#drawing to keep myself from dissociating

[m0thcl0wn]

Luffy week day four: i still have my friends

[nichuuu]

Paper Houses

Cho Miyeon x M reader

(1st instalment of The View Between Villages)

Word Count: 18k+ Special thanks to @defmaybe for helping to draw out the best version of this fic.

(All the details? Really? Oh wow. Okay…)

(I’m gonna dissociate myself from this so… “you” is gonna appear a lot. Don’t sweat it cupcake—you’re not actually the one in this mess. 

It’s just a bad habit of mine, that’s all.)

--

(You’re lucky. You get the sweet start to it all. For what it’s worth: sweetness is a fucking deceiving concept when you have rose-tinted lenses.)

“You know: out of all the men I’ve dated, you cook the best.”

You raise an eyebrow as you flip the grilled cheese in your skillet. Frankly, there’s nothing to be impressed about over grilled cheese and tomato soup. Cheese sandwiched between two evenly buttered slices of bread, grilled till golden brown and served with a side of hot tomato juice in a bowl. Literally everything has been prepared for you and packed neatly into some package in a grocery store. All you did was heat it up and add a few of your own ingredients.

“Is that a compliment or a flex?” you ask, turning your gaze away from your skillet momentarily to look at Miyeon as she replies. Her face isn’t gonna add value to her answer, but you just like looking at her. She is hot after all. 

She scoffs and takes a sip of her coffee. “Jeez… Can’t a woman compliment her boyfriend in peace?”

You’ve had this conversation before, but you like to entertain her.

“This woman can’t,” you tell her, making sure she can see the smirk on your face as you turn back to the sandwich. You wave your spatula in the air as you speak, almost like you’re referring to PowerPoint slides. “She’s too weird about everything. Never take her seriously.”

“Oh, so we’re just gonna call me weird and neglect the fact you keep your butter in that?” she exclaims, pointing at the butter bell on top of your fridge. It was a Christmas gift from your mom last year, and even though you did think it was weird at first, you have not gone back to keeping your butter in blocks. 

“You keep my fucking butter bell out of this,” you warn, and it’s half joking and half serious. 

(No one fucks with your butter bell.)

Miyeon chortles. You don’t need to look at her to know that she’s raising her hands in the air when she says, “jeez man. Didn’t know you guys were tight like that…”

And it’s stupid exchanges like this that make you appreciate her company by bounds. It’s lonely in the apartment when she’s out being famous; really nice to have her around for the holidays, albeit for a short time. It’s been a while since she’s been back. There’s much to catch up on over an 11 am brunch. You don’t know why she’s up so damn early today, cause normally you guys sleep till the late afternoon, then go figure out what to eat for dinner before lazing around in the apartment.

So with cheese falling from the corner of her lip, she gives you the latest developments in her life. Then it’s your turn, and you're glad to say that nothing’s really of interest in either of your updates. That’s usually for the better: sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your lives are pretty bland.

“You know,” she says as she wipes her mouth. “I might just keep dating you for your food,” she tosses her tissue onto the dining table and lets out a sigh. “Fucking delicious.”

You scoff and sip on your coffee. “Bet you told that to all the guys,” you reply wryly. “Probably gets them real excited, huh?”

She grins. It’s cheeky, mischievous, maybe even a little naughty. “Not telling.”

“You don’t tell me a lot of things,” you chuckle, and you’re low-key unsurprised to hear a little bit of unintended bitterness in your voice. “Not that it matters or anything… I just value communication.”

Oh, you’re petty. So fucking petty that it makes your skin crawl a little.

Miyeon’s unfazed. 

“Don’t get your tits in a tussle, pretty boy,” she muses. She folds her arms and leans into the table. “You’ll know more when I trust you more. For now: I’ll give you information as I please.”

And you kick yourself because you forget she can be a bit of a handful herself.

“Ugh, what will I ever do with this mysterious woman?” you smirk, resting your elbow against the table as you lean in as well. To be perfectly clear: you’re not mad at her. Her secrecy just bugs you out a little, and she knows it. “Such little knowledge on such a hardened beauty… must be tough to really crack her open and figure her out.”

You love her eyes, and you love to make them roll (in multiple contexts). They kinda gleam as she tilts her head. “Fine… I’ll give you something since you’re so damn desperate,” she drums her fingers against her cheek while her chin nestles itself into her palm. “What I’m about to give you is gonna change your life in so many ways. It’ll probably redefine your whole damn existence.”

You express your interest by leaning in a little more. Miyeon checks her six—like she isn’t in the comfort of her own home—before leaning in. She’s all clandestine. You have no idea what for. 

“You ready?” she checks. And you know she isn’t expecting an answer, but you nod nonetheless. She checks her left and right for good measure. You never know: maybe your lamp is listening.

“I’m aching for cock right now.”

And you guys don’t even make it to the couch.

It’s on the floor next to your table where she has your face in her hands, and she’s kissing you aggressively. She’s properly kissing you, and it makes you knock the back of your head against the floor a little, but it’s really not too big of a deal. 

She lifts her lips off yours and smirks. “For the record: it’s your fault that we aren’t fucking on the couch.”

“Yeah, and I actually paid rent early for once,” you shoot back sarcastically. “And would you mind helping me clean the yacht I most definitely own on my luxurious salary? Thanks a bunch, honey.”

She scoffs and rolls her eyes. She knows you’re full of shit, but she’s full of the same shit as you. Form a shit pile or something, maybe even a shit mountain if you feel like it. You could really go on for a while about how you two can talk for hours, but that’s not the main event.

The real deal comes when she has her hand beneath the waistband of your pants, slithering down to the very thing she aches for. She has that smile on her face, the one that kinda says “Oh I’m gonna love this” or “you’re gonna love this” or maybe even both. There are ways to distinguish the messages by looking at her eyes, but you’re a little too lazy to go figure it out right now. And before someone calls you a bum, you can’t help it: she has her hand on your cock and a piercing gaze trained on you. How about you try and focus on discerning implicit messages when there's a hot woman touching you in the right places?

“How are you hard already?” she asks, a hint of a giggle in her tone as she presses your shaft against your body. There’s barely any space down there, yet she makes it work so easily. “I didn’t even, like, do anything yet.”

“Well,” you hum, just as she starts to squeeze your member, appling that toe-curling pressure to your tip and smiling as you strain a little. “I can kinda see your tits through your shirt.”

Miyeon raises her eyebrows. She doesn’t even look at her shirt. “Oh?” and she starts to pump. “I didn’t notice that…”

“Totally,” you grunt. “Like how you don’t notice that your shorts are barely shorts?” you continue, but there’s something more bugging you. “And at least pull my pants down if you’re gonna jack me off, would you?”

Miyeon snorts, but compiles nonetheless. She gets your pants and boxers off with ease. It’s one swift motion (it’s practiced grace really), and she gets back to the task at hand before she was so rudely interrupted. 

“What does seeing my tits have anything to do with you?” Her motions are languid and fluid, steady and flowing like a stream. She doesn’t need to look. She doesn't need to guess. She knows you like the back of her hand. “Does it turn you on? Excite you?”

You have it in you to roll your eyes before they shut. “Stop asking these fucking ridiculous questions.”

“It's a basic inquiry.” She laughs in this aloof tone that you know is paired with the most devious of smiles. “So you won’t let me compliment you and you won’t let me ask questions? Tsk. Chivalry is dead.”

Miyeon goes a little faster, adds a twist of her wrist. This is just her hand, mind you, and it’s already ruining you in a way that only she is capable of. The tender touch of Cho Miyeon is something no woman you’ve met could ever replicate, and it takes you to places that you can only visit with her. Those fingers are magic, that mouth is magic—hell, everything about her is magic. 

“Please,” you manage to quip past the jolts of magic being sent through your system. “We both know that you have the answers to all the questions you just asked.”

She giggles—playfully, you might add. This is all a part of the game you play with her; this is the way Miyeon’s cookie crumbles. “Maybe I do, maybe I don’t. Who cares?”

You care: not a lot, but enough to make this as humorous as you want it to be. You kinda only give two shits because it lets you be kinda petty with her, but not that you externalise it or anything. You just have it pent up in you for the fun of it.

“Anyway,” she muses, halting the strokes of her hand to your cock. “Have I told you about how much I wanted you to fill me while I was filming?”

You take a moment to breathe. “No… But do tell.”

And gets to that, but not before ridding herself of her shirt first. By technicality, it’s your shirt, but it shrunk in the dryer at some point, so it just became hers. She gets into the details, the nitty gritty; tells you exactly what she’s imagining during the filming of her Music Video all while you kind just sit there and ogle at her chest. She takes her time, covers the stuff that you don’t really need to know but it’s kinda hot to know — things like “ugh, I needed you to bend me over the hood of that car and just fuck me at that point…” — because you admittedly get off knowing that she ever thinks about you that way and… God, you’re rambling aren’t you? Still pretty fitting though: it’s the way Miyeon talks when she’s thinking nonsense.

“Ugh. Now I’m wet,” she mutters. She speaks as if it’s your fault that she went on rambling about her fantasies with you. “You know you make me like, really horny right?”

“Oh no… Whatever will I do?” you’re really just rolling with it. Not because you want to, but because you want to get this bit where you tease each other over and done with. It’s kinda like marinating meat in the way it makes the sex a little hotter. Truthfully: you’re aching for her. Really: you want nothing more than to just get her pinned beneath you and writhing on your wooden floor. 

And frankly? You could do all of that right now.

So it’s with a bit of grace (and some dexterity) that you flip the positions: now you’re kneeling over her while she is the one that lies on the floor, if that makes any sense. Miyeon isn’t shocked by your sudden movements, more so delighted by the fact that you finally gave in to your carnal urges and just went for it. She smiles, knowing full well that she’s done something that's gonna give her that fuel she needs for the week. You know: sex that’s the opposite of soft; some shit that fulfills some wild thoughts. 

“Gotta say, you’re quicker than usual,” she has that cocky smirk on her face. You wanna wipe it right off her face, and you know just how. “Normally you’re all talk, no– Oh…”

You like that it really only takes a finger pressed against her panties to shut her up. It’s not much, but it’s enough to make her shut her eyes and shut up for a moment. The spot you press on is damp, soaked in that sweet slick. Gently, you trace the outline of those swollen folds. “You were saying?”

She has it in her to laugh—a breathy chortle. “Fuck you.”

“I’m working on that,” you fire back. Your cock twitches a little when you see her jolt in response to your touch. Your finger pressed down on that one spot that makes her weak, and it really works wonders: an airy gasp slips past those thin, luscious lips. The number of times you’ve kissed those lips swollen is not a number countable with 10 fingers.

Miyeon sighs, and it’s a mix of pleasure and frustration in her breath that humors you. She relaxes into the floorboards, her hips rock, her cunt rubs against your fingers. She's searching for some friction — sweet release in lewd movements. You let her move for a bit, watch her shake like the bough of a willow tree as she pleases herself against your fingers. 

“Enjoying yourself?” you quip. 

“Yeah..” she hums. “Passing time while you’re still not taking these shorts off me.”

Of course… How could you be so forgetful?

You stop for a moment to help her wriggle out of her clothing. It isn’t one of her most graceful moments, but it quickly passes. The shorts join your pants on the floor. Her panties are pink — not that subtle shade of pink or even like a darker version of pink. It’s Barbie fucking Pink.

“So we’re feeling loud today, huh?” you ask, letting your finger trail the lacy parts of the fabric. Miyeon smiles.

“Sana gave them to me,” she explains, not the least bit sheepish that her damp spot is visibly darker than the rest of her underwear. “Hope this doesn’t affect you in your work or anything…”

You feel the corner of your lip turn up. “No, no… Of course not,” you assure her, all while you let your hand slip between the fabric and her skin. You can feel her shudder, then you feel the heat of her cunt at the tip of your fingers. “You caught me on the right day actually… Pink’s in my rotation of favourite colours this fine morning.”

“Right,” her voice has a lilt. It’s shuddering a little too. “I knew that… Definitely had that in mind.”

You laugh. Your index fingers slip between her folds. She moans. 

You lower yourself, capture a swollen, taut nipple in your mouth. The sweet suction you deliver makes her gasp. Her hand finds itself in your head.

It’s all quite rhythmical, almost like a routine for the two of you. The way your bodies react to each other feels so natural that you think it might just be second nature at this point. You know her body: you’ve memorised the dips and curves and tender spots; the hot spots, the warm parts and the best parts. She knows you—the way you think, the way you talk; the way you play with her and the things you want to do with her. It would be safe to say that you guys practically have PhDs in the subject of each other, but that’s not a fair statement because you’re both a little more complicated than you let on. That keeps the sex exciting; it makes you crave each other a little more than last time. 

“One or two?” you whisper, letting your finger dip in and out of her lips and getting it all wet in her slickness. She takes a moment to think, or maybe she’s taking a moment to really soak in the teasing. Either way: she takes some time to reply. 

“Two,” she shifts herself a little lower, her clit pressing into the base of your middle finger. It makes her sigh — a low, kinda sonorous escape of air through her lips. “I hope you trimmed your nails this time.”

“That last time was a minor mishap,” you admit. You kinda want to pull your hands out to double-check, but you’re too mired in the moment to assuage your worries. “Don’t worry. I’ve got it all under control.”

She beams like the damn sun. “Good. I like it when you’ve got the reins.”

And that makes you suck in some air through your teeth. 

(God, does she know how to try you on.)

Your digits push themselves inside of her. They’re wrapped in her tight warmth, snug as a bug in a rug or whatever. You love the way her abs kinda flex as your fingers introduce themselves to her insides. It makes the best parts of her pop. Her chest rises a little more than the last time, her breaths becoming a little longer and more drawn out as your fingers explore her like always. The way she jolts when you get to that one spot at the roof of her pussy tells you that she has been primed and ready for this moment, loaded up like a shotgun and the trigger is really just any part of you that makes her cum. It could be your fingers, your tongue, your dick, your thigh—any part of you that can get her to that sweet high. Of course: you’re more than happy to assist. And so your mouth latches itself back onto her breast, tongue licking and swishing and flicking the swollen nipple atop her small yet generously sized breast. You relish the way it feels in your hand as you cup it—not too firmly and not too gently—and give it a squeeze, enjoying how the flesh spills out a little between your fingers but still fits in the palm of your hand.

“How do you only get better at this?” she hisses through her teeth. “I mean, I just saw you last week but… Oh god…”

You remove her nipple from your mouth. “Art is honed. This is art.”

She laughs, then throws her head back to let out a moan. “Well I’ll be damned,” her eyes close as she speaks, resting themselves for a bit so that she can enjoy the feel of your fingers in the best part of her slick. “Paint me like one of your French girls then.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

You can’t track the exact moments where she starts to blue screen on you, but you can guess it's somewhere between you pinching her nipple and when you slide a third finger into her. The pressure, the stretching—it’s, like, everything she wants as of right now. She lets out this choked-up cry that you like to hear, the supple curve of her back growing more defined as she arches just a little more. She doesn't hold back, she never does. When you’re making her feel good, you can bet some good money that she’ll let you know. She’ll find her own way to express herself, be it through sound or action or words—sometimes a combination of all three. 

The way she feels around your fingers—delicate squeezing and sweet pressure around your digits as they stretch her to new lengths—is nothing short of enthralling. You can feel her pulse around you, the dull throb of her heartbeat as it beats for the sole purpose of getting all that blood rushing into the right areas. Your hand is kinda messy, fingers coated down to your knuckles in the sweet substance from her heat. Miyeon starts to writhe, squirm. A whine leaves her mouth. It’s followed by another, and another, and another—keeps going till the whiny stream ends with a guttural moan. 

Her legs close around your wrist. Her throat bobs.

“Mmph… baby…” her hand flails a bit as she tries to search for you. She catches your shoulder and her nails dig in. “Your mouth… I want your mouth on me.”

You always loved how forthcoming she is. 

“Miyeon…” you drawl, and this next bit is really just for the fun of it. “What’s the magic word?”

She laughs softly through the pleasure, lets a smile grace your eyes. She doesn’t fight it; she wants it—wants you. She just wants you in any shape or form. Any version of you will do; she’ll take all the different sides of you in a heartbeat. All she needs is you. “Please.”

You’ve never found so much delight in hearing that word. Kinda makes you want to hear it again.

“I can’t hear you,” your thumb presses down onto her clit. Her thighs start to twitch. 

“Please!” she yells that magic word in the form of a shout this time. Your cheeks hurt from how widely you’re beaming.

You retract your fingers. They come up to your mouth so you can taste her off of them. She’s nothing short of delicious, and you can kinda tell that she knows it because she’s smirking as she watches you clean off yourself.

“How are we feeling about the samples?” she has that proud gleam in her eye. “Pineapple’s been in my diet as of late… Just wondering if anything’s different.”

You smack your lips. “Picking up on a little tang here… Can’t be sure though.”

Her hands slide down to her hips, thumbs hooking into the band of her panties and pulling them down her thighs. “No worries. There’s more where it came from.”

The gall of this girl is insane, you’re thinking, smirking as you assist the journey of her underwear down her slim, milky legs. Like all your other clothing, it’s tossed aside. 

Miyeon spreads thighs, bends her knees so that her feet are flat on the floor.  You get in position, let your palms slide down her body with careful consideration: run your hands over the sensitive parts of the stomach, skim that one portion of her inner thigh that makes her shiver. She watches—waiting and anticipating while failing to keep her excitement off her face. 

She is glistening, swollen and plump to your eyes, kinda far ahead considering that you just used your fingers. She’s eager, unashamed and more proud than embarrassed about her arousal. Her legs shift a bit. She looks at you, a fingernail between her teeth as she exhales sharply when your thumb traces the outline of her pussy, careful in its endeavor as you feel the muscles around her slick tense up in response. Oh she’s so damn impatient right now, but she lets you get away with all of this because it gets her off a little harder; the teasing is just part of the show and the climax will probably follow pretty soon, fast and hard

“You’ve been looking forward to this, huh?” you remark, watching as her eyelids flutter when you put a little pressure with the pad of your thumb. 

“Mhm…” she replies. It’s a low hum, one that resonates in her throat rather pleasantly. “You have no idea…”

You laugh. Your eyes roll towards the ceiling then set themselves back on her. “Please… We both know I have some idea,” you stop your thumb on her clit, and you begin to draw small circles around it. “You did tell me” —and you have to pause for a bit to use your other hand to press down on her pelvic area, stopping her from jolting her hips up to get that sweet sensation of your thumb rubbing her swollen nub. She whines a little, a soft plea following suit— “about all the things you wanted to do with me.”

She desperately tries to shift herself, press herself a little more against you. The smooth wooden floor hinders her, the lack of friction failing to aid her. Her brows furrow. She’s frustrated. “Yeah, well, if you know what I want so much, why aren’t you fucking getting to it?”

You wink. “Relax. I’m just letting the meat tenderise.”

“Oh shut it you fucking—  Mmmph!”

And the way you part her with your tongue, it’s like she’s butter and you’re a hot knife slicing her open. You're slow with it, and you don’t stop when Miyeon’s thigh stiffens against your palm, or when she squirms a little and almost got your tongue derailed from its track. You know what makes her tick, what makes her hit the octave and gets her nice and messy for you. If anything gets Miyeon going more than actually fucking—it’s definitely gotta be when you get your tongue on her folds. 

“You’re never gonna let me finish my sentences, are you?” she laughs breathily. You watch her abdomen as it rises and falls together with the quick breaths she takes.

“Dunno…” you nuzzle your face in her folds for a little, giving her time to say whatever she wants for a bit. “You did say that chivalry is dead.”

From your bottom up view of her, you can tell that she just rolled her eyes. “No comment. You won’t let my finish it any— oh my fucking god.”

Now it’s the flat of your tongue against her clit that stops her dead in her tracks. Her juices have begun to lather your tongue in their addictive taste, drawing you into her just a little more with each lap of your tongue. You suck on one of her folds, then your tongue is inside her, and she moans, her hand finding a spot on the back of your head that she can grip on to. She calls you crazy, calls you baby, runs her fingers through your hair. Your tongue dips in, circles, laps; your nose brushes against all the right spots of her skin and it draws out these almost sob-like, quiet sounds from her chest and she’s… Fuck, she’s amazing.

“I might take a while,” she whispers to you. You call malarkey, but play along nonetheless.

“Fuck yes,” your tongue swipes the entirety of her in a long, broad stroke. “Please, by all means princess. Take your time,” you don’t think you could ever sound as enthusiastic as you did right now. She pushes you down a little harder onto her slit, and you delight in how she squirms when you push your tongue a little deeper between her folds.

Her nails start to dig into your scalp a bit, and she starts pushing you down onto her cunt a little more.

“You know,” she speaks with this half-whisper-half-gasp, the type of tone that tells you that she’s fighting to stay in control of her own body. “I— mmph… Sometimes I lock myself in the changing room and just get off to the thought of you eating me.”

You suck on the other fold that you neglected earlier. “Oh yeah?” and you get a finger inside of her. She cries out, abdomen flexing deliciously as she turns pliant under the pressure of your finger getting a hold of that sweet spot. You can feel the heat—it feels like your skin is gonna melt. “Bet you get off real hard to it, maybe even harder than you will in like, two minutes.”

“Two?” she tries to sound a little defiant, but her voice is cracking and it’s really not working out in her favour. Your finger is barely pushing up by the way, yet it seems like she’s got thousands of pascals of pleasure weighing down on every part of her being. “Don’t put yourself on a fucking pedestal… I am nowhere close.”

You hum in reply, saving your energy to suck on her clit. And it’s almost like she’s spring-loaded in the way her thighs clamp around your ears immediately after. Her fingers eat into your scalp, a light, searing pain growing across your head as you kiss her right fold, then her left. You can tell that there’s liquid burning heat running through her body, spilling all over her. Miyeon tries to hold on, tries to prolong this for a little more by getting her nails deep in your scalp. But she’s falling apart, coming undone with each second.

“Baby.”

“One minute left,” you put your lips back around her clit. Her head thumps against the floorboards.

“I—can’t.”

“Ugh. Hate it when you lie.”

“I’m sorry—”

“Just fucking cum.”

And she ruins herself. She loses sense of the world for a bit—convulsing and twitching on the floor while you continue to lick her. No cry leaves her mouth; a strained, choked up phonic gets caught in her throat and refuses to dislodge. Her back arches, her thighs flex. Her world fades for a bit. 

Give or take: she takes a minute or so. When she gasps for air, you know she’s come back down to earth. You welcome her with a kiss to her abdomen as you rise up. Her cheeks are rubicund—flushed and making her glow as she smiles at you. She softly captures your cheeks in her hands.

“Okay,” she huffs, taking deep breaths as she strokes your face with her thumb. “Out of all the men I’ve dated: you can cook and eat the best.”

“Twenty dollars says that you’ve said that to at least four guys,” you muse. “Maybe five if I’m generous.”

She closes her eyes for a moment. Inhales. Exhales.

“Hand on my heart,” she uses one hand to push some hair out of her face. “I’ve only said this to you.”

Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance.

You willfully let yourself be blissful because you can.

--

(Then fast forward a little. Maybe like, three hours? Or however long it takes for you to have a nap and a shower to get ready to go out.)

“Are you seriously going out in that?”

And you have to stop at the door. You know that tone all too well.

“What is it this time?” you grumble, turning around to face the bed so that she can get a full biopsy of your outfit. It isn’t a bad outfit in your honest opinion, and you’re no stranger to horrible (unintentional) attempts at making fashion statements. Colour-blindness is a hereditary curse; it’s not your fault that you can’t tell that this shade of blue doesn’t work with that shade of grey and whatnot. “I swear I wore this a week ago and you said nothing.”

Miyeon slips out from under the covers. In your T-shirt, she saunters with purpose and urgency as she makes her way over. She stops in front of you and takes your tie into her hands. “It’s either you lose this tie or do something else to this already god-forsaken outfit.”

