#but will still rattle and clank delightfully when he moves

[shtern-and-art]

Yves Saint Hallow from the amazing fic Rocks Give Way To Rain by @ekhosays-rocksgivewaytorain

[bang-to-the-tan]

Moth to Flame

Chapter 12

Reader x OT7

► Vampire!AU

Smut/Porn With Some Plot

Warnings: Reference to Sexual Scenes, Slight Stockholm Syndrome?, Vampires (Biting, Blood-Sucking, Reference to Death), Language

↳ Summary: Robbed of your memories and intended as a birthday present for a deadly creature of the night, you unwittingly become the center of a territorial dispute between two covens of vampires. Tensions are rising and the brothers are getting hungry…

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You find it impossible to mark the passage of time.

Namjoon is gracious enough to allow you a shower before bed (the first time you can recall bathing alone), and by the time you return, staggering and stumbling for the beating you’ve taken, the sheets are clean and the vampire is gone. When you wake up, tangled in blankets that smell too much like him and still wearing the towel, you have no idea whether its daytime, nighttime, early or late. Not that it really matters. Namjoon’s bathrobe swallows you whole in deep navy fluff when you tug it over your naked body, snatching it off a nearby hat rack. Even so, it’s more than nothing, and you are in no way going to put on that jizz-crusted hoodie ever again. You simply pull the ties extra-tight around your waist, pushing the sleeves up as much as you can, wandering out to the main living room. There’s coffee on the bar and the house is seemingly empty, traffic outside occasionally lending itself to a faint, ambient roar.

In a daze, wincing every time you move your legs a certain way, you reach for a nearby mug and pour yourself a cup of what tastes like jet fuel, doing your best to massage the encroaching headache out of your temples. A slip of paper on the counter, written in a lanky, heavy script, tells you that Yoongi is still technically, probably, home—but busy, so try not to ‘bother him’ unless you ‘need him’—in the spare room. Hoseok is at his yoga class. You scowl even at just the sight of his name. You hope he trips over a mat and chokes on his own tongue. Dick.

Namjoon is ‘out’, whatever that means, as shady as that sounds. But he’ll be back by 12, says the note. You glance up to squint at the gritty, green analog clock built into the tiny stove, and it reads 11:37. Great. You slept through most of the potential alone time you could have had…although, do you really want alone time?

You aren’t sure what you want. Could try to run for it. With no idea where you are, clad in an oversized robe, by all accounts smelling like the bloodsucker equivalent of a watering hole in a desert, fighting a monster of a headache. Right.

The couch sags invitingly when you throw yourself at it, and the tv crackles a little when you flick it on with the remote sitting on the end table. Huh. The vampires have Netflix. Who would have guessed. You take another sip of the nastiest, strongest, almost-cold cup of joe you’re pretty sure you’ve ever tasted, sifting through channels and shows before finally settling on some cop drama. Nothing cerebral, just a time killer. The beginnings of that headache has, over just the time you’ve spent meandering, multiplied into something searing, pounding through your eye sockets and straight for the back of your skull. It would make sense for you to be hungry, and you almost consider it, but at this point, you’re hurting so badly that the thought of food has your stomach doing backflips. You end up sprawled on the sofa, pressing a pillow to your face, ignoring the light scent of Hoseok’s body wash and wishing ill on anyone who’s ever so much as looked at you.

“Migraine?”

You stiffen, clutching the pillow closer. It’s difficult to resist the urge to clamp your aching legs shut, but you resist anyway, filled with violent promises at the thought of the owner of that gravelly tone even so much as hinting at doing anything funny.

You can hear Yoongi shuffling about towards the kitchen, the clank of glass as he fishes through a cupboard for a clean mug, the tsk when he can’t find one and the rush of the water when he finally decides to simply rinse one out. It takes a full beat before what he said even registers.

“Migraine.” You repeat, sour and muffled. “Yeah.”

“Sucks.”

“It does.”

