#i never posted this one by itself and i like it better than the white bg

[literatureloverx]

One of the things I find curious about Fyodor is that in the latest bsd guidebook, he describes himself as the color white like his hometown's snow. Fyodor still remembers his hometown, after all he's gone through and after all this time. And he describes himself as the color white like its snow. That with his character's disconnect from people, makes me very excited for when Asagiri decides to reveal his character's backstory. Of course he probably means snow in a more way of "purity" than sentimentalism for his hometown itself but omg he mentions his hometown which is something enough. Not "like snow" which would convey purity enough but "like the snow from my hometown". Maybe it's because he found his faith there? Maybe he just wants to pay respect to where he was birthed? Idk but there's much to theorize. What are your thoughts?

-🎪 anon

I agree, 🎪-anon!♥️

I don’t know if it’s because he found his faith there, but I think that is very likely and seems reasonable.

However, I also believe he was born into a religious family to begin with. I’ve thought through other aspects as well. Let me break it down for you:

Purity and Fyodor’s inner moral code:

Fyodor describing himself as the color white, especially like the snow from his hometown, speaks volumes. It hints at his complex inner moral code—he engages in dark actions under the belief that they serve a greater good.

This idea of “purity” contrasts sharply with his behavior. But does it?

In my humble opinion, he is well aware that what he does is evil, but his inner moral depiction is influenced by Machiavellian tendencies.

He does whatever he needs to do to cleanse humanity of their sins. Therefore, his actions reflect Machiavellian principles.

In short: the ends justify the means (The Prince by Niccolò Machiavelli).

I’m imagining it like this: God has given him the enormous power of being immortal—never truly able to die.

God also gifted him with an intelligence that is above any other human being.

This means he must be someone important.

This means he is meant to be the rightful hand of God, tasked with creating a world that is worthy of God’s beauty.

Therefore, he wishes to help God’s creations, cleansing them and this sinful world of all their sins.

This is one reason why he says that he likes all humanity equally. Because he really does.

They are all the same to him—fools who could do better. Fools that could be worthy of God’s perfect world.

What fascinates me the most about him is that, even though he is doing all of this out of pure self-assurance and his own complex inner moral compass, he still claims that he is doing it for the whole world. And I believe he does.

I can totally see this being his ultimate end in the future.

His Hometown and it’s significance for him:

By referencing his hometown, he reveals a more humane side to himself.

If you haven't already, l'd recommend you read THIS and THIS posts of mine, where I explained very clearly how I perceive Fyodor's humane side.

It shows that he yearns for connection and perhaps misses the simplicity and innocence of his past.

This duality makes him such a fascinating character, caught between his dark pursuits and the remnants of his humanity.

Imagine feeling like, or even knowing that you're "the chosen one," only to end up isolated, dehumanized, and lonely, with nothing to hold onto but your belief in your God.

You can't die, because the only way for you to do so is by your own hands, which is considered the greatest sin.

You can't die. Not until you take your own life.

How deep must his religious beliefs run for him to be this dedicated to his goal, mentally able to endure and live for hundreds, maybe thousands of years?

This made me so emotional. I want to give him a hug. My precious love.♥️

[princessbrunette]

we’ve talked about stepbro!rafe but what about stepbro!jj… 🤭🤭

i read this request whilst tipsy and giggled sm because oh my GOD

so let’s say jj’s dad kind of gets his act together, gets help or whatever— still an asshole, but not so awful anymore. jj’s relationship with him is still totally up in the air, but atleast he’s not a danger to himself or others anymore. he meets your mother, sad and recently single — and they become inseparable.

they’re great — really, JJ wasn’t the most trusting of this relationship at first, worried it would go up in flames and he’d have to pick up the pieces when his dad eventually spirals — but it seems they’re pretty good for eachother. he’d even go as far to say your mother brought the best out of his old man.

but that wasn’t really what he was focused on.

they moved in together pretty fast, and along with your mother — came you. god, so pretty — totally his type, like if he’d seen you at one of the pogue parties on the beach, he’d be all over you. sweet, in that girl next door way, cute smile, innocent. he feels sick.

where it was discussed before in my stepbro!rafe post, rafe has very little worry regarding the morality of the situation, happy to take you under his wing and bend you to his will. jj however, is just… better than that. he knows it’s wrong, recognises how fucked up it would be — but it doesn’t stop him from feeling a type of way toward you.

he tried to sister-zone you, ruffling you on your head and pinching your cheek and treating you the way he would a regular little sister — but that only made him feel worse, because he couldn’t stop the burning attraction he felt toward you bubbling in his gut like something that had been left on the stove for too long, steam clogging his brain.

you just seemed so oblivious to his constant battle, and if you weren’t so naive he’d think you were doing it on purpose. you always stood too close when you spoke to him, and he’d have to press his lips together in restraint at the way you’d look up at him through your lashes, big doe eyes melting the ice around his heart. sometimes you’d go as far as to touch his chest absentmindedly, and he’d think about how it would look to a bystander, his little step sister all over him like this, practically touching him up. god, it was wrong— but it made him so hard.

you didn’t seem to worry about how wrong it would look when you’d steal his t-shirts to sleep in, or kiss him on the cheek before he leaves to run around with his friends for the day. your parents were none the wiser, just happy to see the two of you were getting along. you’d even begged him to let you hang out with the pogues, and he couldn’t say no to you, so of course he allowed you — only to immediately regret his choice when he had to spend the day with you bouncing around in your little bikini, tits pressed to his side when you’d hug him, outline of your chubby cunt visible through the white bikini bottoms when you’d come out the water. he was visibly disgusted when he went home and jerked off that night. came a bunch of times, though.

the straw that broke the camels back was when he’d heard this… pathetic whining sound from your room, and being the great guy he was thought maybe you were injured or sad— only to find you, who thought you’d been home alone, face down on the bed, naked from the waist down, grinding your glossy pussy against a pillow. he was wrecked.

he begged himself to walk away, leave the room and you’d never know. hell, go be a pervert and jerk off over it in your room, you’ve seen enough — but he couldn’t, not whilst the opportunity was just presenting itself to him like this. he even had the audacity to hope you secretly knew he was home, and was hoping he’d find you. jj being jj chooses to awkwardly clear his throat, scrunching his face as you yelp, scrambling on the sheets to cover your dignity. there was no point covering yourself now however, the image of your pretty pussy was burned into his retinas, haunting him every time he blinked like someone had tattooed the sight to the inside of his eyelids as some kind of sick prank.

“hey, uh—” he starts, cringing at himself already. you fire off into a barrage of apologies, face all hot and tears at the ready.

“jayj, i had no idea you were home! i’m — i’m so sorry you had to see that i’ve just been so — so frustrated lately and needed to —”

he nods, scratching his cheek and comes to sit by you on the bed.

“you uh— you don’t have to apologise. i was gonna ask if you… need any help.”

once these things start, it’s hard to wrap them up. easy to let them go too far. that’s how you end up with his face between your legs, and then clenching around his fingers, and then shockingly— cumming around his cock. he’d had plenty of experience fucking, he messed with lots of girls in the past— but the way his heart swelled each time you whined his name, the way tears would slip from your eyes when you came, this was different. more intimate, shit— the L word even sprung to mind a few times.

he came all over your tummy, and even cleaned you up afterwards because you were too sleepy. once everything died down that guilt returned, biting at the inside of his abdomen and clawing around his throat as he stares at your ceiling, your warm body snuggling into him, breathing softly into his neck. he thinks he might have a heart attack when you sleepily mumble “y’such a good big brother jayj, thanks for lookin’ after me.”

he must be sick, perverted. especially because he knew he would be doing it again.

[onesidedradiostatic]

aromantic alastor headcanons for aro-week (with some ace in there as well, because I think for alastor those things are so entwined, it's hard to separate them):

tried going out with girls a couple of times when he was alive, to make his mother happy, but always found a way to extricate himself from the attachment. this ties into his learning how to have complete control over any situation he's in

I wonder as well about whether or not he "passed" as white, or whether his community knew that he was creole, and how that affected his dating opportunities, and his paranoia, his need to be in control, basically his constant hyper-vigilance

got a lot of fanmail for his radio host work, women (and men, but more furtively) loooved his voice. this was acceptable, because (apart from some of the weirder ones) he could use this as a metric for how accepted he was in society, as well as how well he was passing -- both in terms of race and orientation, but also youknow, as someone who is definitely not clockable as a serial killer

although of course we know he also enjoyed company. he'd go out drinking and dancing a lot. was mimzy a bit in love with him? I just like the idea that people kept being incredibly taken with his charm and his politeness and his poise, because he does have all those traits. whether he notices...? (no). I mention this point not so much as headcanon, I just like that alastor as aroace and repulsed on both of those points, was never a shut-in about it. he's always been very lively (ha) and outgoing, and clearly likes being in the company of others... but maybe that last point has gotten to be a little difficult during his time in hell, due to having to be so careful about showing any kind of emotional "weakness." speaking of...

post-death became a more extreme version of himself -- that is, a man on a mission to be in control and create emotional distance between himself and others through the power of voice, rather than having to faff about pretending emotional connections where there were none. very suited for hell because of his precarious political lived reality whilst alive, and because hell is built on who has power and who doesn't. these are rituals he understands better than the strange romantic ones during life

the smile as mask and unhealthy coping mechanism -- wonder if when he was alive people swooned over his having a lovely smile (as well as its being useful to placate and to disorient people who had more violent intentions, and in both cases potentially to lure in victims). so the smile likewise became the most extreme version of itself. the smile in essence as the signifier of someone who doesn't fit into any boxes and needs to hide that fact, both by being mixed race and aroace, but then the smile itself becomes something that effectively owns him, because he literally cannot let it drop, ever (honestly if alastor ever stops smiling, it'll be the biggest gasp moment on this show)

all that being said, surprising connections do occur: rosie, I think, sees through him from the beginning, and she's so disarming (ha, disarming... cannibal joke) that she never feels like a threat + they're both cannibals, so there's a relaxed kinship there and maybe she reminds him of the parts of home he (secretly) misses a bit

