#I like Hemingway more than I let on

[gonzodangerfeels]

Simultaneous orgasms

She starts cumming when we start and I join her at the end

[cacoetheswriting]

honesty: the music video

pairing: rockstar!eddie munson x popstar!fem!reader word count: 2.3k summary: after a long day on set, you can't wait to get it on with your costar.

content warnings: 18+, minors dni: mature themes, literally smut with a minor plot, established relationship, unprotected p in v, overstimulation, praise kink, dom-ish eddie, adult language, heavy use of pet names, mentions of aftercare — if i missed anything in this chapter, pls let me know!

celebrity skin. masterlist <- part of this lil' universe, but can totally be read as a stand-alone. timeline wise, this takes place somewhere after part 3 and before end part 5.

“We want it to be sexy.”

“But not too sexy.”

“Revealing.”

“But not too revealing.”

“Sounds like you guys don’t know what you want,” Eddie chimes in, interrupting the back and forth of your respective teams.

You stifle a giggle.

“That’s ‘cause of the two distinct styles,” someone from your team clarifies, “We wanna be respectful.”

“For sure,” one of the creatives on the Corroded Coffin side agrees. There’s a short pause. “We will have you two kiss at the end, though.”

At that, Eddie smirks. He looks at you from across the table and you could just about melt right there, blood rushing to your face, warming your cheeks.

“That won’t be a problem,” he says confidently and winks.

-

Honesty was a guaranteed hit. Top of the charts. Everybody that’s been so far involved in the project said it. They praised it. From the bass, drums, to the guitar and vocals. The production value was off the scale. A dream arrangement that would stand the test of time.

All the song needed was a music video equally as captivating.

A back and forth discourse began shortly after you first started recording with the band: whose style should the clip resemble more?

Corroded Coffin screamed all things dark, maybe a little gory. Their usual expression featured slightly melancholy undertones and a lot of references to all things Dungeons & Dragons. Imaginative, for sure. An artistry that had rarely been seen in the genre. 

Although it’s been an artistry vastly different from yours. 

The glitter hadn’t necessarily been your idea, but it certainly became a signature of sorts. Anything sparkly, always. And music videos that told a story. Most often one of love since that’s what you idolised ever since you were a kid — it obviously helped that love also sold millions of copies.

Eddie’s team argued that it’s the band’s song and you’re just a feature, therefore the accompanying video should lean into their style. Your management team was hesitant to agree. Calculating risk in case the lines get blurred a little too much and your pristine image shifts to the opposite end of the spectrum. Hours of arguments. Hours of negotiations. None of which you, or the rockstar were even mildly aware of. Too lost in each other's eyes and soft cotton sheets. 

Eventually, a compromise, of sorts, was found.

Ernest Hemingway’s The Killers influenced, in part, a 1946 film noir of the same title, with Ava Gardner and Burt Lancaster taking the lead. The movie, in turn, inspired the black and white music video.

Done up in flair of the characters, Kitty Collins and Ole Anderson (aka Swede), you recreated iconic scenes alongside the brown-eyed rockstar. The rest of the band was also dressed to the nines. Side characters that played their instruments in the background of main shots. They blended in well, while adding a unique spin to the known story. 

Overall, the Honesty shoot quickly became a big spectacle. Bigger than anything Eddie Munson and his band of closest friends has ever been lucky enough to be a part of.

Intricate sets. Glamourous. In front of cameras and bright lights, you and your scene partner, Eddie, mouthed along the lyrics to the song as if they were a script. And with every scene, as if the two of you were the only people actually there, no equipment and no crew, you got lost a tiny bit. Lost in the chocolate of the rockstar’s wide gaze. In the way he smelled. The style of that decade suited the brunette greatly, so you became lost in how he looked in this character. Dapper. Unlike you’ve ever witnessed him before. He committed to the role too. A certain swag in his movements. How he touched you so hesitantly, delicately because that’s what the video required.

By the end of the night, after the director yells, “Cut!” to signalise a wrap, a round of applause for all involved in this project, you’re feeling hot and bothered. Sweaty, though not because you just completed a full day’s work. No. Somehow, you found the Corroded Coffin frontman even more attractive than at the start of that day — something you didn’t think was possible. When you glance in his direction, he’s already staring you down, and you know he feels the same way.

Backstage, inside your trailer, you’re sitting cross-legged on the couch. Fingertips at your lips as you wait for that inevitable knock on your door. You know it’s only a matter of time considering the build up of tension throughout the shoot. From the lingering touches and that kiss the director had you two repeat over and over and over…

Logically, you could wait until the two of you were home. Back at Eddie’s Hidden Hills mansion, away from prying eyes and ears. In a bed that’s become all too familiar. Far from possible interruptions. Logic however, well, right now, logic was taking a back burner ‘cause you needed him now. Desperately. And without a doubt, Eddie needed you too.

A knock. Then again. But the rockstar doesn’t wait for you to answer. He lets himself in. 

“What happened to the wig?” You ask, raising a brow.

“It was itchy,” he replies with a slight laugh, then shakes his head. “I much prefer my natural locks.” 

“That’s too bad,” you say with a slight shrug, “You looked quite smart with that short hair.”

Eddie hangs his head with a smile, though his eyes don’t leave yours. Not even for a second. That’s when you notice the glimmer. That look, the reason he’s here, just like you predicted. So you return the expression. Only yours is a little more sly. Tempting him. Teasing. 

“I had fun today.”.

“Me too.”

There’s a lot that happens in the seconds after you stand up. A lot that happens quickly. 

Eddie reaches for your wrist, pulling you closer before wrapping his, for once, ringless hand around yours completely. He presses it to the middle of his chest, holding it against his heart. You can feel it beating and that’s enough to make you melt ‘cause it’s strong and you swear it skips at the contact. His other hand reaches for the base of your throat. He holds it gently, caressing upwards until he’s gripping your jaw. 

“Kissing you in front of all those other people kinda got me going,” he admits in a low tone.

Naughty, that’s what you want to say, but you don’t get the chance ‘cause his lips crash into yours. Hungry. Desperate. Rough. Heat rushes through your body at the sudden contact, no different than any other time his mouth found yours. You’re at his mercy, always, and he knows it well. 

His tongue glides along your top lip and you part your lips to accept him without hesitation. He wastes no time sliding into your mouth, letting this tongue work in tandem with yours as he tilts his head to further deepen the kiss. The hand holding yours lets go, instead finding home on the small of your back, pushing you as close to him as humanly possible. His other hand lets go of your jaw, albeit not completely. Ghosting along the side of your neck before you feel him wrap it around your throat, squeezing lightly. It’s nothing new for Eddie to be a little rougher with you, but there’s something about this moment, after a full day of moderate teasing and borderline foreplay, that causes a moan to burst through you when he squeezes again, only harder.

The rockstar pulls back, sporting a devilish grin. “Making such pretty noises for me and we haven’t even gotten to the best part.”

“Do your worst, Eds.” It’s a dare. Nothing sweet about it.

He smirks at the challenge and before you can register what exactly is happening, Eddie is lifting you up swiftly, hiking up your dress in the process, only to drop you down onto the sofa with a gentle thud. You’re wide-eyed as he unbuckles his belt with one hand, the other tugging at the pantyhose the wardrobe lady had you wear for the last scene of the video. He partially rips them off of you, then he hikes his index finger along the band of your underwear, eagerly pulling them down your legs until they’re wrapped around your ankles, with the reminisce of your stockings.

“The heels stay on,” the rockstar instructs, pushing your legs apart with force and positioning himself in between. All you can do is nod. Half-naked, half in costume. Same as him.

In the space of a heartbeat, his lips are on yours again. This time they don’t stay for long, instead moving downwards towards your chest. When he squeezes your breast through the silk material of your dress, he compliments how fucking good you looked, “I wanted to ravish you the second I saw you, baby.”

You whimper at his words, and at the fact that his now freed cock is gently brushing against your wet folds. Not quite breaching, just teasing you further. Only adding to the overall stimulation. 

“God, you’re so fucking hot. So fucking pretty. And all mine.” Eddie’s breathing into your bare chest ‘cause somehow in the moment your dress has slipped down ever so slightly and your tits made an appearance. Fingers from one hand are digging into your hip, holding you in place, while the other has you by the ribs. Thumb brushing your soft skin while his hot mouth is sucking on your hardened nipple.

Your eyes are closed. You’re not sure when you closed them. He’s invading your senses all at once. Just when you feel like you can’t take it anymore, when you want to whither and plead for him to touch you where you need him most, Eddie plunges himself into you without warning and your eyes snap open. 

“Oh God…” he groans, drawing his hips back only to slam them in again, making your body bounce against him. “Fuck, baby. Jesus.”

You sob in pleasure as Eddie knocks the wind out of you with each relentless thrust, still increasing his speed. Heavy panting and grunting fills the trailer, along with the sounds of where his cock slams against your sweet juices. He’s sitting straight now. Eyes are fixated on the mess you’re both making, where his length disappears in and out of you, while you admire the way his locks fall naturally in place. Although briefly, ‘cause you’re arching your back the next second, rolling your eyes to the back of your head when he hits that sweet spot.

“So. Fucking. Pretty.” He growls. “You’re so fucking pretty when you’re all stretched open like this, sweetheart. Your pussy was made for my cock, baby. You take it so well. You take this big dick so well, my good girl. Fucking made for me. Ain’t that right, dollface?”

“Made for you, Eds.” You just about whisper back, nodding your head feverishly.

Slap. His hand makes contact with your thigh and you practically wail. “That’s right,” he praises, “Made for me. So fucking tight for me.” Slap. Slap. Slap. 

Eddie’s cock starts to swell. You can feel it expand inside of you, then again when he thrusts back in. It has you heaving. The speed he’s established is close to becoming a little too much for the two of you and he drops his weight slightly, allowing you to wrap your arms around him, nails digging into his bare back. He can sense that you too are close and he’s trying hard to hold back, make this moment last longer, but his body refuses to slow down. Chasing the way your glistening pussy chokes his length. 

“Where do you want me baby?”

“Inside,” you croak out. “Cum in me, Eddie. Please. I need you to fill me up.”

“M’mph—” He chokes out, movements growing more and more erratic. The whole trailer is shaking at this point, that’s what it feels like to the two of you anyway. “Everybody out there will know what a good little slut you are. Not that innocent. Wanting me to fill you full of my cum, fuck.” 

Slap. Slap. Against your thigh. 

“Please, Eddie.” 

Slap.

“Shh… I’ll give you what you want, sweetheart.” He coos, “Gonna pump you full. Gonna make you see stars while my cum drips out of you.”

That’s when you shatter around him, uncontrollable desperate squeals making him groan louder as he continues. It’s sloppy, messy, and once you’ve completely unravelled underneath him, the rockstar can’t contain himself any longer. He lets out a broken moan as ropes and ropes of his warm spend start to throb into your hole.

His body gives up at the last spur and he drops flat on top of you, although not without a loose kiss placed to your jaw. His cock remains inside of your pussy. You can feel it pulsing until, after a few minutes, it no longer matches the beat of your heart.

Eddie lifts himself then. He kisses you softly and you smile against his mouth. When he eventually slips out and stands, he tells you not to move, that he’ll grab a towel from the small trailer bathroom and will help you get cleaned up.

“Wardrobe is going to kill us,” you call after him, balancing on your elbows as you sit up slowly. “Pretty sure these clothes can never be worn again. Purely for the fact that they reek of sex.”

“At least your wig stayed in place,” Eddie points out lightheartedly when he returns, his pants once again buckled, a towel in his hand. “That’s something the hair and makeup team should be proud of.”

“I’ll be sure to tell them,” you say, meaning it as a joke ‘cause there’s no way you would ever admit to what sins the two of you just committed.

Eddie smirks. “Pretty sure they already know,” he says as if it’s no big deal, “We weren’t exactly quiet, sweetheart.”

as always, thank you for reading! pls comment, reblog & support your creators.

celebrity skin. masterlist | the killers (1946) reference

& the celebrity skin. taglist: @eviethetheatrefreak , @thirddeadlysin , @haylaansmi , @nope-thanks , @tlclick73 , @vintagehellfire , @ashlynnkennedy , @avalon-wolf , @sidthedollface2 , @astheni-a , @bebe07011 , @aysheashea , @papillonoirsworld , @vol2eddie , @spideyanakin-interacts , @rogers-sweatbands , @mimsie95 , @mmunson86 , @eddiesguitarskills - (if your user is crossed out, it means the tag isn’t working. pls check you’ve enabled tagging in your settings)

[actually-safer-to-kiss]

Well, Actually

Summary: Spencer gets frustrated as Reader proves him wrong about an unsub's profile.

Couple: Spencer Reid/Fem!Reader

Category: Fluff-ish

Content warnings: discussions of gender, sexy implications, Ernest Hemingway

Word count: 1.5k

It’s when I flip the OPEN sign to CLOSED that I can finally breathe. Saturday Sale Days at the bookstore are usually easygoing, but most people took refuge at the windows thanks to the crime scene across the street. Another sex worker was murdered, according to the agents who were here earlier. Well, one of them looked like an agent; coated from head to toe in black and seriousness. The other, however, might as well have been a pretentious preppy middle schooler who thinks a doctorate — three doctorates (he made sure to correct me) — gives him the excuse to lack social graces.

I’m not used to running into FBI agents regularly. However, I’m fairly confident that questioning civilians is more about further insight and not running to the end with confirmation bias. Dr. Reid, on the other hand, had his confirmation set that he and his team were looking for a woman riddled with internalized misogyny who was killing sex workers and leaving quotes from Ernest Hemingway pieces.

So, is it wrong that I may or may not have said they might actually be looking for a male with possible gender nonconformity issues? According to the quotes written in lipstick and discussions revolving around Hemingway’s relationship with gender, it was the first thing to pop into my head.

And it was Dr. Reid’s first instinct to take it personally, like any other gifted child who’s never learned what it’s like to be wrong (possibly). His reaction mainly consisted of raising his voice and saying my assumption “was not relevant to our case” and taking a collection of Hemingway’s short stories without paying for it. I haven’t found a suitable way to explain that to my boss yet.

Regardless of his reaction, I had no reason to expect to see him again. I got a card from Agent Prentiss after she questioned me behind the counter and haven’t heard a word since. It didn’t matter then because we were closed, and I had the day off tomorrow —

Knock, knock, knock. A simple three-raps on the glass. The night makes it difficult to see who it is, but I’m more than familiar with the panic button under the register. So before I turn the lights out, I get closer to the door to find out who on the other side can’t read.

And without thinking, I open the door, but don't let him in. “Agent Reid.” I can’t help but push him just a bit.

“Dr. Reid.”

“Right.” I faked a laugh (years of practice). “Well as you can see we’re closed for the night so —”

His hand is out, holding the book. The Complete Short Stories of Ernest Hemingway. The paper cover is already pulled up at the corners and the spine is cracked. Nothing display worthy, that’s for sure. “I took this.”

“And you had it for six hours. How did you decimate it so quickly?”

“I was using it as a source while we were trying to solve the case.” His hand was shaking, from nervousness or lack of strength to hold a paperback in one hand for longer than a minute, either could be possible. “I figured a way to make amends was to come back and purchase it.”

I looked down at the book and looked back up at him. Sincerity and boyish charm force me to hold the door open for him and let him in. When he comes in, his under eyes are darker, perhaps because he's a night owl, or because of his job. His hair is still fluffy like this morning but droopy.

He was prepared to call it a night before coming here. But thievery is apparently too heavy for this agent’s shoulders.

I walk to the register, booting up the fancy tablet. “So did you? Solve the case, I mean?”

“We did.”

I scan the barcode, luckily he didn’t ruin that. “And? Did she explain the Hemingway quotes at least?”

Silence, only for a moment. I see his hands digging into his pockets. He pulls out a debit card and hands it over. “He, actually.”

“What?”

“He didn’t explain the Hemingway quotes but said he targeted sex workers because they were ‘freer than he ever would be.’”

Silence swallowed the room immediately upon saying that but of a different kind. The kind that was ripe for me to brag and possibly even do a little dance. But I’m patient, and I don’t like interrupting people. I tap the screen slowly so the good doctor can gather the words. I even took another glance and his eyes were already locked on me. It would’ve made me jump if he didn’t follow it with “You were right.”

There it is. “Hmm,” I say as I keep the arrogance down to a minimum as I contemplate my next words. I take his receipt and scribble before bagging the book. “So do I get a one-way ticket into the bureau, or do I take your place or —”

“Thank you for your help." He says slowly as if he were being ordered to apologize. Like he wrote these words in a document before coming here. “Your observation sent us in the right direction.” His hand is out, waiting.

I also have a talent for dragging things out. When I shut the techy stuff down again, I go back around and hand them to him, so I can get closer. Read his face. When he reaches out and just touches the paper, I jerk the bag back. “That’s not what you want to say.” I let the bag dangle off two of my fingers, shamelessly drinking in the moment. “Come on, it’s gotta be killing you.”

