nagoski’s Come As You Are, overthinking is one of the primary reasons people struggle to achieve climax or engage fully with emotional and sexual vulnerability. When you place too much pressure on external factors - self-image, internal worries, even things as small as ‘the dishes need to be done’ - it inhibits your ability to ground yourself in the present and truly experience pleasure. This is why many people, particularly women, struggle with partnered sex and climax.

For Lighter, orgasm denial or delayed gratification would likely be a huge turn-on, especially in situations where he’s restrained or unable to interact directly with his partner - think handcuffs or shibari. The removal of senses, such as blindfolding, helps heighten arousal by redirecting the energy normally spent on processing visual stimuli toward pure sensation. It doesn’t stop the overthinking; it realigns it, forcing it to focus on the present moment.

For example: His partner lightly places a hand over his mouth while he’s blindfolded - not fully cutting off air, but creating a soft restraint. It’s not about danger; it’s about trust. The lack of visual and verbal control pushes him into a space where he can’t overanalyze - he can only feel.

Considering Lighter’s past - especially his time in the fighting pits, where he described himself as feeling like a zombie. I don’t think he’d enjoy pain or impact play. His physical existence outside the bedroom has already been filled with similar kinds of suffering. Instead, sensation play becomes a refuge - a way to experience his body without violence, without pain. There's a running joke that he fears the sight of blood in game, which is another reason why I believe centering pleasure rather than pain would be more attractive to him.

Emotional Edgeplay

I believe Lighter craves not just physical intensity but emotional vulnerability pushed to its limits, scenarios where trust is tested, intimacy feels dangerous, and attachment triggers are explored in consensual, negotiated ways. Emotional edgeplay isn’t about causing harm; it’s about walking the razor-thin edge of emotional exposure, where the potential for catharsis is as powerful as the risk.

Overstimulation is an aspect of emotional edgeplay, often resulting in emotional release- like crying during or after sex - as the body lets go of trauma it’s been holding onto for too long. Lighter, who is profoundly dissociated from his needs due to guilt and a deep-seated dismissal of his own worth, would find this both terrifying and necessary.

We see hints of this in-game. For example, there’s an interaction with a guide dog trained to seek out the most vulnerable person in the room - that ignores everyone else and goes straight to Lighter. This detail speaks volumes about how disconnected he is from his own emotional fragility; the desensitization runs so deep that he doesn’t even recognize it anymore.

In these moments, speech and affirmation would be crucial, especially during heightened emotional states or low points.

For example: During edging, when he’s trembling with frustration not just sexually, but emotionally his partner gently cradles his face and whispers, “Do you see how wonderful you are when you’re not pretending?”

It’s not just arousing, it’s disarming. Because in that vulnerable space, Lighter isn’t the cool, edgy pit fighter turned bodyguard. He’s just him, stripped of all pretense. No walls, no bravado. Flaws and all. It also provides acceptance by omission, that his partner sees all and accepts all.

Caretaker Dynamics (Reversed Aftercare)

I also believe Lighter would prefer to be the primary aftercare provider, despite this traditionally being the role of the dominant partner. According to Dominatrix Eva Oh, aftercare is a service role, and for Lighter, providing that service would be deeply fulfilling. (It’s a common misconception the Sub role in BDSM is the harder or serving role, because truly Dom’s are required to be very emotionally stable, beholden to their sub and can turn out to be a very stress inducing role for the wrong people). This is why high flying jobs such as CEO’s actually prefer to be submissive because it is the only place in their life they get to be minded.

While aftercare is essential after most sexual interactions especially those involving intense scenes, reversed caretaker dynamics, where the more emotionally fragile partner provides aftercare, would align perfectly with Lighter’s psychology. Despite his vulnerabilities, he has an overwhelming desire to feel needed, to prove his worth in relationships even when he feels broken.

Being allowed to “take care” of his partner post-sex, even when he’s emotionally raw, satisfies this need. It’s not about dominance or submission- it’s about anchoring himself through acts of care.

For example: After an intense session, when his partner is spent and emotionally vulnerable, Lighter insists on making tea, carefully bandaging small marks, or physically holding them - even if he’s the one shaking. He tucks the blanket around them, brushes sweat-damp hair from their forehead, and whispers, “I’ve got you.”

In those moments, his value isn’t measured by strength or stoicism. This role reversal reinforces his sense of purpose without undermining his vulnerabilities. He doesn't always have to be the strong one here, in this moment.

Closing Thoughts

Ultimately, Lighter’s kinks aren’t just about physical pleasure, they’re reflections of his deepest fears, needs, and desires. They’re coping mechanisms woven into intimacy, helping him navigate a world where connection feels both a gift and a threat. Whether through domination, praise, or emotional edgeplay, his kinks allow him to confront the parts of himself he hides from the world.

At the heart of it all, Lighter wants to be known.

References

Disclaimer I have dyslexia and English is my second language so I apologize for mistakes.

Theswaddle.com. (2019). The Psychology of Sexual Kink. [online] Available at: https://www.theswaddle.com/what-is-kink-the-psychology-behind-sexual-behavior [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

admin@blossmcart (2023). A dive into the definition of Lilac Flower and its Significance. [online] Blossmcart Flowers. Available at: https://blossmcart.com/blog/definition-and-significance-of-lilac-flower/#:~:text=The%20Lilac%20is%20a%20flower,purple%20Lilac%20signifies%20first%20love. 

‌Li, S. (2024). The Psychology of Kink: A Cross‐Sectional Survey Investigating the Association Between Adult Attachment Style and BDSM-Related Identity Choice in China. Archives of Sexual Behavior, [online] 53(6), pp.2269–2276. doi:https://doi.org/10.1007/s10508-024-02829-1.

When Kinks Come to Life: An Exploration of Paraphilic Behaviors and Underlying Predictors. (2024). The Journal of Sex Research. [online] doi:https://doi.org/10.1080//00224499.2024.2319242.

The Kink Orientation Scale: Developing and Validating a Measure of Kink Desire, Practice, and Identity. (2024). The Journal of Sex Research. [online] doi:https://doi.org/10.1080//00224499.2024.2387769.‌

Oh, E. (2020). I Was a Corporate Slave Until I Became a Professional Dominatrix. [online] VICE. Available at: https://www.vice.com/en/article/eva-oh-dominatrix-sex-kink/ [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

Youtube.com. (2025). Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=t_Ng_b28uxM [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

‌Youtube.com. (2025). Available at: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=G2_aCw-DMq0 [Accessed 9 Feb. 2025].

‌

[hahahafangirl]

[WBK Character Analysis] Suo Hayato and the Crisis of Contact [Part 1]

EDITs

5/29: Added commentaries to Suo v. Oobiki and minor edits.

This is yet another contribution to the well-made observations that: Suo does not eat with others in a story that emphasizes eating together; his fighting style is predominantly evasive amidst a narrative of fighting as a conversation; and all the deflections he deploys in response to any attempts to know him deeper. All in all, an avoidance of contact and any violation of boundaries — the literal boundary of bodily contact and symbolic boundary of knowing.

Overall, most of the observations here are… not that new. However, there are a few things I have personally seen less discussed in details: humor as deflection (both in the story and its effect on the fandom), Suo’s arrogance and disinterests in his opponents, and his subtle detachment from his peers… even if he loves and cares for them.

The language of this analysis is heavily based on Anne Carson’s essay Dirt and Desire: An Essay on the Phenomenology of Female Pollution in Antiquity. Unfortunately, I am too much of an insane Anne Carson stan to discuss this in any normal way (deeply sorry for that). Regardless, I will try to be as clear as possible, despite my general insistence in uh. using the words that I do (bear with me). Because I am absolutely insane, have a table of content:

Contact as a crisis; dirt; leakage (Part 1)

Suo's general (habitual) deflections (Part 1)

Suo's emotional intelligence and approach to emotionality (Part 1.5)

Teenage arrogance and disinterest in Others

Suo's relationships to other people; or, the disparateness between Love and Relationship

Suo versus Sakura

Note that much of these are interpretations/extrapolations outside of things that are explicit in canon.

I will try to keep each post about 2-3k or less; this total analysis will be split over multiple part. Part 1 (this one) will focus on point 1) and justifies its connection to Suo (and WBK) and point 2), which are primarily textual evidences.

Crisis of Contact: so what the hell am I talking about?

This portion will be on Anne Carson's Dirt and Desire essay, as to provide the context in which I framed this character analysis. I will try to be as brief as I can while being understandable. The original essay itself, as the title revealed, is mostly about the construction of female gender (roles) in Greek antiquity, but its discussion of Touch, Dirt, and Leakage proved to be very useful frameworks!

First, on Touch:

As members of human society, perhaps the most difficult task we face daily is that of touching one another---whether the touch is physical, moral, emotional, or imaginary. Contact is crisis. As the anthropologists say, "Every touch is a modified blow."

This is what I mean by the "crisis of contact." Every contact itself is a mini-crisis: when we exchange blows, our skin touch, thus violating a closed and fixed physical boundary; when we converse, our words and minds touch, thus breaking open our worldviews and preconception; when we connect with other, they (and we) shattered the walls we constructed in our mind and permanently nestled themselves into our minds and hearts. These are all the things that Sakura, our beloved MC, is challenged by the narratives to learn how to do-- and succeed. His blushing embarrassment, in this framework, is a response to these "crises" of violations.

[Sakura blushes nearly every time he learns how to communicate and recognize his feelings... lol]

[the mortifying ordeal of being known]

on Dirt:

"Dirt" may be defined as "matter out of place." The poached egg on your plate at breakfast is not dirt; the poached egg on the floor of the Reading Room of the British Museum is... Mary Douglas calls pollution "a particular class of dangers which are not powers vested in humans but which can be released by human actions."

A little more background: the Greek antiquity conceptualize men as "hot, dry, vessel" and women as "cold, wet, liquid (to be contained in a vessel". So, dirt as "matter out of place" equates to "liquid not being properly contained". As Mary Douglas puts it, being "dirt" is not anything inherent to human or even women in particular; we all just have the ability to displace matters and make them "dirt" -- including ourselves. Sakura was treated, as we can put it, "less than dirt" for being "out of place." Same with Kaji's unrestrainable anger -- until Hiiragi figured out a way to help him "contain" it. Umemiya, as a child, felt that his own grief was displaced, his own life and his family's lives misplaced between who die and who gets to live -- his entire existence as "dirty". We can formulate any ostracism and troubles in Wind Breaker into displacement and dirt -- it's a fun exercise! But it will be more helpful if we put this construction of "dirt" into use.

How does any of this relates to Suo? We already noticed that he avoids, and, if he cannot, minimizes all contacts-- avoiding all the crises that everyone else, especially Sakura, go through. Most of these have lead to immense character growth. Maybe it's just not Suo's time to go into it yet. But for a deuteragonist, on a similar level of screen-time and importance as Nirei, Suo's arc thus far remains glaringly stagnant. One thing that he perhaps "grew" in is holding in his ruthlessness better after Sakura refocused Suo's vengeance in a more productive way (fight off other opponents and not beat one guy to death) during the KEEL fight. But we haven't seen a situation that actually "proves" that growth in a fight yet. So far, no contact, no crises yet, to grow, while Umemiya has explicitly said: "You need a little bit of conflicts to grow." Thus far Suo's "vessel" remains completely intact and its contents unseen (unlike Sakura's and Nirei's anxieties and trauma).