You consider the options for a hot minute. You’re kinda proud of this outfit—it took a lot of time and vetting through Miyeon to get it planned out and everything. The tie was kind of a staple piece—as important as the shirt or trousers. To hear that (in essence) you looked like shit admittedly dealt a blow to your ego, but why be petty when you can be cavalier?

“Whatever,” you reply, making no effort to stop her from trailing a nail up your shirt. “I couldn’t really care less about how this woman perceives me tonight. Not even into her anyway.”

Miyeon chuckles. The finger on your chest wraps itself around the top of your tie. “That’s an option as well,” she adjusts the knot, though it doesn’t look like she’s doing it to make you look better. “But can I give you one more alternative?”

“By all means, princess.”

She tugs on your tie, pulls you close. Your lips are just centimetres away from hers. You get a whiff of her scent. She’s using the shampoo you bought her. 

“Stay home,” she makes sure that her voice is kinda breathy, tickles your face as she lets the phonics dissipate into warm air. “Skip the date. You have a smoking hot girlfriend to fuck anyway.”

Oh and it takes you just about everything to stop you from grabbing her by the face and just kissing her. It's so easy: reach forward, get her face (or waist) in your hands and just smash her lips against yours. You know she’s thinking the same thing; but she’s waiting on you, anticipating what you’re going to do next. It’s a sick little game the two of you play, but it’s fun as hell and really doesn’t get boring in the near future.

“You know what my mom would say…” you begin, and you know she’s gonna stop you.

“Say you're sick”—bingo motherfuckers. She owes you five bucks—“tell her that you got the cold and so you can’t show up.”

“Expended on that one… And the work emergency one too,” you regretfully inform her. “And no: I will not be telling them that we’re actually a thing—“

“Cause you want to protect me and blah blah…” she interjects yet again, her fingers moving up and down, closing against her thumb in mimicry of a mouth moving. It’s petty, kinda frustrating—but it’s Miyeon. She’s a handful to deal with at times, but at least she’s your handful to deal with. “Been running the same jig for a little too long, tiger. I know your game.”

“I know,” you admit. “I’m a one-trick Pony and my carrot is you. What’s new?”

She chortles at that, and you take that moment to really get a good look at her because by god is she beautiful. Head-turner, eye-widener, heart-racer — not to be a bore, but again: it’s Miyeon. There’s a lot more about her that you could synthesize into words, but you won’t (not because you don’t want to or anything; but it’s more about the fact that you probably don’t have enough time to get someone to understand her.)

Cause here’s the thing (about her, you and both of you): she’s just as human as anyone, and that means she’s just about as complicated as anyone. You’ve got a story, she’s got her’s, and the two cross somewhere to form a midpoint before they start running parallel to each other before meeting again and running together and… You get it, don’t you?

No? Fuck. 

Okay. She may or may not be able to hold down a relationship; and you may or may not have been able to secure a relationship. You kinda get drunk with her over this revelation one night and you may or may not have joked over the fact that maybe you should get together. And then you may or may not have had the hottest sex you’ve had in years before you may or may not have realised that she’s the best thing to happen to you. It’s all kinda hypothetical to you cause you’re still processing the fact that this is all real. Still wondering if it’s a fling cause it’s only been about 3 months since this started.

(Calm down cupcake, no one likes a party pooper who prods on details in the midst of a story. It’s just… Ugh. The story behind how the two of you know each other is so boring and complicated—full of unnecessary exposition like this whole bit really. It hurts to retell it, so here’s a summary: she used to date your roommate, roommate moved out after they broke up, she stayed and hanged around you, here you are now. Fuck the details, there’s no room for it really. You can’t have your cake and eat it too.)

“Save the charisma,” she tells you, really putting on some breath behind her words. “I prefer it when you use it in bed.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now.

The kiss kinda blurs the line between passionate and sweet (if there even was a line to begin with). It’s quite aggressive, a little tender but also a wee bit emotional. It makes you a little bitter, but don’t get it twisted: you love this girl with all your heart and you’d do anything to stay with her. It’s just that you’d love—more than anything—to lose the shirt and pants you’re wearing to make out with her, and then let things flow as they do. Unfortunately, your parents really want you to meet this girl, and you have to get going or you’ll probably get cut from the will or something.

She tries again. “Stay…”

“Miyeon—”

“I fucking need you… Please.”

It’s just so fucking tempting…. But there are only so many lines you can cross before you find yourself in trouble with border patrol. And if there's anything you hate more than lectures, it’s lectures from your mother.  

Her lips graze yours, hovering just millimeters away. She wants to kiss you—bite your lower lip and pull you into an undoubtedly sloppy lip lock. That will end with your hand somewhere on her body that gets the ball rolling (and we all know where that ball goes). She has it in her to do it; she has the right, the means and the fucking autonomy (and audacity). She’s just waiting on you, seeing what happens when she plants the seed of an idea in your head and waters it a little. 

Unfortunately for her, you’re too damn terrified of your parents to let that seed grow.

“I‘ll see you later,” you whisper, albeit a little reluctantly. “Call me if anything comes up.”

She understands that she’s lost. Doesn’t stop her from giving you that kiss though. “Don’t keep me waiting tonight… I love you.”

Ugh. She’s one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

--

So get this: this woman that your mother found for you is possibly the most boring person you’ll ever meet. She’s beautiful and all, but she has the personality that has just about the same amount of flavour as food in the west before spices.

She spends the meal talking about her job, and you kinda just fix her with a hundred yard stare and tune out. You couldn’t give a shit about computer security really—never was and never will be into that shit. It doesn’t help that your phone is kinda blowing up at the moment. It’s buzzing all over your thigh in your pocket. Pretty trippy, kinda makes you wonder if Miyeon had just slipped one of her vibrators into your pocket.

You excuse yourself to the bathroom at some point. You’re not sure how long she’s been yapping your ear off for, but it kinda doesn’t matter. All you’ve gotten from this meal is really just a handful of nonsense and a migraine. 

Anyway: it’s in the confines of the bathroom store that you check on the ruckus in your pocket. The screen lights up and you find that the spasming of your phone was caused by a combination of posts from a news outlet and from Miyeon. She takes precedence over the news.

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I swear to you I have no idea what’s going on 

Miyeon//8:01 pm: I’m getting this at the same time as you

Miyeon//8:02 pm: I don’t know what’s happening. Please come home.

And the way you open your news app almost instantly makes you feel like you’re all too familiar with this. It’s not a headline, but it might as well be from the way it makes your eyes widen and your breath stop for a second. 

You blink. You blink again. 

The words don’t change. 

Suddenly, you have a valid reason to get out of this dinner.

(How you get home is a little fuzzy, but that’s not really the important part. 

What? The headline? Oh you know it, don’t you cupcake? It was literally the only thing on people’s minds for some reason, as if an idol dating an actor is something unheard of.)

“What the fuck?” you ask when you step through your apartment door.

She sighs as you remove your coat and hang it behind your door. “Look… I’m just as confused as you are—”

“An actor?” you interject. You’ll admit that it’s a little rude, but you’re really just trying to make sense of this as fast as possible. “How long have you known this guy?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t,” she huffs. “I swear to you, hand on my heart and the other on the bible, I am not in love with that man.” She says. “I barely even know the fucker, never talked to him in my life.”

It’s a little hard to look at her right now. You have lots of things to say; lots of feelings and lots of thoughts. If you’re really gonna be honest with yourself: you’re scared, hurt and a little confused. Miyeon’s good at lying—a little too good for your liking. Pair that knowledge with your insecurities, and congrats: you’ve just given birth to multiple insecurities. They’re like little demons running amok in your chest. It’s suddenly hard to breathe.

You can’t do this with her now. Not when all this is all so fresh and new. 

But she catches your arm as you try to walk past her. Her grip is firm, pleading. 

“Please,” she utters, letting her hand slide down your arm to let her fingers wrap around your hand. “Trust me on this.”

You want to. You really want to. And so it hurts you to ask, “Am I just another fling?”

You can see it in her eyes when she realises the motivation behind the question. She doesn’t take long to come to the epiphany—just a little less than a second before her eyes soften and her lips part a little. Her expression scares you. You want to run from this all together and leave it to another day, but God knows that you won’t be getting any sleep with this weight in your head. It’s comical, almost hilarious if it weren’t for the fact that it’s your relationship with her on the line.

You like to think that she can’t express her answer into words, so she kisses you instead. You’ll never know why she chose to kiss you, but it's sweet and so powerful that you can kinda live with that gap in your knowledge. You may or may not have teared a little, and you may or may not have melted into her lips a little too quickly. What you can say for certain: when you find yourself back in those eyes, panting with your face between her hands—the words ‘I love you’ escape your mouth faster than you can think. You don’t say it for the sake of it; you say it cause you mean it. You want her to know that you’ll fight for this relationship, that you’ll fight for her.

And it makes her smile. 

“I’m like, in love with your goofy ass,” she mutters, thumb tracing a path along your cheek. “So don’t you ever think that I’d drop you for some slick-back fuck face.”

That’s more than enough for you. Her smile is contagious as you hold her waist. “Crude. I love you, Miyeon.”

“Yeah. I heard you the first tim—”

Of course: you don’t wait for a finished reply to kiss her. It’s a practice, almost a common tongue at this point.

Miyeon lets her hands fall, gets her arms around your neck while you reacquaint your lips with hers. She’s lovely, fucking divine and maybe even a little addictive—straight up dangerous if you’re to sum it up. You wonder, for a second, if you’re being manipulated, and it’s really only for a second because she’s got her teeth in your bottom lip and she’s dragging them towards her. She wants more—more of you and less of this need to prove her love. She touches your chest, palm flat against your flesh as she deepens the kiss. Ignorance is bliss. Believing her is a sort of ignorance. Kissing her deepens that ignorance, makes you all the more blissful.

“I need you,” you breathe, unashamed by your blatant desire to have her right now. Really: you can’t get enough of her smell right now. “Please Miyeon… Let me be the only one.”

She smiles softly. She runs her fingers through your hair. “Baby, you already are.”

You press your forehead against hers. “I know. But can we just…”

You can’t really verbalise what you want out of this. You want Miyeon, but you don’t just want the idea and concept of her. You long for that connection with her, that union and that closure, not just some fleeting, superficial feelings. This woman is quite literally one of your dreams. It’s selfish to say this, but you want that security—something tangible to know that you’re really hers and she’s really yours, a piece of her that you can hold on to that helps rid your heart of those little demons. You hope she can understand this through your closed eyes.

And something about the way she fixes your hair tells you that she does.

“It’s okay,” she assures you, her other hand finding that one spot on your chest. It feels like it’s touching your heart directly, calming it. “I get it,” her fingers wrap around the knot of your tie, loosening it till it unravels completely. “You’re hurt and scared. Frankly, so am I.”

Miyeon wraps the tie up neatly in her fist. Her hands cross over each other as she reaches down to grab the hems of her shirt. It slips off her, a layer peeled away. Then the tie rolls down from her hand. 

“I want you to know”—she drapes the tie around her shoulders, the thin portion ever so slightly shorter than the broader portion as they hang on either side of those perky mounds—“I will do everything I can to protect you and us.”

She tosses the smaller end across her body, cloth flying over her left shoulder and dangling behind her arm. The broader end is wrapped around her neck—once, twice. 

Miyeon steps closer and takes your hand. The broad end of the tie gets slotted into your palm. 

“And even though I might have to be seen with him,” she coos, and she’s a little clumsy as she reaches for the thin end behind her, but she gets it on her second or third try. “Even though I might have to hold his hand in public,” she slips it between her skin and the loop she’s made, ties it off. “You should know: I am yours.”

She shocks you into silence as always. You know what she’s insinuating. You know that she knows what she’s insinuating. Your eyes search her for consent, and you find that it’s the only thing you can make out behind the veneer of a tender gaze. She checks the makeshift leash she’s made. It’s not coming off anytime soon.

You wrap some of the tie around your hand. Your fingers close around the silky fabric. 

(Just so we’re clear: the tie may look horrible on you, but she looks amazing in it.)

You pull.

And it’s just that. 

Clothes come off, lips meet, sighs fly through the room. Her hands explore you, grab you, pump you; your kisses find the best parts of her, the parts you love the most and the parts she loves attention at. The tie never leaves your hand, and you give it a tug or two when you get your digits in her on the couch. You’ll never forget the way she looks when her head is forced up just after it whips back, the glassy look in her eye as she begs for you, keens for you. Never in your life has anything this debauched been so intimate. You’ve never heard sighs out of you and her so luscious. 

“Princess,” you quite literally growl as you address her. It’s not necessary, but the squelching of your fingers in her slick brings out something in you—a part of you that’s wild and somewhat untamed. “I fucking love the way you moan.”

Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, hard enough to draw blood. “Yeah? She husks, her eyes going half-lidded in pleasure when you get your fingers in the same, soft, tender spot on the roof of her pussy. “It’s all for you. Ngh— A-All yours…”

And you don’t know how you can not believe her at this point.

You pull at the tie. She almost straightens completely. You kiss her. Her moans send pleasant vibrations down your windpipe.

It’s all so perfect. And it somehow gets even more perfect when she cums—waves of heat burning through her system; eyes shut and mouth agape; hands around your neck and your name spilling from her lips in a mix of curses (that mostly contain the word ‘fuck’); body convulsing and twitching in ways that make a low grunt emerge from the depths of your chest as you watch her. She’s beautiful—your beautiful princess.

When it’s over, you let the tie go slack. She crashes against the couch, forcing air back into her lungs with deep breaths. There’s sweat on her face, her body. Your hand finds its place on her tummy as you place small kisses on the corner of her lip, her jaw. Her skin is moist and sticky.

“Have me,” and it’s more so of a demand than a request. “Take me. However you want, wherever you want,” she runs her hands through your hair, “You’re the only one I want.”

You let out a low hum. It lightly vibrates at the base of your throat as you catch her earlobe between your lips. 

“Has anyone told you how fucking beautiful you are?” you can’t help but ask. She searches your face or a minute, then she chortles.

“About half the world,” she replies. “But it means the most coming from you.”

(Oh… That line really means the fucking world to you.)

You kiss her, hard. It’s messy, sloppy, and at some point you guys are scrambling to get on top of each other. She wins at one point, and so she rides you—dropping and rising hard and fast on your cock like a lewd merry-go-round carriage. She’s relentless, letting your cock fill her while she blanks out and just lets herself cry and moan like you don’t have thin walls in your apartment. You let her please herself, throw herself down onto your cock again and again till you decide that it’s your turn to have some fun. The tie is your friend, and you use it to pull her real close to not too kindly hiss your instructions into her ear. 

You’d kill to see the look in her eyes again.

And so you have her against the nearest wall in less than a minute, her back flushed against it and one of her legs bent in the crook of your arm. She reaches between your bodies, grabs your throbbing shaft and rubs your tip against her slit. You feel the heat of her pussy—the desire and depravity that burn in her core. You can’t believe she’s yours.

“I’m gonna put this in me,” she narrates her course of action, all breathy and silky. “It’s gonna fill me, fuck me… Maybe even cum in me.”

“I wouldn’t get ahead of ourselves here,” you whisper, your hand wrapping itself back in the fabric of the tie. “That last part? I dunno… Seems a little optimistic, don’t you think?”

She pushes your head in between her folds—not all the way, but enough to part them. “And why is that?”

You pop your hips, push yourself in a little more. She inhales sharply. 

“I only cum inside good girls.”

The smile that creeps its way onto her face is wicked.

“Trust me,” her hand finds purchase on your shoulder, pads of her fingers digging into the muscle. “I’ll be the best you ever get.”

She puts her weight onto the leg in your arm. You slide into her.

And you both take a moment to enjoy the unity—the feeling of the two of you being joined as one; your out of sync heartbeats that feel like pattering raindrops around your shaft. You want to say something witty, a quip that will get a nice chuckle out of her.

All you can really manage is, “Fuck.”

And in response: “Talk less. Fuck more.”

You draw back, push in. There’s the sopping sound of your shaft going in and out of her, wet pushing into warm flesh. You groan. She sighs. 

Tight, hot, wet, divine.

And it goes without saying: when you pick up the pace, she lets you know that she loves the feeling—the stretching, the filling, the push and pull. It comes to you in the form of pure filth: words that have very little consideration for propriety and no room for decency, something along the lines of “I can’t believe you feel this good. I can’t believe this cock is mine” or “That’s it. Keep filling me. Keep fucking— Oh” or maybe even a mix of both. You can’t be certain, because between you and her, you both know that the undulating of your cock into her tight, creamy heat and the almost torturous pressure around your dick is taking you under by the second. It’s not hard to lose yourself in her when she’s basically a little piece of you. 

Like always, she let her pleasure be known through desperate noises and choked up words. “Keep going, please, fuck—don't stop,” and it sounds like it hurts but you know it’s the other way around. Her pleasure coated tongue makes the lust in her words undeniable, her half-lidded eyes ruining the argument that she’s in any pain whatsoever. You yank on her tie, her body curves closer. You need a better look at that face.

(Trust me, it’s a face you don’t want to forget. 

For lack of a better word: it’s porny as fuck.)

It's a blissful dance – the rhythmic, almost metronomical give of her thighs as you slide yourself home again and again steadily and firmly. The smacking of sweaty and sticky skins colliding is almost evenly paced, sighs and grunts filling the spaces between slaps. She follows your lead, rocks her hips accordingly, angles herself and adjusts so that she can feel you in the deepest parts of her cunt. You lift her leg a little higher, spear yourself a little deeper. You listen to your body, she listens to hers. You give in to your desires.

You don’t mean to blurt it. You don’t mean to make the sex more complicated than it already is. But it happens—it fucking happens and you can’t stop it. 

“I love you,” your voice is nothing more than a rasp. She feels so fucking good around you — squeezing, pulsing and doing every little thing that makes your jaw tighten and you legs tense. “I fucking love you, Miyeon.”

She holds your gaze, then smiles, then nods. She nods vigorously, enthusiastically. “I know… It’s all I’ve ever known.”

Your hand on the tie releases it from your grasp. You catch a bouncing breast in your hand, squeeze the tight and taut nipple with your fingers. The tie shakes violently like a snake writhing, bouncing and swaying with each firm impact against Miyeon’s skin. She mewls, pulls you in, kisses you. She lets herself come undone with her chest flushed against you and your hearts aligned as she lets the cries transfer from your mouth to hers. You pump yourself faster, harder, faster, harder. Your finger digs into the flash near her knee. Your blood is boiling, molten metal spilling over and washing over you—gold rush, acid flux, saturating you in this bliss that numbs you out. You can’t tell where your thrusts start and end. They’re blurred by the heat washing over your eyes. You can’t get enough. The way you fuck her—it feels relentless, merciless, a fire that only burns brighter and can’t be put out, fuelled by the heat of Cho Miyeon flushed against you and the sublime squeeze of her slick heat. Everything about this is hot; everything about her is hot. 

“Don’t you ever let me go,” she hisses. “Fuck— don’t ever leave. This cock is mine. You are mine.”

“Princess, I’d never,” you nuzzle yourself into the crook of her neck, pepper her nicely with kisses. “You. Only you.”

“Yeah,” and her breath is hot on the nape of your neck. “Cause I can’t ever fucking imagine anyone else filling me this fucking good. No one has ever filled me this good.”

And her fricatives feel like acid: Aqua Regia—melting straight through solid gold just to get to you. It makes you burn a little hotter, fuck her a little harder. Your heart burns at the thought of her; your brain melts at the sight of her—glassy-eyed and mouth agape while cock pumps her full of pleasure and want. She finds a spot on your shoulder, whispers her proclamation of love— “I love you I love you I love you— Fuck—”—before she buries her face into your shoulder blade. Her love is an animal call, cutting through the darkness and bouncing off the walls, reaching a soft spot in your heart that you hold for her. Nothing in this world is gonna stop you from turning her into a messy little fucktoy. 

It’s hard to think. It’s hard to breathe. She’s become your world, the only thing you ever want to think about. Anything that isn’t her tight little pussy is irrelevant; what isn’t her thin lips pressed against your shoulder is invalid; no pair of eyes will ever match the glassy, lust-fogged ones that Cho Miyeon possesses. Your pulse is rushing, your head is reeling, your face is flushing. You want her—all of her. You suck hard on the milky skin you’ve caught between your lips, marking her, claiming her. She has no qualms nor worries; she tilts her neck to give you better access to that lovely patch of skin that becomes your canvas. She mewls, presses her forehead harder into your body, grounding herself in the sensation of her skin on yours. 

“I’m gonna fucking fill you, Miyeon,” you drawl. “I’m gonna cum inside this pretty little pussy and make a mess out of you,”

“Yeah, yes,” she’s barely holding it together at this point. “Please. Oh god please.”

Your hips move on their own now, taking liberties without signals from your fried brain as you pump yourself into Miyeon with the sole goal of piping her full of your hot seed. For long, wordless minutes, you're thrusting into her in a mindless, fervent fashion, giving in to your desires and your depravity and fucking her like she’s a doll. You relish the feel of her skin in your palms; the feel of her hands pressed against your chest; the sheer, strained phonetic atrocities that rise from the depths of her throat. Your shaft glistens in the light of the room, slick with her sweet juices as it slips in and out of her hot cunt, spearing into her with depth, making her legs weaker by the second. Miyeon cups your cheek, moans your name. You bury your nose deep in those silky locks of jet black hair. You need every last part of her to be close to you.

She's whimpering, eyes squeezed shut, toes clenching; she’s a coiled up spring, a bundle of nerves waiting to be released. Her bottom lip is between her teeth, her throat bobs. She's coming undone, breaking a little more with each thrust of your cock. You know that she’s cumming before she announces it, and when you fuck her over the point of no return, it’s bliss.

Miyeon melts, head whips back and thumps against the wall, positively combusts on the spot and ceases to hold on to the last bits of herself. She lets herself fall through the pleasure, orgasm almost ripping through her system as she shakes in your grasp. She’s such a precious thing, yet she can look like lust itself when she’s busy cumming all over your cock and whining like her life depends on it. She’s tighter, wetter, even better to fuck. 

She really is the best you’ll ever have.

“Miyeon–”

“Just fucking cum.”

Your line; same effect. You fill her, make a creamy mess of her cunt because you can. You fuck her through it, push your load deeper with each thrust. Your cock pulses, spasms, shoots load after load after load into her pussy till you can’t take it anymore and jitter to a halt, and there’s nothing left but a filthy mess flowing out at the base of your cock where her lips are splayed the widest. It’s a sight for sure. 

(And there really isn’t a word for the moment that the two of you share in that wrinkle in time, that moment where it’s just all warm and fuzzy and you have your forehead pressed against hers.)

You cradle her in your arms, kiss her chest, her jaw, her lips. It’s tender, it’s gentle.

“We’ll figure this out,” she pants through closed eyes. “I promise you: you and me, we’re gonna figure this all out.”

Somehow, you don’t doubt it.

--

(Still here? Great. We’re getting to the good part. Get your special sock out or something.)

So the newest rage of the K-pop scene is the photo of Miyeon kissing him in a car.

It's a publicity stunt—the whole damn relationship. They are supposed to appear in love according to Miyeon, and it was his idea to kiss her. She never consented and he just did it. It’s a pretty lewd photo: up close and personal and all. You can see his lips on hers, his hand on her breast and they’re like, clearly getting it on in three. Pretty steamy if you do say so yourself,

(...)

Oh fucking hell. Who are you kidding describing this photo like you’re just viewing an artwork. It makes your blood boil, and speaking to her after seeing this photo feels like dancing to alarm bells when you feign ignorance and just talk with her like it’s a normal Wednesday. You’re gonna hurt yourself at this rate, but she really means too much.  

She told you that he forced his lips on hers, you believe her to the best of your ability. You kiss her, tell her it’s okay, that she’s doing what she has to do to protect the two of you. She says she’s sorry, that she feels like she’s failed you. You kiss her again—albeit a little half-hearted—and assure her once more that it’s okay. You want to nurse her pain, but you also have your own problems to deal with.

