#and instead everyone is so full of hatred for their form and just desire fucked up beauty standards

[panuccispizza]

i wish there were easier ways to find exercises & diet plans online that actually promote weight gain and muscle growth and being fat and happy in my body. but instead everyone is so miserably fatphobic I can't stand to interact with their content at all. youre not "healthy posting" you have a toxic mindset that's killing you and I want thick wrists thick waist and good strong joints with fat tits. fuck you health bloggers I hope you rot in hell with your eating disorder keto diet

[patheticpeoplesupreme]

I have an au in my head and I have to write it down but like it’s super inconsistent sometimes

What if some great heavenly deity take Shang Qinghua’s soul as punishment for messing with the story _and_ losing all his points. Clearly Shang Qinghua’s not afraid of dying anymore so the system takes on a different punishment

They would’ve taken Cucumber bro’s soul too but Shang Qinghua used his writer skills and convinced them not to and he tries to defy the heavenly being

Being all like

“THIS WORLD IS MY CREATION!” He screamed from his cell, feeling all of the sensation in his body burning into a blaze, golden liquid falling from his fingers

But the heavenly being just scoffed uncaringly, “you have interfered with the natural rules of the world.”

“I—I didn’t choose to be born here, I didn’t choose to take this role!”

“You’ve de—((what’s that one word I swear it started with “de”

defected maybe??

Defected against the system?

Defended

De….. de something

Betrayed the system?

idk I’ll figure it out))

“I’m just a human.” He pleaded desperately.

“divinity flows through your veins, you can’t lie to me, rat.”

—

Just thought it was funny to think about SQH getting fucked over by the system/gods

I like to think airplane was one of the lesser deities

Airplane was a normal human on Earth, an author in his original world, but when he died, all that was left was his passion for his novel, all the love for it that was left unheard, unseen, from all the outlines, the drafts, all the pain, all the happiness and desire, it formed into a lesser deity

The soul didn’t have a consciousness at first, but the divinity attached itself to the soul when it settled through many deities. Eventually, the soul took baby sqh as his vessel and airplane began to remember his past life.

Bingge (?) I think, would be in a similar timeline, except Airplane never managed to gain a consciousness so he turned into a tree, mourning the world’s bad ending.

(I don’t actually know how transmigration works)

And about Cucumber bro,,, he’s the same, his hatred, as an opposite of Airplane’s passion, allowed his desire and memories to form into a soul with divinity, only, it’s a different type of divinity from Airplane. Because Airplane creates

And Cucumber bro changes

Maybe->

If their divine souls were to ever be revealed, airplane and cucumber remind me of the three sisters in Greek myth but slightly different

Clotho (Airplane) spun the “thread” of human fate, Lachesis dispensed it, (system) and Atropos cut the thread (Cucumber bro)( but instead of death, bro creates changes) thus determining the individual's moment of death)

Or Airplane could just be a god

**I put regrets down because Airplane died full of regrets, from the loneliness of having a broken family, from not being able to follow his true stories and stuff

**God of Forgiveness because Airplane wants to give everyone a chance to be happy, something that couldn’t happen to Shen Jiu or Yqy

As a god of forgiveness, he would’ve asked them what ailed them and helped them heal naturally (of course they didn’t deserve to be forgiven, they wouldn’t be forgiven and airplane wouldn’t give them a second glance)

Feel free to leave anymore possibilities in the comments or anon asks haha

[kyberphilosopher]

Androphobia

Requested? No Word Count: 7014

An Android attempts to offer comfort to someone with sleeping trouble.

Androphobia [an·drow·fow·bee·uh]; Fear of or aversion to men. A related concept is misandry, the hatred of men, but not necessarily fear of them.

  * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

Every woman or female born member of society has experienced an off putting encounter with a man. 

This is not to be entirely blamed on men- not as a whole, no. But individuals, the ones you run into on your way out of the grocery store, the ones who stop you on the streets, they are the ones to blame. Some women have the guts to tell them off. Not an easy task with the given anxiety, but one to take pride in for the capability that comes with it. Some women stay quiet, rush away as fast as their polite feet can take them and hope someone will see the problem. They usually don’t. And some women are outliers, tricking their ways out of interactions with these men one way or another, and to them I take my hat off. 

There are men who are easily construed as monsters, when in the dead of night their silhouettes flash beneath the tallest of streetlights. And there is no reason to not believe them as such right then and there, for as spoken by our Lady Galadriel, “the hearts of men are easily corrupted.” And any look into statistics will back up this fear, any personal experience, any hug that’s gone on just a bit too suspiciously long, any catching of those wandering eyes and it’s easy to feel in your heart that men are not to be trusted. They are not to be confronted, nor left alone with, and they will jump at the opportunity to put down anyone for the validation of other men. 

This is the reality of women and men in 2021. It is the same for several in 2039.

 * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

You step out of your old, dusty car. Chips of the dark red paint flake away as the raindrops hit it. Above you, the gloomy, warm gray clouds roll against each other in different shades and sizes, high above the skyscrapers and the stress of the world.

Gathering your belongings for the day, you shut the door with your hip and shoulder everything. Then you make your way towards the Police Department, your work, with the heels of your shoes scuffing against the parking lot. 

Across the way, you can see Detective Reid, who rubs his brow while he does his usual slamming of the car door. There’s no point in looking for Hank at this ungodly hour, he’d never be in on time. He’ll probably park his car next to yours as usual- a little too close so it’s hard to squeeze into your own and pull out without causing his vehicle damage, but you never say anything. Not because you are one of the people who feel threatened by Hank as a man- It’s more because you trust Hank as a person, that you’d never bring up the obvious annoyances he places upon you and everyone else. Though, once you had tried. 

(“Cars parked a little close, don’t you think?”

“Shut the hell up.”)

The inside of the Department is bustling. A female Android brushes past you briskly, the others at the front desk all seemingly click clacking away in their own brains. Even months after they’ve gained independence, it’s not uncommon for you to remember how they were before. How still and lifeless they were. And looking back on it, it was awfully sad. They seem busier now, more alive and fast. A strange image, in your mind, but not an unwelcomed one. 

You reach your desk in the lobby, on the right side of the room slightly separated from the officers. You’re a psychologist, so it’s not plausible for you to be seated next to bias. Instead you’re in your own corner, with a rather cluttered desk on the top and empty rows of drawers. You do, however, keep a small japanese cherry blossom tree on the top, courtesy of Hank, though his has all but fully withered at this point. 

And then you’re ready to start your day. Pull out your chair, click your pen and type away reports and notes on the computer to send to the detectives. You don’t have any meetings scheduled today, so there’ll be no need to prepare questions or anything of the sort. Just an easy day. 

And then...

As you and I, the dear reader, have already discussed, finding men to be generally scary is an easy task. And even though you are smart enough to know that it’s simply not possible to truly believe that every man or male presenting individual is terrible, or has done terrible things, or has experienced the desire to do something terrible, there are times where you can’t help the cautiousness. You can’t help the flinch, the distrust, the physical distance, the hand in your pocket grasping for anything to use in self defense. Seeing men like Detective Reid in power, brutish and given guns and easily agitated, certainly doesn’t help.

So when you swish your chair around and come to a stand, your heart drops. You’re looking into the presence of someone tall, with broad shoulders and a strong chest. A man. 

[Sort of.]

“Good morning, Doctor L/N.”

“Connor,” you breathe out, eyes flitting down as you attempt to quiet the thump thump thumping of your heart in your throat. “I- I didn’t-”

“Your heart race has increased. You appear stressed, Doctor L/N.”

He cocks his robotic head to the side, his eyebrows creasing as the literal gears in his head turn. 

“You just startled me,” you admit, grabbing the back of your chair and moving it over as an excuse to create a bit of distance between you and the [possible] threatening force. “What is it, Connor?”

Now, for context, you and he were not considered close. You’ve spoken a few times, though never as friends, only friendly. You remember seeing him last Winter, when he would stand out in the snow outside the station, just gazing up after Hank had already returned to his own home. You remembered how he was different from the other Androids, besides being more advanced to begin with. You’d never said anything about that. It was obvious the only person it would’ve really mattered to, Hank, was already aware of this. And Hank liked Connor. There was no point in interfering. 

In Connor’s eyes, you could really do no wrong. You were smart, intelligent, and diligent in your work. Your job had been threatened by the presence of Androids for years by the time Connor had showed up, but it still appeared that they wouldn’t have done your legacy justice. But despite this, interactions were scarce. You were not friends. You were friendly. And you were always on your guard. 

“I was hoping to hear your thoughts on a case Lieutenant Anderson and I have been working on,” Connor tells you. He’s always made efforts to keep eye contact with people, and the tilt of his head tries to follow your eyeline to do so. But it’s never to any avail. “I apologize for the abruptness, but the thought only occured to me last night and I think it could be a good one.”

“Yeah, sure,” you answer. “I can help with that. I’ll get the details from Hank when he comes in.”

“No need,” the Android quickly assures you. When you look up to him for a brief second, you can see his tongue sway against his bottom lip, creating the softest of imprints. His dark eyes glitter like a beatles in the catch from the light above. 

He produces a light, manilla colored folder lined inside with papers. “I hope you’ll find all the details you need here,” he explains, offering the file to you. 

You take it after a moment, watching his thumb let go in the softest, most normal way possible. 

“Thank you, Doctor L/N,” Connor smiles. “I’ll go get you your morning coffee.”

Connor is like a dog in that way. Not in an insulting way, or an obedient way. In a kind way, in a warm way. With his chocolate eyes and the dimples when he smiles, it’s hard not to want to just believe that he is incapable of hurting anyone or anything. Especially a woman. 

But when you snap back to reality, you can see his male form. His set back shoulders, the robotic strength, the fact that he was programmed to execute any task he so desires. And then you’re right back on edge, wanting to step back from him until you’re sure you can take a full breath. 

It’s easier when he’s taken himself away. You can see him through the glass walls in the kitchen, waiting for the pot to heat up. Doesn’t seem so bad from far away, like most of them do. 

You return to the chair and open the file. At first, your eyes flit to the pictures attached at the top- one of a woman that looks so familiar, another of a man whose angry brows cover his eyes. Then they move to the written report, and something clicks. 

The woman in the picture was an acquaintance from college. The man next to her was the main suspect, and apparently her lover.

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

“Morning Doc,” Hank waves tiredly. Then his tone changes slightly. “The fuck are ya doing at my desk for?” 

You push yourself from your lean on the edge of his property anxiously. “I read the report on your case. The Carla Rodriguez one.”

Hank sighs in his classic sigh, tired and grumpy from the morning and being alive. “What about it?” he questions, rummaging through his large bag of prescription pill bottles he’s brought with him every day this year. You suspect Connor has something to do with this.

“I had a... personal relationship with the victim,” you begin, crossing your arms. “I knew her.”

Hank looks at you, bewildered. “You were sleeping with my victim?”

“What? No. What? I- anyway. Carla and I were in college together.”

Hank’s face changes. He leans back with high raised brows in the way he does when processing something. 

“The boyfriend did it. I remember him from back then, I think. Real angry guy.”

“You’re sure you know what you’re talkin about?” Hank questions you, though not in an insulting way. You know it’s anything but that. 

“I’m sure. I can tell you what you need but you know I can’t testify. You won’t be able to use my bias in your report.”

“But the bias is the whole point.”

Your eyebrows shoot up, along with your shoulders. It’s the universal symbol for ‘I don’t know what to tell you’. 

“You talked to Connor about this?”

“Well, no. I- he wanted my opinion but I didn’t tell him this part.”

Hank glances around. “Where's he at anyway?”

You shrug again. You’re thinking about the disposable coffee cup on your desk, left there by Connor a few hours ago, that you’d never brought yourself to touch. 

“Run it by the Android before we do anything,” Hank advises you. “Nutjob’s got this whole system in his head.”

“Yeah,” you mutter as Hank seats himself. “That guy’s weird.”

“Tellin’ me?” Hank groans. 

And the rest of the morning you spend avoiding Connor, thinking at your desk, barely doing your job while you let yourself get lost in thought. You’re not usually like this. You’re very professional at work- you love this job. The thrill, the learning about criminals and their rehabilitation- it makes you feel so tranquil. Complete, even. 

But knowing a victim, knowing the perpetrator, still adapting to the change of Androids looking happy for once, knowing Hank pretends you’re the child he lost- it... it...

You snap your drawer shut. 

What’s wrong with you today? 

You huff out dry air. When you turn ever so slightly, you can see Hank at his desk, eyes already on you with concerned and empathetic brows. Seeing him calms you down a little, at least makes you feel more in the real moment. After a moment, you turn back straight. Then you smooth back your hair, and open a your file again. 

“Doctor L/N?”

You look up slowly, recognizing the boyish, sturdy voice of Connor. Sure enough, there he is. Tall, looking down at you with his warm, brown eyes. They remind you of an excited, loyal dog. Yeah, you think, Connor seems like a dog person. 

And then you catch the sharpness of how broad his shoulders are, how little effort it would take for him to kill you, or pin you down, or come at you in the dark. 

“Can I speak with you candidly, Doctor L/N?”

“You...may,” you say slowly. Connor begins to squat, until he is level with your eyeline, though he’s over on the other side of your desk. From your view, your cherry blossoms pink petals stand out against the paleness of his skin, and then the darkness of his hair. 

“I heard what you said earlier to the Lieutenant,” he begins. 

Truthfully, your eyes flicker around his face, mostly between his lips and his nose and his eyes. They’re all so realistic. Well, obviously that was the point in his creation, but still. They’re so human. Connor is human. Even the way he seems to move his mouth, like his lips are just a little dry, is human. Such a strange detail. Perhaps you would never have noticed it if he hadn’t gotten this close. 

“When?” you question. 

“About 3 hours ago, about the file I gave you.”

Your eyes snap away. Connor’s own eyes follow your movement. 

“I know that this must be difficult for you-”

“Connor,” you sigh, slightly exasperated, but still holding it together. Your eyes close like you can’t bear to look at anything in the present moment right now. You must be trying to pretend that you’re somewhere else. “I’ll be alright. This was in my job description.”

The Android’s eyebrows knit for a split second, confused. “Overseeing the psychology behind your friends death was in your job description?”

And it’s a genuine question from him. That’s what makes it so hard to contain your laughter, no matter how frustrated or overwhelmed you are right now.

“Yeah,” you finally muster with a light chuckle. “Apparently.” Then you’re back to business. “This is my job. I’ll be alright. Thank you for your concern.”

“I just considered that, since you’ve been on the news before, the suspect could know that you’re involved.”

“So?” you ask, slightly more snappy than intended.

“He may know you’re here and subsequently attempt to cause you harm.”

There are two conflicting sides in your brain right now. The first one says: Now think about this. How could he harm you in a place full of cops? It’s not like he knows where you live or anything. How could he even find that out? When they bring him in, he’ll be in custody the whole time. Gavin won’t let him out of those handcuffs. Everything will be just fine. 

And the other part? It shows you a dark, masculine figure, looming over you. Police department or not, he is there. He will cause you grief and harm, do something so terrible to you you could not even fully imagine it enough to anticipate yourself. 

And, despite your better judgement, and to your full awareness, you listen to the second half. 

“Okay, so,” you breathe out. “So what are you saying?”

Connor’s eyes draw to his left in a stutter, his mouth parting as if he’s in consideration. “The Lieutenant and I had talked about... having you stay in a... safer place.”

Your eyebrows pinch together. “What do you mean by that?”

Connor looks so human in this moment. it’s so apparent, and piercing in this exact second. The details in his eyes, slightest of blemishes on his cheekbones. 

Connor leans in, his eyebrows raising. Subconsciously, you lean back ever so slightly in response. 

“We were thinking of taking you to the Lieutenants place.” He sees your eyes widen, getting ready to give a vocal response. “It’s a very safe place,” Connor promises. “I can assure you there are many rooms to your liking.”

You take a minute, looking the Android right in his warm, hopeful, perfectly symmetrical eyes. “Connor, I’m not interested in having this discussion right now.”

“It’s just-”

“Back off,” you snap. It’s assertive. Something you don’t usually do towards masculine presenting beings. 

As soon as you say it, you regret it, however. The person across from you just looks so heartbroken, almost. His big brown eyes, the ones that remind you of a loyal dog, are looking right at you. How could you not feel bad for snapping at Connor? Sweet Connor, who doesn’t take pleasure in hurting people no matter how much you convince yourself he does. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

The Carla Rodriguez murder case went on for two more days. Her boyfriend, unfortunately, was not yet found. Hank was working on obtaining a warrant based on your instincts that would give him access to search family members houses for the man. Things were becoming focused. 

Each night you went home, you struggled to sleep. You did in fact, find out that Connor may have been onto something when he suggested the consideration of safety. You indeed stayed up later than usual, using both locks on your dirty apartment door for once. It was hard to fall asleep. Whenever you did, it became all too easy for you to imagine a solid, big, broad shouldered figure standing over the foot of your bed, waiting to strike. 

A man, as usual. 

Ironically, you did feel better when Hank- a man- would come into the station. And then there was Connor, who was somewhere between a puppy and a wolf, half following Hank, half fully capable of loading and discharging a gun. Connor made you feel safe too, but only by association. It felt bad to think about him after the snapping that occurred Thursday, but it could’ve made you feel worse to act unprofessionally in the work place. It was best you try to forget it, and try to forget that Connor has unlimited and invincible memory. 

On Sunday, you and Hank had your weekly scheduled lunch. Nothing fancy, just fast food from a food truck by the train tracks. You’ll both probably get burgers, except Hank will try to add lettuce and some vegan bullshit to convince you he’s sticking to his diet. Of course he will. 

You throw the keys to your locker in the backroom into your desk drawer, and slip it closed. Across the floor, Hank is already ahead of you, tugging on his crappy jacket and somehow standing patiently and grumpily at the same time. 

“Ready to go?” you ask as you approach him, your own jacket in hand. 

“Yeah, just waitin’ for the kid,” Hank replies casually. 

“The kid?”

“I’m ready to go, Lieutenant,” the enthusiastic voice of Connor rings out. He has one of those voices where you can tell when he’s happy and smiling too, and he is in this very moment. 

Nobody ever joins you and Hank. You knew Hank had taken Connor to the truck before, but that was just between them, and this was just between you. An odd decision on Hank’s part to make such a change. 

“Alright,” Hank calls back. Then he turns to you, the smallest of knowing grins on his face. “Ready when you are, Doctor.”

You just nod your head and start walking out to Hank’s car, unsure of what to do think. In the end, you decide to just not think at all. 

“What are you doing this for?” you’d ask Hank as you were walking, when the Android known as Connor was out of earshot. 

“What? You got a problem with Connor?” You shake your head no. “Well good. Because besides bein’ a freak he’s perfectly fine.”

Yep. Thanks, Hank. 

The drive over is silent, besides Hank’s music. You like his taste, but it doesn’t make you feel less tense around Connor. On the other hand, Connor is completely oblivious of said tension. You can see him in the rearview mirror, smiling and looking out the window every now and again. 

Once arriving to the scene, Connor gets out first. You click your seatbelt away, about to pull the handle open when you notice Hank hasn’t moved at all. 

“You coming?”

“Mm,” Hank fake thinks, flipping through his cd cases. “Nah.”

“Well then... well then are you even hungry?”

“I got food back at the office,” he sighs, not even looking up at you. “Indian from last night. Gonna wreak havoc on the ol’ plumbing.”

“Then what did you bring me here for?” you question finally, developing a tension headache from how often you’ve been knitting your brows together lately. 

Hank looks up and over, an almost offended expression on his face. You can see it in his wide old eyes, the angry eyebrows, the slightly opened mouth. 

“Because I’m trying to create a warm and loving social circle.”

“You one time told me die because I ate your jar of pickles!” you cry. “Oh my god- Hank, is this about me and Connor? Is that it? You want us to get along?”

“Yeah, and what if I do?” Hank turns to you fully, putting an angry hand on the steering wheel to clutch something. 

“It doesn’t matter!” you exclaim. “It literally doesn’t matter at all!”

Hank is quiet. You can see his beady, angry eyes on you, his jaw clenching. “Get the fuck outta my car,” he says at last. 

“Gladly,” you mutter. You open the door and slam it closed. 

Looking across the wet, rainy street, you can see Connor looking up at the sign of the food truck known as Chicken Feed innocently. You breathe out, feeling the heat from the previous ‘discussion’ beginning to melt away. 

Okay, Y/N, you tell yourself. Just go talk to him. 

You begin your walk across the street, hearing the light tapping of the rain hitting the asphalt all around you. His back is getting closer and closer. You still have a chance to turn around. 

“Hey, Connor,” you say lightly. 

“Hello, Doctor L/N,” Connor greets in return warmly. 

“Whatcha... thinking about eating, there?” you ask, both of you knowing damn well Androids can’t eat. 

“I’m not sure,” he admits. Then he shrugs, and very genuinely says, “I guess I could have some french fries.”

“Alright. I’ll get you some.”

And you do. And you feel so stupid while ordering it. The guy in charge, Gary, looks at you with an ‘are you sure?’ expression on his face, but you only continue with the order, confirming that, yes, you are sure. Then you and Connor sit next to each other in silence, waiting for your food to be ready. You pretend to be very interested in a stain on one of the back menus for about three straight minutes. 

“Here you go,” Gary hands you the food. You take the bags and speed off immediately to an umbrella by the place. Even though you’re essentially powerwalking at about 6 miles per hour, it doesn’t feel fast enough in the moment. Connor is right there beside you the whole time. 

“Here’s your fries,” you mutter, pushing the bowl towards him. 

“Thank you,” he says, formally. Then Connor just stares down into the bowl. 

“I appreciate you paying for this meal, Doctor L/N,” Connor decides to say after another moment. When you look up, you can see he’s leaning down ever so slightly so that he’s closer to your height, and making pretty sturdy eye contact. It’s moments like this that you think you’re talking to Connor’s social programming, and probably not him naturally. 

“You don’t have to call me Doctor, Connor,” you breathe. “We’re not at work right now.”

“I apologize. How would you like me to address you then?”

“Well... how would you like to address me?”

Connor thinks for a moment. You can tell because his led is switching between yellow and white. Then the beginning of his eyebrows start twitching, along with the corners of his mouth, just like a human would when they have several thoughts on the tip of their tongue but none of them seem just right. It’s cute when he does it. 

“You can just call me Y/N,” you rush out in an attempt to save Connor from quite possibly exploding. 

He does the twitching once more, then looks up to the top of the umbrella without moving his head. “And, is this outside of the workplace or in it as well?”

“What would you prefer?”

His led goes yellow again. He looks back to you. “That depends whether or not you consider us friends, Doctor L/N.”

This takes you back. You’re silent, stunned, looking at him with slightly widened eyes for a few seconds- maybe a whole minute- before you make the decision to look at your burger and change the subject. 

“How’s been adjusting to life as a free man?” you ask, unwrapping the foil from your warm food. 

Connor adapts to the subject change after a few seconds, and you know that he’s seen right through you. “It’s strange,” he tells you, deep in thought, but sincere. “But, people seem happy.”

“Are you happy?” you prompt further, biting a big bite into the meat. 

Connor thinks again. He thinks a lot. “Yes,�� he decides. “I suppose I feel alive,” he admits. It sounds like a confession, and when he turns his head to look over to you, he sees your eyes are already on him. “Are you happy?”

“Am I happy?” you repeat in question. “I... guess I am, overall.”

“Do you enjoy working as a criminal and forensic expert?”

Now it’s your turn to think. You swallow down your bite. “Yeah, I think so. It’s what I’ve wanted for a long time. And now I have it, and I’m comfortable and all. So yes... And you? As a detective?” You bite into the burger again.

“Well, it is what I was created for,” Connor tells you, with an almost charismatic, joking tone. It looks like he’s smiling a little, too. Cute. “I think so. Working with Lieutenant Anderson has gotten better.”

“God, I remember when you first came in,” you roll your eyes. “Hank was all in a mood. One of the grouchiest days for him. But he likes you now.”

Connor watches you pull the burger away from your face. He’s thinking again, but also admiring your features from up close. He doesn’t usually get to do this with you. The proof is in the lack of response to the ‘would you consider us friends?’ question. 

“You know,” Connor says, and you can hear the sincerity in his voice for the millionth time. “I really admire how talented you are in your line of work.”

You feel heat in not just your cheeks, but in the rest of your face as well, as if you have a very sudden fever. You decide to keep your face down, trying to naturally make it not look like you’re using your burger as a shield. “Thank you,” you respond. 

The heat begins to subside, so you look back up to him. “I admire your...” and you can’t finish the sentence. Not because you can’t think of anything to admire. You know you had a good one in mind to say to him. But when you look up at his boyish face, with the innocent smile and the comforting eyes and the most human details in his skin, you lose your train of thought. 

It seems too late and rude to continue by the time you regain it, so you just decide to leave it and eat your burger as quickly as possible. 

“Are you done with your fries?” you ask, as Connor looks down at the untouched basket.

“Yes, thank you.”

You don’t even look into the waste of 2 dollars as you speed walk to the trash can and dump it full of everything. Then you hop across the street, Connor right behind you.

Getting back into Hank’s car makes you roll your eyes. It’s not that you’re mad with Connor anymore so much- not that you would describe the feeling as mad in the first place. You’re not even sure you’re ‘mad’ at Hank so much anymore. It’s more like you’re in the area that you previously had a yelling match in, so all that energy is still there. So stupid.

“Hey, you two,” Hank greets, though to you it sounds condescending.

“Hello,” Connor chirps back.

You just shoot Hank a glare.

“How was lunch?” The old man prompts, holding your eye contact knowingly the entire time.

“It was fine,” you tell him.

“Fine?”

“Yeah,” you practically seethe. “Just fine.”

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

You stay in your house for another two days. Sleeping has become far more difficult, though you’d never openly admit it. Hank can see it in your face. There’s dark circles under your eyes, far more noticeable than before. Your eyes are dragging themselves down, along with the rest of your body which seems to be in a constant slump. 

You’re like a zombie. You’re just carrying yourself around, mindlessly doing your tasks while you try not to nod off at work. Hank hasn’t said anything. He just watches you from afar, not knowing how to apologize because he’s never been able to pull himself into one. 

Connor hasn’t said anything either. Hank’s pet has continued his daily routines around the precinct, going where he’s told and sitting on the other side of the older man. You haven’t been observing them much lately. Been a bit too preoccupied with the threat of sleep paralysis to do anything that you find matters in a social sense. 

Carla’s case is still open. Her boyfriend is still out there, watching and waiting. Maybe for you. Maybe for some other innocent woman. You keep picturing him towering over you, his shoulders looming, strong jaw twitching with anger. Those masculine brows, defined with the intent to strike at you. Kill you, like your old friend. 

Finally, on the fourth day of little to know sleep, you fell asleep at your desk. Completely zonked out, your head slumped against the surface, squishing your cheek in the process. Connor jumped up from his seat, Hank following shortly after. But there was no threat, you were simply resting. Once the two realized this, they calmed a little. Hank opted to send Connor over to you to check you out, crossing his arms as he got ready to observe. 

The Android creeps over. Your breathing is steady. So is your heartrate. You’re not in shock or anything at all. You’re not even hurt. 

“Y/N?” he prompts lightly, now crouched to be close enough to your ear so he can whisper. His chocolate eyes glance around the precinct, looking for anyone who might have noticed you to try and save you some embarrassment. Then he glances towards the Captain in his office, and he knows he has to hurry himself so you don’t get caught and reprimanded. 

“Doctor L/N?”

No response. Connor looks back at Hank, who shrugs his shoulders nonchalantly with little help. 

“Doctor L/N, you have to wake up,” he tells you, poking the back of your slumped shoulder. 

You were asleep, yes, but apparently not very deeply. You stir from your slumber, raising your head and your mousy appearance to look over at Connor with confused eyes. 

“What happened?” you strain, stretching. Connor detects a bit of drool on the corner of your lips. 

“You fell asleep at work,” Connor explains slowly. 

“I did?” you squint, obviously still out of it. 

“You have... drool on your lips.”

You wipe the left corner. “The other side,” Connor gestures lightly to his own lips. “Yes. You got it.”

“Was I out for long?” you look around, adjusting to the so very bright lights of the building. 

“No,” Connor answers in that sweet, sweet voice of his. “Maybe a minute, or two.”

“Oh,” you say, your eyes wandering around. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

That night, it rains. 

Thunder echoes, with  ripples of light from the lightning that bears across the sky like great claw hands. 

You watch the view out your window from the middle of your bed for a long time. You’re curled up in a ball on the blankets, not even under them. You’re just there, watching the sky that reflects in your eyes. 

A sudden stir in you gives you a change of heart. Something you can’t explain to the fullest extent, something not even I, the one in charge of relaying all that’s happening to you, could explain the exact feeling. It’s like the snapping of a rubber band at 2:15 in the morning. 

You can’t stay in this apartment anymore. Not even two locks are enough to protect you. Not your kitchen knives, or the gun given to you from the department for self defense. None of it seems like enough, because all of those things are used after something happens. They don’t prevent it. 

You’re in a hurry. The comfiest pajamas you own are soaked in the salty rain water and protected only by the simplest of winter coats you own. It’s nice, though not appropriate for the current weather of course. Your hair gets drenched fast. Every individual drip that falls from the tip of your nose is felt, like you’re more hyperaware than usual. 

Now you’ve arrived at a house. A one story, fairly inexpensive home with a garage and recognizable old car out front. As you approach, you can already hear the barking of a dog, see a neighbor turn their lights on briefly to observe you, and feel the shivering of your knuckles as they tap on the door sporadically.

Come on, Hank, you think.  Please protect me. Please do this for me. 

And, believe me, Hank Anderson would’ve done it had he been awake. But he hadn’t been, and so he didn’t answer the door. Instead, the door swings open, and inside you see an Android. 

A tall one, with soft facial features. He has long, dark eyelashes framing dark eyes, surrounded by dark hair. He’s clean and clear cut, very put together. It’s Connor, Hank’s pet that you’ve never been able to get the hang of knowing. And he’s as shocked as you are. 

Your drenched hair, shivering body, distant look in your eyes. Though, Connor’s unsure of how he would appear if he had to show up to anyone’s house at 2:34am. Probably unwell. Probably a little bit like you. 

“Doctor L/N,” he says, though it seems mostly to himself. His parched lips barely move, though you notice how pink they look in comparison to everything else right now. 

“Can I come in?”

Connor is still for a few seconds, obviously still processing your appearance. For what, you don’t know. Must’ve been one of the few things he’s simply unable to calculate. But then he moves himself to the side, and you carry yourself in. 

As soon as the door closes behind you, everything is so much warmer. You haven’t been to Hank’s place in months, but it still feels as homey as it did before. It’s cleaner than it was a year ago. There’s more pictures on the walls, more clutter lining the shelves. He’s starting to care about things again. That’s good. 

“What are you doing here?” you suddenly ask, turning around to face Connor. 

That’s right- what is he doing here? He and Hank couldn’t be living together, could they? Or is... or is it that Hank is pretending Connor is someone else, too?

Connor’s led goes yellow, then blue, then back to yellow. “Lieutenant Anderson has offered me a place to stay until I’m ready to go on myself,” he explains, though the way it looks at you makes it seem like Connor doesn’t want to tell you this. Like he feels the need to explain himself. 

“Are you alright, Y/N?”

You wipe your face, smearing your leftover makeup from your eye with the rain water. It burns, but you can’t feel it over the cold. “I uh- um... I’ve been having trouble- trouble sleeping.”

Connor’s lips close, and he looks at you in understanding as you stand there, now feeling your own pressure of having to explain yourself. 

“Just like... at my place I can’t- can’t sleep. Not a lot of it.”

Connor knows he shouldn’t, but it’s right there on the very tip of his tongue. It’s so close to just spilling out, until finally it does, all at once. He’s too curious to try and stop it. “Why?”

“I just- I can’t-”

You’re looking everywhere. The floor, the wall, covering your eyes with your arm or your hand, shifting back and forth between feet, making a soggy spot on the floor from your dripping clothes. 

“Can’t sleep.”