Where does dirt comes in? On a more literal sense, we have seen that Suo... never get dirtied after a fight. There is one (1) chapter where his face is scuffed (ch145)...

... significantly less than others, and it magically disappear in the next chapter. I think it's innocuous enough to be a mistake in Nii-sensei's part (either to remove or to add it), but, there is another interpretation: Let's remind ourselves that stories are about narratives, and that character, their design, their physical and mental states, are tools of the narratives*. Suo's (minimally) scuffed state is more symbolic of the Bofurin kids engaging in Sakura's struggle to pull him out of it -- a collective contact, willingly be "dirtied" to touch and pull Sakura out of drowning -- rather than Suo finally getting injured in a fight, after all. In addition to this, it will be visually jarring if Suo remains untouched here (note that this is not to dismiss what I said right before that).

*(Nii-sensei has such a command of details and themes in WBK that I must allow everything to be Symbolic-- there will be more on this in other topic)

Although this is a counterexample, it is to emphasize that, well, we noticed that Suo has never been dirtied or "touched" in any way in a fight. In a work where people routinely gets injured, bleed, violently got their face smashed in (I'm still in pain thinking about the Kaji v. Banjo fight), Suo never has his boundaries breached the way others has. No contact, no dirt. A closed room. He never let anything "out of place" be on him and is never actively being "out of place" himself -- even in the Red Light district, he does not seems frazzled (out of place) the way Nirei or Sakura were. No crack in the vessel, no leakage; nothing is leaving him either. No substantial personal fact is known-- for a deuteragonist, that's quite unusual.

The only "secret" we know? Natto. It is honestly lighthearted enough to be a joke (that is not to dismiss its importance or factuality!). It becomes a gag in the fandom! Purely because of how little else we know about Suo!

AND SUO DOESN'T EVEN NEED TO SUCCESSFULLY DEFLECT IT HIMSELF. THE NARRATIVE DID IT FOR HIM!!!!!

LIKE. LMFAO. OMFG. WE HAVE ALL BEEN PLAYED!!!!!!!!

THE NARRATIVE WANTS SUO TO BE AS INSCRUTABLE AS POSSIBLE.

GO HOME. THERE IS NOTHING FOR US.

JK! WE ARE STILL DIGGING OURSELVES INTO IT FOR ANY GRAIN OF INFORMATION THAT WE CAN!

We have some textual evidences already. Let's go for more.

More on Suo's habitual deflections

Let's begin by making a list of his deflections:

Fighting style: predominantly defensive; "pushing away" instead of "smashing in"

Personal information: humor to deflect from (what could be) his insecurities; reveal-not-reveal origin of his fighting styles, or details about his master; the "diet"

Emotionality: "I'm not usually this emotional"; disquiets hiding underneath maturity

Clothing: no skin?.megamind

Narrative/Production deflections: why is Suo the only person whose room is not revealed? lmfao?

Ok. I think that's everything.

Fighting styles:

Suo is a predominantly defensive fighter. In a fight with non-fighters involved, he naturally steps into a protective role by default. The only time this changed was when Nirei volunteered to take that role and encouraged Sakura and Suo to go on the offense. Defense or offense, Suo deflects moves and takes down opponents by their offensive momentum — if they pass out hitting their head on concrete, great! He does not contribute his own force into the fight; no horse in the race, no input to the conversations.

Compare to, say, Sakura and most others, who charges ahead, moving into their opponents' space to attack; Tsugeura, whose virtue involves allowing opponent one (1) hit and then... German suplex them; or Kiryu, whose fighting style is most similar to Suo — except he often disables his opponents with what looks like accupressure. Perhaps the most relevant difference is that Kiryu does charge ahead to fight, and some of his moves involve pulling the opponents in. Suo does none of that— he waits until they violate his space and pushes them out.

Pulling in...

Pushing out. Note that Suo does not reach for his opponents— he waits until they are in his space.

The only time we have seen Suo "attack", per se, is 1) KEEL and 2) against Oobiki, where he needed to wrap things up quickly and this isn't an opponent who would go down with deflection. That's the literal, in-text explanation at least. Symbolically? I'm not sure! Maybe Suo did in fact get close enough to Nirei and his classmates to expresses something about himself— not deflect, but rather, physically engages in the fight. That will take me more time to think about.

EDIT: Hey, this is also the fight where Suo finally reveals something about himself— specifically, his philosophy and focus on teaching, “discipline” as passing down knowledge (and, side notes, not as “punishment” — this is something I’m exploring in a fic actually xP). We even got the first visual of his Master! So, yep, he contributed something in this conversation here. This is the very first step in advancing towards Suo’s backstory; Nii-sensei is telling us to be patient! We got a similar visual (the back of the head) of Akari ~200 chapters before Kiryu’s arc, after all.

And this is also the same fight where Suo's untouchability and INSCRUTABILITY ("I can't read you at all") is explicitly addressed— by a fighter that is approximately Noroshi's caliber; or at least, much stronger than KEEL or Kanuma.

In KEEL, his aggression was taken as unusual/"the wrong decision". Against Kanuma, he didn't even mean to hit for real— only to scare/shock the opponents. Suo is an incredible fighter, acknowledged by Nirei's intels, Hiiragi and Umemiya themselves, and Sakura wanting to fight him. And, from his untouchability, literally (as in, not symbolically) we have yet to actually see Suo's full, current capability at all! And that is A LOT to hold out on when every character, one after another, get pushed to their limit. Suo's avoidance of initiating fights is narratively convenient to this end and also... says something about his refusal to initiate a "conversation".

2. Personal information and humor

We have seen this before with natto! His easy-going demeanor, ability to diffusive and deflect ("This conversation is about Sakura!") enables him to stagnate the conversation until the narrative ended it for him. As for reveal-not-reveal: I want to note that we do know things about Suo; quite a few things, in fact. Suo does not never say anything about himself, but give enough information to satisfy/shut down the conversation without providing anything revealing about himself. "Oh, I can't personally tell you what my fighting style is-- my Master is self-taught." (You have a Master? What are they like? How long have you been practicing? What?) "Oh, I'm on a diet." (What kind of diet? What can you actually eat and not eat? Why aren't you eating anything at all?)

Suo has been demonstrated to be an incredibly socially-capable person; his self-selected main role as vice-captain is negotiation and people-dealing. He has shown an incredible level of emotional intelligence, sensibility, and sensitivity to other's thoughts and feelings: being able to tell that Sakura is not used to other helping him, therefore knowing that it will be difficult for them all if Nirei and him continue to push; repeatedly being able to use Umemiya "against" Sugishita to get the latter to do things. Suo knows how to start and end a conversation, what to say, how to steer the interaction one way or another, how to stall— his social skills and suaveness are vitals in all these social deflections.

Notably, humor plays into this a lot (yet another example of social-capability). His eyepatch is the biggest mystery by far— and he was able to shut down any speculations or focus on it by bringing it up before anyone else can, therefore being in control of the topic.

Note that he brought it up out-of-nowhere, already anticipating the curiosity: "By the way..." and quickly changes the topic to Sakura

The constant, mysterious "diet" is also introduced under humorous connotations (Suo agreeing with Nirei's about the unusualness of the context of the meal, then immediately subverts expectation by reveal that should he be able to eat, he would-- he is just on a diet).

He blatantly lies — for innocuous things such that they are humorous — and gets out of explaining anything; like why he does not want to go into water

(My theory on this is quite innocuous: depends on how recent Suo's eye injury is, healing can be quite slow and touching sea water is... bad for that. It'd just ruin the mood if we bring it up.)

With the eyepatch and the water, is there a chance that Nirei is too polite to push it? Absolutely. And that is another "manipulation" of social situation Suo is capable of: he gives non-answer that is tonally appropriates such that it is impolite/insensitive should anyone tries to push. Boom, nobody knows anything. Closed room, no leakage.

3. Emotional disquiets

Suo's "veneer" of calmness and maturity is so constant and iconic that the smallest ripple sends the narratives (and us) to ruin! And this contrast is emphasized by the narratives— I'm only showing here the more subtle signs in each "incident", and we already feel the disruption!

(Note the look of disdain in this one— we will come back to this later)

Suo is not as "mature" or unperturbed as he paints himself to be; he is, after all, a human, and a 15 year old child at that. In a story that emphasizes realistic emotional responses, it is extremely unrealistic to paint a 15yo boy as having it all together (orewing wrote an excellent post on this subject). Maturity, in this case, is a mask and therefore another deflection— hiding away his emotions and disdain until it came bursting out of him, ignoring his emotions to prevent others from seeing and "interacting" with it — vision becomes another mode of boundary violations (yes, this is in the Anne Carson essay). Now, the interesting question here is: Why is this the case? Unfortunately, that is outside the scope of this research <3

4. Conservative clothing: no_skin?.megamind

It's not about being revealing, it's about his wardrobe being so distinctly old-school and especially jarringly conservative in the beach trip that brought to attention how uh. tall the wall is. Funnily enough, recently there was a fake-merch post going around on Twitter that people immediately spotted as fake because Suo reveals his upper torso in that one (lol) and the official one, coming out the next day, has him covered from head to toe. Symbolically speaking, this is yet another visual hint that Suo is extremely mysterious and elusive. Fashion and personal styles are extremely important to WBK's characterization and narratives. Everything design-wise is very intentional— including Suo's secrecy.

It's highkey just funny as a gag at this point. There were theories about secret back tattoos (I think primarily motivated by Nii-sensei once posting a character design hiding elaborate back tattoos under normal school uniform that does looks suspiciously like Suo's initial design, now that I think about it.) I don't know if I believe that; scars theories are more likely, but I don't think tonally WBK is trying to tell a more violent stories than what normal people within 1-1.5 standard deviation of the Bell curve will experience. In other words, I don't think the narrative looks to tell what is implied if Suo's back is elaborately tattooed or viciously scarred. I am not saying that HCs about these are invalid, just that— who knows what is in store! It is possible that Suo, with all of his evasiveness and general strangeness from the narrative, is in fact the one representing the "exorbitant" violence in the world.

5. Narrative deflections: Nii-sensei is holding out on us.

Here is the final straw: It is no coincidence or innocuous chances that all of these deflections and overall sense of detachment is overthinking. Nii-sensei seems to be extremely involved, by usual manga standard, into (at least evidently) merch and game adaptation of Wind Breaker. Wanijima, I'm pretty sure, was introduced as a WBK game character prior to his "adoption" into the manga. All the merch strictly sticks to Suo's visual conservativeness. And, very intentionally, Suo is the only main class 1-1 member whose bedroom is not shown in the artbook. What is Nii-sensei hiding? A lot, it looks like.

What does that means besides confirming that we aren't all extremely delusional? Nii-sensei seems to be deflecting us, too. Well, it's actually way too late at night and I have spent too long writing this to overthink this point. I can only be certain that there will be a lot in store for Suo's character developments, arc, and that I trust Nii-sensei's pen. Amen.