He rolls his eyes. Briefly, but enough for me to notice. “What could be killing me?”

“That you, an FBI agent, with two PhDs —”

“Three PhDs.”

This is so fun. “Three PhDs was outsmarted by a girl who works in a bookstore. Merely a bachelor's on my resume.”

“That is not the case.” He says.

“It seems relevant to the case now.” That intended to burn, and it did. Scorched actually. I could feel it from here, so I walked to the back to find the lights, expecting him to follow me.

He did. The creaking of the old wood floors echoed as we walked, there was no rhythm or synced steps, just two different walking patterns, one at ease and the other eager. “Just tell me how you figured it out.” He says. “Hemingway has been praised for his writing style and the way he wrote certain female characters but his macho personality indicated he enjoyed nothing feminine.”

A chuckle might have been appropriate, but I replied with a stark laugh. A bold “Ha!” As I opened the lightroom door. “Because macho men are known for being the happiest people on Earth, according to history.” With a click, the lights flickered steadily before turning off. I had my phone flashlight ready, though. “Honestly, Dr. Reid, it might be worthwhile to take a break from reading and watch a documentary on the man. It adds up quickly, even someone like you would get it.” I let the flashlight guide me back to the front, avoiding collateral damage from bookshelf corners.

Until Dr. Reid stepped in front of me, causing my head to collide with his chest. Somehow, I didn’t drop my phone and instinctively reached for my nose. “Someone like me?”

“Ow, first of all. But yes.”

“What is that supposed to mean?”

I rub my nose in the dark. “That even a predictable bookish boy like you can eventually come to grips with the fact that he doesn’t know everything.”

“And you do?” He asked.

“I never said that,” I admitted.

He looked at me skeptically. Even in the dark, I could feel my arrogance might have gotten the best of me here. I tried looking away, to another dark space. 

He, however, did not. “What else did you say? Predictable?”

“You mean you don’t remember?”

He sighs, and air from his nose brushes above my lip.

Then so does his hand in my hair.

His lips, though, were quite the opposite. As if all his frustrations couldn’t take it anymore and needed to be let out with a teeth-smashing, saliva-coated spectacle (that no one could see. Not even us.) All I felt was wandering hands and the wall hitting the back of my head before he pulled away. His hands are still on my waist, and he breathes sharply in and out. “Was that predictable?” I heard him swallow.

I contemplated my response for a short while, wondering which one, a yes or a no, would get him to do it again. So instead, I just grabbed where I assumed his head would be and jerked him down to meet my lips again. It worked. His hands wrapped tight as if he glued himself to my skin. “Will you get reprimanded by your team for being somewhere you aren’t?” I ask between breaths and lip separation.

“Maybe. I’m sure you’d enjoy that.”

“I won’t admit anything,” I said. Whether it was to see Dr. Reid’s night turn out worse, or to keep a secret from his boss about a makeout session in a bookstore, I’m not sure. But his body was thin, layered with clothes. Warm.

“What will you admit to?” He whispers, moving our bodies, begging for more kisses. Or just more.

“Dinner?”

“For?”

“Education purposes, Dr. Reid.” My hands can’t help but explore. “Seems like we’ve got a lot to learn.”

[neonovember]

OH MY GOD CARMYS GF (READER) GETTING HER FIRST TATTOO AND HIM COMFORTING HER AND HELPING HER TAKE CARE OF IT DURING THE HEALING PROCESS OR WHATEVA‼️💳💥💳💥 IDK I WAS JUST SITTING HERE AND THOUGHT OF IT IF YOU DOJT WANNA WRITE IT THATS OKAY

could even make the tattoo be his name or his initial or somethin 🤯🤯🤭😏

love you and your writing 😚

thanks for keeping us fed 😌

carmen berzatto x reader

okay so yes, maybe hozier has jolted me out of my writers block. i'm just a women after all.

Inked Devotion

this request was fun! i really didn't know what to make the tattoo so i left it a blank slate for whatever you wanna imagine, hope that's okay!

word count: 1.7k

things; tattoos, mentions of braces, carmen's unyielding devotion to you

Your eyes dart across the tall walls lined with inked models and men in dark beards nervously. You can't shake the tension that seems to imprint itself under your skin, your knees jittering with a rapid tap against the linoleum floors. 

When you had brought up wanting to get a tattoo, a half joking mutter under your breath as you traced the many littered on Carmen’s body you hadn’t anticipated to actually go through with it. 

And yet here you were, shaking like a leaf despite the diffuser jutting out whisper of eucalyptus that was meant to be calming. Whilst Monica, a woman you'd meant a handful of times ran through the list of after care necessities you should be listening to.

You can’t though, you don’t hear a thing as you stare unseeingly through the dark auburn tresses of her short hair, wrapped up in the thoughts that have begun to eat away at the already dwindling confidence you had when you first walked in. 

“Hey, you still with me darlin’' Monica's Brooklyn drawl draws you back to her, and you duck your head sheepishly as you nod furiously. Like a goddamn high schooler getting caught looking out the window instead of listening to Hemingway.

Monica smiles toward you, humouring warmth filling her pale skin that, surprising to you, were incredibly stark of tattoos. In fact, if it weren’t for the posters taped to the walls, the black and white tiled floor, and the ominous tattoo bench in the corner you would have thought you walked it not the wrong place. It was stereotypical of you, and you had been a loud advocate for not judging a book by its cover, but goddamn, what tattoo parlour had potted plants and candles that smell like cinnamon?

“Sorry, uh, what did you say?” 

“It’ll be alright, the pain really does depend on each person but Larry here will catch you if you faint on my tattoo bed” Monica winks with a smile, and you shift your gaze to the man stationed unmoving near some marked drawers, the mass of muscle hidden beneath dark jeans and a shirt bursting out of him.

It wasn’t the pain you were worried about, you had period cramps that sounded worse than that, it was more so the prospect of having your virgin skin imprinted with something forever. You had never done something like this, teenage recklessness had passed you by without a blink, and you had little to show for it but carved words on your old dresser from a knife and a dark eyeshadow phase that lasted less than a month. 

It was a little pathetic, getting your first tattoo eons after any respectable age, and your trepidation seems blatantly clear as Monica shakes her head with a smile.

“Many people get their firsts well into adulthood, did I tell you about my last appointment? A 52 year old woman wanting a goddamn tramp stamp.”

You can't help but let a giggle out, the unsureness leaving you at Monica’s words

“You still want this right?’ Monica replies, and you shift your gaze to Carmen, who was already watching you fondly, his eyes sparkling with excitement as he pushes his golden strands back and gives you a nod

“It’s all up yo you gorgeous, if your having second thoughts there is a really good Thai place i wanted to che-” 

“No, no I want this”  You cut him off, and he chuckles softly, “Besides we already designed the stencil and everything” Carmen nods at that, placing his large palm onto your own, squeezing it with reassurance.

“Damn right we did, thinkin it's my best work yet” Monica chirps from the other side of the bed between you.

“Alright, just sit on that bed down there, get settles while I grab some things” 

You nod, walking stiffly towards the leather bed, tissue paper crinkly under your weight as you shift into a comfortable position. Your eyes follow Monica like a laser, watching as she santises her hands and slides on powdered sterile gloves. 

It reminds you of days spent in Dentists chairs, visions of rubbery fingers tightening wires into your teeth flashes behind the darkness of your lids. Funny, you had worried about your lack of experimental youth, and yet here you are now feeling like a kid again.

The thought makes you smile, and you open your eyes to feel the heated gaze of Carmen looming over you. Face distorting in horror when Monica’s tool makes a clatter, eyes widening comically in that way that always makes you laugh.

“Alright Doll, I’m just gonna need you to sit up for me whilst I get the skin prepped. Alcohols gonna feel a little cold to the touch, kay?” Monica says.

All you can do is nod as she rips open the matte packet, pressing it into your open skin shaved clean per her request a few prior. Who knew how much prep a tattoo would need, you were sure it was on par with even one of Carm’s dishes.

Unfortunately for you the only numbing cream useful for tattoos had something that would have made you break out in hives, so it was cold turkey for you. Monica had transformed the design into a stencil, and as she was transferring it into your skin it seemed to come to life all at once. 

You had spent hours going over designs, and whilst you were extremely happy with what you both came up with, it was like when the lines and shapes had traced your skin, you finally saw it. And the moment you did you couldn't stop the wave of emotion that rushed through you, filling your eyes.

“Hey, baby, hey what is it” Carmen rushed urgently, crouching down when he noticed the way you sniffled.

“Awe doll, you don’t like the design? I’ll change it in a flash, this is just the stencil it aint permanent at all” Monica quickly stopped, looking up at you with concern

“No no, I’m fine” You squeezed Carmen “It’s so, it's beautiful Monica” You rushed out, trying to ease the lines of concern that appeared on her face. Monica bloomed at your reply, fondness heating her cheeks as she traced your skin comfortingly.

“Thank you” You whispered to her as she shushed you.

“At least we got the crying bit over and done with, it might hurt less now” She winked, before reaching for her tattoo gun.

“Ah shit” You grunted, shooting daggers Carmen's way when he snorted out loud.

Returning to your skin, Monica pressed the pointed tip of the gun to your skin, the first sink of ink burrowed into your skin causing you to clench your jaw. 

Monica looked up to watch your expression with a smile,

“See, ain't too bad” Carmen replied before you gripped him white knuckled, making him wince regrettably.

It took some time, you won’t lie to yourself that is fucking hurt. But soon enough the sharp stab had resided to a dull ache, and you instead had become all too focused on the movement of Monica's hand swaying through the strokes of the design. 

You were in awe, she breathed her being into it, and as the design took inches and inches of your skin you understood why she was booked out for months. With one last intricate curl, and a wipe of cleansing soap across the inked skin it was finished. Revealed to both you and Carmen's eyes in all its glory, and you both just stared.

“God, now I wish my first was as good as that instead of wonky stick and poke” Carmen said after a pregnant silence had passed.

“It..wow, yeah. Yep, I want to be buried with this” You said softly, giddiness erupting in your body as you shook your hand grasped in Carmens.

“I’m glad doll, I mean this is meant to be professional but goddamn does your skin just take it. Fuckin’ gorgeous” Monica replied, leaning back as she places the gun on the table near.

“Hey, I'll report you to HR” Carmen bitterly replies, moving you closer to his side as you laugh.

“It’s my business, I am HR” Muttering under her breath as she rolls her eyes. Wrapping your skin in adhesive sheets, Monica repeats the after care instructions, thankfully and this time you listen.

Carmen had already grabbed your things, motioning for you to start heading out after you both furiously thanked Monica for everything. You crinkled with joy as she hugged you, breathing in the smell of old spice and medical grade rubbing alcohol that followed her. 

Her studded rings glistened in the afternoon sun as she waved you both goodbye, as you couldn't help but skip in your stride across the sidewalk. Finger tracing the raised blotted skin, whilst your other hand hung onto Carmen as he twirled you around.

“My gorgeous ink stained sweetheart” Carmen called to you, and you were brought back to his chest gently like a tide again.

“Thank you too, you know” You said into Carmen's cotton shirt. It was the one you got him after your first date, it had been a deep cobalt then. You regretted it just as you gave it to him, fearing you were being too forward. And then he wore it until it faded into a light blue.

“Wouldn't even have this forever on me if you hadn't been the one to bring it up again” You replied softly, fingers tracing his jaw.

“Would have spent a year learning how to tattoo myself if you wanted me too. Monica just seemed quicker” Carmen mumbled before you softly hit his chest with a smile.

“Hey, it’s true. Your skin deserves to be remembered, I could trace it till my fingers atrophied and I’d still have the memory of you under my skin memorised” Carmen divulged, eyelids drooping as he leaned down into your embrace. 

You shake your head, heart panging so deeply it hurt till you pressed your lips to his. Tasting the outpour of Carmen that he let loose into you everyday.

And Carmen had stayed true to his words weeks later when it had healed, tracing it till his fingers weren't enough. Till he had to wrap his mouth around it and taste it with his tongue.

He swears even your inked skin tasted sweet.

tags <3 @parmforcarm @hansfics @kpopgirlbtssvt @nolita-fairytale

[hyunjin1e]

POISON, jess mariano

summary: jess has always kept to himself. never cared to like a girl since it “wasted his time,” but when he meets her…

pairings: jess mariano x fem!reader

warnings: fluff, smoking, making out, jess’ in love !

POISON

it all started with...

"jess, go help out that table," his uncle demanded, too busy sweeping the counter to look at him.

"yes, uncle Luke." huffed the boy, murmuring something under his breath, staring at his feet as they moved towards the table.

once his eyes locked with yours, as poetic as it sounds, the world around him, stopped.

"I-what can I get you?" he asked, quickly collecting himself as he awaited for your answer.

"uhh, a danish." you hummed, your eyes skimming the boy, seeing him for the first time.

his eyes looked down, spotting a book you've been reading, "pride and prejudice, huh?"

"you read?" to find someone your age, matter of fact, a boy, that reads, wasn't something you hear everyday.

"not much." was all he said.

oh.

"aha." you hummed as a reply.

"hemingway's better," the boy continued.

"yeah?" you raised your brow.

"yeah." he stared into your eyes, daring you to say something.

"jess! get the girl her goddamn food!" the boy, jess, rolled his eyes at his uncle, giving the girl one last smirk before leaving her table.

"one danish to that girl." jess stated, throwing the notepad onto the counter and making his way upstairs, deciding to finish his shift for the day.

jess was smoking a cigarette at the lake when he heard her voice again.

"smoking can kill you." you say as you sit down next to him, your legs dangling from the bridge.

jess looked at you, tilting his face a bit before averting his eyes back to the lake.

"yeah, well.." he didn't know what to say.

"it'll be a shame, too pretty to die." you said quietly, loud enough for him to hear, though.

"are you flirting with me?" the boy smirks, looking at your face once again.

"why, is it working?"

"well I feel quite flattered." he smiles, putting a smile on your face too.

"you're pretty too." he says after a bit of silence.

"thank you, jess."

"hey! you know my name, tell me yours."

"dunno, I like being mysterious." you gave a cheeky smile.

"please?" he tried giving you his best puppy eyes, which worked.

"y/n."

once jess heard your name come out of your lips, he paused, his eyes slowly drifting around your face, finally putting a name to the face.

"well, y/n, come walk with me?" he stood up, proposing his hand for you to take.

you take his hand, lifting yourself up and letting him take anywhere.

"what's with you and y/n?" Luke bursts into their shared room, startling jess, who has been leaning on Luke's bed, one hand holding his book.

"what do you mean?" his ears seemed to prick up at your name.

"you know what I mean! running around with y/n for 2 months now!"

"look, I might be in love with her." he stated.

"in love?! jess, you're 17." his uncle yelled confusingly.

"so?! im 18 soon. y/n is amazing, I've never felt like this before."

"I never saw you like this before!" Luke sighed, calming down. "just don't fuck up." and with a final nod, he left, leaving jess with a small smile on his face.

jess pulled himself up, reaching for the phone.

"y/n, hi." he smiled, biting his lip.

"jess!" your voice came from the other side, making his smile grow wider.

"meet me at the bridge in 5." and with that he ended the call, rushing downstairs and out the diner.

once he reached the bridge, he was out of breath. he ran so he could make it before you, so you didn't overthink if he bailed on you or not.

"jessie" you smile teasingly once you meet him.

"y/n." he did the same.

"anything you wanted to ask me?" you raise your brow.

"right! y/n, I know we only know eachother for a bit more than two months, but I fell for you. your smile, our share of love for books and music, your random rants late at night. I fell for you."

he awaited for your answer, his heart beating out of his chest, he has never done that before. the first time he saw you, he was addicted. it was like poison. you were poison.

but he loves it. he loves you.

"I fell for you too." your face hurt from smiling.

that was all jess needed for him to pull you into a long kiss, grabbing onto your neck, he kissed you long and good.

both could stayed like that forever.

[iwritefandomimagines]

NOTES — JESS MARIANO

based on a request

masterlist

pairing: jess mariano x reader

description: after months of mutual pining, jess arrives at luke’s having read your favourite novel. oh, and he has some notes.

warnings: swearing, jokey sexual reference, other than that just tooth rotting fluff vibes

author’s note: thank you so much for this request, i loved it sm i had to immediately start writing!!! i hope it does jess justice — i love writing him so much. i may go back and edit some bits im not 100% happy with — but i hope you enjoy!!!

pleaaaaase let me know what you think — i love love love reading you guys’ feedback <3

———

“I finished it.”

If you were anyone else, you’d have jumped out of your skin at the sudden, and rather loud, appearance of someone beside you.

But this was you, and it was Jess, so you were more than used to your ‘peaceful’ study sessions at Luke’s being interrupted by his ever-present smirk, his flirting and his endless supply of smartarse comments.