I wonder how rosie figured out that alastor wasn't into dating. I think at first she might have thought he was gay, but then quite quickly seen that that's not it, he doesn't even like men much, and she feels like she's been around the block enough to piece together peoples' natures from one of a million other people she's known, so way before she knows the terminology, she knows, and crucially, she never judges or tries to force the point

I wonder how vox and alastor met -- whether vox was able to gain power on his own and this attracted alastor's attention, or if alastor saw something of himself (that turned out to be surface level) in vox, that is, they both wear smiles as masks, they're both presenters, their mediums may be different, but their aims feel similar. perhaps alastor was comfortable enough in hell at this point -- probably in a way he never was whilst alive -- that he was feeling magnanimous towards what must have felt a bit like an upstart. and most importantly, the constraints of alloromantic ideas are a comfortable 20 years in the past by now, alastor can barely remember that this was ever anything that was expected of him, or that others' could possibly feel about him

cue vox falling head over heels, the way people so often did while he was alive, and he... does not notice at all (barely a headcanon). I kind of feel like I don't have much to say on these two, because this blog is already a treasure trove of vox and alastor hcs!

I think rosie is the only one who knows alastor is aroace, although... maybe husk? not in so many words, but he knows alastor isn't interested in those things. nifty Does Not Notice Nor Care (in a good way). charlie i will forever think will at some point do a deep-dive on modern queer lingo and get everyone flags (this is practically word of god canon considering that older piece of art you shared). vox definitely doesn't know. val....... sort of kinda knows but in an evil way. vaggie does not care, but she'd be chill about it. mimzy... I don't think knows, mainly because she never cared to think about his behaviours, as someone who's quite self-centered on what alastor is to her. jeez, who am i missing... angel, does not know, head empty

speaking of angel, I think if he ever found out, especially with where he's at in his journey rn, would be very unhappy in some way about having stepped over his boundaries so often so casually at the beginning. dunno how he'd act about it, but i like the idea of vigilantly (and crudely, and bluntly) supportive angel if they ever manage to get alastor out on the town. more on the ace side of things but i can see him going: "do not try to fuck this guy! this guy is unfuckable!"

(i like hypersexual and deeply romantic angel + sex and romance repulsed alastor as unlikely friendship in my head. opposites finding common ground type stuff is always good)

at the end of the day, alastor living and dying in an amatonormative world and having to orient himself within that by building walls that persist/worsen after his death because of the culture of hell being predicated on who controls whom, veeeeery slowly discovering that he can be vulnerable on his own terms without people demanding things from him that he cannot give (smthinsmthin the hotel gang as the opposite of vox in that sense -- not only that sense, but also that)

also something about imagining his mother hoping he'd find a nice girl and settle down (in the way parents often do, because that's the metric of happiness right.....) and how he never could give her what she wanted, and maybe feels some very locked away guilt about that, which he thinks he'll never be able to deal with because his mother is in heaven, but perhaps in this story she'll get to see what he's built with the people at the hotel and that's really all she wanted for him in the end

OH MY GOD ANON THIS IS ALL SO GOOD?? THANK YOU SO MUCH HAHAHA. happy aro week everyone!! (x2)

[zweigsangel]

fool for you. — rafe cameron.

pairing: bff!rafe cameron x kook!reader. warnings: fluff, use of cocaine, slightly suggestive themes at one point.

a/n: honestly had to much fun writing this, i took inspiration from some posts i saw in here!! hope you enjoy babess

bff!rafe who is your complete opposite. always out at parties, drinking heavily, snorting lines of cocaine without a second thought. while you despised all of it. the first time you tried cocaine you two were in his bedroom. he sat on the edge of the bed, a line of cocaine neatly arranged on the small mirror he always kept in his drawer. he looked up at you with a slight grin. “come on, just this once,” he said, his voice low and coaxing. you watched as he effortlessly snorted a line, his head tilting back as he let out a satisfied sigh. he looked at you again, patting the spot next to him, and you found yourself moving without really thinking. as you sat beside him, he handed you a rolled-up bill, his fingers brushing against yours. your heart raced as you leaned forward, feeling the coolness of the mirror beneath your nose. you hesitated, the white powder glaring back at you. but his presence, the way he made it seem so casual, so easy, nudged you forward. the first snort burned, sending a sharp sting through your nostrils. you coughed, eyes watering, and he laughed softly, his hand rubbing your back in circles. “it gets better,” he whispered, and you weren’t sure if he meant the feeling or the act itself. slowly, the initial discomfort faded, replaced by a rush of adrenaline and a sense of euphoria you had never felt before. as the night wore on, you felt the weight of exhaustion creeping in, but sleep wouldn’t come. your mind raced, replaying the events of the evening, the sensations still buzzing under your skin. you tossed and turned, feeling both restless and weary. sensing your unease, he pulled you closer, wrapping his arm around you. “it’s okay,” he murmured, his voice soft in the darkness. “just try to relax.” he held you tight, his body warm and steady against yours.

bff!rafe who drops everything the moment you need him, even if he’ll never admit that to you. no matter what he’s doing, he’s there for you. when you just need company, you’ll hear him knocking at your door in what seems like no time at all. he brings along your favorite snacks and a playlist he knows you’ll love, ready to spend the evening just hanging out. if something good happens and you can’t wait to share the news, he’s genuinely excited for you. he listens intently, his eyes lighting up as he shares in your happiness. then there are the times when things aren’t going well, like when you’ve had a fight with your boyfriend. even before you finish telling him what happened, he’s already on his way. he doesn’t ask for details unless you want to share. he just listens, offering support and understanding. sometimes, that’s all you need—to know someone is there, completely present in your moment of need.

bff!rafe who judges and insults every boyfriend you’ve had. “you still hang out with that dickhead?” he’d ask. you’d roll your eyes, trying to defend your choices. “rafe, stop it! he’s nice, and he treats me well.” stepping out of the bathroom, you walked into your bedroom and did a little twirl to show off the floral dress you’d chosen for the evening. “how do i look?” you asked, seeking his approval. his expression shifted as he looked at you, his mouth slightly agape. he couldn’t help but think how stunning you looked, and a part of him wished it was for him. “you look great,” he finally managed to say, his voice a little quieter than usual. and clearly, when things would go wrong and that guy would broke up with you, rafe always wanted to say ‘i told you so,’ but he never did. instead, he’d pull you into a comforting hug and console you for hours, wiping away the tears streaming down your face. “he’s a piece of shit,” he’d whisper, “he doesn’t know what he’s missing.” his words, simple yet sincere, always made you feel a little better, reminding you that no matter what, rafe was there to pick up the pieces.

bff!rafe who’s always teased by his friends. they were all at the golf course, and as rafe took a powerful swing, sending the ball soaring across the green, topper looked at him with a grin. “come on, man, it’s time to tell her how you feel,” he said, leaning casually on his club. rafe, focusing on lining up his next shot, barely glanced at topper. “as soon as i find the right moment,” it was a line he’d used so often that it had almost become a part of his routine. kelce let out a chuckle and shook his head. “better find it soon.” they knew how much rafe liked you; he talked about it constantly. he would always say that he would confess his feelings to you soon, but that ‘soon’ never seemed to arrive.

bff!rafe who always invites you over to his house for lunch or dinner because his entire family adores you. you are good friends with sarah, his sister, and you often spend your afternoons together at the pool, going shopping, or talking for hours in her room. even ward, who is usually difficult to please, finds you enjoyable to be around. “she’s really a great girl, rafe. i don’t understand how she can be friends with someone like you,” he joked, nudging rafe with his elbow. rafe sighed, trying to ignore him, but it was no use. “and i don’t understand how she can’t see how in love you are with her!” sarah laughed, her eyes sparkling with mischief. rafe rolled his eyes,his cheeks flushing slightly. “can you two stop?”

bff!rafe who starts fights at parties the moment someone annoys you. he watches you from a corner, his gaze fixed as you dance, swaying your hips to the music with your friends. the moment he sees a guy get too close, touching you and noticing your irritated expression, he’s quick to act. “is there a problem here?” he asks, and within moments, the guy is on the ground with rafe towering over him, delivering a series of hard punches. when he finally steps back, his hands are stained with blood, “leave her alone.”. “there was no need for that. i could have handled it,” you say softly, after you’ve brought him back to your place and he’s sitting on your bed. you kneel in front of him, carefully cleaning his wounds with a damp towel. “yes, there was. i hate it when these idiots bother you.” as you meet his gaze and offer a gentle smile, he literally melts.

bff!rafe who has a soft spot only for you. he’s known for being the most irritable person around, with a quick temper that seems to flare up over the smallest things. but when he’s with you, it’s like a switch flips. all his usual anger and frustration dissolve into calm. when he’s around you, he seems to be in a world where nothing can touch him. you’re the only one who has this effect on him, making him feel at ease and cared for in a way that no one else does.