And as if this fucking actor hasn’t interfered enough with your relationship, he has the audacity to call during the make up sex.

Her phone starts to ring when she’s on her hands and knees on your bed, and you’re fucking her into the mattress like she’s some pliant plaything. There's a rage inside you that hasn’t been quenched, and you don’t realise that it’s bringing out that dark side of you till you spank her ass a little harder than you intended to. It doesn’t help that you kinda twitch when you hear her yelp, and it really doesn’t help when she tightens after the second spank. The phone only continues to vibrate next to her head.

“Baby,” she rasps. “My phone…”

“Pick it up,” you hiss. “Pick it up and let whoever the fuck it is hear how you’re being fucked like a slut.”

Degradation has never really been a kink of yours, but you know she’s kinda into it. Even so, you’re not calling her a slut because you consciously want to. You feel like an asshole for being angry, kinda hate yourself a little for not being able to accept that she’s doing what she needs to do. And then you kinda hate her for making you hate yourself and— Ugh. It just gets more complicated the more you try and rationalise it. You can’t stop the hot blood from coursing through your system, fuelling your firm strokes into her tight heat like you’re trying to inject all the hate in your body into her. 

Her hand that was once clawing at the sheets now reaches for her phone. You keep thrusting as she flips it over, keep thrusting as she shows you the caller ID, keep thrusting as she looks back at you with a gaze that says “are you sure?”. You hope she isn’t met by that dark look you often see when you look at yourself in the mirror after a new headline about them hits your screen. It’s funny how one person can flip the idea of make-up sex on its head—turn it from something so tender and beautiful to a spite-fuelled fuck fest that’s gonna make things more complicated. She hasn’t even picked up the fucking phone, but you can hear his sick voice in your head as you drive yourself deeper into her cunt, fuck her harder and faster than you knew you could. She’s in no state to answer the phone, yet her finger taps on the ‘accept call’ button. 

(She would’ve rejected it if she could, but she got into some deep shit the last time that happened. Must’ve been threatened or something for her to pick up the phone while she’s getting fucked.)

“Hello?” she does her best to steady her voice, and she’s doing pretty well considering how loud the smacking of skin against skin is. She presses the phone a little tighter against her left ear. You don’t intend on stopping. Let him hear her being owned by you for all you care. “T-This is a bad… a bad time.”

Damn straight it is. 

Your hand caresses the curve of her ass. You spank her again, making sure that it’s loud and it leaves a red patch on her smooth, creamy skin. She contacts around you, gasps a little as you bend down and pin her down with your weight on her back.

“W-What?”—and it feels like she’s talking to both of you. You hiss into her other ear. “I’m going to fuck you like this,” your voice is actually a snarl, a dark one. Your body is energized by the promise of taking and ravaging the helpless, prone woman beneath you, your words dripping with loathing and your thrusts brimming with spite. “I’m going to fuck you hard and rough, and you’re gonna keep him on the fucking line so he can hear it.”—“No I’m… Jogging.”

She’s terrible at lying. You let her know through each thrust—hard and deep, uncaring for her pleasure or her comfort or anything other than your need to bury yourself again and again inside her body. There’s the need to dominate her, the need to make her yours. You hope this guy can act like he doesn’t care that his supposed girlfriend is being prone-boned by another guy, act like he isn’t totally aware of the fact that Cho Miyeon’s body is never gonna belong to him at any point as long as you’re alive. 

(Keep this between us: but with the way you're going down on her, it feels like the message is being transferred to her and not him.)

You hear indistinct chatter. Miyeon bites down on her lower lip, undoubtedly holding back the stream of cries and sighs and lyrical monstrosities that threaten to burst forth. With her eyes she begs, challenges you to do more. You could be reading her wrong by like, a hundred percent. Doesn't matter, not when you can take every liberty with her body because you couldn’t give more of a shit. There’s more indistinct chatter on the other end of the phone; Miyeon says something along the lines of “no. Don’t buy the choker for me”. You give her a choker—raise yourself up and reach around her to wrap your fingers around her throat. Her whole body tenses when you apply pressure around her windpipe. In no universe does this guy not know what’s going on right now.

Cause she’s there—right there, all choked up and struggling to breathe while the fucker keeps yap-yap-yapping away like he’s some fucking guard dog. It irritates the hell out of you. At some point, he kinda has to hear a squelch or smack or two, maybe even a moan or a cry as well. But he stays on the phone, and not once does Miyeon ever have to address the question of whether she’s being fucked on the other end of the call or not. You thought you were ignorant, but this guy is a whole new fucking level of blissfully ignorant. It feels like his sole purpose is to drive a wedge between the two of you, to make you hate her because you hate him. Again: it’s kinda complicated to say exactly what it feels like to be in this situation. 

And you can imagine the moans she wants to let out. They’ll tumble out of her lips like water down a waterfall, and they’ll mix with the sound of your lips smacking against her skin as you lean back down to kiss her neck, stopping at one spot that you know will be good to mark her and sucking hard. It feels like getting back at her—doing all the things you want to do while she can't speak her mind freely (and you know how tortuous it is for her when she can’t moan while she’s being railed like this). You’re not sure why you would ever need to get back at her when she’s done nothing wrong, but I guess it helps to synthesise and dumb down the emotions you’re feeling at the moment.

“Tonight?” she asks. Then she buries her head into the sheets because she can’t hold back this moan that almost explodes from her chest. You’re not squeezing really hard around her throat, mind you—only enough to make her a little uncomfortable, like a tie has been wrapped around her neck. She's getting off on it though: her walls squeeze you a little tighter; her breaths become more ragged and short. Honestly, she's taking your cock so well, and you communicate this to her with a growl. It makes her shudder a hell lot. 

Her other hand clutches the sheets, spasms. She’s pliant, she always is, but it feels like you can wrack her tiny body with so much more pleasure as you keep a hand around her throat and keep your dick pumping in and out of her. You wish you had a mirror to see that pretty face warping under the heat of her lust. You kinda forget that she’s still calling him when she speaks again, cause she follows up with, “I can’t— I can’t believe…”

And if that damn phone call wasn’t happening, she’d be saying something along the lines of “I can’t believe that you’re fucking me this good”.

“Sorry. I got cut off,” she pants. “Yeah… It’s harder to hear me when I’m running.”

Now she's talking to you. The reply is to him, but she’s addressing you. You take her up on it, and the slapping and squelching start to ricochet off the walls and ceiling. What you’re doing should be considered as a whole sin in itself. Technically, it’s adultery, but you’re not too sure if you can even classify this as something that simple. This is jealousy, hate and love mashed into one—a mix of things that kinda shouldn’t go together when you have a woman who’s quite literally like putty beneath you. It doesn’t help that she's this hot, this tight, this wet. She’s straining her moans, and it’s so cute that you want to choke her a little harder. You don’t do it (just clarifying some doubts here), but you almost do. 

“R-Really?”—you’re almost certain that what comes next is gonna be addressed to you. You can imagine her signing your name off on it—”wow… That must be so fucking good.”

Bingo. Gotta say: she’s kinda smooth with it.

“I’m fine. Out… Out of breath” you don’t know how she manages to keep her voice steady. “Y-yeah… I’m gonna come… Don’t worry.”

You hope that she can hold on.

You don’t know how long more you fuck her for while she’s on the phone. It’s a blur; you kinda only see red and you’re still choking her out even after she hangs up. It’s only when she goes, “Oh, fuck, daddy—!” with this breathless, perverse, pleading tone and a voice that’s so loud; her body unable to do anything other than gasp and moan and urge you to really give it to her, and when she says “fuck me, fuck me, fuck me!” like you’re not doing just that (and only that) at the moment that she’s hung up on him. Now she has every facility available to focus on the rock hard meat she’s receiving. You feel filthy, like you’re doing something wrong.

But hey: the sex is hot and Miyeon’s kinda into it, so you keep going. You keep fucking her into the bed—the same way you would if you were fucking her against the wall or in the shower or against any flat surface, really. It’s twisted, it’s dark, it’s hot; the angle her body is at lets you drive yourself deeper and faster and harder into her wet, tight and hot pussy like you never have before. You’re experiencing a novelty, a new chapter.

(Caveat: is it kinda messed up that you call her a cocksleeve? Not really? Huh.)

“God Miyeon…” you feel like the voice that comes from your throat is not your own. “You’re such a good fucking cocksleeve for me,” and you may or may not be tightening the grip around her throat as you speak. “So tight and wet for me. You’re such a good fuck.”

“Oh daddy, fuck you’re so big and deep in me,” she gasps. She has lots to say, even though air is like a fucking luxury for her. She rarely calls you Daddy, yet she’s using her precious air to do so now. “Fuck, fuck me as hard as you can, daddy! Do whatever you want with me! Own me! Take me!”

You barely recognise the woman she’s become: depraved, sordid and one hell of a hot mess. You love it. It’s fantastic. Fucking fantastic.

And she falls apart under you not long after, writhing and moaning and twitching as this beautiful mess of a woman you’ve made out of her. You want to cum in her, really own her; but your thoughts are fueled too much by the hate in your heart that they're wilder than anything she can ever imagine. 

You pull out of Miyeon, your shaft glistening in the dim light. You get off the bed, pull her away with you. Her mouth opens to say something. You kiss her—shut her up. She moans into your mouth, and you swallow it, bite her lower lip, and it's not rough, but enough to get her attention.

“You’ve gotten enough loads inside your pussy,” you husk. “Get on your knees. I want your mouth.”

She nods, and you relish the disappointment in her eyes. You push down firmly on her shoulders. She goes with the motion, and you're not sure if you can ever get over the image of Miyeon on her knees with her pretty little princess face staring at you with anticipation. You think about fucking her face, letting your cock thrust into the back of her throat over and over and over till you paint her face in a messy spray of cum. 

And you know what? You’ll do just that.

Of course, Miyeon perfectly understands what has to be done. You step up to her. She parts her lips and takes your cock right into her mouth, grasping the base of your cock and pumping it with one hand while she gently cups and squeezes your balls with the other. The pace she launches into is hard and fast; blurring her chocolate hair and your vision—taking the top half of your cock in and out of her wet mouth with rapid urgency while her fingers work your shaft in a corkscrew motion. The suction of her mouth is almost lethal, the seal sublime; and the audacity she has to look up at you while she takes your cock in and out of her mouth is so exhilarating that it makes you weak in the knees. She’s gorgeous, even more so when she’s got cock in her mouth.

Your hand finds a clump of her black, sweaty hair, and you close your fingers around it, holding them in your fist. You push her head down onto your cock, pop your hips and start thrusting with firm, slow strokes. She exceeds every expectation you ever had, adapting to you, changing to please you. Your eyes shut involuntarily. Your brain blocks out all sensations that aren’t the wet, hot cavern of Miyeon’s mouth sealed tightly around your shaft. With the first entry into her mouth her wet tongue is pressed tightly against the underside of your shaft, lathering it with her spit. The backstroke is somehow even better, that pretty little mouth endeavoring to suck you right back in when you draw yourself back out. It feels like time stands still, but Miyeon’s still in motion, and she’s the one making you feel like all the natural laws in the world are being defied.

A small part of you knows that you have to see it happening in order to truly believe it’s all real, so you force your eyes open to watch the spectacle unfolding between your legs. Smoky eyes glazed with pure lust staring right up at you, watering, projecting perverse pleasure with a gaze; hollow cheeks and a seemingly unhinged jaw to accommodate your length; spit leaking from the corners of her mouth, dribbling down her chin.

“Fuck I—” is all you manage to say (or maybe ‘grunt’ is a better word) before your orgasm takes the reins to your body. It overwhelms your senses, but you force your eyes open to watch as you pull Miyeon off your dick just in time. Thick, glistening cum erupts from your tip to land on Miyeon’s face, on her cheeks and nose, painting her smoky features with pearlescent, warm ropes. You paint her face with your hot white seed, and it’s far from an elegant piece of art. She doesn’t look anything like one of the French girls she wanted to be painted like, but the look of utter lust on her needy features is still breathtaking—mouth open, tongue out, eyes closed in delight and bliss.

Ugh, she's one hell of a woman, isn’t she?

And when it’s all over, she takes your cock in her hand and licks off the drops that she’d been deprived of. 

“If you ever do that again.” you love the raspy touch to her voice. The lilt in it is doing wonders too. “I’m gonna make sure that you’ll be calling your mom the next time I blow you.”

You roll your eyes and sigh. “Whatever you say, princess…”

The hate seems to fade. Your heartbeat slows.

Maybe this relationship is salvageable. Maybe you guys can last.

You talk to her about it afterwards and apologise sincerely. She says that she didn’t think much of it when it was happening. Then you guys are at peace again.

(What do you think? How long does the honeymoon last? A month more? 

Two?

Generous.

Try one. Fucking. Week.)

--

“Okay. Hands down: this is the best Jjamppong I’ve eaten.”

The growing pile of clam shells beside her bowl tells you that you did something right. It’s the first time you've made this dish, and there’s always that lingering worry that you fucked up somewhere along the way when you eat it for the first time. The soup seasoning is a little off in some places (you don’t know where exactly), but it’s nothing a dash of fish sauce and some chilli flakes can’t fix.

“I mean,” Miyeon continues, speaking between small yet generous mouthfuls of noodles. “You only get better and better at cooking. I don't know how you do it.”

You give a half-hearted smile. Your noodles have kinda gone cold by now: you’ve been stirring them around with your chopsticks for the past five minutes or so. Appetite has become a luxury for you these days, and it’s one of those days where a new article about him and her comes out, one of those days where you both agreed to put a pin on it and just enjoy life. “Well… It’s a lot of love and care, I guess.”

“You can say that again,” she smiles. “Thank you for making dinner. No one cooks like you.”

“Thank you for cutting scallions,” you say. “No one cuts them like you do.”

She laughs and waves it off, then takes another slurp of her noodles. “I honestly don’t know if I like your tomato soup over this.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. My tomato soups have always been the peak of my cooking prowess.”

“I really don’t know!” she tells you, grabbing another clam from the centre of the table. “This stuff is all smoky and tasty… It just feels like home and I—”

You drop your chopsticks into your bowl. Soup splashes onto the table.

“How do I keep living like this, Miyeon?” you ask. There are only so many pins in your possession and you feel like you’ve used all of them. “I’d love to sit here and talk to you about how I made this meal like everything’s okay, and this is just Thursday and maybe we’ll get ice cream later… But it’s not like that right now.”

Miyeon takes your hand in hers. 

“I can’t pretend like things are the same when everything’s… different,” you close your eyes, take a breath. “I love you, Miyeon. You’re like, the best thing that’s ever happened to me and… I’ve never loved anyone the way I love you.”

You can hear her take a breath to start speaking. You really want to let her, but there’s too much on your chest. 

“I know you’re doing what you have to, for me, for us,” you want—oh so badly––to just bury your face in your hands right now. But once you do that, the tears will inevitably come and your ability to speak your mind will disappear faster than you can regain yourself. “But it hurts. It hurts to see you holding his hand, walking around and… and kissing him.”

Your heart stings when you see the tears welling in her eyes when you find it in you to look at her. The last thing you want is to see her in pain. This next bit hurts you even more to say, but you know that it’s better to tell her how you feel.

“I feel like I’m an open wound… and you're just pouring salt on me,” and you start to choke up a little. “I’m sorry to put it that way but—”

“No,” she interjects. “No. I get it… I-I understand.”

And for a moment, it feels like everything's okay for a bit.

Then she comes around the table to kiss you, and hell’s bells start ringing all over again. It hurts to kiss her, but it feels so right.

Miyeon leans into you. She kisses you. She pulls you close. She lets you run your hands across her body, down her back. You stand. Your tongue pokes into her mouth. One of you says I need you and you don’t know who it is.

And like when things were okay: you guys don’t make it to the couch.

You get naked. She gets naked. The sex isn’t about pleasure or thrill. It’s the aching within the both of you that drives your shaft into her cunt, rocks her hips as you fuck her. You quite literally make love with her, your strokes passionate and fervent; her cries are earnest and wanton, full of longing. For long moments when her chest is against yours, your hearts are aligned. You wish that you could fuse them together, take away the pain by making the two of you one singular person there on the floor. It feels possible when your dick is throbbing inside of her, pumping her slick with rock hard meat again and again and again.

But the thing that sucks the most is that you can’t do that. You’re two separate people with two separate problems that kinda overlap at the same point.

You have her bent over the counter, propped up on the kitchen sink—anywhere you could reach was a surface for you and her. And normally you’d be a bit of a party pooper about fucking on these surfaces, but today you really can’t give more of a shit. You want to feel like everything’s okay again, like you’re not fighting for your life to hold on to this relationship that’s being torn apart day by day, night by night.

And you may have pieces of each other deep within your souls, but they don’t seem to fit anymore.

When it’s all over and you’re panting against the dishwasher, reality hasn’t changed and you’re still torn. You have a wound that only you can heal through acceptance, yet you can’t find it in you to accept that this is the life you have to lead. You want to love her. You want it so bad. But you can’t find the will in you to love her when there’s another man in the picture, albeit that her love for him isn’t even minimally a concept. You can’t nurse her injuries either, and it hurts to know that as her delicate hands cradle your cheeks. Her touch is perfect, her breaths are soft on your skin. The two of you have tried so hard to make it work, yet you’ve only come so far. The solution to this problem is like thousands of hot fire pokers stabbing you simultaneously, and it only hurts because it’s the only way forward for the both of you. 

“Miyeon,” you can’t quite believe what you’re about to say. The tears streaming down your  cheeks aren’t making anything easier. “Let’s break up.”

(And this isn’t for pity: but you cry yourself to sleep after she leaves that night. Ain’t it fun being heartbroken? You would know how it feels, right cupcake?)

--

Three months, two weeks and one day (about 105 days if you really want to be fully accurate. Go write that down somewhere) pass uneventfully—and by that you mean, you never picked up any of the 138 calls that came from Miyeon. It would have been 140 calls if you hadn’t picked up two of them when you were drunk. But hey, she was drunk too. So it kinda cancels out… at least you like to think that it does. It does, doesn't it? Two negatives make a positive? 

(No?)

Ah well. Anyway,

(Okay, caveat, again: you’re thankful that she hadn’t showed up to the apartment once throughout this period. You’ve been stuck between your anger and a blame that you can’t face because you don’t know if you blame yourself or her or him. Drinking doesn’t help to lighten the ache in your chest, so you tried exercising: running, swimming, even pilates; you tried to pick up music—bought a guitar and everything. Your fingers still hurt when you play chords, and you’re considering giving up at some point; you tried to learn how to make those pain in the ass French desserts, and now you have a fire extinguisher permanently installed in your kitchen because you somehow managed to set fire to macarons; and you tried to write. That didn’t go well. 5 Wattpad users politely asked you to kill yourself. Not fun.

One way or another, your thoughts would end up drifting back to Miyeon, and you’d have to sit in place and kinda stare into the distance for a little. And yes, you did question your choice to end things with her many times if anyone is asking. You kinda hate yourself a little for not trying to make things work, and you also kinda hate her for not insisting on staying to make things work. 

It took two of the three months for you to realise that you were both kinda in the wrong. But it’s already too late by then.

You couldn’t get a grip of yourself and fight off your internal demons; she couldn’t stop doing what she thought was right to protect the two of you. Net-net: it’s a loss for the both of you in the business of love. Now you have to look for a way forward through this grey-area mess that you’ve made, learn to live with the fact that maybe you guys just weren't meant to be in the grand scheme of things.

The updates on Miyeon’s relationship with that damned actor kept coming, but it stopped as of late. But for a while, they were all the rage for gossip blogs. Every now and then, a shitty title like “Cho Miyeon stuns with her visuals on her date” would pop up, and you have to swipe away quickly before you accidentally tap on the notification and see her holding hands with him. You’ll admit that you opened some of the articles just to get a look at her face, then smile to yourself for a bit before you fight the urge to punch the spot next to her where Squid Game wannabe is smiling. You’ve succeeded so far.

You kept away from Jjampong and tomato soup with grilled cheese too. It’s hard to take your butter bell down from the fridge without tearing a little, and the fish sauce and chilli flake panacea for food doesn't apply to a broken heart by the way (it’s just really salty and spicy. You don’t know what you were thinking. Probably drunk. 0/10, please, please, please do not try). The two dishes are too homely; their tastes remind you of her.

Okay. Let’s ‘anyway’ for real this time.)

Yeah, so uh, remember how you said that sometimes the news you give each other can be a little heart-attack-inducing, so it’s better that your loves are pretty bland? Yep… Sad to say that the same confirmed hypothesis still stands, even when you guys are on day 106 of your break up.

This time the news comes in another headline—and you mean like front page, breaking news headline—on Tuesday night. Wonderwall isn’t treating you too well. You’re pretty sure that your finger tips might be turning purple. Your phone buzzes next to you like crazy, just like it did that night, and it’s like having an iPhone seizure. You don’t think too much when you put down the guitar and pick up your device. 

And you only read the first six words to give yourself a valid reason to reset your miscall streak with Miyeon.

Idol Cho Miyeon Slapped In Public…

(The title was a lot longer than that. You should know it since you’re here in the first place.)

It’s in moments like this when you kinda wish that speed dial was still a thing. (I mean there's siri and all, but do you really have time for that right now?) In a blur of great clumsiness, you open your contacts and experience no difficulty in locating her number again. She’s on the top of your miscall list, so it really takes no wizard to figure this out.

You hate that she’s letting it ring for so long. Every brr brr makes you tremble a little more in your seat. If your mum could see you now, you’d probably get an earful for your bad habit of biting your nails.

She finally picks up the phone. It’s good to hear her voice. “Hey…”

Your mouth opens, closes, opens again. Now you realise that in your hurry to check on her, you’ve yet to rehearse what to say to her. The debate between your head and gut almost tears you in two. 

“You okay?” you finally manage to blurt after some struggle. “I saw the news… Just wanted to check if, you know, you’re still up and kicking…”

You hear that familiar scoff from the other side of the phone. “Please. You know that it takes more than that to take me down.”

If your ears don't deceive you, you can hear a bit of a strain in her voice. She hates it when you jump to conclusions though, so you leave it as it is for now. “That’s… That’s great.”

And it’s silent again. If you were in the business of losing her interest, you’d be making crazy profits right now. Okay, better end this fast.

“Well uh,” you begin, stopping for a second to swallow some saliva to soothe your semi parched throat. “I guess—”

“Can I come over?” 

Like she always does, she shocks you into silence. Your throat dries up. Your mouth is the Sahara. 

“I… I miss you… if my miss-calls weren't clear enough about that,” she chuckles. You swear you hear a sniffle. “I’d like to see you again,” and you can hear your heartbeat in your ears, “for closure of course… and maybe tomato soup?”

Your heart joins the debate between your head and gut. It wins.

Minutes later, your butter bell is open, a knife scraping out the last bits of creamy butter out of it so that it can be used to evenly butter the other side of your bread. You’re moving on instinct, with glee and excitement. You’re not sure why you’re happy. You’re just happy—happy that you’re gonna see her; happy that you can prepare this dish again without the knowledge that you’re not gonna see her when you turn. It isn’t till the doorbell rings that the joy fades, and in its place comes that familiar tension of a two tonne weight wrapped around your chest. 

You aren’t sure why she rings the door when you haven’t changed the passcode to the lock. If she’s trying to be polite? You appreciate it. If she just forgot the pin? Well… you wouldn’t put that past her either, really. Your gut, head and heart agree you that it’s most likely the latter, and you kinda have to remind yourself as you open the door that she's just as forgetful as anyone else.

“Hi,” you catch yourself staring at her. You don’t mean to look at her dress first, but it’s the first thing your eyes are drawn to; it's been a while since you’ve seen her in anything other than a t-shirt and shorts. The white dress she’s wearing is bedazzled out, the light that’s reflected off of it catching you and making you a deer in headlights for a bit. Then you snap out of it. Your gaze travels up to her face and… “You look… Fucking terrible.”