Not that you could complain.

You’d grown used to his omnipresence over a year ago. And it had been months now since you’d realised that you no longer just tolerated his company — you enjoyed it a ridiculous amount and instead longed for it when he wasn’t around.

You eyed him quizzically, noting how proud of himself he looked for reading your favourite book, but also noticing an unusual lack of self-assurance glimmering through his expression.

“I would ask if you mean this trig stuff for Mr Elton,” you gestured down to the homework you’d been painfully poring over for the past hour, “But I know you too well to expect you to actually do your homework, so what are you talking about?”

He didn’t mention that the real reason he never studied in your trig study sessions was because he was more often than not too busy staring at you and coming up with things to say to make you laugh.

Jess raised his eyebrows, but then shook his head and cleared his throat to do a godawful impression of you, “Oh Jess, I can’t believe you’ve never read it. My favourite novel in the whole world and you’ve never read it!”

You scoffed, “If that was supposed to be me, get out of here.”

“Please, like you really want to get rid of me,” he teased, gesturing to the pile of papers in front of you, “Then you’d be miserable and heartbroken and, even worse, have to actually finish your trig homework. Besides, I enjoyed it.”

Your eyes brightened up at this, and you could tell he noticed, “Don’t look so surprised, Y/N. Your taste isn’t that bad… I mean, you hang out with me don’t you?”

“For some reason, yes,” you pretended to grumble, feigning ignorance of the butterflies in your stomach at his usual smug smile, “But you really liked it?”

He sat down in the seat opposite you now, pulling the book from his bag and slamming it down in front of you, “Well, I have notes of course.”

You rolled your eyes, at which he couldn’t help but laugh, “Hey, it wasn’t terrible. I did say I enjoyed it… Some of the notes are nice.”

“Oh yeah, I’m sure.”

“You wound me,” Jess feigned a pout, “Romance isn’t usually my genre and you know that.”

“Of course. Hemingway fanboy is too cool for my sappy romantic books, huh,” you joked, heart still racing wildly at the notion he’d even started reading it, let alone finished it.

“Pfft. Austen fangirl should be less rude and give more Hemingway a try, I say,” he quipped back, tongue in cheek.

“Hey, I like Hemingway,” you shook your head, “I just don’t go to bed and jerk off over how great I think he is like you so obviously do.”

He shook his head and pulled a face that faked shock, “And how much time in the day, on average, would you say you spend thinking about what I jerk off over, huh?”

“You are such an ass,” you tutted, swatting his arm, “Approximately none, thank you very much.”

“Whatever you say, princess.”

“Anyway, if you’re done being gross, let’s get back to the important thing here. You read my book,” You reached to pull the book towards you, only for him to snatch it back and rest his elbows on it.

You furrowed your brows at him, “What’ve you got to hide in there?”

His eyes narrowed, his lip between his teeth now as though he was thinking hard about something.

“C’mon, Mariano,” you leaned forward, “I assumed that since you brought the book with you, I’d get to see at least some of your notes.”

His fingers were picking at the edges of the book’s cloth sleeve, his toes drumming on the floor anxiously like they’d recently begun to do more often when he was around you.

He heaved out a deep sigh, “Look. I’m going to give you this, and then I’m gonna leave the diner, alright? And then, and only then, you can open this book up, and you can read what’s in there. And if you never see me again it’s ’cause I’ve died of embarrassment or something. Got it?”

You rolled your eyes, chin on your palm.

He slid the book in your direction now as you watched him swallow thickly and cocked your head to the side like a curious puppy, “Ever so cryptic, aren’t you?”

“You’ll figure it out, Miss Marple.”

With that, he rose to his feet and darted out of the diner before you could even say another word.

You briefly made eye contact with Luke behind the counter, who watched you carefully for a moment before looking down at the book now carefully clutched between your fingers.

You wasted no time then, pulling open the book and desperately skimming for whatever the hell he was talking about.

You weren’t sure what on earth you expected to find when you flicked through its pages, but it most certainly wasn’t a plethora of sticky tabs with scrawled notes on about how the protagonist reminded him of you.

You expected even less, then, to find a note in Jess’ handwriting at the very back of the book declaring that he realised halfway through — when the two love interests whose relationship bore a crazy resemblance to your own, realised that they were in fact in love — that he’d been stupid to deny that he even liked you, let alone that he’d quite obviously fallen stupidly in love with you.

Shock coursed through you, your heart racing at the uncharacteristically romantic and yet somehow still so incredibly Jess gesture.

You stood up, almost knocking over your chair as you placed the book under your arm and turned to leave, “I’ll be back—uh, soon.”

Luke nodded, “Go get him kiddo.”

You smiled, butterflies whirling in your stomach as you left the diner almost as quickly as Jess had just minutes ago.

You knew exactly where you’d find him — perched on the bridge swinging his feet and letting his mind convince him you wouldn’t in a million years feel the same.

When he heard the sound of your footsteps approaching, you saw him clench his eyes shut as if in hope that he was imagining you and that you’d soon disappear.

“You can’t confess your love for me and then run away, Jess,” you bit your lip as you teased him softly, “It’s not fair not to give me a chance to say it back properly. You do get bonus points for how much of a romance novel cliché that move is, though.”

He sighed, a deep heavy sigh of relief, and it was as though suddenly he reverted to his usual self, “Technically the book confessed my love for you, actually. And the window for reciprocating hasn’t quite closed yet. I’m all ears, pretty girl.”

You loved this.

You loved how easy things always were for you with Jess.

Everything that went unspoken still never went unsaid — sure, you’d been flirtatious friends for a while now, uncertain of quite how seriously he reciprocated your feelings, but deep down you always sort of knew.

You loved that ever since he’d come to Stars Hollow, he’d shown that he cared in his own silly little ways.

And he loved you.

And you loved him.

You sat down at his side, still clutching the book tightly as he finally looked across at you with a small smile.

“You’re such a romantic, huh? I didn’t know you had it in you,” you nudged his side teasingly, “But I— Jess I do love you, and I’ve probably loved you for a long time even though I didn’t want to let myself admit it.”

“Wow, okay Mr Darcy… Wait ‘til Luke hears that the real reason you’ve only just told me that is because you think he’s embarrassing,” he mocked, but you felt him shuffle closer, “I’ve definitely loved you for longer than I thought I had too, if it makes you feel any better.”

“Much better, Miss Bennet,” you laughed, linking your arms and leaning against his shoulder as he pressed a small kiss to the top of your head.

You felt Jess’ chest rise and fall as you closed your eyes and let the sound of the stream beneath you wash over you.

“So, like, I don’t know the protocol with the whole ‘best friends to lovers’ trope like you do, so you’re gonna have to help me out here,” Jess chuckled.

You sat back up to look at him whilst still keeping hold of his arm, “Hmm, I think what’s meant to happen next is you kiss me and ask to take me on a real date. Pretty sure that’s right.”

“Right, everyone’s favourite cliche moment,” Jess rolled his eyes jokingly but cupped your face with his palms, “God, what have you done to me?”

“You looove me,” your response was muffled as he pressed his lips to yours to shut you up, at first gently and then with a touch more urgency.

When you pulled away, he let go of your face and smiled softly, “So about that date?”

“You got it, Mariano,” you grinned, kissing him quickly once more as you paused, “But you’re going to have a tough time doing anything as romantic as annotating my favourite book and writing me a love note, you know.”

He scoffed, “Oh I’ve got plenty more where that came from, Y/N.”

“Is that a threat?” you giggled, leaning back into his side.

“Just you wait and see.”

———

ok so i kinda lost my way with this a bit eventually and i’m sorry it’s quite short but i had sooooo much fun writing it. i love jess so fucking much and i’m so grateful for all the jess requests i get — trying v hard to work through them asap because it’s so fun.

thanks for reading! here’s my masterlist for more <3

[grandhotelabyss]

Advice/hard truths for writers?

The best piece of practical advice I know is a classic from Hemingway (qtd. here):

The most important thing I’ve learned about writing is never write too much at a time… Never pump yourself dry. Leave a little for the next day. The main thing is to know when to stop. Don’t wait till you’ve written yourself out. When you’re still going good and you come to an interesting place and you know what’s going to happen next, that’s the time to stop. Then leave it alone and don’t think about it; let your subconscious mind do the work.

Also, especially if you're young, you should read more than you write. If you're serious about writing, you'll want to write more than you read when you get old; you need, then, to lay the important books as your foundation early. I like this passage from Samuel R. Delany's "Some Advice for the Intermediate and Advanced Creative Writing Student" (collected in both Shorter Views and About Writing):

You need to read Balzac, Stendhal, Flaubert, and Zola; you need to read Austen, Thackeray, the Brontes, Dickens, George Eliot, and Hardy; you need to read Hawthorne, Melville, James, Woolf, Joyce, and Faulkner; you need to read Tolstoy, Dostoyevsky, Turgenev, Goncherov, Gogol, Bely, Khlebnikov, and Flaubert; you need to read Stephen Crane, Mark Twain, Edward Dahlberg, John Steinbeck, Jean Rhys, Glenway Wescott, John O'Hara, James Gould Cozzens, Angus Wilson, Patrick White, Alexander Trocchi, Iris Murdoch, Graham Greene, Evelyn Waugh, Anthony Powell, Vladimir Nabokov; you need to read Nella Larsen, Knut Hamsun, Edwin Demby, Saul Bellow, Lawrence Durrell, John Updike, John Barth, Philip Roth, Coleman Dowell, William Gaddis, William Gass, Marguerite Young, Thomas Pynchon, Paul West, Bertha Harris, Melvin Dixon, Daryll Pinckney, Darryl Ponicsan, and John Keene, Jr.; you need to read Thomas M. Disch, Joanna Russ, Richard Powers, Carroll Maso, Edmund White, Jayne Ann Phillips, Robert Gluck, and Julian Barnes—you need to read them and a whole lot more; you need to read them not so that you will know what they have written about, but so that you can begin to absorb some of the more ambitious models for what the novel can be.

Note: I haven't read every single writer on that list; there are even three I've literally never heard of; I can think of others I'd recommend in place of some he's cited; but still, his general point—that you need to read the major and minor classics—is correct.

The best piece of general advice I know, and not only about writing, comes from Dr. Johnson, The Rambler #63:

The traveller that resolutely follows a rough and winding path, will sooner reach the end of his journey, than he that is always changing his direction, and wastes the hours of day-light in looking for smoother ground and shorter passages.

I've known too many young writers over the years who sabotaged themselves by overthinking and therefore never finishing or sharing their projects; this stems, I assume, from a lack of self-trust or, more grandly, trust in the universe (the Muses, God, etc.). But what professors always tell Ph.D. students about dissertations is also true of novels, stories, poems, plays, comic books, screenplays, etc: There are only two kinds of dissertations—finished and unfinished. Relatedly, this is the age of online—an age when 20th-century institutions are collapsing, and 21st-century ones have not yet been invented. Unless you have serious connections in New York or Iowa, publish your work yourself and don't bother with the gatekeepers.

Other than the above, I find most writing advice useless because over-generalized or else stemming from arbitrary culture-specific or field-specific biases, e.g., Orwell's extremely English and extremely journalistic strictures, not necessarily germane to the non-English or non-journalistic writer. "Don't use adverbs," they always say. Why the hell shouldn't I? It's absurd. "Show, don't tell," they insist. Fine for the aforementioned Orwell and Hemingway, but irrelevant to Edith Wharton and Thomas Mann. Freytag's Pyramid? Spare me. Every new book is a leap in the dark. Your project may be singular; you may need to make your own map as your traverse the unexplored territory.

Hard truths? There's one. I know it's a hard truth because I hesitate even to type it. It will insult our faith in egalitarianism and the rewards of earnest labor. And yet, I suspect the hard truth is this: ineffables like inspiration and genius count for a lot. If they didn't, if application were all it took, then everybody would write works of genius all day long. But even the greatest geniuses usually only got the gift of one or two all-time great work. This doesn't have to be a counsel of despair, though: you can always try to place yourself wherever you think lightning is likeliest to strike. That's what I do, anyway. Good luck!

[erospandemos]

I just can't help it

Yandere Chaewon x Reader

Part 1

“The most painful thing is losing yourself in the process of loving someone too much, and forgetting that you are special too.”

― Ernest Hemingway, Men Without Women

What you’re about to read is a confession to you. An apology, if you prefer to call it that, as I’ve professed my love to you plenty of times—although it won’t ever be enough—and you’re at the knowledge of every crime I’ve committed since we met. 

My Korean teacher repeatedly reiterated the lack of clarity in my essays and oral exams. I’m not good with words, you see. That’s why I thought that letting you know about the events in my life that shaped me and the feelings that followed me throughout these months would make you understand me better.

I know our conversations weren’t as deep as you probably expected. I’ve tried to explain myself to the best of my abilities and even if it was a mess you seemed to make out that flurry of words and comfort me. Sometimes, I truly thought you understood me more than I did. 

It’s true that we always talked in riddles and puzzles but it made more sense that way. Because our—my—love was pure madness and somehow the riddles explained it better than we ever could. 

The lack of sleep shouldn’t have affected my mind too much, at least in the part that’s in charge of writing. 

If you’re reading this, I hope you understand. Sorry if I’m rambling a lot, and sorry if I will ramble more in the following pages. Right, sorry if I’m apologizing a lot—you told me not to do that. I just can’t help it.

I was tortured since the age of 6 when I started going to elementary school, that’s as far as I can remember. You could also say I was “bullied”, it’s what the adults like to call it, but it’s the same thing. People get defensive, almost offended when I use the other term. “Wow,” was a common reaction, “that’s a bit extreme, don’t you think?” I didn’t think it was extreme. 

When I so naively asked my teacher the difference between the two words, she chuckled and looked at me as if I asked her what the difference between hot and cold was. Surprise was another clear feeling I could read from her expression. She asked me how I knew those words. I simply said I heard them from outside and she told me to forget them.

That evening, when I came home, I  took the chair from my mother’s desk and put it next to the bookshelf, I climbed it and looked at the books on the top shelf. They were the books she used the least and between them, sitting all dusty and forgotten, was also the dictionary. 

I blew and rubbed the dust away then I looked for the two words. I read the two definitions closely and more than one time but I still didn’t understand. They were the same. 

I didn’t ask my teacher anything else. My teacher was clearly against explaining them to me.

But I was sure, I knew those two words extremely well because I felt them on my skin. 

I wanted to be an idol. I told everyone in my class because I thought it was a normal dream—we all watched idols on TV in the afternoon—and being an astronaut seemed a lot harder. Apparently, it wasn’t. Because I wanted to perform on a stage, I was “pretentious”, “narcissistic”, an “attention-seeker”, and a “whore”. I didn’t know what they meant and thought they were compliments and they etched those words into my skin. 

I later found their definitions in the dictionary and understood what they were saying.

I wasn’t the only girl who wanted to be an idol. Hayoon, a classmate of mine, dreamt of testing for JYP, SM, YG, and all those big companies. She took dance and singing classes, they were both in group and private. She could afford it because her family was very rich. From what I heard in the classroom, she started training when she was just a little girl because her parents saw her dancing in front of the TV during an episode of Inkigayo.

Surprisingly, Hayoon was never shamed. Because she was “humble” and had “her feet on the ground”. She was loved by everyone and was the most favored prospect for the role of an idol, everyone seemed to believe in her dream. She was confident, danced well, and was beautiful. All the girls went to her house at least twice a month to go to her huge pool, splendid garden, and majestic house. I never went, I was never invited.

She was good at everything and topped all subjects. However, I sang better than her. In music classes and festivals, I was always chosen and often took the roles instead of her. When she realized she wasn’t the best, she became embarrassed and frustrated. 

She didn’t have any way of making me sing worse and neither could sing better than me, even after all those expensive lessons, so she took to poking fun at me to try and drag me down. Of course her friends joined as well. They were always calling me "ugly", "weird", and "gross" in a way that didn’t seem childish or playful, but demeaning and insulting.

The other kids constantly berated me between classes, glued my books to the desk, slapped me and then ran away. They knew all the spots where there was no CCTV in the school. They even stole my brand-new headphones and glued my shoestrings to my shoes when I didn’t see them. We wore slippers and my shoes were in my locker.

My teachers never helped me. I’ve tried telling them and they didn’t believe me, or rather, they chose not to believe me because that was easier for them.

Only a girl had the courage to help me, it only took one word and two days to have everyone against her. “Stop,” she only said that and then everyone hated her. You never go against the group, you never try to make yourself different, you never try to fight back. 

In the end, I understood the difference between torture and bullying: one was for hurting and one was for fun.

During middle school, the bullying stepped up a notch. Some of my classmates went to my same middle school, they had many friends there and the rumors spread like wildfire. Many of the students liked to take their stress out by bullying other students. They were pathetic and talentless, they hated anyone who had potential unless they provided them anything, like Hayoon.