bff!rafe who shows his vulnerable side only to you. after a heated argument with his father, the first person he reaches out to is you. “hey, rafe. calm down. come over,” you say gently over the phone. when you open your door, he rushes in, practically collapsing into your arms and clutching you tightly. he stays the entire night, his head resting on your lap while you softly run your fingers through his hair. he cries quietly, his face hidden as he struggles to contain his sobs. you whisper soothingly, “it’s okay, i’m here,” as you comfort him. and just the sound of your voice, the touch of your hands, makes him feel better.

bff!rafe who finds himself intensely aroused, his cock hardening at the sight of you, all dressed up for some occasion. the short, curve-hugging dresses you wear seem to accentuate every contour of your body, while your fragrant, cascading hair frames your face in the most enchanting way. later, alone in his room, he finds himself unable to resist the urge to pleasure himself, fisting himself consumed by thoughts of you—his best friend. he replays the sound of your laughter, the way your doe-eyed gaze meets his, and the touch of your hand on his knee or your warm hand resting on his back. despite knowing it's wrong, he can't resist the powerful urge that overcomes him.

bff!rafe who finally confesses his love for you. you both sat on the grass in your garden, lying side by side and gazing up at the star-filled sky. "it's beautiful," you whispered, a soft smile curving your lips. rafe’s gaze lingered on you before he said, "you’re beautiful." his words made you turn to meet his deep blue eyes, filled with something you hadn’t noticed before. you bit your lower lip and rafe shook his head slightly. "fuck, i like you so much. actually, i’m in love with you. and can’t keep hiding how i feel anymore, because you’re so beautiful, so sweet, and you treat me so well. i feel so good when i’m with you. but i don’t want this to ruin our friendship—" he was interrupted when your soft lips, tasting faintly of cherry chapstick, gently pressed against his. the kiss was tender, filled with all the emotions unspoken until now. rafe’s hand moved to the back of your head, pulling you closer, deepening the kiss as your fingers tangled in his hair. a soft, pleased moan escaped your lips, which parted slightly, letting rafe’s tongue brush against yours. he smiled into the kiss, savoring the sweetness of the moment and the taste of you, wishing it could last forever. you both smiled against each other’s lips, realizing how you were both fools that waited too long for this moment.

[dfortrafalgar]

Special Delivery

(Sanji x Fem!Reader- Offscreen)

Sanji reaches out to Zeff for the first time in years.

I wrote this many, many months ago now, and it was the first fic i posted anonymously on AO3. I got a few requests after it was originally posted to write a second part, which I eventually did!

You can read Part 2 here! Original AO3 link

(I figured I should let my blog breathe a little in between the really heavy and emotional Law fic im writing, and what better way to cool down than some sanji fluff <3)

A sharp squawk awoke Red-Leg Zeff from his daze. With a grumpy expression and a low grunt, he peered towards the direction of the sound.

A messenger coo was seated on the railing of the Baratie's upper deck next to where Zeff stood slouched over with his forearms leaning against the wooden support. It cocked its head to the side as if it was deconstructing Zeff's appearance before reaching into its pouch and procuring a parchment envelope. Zeff found it strange. Messenger coos only usually delivered the newspapers or the latest bounty reports, very rarely were they put in charge of personalized letters. It must have been paid off by whoever wanted this delivered.

The gruff man took the parchment from the beak of the bird and watched as it took back off into the air, leaving a few molted white feathers behind in its wake. He looked at the envelope.

All it said on the front, in very elegant handwriting, was "Captain Zeff." He flipped the paper around, revealing a wax stamp holding the opening down, which he peeled off with a calloused thumb.

Tucked neatly inside the envelope was a white piece of paper, tri-folded over itself. Zeff slipped the paper out, unfolding it to reveal the written contents of the letter. The penmanship was impeccable, and the ink was very sleek. He knew immediately it was from Sanji, not many other pirates had handwriting as good as his. He had completely lost track of how many years it had been since the curly-browed boy left with that ragtag group of pirates to sail to the Grand Line, but Zeff had every single one of his bounty posters. He'd never admit it, but they were tacked up on the wall of his sleeping quarters. Every time Sanji's bounty increased, Zeff felt pride swell in his heart.

"How are you doing, you old geezer. It's been a little too long since we've had any contact, so I thought I'd write to you just to see how you've been. You're no slouch, I'm sure you've been keeping up with the world's events over the past however-many years. Do the Marines even bother to keep sending our bounty posters to the Baratie anymore? Well, regardless, I'm sure you can read right through me. I can't deny it, I miss you, old man. I'm happier than I've ever been in my life, and such a huge part of that is thanks to you and the guys back on that old cruiser. Every recipe I try to make, I imagine you screaming in my ear and telling me that it tastes like shit. Some days I really wish I could be back there, but most of the time I'm joyful. Life has been really, really good. A few years ago, I met someone. Last year, we got married, and soon after our lives changed so drastically. She's the most beautiful woman I've ever laid eyes on, and she's as sweet as an angel. I mean it, too. I know you'd probably think something along the lines of me playing up my affections again just because she's a pretty woman, but I mean it. You'd love her, Zeff. Living as a pirate is the most stressful thing anyone could ever do, but she makes every day worth it. The crew was discussing the possibility of returning to the East Blue a bit ago, and when we do, I'm going to introduce you to her. I've spent the last years talking all about you, how you taught me everything I know about cooking, and I can tell she's just as excited as I am to finally see you. This letter's gone on long enough and I don't want to use up all of Nami's paper.

-- Sanji"

Zeff felt a lump in the back of his throat. Sanji had grown into such a fine young man, eloquent with his words and his feelings. He knew how big of a deal it was for the boy to be so honest and open. But one thing in the letter caught him off guard. What did he mean by, "Soon after our lives changed drastically."?

Zeff peered into the envelope, where another, smaller envelope was tucked inside. He almost didn't see it. Pulling it out, he held the letter and original envelope in between his fingers while he opened the second. Sanji was thorough with his packaging, that's for sure.

Inside, there were three photographs printed on thin, matted paper. The first was of Sanji and you, the wife he wrote about in his letter, taken by someone else holding the camera. Sanji had his arm around you, holding you against him, and you had your face nuzzled into his neck. His other hand held a cigarette away from the two of you, like he was in the middle of telling a story. The two of you were smiling brighter than the sun, Sanji's eyes completely closed with the motion of laughter, and yours creased, your irises looking up towards him.

The second photo made Zeff's eyes water. A photo of you and Sanji on the deck of the Sunny, exchanging rings. Sanji was wearing a sleek navy blue tuxedo, while you were wearing a gorgeous white ballgown. For pirates, you cleaned up phenomenally. He could just make out tears in Sanji's eyes as the photo displayed you sliding a band onto his finger. A skeleton with poofy hair stood between the two of you, which Zeff found a little odd, but he chuckled at the absurdity of it all.

Zeff flipped to the last photo.

The tears that were welling in his eyes from the previous image finally slid down his cheeks in heavy, salty droplets. His lip quivered.

Sanji sat in a chair, beaming down at a bundle of cloth held gently in his arm. He was crying in this photo as well, and was reaching a finger over the top of the bundle, where a smaller hand was reaching outwards to grab onto it. A small glimpse of blonde hair could be made out from under the cloth securing the baby tightly. On the back of the film, Sanji wrote the birth date and the name of the baby.

Zeff used a sleeve to wipe his blubbering eyes. His lips quivered, but he couldn't help the smile that broke out on his face.

Was he allowed to call himself a grandfather now? He figured it was only appropriate.

[ghost-proofbaby]

so scarlet (it was maroon)

in which eddie gets everything he dreamed of - except you. based off of "maroon" by taylor swift.

→ warnings: smut, severe angst, hurt/no comfort, 18+ minors dni

→ pairings: rockstar!eddie x fem!reader

→ wc: 11.3k+

→ a/n: don't mind me, just trying to see if tumblr will let me finally post this. this is cross-posted from ao3 (and wattpad)

ao3

"When the morning came, we were cleaning incense off your vinyl shelf 'cause we lost track of time again. Laughing with my feet in your lap, like you were my closest friend"

“You’re fucking with me,” Eddie sits up to stare at you, lit joint still dangling between his ringed fingers and the last of his latest hit lingering in a ghost of white smoke on his lips. 

“I’m not,” you laugh at his reaction, tilting your head forward just enough for where you were sprawled out on his bed to get a better view of him, “I’m scared to take cold medicine now.” 

“There’s no way you got high off of the recommended dose!” he cackles, shaking his head in disbelief, a hand coming down on your shin to ground himself. You watch his shoulders shake with laughter, how his curls come down to curtain around his reddening cheeks and his reddening eyes, how his doe eyes are pinched shut and crinkled in the corners.

A map of a million lifetimes, branching out from the corner of those eyes. A million lifetimes, a million possibilities, a million futures. And every single one of them begins and ends with Eddie. 

If you stare for too long, you’re going to say something you regret in your high, so you sit up as he had in order to snatch back the joint, “Stop babysitting. Aren’t you the one who’s always chastising me on ‘puff, puff, pass’?” 

He feigns offense, mouth wide open and face scrunched up adorably so, as you take a delicate hit. The smoke enters your mouth quickly, wasting no time as it barrels down your throat and curls into every crevice of your lungs. Your chest aches slightly at the intrusion. 

His eyes never leave yours. He watches the glaze continue to intensify over them as you slowly exhale. His thumb begins to trace gentle arches over the bare skin of your leg as his warm palm shifts upward, inching until it’s over your knee and resting on your thigh. “You’re fucking ridiculous.” 

“Learned from the best.” 

“That you did, sweetheart. That you did.” 