You love her eyes and you love to watch them roll. “Thanks. You look not bad yourself. Gained some weight?”

You try not to stare. You fail—horribly you might add. 

But in your defence, it’s hard not to look at the purple spot on her milky skin. 

Miyeon covers her cheek. She looks down at your feet like there's something really interesting about them. “Are you, you know, letting me in? Or are we just gonna keep standing here?”

You blink. “R-Right.”

And soon she’s settled into her usual seat, nibbling on some grilled cheese while you ladle out her tomato soup into a bowl. It feels like nothing has changed, but you know that’s not true. Both of you know that everything’s different, that you can’t just give her tomato soup and peck her on the cheek.

“So you play guitar now?” she catches you off guard as the bowl makes a small thunk against the table. It’s in the same spot she always places it, and you know because a woodring has formed in that area. You follow her gaze and see that she’s spotted your Fender on the couch. 

“Sort of?” you reply, a little uncertain in how to rate your abilities. “Just basic stuff, you know?”

She smirks and picks up her spoon, starts chipping away at her soup “So you’re finally digging up the singer-songwriter in you… Good on you, man.”

Again, you find yourself staring at the bruise. It’s a deep shade of purple, splotchy and a sight for sore eyes. From the looks of it, he hit her hard. There’s a burning in your chest—a mix of grief, pity and anger as you watch her eat her food. You wish that you could’ve been there to stop it. You wished that you could’ve just dated her under different circumstances so that maybe, just maybe, you could’ve gotten that ending you wanted. You don’t know how she’s ever gonna cover that up when—

“If you’re gonna get something for this thing, go do it,” she mutters. “Chivalry hasn’t died completely, right?”

You nod and scuttle off. It’s easy to lose track of how long you’ve been staring when you’re lost in your thoughts. Is it scary how this feels like just another conversation between you two? 

The ice pack from when she bought that ice cream cake was still in the freezer, and it’s chilly in your hands as you grab it and return to the table. She has finished her soup—not a single scrap left inside the bowl. She must be starving.

Her grilled cheese is half eaten in her hand; she stares into the distance as she chews. 

(And she’s as beautiful as she can ever be, by the way. A lot of people haven’t seen her the way you see her, and you’re kinda glad that you get to witness that tender part of her that she rarely shows to cameras. It’s… It’s hard to describe what it means to know that someone like her finds it this easy to be herself around you, but you know it’s an honour and a blessing.

But when you're looking at her with your rose-tinted lenses stripped away from you, the notions you hold towards vulnerability become contradictory, because on one hand you know that she’ll never hurt you the way she did, but on the other you know that she’s not the same person when she’s not around you. So at the end of the day, you’re just kinda left figuring out which side of her is the real her. Do you believe what the Cho Miyeon you know tells you? Or do you believe what the Cho Miyeon the world knows? It gets confusing, makes you wonder why she ever has to put up two fronts in the first place. 

Then again, it’s not exactly her fault: she does what she has to so she can stay afloat. No industry is free from dirt. Some are just filthier than others.

I guess what I’m getting at is that… she’s this contradiction in my mind. I want to believe her, but I can’t, yet I still love her like she’s just a regular human and our lives are just a little messy. I know there's this whole argument about the fact that idols are humans too and all, but I guess it’s kinda… undermined? Yeah—undermined by the fact that they can’t exactly lead ‘normal’ lives once they’re famous. Look at me, using these big words.

So I guess… I guess dating her was like the worst of all blessings and the best of all curses. Does that make sense?

…

Ugh. I’m blabbering. 

Sorry cupcake, I’ll get back to it.)

And maybe you forget that she isn’t your girlfriend anymore, or maybe you just kinda blank out in the moment, or maybe you just wanted to do it. For whatever reason: you call her name, and when she turns, the ice pack in your hand is gently applied against her face. You don’t think much of it for like, three or four seconds. But when her wide eyes finally register in your head, there’s a moment where your breath is caught in your throat. 

This is important, so you should know: the silence is fucking deafening. 

She swallows the bit of sandwich in her mouth. “I refused to sleep with him, and he hit me like a girl. Fucking embarrassing on his part,” and there’s that smile on her face as she speaks, the same one that she loves to flash your way when she told you that she loved you. “Barely felt it. Light work.”

You can’t resist—your other hand cradles her unblemished cheek. “Miyeon…”

She closes her eyes. She knows that tone you’re using, the one that’s like ‘don’t lie to me’ or ‘it’s okay, you can tell me’. “Look: when the man that loved you the way no one else loved you breaks up with you, nothing can be more painful than that,” she whispers. Her throat bobs a little. She furrows her brows as her eyes squeezed themselves shut themselves a little tighter. “And that man is you by the way…” her voice cracks, her eyes open, “don’t know if I was clear enough.”

And you kinda have to kiss her after that. It’s a good line… and she’s, like, smoking hot right now. She always is.

The familiarity of her lips against yours almost makes you melt. The ice pack drops from your hand, your palm taking its place on her face. You kiss her like you used to. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her. You kiss her like you want nothing else but her because you want nothing else but her. She’s home – Jjamppong and Grilled Cheese with Tomato soup — and you don’t ever want her to leave again.

“I’m sorry,” she croaks, and you wipe the tear trailing down her cheek. “I should have never… We should have never—”

You shush her with your lips. She lets herself melt into you, her hands running through your hair the way she would sometimes when she called you crazy or baby. You don’t realise how much you’ve missed her touch till now.

“We were both wrong,” you tell her once you break away (rather reluctantly). “So how about we just call it a truce?”

She nods, and she does it enthusiastically. “If it’s cool with you…”

You scoff. “Why would it not be?” and your thumb gently caresses her bruise gently. You want to kill him, but you’ll save that for another time. “I’m the one who suggested it… Guess Chivalry is not all dead, huh?”

And it’s good to hear her laugh again.

“Come here you big idiot,” she giggles, and she kisses you again. 

Then you dive down to her collarbone when you can’t take it anymore. And the rest is history repeating itself.

You know: it feels like you’ve been picked up from the ground. Miyeon has come to get you… she's come to get you.

Maybe everything’s okay after all.

--

(And uh… The media covers the rest. What was it? Like, two weeks later? 

Ah whatever. You know what happens, don’t you? It’s pretty crazy, made headlines and all.

CUBE has some really good lawyers… And liars. Almost the same thing.)

--

“So that’s the story?” 

Nursing your third bottle of cider, you chuckle. You’d thought by fleshing out whole smuts in verbal form would have chased her away by now, yet here she is. Then again: she is an old friend of yours, so you guessed that she’d be rather adjusted to your bullshit. “Are you sure you’re an investigative journalist?” you question her, “I thought you’d ask something more along the lines of ‘what happens after?’.”

From across the booth seat, Chou Tzuyu shoots you a smirk. 

“The news covered it. Why should I pour salt into old wounds?” she admits. Her glass of wine swirls, manipulated expertly by her delicate fingers. “Anyway, I think I got… The main gist of it. Unless you have more information regarding the restraining order filed against you by CUBE, I have no further questions.”

You roll your eyes. No, you do not have any new information about why CUBE decided that you were a danger to Cho Miyeon, and you’ll never know if Miyeon knows either. She was out of town when it happened, and all she knows is what the news reported: you’re allegedly a stalker and hence a threat. You only know that she called and texted you frantically after, but…

You know what? Maybe you’ll think about this another time.

“You do know that, like, you're kinda bad at this right?” and you set your cider bottle aside, letting it join the almost empty whiskey bottle you bought yourself. You fold your hands and lean into the table. The world spins a little. “I don’t know why you’re prying, but I’m guessing that you heard something from the grapevine that you were itching to hear more about. Either that or you’re just… Could it be that you’re desperate to get something fresh, Miss Chou?”

She sips on her wine, leaves the question hanging in the air for a little as she swallows. 

“Keep this between us: I can’t trust Shuhua sometimes,” she muses. “If I’m gonna write about this, I’m gonna have to make sure that all the information I’ve gotten from her can be corroborated,” she pushes a wisp of hair behind her ear. “And for the record: I am not bad. I do my research as thoroughly as anyone else would—enough to know that you are someone who tells the truth.”

“So you’re saying that you trust me as a source?” you can’t help but scoff. “Me, the very guy that got fucked over by CUBE? I could be bigoted and biased for all you know. Or even worse: I’m lying.”

She smiles knowingly. “Respectfully, you have too much… personal voice in this recount that I might as well write an autobiography on your behalf.”

And she stuns you into silence. It occurs to you that you're a little drunk, and you’re pretty sure that you called this woman ‘cupcake’ multiple times. You’re not too sure; you don’t even have half a mind to know what you’re doing or saying.

Tzuyu gulps down the rest of her wine before she rises from her seat. 

“I best be going,” she opens her purse and fishes something out of it. She hands you a card, an address and a phone number handwritten onto it in what looks like a felt pen. “If you want your story to be heard, give me a call… Or a text. Whatever strikes your fancy. I’ll need a version of this that doesn’t include all the fucking and your drunk blabbering,” she shoulders her purse and smiles. “Can’t promise that I’ll buy you a drink to make you talk again, but I can treat you to some really good Chinese dumplings. Maybe we can catch up a little too. It’s been a while.”

You stare at the card, tracing the hooks and curves that form numbers and letters. Your eyes fix back on her. “Why are you doing this?”

She shrugs, and it’s not a “I dunno” type of shrug, but more like a “the proof’s in the pudding, open your fucking eyes” type of shrug. 

“I want to report the truth, and I know you well enough to know that you want that too.”

That's right. Another series. I know I'm doing everything but finishing up Beats Me, and you can go cry a river in my asks if you want. Just kidding, I love all of you, but I want to write what I want to write. Let me have my fun, would you? Also, for the record: I did not finish this 5 days after Beats Me 7. Beats Me 7 was finished before I vanished from tumblr for a bit. This has been brewing since December. You can thank long drives and Noah Kahnan for this.

Anyway, another big thank you to @defmaybe for being such a great sport and reading through the 39 page document that showed up in their discord DMs one fine day. This fic would have been full of typos and horrible grammatical errors if it weren't for them.

Stay safe, Nichu

[dragonridersandhighlords]

Chasing Shadows | S E V E N

masterlist | CS Masterlist

Summary: Everything Wren thought she knew is unraveling and the only thing more dangerous than the enemy are those with life altering secrets.

Notes: Updates are going to be slower after this! I will still try to put at least one out a week but no guarantees! Thank you so much for the support on this series!

Warnings: panic attack/dissociation, betrayal, threats of death, terrible descriptions of battle, major character death

Word Count: 8.4k

previous part

“No. This isn’t real. This has to be some sick dream.”

The cry of a dragon echoed through my mind, shattering the silence of the night as the familiar figure of a red daggetail plummeted to the earth. My heart raced, a visceral fear clawing at my chest. 

“He’s gone,” Desa’s gentle voice brushed against our bond, a soothing balm that only deepened my desperation. I begged her to dive, to reach Liam before it was too late.

“Wrennie?” The sound of my name pulled me from the abyss. I met Liam’s concerned gaze, his dark eyes searching mine. “You okay?”

I must have looked pale, a specter of my usual self. This was my second vision in a month, a haunting pattern that left me feeling more vulnerable than ever. Twice now, I had watched Liam die—twice too many for a marked one like me. A cold dread settled in my stomach, and I struggled to mask my unease. 

“Fine.” My voice sounded hollow even to my own ears. “Just didn’t sleep much last night.”

“Okay.” Liam's brow furrowed, his expression a mix of concern and understanding. “Xaden wants to talk to you.”

I nodded, my gaze drifting past him to where Xaden stood, shrouded by the shadows of the rocks, his presence commanding and intense. 

“Something bad is going to happen.” His voice pierced through my mind, sending a chill down my spine as I made my way to him. 

“I know.” I sighed aloud, dread pooling in my gut as I reached his side. 

“What’d you see?” Xaden's instinctive question hung in the air, and I fought to keep the tears at bay, the weight of my visions pressing heavily upon me.

“Something we might not be able to stop, but I’m going to try.” The words spilled out before I could second-guess myself, and to my surprise, Xaden nodded, acceptance mingling with worry in his gaze.

“I have to tell you something,” he said, the gravity of his tone pulling me closer. “But I need you to understand that I made a lot of promises to a lot of people. That’s why I never told you before.”

“What are you talking about?” I searched his eyes, desperate to read the unspoken fears lurking beneath the surface.

“I—” He hesitated, and I could see the moment his bond with Sgaeyl tightened, urgency radiating off him. “Fuck, I thought I had more time.” The frustration in his voice was palpable. “Trust me, please.” 

“What’s going on?” 

The air was thick with tension, and I felt a shiver run down my spine as the reality of the situation settled over me like a heavy cloak. 

“General Sorrengail’s youngest? This is a treat.” The voice was both startling and oddly familiar, echoing around the rocky outcropping as I strained to place it. My pulse quickened, and I exchanged a worried glance with Xaden, who had stepped closer.

As we rounded the jagged rocks, a breathtaking sight unfolded before us: a pair of gryphon flyers stood a few yards away, their majestic forms adorned with gleaming feathers that caught the light of the fading sun. I instinctively reached for one of my blades, the cool steel a reassuring presence against my palm, but before I could draw it, Xaden's hand clamped down around my wrist, grounding me with urgency.

“You’re fucking early.” His voice was low and threatening, his eyes locked on the flyers with a fierce intensity that made my heart plummet. The calmness in his tone clashed with the tension radiating from his body. “What happened to meeting tomorrow? We don’t have a full shipment.”

“The shipment isn’t the issue,” the woman replied, shaking her head, her features illuminated by the dimming light.

“Syrena?” The name slipped from my lips in shock as I finally caught a clear glimpse of the female flyer, her face a mix of relief and confusion. 

“Holy shit, Wren, you’re actually alive?” Syrena exclaimed, pulling me into an unexpected hug. I froze, every fiber of my being alert and uncertain as the warmth of her embrace enveloped me.

“What are you doing here? What shipment are you talking about?” I managed to stammer as she pulled back, bewilderment clouding her features.

“You don’t know?” Her question hung in the air like a storm cloud, dark and looming, as she looked to Xaden.

“Xay?” I turned to look at him, seeking answers, but he avoided my gaze, his expression unreadable, as if bracing himself for the worst.

“I wanted to tell you,” he murmured, desperation creeping into his tone.

“Tell me what?” I stepped back from his outstretched hand, the distance between us suddenly feeling larger than ever.

“We’ve been supplying the drifts with alloy daggers to fight venin,” Xaden replied, his words hanging heavy in the space between us. “From Basgiath’s forge.”

“You what?” Confusion swirled within me, battling with a surge of emotions I couldn’t fully articulate. Am I angry? Am I upset? Impressed?

“I told you she’d react like this.” Garrick’s soft laughter broke the tension, but it only served to ignite the fire within me as I snapped my gaze towards him.

“You knew!” I accused, the realization crashing down around me like a tidal wave. “You’ve been helping? Do you realize how dangerous this is? What if you got caught?”

Xaden stepped closer, his expression earnest, almost pleading. “Wren—”

“How long have you been lying to me?” My voice was laced with betrayal, a bitter edge sharpening my words as I returned my glare to him. “How long have all of you been lying to me?” I turned, surveying my friends as they shifted uncomfortably, shame flickering in their eyes, leaving me feeling more isolated than ever.

“Since I turned 18,” Xaden's voice broke through the turmoil, and I could hear the tremor in his words, a fragile thread of sincerity struggling to pull through the weight of my disbelief. I gaped at him, the truth washing over me in waves, each one crashing against the shore of my understanding. 

“The whole time?” I echoed, my voice rising in pitch, incredulity spilling from my lips like water from a cracked dam. As if in slow motion, I turned my gaze to Garrick and Bodhi, who had shifted closer to Xaden, their faces painted with concern, yet tinged with guilt. “The whole time!” The words came out like a wounded animal's cry, raw and desperate.

In the corner of my vision, I caught a glimpse of Violet standing beside Liam, her expression mirroring my own shock, the two of us bound by the same tangled web of betrayal. She had trusted them just as I had, and now, as our eyes met, I saw the flicker of hurt reflected back at me. We were both casualties of their silence.

“Wren—” Xaden began, his tone softening as if trying to breach the chasm that had opened between us, but I couldn’t bear to hear him out.

“Fuck you!” I spat and turned on my heel, storming past, the ground seeming to tremble beneath my fury. 

“Did you know?” I demanded, my voice steady as I faced Desa, the massive blue dragon who had watched over me for years. Her eyes held a depth of wisdom that made my heart ache even more. 

“Youngling.” Her voice was low, like the rumble of distant thunder, and the single word hung in the air between us, answer enough but I need the truth.

“Did you know what they were doing?” I pressed, my frustration bubbling over, refusing to let the question slide. I needed answers, but the intensity of my glare was met with an unwavering calm. 

“Yes.” Her admission struck me like a physical blow, leaving me reeling as I took a step back. I scoffed, the sound sharp and bitter as I turned away, retreating toward Athebyne.

With each stride, I felt the air around me grow thick with the weight of my emotions—betrayal, anger, confusion—melding into a storm brewing within my chest. Flying to Athebyne would take about thirty minutes from the lake, but with the way my breathing was already uneven, I knew it would take me over an hour. I could feel the jagged edges of my shields rising around me, fortifying my mind against the chaos. Xaden’s door was locked tightly in my thoughts, a silent promise that I wouldn’t let anyone inside—because right now, no one on this team had ever told me the truth, and I couldn’t bear to be near them. 

I can see the front gates of the familiar outpost looming ahead, their weathered stone and iron frame a bastion of memories, both comforting and painful. The sun hangs low in the sky, casting a warm golden hue over the landscape, but its beauty feels hollow as I hear the unmistakable sound of powerful wing beats from behind me.

“Wrenley, just stop for a minute!” Xaden’s voice pierces the air, filled with urgency as I know he’s sliding down Sgaeyl’s side. My heart quickens at the sound, a wild mixture of anger and betrayal surging within me.

“I’ll leave for Eltuval in the morning!” I shout back, the determination in my voice echoing off the stone walls as I push myself to walk faster, the ground beneath me blurring into a streak of dirt and grass. 

“You’re not leaving!” His voice grows louder, a mix of desperation and frustration, and the moment I sense him close behind, I break off into a sprint. “Damnit, Wren! Just stop!”

“Why? So you can lie to me some more?” I snap, my voice sharp enough to cut through the tension hanging in the air. I turn abruptly, my eyes locking onto his, the intensity of my gaze brimming with accusation. “So I can continuously be shown that I shouldn’t trust you?”

“You can trust me.” His response is soft, but the weight of the moment feels anything but gentle.

“Can I?” I challenge, my heart thundering as I reel off the questions that claw at my insides, desperate for answers that may never come. “Where were you for the two years before you went to Basgiath?”

“I was…” He trails off, his words hanging in the air like smoke from a dying fire, leaving an emptiness that chills me to the bone.

I scoff, turning back around with a heavy heart, the outpost now beckoning like a siren, its familiarity a cruel reminder of the trust I once held. 

“Wren?” Garrick’s voice calls out, an attempt to halt my retreat as I push through the gates, the sound of creaking wood punctuating my resolve. 

I don’t dare give him a response, my gaze fixed firmly on the floor, each step weighted with the burden of betrayal as I walk straight for the briefing room. 

“Look at me.” Bodhi’s voice cuts through the haze, his grip on my arm pulling me into the shadows of an alcove, sheltering us from the chaos outside. “You can be mad. You can cry, scream, I’ll even let you hit me. But you cannot shut us out.”

“You’ve all been risking your lives, keeping secrets for years.” The adrenaline from the confrontation begins to fade, replaced by a heavy sorrow that sinks deep into my chest. “I was still believing venin was a myth, a way to get us to behave as kids, but you all knew. Why didn’t anyone tell me?” A tear escapes, a silent testament to my shattered trust. “You were my best friend, Bodhi. Why didn’t you tell me?”

“Xaden has to explain that, Princess.” The playful nickname slips off Bodhi’s tongue, and I huff a laugh, my voice echoing off the cold, stone walls of the hall. It’s been almost a year since either he or Garrick dared to use that term, a remnant of our childhood that now feels achingly distant. The corners of my mouth twitch into a smile, but it quickly fades as I remember the weight of the present. “I promise, if it was my story to tell I would.”

“They’re actually real?” The words escape my lips in a breathy gasp, the desperate hope that this is all just a misunderstanding clinging to my heart like a fragile thread. I look to Bodhi, pleading silently for him to dismiss my fears.

“They are. All of the attacks we studied in Battle Brief were the drifts getting alloy daggers, and the classified ones were possibly venin attacks.” His words cut through my apprehension, a stark confirmation that sends a shiver down my spine. The truth hangs heavy in the air, filling the silence with an uncomfortable tension. “We can only go off what the flyers tell us during drops, which is never enough.”

I nod, my mind racing, and glance around the hall, its emptiness suddenly suffocating. “Where is everyone?” I ask, anxiety creeping into my tone.

“I’m sure Xaden and them found the commander and are getting room assignments.” Bodhi shrugs, but the casualness of his tone feels misplaced.

“No,” I interject sharply, the instinctual unease prickling my skin. I move swiftly through the hall, turning to scan the shadows that loom in the corners. “Athebyne, on average, has two riots of twelve riders each, six healers, and four scribes, plus infantry. How have we not seen a single person besides each other?” 

I turn back to Bodhi, watching as the realization dawns on him. 

“They emptied it,” he murmurs, his brow furrowing.

“It’s a trap,” I conclude, urgency propelling me forward as I rush back out to the main courtyard, the chill of dread settling deep within my bones.

“Wren, can we please talk?” Xaden’s voice breaks through the whirlwind of my thoughts, and I halt, a mix of anger and disbelief flooding my senses.

“No, Xay—”

“I know you're mad, and I’m sorry, but I promised.”

“Xaden!” I cut him off, forcing him to meet my gaze, the gravity of my words hanging heavy between us. “Athebyne’s been emptied. We’re the only ones here.” 

“Everyone stop!” His command slices through the air, and I can feel the tension coiling in the courtyard as all eyes turn to him, the realization of danger palpable in the stillness. “Divide and search.” He pivots to me and Violet. “Do not leave my side. I don’t think this is a War Game.”

“Awesome.” Violet mutters, her voice dripping with skepticism as she crosses her arms defensively. We trail behind Xaden, the air growing increasingly tense, with Liam not far behind us. “This is one of the most strategic garrisons we man. There’s no way they’d abandon it for War Games.” Her eyes dart around, scanning the ancient stone walls that have withstood countless storms and conflicts.

“That’s the problem, Violet.” I groan, frustration weighing heavy on my chest. Memories flood my mind, vivid as the hues of dusk settling over the horizon. “My parents were stationed here for 10 years; they never cleaned this place out.” The dust-laden corners and the eerie silence seem to whisper secrets of the past, unsettling in their implications.

“What did Dain say to you before we left?” Xaden’s voice breaks through my reverie as we ascend the spiral staircase leading to the top of the Southwest tower. His tone carries an undercurrent of urgency, forcing Violet to focus. “He leaned in and whispered something.”

“He said something like… I’ll miss you, Violet.” Her reply is hesitant, yet laced with lingering affection. 

“And he said I was going to get you killed.” The weight of those words hangs in the air, and my stomach churns at the thought.

“Yes, but he always says that.” Violet rolls her eyes, trying to brush off the dread that looms in the shadows. 

“Liam, can you see the trading post?” I pivot, the urgency within me spurring me to act. I turn my back on the uncomfortable conversation, seeking clarity.

“On it.” Liam’s voice is steady as he strides to the battlement, his silhouette framed by the twilight sky. He leans over, eyes narrowing as he activates his farsight, searching for answers.

“What would Dain have to do with emptying an entire outpost?” Violet’s question pulls me back, the uncertainty churning within me anew. I glance between them, desperation clawing at my insides.