The pour of what could probably be classed as chemical warfare, a sniff before you can hear him take a criminally deep swig. He smacks obnoxiously at the taste and you are more appalled at his apparent enjoyment than his manners. He’s making an awful lot of fucking noise as he drags his feet back towards the hallway and you aren’t sure whether you appreciate it or not.

“Ice pack in freezer.” He croaks. “Put it back when it’s warm.”

You follow the sound of his feet—slippers? It sounds like slippers—down towards the spare room, and then the click of the door as he trudges through it and pulls it shut behind him.

You wait.

But there’s no indication that it’s a trap. A game. Just the quiet resuming; the occasional scream of a car going too fast, honking in the distance. The pillow slides off your face slowly so you can properly glare in the direction of the front door, still not fully convinced. Eventually, motivated by the pain rattling your bones, you drag yourself off the sofa and towards the half-sized freezer. True enough, there’s a pack situated next to the ice, filled with some kind of bean and delightfully cold. It’s shaped like a turtle, complete with googly eyes, vaguely t-shirt material dyed green and faded from use. Vampires get migraines…? Very little in the universe matters when you press it to your eyes curiously and immediately feel a rush of relief. You turn the volume on the tv way down and resume your position, but now with your new best friend laid across your brow and cheeks. God, if only vampires also had medication. Maybe Yoongi knows if there’s aspirin in this house. Hmm…on second thought, asking him sounds like a bad idea. Who knows what kind of mood he’s actually in. And god knows you are in no shape to deal with the ramifications if he can’t control himself. Or yourself. You grimace, and then wince when even just the pulling of your facial muscles lends itself to pain.

The world spins above you, but somehow you drift off, despite feeling your heartbeat in your teeth. You slip into something between dream and reality, your sense of self dissolving into nothing. There’s only one thing that remains constant between half-dreams and thoughts that slip through your fingers like sand: Jin. His voice, dragging on into forever. He’s talking constantly, but not to you. There’s no affection in his voice, but it still sounds important. You can’t be bothered to understand any of it. Something about clocks? Protests?

The only way you can tell that you’ve fallen asleep is that suddenly you’re awake, and aware of a warm palm slipping beneath the turtle to feel at your forehead. You don’t bother panicking. It’s Namjoon. You can smell him. You hate that you can fucking smell him, and you hate the comfort that curls in your stomach the second you recognize his scent. Bastard. You aren’t glad he’s home. You aren’t. You will the universe to stop revolving around the feeling of the pads of his hand brushing your hairline, and fail.

“It’ll be cold, dumbass,” you seethe, unable to move your mouth too much, eyes still closed. “On account of the cold pack.”

“Feeling if you’re clammy, dumbass,” Namjoon returns smoothly. “You look sweaty.”

“Fuck you.”

He chuckles above you, his wide hand retreating from your skin, allowing cool bean heaven back onto your eyeballs where it belongs. “You look sick, are you feeling okay?”

That warrants you moving the turtle just enough to glare at him through your lashes, the light smearing his outline like a rushed painting.

“Do I look like I’m feeling okay?”

“No, you look sick,” he reiterates, eyes defensive. He hesitates with a huff, mouth quirking. You slide the ice pack back over just so you won’t have to admire his plump lips anymore. “Did…did you feel sick at Jin’s? Maybe it’s…I mean…”

“It probably is your fault,” you grumble.

“You think so? I don’t know. We’ve never…”

“Pretty fuckin’ likely.”  

“I looked it up, and sometimes women get migraines after their periods.” God, he’s still talking. You groan, turning, curling further into the couch, pressing your forearm to the cold pack to convince it even closer. If you could get it under your skin, you would without hesitation. “So maybe it’s the blood loss?”

“Apology accepted.”

“I haven’t—“

“Joon, seriously, please.”

He’s quiet for a blissful second.

“Was it last night?”

“Namjoon.”

“Sorry.”

You feel a nudge at your hand. On reflex, you relax your fingers, feeling something press into your palm. You roll it discerningly with your fingertips, uninterested in moving to look at it. A pill?