Smoking was illegal. But they didn’t care. They found all the corners of the school where the CCTV didn’t see them and studied where the professors usually walked to avoid their path. It wasn’t always perfect and sometimes they were caught but it sure helped them and the bullies.

One day, I was dragged by my hair behind the basketball court and after getting pushed to the ground, the girls started slapping, laughing, and kicking me. The smoke from their cigarettes and the kicks to my belly and back took the air out of me. I couldn’t breathe and I thought I was going to die. They were experienced—they noticed my lack of breath, gave me breaks to catch it, and started kicking me again.

They were caught by a teacher who forgot his bag. They claimed they were only giving me “birthday punches” and didn’t admit anything, nor apologized. They weren’t stupid either. The girls had a very good reputation and a good student persona, essentially they didn’t have any criminal records. 

When I was asked what happened, I was ready to tell them all the atrocities that took place in school. But then, I remembered the girls’ eyes. I looked at the professor and I knew, right there and then, that he didn’t believe me, even before I said anything. They wouldn’t have done anything but the word would have been out, that I snitched on the bullies and then I wouldn’t have survived.

So I stayed silent.

The girls only got punished for smoking after they explained they only wanted to try and continued to do it anyway.

Between the end of middle school and the start of high school, the bullies got more creative. They tied me up and broke my legs with a crowbar. The older the girls got, the more of them wanted to be idols, and the first thing they had to do was to get rid of the competition. They succeeded as I stopped dancing altogether since that day.

I continued singing but nobody wants to see an idol in a wheelchair, right?

After I couldn’t walk normally anymore, they started treating me like a rag. They used me to clean the bathroom, by pushing me around on the floor, putting my face against the toilet, and mopping me with dirty water. I was like a toy to them and their friends joined the fun.

Part 2

It was no wonder that many bullied students leave the school. Sometimes, they leave on their own, because they can’t stand the torture anymore, other times, the school removes them. The bullies only bully others because they can and they know they can get away with it: they have influential parents or come from wealthy families, so the school can only quietly get rid of the problem and those are the victims that can’t stay quiet.

The class in my department didn’t have many students but it was enough: 20 students. During the year, 5 students left, and at the end of the year, 2 others were sent to another school in the province. The remaining 13 weren’t enough to be left alone in the classroom so they joined us with a class from another department that also lost many students. In total, we were 31, which was a big number but they didn’t have any other choice.

You were one of those students. I only noticed you after a week because I got used to keeping my eyes low not to anger any of my classmates. You sat beside me. People usually tend to avoid me since they could also become victims of the bullies but you knew it and it was your decision.

“Is this seat taken?” you asked me. When I heard your voice, I had a moment of hesitation. I kept staring at the wooden desk but then I thought that you might have accused me of being rude for ignoring you and that would have been a good enough reason to pick on me, so I raised my eyes.

“No, it isn’t,” I replied. Your eyes were cold. I genuinely thought you were a bully too.

“Then, can I seat here?”

“You can if you want…” I told you, unsure. “But I don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“What? You fart a lot?”

I was taken aback. “No! I don’t.”

“I suppose it’s fine then,” you said and took the chair out to take your desk. You started getting ready for the lesson and didn’t seem to have any intention of doing anything to me. Every time someone spoke to me, it was to make a comment, make a joke, or give me an order. Still, I was suspicious of you.

The lesson proceeded as usual. You took your notes very diligently, writing almost everything the teacher said, making graphs and small summaries to keep your memory fresh. If you were to tell me you were the top student in your class, I would have believed it and later I’d find out you really were.

Your behavior wasn’t the one of a bully. And it wasn’t the behavior of a bullied either.

At the end of the last lesson before the lunch break, the teacher gave us surveys for our future career choices. I stared at the paper with a pen in my hand. What should I write? My future, my future was stolen from me. My dream was as meaningful as an ant’s life. After everything they did and said to me, a miserable life of insignificance and sadness sounded perfectly fit for me. I kept wondering and pondering until you turned to me.

“What do you want to do when you grow up, Chaewon?” you asked me while you were lazily spinning your pen between your fingers.

“I- I don’t know, what about you?” I stuttered. I couldn’t bring myself up to pronounce those words. I felt as if I had been banished from even muttering them and thinking about it only brought me horrible memories.

“Web security,” you said. “I go around and check companies’ safety in their servers and sites. I’ve already started an internship so I’m sure it’s what I’m going to do.”

“An internship? This early?”

“Yeah, I figured the more experience I get, the better. I got nothing better to do anyways.”

“Don’t you have any hobbies? Don’t you hang out with your… friends?”

“I don’t have that many friends, to be honest,” you replied nonchalantly. “I mean, I do go out like once every three months so it isn’t a lot but I still have friends I can talk to. I’ve never been good with people, I guess.”

“Ah, is that so?”

“I was always better on my own. I tried a lot of stuff and I liked web stuff better,” then you turned to me for a second time, looking at me more intensely than before, “but you didn’t answer my question yet. What do you wanna do?”

Being put on the spot like that, I wasn’t sure about what I was allowed to say. More than that, I didn’t know what I really wanted, if the dust of my once desire was still in me if my heart wasn’t dead cold. However, after all these years, a subtle string of fate kept me going and it was still something that I liked doing.

I looked at your eyes. They didn’t scare me.

“I want to be… an idol,” I said in a single breath. After I finished the sentence, a heavy feeling of guilt dawned on me. I felt as if I just committed a crime and I was in danger.

But you didn’t judge me.

“An idol, huh?” You laid back on your chair. “That’s pretty cool. I know it’s very hard if you really want to do it, props to you. It takes some guts to train for that stuff. To dance all day, to have everyone look at you, it’s something.”

“Do- do you think I can do it?”

“I don’t know, you tell me. I don’t know how well you dance, or how good you sing, or even what you tested for.”

“But is it a possible dream?”

“You can watch idols too, right? They had the same dream as you did. They did it. I think it’s possible, yeah. And I think you can do it, Chaewon.”

When you said that, I felt so relieved. It was comforting. Finally, I found someone that didn’t hate me, that didn’t shame and believed in me.

Just as you stopped talking, the bell rang. It was the time.

“Oh, look at her, ms. Idol,” said Yejun and pushed my head away for fun. He started laughing.

“Hands off, Yejun. And go away before I sock you in the face,” you said.

“I’m so scared, oh my god,” he laughed. “What do you think you’ll do huh? Do you want to protect this filthy rag? How generous,” he said and then slapped me.

“That’s enough, fuckface,” you got up and stared into his eyes. “That’s the last warning. Leave before I do something I might regret.”

He scoffed. “Really, you talk a lot. Don’t forget that you work for my father.”

“I don’t think you get it, Yejun. I don’t just work for your father. He depends on me. One click and his whole 20 servers will blow up. Do you really think that incompetent fool of your father fixed all the problems? He doesn’t know shit about his stuff, he only knows how to count money and scam his workers. There are so many weaknesses I could just hack the whole thing and change your company to my name.”

“You aren’t funny.”

“I wasn’t trying to be. Now, that I’ve seen who this rag of yours is, tell your friends to keep their hands off her. I don’t want to see your father come back and beg at me and he’ll know it was all your fault. Everyone listens to you apparently, so spread the word. I won’t hesitate.”

Yejun stormed out of the class in anger.

I felt like I was reborn, that I finally found my savior. You were the angel I needed and you came to save me from this hell.

“I don’t like this place, let’s get out of here,” you said and I followed you.

We went to grab lunch but right behind the vending machines you got attacked. He called you a nerd, whatever he did, but I couldn’t stand it. I felt a force in me and I grabbed his neck, I squeezed until he couldn’t breathe anymore.

I’ll be honest, if it wasn’t for you trying to get me off, I would have killed him.

Just as that guy run off, you freaked out. I didn’t blame you. Still, you took my arm and pulled me to somewhere more covered to talk to me, scared that someone else might have seen it. I could see the surprise in your eyes, but you didn’t look terrified, you were concerned if anything.

Your hand was still bleeding, the red liquid dripped to the floor. I stared at the droplets, slowly coloring the grey concrete, as if it was the ticking of a clock. At each tick, I was getting more impatient, there was something inside me that wanted to jump out, run after who hurt you, and make him pay for it. But I had to calm down, you were in front of me.

“Chaewon, what the hell!” you whisper-shouted while repeatedly glancing behind your back and into the hallway. “Where did that come from?”

“I-I don’t know what happened,” I stuttered. I was saying the truth—at the time, I truly didn’t know why I reacted in the way I did. I never raised my hands, I never talked back, I never reacted.

“Shit, I’m bleeding a lot,” you cursed. You gritted your teeth and started walking towards the school clinic. I followed you.

You talked to me as we were walking. “You don’t just choke people randomly, you know?”

“I- I really swear! I pro-promise… I have no idea what happened!”

“Listen, Chaewon, I saw you pinning his neck against the wall. You raised a senior with one hand.”

When we were in front of the nurse's office, you pinched your nose and waved your hand to stop me from talking. The cuff of your white shirt was stained with red, it already spread so much in just a short time. You must have been in pain. My blood was boiling.

“You can explain yourself later,” you said and opened the door. “I have to close this wound first.”

I followed you into the room. For some reason, the room was empty, there was no trace of the nurse and it looked like she hasn’t been there for a long time as everything was very tidy and the coat hanger was empty. Often, when people can avoid work, they’ll do it. The nurse must have seen that there was no one needing her in the morning and decided to leave for some coffee.

You sat on one of the beds, keeping your arm stretched out so the blood wouldn’t stain the sheets and with another hand, you searched into the cabinet for something you could help yourself with. You took out bandaids, alcohol, gauze and cotton buds. You really made a mess, trying to pour the alcohol on your arm and spilling half of the content on the floor.

After sloppily cleaning yourself with cotton, you got the bandaids.

“Do you really think bandaids will do?” I asked you. “It’s way too deep.”

“Is there any other way?”

“Yeah, we have to put stitches on you.” I took the chairs from the desk and sat in front of you. In the cabinet beside the bed, there were also needles and thread for that procedure. Luckily there was an anesthetic as well.

I put on gloves. I cleaned your wound again, better than you did before, and applied the anesthetic gel. It took about two minutes to take effect, in the meanwhile I prepared the rest of the equipment I needed: forceps, curved needle, and new thread.

When I was sure you didn’t feel anything, I started stitching your wound.

“How did you learn this?” you asked me so curiously.

“I… I got used to taking care of myself,” I said softly. It was embarrassing. You nodded. I could feel your eyes scan me, looking at all my bruises, the bandaids on my face, and many more wounds underneath my shirt.

You sighed. “I’m sorry. I hope they won’t attack you anymore. Always stay with me, they are scared of people who have a known name.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think it will do anything.”

“Just do as I say,” you repeated. I could see how sure you were from your face. You definitely didn’t see, as my face was facing the floor, but I smiled for the first time after you said that. Your desire of protecting me was honest. I was really happy that you cared for me.

When I came home, I had the time to think through what happened that day. As I was drinking a cup of water, I looked at myself in the reflection of the window, my fingers tracing my wounds and bruises, itching the dried blood on my nails. Where did that strength come from? I could have sworn they had taken every ounce of energy from me, I knew I had no will, no ambition, no desire to even talk back until today. And yet, I hurt him.

I felt good. It didn’t feel good to hurt him per se but to know I defended you. As to him, I should have killed him. But you stopped me. You shouldn’t have done that. He hurt you. That shabby gross fool tried to hurt you, how could he?!

I was so lucky to have caught you before it was late. I couldn’t imagine what would have happened to you if he succeeded—the bruises on your face, the blood on your face—you would have looked just like me. No, I couldn’t stand that. You didn’t deserve to go through the pain that I did, not after you defended me. Oh, if only I could lay my hand on those sinners, the pain I could inflict them, all the experiences that I felt inside my skin, into my very flesh.

I want to hear them scream. To beg for forgiveness. To regret their very existence. I want them to apologize to you, to offer their life…

Crack

I looked down at my hands. What a mess. I completely shattered the cup I was holding—bits of sharp glass everywhere, even some into my skin. The veins of my hand were bulging, I could feel the blood in my body flowing so fast and forcefully. The adrenaline was high in my brain.

I didn’t realize what I did until I heard the sudden noise.

It was true, just as you said. It wasn’t me. But why? This must have happened because I was thinking of you getting hurt… yes, it was your thought, just you. It was because of you. I didn’t want to see you hurt, you were my only hope in this world, just the thought sent a shock through my spine and into my head, and I would go crazy.

You made me like this.

Completely insane.

“Chaewon! What happened?” I heard Yujin calling me and I turned around to see her rushing out the hallway. Yujin was my roommate, we shared the rent because it was cheaper that way. She wasn’t a bad person, not at all. But she couldn’t understand my life, she lived between rich girls and handsome guys.

To be kind, you need to know what misery is. She was just nice.

“Oh, Kirin-chan,” I said.

“How did you break your glass?” she asked worryingly, grabbing a towel to clean my bloody hand of the bits of glass.

“My bad, I was standing up and it just slipped out of my hand.”

“Then how did it get all over your palm?”

“I slipped and fell right onto it, you know how clumsy I am.”

“Yeah,” she commented without much belief, “just like all the time you come home with bruises on your face.”

“It isn’t my fault if they don’t put warnings after cleaning the stairs.”

“It isn’t your fault,” she repeated. “Anyways, don’t forget to clean it up, I’ll go back to studying,” she ended, turning around and leaving the lounge to return to her prettier room.

I continued to stare at my hand.

I couldn’t help but think about you again… my head got foggy… my thoughts haunting…

What if they scarred you?

What if they bullied you?

What if girls broke your heart?

What if you were friends with the wrong people?

I knew I was crossing a line when those questions took form but it was too late and I didn’t even care anymore. It was a promise I made myself, to protect who I loved, and I swore I wouldn’t fail again. I would protect you forever, no matter what.

I feared that you’d run away from me but instead, we got way closer than before. When I walked into school the day after the incident, I was genuinely scared I wouldn’t have seen you—that you had stayed at home, that you changed class or even school. What worried me the most was the fact that you could have been scared of me.

I waited for you anxiously. I kept scratching my nails, rubbing my arms, looking around for you. So many times I got up and walked around the paths outside the school where I thought you’d usually walk, even if I didn’t know well what were your habits, and not finding you, I’d sit back at the wall and wait again.

After several minutes, you arrived at school. At the sight of you, my dizziness and worries faded away. I immediately ran at you and hugged you so tight, you had to know how much I missed you.

You were surprised, of course, you were. “Huh? What has gotten into you Chaewon?” you laughed jokingly.

“I just thought you wouldn’t come to school anymore,” I told you.

“Why would I do that? Today is a school day.”

“It’s okay, that’s perfect. I’m just so glad I can see you again.”

Part 3

The door opened to the locker room and I and the other trainees entered sitting down. They changed their clothes from casual streetwear to old clothes and gym wear. I’ve been training for a bit now, I got to know all the trainees well, there were a lot before but now they only remained half. The one that finished first started stretching. "It's one minute and a half. Let's do this," she sighed.

One of them threw to the other a white sheet with a name written on it and did the same with the others. "Here. Your name tags."

"That's it? Just a minute?" the girl chuckled.

"A minute and a half. Everyone does their part and it's a difficult choreography, don't you forget. It will be enough."

"It's for evaluation. Don't forget every detail counts," another girl added.

We went out of the room and made our way toward the practice room, each one with a name tag on it. The corridor leading to it was cold, probably because they just changed from thick to thin clothes, but it got hotter towards the end where the air got denser. One at a time, they entered bowing at the line of men sitting on the right of the mirror in front of the door.

Everyone had papers and a pen and a serious look plastered on their faces. After a couple of stretches, the girls got into position and the music started. They smiled and danced with their full capability and the judges looked sharp. When the music stopped they held their ending pose and went in a line waiting for their words. The air suddenly felt cold.

"There had been improvements on what we said the first time. But we can also fix others," the first said and the men nodded. They wrote on the paper and scribbled.

"You. When the others did their move you were coordinated and that's fine but you did it wrong. You need to raise your hand higher," he said making the move himself and the girl followed.

"Can you do the move a bit before the ending?" another one asked, gesturing his intention. "Yes, that one. Please get into the position and do it."

They did and when it came to the next section he spoke again, "One more time."

"Once more."

"Five...six.. seven... eight... an-"

"Okay," he said and got up walking to the center of the room. He demonstrated the move more and more times. "Don't tense your muscles too much when you do this alright?"

"But," the oldest got up, "you were all a lot better today, good job. Specially Soojin and Gaeul."

"That's it, goodbye," they said.

"Thank you!" the girls answered together.