That's it for now! Part 2 will hopefully cover the last three points (maybe only one or two each) depends on how much I have to say. Evidently, I have waaaaay more to say than I thought. Thanks for holding out if you reach this point, and let me say that we did most of the heavy lifting/justifications here :thumbs-up: The discussion of dirt, leakage, and crisis was hopefully constructive/interesting!

I would love any feedbacks/thoughts AND FEELINGS on this, including if my writing is absolutely unreadable (and yeah feel free to use anon questions should you desire to). Would be beyond happy to clarify anything I wrote, and discuss more!

See yall in Part 2, which may come out earlier than I or you want or expected.

[uhohdad]

THE GIRL WHO CONQUERED THE MOUNTAIN

KÖNIG X READER

You & König have been chosen as unwilling participants in a twenty-four tribute fight to the death.

WARNINGS: 18+, NSFW, 183k WORD COUNT, AO3, Protective!König, Virgin!König, Loner!König, 18yo!König, Possessive!König, TouchStarved!König, GentleGiant!König, To You Anyway, König Pines Hard, Fem!Reader, Mentor!JohnPrice, Slow Burn, Smut, Fluff, Angst, Blood & Injury, Graphic Violence, Death, PTSD, Suicidal Ideations, Alcohol Abuse, Explicit Sexual Content, Dom!König, A Lil’ Sub!König Too, Dirty Talk, Size Kink, Nipple Play, Blow Jobs, Fingering, Slight Exhibitionism, Consensual Degradation, Praise Kink, Gentle Sex, Rough Sex, First Time, …And A Second, Perhaps A Third & Forth

CHAPTER ONE | PREV | CHAPTER NAVIGATION

➤ THE GAMECHANGER III

First Part Of This Chapter Here

Dallian is the very definition of sleazy. A man with a perfect build and a waft of gelled dark hair, draped in gold jewelry. He’s the kind of guy that’s attractive, and knows it, to the point it’s entirely repulsive. A cloud of arrogance surrounds him and threatens to make you gag.

“Bit annoying I had to buy both of you,” He laughs, “But I won’t be the one paying for it.”

Dallian’s eyes dart to Konig, rubbing his smug grin in Konig’s face.

Now this was what you expected from someone forcing you into being intimate with them.

Dallian passes a glass of wine to you as he settles on the couch next to you.

“I can show you how it’s done,” He says to Konig with a mocking nod of his head, “Teach you how to really please a woman.”

He snickers at the way Konig’s fists clench, how his shoulders tense, how those icy, killer eyes narrow.

How powerful Dallian must feel.

You almost want to laugh at him, for being foolish enough to believe he’s got the upper hand, when you and Konig have been entirely transparent thus far about being an unstoppable team.

And he has the gall to think he’s special. The exception. The one who gets to flash a few coins to humble the biggest, strongest victor in the worst way possible.

You can hardly bite back your excitement.

Your blood is racing through your veins, your heart hammering against your ribcage and its quick beat in your ears.

“What do you say, doll?”

Dallian’s hand reaches out to meld to your hips.

“Want me to show you how an experienced man does it?”

You put on your best flirtatious voice, leaning into his repulsive touch against every instinct to pull away.

“Maybe,” You say with a coy shrug, “But I am a bit shy.”

Dallian shakes his head and scoffs.

“Didn’t get that impression from you.”

“Fan of my work?”

“Very much so,” He purrs, tapering into a low hum.

“I guess it was just my way of saying I like a man who takes control.”

“Now that’s the impression I got from you.”

Dallion laughs, and looks to Konig in the expectation that he’d find it funny too.

He does not.

“Better make yourself comfortable,” He says to Konig, “Might be a bit longer than what you’re used to.”

He winks at Konig, surely a dig at his quick finish in the arena.

You beckon him with a curled finger, a bite in your lip that you’re not sure is genuine or not, because you’re literally shaking with anticipation for the big finish.

Dallian gives a low, sultry laugh that sloshes your lunch as he closes the distance between you.

You have to try really hard not to look over his shoulder and at Konig, sneaking along the border of the room to keep out of Dallian’s peripheral.

His footsteps are silent. It’s impressive, his ability to move without making a disturbance, especially considering his size. You’re reminded of the boy from One, who had no clue Konig was tailing him in that fall forest until he was already trapped in a chokehold.

You purposely expose your neck to keep Dallian from going for your lips, and he follows your whim, burying his head into your neck to leave burning kisses.

You only have to endure three wet, scalding, hum-laced kisses before Konig is towering over you both.

It’s quick.

Konig reaches down, and in one smooth motion, grabs Dallian by the side of his neck and smashes his head on the drink table with a breathtaking thud.

Dallian crashes to the ground, his arms catching on the table and the couch on his descent, falling into the gap between them like a rag doll.

Konig laughs dangerously as he places his feet on either side of Dallian’s body. He lowers himself to a straddle and mercilessly swings his fists down.

You close your eyes to avoid watching Konig do the dirty work. The impacts of his punches are still unpleasant, the images of Titan’s bloody skull shoved down your throat with each hit he lands.

So you open your eyes, and you watch. You watch Konig’s back twist and lurch forward with each of his swings, the pinch and unpinch of his shoulder blades, the twitch of his victim’s legs. Splatters of blood flick along the sofa and coffee table, his fists becoming bloodier with each wind up of his arm.

Trembling fingers tighten around your drink, and you take tiny sips of wine as you observe.

When Konig’s finished, long after Dallian was done for, he lingers on his knees over top of his fresh kill, his eyes closed and his head thrown back.

Konig doesn’t face you even when he stands. From behind, you can see his ribcage expand with each of his huffed breaths, bursts of shaky laughter spilling from his lips, bruised and split knuckles at his sides and dripping with blood.

He whips around with little warning, those dangerous eyes locking onto you. You start and stammer as he reaches those deadly arms in your direction, grabs two fistfuls of your lingerie, and yanks you into a fervorous kiss.

His laughs almost constitute giggles. He’s giddy, smiling into the kisses and bumping his teeth against your lips.

When he pulls away, those eyes are darkened something vicious. He’s looking at you like he wants to ravage you, ruin you, worship you.

It’s equal parts nerve-wracking and thrilling, and you wear a nervous smile to match.

He plops down on the couch, and pulls you into his lap by your waist, forcing you to meet him in a messy, slobbering kiss while you rearrange your limbs to straddle him. His tongue invades your mouth with such intensity, you’d think he’s trying to lick the back of your throat.

He pants through flushed, spit-glistened lips, smearing blood over your stockings as he creeps up your thighs. His eyes wander just as much as his hands, devouring you, all of you.

“I love you,” He breathes.

“I love you, too.”

Your hands trace up his firm core and chest.

“So good for me,” You whisper, “Did such a good job.”

Konig’s brows crease and those dangerous eyes soften in confusion.

“You worked so hard for me.”

One of your hands glides over his firm chest, the other sliding up the groove of his shoulder and his neck. You smooth all the way up to his jaw and stroke his cheeks with your thumbs. His bloody hand rests over yours, almost like it had the mind to pull your touch away, but decided against it.

“So good at protecting me, aren’t you? I think someone who works this hard deserves to be rewarded, yeah?”

You can see the battle in his eyes, does he want to ravish you? Or be ravished by you?

He gives in with a whine and a needy grind of his hips.

“Use your words,” You tease.

“Ja,” He blurts with a frantic nod of his head, “Please.”

A hum of approval crosses your lips as you leisurely undo the buttons on his shirt, brushing your knuckles along his chest.

His hands find your hips with a hold tight enough to leave an ache under his fingertips. He pushes you further into him, and leaves you no choice but to rock back and forth on the bulge in his pants.

You take your time, and find yourself enjoying making him wait. He’s so pretty like this, murmuring pleas and desperately seeking relief from the ache between his legs as you admire every newly revealed inch of his core.

Once the last button has been undone, dainty fingers slide his shirt off his shoulders, bunching the sleeves down to the crook of his elbows and exposing his biceps.

“So pretty,” You whisper.

You lean in to give him a faint kiss, just barely pressing your lips to his, holding his stare and stroking his scratchy cheek underneath your thumb once you pull away. His mouth is open as if to say something, but he’s frozen underneath you, only the quick dart of his glossy eyes as he studies your face.

You duck your head, dragging the tip of your nose along the underside of his jaw to leave light kisses on his neck. The shallow breaths in your ear are intoxicating, tightening the knot of want in your lower core only relieved with each grind he forces you to make against him.

Konig gives you a sad, hurt little look when you wordlessly wriggle from his grip and slide back on his legs. You make up for it, though, your palm melding to the front of his pants, groping him through the fabric of his slacks.

His bottom lip catches between his teeth, mindlessly rutting into you while you eye him with a playful smile.

“You need me to take care of you, Konig? Like you do for me?”

“Please,” He whispers with a nod, “Need you.”

Half his irises disappear behind his fluttering eyelids with every grind into your palm. The whine that leaves him when you remove your hands is hard not to revel in.

“S’okay,” You coo as you undo his slacks, “I’m going to take care of you.”

You slink between the gap of his pants and his underwear, massaging him through the slippery fabric. He lets out a sigh, his head falling back on the cushions.

You apply generous pressure as your hands slowly glide up him and sneak into the waistband of his underwear. His hips buck like he’s already fucking you, desperate for release.

“Brauche dich,” He whines.

“Sh, sh,” You soothe, “I got you.”

You gnaw on your lip when you free him from his waistband, swollen and enraged in your hands. You loosely wrap your fingers around the base of him, and watch with a pinch in your brow as you let him slide through your grip, caressing up his shaft.

A low, addicting moan falls from his flushed lips, encouraging enough to quicken your pace, eager to keep him making those noises that You slide your loose fist up and down his length, running your thumb along the ridge of his tip with each ascend.

Konig’s legs fidget underneath you, bouncing you with his twitches.

“Sch- f- “

Unintelligible mutters and pleas flow freely from him. You watch carefully, the tensing and untensing of his muscles, his lovesick eyes, the clench of his jaw.

“Does that feel good?”

“Hh- Ja!”

He can hardly respond, nodding and carelessly fucking himself into your hand.

When he meets your stare with those pretty drunken eyes and his flushed, parted lips, it steals your breath. It awakens something in you, a drop in your stomach and a craving to completely undo him at your touch. You grip him firmly at the base, quickly jerking him until your hand and his cock are just a blur.

“Sch-”

He tenses beneath you, his fingers digging into your sides and a string of choked moans leaving him. You keep your hands around him even when you awkwardly sling your legs over his thighs until you’re between them. The plush, shaggy carpet is kind to your knees as you lower yourself between Konig’s legs, the soles of your victim’s shoes inches from your calf.

Konig sobers, his eyes snapping open to stare down at you with a worried crease in his brow.

Your pumps idle as you size him up. Maybe you haven’t thought this through well enough, because he’s much more intimidating from down here. You’re not sure you’ll be able to fit him in your mouth without doing damage with your teeth, but it doesn’t deter you from trying.