He holds his free hand back out for the joint, and your fingertips brush as you return it to him. 

“So what? Was it better than this kind of high?” he teases before bringing it to his lips. They’re pursed in preparation, and you only lose your concentration for a moment before remembering to answer him.

“I dunno, Munson. You’ve got some good shit here but… Dayquil might be giving you a run for your money,” you mock, tilting your head and leaning in closer to him. He’s grinning again, looking up through shy lashes before he takes his hit. 

This time he doesn’t exhale immediately into the cloudy air of the room. Instead, he takes you off guard as he shifts on the bed and pulls you closer. Soon enough he has you in his lap, draping one arm around your waist as he takes the hand not holding the joint and gingerly grabs your jaw. 

You already know the drill. You’re familiar with the process of his shotguns as his fingers tap your cheeks and you let your mouth fall slightly open, leaning to meet him halfway. He still doesn’t exhale, not until his lips have grazed over yours lightly, teasing before he finally seals the two of you together. The kiss is messy, as it always is with him; your tongue can’t differentiate between the taste of him and the taste of the smoke as he presses the kiss deeper. You’re not even sure you breathed in enough to capture any of it, but none of it feels like a waste as he’s biting your bottom lip, hands pulling your hips impossibly close. The joint is eventually discarded on one of the ashtrays on his bedside tables as you lose yourselves into each other. His nose presses itself into flat against yours between hot breaths. 

“We can’t-” you pull back, a trail of saliva chasing you before Eddie follows, capturing you in another kiss that you pull back from, “The joint-” another interruption with another desperate kiss, “The incense-”

“The incense will be fine, baby,” he insists, pouting slightly, “It’s not going to burn the house down.” 

He kisses you once more, wasting no time to fall backwards into his pillows and dragging you with him. For a moment, you’re straddling him, hovering over him, but he quickly turns and presses your back into his sheets before he’s rolling over on top of you, caging you in. You don’t mind it. You never mind him taking up your space, your breath, your mind. 

A hand comes up to rest on your neck as you take a moment to press both hands into his chest, forcing distance. His eyes snap wide open, and they’re shining like a dozen moons at once, even with his pupils blown out. 

“And if it does? It if does burn down the house?” you whisper, hands beginning to wander, one finding its way up and around the back of his neck, toying with the curls in its path. The other smooths over his shoulder, prepared to pull him back in impossibly close even without an answer. 

He’s looking down at you with all the love in all of Hawkins, in all of the world, as he smirks and answers, “Then I say let it burn.” 

"And I chose you, the one I was dancing with in New York, no shoes. Looked up at the sky and it was maroon."

Within a year of graduation, Eddie had made it very clear he wanted to get out of Hawkins. Corroded Coffin had been slowly but surely crawling their way to popularity outside of Hawkins, and when the moment was right, he came to you with an offer you couldn’t refuse. 

“Come with me. Move to New York. I know, it’s insane, but-”

“Yes.” 

“Yeah?”

“Absolutely. Was it ever really a question, Eddie?”

He was it for you, and so when he’d been prepared to beg you on his knees to move with him, it had been a no-brainer. You packed up all your belongings without second-thoughts, said goodbye to the town that never really deserved either of you, and started your life in a big city. 

The apartment was small and impossibly cramped, but the first night you two arrived, it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter if it was in the dingier part of town, or that you two were going to be penniless the next several months as you barely scraped by with rent. The moment you walked into that one-bedroom apartment, you knew it was yours, and you knew with certainty then that you had done it - you had escaped the bleary town and come out the other side. 

“Holy shit,” he sighs as he places down one of the last few boxes you’d brought with you amongst one of the several piles littering the living room. You’re sitting on top of one particularly sturdy stack of boxes, the top one serving as a seat most likely filled with your books from home. 

“Yeah,” you breath, looking around, completely stunned, “Holy shit.” 

Eddie turns in a full circle, almost as if he was drinking it all in, before he faces you once more. His face is a blank slate only for a second before the serendipity and sudden gaiety takes over his features. He’s unexpectedly running in your direction, arms wrapping around you and lifting you off the boxes as you squeal, swinging you around effortlessly. 

“We fucking did it!” he cheers over your giggles. When he finally finishes spinning you, letting your sock-clad feet find stability on the hardwood floors, he still doesn’t let you go. He only pulls you into his chest tighter, “We did it. We’re in New fucking York.” 

You smile brightly, pressing your cheek painfully against his t-shirt, nodding as you echo, “We did it.” 

The moment pauses as he pulls away as suddenly as he had picked you up, still radiating happiness.

“Hold on, wait here. I’ve got an idea.” 

He jogs over to one of the stacks of boxes at the entrance of the kitchen as you just laugh, “Not like I’ve got anywhere to run off to, Munson.” 

“You better not!” he calls over his shoulder, digging for whatever his brilliant idea was. 

You disobey him indirectly by wandering across the living room, steps slow and careful as you approach the large window offering a lackluster view. All you could see, for the most part, was the large brickwall of the neighboring apartment building. It was old and faded, scattered marks of paints from clear graffiti at random intervals. The city had clearly tried to wash away the few remnants of whatever art the random city vigilantes had covered it with, but the reminders of what once was remained. A nod to the fact that sometimes, no matter how hard you try to wash away things, their legacy lingers stubbornly. 

You don’t even hear Eddie setting up one of his old boomboxes with a favorite mixtape of the two of yours until it begins to play from the speakers, probably a bit more loud than you should have if you were attempting to be considerate neighbors. 

But neither of you cared. 

When you turn, you find Eddie approaching you steadily to the beat of the song playing. He takes a step with each beat, swaying his hips in clear exaggeration. 

He’s only several paces from you when he holds out a hand, grinning like a fool as he says, “Dance with me, sweetheart.” 

You take it, immediately. There’s not a trace of hesitation as you let the boy who held the sun in your eyes drag you across the barren living room, not even dancing to the beat but growing dizzy with love regardless. You let your own happiness mingle with his. As he spins you for the hundredth time, dipping you low and dramatically, you imagine that this is it - this is as good as it could possibly get. Because you’re with your boy, and you two are dancing to your own beat as the mixtape ends, and there couldn’t possibly be a more perfect person than him. 

He brings you back up to him as he stands up straight, and not a word is passed as lips crash together. An eager kiss, all teeth and revelations and silent promises of forever. It’s saccharine sweet as his tongue passes over your lips, begging for more closeness. Your chests are so tightly pressed together that with each breath he gasps in, you’re forced to exhale. 

“I love you,” he mutters, pulling back momentarily and staring into your eyes. His arms cradle you so carefully, as if scared that when he lets go, you’ll completely disappear from him, “I love you so goddamn much, it hurts. I can’t believe this is real.” 

“It’s real, so you better believe it, rockstar,” you reassure him, “Now shut up and kiss me.” 

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” he mutters, already so close to you that his lips brush against yours before he’s back on you, hot and heavy. 

You’re not sure how exactly it happens, or who first starts encouraging the steps taken towards the hallway, but you end up with your back against the wall as Eddie leans completely into you. You both feel drunk on each other, giddy on your current reality. After a particularly harsh tug on his hair, in sync with a yearning squeeze on your hip, he whispers ‘jump’ into your kiss. Hands find the back of your thighs, molding them into his knuckles as he carries you into the bedroom. 

The room is only filled with a few artifacts: boxes of both of your clothes, Eddie’s prized guitar propped up in one of the corners, and a mattress on the floor only covered in a comforter and no sheets yet. The afternoon light is golden as it flutters in through the open window, the sounds of the city muted by your breaths. 

He’s impossibly gentle as he lowers the two of you down onto the mattress, careful as he lets you unwrap your legs and flop back. Even with his carefulness, you find your own eagerness causing your movements to be too rough, bouncing back slightly and bumping noses with him. You both take a break to laugh. 

“Careful, you klutz,” he warns, balancing himself up on his forearms as he looks down at you in adoration. You don’t respond, instead lifting yourself to capture his lips in yours, pulling him down. Your teeth clash with his as you both continue to giggle into the open-mouthed kiss. 

He gives in, hands roaming as they slip below your tattered shirt you’d worn for the occasion of moving. His warm hands find home on your chest, squeezing softly and thumbs flicking your already pebbled nipples in order to pull gasps from you. He lets his head drop to your neck, his messy curls tickling your nose as he presses wet kisses down your jugular. Each kiss is in sync with the heavy beating of your heart. 

He stops when his path leads him down to your collarbone, sucking and nipping before releasing blooming skin to glance up at your face, twisted in euphoria. “This is real, isn’t it?”

His voice is so soft, you almost don’t hear him. But you look down at him, a boy made of contradictions - of sunshine and moonlight, of passionate and tender actions - and can only smile in serenity. 

“Yeah, it is.” 

It’s the only encouragement he needs to continue his worship, leaving no patch of supple skin unkissed. 

"The burgundy on my t-shirt when you splashed your wine into me, and how the blood rushed into my cheeks. So scarlett, it was maroon."

It could have been hours later or days when you’d finally tired yourselves out. It took an impossible amount of willpower, but eventually, you two had untangled yourselves from each other, leaving the warmth of your comforter to continue unpacking.

Or rather, you were unpacking. Eddie had taken to stretching out on the bed, back propped up on the bare wall behind him with his guitar in his lap, strumming mindlessly as he watched you begin to pull your clothes from one of the boxes. You took your time, smoothing out any wrinkles that had formed during the move, focused as you hung your shirts on hangers and put them away into their home in your new shared closet. 