BLAM. The oldest almost slips as he got out and the others held him up. The girls let out a muffled laugh, their mouths covered with their hands."See girls, don't tense your muscles too much or they won't work properly," the man chuckled. The judges left fast, embarrassed by their eldest and the group laughed in relief.

"Are we really doing this? They are not saying anything anymore."

The youngest looked at them from the ground, laid down breathing hard, and said, "We're close to debuting."

When everyone was done with their stuff and cleaned themselves they left. Almost all of them ran out to catch the last bus of the day or were just in a hurry. I, on the other hand, had to walk home so I did everything slower. When I got out, in the distance, I heard a group of girls around my age shouting and laughing. When they got closer, I realized they were my classmates, there were about four of them and they were drunk.

They noticed me.

"Look at you. It's late, pretty girls like you shouldn't stay out," one of them said and I frowned.

"Don't tell me. You were practicing?" she said laughing. The other three got in a semi-circle in front of me.

"It's a really difficult life isn't it, miss idol? Everybody wants you and you're here dancing until late," she mocked me, with her fingers under her eyes faking tears, and let out a hearty laugh. The choir followed with a carol of joy.

"It's sad really," she continued, "so popular but so tired."

She pushed me down on the ground and the group stepped back making more space for the two. She forcefully pulled my hair, forcing me to get up. The girl got closer and said, "And you're so pretty. It would be a shame if anything happened to this pretty face."

She slapped me. They laughed. They kicked me. I tried to defend myself, curling into a fetus position and protecting my head. They snickered as they continued wasting the effects of the alcohol on me. When they were finally satisfied, they got up and left me there on the side of the road and went away to the opposite way of where they came from.

I remained on the ground with tears on her face and sobbed trying not to make any noise, I wanted silence. However I heard their voices again, from the distance, and they were screaming.

"What do you think you're doing?!" the same girl as before squealed."We're girls, you think you can-." The group gasped.

"You're five and I'm one and you just beat that girl up. You think I care?" It was a male voice.

The girls ran away but the guy didn't try to chase them and walked to me.

"There's a convenience store nearby, we can get something cold for your face," he said with a soft tone. I recognized the voice and looked at him, I recognized his face too. It was you. My legs trembled a little as I held myself upon your shoulder for support. "It's fine, take your time," you said dusting my back.

At the shop, you bought a bag of frozen peas so I could put it on my face where it still hurts. "I ate those for dinner, they're great. I can use them for everything, look, you're using them too now," you said and I laughed. I calmed down a little and your face got more serious and worried.

"I told you. Starting from tomorrow I'll bring you home," you said.

"But it was only this time," I said.

"And the other four before."

"Kind of."

"Being there by 11:30 should be good."

"But you should sleep."

"I would just be studying, and either way, it's way better to have your company," you insisted, leaning down on the chair. A small smile formed on my face. Ever since that day, the two always walked home late at night even when it was freezing or when it was raining. We got way closer.

You grew up so well. Unfortunately, many girls seemed to notice you and fall for you. I don’t blame them, you were very charming, so attractive for such a young student but I couldn’t let them near you. They were fools, too stupid to realize they were nowhere close to your level, you were levels above and they were just insects. I had to make sure no one bothered you, to avoid you crying because some worthless bitch broke your heart.

I was surprised when you told me you got asked out. But then I felt my chest burn.

There’s only one thing that I can’t stand in this world and that’s people who think they can take what’s mine. I don’t care about gossip, jealousy or envy, I don’t have anyone to compete with, I just want what’s mine. And you are mine.

It was so easy to scare them away. All it took was a quick talk behind the school, a very convincing speech, a cutter to their throats…

They were scared of me. Good. You didn’t suspect anything—they’d still smile at me as if nothing happened, I made sure to tell them. I couldn’t let you know, to worry more than you already were.

The bullying had completely stopped towards me because you were always by my side defending me and eventually they all got the message. If you were just a crush before, now I love you. If I loved you, now I worship you. You’re my religion, my god, my purpose. I’ll kill for you, live for you, and I’ll love you forever. Wherever you go, I’ll follow you. Whether that’s heaven, hell, or any other world. My very existence is embroidered into your name, I can’t exist without you.

Things were going great, so great. You only had eyes for me. Those two beautiful pupils could only look at me, at my face, at my body, only at me. I loved when you stared at me, I was yours after all, you could watch how much you wanted.

That was until those two eyes became one. You got a big bruise on your left eye, it was swollen, black, and horrible.

You were waiting for me near the big tree behind the school like you always did, and you talked to me like you always did, without worry or pain. “Hey, Chaewon,” you greeted me.

“What happened?!”

“Nothing, I just hurt myself,” you lied. How naive you were, you were too kind, too nice. I didn’t believe you one single bit. I wonder why you did that? Why did you lie to me? Was it to protect whoever did that to you? To protect who hurt you?

“Tell me. Tell me, who hurt you?” I asked you calmly.

“It’s really nothing Chae… I’m serious, I only hurt myself—”

“TELL ME WHO THE HELL HURT YOU RIGHT FUCKING NOW!!!” I asked again, the sudden increase in volume startled you and you backed away into the tree. I didn’t know at the time, and you’d tell me later, but my eyes were empty. You got scared, I apologize, I just couldn’t help it.

“Ch-Chaewon?” you stuttered.

When I realized you were terrified, I calmed down. “Huh? Oh, my bad, sorry… I was just really worried, but now, please tell me.” I shook my head and took a couple of steps back.

“Okay, I will tell you… it was Seojun,” you finally confessed. “I bumped into him and spilled his drink on his uniform. I apologized, but since I was alone and his ‘friends’ were with him, they thought they could get their revenge on me.”

“I see… let’s get you some ice for that eye for now,” I told you and we started to walk into the infirmary for the second time. I hated walking into that place, especially with you. I tried my best to hold it inside me, not to scare you again, but I was going to snap anytime soon.

“Chae, are you alright?” you asked me.

“Oh, don’t worry about me, dear… and it will okay from now on. You don’t have to worry about Seojun anymore.”

You know, people say that the first time is special, you never forget it. The first time I bathed my hands in the warm liquid that is human blood, my body was cold. I felt hesitation at first, but I knew I was doing it for you, and thinking about you, all that fear was gone. And I killed him.

Yes, it was me that killed Seojun. I don’t regret one bit what I’ve done to him. I made sure he suffered as much as he made you suffer. An eye for an eye, as they say.

That day was special, it was like I confessed to you and instead of a ring, I gave you a life. It was only fair you’d give me your life in return.

The murder of Seojun made headlines in the news and when asked about it, the students never said anything nor praised or acted sad at his death. No one missed him. It’s quite sad that life can be so insignificant that not a single person will care about how gruesome your death was and forget you the next day. To be quite honest, he deserved it. We die in the same way we live.

You were a bit suspicious of me at first. You didn’t really doubt me—you were curious. The news of his death was delivered by our professor during the first period with a sigh before continuing the lesson. The reactions were mixed but mostly towards one extreme: relief.

When a bad person dies, two things will happen: if you’re a good person or a victim, you will be happy; if you’re equally bad then you’ll be scared, because you know he already got what he deserved and nothing prevented you from having the same fate as nothing is stronger than luck.

You were both worried and glad. I’ve always noticed how you tend to care about other people, it’s something that I really love about you, you just have to direct toward the people who deserve it. “Hey, Chae, do you know anything about Seojun’s murder?” you asked me during the break. You were hesitant at first but I was sure you’ve thought about it long enough to decide to spill it.

You must have thought about what I said the other day: You don’t have to worry about Seojun anymore.

“Huh?” I raised my eyebrow at you. “Why would I have anything to do with his death?”

“W-well… you see… you said that I didn’t have to worry about him anymore and the next day… he dies.” Your shoulders were so tight almost as if you were trying to keep the words inside of you. Your gaze flitted around the room, never settling on one person or object for long.

“It must have been a coincidence,” I told you. “And karma.”

“Right,” you muttered. Then you relaxed your shoulders.

“By the way,” I changed the topic, “there is going to be the last test before the debut at Hybe.”

Your eyes changed completely, they brightened. Every time I talked about my dream, you always seemed too excited for me. You fully believed in my ambition and constantly encouraged me to keep trying. Whenever I practiced, I always thought of you.

I always think of you.

“That’s awesome, Chae. It’s your opportunity, you wanted to become an idol all this time.”

“I will start practicing right away then,” I said. “I want to be with you that day. Can you come with me?”

“What day will it be?”

“Next Saturday, 4:00 pm.”

“Next Saturday… 4:00 pm,” you repeated. “I’ll make sure to be there—I will be there, I will.”

“Thank you,” I smiled and hugged you. You were still a bit against the idea of hugging but slowly you were getting used to it. I trusted that you’ll eventually come to love it.

I had prepared about four songs for the test: two for my singing and two for my dancing, one of them was good for both. I decided to be very broad with my songs because if they asked for more, I’d be prepared. You never know. I didn’t want to go there and have them ask for a random song and fail horribly.

You were waiting for me in front of the building with a little bag of snacks. I mentioned all of them before to you and you remembered. Some of them were for when I’d finish the whole thing and some as a snack to calm my nerves.

Honestly, I felt like you were my boyfriend already. If anyone saw us together, they’d say the same thing. Every little thing you did was so full of attention, I knew you cared for me, and I loved you so much.

Anyways, the time came. I bid you goodbye and entered.

The test went terribly wrong.

You waited two hours for me, only for me to blow it all up. When I came out, I was so embarrassed, I didn’t want you to see me at all.

“So Chae, how was it?” you asked but I didn’t reply. It was hard to come up with any word at all. I couldn’t even look at you in the eyes.

“Chae?”

“Chaewon?”

You finally got enough at the third time and you grabbed my shoulder to shake and direct my gaze at you. “Chaewon, answer me please!” you said with an upset tone.

“Do you… do you think I’m a failure?”

“What are you talking about?” you asked back.

“Hey, am I a failure? Tell me. Were the guys right? I am not meant to be an idol after all, should I give up after all? Tell me, please!” I hiccuped and cried. I was truly heartbroken. It was the test per se but the fact that I disappointed you, that I wasted all your determination and belief you had in me.

“Chaewon, no…” you whispered and went for a hug. It was awkward, you didn’t know how to hug. You tried to put a hand on my shoulder and one on my hip, but it didn’t work. Then you tried to put both of them on my shoulder but you looked like you wanted to headbut me. On the third try, you succeeded and properly hugged me very tightly.

I buried my head into your chest, it was where I could really feel safe.

“Chaewon, what happened in there? How did it go?”

“I FAILED! I BLEW IT ALL UP! IT’S ALL GONE!” I yelled and gripped you harder.

“How is that possible? You’re perfect, I mean, you sing so beautifully and you’re beautiful,” you said. “You’ve been practicing… why? How?”

“I’m sorry it’s that I was so worried. I got distracted. I continued to ask myself if I’d fail and so on… I knew the lyrics but I got jittery and…”

“No, Chaewon! I told you to believe in yourself. You can do it. You can do it.”

“But—”

“You have talent, Chae,” you repeated, “and I’ve seen it since day one. You will not fail. You just have to try again.”

I was embarrassed to see if I could try again but you weren’t and you stormed inside the building, dragging me by arm to ask the staff if I could try again. You explained everything and even pleaded with them until they gave in.

This time, you were waiting for me outside the door. I knew I wouldn’t fail again.

Don’t think about anything else. Focus.

I sang the first song. Just like I practiced. Then I danced. It was perfect.

I passed. I was so happy and I just had to tell you. I ran outside but you weren’t there.

I searched everywhere until I understood you weren’t in the building and had to search for you outside. I found you in an alley, bloody and bruised.

I immediately called the ambulance and they rushed you to the hospital. Your condition was so bad they had to x-ray your whole body and do a small surgery.

When I found you, you could barely talk or even breathe. You were laying in a pool of blood, that came from the numerous cuts all over your body—they weren’t clean but all rough and jacked, meaning they came from brute force and not blades. Your clothes were also messed up and ripped. Together, I could count on 19 injuries at least. I couldn’t understand at all. Why would someone do that to you? And how did it happen?

Together with you was a bag with two drinks and a couple of sandwiches. I suppose you went outside to a convenience store to buy something, maybe for me, and then… you were attacked. This may have been premeditated, it’s impossible a group of people randomly hurt you that bad.

I couldn’t stop crying, you know?

To see you in those conditions, I could only think of the worse.

What if you’d never wake up again?

What if you’d be miserable for the rest of your life?

What if you died?

It was my fault. I’m sorry, it was totally my fault. It was because I took way too long in the test, chatting with the staff, seeing the other girls so happily, while you were being jumped… I could have protected you, we could have gone home together and this would have never happened.

The doctor called me. “Kim Chaewon?”

“Yes?” I raised my eyes. I saw him and wiped my tears before standing up and walking to him.

“Is he okay…?” I asked.

“He’s not in danger is what I can tell you. Some of his bones are broken and he has received a concussion, he may be asleep for a while, you see,” he said.

“Can I see him?”

“Yes, you can,” the doctor agreed, “this way…”

He guided me toward another floor of the hospital. You have been transferred from the emergency room to the patient’s rooms. You were in the section where more care was needed—the hallway was quieter, everyone walked slower, and everything was more gentle.

I entered your room slowly, holding myself up with a hand on the door frame and then I saw you. Your eyes were closed. Your whole body was covered in bandages and you were hooked to all sorts of machines with cables and cords everywhere. It was almost like seeing a puppet tied up in strings and they were keeping you alive.

I was scared to come close to you. I feared that any of my movements could have damaged you even more. You were so fragile at that moment.

I gently lowered myself to the chair next to your bed and held your hand. I cried. I cried again, so much. I couldn’t help but keep thinking it was my fault. If only I was quicker…

Some of your items were put in the drawer. I noticed your phone together with your wallet and backpack. The screen was cracked and some of the blood crusted into the cracks. I don’t know why I felt curious but I unlocked the screen—you trusted me enough to let me know your password months ago to check some messages while you were busy cooking—and it opened KakaoTalk. You were texting me and the phone memorized it.

Chae be careful the bullies might be after you

Don’t go in the shortcut at the

Oh, dear. You were on the brink of death and all you could think was to warn me, to protect me. You didn’t even think of calling for help. I understood everything. It was those bullies again… they didn’t forget, did they? It’s because their life turned to hell after they didn’t have anyone to bully anymore and they got revenge but attacking you.

I was angry. I was furious. I was so pissed that I unconsciously cracked your phone even more. It was that feeling again, all over—the fire in my chest.

I will kill them. Each one of the. I will make them suffer. I will tear them to shreds. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them. I will kill them.

I will make them pay for everything they have done for you.

They were so stupid. It was so easy to trick them: I attacked their leader when he was coming home late and forced him to send a message to everyone who was involved in your attack—he confessed right away when I showed him my knife.

The guys came on point the next day. It was all so easy. They always hung out at the abandoned warehouse where they could make all the mess they wanted and dragged their victims to torture them properly and in private. Now they were dragging themselves to their death.

I dressed in black that day. You never liked seeing me in black. People used to tell me I tried to stand out too much so they forced me to use torn, old, ugly clothes, but when they stopped tormenting me, you brought me to buy more clothes for me.

But that day I wasn’t dressing as the victim. I was in the guise of the Grim Reaper.

I prepared my knives, axes, clamps, nails, and staplers and waited for them in the building.

Humans are so easy to kill. They are so frail and mortal—I had to be extremely careful not to let them die immediately to cause them all the pain they deserved. I’ll spare you the details. You don’t have to know of the gruesome parts of their murder. I’ll just tell you everything they did to you and in their years of bullying, I did to them. From crowbars to knives, to fire and stabbing.

When the last one stopped screaming, I felt at peace. The silence was absolute. I couldn’t even hear the wind, the cars, or the noises of the city. It was completely quiet.

I finally avenged you.

Part 4

Disposing of the bodies was quite simple but extremely tiring. I had to chop their bodies to bits, bury them and hide all the evidence. I cleaned with bleach all my weapons, the floor, and the walls of the warehouse. I had to soil the floor since it was dirty before and I couldn’t leave a clean patch in there, it would have been a dead giveaway.

Of course, I had to get rid of all their phones. I broke them into little pieces before grinding them up to a bag of dust and flushing them down the toilet.

I got most of my weapons from around the city. I stole the knives from the school kitchen and returned them to them. I did the crime on a Friday night and finished in the evening of Saturday so they wouldn’t have noticed the disappearance of their tools. I bought the rest of the tools from a hardware store so I could have just put it in someone else’s garage.

I couldn’t burn my clothes or rags because that would have caught the attention of my neighbors or anyone nearby so I colored it with all sorts of paints so the blood would have been unrecognizable. If anyone analyzed them, it would look like they were of an artist. And then I disposed of them.

Burying the bodies was the most laborious part and I could only do it during the night. It took me both Saturday and sunday to get rid of all the evidence.