When you look up to Connor again, you feel better. Still panicked, but like you’re not in trouble. His eyes are so soft. They’re so human, and comforting. He looks at you like he understands, and like he’s not upset. You can see why Hank would pretend he is who he is now. But there’s no one for you to pretend who Connor is. He’s just Connor. And he’s better than you. 

* ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

Connor lets you wear one of his sets of identical clothes. It’s a grey t-shirt and blue pajama pants. Your hair is still wet, but Connor doesn’t say anything. He lets you sit on the couch and watch one of Hank’s basketball recordings while he goes to make tea. 

He brings it to you and sets it down on the coffee table in front, but like days ago, you can’t bring yourself to touch it. Connor’s made himself a cup too, but doesn’t drink it. It’s deadly silent, the only light coming from the faint glow of the tv, the only sound coming from the biases of those annoying sports commentators. 

“Connor?” you whisper hoarsely, turning your body to face him. 

He looks over at you, at full attention. Such a soft boy. 

“Do you think I’m afraid of anything?”

Connor’s led goes yellow. It flickers in circles until finally he says, “What do you mean, Y/N?”

You look down at your hands. “W-when I try to sleep, I see someone,” you say, not bearing to look at anyone from that gender for a moment. “He never leaves me alone. I feel like I- like I’m seeing this thing everywhere. I can’t avoid it. It won’t leave me alone.”

“What is it?” Connor prods gently, leaning in in that innocent, but curious way he does. 

You open your mouth like you’re going to answer, but then your mouth goes dry. Instead, you just shrug your shoulders in a weak attempt of lying. 

“Um... why are you still awake?” you ask instead. 

“Androids don’t need to sleep,” Connor explains to you. “We just power down to conserve energy, but I don’t need as much as others.”

A light puff of air escapes your nose in time with the flickering of the corners of your lips. “Sounds like you’re bragging,” you tease for a second. 

Then it goes quiet.

“I don’t think you’re scared of anything,” you hear Connor’s voice say clearly. “At least, not that I’ve seen. You’re very diligent in your work.”

You take the compliment. It warms your chest for a moment, but the pit inside you is not so easily gotten rid of.

Your nails scrape against each other, breaking while you pick at one of your index fingers. “I think I have like... this fear of men. Fear of something.”

Connor’s led goes yellow.

“Androphobia, also known as the fear of male presences, affects nearly one third of the current female population.”

Connor watches you continue to pick at your nails. The memory of you standing at the door step, shivering like a kitten, drowning in the rain water stays on his mind. “Is this what you think you have, Y/N?” he asks, though this time it’s far more soft.

It sounds like he really cares.

You look up to him, your eyes glossing over from stress and the incoming wave of tears you can feel in the back of your throat.

“I can assure you, Doctor L/N, you are safe here,” Connor continues, holding eye contact as he speaks. “I won’t let any kind of harm get to you.”

The tears in your eyes seem less violent now. Like they’re disappearing already. And that’s how the story ends, in fact. With you, looking up at Connor, seated on Hank’s couch with your hair dripping around you- him promising not to hurt you. It ends on the silence that follows, right between the stare the two of you share.

  * ✭ ˚ ✧* ･ﾟ * ✭ ˚･ﾟ✧*･ﾟ  *

This is the first thing I’ve proof read. Also one of the longest things I’ve written somehow? It was fun. I apologize for any mistakes as English is not my first language.

[the-nysh]

People on both Tumblr and Reddit a babbling an how “Garou” voluntarily killed Genos, and that “his” actions are inexcusable and irredeemable seriously need to go fuck themselves ASAP!!!

Whew...welp, it was unfortunately expected, and I can't forget the things I've already seen. :') Now, those who're only expressing their anger rn are fine, with the disclaimer how they know Garou has been corrupted and is Not Himself here (literally: Garou is a victim to cosmic mindrape; unwittingly trapped & used by god's cruel agenda to eradicate all humanity, and without him even knowing the full extent of what happened to him, what this 'power' truly entails, or even what it’s passively doing to others he cares for - like Tareo), which we even get confirmation this chapter from Bang - who knows him, and Blast - the resident 'god' expert here, who can discern the difference, including the evidence from everything built up over 100+chs til now for us to have already known his character's true nature too - see, those fans I can trust, who've kept their memory & perspective in check.

But the really bad thing is from those who're unironically spreading more misinformation slander like 'oh he was really evil all along; just a completely selfish, irredeemable, bad person at heart' ‘who totally deserves to die (instead of saved for getting mindraped by god)’ or 'there was never a good reason to have ever liked him before' or 'he's finally enacting his favorite things he enjoys doing most in the world that he’s always WANTED to do~!!!'......aka implying that the real Garou has ever ‘loved' sadistically torturing the weak or literally mass killing people and children for the lulz....(when the actual Garou has only ever put able-bodied heroes in hospitals, never wanting to cross the line of actually killing anyone, with his own idea of what a ‘monster’ (vs an ideal ‘hero’) should be, while hamming up his fake 'evil' performance in hopes of scaring everyone into what he's really after.) Or worse, they're implying that god's agenda (who's literally warped Garou's mind, beliefs, and actions against him thru forced manipulation) is the truest reflection of Garou's innermost desires. :)))))) When NO. Stop.

*sighs* Because the ironic thing is how they don't realize how that kind of premature judgment is complicit in forming a witch hunt mob against the easiest scapegoat target here. (Now gee, doesn't this sound so familiarly meta when it's exactly one of the themes Garou's always struggled against since the shed scene?) When the True Evil being here everyone should be angry at is 'god,' for his most unwelcome interference. But 'Garou' on the other hand, who's been insisting this is all him, is of course going to internalize all the guilt, self-hatred, blame, and condemnation upon himself (thinking he doesn't deserve to live - either in isolation or suicide) once he finally realizes what he's been made to do against his will. And everyone in the cast (who doesn’t already care for him, or hasn’t already been ‘knocked out’ to see what happens) will either want him dead or join in permanently condemning him in the same witch hunt in canon too. How nice. (/s) To always be hated in fanon and canon; exactly what he’s always expected since childhood. :’)) (Now isn’t Flash still a fine hero -completely redeemable- for assassinating so many people at will? How about Bang who’s changed his ways? Do we even know Genos is permanently dead to accuse Garou of murdering a cyborg while under god’s explicit corrupted influence? Oh and look - even the Saitama who was solely against killing him in the wc, is now intent on seriously killing him now too without even knowing the truth of what actually happened to him after being victimized by god either!) Oh my god! 8′D

So in this type of ending for Garou, there will be no fair justice for the one who's always sought after that most in the world, who’s instead doomed to suffer the most unfair injustice, (from god) beyond his very control or understanding, of all. And after receiving that eternal damnation? Without any emotional support system left or way to ever heal or value/redeem himself from the trauma of being used to kill the very loved ones he’d otherwise die to protect? Is a cursed fate of suffering far worse than death. That is, IF Garou can even survive this. Amazingly cruel. Or amazingly strong, if he can still endure the absolute worst.

But for those who need a reminder of what Garou’s actual idyllic goals are, which were established early well before all these horrific events for a reason:

Which you know, requires humanity to be alive to want to eliminate all evil/injustice and unite everyone to evolve towards world peace.

....Not passively killing all life through the radiation he unknowingly emits. So to a Garou who might think he’s ‘playing along,’ all in control according to the usual script, oh no, he doesn’t even know. He has no clue how much he’s actually getting used. (Which is part of the abject cruelty and horror.) This isn’t his authorized game or agenda at all anymore, this is real - or rather, this is god’s cruel game (to break him and Saitama, and all humanity who dare defy him for that matter) enacted along exactly as planned.

So remember when I said the thing about a litmus test to gauge who can still hold even a shred of empathy for Garou’s undeserved suffering? Well! I’ve certainly seen many true colors come out now, which again, I can’t forget.

[lotusjwy]

“You can trust me” for our boys Jiang Cheng and Lan Xichen? 👀

ooooh boy, carrie u just know me. i wrote this so easily, idk WHY that was so easy to write honestly. 

enjoy around 2k words of xicheng being mean to each other bro, i needa go make them kiss or smth this hurt 

It wasn’t a very common occurrence, but ever since the events at Guanyin Temple, Lan Xichen would sometimes have days, where most people around would know to give him a wide berth, lest he spit poisonous words at them. These days were unlike the days where he had no desire to exist in the world. Instead, on these days he was infinitely angry at the world. There was never any rhyme or reason to the days – at least, no pattern that he had been able to recognise that would trigger or prompt him to get in these moods. And no one would be safe from the words he spoke, regardless of who they were to him. 

Lan Wangji had learnt first-hand to leave his brother alone when he was in these moods, when Xichen had called him a disgrace to the Lan Sect ways due to his devotion to Wei Wuxian. That Wei Wuxian was a menace to their society and that perhaps they would have benefitted had he met the same fate as his parents. After the fact, Xichen had profusely apologies, explaining that he that he didn’t know why he had said what he had said and that he didn’t mean them. And while Lan Wangji had accepted his apology, their relationship had been strained for a long while after that. In order to protect their brotherhood, both would avoid each other on these days.

However, it would seem that Lan Wangji hadn’t passed this message along to Jiang Wanyin, who was currently pounding on the entrance to the Hanshi, which Lan Xichen had been refusing to open for the past ten minutes. He knew that if he let the other in, that it may come to blows with Lan Xichen’s foul mood and Jiang Wanyin’s general angry disposition. After another few minutes of having to listen to Jiang Wanyin yelling his name, Lan Xichen slammed the doors open, his face displaying the annoyance that he was feeling at the situation.

“You would think, Sect Leader Jiang, that after a few minutes of not receiving a response, you would get the message that I do not wish to speak with you.” His voice was cold and icy, not leaving any room for argument.

Or so he thought, were he not speaking with Jiang Wanyin. Jiang Wanyin who looked confrontation in the face and barrelled right through. 

“You don’t want to talk to me?” Jiang Cheng’s voice was full of disbelief that the other was acting this way, so early in the morning. He’d never seen Lan Xichen acting like this.

“I want you to leave.” Lan Xichen could feel his patience growing thin, if the other didn’t leave right now, then he didn’t know what would come from the following interaction.

“Well, too bad. Since when have I ever left you alone when you’re in a bad mood? Talk to me about it, perhaps that will help you navigate back to being yourself.” With those seemingly simple words, Jiang Wanyin further entered the Hanshi and sat down in front of Lan Xichen.

“There is nothing I wish to speak about with you, at this moment. Leave.” He took a calming breath, willing himself to not lose himself.

“You can trust me, Lan Xichen.” Jiang Wanyin’s voice was earnest and full of understanding, he was being exactly the type of friend Lan Xichen would crave any other day. But not today, today he is angry at the world, and is willing to fight with anyone, and so that’s just what he does.

“I thought I could trust Jin Guangyao. Nie Mingjue and Nie Huaisang thought they could trust me. Yet all forms of this trust were broken within a few tragic moments.” His voice was hard, not like the usual calming voice that Jiang Wanyin had grown used to over these months. “You’ll find I’m unable to readily believe your words.”

It had been months into their growing friendship – relationship maybe – yet Jiang Cheng had never realised that Lan Xichen still struggled with trust. “And I fucking thought I could trust Wei Wuxian, yet you don’t see me shutting myself off from the fucking world over it.”

“No, you just tortured people out of spite, out of hatred towards your brother. They were innocent people you tortured, yet you did it anyway. Perhaps the world would have benefited from shutting yourself off from the world. More people would be alive.” Internally, Lan Xichen hated himself for even uttering those words, knowing this was something that haunted Jiang Wanyin even after all these years.  

Jiang Cheng narrowed his eyes at the other, not understanding why the other was verbally attacking him like this. “Every person I killed was a demonic cultivator, you don’t believe they deserved it?”

“Perhaps demonic cultivation is the wrong path to take, however you didn’t offer rehabilitation for them? Surely, you had other avenues to help that didn’t result to torture. No, instead you had to let your anger take charge as usual.” His voice turning to morbid fascination as he continued to speak, he could see Jiang Wanyin slowly grow more and more angry as he continued to speak his poisons.

Oh. So, he wanted to play that game? Unluckily for Lan Xichen, Jiang Wanyin had been waiting for someone to bring this up with him, thought admittedly he never expected someone he thought was his friend to bring it up.

“Do you know how many demonic cultivators I came across that were previously of the Lan Sect, Sect Leader Lan? It would seem your sect doesn’t offer its’ own members the rehabilitation that you’re so bravely offering right now.”

“You’re lying.” Xichen narrowed his eyes at Jiang Wanyin, not believing his words for a second. He’d have noticed if his disciples were following such paths, he’d have known.

“I’m in Cloud Recesses, esteemed Zewu-jun. Lies aren’t allowed here.” With a smirk, he continued speaking, a smug lilt to his voice, “I can even show you the pile of forehead ribbons that came with each of the cultivators. I have a collection, if you would like to call it that, of little mementos that link each demonic cultivator to a sect.”

“Why would you keep them? Rumour has it you burnt the bodies where they lay.” He was determined to not let the other win this argument.

“And create damage to the sect that I so painfully built back up? No, my disciples disposed of the bodies. You’re not wrong, they were burnt, just not in Lotus Pier. Lotus Pier has seen enough flames to last an eternity.” And Jiang Cheng was never present for any of the burnings. He’d witnessed too much burning flesh in his lifetime, he never wants to see or smell that ever again.

“You’ve not yet explained why you would keep articles from the bodies.” He tried to keep his voice steady and absent from any of the anger that was rushing through his veins. He’d never wanted to yell at another so desperately before.

“To remind myself that while the once first disciple of Yunmeng Jiang created demonic cultivation, that I never once came across another demonic cultivator from within my own sect.” It was an odd pride he’d always felt. A secret pride that he’d never spoken about to anyone before now. “There were countless from the Nie, Jin and Lan sects, yet none from my own. Fascinating isn’t it? That somehow the sect where demonic cultivation was founded never produced another known demonic cultivator.”

“Isn’t that because they saw first-hand what you did to demonic cultivators?” Forcing his voice to sound calm and uninterested, Lan Xichen was determined to make Jiang Wanyin feel as bad as he was making Lan Xichen feel with his words.

Jiang Cheng let out a snort, “partially, I won’t deny that. However, I believe they saw what it could to do those around them. How negatively it could impact on everyone, including themselves. The issue all you fucking hypocrites have is that you just tell your disciples that demonic cultivation is bad, and they should never pursue it, or you will punish them.”

“And what? You believe you have the upper ground here?”

“Gods no. I’ll never claim to have an upper ground, we lived through a war, we were all bound to fuck up in some way or another. But I tell my disciples in explicit detail what demonic cultivation can do to families. I remind them of Jin Ling who grew up without parents due to the inability to control demonic cultivation. Because if a genius like Wei Wuxian couldn’t fucking control it, then what luck did a lowly disciple have?”

And that was something Jiang Cheng had spent years working through himself. The knowledge the Wei Wuxian didn’t mean for everything to go as badly as it did. That he had just lost control of the situation and it had grown and grown until the unthinkable had happened, and Jin Guangyao took explicit control of the situation. It was still something he had to talk himself through, on his bad days. But he would not have Lan Xichen attempt to make him feel bad about the things that he has been through, no matter who they are to each other.

Looking away from Jiang Wanyin, Lan Xichen grit his teeth and spoke tersely, “I see.”

“That’s all you have to say?” He couldn’t believe the other was acting like this. Xichen had spat venom yet seemed to be retreating the second Jiang Cheng fought back. Coward.

“I don’t know what else you want from me.” He let out a heavy sigh, and turned back to Jiang Wanyin, his eyebrows raised, as if asking why the other was still here.

Jiang Cheng laughed frostily, voice full of hurt and regret, “I had thought that the two of us had an understanding after all these months. It would seem that I was wrong to think you would ever trust someone as vile as me.”

“No one asked for you to attach yourself to me.” He almost winced, as he said it, knowing that they were about to cross dangerous territories in this conversation. Perhaps with irreversible consequences.

“Attach myself? Lan Xichen, need I remind you who fucking approached who first, or have you coincidentally lost all memory of that moment?” Lan Xichen. That was the answer. Lan fucking Xichen had approached Jiang Cheng with hopes of friendship first, right out of his seclusion, so why the fuck was he acting so haughty now?

“I approached you out of desperation on my part. I wished to forget A-Yao’s existence, and so I approached you. You who is so very clearly unlike him. It meant nothing more to me and has seemed to have run its course.” I’m sorry, I don’t mean it, he wanted to be able to say, but his mood didn’t allow him to, his words leaving his mouth faster than he could shove them back in and never have the time to utter them.

“Of course, I’m the fool in this situation. Why would the great Lan Xichen approach lowly Jiang Wanyin for friendship or anything more? It would seem you were correct, my trust in you was misplaced, I will endeavour to rectify that mistake of mine. Thank you for the honourable life lesson, esteemed Sect Leader.” With a final, stilted and angry bow, Jiang Cheng turned around and left the room, muttering under his breath about ungrateful people.

As Jiang Cheng stormed out, Lan Xichen closed his eyes in defeat. Ah, Lan Huan, you’ve finally done it. You’ve finally pushed away everyone that genuinely gave you care. Jiang Cheng wasn’t like Wangji, who had forgiven his words without a second of hesitation, no Jiang Cheng would remember each word that had been uttered in this room. Once scorned, Jiang Cheng wouldn’t return without a genuine apology, an apology that Lan Xichen wasn’t sure he was ready to give the other. Not without thinking more deeply about what kind of a relationship he wanted with the other.

[nothisis-ridiculous]

Take Me Home Now: Chapter Eight

Chapter Eight: They Are Cryin'

Set after the events of ME3.

A rewrite. Ao3.

FemShepxKaidan

"Fuck."

It wasn't a painful awakening; she actually felt damn good. Clearer, like the tiny neurons in her brain fired without a jolt of pain. The sweet moment of clarity after the removal of an infected tooth. Bliss. If only a familiar face could loom over her, a happy embrace of the one she loved. A blissful reunion.

The aging woman who looked over her with a sour expression erasing her gratitude and any field of butterflies illusion. Along with the confusion of waking up in unfamiliar territory.

Right, she was dying just a moment before.

"Where am I?"

This sloppily white-painted interior was not part of the shopping center she recognized. The medical machine that counted out her vitals was also out of place, but that was a minute detail. Jane had woken up from the dead once already, just not inside of a shipping crate. Make that one low she had not yet met.

"Just outside of London," the woman's scowl relaxed, "you're with the Special Operations Biotic Company. Luckily for you, I understand you had a rattled implant."

Her hand was grabbed before she felt her spirits utterly bottom out, the woman's dark brown eyes peering out at her from behind black and white streaked hair. A moment of shared pain passed between them before Jane could not manage to keep up the contact, "how about the LT? My home?"

"The latter is in one piece. I'm not familiar with the person you speak of," the lady spoke gently, "you were rushed here after an injury. But let me introduce you to the person that saved your life, Doctor Balcan."

Jane's gaze shifted to the person arriving on the other side of her bed, the most beautiful creature she had ever beheld. Dark brown hair and eyes loomed over her; the soft smile set upon full brown lips looked perfectly primped without a touch of makeup. The simple doctor's smock hung perfectly on her body, the garment unable to smear an ounce of the poise this woman possessed. As the female nodded in greeting and her long lashes crested her cheeks, Jane was infected with jealousy.

"Thank you, Helen," even her voice was sweet, not in an artificial way, but in the vein of the sweetness of a ripe strawberry, "I think I can handle Jane for the moment if you wouldn't mind grabbing her meal."

The woman waited for Helen to leave before speaking again, "how long have your biotic powers been misfunctioning?"

"Since the Reapers fell," time was a funny thing to Jane anymore.

"Just shy of seven months," the minuscule movement of her eyebrow hardly seemed surprised, "though, I wasn't expecting to be fixing an L5n implant."

"Who else would be stupid enough to bullrush a krogan," any vanguard worth their salt knew how other biotics could view them. Rash. Stupid. Bullheaded.

"I think your stupid luck is what saved your life. You should have had severe seizures attacks, if not died from them, months ago."

Jane continued with a snarl, "but the mall. How... did everyone make it?"

"It was unkind of us not to tell you immediately, but only one civilian casualty," the doctor proffered a soft smile, "the Special Ops group got to your compound in time to repel the brunt of the attack. We had heard there was a pocket trying to rebuild; we just weren't sure if you were friendly, so the entire team did not come along. They had to rush you back here. The equipment is too fragile to move quickly."

She was even nice, gross.

"I was asked to pass on the message that you keep your ass down," at least the swear word brought her down from the utterly ethereal.

Jane's smile cracked, slightly painful against the cybernetic scars that littered her cheek.

"Your body is a curious piece of work; the sheer amount of upgrades and scarring at a microscopic level is fascinating," the woman pulled out her datapad, scrolling down what Jane assumed was a list of medical notes, "synthetic weaving to reinforce bones, microfibres in your muscles, synthetic skin fibres as well. I can't imagine the cost of that modified biotic amp."

Jane looked at her blankly, "you certainly poked around."

"Somebody wanted you alive," strawberry remarked, undeterred, "I'd think you're some sort of mad scientist experiment -that's a foolish notion. But I have my bets on Special Ops... N7."

Jane's eyes snapped into a glare, setting her jaw hard. Teeth grinding into her following biting statement, "don't attempt to bite off more than you can chew."

The woman returned the statement with tempered pity, lips tucked into a frown. The kickback from her calloused words came back twofold as a sharp pain seared across her orbital bone, requiring a hand to staunch the heat before it ended out in a cry. Jane should be thankful, instead, she was pissed. Most of the angst directed inward, some at the patheticness of the situation, little at the well-meaning doctor.

"Can I go?"

"I'll need you here for a couple more weeks minimum."

Fucking perfect.

The doctor continued before Jane's snarl turned into an attack, "you know you need to keep your biotics offline for a while. During that time, we can prepare to merge our groups as one. We'd like your help in escorting us back."

The last line was a platitude, but the LT's message made more sense. The guilt of their previous encounter started to trickle into her psyche before she squelched it away with a flinch, "any more orders, doc?"

"As you are The Commander, I think I should be deferring to you."

"Come again?"

The female laughed behind her hand, "it's obvious who you are. You may fool everyone else with the fancy scars, wilted demeanor, and blonde hair -which by the way, looks fabulous- but your unique physiology and enhancements give it away. I struggled with the thought briefly because how could the savior of the galaxy be here? You charged in with the strike team that went to activate the Crucible. But by God's grace, you're here."

"You can't be-"

Strawberry waved away the protest with her hand, "I'm more than some yokel surgeon. I don't get to be a spec ops field doctor without further training. You won't fool me."

"You bitch."

"Language, miss!"

The sharp crack of the older's woman's words snuffed the faint glow Jane had unconsciously started to accumulate. But it did not dim her glower, blue eyes pinned on the female tapping something into a datapad. Jane was still, frozen in the moment until the second snap of warmth from a small body clambering into her bed shook her from a blind stupor. The little hands and the mound of mousy hair looking at her with barely disguised disdain.

"But I already know those words," Evelyn murmured, only to increase the scrutiny Helen placed on her patient.

"Why are you-" the room immediately thickened with another aura, a solemn shake from the salt and pepper haired woman stopped her question, "are you here because Pater sent you?"

"It is my job," the girl declared bravely, "Pater said that I was to stop you from fighting with anymore krogan. Or just fighting."

"It was my fault, Evelyn...Helen," Strawberry squeaked, "I poked Mar- sorry, I meant Jane without telling her."

Jane's attention returned to the Doctor, pupils narrowing. That was no longer her name.

"I'll excuse it this time, Rahna," Helen's voice returned to a gentle timbre. Handing over the plate of rations, prepared in a manner that was meant to be appeasing. Simple rations that Jane was not thrilled to consume, "eat up. Biotics need energy. I've seen you guys crash before. I don't want you accidentally breaking something expensive."

Rahna.

Rahna...

Rahna.

The woman raised an eyebrow in her direction, plump lips playing into a smirk. Jane was had. Jealousy sunk deeper into her guts, bordering on hatred. How could Kaidan call her beautiful after seeing this divine creature? Beautiful on the Citadel. Beautiful after the first night they had bunked together. Beautiful every time they fucked after. Beautiful in the small moments. Beautiful in the big and the in-between. Had he meant Rahna all along?

"Two weeks."

"What now?" Jane snapped away from the grip of her thoughts.

Rahna crossed her arms, Evelyn giggled, and Helen spoke, "biotics."

"All of this commotion is probably a little too much for her, right now," Rahna cautioned to a sulking child, "let Jane eat in peace while I run a few more tests."

"Yup, super hungry," Jane murmured under her breath.

The patient's gaze did not stray from the Doctor, laser-focused on the slightest movement she made. Waiting for her to do something rash, her temper barely holding behind her tongue. Violent thoughts collided in her head, the desire to do something impetuous a string she had yet to completely cut. It was the easier way, the brutish way- but it was not the way Shepard did it. Shepard would resist, The Commander famously turned the other cheek. Chose kindness. Some of her could still seep through.

Even if it was in the form of stony silence.

"Why hide who you are? You are the one person who could reunite everyone."

A bloody icon. Hero. Butcher. Madwoman. Lover. Terrorist. Murderer. Savior. Pathetic.

"There's nothing to explain," a surly statement only dampened by a flinch, "I don't owe you anything."

"So, it wouldn't matter if I told everyone?"

Jane's silence was the answer.

"This is Major Alenko's squad, I'm sure everyone would be interested," Strawberry continued, placing her first foot away from the bedside, "Let alone you being Shepard, the Major's fling is a very juicy topic. I'm sure meeting the woman would be a top priority."

Rahna took several steps away, gliding out of the retrofitted container. Someone pulled her back, Jane regretted the breeze against her exposed backside. Luckily nobody seemed to pay them much mind in the moment.

"No," her eyes lit with tears, "don't. I can't."

Kaidan knew it was the end; Mary couldn't bring herself into accepting that. Luck. Stupidity. Credits. Spite. They had all stopped her death, had prevented her from reaching a low she could not climb out of. The brutal murder of her parents. Losing her unit on Akuze. Hell, even the deaths of friends during her campaign against the Reapers. They hurt like hell, but it never brought her to her knees. Now... in this moment. In the reality of losing Kaidan, she crashed. Tears, sobbing, railing against the ground. It was pathetic.

Was it the loss of her entire family aboard the Normandy, or just one man?

Dark brown eyes met her on her level, gentle the hint of moisture in her deep eyes, "everyone here mourns him."

"Fuck you."

Rahna laughed, offering out her hand and pulling the woman up to her feet, "I won't tell your secret, but I think you should talk to someone. We have-"

"No, nobody else."

"You know the risks of PTSD; you can't push through it."

"I'm fine."

Jane's stare hardened the emotions out-drying the tears riveting down her scarred cheeks.

"Or how about a deal, my silence for a few talks? Nothing official, just friendship."

She considered for several long moments, biting back each bitter comment that fought to come out. It wasn't the time for resistance. Talking wouldn't hurt, especially if it meant Rahna kept silent. What was she supposed to do for the next two weeks? Stare at the wall? Teach a child to swear? Avoid Kaidan's squad as much as humanly possible?

"Friendship may be pushing it."

[write-like-you-mean-it]

A Hunter’s Prey: Hair Pulling and Bloodlust

I could feel Illumi’s bloodlust without him even stepping off the plane. Anxious nerves held my body throughout the rest of the night. Chrollo had been so intoxicating that I had forgotten Kalluto was in kahoots with Illumi. Every single night, Kalluto must’ve been listening or watching me and reporting back to Illumi. If the former, then I am dead. 

Illumi’s bloodlust permeated the whole city. It was so terrifying that even the Phantom Troupe felt its effects. Only I knew of the purple haze that would linger closely behind. Machi tried to plead with me once again to stay but I knew I had to face him. 

With trembling hands, I said goodbye for now to Machi. I promised her that I would not get myself into too much trouble. That was a lie. I was already in too much trouble. Even Kalluto couldn’t look me in the eyes as I waved to him. 

Goosebumps littered my body as I stepped out into the open air. The sense of Illumi hung on the town like a cloud. “Your boyfriend’s anger is palpable,” said a voice that hung by the doorway. I turned to see Chrollo. “It’s almost impressive.”

“I guess,” I said but I knew he was right. I felt like a lamb that was thrown into the lion’s den and it was all my fault. “I’ll get going. I wouldn’t want any of the troupe getting hurt for my trouble.”

“Good luck,” he said while going to close the door to the inside. “If he doesn’t kill you, my number is always open.” With that, Chrollo winked and left me to face the demon before me. With that, I was left alone to face my demon that I created. I took a few shaky breaths and went to find the source of the bloodlust. 

It wasn’t that hard to find Illumi. Most people had scattered when they felt the eerie feeling of dread mix all over the town. The typical smog was replaced with a hatred of everyone and anyone who would appear outside. 

My head felt the haze long before I saw him. Illumi. Standing there with eyes that could pierce any metal. His arms crossed over his shirt. A few more needles were added to his garb to accentuate the tone of his look. I could see him purse his lips as if he would never open them again. Illumi gave off a sadistic anger; however, it was enthralling. I could stand there for hours with the power that I had. I caused all this anger deep within him. He was a beautifully dangerous creature. 

Illumi said nothing. He only motioned me with one finger to follow him, and I did. Like a dog, I followed him until he reached the outer edge of Meteor City. Confusion washed over my face as I was sure he’d take me back to the airship or just shoot me in the street. Instead, he dragged me to a hotel. He still spoke not a word as we went up to a room on the top floor of the rundown hotel. Illumi didn’t want distractions or interruptions. OR he didn’t want anyone to call the police. 

We locked eyes once again as we stood in the room. I quickly turned away. What do I say? I could try to explain everything. I went to open my mouth and Illumi said “Get on your knees.”

“What?” I ask confused. 

“Get. On. Your. Knees,” he demanded. His voice was calm and void of emotion. Yet, I could feel the sinister nature behind each word. They were deliberate and poignant. 

“No,” I responded. “I’m not-”

Before I could respond, my back was pinned to the wall. Illumi was standing over me. His height was much more than my own. It was so much that he became a towering cage for my frame. His hand held down my shoulder while his nails dug into my skin. “I will not repeat myself again.” 

I looked up to see Illumi staring at me. His eyes held the anger that his words did not. He cocked his head to the side. Black hair cascaded down his face and into mine. A shiver ran down my spine. This was a threat, not a warning. 

Illumi released my shoulder but the places he dug into still stung as if he didn’t leave. Illumi took a step back to give me a little bit of space in this giant room. I swallowed some of the spit that accumulated in my mouth out of fear. 

My body slowly dropped to my knees. Illumi took that as a sign to unceremoniously strip down his pants and underwear. I was right in my assumption of what I would be doing. Pleasing Illumi. I licked my lips at his thick cock that already was rising. 

It was as delicious as before. Last time, Illumi refused to let me touch him. Every inch was only felt by sight and as he entered me over and over again. Face to face with his cock made my mouth water. 

I took my hand to reach out to touch him ever so slightly. Illumi's body reacted by pulling away and his hand grasping my wrist. His reaction was impulsive. He released as quickly as he held on. 

I wiped a finger over the reddening tip to gain some precum that had started to form. It wasn’t enough to give a few good tugs so I spit onto my hand. Illumi never seemed prepared for sex; it was a reaction that happened. I had to use my resources. 

A few more motions of my hand, and his cock was hard and swollen. More precum dripped from the end. I leaned my head forward and licked at his tip. Illumi reacted once again by putting his hand on my head and letting out a small grunt. Perfect. 

My hand didn’t stop moving as I gave full attention to his tip. A few times I would take as much as possible into my mouth while swirling my tongue. Each time, Illumi’s grip on my hair would increase to an almost painful level. He was holding back the need to thrust into my mouth. 

Within my exploring, I found that following the bottom vein from the bottom to the top made Illumi grunt and groan. I did it a few times until Illumi’s anger started to take over. Without warning, he thrusted slightly into my mouth. A warning that he wouldn’t go easy on me. His hand tightened and pulled my hair. 

Illumi’s thrusts were calculated and painful. Each one was a sign of dominance more than pleasure. His cock hit the back of my throat which made me gag. I had to focus on the part that wouldn’t fit in my mouth to not get sick. Illumi’s size was too massive to fit. 