“There’s water on the stand.” His voice returns, this time hushed. “Yoongi said you had a migraine so I got you some medicine on my way home.”

A decent man, a good man. God bless Yoongi. You take it without hesitation, feeling upwards for the promised drink and finding it easily. It’s a task to press it to your lips without moving the turtle, but you manage, and by the time you’ve set it back on the side and sunk back into the cushions, you feel as though you’ve done enough moving for the year.

“Can I sit here?”

You aren’t thrilled by his continued insistence on saying things, but he’s brought drugs and lowered his volume enough that you offer him a begrudging grunt. The sofa creaks when he settles into it by your feet, his thigh pressing into the pads of your feet comfortably. He’s warm where denim meets your skin and you immediately pull away, twitching. There’s no point, there’s nowhere to go, and eventually you have to allow it.

In the quiet, you realize that the low noise in the background is actually Jin, still talking. He’s holding a conversation with a woman whose voice you don’t recognize. They’re discussing something political—you don’t have any context but it sounds like an ongoing issue of grave importance. Confused, you peek up at the tv and sure enough, there he is, seated in an uncomfortable-looking chair, set against a mock-up of a city skyline. He makes that suit look good, smart and casual, hair styled perfectly. You forget how perfect his skin is, the softness of his pink lips, the way his eyes glitter underneath dark brows. But there’s something vacant about him that you don’t like. When he looks to his cohost, it lacks the tenderness you remember. Your heart twinges, and you could swear the emotion that you feel is longing. Disgusting.

It suddenly occurs to you that just as long as you’ve been watching Jin speak, so has Namjoon. You hazard a glance at him from under the ice pack.

He’s leaning back into the couch, one arm slung over in your direction, the other settled against his thigh. The light of the tv plays over the planes of his face, glints off his hair with unnatural blues and reds. There’s something odd in his expression. His eyes are proud, soft, gentle. But his lips are taut, annoyed, and he’s obviously deep in thought. His jaw ticks when the camera pans back over to Jin, brow creasing.

“What happened?” you mumble. You know he can hear you but he pretends like he can’t. You nudge his thigh with your foot, frowning. “Come on, Namjoon, you owe me. For last night.”

“I apologized for that.” His voice is quiet. He doesn’t look at you.

“Then for everything else. Just until the meds kick in. Tell me a story.”

“I wanted to take you out today,” he diverts. “But if you still aren’t feeling alright in like a half hour, we’ll go tomorrow—“

“I want to know what happened between you and Jin.”

He falls silent. You aren’t sure whether you should push it, but surely there has to be some sway to the way he’s been treating you. You’re considering the best ways to coerce it out of him when he speaks up again.

“I don’t remember who gave it to me. Being like this.”

You squash the excitement, the victory, that rises in your chest in favor of a curious noise. “No?”

“No. It was a long time ago. But I tried…” he clears his throat and shifts. “I tried to keep going to school for a while after. College; just community, but something.”

“And Jin?”

“I found him by accident. There was a bus I used to take to campus. He rode on it every day. Never saw him get off. He had this stare…” He shrugs. You watch him raise his hand to rub at his lips, eyes distant. “One day I just…didn’t get off at the school. Just followed him. I dunno what I was thinking, but I swear I could sense it in him. We got to talking, and…”

Namjoon’s chuckle reverberates through the sofa, warms your bones. “I mean, fuck, what do you do when you feel like the only person on the planet and suddenly you’re meeting someone just like you? Of course we teamed up. Tried to figure it all out. Realized we could haze people. Moved in together. Shared everything.”

You scoot more comfortably into the couch, allowing your eyes to dip closed.

“Met Yoongi and Hobi after that. Jin had…a thing for being in control of a situation. I was always the ‘leader’ once we realized there was such a thing as covens. Groups of people like us with territories and shit. I’d meet with them sometimes, talk about those things in alleyways and bowling alleys, diners—diplomatic. But he was always keeping things tied down at home. He was always trying to make sure we were all okay. I guess it comes with being the oldest.”