“Did you do most of your drops here?” I ask Xaden, watching as he nods, concern etched across his features. 

“Who knew you were coming out here?” My heart races, the implications too chilling to consider. 

“Bodhi, Garrick, myself and…” He trails off, his gaze drifting to Violet, and a heavy silence circles us. 

“Violet?” I probe, sensing something amiss, but he doesn’t respond. “Did you tell Dain about the trips?” My voice trembles with urgency.

“No!” She retorts defiantly, then turns to Xaden, the tension simmering. “Unlike some people, I never hid anything from you.”

“Violet,” he says softly, the weight of his words pressing down on us, “did Aetos touch you after I told you about Athebyne?” 

“What?” The confusion in her voice mirrors the anxiety that’s spiraled within me. 

“Like this.” Xaden lifts a hand to her cheek, a gesture both tender and alarming. “His power requires touching someone’s face. Did he touch you like this?” 

“I thought it had to be both hands?” My heart races, a foreboding instinct flaring to life as I watch their exchange. 

“Just the one.” Xaden’s gaze remains locked on Violet, the intensity of his stare pulling the tension taut in the air between them. It’s as if an unseen current courses through the courtyard, charged with unspoken fears that threaten to spill over. The shadows cast by the setting sun lengthen, darkening the stone walls around us, amplifying the weight of the moment.

“Violet?” His voice is edged with concern, a thread of desperation weaving through his words.

“Yes, but that’s how he always touches me. He would n-never…” Her response falters, laced with uncertainty as she instinctively steps out of his hold, the warmth of his palm lingering on her skin like a ghost. “I would know if he read my memories.” Her eyes glisten with defiance, yet a flicker of doubt dances behind them.

Xaden’s expression crumbles, the flicker of hope extinguished as his hand falls away from her cheek. “No, trust me, you wouldn’t.” The finality in his voice sends a chill down my spine, echoing the deeper truth that coils around us like a serpent.

You wouldn’t know if he read your memories. The thought gnaws at me, unsettling and invasive. My mind races back to moments shared with Dain, his hand pressing against my cheek with an intimacy that now feels tainted. How many times did he linger in that manner after my training? Oh gods.

“He knows.” My voice trembles as I take a step back, retreating until my back meets the cold, unyielding stone of the battlement. The air feels thick, suffocating, and the reality of our predicament weighs heavily on my chest. “Oh gods, he knows.”

Xaden locks eyes with me, but before he can even voice his concern, Garrick shoves a missive into Xaden’s hands, breaking the moment's intensity. 

“It’s addressed to you,” Garrick says, urgency etched on his features.

I watch as Xaden breaks the seal, the crisp crack of parchment slicing through the tension. A second letter falls from within, fluttering like a wounded bird. Garrick quickly scoops it up while Xaden reads, his complexion paling with each line that dances before his eyes.

“It’s for you, Wren.” Garrick’s hand extends toward me, and I barely manage to grasp the paper, the world narrowing into a singular focus.

Cadet Wrenley Tavis, Executive Officer of Second Squad, Flame Section, Fourth Wing.

As I break the seal and unfold the letter, the ground beneath me seems to quake, the words within threatening to pull me into an abyss from which there may be no return.

Cadet Tavis,

You can imagine my shock upon learning that you’ve been keeping not one but two signets secret for almost 2 years. An intinnsic and a precog, a dangerous pair. 

Should you live through the task assigned to your Wingleader, you are to report to my office immediately. Should you not, well, that's one less problem to worry about.

May Malek condemn your soul.

Colonel Aetos

The world around me fades into a muted blur, the edges of my reality softening as I stare at the letter clutched in my trembling hands. The parchment crinkles under the pressure of my grip, the inked words dancing before my eyes like phantoms in a fever dream. I can hear the murmur of voices rising and falling around me, but they seem distant, swallowed by the weight of the revelation that settles like a stone in my gut. 

No, no, no, no, no. 

The mantra echoes in my mind, a desperate chant against the inevitable tide that threatens to engulf me. Each repetition is a plea, a refusal to accept the stark reality laid out before me. 

“Oh shit.” Xaden’s voice cuts through the haze, laced with a tension that coils tighter around my chest. The sound of paper crumpling reaches my ears, grounding me momentarily, but it only serves to amplify the fear coursing through me. “It says our mission is to survive if we can.”

A shadow of disbelief flits across the courtyard, mingling with the fading light of day. “That’s not…” Garrick begins, his voice trailing off as if the words themselves are too heavy to bear.

“Guys, this is bad,” Liam shouts, urgency cracking through the air like thunder, and I hear the shuffling of feet as someone moves closer. Yet, I remain rooted in place, my gaze fixated on the letter, my mind racing as it grapples with the implications. 

“We’ve been sent here to die.” Xaden’s tone is grave, and the gravity of his words sinks like a stone into the depths of my heart. The breath catches in my throat, a jagged gasp that feels like an echo of my despair. 

I’m drowning in the suffocating realization; no matter how I twist and turn the situation in my mind, the conclusion remains the same. Leadership knows the truth, and with it comes the certainty of my death. Panic unfurls within me, clawing at the edges of my sanity as the world tilts dangerously off its axis.

“Wrenley?” Bodhi’s voice breaks through the fog, and I blink, trying to pull myself from the depths of my thoughts. His face looms in front of me, concern etching deep lines across his brow, but I am paralyzed. The words of the letter echo relentlessly, drowning out everything else, leaving me voiceless and trapped in a cage of my own making.

I can’t move. I can’t talk. The air feels thick, constricting around my lungs, each shallow breath a reminder of the looming threat that now hangs over us like a dark cloud. The chill of reality seeps into my bones, and for a moment, I wish for nothing more than to slip away, to escape the impending storm.

I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

“Xaden!”

“Deep breaths, Little Bird.” 

I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

“What is she saying?” 

“What happened, Love?”

I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

“No harm will come to you.”

I’m dead. I’m dead. I’m dead.

“Wren?” 

“Garrick, get her to Desa.” 

“Love, you need to go with him.” The urgency in Xaden's voice resonates through the suffocating air, but my head shakes instinctively, a reflex against the tumultuous reality that encircles us. The world around me seems to warp and sway, as if I’m caught in the eye of a storm, the chaos pulling at my very essence.

Xaden stands before me, yet he feels altered, a shadow of the man I hold dear. His once-striking gold-flecked onyx eyes—those warm orbs that always spoke of comfort and unwavering strength—now seem to smolder with a darker hue, rimmed in crimson. Red veins snake across his temples, pulsing ominously as if they are alive, echoing the frantic beating of my heart.

“Xay?” My voice trembles, feeling foreign as it escapes my lips. I stretch a hesitant hand toward his cheek, craving the familiar warmth that once anchored me, but now I am met with an unsettling chill that sends shivers racing down my spine.

“You should’ve listened, my life.” The words twist out of him, distorted and sharp, a haunting melody that reverberates in my mind. Before I can fully process the change, his hand clamps around my arm, and I watch in horror as the vibrant color of my skin dulls under his grip, a shadow washing over my very being.

In an instant, he shifts back to himself, the turbulence in his eyes still reflecting a worry that penetrates deeper than the very ground beneath us. My breath steadies, but the unease lingers, an unwelcome guest in the back of my mind. 

“Garrick’s going to take you somewhere safe, okay?” His voice softens, yet the urgency remains, a plea wrapped in concern. 

“No.” The word feels like an anchor as I finally force myself to speak. “I have to change it.” Understanding flickers across Xaden’s face, a fleeting connection that grounds us amidst the chaos, before he turns to the others.

“The letter says this is a test of your command." Garrick grips the crumpled letter, his brows furrowing as he reads, "You have the choice of abandoning the village of our enemy or abandoning command of your wing.” 

“What the hell does that mean?” Bodhi's voice cuts through the tension, urgency woven into every word. 

“They’re testing our loyalty without actually saying it.” Xaden folds his arms over his chest, his posture rigid, a sentinel against the encroaching chaos. The stark sunlight gleams off the ink of the missive he holds, casting jagged shadows on the ground. “According to the missive, if we leave now, we’ll make it to the new location of headquarters for Fourth Wing at Eltuval in time to carry out our orders for War Games. But if we leave, the trading post of Resson and its occupants will be destroyed.”

“By what?” Imogen’s voice cuts through the tension like a knife, urgency threading through her words. She leans closer, her brows knitting in concern.

“Venin,” Liam interjects, his tone grave, as if the very name itself carries the weight of a death sentence.

“You’re positive?” Xaden’s gaze sharpens, searching Liam’s face for any sign of doubt. 

Liam nods, resolute. “As sure as I can be without having actually seen them before. Four of them. Purple robes. Distended red veins spidering all around bright red eyes. Creepy as shit.” 

“Sounds about right,” Xaden mutters, shifting his weight, the tension coiling tighter around him like an invisible noose. 

“I liked it better when we just delivered the weapons,” Bodhi mutters under his breath, his words a low rumble of discontent. 

“Oh, and one guy with a giant-ass staff,” Liam continues, his voice rising with an urgent fervor. “And I swear to Dunne, one second the plain was clear, and the next, they were just…there, walking toward the gates.” His wide eyes reflect the fear clawing at the edges of their reality, pupils dilated as he uses his signet to pierce the depths of the valley below.

“Red veins?” Imogen’s inquiry hangs in the air, dread creeping into her voice.

“Because magic corrupts their blood as they lose their souls,” Violet murmurs, her gaze fixed on Xaden with a steady calm that seems almost eerie against the backdrop of chaos. “Nature likes everything in balance. If the fables are true, at least.” She adds when everyone turns to her, her voice a soft balm amidst the rising storm.

How she is so calm right now is mind-boggling. Even if I hadn’t learned that Aetos is plotting my death, I’d still feel a step away from completely losing it.

“You almost did,” Desa interjects, her tone a gentle reminder, albeit a cutting one.

“Thank you, Desa, for the gentle reminders of my shortcomings,” I retort, the sarcasm barely masking my fraying nerves.

“Not shortcomings, Wise One. These moments will make you stronger,” she replies, her words laced with an ancient wisdom that feels like a distant echo.

“The guy with the staff just—” Liam begins again, but the sudden blast of an explosion rings out, echoing ominously up the sparsely treed valley, followed by a plume of blue smoke that rises like a malevolent specter into the sky. “Those were the gates,” he finishes, his voice hollow, the reality of their situation crashing down around them.

“How many people live in Resson?” Bodhi asks. 

“More than three hundred,” Imogen answers.

“That’s the post they do the yearly trades at,” I add, the weight of the truth hanging heavily in the air, a bitter taste on my tongue. Images of traders, children, and families flicker through my mind, faces I’ve seen countless times over the years, now on the brink of annihilation.

“Then let’s get down there,” Bodhi urges, his impatience palpable, his resolve morphing into action. He pivots on his heel, the urgency in his voice a desperate plea. But Xaden, stepping back with a commanding presence, halts him with an outstretched hand, a barrier of authority meant to shield them all from reckless decisions. “You’re kidding me, right?” Bodhi’s incredulity bursts forth, his frustration crackling in the tense atmosphere like a live wire.

“We have no idea what we’re walking into,” Xaden responds, his tone brokering no argument, slipping seamlessly into full wingleader mode. His eyes, usually warm and filled with laughter, now blaze with the cold fire of caution. 

“So we should just stand here while civilians die?” Bodhi counters, his voice rising, a mixture of anger and desperation intertwining with the urgency of the moment.

“You know that’s not what he’s saying, Bodhi,” I protest, my words quiet yet firm, still recovering from the panic that clawed at my throat moments before. 

“This isn’t a fucking training exercise, Bodhi,” Xaden interjects, his voice steady but edged with a harrowing truth. “Some—if not all—of us are going to die if we go down there.” A knowing look flickers in his eyes as he glances at me, a silent acknowledgment of the horrors we’ve faced. I can feel the weight of that shared knowledge, the images of loss pressing against my consciousness, threatening to drown me.

“If we’d been assigned to an active wing, there would be far older, more experienced leadership making this decision, but there aren’t. If we weren’t marked with rebellion relics, if we hadn’t been aiding the enemy”—his gaze darts to mine briefly, the implications heavy—“we wouldn’t even be here with this choice. So, all command structure aside, what are your thoughts?”

“We have the numbers,” Soleil asserts, her voice cutting through the tension, a glimmer of hope amidst the impending dread. “And air superiority.” 

“At least there aren’t any wyvern,” Violet adds, her eyes scanning the expansive sky, searching for any sign of the mythical creatures.

“Uh. What?” Bodhi’s eyebrows rise, confusion mingling with disbelief.

“Wyvern. Fables say venin created them to compete with dragons and, instead of channeling from them, channel power into them,” Violet explains, her voice laced with an unsettling calmness. 

“Yeah, let’s not borrow trouble,” Xaden shoots a sideways look at Violet before returning his gaze to the heavens, wary of the unseen dangers lurking above. 

“There are four venin and ten of us,” Garrick interjects, stepping away from the edge of the battlement, the gravity of their situation settling like a stone in the pit of my stomach.

“We have the weapons to kill them,” Liam states resolutely, turning his back on the valley, his voice strong against the tide of uncertainty. “And Deigh told me seven gryphon fliers—”

The sun hung low on the horizon, casting a deep orange hue over the battlement as Syrena emerged from the shadows of the southeastern corner, her presence a stark contrast to the encroaching chaos. 

“We’re here,” she announces. Her gaze drifted beyond the rampart, where plumes of smoke danced ominously against the twilight sky, curling up like tendrils of despair from the valley below.

“I left the rest of the drift outside once we noticed…” Her voice faltered momentarily, her shoulders dipping under the burden of her words. “…that your outpost seems to be… abandoned.” A heavy silence followed, the gravity of her statement settling in the air like a dark fog. She turned her gaze back to us, her eyes filled with a melancholy wisdom. “I’m not going to ask you to fight with us.”

“You’re not?” Garrick’s brows knitted together in disbelief, his voice barely above a whisper, an ember of hope flickering in his chest.

“No.” The sad smile that graced her lips spoke volumes, a bittersweet acceptance of the cruel realities before us. “Four of them is tantamount to a death sentence. The rest of my drift are making peace with our gods.” Her voice cracked slightly as she directed her attention to Xaden. “I came to tell you to leave. You have no clue what they’re capable of wielding. It only took two of them to bring down an entire city last month. Two. Of. Them.” Her voice hardened, and her eyes glinted with unshed tears. “We lost two drifts trying to stop them. If there are four down there…” She shook her head, the motion imbued with the weight of countless battles lost. “They’re after something, and they’re going to kill every single person in Resson to get it. Take your riot and go home while you can.”

“If we don’t help, everyone dies,” I implored, the words spilling forth from a place of deep-seated conviction. “Syrena, let us help.”

“We have dragons,” Imogen chimed in, her voice rising with a fierce determination that hung heavy in the air. “Surely that has to count for something. We’re not afraid to fight.” 

“Are you afraid to die? Have any of you seen combat?” Syrena’s voice sliced through the thick tension. The question lingered, hauntingly quiet, as the weight of truth settled upon us. No one could answer. Even the third years had merely watched from the sidelines, untouched by the horrors that awaited. “Thought not. Your dragons do count for something. They can fly you far and fast. Dragon fire won’t kill them. Only the daggers you’ve been bringing, and we have those.” 

She met Xaden’s gaze, gratitude shining through her weary expression. “Thank you for everything you’ve done. You’ve kept us alive these last couple of years and given us a fighting chance.”

“You’re going down there to die,” Xaden says matter-of-factly, his voice cutting through the tension like a knife through fog. The gravity of his words weighs heavily upon us, each syllable infused with a stark reality that no one can ignore. 

“Yes.” Syrena’s affirmation is resolute, a solemn nod punctuated by the distant sound of another explosion reverberating across the valley. The air crackles with the tension of impending doom as she turns, the fabric of her cloak swirling around her like a tempest, her posture unyielding as she strides back down the rampart, head held high. 

Xaden’s jaw clenched tightly, muscles taut with the weight of his conflicting emotions, the battle raging within his eyes. 

“I won’t leave,” I declare to Desa.

“Sgaeyl and I feel the same.” Desa’s voice breaks through, steady and unwavering.

“Sgaeyl says she has never run from a fight, and today will not be the first. And I’m not going to stand by while innocent people are dying, either.” Xaden shakes his head, his expression a mixture of fierce resolve and protective caution. “But I’m not going to order any of you to join me. I’m responsible for all of you. None of you crossed that parapet because you wanted to. None of you. You crossed it because I made a deal. I’m the one who forced you into the quadrant, so I won’t think less of anyone who wants to fly for Eltuval instead. Make your choice.”

“What deal?” I ask through our channel, my heart pounding in my chest, the urgency of the moment pressing down upon us like a lead weight.

“Live and I’ll tell you everything,” he replies, the promise hanging tantalizingly in the air.

“We’re riders,” Imogen interjects, her voice rising defiantly as another explosion shatters the silence. “We defend the defenseless. That’s what we do.” 

“You saved every single one of us here, cousin,” Bodhi adds, the gratitude in his tone underscored by an unwavering commitment. “And we’re thankful. Now, I’d like to do what we’ve trained for, and if it means I don’t go home, then I guess my soul will be commended to Malek. I wouldn’t mind seeing my mother anyway.” 

My heart aches at his words, for in this somber reality, the notion of dying for the right cause offers a bittersweet solace—if we perish today, perhaps we’d find peace in the embrace of those we’ve lost.

“I’ll tell you the same thing I did after Threshing our first year when we decided to start smuggling weaponry out,” Garrick says, his voice steady yet tinged with a familiarity that brings a sense of comfort. The weight of those memories hangs between us, a testament to our shared survival through the harsh trials we’ve faced. “You kept us alive all these years; we get to decide how we die. I’m with you.”

“You’ll tell me about Threshing too?” I ask, a knot of anticipation tightening in my chest.

“Everything, my love. No more secrets.” His eyes glimmer with a sincerity that calms the storm of uncertainty raging inside me.

“Exactly!” Soleil interjects, her fingers drumming against the hilt of the dagger sheathed at her thigh, the sharp sound echoing like a heartbeat amid the chaos of our decisions.

“I’m in.” Liam steps forward, resolute, positioning himself firmly by my side. “We watched as our parents were executed because they had the courage to do the right thing. I’d like to think my death would be just as honorable.” His words spill forth like molten steel, forged in the furnace of his grief and rage.

“Agreed.” Imogen nods, her fierce spirit evident in the set of her jaw. The solidarity we share ignites a flicker of hope amidst the encroaching darkness.

One by one, our collective resolve solidifies until only Violet and I remain uncertain, caught in the tempest of choices laid before us. 

“I won’t stop you,” Xaden tells me, his voice low and edged with concern. “But I’d prefer you far away from here.” His protective instinct is palpable, a shield against the cruel fate that looms over us.

“My mom died on the wrong side of history,” I reply, the weight of my conviction anchoring my heart. “I won’t.”

“Violet?” Liam questions gently, the attention shifting to her, the lone soul untouched by rebellion until now. 

She studies each of us, her eyes darting back and forth as if weighing the gravity of our fate. As much as I’ve despised her presence since she joined our ranks, the thought of her perishing here feels insufferable. Keeping her alive could mean safeguarding Xaden as well.

“I’ve been defenseless, and now I’m a rider. Riders fight.” Her declaration rings out, a clarion call echoing our shared destiny. 

I watch Xaden’s expression shift through a kaleidoscope of emotions, his concern for Violet battling against the fierce loyalty he carries for us all. In this moment of uncertainty, I cling to the flicker of hope he once offered, knowing that it’s that very light that can guide us through the encroaching darkness.

“Liam. Give me a report,” Xaden commands, his voice cutting through the tension, a beacon of direction amid our collective determination. 

As the plan unfolds, everyone will focus on the Venin threat and the imperative task of evacuating civilians, while Garrick and I watch from the skies, providing recon while I have the silent permission to alter our course if need be. 

“The only way to take them out is by dagger,” Xaden reminded the group, the gravity of our mission pressing down upon us like an impending storm.

“That means we’ll have to dismount and fight once we get the townspeople to whatever safety we can find,” Garrick adds, his expression set in grim lines, each word a reminder of the peril we’re choosing to face.

Xaden nods, the weight of leadership settling on his shoulders. “Save as many people as you can. Let’s go.”

Everything happens so fast, a relentless tide crashing over us. One moment, I’m focused intently on relaying vital information to Xaden, our words barely cutting through the cacophony of chaos surrounding us. The air is thick with tension, anticipation crackling like static electricity in the atmosphere. Then, without warning, a streak of red blazes through the sky, hurtling towards Tairn and Violet. My heart leaps into my throat, a primal instinct screaming danger.

“Liam!” I shout, urgency lacing my voice as I watch Tairn and Deigh besieged by a swarm of wyverns, their monstrous forms slicing through the air with razor-sharp talons. The world narrows to a singular focus. “I need you!” I call for Xaden. 

“I’m hunting the Venin at the walls!” Xaden’s voice cuts through the din, laced with determination and fear. 

“Please,” I responded, desperation rising like bile in my throat.

“If I leave, these civilians are all dead!” Xaden insists, his resolve hard as iron. “You can do this!”

The weight of his words strikes me deep. I can do this. Adrenaline surges through my veins, igniting a fierce fire in my heart. “We need to get the wyverns away from Deigh!” I urge Desa, who nods without hesitation, her wings unfurling as she dives toward the incoming beast.

Tairn is desperately trying to shake off the wyvern clinging to Deigh, its talons embedded deep in his scales, but his efforts seem futile against the creature’s relentless onslaught. 

“Deigh!” Liam’s voice rings out, a sound that sends icy fear swirling through my chest.

“Hold on, Liam, please!” I cry, pouring every ounce of my heart into our shared connection, hoping he can feel my desperation.

“Wren?” he gasps, his voice strained.

“We’re on our way!” Xaden's reassurance filters through, but even Desa’s fierce determination can't mask the dread pooling in my stomach. 

“It’s too late.”

And then, the piercing shriek fills the air, a harbinger of dread that will haunt my every nightmare. “DEIGH!” I feel Desa’s mourning echo in the very marrow of my bones. 

“We’re too late,” I whisper, my voice cracking as I watch Violet rush toward Deigh’s fallen body. Desa lands beside me, and I slide off, running to Violet, who struggles to keep Liam’s weakening form upright. They stumble, and I dive to his side, the world blurring around me. 

“Wrennie,” he coughs, and my heart shatters. 

“I’m here,” I say, grasping his hand, the warmth slipping away.

“You were…” His voice falters, and I feel like I'm choking on the weight of the moment as I gaze up at Violet. Her face, streaked with tears, radiates despair as she cradles Liam’s other hand. “You were in my head, like Deigh could.”

“Yea, Li. It’s my signet,” I reply, letting out a heavy sigh, ignoring Violet’s reaction to my words.

“That’s cool.” He manages to force out a laugh, but it’s riddled with pain, a sound that twists like a knife in my heart. “Take care of Sloane for me, both of you?”

“No.” Violet’s voice trembles, her shock morphing into fervent denial as she tears her gaze from me, a lifeline slipping through her fingers. “You’ll be there. You have to be there.”

“Promise me, Wrennie.” Liam’s focus shifts to me, his eyes reflecting a vulnerability that makes my heart ache. “She’ll need someone. Just… don’t let her be alone.”

“I promise.” A tear escapes, trailing down my cheek. “I got her, Li.”

“Good. That’s good.” He forces a weak smile, the dimple that usually brings warmth now a ghost of joy that fades far too quickly. “And I know you feel betrayed, but Xaden needs you. Please hear him out.”

“Okay,” I nod, swallowing the lump of conflicting emotions lodged in my throat. “I can’t promise I won’t stab him though.”

“I’m counting on it.” His sigh resonates in the tense air, a rattle that pierces the silence with its fragility. “Just show him you're still here.” 