Konig hesitantly shifts to sit on the edge of the couch to make it easier for you, and you hold his stare until you can’t, burying yourself in his lap to lick a careful stripe from base to tip.

Konig shivers, and his breath cuts off abruptly.

You lap at his tip, short and sweet licks, breaking your pace to occasionally flick your tongue side to side along the ridge.

You use his huffs to coach you through it, doubling down on the pace and the movements that keep his breaths hitched and laced with gravelly moans.

Your lips seal around his tip, tongue swirling in circles around him.

The noises coming from him are making your eyes roll, a thrilling drop in your lower abdomen that flourishes with a flood of arousal in your panties.

You set him on the flat of your tongue, and while unhinging your jaw as wide as it goes, swallow an extra inch or two. He’s so big it’s almost painful to prop your mouth open like this, and you can’t help but feel it’d be easier if he was standing up.

Konig sucks in a sharp breath when you start to bob your head on his tip, his fingers digging into your shoulders as you wet his cock with your inexperienced tongue.

He can’t seem to sit still, his hips twitching beneath you, a symphony of groans and huffs and strained breaths heading fanning the enticing heat in your lower abdomen.

You’re making a mess on him, slobbering, drool dripping down the length of his massive cock, and you can tell he’s struggling to hold himself back from fucking your mouth without restraint.

There’s no way you’ll be able to fit all of him in your mouth, and you’re definitely bumping your teeth along him unintentionally, but he’s not complaining.

“Hh- so pretty-”

You’re surprised at how much this is turning you on. Without even being touched, wet just from listening to him being pleasured. He looks even bigger from down here, sprawled out on the couch while his cock twitches in your mouth. It feels right, you being on your knees like this for him, serving him and unraveling him at the same time. It’s sloppy, amateur work all around, but Konig doesn’t seem to mind, in fact he looks almost betrayed when you give into your sore jaw, but he has no problem forgiving you when you scramble to take off your underwear.

You do an awkward little hop on one foot, almost tripping when you kick them to the side in a rush to straddle him. You meet him in a rough kiss, wasting no time to line him up to your soaked cunt, sinking his spit-coated tip into you.

You both let out a strained moan as you work him into you with gentle bounces.

Once each descent you try to swallow a little more of him, using his strong, tense shoulders for support as you wince and struggle to take a cock that you’re no match for.

“Bitte - Du fühlst dich so gut.”

“S’okay,” You say, “I have you.”

“Bitte - ”

He loses control of his hips with a groan, aching to cram more of himself into you.

“I’m sorry, bitte-”

“S’okay.”

You plant a kiss on his forehead after he corrects himself, the salt of his sweat lingering on your lips. He buries his face into your chest with a needy whine, muffled by your lingerie.

“You want to taste them? Hm?”

His nose scrapes against your sternum when he nods. He gives you space, and watches you with hazy eyes and parted, flushed lips as you strip off your top, freeing your chest with an alluring bounce.

His tongue is on at them at once, quick, wide strokes over the entirety of your nipple. You clench around him at the sensation, writhing at his slick tongue. He’s losing himself to the taste of your chest, struggling to hold back his thrusts as he seals his lips around your nipple with an eager suck.

Intoxicated, he hungrily nurses on you, his nose buried in your plush chest and his brows creased in frustration that he can’t seem to get enough. His tongue furiously flicks at the bud of your nipple, and you can feel his impatient cock twitching inside of you at every squeaky moan and sharp gasp that leaves you.

“You fill me up so well, Konig,” You grit, “Only you could ever please me.”

He whines around your nipple.

“You want to fuck me, Konig?”

He pops off your nipple to catch his breath, nodding desperately.

“Please, please.”

You lean in and kiss his cheek, dropping your voice to just a whisper.

“I’m yours.”

His eyes flutter shut, a moan on his lips and his hips immediately snapping into you with such speed and intensity it throws you off balance and pulls a strangled cry from your lips.

With his firm hold on your hips he keeps you still and hovers you just above his cock so he can thrust up into you.

Your hands shoot out for support, clinging to him as he holds you in the air and desperately fucks you.

He takes you with him when his shoulder blades dig into the back of the couch, keeping your chest in his face so he can latch on to your nipple. Lapping and sucking while he holds you with a firm grip on your underarms, lifting his hips from the couch to mercilessly pound into you.

He pops off your nipple when he can’t hold back his sinful moans.

“Ich liebe dich,” He mutters into your chest, bouncing and brushing along his face with each of his eager thrusts, “Bitte- bitte.”

“Hh- so good, Konig.”

Your praises border on incoherent, your eyes clenched shut at the overwhelming pleasure his desperate pumps into you bring. His unbridled thrusts are inescapable, his bloody, firm grip on your arms unyielding.

The moans he draws from you waver with each thrust. As the flash heat intensifies beneath your stomach, you can’t hold yourself up anymore, falling forward and burying your head into the crook of his shoulder, as useless as a rag doll in his brute hold. His hands find the back of your thighs, needy whimpers and stuttered breaths right in your ear.

Konig’s fingers dig into the soft flesh of your thighs, his teeth clench, and his muscles tighten.

“Ich- Ich k-kann icht - !”

Konig’s cry tapers into a choppy moan, his hips bucking uncontrollably beneath you as he stuffs you with his finish.

“I’m sorry-” He huffs, “I’m sorry, bitte-”

“It’s okay,” You soothe, “My good boy.”

You plant a kiss on his glistening forehead, keeping him inside you as you take in his rosen cheeks, his heaving chest. You’re careful when you pull off him, slinging your leg over his lap to rest your knees into the side of his thigh. You gently replace his stained underwear, and give him space to cool off and catch his breath, but your fingers do slink through his sweaty hair to scratch your nails over his scalp.

“Did so good for me, Konig.”

He whines again, and all but throws himself at you, burying himself in your neck. His cheek rests on the front of your shoulder, heavy breaths rolling over your collarbones.

You wrap your arms around him, and rest your chin on his head as your fingers work the back of his hair.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

You give him a gentle kiss on the crown of his sweaty hair.

“I love you, too.”

“It doesn’t feel real,” He breathes.

“What doesn’t?”

You try to get a look at his face, but he stays hidden in your neck. His stubble sands against your shoulder and his voice is just a low hum against your skin.

“That I have you. That you’re mine.”

“Mm. I’m yours.”

“Are we - are you my girlfriend?”

The laugh that leaves you comes from deep within and echoes throughout the suite. Konig’s head whips up, horrified eyes meeting yours.

“No, no - Konig, I just thought it was, y’know, implied.”

“Ach,” He looks to the side, and his brow quirks, “So - you are - ?”

“Yes,” You laugh, “I’m your girlfriend.”

He gives a relieved laugh through a dopey grin, and plants a messy, wet kiss on your lips, holding your stare with those sparkling pretty blue eyes after he pulls away.

“I have to say, though,” You grumble, “Girlfriend seems like too light of a term after all that.”

He looks away, quiet for a moment, stroking over the ribbon knotted around his wrist his thumb.

“Do you want to get married?”

“What?” You ask with a sharp recoil.

“Ach, I don’t know- I thought-”

“Did you just propose to me?”

“Was? No - Maybe. I don’t know. You said-”

Konig cuts off his blurted, disaster of a sentence with a huff, and picks it up with a meek tone.

“I want - I want you to pick. The term.”

His eyes dart to the side, and his lips pull back in a wince. His thumbs circle themselves as fast as his thoughts race.

“I’ve just been using, ‘The Love of My Life,’” You throw away with a shrug, “But yeah, I’ll marry you.”

He blinks twice, his brow creased.

“The love - Marry-” He shakes his head, “Warten! I have to- this isn’t-”

His eyes dart around the room, and his lips pull back when he lands on Dallian’s corpse. He grabs you by the hands and prompts you to stand, urgently tugging you along while you stumble over the shag carpet. He shimmies his button down off the rest of the way, holds it open, and guides it up your arms.

His eyes dart around again as you button up his shirt, and he loses track of his thoughts. He gets stuck for a moment, before he kicks back into gear and finds the button that opens the balcony door and pulls you outside.

“What are you doing?” You ask.

“I want you to have a pretty view.”

When he sees your arms crossed over your chest, he turns on the heater, and stands in front of you again. His bloody hands wrap around your biceps and smooth down your arms, clasping both of your hands in his.

He brings the back of your hand to his lips, and leaves a soft, lingering kiss.

“I have always dreamt of this,” He says, “And now that I have you, I never want to let you go.”

He releases one of your hands and lowers himself to one knee, brute fingers trying their best to be gentle as he undoes the ribbon on his wrist.

“It’s not much,” He says, draping the ribbon delicately over both of his blood-crusted palms and extending it to you, “But it means a lot to me.”

You go to speak, but the words get caught in your throat, and the tears well in your eyeline without permission.

“Will you marry me?”

There’s a plea in his eyes and a sheepish smile on his face. You’re so overwhelmed, you can’t even say yes, so you just nod, a sob escaping you when you throw yourself at him.

He catches you in those strong arms, letting you cry into his shoulder, his hands rubbing up and down your stuttering back.

“Oh, mein sieger,” He whispers, “Whatever comes next, we’ll do it together.”

When you finally pull away to wipe away your tears, he holds his hand out to ask for yours. He loosely wraps the ribbon around your wrist and knots it into a careful bow.

“Don’t forget to kiss the bride,” You whisper with a sniff.

He breaks out in a wide smile, and kisses you so fast you smush your noses together.

A nasally laugh breaks the kiss, and you nuzzle into the hand that cups your jaw and the thumb that strokes your cheek.

“Wait,” You say, reaching out to touch his chest with a sudden urgency, “I have to find one for you.”

“Hm?”

“A token,” You say, “For our marriage, or whatever. Wait here.”

You rise to your feet and make a dash into the suite, tearing apart Dallian’s things to search for a gift as quick as you can, eager to spend every last minute you have with Konig at your side.

Lying on a dresser, you find a bracelet. A string of red, spherical beads, tied together with a long sliding knot to adjust the size of the loop. Two of the beads hang off either end of the bracelet, a few extra inches of slack on each.

It reminds you of a handful of stemless cherries strung together with a tight coil of twine. And while it was the first contender you laid eyes on in a race for an impromptu token of an unofficial marriage, and maybe such a thing should be picked more deliberately, you can’t help but feel like it’s the perfect gift.

You practically jog back to the balcony, where Konig waits by the door.

“What about this one?”

He takes the bracelet in his hands, and inspects it in his open palm.

“I love it,” He says.

You share a smile, and he gives you his hand when you wordlessly gesture for it, placing the bracelet on his wrist and tugging the ends to secure it.

He studies your token, giving the beads hanging off the ends a shake.

Those pretty blue eyes find you again, a cozy smile on his face as he leans down to meet you in a kiss. When he pulls away, his thumb makes light side to side strokes over the height of your cheek, and he studies your face like it’s the first time he’s ever seen it.

“I love you,” He whispers.

“I love you, too,” You whisper back.

His hands follow the dip of your neck before slowing on your shoulders. You pull each other into an embrace, the lull of his heart beat against your ear.