The room was full of Illumi’s grunts and moans as he fucked my face. A slurry of curse words lay on his lips every time my tongue would swirl or hit a particularly sensitive spot. He was much more vocal than before too. It must have to do with the anger and force given to the act. He went too easy on me last time. 

The corners of my mouth were aching but Illumi only used me harder. Each push was calculated and exciting. Power grew within him which turned him on more than I ever could. He would only let me breathe on his time. Each breath was cut off too early. It wasn’t until a final “fuck” that I felt him spill into my mouth. 

I was caught off guard. Illumi let go of my hair and I fell hard to the floor. I coughed from lack of air. I needed a few moments to relax and take a break; however, I forgot about Illumi’s stamina. Once I stopped coughing, I looked up to see the same crazed look on his face. Evil with a smile. 

His hand once again reached for me only to grab around my neck. Tight and firm. “Take off all your clothes and lie on the bed.” Another command. I felt conflicted. I should tell him no but every horny desire screamed yes. Illumi let go of my neck once again. With the pressure, I would have a few bruises for the next few days. 

I slowly stripped off my clothes. I wanted to give him a show as I was still worried that I’d be dead by the end of the night. Each article of clothing dropped to the floor. Illumi only watched with lustful eyes. Once I was nude, I climbed onto the cold bed. My back was pressed onto the mattress. 

Illumi licked his lips while climbing onto the bed himself. Instead of touching me, he held his body over mine. His luscious hair fell onto my face. I was growing ever so impatient with him as I felt a pulsing deep within. Each cell in my body craved him to touch me more. 

The more he held his body over me, the more self conscious I felt. He refused to touch me. This was about him and not about me. I had to take it in his time. The limbo of waiting was broken as he inched downward to my core. I single finger traced up and down my thighs. 

“Do anything impulsive and we’re done,” he growled in a low voice. It was husky and dark from his release earlier. He hovered the finger over my pussy and swiped through the slickness. I bit my lips to fight back a groan. As quickly as he touched me, it was gone. Back to the perpetual circle.

I chose to look at the ceiling and wait for his next touch. I was powerless to him. The room became silent besides from my ragged breathing. Each tantalizing second was spent in anticipation. I finally got the courage to look at him. He takes one of his long fingers and puts it in his mouth. Slowly, he pulls it out with a stream of saliva while touching everywhere but where I want. 

I had to force my body against showing him exactly where I wanted to be touched in fear of going to bed horny. Illumi finally put one finger deep within me. A long whine escaped my lips. It was too delicious to not show pleasure. 

He pushed a few more times before adding one more. I became more and more slick with each given moment. Whines and moans were my only pleads. His other hand traced around my clit. The tension was building ever so slowly. It was agonizing. 

I could feel myself getting close. A flurry of pleads came across my lips. Tension was getting to its peak when Illumi removed his hands from my body. 

“No no no no, please Illumi,” I begged while bucking my hips. “I was so close.”

“I know,” he said with a sadistic smile. “I’ll keep going if you can answer one question. Who do you belong to?”

“Huh?” I questioned still in my pre-bliss haze. 

“Who do you belong to?” he repeated while taking another lick of his fingers. 

A moan fell on my lips. “Yours. Only yours.”

Illumi seemed to like that response as he placed a finger to my clit once again. “I want full answers. Who do you belong to?”

He pulsed one finger in and out of me. “I belong to you, Illumi,” I moaned. Another correct response as he picked up speed. Again, I could feel the tension starting to rise. A few curses went past my lips mixed with Illumi’s name. 

A moment later, the tension snapped as I came for him. My body reached by leaning into his touch. I moaned while closing my thighs on his hand. “Fuck, Illumi, I cried loud enough I bet the downstairs neighbors could hear. 

I closed my eyes due to fresh tears. A few tremors racked my aching body. I didn’t even notice Illumi’s touch until he was kissing me. I kissed back. His motions became calmer and more passionate. The anger merged into lust. “You’re mine and only mine,” he muttered against my lips. 

As we were kissing, I could feel his hard cock against my core. I opened my legs once again. Illumi only broke our kiss to slip himself deep inside me. I was still a little sensitive so I jumped at his quickness. “Shit Illumi.”

My words didn’t phase him as he pushed deeply inside of me. His grunts and my moans mixed together to fill the room with a beautiful sound. Illumi’s voice was drowned out by him finishing quicker than before. I had gotten my fill. 

Illumi placed his forehead against mine and repeated “You’re only mine.”

“I’m yours,” I replied. His hot breath mixed with mine. Both of us refused to move. We could stay there for an eternity and it would be too short. The more I looked into his eyes, the more I realized that I missed him. I closed my eyes to feel calmer in the moment and to catch my breath. 

“Marry me, “ Illumi mumbled. “Y/N, marry me.”

Next Chapter

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Full Masterlist

[we-live-in-a--society]

El Nacimiento del un Hombre Nuevo

The Downfall of Humanity – obtusely poetic phrase, prolixity, without a direct meaning, without a place, without a purpose, only a forage for youth, blatant lies; in other words – not fitting his taste. Each time someone pours it onto his lithe frame, a flame is ignited, a flash of disgust running down his body, since he believes that being an idealist gets you nowhere, at least nowhere significant, only to the Place of Eternal Disappointment.

Where you suffer.

Making sure you shatter.

And then begin your slaughter.

As the years go by, the circle completes itself, from the Dawn of Humanity and the Killing Monkeys to the Absolute Disorder and the Rise of Rats, filthy, sinewy rats that pop out of their hideouts just to rip you apart, piece by piece. Rip or be ripped – a motto of the New Order – and those who are unable to comprehend it are meant to extinct – natural selection in its most advanced form, leaving only the strongest specimens.

The Survivors.

The ones that are left to roam the earth in search for hell knows what, with endurance being their main principle, their drive towards inevitable, towards the place of unknown. Years ago it would terrify him, but today he doubts whether this world has anything grisly for him to offer, anything that would shatter him once more.

He was born in the first year of Clinton’s presidency, death of Audrey Hepburn, soaked in his mother’s tears, and that Buddha album, full title lost within the depths of his mind. It seems so far away now, not because of the twelvemonths but the variety of events following his graduation – a new, foolishly hopeful, beginning, and oh, what a fierce one in his case, carrying an incomprehensible disaster that has shaped the post-apocalyptic world. All it took was a ridiculously minuscule creature, cause of the outbreak – a single word, carrying such a powerful meaning – albeit leading to more than half of the population biting dust within the first few years.

Unbelievable, huh?

However, as the time went by, so did the slaughters, with people taking matters into their own hands, and now, depraved from any actual data, he can only assume the number of deceased, not that it bothers him much anymore, since according to one famous dictator’s words: “A single death is a tragedy; a million deaths is a statistic.”

When has he become this bitter?

Or more importantly, what is the point of asking a question if you already know the answer?

* * *

She feels numb, aching, detached from her body, yet present within, floating on a passage where she is capable of sustaining every single sensation, though unable to move, caught in a trap, too stunned and terrified to attempt any escape. At the very beginning she has made the following promise: I will not fall on my knees and beg, but the reliability of said assumption is not so zero-one anymore as she eyes her oppressors, standing tall and broad, with all the inglorious possibilities flashing through their minds, staring at her with full-blown pupils. The intensity of their gazes has her wanting to curl into a ball, hide somewhere deep within her soul, hoping it would ensure her safeness, take her back to a place where she would be floating free, deprived of all the unpleasant notions: trepidation, cruelty, and misery.

There were times when she did nothing else but wonder what it feels like to lose control over one’s body, forget how to fight, instead give in and accept one’s fate. She used to consider it as absurd, absolutely and utterly nonsensical

(“what if I slept a little more and forgot about all this nonsense”),

wafting on a whimsical cloud called Faith, like a thoroughbred hypocrite would, pretending that choosing to believe in certain absolutes is not, by any means, a form of enslavement, a prison with silk-upholstered walls.

And so, she has become the thrall of her own convictions – another hopeless idealist within this cruel world, idealists that are meant to extinct.

“Will you cry for me, sweet girl?” One of them asks all of sudden – the person she used to call Clay back in the better days – with a mocking laughter that sends a jarring shiver down her spine. Instead of bothering to form a verbal reply, she keeps staring at the dusty concrete, the tiny patches of grass now ridiculously absorbing; everything to not look him in the eye.

“Answer him, bitch!” Jarring voice that has her flinching in disgust, or fear maybe, frame shaking like a leaf in the dusty fall breeze. The ability to form words has abandoned her long ago, presumably at the time when they tugged her away in the alley, hence the lack of ideas what she is supposed to say under such circumstances.

He, however, is pretty far from deciding that it would be a way more sensible to let it go, and so grasps her by the neck, pushing her up against the brick wall. She chokes on her breath, head bumping into the hard surface with a loud thud that sends a reverberating ache through her body, dark spots marking her vision. With an innate reflex, she grips his wrist, trying to yank him away, but he appears to be stronger as he slams her head back, this time on purpose, to stun the girl and so put a halt to her pitiful escape attempts.

“Just don’t fucking kill her, dude,” Clay warns, his voice breaking at the end, as if his consciousness managed to spoke through the thick barrier of borne animalism. Her eyes prick with tears threatening to run down her cheeks, awoken by the icy cold tone of his voice, cumulating with the uneasiness in the pit of her stomach.

“Relax,” he chides, although lets her go, so she is able to stand back at her feet instead of the tippy-toes, “I’ve got it all under control. Won’t be any use of her if she is dead.”

“You’re right, it won’t,” he nods, as if attempting to convince himself, which is at least how she wants to perceive the whole situation, to think that Clay has been forced to participate in it, that all he is doing consists of blatant, sharp-edged lies, that he already regrets even considering it in the first place.

(I sincerely doubt he does).

“Fucking told you so,” he huffs – a mannerism of yet another expert in the infamous field of manhandling people – however still quick to dart attention back to her – tensed, albeit passive. His gaze remains focused solely on the girl in front of him as if he possessed an ability to drill into her soul, and so uncover all the layers of horror and hatred, break her down and scatter the pieces on the dusty concrete for the benefit of all the watchers.

To be honest, she would rather die than let it happen.

(You are wasting time, Fabienne.)

And so, accordingly to guidance of her inner consciousness, she aims for the only spot she could think of in such a state – crotch, obviously – not very ingenious, either way efficiently enough. As if on some comical command, he lets her go, groaning in pain as he curls into a ball

(oh how the tables have turned),

and she is left with nothing else than make a run for desired freedom, her rip from the pavement surprisingly graceful, deprived of any unfavorable tripping. However, Clay is quick to steady that matter with a harsh tug of her leg that knocks the girl over onto the ground, forcing a scream out of her throat, a never-ending cry of Banshee, in hopes that it will alert someone who cares enough to help her.

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

She attempts to wriggle away from his grip, crawling on the dirty ground akin to some grotesque snake, with a tunnel vision that allows it to strive only for the ally’s intel, gravel pricking the exposed parts of its skin. For a brief moment, she does nothing else but wail, like some wounded animal, as if she went completely mad, kicking anything within her reach, but actually aiming for Clay, or rather for sweeping him off his feet. Although it all appears as success-oriented pursuit, her attempts are soon to be rectified with a sharp jerk and crushing weight brought upon her shoulders, stealing another breath from the terrified lass who is now forced to face the predators as one of them flips her onto the back as if she was nothing more than a dainty ragdoll.

(Just close your eyes and you will be alright.)

(… and other lies people keep telling themselves)

* * *

Through his life, he has gotten a chance to discover that certain things never change, which might as well be yet another lie that has been made up to protect the weakest among from the crushing weight of truth. Either way, he has noticed that forming habits somehow helps us in the darkest times, when we are unable to focus on anything but the negatives: grief, longing, and abandonment; allowing us to complete essential activities, even if caught in some sinister trance where we are barely able to acknowledge what is happening around us. He has always considered it as some unconventional form of a blessing, a route to headway, an acquiescence for pursuit, and much, much more but unfortunately he has never been good with words, and accordingly so – incapable of verbal expression.

Aside from habits, he has discovered the existence of routines, something that helps him to lead a day to day life in spite of unfavorable environment, and so keep himself attached to reality – a factor that becomes rather important during survival struggles. One of them appears to be a peaceful meal consumption, picked up from home and still relevant today despite all eventual threats, something that brings back memories of the better past and faces that somehow manage to hunt him even these days.

Nonetheless, as the years pass by, he finds it harder and harder to look at himself in the mirror, knowing that he is getting older, that death is creeping closer and closer until it captures him with its icy claws, draining any remains of life out of him. If he believed in any holy spirits, it would feel relieving to think of it as a reunion with everyone that had been left behind, but he sincerely doubts it, expecting nothing but the End, la Grande Finale as his mother would say, the Downfall of His Existence – a peace-bringing denouement.

But what is it worth?

Certainly more than an interrupted meal, whereas the harshness of such severance still leaves a caustic taste upon his tongue, the one that will not last long, albeit enough to be acknowledged, and so remembered.

His ears prick up at the tearing noise: a scream, a wail, a whine of a wounded animal; loud enough to awoke a will to come up to the source and silence the person himself, but instead he wonders whether such altruistic jeopardy is indeed necessary in this case. These are not even coherent words, just a croaky, unrelenting shriek that cumulates with the pile of growing irritation, but also wakes up some contradictory inkling that he should come down and help.

Therefore, he is quick to raise from the seat, soon stepping through the doorway and down the staircase, cautious steps echoing through the empty space. Having casted an eye on the street, he walks out of the building, heading towards the now dulling sound in face of all inhuman amount of screeching, eyes following every of a few turns, immediate to reach his destination.

Peeping from around the corner, he witnesses an odd scene playing in front of him, as if meant to be regarded – two chaps, even if of relatively average build, failing to subdue no one else than a dainty girl. While waiting for her to quiet down, he wonders what would be the most beneficial way to handle the oppressors, since of course shooting them would do the trick, but the real question is whether they are worth wasting any bullets.

Ergo, he picks up a brick, testing its weight in his hand with a few careless tosses, before he hides inside the nearest building, and throws it somewhere aside, hoping that the sound itself would be enough to alert them, nevertheless remaining in doubt about its efficiency. However, and much to his surprise, their movements halt while taking a moment to inspect the surroundings, as if trying to determine whether they simply misheard something, or whether the noise was real, eyes meeting in the end.

“The fuck was that?” The taller one curses angrily, not quite managing to hide the hint of trepidation within his voice.

“Infected?” His friend dwells with a tensed frown marking his forehead, a word that never fails to settle an ominous notion in the pit of his stomach, even despite all those years.

“Fuck infected!” He exclaims in exasperation, backing up a couple of steps. “And fuck this, man! You convinced me to do all of it, and if I get to die because of you I swear I’ll-”

“Hush,” he silences the unstable lad, the one that appears as more confident and trenchant, maybe also the one that will get to live longer, who knows, “I’m trying to fucking listen, okay?”

“Fuck you, man!” He bawls, keeping up with the irresponsible person attire, much to the watcher’s interest, “I’m outta here and outta this. If you wanna take her, be my fucking guest but I don’t fancy getting eaten by any of those fucking beasts.”

His friend just shakes his head with ironic disbelief, hissing a bunch of incoherent words to the girl below him, before he lets her go and calls out to the already retreating one. “Wait!” He whisper-shouts, quite an odd speech manner if he was being honest, and springs up from the ground, quick to follow the taller one’s traces, and so disappear around the final corner.

Having waited for their voices to mold into silence, he jumps through the empty window frame, landing on the concrete with a loud thud that alerts the confused lass. In an attempt to get up and most likely run away, she somehow manages to drag her body up, but regardless of the effort trips once more and falls down on her knees, an act that is accompanied by a pained moan. He watches her with an odd concoction of pity and amusement playing upon his face until she looks up to him, scared and perplexed, eyeing him with a mistrustful gaze.

The initial notion that hits her in time with the first glance is simple – he looks older, probably on the cusp between thirties and forties, exactly like a rugged survivor would, with toned forearms and prickly beard. But what eventually captures her attentions is a jarring straight-shaped scar across his eyebrow and cheek, which gives her the impression that the past assaulter must have failed to slash his eye for less than an inch or so. Under any other circumstances it would whip up certain uneasiness within her, however this time she is swept away with a relief towards this stranger, fighting the innate urge to express her gratitude in a more intimate way, a hug maybe, since that would be rather irresponsible and quite childish if she was being honest.

“Thank you,” she croaks instead, barely managing to get the words out of her constricted windpipe, either way accepts the offering hand that he holds for her to help the young woman rise from dusty ground. An involuntary shiver runs down her spine due to the close contact, his pleasantly warm in contrast with the frigid coldness of her flesh, callous texture scraping over her skin – a notion that she finds oddly distracting.

“You’re welcome,” he replies, voice all gravel and sandpaper, letting go of her hand as soon as she stands up on her feet again, watching her wipe the dust from her clothes.

“I don’t know what I’m supposed to say,” she chuckles nervously, refusing to look him in the eye now, her gaze sweeping over the surrounding in an annoyingly swift manner, before she finally meets his browns, much to his relief.

“Then don’t say anything,” he shrugs, not a relatively nice phrase, but either way he has got a point and she feels obligated to bear with it. Being honest here, he appears to be one of those harsh, unpleasant people to spend time with, but she, in turn, seems to be deprived of any decent alternative, certain that she has to convince the stranger into taking her in, at least for a couple of weeks until they reach another city where new opportunities will drop, allowing her to depart eventually.

“Um, okay,” she hums in agreement, still visibly tensed around him, which does not manage to slip past his attention. “Can we at least go somewhere less exposed?”

“We?” His eyebrow perks up – a display of partial incredulity. “I hate to disappoint you, but I’m going back alone.”

“What? Why?” She utters, anxious as ever, since he must be overreacting at least for a tiny bit. “I won’t bother you, I promise. It’s just- I’ll probably be dead by tomorrow if you leave me here, and it all would be for nothing.”

“No,” he refuses with blatant simplicity, another ugly, harsh word that almost causes her to burst into tears due to all the pent-up emotions.

“Even if I promised I would leave you alone in the morning?” She tries once again, barely managing to swallow the thick lump down her throat – a telling sign of an approaching cry.

(She won’t.)

“No,” he repeats, already annoyed and anticipating their separation.

“But-” she begins – a fact that remains seemingly unnoticed by the harsh man as he walks past her, aiming for the ally’s intel. “Oh, great.”

He leaves her no other choice than follow him, despite his surly attitude and moderate approach, in face of the inevitable death that awaits her somewhere in the creeping night’s shadows. She is well-aware of the fact that he was the one who threw the brick, and the action itself wakes up something within her – an emotion so intoxicating that it feels crushing upon her chest – unable to be named

(calm down),

but worryingly influencing.

Throughout all these years, spent in strangling solitude, she has felt some foreign urge to mate with someone, and thus create at least a makeshift substitute for so-called family, unable to resist another opportunity – genesis of her personal damnation, nail in the coffin, but oh so terribly desired. In certain moments she finds herself unable to resist the sudden temptations, driven by a distinct, innate urge to carry on, in search for the necessary fulfilment, safety, and peace, while other times she is swept away with a lancing wave of anxiousness, an inkling that it would be foolish to pursuit, harmful even, that she would regret it later on, albeit not today.

Today she wishes to make it all happen.

Therefore, she follows him, jogging by his side to match the strides, seemingly exaggerated in length but either way bearable, despite his unpleasant tendencies to ignore her, as if pretending he has gone for a pondering, lonesome walk. Being honest here, the assumption fits him perfectly – a forlorn wolf amongst many, the one that rarely bothers to utter a decent sentence, not to mention his disability to see her as a human being, a sensitive creature, instead of a harmful nemesis.

According to her observations, people these days seem numb, depraved of any actual feelings, focused and alert for any dangers awaiting in the dark, or just around the corner, hid in the depths of their weeping souls, begging for redemption, for mercy. Many times before, she has heard that world is a cruel, empty place, lacking in the aforementioned qualities, and so offering damnation only – a burden that comes with blood stains on their hands, with sleepless nights, delirious wandering, no purpose, no place.

And what for?

Lost in her own thoughts, she barely notices that he has halted in front of one of abandoned buildings, slightly lower than the rest, entrance unblocked, as if inviting the passerby with a promise of a satisfactory loot

(am I one of them?),

or right the opposite – yet another threat lurking in the shadows, waiting for its prey. A dreadful shiver runs down her spine at the sinister thought, an inkling existing only to be confirmed or denied, whereas the ingenuous parts of her are putting emphasis on the former – a trait that is determined to abandon her somewhere in the future.

“We depart now, kid,” he announces bluntly, pointing in the opposite direction. “If you head west, you’ll leave the city and reach the nearby woods. Analogically, if you go opposite, it’ll lead you to the center area, but I wouldn’t go there if I were you.”

“And why is that?” She inquires, frowning in confusion.

“The area is already occupied,” he explains, quick to add a brief, “not negotiable,” as if to clarify her visible doubts.

“Who lives there?” Another question leaves her lips, as if to prolong their hopefully brief encounter.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” he spats involuntary, another bitter manner to catch her off guard, not attentive enough to care about possible misunderstandings.

“I still don’t get it,” she shrugs, staring at him with silent anticipation, as if she indeed expected an answer, like it would astonish him.

“It’s from the Old World,” he attempts to cuts the matter short, but she is not yet to disappoint him even this time, another query following his lack of explanation.

“What does it mean then?”

“It means that in certain situations inquisitiveness might lead to a scrape,” he sighs in defeat, but bestows her with the simplest gloss either way.

“If you say so,” she huffs, clearly annoyed with his lacking answers, but is immediate to pursuit with the plot that has been left hanging for a brief moment. “Can’t spend a night here, though? Not negotiable too? Just keep in mind that by forcing me to leave you’re practically digging up my grave.”

Manipulating is a filthy practice, according to what his mother used to tell him on multiple occasions, that he is supposed to be a decent man, living a candid life of a meticulous and conscientious person, amongst other lies, with moral behavior on the very peak of her own Pyramid of Absurd. The rules might have applied to the Old World, but the New Order most certainly does not allow any nostalgia to blossom, a penchant for recreation, for rebirth, nipping it all in the bud, drowning their wicked souls in the tears of those who were perished.

Ironic.

“You think I’m some fucking charity, don’t you?” He chuckles bitterly, a nasty manner that sends a shiver down her spine in time with the newfound realization – of course he would want her to pay, what was she even thinking?

“What kind of payment are you interested in?” She gulps, instinctively backing a few step away from him, ready to run in case it will be necessary. “Sex?”

“Your dignity must have abandoned you long ago if that’s the first offer you pop out with,” he comments harshly, a hint of a mocking smirk playing upon his lips, which might as well be only a matter of her perception.

“Does it mean I can stay then?” She ascertains, not quite managing to hide the tremor within her voice, resolves running thin in face of his judgmental attitude.

“I guess so,” he nods, as if finally willing to admit that she is rather improbable to ditch said matter, “but conditions first,” he shushes her with a dismissive gesture. “I’m rather meticulous when it comes to my stuff, which means no touching, no snooping. What’s mine is mine, don’t forget that. If I catch you breaking the rules, you’re out. Is that clear?”

“Crystal,” she confirms, opting for the simplest possible answer, since it appears as the most sensible too, a technique that would most likely talk some reason into him.

“We’ll see about that,” he remarks at last, and without waiting for her answer, he disappears inside the building, steps echoing in the empty space, which leaves her with no other choice than to follow him. She matches his pace, although remains a few stairs behind him, running her hand past the railing, as she climbs up to face the inevitable, with bits of dust covering her fingertips.

Moments later, they march through the door, only to be greeted by the sight of something that must have been an office installation back in the days, with a row of desks and a coach by the window, a furniture that is already occupied as if to line up with her expectations that concern the matter of being forced to spend the following night on the floor. In the meantime, he manages to barricade the door with a book shelf, now lacking in the better parts of its prior contents– void and deplorable – a flawless fit for the New World, waking up that peculiar longing for something she has never got a chance to experience but either way misses it – another exemplary paradox. She perches on the sofa, her spine awkwardly straightened as her eyes remain glued to him, a notion that he does not fail to notice, but ignores it either way, satisfied with the result of put effort.

They stick to the silence for quite a while, a time needed for her to relax on the seat, and him to eat in the corner, back supported by the wall – an action that does not slip past her attention, smell of food redirecting her focus to own discomfort. Nevertheless, she feels like it would be off top to come up and ask for a share, considering that he is more likely to refuse, not that she finds it hard to believe, but on the other hand at some point filling up her stomach would become an obligation rather than just an option.

“Hungry?” He asks, creeping in between her thoughts, much to her relief actually, in face of undisputable lack of ideas when it comes to figuring out the most efficient approach.

“Starving,” she affirms with a tiny smile tugging at the corners of her lips – a sign of nonverbal alleviation.

“C’mere,” he motions her towards with a universal wrist flick, and despite the innate uneasiness, she obeys, stomach acting as the eventual decision maker. She plops down on the empty space in front of him, good few feet away in case he might want to touch her for no actual reason, leaving him with no other choice than throw whatever he is having at her, partly impressed that she manages to catch it.

“Enjoy your meal,” he adds, a promise of something darker that is yet to come, “it might be the last.”

* * *

Over the course of time, he has managed to notice something distinctive about her personality, something that he is incapable of addressing, frustrating but ever present in the least convenient form possible, itching akin to an insect bite that calls for a scratch ever so often. In addition, the aspect itself is considered as something he was not fully aware of in the following years, but the Change has brought yet another conspicuous realization upon him.

He might be not as talented at reading people as he perceived himself to be.

At first, it appeared as a rather galling factor, a bookish example of noting more than a splendid mistake, but then it transferred into something else, something of entirely different nature – an awakening, utterly clarifying in its simple form. Swept with augmenting realizations, as sensible as any other person would be in a middle of a mental turmoil, he felt obligated to switch his lifestyle for obvious reasons.

Having someone else around is unerring to shift someone’s perspective, forcing him to adjust – a primeval tactic that comes with evolution, or natural selection, call it however you want. Nonetheless, in his case the whole process has formed some bizarre juxtaposition of two almost opposite factors – company and serenity, depraving each from the other, clawing until the bone peaks through the paper-thin epithelium. In one hand he can barely stand her presence, the fact that she is lurking behind him like a shadow, capable of remaining dead silent throughout the day, while in other hand she keeps asking questions, sometimes completely out of context, but he suspects each of them might lead to a greater goal.

Tonight has also been chosen for the former purpose, and while they are hidden safely

(more or less)

under the roof, the storm is raging around the motel, heavy droplets beating out a rhythm on the tiles – a melody of primordiality. It brings him certain solitude, a pensive longing for what he left behind – demons of the past that hunt him no matter where he is harboring, no matter where he is hiking, no matter where he is heading; always beset, caught in a trap. There are times when he craves for nothing else than hush their excruciating wails, strangle and watch them suffer for a change, switch the strict roles – a prelude for another thought to occur – if so, it would all be for nothing, all he has gone through, all he has done just to stand here today, bathed in the metaphorical sun.

All as simple as that.

“You’re quiet today,” he notes out of thin air, nevertheless drawing her attention, eyes flicking up to glance at him. She does not bother to answer, instead her gaze adverts to the side, focusing on the peeling wallpaper that for some reasons seems more bearable than the sight of him. “Are you even listening?” He repeats, a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, shaped by the blatant lack of reaction. “Fabienne!”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, eyes meeting his for a brief moment, “I was just… you know, thinking.”

“About anything particular?” He asks as if only to carry on with the conversation – a meaningless pursuit, a silly trace picked up from society. For a brief moment, she dares to consider that he might, indeed, be interested in her pointless babbling, pursuit to reveal the answers, reasons why she is still here.

“Am I supposed to think about anything particular?” She retorts, voice distant and dreamy, detached from reality – a trait that is certain to get her killed one day. “I found some notes here while you were out, scavenging the store, and I… I can’t believe it. It all seems so absurd, like some tale that parents would tell their children, naïve and artless, unable to find a different meaning.”

“You can always just tell me what was in the notes,” he sighs, somehow fed up with her far-fetched responses as the one who rather stands for retrieving less complicated solutions, or simply forming an essential statement.

“Just a poem, but it’s so beautifully expressive,” she sighs, smiling to herself – probably without realizing it – an otherworldly, evanescent visage, “and some diary writing. Maybe it’s silly, but browsing through the Old World stuff always makes me better, like I’m capable of somehow sharing my life with them, transferring to their reality, and so become the person that I’ve always wanted to.”

“And why is that? Why become another person?” He queries bluntly, and even though she had a decent amount of time to get used to his mannerisms, he is still capable of throwing her off guard in certain moments.

“I don’t really know how to talk about it,” she admits, accompanied by a nervous chuckle. “To be honest, each time it makes me feel so empty, as if my whole life was lacking in something essential.”

Without a clue what to say, he only hums in response, a notion that he is all too familiar with, unable to depart, leave it somewhere behind, and gain that fluent speech manners that prompt suitable words when needed. He is partly aware that it is, indeed, the cause why she perceives him as a rude person, the one who does not give a fig about what she is willing to communicate, which might as well mean that her judgment is not as flawless as it appears to be in her eyes.

Why does it have to amuse him so much?

While they were talking, the heavy drumming of rain – a signature of the fall season – seemed to subside a bit, and now he can only imagine the fresh scent of concrete – one of few life’s aspects that he has always found quite pleasing. However, his attention is quick to switch back to her, now facing the opposite wall, back turned to him, curled into a ball, as it helps her to fall asleep – probably some sort of innate wont, or maybe trust issues that deter her from taking more comfortable position.

(You would want that, wouldn’t you?)

Maybe laying down next to her will be inappropriate, but in all honesty he has grown fed up with sleeping on the floor or armchairs anytime they doss in a place with only one bed, and since his doubts considering whether she will oppose are rather strong, he settles next to her, mattress dipping due to extra weight. She flinches as soon as she senses the shift, subconsciously dragging her body away from his arm range, but does not bother to object, right according to his suspicions. While his head is resting on the pillow, eyes close on their own, enjoying the serenity of late evening, along with the subtle moonlight peeking through the thin gap between the heavy curtains, oddly unprepared for what is about to come.

“How did you get these scars?” She asks out of nowhere, a question that hangs in the air for a longer while, as if waiting to be consumed, thick akin to a morning mist.

“Fell down the stairs once,” he evades, flashing her a brief glance, attracted by the sideways movement, which allows her to face him.

“You didn’t,” she chuckles, cocking an eyebrow at him.

“I did,” he counters somehow impishly, such an unusual occurrence when it comes to him, considering he has never struck her as a particularly easygoing man.

“I’m sorry if that was too interfering,” she elucidates, apologetic smile lacing her lips. “I didn’t mean to sound rude or anything. I was just curious, that’s it, and I perfectly understand if you don’t want to tell me the whole story, it’s just-”

“I think I was around sixteen when I got it,” he interrupts, rectifying her rushed explanation that, for some reasons, was considered as adequate in such case. “The thing is, at that time I used to ride a bike quite a lot, and by saying ‘a lot’ I mean every day on the route to high school and back. It was all peachy keen, until I got drunk one day.”

“Sorry to interrupt, but I’ve always wondered what it means to get drunk in the first place,” she admits, a shy smile, finely subtle, blossoming upon her face. “Actually I think it’s a perfect example of one of those things that you hear someone mentioning from time to time, but at the same time have no idea how it’s supposed to feel like.”

“Dizzy but in a fine way, and as you might know, people’s responses tend to differ,” he explains, a clarification that she surely does not find neither detailed nor specific enough. “I don’t think I have the capacity to expound it well, since-”

“Yeah, I know,” she shrugs it off, seemingly tired with his habit of developing quite a decent amount of exaggerated explications, “it’s one of those things you have to experience to know for sure.”

“Something like that,” he agrees, nevertheless immediate to get back on the formerly abandoned track. “Anyway, while I was trying to somehow make it back home, I… let’s say… crashed into a bus stop, the glass part to be specific, and as you might already surmise, some of the fragments cut my face, while others pricked other parts of my skin, forearms for instance.”