The next days were all marked by nightmares. I didn’t dream of what I did. What haunted me was you leaving me. I was afraid that my crime could have separated us.

Chaewon, you’re a monster.

I can’t be friends with a murderer.

I can’t love a killer.

I hate you.

I wish you died.

I was distressed and jittery during the day and couldn’t sleep at night. Many times I would get distracted in those thoughts, imagining all the things you could say to me, and not realize people calling me. I would often zone out and not hear anything else.

“Chaewon? Are you okay?” my classmates would tell me. I would snap out of my daze and realize most of them were looking at me then I’d realize I actually chipped a corner of the table off with my grip.

“Oh, I’m sorry, it’s nothing,” I could only say. They would continue with the day forgetting about it or just tell their friends excitedly about a classmate with a freakish strength.

It was especially hard when I was training with the other trainees but I told myself you wouldn’t be proud of me if I wasn’t doing my best and forced myself to dance.

On Monday, their disappearance was announced but nobody could find anything. Not a single trace. The secret was safe with me.

They also announced your attack but they didn’t connect the two events together, assuming you were also a victim. The attacks in this Korea were common anyways. Bullying was so widespread you could say it was part of our culture.

After a week. you were still asleep. The doctor concluded that they must have stomped your head too for you to be concussed that badly. They damaged the nerves.

Unfortunately, I knew only after I killed them. If I knew I would have done the same to them so they could feel the pain you felt but I guess cutting their limbs counts as nerve damage as well.

I was getting extremely impatient waiting for your awakening. The doctor couldn’t help me but it wasn’t their fault. I’ve only realized now how much I relied on you and those days without you were as sad as Halloween without candies.

When I woke up, I couldn’t tell if the Sun rose already or if it was still sunrise, it was timid, and the light cast a somber hue in the room. It was gray and pale. The soundscape was eerily quiet, the usual chirping birds seemed to have disappeared, as if even nature was mourning alongside me.

Walking through the corridors of the school, I felt like a solitary figure amidst a sea of faces. Conversations echoed around me, yet they seemed distant. The classrooms, usually alive with energy, felt suffocatingly silent.

I couldn’t help but notice how happy the other students went on with their days, completely ignoring what happened to you. Worst of all, some students even mocked you, saying you were a loser and you deserved it. My bloodthirst was beyond the roof. I had to hold myself back a lot not to commit other killings, reminding myself that I could have raised a case of a serial killer if I wasn’t careful enough.

I thought I had been sneaky enough not to raise any suspicion but I didn’t know the only person to find out would have been you.

I was in an alley near the hospital when I met one of those mean girls. They were badmouthing you and I had to make sure they wouldn’t do it again. I didn’t kill them, you don’t have to worry about that. I merely sent a message, a little punishment. I got one nail for each insult they said toward you. Poor them, they won’t have nails for months—I hope it hurts.

They ran away but when I turned around, I saw you. You were looking at me so horrified and disgusted.

“I had my suspicions, Chae…” you said. “The coincidence was too perfect. I woke up and saw the news, I knew it was you. And now, I’m sure.”

“You’re mistaken, dear,” I tried to say foolishly.

“Chae, I saw everything.” Your face morphed into an extreme melancholy, of disappointment and sadness. My face instead contorted into a horrified frown. You… my best and only friend, my love. You discovered my worse secret—I knew what the consequences were and I knew what the risks were.

“I mean, what are you even doing here? Weren’t you still sleeping?”

“I woke up this morning—I got discharged—and the doctor let me take a walk… and then I saw you.”

“Do you know what I did all of this, darling?” I asked, my nerves were so tense and my blood was pumping like crazy. I was getting more and more scared. There was a thread inside me that was being pulled and pulled…

“W-what is it?” you asked with hesitation.

“It’s because… I… I love you.”

I saw the shock on your face but I couldn’t stop myself anymore. I did it. I snapped. You found out and there was no turning back. You didn’t have a choice either.

“W-what? What are you saying?”

“Darling, don’t you get it? I love you so so so so so much. I love you so much—to the point I killed for you. Yes, I did kill them. I murdered them. I slaughtered them. I made them suffer, love, the way they made you suffer… Please! Please understand—I’m doing this because I love you.”

“Chae, you’re scaring me. Stop…”

“Oh, don’t be scared, my love. I would never harm you or kill you… I would only cherish you—in fact, I did all of this to protect you from those bastards! I love you with all of my heart.”

That fire inside of me took over again and this time I was already glued to you, my knee under your thigh, pinning you to the wall, a hand on your cheek and one near your waist. You couldn’t move at all, I wouldn’t let you. I was finally this close to you… your skin was so smooth and soft—just like you, my precious baby.

Maybe I was smiling a bit too much. You’d describe to me later that I looked psychotic, yes, I was crazy.

You didn’t know how to react. I admit, you were so cute—so vulnerable and fragile, just at my mercy. Yet, you dared to take and push my hand away from your face.

“Chae, I’m sorry,” you said and it almost broke my heart, “but I just… I-I- I don’t know…” you said.

“What aren’t you sure about? Is it my love? Is it not clear enough?” I asked. “I’ll do anything for you, just ask me.”

“Please stay away from me,” you replied, “for a while.”

“What are you saying, darling?”

“Chae… you’re my best friend and I understand why you did all of that. I do. But I need to think about it. Don’t worry, I won’t say this to anyone, no one at all, but I need to stay alone for a bit,” you pleaded, “I just recovered too.”

“Okay, fine,” I agreed. You were right. It was a bit too much for you, especially after you just woke up from that concrete hospital bed. Also, I knew I could trust you. You never betrayed me so that did not scare me.

You slowly backed away and left me, alone in the alley.

I don’t know why but I started laughing hysterically.

I thought I messed up a lot. That isn’t the way your lover should look at you, right? Terrified and pleading on the verge of tears. You should have looked at me lovingly. I was so scared you’d leave me and I couldn’t let you do that. I needed you too much.

But then you left me waiting for almost a month. I respected your choice and didn’t contact you at all but it’s been too long. I figured that knowing I killed tormented you so I didn’t touch anyone else but rather I kept it to simply threatening them verbally and that seemed to work.

You have to understand I couldn’t take it anymore. Looking at your pictures every night wasn’t enough. Listening to your voice from the vocal messages wasn’t enough. Smelling the shirts I stole from you wasn’t enough, and the smell was fading away. My imagination wasn’t enough, especially when I knew I could have you and I was just waiting for the right moment.

Then the right moment came. I sent you a message just to let you know, you couldn’t say no. I went right to your house, which I came over to many times already, and even your mother knew me. She let me inside with a smile, she was so kind. I knew where you got that virtue from.

I heard you running frantically around your room. You must have been dressing up, so I waited until you were done, knocked, and opened the door. Your room smelled just like I remembered it, it was so good, it was just you.

“It’s been a while, Chae,” you said, clearly nervous. “How are you doing?”

“I’m doing terrible, honey,” I answered honestly and you gulped. “You know, I’ve been good to you. I waited and did nothing else. I did not kill or hurt anyone. I let you have your space, then why did you disappear for an entire month?”

“I kept thinking and reflecting on what happened…”

“For a month?” I was furious. “Did you try to make me forget you? Did you try to forget me?”

“It’s that… It has been a tough month,” you said. “My best friend murdered 6 people, or more… How could I go back to what we were before? You killed… humans.”

“So? They didn’t deserve to live anyways. I did it for you.”

“No, Chae—”

“They beat you up so badly you couldn’t even walk!” I snapped. “They badmouthed you, they laughed at you and… why are you defending them?!”

“Yes, but you took their lives.”

“They were going to take your life too! Don’t you get it?”

“Chae, please—”

“No! Shut up! I can’t take this anymore! I can’t forgive them. They’re always making fun of you, beating you up, torturing you—just because you’re my friend! But you keep shoving it away and get hurt for me… I- I…”

I hugged you. I had to hold onto something and you were the only one that could have helped me stand up. All those years… I was so pent up, I was so tired of it. I know you told me many times to let it be but I can’t. Sorry, I just can’t help it. I can’t let anyone walk away after they hurt you, even if it’s something as little as pinching you, because you mean too much to me.

“Darling, I love you!” I sobbed and pleaded onto your chest, bathed by my tears, “I missed you so much. If I don’t see you even for a day, it starts to hurt, you know? I’ll do anything to stay with you, anything! Just tell me! I want to see you every day, I can’t let you leave like this…”

“If it’s like this,” you started, “we can make a deal.”

“A-a deal? Really?”

“Yes, a deal. You can see me how much you want but absolutely no killing. No physical assault and no insults to anyone.”

“Is that it?”

“Yes, you just have to restrain yourself.”

“Very well. Then, I promise, I will never kill again, I swear. Does that mean I can see you every day?” I asked. My tears finally stopped pouring out, the hiccup was still there, but I could focus and talk to you properly now. I took a deep breath and spoke, “Then you have to be my boyfriend from now on.”

“What did you just say?” you asked with confusion.

“You can’t say no. You are my boyfriend now. You know already, I told you so many times. I love you with all of myself.”

I knew you liked me a little already. I wasn’t sure if it was as strong as my love for you was, although I doubt it can, I knew you were interested in me. No one would stick with me for that long and no one would defend me from all those bullies. I knew you loved me, of course you did, you always took care of me since our first day and I couldn’t help but fall for you too.

I tried my best to change my appearance to suit your ideal type more. I dressed better, I dieted, I worked out, and I practiced so much that I wouldn’t disappoint you.

“Chae, are you sure? I’m just a regular guy and you’re an idol…”

“Don’t lie to yourself, honey. I wouldn’t give myself to just anyone. You never laughed about me, you believed in me when nobody else did, and you infected me with your kindness and humanity. You’re the best man I can ask for.”

“Thank you…”

“You’ll be my boyfriend and I’ll be your girlfriend, okay? Do you accept?”

“Uhm…”

“Do you accept?”

“Yes, ma’am!”

“Ma’am?” I laughed. “Don’t tell me you have some weird fetish going on… It’s okay. Just tell me, I won’t mind, hehe.”

Part 5

You have been very strict with me. The first thing you did was to establish a set of rules and all the punishment that would have resulted in breaking them. You’ve been very clear in defining them and made sure I understood you were very serious about it and would absolutely punish me if I dared to not respect them. They were something along the line of:

NO KILLING. The punishment is an instant break-up.

NO BODY HARM to anyone. The punishment is no contact for two weeks.

NO KIDNAPPING/STALKING/THREATENING other people. The punishment is no skin touching for a week.

RESPECT YOU. We’re together in this relationship and I have to listen to you.

TRUST YOU. You'll leave me if I don’t trust you when you tell me you aren’t cheating.

I accepted them and we started dating. Our relationship was as good as it was before but this time I got to be as clingy as I wanted, hugging you as much as I wanted, holding your hand wherever we went, and most of all you gave me a lot of head pats. You always gave me head pats to congratulate me when I did well in school or had a good performance.

It was difficult to respect those rules and you showed me how convinced you were of them when I broke the hand of a guy who shoved you against the lockers. You really ghosted me for two weeks without saying anything. When they ended I couldn’t help but jump on you and I promised to be more careful. Since then, I didn’t break any other rules and you showed me your love in so many ways, I lost count of them.

We learned a lot about each other and helped each other all the time. You helped me be more confident with my skills and get angry (but you told me I was cute when I got mad). You were always a bit discouraged with your work, giving up easily, and I made sure you knew how great you were. Just like me, school has really made you more insecure about yourself, but when we were together, we achieved a lot more.

Recently I discovered a hidden diary you used to keep under your bed, between the mattress and the frame. The last thing you wrote was months ago, way before the incident, and it was you rambling about me. ABOUT ME! And it was so adorable. “I have the biggest crush on my friend!” You wrote on the last page.

I stared at the words in a daze, it was like the words were screaming in my face. I was used to only obsessing over you and knowing you were going through the same thing warmed my heart.

You know, I’ve never believed in good endings, but with you, I think I finally found one where we are the protagonists. Our story is not like a fairy tale, it’s far from perfect, I am not a princess, nor could ever be one. However, you made me feel like one and I’m more than sure you’re my prince.

Sorry if I am always so obsessive and so imperfect, I just can’t help it.

THE END

Written, 7 June - 27 June 2023

[strawberryforks]

better than hemingway // damian wayne x ironrot!reader

summary: you and your boyfriend have WEIRD sleep schedules, your nemesis is a bird, you’re a thief, and this is part one of a new series.

warnings: swearing, blood, violence, criminal activity (idk man, you’re not a good guy)

a/n: reader and damian are 18/19. requests are open <3 feel free to spam

word count: 1174

it’s pitch black in the apartment–all of the lights are off, and you, making your footsteps featherlight have no intentions of turning any of them back on. your boyfriend, who you’re certain is an insomniac is up at all hours of the night and the lightest sleeper you’ve ever met. it’s because of this that you two don’t usually sleep in the same bed. you were friends and roommates before you were anything more so aside from the occasional sleepover and exchange of clothes (damian has less sweaters then he started with, tee shirts too as you love to sleep in them) not much has changed. your room is still decorated with posters, flooring comprised solely of dirty clothes, empty water bottles, pins and stuffed animals, and his is still perfectly organised. you’re opposites and it shows. but in every way it counts? it doesn’t matter a bit. you creep through the hallway with your pastel pink slippers on. they’re fluffy and don’t click against the ground. you step over the creaky floorboards, having memorised them, and make it to the living room. your eyes have adjusted to the dark, so you look around, and when nothing is amiss, nudge the door open.

the bellman has retired for the night, so it’s up to you to let yourself out. and you do. after ducking into an alleyway you put on your suit and fish your phone from your bag before stashing it behind the green bin. “hey dae. esti called and needed me. i’m sleeping over.”

then, you send a text to esti, “hey girl. if damian calls you tell him we’re together. thanks in advance xoxo.”

god only knows why she was awake at 2am, but your phone dings and there’s a response almost immediately. “and if he shows up like last time?”

“spam me and tell him i went to pick something up at our fav 24 hour gas station. i’ll book it there and boom. anyways wth are you awake???”

“was bingeing supernatural. sue me.” (you couldn’t blame her)

“well try to get some sleep sometime. I’ll stop by tomorrow. for real. want anything?”

“would love a new necklace. not too memorable tho.”

“i was thinking icecream but sure. ly.”

you pocket your phone, sticking it into the most secure pocket in your suit. after glancing at the green bin to confirm that nothing’s visible–not your bag or damian’s sweater. your hands find purchase in the crevices between bricks, molten iron helps to stick your fingertips to the wall you scale. then , on the rooftop, the wind picks up. the night air is chilly, perfect foreshadowing for the crime you’re about to commit. no, you’re not going to steal ice cream. that’s tomorrows problem, a cone is only $3, and the woman who runs the shack is the sweetest ever. it’s more tempting to gift her things than to take from her.

you run across the roofs until you reach your destination. then, you lower yourself down to the ground and make quick work of the doorknob. “someone hasn’t been robbed before,” you muse, pins slotting around easily, latch clicking open. shouldering through, a grin splits your face as you look around. everything is dusty and allergies are a bitch, “ACHOO!” your sneeze startles a cat, and the tortie stretches out and walks over to you, angling to be pet. the pet flops down and when it isn’t given the expected attention–hisses and walks away.

after stuffing a few watches, some costume jewellery, a wooden beaded necklace, some first edition books (damian’s birthday was coming up and they would make great gifts so long as no one made a huge deal about them being missing), a map (it looked cool) and just about everything behind the glass wall you broke with a few well places thumps of your fist. finishing up your haul, he arrived.

just in time because what was a night without your nemesis making his incredibly irritating presence known.

robin. fucking robin.

he’s your nemesis. nope, you couldn’t get batman so there’s a teenage boy, nearly as unhinged as you are, tailing you and constantly foiling your plans. (you’re a teenager too, but still, it’s embarrassing) even this heist he interrupts and you weren’t even doing any real damage. this excursion was more for fun than anything and he was here to ruin it. “how many times are we going to have to do this?”

“well, until you give up, obviously, bird boy. and you’re a persistent little shit, so forever, probably?”

“or until i send you to arkham.”

you snort, “good luck with that.”

he unsheathed his sword and lunged. you rolled to the slide, dodging his blade but–the sack slung over your shoulder split, stolen items spilling out. he wasn't trying to cut you–just your score. goddamnit, you could be dense sometimes. robin picked a book up, “you enjoy austen, do you?”

you scoff, eyes wide as you look at his other hand. the other items are all over the ground, some underfoot but he managed to save the books from being damaged. good, because you wanted them for your boyfriend. “better than hemingway,” you throw a ninja star, one you’ve forged yourself, and send it sailing his way. robin sets the books down behind a desk and you take note of their precise location, scooping a handful of discarded loot into your pocket. esti was going to love that necklace. you stuffed it down the front of your suit, sliding across the floor and ducking under another swipe of his sword. something pierced your suit and you winced–it wasn’t even robin, just a fucking splinter of something you’d broken earlier. springing back up, you crafted another ball of iron and threw it his way, the molten liquid glowing orange. when it landed on the wood floor and began to smolder, you had your distraction. you decided to come back for the books later and robin attempted to smother the growing flames. “you should get that checked out,” he said, slapping an old sued jacket over the glowing orange and red. you looked down at your thigh, at the piece of glass sticking out of it. it was larger than you’d thought. “and check myself into the hospital so you can find me? no thanks.”