“Suppose we ought to honeymoon?” You ask, meeting his face.

“Mm,” He hums.

His lips fold in, his eyes dart away, and his brows pinch as he thinks over something.

You flinch when he snatches up your hands and leans in, a sudden inspired intensity in his eyes and tone.

“Let’s run.”

“What?” You ask through a nervous laugh.

”Let’s run,” He repeats with a flare of his eyes and a shake of your hands.

You unintentionally adopt his urgent tone as your eyes flit between the smile bunching his cheeks and the determined glint in his eyes.

“Run? Run where?”

“Anywhere, everywhere. Du und ich. I will protect you, take care of you, meine braut.”

A nervous laughs bubbles from you.

“But- how do we-“

Konig’s hold on your hands tighten.

“We go, and we don’t look back. You were right.”

“They w- they won’t find us?” You ask.

Konig’s eyes narrow and his lips warp into a mischevious grin.

“What’s the matter?” He says, “Afraid they’ll send you to your death?”

You look down at your shoes, lacking defense.

And you nod.

And he nods too.

He gives your hands one last shake and a quick kiss, and you fumble to find your stride as he drags you back into the suite.

“We have to pack.”

And with little thought, you do. You fill two packs with food and clothes and toiletries, and share a long kiss as you prepare to embark on your escape.

“Together,” He says.

“Together,” You whisper back.

You don’t open the door to Dallian’s suite three inches before you slam it shut at the flashes of brilliant white uniforms.

“Peacekeepers, peacekeepers,” You mutter frantically, futilely trying to shove Konig back into the suite.

Konig’s brows knit, he abandons his pack, and sweeps you away from the door with his arm.

“No, no, what are you doing?!” You squeak with a tug, but trying to hold him back is and always has been a useless effort.

Konig opens the door, and you have no choice but to standby as he steps out into the hall.

You take a step backwards, your fingers shooting up to press to your bottom lip.

You flinch at the sounds of altercation, and just before you get your hands on the edge of the door, Konig lets out a strained cry before crashing into the door and ripping it from your fingers. He hits the ground hard, his shoulder taking the brunt of his fall. “Konig! Konig?! Oh sh-”

His body twitches and shakes at your feet, but a grating, intense buzzing steals your attention, snapping your head in the direction of the peacekeepers. Sparks of electrical blue light emit from the end of a baton aimed square at your chest, its terrifying zaps blinding and deafening you.

Your palms shoot up in surrender as you stumble backwards and trip over your tribute pedestal. You land in a pure white coat of snow, scrambling away from threat as it kicks Konig back into Dallian’s suite.

“Konig! Konig!”

You race to his side after the door slams shut, your knees disrupting petals in the dirt and your hands helplessly flailing just above him.

“Konig? Konig?! Oh, oh f-!”

He groans and rolls over, collapsing onto his back. You trembling hands find his heaving chest while you examine his face.

“Konig! Are you okay?!”

His tear-welled eyes open and he finds you, pushing heavy breaths through grit teeth.

Suddenly there’s a knife in his stomach and his blood is oozing down his sides and coating the ginkgo petals in brilliant crimson.

“Schwein,” He grits, pulling his hands up to his chest.

“Why did you do that?!” You squeak.

You don’t get your answer. Your palms desperately search for reminders that life still resides within him. The reassurance lies just beneath your fingers, firm chest convulsing as he struggles for wheezing breath. His eyes pinch shut as he fights the spasm of his muscles.

“Stop, stop struggling, relax, just - just relax.”

It’s obvious you don’t trust yourself, but he follows your orders anyway, coaxing his shoulder blades to the floor, the rest of him following. You kneel at his head and carefully guide his head into your lap for cushion. Your hands smooth over his shoulders, his chest, his collarbones, his neck, his rough jaw.

“You’re okay,” You say, “You’re okay.”

His eyes flutter shut, and he nuzzles into your touch as he recoups.

“That was really stupid,” You whisper softly.

“Mm,” He agrees.

He rests on your thighs long after his muscles stop twitching from whatever the peacekeepers did to him. You run your fingers through his hair, half to soothe him and half to soothe yourself.

“I love you,” He whispers.

“I love you too,” You say.

“I’m sorry,” He says.

“Don’t be.”

You both sit like this for a while, watching his chest rise and fall with each breath, watching his peaceful face rest in your lap. Occasionally he’ll flutter his lashes and look up to you, just to remind himself that you’re there. He smiles everytime, a warm, dopey grin before those pretty blue eyes close again.

“Sometimes,” He says, “I am afraid I’ll wake up.”

You tilt your head with a furrow of your brow.

“What do you mean?”

“I’m afraid I’ll wake up, and it’ll all have just been a dream. And I won’t have you anymore.”

You give a soft hum as you think on it.

“Tell you what,” You say with a pat of his cheek, “If it is a dream, meet me back in Nine.”

“What if you don’t like me?” He asks.

“Impossible.”

“What should I say?”

“Hmm. You should say - ‘Hey, I think you’re really cute and funny and smart and the most perfect girl ever - I was wondering if you wanted to fool around in front of the entire country, kill ourselves, get married, and maybe incite a rebellion with me?’”

Konig laughs, that hearty laugh that floods your chest with a feeling so wonderful you can’t help but bask in its warmth.

“Will do,” He says.

You sigh, and your face steadily falls.

“Do you think they’re rebelling?”

Konig sighs, and shrugs, as if it hardly matters now.

“Yeah,” You say.

But you do wonder if your speech was enough to boil District Eight’s unrest into something truly catastrophic. Has a full scale rebellion broke out in Eight? Are the people being executed, bombed as you sit here, joking and laughing with the love of your life?

There’s another pause, until Konig speaks.

“Want to snoop?”

“Obviously,” You say.

You squint, and add, “I kinda want to wreck the place, too.”

“I think we could work that in,” He says with a grin, “I was jealous I didn’t get to participate in the last one.”

“Why don’t you have the honors, then.”

“We have to start with the statue,” He says, those mischievous blue eyes staring up at you.

‘The statue’ is a fifteen-foot tall crystal statue in Dallian’s suite that depicts a giant, naked woman in an incredibly explicit pose with breasts that seem to defy the very nature of gravity itself. It sits between two grand, curved staircases that lead to the upper half of Dallian’s penthouse.

“Obviously,” You laugh, “I’d actually be very impressed if you pulled it off.”

“Mm. Watch me.”

And so you do.

You settle yourself on one of the marble staircases, and watch through the gaps of the intricately designed handrails as Konig sizes up the statue.

“Easy with the ogling there, Stud.”

“I’m not ogling,” He says, “I’m thinking.”

“Mhm,” You tease, “Thinking about what?”

“Thinking about how I’m going to destroy this giant woman.”

Your snort turns to a cackle that echoes throughout the massive foyer.

“Ach, no. That came out wrong,” He says with a wince.

“Think of it as, hm, freeing her,” You offer.

Konig loosely gestures in your direction, “Yes, that.”

He tries to tie bed sheets together to wrap around her from the top of the stairs in an attempt to knock her over, but his efforts ultimately prove futile. At some point - you start to feel for this poor woman, on display for some sleaze day in and day out, and now on the chopping block just for existing in the presence of two unruly kids.

So instead, Konig helps you craft a very baggy and ill-fitting dress for her out of the bed sheets.

After, you rifle through the suite, snooping and smashing things as you please.

As Konig inspects Dallian’s book collection, you play with the buttons on Dallian’s drink table. Pressing them just for the satisfaction of seeing what happens. One of them makes the table glow at the edges with a soft light, another makes it play music.

At the press of another button, a small part of the table opens and reveals a hidden compartment.

Inside lies a small crystal tray, and on it rests a silver cube, a matching circular dish, and two cigarettes. Ground up dried leaves wrapped in a thin see-through paper with a sturdy filter on the end.

You pick up one of the cigarettes, give it a pinch, and watch as the razor-thin paper flexes at your fingertips.

“Found some smokes,” You call.

“Oh?”

“You ever had a cigarette before?” You ask.

“No. You?”

“Nope. You wanna?”

“Mm.”

He doesn’t sound entirely convinced, but you forge on.

Might as well. You’re not long for this world, anyway. What harm could it do?

You set the cigarette down and fiddle with the little silver cube, trying to figure out what it is.

“He only has erotica,” Konig calls, “And none of it is tasteful.”

“Oh, yeah? Do you read a lot of erotica?”

“Ich- No. I don’t know.”

“You are a terrible liar, you know that?”

“Was auch immer,” He huffs.

You flinch when Konig tosses a book carelessly over his shoulder and it hits the ground with a boom. Your hand tightens around the little metal cube in your brace, and it shifts in your palm.

It’s split in the middle. They’re still stuck together, but the top half slides back, making two rectangular boxes.

The cube clicks when you push the top half as far as it will go. A flame appears in the center and nearly burns the fingerprints from your thumb. You snap it shut, extinguishing the flame, but in your panic you end up fumbling the little cube and nearly toss it from your hand.

“I’ve never seen one with pictures before.”

It takes a moment for you to register Konig’s mumbled words.

“Pictures?” You ask half-heartedly.

You push the top half of the cube back until the flame erupts, watching carefully where you place your fingers. With your other hand you grab the cigarette, and guide the tip of it to the flame.

“Ja,” He mumbles absently.

The pinched paper that seals the cigarette shut catches, at first a small flame, but the razor thin paper catches quickly, and soon the entire tip of the cigarette erupts in a flame big enough to incite panic.

You desperately blow on it to put out the flame that quickly eats up the paper. It extinguishes, and you uselessly wave away the smoke that rises in the flame’s wake. You are left with what you can only assume is a lit cigarette.

“Hah!” You get.

Look at you, figuring out how to light a cigarette all by yourself.

Smells awful. Pungent and musky.

The bright orange ring makes a slow creep up the cigarette, a steady stream of smoke warbling up towards the ceiling.

“Was riecht hier so?”

You put the filter to your lips, brows scrunched and face already braced in a hesitant pinch.

“Wait, wait!”

Konig drops a book and rushes to you, but he’s far too late, you’ve already taken an inhale. Your chest tightens beyond comfort and your throat and lungs erupt in a trail of flames.

The coughing is violent and uncontrollable, each one stutters your entire body. There’s no possible way to hold them back, you have no choice but to hack with an open mouth, tongue curled - you can practically feel the blood vessels popping in your face.

“Oh - oh, that burns-”

Your wheezed complaints ends with another loud and violent coughing fit.

“Are you okay?!” Konig asks, grabbing the cigarette from your hand and putting it out on the table, “Why did you do that?!”

You turn your head to keep from coughing in his face.

“Water,” You choke.

Konig scrambles to your aid, racing off to get you a glass. You can hardly get the water down your scorched throat, your teeth knock against the glass with each convulse of your chest.

“Why would anyone do this to themselves?!” You cry between coughs.

“Are you okay?!”

“It burns.”

The water only helps a little, gulping it down to the bottom of the glass.

“I’ll get more!”

You get down three entire glasses of water before you can inhale and exhale without choking.