“What happened with you afterwards?” She asks, voice laced with some odd kind of compassion, the one that she is not supposed to feel towards him, as her gaze remains glued to his profile, while he, in turn, opts for the celling.

“Well, they patched me up, that’s all,” he shrugs, casting Fabienne a brief glance that has her own elude to the side, cheeks flushed with embarrassment each time he catches her stare by accident. He would be lying if he said it never amused him to see her in such a state – caught hand in a cookie jar – while the real question is how deep she has managed to dive, whether it is still enough to retreat or not really.

He will never truly know.

“I’m sorry,” she indicates, a worried frown making an appearance upon her face.

“For what? That I was a stupid kid who did nothing else than bring it down on himself?” He huffs, sometimes caught in doubt whether it is only a matter of compassion, or whether she seeks some gain within it. “I don’t think there is anything to feel sorry for.”

“Why do you always have to such a jerk?” She accuses, a little too blatant for his own taste, nevertheless immediate to catch his attention, especially when she shoots up straight, maybe in order to get the height predominance.

“Calling me names won’t be beneficial,” he states, so matter-of-factly and much to her upset, “considering I could walk away any time.”

“You’re-”

“Yeah, do go on,” he encourages, voice completely flat, deprived of anything that might be labelled as an emotional layer, something that never failed to amaze, or rather unsettle her. She sometimes doubts he is a human after all. “I ain’t stopping you.”

“What are you so afraid of?” She practically cries out, a turmoil of contradict emotions raging inside her, only to be fueled by his lack of answer – nothing more than a constraint to make her blunder more, dig up her own grave. “That you’d let someone too close and lose him afterwards? So it all would be for nothing?” Not a word. “Everything happens for a reason, why can’t you see it? Why do you have to be so blind?”

“Less effort means more effort,” he adds, a sentence that she has heard him utter on multiple occasions in the past, something that never fails to agitate her, and so desert of the possibility to comprehend its virtual meaning.

“So that’s all you have to say?” She spats, bitter venom lingering on the tip of her tongue, nevertheless not meant to surpass his.

Silence speaks a thousand words.

She feels like it might as well be his motto, words of wisdom that he keeps telling himself instead of forming a decent, verbal reply that would please the interlocutor – yet another futile pursuit in the eyes of this odd man lying next to her. She often dwells upon what life factors he actually perceives as important, meaningful, more or less significant, the ones that are probable to make a real difference, not a mere shift like removing a stain from a fabric. Therefore, at some point of their relationship she has managed to realize that the odd savior complex, combined with his reconditeness entices her more than she cares to admit.

Shame.

Since his eyelids remain shut, she gains a chance to watch him, at least briefly, caught in such a vulnerable state – not a day-to-day occurrence by any means – a single forearm draped over his face, blocking every mere gleam of moonlight – the guide of those who got lost within the dusky depths of night. His chest is raising and falling in time with each steady inhale, making her wonder whether it is nothing more than a false façade, a serenity that is meant to hide the turmoil inside, raging storm just below the surface.

Probably not.

She sighs heavily, a sound that is loud enough to draw his attention, one hazel eye falling open to meet her gaze once more that night. He keeps them locked for a brief moment, until she involuntarily adverts, escaping the privilege to maintain the contact for a little longer, and he only snorts in response – nasal substitute for a proper laugh. He is partly aware of the thoughts hidden underneath, but has never taken a chance to absorb them in any way, rather than pretend that they are non-existent, whereas this time seems different.

This time he decides to acknowledge that the girl is, indeed, ‘in love’ with him.

(Well, that’s too bad.)

Ironically, even a person like him – unable to comprehend the diversity of emotions, considering they do not classify as anything interesting

(we see what we wat to see) –

has managed to notice the variety of her acts, including the subtle ones, from the occasional, bashful glances to the unusual concoctions of words that carry one and one association only. Somehow, he pities her, although there is nothing to be done here, despite so many aspects that are scattered around until fixed, rather than wait for it to subside, or leave her hanging one day – an action that would lead to bilateral loneliness, something that he is not quite certain he is willing to restore. Maybe traveling with someone else is nothing more than yet another developing habit, paired with an urge to spend time with certain person, seemingly unable to switch back to the Life Before.

(People get used to everything.)

“I’m going to sleep,” the exclamation that slices through the mist of silence, thick, and laced with something that he cannot quite place, a hint of expectance maybe, so he remains speechless, allowing her to continue.

But it never comes, so instead he opts for the simplest, old-fashioned, “sleep tight,” immediate to turn around on the side, curling into a ball, more or less, since it helps to maintain body heat – something that he had a questionable pleasure of testing on the course of multiple freezing nights – eyes closing on their own.

(You know what they say, Craig...)

Silence speaks a thousand words.

* * *

A mere brush upon his shoulder, a faint shuffling sound, dim moonlight shining through the thin gap, or rather the concoction of three factors is what appears to be the cause of his abrupt awakening. He springs up in alarm – another habit developed throughout all these years – eyes scanning the room with meticulous precision, at least as much as the circumstances allow him to, in search for a factor that appears to exist apart of usual room components.

Unable to perceive anything significant, his gaze eventually lands on a silhouette beside him - a girl lying on her side, hand tossed carelessly on the spot previously occupied by him. He sighs in relief as soon as the newfound realization sweeps upon him, the one that brings final denouement – her accidental slap had to be the cause of said awakening.

With cleared out mind, he focuses more distinctly on Fabienne, lying on the side, face turned towards him - an unmissable opportunity to study her visage, since such behavior would not be tolerated on daily bases. At the current blink, she appears as otherworldly, lost within the depths of her own mind, somewhere far, far away, not that he finds it hard to believe, since it forms quite a common association – dreaming equals traveling.

Ironic.

At first, he considers, quite strongly, waking her up, but then another thought occurs, an inkling, driven by intuition, or rather opportunistic nature, that he might, in fact, abandon her now if he really wanted. She will not even notice his departure, remaining asleep, safe in her on dreamscape, left to uncover the truth in the morning as light paints her face, taking away all false beliefs.

Why does it have to be so tough then?

Stepping out if the door is almost effortless in physical matter, walking down the stairs also, heading down the streets joins the gathering, now of three. It is almost absurd, how incapable of admitting certain actualities he is, a grown-up man and still afraid of words – lines of letters on the newsprint. He is a blind man, a liar, lost within his own illusion, simplifications, an expert in covering up the verity, but what for?

Suffering?

No.

A feeling that is foreign, without a proper word to address it, impossible to be described, but ever present in his life, marking him like the glass once did.

(I don't want to die without any scars.)

(Sardonic, cynical, caustic…)

Ironic.

As if with a mind of its own, his hand hovers over her body, muscles twitching with anticipative tension, clueless about what he is willing to do, without a plan for a change. After a few haywire moments, filled with offbeat anticipation, his fingers twirl through her hair, carefully brushing out a few stray tangles. She flinches in response to the touch, and for one fatal moment he is certain she is just about to wake up, frozen on the spot, hand still in between her strands, nevertheless she is quick to relax, which prompts him to resume.

Truth to be told, he has always found her enticing – petite girl with delicate nose and nimble fingers – so innocent and even prettier, oddly fitting in his tastes. Over the course of time, he has learned to admire her as a woman, or rather not silence the encouraging whispers, whereas the desire to perceive himself in terms of a decent man, full of unspoken virtues, righteous and worthy, never made it less challenging. ‘Twisted morality’ is what some people like to call it – remaining pure yet flawed, endless attempts, frustrating pursuits, sleepless nights – and while it might be considered interesting, he has never been able to comprehend why. It carries the truth about him – he has failed and he has failed spectacularly, squandering many years of self-improvement and abnegations just to look twice at the wrong person that has never supposed to attract his attention in the first place.

Who would have told she would be the one to drag him down?

“First time?” A voice that slices through silence, exclamation in a quiet room, in the gloomy night, uttered for him and him only, and as any sane man in his place would, he almost jumps out of his skin, caught hand in a cookie jar. Without a clue about what he is supposed to say, he only stares at her as if he could not believe she was real, awake, and speaking – a passerby from a parallel reality.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” ah yes, back on track and as believable as always.

“Whatever, Craig,” she tosses him a careless glance, “you might as well keep lying to yourself, as you presumably have done your whole life, or admit what’s been on your mind all this time so we could have the ‘adult’s talk’.”

“Is that what you want?” He huffs, voice laced with a blossoming hint of impatience. “Are you even aware of what does it mean?”

“What means what?” She raises to his level, eyes locked, not the one to look away for a change.

“Doesn’t matter,” he sighs heavily, all of sudden reminding her of an old man, tired with temporal life, too yellow to end it albeit too exhausted to keep it up.

“No,” she shakes her head in disbelief, an ugly furrow marking her forehead; for some reasons he has never liked when girls frown, “it does, believe me.”

“That’s not a determinant,” he retorts drily, voice flat akin to his judgments, “since apparently everything matters to you. But if you-”

Before he gets a chance to finish his sentence, her lips are on his, kissing him with some unplaceable, fierce passion, all while he is too stunned to react, caught in delirious unawareness. Time seems to halt for a moment – parallel lines that collide – where impossible becomes possible, where everything melts together just to come into being as a formless… pulp.

Sounds lovely.

However, in reality it takes nothing more than a few brief seconds for her to pull away, leaving him in bewilderment , mouth agape as if he forgot shutting it lies within his abilities. He stares at her in disbelief, and she cannot help but look away, flushed in embarrassment

(what have I done?)

hands folded on her lap, akin to a child waiting for a reprimand. Whatever that display was, it is already gone, the confidence, the exasperation, the vehemence, and she is back to her old self – the rapid downfall following every climax.

“Why did you kiss me?” He manages to utter after a few longer moments of silence, no accusation, no vexation, just plain, old formlessness.

She gulps.

“No reason?” He reiterates, this time with a hint of annoyance lacing his voice, unusually expecting more than yet another evasive answer.

(We desire what we cannot provide.)

“What is it?” He repeats, bitter, impatient, awaiting. “Cat’s got your tongue?”

“I’m sorry,” she mutters under her breath, glancing at him as if to ascertain that he is still eyeing her with the same displeased expression, “I shouldn’t have. It was kinda inappropriate to say the least, and I’m just… sorry.”

“It’s fine,” he holds her gaze for a brief moment, a hint of what might as well be a smile lacing his lips, “you probably won’t like it, but we can always pretend like it never happened.”

“You’re right,” she agrees, “I won’t like it.”

“So what do you expect me to do about it instead?” He inquires – a question with determined answer – locking eyes with her, and this time she does not attempt an escape. There is something offbeat hidden within her gaze, something that he has never seen on her, feminine but fatale in consequences, and part of him lives for it, soaks it up like a sponge. Thirst and longing is what speaks through him, takes control over his mind – the steering wheel – in order to crash the car if given half a chance – regret-bringing attempts, vain abnegations.

“I want you to…” she halts, as if pondering her next words, picky and never meant to be satisfied, “to, um… consummate our relationship.”

Euphemisms are useless.

“Foolish girl,” he jeers, but she opts for ignoring it, aiming for the long-awaited denouement rather than yet another argument, “you have no idea what you’re asking for, do you.”

Not a question by any means.

“Let’s just give it a try and see where it’ll take us, ‘kay?” She proposes, scooting a little closer to him, knees touching – the simplest of contacts that sends a subtle shiver down his spine. “Say something, please.”

“Okay,” he agrees carefully, slowly uttering the given word, “but I ain’t gonna fuck you, and you won’t ask for that.” Being honest here, she is not sure whether she likes the authoritarian order. “Am I making myself clear?”

“Crystal,” she nods, throat parched and mind foggy all of sudden – unable to come up with a more descriptive answer.

“Come here then,” he bids, patting his thigh – a non-verbal encouragement that might be required sooner than later – as he leans back to rest comfortably against the wall. She follows his command, inching closer and closer towards him until he is able to direct her the rest of the way, settling her on his lap with a bit of help from the girl.

He troubles with recalling the last time he had someone in such position, months maybe, her body heat prominent despite two layers of clothing, fueling him up more than he cares to admit. He should not have even considered it in the first place, agreeing to her proposition, laying down on the bed, letting her join his voyage – mistakes and misjudgments, piling up until he is incapable of seeing the very top one.

(You won’t see anything afterwards, we’ll take care of it.)

“How far are you willing to go?”

(Ha! How diplomatic.)

“I don’t know, really,” she chuckles quietly, or rather nervously, her gaze adverting to the side, “and honestly, I have no idea what ‘far’ means.”

“Fine then,” he brushes off, voice distant, as if the information was yet to reach his comprehension, while his fingers seem preoccupied with her hair again, combing it gently to the side. “Let’s try it differently. Will taking off your clothes be an issue for you?”

“Partly yes,” she admits, nevertheless immediate to rectify her words, just as he suspected, “but not entirely. You know what I mean, right?”

“Perfectly,” he ascertains, with a barely noticeable smirk playing upon his lips – a factor that changes everything about his visage, almost everything to be exact, the glint in his eye that she is unable to place, seemingly mere nuance, yet perspective-shifting. At this point Fabienne is positive she will never forget said countenance – a hunter within a dream, prayer of the night, craver of oblivion, wayfarer without a guide, guide of a wayfarer – one and one man only.

Craig.

The man that currently takes away her privilege to respond, kissing her once again, tasting her lips with cautious precision, as if he had every intention to memorize all those unfamiliar

(not for long)

parts of her, yet to be discovered. As the caress is deepening, his hands slide lower until they settle on her waist, squeezing the soft flesh with enough pressure to receive a breathless, feminine gasp that awakes something within him, a part that has been meticulously buried down, not meant to be dug out, at least not by her.

Despite being barely able to perceive what is happening around him, he still manages to sense how her hands glide smoothly through his longish hair, tugging at the strands for the slightest bit, most likely fueled by carnal frustrations, eliciting a muffled groan from him. The gesture, even if innate and quite hackneyed, is the cause of his abrupt lounge backwards, leaving her in bewilderment, caught off guard, as she keeps their gazes locked, ignoring the fiery blush marking her cheeks.

“Can I touch you?” he rasps, voice huskier than usual, a mundane change that appears to be enough for an almost foreign sensation to blossom in the pit of her stomach, something that rarely invades her body. At this peculiar moment he looks akin to a lunatic – delirious and mind-swept – with restless eyes, heavy breaths, mussed hair – a personification of lust-ridden instabilities that billow in the confinement of his soul, retreating his ability to think straight, to perceive the reality in the way he once used to.

He is a broken man.

(Was, is, and will be.)

She only nods her head, considering the ability of forming words to have abandoned her lately, to which he responds, or rather his body does, as if having a mind on its own, with one of his hands slipping underneath the beige sweater, eliciting a wave of goosebumps, as the pads of his fingers tease the bare flesh. He traces the protruding lines of her ribs, entranced with how they expand in time with each shallow pant, following the path up until he meets with one if her breasts, dragging the very pad of his fingers over the pert nub. She flinches at the contact, attempting to scoot away from him in the first reflex, but he holds her steady with a firm grip of her hip, drawing a breathy gasp from the lass that is immediate to transmute into a quiet, feminine moan.

“Do that again,” she begs softly, her voice small in the empty room, echoing through the long-lived walls akin to a promise of something fresh to perceive, something from the Old Days. ”Please.”

Mere word, breathless promise, bashful request – minuscule nuances that transfigure the whole concept, a potency of mysterious and misunderstood, never meant to be explained – something that remarks certain aspects of his life. She seems to agree with him on this one, idealism be damned, and in face of his lacking responses, she opts for taking the matter in her own hands, covering his own and squeezing afterwards, her eyes falling shut for a moment. Much to her relief, he decides to go along with her, showering her with variety of contradictory sensations, from gentle brushes to harsh tugs that have her squirming in his lap, as her hands ball into fists, clutching on his t-shirt.

She appears as desperate, beyond such to be exact, doe eyes staring at him, now filled with carnal admixtures, foreign in its salacious nature, irking him to pursuit, to break the promise, to take her as soon as possible, before she turns to dust; to relish the moment, and so finally be able to achieve the long-craved gratification. It takes a shorter amount of time than ever implied or expected for all inhibitions to leave his mind, to slip away through the thin gap that separates the door from dusty floor, float into the night.

(She is the devil.)

Gradually, he lifts up her sweater, exposing the sliver of flat stomach, pale skin contrasting with dim moonlight, while the other hands still teases the plush flesh of her breasts. She arches towards his touch, as if in an attempt to minimalize the distance, insatiable and aching for more – mercy that he is willing to deliver.

In accordance with the prior assumptions, he tugs the garment up, coaxing her to remove it the rest of the way, to which she complies, unusually so, tossing it aside on the mattress briefly afterwards. In a reflex that outruns anything else within the dazed man’s mind, his had traces the creamy skin, painting it with invisible strokes that only increase the burning in her core. Truth to be told, she is still a bit too skinny, nevertheless appearing healthier than at the very beginning of their

(damnation)

journey, with more flesh than bones to hold onto. She remains silent throughout the process, with mouth slightly agape and eyes half-closed, until his lips attach to the tender skin below her ear and suck, not enough to leave marks

(yet)

but to redirect her attention, to the point where she utters a soft gasp, tangling her fingers within his hair as if urging him to do pursue.

“I’ve always dreamed of something like this,” she admits, her voice distant, lost between the traces of past, somewhere far away yet ever present. Maybe she is expecting an actual answer this time, however he feels like it would be crude to break the silence, to wash away the calmness, to disrupt the night’s creatures, so he only hums in response, acknowledging that he is, indeed, paying attention. “Craig?”

(He’s not much attentive, isn’t he?)

“Any particular requests you have in mind?” He purrs against her skin, gruff, sending a shiver down her spine.

“Yes,” she nods, retreating a dash from him to meet his eyes, foreheads bumping as she leans into him, free and unrestrained, nipples brushing against his t-shirt distinctly enough to fuel the restless throbbing between his legs.

“Such as…?” He almost groans, all of sudden finding it harder to focus, caught off guard by a mere scrape – details that shift the whole perception.

“Fuck me,” she purrs against his lips, tongue darting out to taste the plush flesh – an act that he would consider ostentatiously vulgar under any other circumstances, however this time he catches himself wishing to experience it once again.

“No,” he counters despite the aforementioned impulse, left to watch how the alluring expression drain from her face, making a place for newfound frustrations and disappointments to blossom.

“Why?” She snorts, not bothering to hide the blunt disappointment as she departs from him, albeit remains settled on his lap for obvious reasons. “Because all of sudden you have some moral values?” No answer. “You think I’m some tart without a taste and self-respect that would jump into any opportunity to fuck someone?”

“That’s not the case and I think we both know that,” he evades, as smoothly as always, his hand brushing her hip in a manner that might be almost considered as gentle, or even sweet, distracting her for a brief moment.

“Then what’s the case?” She inquires, a hint of desperation lacing her voice, carrying all of her inhibitions, all resentments – the evidence of her frailness.

“I think it’s too soon for you,” he explains, all while his thumb is rubbing tiny circles on her skin, leaving a tingling trait behind that somehow manages to break the train of thoughts once more. “I’m not trying to say we can’t fool around from time to time, only that you should wait for someone else, someone more… meaningful to you.”

“You’re such a hypocrite,” she huffs in annoyance, swatting his hands away as she speaks. “Do you even believe in any of it? Honestly.”

“My beliefs aren’t important,” he sighs, suddenly giving her the same impression as before – tired and old, rugged and seasoned, already on his way to reach the inevitable.

“Then why you-”

Depraving her of any chances to finish the sentence, he joins their lips for what was supposed to be nothing more than a chaste kiss, but she manages to break his resolve once again that night, tongue darting out to get a proper taste. It is electrifying, rich, dazing, combined with the manner that she flicks her tongue over his, branding his mind more efficiently than any incandescent rod, a memory never to be wiped. He almost groans in relief when she throws herself into his arms once more, molding her body into his, breasts pressed against his chest in a way that must be painful for such a petite, tender girl, with only the thin cotton of his tee separating their heated skins.

Neither of them exchange a word

(they can only do harm)

after they break apart, and instead, his arms fly up to remove the troublesome barrier that is his t-shirt, exposing his flesh to the judgmental moonlight that only emphasizes the firm physique. Surely not the sublime built man, albeit slim, with nicely shaped muscles, enough to appear as fit and masculine in her eyes, creating an image of something that is certain to hunt her in the few following nights.

She wants to lick him all over.

But yet, she opts for running her hand down the freshly exposed flesh, enjoying the simplicity of said gesture, the smoothness of his skin, sparse hair slipping through her fingers as she rakes them down, scratching his skin as she goes. What bothers her more is the linear pattern of various scars, paining him like an inferior artist would, their texture coarse beneath her fingertips. She cannot help but wonder what kind of story they hold, laced with obnoxious dramatism, or maybe unobtrusive suffering – an answer that he is unable to provide.

(“Better keep our histories to ourselves.”)

Preoccupied with exploring what he has to offer, she fails to notice how his hands shift from the innocent place around her waist to the crease between her thighs, undoing the zipper of her trousers with a graceful flick of his wrist. Without giving her a chance to realize what is happening, as if caught in some lustful trance, he pushes past the fabric barrier, and she jerks at the contact, even if not direct, nevertheless not protesting.

Instead her arms fly up to grip his shoulders for more stable position, her hips raising up – a wordless command for him to push her jeans down the rest of the way. He complies without a word of protest, quick to toss the garment on the mattress, eyes glued to the smooth skin, the contrast it creates in comparison with the dark material of his pants.

“I know it’s ridiculous,” she interrupts herself with a flurried chuckle, “but I’ve never been this nervous.”

“Not much surprising, isn’t it?” He mutters into her hair, holding the trembling body in his arms, fingers grazing her sides in a leisure manner, until she departs from him on her own, doe eyes staring right into his own as if in an attempt to gaze into his soul, to uncover all the impure thoughts he had about her. “But we don’t have to do it if you’re not ready.”

“That doesn’t sound convincing,” she giggles – a reminiscence of all those silly, unstable girls he had a dubious pleasure to interact with multiple times in the past, “and I also think you know what my answer will be.”

“Should I take it as ‘yes’ then?” Nod. “Say it.”

“Yes,” she gulps, invaded with a notion that her declarations appears overly terminal for her own tastes, arising a wave of sudden uneasiness that never fails to sweep Fabienne of her feet.

“Then roll over,” he prompts with a subtle bow – an implication for her to move in a right direction, an inkling that she will feel more comfortable without looking directly into his eyes.

“What?” She shakes her head for the slightest, probably to meet with reality once again, to wipe out the hazy smile currently lacing her lips, unusually confused.

“Just face the wall,” he reiterates, to which she complies, following the path he has set from her, finally laying back to rest against his chest. His arms raise to encircle her waist, one hand settling on her hip, tips of his fingers dipping just below the waistband to tease the sensitive skin there, while she ignores the urge to jerk away from his grip.

She has never been this aware of her body, in a fragmental sense of course, perceiving each part individually, as if her skeleton was not a construction of two hundred and six bones, but instead each one of them was a separate organism. Probably the last aspect that sex is referred to on daily basis, but she has grown to embrace the occasional weirdness that is carried within her thoughts, pushing the unpleasantness in the back of her mind, burring it among other displeasures.

(Reality is a prison.)

While she is maneuvering between the cogitations, his fingers skim past the fabric until they reach the soft crease between her thighs, warm wetness that covers the very tips. She gasps at the alien sensation, fighting the foreign urge to jerk her hips, and instead opts for gripping his forearm, unnecessary tight, but the notion is yet to reach any of their minds, occupied with the Things of Greater Matter.

He is the one to come to senses first, woken up by an irritant stab of pain, caused by her nails, beginning with the simplest of touches, a mere brush over her clit that sends a jolt of electricity up her spine, a tingling sensation that spreads all the way to her toes. A quiet moan slips past her lips in addition, hips raising on their own, already asking for more, more that he is willing to deliver, evident in a way his strokes become firmer, albeit not much yet, since overwhelming her from the very first shot is not his intension by any means.

It feels odd to say the least, considering her lack of experience in said department, excluding those few incidents when she was lying late at night, devoting into aspects she barely had an insight into, out of plain curiosity, not to mention that they were nothing more than a child’s play comparing to this in so, so many aspects.

Begging with the reference towards his fingertips, or rather how much rougher, much more calloused they are than hers, providing a pleasant friction that surprisingly manages to surpass the disturbing embarrassment that blossoms somewhere within her mind. Then her focus shifts to the leisure pace that he has chosen for some reasons, a factor that is rather quick to appear as frustrating, meant to be rewritten – an idea he seems opposed to as soon as her hips begin to grind experimentally against his hand, smearing the wetness over the palm, something that he is supposed to find disgusting, at least according to common decency.

But not this time.

She, in turn, finds herself in a desperate need to speak, to verbalize her cravings, and so speed up the process, yet for some reasons troubles with doing so, throat too tight to let out any words. While he can undoubtedly sense the need, he decides against giving her the relief that comes with acknowledging it, much to her despair, lust-filled frustrations that lace her being into some grotesque knot, impossible to unravel. Not even once before she has felt something in such an intense way, resonating all the way to her toes, abounded in carnalities – the incontestable cause of said concentration issues.

While neither of them is willing to exchange a word, he allows himself to focus more on the girl atop him: her breathy sighs, quiet mewls, and urgent moans – attention that she does not seem to mind at the moment – a factor not as surprising as it may seem. Over the course of various sexual encounters, he has come to one, rather distinctive, conclusion: every woman driven past the very specific point is meant to forget all those make-believe assumptions, along with all of the shame, all of the worry that is carried within.

All in due course, of course.

(Patience is a virtue.)

“Craig,” she gaps in such a wanton manner, his name rolling out of her tongue, as if she was barely capable of uttering a different word, with a tunnel vision that shifts her entire perspective, “I need more.”

“Addictive, isn’t it?” He rasps into her ear, warm breath tickling the tender skin, as his fingers simultaneously pick up the pace, along with the pressure, hips pushing up on their own to meet his movements. “Christ, you’re so wet.”

For what has to be nothing more than just a split second, his exclamation reverberates underneath her skull, resonating all the way to her soul,

(bold to assume you have one)

painting it with wicked, sinful things that block the way back, never again meant to remain unchanged, pure, without flaws – yet another part of the ever-decaying matter. It may sound depressing if put this way, and yet appears as such a perfect match for this world – empty, morose, and dusty.

What has she become?

Apart from the sidetrack of thoughts, she can tell something is just about to happen, teetering on the edge, while bracing for a jump that is yet to come, presumably sooner than expected, insides coiling in anticipation. Vaguely aware of what is awaiting for her at the end of the rainbow, she arches into his touch, willing to speed up the process – innate trait that is carried within every carnal creature, rooted deep within the simplest of structures.

And then it comes, rapid rainfall, tidal wave that hits the shore, arching her back to the point where it becomes truly painful, and yet she is unable to care at the moment, her attention shifted solely to the burning between her legs. Nevertheless, the foreign feeling, impressive in its intensity, is quick to subside, so quick that for a split second she is invaded by an inkling that it was not even real, another creation of a person’s questionable mind, whereas the leftover tingling proves it wrong.

Lost in the delirious aftermath, she shifts in his embrace, locking his hand between her legs, as if to keep him connected, reassuring that he will not be able to leave her hanging there, caught in one of the most vulnerable states possible. Her mouth falls agape a couple of times, before she actually manages to utter a word, still high in the clouds, while the downfall is rather gradual for a change.

“That was,” she murmurs under her breath, barely distinctly enough for him to catch, “quite something.”

(No, it wasn’t. You just fingered a seventeen year old girl until she came. There’s nothing impressive about it.)

(Such a pathetic excuse for a male pride.)

“Wanna do it again?” He purrs, the hoarseness of his voice sending a rapid shiver down her spine, depraving her of any leftover sagacity, but she seems too delirious to care, or even realize.

Either way, she nods her head, spreading her legs again to give him a decent motion range, and as if on a command, he picks up where he left, fingers back to gliding over the swollen folds. This time, however, he reaches past the familiar area, the very tips getting introduced with the clenched entrance. She spasms promptly with the teasing touch, legs shifting in evident impatience, eyes glued to the peeling wallpaper, as if she was afraid to look at what he seems so preoccupied with.

Men are so predictable.

Truth to be told, as her height is gradually subsiding, she experiences some odd composition of contradict emotions that cascades down her, parallel lines that break the law, life-defining paradox. Deprived of any sensible analysis, she faces yet another profound challenge that requires creating at least a reconnection, something that will decrease the sharp juxtaposition, that will smooth out the edges, knock down the wall that separates all disturbing shame from the carnal craving.

Impossible?

Well, maybe.

“Wait,” she interrupts, hand flying to grip his wrist as a simplest move prevention, a tingle of urgency lacing her voice.

“What is it?” He asks, fingers stroking her inner thigh in a tender manner that is so unlike him, as if in an attempt to soothe her ragging nerves.

“I don’t know. I just… I feel so dirty, but at the same want more,” she sighs, her gaze dropping to the hand on her leg, observing how it glides smoothly over her skin. “Honestly, I had no idea it’d be this complicated.”

“Told you so,” he signifies, a dash insensitively, but it would be a lie to deny that over the course of time she has managed to grow accustom with more-than-occasional harsh manners. “But more importantly, do you want me to stop?”

“That’s not the case,” she counters, quick to roll over – a movement that catches him off guard for a split second, jade green meeting hazel. In order to gain some necessary stability, her hands settle atop his shoulders once again, while his, in turn take a steady grasp on her hips. As their eyes remain locked, a realization sweeps upon her, blunt implication that she has been aware of seemingly since ever, hidden in the depths of her soul.

“I like when you touch me,” she admits, her gaze dropping to his chest for a mere second, preoccupied with its rhythmical raises and falls.

“Do you now,” he replies teasingly, a hint of a smirk playing upon his lips – such an unusual sight to behold. “And what are you willing to do with it?”

“Bold to assume I have the slightest idea,” she murmurs against his lips, foreheads bumping into one another as she leans in, brushing his chest almost unnoticeably, and yet the skin-to-skin contact sets his core on fire. Depraved of an ability to speak, as her nipples graze his flesh – dance of death, sinful, macabre image, branded within his mind – a promise of something yet to come – he is only left to watch as she departs from him, longing burning deep within his soul, unusually quick to shred the remaining layer of clothing, tossing it aside carelessly.

Thud.

Although the noise is relatively silent, it snaps something within him – a frail reed – something that forces him to rearrange the grip around her hips to a more convenient one, reversing their positions, her back now pressed to the mattress. She squeals in response to the unexpected shift, then giggles – a girlish sound that he hates so badly, but somehow manages to tolerate under these circumstances.

(You are such a pathetic liar.)

“What are you doing?” She asks, amusement dancing behind her gaze, as she presses a whisper of a kiss at the corner of his lips, knowing well enough what it does to him, and most likely enjoying seeing him in such a state – hair tousled, breathing heavy, so hard it physically hurts. “Thought you said that you ain’t gonna fuck me.”

“Mmm… fuck,” he groans, dropping his head to her shoulder in some display of teenage-related helplessness, a heavy sigh billowing upon her flushed skin.

“Please,” she whines, wriggling below him in an attempt to grind against him. A heavy sigh slips past her lips as her clit catches the rough denim of his jeans, uneven nails digging into his shoulder blades in response to the intense stimulation. “Don’t you feel how wet I am?”

(I do, perfectly.)

“I’m sorry, honey, but the answer is no,” he demurs, with intents to sound apologetic rather than hypocritical, nevertheless managing to fail on every front possible. In face of a clear ability to sense his inner turmoil, her hands slips into his hair, dragging him down until their lips collide, hips grinding in slow, sensual circles, moaning into his mouth, as he responds to the kiss, tongue flicking against hers. Blushing at the thought that concerns what she is about to do, her hand reaches between her legs, tapping his hip on a way to redirect his attention, until her fingers glide over the swollen folds, eliciting a breathless sigh as an innate response to the gentle stroke.

Distracted enough, he breaks away, gaze adverting down, only to be greeted by the sight of her subtle caresses, something that sends a violent shiver down his spine, nevertheless subsided as soon as another thought occurs.