Eddie pauses whatever song he had been practicing when he catches sight of a particular shirt you pull from the box. 

It’s a white t-shirt. Nothing impressive, but what piques his interest is the splotch of once-red-now-maroon painting the center of the fabric. It’s faded, feathered at the edges, but he knows the story behind that stain all too well.

“You really kept that shirt? Even after I ruined it?” he chuckles, shifting his guitar off his lap, scooting towards the edge of the bed. 

You hold it up, laughing as well, taking in the stain that refused to wash out, “Yeah. Sentimental value or whatever,” you tease, looking down at him. You take his breath away like this, in nothing but his Judas Priest shirt that barely reaches your thighs, nothing but underwear on underneath, hair in tangles from your previous activities. But you’re glowing, a glow that he’s been lucky enough to witness on multiple occasions, and it takes everything in him to keep his hands to himself, “Never really wear it, though. Guess I should get rid of it, huh?” 

“No,” he answers you far too quickly, “Never. Keep it forever. We can frame it, hang it in the hallway.” 

You know he’s not serious, but the thought still makes you smile. You’d never really get rid of it, far too attached to the memories it held, even two years later.

Another Harrington party. Another sea of almost-adults getting far too drunk, far too rowdy. You’d been to your fair share of them, but they never really got easier.

There’s an excitement in the air you can’t place. Maybe it was from graduation, still nearly six months away but on the horizon nevertheless. Or maybe it was simply from the holiday - Halloween. Whatever it was, it buzzed through the air and across your chilled skin. 

Your costume was last minute. A half-assed attempt at a pirate costume. It had been thrown together with things you could already find in your closet, for the most part - one of your more flowy white t-shirts, black jeans you’d taken scissors to the knees of in an act of temporary rebellion, heavy boots originally bought for hiking. The only real clues as to what you were had been aiming to disguise yourself as were the cheap eyepatch and doltish pirate hat you’d bought when shopping with your friends for the occasion. But you’d long forgone your eyepatch as the alcohol impaired your vision well enough without the loss of use in one of your eyes. 

The hat was a cheap velvet-texture, deep maroon in color and an extravagant black feather barely holding on by the factory glue used to secure it. 

Your friends had long since abandoned you. One of them went off with a jock who had caught their eye, the other getting dragged into a very serious game of beer pong. It hadn’t bothered you too much - it had left you to your own devices, nursing a cup of whatever punch had been spiked in a dark corner of the kitchen. You watched your classmates trail in and out for their own dose of alcohol without much interest. Until he walked in. 

He was glued to the side of the host himself, Steve Harrington. You overheard a couple of scolding sentences coming from Steve’s lips, something about ‘cutting him off’ and how he needed to ‘compose himself’. It was entertaining, at the least, to watch the boy fumble with himself. 

“C’mon, you’ve got to have more whiskey around here somewhere, pretty boy!” he whined, leaning into Steve as he lost his balance momentarily. 

“No, Eddie! I mean it, you’re cut off! Now stay here or so help me God-” Steve appeared irritated, but was far more patient than you would have been as he carefully guided his friend to lean on the counter across the room from you. He left the room in a hurry, and you snickered under your breath as the predictable happened right before your eyes - once Eddie was left alone, he immediately began to pilfer for more alcohol. 

It takes him a second, to your amusement, before he reappeared from the lower cabinets he had crouched in front of, letting out a loud ‘Aha!’ with a bottle of red wine in hand. He wasted no time in digging through multiple drawers as if it were his own house before he found a corkscrew, and the entire time, your eyes continuously flickered to the entrance of the entrance, waiting until Steve returned and would catch his friend red-handed (literally). 

He never did, though. Eddie has enough time to begin struggling with the cork, curses and mutters falling from his lips as you watched on. You’re only pulled from your watchful gaze when you hear a loud pop, and hear a triumphant ‘Fuck yeah!’ from the boy. 

Maybe you thought you should intervene, considering you were clearly not as far gone as Eddie, but you weren’t quick enough. You’d walked up behind him, about to announce yourself and stop him, when he turned suddenly, a red cup in hand that was nearly overflowing with red wine. 

Eddie hadn’t expected you to be so close, hadn’t even realized he wasn’t alone in the kitchen. Immediately, the cup collided with your chest and the red wine sloshed down the front of your shirt. 

You gasped, jumping back slightly, as he cursed, “Oh, shit! Fuck, I’m so sorry.” 

Wide, brown eyes found yours, looking sincere in their apology. 

He looked around before grabbing a random kitchen towel, unfortunately also a starch white, and began to try and dab at your shirt clumsily. 

“No, no, it’s okay,” you insisted as you felt your cheeks begin to burn. He continued to attempt to rectify the matter, clearly panicked. You have to eventually grab his wrists, pulling him and the now-ruined towel away. He looked back up.

It was almost like slow motion. His eyes met yours and you felt time stop. Your fingers stay pressed into his wrist, feeling the beat of his pulse, for far longer than necessary. 

“It’s fine,” you said once more, finally prying your grip from him. You might have been a little too drunk to care, and you’re sure that sober you would be disappointed in the comfortable t-shirt now being collateral damage, but for now, it didn’t matter. 

“I had no clue you were there. I’m- Fuck, I’m drunk. I’m an idiot. Sorry,” he slurred, looking down at you. 

You shrugged, playing it off, “Shoulda announced myself sooner. Don’t be sorry, it’s a problem for sober me.”

You really had liked that shirt. It was a shame. 

“You know, if you really wanted more alcohol, they still have punch left,” you jabbed a thumb over your shoulder, in the direction of the crystal bowl on the counter you had just been leaning on.

Eddie’s face scrunched up in disgust immediately, “Ew, God no. That shit’s way too sweet.” 

You bit your lip to fight laughter, “And wine is any better?” 

“It can be, when shared with someone as pretty as yourself,” he has a shameless, flirty grin on his features, raising his eyebrows suggestively at you. You broke, laughing softly and shaking your head. 

He had a point. The punch wasn’t very good. 

“Alright, then, mister ‘you’re cut off’. I suppose I’ll join you in your antics,” you turned to the sink, dumping the remnants of your punch before turning back to him and reaching for the bottle of wine he still held. 

His hand flew out of reach, tsking immediately, “Nope. Allow me.”

It wasn’t a good idea, but you let him take your now-empty cup regardless. He put it down on the counter and focused intently on filling it, nearly emptying the wine bottle as he topped it off just as full as his own had been. 

“Jesus, you’d make a shitty bartender. You’re definitely overpouring right now.” 

“Hush,” is all he replied as he finished the task at hand, setting down the empty bottle once he poured the last few drops into his own cup, attempting to make up for what was now soaking your shirt. It had started to dry, becoming cold and uncomfortably sticky, but you were too distracted with the boy in front of you to care. “M’lady,” he finally handed back the cup, looking far too proud of himself for not making another mess. 

“Thank you,” you teased, giving a messy and exaggerated bow, careful to not spill the wine. 

Once your glass is back in your own hand, his began to fumble into the pockets of the leather jacket he wore. It led to him spilling some more of his wine onto his own shirt this time, and you considered how lucky he was that he was wearing black. 

“Here,” you gave him no choice as you gingerly took the cup from his hand, freeing him up to find whatever it was he was so desperate to find in his pockets. You take the moment to glance over his costume: he was wearing black jeans, a black t-shirt, and a black leather jacket. On his face, a pair of small, circular sunglasses were perched haph-hazardly on his nose, the lenses a barely opaque red. You noted the obnoxiously long necklace swinging against his chest, a large silver cross at the end, “What are you even supposed to be dressed up as?” 

He yanked a pack of cigarettes successfully from his pocket, grinning like a fool, “Ozzy Osbourne. Duh.”

“Duh,” you mimicked, handing him back his cup of wine before turning more serious,“From Black Sabbath, right?” 

His eyes lit up. “You know Sabbath?” 

“A little bit,” you shrugged, but that was enough for Eddie. 

He slung an arm around your shoulders, cheesy grin and all, as he rattled the pack of cigarettes against your ear. “Say, you smoke?”

You didn’t, but for him, you did. “Yeah, yeah. I could use some fresh air anyways. Lead the way, rockstar.” 

"When the silence came, we were shaking, blind and hazy. How the hell did we lose sight of us again?"

“Eddie, you have to call them back and tell them you’ll do it!”

“No! I can’t!”

“You can and you will.”

The fight had started over Eddie’s casual mention of a phone call he’d had earlier that day. It had been six months of New York, of bliss, of living in a pattern of waiting. Every day, you were both waiting; waiting for the next show Corroded Coffin would book, waiting for the next chance he’d have to send off yet another demo to another record label, waiting for the shimmers of what could be his big break. It had been comfortable while it lasted - the two of you were still wrapping your head around having your own routine. Of having something that’s yours. 

The phone call today was the end of that waiting game. 

The management of a slightly larger band, extending an offer to Corroded Coffin - they wanted them to be the opener for their next tour. It wasn’t an overly large one, it hardly spanned over three months and most of the venues were painfully small compared to what you believed Eddie should be playing, but it was an offer. Gigs, travel paid for, an opportunity for exposure right at his fingertips.

He had told them no. 

“I’d have to leave. I’d be on the fucking west coast until December. I’d miss your birthday!” Eddie continues to argue. The two of you were standing in your living room, finally filling out. Shelves had collected framed photos, small knick-knacks that partially came from you and partially came from Eddie. You finally had a couch. It wasn’t a nice one, but it was a couch and it was yours. Something that belonged to both of you.