He pauses.

“I have no idea when he was changed, actually. He never talked about it and I never pushed. I know he’s older, though. I always looked to him for answers. But after Jimin and Taehyung—it got complicated. Tae was a decision we made together, and Jimin…Jimin was my fault. I went behind Jin’s back for Jimin. He wasn’t happy. Finding victims who the haze worked on, avoiding police—it was rough back then and we couldn’t afford another mouth to feed. Could barely keep a handle on Taehyung, once he woke up. I shouldn’t have done it.”

His hand alights on your knee, rubbing absently. There’s nothing sexual in it; you aren’t even sure whether he’s aware he’s doing it. It feels nice. It feels really nice. You choke back whatever emotion that’s trying to bring forth in you.

“I don’t regret it,” he adds hastily. “I don’t regret it. We were a family. But it only got worse. Jin was upset that I didn’t ask him and I upset that I apparently had to. Who said he was my keeper anyway? We were supposed to be partners...A lot of stuff came out. Differences in opinion. We argued constantly. There were rumors of cops getting too close, and we were so scared of being found out. In the end, Yoongi and Hobi and I decided to leave. Jin decided to stay.” He snorts. “And we all know how that ended up.”

“How did that ended up?” you murmur.

“Jungkook.” He says his name like it’s the punchline to a joke. “It ended up with Jungkook. After all that shit about scarcity and keeping a low profile.”

You mull over what he’s saying.

“Jungkook said you hate him.”

“I don’t hate him.” Namjoon replies quickly, pulling a sigh through his nose, like he’s had this conversation countless times already. “I don’t like what he represents. That Jin can just do whatever he wants to do. That he doesn’t have to listen to anyone else. That earth and heaven can and should orbit around Jin, and everyone else just falls in line. Jin, the martyr.”

“He works hard.”

“He does. We all do.”

“He misses you.”

“That’s a step.”

You try again. “Jimin misses you.”

His chuckle catches even him by surprise, becoming a snort. “Now that I believe.” There’s a beat of quiet. His voice goes soft. “Jimin always was happiest when we were all together.”

“What about you?”

Another moment of silence passes. His hand on your knee tightens, thumb rubbing gently, as if afraid to let go.

“I don’t know. I’m happy sometimes.”

“When?”

“How are you feeling, by the way?” Your leg feels cold when he moves his hand to brush his palm beneath the turtle again. You peer at him through the cracks in your eyelashes, and for a moment you could almost believe you can see how long he’s been alive. It’s written in the slope of his eyes, his brow, the tight line of his lips pursed in what nearly passes for a smile. He looks tired. Unbelievably tired. “Good enough to go shopping?”

“Shopping?”

“For clothes. You can’t wear my bathrobe forever.”

“Who’s bathrobe? This one’s mine.”

He snorts again, turning away to pat your ankle. “Good enough to sass me back means good enough to go. I’ll ask Yoongi if you can borrow his sweats.”

The couch squeaks in protest when he gets up, and you turn away into the cushion. It’s a lot to think on. You aren’t sure a sad story mostly made of being needlessly catty to each other makes up for kidnapping and…well, probably murder (you’re not gonna think on that one too heavily) but it’s definitely a rough situation. You almost feel bad. You almost feel…sympathetic. What’s the word? Stockholm. It takes a lot of self-control not to roll your eyes at yourself.

The turtle begins to levitate off your eyes independent of your will and you whine, clutching at it, casting a glance upwards. It’s Namjoon leaning over the couch at you, tugging at the turtle with a pinch of fabric.

“Yoongi said he’d trade sweatpants for the turtle.”

You frown up at him, hands falling to your sides, relinquishing the item in question. “Would he rather I didn’t wash the sweatpants either when I return them?” you ask dryly.

“He didn’t say as much, but probably.” He’s straightening, already on his way to make the trade, tossing the pack up and catching it deftly with long fingers as he goes.

Hold on a second.