He turns to Violet, whose cries grow louder, each sob echoing the grief that hangs heavy around us as I feel the pulse beneath Liam's skin start to slow.

“Thank you, Liam. Thank you for being my shadow. Thank you for being my friend.” The words tumble out, imbued with the depth of our shared memories, each moment a thread in the tapestry of our lives.

“It’s been… my honor.” The wind picks up, swirling around us as if trying to carry away the sorrow, but it only amplifies the cries of Xaden as he approaches, despair etched into his features. 

“No, Liam.”

“Deigh,” Liam pleads with Xaden, who quickly moves to lift him, a fierce determination in his eyes. 

“I know, brother. I’ll take you.”

In that moment, I push back into Liam’s mind, desperately seeking the door, the void beyond fading with each beat of his heart. I force forward the bright moments, clinging to the essence of who he is as I watch Xaden lower him to Deigh’s shoulder, my heart heavy with the weight of impending loss.

I pull the memories from when his mother would bring him to Aretia on her visits, each recollection flooding my mind like the gentle rush of a stream. I can almost feel the sun-drenched warmth of those days, the laughter echoing through the vibrant halls of Xaden’s home, a place that once felt so safe. How the five of us—Garrick, Bodhi, Xaden, Liam, and I—would race through those corridors, our feet barely touching the ground as we chased after fleeting moments of joy. The fields outside were a canvas of green, where we’d tumble and play, the scent of wildflowers dancing in the air, our shouts mingling with the whispers of the wind.

The late nights when Liam and I would huddle in the library, pages turning like the fluttering of wings as we devoured every book we could find. Garrick and Xaden would eventually have to carry us to our rooms when we fell asleep by the hearth. Those last days together before I left, where every laugh, every smile, every hug seemed to etch themselves into the very fabric of my heart, now echo in the silence around us.

I slowly walk to them, still pulling memories like fragile threads as I kneel beside Xaden. His arm wraps around me and Liam’s pale face, and for a fleeting moment, I swear it gets brighter, a soft glow of hope in the midst of despair. 

“Make up. For me.” He whispers, but I can sense the heaviness in his fading voice, a plea that carries the weight of his love. “I always wanted to find what you two have.” 

“We’ll work it out, brother. I promise.” Xaden’s voice wavers, and I hadn’t even realized he was crying until now, the tears mingling with the anguish in the air.

I nod along with Xaden’s promise. “Nothing could keep us apart.” The truth is, I don’t know if we’ll ever come back from this, but I’d say anything to put Liam at ease as I watch each of his breaths become a struggle against the inevitable.

We look up at the sound of wingbeats, the sky darkening with dozens of wyvern soaring overhead, a stark reminder of the battle that still looms. I turn my gaze back down, seeing Liam’s head lolled to the side, his eyes unblinking, and a surge of sorrow grips my heart. 

“Goodbye, Liam.” I cry, my voice cracking, as Xaden releases a heart-wrenching scream. I pull him into my arms, our shared grief spilling into the open air, raw and unyielding. “We have to finish this, Xay. For Liam.” 

“I can’t—” Xaden gasps, pulling back to look at me and then at Liam, torn between the present and the loss. “I can’t leave him.” 

“I’ll stay,” I promise. “Desa and I will keep the wyvern away, but you need to go help.” 

Xaden nods, determination hardening his features as he stands, pulling me up with him. “Stay alive. So we can talk.” His hand rests on my cheek, forcing me to look into his eyes, a silent vow passing between us. 

“You too.” I nod, the weight of his gaze anchoring me. 

With a gentle press of his lips to my forehead, Xaden sprints toward Violet and their dragons, the urgency of the moment propelling him forward. 

“Desa,” I start, but she’s already beside me, fierce and resolute. 

“No one gets to them.” 

“Garrick!” I call, my voice strained and raw, slicing through the aftermath of chaos as I watch the last wyvern crash to the earth in a plume of dust and blood. My heart beats heavily in my chest, each thud a reminder of the grief lingering in the corners of my mind, but the sight of my cousin sprinting toward me only brings relief.

“Wrenley!” He envelops me in his arms, and the rush of adrenaline that has fueled my every move finally begins to ebb, leaving me feeling as fragile as a dried leaf. The warmth of his embrace is a lifeline, a momentary sanctuary. “Are you alright?”

“I’m fine.” The words spill out, but they feel hollow as they hang in the air. My thoughts drift immediately to the bodies behind us. “Liam—”

“I know.” Garrick’s sigh is heavy with unspoken sorrow as he gently leads me toward Desa.

“Where’s Xaden?” My voice quivers, laced with anxiety as I search for him. The thought of him in danger sends a chill down my spine, a feeling I can’t shake.

“Violet was stabbed with a poison-covered knife.” Garrick's words strike like lightning, and my breath catches in my throat. “Since Sgaeyl is the fastest besides Tairn, he’s rushing her to the nearest healer. We’re going to meet him.” 

“And where is that?” The question slips out before I can filter my thoughts, desperation creeping into my tone, a thread of worry weaving through my heart.

“Home.” 

next part

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[the-traveling-poet]

House-Husband’s Love

When life becomes too overwhelming, maybe even simultaneously underwhelming at times, sometimes you just need a break. Just a day off to lay around and do nothing; give your brain a chance to calm down and reset. With Levi as your partner, you can bet he would be the one to ensure you got your breaks. And some attention, of course.

Pairing: Levi Ackerman x gn!Reader (relationship isn’t specified, so imagine how you prefer!)

Warnings: SFW, hurt-to-comfort kinda, themes of depression/disassociation/sensory overload, fluff ending

A/N: Needing some modern!househusband!Levi rn cause I’m nearing my breaking point again and needed to write some brain rot to completely disassociate again. I guess also to distract myself from writing my fics? I dunno man.

1.2k words

It must have been one of those days; where everything felt off-balance. Levi always saw. He could tell by just a glance your way the morning before.

Another day of feeling as though every sight before you became dull and muted in appearance. Unnoticeable, nearly, while you disassociated. And yet somehow, all at once, the more noticeable everything became, making you paranoid and panicked.

He could figure out your tell-tale signs well enough by now, from his own curious observations over time. Occasionally, after some time of letting you sort it out yourself, he’d talked it over once or twice with you. He’d asked you how exactly you felt on days like these; days where your eyes stayed wide and brows raised in an expression of alertness, even as your jaw clenched and hands shook, your eyes glazed over as you kept yourself in near constant motion. He knew the signs, and what they meant.

You were spiraling again. Sensory overload, dissociation…He hadn’t seen it so bad in you before.

Always moving, always forcing yourself to focus no matter how shallow it made your breath...He hated seeing you in such a state, when you wanted to focus on anything but your own thoughts.

Sometimes these moments lasted a few hours, sometimes even just one. But often, they progressed into days of forced hyper focus and constant activity to draw yourself away from your own mind, busying it with tasks and work.

But this time…this time, it had been weeks.

It hurt him to see you so stressed, no matter the situation.

And so, one such morning, following another rough night, he took the liberty of disengaging your alarm for the morning. The simple press of a button, he hoped, would keep you asleep for just a tad longer. Your mind needed the rest of a couple more hours, he reasoned.

After only a second’s hesitation in which he still held your phone, he also sent a quick email to your employer; some excuse about being unwell enough to not clock in today, and warning about a possible similar hinderance for the following day.

'If you need more information, feel free to message my emergency contact, as he's looking after me today while I recover.'

He sent the email, slightly smirking to himself as he turned your phone off and set it back onto the nightstand.

He would handle it for you, as much as he could.

Pulling the covers up over your shoulder, Levi slid out of the bed soundlessly.

With you still soundly asleep, he went about tidying up what he could around the apartment, keeping any noise to a minimum to ensure you stayed asleep.

'A clean space helps clear the mind,' he'd always believed, and as such he wanted to provide you with such a fresh start today. Whenever you chose to wake up, that is. He wouldn’t enforce it today.

It wasn't until late morning he heard movement from the bedroom, your weight shifting over the creaking bed as you stumbled out in a panic moments later.

"My alarm, I must not have set it-" You'd started, obviously anxious as you raced to throw on a new top and a pair of jeans.

Before you could get to slip anything off, Levi’s hand found your shoulder, softly holding you in place.

"Don't worry about it, love. You have today off. Maybe even tomorrow, unless I get a call."

He mumbled, gently taking a jacket from your shaking hands.

You stared up at him blankly for a moment, completely in disbelief.

"...It's Wednesday. I work a 9-5, babe...I'm not off today; it's not a holiday." You tried to protest weakly, but once again were silenced by a slender finger against your lips.

"I know. I called off for you, though. Besides, the shift started three hours ago, so there's no need to bother going in now. Just take a seat, breakfast is half done."

Still regarding him in complete bewilderment, you hesitantly took a seat on the couch and watched him meander back towards the kitchen, returning his attention back to the stove. It was only then you noticed the array of pans neatly set on the hot surface, and the toaster on the counter already slotted with bread. The smell of frying foods wafting over to you, causing your stomach to protest weakly.

When was the last time you’d focused on a full meal, instead of eating a few small bites here and there throughout the day?

It wasn't long until he'd plated the meal, and brought you a plate with a cup of tea to pair it. Once you were settled in with your plate and utensils, he sat down on the couch beside you with his one of his own. He'd never been fond of eating on the couch, you knew, so this must be a 'special occasion' of sorts.

"...Why?" You eventually mumbled between bites of toast and sips of tea, digging in the moment he’d sat.

He swallowed the bite of scrambled eggs from his own plate before answering, a napkin already in hand to wipe away any invisible cooking greased from his lips.

"You're stressed out, baby. I've seen it for several days now. Relaxing evenings after work weren't doing it, so I wanted to give you a full day's worth, instead."

"...I'm fine. Life is just rough sometimes-"

You'd started, setting down your mug to weakly protest his concerns; but he easily held a hand over your wrist, lowering the warm beverage from your lips.

"Then isn't it my job to try and make life a little less strenuous? One day off won't kill you, and won't impact the income too greatly. We can manage; but your mental health can’t, not like this.”

He sighed, setting your mug down onto the coffee table for you.

“Just relax, yeah? Relax, and let me handle today for you. It’s the least I can do, for all that you always do.”

Huffing quietly in muted amusement, you smiled his way, eyes welling with unshed tears. Tears of silent relief.

“…I haven’t had a work day off in ages, maybe months. Two days a week are nice, but…”

“…But not enough sometimes. I know sweetheart. I know. I can see it in you. So just relax today. We don’t have to be productive every day.” Levi reassured softly, keeping his hand around yours.

“Hell, I’ll bully your boss into giving you another day off-“

“Levi I need this job, you can’t,” you giggled, leaning against his side and curling up onto the couch.

“…But thank you, my love. I think I needed this,” you finished in a whisper, briefly closing your eyes.

“I know you did.” Levi stated calmly, running his free hand’s fingers through your hair.

“Just rest…I’ve got everything else. I’ll deal with it for you.”

(A/N: I’m a whore for the idea of Levi calling us ‘baby’ or ‘sweetheart’ leave me alONE-)

For mroe Levi Ackerman content, feel free to check out my other masterlists!

[yuriskies]

The Inviting Hot Springs

"Too bad the evil mannequins robbed us of the big gay scene" - Mangadex commenter, on Otherside Picnic

I am going to start off with a wild claim here. File 14 (The Inviting Hot Springs) features a drunken romantic moment between Sorawo and Toriko in the onsen which is interrupted by the Otherside at the worst possible moment. They get chased by mannequins. Here's the wild claim: that mannequin chase *is* the big gay scene. It says more about Sorawo and the specialness of her relationship with Toriko than anything they said while giddily flirting in the onsen. This might simply be the stirrings of yuri lit brain, but let me explain (and hopefully acquit) myself here.

Early on in File 14, Sorawo poses a question to Kozakura: "Why is the Otherside targeting me?" The conversation drifts around to Kozakura theorizing that the Otherside is a mirror to one's attachments, and as an example, points out Sorawo's jealous anger towards Satsuki might have been the trigger for the Otherside to manifest her. "Anger is a form of continuous attachment," Kozakura tells her, before suggesting that Sorawo work on processing her past instead of trying to forget it.

Keep in mind, this is Kozakura theorizing, and there's no guarantee that she's correct. But using that theory as a framework, you begin to see a pattern to some of Sorawo's contact with the Otherside. Hasshaku-sama appears when Sorawo begins getting angry about Toriko's fixation on Satsuki. Sorawo gets drawn into the interstitial space while nervously considering how to reconcile after arguing with Toriko. Her ability to recognize her own body is destroyed by the Yamanoke, shortly after talking about her history with the cult and Toriko providing her a sense of belonging. The ghosts of her dad and grandma swoop in to tell her she's a destructive force, right after reaffirming her desire to be together with Toriko. You get the idea.

Desire is a form of continuous attachment.

Trauma is a form of continuous attachment.

The Otherside appears when Sorawo is confronted by emotions she is unable to process. She does not understand intimacy, because her family denied her the ability form intimate bonds. She does not understand how her past shapes how she reacts in the present, because she dissociates from/intentionally tries to forget it. The Otherside is brought close by Sorawo's terror of desire and intimacy, and the way it distorts reality is shaped by the landmines of her past trauma.

So circling back around to the mannequins- it's not surprising they appear the moment Toriko presents Sorawo with the idea of sexual desire being an aspect of their relationship. It is a splash of cold water, and immediately Sorawo is forced to think about both desire and trauma.

Sorawo's anger at Toriko's "cute boobs" comment is driven mostly her feeling of being *targeted* by Toriko's desire, with a lesser bit of jealousy at Toriko doing openly what she herself had desired to do to Toriko. I think it also touches on Sorawo's trauma and past victimization, because she immediately frames Toriko as an unwanted aggressor - she immediately loses all sense of her own agency, and instead begins imagining *how* Toriko was planning to have her way with her.

The choice of a mannequin has a couple of symbolic meanings. The first is in its function - a mannequin's primary reason for existence is aesthetics. It exists to show off what its user wants shown off. A mannequin functions as a reflection of Sorawo's intense shame at being ogled, Toriko is functionally looking at her as a frame on which a cute pair of boobs is being displayed.

The second symbolic reading is in how it contrasts Toriko from "everyone else". A mannequin is a generic, abstract human form, and the level of attention Sorawo usually pays to others would suggest they don't register as much more than mannequins. (The time-saving technique of drawing generic faceless crowds in the manga, intentionally or unintentionally, adds to this reading.) Toriko is "different", lifelike. Sorawo's familiarity provides an intimacy of detail the mannequins lack, and Toriko exists as something more than a series of snapshot-like rigid poses. Toriko occupies vastly more territory in Sorawo's brain than anyone else, and the mannequins reflect it.

The "big bad" is a male mannequin holding his arms up in a W-shape and dressed in a sweatshirt and brimmed hat. He chases the two. I would not be surprised if those details were trauma-related - the arm pose strikes me as a worship posture, and given Sorawo's history of living on the run from the cult, it probably reflects those experiences.

The way Sorawo and Toriko escape from the mannequins adds another layer to symbolism to the scene. The two encounter a party of male mannequins seated around a TV with a screen glowing Otherside Blue. The setting reflects people passively absorbing culture, they look but cannot interact. In contrast, interaction with screen culture is how Sorawo found an escape from family abuse - she did not passively read creepypasta threads, but participated in discussions, hunted them in person, and eventually met Toriko on the Otherside because of them. The screen is the gateway to the next stage of Sorawo's life. Escaping through it together is a reaffirmation of her bond with Toriko and the Otherside's role as connective tissue in their relationship.

So I'll fess up to perjuring myself at the start. The mannequins aren't really the big gay scene, Sorawo and Toriko having a drunk flirt is too adorable to assign that label to anything else in the chapter. But the mannequin chase *is* doing serious lifting with regards to Sorawo and her relationship with Toriko. It reinforces the specialness of their bond while hinting at deep-seated issues with intimacy. The mannequin scene didn't rob us of anything, it complemented what had already occurred.

(P.S. I also doubt it is a coincidence they woke up in bed beside Kozakura. She wants to be their anchor to the surface world, after all)

[calamarispiderart]

FUCK i meant to send the other ask to this art blog but uhmrmmm answer on whichever one u see fit lol:3

for ur cccc doodles sometimes i see u draw mind w like a bag of blood attached to him(i forgot the medical term lol) i was wondering how u got the idea for this concept and if theres any reasoning behind it its so cool:3 YAY UR ARTS AWESOME BTWW

hihi!! ohh yes his iv... B:•] i draw mind with an iv all the time for a few reasons, the most banal of which being simply that i feel it suits him! ive always heavily associated mind with medical imagery... iv is the default but i really should draw him with more things going on than just that !!BX•P

for specific thematics though, theres a few layers to it.

one is the idea of mechanical things - iv drips are on the lower end of this in some ways, but medical tools to support the physical (flesh) body hold a particular match to the image mind is said to present... ive sat in the hospital waiting room with my nanny in the past and had an iv drip myself and some of the tools they use to measure and support someones life look so... solid, metal and plastic and tubing.... mind is frequently associated (most obviously in a fanon sense but also within the album itself with his voice FX and lines like the mechanical hands line) with robotic imagery, sometimes going so far as making him an actual robot. however!! he is so human!! he is just as human as the other two, and if anything his (implied and somewhat explicit) denial or attempted dissociation from that makes him even more so.

so... putting him in a thematic position where hes reliant on external, mechanical things to keep himself (his body-flesh-brain) alive, its very fitting for him to me.

it also lends well to an air of mutual fragility and firmness. mind is a very intense and firm character, stubborn, but he is also, to me at least, very fragile... so opinionated, so pushy, so unwilling to accept the possibility of being wrong even in the better times of the album... that speaks to a fragile personality. he cant accept or even consider the possibility of not being right.

ive always had a strong image in my head of him leaning a little bit too far, heavy, on his iv stand for support, with an intense glare, knuckles white from how hard hes holding the metal. inherently an unstable position, but so sure and so defensive and so strong willed... weak in body, reliant on the solidity of metal, stubbornness and your own grip to keep you up... theres a really good contrast there.

and! well theres always more to say but another aspect of that design trait for me is blood. all three of hms are so... bloody, to me. lifeblood, violence, lots of things to do with blood. heart is the most blood-associated to me but... ahh, ill try not to ramble too much with the other two because the focus is on mind here... they all bleed in different ways. for mind, to link back into the prior thematics ive alluded to, he keeps his blood outside of himself. technically. thats whats in his iv, at least. his own blood, or a form of it. ignore the potential medical inaccuracy haha!

in keeping his blood outside of himself, feeding it back in through a controlled drip, that is intended to reflect again his attempt at separation from humanity - more specifically, from bias. human error. when heart calls him a machine, while it is a metaphorical insult... i find the insults people choose to use tend to be a bit personal as well. particularly so with these two. they pick things that are meant to dig, and that requires a level of truth. so... to some extent, mind doesnt Want to be biased by humanity the way heart (and soul...) is. he wants to be above it all, and since blood is blood is flesh is life is animal, it feels right for him to try and keep all his blood outside of himself. but! in doing so!! it again betrays his own existence!!! you can see his blood, its right there, and when i draw them fighting, the iv tends to be easily caught in the crossfire. hes created a vulnerability in his attempt to be invulnerable. hes a very ironic guy in his existence.

hummm potentially more to be said but at risk of getting repetitive ill stop here. these are all the main things i can think of. so! yeah B:•]

i think its really fun. iv drips are just generally fun to draw as well, theres lots of different designs... i get pretty stylistic with minds because i can, but the parts of an iv are just generally so fascinating and fun to draw to me..! you could potentially say all of this is just an excuse to draw those ?!!? (jokes...or is it?!?!?)

hummmm thank you for the ask!! B:•∆ always nice to have an excuse to ramble about my thoughts on these things. hope youre doing well B:•]

[ponkydraws]

SUMMER SUCKS.

Yes, I said it, and now before you come at me for being a pessimistic piece of shit, lemme speak my mind.

Summer with autism is horrible. And I am tired of pretending like it’s this wonderful utopia when in fact it’s autistic hell for me.

So as an autistic teenager with ADHD, who has experienced 16 summers so far, I am here to tell you why it’s so difficult.

(Note that every autistic person is different, this is just my personal experience)

- the heat. Personally heat is a lot more unbearable than cold is, and I get overheated very quickly. I also struggle regulating my feelings as it is, and being in constant discomfort from an irregular heartbeat and clothes sticking to my body does *not* make it any easier.

- swimming. Now, swimming in itself is not bad, in fact I quite enjoy it. It’s the stuff around it - especially on the beach. I don’t like changing clothes, and I don’t like the feeling of wet clothes or wet swimwear. I hate the feeling of sand everywhere and the salt in the water hurts my eyes. You’re also expected to sunbathe on the beach for *hours* on end because “that’s how you spend your summer”. But I don’t like it at all. Yes, a bit of warmth is always appreciated, but laying in the sun for hours on end is painful and overstimulating beyond words.

- the light. I am very sensitive to light yet sunglasses don’t do it for me because of sensory issues. Which means that every time I step outside I’m subjected to painful light for hours on end (specifically when you’re forced out by your family)

- I don’t know why the entire animal kingdom has decided that I seem like a good contestant for their midday snack but I always find bites all over my body - and you guessed it - I’m overly sensitive to pain and itching.

- vacation. This is gonna sound spoiled and ungrateful but please hear me out here. Taking a week off to force the entire family together for the eternity of the vacation is hell. I need space. I need to breathe. Constantly being surrounded by people sends me into dissociation or meltdown, I cannot handle human interaction for so long with no break. It is exhausting and I’m expected to just accept it on top of everything else. I dread it. And while I do appreciate the time taken to have a fun time with all of us, I always feel like I’m trying harder to have fun than actually having fun.

- people pitying you. I constantly find myself being dragged into stuff by family and friends because they pity me, and my way of spending the summer. For some reason it’s unthinkable to a lot of them that I can actually enjoy the summer & the holidays in my own way. I don’t need to swim, or sunbathe, or stay out for long. I’m perfectly fine just drawing and playing board games or chilling at home. Despite repeatedly telling them I don’t enjoy their way of spending the summer, people keep trying to enforce it and I don’t like it. I am perfectly fine this way. I choose it. Leave me be.

So yeah here’s a couple of reasons I am not a fan of the summer, if you’re anything like me , pls lmk, my family thinks I’m crazy

[funeral--pyre]

Gonna ramble here for a second. 'Bout being a fictive and I guess... Talking to people close to you about source without them knowing you're literally right there next to em.

So like. Our body's got a little sister. Well, two and a little brother actually but I'm only focusing on one of em for this post. This one's like... 10 or so, hard to remember through dissociation and shit. But.. She likes my source, likes drawing, and doesn't know we're a system, for context for this.

She sat down next to me the other day, and was complaining about how hard it is to draw hands. I feel like I'm one of the least sociable guys in this head but I don't actually mind our siblings in this family so I decide to chat. I agreed, they're tricky and annoying and weirdly shaped. She then handed me her sketchbook and asked me to show her how I draw hands. I was like... I'm a shit teacher but alright. I can do that. So I broke a hand down into basic shapes, then showed her the process of fleshing it out. She was confused but she seemed happy enough to have it as a reference to look at.

She got me to draw a few things after that. She wanted an eye, but the eye I drew was "too detailed" so she wanted me to draw another. So I did. She wanted an angry facial expression, she wanted a cat, she wanted me to show her how to draw a leg. Just random things, I guess. But eventually she takes the book back and starts drawing on her own.

Thinking she's done talking for now, I pull out my phone and open the art program because well now she's gotten me in the mood for drawing. She sees me click the program though and goes "let me see some of your art!!!". So I'm like yeah, it's been a while since she asked, she can look at some new stuff. Why not. It'll keep her happy.

We're going through things we've drawn, unknown to her that a good 90% of them are system members--and she stops me and goes "do you have any MHA art?". Random question but the kid has internet access, the ability to get into Netflix, and is clearly autistic about MHA in general. So maybe not so random. But we don't have non-system art of MHA, it's all fictives.