“Guh,” You croak, “That hurt.”

“Are you- Are you okay?”

“Yeah. Dizzy.”

“Dizzy? D- Does it hurt?”

“Just my throat,” You say, “And my chest.”

“Lie down,” He says with a firm guiding hand, “Do you think it’s poisonous?”

You follow his whim, lying back on the thick, plush carpet.

“Maybe,” You say.

You smile and add, “Probably. Probably not.”

“What do I do?” He asks.

“Dunno,” You say with a shrug.

You give a weak pat on the carpet next to you.

“Lay with me.”

“Lay with you?”

“Lay with me.”

“Äh,” He hesitates, “Okay.”

He lies flat next to you, and accepts your hand when you rest it on his. He engulfs you with his hold, intertwining his fingers with yours, and lets your locked hands rest on the floor between you.

Your body is so warm and toasty, it’s like you’ve been wrapped in a soft, fuzzy blanket.

“Are you alright?”

“Yeah,” You say, “But my mouth feels weird.”

“Your mouth?” He says, propping himself up on his elbows, “It hurts?”

“No, I can just- feel it. Too much.”

Your explorative dry tongue runs along the bottom of your teeth.

“You want more water?”

You hum affirmative, and gulp away, but it does little to quench your never-ending thirst.

You let the carpet swallow you once more, and get lost in the chandelier that illuminates the room, fascinated by the shimmering light passing through the crystal droplets.

You raise your arms up to the ceiling and open your palms. Your fingers spread and close, and you watch mesmerized as the light shining off the crystals disappear and reappear between the gaps of your fingers.

“What are you doing?”

“I don’t know. It just feels right.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yes!” You proclaim through a laugh, “I’m okay.”

“I wish you would have let me try it first,” He says.

“What?”

“To - To test it,” He says, “Just in case.”

Your hands drop to your stomach.

“In case what?”

“In case it’s poisonous.”

You hush him gently, blindly swatting the table to retrieve the smushed, crumpled cigarette, “You can still test it now.”

“Was?” He says as he sits up, “You said it hurts?”

You shake your head, “So worth it.”

He looks to the side, considering it.

“What’s it like?”

“It’s like- ah, hmm. Warm. And I feel so light. Like I’m floating, but also wobbling? I don’t know. I’m not - it’s hard to do words right now.”

“‘Hard to do words?’” He laughs.

You give him a lazy swat.

“Yes,” You say with a giggle, “Don’t laugh at me.”

“You look really cute for having been poisoned,” He says with a squint of his eyes, “Sleepy.”

You hold the cigarette in his direction and give it a lazy wave in the air.

“Your turn,” You say, “Unless you’re afraid.”

“Puh,” He spits, snatching the cigarette from your hand, “Fine.”

You thread your fingers together over your waist with a hum and let your eyelids flutter shut.

“Water,” You remind him.

“Water,” He repeats.

He disappears into the kitchen with the little silver cube and the cigarette, and after a bout of silence you hear his distant hacks and coughs, some swears you can’t quite make out.

Your foot rocks side to side on your ankle, but otherwise you’re still aside from the occasional drink. Your mouth is perpetually dry, a thirst you can’t seem to quench.

Once he’s done with his fit, Konig returns to the living room with a pitcher of water for you to share, and lays down on the carpet next to you.

“Oh mein Gott.”

“Mhm.”

“Oh, mein Gott.”

“Mhm.”

“It’s odd,” He says, “I feel like I’m moving really fast? But I’m not.”

“What?” You laugh.

“I’m not moving,” He says, “But I’m going so fast.”

“Not so easy to do words now, is it?”

“Puh,” He dismisses.

You giggle, as your hands make wide strokes over the deep, plush hairs of the carpet.

“This carpet feels amazing,” You say, “I kinda want to live in it?”

You laugh after hearing how silly the words sound once spoken out loud.

Konig pinches a space of air smaller than an inch between his thumb and his forefinger.

“Would you shrink down teeny tiny?” He asks.

“Mhm. Just promise not to step on me.”

“Never,” He says, “I’d keep you nice and safe in my pocket.”

And while there is no pocket there, he still gives his pec a pat.

“Would you feed me crumbs?”

He gives that inaudible laugh that bounces his shoulders, and squeezes your sweaty hand.

“Only the finest.”

He turns his head to look at you with a wide grin on his face, but his face falls when he meets your stare.

“Your eyes are red,” He says, suddenly alarmed.

“Yours too,” You say, “Do yours hurt?”

“They’re kinda dry,” He says, “But not really.”

“Mine too. S’Probably fine.”

He studies you for a minute before he eases himself down on the carpet once again.

Your heart is beating unusually fast in your chest, and while it’s probably cause for concern, you decide not to share this side effect with Konig.

Best not to worry him.

“Oh,” You draw, “You know what else would feel amazing right now?”

“A snack?” He asks.

“I was going to say a shower, but I like yours better.”

When you try to stand, you find you have to manually move your limbs, it’s no longer second nature. You’re so aware of your body, which is weird, because you’ve been nothing but distant from your body since the games. But now, every nerve seems hyper aware, and every movement requires more thought than usual.

There is no kitchen.

Only a grand dining table and a wall of sleek appliances. You have to work together, but with trial and error, you figure out the right combination of buttons and screen-poking to have food appear hot and ready to eat right before your eyes.

You both stuff your faces with extravagant foods. The highlights are a dish of candied sweet potatoes, a creamy, rich cake with a blackberry glaze, and perfectly ripened green grapes, each one its own sweet, refreshing burst on your dry tongue.

“Everything tastes so good,” You groan, “I’m so full but I just want to keep - tasting.”

Konig hum is muffled through a far-too-big mouthful of sweet potatoes.

Once you’re both stuffed and looking a bit green, your shower idea makes a reappearance. The place is so big you have to wander around the suite for quite a while to find it, and a few times you forget what you were even doing. Lost to never-ending halls and countless doors, getting distracted by poking around in someone else’s life.

The shower is on the second floor, apparently, and you make a point to wave hello to the giant dressed woman on your way to the shower.

As Konig strips, you get lost in his form. Admiring him, watching his muscles work beneath his skin as he undoes his pants.

He’s impossible. And yet, here he stands. Towering over you with his perfect form, made of nothing but power and strength.

“You’re so… big.”

You regret your words almost instantly, but Konig doesn’t seem to mind.

He grins, and gives a mischievous hum.

“The perfect size to protect a troublesome girl like you.”

He tests the temperature of the water, his eyes darting away and his smile fading as he thinks on something.

“I think that is why I was made so big,” He says, “I always asked why. But now I know. It’s for you.”

“Psh.”

“I’m sure of it,” He insists.

“Was it written in the stars?” You tease.

“Yes. I was made for you, and you were made for me. I was made to protect you. It’s my purpose.”

It doesn’t sound like he’s joking anymore. The way he’s saying it now, serious and determined and not at all playful - it’s like he actually believes it.

It’s not the first time he’s said something like this, but the last time was in the midst of intimacy in the form of filthy nothings. This time, it’s spoken in the same way he did when he snatched up your arms and asked you to run away with him - there’s a true, eccentric passion behind his words that you may have found troublesome if your execution wasn’t right around the corner.

Maybe for Konig it is easier to digest the lifelong ostracization and the games and the aftermath if he frames it as a means to get to you. Quite the hoops he had to jump through, but maybe it’s worth it, for him, if it assigns the taunting and the games and the aftermath a purpose. Making it easier for him to compartmentalize what you’ve both been forced into by thinking of it as fate or an obstacle or some predetermined grand plan.

And maybe you believe it too?

At least, you’re having trouble discrediting the statement in this moment. You know it’s not logical. Maybe it’s the cigarette, but after everything that has happened - this industrial-strength bond you have formed in the presence of hellish life and gruesome death, the unquestionable dependence on one another, the twenty-two tributes who sacrificed their lives, the relationship special enough to become the exceptions to the games themselves - how are you supposed to attribute all of it to simple chance? How are you supposed to believe it’s not fate that you two were chosen together, that you made it to the end together - that you are anything but destined for each other?

It’s much neater to think of it that way, rather than it being for nothing aside for riches, hollow fame, and a sparkly crown.

In reality, you must know it was for nothing. The games are simply the cruelty of man. Inflicted pointlessly by those who decided they were better than the rest. There is no reason for the games other than to intimidate the districts. A punishment for the rebellion and a reminder of just how pointless it would be to try and fight against the Capitol’s iron grip. You know that you and Konig are victims. The circumstances turned what should have been simple young love into a bond where you are so toxically dependent on each other you are willing to overlook just about anything.

If every second didn’t bring you closer to your imminent death, you might worry. Because even if his statement wasn’t a delusion - that is a lot of pressure to put on one girl’s shoulders. To be the reason that justifies all of it. Relentless torment and games and kills and suicides and twenty-two dead tributes. His statement implies lack of freewill, a lack of reason, and an unhealthy possessiveness that’s equal parts disconcerting and thrilling - all wrapped up in one statement.

The pedestal you stand on keeps rising and rising, and you are afraid that you will not survive the inevitable fall.

But again, execution is right around the corner. And what is the point of worrying about how healthy your relationship with Konig is when your expiration date is near? Why would you worry about breaking your leg jumping from a waterfall when you have what could be as little as minutes left?

So for now, you will be his prize.

And you will accept him as yours.

“Yes,” You say, “My big strong protector.”

He gives you a wide smile - and for a moment his eyes flare in a way only thickens that unease swirling in your guts. It fades quickly - but the effect of that glint in his eye lingers with you.

It wasn’t quite right. Unstable, hungry.

You swallow, and offer a weak smile with a nod.

He reaches out to rest his hand on your jaw with a gentle caress.

“I love you,” He says, “Meine braut.”

You reach up and rest your hand on his wrist.

“I love you too, Konig.”

You soak for what feels like hours. The hot water feels amazing on your skin, euphoric, even, and you find you’re having a hard time parting this steamy heaven.

The thought of wearing any of Dallian’s clothes disgusts you more than bloody lingerie, but after you’ve found the will to leave the shower, Konig graciously offers you his button down once more. As you roll the sleeves up to keep them from dangling over your hands, Konig’s nose crinkles and his shoulders pull up.

“So small,” He says, “So cute.”

You roll your eyes and huff, but your smile is telling.

“Oh, whatever.”

He lingers his stare on your for a few moments before he steps over to you and gently places his hands on your shoulders. Looking you over with a pleased grin and those shimmering blue eyes that make the warmth in your chest radiate at full heat once more.

His hand slides up your face to rest on your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He meets your eyes again, and his grin turns roguish.

“I want to try something,” He says.

“Oh?”

He snatches you up by your sides and picks you up like you are weightless, ignoring your gasp. He sits down on the bed, and for a moment you’re flailing over his lap before he lays back, his firm grip leaving little choice on straddling his face.

“Konig!” You squeak.

The only warning you get is a warm breath between your thighs before the flat of his tongue slowly but thoroughly swipes the entire length of your slit.

He groans at your taste, and his hands tighten around your thighs to combat your squirms.

“Hh- ah!”