“You didn’t give him back the dirty vibrator, did you, Namjoon?” you ask, suddenly horrified.

No reply. The door to the spare room clicks open and you sit up just in time to watch him disappear behind it.

“You didn’t, right, Namjoon??” You raise your voice, but flinch back, fingers flying to rub at your temples again. The headache’s better, but it isn’t gone. You’re no longer on the brink of dying, at least, but you’ll be tender for a while yet, you suspect. Long enough to get clothes.

What even is the point?

You throw another look at the far door.

Who would bother buying clothes for you if you weren’t going to be around for much longer? There’s the thought that turns your blood icy.

Are you going to be around for much longer? How does this all end? Fuck, you miss being hazed, you miss not thinking about these things, you miss not having to care. Your head pounds.

For a moment, in the stillness, the tiny apartment with the tv on quietly and the traffic outside, you are the only human being on the planet.

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[bitchwhoreofastorm]

[comission for @namiira ; thank you so much!!!]  Comfortable (almsivi + nerevar) 

"I think," said Almalexia, "We ought to start wearing shirts." 

Vivec, though pressed tight against her and shaking like a leaf, shook hir head. Autumn had set upon Deshaan in full force. The wind no longer blew warm from the swamps of the south, but blustered frigid and relentless from the north. Even Mournhold, usually mild, had turned icy and inhospitable towards its hapless residents, and just about everyone-- from peasant to politician-- was thoroughly distracted by it. 

"I hate shirts." Vivec complained, teeth chattering, while Almalexia ushered hir into her chambers. "I'd rather wear live crocodiles."

Within the Hortator's room a fire roared in the hearth, and the curtains had been drawn so that the room remained dim and warm. Vivec and Almalexia nearly tripped over one another as they rushed to the fireside, and remained clutching each other even as they attempted to dethaw themselves, standing so close to the fire that, were they not chimer, they would have burned. 

For several seconds they simply clung to each other, their shivers gradually subsiding. The cold, bitter as it was, proved itself helpless against the heady warmth of the room, and soon the two relaxed into each others arms, remaining close though the chill had left them entirely.

"Shirts are just tombs that you wear." Vivec mumbled into her shoulder after some time.

"I know you hate shirts, Vehki." Almalexia sighed, "But it is very cold out there. We need to wear something."  

"We can wear Seht's robes." Ze replied. Ze leaned against her, face hidden in the crook of her neck, half-asleep from the warmth. 

"What would Seht wear, then?" 

"Blankets? Who cares." 

Almalexia laughed softly, kissed her friend on the temple, and tugged hir towards the bed. "Blankets is a good idea. Come, if you fall asleep here I won't catch you." 

Nerevar was a true Velothi and preferred modest lodgings; Almalexia, however, preferred decadence, and so their bed was all darter-down, with silken sheets and blankets stuffed full of soft Skyrim goosefeather. It was delightfully soft, so soft that the blankets threatened to envelop her when she fell back atop them-- then Vivec fell atop her and she was enveloped anyway. For a moment her whole world was soft skin, entangled legs, an ear poking her eye, but she rolled them to the side and ze wriggled downwards, hiding hir face in her chest and wrapping both arms loose around her waist. Almalexia pressed a kiss to the top of hir head and, careful not to disturb hir, reached over to pull the blanket across them, tucking the edge of it beneath Vivec before finally allowing herself to relax. 

Outside the wind rattled the window, but the room was cozy, warm from the fire and the drawn curtains. A servant had sprinkled perfume through the air, so that the atmosphere itself was heavy and sweet, like cinnamon or vanilla. Vivec had fallen asleep immediately and ze snored quietly now, hir breath tickling the base of Almalexia's throat, hot, reassuring. Save for the thin sunlight which trickled in through the curtain's edge, the only source of light was a candle that burned low in a corner. Their world was close and snug... 

The door opened, sending a cold gust through the room. Vivec hissed and withdrew beneath the blankets, nuzzling hir face into Almalexia's skin with a shiver, but then the door shut again. Though her back was to the door, Almalexia heard heavy footsteps cross over to the bed, and then with a loud sigh, a large body landed on the mattress next to her. 