“You’d be playing shows! Selling merch! Gaining fans! This is your chance. Who cares if you’re not here for my birthday? We can celebrate over the phone, who cares?” your voice was breaking from frustration, not understanding how Eddie isn’t more excited. Instead of the joy you had expected to find on his face when he revealed the news to you, all you could see was fear. He was petrified. You finally drop your voice, taking on a soothing tone as you step in front of your boyfriend, taking his face in shaking hands, “Eddie, I’ll have other birthdays. But this? If you don’t do this… there might not be other tours.”

You could feel tears building up, some from exasperation, but most for the boy in front of you. This was his chance. He was your entire world, and you couldn’t let it pass him by. 

He has tears mirroring in his own eyes, searching your face frantically, “I… I don’t want to be away from you. Not right now, not when we’re just figuring all this shit out.” 

“I’m not going anywhere,” you tearily laugh, “Where would I even run off to, huh? No, stop this bullshit - don’t be an idiot. You go pick up that phone right now and tell that band they have an opener, and a damn good one at that. Right now.” 

He’s frozen, leaning his cheeks into your touch, eyes fluttering closed. He just wants to live in this moment. He doesn’t want to think about the enormity of the decision in his hands - he just wants to stay here, in your arms, in the space you two had come to call home. 

When your thumb swipes one of his escaped tears from his cheek, he caves. His voice is a ghost of a whisper. “Okay.”

“Okay?”

“Yeah, I’ll go call them. But- But when I get back, we’re celebrating the hell out of your birthday, do you understand me? Fuck Christmas, Jesus has had, like, thousands of birthdays. When I get back, all I care about is you.” 

You believe him. You believe him with your entire being, never once worrying about him missing something as trivial as the celebration. 

“We sure will. Now go on, rockstar. Catch your big break.” 

He finally smiles for the first time since he broke the news.

At the moment, all you saw was a world full of beginnings for your boy. This was it, the moment you’d been waiting for, and you couldn’t have been happier for him. The rose-colored glasses never gave you the chance to see it was the beginning for the two of you - the beginning of the end. 

"Carnations you had thought were roses, that's us. I feel you, no matter what."

“I miss you.”

Those three months couldn’t have dragged on slower if they tried. But Eddie kept good on his word; every night, like clockwork, he called you. The two of you would take about anything and everything: he’d tell you about the latest crowd that included people who seemed to actually enjoy Corroded Coffin’s set, you’d tell him about the takeout you had for dinner after nearly burning your shared kitchen down, he’d mention the names of cities you could only dream of visiting, and you’d indulge him in theatrically stories of your latest customers from Hell at the small dinner you waitressed at. 

“I know you do. I miss you too, Eds,” you sigh over the line, curled up on his side of the bed, even though it had finally stopped smelling like him. Long gone were the scents of late night cigarettes and woodsy cologne, replaced by a nauseating sweetness of your own shampoo and perfume. You hated it, but you’d never let him know that. Not when he seemed to actually be so happy. His breakdown over the offer seemed to fickle now, as it was clear he was enjoying himself. He was living out his dream. Something neither of you had fully processed yet. 

“Hey, just two more weeks, right?” you whisper, eyes staring into the shadows across the room. Two more weeks. Fourteen days, and he was all yours once more.

It was your birthday. And it had been the most lonesome to date - a few coworkers had convinced you to go out for drinks after closing up the diner, but the entire time, you had just been anxious to get home and prepare for your phone call with Eddie. Just as the two of you had said, you had committed to somewhat celebrating over the phone. 

“Do me a favor. Go into the kitchen real quick,” his voice instructs over the line, and you perk up slightly. 

“What? Why?” 

“Just trust me, sweetheart.”

You do as he asks, making your way out of the bedroom and down the hall. The apartment is dark, and a bit cold, but you don’t pay it any mind as you make your way to the kitchen. 

“Okay, I’m in the kitchen. Now what?” 

“The drawer to the left of the fridge. Open it.”

“Our junk drawer?”

“Yes, the junk drawer,” his tone is teasing, never growing irritated with your endless questions, “Open it.”

You hadn’t really touched the drawer since Eddie left, normally only discarded random pens and junk mail filling it. But you're shocked when you find the drawer more organized than you remember it - and in the center of it is a pack of candles.

“Candles?” you ask softly, a smile playing at your lips as your free hand reaches down to grasp the package. You flip it around in your palm, heart warming at the notion, but still feeling confused, “Babe, I appreciate it, I really do, but I don’t exactly have a cake, or even a cupcake, to put these in. 

“You don’t? Damn it. If only I had thought of that,” he hums in a teasing tone, making you lower the hot phone from your ear and glare down at his caller id that illuminates the screen, “Well. What a shame. Hey, do you know the time by chance?” 

“Munson, I’m gonna kick your ass,” you mutter, turning to look at the clock over your oven, “It’s 7:59. What’s your game here?” 

He doesn’t answer, leaving you further puzzled, instead mumbling what sounds like to himself, “Three, two-”

“Why are you counting down?”

“One.” 

A loud knock echoes through the apartment, causing you to jump. 

“Okay, what the fuck is going on?” you hiss over the line, gripping the candles impossibly tight. 

“Go answer the door.”

“If you’re on the other side of it, I’m kicking you straight in the-”

“It’s not,” he interrupts, “I wish it was, sweetheart. It’s not. But just trust me, yeah? One last surprise, promise.”

You grumble your entire way to the door, still holding the package of candles as you stop in front of your front door. You pause, taking a deep breath. 

“That doesn’t sound like you’re opening the door.”

“Give me a second. Jesus, for all I know, you hired a hitman and I’m about to be brutally murdered when I open this door,” you bite back, and you can hear his guffawing laughter over the line. Your chest burns, wishing you could hear it in person instead, imaging the glee on his face in the moment. 

“Not a hitman. That’s for after we have life insurance, baby,” he drawls, and you finally muster the nerve to reach out and twist the knob. You swear you can hear chattering on the other side of the door. 

It takes you some struggling as you refuse to let go of the candles, but when you finally swing the door open, you gasp. 

There in the threshold stands your friends from Hawkins. Robin Buckley, Steve Harrington, Nancy Wheeler, and Johnathan Byers. It’s clear that Nancy and Steve are mid-argument when you open the door, but Robin stands there, proudly showcasing a birthday cake in front of her, shit-eating grin on her face. 

“Surprise!” she yells, capturing the attention of the rest of the gang that you and Eddie had left behind. Everyone faces you now, beaming, as you immediately go teary-eyed. 

“Oh my God,” you gasp out, dropping the phone and candles to the floor, in shock. Steve steps in first, chuckling as he pulls you into a hug. It’s only then that you notice the bouquet in one of his hands, cellophane crinkling from how tightly he’s holding you. He shuffles the two of you out of the way just enough so that everyone else can enter. 

“Your face! God, Munson was right, that was so worth it!” Robin barks as she steps up to the kitchen table and sits down the cake. She’s the next to hug you, yanking you out of Steve’s grasp and nearly crushing you, “Happy birthday,” she whispers happily into your ear, swaying the two of you as she continues to embrace you. You catch sight of Steve over her shoulder, wearing a look of amusement, chuckling and shaking his head. 

Jonathan is the one with half a mind to pick up your abandoned phone and candles at the sound of muffled yelling over the line. He wastes no time, putting Eddie on speaker.

“Hellooo? World’s best boyfriend here, remember me? Wow. Can’t believe you’ve already forgotten me. Guess I’ll go fuck myself.” 

You laugh as Robin finally lets you go, reaching up to swipe away the tears of jubilation.

Nancy rolls her eyes. “She’s in shock. Give her a second, Munson.” 

Jonathan continues to hold your phone as you’re passed into Nancy’s arms and then his. Each whisper their own soft ‘happy birthday’, rubbing your back gently until your focus is back on the phone.

“Edward Munson-”

“Ah! There she is! She lives! And remembers me!”

“Fuck off,” you half-sob, half-laugh. It may not have been as good as him standing there, on your doorstep and embracing you, but it was damn good, “You’re so dead when you get home.” 

“Dead? Wow. Weeks of planning only to meet my demise,” he sighs dramatically, “I suppose it’s a good way to go. At the hands of the most beautiful girl I’ve ever laid eyes on. Beat that, Harrington.” 

“Way to stay humble,” Steve chimes at the mention of his name, still grinning. He suddenly remembers the flowers in hand, suddenly thrusting them in your direction as he says, “From Eddie, by the way. He told me if we didn’t get you flowers, he’d castrate me.”

“And I meant it! That’s still on the table if you guys don’t make this her best damn birthday ever.” 

“I’m sure he would,” you sniffle, reaching out and gripping the flowers. Your heart cracks slightly, not knowing how to tell him that despite how absolutely endearing the surprise had been, it’d be impossible for them to make this your best birthday.

He wasn’t here. It could only make the top of the list if he were here. 

You feel no resentment, though, as you bring the flowers to your nose, smiling until your cheeks ache. “Red carnations. Pretty,” you hum, lost in the moment. 

There’s a beat of silence before Eddie’s voice rings out across the room.

“Carnations? Harrington, I said red roses. You’re a dead man walking.”

"And I lost you, the one I was dancing with in New York, no shoes. Looked up at the sky and it was maroon." 

Once Eddie returns home, it’s just as he promises - he almost doesn’t even make it through the door when his lips find yours at 3 AM, his suitcase thrown off somewhere to the side of your entryway. He’s too busy to care about anything else but you at the moment. 

“Fuck,” he gasps between kisses, “I fucking missed you. God, I missed you.” 