Cheap eroticism is what she indicates.

And he loathes cheap eroticism.

(Such a pathetic liar…)

She whimpers softly as his eyes skim over her form in a scrutinizing manner that she finds oddly arousing, ticking her nerves akin to grass while strolling through a lush lea, evoking an ephemeral shiver – dubious in its existence. What eventually forms an unsolvable conundrum is the expression marking his face – a countenance of contradictories – whereas his eyes burn with something that is supposed to be called ‘lust’ – a word that lays quite far from how she perceives it, hopeless idealist within her decaying habitat.

“Fuck,” he groans, a disclamation of fatigue that is gradually untying the strings of his being, “stop it.”

“What if I don’t want to?” She teases, vibrating with unusual confidence, most likely fueled by youthful greed that has every fiber of her body screaming for completion – a crack within his resolve.

“Won’t drop it, will you?” he huffs, lacing it with a hint of exasperation – an obvious attempt to sound steady and terminal, nonetheless entirely futile, considering the betrayal of his own voice: rough like a sandpaper, breathy at the end. “Fine then. I’ll give you what you’ve been bargaining for oh so desperately, but under one condition,” no answer, “You won’t pull that shit on me ever again. I’m genuinely fed up with your manipulative tendencies.”

“Anything, Craig,”

(Who is lying now, huh?)

she sighs, hands dropping on her stomach akin to some limp ragdoll, eyes piercing through his in a manner that almost causes him to snap back, considering all the entertaining features of the wall above.

Not wasting any more time, his hands reach the belt, fumbling with the tricky buckle for a few longer moments, until it falls apart with a soft click, soon to be abandoned on the floor. He has always considered such an act in terms of something terminal , how the clothes fall on said surface with a dull thud – transition between two phases.

Then come the jeans, all while he is standing up, especially for aforementioned act, watching her like a predator would observe his prey, gaze dark and heavy, burning into her flesh. She squirms slightly, in need to release some of the tension that he has brought upon her, as her legs close on their own, all of sudden bashful in face of inevitable. Lured by the shift, he glances at her figure, now propped on the elbows, quick to remove the remaining barrier, baring his body for her eyes to peek.

In the past he would considered exposure as a line-up for vulnerability, two equal functions, overlapping on the coordinate system, joined for eternity. However, due to the un-going process of so called growing up, or aging as some people might call it, he discovered that as every truth, it holds a subliminal lie.

(Exception proves the rule.)

Undoubtedly, some situations require a different way of thinking, specific approach, at times working out for one and one instance only – a factor that becomes a flawless example, not leaving any space for hesitancies that blossom within the insecure minds, invading them akin to excess weed on the rye field.

Whereas he is too old to hesitate.

“Spread your legs, Fabienne,” he prompts, hands resting on bended knees, the trembling of her frame now palpable on his fingertips. He gives her flesh a brief squeeze – an attempt of reassurance to which she complies, limbs tilting to the sides, inviting him in – a proposition that he gladly accepts, settling between the outstretched limbs. Her calves wrap around his waist, since she feels like keeping herself spread in such way is both awkward and rather inconvenient, the subtle flex of his muscles palpable upon her skin from now on, as he leans in more, nudging her folds in process. She is oddly afraid to look down, considering it is safe to assume that the sight alone is more than probable to scare her away – an opponent for the need to change something in her life, something significant, special even

(every snowflake consists of its unique pattern),

which might as well be yet another example of what the word ‘exaggerate’ really means.

“Don’t look so scared,” he adds, a ghost of a soothing smile passing his countenance, or maybe the result of yet another make-believed creation of her mind. “I don’t intend to hurt you.”

“But it is going to hurt anyway, right?” She ascertains, her lips sewed in a thin line, cheeks flushed, nails digging into his sides in anticipation.

“It varies how much,” an explanation that clouds her brain with even more unsolved matters, rather than satisfy her, but she takes it anyway, deprived of a better alternative.

One last glance is thrown over her, one eyebrow perked up in query – all it takes for her to give a brief nod of reaffirmation, followed by an even softer “yes,” slipped past her trembling lips. To say she felt nervous would be a mere euphemism, her stomach doing somersaults, anticipating the inevitable – yet another paradox, to be afraid of what one wants.

Absurd.

Seemingly out of nowhere, his hips snap up, forcing a choked cry out of her throat, nails clutching at his sides, hips withdrawing from his in a reflexive reaction to the sudden intrusion, nevertheless the sting appears as not quite willing to subside, at least as willing as she would like it to be.

“’M sorry,” he groans, gravel and sandpaper, rough and guttural. “Too fast?”

“Yeah,” she agrees, troubling to catch her breath, lungs seemingly unable to fit all the required air inside, so she gladly accepts the merciful halt – an opportunity to enjoy the moment, or rather examine all the merest sensations that come along: a scrape over her inner walls, fluttering pain that follows, and the pulsing fulfillment, so foreign in its nature.

To say she wants more would be a mere euphemism.

“Craig,” she gasps, engraving his name in a manner that sends yet another electrifying shiver down his spine, caught in a breathless anticipation, “do something, please.”

And who is he to deny her anything?

His hips rock forward, experimentally still, intending to check her reaction, to ascertain she is, indeed, ready to pursuit, to which she responds with a movement so innate, flawless in its borne simplicity – a push towards his body. The whole act seems so surreal to him – a throwback to the teenage years – as if he could not believe it was real, as if it was yet another dream, supposed to end up in no time – sharp, blinding finale – while he is wishing for right the opposite. Nevertheless, the conclusion is evident, maybe off-top but still obvious: the damned lass has a vice tight grip, so unfitting to the fragile exterior – a threat to blow it all up embarrassingly quickly, something that he is determined not to let happen.

“You gotta relax, darling,” he hisses through the gritted teeth, failing to contain the trembling of his own muscles – an evidence of his efforts.

(Easier said than done.)

She only manages to utter a soft hum in response, eyes shutting tight, as if it was supposed to help her focus, ribcage rhythmically expanding with each cautious exhale. Briefly afterwards, she regains the partial control over her own body, dubious in its effectiveness, however lacking in a better alternative. Still and all, her muscles relax around him, as if coaxing him to move, and he complies without further objections, hips snapping forward with a relieved groan, forcing a feminine squeal from the woman below.

The sensation is odd to say the least, revoking contradict reactions; in one hand her body welcomes it, relieved and thankful for the long-craved stimulation, while in the other she cannot help but wonder how close is the correlation between this and being ripped in half – the neighboring house or just the room? In spite of that she somehow grows accustomed with the unusual stretch, still in genuine hope that what now is just a dubiously comfortable fullness will transform into the so-called pleasure sooner than later, or more straightforward – that her suppositions are meant to be confirmed.

One thing for certain – Craig seems to enjoy it more than she does, in fact his countenance speaks for itself: eyes half-closed, not quite meeting hers, mouth slightly agape, labored breaths audible in the empty room. Nevertheless, he utters almost no sound as he rocks into her, not that she finds his manner surprising, rather predictable, that he will not outstand the day-to-day lack of words, if not for the occasional grunts she would suspect the deafness. The previously so-called ‘soft baritone’ has managed to transform into something gravelly, guttural – a change that is gradual, yet evident with every following groan, scratching her ears in one of the most pleasant way.

However, as the time passes and her focus shift more towards the commencements of something that might as well be the pristine bliss, so fussed-about, her insides coiling in a telling way, relish flicking over her nerves. She arches toward him now, determined for an increase, whether in pace, or depth – a gesture that he takes for granted, relieved to hear her subconscious purr.

“Mmm… give me more, I want more, please,” she chants, voice betraying her akin to a pack of cigarettes hidden insides teenager’s wardrobe, tremulous and desperate. Urging him to react, her nails dig into his sides, drawing a pained hiss from the man above, who is quick to grasp her by the calf and drape one of her legs over his shoulder, forcing a surprised cry from the brunette below.

As if on some grotesque command, all of the purpose air leaves her lungs, refusing to get back inside, insides clenching around him uncontrollably, to the point where he suspects he might have overestimated her for quite a bit – a matter that she is quick to rectify with the simplest of acknowledgments – a kiss, a slow, sensual kiss. Another mellow, feminine mewl slips past her lips, as if meant for him to swallow, something that still lies beyond her self-control field, and being honest here, she has been wishing to make it happen for quite a while – allow herself to be vulnerable.

The last liberty that this world tolerates.

While with him it all seems possible, at hand, licit when accompanied by him – foolish, silly lies, a factor that remains unnoticed for her own good. By any means, it is not sub rosa that she often find herself stuck within a constant dream, dream that considers aspect beyond her reach, aspects that do not fit the New Order by any means, but lead an ever-present life rooted deep within her consciousness.

Someone to love.

(Long live the idealists!)

Back in the temporal world, his lips detach from hers softly, drawing her back from the alien reverie, as they linger for a bit longer, brushing the plush bottom lip with such tenderness that it catches her off-guard for a brief moment. However, he is immediate to strive for the contrast, picking up the pace seemingly out of nowhere, eliciting a reedy whine from her that, in turn, makes him twitch in anticipation for more – a craving not willing to subside just yet.

While she writhes below him, attempting to match his pace, he takes his time to eye her once more that night, gaze fixated on the subtle swings of her breasts, desire-awoken flush covering her neck, all the way up to the glassy eyes, staring right at him. He maintains the contact, tongue flicking out to moisten his lips – a gesture that she subliminally repeats – as his grip around her thigh perceptibly tightens, fingers digging into the flesh, muscles flexing with effort.

She is able to sense the change lingering in the air – a prove that something is lurking in the shadows, just around the corner, waiting to be discovered, prearranged for her and her only – a notion that has never supposed to be awoken in the first place. Another shiver runs down her spine, as his pupils dilate even further – two pools of pitch black, surrounded by the thin rim of hazel – mesmerizing, yet malevolent – crossed by the protruding scar that has never appeared as more ominous before.

His vicious tendencies has always been quite obvious to her – nothing more than survivor’s traits that are incrementally developing as they descend further into madness, or as some prefer to address it – pursue with life. Nevertheless, the raging ardor, shadowing his gaze, evokes a wave of goosebumps upon her skin, to the point when she barely manages to fight the urge to look away, and it creeps her more than she cares to admit. The thought itself sends an excessive shiver down her spine, and while she is expecting the shift sooner than later, she sincerely doubts he is meaning to hurt her in a severe way, although is well aware that whatever is slinking within the deeps his soul lies beyond her comprehension.

However, the aspect itself might as well be labeled as two-faced, consisting of twain seemingly contradict components: trepidation that has never supposed to be a turn-on. It is ironic, indeed, but at the same time factual, more than she cares to admit, partly wishing it have never occurred in the first place.

(Some things are better left unsaid.)

(Craig?)

She would have to be blind to miss it – the glimmer hidden behind his gaze, sinister, ominous, maybe also be the closest to his true form she will ever get, the intimidating, dark, and mysterious alter-ego that might be just another prove of her dramatic tendencies.

She almost screams when he pushes her leg away and his hands settle on the junction where her neck meets the shoulder, more than certain that he is just about to crash her windpipe, and yet nothing like this happens. Instead, his mouth falls open, incoherent words rolling down his tongue, some barely audible, outshadowed with delirious passion, one of a kind and only for her to catch, to irk her ears in the most sinful way – a promise of what is just about to come.

He wishes he would be able to determine for how long he has been wanting to make it happen – another immoral craving within this rotten world – and truth to be told, he is barely capable of containing his rapacity, not only in the physical sense but also spiritual, excitement evident within his movements. Aside from that, he can sense how close she is, clenching around him rhythmically, hips raising on their own to meet his thrusts, and when their mouths collide, she utters a relieved moan, her insides spasming for the second time that night, seemingly more violently than before, which might as well be yet another exaggeration. Sadly, this is not the right moment to get lost in the sensation, since impregnating

(such a loathsome word)

her is the last thing he aims for, and accordingly so, he pulls out, painting her chest with a splash of whitish liquid.

Still lost in the delirious, post-orgasmic bliss, she barely acknowledges the change, lying boneless and spent on the old mattress, mind numb for the first time in quite a while, which might be the real reason why people are so attracted to anything sex-related – a moment of obliviousness – willing to pay even the most ridiculous, sky-high price for the shortest of intervals.

“Pretty auspicious bargain, isn’t it honey?”

* * *

A letter is all she left, a promise of a better world, carried within a fragile sheet of paper, last promise she wanted to verbalize – harsh words for such a tender lass. Ironically, she seemed secure for the first time in her life, blunt edges of defined characters burning into his skull, whispers of life that she had left behind.

They held no pain.

No, they were soaked in it, ‘hold’ is a mere euphemism.

For years he thought he could felt nothing, not a mere scrape of sorrow, fear, desperation, but also some distant felicity, distant calmness – something that she has brought upon him, priceless gift for all their years together. Still in the Old World, she used to claim ice-cream truck music was her favorite sound, always the one to stand first in the queue, while he never had that particular fondness towards the cooling treat, nevertheless accompanied her every single time in case she would hurt herself.

She was always so clumsy.

Not a fit for this world.

So similar – an explanation point,

Reason why he is fond of Fabienne.

Melodic voice, jade green eyes.

“What are you thinking about, Craig?”

The Downfall of Humanity.

Created: 07/26/20

Completed: 11/01/20

Edited: 11/03/20

[mininky]

Love is for the birds baby!

Summary: You refuse to believe in love. It’s a concept created by big corporations like hallmark to get sad saps like you to buy their shit. But it’s all fake. You’re convinced of that at least until a series of events with a certain tattoo artist who you loved to hate makes you question everything you’ve ever known.

Pairing: Tattoo artist!Yoongi x (fem) reader

Genre/Warnings: Romance, slow burn, fluff, comedy, smut warnings include: unsafe sex (always wear a condom), oral sex (male & fem receiving), multiple orgasms, spanking, light breath play, mentions of squirting. Non smut warnings for lots of cussing. Lots.

Word Count: 13.3K

A/N: A special shout out to @mzpandylu for inspiring me with such odd dialogue. Also challenge accepted, a quivering starfish is mentioned.

   Love is a completely abstract and intangible concept to you, at least romantic love is. There are many forms of love. Familial love is a concept you sort of understand, let's just say that your home life wasn't the greatest but you do at least understand the concept. Platonic love you completely understand. But romantic love? You very secretly yearn to understand it, desperately trying to figure out how the fuck some people get so lucky that the spark happens. You've dated, sure. But try as you might none of them have ever made your head spin or your heart sing. Lust you get. You've had plenty of flings and even some longer relationships, but love? Love is for the birds baby.

   You refuse, absolutely refuse, to admit that you have in any way shape or form an interest in this bizarre concept that is the investment and endeavor of romantic love. You've carefully hidden away all of your fanfics and all of your shojo mangas and all of the things that others would say is honestly completely normal to keep questions at bay. You know that your friends are interested in love, and unlike you they have no shame in admitting it. They talk about it all the time. They fall in 'love' with each man they date. But you're convinced that's not love. It's something more than like, sure you'll give them that but you're sure that it'll all end eventually. Love isn't sustainable because it's all a lie. Maybe you're too romantic at being romantic, perhaps you've just been suckered into all these stories into believing that a whirlwind romance is possible until one day the crushing realization that it wasn't possible occurred. That the sparks of electricity and burning hot embers of passion aren't sustainable and aren't indicative of love.

   You were twenty, he was twenty-one. The two of you had been dating mutually for three years at that point, a lifetime in college years. Billy Johnson. Fucking Billy. He was smart and funny and he actually knew what a clit was, and he kissed you under the night stars and made you feel like you were in love. Maybe you were, but you like to think that the feelings you felt weren't actually that strong. It made the fallout easier. Which brings you to the fallout, that realization that romantic love is all a big corporate lie to sell shitty grocery store roses and cute snuggly teddy bears and dime back novels to sad sops like you. A marketing ploy. Not a reality. Fuck Plato for being the first to sell the idea of soulmates, and fuck Billy too. Billy Johnson was a cruel heartless asshole who fucked your best friend. And in one day you lost two loves, one romantic and one platonic. In turn, you gained a distinct hatred for romantic concepts and a world-weary view on relationships, waiting for the other shoe to drop every time you encountered someone new.

   You dated again after that, but now at the young age of twenty-six, you've decided that it's time to give up. Or maybe you gave up after Billy. You can't say you've ever actually given it a real try after that if you're being honest. You know when to call it quits. You refuse, absolutely refuse, to be a corporate sellout. And your feelings are in no way shape or form reflective of the animosity at being broken up with by Johny last week because you were too 'sarcastic' in the middle of your vacation to Busan. Too sarcastic your ass. You'll show that motherfucker sarcastic. God, sorry, you're getting off track here. Where were you again?

   Ah yes, love is for apparently everyone that isn't you. So you'll just be a cat lady. An affection earned entirely by ear scritches and feeding them. A reward system that makes sense. You take care of them and they tolerate you. Now that you understand. That makes sense. Why in the ever loving fuck would you try romance again when instead you can have a mutually beneficial understanding with something as cute as a cat that can't tell you 'I think you're a bitch' in a language you understand? Fuck Johnny, and Billy. And every other man for that matter.

   You're ruminating in anger as you order your coffee, eyes staring straight into the young and timid barista as you slap down the change. Poor kid, it's not his fault but today you just hate the world. You try to smile but you're pretty sure that just scares him more if the way his eyes go large and round in fear is anything to go by. Christ, you need to work on your people skills. And you're totally not thinking that because of that dick weasel who you've decided will no longer be named.

   Normally once you get your caffeine fix you're in a much better mood, but today the only thing you want to do is karate chop your own throat. Or maybe just play Red Dead Redemption 2 and kill a bunch of people in a completely legal way. Not online though, you really don't need another 13-year-old boy slurring about how much girls suck unless you want to unleash the crazy bitch inside of you to the point of no return. But unfortunately, you have bills to pay. Caffeine fixes to afford. Student loans to pretend you'll someday actually pay off except interest is a bitch. Which means going to work. Normally something you love, but today you're really not in the mood to edit another shitty sci-fi story where the physics of breasts go beyond the dudebro fedora lover that wrote the shitty thing.

   Be an editor they said. You love books they said. You'll be great they said. They hadn't warned you that being an editor at a major publishing house still meant reading through a painful amount of crap writing that you would, in turn, make all pretty and nice and somewhat more presentable garbage for public consumption with no acknowledgment or credit for all the hours you spent trying not to bash your screen in with your face. At least you were close enough to walk to work.

   You grab your piping hot venti quad shot vanilla latte (with soy) as you go back out into the frigid air. Your eyes are cast down on the pavement, trying not to bump into too many of the zombie state morning foot traffic as you make your way into the office. At least you have an office of your own, a salvation of peace and quiet away from prying eyes that allows you to wallow in self-pity safely. The rest of the day goes by in a blur, your normally somewhat antisocial personality becomes far more present as you hide away from even your beloved breakroom coffee pot to avoid too many interactions. You just knew that you would end up running into Susan. Nice gal, but she talks way too much and she set you up with Johnny no wait, the douche canoe. You forgot he must never be named again. The last thing you need is her bringing up how he dumped in you in the middle of your vacation.

   You're also the last one to leave tonight. For someone who didn't really want to step foot into the building, you sure do seem to be having a hard time getting out of here. But there are deadlines to meet and your vacation meant that there's a pileup of work that needs to be done. That and you really don't feel like going into your empty apartment to binge watch on Netflix while you host another internal pity party.

   By the time you're finally out the door and into the freezing winter night, you can feel exhaustion seeping deep into your bones. Or that might just be the joint pain that this super shitty winter is causing. That's another thing the world lied about, joint pain isn't just for old people. It's apparently also for future cat spinsters who hate everything no matter their current age. Your head is stuck on the last chapter you were editing, trying to make sense of how exactly you might be able to convince the author to scrap the whole damn thing politely as your nose picks up on the smell of a cigarette wafting over. Your stomach rumbles, brain shutting off as fingers twitch. God, it's been two years since you stopped smoking but it smells so painfully fucking good right now.

   Your face whips up as you see the small trail of smoke wafting over to you. It's the guy from the tattoo shop, Min fucking Yoongi. You should've known. The guy is hot you'll give him that. Eyes just sharp enough to give him that bad boy image when paired with his full sleeve tattoos and the crawling cherry blossoms on his neck. The chronic scowl that says 'try me' in a way that oddly makes him hotter. Hair that looks like he spends way too much time on usually. Today however he's decked out in a beanie and black leather jacket with pants just tight enough to make you wish he would turn around and walk away. But in the last year since you've unfortunately gotten to know him you know that he's every bit as snarky, bitchy, and firey as you. He's also as much bite as he is bark, although so far you've never been the one he's pointed his bite at.

   "(Y/N), I see you were working late again." He takes a lazy drag on his cigarette, eyes staring straight through you as his lips quirk up into a smirk.

   "Yoongi." Your eyes narrow in on his, fingers twitching at your side as you bite down the incessant desire to beg for a cigarette. You won’t break, especially not in front of him. Just because you’ve had a series of bad days doesn’t mean you actually need that cigarette.

   "Jesus, what's wrong with you? You seem even bitchier than normal. I guess this cold snap we're having is because the ice queen decided to control your body."

   "Har-har-har little man." He bristles at the jab and you can't help but cackle internally at your small victory (pun completely intended.) "No for your information the world is a cruel, evil bitch and yet again I fell for its corporate seductions and evil capitalist ploys."

   "Right, I'm going to nod my head and pretend I understood what that meant just so you don't kill me. Hey, so are you ever going to get that tattoo or not?"

   You reach into the trenches of your memory, recalling months ago on a particularly good day when you told this same tiny Satan that you wanted to get a tattoo. He had seemed oddly impressed that you wanted a snake on your upper thigh and all was well until he told you that he pictured you wanting some shitty positive statement, most likely placed on your collarbone or ribcage and adorned with little doves or a dreamcatcher or some other shit. Bleh. That's when he first learned that you are possibly insane and most certainly a bit of a bitch. It's all been downhill with him since, each run in turning into a battle of insults.

   He stubs out the little remaining part of his Marlboro before gesturing to the warm shop. "I've got an opening to do a consult if you wanna talk about it more."

   Perhaps this is it, maybe this is what you need to do. Something different. Something that doesn't include your usual routine of wake up, caffeinate, work, work, work, and Netflix binge all in between minor anxiety driven breakdowns. Besides, it's just a consult, not the actual tattoo. "How do I know this isn't an elaborate plan to eventually see me half naked?"

   Yoongi rolls his eyes as he opens the door to the shop, glaring at you as he speaks slowly. "You might be hot, but I have a feeling you'd be the type of girl to try to peg me with no lube. I prefer cuddling. Trust me, I'm not interested in getting you naked and seeing where it goes." You're thrown for a loop at that one, shuffling slowly behind him as your brain tries to make sense of it. You know you should be offended that he seriously thinks you wouldn't use lube, but Yoongi likes cuddling? The guy who scowls at life itself? The guy who you've watched physically throw out a neo-nazi who wanted a tattoo? The same guy who rides a motorcycle and refuses sugar in his coffee because he likes it as bitter as his very soul? Man, life is really fucking weird.

   You follow behind him tentatively, shocked to hear rather calm hip hop station on. Maybe you stereotype too much but you pegged him (pun not intended this time) as a Lamb of God kind of guy, definitely not a Dean and PH-1 fan. He takes you over to his office, gesturing at a free seat before he sits down at his desk. Every surface is covered with intricate artwork. From Japanese style tattoos to Sailor Jerry flash pieces to pops of dystopian Disney paintings. "So, you still thinking about doing the same thing?"

   "Yeah. Red Belly black snake. I'm thinking upper thigh/hip area." You stand up and move your coat to the side to point to the area.

   "That's a good sized piece. Have you thought about adding anything more to it? Maybe some hyacinths on the left and right of the snake, I'm thinking in maybe a pale pink so it doesn't offset the red in the snake too much."

   "You know what a hyacinth is?" You snort slightly, glaring back at him when he leans onto his elbows to shoot a look that he's probably hoping will kill you.

   "I'm a tattoo artist. Do you know how many fucking flowers I have to draw every day? Swear to god I should open up a flower shop next door and make a killing with my amazing arrangements." This time you give a full-blown laugh, shocked to hear him mirroring quietly. In all the time you've kinda sorta known him you've never heard him laugh. It's nice, deep, and the gummy smile he gives has your heart doing little flip flops that you absolutely refuse to analyze.

   You take just a beat too long to look at him, your head tilted slightly as you mentally murder the lone butterfly that has survived all of the anger you've culminated in the last few years. "How about a peony instead? I think it would look better."

   "We can do that. With the size you're looking for and all the color work I'd guess that we're looking at at least 6 hours if we want to make sure it's done right. We can split it into two three hours sessions. I charge $200 an hour so you're looking at at least $1200, but you might want to be thinking to around the $1600 range just to be safe. I also require a $300 deposit usually just for a consult and another $300 later but I figure I can always hound you if you don't come in." He opens up his computer, clicking away for a moment before adding, "I have enough time to get started this Friday night if you want? At 8:00."

   "Gee thanks for the trust. Yeah that all sounds good, I'm down."

   He nods quickly, hands grabbing at some paper as he starts making drafting up some rough sketches. You try not to invade his space as you look over the paper, brain desperately searching for a small talk topic. God, you've always been bad at this. "So...how long have you been a tattoo artist?"

   "Well I started my apprenticeship right out of high school at 18 so 10 years total, but as an actual artist only about 8 years." Interesting, so that would make him two years older than you. For some reason, you feel a need to put that in one of your mental files. "What exactly do you do at that giant office building down the street?"

   "I work for a publishing house in there as one of their many editors."

   Yoongi snorts, nodding his head as he keeps sketching away. "Yeah, I can see you working with books. Your creative insults suddenly make so much more sense."

   "I'll take that as a compliment." You lean back into your chair, taking in your surroundings a little more closely before focusing unabashedly at the man before you. His tattoos are on full display now that he's taken off his jacket. Almost all are black and white with small splashes of reds and pinks laced mostly on his neck where cherry blossoms fall delicately off a branch. His eyes are cast in complete concentration, lower lip bitten as he works. There's something painfully sexy about the image. You almost want to burn it into your brain to use for late night consumption.

   You aren't sure how long the two of you sit there in silence, but it's comfortable. There's something soothing about listening to the way his markers glide over the paper as soft music, buzzing tattoo guns, and chatter filters in fuzzily through the closed door. You can feel yourself finally start to relax, all of the earlier rage and grudges held at the world slipping away momentarily as you enter a near-meditative state just watching him work.

   Finally, he glances up, a smile on his face as he pushes the paper over the desk to you. It's beautiful, a little rough around the edges without the finishing touches but it's better than anything you thought of. "Wow, Yoongi this looks great."

   "It's just a rough drawing. I still need to work on some of the other touches but if you're good with that I'll get started on making the transfer later this week."

   "Yeah..." You words are quiet as you look at the picture, elation growing in your heart. You might turn into a cat lady, but at least you'll be a badass one. "Okay, so seriously though do you want me to put down the deposit now? I have no problem with that."

   "Nah, don't sweat it. Oh, but I do need your full name and number to actually book it. And don't give me some shit about this being a ploy for your number." You roll your eyes before giving him the information. Standing up slowly when he opens up the office door and leads you back out to light snowfall. "Alright, see you this Friday (y/n)."

   "See you Yoongi. Thanks again." As you turn back to send a smile something painfully familiar stirs in your brain when he flashes that gummy smile and sends you on your way.

---------------Friday----------------

   By the time Friday rolls around you've been through a whole litany of emotions. You're of course excited about the tattoo, that's not the problem. No the source of all evils is Min Yoongi. Sexy. Witty. Can handle your sarcasm. Enjoys cuddling. He's plagued your thoughts, gummy smiles invading your daydreams and inky tattoos hovering over you at night. It's been a long time since you've actually crushed on anyone. Dating as an adult is an entirely different experience. Usually, you know someone who knows them or met them on tinder and you're just praying that they aren't a secret serial killer and that you share enough interests to talk in between getting railed while praying for an orgasm. At least, that's been your shitty experiences anyway. You know that it isn't always the case considering that just about all of your friends have gotten magically engaged or married recently. But Yoongi? There's something about him that stirs up all of your previously assumed dead thoughts on love. All of the secret romantic pinings combines with lust in a painful swirl but luckily the thoughts you have of him are usually fleeting.

   You step forward into the tattoo shop after grabbing a bite to eat, two warm cocoas in your hand as you try not to freak out that the big event is finally here and you'll be face to face with tiny, sexy, tattooed satan yet again. The man behind the counter looks over at you, and you can't help but wonder for a moment if being really good looking is a requirement to work here. Deep dimples, sunkissed skin, glasses perched on his nose.

   "Hi, do you have an appointment?" You shake your head yes, staring at the floor for a moment before finally squeaking out that you're there to see Yoongi.

   "Ay, (Y/N)'s here!" He shouts out towards Yoongi's office and you see him strolling out just a moment later.

   "Jesus Joon, you've been spending too much time around Hobi. I think the whole shop could hear you." Yoongi steps around the desk eyeing the other cup before you hand it out to him.

   "It's just cocoa, I didn't lace it. This time. Also, it's made with soy milk." You can hear the man called Joon laughing in the background as Yoongi slowly grabs the cup and squints at it before taking a tentative sip.

   He gives a small nod that you assume is to signify satisfaction before he starts walking over to a curtained-off section in the back. "You ready to get started?"

   "Yep, all ready!" You take a sip of the cocoa and sit down on the tattoo chair slowly.

   "Alright, just check over this transfer and let me know what you think before you undress so I can put it on." You look over the image, heart warming up slightly at the brush of his fingers before you finally nod a silent affirmation. "I need words babe, is it good or not?"

   You can feel yourself bristle at the tone, sighing wearily before you finally bite out, "Yes, babe, it's perfect."

   "Cool. I'll leave you to get undressed, I'll be back in just a moment." The one shitty thing about the placement of your tattoo is that it will require not only pants to come off but underwear too. Before nerves can take over you strip quickly, laying back down on your side before you can think about it too much. Getting undressed faster than you can sneeze was probably a bad idea though because now you're forced to just sit there with your ass cheeks freezing and mind shutting down while you wait for him to come back. After a minute you hear him announcing that he's coming in before opening up the curtain.

   Your eyes are trained on the floors. Jesus, you wish you could get your tiles to glisten the way their's does. They must mop a thousand times a day, you can't even see a speck of dirt in the grout. The sound of him clearing his throat has you jolting a bit before turning around to glare at the sound of his laughter. "Sorry, I didn't mean to scare you. I'm just going to disinfect the area and put the transfer on then I'll have you take a look and let me know what you think of the placement." You decide to go mute apparently as your only response is a feeble thumbs up before quickly turning to resume your ever so interesting study on what floor cleaner they use. Probably Fabuloso.

   You force yourself to stay stock still when you feel his warm hands on your hip as he cleans the area and peels the transfer on before he gives a light tap to your thigh. "Alright, take a look." With all the grace of a hospice patient you slowly swing your legs off and walk over to the mirror, trying to not pay attention to the fact that you're awkwardly half naked in front of arguably the hottest man who's admitted he enjoys cuddling before you finally relax at the sight of the transfer. "Man, this is going to look rad. Alright little satan, do your thing!"

   "Little Satan? Really? What happened to all your usual creative bitchiness? What was it you called me that one time?"

   "Oh! Degenerate Malfoy with a nicotine problem? Or was it wannabe colon inspector?"

   "Neither actually, it wasn't even something you called me now that I remember it. You once told me 'Ah I see the fuck up fairy decided to mess with my life and force me to see you yet again.' That's a good one by the way, I've used it a few times."

   "Glad I could help, but I wish I could copyright it so you could pay me the rights to use it." You try not to get too nervous as you hear him slip on his gloves and the needle buzzing ominously behind you. The pain won't be that bad right? "Relax, you'll be fine." His voice for once isn't laced with sarcasm. It seems that even the formidable Yoongi has a professional voice that he employs occasionally.