“or pull it out and die. either works for me” he slams the jacket into the flames again, in an attempt to smother them. as it’s working, you decide to make your leave, sprinting through the door and down the street.

you stop by the alleyway, grab your belongings and actually head to esti’s. she’ll patch you up and you’ve got something to pay her with–the necklace.

[booigi-boi]

Would love to know your favorite Joey character (also love the way your draw him)

Aw, thank you 🥺🐐🐇💛🤍

But my fav Joey character? Yeah, I guess I can turn this into a mini show and tell, lol 👍

From Starkid: Ted Spankoffski, which is kinda obvious. Is he a terrible person who deserves the title of "Most deaths in the Hatchetfield series"? Absolutely. Is he still my blorbo? Absolutely 👨🐐

This man has no shame and I love seeing him die anytime he appears in a HF story ✨

From Tin Can Bros: Scrags, but mostly because I am unable to rewatch SAF more than once a year, cause it gives me such slaps in my face after act 2 starts that I am emotionally unable to watch it (/pos ofc, I just can't go through sleepless nights over gay spies anymore 🥲)

So sorry Owen lovers, I just like this depressed dog dad more (Especially after the Grunch, go watch it 🐕❄)

From Shipwrecked: Easily Ernest Hemingway, no debating, lol. Funnily it's mostly cause I love his costuming/design, like this brown on brown on brown is really speaking to the artist in me, ugh 🔪🤎🥃

(Also, I own the jacket, and Joey said it's cool I own something he wore and get to make look cool again, but it's so goddamn big on my 5 foot self,,,,,,)

✨Honorable mentions✨

Sergio's design from the SAF Kickstarter, just look at this boy, peak villain Joey design 💣💼

Dash Gunfire, who I've named most of my plushies after and have a crack theory about 🐇🤍🐇🤍 (He and Agent Curt Mega are related. No I won't elaborate, iykyk)

Tripp, the Brom's Babe who is definitely the most dramatic of the three 💞 (Also, I love these three in general??? Let them be gay and do crime and be probably terrible wing men to Brom) (Someone also ask me about all the headcanons I have about them, there's a lot)

Dracula Joey

I JUST LOVE ANYTHING DRACULA RELATED, OK?? ESPECIALLY IF IT'S RELATED TO THE BOOK! IDC IF HE ONLY APPEARED FOR 3 SECONDS, HE'S A REAL CHARACTER TO ME ❤🖤🧛‍♂️🥀

[books]

Writing Workshop Week 1: Show & Tell

Hello, writers of tumblr! It’s @bettsfic again with this week’s generative workshop. 

Today we’re doing what might be my favorite class activity: Show & Tell. 

You might be thinking, do you teach kindergarten or something? No, I teach college. But my students are often weary, downtrodden 20 year olds who are more than happy to go back to basics. Tumblr—being a website of people who care deeply about things and share that passion with others—seems like a great place to host Show & Tell.

Speaking of basics, let’s first talk a bit about…

The Writing Identity

The goal of many writers is to become better at writing. While I think this is an admirable goal it’s also a complicated one, because good writing is entirely subjective. Everyone has their own definition of what good writing looks like based on their knowledge base, history, and personal tastes. And so I often encourage my students, before they begin their journey of becoming a better writer, to step back and ask themselves, “What does good writing look like to me?”

And that’s the thing: you can’t really become a better writer. You can become a more patient writer, with the ability to write and revise multiple drafts of a work. You can become a more ambitious writer, with the ability to write longer stories and deeper themes. You can become a more detailed writer, with the ability to render images and the small details of living that maybe other people don’t notice. Writing is a skill that requires practice, but it also requires joy. You have to enjoy the work more than you fear the potential for failure. And to enjoy the work, you need to honor yourself, your interests, and your ideals. In other words, to become a better writer, you have to become more you.

I remember when I first started writing, I frantically sought out writing advice. I clung to simple adages and rules: active verbs are stronger than passive verbs; remove words like “think” and “realize” and other indicators of your characters’ interior experiences; take out adjectives and adverbs. If you were to adhere to all this advice, your writing wouldn’t become stronger, it would become colder. You would write like Hemingway. There’s nothing wrong with Hemingway, but Hemingway already did Hemingway, and that means you’re free not to be Hemingway. 

Don’t we read to feel closer to people, to experience that which we couldn’t otherwise experience? The beautiful thing about prose is that it’s the only medium that conveys consciousness, because language is the way we contain our thoughts, and writing them down offers others the chance to understand them. E.M. Forster in his book Aspects of the Novel says that the only difference between a character and a person is that a character’s secret inner life can be known, but a person’s can only be understood in observed behavior. Novels are stories of consciousness; biographies are stories of deeds. 

In my early days as a writer, those inane adages of “good writing” began to weigh on me, and I found myself frequently opening a blank document and telling myself, “I’m just going to write something for fun, for me, and so I don’t have to follow any rules.” Every time, that lawless thing I wrote would become better than anything I’d written when I followed the rules. And in this case, “better” means I was proud of it; in writing as close to myself as I could, I was able to help my technical skill reach the level of my personal taste. 

Good writing advice doesn’t spout shallow adages of what should be, it tells you all the things that could be; it opens your mind to possibilities and techniques. “Should” restrains creativity; the entire point of writing is to be creative. To be creative means to make something that has never existed before. And so one of the first things I tell my students is: You already know everything you need to know about your own writing. You already have good and important stories in you. You just have to sit down and write them.

“Show, Don’t Tell”

One such adage that still really gets to me is “show, don’t tell,” which a lot of writers believe. Many people take it to mean that you should describe the exterior circumstances of your narrator in order to allow the reader to interpret meaning. Instead of describing how your narrator feels, these people would rather have you describe their facial expression. But if you’re so interested in rendering the exterior rather than the interior, you’re better off becoming a director. 

Others take it less literally: you show your story instead of tell your story, which, sure, is a valid personal belief for your own work but it’s ambiguous and impractical, and also denies the nature of people to tell stories. Fairy tales and fables are stories that are told. Telling stories came long before showing them.  

In some ways, “show, don’t tell,” can be useful. If you spend a thousand words of character A lovingly and carefully describing every detail of character B, you don’t then need to say something like, “She was pining for him,” because you’ve allowed your description to do that work for you. So no, you don’t need to say it, but maybe you want to. Maybe you want to make it inarguable that character A is pining for character B; you don’t want a reader to say, “I think she’s paying that much attention because she wants to kill him and she’s looking for his weak points.”

And so that’s what it comes down to—choice. Ultimately, writing is about making decisions, and those decisions are stronger when you understand all your options.

Behind the adage is a more difficult truth to swallow: prose is both infinite in its potential and also frustratingly limited, because you have no control over your audience. You can lovingly describe every snowflake that falls in a blizzard, and your reader will be taking their own meaning from it—for people who can mentally visualize things, it’s the images their mind conjures; for those who can’t, it’s a mass of facts. And there are also those who are sleepy and missing details, or who are skimming to get to the bits they’re most interested in, or who accidentally dropped their book in the bath and now the bottom half of every page is warped and unreadable.

Or you can say, “It snowed.”

No matter what your beliefs are on “show, don’t tell,” the truth is that it’s a false dichotomy. The very nature of prose is to navigate this divide. Some stories call for more showing, for example when your narrator is at a distance, when we don’t have much access to their thoughts or feelings. Other stories will ask you to tell, especially if we’re deep in your narrator’s head and they’re giving us everything. Showing lends itself to setting, imagery, and plot. Telling lends itself to character, voice, and style. One is not inherently better than the other, in the same way that a screwdriver isn’t better than a hammer—the tool you use depends on the task at hand.

Any time you encounter a trite rule in writing, it’s usually pointing to something much greater and more fun to think about. In this case, showing and telling are two integral tools in meaning-making. For this week’s activity, we’re going to use both show and tell to make meaning.

Prompt time!

In Donald Barthelme's essay “Not-Knowing,” he calls objects magical. “What is magical about the object is that it at once invites and resists interpretation. Its artistic worth is measurable by the degree to which it remains, after interpretation, vital.” 

So what does that mean? Although this essay is a hot mess (lovingly), part of its intended work is to be a mess. In fact Barthelme describes the mess of his desk and allows it to define him. It’s covered in coffee cups, cigarette ash, unpaid bills, and unwritten novels. In reality, those objects are just objects, but when rendered in prose, they give us an impression of this particular world and the character within it. The writer renders; the reader interprets. The things we own, that mean something to us, are also things that can define us. Who is the person who carries a leather wallet embossed with their initials, with the inside holding credit cards and a stack of neat bills? Who is the person who carries a canvas wallet with a faded Punisher logo on it, attached to a chain, and the only thing inside it is a Subway rewards card?

Objects are important. Especially in this world we live in where so many things have become virtual, tangibility will always be integral to us. We are a species that reaches out and touches. We like to hold things in our hands. We love things which cannot love us back. 

For this week’s prompt fill, I want you to find a magical object for Show & Tell. Ideally, it’s something with a long personal history that’s important to you. Maybe it’s the object you would save in the event of a fire, or maybe it’s something you lost long ago. 

First, I’d like you to show us the object by describing it. Then, tell us the story of it.

You can write about how you acquired it and the memories it conjures. Allow yourself to link and associate memories and feelings. Don’t box yourself in too much—just see where it takes you. 

But you can also put a spin on it. Here are some ways you can do that:

If you want to try fiction, you can write the same story about your favorite character’s beloved object, or you could completely make up an object and its history. 

If you want to try something experimental, you can write a story from the perspective of the object, and maybe its beloved thing is you. 

If you want to try poetry, write a poem of your object. This is a separate lesson, but T.S. Eliot’s concept of an objective correlative may be illuminating to consider. 

The purpose of this activity is to dig through your memories and/or observations, connect them, and use something external to conjure meaning from them. You begin with what your object is and it will eventually lead you to what it means.

Questions? Ask ‘em here before EOD Tuesday so @bettsfic can answer them on Wednesday. And remember to tag your work #tumblr writing workshop with betts if you want her to read your work and possibly feature it on Friday!

And, for those just joining us: @bettsfic is running a writing workshop on @books this month. Want to know more? Start here.

[serendiquity]

Because I love you - Lovebrush Chronicles

Valentine's Day/Rose Day headcanons for the lbc boys

Clarence

"We would be together and have our books and at night be warm in bed together with the windows open and the stars bright." - Ernest Hemingway.

Detailed and meticulous, Clarence’s nature is reflected in the blue roses he gives you. He doesn’t hand them to you outright, instead tucking them in books he lends you and leaving them in places he knows you often frequent. He presses some into bookmarks to preserve for longer, hoping that perhaps you’ll grow curious enough to search up their meaning on your own.

Clarence makes sure to dye each rose in different shades, each bloom boasting beautiful petals and, if you look closely enough, the hints of dyed-blue water still lingering in the stem. 

It’s a pleasant surprise, and soon you find yourself dyeing roses to give back in exchange. Upon starting, however, you realize that you’ve greatly underestimated the difficulty of what originally seemed like a simple task. Apart from finding the perfect roses to use, the dye needs constant refreshing and your petals keep wilting before you manage to finish. 

Clarence realizes your intentions when he sees you fiddling with one of your failed attempts, the blue dye barely even reaching past the stem. His eyes widen before he smiles, eyes soft. “Here, I’ll teach you.” 

Just like that, your weekly study sessions take on an added aspect, and Clarence patiently takes the time to help with your new interest. Within a few days, you’re eager to present him with the results of your hard work, handing him a bouquet of sky blue roses. “They ended up being a bit lighter than I wanted, but I hope you like them!”

Alkaid

“True love is like little roses, sweet, fragrant in small doses.” - Ana Claudia Antunes

Alkaid is fond of white roses, and he believes their meaning encompasses you quite well: innocent, loyal, and kind, but with the thorns to protect yourself if necessary. He thinks that happiness tastes sweetest when shared and savored slowly, and so he hopes that the roses he gifts you each day can brighten your life, just like what you do for him. 

He gives you twelve roses in the days leading up to the confession, a single white blossom every day. Each, he makes sure to present in a different way. The first he hands you outright, summer sunlight shining gently down as witness. The second he makes into a pale floral tea, petals drifting and bubbles rising like tiny stars. He sees you hesitate for a moment, looking down at the cup he handed you with undecipherable emotions, before drinking the contents enthusiastically. “It’s good,” you say, and he lets out a quiet sigh of relief, breaking into a small smile. 

Throughout the next few days, he finds a multitude of ways to express his love, from pressed flowers to light flirting to your intertwined hands. Every time, he waits, watching for the slightest sign of disappointment or approval from you. When you beam and thank him, his heart lifts, and he feels a bit more confident. 

The last rose, given on the twelfth day, he tucks into your hair, thorns carefully clipped away. He leads you to a picnic he prepared, a spread of your favorite foods and treats already laid out. He watches as you enjoy yourself, blissfully oblivious to his budding feelings. For a moment, he considers reaching out to clasp your hands in his own, then blurting out the words that have been haunting him for so long. He shakes the thought away. 

… It’s alright even if you don’t realize. After all, love is best given and received in small doses, and he has plenty of time and love to give. 

Lars

“And then there were our sweet stolen moments in the midst of our work – just a word, or caress, or flash of love-light; and our moments were sweeter for being stolen.” - Jack London

To Lars, Valentines’ day is a rare chance to take a break from work and see you. Passionate and flamboyant, Lars wants to express his love in any way possible, and celebrating the holiday together is the perfect way to do it. 

He texts you early in the morning to make sure you’re free, hoping you can go with him for a surprise date. Call him classic, but he shows up at your house with a bouquet of red roses and baby’s breath, stealing your own breath away in exchange. He grins boyishly and tugs you outside, whisking you away to visit a cafe you had mentioned liking a few weeks back, going shopping together, and even arranging a candlelit dinner. Even if it’s cheesy, he boldly serenades you with love songs he prepared, and watching you laugh freely makes it all worth it.

If it weren’t for his responsibilities, he’d spend the whole week with you if he could, indulging you in whatever you wanted to do. But he can’t do that, so he settles for making today the best day he can instead. 

At the end of the day, he escorts you back home, dropping you off at the door with a dramatic bow and flourish. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees your eyes sparkle with an idea. “Come here,” you say, beckoning him closer. “Today was a lot of fun.” 

You push yourself onto your tiptoes, left arm on his shoulder for balance. Before he realizes what’s happening, your lips are pressed to his cheek, leaving a crimson lipstick mark as red as the roses he gave you before. You pull away and grin at him, turning to head inside. He stands there for a long moment afterwards, hand to his face.

Though he had intended for it to be the other way around, he thinks that today has made him fall even deeper in love with you. And if you don’t realize the depths of his feelings, then he’ll simply have to repeat himself again and again until you do. 

[donutwatches]

MHA 2.13 - Time to Pick Some Names - part 2

Because I didn’t have enough character names to remember already. Let’s add a dozen new names to remember. Ha. 

I do not know what I was expecting, but it was not this, lol. I love our french disco dancing queen. He said, I’m not going to have a measly hero name, I am going to have a FULL sentence!

Oh man, I wish Midnight would let her keep the Alien Queen name. That is way more fitting than Pinky. She should at least have a name connected to acid. Pinky is a lazy name. Like, she’s pink, big whoop. 

Who is Crimson? I guess this is a pro that our Kirishima looks up to. Red Riot might be my favorite out of the kids hero names. 

Kaminari is the last character I would expect to drop a Hemingway reference. Even though the joke about him is always that he is brainless, isn’t this proof that he has some smarts? 

Wow, Earphone never lets him breath, huh. Such school girl crush behavior. 

I am guessing that he wants distance from the Todoroki name because of his butthole father. I like it! Simple, but it feels like he is being himself. 

THIS IS THE CUTEST THING I HAVE EVER SEEN. I WILL NEVER RECOVER.

I feel like we already got that Deku would be Midoriya’s hero name since season 1, but it still feels like a full circle moment. I love the idea of him taking a name that was an insult and flipping it into something uplifting. 

HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA! Why is he like this? I swear. It is great that he changed it from “King” to “Lord” as if the issue with the name was the status title and not, you know, the murder part. 

Hmmm, so this mysterious mustard yellow cloaked man is All Might’s teacher. I hope he is a better teacher than All Might because Deku needs some help. 