You’re silent as you nod in agreement against him, just eager to feel his touch once more. You’d waited three months too long for this moment, ever since he first left through that door for the tour. 

“Needy, baby?” he teases, just as breathless as you are when the two of you finally pull apart, him kicking the door shut behind him. Your hands are grabbing weakly at the lapels of his jacket, too eager to be embarrassed, “God, always so needy for me. Just how I fucking like you.” 

He’s always talkative, even during sex, but you have no patience for it tonight. “Shut up.”

“Aw, now that’s no way to greet your boyfriend you missed, is it, baby?” he eggs you on, looking down at you and your swollen lips with a wicked grin. 

You open your mouth to snark back, but he refuses to give you the chance before he’s picking you up, lifting you up and throwing you over his shoulder.

“Eddie!” you shriek, but laughter laces the protest. Your hands grip the back of his t-shirt as he begins to walk down the hallway, and you start to kick your feet out of defiance, but a sharp smack sounds through the quiet apartment as he playfully slaps your ass, putting an end to the kicks.

“Yeah, you better warm up those vocal chords,” he chuckles. The moment you’re back in your bedroom, he’s quick to toss you onto the mattress, finally mounted on a frame. The comforter flares around you, your head sinking into a pillow as Eddie is quick to remove his jacket and shirt, climbing up the bed between your legs, “Gonna have you chanting my name like a goddamn prayer, sweetheart.” 

He removes your pajamas as he has a thousand times before, but it still doesn’t feel fast enough. You find yourself squirming, trying to help him pull off the flannel pants and t-shirt you’d stolen from his side of the closet, but he stops all movements immediately.

He shakes his head, hovering above you, his hair like a curtain around the two of you as your top lip brushes his bottom one and his mint breath fans over your face. “Slow it down for me, yeah? Wanna enjoy this,” he murmurs. 

You obey, stilling below him save for your chest, rising and falling rapidly with waiting breaths. He finally dips down, his pick necklace tickling your collarbones as his mouth covers yours. 

A culmination of three long months is spent into the kiss. All the restless nights, long phone calls, endless yearning. You can tell that he had missed you, longed for you, just as much as you had him. 

It’s languid, the way your body reacts to each of his touches. As far as it was concerned, no time had passed. He does as he had said, taking his time, savoring each kiss he presses down your throat and over your breasts. He’s memorizing each crevice of you, every soft curve he’d dreamt of for 91 days. 

Your squirming resumes when his hot breath reaches your navel, but he doesn’t scold you, bringing his hands to your hips and pressing them down into the mattress. “Let me show you just how much I missed you. Let me take care of you, baby.” 

He’s enjoying it, the sound of your whines a better soundtrack than any of the music that had damaged his eardrums during the tour. His fingers dance over your bare skin, skimming right over the band of your underwear and tracing lines down your thighs. It’s agonizing - the waiting is terrible. 

Terribly worth it, as it turns out.

When he finally decides to speed up his teasing, bringing a finger to brush across your clothed slit, you gasp. Your hands twist into the sheets at each side of you, but he isn’t having it. 

“Now that’s not where those belong,” he mumbles, a hot breath over your panties sending shivers down your spine. He’s quick - his fingers suddenly hook into the waistband, and he’s pulling them down and off over your ankles with an eagerness finally matching your own. He throws them aimlessly to the bedroom floor, joining the rest of your discarded clothes recklessly. Neither of you care - you won’t be needing them the rest of the night. 

He settles into the mattress, a leg thrown over each of his shoulders before he grabs your hands and guides them to tangle into his hair. He’s still taking his time, sucking his way up your inner thighs and leaving flowering bruises in his wake. Once he reaches where you want him to most, where you’re aching for him so pitifully, he pauses.

He repeats his earlier words, “God, I’ve missed you.”

He takes you by surprise as he dives right in, tongue flattening and licking a long stride up, starting at your entrance. His nose bumps over your clit before his tongue begins to dance circles, painting a secret language between the two of you over the sensitive bundle of nerves. One of his hands joins him, middle finger circling your entrance slowly before he presses in. He sets a pace quickly, pumping the finger a few times, tongue working magic, before he adds a second one. They curl with intention, pressing into the spongy spot of your walls that he knew like the back of his hand. It’s the exact spot that makes your back arch off the bed.

He pulls back his mouth, fingers continuing to pump and curl vigorously as he looks up at you dreamily. He eases one of his arms over your hips, pressing down, holding you in place. 

He’s a dream. A goddamn dream. He’s finally here, looking up at you, grinning like a Devil as he watches you unravel at his hand. 

“So pretty. Always so, so beautiful, but especially like this,” he says more to himself, but you hear him, a moan falling from your lips. His mouth returns to you, lips latching onto your clit, sucking harshly. 

“Fuck,” you breathe into the still air of your apartment room, not caring if the neighbors hear but your chest too heavy to grow much louder, head fuzzy and all-consumed by him, “Eddie.”

He was right. His name falls from your mouth in pants, chanting to him as if he were your God. 

It only spurs him on, fingers working expertly as he alternates between sucking and lapping at your clit. You can hear how wet you are for him, how close you are before the knot forms in your abdomen. 

“Oh my God- Oh, fuck. Right there,” your hips buck involuntarily into his face, and he loosens his grip on your hips, letting you, “I’m gonna…G-Gonna…”

“Gonna cum for me, pretty girl?” he encourages, fingers curling harshly, “Cum on my face, baby. Do it.”

He puts his tongue back to work, You force your eyes open to catch sight of him, buried in your pussy, admiring how pretty he looked from this angle. The sight of his tousled curls, twisted tightly in your grip as you yank mercilessly, is all it takes for you to finally come undone. 

A broken prayer, repeated over and over as a warmth rushes over you. Your vision goes white, eyes tightly screwed shut, toes curling and thighs clenching over his ears. It doesn’t phase him, continuing his assault until he’s sure you’ve come down. You have to tug on his hair, more intentional this time, to pull him away from you due to how sensitive you grow. 

He rises, letting your legs fall limply against the mattress as he wears a boyish grin on his slick lips. Slowly, he makes his way up to you, back to the virtues of patience as he takes his time to finally kiss you. You can taste yourself on his tongue, a bitter sort of sweetness, as he cradles your face. 

“You good?” he gently asks against your lips. You can barely move, nodding lethargically.

“So good,” you croak, a smile breaking out. Your eyes crack open to see him looking down at you with pure adoration, “I missed you.”

You start to run your hand down his chest, reaching the zipper of his jeans before his hand stops you.

“No, not yet. We’ve got plenty of time for that. Just wanna hold you right now, baby,” he nearly pleads. You can’t deny him, not with his eyes shining like that, so you allow him to fall into place on his side of the bed before you curl up against his bare torso. 

The two of you stay that way for what feels like hours, his arms wrapped around you as he traces out constellations on your bare shoulder blades. Just outside of your solace, a bubble you’ve trapped yourselves in, you can hear the faint call of the city. Honks from cars on the street, shouts from pedestrians, the occasional siren. It’s all background noise to this moment. 

“I have something for you,” he suddenly whispers as you teeter on the edge of sleep. You hum in response, lifting your head lazily. He pats you gently, signaling for you to let him stand before he walks to his discarded jacket by the door. When he returns to your side, he's gripping a small, white box, tied with a scarlet ribbon. 

“A gift?” you ask, excitement helping wake you up as you sit up quickly, “For me?”

“For you,” he affirms, taking a seat beside you. Your knees bump as your hands fumble to take the box from him. A soft glow from one of the restaurants on your street floods between the curtains and into the room, a soft neon pink illuminating your features as you carefully unravel the red ribbon. 

As the silk falls, you hardly can contain your excitement before lifting the lid off the box. 

A necklace. 

Your eyes trace over it, already fawning with appreciation for your boy, but then you catch sight of exactly what the necklace is. 

“Your mom’s ring?” you can’t hide the emotion that shakes the timbre of your voice. It cracks into a million pieces. 

At the end of the delicate silver chain, sits his mother’s ring. The one you hadn’t even noticed missing from his barren right hand. 

“Happy birthday,” he whispers, pulling you in and pressing his lips into your temple. You’re still too stunned, too overcome with a million and one feelings all at once.

“Eddie… I- I can’t… this is-”

“I want you to have it. I think she’d want you to have it, too,” he insists, taking the box from your grasp and lifting the necklace from its cotton cushion, “I know it’s not a lot, but I just… I wanted to get you something that let you know how important you are to me. Something for you to always have as a reminder that I’ll come back to you. You’re it for me, sweetheart. This is- this is real to me. The kind of real that lasts forever.” 

You can tell he’s growing emotional, too, as his feather light touch brushes your hair to the side, bringing the necklace up around your neck and clasping it securely. When the ring falls to its new home at the base of your neck, cool against your skin, you can feel tears falling. He’s quick to swipe them away, his own watery irises peering into yours. 

“You’re everything to me,” he says this with vindication. With such assuredness it terrifies you, burrows into your bones and claims you. 

In this moment, you know he has forever stained you. There was no washing this mark he has left you off - there would forever be a piece of your heart occupied by the brown-eyed boy in front of you. 

All you can do is lean forward, hands gingerly threading through his bangs as you push them back to plant a kiss on his forehead. A crimson blush spreads across his cheeks and neck at the act of tenderness. 

When you pull back, he immediately lifts his fingers to the necklace he’s just gifted you, fingers careful but determined as they tug you back to him, kissing you with everything in him. He pours his soul, his body, and his heart into it. 