You’re still sensitive from the finish he gave you earlier, even the faintest of touches would have you twitching, and Konig is by no means shy when it comes to eating you out. Once he’s gotten a taste, his tongue dives into you, licking short, furious stripes along your slit.

Sly, bloodshot eyes stare up at you from between your spread thighs as his avid tongue works at you. He raises a brow, and you can tell by the way the height of his cheek bunches that he’s reveling in your pleasure, the shock and embarrassment of his brazenness.

“Dir schmeckt so gut.”

He pulls away just long enough to breathe his praise before he’s back to dragging the flat of his tongue along you.

The cigarette has made your body so receptive to touch, you can feel every little movement he makes with his tongue. Slick and warm between your thighs, flicking back and forth over your clit.

You nearly topple over, palms searching for support on the mattress, but his hands snatch up your underarms to keep you propped up while he works at you.

Your head falls forward in defeat, your thighs squeezing the sides of his head. Sloppy and fervorous, slobbering over you, licking at you like he’s cleaning the plate of his first meal in days. He closes his drowsy eyes, and you can feel his satisfied hum between your thighs.

“F-“

You cut yourself off with a wavered moan.

With his hold on you he begins to rock you, forcing you to grind on his face. He lets out a moan into your cunt when your hand threads through his hair and tightens for leverage.

Your brow creases, and after a moment you give a hesitant tug on his hair. His grip on you tightens, his eyes flutter, and he lets out another moan, this one needy and whined.

His tongue quickens, and his hips begin to grind into nothingness behind you.

You hesitantly push the fistful of his hair into the mattress, forcing his head to tilt back and his jaw to jut further into you.

You take over grinding your face down into him, keeping the grip on his hair taut and sinking your other hand into the mattress to keep you steady.

His moans and whines are unrestrained now, unabashed and muffled by your drooling cunt. His cheeks are flushed and the eyes peeking out between your thighs drowsy and crossed.

You get lost in the continuous pleasure his smooth and relentless tongue gifts you, straightening out your core and leaning back, the sound of your unrestrained moans filling the bedroom. Your hand smushes the covers next to his hips, never giving up the grinds on his face.

His fingertips indent the plush flesh of your thighs, keeping you spread while he grunts into you.

“F- Ko-”

Ripples of warmth flow throughout your body, blood rushes to your cheeks and pools in your lower abdomen as his slick tongue circles your finish. When he pushes you over the edge, you don’t see stars, but the whole galaxy as his eager tongue coaxes wave after wave of pleasure. The cigarette seems to intensify the finish, because all you can manage is holding on for dear life as the euphoria tears through you.

It may just be the longest finish you’ve ever had. It never seems to taper out, just as unrelenting as Konig’s tongue. It doesn’t flourish, it peeters out gracefully and without overstimulation. Konig’s whining and moaning into your cunt, and it takes you too long to realize you’re yanking on his hair with everything you have.

You do have to pry Konig’s hands from your thighs to get off his face. You all but collapse on the bed, clit pulsing and legs twitching.

“Fuck,” You breathe.

Konig wipes away the puddle you left on his face with the back of his arm and crawls up the sheets. He rests his head on your chest and a light hand on your stomach. The mess between your thighs cools uncomfortably in the air, but Konig anticipates your need, stripping a case off a pillow and offering it to you.

You give Konig a kiss on the crown of his head as he settles back onto your chest.

“Thank you,” You breathe.

“Ich würde jederzei.”

Your nails scratch at his scalp while he holds you tight at the waist. Occasionally you’ll give a teasing tug on his hair and revel in the sharp inhales he makes, the way he buries his burning face further into your chest.

“I love you,” He mumbles.

“I love you too,” You say.

“Meine braut,” He hums.

“What are you saying down there?”

“My bride,” He says with a warm, glowing smile that won’t seem to go away.

“Mm.”

“What’s that other thing you call me. Si-?“

“Mein sieger?”

“Yes, that.”

He hesitates before he gets his sheepish translation out.

“My victor.”

“Sneaky boy.”

He watches his own forefinger trace light circles on your thigh.

“Sorry,” He says.

“Were your parents not from here?” You ask.

Konig is quiet long enough for you to wonder if you shouldn’t have asked.

“Äh, no, my grandparents,” He says, “They were just supposed to be here for a visit, but got stuck here when the äh-”

“Yeah,” You say.

That tricky rebellion.

“What were they doing here?” You ask carefully, twirling a lock of his hair around your finger.

You don’t want to say the wrong thing. Gently coaxing him open with the hopes he doesn’t close you out.

“Where they were from - you can only grow crops in certain places? Too rocky. And the wildfires only made it worse. My Opa was trying to set up a trade to get grain for steel before they closed the ports and fenced Nine.”

“I can’t imagine that,” You say, “To know you can never go home again.”

Well. Maybe you can.

“I can,” He says with a huff and an eye roll, “It’s all they talked about.”

“That must have been really hard.”

Konig shrugs.

You let the silence ride out, hoping he’ll reveal more, but he stays quiet.

“What should I call you?” You say after enough time has passed.

“Hm?”

“Like, I don’t know. A stupid little nickname. Or something.”

He thinks on it for a moment.

“You don’t want to pick it?” He asks.

“All the ones I can think of don’t feel right. Like, fit?”

He hums.

“Bärchen?” He offers.

“Oh, wow. B- Biya-“

He laughs.

“Bärchen.”

He has to repeat it a few times for you to get the ‘sch’ sound right.

“What does that mean?”

He squeezes your thigh, and hums.

“Little bear. It’s a common nickname for a boyfriend.”

His eyes dart to the side.

“Or husband,” He adds.

“Little?” You ask doubtfully.

He laughs, “Okay, okay.”

“Knuddelbär?”

“What does that one mean?”

“Äh, cuddle bear? It sounds stupider when you translate it. It’s ‘cause I’m so big and strong and lovable.”

He gives a little flex of his bicep with a matter-of-fact nod of his head.

“Alright,” You get through a laugh, “I like that.”

“Or Hübscher?”

“What’s that one mean?”

“Handsome,” He lifts his head from your chest to wiggle his eyebrows at you, “Fitting, no?”

You give him a light swat.

“Stop that, Hübscher.”

He laughs at your shaky pronunciation.

“Easy,” You say, “‘S’a learning curve.”

“What am I supposed to stop?” He asks.

“Being - cute.”

“You think I’m cute?”

“Ja, Knuddelbär.”

He laughs again, and cozies his cheek into your chest. His eyes close, but his fingers still trace circles along your skin, the cool beads of his bracelet brushing along you.

“I love you,” He mutters.

“I love you, too,” You whisper.

“How long do you think we have?” You ask after a lull.

He gives a weighty sigh, staring off, and shrugs.

Neither of you have much to add on the subject of your imminent executions.

Nothing to do about it now.

“Hey, uh, before we, uhm-” You let out a nervous laugh, and your stare finds the ceiling, “You can say no, if you want, I just- I’ve always wanted to-”

Konig looks up at you, but you can’t bring yourself to meet those piercing blue eyes.

“What?” He goads.

“Okay,” You say, “Okay. Do you - you know the rugby boys back home?”

Konig pauses before he hums in both affirmation and hesitance.

“Well, you know how like, to show off, sometimes, they’d uh - hah-”

Konig’s brow tents, and his head picks off your chest to watch you as you succumb to fluster.

“They’d…” Konig encourages.

“It’s so dumb,” You groan, rubbing out your scorching face, “But they’d uh, sometimes they’d, uhm, put their girlfriends on their backs, and - and do push-ups? To show off how strong they are, or whatever?”

“You like the rugby boys?”

“No- no,” You blurt, “I didn’t - I don’t. I just- well y’know, I just liked that part. I always imagined once I had a boyfriend, maybe we could do that. Make me feel all teeny tiny and show off how big and strong he is.”

You wince at Konig’s low laugh, eyes narrowing into a teasing squint and his grin growing into something devious.

“Is that - is that so bad?” You ask cautiously.

“I think we can arrange that.”

“You don’t have too,” You mumble, “If you don’t want to.”

He slowly rises on the bed until he’s looming over you, keeping his hands planted on either side of your waist. His jaw tilts down and he squints at you.

“I will show you,” He warns, “How strong I am.”

You suck in a breath, more warmth rising to your cheeks and a nervous laugh bubbling from you.

He rolls his shoulders once he’s stood and offers his hand to help you off the bed.

He keeps eye contact with you as he lowers himself to his knees. You can tell he’s enjoying this, wordlessly teasing you with a smug grin and a prideful twitch in his brow. It’s not helping how silly you feel about the request, but it only encourages the enticing flutter of your stomach.

He assumes position, and you can’t stop giggling as you climb onto him, carefully settling on his upper back and crossing your legs.

“Ready, little one?”

“Heh, yeah.”

Your teeth dig into your lower lip, holding onto his shoulders for balance as he lowers and raises himself without so much as a grunt of resistance.

There’s no holding back your pure glee, laughing and squealing as Konig effortlessly raises you up and down.

“Okay, okay,” You squeak, “I think you've proven your point.”

“Are you sure?” He asks, “I could do this all night.”

“It’s official,” You say with a pat on his shoulder, “You’re the biggest strongest husband I have ever had.”

He hums in consideration with a few more push-ups before he stills and waits for you to dismount.

“So,” He draws as he rises to a stand, “Am I better than the rugby boys?”

“Oh, no,” You say through a laugh, “You’re not jealous, are you?”

“No,” He forces a nonchalant shrug as his eyes dart away, “Just, making sure.”

“Of course you’re better,” You say, “You always were.”

His eyes dart to the side, cheeks bunching as he bites back a smile.

“I know,” He says with a tone that undermines his attempt to play it casual.

“C’mere, Knuddelbär.”

You pull him back to the bed with you, and he follows your whim.

He lays on his front between your legs, his cheek nestled into your stomach and the light pressure of his threaded hands resting over your ribcage.

“I love you,” He says softly.

“I love you, too,” You whisper.

You stay cuddled up like this, wearing him like a blanket on your lower half and playing with his hair. Precious time has slipped through the gaps of your fingers just as easily as the locks of his hair, and when the doorbell rings, you are entirely unprepared.

Your nerves return at full force, a pile of bricks crashing on your chest, making it impossible to breathe. The effect of the cigarette only intensifies the sudden shake in your fingers and the alarm blaring at full volume.

Konig comforts you to the door, and when he notices the way your wobbly legs fail you, he carries you to the door.

Braced for the worst, to be handcuffed and executed and marched to your deaths.

But once again, nothing happens.

You find that a good chunk of your nerves dissipates once back in the tribute tower. The intimidating peacekeepers leave you in Price’s hands, and the relieved sigh you make could convince anyone that you held your breath the entire trip back to the suite.

Price sends you both to get changed and cleaned up, and on your return, he does another check to make sure neither of you are in pain. You and Konig are both eager to get back to the balcony to be alone again, but Price stops you before you can scurry off.

“Can we have a chat?”

You don’t have the sense to stifle your wince.

Price and his chats never end well for you. Just the request has your chest tight and your blood pumping in your ears once more.

He knows.