Nooooooooooooo! So ominous! It is wrong to see Iida with vengeance in his eyes like this. Talk to your friends! Please don’t go out on your own and get your self hurt! I just know nothing good can come out of this. Nerd rage should never be fooked with! 

Click here for episode 14

Click here for the master list.

[mads198-9]

The Alcott

POV: the WIP made it out of the google drive

Summary: “If he’s a serial killer then what’s the worst that could happen to a girl that’s already hurt?” - Lana Del Rey

Warnings: None really, some explicit language though. Just some fluffy angsty dialogue to either help you sleep or keep you up at night. This is my first time writing for Joel (and practically ever) so I apologize if it isn’t Hemingway-esque. This is not edited but I hope you enjoy it nonetheless. I’m debating a smutty pt. 2 😗

@amydunnewithmen (where the delulus run wild)

————————————————————————

3 minutes.

It had taken Joel all of 3 minutes to set fire to a year of your life. A year of longing, patience, resentment, guilt and every ounce of shame that Joel had clutched to his chest since September 26th, 2003. 

It took you over two decades to find an ounce of peace. A place to, finally, let yourself breathe. To close your eyes out of comfort rather than necessity. You’d barely crawled out of the last city you scavenged. A metropolis that fell into a desolate isle. All you’d ever known of people was the way they’d looked with fungi crawling through their veins and seeping out of their orifices. Never a true person. The closest you’d come to other conscious humans were those who had already abandoned their humanity for the sake of surviving. What they didn't realize was that for them to live, they had to give up everything they’d ever lived for. You didn’t consider these men to be ‘people’. 

Looking at your facilities it was nothing short of a miracle, it was a miracle that you’d found Jackson. A single woman dragging her depleted muscles through feats of snow, a trail of blood broadcasting your vulnerability to anything within a mile’s radius. 

You don’t remember how you’d found it but you remember your pleas. Your claw marks on Jackson’s fortifying wall. You fell to the ground the moment they’d opened the gates. Almost relieved to have had a gun pointed at your head, because at least it was a person. Someone to end your suffering. You didn’t care in what way. A saviour in the form of a man nonetheless, one you’d come to know as Tommy. Tommy Miller. 

He was how you’d found Joel. How Joel found you. 

It was Tommy who’d found what was left of you, Maria who had housed you, but Joel who’d really saved you. 

-

It started pure. For you at least. 

The first you saw of Jackson’s newest constituent was his and Tommy’s embrace. Maybe that’s why you were never scared. Not of him, not of what he'd done, because you saw the best of what he could do. His reason for all that he had done. Family. 

You hadn’t felt your heart stop in ages. Up until him, fear was the only thing that had the power to constrict your chest. 

No words were spoken between the two of you for months. As the Tipsy Bison’s bartender you were the loosener of lips. An observer by nature, a listener by force, a tolerator of none. His drink order spoke for him those first few months.

Whiskey. Neat. No ice to dull its sting. A welcomed burn to the back of his throat but he sipped it like water. Years of practice of not only enduring pain, but learning to think he’d deserved it.  

It was the first thing of substance you’d ever said to him. Your words numbing him like the whiskey in his glass. It took two minutes of silence for him to scrape the floor of the bison with his barstool and drag his ass out of the bar. 

You blew it. Or so you’d thought. If anything, you had initiated what would be the most painful and pleasurable experience of your life. One that brought you to your knees in more ways than one. It felt stronger than any romantic pull you’d experienced. Every pace further from him began to hurt. A religion. 

- 

From that moment on Joel thought about more than just the glances you’d given. Your perception of him wasn’t wrong in the slightest but it gave him something new to think about. To dwell on and give his fist motivation when the house was silent and his needs too great. 

-

Months of simmering tension and lenghtneing conversations that tugged the corner of his lips up led you to what would become your favourite place. The eventual route of all your pain. 

His arms.

Before the age of 25 you’d experienced every horror the world had to offer. You’d spent your life running, burning the memories of your old life with every fire you’d lit to warm your skin. All while everything within you froze with time. You’d never had a moment to explore your thoughts let alone your body.

Joel was the first. In every way imaginable.

Even in heartbreak. 

-

In all of Jackson, Tommy was the one to know Joel best. He’d seen the colour come to his brother’s cheeks at the mere mention of your name and he’d seen the way his eyes bored holes into those who gave the two of you suggestive looks in public. 

The jealousy of the men who thought they had a right to fuck you and the envy of the women you ‘stole’ Joel from. The looks of outrage that painted the churchgoers faces chipped away at his resolve every time the two of you were together and only reinforced his shame. 

Echoed his anxieties of whether or not he was ‘too old’ for you. Too destructive to be around such innocence. Too hardened by his years alone. How your presumed father issues were the only thing that drew you to him.  

The hunter’s voices won out in the end because he lost you, at the alcott. 

The last thing he wanted, he’d done to you. 

-

You’d once loved it here. The Alcott. A space delegated to the books that once littered the halls of the ravaged homes across Wyoming. A place that Maria saw as a solution to your lack of a purpose. 

Even after everything, you can’t imagine leaving. 

You hadn’t left in the weeks since Joel drove a knife through your chest. Weeks you spent curled up in the back of the shop, surrounded by books, their pages riddled with love stories and sonnets, ridiculing you with their happy endings. 

Draped in the flannel he’d long left, finding yourself relating to it. At first glance, an abandoned piece of cloth, but you saw it as much more. It was something he no longer had use for. Something he chose to leave. A landmine of memories. Its scent sending you into a spiral with every inhale. 

-

It took less than a day for his resolve to crack and less than twelve hours for Ellie to tell him that he’d been a dick and only six for Tommy to see the change in him. For once in his life Joel Miller was cold. The left side of his bed that once held you now held the weight of your pain, his loss. The shattered look in your eyes as he’d told you to move on painted itself to the backs of his eyelids. His own voice haunting him, telling you to find yourself outside of who you are with him. That he’s too old for you. That you were only a kid and no matter how bad the world had gotten he wouldn’t take advantage of that. 

What he didn’t know was that the time spent with him made you feel like a woman, not the solitary girl everyone else saw you for. The days spent with his lips against you were the only times in which you’d believed that your skin was your own.

But he didn’t realize that, or did not let himself because he was bad. For all intensive purposes Joel Miller was a serial killer. A lethal weapon. Nothing that could provide you with the warmth you sought. The warmth he knew you deserved. And god did he want to be the one to give it to you. Joel had spent the last twenty years of his life preserving life, not experiencing it.  Hell he still was, patrolling the outskirts of Jackson four times a week. This time taking the long way home just to pass by your house. It was as he expected, as much as he’d kicked himself he knew you, craved you, understood you. So it was no surprise to see no light coming from your house. No noise either. At first he panicked. His mind his own greatest enemy in how it conjured up a thousand scenarios of you leaving Jackson, all ending with your heart stopped and skin blue. 

Where on god’s green earth could you have gone. Where you’d never left.

The Alcott. 

-

You hadn’t heard him come in.

“You're still here.”

Questioning you in his thick southern drawl, draping across his words like honey. Damn it. Damn him for still making you blush. 

His presence isn’t what startled you, it was the fact that it was Joel. Your Joel, now just Joel. 

“I never left.”

He regretted everything he’d ever done to you the second he saw your wide eyes boring into his own. Glossed over in every shade of pain.

He didn’t have to ask why, he was sure he knew, but he asked anyway. Never a man to stumble over his words he could barely get two syllables out. 

Looking down to his shifting feet then back to you he asked you what he already knew. 

“Why?”

“Because I love this place. What used to feel like our house. Even if it’s cursed now.”

He thought his heart would start screaming with the way it was beating. 

“I, uh” clears his throat “I didn't want to darken y’doorstep. Anymore than I already have I’spose.”  

“Funny. I’ve had the lights off since you left.”

You practically slurred your words. What was left of you both had been draining you emotionally, in only the 2 minutes he’d been here. 

“So… I, uh. I was g’nna ask ya, how’ve ya been?”

Your laugh was as dry as the Texas heat Joel had come from. But less familiar. 

“Why are you really here Joel? You’ve always been shit at small talk, didn’t suppose that changed in the last week.”

“Jesus” A week? “Feels like a lifetime since the last time I saw ya.”

“Funny how a ‘lifetime’ is what seemed to be between us. Different generations and all that bull shit.”

“Look kid -”

“No. Don’t you dare call me ‘kid’. Don’t make me feel smaller than I already am. Those people out there may have beaten you into submission but I am an adult! I’ve been one since I saw my first infected. I’ve been on my own, and just fucking fine, without anybody since I was a so-called kid so I dont want to hear another god damn word! You and everybody else think I can’t so much as cross the street without holding your hand but I've done more than that with less.

You know I survived on my own.

Before you.

And if it’s up to you, I will after, but I don’t want to.

For the first time in my life I got something I wanted, needed, and I don’t want to give it up. 

You.

Ellie.

Tommy, Maria, the baby.

Jackson.

Living.

It’s more than surviving.

But apparently not to you.”

“That is not true.”

You didn’t realise you’d stood up until you could feel the heat radiating off of Joel, his flannel, everything.  

“Then what is huh? I was a quick fuck. The first wet thing you’d felt in twenty years or what?”

You were yelling at this point and Joel hadn’t moved an inch. Not giving you anything. Not even a response except for the pinching between his brows. And it was killing you. 

“You know it wasn’t like that -”

“Then what the FUCK was it if. not. real?!” Emphasizing each word with a pound to his firm chest. 

Nothing you said from then on was comprehensible. Just sobs ripping from your chest as you threw your weight into him. Sinking into the floor, dragging him down with you. 

His arms shooting out from his sides to enrapture you the second he felt your knees buckle and tears flow. Pulling you into his lap as your body shuddered. Immediately finding the crook of his neck. Inhaling him again. Finally, you couldn’t tell if it made you cry more or less but all you could notice was Joel. All you could feel, hear and smell was Joel. The smell of firewood dotting his skin mixed with the old spice soap he’d managed to scavenge on last week’s patrol. The feeling of giving into his arms again, coming home, and the sound of him cooing, and sniffling? 

He’d lost it. Thought he’d lost you and that was his breaking point. Feeling his own tears seep into your hair you knew it was real. You knew he meant everything he’d said back then. Back before Jackson got to him. Before he’d let his own mind turn on him. And as much as it’d hurt then, it felt good now.

“Shhh, shhh.

I gotcha baby. I know, oh I know. More than you could imagine.”

“Please, please, please.”

Holding your face, and your heart, in his calloused palms he looked you in the eye.

“Please what, baby?”

Looking like a doe at his doorstep, your crumpled frame fitting perfectly within the confines of his lap.

“Please don’t leave. Please stay. I tried, I tried so hard to be good to you, for you.”

“Oh honey, you were,

fuck - you are baby. 

The best I’ll ever get, all I ever want.

I’m not leaving baby girl. 

Never. 

Even if you ask me to, I’m not going anywhere.”

And this time, he didn’t.

————————————————————————

This sounded so much better in my head -

W o w

I actually wrote something… hot damn.

I’m debating a second part?? of smut??

[just-wublrful]

a conversation between a man condemned and his devotee

Litany of Things Which are Crossed Out, Richard Siken | Uriel, Yves Olade | Heart Berries, Terese Marie Mailhot | When Rome Falls, Yves Olade | Neon, Yves Olade | @sandarafreedompark | Death Wish, Josh Alex Baker | Beloved, Yves Olade | Confessional, Sue Zhao | Straw for the Fire, Theodore Roethke | A Farewell to Arms, Ernest Hemingway | Blossoms, The Amazing Devil

(ID under the cut)

[ID: A collection of quotes from various sources. 

1. Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I couldn’t come to your party. / Dear So-and-So, I’m sorry I came to your party / and seduced you / and left you bruised and ruined, you poor sad thing.

2. We met out the back of the bar, and you smiled, all knives. Said, You don’t know me yet, but you will. We’re going to be so dangerous, babe, I can feel it. Found out biblically wasn’t the only way to know someone when I prised open your chest, looking for burning.

3. I wanted to know what I looked like to you. A sin committed and a prayer answered, you said.

4. I say, I promise I won’t do anything awful, / and he says, you are something awful, / but I’m keeping you anyway. / does that make me your bad thing? your wild / thing? something worth hunting across the county? / you want to kill me more than anyone else. / That’s what love is, baby.

5. It’d be the good kind of fire. More purgatory, less witch hunt. / I could try burn all this shame out of me. / It’d work as well as you think it would, / meaning, not at all.

6. I’m scared of the love I have for you. Because I know it will ruin me. And I also know that I will let it.

7. I will never admit what he means to / me. Will say / he was simply a game I / could not pass up. Love / is a death wish between you / and the you you’re / becoming. I will never admit to / him that his love feels like a tease / from God. A gift I / only deserve as prelude to punishment. Love / is a bluff  between goodbye and forever. You

8. & vicious. & lovely. So when God asks / me about love, I respond with cruelty. I know / no other answer / I know no other question. I’m

9. And when one of us had finished confessing, we’d fall into the others orbit. And the other could always be relied upon to keep us there. / So when we asked the question in out own convoluted way, (will you love me anyway?)

10. It’s your privilege to find me incomprehensible. I gave you my minutes; let them remain ours. I hope I haunt you.

11.  "Hell," I said, "I love you enough now. What do you want to do? Ruin me?" / "Yes. I want to ruin you." / "Good," I said. "That's what I want too.”

12.  And I pick up the phone, dial your number and wait / And shine like my petals once shone / And just as it's ringing, I whisper aloud to my saint / "Oh, we, we're gonna get on"

End ID.]

[oddmawd]

I was trying to write before and it’s didn’t turn out good and I just stop writing and it don’t take practice you just have to be good at writing the first time you do it that is my opinion tho

i'm gonna assume you're like...12 years old...because there's no way an adult would be able to type that with a straight face

i'm not about to coddle you and give you a happy little pep-talk about ✨believing in yourself✨ after the way you treated that author...calling them a "bitch" because they don't PANDER TO YOUR SPECIFIC TASTES was a bully tactic and you should be ashamed of yourself

FURTHERMORE using a gendered insult like "bitch" and then demanding they write you a male reader insert story (while insulting female/gender neutral inserts in the same breath) is misogynistic as hell, i don't feel even the littlest bit sorry for you, so save the "woe is me, i can't write" bullshit for someone who gives a damn

but let me give you something to chew on while you throw yourself a pity-party about "not being good at writing" and pretend that gives you the right to bully people who actually TRY to be good writers:

Do Olympic athletes show up winning gold medals without ever setting foot on the practice field?

Do painters show up to their first class knowing how to use oil paints and watercolors and how to hold a brush effectively?

Did Hemingway roll out of the womb and write The Old Man and the Sea without writing a single damn thing beforehand?

no, they didn't...every writer you love wrote some SHITTY first drafts they didn't share with anyone because they sucked first (in private!) and THEN got good (in public)....and they got good by showing up and failing and trying again, and failing again and trying again and FAILING AGAIN (because that's what practicing is!!!!) until they finally started succeeding regularly...

UNLIKE YOUR CLOWN ASS THAT RAN AWAY SCARED WHEN YOUR FIRST STORY DIDN'T TURN OUT PERFECT

i'm not gonna take the easy road here and point out how fucking LAZY you sound when you say you tried once and gave up, because that's a cheap fucking shot and way too easy (you set me up so badly bro, like c'mon)

what i'm gonna do instead is point out that you just admitted that you were too fucking scared to try more than once

"BOO HOO, i wrote something, it was shitty, i was scared of what people might say and then i gave the fuck up" - you, probably

and that's the difference between we "lazy bitch" reader insert writers who actually post our work, and you: we show up and we TRY, every goddamn day, and we put ourselves out there despite the risk of being bullied by people like you who can't be bothered to try more than once

do you know what writing is, at its most fundamental level? it's showing your work to people and saying "please read this and enjoy it, i worked really hard," and PRAYING they don't tear your hard work apart for no reason at all, but that's what YOU did! you saw someone writing something they enjoyed and went "fuck you, i don't care that you labored and practiced for weeks and months, it wasn't to MY TASTES and therefore you're a lazy bitch," and you're apparently so un-selfaware that you don't realize the irony of YOU, a person who can't be bothered to try writing more than once, A) calling someone lazy, and B) demanding they spend their time/expertise to write something just for widdle ol' you, in the same breath

do you not fucking hear yourself????? huh?????

you tried writing ONCE and found out it was too hard for you, so now your answer is to bully writers and make demands of them? when you should know through your ONE attempt how difficult writing must be?

WHAT THE ACTUAL FUCK BRO?

you should never message a writer again with your demands when you can't even be bothered to live up to your own standards, you entitled tone-deaf hypocrite

writing takes courage, and you have ✨N O N E✨