So I think for a second and I realise I don't really want to explain to her why Bakugo is holding hands with some random other guy not even from MHA, and also holding hands with Kirishima in like 90% of the images we have of them. 'Cause that's awkward and not my shit to explain or come up with something about. Those guys can handle that if they want.

I then realise, yeah, I've got art of me just kinda sitting next to Shigaraki. Nothing that could be taken as noncanon or weird to this kid. Just sitting there can't be weird. I could show her that. And potentially deal with some weird out-of-left-field comment from her about Dabi the same way she randomly said "Shigaraki is a gay bitch" while he was (unknowingly) sitting right next to her a month or so back. But that's fine, I decide I can handle a kid saying weird shit.

So I show her. She only says one thing.

"Why did you pick the white hair?"

Yeah I could ask myself the same question actually. Should've stayed with black or changed it up some other way again. But I tell her that it's just what we picked for the picture.

"He looks so stupid with white hair. It needs to be black. Like his soul! At least I think he has a soul..?"

Okay. Wow. God damn, kid. Giving me something to think about there. What lead you to even think that in the first place? But anyway I respond with some form of "yeah, sometimes shit just happens though and boom, your hair is white even if your soul isn't" which she thought was funny.

That's about it for the interaction but yeah. Silly. Funny. And god damn kids love to speak their mind. Not entirely sure what the point of posting this is anymore, but I wanted to anyway. Just a weird little anecdote. Piece of the life I'm somehow living now. It's weird in a way. The family life is still fucking shit, fucking yay, but the siblings are okay. I don't mind em.

[marigoldbaker]

making a list of good things that happened this year because there's too many and i need them recorded for posterity

visited bonus mom in england and it rewired my entire brain chemistry. i did not blog about it a lot i don't think and i don't talk about it often because it was such a joyful celia is fully present experience, but i will say that when i first arrived at the airport i was so fucking nervous and i was all kinds of shaky and fucked up and terrified that this six year long relationship would fall apart when we tried to translate it to irl and then i saw them there with a sign for me that is now on my wall in my apartment and something in my heart snapped into place and i literally physically flung myself at them and tripped over my suitcase and my knees gave out and i ended up dragging them down to the floor and we hugged for like at least ten minutes (conservative estimate probably). true story

jess is an entire bullet point on this list. funny sweet important passionate talented dedicated hardworking academically iconic definitely needs to take more naps keeps me apprised on extensive sims lore is coming out to visit in february is incisively thoughtful and we've made up beef for our dnd characters together. i love you a lot jess. i would say more things but i bet even these things are going to make you hide under a pillow. so.

so many other friends! like??? insane???? quite a few irl friends which is so cool! particular love for hal and silvain and rj (calendiles dnd crew i love you i'm so glad me putting down jenny has not meant putting down our friendships bc you're all such marvelous people) and gabby and silvain (silvain gets a double mention for Reading Literally All Of My 200K Word Fic reasons. erudite, and immensely appreciated)

and the new bg3 friends i'm beginning to associate with who i don't wanna name by name bc i'm shy and i care overly but PLEASEEE know if we've texted more than once about bg3 i probably adore you greatly and admire your creativity and thoughtful opinions and am trying to play it cool but im bad at it. yes this is about you. i deeply hope we will continue talking. probably about jaheira bc im obsessed with that woman.

being part of like 2 different dnd campaigns this year right around the time i started playing bg3 for the first time was REALLY fucking cool.

ACTUALLY ON THAT SUBJECT THE WHOLE BG3 THING WAS REALLY FUCKING COOL. it feels really special to not like....idk, this year is the first year of my life i have not been labeling myself as That Jenny Calendar Girl! i don't feel like i'm That Jenny Calendar Girl. i am celia :) i like a lot of different things! i like video games, i like bookmaking, i like drawing, i like cooking and food, i like fashion, i like writing, i like little calico critters <3 ironically my url is still the same but i think i am going to keep it that way for a little while, because i like remembering what brought me to this blog in the first place.

fell in love with my neighborhood! it was always bound to happen, but the moving-in process was rough, and it took me a while to connect with the place. now i know what drink i like to order at the local cafes, i know where i want to go for coffee and for pizza, i know about farmers' markets and local events, i know that There Is A Fucking Swimming Pool Across From My House. i do not think i can ever leave.

started to FINALLY feel comfortable in my job! i still don't totally know what i'm doing, but i don't feel like i'm sleepwalking through work while badly dissociating, and i really love the work that i do + the position i fill. i'm so hopeful that i can continue to work with teens. being a teen librarian is oft a difficult position to find

learned how to cook! did not do it often this year but oh well. i was busy.

went to the chicago art institute for the first time ever and got to see a sunday afternoon on the island of la grande jatte by georges seurat which was really insanely meaningful because sunday in the park with george is one of my dad's favorite musicals, and he went and saw that painting a long long time ago, and he also went and saw the monet paintings, and we texted a bunch about it

kept connected with my dad and my brother, and am starting to realize that having my own adult life means i fit a lot easier into theirs.

was briefly and meaningfully reunited with the actual love of my life (the pacific ocean)

VISITED A ROCK BEACH IN ENGLAND. if no one else got me i KNOW rock beach got me. everyone i have talked to is like "no, beaches need to be sandy" but i don't think they understand the sensory experience of sitting among 10000000000 rocks and picking them up and playing with them and finding a piece of rock chalk and drawing faces on the rocks and leaving all the rock faces for someone else to find and hopefully be unnerved by and then having your bonus mom's partner be like "celia are you just abandoning your children there" and reconsidering a lot of life choices but not enough to take the rock faces

i love you lake michigan im sorry i spent 80 percent of this year being mad at you for not being the pacific ocean im done having emotional problems i promise

went and saw wicked 3 different times

went on a couple of really meaningful and sweet dates and even if they didn't go anywhere i think the fact that i'm capable of feeling like that about another person is super awesome to know, and makes me so excited to keep on trying with that

went on a bunch of REALLY wonderful friend-dates and made new friends :) who i have been hanging out with on and off when our schedules allow for the last few months, and who invite me to parties and things!

received some really incredible and personal holiday gifts from a couple of friends, making me subsequently realize that maybe i'm not impossible to give gifts to

drew an entire wall of art for above my bed

bought a four piece microwave safe dish set in colors i love that remind me of marigold. for $10. will absolutely never let anyone forget that or change my blog title (which is a reference to the fact that i went insane that day to the extent that a woman leaving the shop saw me sitting outside with my cardboard box of dishes and went "are you still enjoying your dish set?" and i did not know who she was bc i blacked out and told everyone in the store about how much i loved the dish set. apparently)

i cannot even talk about marigold without getting so unwell and feeling in my chest just this indescribable feeling. i spent like eight years unwaveringly obsessed with a minor character from a 90s tv show who i really was just making into my own original character, but she never could feel fully mine, and the experience of creating my own girl from scratch (baking her, lol) when i was regularly dissociating and vaguely suicidal and having her be the thing that made me figure out how to connect with things and be happy again has been probably one of the best things i have ever experienced. to know unequivocally that the thing that makes me feel strong and centered is something i made for myself out of all the complicated insecurities and worries i feel. she brings me so much joy. i don't think i'm ever going to put her down. that 90s girl was not my baby, and that 90s video game woman, as beloved as she is, may not be around in my heart forever (though i strongly suspect it's going to be another decade, lol) but marigold? that's always. i love her. she's the girl i made for me

[akawardteenagesideshows]

greetings and salutations, hope I don’t bother you too much by sending in such a random ask. may I please have a romantic matchup for a slasher/dbd?

I use they/them pronouns and I’m pansexual. my myers briggs type is INFJ and my star sign is taurus.

Im about 4’11..not to happy about it. I’m kind of introverted, and can be considered not a people person. I find life a little nihilistic. I’m into dressing in all black and taking a liking to gruesome and morbid things like slashers, analog horror, death games, true crime documentaries, poetry, necromancy and anatomy. I typically consider myself a "gorehound". I also like to visit abandoned hospitals and houses just for fun, along with playing quite a few escape rooms. I just have a genuine comfort in the uncomfortable.

I get a lot of monikers from friends and family like "discount vomitboyx", "doomer boy", and "daria" before. I’ve come to the conclusion I just scare people off. In reality, I’m intimidated by everyone around me and find it hard to start conversing, which may or may not come off as rude to people.

when I become comfortable with someone I start to become really sarcastic and joke around with them with witty banter. most of my humor comes off really insulting, but I’ll apologize and say it’s a joke if it becomes a problem. even though I do have a hard time understanding physical social cues.

lots of people don’t like me or stay away from me because of my rude behavior. I’m not good with overly sensitive or overly annoying people at all because of that, and I can’t stand kids. Idiocy can get on my nerves too sometimes. I’m a huge animal person though. I have my moments where I can get really feisty, or very quiet and closed off. I’ve been told I’m also a laidback person. I’ve also been told I never know when to quit, and I find I hold grudges for certain things.

I’m the type of person that has lots of opinions on things but I keep them to myself and bottle them up. If pushed far enough I’ll become unforgiving, and aggressive. especially with the types mentioned above.

I find the most comfort in just being in my room drawing, listening to music ( motionless in white, deftones, system of a down, slipknot, rob zombie,,, sometimes the brobecks, insane clown posse, jazmin bean or mother mother, etc. ), or even occasionally playing video games, reading (mostly greek mythology), writing, or talking about a random conspiracy theory I have. I do acting in my spare time as a small hobby too.

I’m a plushie maniac and when I fall asleep you can always see me cuddled up to one of them. I find it because I’m really touch starved. Im also a caffeine addict, and I’m guilty of being very submissive and maybe even masochistic- and a bit of a pyromaniac. I dissociate or daydream a lot, so you can often catch me starring.

I suffer from a handful off mental and physical syndromes like add, insomnia, asthma, depression and anxiety. These have all been diagnosed professionally, and I’m definitely not trying to make myself "quirky". unfortunately health problems run in my family.

I’m very fidgety, and often bite the inside of my cheek or bounce my leg rapidly. you don’t need to rocmantasize this stuff ofc, but I think it’s good to know so the person can tolerate me.

you do get to this, thanks for your time.

Hihi!! Thank you for the request !

Let’s seeeeeee….

I would pair you up withhhhhhh

Danny “Jed Olsen” Johnson / The Ghostface from Dead by Daylight!

Why He’s a Fit for You:

Danny thrives on gore, true crime, and the thrill of the hunt, so your love for slashers, horror, and the macabre would genuinely excite him. He’d love how you embrace the darkness rather than shy away from it.

You feel at home in abandoned places and eerie settings—so does he. Exploring forgotten asylums and crime scenes would be his idea of a perfect date, and he’d love that you’re into it, too.

Danny has zero patience for whiny, naive, or overly sensitive people. The fact that you’re also put off by them would make him see you as a kindred spirit. He’d be more likely to open up, knowing you won’t judge or baby him.

Though he wouldn’t admit it, Danny likes physical affection—just on his own terms. If you’re comfortable with teasing and play-fighting, he’d make a game out of pushing your buttons before pulling you into his lap. Expect him to poke fun at your plushies, but don’t be surprised if you catch him stealing one to keep for himself.

He’d find your interests in writing, acting, and mythology fascinating. He’d love listening to your conspiracy theories and might even play along, making up wild stories to mess with you.

Danny thrives on intensity, and the fact that you don’t shy away from your interests, flaws, or darker thoughts would intrigue him rather than scare him off.

There would be without a doubt a LOT dark humor, playful antagonism, and an understanding of one another. He’d admire your sharp mind and willingness to embrace the unsettling, while you’d appreciate his chaotic but oddly charming nature. Beneath all the teasing and games, there’d be a mutual comfort, an understanding that neither of you has to put on a mask (except for him, literally).

Danny would immediately be drawn to you. Not in the typical “easy target” way he’s used to, but in a huh, this one’s interesting kind of way. He’d see you as someone who doesn’t flinch at the macabre, someone who isn’t easily shaken, and that intrigues him.

At first, he’d probably approach you in his usual way—charming but with that off energy, waiting to see if you’d scare off like most people do. When you don’t, and instead return his snark and sarcasm, he’d realize you’re fun.

The fact that you’re introverted and often avoid people? Even better. That means you’re not someone who needs constant socializing or validation—he likes that kind of independence.

He lives for your sarcastic, sometimes insulting humor. The more you challenge him, the more fun he has. He will push buttons, but he knows how to read when to back off (or at least, he figures it out after you clock him once or twice).

Expect a lot of unconventional dates. Breaking into abandoned hospitals at night? Sneaking into crime scenes just for the hell of it? Maybe even taunting cops from a distance? Peak romance in his book.

He’d probably make a game out of trying to scare you, only to get disappointed when you don’t scream. (“You’re no fun, y’know that?” “Maybe you should try harder.”)

Late-night drives with loud music, windows down, and nowhere to go. You two would blast Rob Zombie, Slipknot, or Deftones while talking about conspiracies and urban legends.

If you dissociate or stare off into space a lot, he’d use it as an opportunity to mess with you. Snapping his fingers in front of your face is a personal favorite.

If you struggle with sleep (insomnia), he’d get used to you being awake at weird hours and might just randomly text you creepy things at 3 AM just to see if you’ll respond.

You’re touch-starved? Oh, he loves that. But he’s a tease about it. If he realizes you crave affection but don’t outright ask for it, he’ll hold back on purpose just to watch you squirm.

But when he does give in? He’s surprisingly clingy—hands always finding their way to your waist, neck, or playing with your hair. If you’re curled up with your plushies, he’d casually throw an arm around you, acting like it’s no big deal.

If you’re naturally submissive, he’d absolutely take advantage of that, both teasingly and otherwise. He lives for seeing you flustered or watching you bite your lip when he gets too close.

He’s not good at emotional vulnerability, but he’d appreciate the fact that you don’t force him to talk about things he doesn’t want to. That being said, if he ever sees you bottling things up for too long, he’d push—not in a comforting way, but in a “C’mon, I know you’re pissed. Just say it already.” way.

You both hold grudges, which means fights can get nasty. If you two really get into it, expect days of stubborn silence before one of you caves. He’s petty and so are you, so it’s just a waiting game to see who breaks first.

If you’re ever too quiet or withdrawn, he might get a little frustrated. He doesn’t like feeling like he’s talking to a brick wall, so he’d try to provoke you back into engaging.

He hates feeling ignored. If he thinks you’re pulling away from him emotionally, he’d act like he doesn’t care—but inside, it pisses him off. Expect more “accidental” run-ins or cryptic, slightly threatening texts if you start shutting him out.

He’d steal your plushies just to watch you get annoyed and make you work for them back.

If you have caffeine addiction? He’ll absolutely weaponize that by dangling a coffee in front of you and making you earn it. (Whether this implies something smutty is up for you)

He’d secretly admire your artistic and writing skills but would never outright say anything.

If he ever saw you fidgeting or biting the inside of your cheek, he’d casually grab your chin to stop you.

He has zero patience for people who annoy you. If someone gets on your nerves, he’d either mock them until they leave or just straight-up make them disappear. (“Oh, they bothered you? Huh. Weird. Haven’t seen ’em around in a while.”)

Danny is a huge tease, and he loves that you’re naturally submissive. The second he catches on to how flustered you can get, you’re doomed.

He’ll get real close just to watch you squirm—whispering in your ear, running a gloved finger along your jaw, and then pulling back like nothing happened. “Aww, you look like you were expecting something. That’s cute.”

He lives to see you beg. Not necessarily in a desperate way—he just likes having you under his control, waiting for him to give you what you want. He wants you to want him.

If you ever try to turn the tables on him, good luck. You might land a teasing comment or two, but he’ll always flip the situation back on you. He thrives on chasing, cornering, and overwhelming you.

You know that mask? Sometimes he keeps it on just to mess with you. “What’s wrong? Can’t take me seriously with the mask on?” Then he yanks it off, and his sharp grin is so much worse.

He’d grab your chin roughly and tilt your head up if you avoid eye contact. He loves eye contact—it tells him everything about what you’re feeling. “Nuh-uh. I wanna see that expression.”

If you bite your lip around him, expect instant consequences. He’ll drag his thumb across your mouth and say something like, “Careful with that, sweetheart. Might make me think you’re trying to start something.”

He has a thing for hearing you gasp. He’ll get close fast just to startle you—one second, he’s across the room, and the next, he’s behind you, fingers skimming over your throat. “Jumpier than I thought. Cute.”

Danny likes knowing you’re his. If he ever sees someone flirting with you? Oh, he won’t get angry—he’ll just make sure they regret it.

He’ll leave marks on purpose—bite marks, scratches, anything to remind you that he was there. And if you try to cover them up? “What, embarrassed? You should be proud, sweetheart.”

If you ever try to deny wanting him, he’ll prove you wrong. Slow, drawn-out teasing, making you admit it before he gives in. He needs to hear you say it. “C’mon, use your words. You can do that, right?”

He has zero tolerance for competition. If someone so much as thinks about taking you from him, they mysteriously vanish. You’ll never have to worry about dealing with annoying people—he takes care of it before you even know it’s a problem.

Despite his teasing and rough demeanor, Danny does take care of you afterward. He likes knowing you’re still his even when things settle down.

He’s not soft about it, but he’s attentive. A hand on your back, running fingers through your hair absentmindedly.

He’ll let you cuddle into him after—pretending to be annoyed, but you know damn well he likes it. “Clingy, aren’t we? Fine, I guess I can stay a little longer.”

If you fall asleep curled up against him, he’s not moving. He’ll stay, watching you for a while with that same wicked smirk, completely satisfied.

[sockssketchingshack]

Rant: mental stuff and headspace things

What people fail to realize is that I am literally a hive mind. I have a bunch of different mes inside my head. We all share the same name. And I am the leader of the hive mind. All decisions go through me. They can't control me. But they can convince me and manipulate me. It's kind of like live commentary 24/7 from a bunch of different yous inside your head. We can't decide on how many there actually are. I think they kinda just go in and out of being active or something. Ever since I was little baby child I remember at least having one other me with me in my head. They just grew in number as I got older. We don't think it's any kind of multiple personality disorder or dissociative identity disorder or anything like that. Cause we all acknowledge that we are the same person. It just every one is if is a bit different than the last. But they're not they're own people with their own names and identities. We all agree we are copies of the same person. So I don't think it's any kind of that sort of disorder. They can't take control of the body or anything. I'm always in control of what we do physically. They can only manipulate choices through communication and convincing me to do things. I guess im making a post about it cause nobody in my life fully understands it. Because while yes some of them recommend to do self destructive things, that doesn't make them evil. We're all just a bunch of hurt kids inside the same head. None of them are evil. They're all me. And I'm them. They're hurting just as much as I am. I don't think they're evil for that. And not all of them are wanting self destruction. Some of them have more hope for life than even I do. And convince me to do good stuff like draw and eat and go out to the garden. So I get kinda scared when people talk about how I should try to get rid of them. Because they've been a part of me for so long and I've been a part of them forever too. Would I even still be me if they were gone? It would feel even more lonely than it already is. I don't want to lose myself. And aren't they a part of what makes myself myself? We're all just in this head trying to get along and keep ourselves going.

[polskasroka]

Another Odydio fic of mine dropped, folks

Heaven's Closed For What I've Done

Chapters: 1/1 Fandom: The Iliad - Homer, Ancient Greek Religion & Lore Rating: Mature Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings Relationships: Diomedes/Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Characters: Odysseus (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore), Diomedes (Ancient Greek Religion & Lore) Additional Tags: Dissociation, Madness, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Flashbacks, Character Study, God Complex, Non-Graphic Smut, Metaphors, Period-Typical Homophobia, Implied Sexual Content, Child Death, POV Odysseus, Derealization, Existentialism Summary:

There, at the edge of the wall I stand. Tears streaming down my face, someone calling out my name. To encourage or discourage me — I don’t care anymore. I let go. I holler. I watch the child fall. I see the great fire consume it. Word count: 2,562

Read below or on AO3!

There’s fire in your eyes, Diomedes. And although I should think that it’s the candle that’s nearby, I wonder if it isn’t the fire from the city, if you haven’t brought it within you. If it hasn’t followed you — followed me — here, into the camp, into the safety of my tent.

But then again, it’s a different kind of fire, is it not, dearest? One that burns inside of you. For me.

You’re running hot, son of Tydeus. It’s not only in your eyes. The fire’s spreading. You’re not sporting a fever, are you? No, the grey-eyed one wouldn’t allow that.

You’re about to spread the fire yourself. Right onto me when you lean in and your lips are on my neck. You kiss, you bite, you lick. Your tongue’s rough, like a cat’s. A cat would lap until it reached the flesh and then separated it from the bone. I wish you could do that. Rip the skin off of me. Tear it off and keep it. That’s the least of what I truly deserve.

Oh, Diomedes, you move upwards, the heat follows you, radiating from you, and I’m once more at the top of the walls of Troy. The fire’s lapping at me from below. It burns and I feel like I’ll turn into ashes in a second. It hurts and it won’t cease until I leave. I want to escape it, so I flinch away, wincing, the heat becoming too much. I close my eyes; maybe it’ll take me away from there and back home if I fool myself enough. And then you call out my name. I open my eyes, gasping, heart thumping. I look down and it’s only you, Diomedes. The candle’s still flickering to the side. There’s no fire down below to consume me.

But you’re here, Diomedes, you’re here to consume me. To push me down onto the furs and hides, and strip me bare, so the blaze can embrace me whole. The fire closes in again, steals my breath away and I shudder. You hold me, I freeze. Your hands on my face, your fiery eyes searching mine and I can’t help but meet the flame once more. I draw nearer and I kiss you but you flee. Or, how you tend to think, do it on purpose. To annoy me, perhaps.

You go lower again and as I close my eyes, I am in that godsforsaken city. I try to stare at the ceiling but there are shadows dancing, evoked by the fire. Oranges, reds and browns mingle with one another and I can’t breathe again. I gasp but it’s not the time to break and there’s none of it to waste.

The heat’s burning my body, heating up the armour. It makes me want to pull it off, afraid of melting or boiling in it as I stand.

I prevail. I weather the heat. I do what I’ve been told to. That’s what you, Diomedes, do too — that’s what you’d do. You wouldn’t undermine a decision of a king who’s older than you. Especially when I’m said king. You don’t hesitate, Diomedes, and I don’t, either. Usually.

The fire blooms in my core and I scream. I jolt away from the burn. I shake my head and, breathing heavily, my eyes meet yours, Diomedes. Propped on my elbows, I stare at you and you stare at me with those big, confused eyes of yours. Then, there’s a spark in the dark as everything clicks in your head. Of course, you’ve seen me like this before. Out of my mind.

Hurt graces your features but once I sigh, you know it’s a sign for you to come closer. And you do just that as you always do. Because you would never deny me, would you, my dear son of Tydeus?

With you so near, I feel the heat embrace me whole once more. You move, as if in a rush, and you share the warmth with me. This time, however, it fuels me with the need to pursue my aim. Instead of worrying about melting within my armour, I let us part and you complete your own task. I wish you could go with me but it’s something I’ve been told to do. Not you. But now I truly wish you could be here with me, running by my side, riding the walls of Troy in the sea of flames below. Dodging the vicious licks of the blaze that is so desperately trying to take a bite of me. Hissing. Cursing. So welcoming.

Sweat beads under my helmet but I don’t stop. Maybe I whimper, out of heat or exhaustion, or both, yet I can’t allow our efforts to go to waste. You’re somewhere out there doing your best (for me, Diomedes?) and I can’t retreat or abate now.

As I fly past and through the flames, I hear my heart pounding in my ears. I can see the finish line, the chamber I’m supposed to enter and proceed with what was planned. My throat’s dry and I swear under my breath because the end to all our misery is so close, already in my hand to claim and bring upon us all. There’s joy sparkling among the suffocating heat and it’s like a sip from a cold spring on a hot summer day. I take it, I embrace it and I choke on it.