"Some weather, huh?" asked Nerevar. 

"Dreadful." Almalexia agreed without turning to face him. 

There came a soft rustle of clothing being removed, then a heavy clank of pauldrons striking the ground. "I'm going to have to start wearing shirts at this rate." Nerevar complained, lying down behind her. He pressed against her, fitting his chest to her back, and looped an arm around her front. "And you know how I hate sh..." 

"Hm?" 

"... Hello, Vivec." 

"Nerevar." Vivec responded, peeking up out of the covers. 

"Sleeping well?" asked Nerevar.

"If you ever touch my boob again I will slaughter you like an animal." 

"Forgive me, I didn't see you sleeping with my wife there." 

"Quiet, both of you." Almalexia interrupted them. "You're disturbing my rest."

Nerevar huffed, but readjusted himself, extending his arm so that he could embrace both tribunes. "Surely a woman so beautiful needs no more beauty-sleep?" 

"Nerevar, I'm going to vomit on you." 

"Thank you, Vivec." 

Vivec let out a small hrmph of hir own, wrapping hir arms tight around Almalexia defensively, but then the three of them fell into a rather comfortable silence. Almalexia leaned her head back, tucking it beneath Nerevar's chin as her arms remained encircling Vivec, and Nerevar hummed with quiet contentedness, reminding his wife for a brief moment of a domesticated durzog desiring nothing more than to be with its masters. 

Gradually they relaxed. Almalexia listened as first Nerevar's breath slowed and grew peaceful, and then as Vivec's soft snoring returned, hir breath still warm on her skin, hir hands fidgeting in the hollow of her lower back, pawing absently at Nerevar's tunic. Nerevar was all muscle, his chest large and solid behind against her back; Vivec was smaller, softer, fitting into her at every curve; the contrast was pleasant and their presence at her either side made her feel wholly safe. The room was quiet and still but for the breathing of her two companions, and Almalexia counted them against each other, until the rhythm began to lull even her to sleep, so soothing it was, and so warm they were, their bodies pressed together...

A gentle rap on the door roused her from the edge of slumber. A moment later the door creaked open, and someone called out gently, "Ayem?" 

"Seht," Almalexia called back, voice soft, "Shh. They're sleeping." 

"Wh-- oh." 

Silent but for a soft rustle of robes, Sotha Sil appeared before her, standing at the edge of the bed. "I don't mean to disturb." he whispered, "I was merely looking for you." 

"I'm here.” she whispered. “And everything is fine." 

"Ah." Though it was dark, his eyes caught the candle-light, and Almalexia could see him looking over the strange arrangement with apprehension.

"I... I'll leave you be, then." Sotha Sil began uncomfortably. 

"Seht." At her breast Vivec stirred slightly, raising hir head. 

"Vivec?" 

"Join us." 

"But--" 

"Join, or I'll start to pity you, and it'll foul my sleep." 

"... Right." Sotha Sil fidgeted, hovering awkwardly by the bed. Almalexia watched with amusement as he placed a hand on the covers, then retracted it-- Suddenly Nerevar leaned over her, seized the wizard by his arm, and tugged him down. Vivec yelped in protest, alarmed at suddenly being covered by the hortator's body, and Almalexia grunted her own muffled complaint, unable to articulate words with her husband pushing her down into the mattress. But then he pulled back again, propping himself up on one arm, leaving Sotha Sil draped awkwardly across the other two tribunes, and the three of them hastened to rearrange each other, struggling with the tangle of blankets and limbs that had resulted. 

"There." said Nerevar, evidently proud of himself, "My Tribunal, assembled at last." 