   After what feels like ages filled with anxiety-ridden thoughts you feel the needle prodding away, moving quickly while leaving tingling and ever slight burning sensations in its wake. It does hurt, but not to the point of being unbearable. "See it's not so bad, scaredy cat." You resist the urge to turn around and pummel him in his annoyingly handsome face.

   "If you weren't tattooing me right now I'd choke you out."

   "Kinky, but I prefer a chick to at least buy me a drink first."

   "Already did jackass, the cocoa remember."

   "Huh, you did didn't you. Okay, well it's still off the table for you. You'd probably keep going until I actually died."

   "Hell misses it's little satan though, I'd just be helping you reunite with all your friends."

   "Do you have a snarky remark for everything princess?"

   "Nah, depends on the day and the person. You're a special one Min Yoongi, something about you makes me want to bludgeon things."

   "Oh, what a sweet compliment. Isn't that how people feel when things are too cute too?" You don't even need to look over to know that he's smirking as you flip him off.

   "Or annoying." The rest of the three hours the two of you spend going back and forth with each other to the point that some of the other artists passing by started to call out their two cents in. By the time you're done, you have the outline complete and some of the black shaded in. The rest will be done in just two weeks time at his next opening.

-------------2 weeks later-----------

   Oddly enough for once, you haven't seen Yoongi outside during his normal smoke break time when you leave work for the last couple of weeks. You also haven't seen him getting his normal disgusting black coffee either. Not that you've been looking for him. Okay...so maybe you have. There's just something about him other than the really good looks you like. In one sense it's almost like walking on a blade the entire time you're with him, never sure when he's going to make a jab. On the other hand, he's also easy to talk to. In a way where everything is oddly comfortable even with this underlying lurking sexual tension. Or maybe that's just in your head. Maybe there's no sexual tension and it's just been so long since you last had a good lay (the dingleberry boy who shall not be named was terrible) that you're starting to hallucinate. Which is a rather real possibility.

   This time when you walk in with another cocoa it's with far fewer nerves. No, you're ready for the battlefield and only tremble ever so slightly when you have to face him with a bare ass in his face.

   "Alright sunshine, let's finish this bad boy up." Is all he states before he gets right into it, ever the professional. By the time he's finished, you're 110% positive that you were just imagining the sexual tension because his eyes don't even wander as you check the tattoo in the mirror. Which is a good thing right? Because you're supposed to be on your fast track to nundom not trying to bag the super hot tattoo artist who works near you.

   There's a bizarre sinking feeling in your heart though when you realize the tattoo is done and you won't be able to see him for extended periods of time on such a good excuse. An expensive excuse, but an excuse nonetheless. Now, however, with your beautiful, intricate, and very sore skin you'll have to go back to happenstance run-ins. You think that maybe, just maybe, if the somewhat hollow looking smile he gives you when you leave is anything to go by that he doesn't really want it to end either. But that's probably just the few embers of hope remaining in you that needs to be crushed out.

--------1 month later---------

   You've spent another night overworking yourself. This time there wasn't really a good reason to either. You're not only on schedule but way ahead and yet you've decided to just keep busting through work until dusk begins to fall and the shitty flickering streetlights by you turn on. Almost every night for the past few weeks you've been working longer days and as much as you hate to admit it it's to try to keep yourself from wallowing too much at night about your impending lonely doom. Tonight will be different though. Tonight you'll ruminate and bask in the fucked up world with your dear old friend Irene as she's finally decided to have a night away from her obnoxiously good looking fiance Taehyung. She might not be able to relate to your doom and gloom sentiments on life but she's always a good friend for a pick me up.

   You set off in the opposite direction of your usual route, winding through the chilly streets until you get to your favorite bar that serves oddly impressively delicious fried chicken. The moment you step in you notice Irene sitting at one of the few tables at the place, glaring at a man who clearly can't take a hint. Marching over you grab the seat across from her before biting off a 'Jesus how much aftershave do you use? Did you put in on your asshole too or something?' Knowing he's now outnumbered, and out bitched, the two of you watch the man leave without protest.

   "You know you really should be careful. People are crazy, aren't you ever afraid that you might get hurt or something?"

   You shrug nonchalantly before sighing at the doe eyes she gives you. "Irene, I love you but I'm not curtailing my inner bitch just because some douche might murder me. There are countless absurd ways I could die, if I have to check myself in fear of that then I just let all those asshats continue being menaces to society without being put in their shitty sad places."

   "So what you're like a superwoman with a bad attitude only you save the world one dick at a time with well-timed insults?" You know that voice, you know that voice all too well. Your ears perk up and your jaw drops open as you whip around to come eye to eye with Yoongi. For one whole month, you haven't seen him even with perfectly timed coffee runs around his smoke breaks. Not that you learned his habitual schedule or anything. Nope. Nothing like that at all. Just coincidence is all. And you just happened to notice he wasn't there. That's all.

   "Yoongi!" You hate the way your voice goes up an octave, excitement making your voice quiver like a little puppy reuniting with their owner after a short separation. You can already feel the heat bursting on your cheeks as his head tilts, eyes watching you carefully before he cracks a lazy smile.

   "Um, (y/n), who is this guy? Do I need to mace him or something?" Irene whispers to you, but just loud enough that as Yoongi steps closer he can hear her.

   "Please don't mace me. I promise, I only bite if you're into that."

   "Hey, watch it, mister. She's a taken woman." Reluctantly you wave your hand over the free seat to invite him over before looking back at Irene. "Irene this is Yoongi, Yoongi this is Irene. Yoongi did my tattoo for me."

   "Oh, you got a tattoo? Can I see it?"

   "We'll definitely get a free round of drinks if you show it off, that's for sure." You can't help but smack Yoongi's shoulder, shocked at the sturdiness of it. Considering how slight he looks you really didn't think that he worked out but now your mind is starting to wander.

   "Yeah well, kind of can't show you in public considering I have to take my pants off. Oh! But I do have some pictures!" You pull out your phone, swiping through until you find one and turning it to show her.

   "Wow, that looks like it hurt. It looks great though you did a good job..." Irene pauses, eyes going wide with panic before she finally adds, "Yoongi."

   "Thanks." He almost looks shy and you can feel your heart breaking. Yeah, typical to have the hot dude fall for your friend and not you.

   "Did you order drinks yet?" At the shake of Irene's head, you're grateful to have an excuse to flee to the bar not rushing to grab the bartenders attention and face falling slightly when he sidles up next to you immediately. The world is a cruel place. You want them to take their time and they're there immediately. You want them there right away and suddenly so do seventy other people. Luck. Or murphy's law maybe. Whatever.

   You huff out a sigh before plastering a smile on your face, "Two cranberry vodkas, please. Tall and stiff." The bartender nods as you slap down a twenty, praying that perhaps he'll at least make the drinks slowly but oh no this man must be one of those bartenders that enters fucking speed competitions because he's sliding both drinks over before you can fucking blink. Unbelievable. The service at this place is just too good and it's making you twitch slightly in irritation.

   Trying not to huff, you grab the two drinks and make your way back to your table. Heart sinking even more at the sound of Yoongi being strangely amicable to Irene. This was not the night you wanted at all. You wanted to get drunk and hang out with Irene and forget about how shitty boys are, not have glaring reminders everywhere about how the capitalist ploy that is romance will suffocate you to death. Okay so maybe you're being a little melodramatic. A lot. Whatever. It's your pity party, you can cry if you want to.

   When you finally sit back down and hand Irene her drink you can't help but guzzle yours back right away, ignoring the acidic burn in your throat and the quirked eyebrow from Yoongi.

   "So...(y/n)...any new boys after Johnny?" Irene refuses to look you in the eyes as she asks, smart enough to sit just out of reach from your possible rage.

   "I refuse to fall victim to the bullshit masquerade we call love yet again. I've called it quits. I'm just going to be a spinster with a million cats who will inevitably be forgotten until my landlord finds that mittens, my favorite cat, has eaten my left asscheek for sustenance after my untimely death."

   Irene bawks, trying immediately to rush into lengthy reasoning as to why you shouldn't stop searching for love as Yoongi nearly falls off his chair laughing so hard. At the end of Irene's dialogue, Yoongi wipes away a stray tear before shooting you a gummy smile. The kind that makes you want to hate him less, but you refuse to. Because that's dangerous territory. Territory you've sworn to never cross again. "You don't actually mean all that bullshit right? Love is natural, it's needed. It's biologically ingrained in us to be social creatures and affectionate."

   "Don't you judge me and mitten's life path!"

   "You don't even have a cat!" Irene looks exasperated as she takes a sip of her drink, silently judging you. "Listen, I get it. You've been fucked over a million times by terrible guys. But that doesn't mean that the whole world is that way." At the withering look you send her Irene sighs, shaking her head but falling mute. You feel a little bad that yet again you've ruined the mood so you try to lighten it up a bit, reaching over to pinch her cheek lightly.

   "Thanks, Irene. I'm sorry. I'm just...I don't know. I've been in a bit of a mood." You bit your tongue from further sarcasm at the pointed look she gives you. "Things haven't been so hot lately. I'll get over it. In like a decade. But you know that's better than never." You can feel Yoongi peering at you, analyzing you from the corner of your eye.

   "Why though? Why are you so convinced that love is such a sham?" Yoongi's words don't seem to hold any judgment or his usual quiet hostility, instead just honest curiosity.

   "Well if they don't cheat on me they always grow tired of me. I'm a bit too much of a bitch for my own good. I should really work on that." You shrug, staring at your almost empty glass as you try to shush the self-loathing thoughts that want to invade.

   "I like that part about you though. You've got spunk doll, it ain't a bad thing. You just need to find a guy who can match it." He smirks at the way you go quiet before leaning slightly into you at the table. "I don't know, I think I'm up for the challenge if you are." He grabs a card from his pocket, placing it next to your cup as he stands up. "That's my cell on there. Text me sometime babe." You hate the way your brain shuts down, playing back the way he calls you babe until all senses fail.

   "You should do it. You know he was asking about you the entire time you were getting drinks?" You feel your heart sink even further at the realization that you judged the situation too quickly before suddenly soaring at the idea that Min Yoongi asked you out on a date. You. Snarky, bitchy you found a match in hell. Capitalist ploys be damned! You'll at least find out if he's cocky for a reason. If you don't chicken out that is.

-----------------------------------

   Later that night after all the alcohol has left your system and you're snuggled up under enough blankets to possibly suffocate you, you find yourself staring at your phone. You entered in his contact almost immediately after he left at the urging of Irene. Apprehension has held you back from actually sending anything though. Your fingers hover over the screen, bottom lip stuck between your teeth as you suck in a breath. What have you got to lose?

[You]: Hey...

[Yoongi]: (Y/N)?

[You]: Yeah

[Yoongi]: This is unusual. I'm used to quippy remarks. Don't tell me you've grown soft?

[You]: Fuck off. I'm just confused that's all.

[Yoongi]: What's there to be confused about? You're funny, you have no problem with giving it right back to me, and you have a fantastic ass

[You]: Well that was blunt

[Yoongi]: I'm an honest man [Yoongi]: So listen, about that date, I wanna take you out Sunday

[You]: That's in like a day from now

[Yoongi]: Yeah well I've wanted to take you out from the first time you told me off for smoking on the street. And that time you told me you were going to shove my tattoo needle up my ass solidified it.

[You]: You have some odd kinks sir

[Yoongi]: Is that a yes babe?

[You]: Hmmm....yeah I'll go

[Yoongi]: Great send me your address I'll pick you up at noon

[You]: You aren't going to chop me up in a million pieces and feed me to the fishes right?

[Yoongi]: No I prefer my women in one piece

   You send over your address, butterflies swarming around as you squeal into a pillow before sending him a quick good night. You don't need to embarrass yourself by saying something off the wall as exhaustion starts to set in. Like "I want to kiss your face" or "Fuck me in your office." Yeah, that's not good pre-date material. You need to keep it kosher for now.

------------------------------------

   You had spent all day Saturday cleaning to keep your nerves at bay. Not that you can really tell much in your closet after you ransacked it. And not that you can tell you went through all of that energy just to pick a simple oversized black hoodie and jeans. It's too cold to go all out anyway. You've been staring in the mirror, double checking your hair and makeup a thousand times as you hear the doorbell chime through the apartment. It's a good thing no one else is around to see you nearly trip over yourself as you slip on your shoes and answer the door. "Hi!"

   Yoongi is wearing his usual black leather jackets, skin-tight black jeans, and cat-like smirk. "Hey. You ready?"

   "Yeah, oh just let me grab a jacket." Pulling one off the rack you shut the door behind you, locking the door before shuffling behind Yoongi. Much to your surprise, he slows down until your right next to him, clasping his hand around yours and smiling as he silently leads you to his car.

   "What, no motorcycle today?"

   "Nah, I figured you'd strangle me and we'd crash. Dieing on the first date just seems tragic. We need to get on date number five at least." He shoots you a wink as he opens your door, shutting it lightly behind him as he jogs around to the other side.

   "So...where exactly are you taking me?"

   "You're a curious little thing today, aren't you? Well at first I was thinking something simple like coffee, but let's be honest that's overplayed and boring. So then I thought about going to an aquarium just so I could make a joke about feeding you to the fishes but then I thought nah too easy. So I spent more time than I'll tell you plotting. And I realized exactly where we needed to go. We're going to the river for a picnic. Something that's oddly ordinary and you'll secretly love but no dude's ever actually done for you. Am I right?"

   You're at a loss. You certainly didn't expect him to think this through to this extent. Honestly, no guy has ever cared this much about a first date before. You figured that only existed in stories and movies at this point. "You're certainly right. Isn't it a little cold for a picnic though?"

   "I have brought plenty of cocoa and jjigae to keep us warm, don't you worry your pretty little head about it." You can't help but fidget slightly, nerves boiling over until his hand rests soothingly on your thigh and you feel yourself melt. Or maybe boil over until you malfunction. But that's something to dwell on at a later time.

   It doesn't take long after that until you pull up at the river. During springtime it's packed, everyone comes out to drink under the cherry blossoms, but right now it's serenely quiet. You're almost the only people in sight save the zealous runners and elderly couples strolling through on their daily walks. When you try to help set up the blanket and food Yoongi refuses, so instead you watch him meticulously lay everything out. Maybe this is a post-season Christmas movie because you swear you can feel your dead cold heart grow as you watch him. It's an oddly domestic feeling. Certainly romantic. Painfully sweet. And for once all of your usual bitter snarkiness has drowned it's self in the river to leave you a heart-eyed mess.

   "Come on, come sit. I told you before, I don't bite unless you're into that."

   "I'm into that, but right now I'd rather have cocoa and jjigae." You watch him pour out your drink as you sit down, carefully handing you the piping hot drink before pulling the still boiling soup out of the basket.

   "Alright, so I figured that being you'd probably refuse to tell me too much out of wariness. So I propose that we play 21 questions. What's your favorite food?"

   "Tofu, in all it's many forms. What's your favorite color?"

   "Black, just like my coffee."

   "And your soul." You duck as he tosses a napkin at your face, laughing at the gummy expression he sends your way.

   "Aish. Okay, next question, what are your hobbies?"

   "Reading and video games. Why'd you become a tattoo artist?"

   "I love drawing, but I especially love the idea of a living canvas. It's just so interesting. Although I hate that I don't usually get to control the outcome of it, some people have god awful tattoo ideas. Most people actually. I'm at least booked enough now that I can refuse those ones without worrying about my bank account too much. Why are you so afraid of love?"

   You weren't expecting that question. You figured he'd keep things easy but then again you should have known better. Of all the many ways you can describe the man before you easy isn't one of them. "Trust problems I guess. I didn't have the best home, parents kicked me out young and we haven't talked since so that's probably at the root of it all. I don't know though, never seen a shrink about it so that's just an educated guess. Add all the boys that I've dated either dumped me or cheated on me and it makes it tough to believe that love, especially romantic love is real. Why do you believe in it?"

   "Because love is the very essence of humanity. The best way to fight a shitty system that tries to keep us all down is through love. It's not power or money or any of that other bullshit they tell us we need. It's love. We all just need someone who understands us. It doesn't need to be a ton of people, just one who really gets us and bam! Everything's good. Sometimes those people come and go, but that doesn't make the love you held for that time discounted. It just means that now you need to find someone else who understands you." He chooses his words carefully at first, but when he sees that you're held in rapt attention he grows passionate. Eyes blazing as if to dare you to disagree. And suddenly you're seeing the world through a different lens. Here you had been chalking romance up to marketing, which isn't entirely untrue but that's just one part of it. But love the way he sees it? To him, love isn't about marketing or money it's just about human connection. And suddenly you're starting to understand that abstract intangible concept. You also realize that what you were looking for wasn't love, but perfection. You didn't want to do all the work, you just wanted all the pieces to magically fall into place for you and gave up when expectations weren't instantly met. "Next question, why'd you say yes to this date?"

   "Because you're hot." You roll his eyes at the exaggerated wink he sends you before eating a bit of the jjigae. "Okay so that was a part of it but mostly I was curious. You're this weird enigma Yoongi. At first, I thought I had you all figured out. Tough dude with tats and a motorcycle who probably has a slew of booty calls waiting for him. But then you said you liked to cuddle and I got curious. And then I realized that I didn't have the whole picture, just a glimpse. Why in the world did you ask me out? And for the love of god don't say 'dat ass.'"

   "Okay but dat ass though." The way he laughs full heartedly, slapping his knees at the sight of your glare almost makes you not elbow him. Almost. But you have a reputation to uphold. "You've just got this thing about you. You're like a fortress. A puzzle. I guess that same idea of wanting to figure a person out is the same reason why I'm so attracted to you. You see at first glance you seem to be just brutally honest, but then when you look closer it's easy to see that you're vulnerable. Fragile. Callous due to a previous naivety that landed you in shit places by the sounds of it. I like that you have spirit, you aren't afraid to tell people to fuck off. But what I like most of all is under that there's this heart of gold. At least if your interaction with your friends is anything to go by you do." Fuck, you think you have something in your eye. It's definitely not your long extinct tear ducts learning how to work again. Nope.

   You can feel his thumb brush a stray tear, hand cupping your face as you automatically nuzzle into the warmth before he clears his throat. "Next question-"

   Before he can finish the question your lips are on his. They're chapped but still soft, plush under yours. And suddenly that tailwind romance you thought was all fake feels so real as a spark of electricity zaps you. Or maybe that's more carnal, but whatever it is it feels so right. As if his lips were made to be against yours. And when you feel him kiss back roughly, hands weaving through your hair as he pulls you in closer you know that he must be feeling the same thing. You're floating. High in the clouds. Weightless. The sound of someone running past finally has the two of you breaking apart slowly. "Right next question, can we do that again?"

   This time there's a fire behind the kiss as your hands grab onto his jacket and his tongue slips into your mouth. This time you know it's more carnal. Burning bright. Passionate. Hungry. Needy. But before it can devolve into public debauchery you reluctantly pull back, blush creeping up your neck as you see his molten brown eyes focused on you in a way that clearly states that he is indeed as dangerous as he looks. At least if your definition of dangerous is sex right out in the open at a very public park anyway.

   "My turn. What's your favorite music?"

   The rest of the date goes by too quickly and you learn about everything Yoongi related and he learns everything about you. You're positive that you've never learned so much about a person on a first date, or hell even by the third. You've learned his birthday, his favorite music, all about his friends, how he actually co-owns the tattoo shop and how that all happened. You've learned about how he came from a poor family and how he makes sure to send a little bit each week to help out on top of the apartment he bought them. Suddenly the $200 an hour fee makes a whole lot more sense.

   By the time you're pulling back into your apartment, the two of you have already planned a date for next Sunday. And as he puts the car in park you can't hope but wish that somehow it was already magically next week. But when he pulls you in for a heated kiss and presses his forehead against yours before sending you off you're too much on cloud nine to pay any attention. You'll have to add that Yoongi is certainly the best kisser you've ever known to your mental file.

-------------1 week later---------------

   Well, it's official. You're nuts. You'd like to blame Yoongi but let's be honest, all you needed was a little help to push you over the ledge. Except the problem is that before you were very sure of life. Completely comfortable with anger, bitterness, and believing that everything inevitably fails. And in some sick twist of fate, his words have been playing back in your head over and over every single day for the last week. Before you thought it was all or nothing. Love was there or it wasn't. You get one shot at true love and if it fails then it never existed. Except now your world is flipped upside down.

   Perfection is a fruitless endeavor. An impossible task. One with zero rewards. And what you've been looking for all this time is perfection. A perfect love. A whirlwind romance. But if it's perfect it's fake. It's all a lie. An elaborate performance. Which is mostly all you've ever gotten, granted usually in short-lived moments but sometimes longer. And when the curtains closed each time you thought, "this show wasn't a real show. I'll go to a better play next door." Except the play was still very much real. A part of you. A part of them. Which means that love is indeed real it's just not always very grand. But when it was there it was beautiful, you were just blind and ignorant in even the good moments. Unaware of the magic in small acts. But with Yoongi suddenly you want to see all the small acts. You want to not just see the show but be a part of it. Go behind the scenes with him. See how this plays out.

   Which is completely fucking nuts. You're already talking about your entire worldview changing and the concept as something as obscure as falling in love with a man you barely know and have only been out on a date with once. It makes you afraid. It makes you feel free. It gives you options. It's like being able to use all of your senses at once for the first time. Except that's scary because there's too much coming at you at once. But it's equal parts exhilarating. You've been through every single possible emotion a person could have every day.

   By the time your second date finally arrives, you're suddenly calm about it all. As if everything is right and the puzzle pieces to life are aligning and maybe just maybe you have a chance to see things differently. And while before you would have rather poked your eyes out than face rejection again this time you just want to see where this takes you. You aren't thinking so much about the end results, rather the journey.

   Tonight Yoongi is taking you out to his favorite record store. While you don't own a record player you can certainly appreciate the aesthetics of vinyl. There's something oddly charming about them, even if it is ridiculously impractical in the modern world of space-saving technology and cramped apartments. Perhaps the impracticality of it is apart of the appeal, however. This time you aren't tripping over yourself to get to the door. But that's because you're standing right by it giving yourself a pep talk. Not that he needs to know that of course. After smoothing down your hair and doing a quick checklist in your head your pulling the door open.

   This time he's wearing an oversized sweater but again the same tight black jeans. The man must have stock in them. Not that you blame him, it looks good after all. "You look great, babe." Heat blossoms on your face as his eyes scan you from head to toe, that signature lazy smile adorning his face before he takes your hand in his and leads you to his car.

   "Still no motorcycle?"

   "Nope, still don't trust that you won't freak out and kill me accidentally. Why? You seem oddly keen on the bike."

   "It just looks fun that's all."

   "It is. There's nothing better than a good ride, and you can take that any way you please." He winks at you, laughing when you scoff and punch his shoulder. If any other guy said that line you would have jumped out of the now moving vehicle, but for some reason when he says it you turn into putty. Maybe it's the charm of being absurdly good looking. Or that tattoos. The bad-boy charm. Or maybe it's because in all his infinite aloof glory he's just Yoongi. Comfortable and confident in his own skin without being sleazy.

   The record store is quiet, playing a selection of upbeat jazz. Your brain is trying to figure out the tune until you finally snap your fingers and softly say, "Giant Steps!"

   "You know jazz? Are you a secret Coltrane fan or something?" Yoongi is giving you that look. The look that says he's clearly analyzing you. Studying you. Dissecting your brain as you speak.

   "Sort of. I dated this guy in college for years, he was a jazz major. His thesis was going to be on Giant Steps, it's been years since I've heard it though. Are you secretly into jazz, Min Yoongi?"  

   You watch him shake his head no as he scans the records before pulling one out. Outkast, ATliens. A great album, one that invokes nostalgia. He quickly puts the record under his arm before he continues searching. "Nah, I'm more of a blues guy myself. Nina Simone. Etta James. Bill Withers. The building blocks to all modern music. At least hip hop, R&B, and all the subgenres of rock."

   "You know an awful lot about music considering you're a tattoo artist. What's the background story on that?" You peruse next to him as you speak, flicking through the music slowly.

   "Once upon a time I wanted to be a rapper." There's something far off about his voice. As if he's reliving the memories. A gentle smile on his lips as he shakes his head as if to push them back into their little file in his brain to not be disturbed for some time. "But I had bills to pay. I'm not complaining though. I love music, adore it. But I love what I do too. It's almost like trying to pick between your two children. You might actually have a favorite, but it changes depending on the day."

   "Let's hope you only have one kid then."

   "Nah, I'm going to have a horde of mini Mins. Take over the world with them and overthrow capitalism. It's my diabolical plan to get housing prices back to normal and get student debt forgiveness."

   "And how exactly do you plan to have this army of darkness? Polygamy? A sex cult?"

   "God that just sounds exhausting. I can hardly keep up with you let alone more women. No, I think I'll actually stick with two children. You know, just so on tough days I can look at one and go 'ah yes today you didn't fuck up.'" You pray that he doesn't look over to see your cherry red face. He in a way made it sound like he's thought about children with you. Clearly, that's not what he means but now your mind is wandering. Mini mins. They'd be cute. Probably slightly evil but cute nevertheless. They might be born glaring though. Or smirking instead of crying.

   "What happens when they both fuck up?"

   "Then I've got you." Fuck, he was implying you. Holy shit. Holy shit. Act natural. Don't look at him. "Ooh look! They have a Frank Ocean Blonde vinyl. Unopened this bad boy is worth a few hundred. Man, I can't believe how cheap they're selling it for." He tucks it under his arm before cataloging through some more. For a short while the two of you work in silence, falling into a pattern that when you stare at one for just a little too long he's plucking it out of your hands and refusing to listen to you protest.

   By the end of it all, the two of you are walking out with a dozen records after learning a wealth of information on all of Yoongi's favorite artists. You also learned that once upon a time his rap name was 'Suga.' Which led to you immediately and passionately singing Sugar by System of the Down quickly increasing in volume until he clamps his hand over your mouth and stares at you with the rage of a thousand suns. Totally worth it though. Especially when the dude behind the counter picks up where you left off.

   Dinner goes by too quickly. You wish you could freeze time, force it to slow so you can languidly explore his world. It's with a heavy heart that you unbuckle your seat belt before leaning over and pulling him into a heated kiss. One that makes your head spin again and proves that the first date wasn't a series of flukes. Nope, Min Yoongi really does have a skilled tongue. When you pull away you can see stars in his eyes, his hair ruffled and cheeks red as he tries to even out his breathing. The most dangerous part about Yoongi is his duality. The way he can flit between sexy to cute and somewhere in between without trying.

------------2 months later----------

   You've lost count on how many dates you've gone on at this point. He's taken you out on his bike finally to go stargazing. Out to plays and art galleries. Sometimes you've just stayed in and watched movies together. You have lunch together at least twice a week now, grabbing coffee together for a short reunion in the mornings after spending all night talking about everything and nothing over the phone. It's as if a time before Yoongi didn't exist. It's comfortable. Oddly easy.

   It's to your chagrin and surprise that you learn that Yoongi wants to take things slow. He doesn't rush you into bed. He's the perfect gentleman. A punk Disney prince, albeit with a sharp tongue. No even after the third and fourth date when you try to heat things up he's quick to pull away and tell you that he doesn't want to rush things. Not with you, he says. He wants you to trust him first. He wants you to be truly comfortable first. He doesn't want you to think that he's only in it for that.  

   You get it. In fact, in a twist, it actually makes things hotter. But the build-up is getting almost painful now. The sexual tension mounting to epic proportions. Your poor vibrator would hate you if it wasn't inanimate. He wasn't lying about loving cuddling. He's also apparently a man of extreme patience because no matter how many times you've felt his hard dick against your ass mid-spooning he's refused to act on it. Or let you. It's left you more than slightly frustrated on multiple occasions. It also wasn't helpful that it, in turn, made you an awkward mess. In fact, you remember jokingly mentioning some gibberish about your starfish quivering to try and crack the tension and for a while you thought he would never let you live that terrible joke down. Starfish, really? What were you thinking?

   What you belatedly realize though is that his master plan fucking works. Because somewhere along the way you started letting down your guards. Somewhere along all your dates, you find yourself falling. Allowing yourself to be human. Allowing yourself to stop fearing love. Allowing yourself to trust. Without fighting it. Without running. It's no longer terrifying. It's no longer something that gnaws at you in the chasm of anxiety.

   And just shy of three months into dating Yoongi you realize that you love him. Love. Abstract. Intangible. Yet not. It's the way he looks at you. The way he holds your hands. The way he thinks about the things that make you tick. The way the two of you try to find joy in the tiniest of things. Marie Kondo would tell you that you've finally found something that sparks joy. But it's not just from him. No, even when he's not around you feel lighter. Freer. Happier. You're still sarcastic. A bit of a bitch. But this time it's no longer from a place of longheld bitterness and pain, rather it's from your twisted brand of humor.

   This realization comes to you as you after hanging out with Yoongi's friends and coming back to his place to just chill and listen to his vinyls. When his thumb soothingly rubs your hand as you curl up into his chest. It's so natural. So right. "I love you." The words come out a soft sigh, muffled slightly into his chest but he hears them loud and clear.

   Yoongi twists, pulling your face up to his. "Did you just say you love me?"

   "Min Yoongi I love you." You don't expect to hear anything back. You aren't saying it for affirmation or reciprocation. You just want him to know.

   "I don't think I've ever heard better words. Say it again." That gummy smile is back. The one that stirs up butterflies. The one that warms your soul. The one that you fell in love with.

   You swing your legs over his lap, straddling him as you stare into his eyes. "I. Love. You."

   "God, you don't know how bad I've wanted to hear that. I love you so fucking much. So much. Holy fuck. I want to kiss you, can I kiss-" Before he can finish the sentence your lips are on his. Soft and pliant under yours, a lingering taste of leftover chapstick and nicotine. It's captivating. Dizzying. It's so easy to get drunk off his lips. His taste. The soft groans that leave him. Tongues intertwine as his hands roam your body before landing on your ass with a firm squeeze. It's messy. Needy. Sloppy but full of passion. As if you're the only cure for each other. Each emotion lingering in the air. Your hips swivel down, grinding against his pants as one hand weaves into your hair to pull your neck back and attach his lips to there.

   You can feel the small bruises blossoming already. Love bites and harsh sucks leave cherry blossoms along your neck, mirroring the pattern of his own tattoo. Quiet moans of need are spilling out, desire pooling into your panties each time his teeth scrape against you. "You, doll, are the hottest thing I've ever seen. I could worship you. Dedicate a temple to you. Can't wait to feel you. God, I want you so bad. I love you so fucking much." Each word spills out from him like a deep moan, reverberating through his chest and chewing them off at the end. A loud mewl of satisfaction leaves you. He loves you. He loves you. You're in love. Over the moon. How could you ever think that love wasn't for you? How could you ever give up? How could you honestly think that you were destined to be a spinster when a man like him wants you?

   His hands claw at your shirt, quick to remove your bra and leave you partially bare. Even with the slight chill seeping in through his apartment you still feel feverish. Each time his calloused hands roam your skin you can feel your temperature increase. God, you've never wanted someone so much. It's almost an out of body experience. Sex elevated off the mortal plane. You swear you might cum just from him touching you at this rate. His lips brush against your nipples before biting down, one hand reaching back into your hair as you arch into the touch.

   "Wanna touch you Yoongi. Wanna feel you." The words come out drunkenly. Wobbly. Laced with honey through your swollen lips. When his grip lets go of your hair you lean down to his neck, pressing kisses around his tattoo, tongue laving at the branch as your teeth scrape against his soft skin. The deep moans hiccuping out of him are music to your ears, urging you on as your grind against him. Desperate for friction. Desperate for release. Your hands toy at his shirt before finally breaking away to pry it over his head. Your eyes dance over his half-naked form, taking in the sight before you. Almost every square inch is covered, ink swirling around in intricate stories. God, you're about the fuck the hottest living canvas.

   His chest is heaving, breathing uneven as the two of you make eye contact again before lips come crashing together and he's picking you up. Carrying you out of the living room and into his bedroom, stopping occasionally to push you against a wall just to latch onto your neck or chest. By the time you make it to the bed, you're sure that for the first time in your life you could actually forgo foreplay. You're so wet that you can feel it seeping through your underwear and leaving a mark on your jeans. He stumbles onto the bed, your head hitting the wall with a loud thwack that has both of you pausing for a moment. "Shit, are you okay?"