He must know.

You glance at Konig, who offers nothing more than a shrug before you hesitantly take a seat at the dining table.

Price sighs, rubs out his face, and sits back in his chair.

“Look, I know you kids are having a hard time, and I - I - ”

He groans.

“Maybe I’ve said and done some things I shouldn’t have. I shouldn’t have yelled at you both. It’s uh- it’s a hard time of year for me, you know? But it’s not fair for me to take that out on you. And just know I only want what’s best for you both, and I-I’m always here. If you need me.”

You blink, and it takes you far too long to respond.

“Uh,” You scoff, “It’s all good.”

An uncomfortable giggle slips out.

“Water in the fields, or whatever,” You add.

“Ja,” Konig adds.

Price’s brow scrunches, and he makes eye contact with you for the first time in days. He studies you both wordlessly.

You must have said the wrong thing.

What was the right thing to say?

Should you have told him to go fuck himself?

Is that something you would say?

Probably.

Why can’t you remember how you normally talk?

Your expression has mellowed with your train of thought. You briefly get distracted by the hypnotic roll of Konig’s thumbs on his loosely intertwined hands. When you find Price, he’s still staring at you, and you lock up again.

“Are you two alright?” He asks.

There’s a pause, and Konig snorts.

And somehow you just know the one-word joke he made in his mind. You can even hear it as clear as day, in his voice.

‘Very.’

His telepathic joke wasn’t even that funny, but you are powerless to the snort and the following fit of laughter that leaves you.

Price knocks his fist twice on the table and clicks his tongue.

“Okay - what-”

You can’t stop, and your stomach hurts. You and Konig curl into each other, leaning on each other for support as you gasp and snort. Tears are rolling down your eyes.

“Are you two high?”

High.

That is the perfect word to describe what is happening to you. At the top of an unsteady pole far up in the clouds, wobbling back and forth in the sky, unstable but elevated.

Yes, you are high.

“No,” You squeak.

Konig fails his role of alibi, leaning forward on the table to uselessly hide his laughter. His entire body jitters as he buries his face into his forearm.

You can’t hold it back, trying to keep your laughs from escaping your puffed cheeks, but failing spectacularly.

Price’s hands unfurl.

“Okay. Wow, alright. Did they make you do this?”

You and Konig share a look, trying to figure out what the right answer is. It’s clear you’re both relying on the other at this moment, and neither of you scrounge up a response.

Price releases a breath, staring down at the table with raised brows as he thinks on it.

You’ve pinned Price. Stumped the man who always has an answer. You can see him buffering, trying to decide how he should feel about it, and he’s drawn a blank.

“Can I?” You ask with a limp hand gesture - permission to interject his thoughts without waiting for his blessing - “If you want my opinion, I think we maybe, ah, maybe we earned it, yeah?”

Konig nods in agreement, his posture suddenly intact and his hands clasped politely in front of him. His lips fold in, and you can tell he’s trying to hold back another round of laughter.

When you meet Price’s face again, you do a double take, his forehead scrunched and his mouth parted as he stares down at the table. The gears are turning now.

You can tell he got a whiff that something’s up. Something that’s not the cigarette.

It occurs to you in this moment that you and Konig have not been acting like two people who were not only forced into that arena - but forced to be intimate against your will as recently as a couple hours ago. In hindsight, you and Konig probably should have pretended to be more traumatized.

But what fun is that on your last -

No -

No -

It’s not how you’ve been acting.

Price’s squint eyes aren’t staring at the table, they’re locked onto the hand you gestured at him with, now resting flat in front of you. More specifically, the ribbon on your wrist, returned to its original owner and its fabric still splattered with rust-colored stains.

It’s too late to hide it from him, but you still pull your hand into your lap and uselessly try to shield your ribbon from the world.

You can see the progression of his thoughts, they’re written all over his hardened features. Time slows, and all you can do is watch with blown eyes and frozen breaths as Price comes to the conclusion you’d prayed he’d never cast light on.

A gallon of fuel is dumped on the embers of his suspicion when his stare flits to Konig’s fresh, bloody and bruised knuckles, but he won’t let himself believe it - not yet.

And then he finds your stare, bloodshot eyes open as far as they go, a nervous swallow rippling your throat, guilt oozing from every pore and distorting the air around you.

Price’s head tilts to the other side without breaking his boring stare. His brow raises, his eye twitches, and the flames of his suspicion erupt at full strength with a flare of his nostrils.

Every word is brought to a sharp, deadly point, an icy warning before he releases the full heat of his wrath.

“What did you do?”

Busted.

You don’t get a chance to answer, and he doesn’t get a chance to burn you with a scolding.

The elevator dings, and before your head whips around, you already know the sight waiting for you.

Peacekeepers, a band of them, barreling straight for you. You instinctively leap up from your chair, already holding your arms out in a brace. Konig grabs you by the arm and yanks you behind him, priming himself for a fight.

“Stop!” Price yells, “What’s going on?!”

“Price! Price!” You gasp as the uniforms close in, “I’m sorry! I’m sorry!”

“What did you do?!” He shouts.

He, once again, doesn’t get his answer, because a small but mighty needle drags you from consciousness in seconds, and you’re out before you’ve even hit the ground.

You sleep in the spring quadrant.

The sun is warm and inviting on your skin, and the plush grass soothing as you stroke the soft blades between the gaps of your fingers.

“Did you think you could get away with it?”

“What?” You ask through a laugh.

Konig raises to a sit on his jacket.

“Did you think you could get away with it?”

Your smile is falling, brows tight as you prop yourself up on your own jacket with your elbows.

“Away with what?”

When you meet his eyes, you suck in a breath. They’re not his eyes, they’re Eleven’s, clouded over with death and plastered on Konig’s intimidating form.

Konig’s hands shoot out, but his fingers are made of bone and his arms are only bloody, exposed muscle. The deafening sound of your bones snapping at his brute, flayed hands is the last thing you hear.

You wake with a hiss, limbs flailing as you find a sit.

Your lips stay parted as your sensitive, squint eyes dart around, your pulse beating throughout your body, breaths tight and wheezed.

There is no transition between unconsciousness and wake.

The dread is instantaneous. Your stomach drops, sweat oozes from every pore, and your heart hammers against your ribcage.

You spring to a stand much faster than your wobbly legs can handle, stumbling forward, breathy, desperate, and useless prayers on your lips. Your voice goes from quiet pleas to a shout so loud and powerful it tears your throat raw.

“No!”

Your head whips around, trying to find an exit, but you’re trapped, of course you’re trapped.

Your feet are stumbling through a field of perfect, plush grass, and you are surrounded by a large square pen of all too familiar and deadly hedge walls.

“No! No, no, no, no!”

As soon as you see him, weakly rising from his sprawled out position on the grass, your wobbly legs work up to a sprint.

“Konig! Konig!”

His head whips around, worried eyes locking onto you. He shouts your name and stumbles over himself as he works up to a run.

Your face takes the full brunt of the impact. You hear an unnerving, cringe-worthy crunch as the rest of your body slams against something solid and unforgiving, stopping you in your tracks. Stunned by a bright white light that explodes from the center of your vision outwards, the sharp pain echoes throughout your face in powerful, intense waves. Your hand shoots up to your nose, screaming under the touch of your hand and the instinctual pinch of your face.

Your grunts are pushed through grit teeth, eyes screwed shut and doubling over as you succumb to the pain.

Konig shouts your name, catching himself on an invisible force field that separates you, and he’s banging on it with the sides of his fists at once.

“Are you okay?!” He shouts, “What’s going on?!”

Your hand cups in the air just under your chin to catch the trickle of blood dripping from your nose as you meet his stare.

Horror pools in the eyes behind his menacing hood, because your expression says it all.

It confirms his suspicion, just before the announcer broadcasts over the speakers and seals your fate.

“Ladies and gentlemen - welcome to the first ever - Hunger Games Tiebreaker!”

Thank you for reading, I hope you enjoyed! <3 Thank you for all your lovely comments so far - they mean the world to me! They make my day and I always reread them on days I lose momentum (•̀ᴗ-)✧

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[hellequinist]

ok had some proper time to digest whatever the fuck happened in the world of ghost so. yapping/rambling session because perpetua and copia already foil each other so much just solely based on designs and im losing my marbles

ive seen some miscellaneous thoughts floating around so some of them may be echoed here but. yeah

im especially going insane over the potential sun/moon dynamic shenanigans we can get here… copia’s colors are blue and gold (apologies, i don’t know specific colors) whereas perpetua appears to be purple and silver. now, gold and silver have obvious relevance, both being metals commonly used for jewelry and whatnot. blue and purple, however, are more interesting choices. typically, sun + moon shenanigans are represented w/ blue and yellow, so having purple instead is a Choice. yet, it fits — especially given the shades they’re wearing, purple can represent the night sky whereas the blue can represent the daytime sky. combine that with the metals, you get the sun/blue sky and the moon/night sky. a lot of copia's little designs on his outfit resemble stars as well.

and this especially comes into play w the eclipse shown during the rhrn montage when imperator sees her life flash before her eyes. i saw a comment somewhere suggest that this could represent perpetua eclipsing copia, or surpassing him.

and then in addition, we have perpetua’s cool ass metal gloves + metal looking mask too. like yeah its a half mask bc its toblerone but also like. having a mask on skull paint which already should be kinda masking half ur face is. An Interesting Concept and i definitely think theres more to be said about it... almost like double masking in a sense??

a lot of the glittery stuff on copia also feels equally distributed across the entire design, whereas w perpetua it's really concentrated on his specific accessories/jewelry. like copia's entire outfit is Sparkly As Fuck...

shoutout to my friend (@galaxy-of-me) for pointing this out but even their face paint differs in the balance between black and white. copia’s facepaint is mostly all white, with the black being used to distinguish the little jaw bones or lack of them in skeletons. however, perpetua’s black skullpaint has the opposite effect. it highlights kinda the “main” parts of his face (and helps to highlight the mask).

also the design of their clothes is interesting. like, copia's reads w more circles/curves whereas perpetua's feels more rigid and sharp. something something shape language. it also stands out to me how copia's has like. a solid blue that's divided on the front of his chausible by black whereas perpetua's is just solid black solely divided in the middle by purple. this is also seen w the mitres...

ok and. back designs from that really quick camera shot we got. idk what colors it's gonna Specifically be but you can already see some kinda lace thingies on perpetua which is cool... like i'm not sure if this is a cape of sorts (since copia's is more of a cape) so idk if it's fair to draw Exact Comparisons here... but on another note the lappets/ribbons from the mitre are also diff. copia has star looking things (again) whereas perpetua's are more rounded/oval shaped (sun and moon content AAAAUUGHHHHHHHH).

and then in regards to lore like. if we assume that satanized really is perpetua's backstory (I HOPE IT IS!!) it would make their backstories like. Very Opposite. i think it's commonly believed that copia grew up in the clergy or wtv under sister, but then this would mean perpetua possibly grew up in the catholic church or in an abbey of sorts. so, already they grew up in different environments and thus have different viewpoints on a Lot of things. i am SO excited to see how this is gonna play out oh my days