"You could have simply asked." Sotha Sil complained, settling himself delicately on the other side of Vivec. Vivec grunted in agreement-- ze'd latched back on to Almalexia, but hir face was buried in the pillow now. Almalexia herself had to wriggle back to fit herself against Nerevar again, and she pulled Vivec close before reaching over hir back and resting one hand on Sotha Sil's arm. After a moment of hesitation, Sotha Sil moved up to Vivec's back, keeping both arms tucked modestly in front of his chest, and Nerevar, content with his work, lied back down, extending his arm over the three of them, securing the arrangement together. 

The wind still rattled the window, now accompanied by the soft patter of a chill rain. The world outside would be cold and dreary, Mournhold's citizens fleeing for cover, its beautiful gardens wilting in the unusual chill. Imagining it, it was hard not to pity them.

But within this room-- this bed-- they were warm, and protected, and the sound of the rain seemed far away compared to four sets of soft breaths. Nerevar's bicep was a little heavy, resting on them like that; Vivec's fingers twitched as ze dreamed, and Sotha Sil's restless hands were for once still, tucked between his chin and Vivec's neck. Almalexia closed her eyes and focused on these hands, these limbs, counting breaths until sleep began to take her mind-- and it was difficult to resist that sleep, comfortable as this was, with everything she held dear in the world within her grasp. 

In the vague moment before drifting off entirely, she knew with certainty that what they four felt in that moment was one and the same, and comfortable. 

[wordydelights]