   "Mmokay, take your pants off." You rub at the sore spot before reaching up to place a reassuring kiss on his lips. You hold your breath as you watch him strip, dick springing out proudly. Smeared with precum. Red. Throbbing and twitching. "You don't wear underwear?"

   He looks almost bashful for a moment. "It's laundry day actually..." At the sound of your giggles, he takes the opportunity while you're disarmed to unbutton your pants, freeing you from your jeans and leaving you in just your flimsy lacy panties. The mood shifts back again when you see the hunger in his eyes. As if he's staring at a feast. "Christ, can't wait to taste this pussy. Make you cry my name." His hands are shaking slightly as he slowly pries your underwear off, eyes narrowing on the way your juices stick to your underwear finally tossing it off the side of the best.

   "Please taste me, I need you. I can't wait."

   "Who knew you'd be so needy? So quick to beg for my tongue?" That usual lazy smirk is back on his face as he looks at you, hands hooking around your thighs and pulling them over his shoulders. His tongue flattens against your sex before you can respond, a choked moan drowning out your words. Jesus, he's good with his tongue. It moves slowly, languidly against your dripping pussy. Rhythmically. Diving into your folds only to swirl up around your clit, sucking lightly and releasing with a soft pop before going back down all over again. It's when his tongue dips even lower, swirling around your puckered rim that you can feel your eyes roll back and breathing cut off. Two fingers slip into your dripping cunt with ease, scissoring to stretch you. The dual sensation of his tongue on your ass and fingers filling you up has you clenching. Spiraling. Bright white flashing behind your eyes as a silent scream tries to leave your throat. Toes curling, his name finally rolling off your tongue as you chase the sensation, your orgasm consuming your senses. It leaves you dizzy. Panting. A mewling, drenched mess under him.

   Through fuzzy ears you can hear his low voice, "God how do you taste so good? Fuck, I could watch you all day baby girl."

   His fingers move slowly as he watches you return to earth, twitching underneath him at the oversensitivity. You feel so sated, but at the same time, you want so much more. The look in his eyes makes you hungry all over again. You want him to feel just as good as you. You look up with hooded eyes, hand wrapping around his drooling cock as you speak. "I wanna taste you too Yoongi."

   His adam's apple bobs, hands leaving your thighs as he pulls you into another messy kiss. It's almost all teeth and tongue this time, a thin line of saliva breaks apart when you separate. You shuffle off the bed slowly, knees gingerly falling to the floor before looking back up as your tongue swirls around his head before pulling back to lick a long stripe along his prominent vein. You pepper tiny kisses along his base, one hand cupping his balls gently as the other one twists around his base. You envelop his velvety length in your mouth, working slowly into a steady rhythm. Each sigh from him, soft moans of pleasure spurs you deeper. Jaw aching slightly as you try to take him deeper, using your hand to help stimulate the places you can't reach. His hands grip your hair tightly as he reaches past your molars, pulling you off of him with a loud pop. "Sorry love, I'm not gonna last much longer if you keep doing that and I really want to fuck you."

   You gulp at the way he's watching you. As if he's a predator and you're his prey. A feast for the night. You wouldn't have it any other way. He helps guide you back onto the bed, twisting you onto all fours as his hands glide over your ass. "Best ass I've ever seen. God, I've had so many wet dreams over this ass." His hand comes down sharply, the sting bringing a wave of pleasure to ripple through you as it soothingly rubs over. Your thoughts are quickly brought back to the throbbing between your thighs as his cock rubs against your swollen clit. "Please, fuck. God." You're incoherent, words stringing together slowly.

   "What's my name doll?"

   "Yoongi, come on. Fuck me before I bite your head off!"

   "Yeah yeah, we'll see how much sass you have left in you when I'm done." You wiggle your hips impatiently as you hear him spit into his palm, adding lubrication before he glides into you. "Holy shit." He stays still for a moment as you spasm around the intrusion. He's just thick enough to have you crying out in pleasure, just long enough to have you seeing stars as he sinks deeper.

   "Oh, fuck. Move, please move." You push back, sinker further onto him as he stays still before his hands snake around your throat.

   "God, you are so mouthy. And as much as I normally love hearing you talk back right now I really just wanna fuck you." He pulls out almost completely before slamming back in, balls slapping into your clit in a way that has you seeing stars. Each movement is harsh, quick, with stamina and vigor you didn't foresee him having. The feeling of his hand wrapped around your throat, cutting off just enough circulation to stutter your breathing, has you gasping and rutting underneath him. Fuck, was sex supposed to feel this good? In your fucked out state, you can barely make out the sound of him chuckling darkly behind you. "Look at you baby, already fucked out and I've barely started. Do you wanna cum again baby? Already?"

   "Fuck, please. Don't stop!" Your high pitched begging has him drilling in deeper, his free hand moving off your ass and onto your clit in quick circular motions that has you clenching around him. This time your orgasm is earth-shattering. Loud. Wet. When his hand finally lets go of your throat you face plant into the pillow, legs shaking around him as he keeps moving.

   "You're so beautiful when you cum, did you know that? My pretty baby girl, all fucked out on my cock. Now that's a sight I never want to stop seeing." Another loud smack to your ass has you sobbing into the pillow, moans spilling out as your release gushes around him. "Jesus, how is your pussy so fucking wet? Are you always this wet?"

   "No. It's just for you Yoongi."

   "That's right. This pussy is mine, isn't it? Say it, doll."

   "This pussy is yours Yoongi, fuck. Hold on, I wanna ride you." He stutters, pausing before pulling out so the two of you can shuffle around. You smirk as you crawl over his lap, one hand holding onto his cock as the other grabs his arm while you sink down. You're sure you look a fucked out mess, but so does he. Sweat is making his fringe cling to his forehead, kiss-swollen lips, hickies covering his neck visible even over his tattoos.

   You neck snaps back as you sink down completely, the new angle bringing him right to your g-spot and making your legs shake in overstimulation. You fall forward onto his chest, pulling him into another kiss as you circle your hips in small figure eights. You bite down on his lower lip, pulling it between your teeth as you reach behind you and gently roll his balls in your hand. You delight in the way he groans, eyes rolling back at the sensation. "Keep doing that and I'm not going to last (y/n)."

   "That's the point. Come on, cum with me Yoongi." It doesn't take much in your overstimulated state to get right back to the point again. Hanging over the edge as you dip your hand down to circle your clit, relishing in the dulcet moans from him as the two of you climax together. His nose scrunches up, eyebrows furrowing as he grips at your hips as you ride him into his own orgasm right after your third. It doesn't take long before he twitches inside you, painting your insides white as you slow down. At the feeling of him coming to his own completion you slump forward, your head falling into the crook of his neck as his hands circle your waist.

   "Wow. That might easily have been the best sex of my life."

   "Yeah, that was, wow." Your breathing is still unsteady, legs shaking as you feel him soften inside you.

   "Did you realize you squirted?"

   "Ah, yeah. Sorry to break your heart but that's actually somewhat normal for me."

   "God that is so fucking hot." You laugh into his neck, exhaustion taking over as you sigh. "You know, the first time I ever saw you I knew. I just knew. You were all sass and fire, and I just knew that you were it. You were the one."

   You wish you could reciprocate and say you thought the same thing when you first saw Yoongi, but you suppose it's better late than never. "I never would've guessed when I first met you that you liked cuddling, or saying such cheesy lines, or absolutely hated scary movies."

   "Yeah, but you love that about me."

   "Yeah. But I'm pretty sure I just love everything about you Min Yoongi."

   "You know, when you say my full name like that I get oddly turned on. Do you think you're up for a round two in like, half an hour?"

   You really should say no, you really just want to sleep. But just the thought has your mind spinning. Lord give you strength because you're going to need it, or at least better stamina, to last in survive this man.

   You never would've guessed that love could feel so right. So natural. So normal. It isn't always a crazy spark. It isn't all fire and passion, even though it certainly has its moments. No, it's softer. Gentler. It grows and evolves with you. It changes. It takes work. And the two of you do somehow make it work. Even after moving in and trying to learn how to love someone when there's only one bathroom. Even after you get married and fall into a routine. Even after you get pregnant and go a smidge hormonally insane both times. Even on days when both of the kids drive you batty. Even when they leave home and leave you with an empty nest all over again. Because love is something beautiful. It's something innate within us all, it's just a matter of both parties wanting it enough. Working at it enough. And whenever anyone asks you what love means to you it was simple from that day forward. Min Yoongi.

[sometimeswritingsometimesdying]

when he once had wings

A/N: I’ve given up on finding titles that make sense and are cool. also!! thanks to @pheonix-inside for reading this over and also @aztec-cryomancer for requesting this. thanks y’all

Warnings: it’s a whole load of angst i guess. also kinda past logicality? and logan’s a bit of a dick :/ also arguing, cursing, fire, demon!logan and angel!patton, uh let me know if i missed something!

wc: 1.6 k

AO3

summary:  When Logan fell from god's grace, his heart burned along with his wings. Patton refuses to believe so.

Logan remembered his life previous to the fall, unlike many demons.

He remembered. He remembered so much and so well that sometimes he wondered if he was still walking among humans, feeling the ground beneath his feet. A ground that was cold and hard and solid and not scorching and unforgiving.

A time where he didn’t have the weight of scars on his back. A time where he could run in the fields, hand in hand with the one person he loved most, Patton.

But he couldn’t. He didn’t love anymore. And he would never again.

His heart had been burned and had torn apart like his wings as he fell from heaven’s grace down and down and down until all he could see was darkness. He had thought he’d die, again. It would’ve hurt less. So much less.

And so, Logan didn’t love anymore. He turned stone cold and heartless, burned from the inside out and with sharp features that weren’t meant to be caressed tenderly as they would’ve been once, but to cut whoever came too close.

He moved up in the ranks, decided that if they wanted to make him a devil, then he’d be one. He worked, cheated and bought his way to the top, to be the right hand man to the devil himself.

He mirrored what he had once been, back in a time when he still had wings, and he still could fly. In a time he and Patton had been happy and together and dead as much as they had been alive.

He didn’t think. He didn’t anymore, since the fall. He had let anger and resentment take over, all the times he had been right but he had had to push down his pride and carry on, for the sole purpose of remaining in grace. He had given up on making everyone equal, on having to back down on things he had every right to be angry about. He was done with anger-free thinking.

There was one person who made him think sometimes, however. One person that could take away the blinding hatred of the world that he had been so accustomed to. That he had decided was the only thing that he could keep, that he should keep.

It was Patton, because of course it was, because he was the one who had stayed by his side in his worst moments, when he cried and when he screamed. And logan had done the same.

And now, as the sun came down on the horizon, Logan, the demon, an incarnation of evil, was waiting for Patton, an angel, his angel, leaning on the railing of the porch of the house that had once been theirs. A house that had once been filled with laughs and smiles and life, that now stood abandoned, broken down and left to rot.

He waited, and waited, and waited. He was good at waiting for him, and only for him, otherwise his patience ran short easily.

Eventually, the door to the porch opened with a creak and footsteps came up beside him, just as if they were still human. Like they were once, years ago.

“Logan,” Patton greeted him, smiling. “It’s nice to see you again.”

Logan turned to him. “You too, Patton. It’s been-”

“Three years.” Logan nodded. They had been almost caught the last time they had met up, and they had refused to take the risk again. Eventually, even beings without a heart fall to it’s desire.

Logan stared out at the endless fields that extended before them. Patton stared at Logan’s bare back with a conflicted expression.

Tentatively, he reached out with his hand, and brushed his fingers over the scars. It burned slightly, and he retracted his hand, hissing.

Logan looked at him from the corner of his eye. “We talked about this, Patton.”

The other didn’t respond, opting to stare at the horizon with him. The sky seemed to go on forever, and from where they were watching, they felt like they were on top of everything. To Patton, it looked like it did once, back when he and Logan didn’t meet up in secret, but instead would go out for daily walks and look at the horizon over the drop. They’d talk, and talk and talk, leaving no space for silence.

Now things were different, though.

The angel sighed. “I remember it.”

Logan shot him a look. “What?”

“The Fall. Your fall.”

Logan sneered. “Of course. Every angel remembers it, they made a whole fucking event out of it.”

“It’s the fall of an angel, it’s a big event itself.”

“I sat at Gabriel’s fucking side, and they let me fall for what? Asking questions?” Logan made a fist with his hand, trying to control his anger, he could feel his nails digging into his palm, but he didn’t care. He didn’t care about a lot of things anymore.

“You questioned Him, Logan, not the high council.” Patton wanted to place a hand on his shoulder, wanted to hug him, to kiss him, to make him realize that he knew it wasn’t right, that he understood his frustration, that he was on his side. He wanted to tell him all of that. He didn’t, he couldn’t. “It’s the worst thing an angel can do.”

“I only stood by my morals,” I know, he wanted to shout, I know, and I’m with you. Logan straightened, looking more rigid and cold, despite burning to the touch. “If they aren’t willing to change rules that were written thousands of years ago,” His eyes were far away, from what Patton could tell. “Then I don't think they should be in power.”

Patton stared at him. He felt something arise in him, something he didn’t want and didn’t need but couldn’t rid himself of. “You want to put Hell in charge?” The demon didn’t respond, only set his jaw. “Logan?”

“I’ve… talked about it, down there.” He smiled, not sweetly like Patton had once been able to see frequently, but sharply and demonically. “They love me down there, you know, Patton.” The landscape shiften momentarily around them into a world that was all flames and fire, before turning back to normal. “They love me like they never did up there.”

“Logan,” the angel said, and Logan turned to face him. He looked exactly like what you’d expect an angel would look like, with smooth skin and curvy features and a smattering of freckles across it, and blonde curls that framed his face perfectly. It was a harsh difference to his tall and lean form, with dark, dark hair and sharp angles.

He had once been lovely like Patton. Once, when he still had wings.

“I love you, I always have.” Logan stared at him. He stared straight at the angel, his angel.

A demon was not a being that could receive love, that could be loved in the first place. A demon was the complete opposite of love. And yet, there stood Patton, a being, an angel, who had infinite love to give to everyone, everything, all of the universe.

If angels could love everything, why would they hate the damned?

Patton didn’t know. He didn’t know what Logan had become, what he had done, everyone and everything he had left behind to become the powerful being he now was.

Everything he was with Patton was a memory, a distant unfocused memory of something he wasn’t anymore, of something he could only pretend to be.

He knew now, that what he was right then, when he was with Patton, talking to him, talking to an angel, was not what he was. He was merely deceiving himself.

And by being something he wasn’t, Patton loved him.

“And I will continue to do so, Logan.” Patton stared at him, with so much love and trust and honesty. He even extended his hand, hoping Logan would take it.

Hoping for what? That Logan’s essence, being would change because of love, something he wasn’t able to comprehend? Hoping that Logan’s wings would grow back, that his halo would return, placed around his neck? Hoping for something that would never happen?

Logan knew hoping did more harm than good.

“No, you don’t,” Patton’s eyes went wide. Logan raised his chin, making him look imponent, powerful, against someone of low tier like him. 

“Logan-”

“And you never will.” That’s when Patton realized that Logan’s tail was slashing on the floor, in frustration. He met Logan’s eyes again to find them black and red.

Like the day of the fall.

“Logan please-” flames started to lick at the edge of the porch, slowly growing closer.

“I’m sorry Patton, but it’s true. And don’t you love the truth?” the fire was around them, now, and it shone in Logan’s eyes, cold and uncaring.

He wasn’t like Patton remembered, full of life. He used to sing and dance among the other angels. He’d take care of the gardens and look over the fields, and they’d sit on the porch, watching the sunset whispering ‘i love you’ to each other.

But that wasn’t their life anymore.

“I do but-”

“Then stop lying!” Logan yelled. He stood there, then, eyes glowing with something Patton didn’t want to see.

Hatred.

His mind was half panicking about the rapidly advancing fire around him, but the rest of him wanted to yell, to scream, to speak, to say something.

But he didn’t.

He just stood there, watching as Logan turned around and walked into the flames, disappearing.

The fire suddenly died down, leaving it’s scorch marks behind.

He didn’t do anything, he just stood there, looking at the spot where Logan had disappeared, his eyes glossed over.

Then, abruptly, he turned around, and walked back into the house, where he had come from.

Logan was right. He didn’t love him.

And he never would.

[prolapsarian]

Notes to Sean Bonney (1969-2019)

The great ruse of our political epoch: Cameron, Osborne and Clegg, and their crows in press, scorched a set of oppositions in the minds of the people. The whole of society encapsulated in an image of “workers versus shirkers”, “strivers versus skivers.” The great tragedy of our political epoch: the Labour movement, the left, and the social democrats took the bait of these laminated ghouls. They responded simply by saying that there were no skivers: instead there was a worthy working class, labouring away ever harder, and getting ever poorer. They said the whole thing was a myth, that the shirkers were a phantom, a chimera, a scapegoat, an image invented by evil overlords to turn the working class against itself, leaving it prone to the ideologies of reaction. The labour movement talked instead only about the working poor, or the unemployed who wanted always to get back to a good job, on a good wage, forever and ever.

Few resisted the ruse, but Sean Bonney was one of them. Perhaps it was because Sean himself was a skiver, a drunk, a scoundrel, a villain, an addict, a down-and-out, a fuck up. More likely it was because of his deep political intuition and understanding. For him, the politics of class warfare was never about worthiness; it was never about what the working class deserve at the end of a hard day’s work, but instead its crucible was the hatred of the social conditions that pummelled people, silenced them, boxed them in, boxed them up, oppressed them, made them suffer. This politics was uncompromising because it understood that any compromise was a failure: there is no weekend that redeems the week, no pension that makes good on the life wrecked by the conformity and unfreedom of work.

I like to think of Sean as the thing that terrified those Tories most, as one of those beautiful creatures who so absolutely threatened them that they had to transfigure him into a phantom. His poetry too was one with this politics in this. Every line is written in solidarity with the shirking class, a class whose underground history crawls and stretches backwards, a perpetual dance, an unending squall, as anonymous as it is enormous. If Sean was a skiver he was also always hard at work, undertaking an immense labour of compression, in order to make that history heard. And this furious labour was quick and angular, because it always came with some sense that history was, already, ending. As a singular voice that resisted the ruse, his writing is one of the most important political efforts of our time.

o scroungers, o gasoline there’s a home for you here there’s a room for your things me, I like pills / o hell.

*** Since hearing of Sean’s death I have been thinking a lot about what I learnt from him. Learning is maybe a strange way to look at it. Because Sean’s poetry was not really so complicated. He stated unambiguous truths that we all knew and understood. Just like Brecht’s dictum in praise of communism: “It’s reasonable, and everyone understands it, it’s easy […] it is the simplicity, that’s hard to achieve.” This was the plane on which we met. All of us, Sean’s friends, comrades, loves, beloveds, others we did not know who all were invited, all in this common place where we know how simple these truths are, even if none of us were able to express them with such concision as Sean – even if we were all somehow less rehearsed, less prepared, less audacious. And suddenly I know it was a common place he made, wretched and hilarious.

*** So communism is simple. But running beneath all of Sean’s work was an unassuming argument, from which I have learned so much. Although argument was not his mode – his poems were always doing something, accusing but never prosecuting – an argument is there, even if it was exposed as a thesis in its own right. It is something so simple, easy, and so obvious that it barely seems worth saying. Sean’s poems made an argument for the enduring power of French symbolism – for a power that surged through history in the spirit of that movement. No surprise for a poet who rewrote Baudelaire and Rimbaud. But constantly a surprise to a world that thought that mode already dead, a world no longer animated by the literary symbol, nor transfixed by the resurrection any such symbols could herald. His writing followed the traces of this hyperhistory that wrapped around the world and back, from the high culture of decolonial revolutionism back in to cosmopolitan centre where bourgeois savages feast greedily on expropriated wares; into the dark sociality of the prison, and out again into every antisocial moment that we call “society”; sometimes making the earth small within a frozen cosmos ringing out noise as signal to nobody and everyone; sometimes bringing the whole cosmos in crystalline shape (sometimes perfect, sometimes fractured) as the sharpest interruption within the world - every poem charting a history stretched taut between uprisings and revolts. He knew the rites of symbols, the continuing practices with which their political power could be leveraged.

Sean was one of the few untimely symbolists of our time. His poems are full of these things: bombs, mouths, wires, bones, birds, walls, suns, etc - never quite concepts, never quite images, never quite objects, but pieces of the world to be taken up and arranged, half exploded, into accusations; treasured as partial and made for us to take as our own, a heritage of our own destruction, at once ready at hand, and scattered to the peripheries on a map of the universe, persistently spiralling, in points, back to the centre, some no place.

But if Sean was a symbolist, if he was attentive to its fugitive history, a slick and secret tradition of the oppressed, then this was also a symbolism without any luxuriant illusion. It is a symbolism in which all knowingness has been supplanted with fury and its movements. Sean’s poems are spleen without ideal. They have nothing of the pointed, almost screaming, eternal sarcasm of Baudelaire when he ever again finds the body of his beautiful muse as white and lifeless cold marble, utterly indifferent to the desirous gaze. There is no such muse, no callous petrified grimace, half terrified half laughing, ancient enough to unseat Hellenism itself - although there is beauty still but it exists otherwise, amid a crowd, darkened and lively. When I think of Sean’s monumental work I imagine an enormous bas-relief of black polished marble jutting out from some monstrously disproportioned body, angled between buildings. This great slab flashing black in the white noise of the city. This great slab as populous as the world. Flashing black and seen with the upturned gaze. There is no oppression without this terrified vision that sees in ever new sharpness the oppressor.

When you go to sleep, my gloomy beauty, below a black marble monument, when from alcove and manor you are reduced to damp vault and hollow grave; when the stone—pressing on your timorous chest and sides already lulled by a charmed indifference—halts your heart from beating, from willing, your feet from their bold adventuring, when the tomb, confidant to my infinite dream (since the tomb understands the poet always), through those long nights in which slumber is banished, will say to you: "What does it profit you, imperfect courtisan, not to have known what the dead weep for?" —And the worm will gnaw at your hide like remorse.

*** I haven’t explained what I learnt. I ask the question, What does it mean to find the late nineteenth century stillborn into the twenty-first? Why should these febrile years, from 1848 to the Commune have been so important? What was Sean leveraging when he recast our world with this moment of literary and political history? And what was he leveraging it against? I have a sense that what was important to Sean was a sense of mixedness. There were those who would read these years, after the defeat of revolution, as a dreadful winter of the world. There were those who saw only society in decline. “Jeremiads are the fashion”, Blanqui would say while counselling civil war. And then there were those for whom arcades first provided an extravagant ecstacy of distraction and glitz. These were the years of monstrocity, from Maldoror to Das Kapital. These years of the great machines that chewed up humans and spat out their remains across the city, of great humans who chewed up machines and made language anew. These years in which the fury of defeat burnt hot. These years of illumination. These years where gruesome metallic grinding and factory fire met the dandy. Few eras have been so mixed, so utterly undecided. No era so perfect to carve out the truly Dickensian physiognomy of Iain Duncan Smith. This was neither the stage of tragedy nor comedy, but of frivolous wickedness and hilarious turpitude. The world made into a barb, and no-one quite knowing who is caught on it. The great progress. The great stupidity. Street life. The symbol belonging to this undecided realm.

Marx was famously dismissive of that “social scum” the Lumpenproletariat, who he described at the beginning of this period as “vagabonds, discharged soldiers, discharged jailbirds, escaped galley slaves, swindlers, mountebanks, lazzaroni, pickpockets, tricksters, gamblers, maquereaux, brothel keepers, porters, literati, organ grinders, ragpickers, knife grinders, tinkers, beggars — in short, the whole indefinite, disintegrated mass, thrown hither and thither, which the French call la bohème.” Marx saw in these figures, in their Bonapartist, reactionary form, a bourgeois consciousness ripped from its class interest and thus nourished by purest political ideology. But if he could excoriate the drunkenness of beggars, Marx failed to appreciate its complement: the intoxication of sobriety of the working classes, the stupefaction in methodism, their imagined glory in progress. Wine, as the beggars already knew, was the only salve to the social anaesthetic of worthiness and the idiotic faith in work.

If Sean were here I’d want to talk to him about this learning in relation to a fragment by Benjamin, which he wrote as he thought about the world of Baudelaire; this world of mixedness of the city constructed and exploded, and the people within it subject to the same motion:

During the Baroque, a formerly incidental component of allegory, the emblem, undergoes extravagant development. If, for the materialist historian, the medieval origin of allegory still needs elucidation, Marx himself furnishes a clue for understanding its Baroque form. He writes in Das Kapital (Hamburg, 1922), vol. 1, p. 344: "The collective machine ... becomes more and more perfect, the more the process as a whole becomes a continuous one — that is, the less the raw material is interrupted in its passage from its first phase to its last; in other words, the more its passage from one phase to another is effected not only by the hand of man but by the machinery itself. In manufacture, the isolation of each detail process is a condition imposed by the nature of division of labor, but in the fully developed factory the continuity of those processes is, on the contrary, imperative." Here may be found the key to the Baroque procedure whereby meanings are conferred on the set of fragments, on the pieces into which not so much the whole as the process of its production has disintegrated. Baroque emblems may be conceived as half finished products which, from the phases of a production process, have been converted into monuments to the process of destruction. During the Thirty Years' War, which, now at one point and now at another, immobilized production, the "interruption" that, according to Marx, characterizes each particular stage of this labor process could be protracted almost indefinitely. But the real triumph of the Baroque emblematic, the chief exhibit of which becomes the death's head, is the integration of man himself into the operation. The death's head of Baroque allegory is a half-finished product of the history of salvation, that process interrupted — so far as this is given him to realize — by Satan.

I won’t pretend to know all of what Benjamin means here but I have some idea. And those last sentences terrify me. Modernity begins with a war that is a strike, one that repeats through history. And the shape of this strike, this war, this repetition, is the shape of detritus of production interrupted. We shift perspective and the machine is revealed as other than it was once imagined: it is not some factory churning out commodities, but a world theatre of soteriology. An exchange takes place: the half-finished product for the half-destroyed body. Although what is created (albeit as a “monument to the process of destruction”) is some monstrous combination of the two. One and the same seen with two different perspectives, and the two perspectives separated by the distance between the promise that production will be interrupted, in rhythmic repetition, and the force of the machine that completes the product, kills the body into it, sealing death perfectly within the commodity, as its catastrophe. This distance, a tropic on the edge of the end of the world, is Hell.

This is a lot. But maybe it gets close to what I learnt. That all those bombs, mouths, wires, bones, birds, walls, suns, etc were for Sean the emblemata of our political times. These are the monsters, half-finished, half-human, half-machine, the bird interrupting itself with a scream a silent as the cosmos once seemed. I don’t know if they are to be taken up as weapons in the battle for salvation, or as mere co-ordinates on the map of hell. But they are certainly potent, and set here in commitment to redemption, for the work of raising the dead. Sean’s writing was always ready for this task, in constant preparation, and in constant interruption. Its angles quickly pacing between the two.

This has become theologically ornate. But perhaps something of the point is clear: that in the symbolic realm of Sean’s language are staked the great theological and materialist battles of our age. He had to deep dig into our time for that, furrow and dig so deep that he found the nineteenth century still there, crawling everywhere, right up to us. And all of this was set, furiously, against a more everyday view that production has all but disappeared from sight: society fully administered slips across screens with nothing but a sense of speed and gloss. His poetry decries, digs into, a laminated world with which we are supposed to play but in which we are never supposed to participate, never mind to get drunk, see the truth, raise the dead, even now as they slip away ever further through the mediatized glare.

*** Are we not surrounded by those who cast spells? Sorcery is the fashion, if only for the blighted, the meek, the poor, the oppressed. And it would be easy to mistake what Sean was writing for just another piece of subaltern superstition; promising mighty power for as long as it remains utterly powerless and otherworldly. But this is not right. Seans symbols are not just any old sign, or signal, or sigil. They are not arcana, but materials taken to hand out of the dereliction of the present. They are certainly magic, just as Sean was certainly a seer. But this is a materialist magic, a fury, a joy. They are not drawn from some other mystical world, but from this one. And his magic was to suspend them between this world and the next, between law made in the mouths of a class who hated him, and justice. He saw more deeply than most of us dare, and invited us along. Invited everyone along, including the dead who will rise, even if we have to dig and dig and drag them out of the ground and through the streets, to show the world what streets are really for. Here in this common place, between buildings, together. This is the place of magic, for riots, for burning cars; here a wall, there a blazing comet. Let his poetry dance on, and we will dance on too.

[ren-val]

Depeche Mode - The Wheel (another one of my faves) just show me what you can do

“Im gonna do something short“ I said, you know, like a liar. I don’t have enough of these fools. And this time is not as angsty, but at the same time is harsher. I tried to convey all the emotions, and I just... wow, this is the kinda things Depeche Mode makes you do, right?

He was laying down in the bed, the room dark and cold, his hands still marked with the scorching ashes left by angelfire, his soul drained by the sheer magnitude of what he and Valerian had done.

“Ethan?“

His mind was too tired to even register the fact that he was not alone. That he had not been alone in years, that he was not alone when he killed his sire and drank his blood.

“Ethan, please answer me“

There was concern in that voice. The most sincere, sweet and disgusting form of concern. One that made him snarl and shiver. It almost made him puke, but he was no fledgling vampire anymore, if anything, those wild days of rebellion were over.

And it scared the shit out of him.

“What?“ 

He spitted towards the closed door.

He heard a sigh, one that made his heart ache. The sound of fingers touching the door, a forehead against the wood. The sounds of caring. Cloying and smothering and so, so very fragile. They make him feel nausea, and fear, and a thousand other things he wanted to burn and forget.

“I am worried about you. A lot”

Of course he was worried. Valerian was always worried. He didn’t understand why; things were simple. They had killed the wretched old pervert: Ethan had slashed his throat and then Valerian burned him to a crisp with angelfire. Simple. Extremely simple.

“I am fine”

He wasn’t. There was a void. A huge, gaping void where decades of hatred and minutes of joy had lived. It was going to eat his soul whole, but he didn’t care much. He wasn’t given much of a choice when born or raised or embraced, there had always been the desires of others…

“You are not. I know you’re not fine”

There it was, the desire to control, masquerading as caring. He had killed the fucker who had harmed him. And he was fine. He was tired of thinking, and of feeling that now he had no idea what to do and where to go. He was never someone of plans and ideas. That was for those who believed in some shit. Like Valerian.

“Oh yeah? How the fuck do you know?”

He growled and snarled, his eyes stinging from tears he didn’t want to shed. Tears that no one deserved. The old pervert was dead, and it what was mattered. That he had screamed in pain and yelled for mercy … but still dared to claim that all he had done was out of love. Disgusting. Pathetic. Revenge stained by a sliver of weakness.

Weakness, that’s what he felt when Valerian whispered behind the closed door. 

“Because you haven’t called me princess in days”

It was something stupid, small and ridiculous. But the tone in which Valerian spoke was not the whimper of a scorned puppy, but the clear voice of a darkborn. He was not begging for an explanation: he was telling a fact. It was a harsh reminder that, as much as Ethan liked to forget it, Valerian acted different with him.

“Why? Do you miss it? Ok princess, now leave me alone”

Ethan almost retched at the realization that he did not want to say that. He embraced the poison and weightlessness of his own words: he didn’t want Valerian to see him like that. He didn’t want anyone to care about him. He wanted to throw himself at the hands of fate, to give himself up in a plate so he could stop feeling so numb and hurt at the same time.

He heard Valerian sigh 

“Do you really want to be alone?”

It was another stupid question. So, so stupid it made him cry; Ethan did not know what to answer. He wanted to be alone so no one would see his weakness, he wanted to be with someone just to fight them and feel strong, but most of all, Ethan wanted the pain to stop. He wanted to feel as he did before, angry and full of life, eager for revenge and pain and pleasure. Anything but empty.

“I don’t fucking know”

He heard his own voice breaking. Pathetic. He slashed his lips with his fangs, biting down until a bloodied whimper escaped from his mouth. He had his revenge, the fucker was dead, and all he was feeling was emptiness: he had killed his sire, as he had killed other bastards before. But those were the bastards who had accepted him somehow, and it was the man who said that loved him, that had always loved him.