A cry rips through my head and I tremble, my breathing hitches. I stop and realise how much I’m clinging to you, Diomedes. And it’s only you, croaking out my name into my ear as you keep the fire between us. As you let your own one last and burn brightly while I’ve never reached mine. I squeeze my eyes shut and feel how tears begin to gather. I’m clinging to you, dearest, as you keep moving against me. You moan and I rake my fingers through your hair. How can this be that you haven’t halted yet?

“Odysseus,” you breathe, “you—”

“Worry not about it, Diomedes,” I say.

You whine. Stroking your hair, I add, “good.”

Time stops when you breathe against my skin, when you brush your lips against it, languid, your haste long forgotten. I take a shuddering breath and hold you close, so that you won’t leave me. Diomedes, your touch is so delicate now, too delicate for it to be yours. Gentle as a lamb, not the wild beast you are so often.

It’s not you, Diomedes. The candle’s flickering but time’s frozen in this very moment — the moment I realise whose I am supposed to take.

I cradle him in my arms because what else am I to do? So frail, so fragile. He’s so small and the sounds he makes are so soft. Barely audible. Little cries and mewls, the silky breath fanning over my sweat-soaked skin. With my helmet off, it’s almost like a breeze against my heat-scorched face. I can’t let you go.

As I sit here, still holding you, the fire outside reminds me of what must be done. My throat grows dry again and I allow the flames to reach me. To ignite the force within me, the one that led me here and will once more drive me forward. The one that’ll help me do what I can’t refuse.

A whimper rings inside my head and I turn towards the sound. My arms still around you, I lay my eyes upon your stern face. Those ever-knitted eyebrows of yours have given you wrinkles already, Diomedes. Ten years take a toll on everyone, even those as young as you.

I reach with my hand and cup your cheek. Your eyes bore into mine and then look down. I don’t torture you with waiting, so I seal our lips together and you shift above me. You’d crawl under my skin and devour me from the inside if you could, wouldn’t you, Diomedes, dear? I so wish you could. What relief you’d grant me if only you ripped me apart.

“Diomedes,” I say against your disgruntled huff.

“Odysseus, my Lord,” you mumble as if in a daze and I can’t tear my eyes off of you. I can clearly see there’s something you want to tell me.

“Speak your mind.”

“There are no matters that we should attend to. Will you, thus, let me… stay?”

“Of course, my young king.”

A faint smile tilts your lips before you capture mine once more. You exhale through your nose and squirm, and you think I missed the way you rolled your hips and rubbed against me. I didn’t, Diomedes. I wouldn’t. I know what you want, I know you’ll need to chase your pleasure soon. I briefly remember the days that my own stamina could compete with yours.

I know what you want the most but you would never ask me of that. This is not what men like us should do. One of us would have to give up his honour. I would never demand that from you, Diomedes. You deserve much more than that. And you, even in your bluntness and straightforwardness, wouldn’t tell me to do it to you nor would you tell me about what you’d love to do to me.

You’ve still plenty of honour to uphold. Unlike me. There’s no honour to give up if there’s nothing of it left.

“Claim me, Diomedes,” I say and think you haven’t heard. So I speak again. “King of Argos, please, have me as you would a woman.”

Your eyes grow wide as you pull back. With the way your mouth’s open, I have half a mind to close it. It’s gone, isn’t it, Diomedes? All your harshness and brutality. The cold calculation that you must’ve learnt from me.

Confusion suits you. It makes you look so naïve and so young, despite your still young age. There’s this softness to your features, one that I would steal glances of when we first met. One that I thought you’d lost along the way. You didn’t possess much of it to begin with and I deemed it gone some time ago. I was wrong.

“No, I shouldn’t… I mustn’t!” you gasp out and I hush you.

“Out of so many things that you’re willing to do for me, this is where you draw the line?”

“We can’t, Odysseus. Think about your—”

“No one has to know. No one will know.”

There’s a struggle inside of you. I recognise that spark in your eye, Diomedes. I’ve seen it before. Anytime you get my approval, it lights up.

It’s tempting, the idea of dishonouring someone like me. An illusion, as I should call it. An illusion of greater might. And you fell for it. I have fooled you, Diomedes, and you can’t see it. There’s little to no honour in me left, after all. Thereby, you cannot claim it. I lost it all back on that wall. It’s as simple as that.

You don’t deserve this kind of treatment. And still I promise you something I don’t have.

“Please, Diomedes.”

You hesitate (hesitate!) for a moment longer. “As you wish, my Lord.”

“Good, lad.”

You ignite that force within me, Diomedes. I let it smoulder and it’s you who drives me forward. Because, most of the time, you don’t hesitate. You’re relentless like the wild beast that fire is.

And so I rise and the flames crawl up and then down my body. They push me forwards, they make me cross the line. I blink and shake my head, still having troubles to pull myself together. Through the smoke I see you, Diomedes. For a moment, I feel relieved. For a moment, I am with you and I watch you rain caresses upon me.

With a shuddering gasp, I allow the inner passion to sting and hurt. It starts nipping at the remainders of my honour as I let it consume me and lead me to where I’m supposed to be. Carried towards the aim as I am, I whine and cry, pressing a hand to my eyes. Tears well up and shortly begin to run down my face and I yelp the closer to the fire I am getting.

Although my will’s strong, my body protests, and I choke on a sob that threatens to leave my mouth. I sniffle, my lip trembles. There’s something very soft, very delicate in my grip.

I near the line. The flames from below remind me of their existence as I feel the heat beaming off them. There’s nothing picking at me from the inside now. There’s only me and the blaze surrounding me, blocking out anything else but your voice, Diomedes. I think I hear you say my name and I say yours, a silent plea to help me, to give me some of that strength that you possess and I don’t. The stark decisiveness, sometimes more reckless than is considered appropriate.

There, at the edge of the wall I stand. Tears streaming down my face, someone calling out my name. To encourage or discourage me — I don’t care anymore. I let go. I holler.

I watch the child fall. I see the great fire consume it. Someone’s still saying my name and time stops again. There’s a rift in reality, there’s a rift in me. All my honour’s gone. Wrenched from deep within me. Leaving me raw.

I’m once more clutching onto something and maybe I am clutching onto what’s left of my humanity. With the flames embracing me, from the tips of my toes to the top of my head, I’ve done it. At last, the satisfaction fills me with its white-hot power, rippling through me and I am there, at the peak, at the brink between humanity and godhood.

And in all of that, I still ache. Pain level with shame that’s replaced the honour. It’s only for a moment, though. Because promptly there’s nothing else human left in me.

The fire’s burnt it into ash. You, Diomedes, have collected it. The dust, the worthless scraps of me that you don’t deserve to sully your godlike self with.

“There we go,” I say or rather croak out. “Very good.”

“Thank you,” you reply, although you know you don’t have to.

At least this bodily delight, albeit temporary, is something you can hold onto, remember. It’s worth more than any leftover honour that you may have seized from me. If you’ve seized anything apart from this illusion, this lie, that I’ve offered you.

“Tell me, son of Tydeus: who are we to decide if one should live?”

You frown as you search my eyes for answers that they don’t have.

“We’re at war.”

It’s that simple, isn’t it?

“Tell me, then: who are we to take life from those whose lives have only just begun?”

Sighing in contemplation, you look to the side. I watch you sit up and follow you, despite the pain deep inside my body. I wince. You’re confused again. Or you’re thinking hard. It’s sometimes difficult to say.

“It doesn’t matter. The answer’s the same.” You shrug and I rub your cheek.

Holding the side of your face in my hand, I say, “isn’t it the gods’ task to decide about our fate, Diomedes?”

“What if we’ve been the ones deciding about our fate all this time?”

[frxnkendotmp4]

"フランケン フランケン X X X そう稲妻なくちづけで 産声をあげた 腐乱臭 腐乱臭 X X X

そう君以外は他に無いやなんて 奴隷みたいな言葉を吐いた！"﹒﹒!

Hello there!! This is my first introduction in here!! ( probably will redo it once I figure out decor stuff. . . If anyone knows a lot about it, i'd be pleased to learn!!)

I'm frxnkendotmp4!! You can call me frxnken for short or get creative with nicknames/names you know me for in other platforms.

You can interact with me as you like!! Please send me silly asks to get to know me better or to ask me stuff, to request song interpretations, recommendations or help with something, feel free to mention me in posts, to inspire yourself on anything I make, ask for other socials... (my discord is lucineidesouza incase you want to keep things private =]). Nothing is too stupid to send me, even if it is a simple hello. In fact, I very much appreciate it.

Want to know more about me? Read below!

I am an artist. I haven't made anything in a while, but my thought process remains artistic. I love to consume and think about different ways of making art. I write, sew, paint, draw andd dress myself up in a way that's artistic and expressive. Between my favorite artists, are; Niru Kaijistu, Citrus Fossil, Syudou, Hachiya Nanashi, x0o0x_, koronsuke koron (or harumatsu), Wooma, MARETU, Rita Lee, Chico Buarque, Djavan... The list could go on. 🙃

Please interact; Nilruits fans, psychology enthusiasts, vocaloid fans, people who are passionate for what they love (if you want to tell me more about it haha), RPGmaker game fans (OMORI, yume nikki and undertale mainly), brazillians!!, spiritually developed people, respectful and kind people in general. Come in, I'd love to have all of you around!!

DNI; darkshippers, Kikuo defenders (relating to the boku wa onee san ga hoshii situation), OMOCAT defenders, hoyoverse defenders, relativists, excessive moralists, eugenistics defenders, zionists, russia defenders, denialists, scientific denialists, anti-LGBTQ+, anti-xenogenders/pronouns, anti-therian... I'm sorry if the list is long (😿). Some parts of it can always be discussed, But what can't be discussed is disrespect.

Diagnosis; AVPD, dissociative amnesia (partial DID being analyzed by professionals), C-PTSD, narcolepsy, Chronic illnesses.

Kinlist; Baron (Franken X), Pearl (Steven Universe), Gregor Samsa, Alphonse Elric, Scrumize (Maretu), LimeLight (Nanashi Hachiya), Oulu (Nifruits; Heaven and Hell), Seventina (Harumaki Gohan), Roda Viva (Chico Buarque), One off mind, Collei, Kodoku no Syukyo (Syudou), Angel (Akumi), Maegamist (Maretu), Batten (Kairiki Bear), Who? (Azari), High-low Agate (Nilfruits)

I don't remember many of my interests, but I will talk and reblog about them here.

Misc info about me;

I am brazillian, and my religion is the brazillian variaion of the Yorubá. I am a tarologist (you can request me for readings on my ask!!) , dream interpreter (you can also request interpretations) and working towards spirituality control. I come from a developed family, and have been involuntarily developing myself, yet my Yoruba vaiation speciality leans more towards cure and future foreseeing. I am a daughter of Yemanjá and Orunmilá (it has been hinted i'm a daughter of more than one of them, yet, i'm only sure of Yemanjá). I'd love to meet people from my religion in here, as well as to be a source of information about it to other people. If you have any sorts of curiosity about it or any questions about tarot reading, I'll be around to answer them! If you're facing difficulties in the field, I can also help as much as I can from distance. It is a part of who I am, so if you're not tolerant towards it, I'm afraid our interactions could not go well =[

I have three cats!!

I have a passion for psychology, immunology and the medical field. My favorite authors are Carl Jung, Claudio Naranjo and Aaron Beck. I'm also very connected to symbology and the interpretation of symbol and lyrics. I'm a constant reader, and my favorite authors are Machado de Asiss, Clarice Lispector, Fyodor Dostoyevski, Fernando Pessoa and Franz Kafka. My favorite books are Dom Casmurro and The Metamorphosis.

My psychological type is ; SX/SP459 IF(S) ESI FVEL R(L)[OA]N, my Jung animal archetype is the mice, and my archetype is The Creator.

I am a writer, I have already written a book and a few loose projects. Feel free to request any writing related stuff to me (including help with personal works and fanfictions. I'd love to help.)

I study in a premed school! I know some stuff abou anatomy, epidemology, clinical etiquette. I'm pretty excited about it all!

My favorite color is pink!

That's it for the moment!! I appreciate the read deeply, and will repost this incase of any changes. Please, bare with me, i'm still learning how to use this platform :´]

credits to seysie for the first and last dividers !!

[aizawashuichi]

Let's go with 14, 15, 17, 44 for the ask game ;)

hiii, thanks so much for asking <3333

14. how do you write emotional scenes? Do you ever feel what the characters feel? Do you draw from personal experiences?

most of my emotional scenes (for now) are internal, since i write in first person and i think the internal world of a character is the most tragic place where to make things happen because they hit on a different level.

so, in dfd, taking as example the scene in which Dee spirals about being unstable,

1. i choose what emotion that character should feel throughout the whole scene. in this case, fear - fear of being seen as unstable, useless, inadequate, fear that therapy is not working or that she will be "found out" because if it happens, then she will not be considered fit for her job, and so on. so generally, a fear that is based on reality but it seems irrational, because there is no indication that they know what she has.

then 2. it's choosing a trigger:

I look up in Matsuda's direction, realizing that he is watching me. As soon as our eyes meet, he returns his attention to L. I frown and he gives me another quick look, adjusting himself better on the couch.

this brief exchange looks meaningless but it's important, because being looked at = being observed and anything she does can be scrutinised. and so the annoyance she already felt gets exacerbated, and her behaviour becomes hard to control. she also dissociates a little, and only when she gets up because she hears Watari enter the flat and sees L with his phone in his hand, she realises it.

so 3. now the underlying fear she had comes to the foreground, because something happened that might have made it clear what she is hiding. so she spirals.

They're going to think I'm unstable, that I don't know how to do my job, that I can't do it... That I'm useless. Is that why L keeps changing his mind about me? He figured it out, didn't he? And he made up the excuse that I might be sad about that, so he wouldn't tell me openly, so I wouldn't snap, but I'm not like that. I'm not unstable. I'm fine. I'm better! I'm going to therapy. That means I know I need it. I am doing something to get better. I am not unaware of how I feel and what I need. I am not lying to myself. Wise-Woman tells me that I am good at recognizing my limits, that I can handle them. I know how to do it. I'm not a problem... So why didn't he call when he bought Pars? When did I become a burden to him? Am I destined to become one for everyone around me?

usually, when i write these parts they tend to be long strings of thoughts that i do not bother to correct immediately. i just put out everything that comes to me, because i do feel what the charatcers feel so i am writing "in the heat of the moment" and let myself go on long rants, which get then trimmed and adjusted to be readable.

i think this only works when writing in 1st person, because you're in somebody's head and how i think my thoughts, they also have moments where their thoughts don't have to follow some writing rules.

anyway, in dfd, the emotional scenes I have follow this structure. even the one in chapter 5 on the rooftop, Jessica feels sad because of L going to the kitchen without saying a word, and that sadness is present throughout the whole scene and explodes once she sits down and sees that L hasn't replied.

generally, though, they change based on the character I am writing.

in mazzaroth, Ethe doesn't follow this. it's more "this thing happens -> she is about to feel sad -> it turns into anger toward everybody -> she tries to find a logical explanation to calm herself down" like sad about not being included -> angry at the aliases -> "L is trying to get to me". sad about Watari choosing L over her -> angry towards both of them -> "Watari is old and forgets stuff and is also an adult and they suck, and L is an asshole, of course he's trying to put me against Watari". sad about what happened at her house, especially to Aethel -> angry at herself and her parents -> "it had to be done". so there is never a true escalation to an emotional scenes. it almost gets there and then Ethe self-redirects herself.

so yeah, I guess, it depends on how the character is, because even the build up to an emotional scene or how it is reflects how they deal with emotions or difficult situations, so it's an important part of their characterization.

anyway, yes. i do feel what my characters, while I am writing, so i can reflect their emotions the best. I did almost make myself feel the physical sensations of a panic attack just for Ethe lmao.

about personal experiences, yes and no. i do feel the emotions i write about with the same intensity, but maybe not because of the same event. the only thing i can say i somewhat wrote from experience is Jessica feeling inadequate in the bathroom with another woman, cuz as a kid, i barely had any female friends and i would see all the girls around me go to the bathroom together and I would just wonder, "why do they do that, what is going on..." and this made me feel very disconnected from them, like I'm missing out on something. when I started to have female friends and they would ask me to accompany them to the bathroom, I would be very confused. I think it's also a thing that happens mostly as a teen or in specific situations, like clubs, but yeah.

other than that, those emotions? felt. those experiences? probably not.

I wonder even if I answered the question and if it's coherent cuz I'm on the phone lmfao

15. How do you write smut scenes? Do you get very visual or detailed? How important is it to be realistic?

I don't write smut scenes. haven't written one yet lol but I plan to write some in mazzaroth third part, since as you know there is sexual abuse. I want to make a before and after [redacted because of spoilers] comparison, so consensual sex with her girlfriend, mostly initiated by ethe vs rape ethe ends up being subjected to. I guess for the before, there is going to be a focus on the physical contact/act, because she is there, present and willing, but the after is going to be centered about feelings and sensations because of the acts. pre, during and post. especially because of her altered state of mind. overall, realism is extremely important in this case, so I'll do my best.

the question definitely wasn't meant to be answered with this aksjdjf. google tells me smut is explicit sex and doesn't mean that it has to be consensual so I think I am good.

17. What do you do when writing becomes difficult? (maybe a lack of inspiration or writers block)

I've stopped having writer's block when I started to make myself put down a few words every day, no matter how meaningless and nonsensical they were. writing drafts of conversations even if they never make it into the final cut helps a lot. my personal whatsapp chat is just that. random phrases that i end up completely discarding, but they set the scene and mood and make me think about my story more, which then leads to more ideas.

fortunately, I'm the opposite of someone who lacks inspiration because I work with OCs and I'm never limited by anything, except my own very flexible rules.

whenever I don't have the energy to write, though, I just allow myself to not have the energy to write, instead of beating myself up for being tired. sometimes I am, while having ideas and motivation, but forcing myself to write only makes everything worse, because I am postponing some well deserved rest and I'll probably get burned out.

44. What mistakes do you keep making no matter how many times your beta corrects you?

I don't have a beta because I would be a terrible alpha (<- definitely not the right term lmfao), but my biggest mistakes are 1. assuming Italian words or phrases mean the same thing in English (recent example is the world "pronounce". apparently it doesn't mean also "say" in a general way as "pronunciare" does). 2. writing things with the intention to later check if they are correct but forgetting to do so, because I'm convinced my past self checked it already (she did not). 3. writing very convoluted sentences or paragraphs and when I go back to edit them, I don't know what the hell I meant (literally the cillian murphy reading meme) and have to start over.

[ask game]

[heal-the-ashes]

Hey, Ashe! How're you doing? Haven't heard from you in a while. Hope everything is fine <3

Hi, anon. I wouldn't of checked this but accidentally clicked tumblr and saw the notif. To everyone, I will be using this ask as an update. Hope you don't mind anon.

But thanks for asking. I'm doing more things for college. I had to cut off a toxic friendship that I've had for like 7 years. And now I'm trying to focus on myself. It's a lot harder than I wish it to be, but it's okay. I will also note that the "cut off" time really was a whole situation that spanned across 2-3 months. I cannot sometimes believe that cutting toxicity off took that long to fully sort out, and it stil isnt even fully sorted out yet. But they will be eventually.

Anyway, I got into a new game while I was gone. I want to start posting about it but this is a Layton centered blog… People won't mind if I branch out right?

Speaking about Layton. The series. I hate to say it but I'm a really emotionally sensitive person. It doesn't help that the friend I disconnected with sort of was connected to my experiences regarding the PL series.

It's a special interest and I talked about it a lot with the friend. It's the series that saved my life in more ways than one. It's a series that has and will continue to change my life.

This also means I get overwhelmed easily regarding it. I feel things that I didn't know were possible. I feel things that I have locked away and left behind for years now. It is very crazy and I am thankful. But it's very stimulating at the same time.

Being apart of an online community centered around it has made me realize many things about myself. Most of that is how much I relate to (insert character names here). I have struggles with self perception and delusions regarding fictional medias and characters. This series is no exception, and is actually a series that is the only one that has the most DAs and/or relations (if I am able to use the first term. I am not clinically diagnosed with anything regarding this yet. But I intend on getting professional help, appointments just take a long time to get. Really sorry if I misused it.)

So seeing things—Even happy things, even the most wonderful headcanons and art about characters being happy—have the ability to, and often do, bring me to intense emotions. Crying is the most common one. These characters often represent comforting relations that I never felt like I had, or that I struggle having in my real life. Among other things. Scary things. "Memories" that were not from my life. Not to say that all memories of that manner are bad, but some are terrifying. It also doesn't help that I already have a probable dissociative disorder and we could be a system. My identity is fractured in more ways than one and I feel like the medias and things I love are out to kill me sometimes. But I still love it. I wouldn't be in this amazing (comparatively) place without any of it, canon and fanon.

I am only being honest because I feel like you all deserve to know. People here are so nice and friendly and I owe so many people for bringing my life to a better and more positive place, even if I don't usually talk about what I'm dealing with.

Oftentimes, I'm terrified of sharing my personal ideas. They're related to the things above. They're related to the system. They're related to dreams that I had to calm down from or tell myself isn't real. I doubt anyone would attack or hurt me because of them.

But there's always fear. And one of the main things about how I'm trying to be the best version of myself is trying to either get rid of fear or keep going in spite of it. There are other, more complicated things, but. It's okay.

Another thing is that—Even if I did the "daily drawing" thing. I didn't even get to day 5 or something. I kept forgetting if I posted something. I keep forgetting if I do things. It sort of really stresses me out.

So sorry for the terribly long response. And for the long update.

I don't even know if I want to post or not. I do, I really do. I'll get there.

But anyway. Thanks again for the ask. And sorry again for the incredibly long update. I hope everyone's been okay and things have been going well. Thank you, everyone, for the support so far and all the comments on the other update post. I really mean that and I hope a genuine tone gets through.

/gen /srs update.

The game I got into is called Nier: Automata by the way, if anyone knows it. Might start posting about it… I too have rather incredibly strong feelings about it too. Anyway. I'll send this now.

[plurapony]

idk this post by @ratinacoat reeks of "your experience is different to mine so yours is wrong" and "i want to feel special having did so I put down people who make me feel less special"

like it's absolutely wild how much the system community CARES whether you have an introject like I cannot stress this enough ! it does not matter if other systems are introject heavy and it doesn't affect you in the slightest. all systems are the way they are due to trauma and you don't have any right to know about someone's trauma just because they have a hazbin hotel introject.

as for "it's not the norm" says fucking who? did is incredibly under-researched and we do not know how things can or cannot happen. we have 105 parts and probably about half of those are introjects, why? it's simple really! we are autistic and lack the ability to conceptualize which makes it a LOT harder for our brain to finalize a split that will benefit us and therefore will draw traits from pre-existing characters. our trauma is heavily due to being neglected and a social outcast so (other than dissociation) escapism became our primarily source of coping. escapism into media, books, video games - anything that could take us away from reality.

we have multiple introjects of the same character, we have many introjects from the same source, we have introjects from books we read as children, shows we watched as children, we have introjects that have introjected from multiple sources.

and that's the thing, if I explain myself it starts to make sense and suddenly i become "one of the good ones" and that maybe I'm not faking but those other introject heavy systems are! and that's the funny thing about these situations is these people who get fakeclaimed on the basis of being introject heavy? they never get a chance to explain themselves OR they're forced into a corner where they either a) reveal their trauma or b) be fakeclaimed.

y'all are all about "keep private information offline" until you're forcing people to tell you that private information to defend themselves. stop worrying about other systems online that are just existing and start worrying about your damn self.

LEAVE INTROJECT HEAVY SYSTEMS ALONE!!! GODDAMN!!!

[IMAGE ID: ponyville is a (pro) endo free zone break dni and get blocked loser! END ID]