Noelle comfortably sat on her twin sized bed with her legs crossed, her hair pulled back into a messy ponytail, strands of loose curls outlining her round face. Inside, contrasting with the remarkably chilly summer evening, it was toasty and warm. Not in a sweltering heat on a sunny day kind of way, but more like that cozy, pleasant feeling you get sitting by a fire on a cold Christmas night. Even the crisp smell of pine flooded the air from small candles in the living room, adding to the holiday sensation. In her hands she clasped a cardboard box in the shape of a heart with one of Michelangelo's sleeping cherubs printed on top. Noelle always wondered why her father was so infatuated with these chubby infants with wings, but figured that perhaps she was just viewing these infamous creatures in the wrong perspective, missing the beauty that lay right beneath her nose. She sighed as she began to open the box, removing its cherub top, as if she were reliving the broken memories once again. Glued to the bottom of the lid was a collage of seven old photographs of infant Noelle, each carefully cut to leave no empty spaces. Only one of these photos featured Noelle and her father. She was sitting in a turquoise wagon, her innocent eyes wide, looking directly into the camera as her father gazed down upon her tiny body smiling, with his hands holding the wagon's sides. It was the look of a father who truly adores his little girl. A look that said she was his world and nothing else. But looks are such a deceiving matter. Carefully Noelle placed the lid face down onto her paisley comforter and reached further into the box's sentimental articles. Letters and cards, which had been reread over and over, every word, comma, period and even spelling errors, were memorized within the core of her being. She unfolded a note with yellow coffee stains on its edges. A silver chain attached to a charm depicting a horse in mid run, fell onto her lap as she spread out the tarnished paper. It read: Happy Birthday Noelle! I love you soooooo much sweet heart and hope today is filled with warm memories. I bought you this necklace from your Uncle Duane and Aunt Betty and thought you would like it since your mom said you like horses. I miss you sooooooo much and wish we could be together more than the last couple of years. Everyday I think about you and wonder what you are doing. Please remember that I am always thinking of you and truly wish I was with you on your birthdays and special occasions. I always start to smile when I think of you and I would be right next to you if I could. Even though we are apart you will always be in my heart and in my thoughts throughout the days to come. Today I found out that I can send you letters so I am going to keep writing you so you will truly know your daddy loves you with all of his heart. Happy birthday baby I miss you soooooooo much. Your forever loving daddy. He didn't send another letter for over a year. Noelle reminisced on the euphoric feeling of first reading those cursive words. It felt like her feet were dancing on soft clouds, as her hands swung her weightless body from star to star. It felt like she was the sun and every solar energy in the galaxy was revolving around her. Gravity no longer existed because she could have sworn she was floating. The letter had arrived a day after her ninth birthday, delightfully surprised that he hadn't forgotten once again as usual, she ripped open the envelopes contents filled with nothing but lies. And she had believed it. She had believed every scribbled word on that yellow stained sheet, allowing herself to sink further into her delusion. Creating false hope which would inevitably be crushed by truth disappointment. Noelle indulged further into the heart shaped box, coming across another photo of her and her dad, encased in a pink fuzzy frame. They were at a cousin's birthday party at some sort of arcade, but you couldn't tell since the background was dark and blurred. She was probably about three or four, wearing a magenta Barney the Dinosaur shirt, her bangs bluntly cut above the eyebrows and skin pale as the moon. Her eyes appearing red from the flash as she grinned from ear to ear. Her dad was sitting in a booth, his freshly shaven face gazing up in her direction, her head towering above as she stood on the polished seat. She looked happy. He looked happy. It was hard to swallow reality when reminiscing on these sentimental moments captured. But she knew that behind these deceptive photographs lied a much more twisted tale. A metallic clanking noise vibrated through the box as her fingertips grazed the surface of one of her father's old hanayama puzzles, a four piece set of oddly bent stainless steel rings coated in a gold tinge, that connected to one another. When properly solved each fit together to create a woven , geometric shape. Noelle was never able to unlock its mysterious secrets, unlike her father who had mastered its mind boggling labyrinth of perplexity. The trick was to know how to begin, which golden ring to start with and where to place it. When she was little she'd watch her daddy's hands in awe as he rapidly enter twined the rings to form a celtic symbol. The eternity knot. He made the seemingly impossible task appear simple. He'd then proceed to place the cast metal brain teaser in her tender hands, watch her aimlessly fidget with it's rings for about thirty seconds and ridicule her misfortune. She needed to prove to herself that she was capable. Even though he was far away he still controlled her, every waking moment in her thoughts, in her sleep, her actions, in her irrational untrusting nature, fear of people, of men. She wanted to break free and though it sounded silly she thought that maybe if she could just beat the stupid puzzle she'd in some way break free. She heard his laugh in the back of her head mocking her. She almost expected to feel his hands snatch the object from her grasp, look up and see him assemble the pieces to fit perfectly together with ease. Noelle's mother Janet slowly walked to the bedroom door, wearing a thick, grey knit cardigan, her feet bare and eyes puffy. "Hey sweetie," her mother said reassuringly as she watched her daughter struggle assembling the metal rings. "Whatcha doing?" Noelle didn't acknowledge her mother's presence, continuing to fumble with the puzzle, with a determined look in her eye. "Just trying to fix th-this damn thing." "I can see that," her mother chuckled. Noelle didn't respond. Her hands moved rapidly, eyes locked on the target. Janet gently sat on the edge of the twin sized bed, patting away the wrinkles in the comforter beside her thighs. She let out an uneasy smile as she watched her daughter aggressively fiddle with the rings, pulling them apart then pushing them together in a useless attempt to fit them together. "Noelle?" her mother spoke with a concerned tone. Noelle remained intensely focused, her eyebrows furrowed together. She moved her hands even more rapidly with hostility, as if she wanted to rip the rings apart, the metallic puzzle rattled, clinking together in a senseless rhythm. She heard an almost inaudible voice somewhere far away. "Noelle? Stop." But she didn't. She bit her bottom lip. She could almost taste the blood. Her eyes were now wet. Shame. A fire kindled in her chest. Her face. Red. Her arms began to shake. Rage. He won. He always does, always will. She began beating the rings onto her lap. Scraping her thighs. "Noelle!" Janet yelled, smacking the rings out of her daughters hands and onto the wooden floor. "I can fix it! Why don't you believe I can do it?! I'm not stupid!" Noelle screamed as she broke down crying, her words crumbling apart as quickly as they were being spoken. "Shhh, it's ok," Janet soothed, pulling her troubled daughter's head onto her chest. Teardrops dampened her knit cardigan sweater as the sky dimmed and the cool summer breeze seeped through the window's crevices.

A Great Big Without, The Way We See It