He heard nothing, and for a moment he thought Valerian had left him alone, and instead of feeling relieved, he felt abandoned. And then heartbroken. And then angry at himself for even thinking Valerian would really care for his weakness. He felt the mental lash of insults and hatred flaying his psyche; the names, the humiliations, the violations…

“You don’t deserve this pain”

He raised his face and focused for a moment: Valerian was still behind the door, crying.

“You have not done anything that made you deserve it”

It was just a whisper, but something in those words hit him harder than any scream, than any insult, than any snarl or moan. Ethan tried to speak, but nothing came out but a strangled cry. The taste of his own blood numbing his tongue and his senses. His tears felt like molten light across his cheeks, and for a second he thought they would scar him.

“How do you know?”

In spite of his pain, he stood up, trying to breathe and to stand up as usual, even if everything felt as if made of shattered glass. He barely managed to sit in the bed, looking at the door and trying to not become undone. He wanted to close the door forever; he wanted Valerian to leave, even if he knew that would throw him into a bottomless pit of despair.

“Because you had countless chances to show your true nature, and you have only shown bravery, passion an-”

“NO”

His was the roar of a wounded beast, full of pain and terror. His broken voice even hoarser now more than ever, and his tears falling freely; as if everything in him has been transmuted into pain.

“It was all a lie. All of it. There is no shit like that. I am nothing like that. There is something bad in me. I cannot be loved. I am bad. And weak. And stupid. Worthless. I am worthless and everyone hates me but not if I HATE THEM FIRST”

His last roars were marked by the pain of his nails slashing his own skin. More of his own blood filling the air, now mixed with the holy scent of ashes and the salty tang of tears. he wanted to disappear, but he also wanted to go outside and run. He wanted to open the door and kiss Valerian, and he also wanted to make him go away forever. But instead of that, Ethan cried, each small gesture a source of suffering, all emotions becoming pain. 

“And you are the worst of all, Valerian” He cursed “You care and you listen and you make me think that things can be different. You behave like you’re the best, when you’re the fucking worst that has ever happened to me. I was fine until you decided to come into my life. I was fine until you started to fucking care”

Because that was the main problem, he thought: one day he was a rebel and a jerkass, and after one night he had become a part of something. He had started to think about someone else instead of just going along the motions. In each drop of blood was the realization that this was the first time in his life as an embraced that he had trusted someone who was not the fucking pervert. And that felt awful.

“You can leave if you wish”

Once more, the cold finality of Valerian’s voice startled him. There was the strained tone of tears, and there was no signal that the darkborn had moved. Until the unmistakable sounds of steps turning away from the door caused Ethan to panic; the surge of fear and hatred turning inwards, his inner monologue becoming a tattered mess of pleas and promises. Trembling, he stood up and opened the door aggressively, expecting the worst.

In the middle of the corridor, looking at him through a silent veil of tears, was Valerian. His face marked by sadness and ashes, somehow more angelic and dirty than ever before. The sight almost made Ethan roar in anger, but he was not able, too lost in the look of infinite sadness and worry that marked the face of his companion.

“Why do you hate me so much?”

His question sounded like a whine instead of a proper sentence. But it was sincere, it was the main and almost only thought in his mind. Because he felt as if Valerian did, as if he wanted him gone, as if he didn’t care at all, as if anything Ethan ever did was not good enough. He hated the darkborn, and he also didn’t want him to ever, ever leave.

“I have never hated you Ethan”

“Then why the fuck do you want me to leave?” He scoffed

Valerian shook his head “I do not want you to leave. I want…” He paused for a moment, sighing deeply “I want you to be happy, I want you to be free. I want you to be you”

Ethan looked down, more confused than ever “And who the fuck am I?”

He pressed his back to the wall, all anger and fury dissolving like ash in the rain. All of the things that had happened were barely dawning on his head, his body battered by both battle and emotional onslaught. He asked a question for which he had no answer, not even a simple glimpse of an idea. He looked into the room, seeing the portrait of himself that Valerian had put there in lieu of a mirror, and laughed bitterly.

“Ethan, you are an embraced. Brave, passionate, and courageous.”

“I don’t feel like anything of what you’ve said” He declared “I don’t feel like anything, really. Whoever you’re talking about wanted to live and get revenge on a fucking weirdo who did bad things to him. Me? I have no idea who I am.     Except that I am a worthless son of a bitch who somehow tricked you into this shitstorm”

The void in his heart returned, but subdued and less painful. As if a great weight had been lifted from his chest; and even if the distraught gestured of Valerian made him nervous, he felt way better, even if he felt empty. He said no more, and neither did the darkborn. Instead they just looked at each other, longing for an answer that neither had.

“I do not know what to do to help you” Valerian admitted, as if in pain.

“It’s not like you can actually do it, but...” he wondered, too tired to even gather a coherent thought “I prefer you controlling things, when you are behind all of this, instead of me. At least for now, I’m going cheap”

Ethan opened his arms, both as a way to release and as an invitation, and Valerian took it. They embraced, as closely as they could, still surrounded by confusion and pain and emptiness, but at least together. There were no answers, and a lot of questions in the air, but it felt as if a storm had been pushed for another day. A catastrophe averted by virtue of exhaustion on one part, and compassion on the other.

“We better try to sleep, it is almost dawn and you have been going around since sundown”

“Sure. Just… drive, pull my strings, tell me what the hell to do. I don’t know anything, except that I am yours to keep, princess”

Valerian sighed, almost smiling, and in their shared embrace, carried him to bed.

[mariana--diaz]

ITS MARIANA the vixen BITCH!!!

Full Name: Mariana Díaz

Faceclaim: Ester Expósito

Age: 17

DOB: August 8

Year in school: Junior

Gender: Cisfemale

Pronouns: She/her

Side of Normal: South Side

Worst fears: Being unloveable

Milkshake order: Dark chocolate cherry - with extra chocolate chips

biography {mentions of death, sexual content and violence}

Everyone at Normal Secondary School knows Mariana Díaz. If they don’t know her personally, they’ve seen her strutting through the halls and they’ve heard the whispers of her escapades within the boys’ locker room. She’s the one you should keep your boyfriend away from. The girl who can shatter a relationship with a quick wink or a well-shot snapchat. Of course, Mariana hasn’t always had this reputation. It’s relatively new, and if you ask anyone in school about Mariana’s past before this year, most wouldn’t be able to place her. Had she been a transfer? There’s no possible way she grew up in Normal, not with that body, those eyes. She would’ve been noticed. Right?

The truth is, Mariana was born and raised in Normal. Originally on the Northside, in a cute house with a white picket fence and three bedrooms for the brothers and sisters she never had. Her parents always wanted a bit of an age gap between their kids, if only to make it easier on them. It’s hell, raising toddlers at the same time. And before her parents could even consider having their next child, her father was taken from the world. He was a truck driver and had an accident on the road. Mariana found out at school, in third grade, when she was pulled out of class by a solemn-looking front desk attendant. Her world had been shattered that day, and forever changed

Mariana had never been close to her mother. No she and her father had a much stronger bond. And when he was gone, things between the two Díaz women grew ever more distant. Money became tight, her mother was barely home due to the incredibly long nursing shifts she’d pick up in order to make ends meet. The two ended up having to move out, and into an apartment on the Southside. Mariana became quiet, someone you wouldn’t notice. At least for her formative years. She blended into the background, sat at the end of the lunch table and ate quietly in peace. Teachers chalked it up to grief. But it was more, it was an absolute hatred of her life.

To escape she read. Books of adventure, of love. She dreamed she was those girls who were swept away in an epic love story. And because she didn’t receive that love from home, she searched for it other places. Her promiscuity began in high school, at a party. She had put on a short skirt, straightened her hair, and it was simple, nice. She had gotten the attention of a rather drunk football player, all while standing against a wall watching everyone else in the room. When the two escaped to a room and he called her beautiful while also forcing her hand between his legs, she let it happen. Because at least for that short amount of time, she was all he was thinking about.

It continued that way. Boys called her easy. It wasn’t dates to Marie’s Diner that she was getting, instead, a quick drive to the empty school parking lot for hookups. Maybe if she was lucky, 20 minutes of a movie at The Sunset Drive-In before lips found their way on her neck. Regardless of their destination, she’d never end up outside of the car. She knew they were just using her, but the high she got when they moaned out her name was always the same. It’s why she kept coming back. Of course, she thought the Alberonie boy would be different. He wasn’t, he was a boy after all. But he did give her something none of the other boys had given her before. Power.

The transformation happened overnight. Mariana woke up with beautiful silky hair, a body that was thin and fit and didn’t require her to break a sweat in order to keep. She watched hours of makeup tutorials online in order to learn how to achieve the perfect cat eye, to know exactly where to place her highlight for maximum dewiness. Red lipstick became her armor. When she walked into school, she wasn’t just noticed, she was desired. By every boy, she passed, by some girls as well. Students who never batted an eye at her, now wanted her to sit at their lunch table. So what if this newfound popularity came with some costs. The loss of her oldest friend and the need to suck boys dry? Fucking worth it.

headcanons

headcanon 001: Mariana’s body is physically perfect, aside from the small scar on her abdomen. It’s from the night of her transformation, from the shard that boy pierced her skin with. She’s made up numerous lies about how she got it but Mariana doesn’t hate the scar. If anything, it reminds her of who she was, and who she’s become.

headcanon 002: For Mariana, sex is more than a few minutes of intense passion. Of course, she enjoys that part, but it’s not why she craves it. The girl who was always deprived of attention growing up absolutely needs it now. And sex is that for her. It’s the one moment where she knows she’s the only thing on someone’s mind. She can’t second guess their want or need for her because their body says it all.

headcanon 003: Romance isn’t what you think of when you think of Mariana, but deep down she does crave love. True love. She’s just cynical enough to know it’s probably not something that will happen for her. Lust has always been the emotion she’s most familiar with and after her transformation, she’s pretty sure it’s the only emotion she’ll receive from here on out. But she’s fine with that, it makes things all the more simple.

headcanon 004: At first Mariana felt a sense of regret and shame wash over her when she first fed. Aside from the fact that drinking the blood of another person is just absolutely disgusting to think about, the idea that she almost killed someone was truly horrifying. But as the days progressed, the hunger building, she came to terms with it. Maybe that was just what she needed to do to survive. And it’s not like the world was very kind to her, so why should she be kind to it?

headcanon 005: Mariana has learned to use her body to get what she wants. And material things are always nice. She doesn’t have much, and why work for it when she can just get things handed over to her after a few nudes or simple dates? She never thought she’d be actually considering the life of a sugar baby, but when hot rich men want to take you out and spoil you, why not let them? And if they’re pieces of shit? She’d just kill them.

other information

as previously mentioned - she likes dick

but also ladies are pretty and this bitch doesn’t discriminate as long as you just give her some damn fucking attention

has eye liner so sharp she can cut a man

is the epitome of the ‘kisses your neck while my liquid lipstick is still wet so everyone KNOWS” text

is the queen of thirst traps, literally try her

sells her nudes because she can

has been feeling a lil murderous lately so as long as you stay on her good side you’ll probs get off without being sucked dry, but if you’re on her shit list watch out

probs has just been making her way through men that the world doesn’t really need, cause at least she can use her power for good you know?

[properprocedure]

i just need to talk about something for a sec because it’s so important to me and it really speaks to who chloe is as a person and a character and that something is this:

it’s at the end of 4x09, and presumably the first time chloe’s seeing lucifer’s devil face since their fight in 4x03 but definitely the first time she’s seeing him in full devil form—and i really don’t think she can help the fact that it still scares her. because it’s pretty much canon that lucifer’s devil form is a manifestation of his own self-hatred. it’s him becoming the monster he believes he is deep down, and that monster exists to terrorize humanity. 

i theorize the aura of charm and magnetism that surrounds lucifer in human-passing (angel?) form completely inverts when he’s in devil form. it repels people instead of drawing them in, provokes fear instead of desire, triggers the human instinct to flee, etc.

i mean, the only humans we see react to lucifer’s devil face without fear are malcolm and eve, and they’re both exceptional cases. everyone else he reveals it to mcfuckin LOSES IT no matter how well they know him, and i think that lends a lot of credence to the idea that lucifer’s whole aura radiates something ominous and threatening, and it’s coming from a being so ancient that it triggers the most primal human survival instincts.

so going with that theory, chloe reacts to lucifer’s devil’s face the only way an average human can react to it. every alarm bell goes off because it’s supposed to go off. her lizard brain perceives danger and tells her to grab her offspring and fucking run, just get as far away as possible. i don’t think she fully understands that impulse until she understands where his devil face is coming from. 

but this moment. 

this moment. 

this isn’t just chloe stopping to compose herself. she’s stopping to check her instinct to run because by this time, she’s been working on overcoming that fear. she’s reminding herself that no matter what he looks like, he’s is still lucifer, and unlike the last time she saw his devil face, he’s confessing his thoughts and making himself vulnerable. 

that vulnerability is the last piece chloe needs to tame her terrified lizard brain. she’s only seen him that way while surrounded by bodies, or when he’s angry and trying to intimidate her more than she already is to prove his point. but this is the moment she connects the man to the mask and realizes he’s been making all of this about her when it’s really about him. 

so she stops, and she tells her fear to fuck off because her friend is in pain and maybe she can help him. chloe fights back her own innate human response to lucifer’s devil face because he’s worth the trouble for her. (just like they’ve always been worth the trouble to one another.) 

and it’s all the more powerful, i think, that there’s nothing easy about what they both have to go through to mend the bridge. because deep down this show is about mental illness and the road to recovery and the fact is there is nothing easy about therapy and processing trauma and working on oneself to become a better, healthier person. 

lucifer thinks chloe’s love and acceptance will cure him, but that’s not how it works, and he’s devastated when chloe doesn’t immediately accept him because he was banking everything on her opinion of him. chloe gets caught up in how it’s all affecting her (because it has affected her, and that’s valid) and (like eve) she tries to push her image of lucifer onto him, thinking it’ll make him happy. but that’s not how it works either. 

i’ve rarely (if ever) seen such an honest narrative about mental illness and personal recovery. i’ve been on both sides of this, i’ve hurt people while at my worst and been hurt by others while they were in their own worst places. both sides are valid in their emotions but they don’t always handle them well. we see a lot of that on this show and it’s important. 

anyway, i love chloe decker. i love that she recognizes when she isn’t the friend lucifer needs and backs off to work on processing her own side of things. i love that recognizing her emotions doesn’t magically make them go away. i love that she had such a raw reaction to the truth instead of instantly embracing it because it would’ve felt so trite compared to the conscious effort chloe puts into understanding and embracing lucifer as the complex person he is, and learns appreciate all of him instead of just the parts she finds easily palatable. 

[marianaxdiaz]

ITS MARIANA the vixen BITCH!!!

Full Name: Mariana Díaz

Faceclaim: Ester Expósito

Age: 17

DOB: August 8

Year in school: Junior

Gender: Cisfemale

Pronouns: She/her

Side of Normal: South Side

Worst fears: Being unloveable

Milkshake order: Dark chocolate cherry - with extra chocolate chips

biography {mentions of death, sexual content and violence}

Everyone at Normal Secondary School knows Mariana Díaz. If they don’t know her personally, they’ve seen her strutting through the halls and they’ve heard the whispers of her escapades within the boys’ locker room. She’s the one you should keep your boyfriend away from. The girl who can shatter a relationship with a quick wink or a well-shot snapchat. Of course, Mariana hasn’t always had this reputation. It’s relatively new, and if you ask anyone in school about Mariana’s past before this year, most wouldn’t be able to place her. Had she been a transfer? There’s no possible way she grew up in Normal, not with that body, those eyes. She would’ve been noticed. Right?

The truth is, Mariana was born and raised in Normal. Originally on the Northside, in a cute house with a white picket fence and three bedrooms for the brothers and sisters she never had. Her parents always wanted a bit of an age gap between their kids, if only to make it easier on them. It’s hell, raising toddlers at the same time. And before her parents could even consider having their next child, her father was taken from the world. He was a truck driver and had an accident on the road. Mariana found out at school, in third grade, when she was pulled out of class by a solemn-looking front desk attendant. Her world had been shattered that day, and forever changed

Mariana had never been close to her mother. No she and her father had a much stronger bond. And when he was gone, things between the two Díaz women grew ever more distant. Money became tight, her mother was barely home due to the incredibly long nursing shifts she’d pick up in order to make ends meet. The two ended up having to move out, and into an apartment on the Southside. Mariana became quiet, someone you wouldn’t notice. At least for her formative years. She blended into the background, sat at the end of the lunch table and ate quietly in peace. Teachers chalked it up to grief. But it was more, it was an absolute hatred of her life.

To escape she read. Books of adventure, of love. She dreamed she was those girls who were swept away in an epic love story. And because she didn’t receive that love from home, she searched for it other places. Her promiscuity began in high school, at a party. She had put on a short skirt, straightened her hair, and it was simple, nice. She had gotten the attention of a rather drunk football player, all while standing against a wall watching everyone else in the room. When the two escaped to a room and he called her beautiful while also forcing her hand between his legs, she let it happen. Because at least for that short amount of time, she was all he was thinking about.

It continued that way. Boys called her easy. It wasn’t dates to Marie’s Diner that she was getting, instead, a quick drive to the empty school parking lot for hookups. Maybe if she was lucky, 20 minutes of a movie at The Sunset Drive-In before lips found their way on her neck. Regardless of their destination, she’d never end up outside of the car. She knew they were just using her, but the high she got when they moaned out her name was always the same. It’s why she kept coming back. Of course, she thought the Alberonie boy would be different. He wasn’t, he was a boy after all. But he did give her something none of the other boys had given her before. Power.

The transformation happened overnight. Mariana woke up with beautiful silky hair, a body that was thin and fit and didn’t require her to break a sweat in order to keep. She watched hours of makeup tutorials online in order to learn how to achieve the perfect cat eye, to know exactly where to place her highlight for maximum dewiness. Red lipstick became her armor. When she walked into school, she wasn’t just noticed, she was desired. By every boy, she passed, by some girls as well. Students who never batted an eye at her, now wanted her to sit at their lunch table. So what if this newfound popularity came with some costs. The loss of her oldest friend and the need to suck boys dry? Fucking worth it.

headcanons

headcanon 001: Mariana’s body is physically perfect, aside from the small silver scar on her abdomen. It’s from the night of her transformation, from the shard that boy pierced her skin with. She’s made up numerous lies about how she got it but Mariana doesn’t hate the scar. If anything, it reminds her of who she was, and who she’s become.

headcanon 002: For Mariana, sex is more than a few minutes of intense passion. Of course, she enjoys that part, but it’s not why she craves it. The girl who was always deprived of attention growing up absolutely needs it now. And sex is that for her. It’s the one moment where she knows she’s the only thing on someone’s mind. She can’t second guess their want or need for her because their body says it all.

headcanon 003: Romance isn’t what you think of when you think of Mariana, but deep down she does crave love. True love. She’s just cynical enough to know it’s probably not something that will happen for her. Lust has always been the emotion she’s most familiar with and after her transformation, she’s pretty sure it’s the only emotion she’ll receive from here on out. But she’s fine with that, it makes things all the more simple.

headcanon 004: At first Mariana felt a sense of regret and shame wash over her when she first fed. Aside from the fact that drinking the blood of another person is just absolutely disgusting to think about, the idea that she almost killed someone was truly horrifying. But as the days progressed, the hunger building, she came to terms with it. Maybe that was just what she needed to do to survive. And it’s not like the world was very kind to her, so why should she be kind to it?

headcanon 005: Mariana has learned to use her body to get what she wants. And material things are always nice. She doesn’t have much, and why work for it when she can just get things handed over to her after a few nudes or simple dates? She never thought she’d be actually considering the life of a sugar baby, but when hot rich men want to take you out and spoil you, why not let them? And if they’re pieces of shit? She’d just kill them.

other information

as previously mentioned - she likes dick

but also ladies are pretty and this bitch doesn’t discriminate as long as you just give her some damn fucking attention

has eye liner so sharp she can cut a man

is the epitome of the ‘kisses your neck while my liquid lipstick is still wet so everyone KNOWS” text

is the queen of thirst traps, literally try her

sells her nudes because she can 

has been feeling a lil murderous lately so as long as you stay on her good side you’ll probs get off without being sucked dry, but if you’re on her shit list watch out

probs has just been making her way through men that the world doesn’t really need, cause at least she can use her power for good you know?

[stedes-black-bonnet]

My Baby Does Me: Chapter 31

POV: John Deacon x reader

Notes: Ongoing fic, my dudes. Output has slowed but not stopped! No fear! Life is slowing down progress but not stopping it.

Warnings: swearing?

Abstract: Fushimi Inari Taisha

-------------------------------------------------

Lydia didn’t know what had gotten into her lately. Well, she had an idea, she had a notion, but it seemed entirely unlikely. The color “orange” had gotten into her. And “purple.” A couple of colors of all things. Fuck me, she thought. She never thought she’d see the day when colors would dominate her life. Especially those two in particular.

I mean, worshiping someone from a far was completely different than falling in love with them in person, after meeting them, after fucking them in their red sports car; this color she at least knew and thought of as a friend. It is the little things you find yourself not expecting, Lydia pondered. Especially with sexual encounters; she did as much as she could to experience a variety liaisons with anybody who was willing--male or female--because sex, on the whole, was the same with everybody, but it was the finesse and eccentricities of any particular person that made it special, profound, and captivating. And any artist lived to collect experiences. Love, she thought, was like the spectrum of light she couldn’t see. So, even if her colors were always gendered for her, she never thought of love in such simplistic, binary terms.

She adjusted her raspberry beret, carrying her painting supplies up the five story walk-up she shared with you. It was, in fact, one of the colors she could see. Lydia had tritanopia, which was a fancy-ass way of saying she was colorblind; she couldn’t tell the difference, on the main, between yellow and blue (which also meant green was fucked over by proxy). Everything in her world was a mess of reds, pinks, mauves, light blues, teals, and dark blues; all colors for her were traditional boy/girl gender markers; the irony of such, especially regarding her sexual proclivities, you never let her forget. This made being a visual artist something of a challenge, but Lydia liked challenges--in fact she thrived off of them. And, well, Roger Taylor was quite the unexpected challenge. He was a man full of color and light, and she was a color-blind artist who painted in monotones. They were inherently incompatible from page one. And yet...and yet...she was entirely drawn to him. Maybe even in ways she couldn’t yet express. But she was on her way to doing so: the colors.

She had thought she was up to the task though, or that's what she had committed to until she had started her most recent project. That’s when the confusion had seeped into her life--the colors. She had been working on a harsh landscape--all of her landscapes looked harsh and science-fiction-esque; there was something about bleeding all the color from a setting when the color was supposed to be there that made the setting feel, well, unsettling. Lydia had a perchance for putting people on edge, keeping them on their toes, making them intimidated; it was the best way to test them. Trying to push someone away and seeing if they chase you is the best way to see if they’ll stick around, she thought. It perhaps wasn’t the most upfront, honest, or genuine tactic, but it had merits all its own in other regards. Either way, she was young, hot, and determined to do whatever she wanted, which is more or less exactly what she did. Especially regarding her art. She couldn’t experience most colors like everyone else around her could, indeed, like most artists could. Instead of it being her Achilles heel, she decided to make it her sword. She’d cut color out of her art and do things her own way. She’d empower herself to create what she wanted. But now, unexpectedly, what she wanted was two colors she couldn’t see.

At the door to your apartment, she took out her crown key chain and unlocked the door. She scrambled inside, carrying an odd assortment of shopping bags full of items she usually didn’t buy. Most of them were full of paint, but they weren’t blacks, and whites, and greys: they were full of colors, most of which she couldn’t really correctly see. “Orange,” a thing she understood as a concept only, had been very appealing to her lately. One bag was full of every “shade” “orange” had to offer. It didn’t even matter to her most of the shades looked pink to her; to someone else, they’d be “orange” and they’d be strikingly powerful, a blow to the gut, putting your fist in a vat of hot oil. The rest were shades of “purple.” A literal mess of colors for her. A mess she intended to whip into a frenzy.

This wasn’t typical. This sort of dive into color was abnormal, and when she had attempted it in the past, it was something that had made her feel bitter towards painters who could see color and who used them like it was no big deal, without careful appreciation, or consideration for those who couldn’t. The old grudges were the hardest to overcome. And because she couldn’t or wouldn’t forgive, she would paint those feelings and resentments into her art. It was, after all, the best revenge.

That was, until Roger Taylor, however. Because now, all she could think about was the entire world of color to which she was mostly blind. The entire world of color that was so vital to who Roger was as a person and to understanding who he was as a person. What she had gained from their limited conversations was his absolute obsession with color and art. He had no idea she was colorblind, so he had had no idea he was making her feel an uncomfortable mixture of jealousy and fiery hatred; the overwhelming and, frankly, attractive passion with which he spoke of his home, his clothes, and his vast collections of artworks had diffused and tempered her own indignation into something resembling a very specific form of arousal. She was turned on, for the most part, by passion. As long as someone had passion in something, for something, it made her insatiably aroused. Anger could also be an aphrodisiac, and quite the powerful one at that. When mixed together, well, that created the scene between them that had transpired in his Alfa Romeo. All passion and anger linked together with consent and desire. They were colors mixing, but even when Lydia mixed colors, they weren’t always logical or beautiful.   

John Deacon was thinking about Roger’s words. He couldn’t process them, or their power; they kept rocking back, like waves, hitting him again and again. “Replacing Veronica already, mate?” Every time he thought he had found his footing, another wave would hit him, bringing him back perpetually to that moment in time. He’d sink into the ocean that was his Roger’s words, and drown. He couldn’t come up for air. But air was all he wanted. He couldn’t move from his chair. Stuck between a wave and a hard sentence.

He was no stranger to being helplessly stuck in a moment in time. In fact, the past three years had been an elaborate exercise in either denying his present or relying way too much on his past. There were nights, when he’d close his eyes, and snuggle into bed, that he was brought back to her again, against his will. Suddenly, he’d be shoved into Veronica’s funeral, forced to relive every detail in technicolor. He’d be made to hear about her death--being summed to the hospital; these moments returned to him when he least expected it like a long lost friend. In a very real sense, however, she was a long lost friend. It was easier to think of her at times as if she had gone on an extended vacation. This wasn’t helpful, perhaps, in terms of realty and acceptance, but when things had been fresh, and the raw wounds still ripe with red aching, it was easier to think of her hidden away some place he could visit, in some pocket of reality only he could access. A place just for them.

Those words, however, weren’t anything he wanted to revisit; being ceaselessly rocked back into memory wasn’t enjoyable for him, and it may never be again. She was there.

She was always there.

Always in his memory, and distance and time, being what they were, would inevitably switch those glass-hardened memories, specific pinpricks of pain, each targeted just for him, into shimmering translucence only vaguely having to do with the shape of her death. Every memory now was of her death. The day they met--it had been raining, her death was there waiting for them; when they shared their first, hesitant kiss, her death was there waiting for them; the first time they had made love, her death was watching from the corner; on their wedding day, her death was there, too. Every hard fact, every stone-cold truth had been painted diaphanous, rendered useless with a milky opalescence, a thickly painted layer called the certitude of her pending death. This fact followed him around day in and day out. He had almost become used to it. But, then, you had come into his life, and something ineffable had shifted in his heart.

“Replacing Veronica already, mate?” had been the linchpin of some seismic change within John Deacon, however. His hand tightened around yours.

Roger, it seemed, had caused, whether intentionally or not, certain unexpected changes for the people in his life he cared for most.

Lydia had been removing pell-mell paintings from her bedroom walls. Hoisting them under her arms, she’d walk them to her studio near the opposite side of the apartment. All she could think about was the color “orange.” Or, as she liked to think of it, “light red.” She knew the concept wasn’t perfect, she could point out “orange” for you if asked; she could show you the Fushimi Inari Shrine, and go “orange.” Though this wasn’t something she knew with her eyes like everyone else; this was something she knew because she had been told. There was a distinct pedagogical difference here. One was gifted from experience, the other from trusting someone else. Color for her was simultaneously trust and resentment.

That hard-earned talent of color identification had been learned from practice and something that could only be described as being tired of being mocked. She learned your colors to save face, to blend in, to assimilate.

Roger had changed some of this for her, however. “Orange” was a whole new concept now. And something called “Purple.” Roger was obsessed with the color she knew best as an odd teal, or sometimes a sharp pink depending on saturation and light. It was hard to discuss a color that was certain with others and definitely only one color in their minds: purple. When in hers it could dance between two different colors that made no sense to anyone else when she tried to describe them. Purple sauntered between two colors for her. A delicate balance always ready to tip at the flick of a wrist. Could be teal, could be pink. Life for Lydia was a mixed-bag, a guessing game. Good thing she liked games.

John Deacon usually liked games. This one, whatever Roger was playing at, however, he didn’t care for. At all. It made his stomach seize and his heart squirm.

“He didn’t mean it.” You said, squeezing his hand back. Your intuition told you something was wrong with Roger, and you wouldn’t back down from what you did, but you also knew standing up for him and looked like attacking him. He needed reminding, and quick what real sacrifice looked like before he did something, said something he could never take back. So, standing up for Deacy had been oddly also trying to stand up for Roger, and not just standing up to him. You had a sneaky suspicion standing up to Roger would always go hand in hand with something else.

“He did.” Deacy said, quietly, confusedly.

“There’s no way that man, who did for you what he did, meant what he said.” You explained.

“I think Y/N has the right path here, darling.” Freddie said. “People, even people you love, especially people you love, really, can say things they don’t mean. Terrible words that curse you to the spot; it doesn’t excuse it, but--”

“It is hard to reconcile those words with how much Rog cares for you.” Brian said, leaning forward. “It isn’t impossible, though. He loved Veronica so much, Deacy.”

“We all did.” Miami said, passing the waiter a 50 pound note when he returned with a round of martinis. “You know Roger...he’s all hot air and impulse.” He slyly sipped his drink, gazing at Deacy over it. “It is always a coin toss what comes out of his mouth.”

“Unpredictable.” Brain said, nodding in agreement.

“He loves you.” You said, trying to convey with your eyes what you words were failing to do.

“I’ve seen him say a lot of things, do a lot of questionable things, but he was…” Deacy said, trying to find the words again.

“Different?” Brian offered.

“Offensive?” Freddie tossed in.

“A fuckwad?” Miami posited.

“Undeniably all three?” Deacy laughed. The tension in the room slipped a bit with that laugh. You all sipped your drinks, trying to settle in and settle down. “Roger and I will have to deal with that later--in our own way.” He left it at that. “Though, should we make sure he’s okay?”

Deacy’s generosity was unparalleled. He had just been dressed down publicly by his best friend, and yet he still was able to scrape up some concern for the man; it made you love him even more. If the shoe was on the other foot, and if your outburst had been any indication, you weren’t sure you’d be able to locate a modicum of compassion for the man.

“Jim will keep him safe,” Freddie said, raising an eyebrow, “That or murder him; really hard to tell which at this point.”

“I’ve always liked Jim.” Miami remarked. “How about business?”

“Oh, shouldn’t we wait for Rog?” Freddie looked concerned about making such a decision without him.

“I think I can speak for him.” Brian retorted lightly.

“I don’t doubt that.” Miami said. He turned to you, “We weren’t introduced, I think. Before you punched my multi-million dollar-worth drummer.”

“Right.” You said. “Y/N L/N.” You held your hand out to Miami.

“Jim Beach.” He gave you his hand. It was soft, lotion-ed, rich. “Though, they call me Miami.”

“I’ve never met a place before. Charmed!” You simpered.

“Hmm. So, Y/N, what are you doing here tonight?” Never one to mince words, Miami was a go big or go home, come hard or not at all kind of guy. It was the lawyer in him. He knew how to use words to get what he wanted.

“I was invited here...I guess I’m not really sure why…?” You looked suddenly at Deacy then; it was an odd choice for a first date, now that you were thinking about it.

“I want her to play on the album.” Deacy said.

-------------------------------

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