“I love you,” you exhale against his swollen lips. 

“And I love you.” 

You believe him, because he believes himself. That’s the thing about endings - no one sees them coming. 

"The mark they saw on my collarbone, the rust that grew between telephones, the lips I used to call home. So scarlet, it was maroon."

The next year proves you right. After that tour, Corroded Coffin became a phenomenon. A record deal falls into the boys’ laps quickly, multiple one-off shows selling out locally before the news finally comes that they are officially in the position to record their debut album. 

The two of you celebrate with cheap wine, but it’s as sweet as champagne in your contentment. 

The recording of the album is brutal. Night after night, you attempt to wait up on Eddie, eventually falling victim to drowsiness before he would wake you with his arrival from the studio in the early hours of the morning. You never minded, only happy for his warmth as he crawled right into bed with you, collapsing into you and letting the world melt away. 

Long gone are the days of struggling paycheck-to-paycheck as the boys’ can hardly keep up with printing enough shirts for their shows, merchandise selling out in the handfuls. 

You catch sight of a young girl wearing one of their shirts one day in the grocery store, and can’t help the flood of pride that overtakes your chest. Your boyfriend, your Eddie, was finally having all of his dreams come to fruition; the world was finally seeing him as the rockstar you’d nominated him as since that first night. 

You can tell that it’s tiring. Eddie is exhausted by the time the album is finished, but you can also sense the satisfaction he felt at finally completing it. When the first demo arrived, he wasted no time in electing you to be the first to listen to it. It was an entire ordeal - the two of you ordered your favorite take-out, curling up on your couch and pressing together as the same boombox that had played that mixtape on your first night in your home now plays his songs. 

Your reaction was exactly as he had expected, as he had hoped for. 

You had always been his number one cheerleader through it all. With each new song, you were gushing to him with admiration and reverence. Pointing out lyrics that tugged particularly taut on your heartstrings, praising the guitar solos and vocals he’d worked tirelessly to perfect. You don’t leave a single stone left unturned, claiming this was your new favorite album.

“Careful, sweetheart. You’re really stroking my ego here,” he warns, but his smile shines as brightly as your own. 

“Eddie, this is… this is… it’s fucking incredible!” you cheer, completely at a loss for words. You weren’t exaggerating - to hear all of his hard work paying off, to have watched him grow from covering Metallica in a stuffy garage to this left you starstruck. You were in absolute awe. 

He blushes, playing with his hair and bringing it up to hide his emotional reaction. 

The album could fail. It could become nothing more than a whisper in the night, but the fact that you liked it was all that mattered to him. 

You look at him earnestly, taking his cheeks in your warm and soothing palms, “I’m so fucking proud of you, Eds.”

And you were. You continued to be. The album was a hit. 

It climbed the charts with ease, just as you expected. Local alternative stations played it on loop. You were sure to hear it at least once during taxi rides, and had even heard it playing softly over the speakers at the gas station on the corner by your apartment complex. Eddie had been with you, and took pleasure in getting to inform the cashier that it was his song playing, his band was on the radio. 

It was New York, so the cashier couldn’t have cared less, but it made you glow with pride. 

But with a hit album came a new slew of responsibilities for the band, including a headlining tour.

The night that the band’s manager called Eddie, informing him they were set to start planning the tour, he’d run into the room, so frantic you were worried something bad had happened. 

“Holy shit!” he yells, causing you to shush him once you recovered from the scare he’d caused you. He ignores you, grabbing you off the bed, lifting you up and spinning you, just like the very first night, “Holy shit! We’re going on tour! A headlining tour! I’m going to be a goddamn rockstar!”

Once you process his news, you become just as animated in his arms, “What? No fucking way!”

“Yes fucking way!”

“Oh my God!”

“I know!”

You hear banging on the wall from the neighbors, probably shouting at the two of you to quiet down, but neither of you can contain your excitement.

“I’m going to be a goddamn rockstar, baby,” he laughs deliriously, placing you back down so that you’re face-to-face with him, “A rockstar.” 

“You’ve always been a rockstar, pretty boy,” you giggle, cheeks sore with elation, “The rest of the world is just finally getting the memo.”

The planning takes a while. Part of you is grateful, selfishly drinking in and enjoying the time you have left with him before you’re sure he’ll have to leave for an extended period. The names of cities you had never had the pleasure of becoming acquainted with once again enter conversations, talks of how far and wide the band would travel becoming Eddie’s favorite topic. 

You’re proud of him, you really are. But reality seeps its way into the crevices. 

What starts as the possibility of a brief, three month tour - something the two of you had already faced and defeated triumphantly - quickly turns into six months. And it doesn’t stop there. Six months could become eight, easily, with adding in a few pit stops to radio stations to guarantee continued radio-play. There’s talks of signings, of meet and greets, of music festivals. The more time given to planning, the more time given for the band’s popularity to grow even more. 

The entire thing expands without consideration, lifting Eddie right up with it, right out of your reach. 

The night before he’s set to leave for tour, your anxieties are getting the best of you. You had helped him pack, going over the list of necessities with him three times too many. He had everything he needed, packed tightly into a suitcase - everything except you. 

That night, you sit on your side of your shared bed, watching Eddie pace with excitement. You feel guilty that your own anticipation can’t quite match his. All you can think about is how long he’ll be gone: eight months, two hundred and forty five days. Five thousand, eight hundred and eighty hours. Over three hundred thousand minutes. You’d done the math. 

“Fuck,” he sighs, finally throwing himself down onto the bed beside you, “I still can’t believe this is happening.” 

You can’t bring up your insecurity, your fears, to him. Not when he’s so happy. Not when he’s finally getting everything he’d dreamt about for so long, worked so hard for. No, it would be selfish to share your unease at the time and distance about to spread between the two of you.

Besides, you had done it once before. Not on this scale, of course, but you convinced yourself it would work out all the same. He would call as often as he could. He’d be coming home to you. It would pass - it would work out. 

“It’s real, so you better believe it, rockstar.”

An echo of the past. A time that felt so far away from the two of you now. This time around, as you say them, you don’t feel the same joy coating your tongue. 

Your tone is supportive, so Eddie doesn’t taste any of the disdain. Later that night, as he’s kissing you, hips rolling to meet yours in a sacred promise, fingers intertwined in yours as you pant each other’s names back and forth, he still doesn’t taste it. All he tastes is euphoria. And he brings you right to it with him, over, and over, and over again. 

Euphoria tastes metallic by the end of it. 

He leaves bruises painted up and down your neck, covering your collarbones and chest like an art piece hanging in the Louvre. You can’t help but wonder how long it will take for his marks to fade, for the physical reminder that he was here and in your arms to disappear from your grasp. 

As he makes love to you, it begins to feel like a goodbye, because it is. 

He doesn’t mean for it to happen, but it does. 

The first month follows similarly to how his first tour did. Nightly phone calls, whispered love confessions and discussions of each other’s day. For a moment, you convince yourself that all of your fears and anxieties had been silly. They almost recede from your mind completely, fading with his love marks on your collarbone. 

But then it begins.

Phone calls become less frequent. Every night because every other night, until they’re eventually weekly. At some point, you only have the privilege of hearing his voice over the line monthly. It is a slow burning fire, turning everything you had built with him to ashes. Conversations that once could drag on for hours turn to ten minute discussions that end in him rushing off the phone, someone on the other end of the line demanding his attention more urgently than you did. 

You can’t even fight it. You need him, but they need him more.

You know you’ve lost him when he stops saying he loves you. It’s subtle, you don’t even believe he’s noticed, but one night’s phone call is cut particularly short, and the end arrives.

“Hey, baby, I’m sorry, but they need me for soundcheck,” he says, the line staticky with white noise, making it hard to hear him. 

He’s never felt farther away, and they’re not even on the west coast leg of the tour yet. 

“Oh,” you whisper, disappointment gripping your lungs, “Oh, that’s fine! Go, they need you.”

“Yeah,” he chuckles. You miss hearing that in person, that soft laughter in the shell of your ear over inside jokes and one too many glasses of wine. “Rockstar duties and all. We’ll talk more later?” 

“Of course. Go give ‘em, Hell,” you keep your tone light, but the tears have started to build up across your waterline, “I love you.” 

The line goes dead before you can even finish your sentence. The dial tone echoes back to you, and it doesn’t matter how hard you strain, no words of affection can be deciphered in its deafening ringing. 

That’s when you break.

The flood comes, tears racing down your cheeks as you roll over and clutch the pillow that you’re not even sure was once his. The bed no longer has a clear boundary, a side that belonged to him and a side that belonged to you. It’s all muddled together now. You’re not even sure you’d recognize the smell of his cologne now.

A heart has never broken so quietly. The sobs are there, but no sounds escape your mouth as you whimper. You had always known it would be hard, everyone had warned you, but you had always assumed you could take it, because Eddie would be by your side, hand slotted with yours as it was the two of you against the world. But now you stood in the storm, and the space beside you was eerily empty. It was all a bit much. A gaping hole forms in your chest that night, gory as it bleeds scarlet red for a boy a world away, and you know that there is not a single bandage in the world to heal it.

He doesn’t call back after that, and the hole tears larger. 

There’s a few texts here and there. But none of them ever say the three words you so desperately crave from him. You feel like strangers. 

After two months of radio silence, save for two text messages from him, you’ve made up your mind.

He never calls, so you never tell him. You gather what belongings can be called solely yours, which isn’t many, and you write a letter in your cowardice. You find an apartment on the other side of town. There’s a nice job waiting for you, something that pays better than waitressing. 

You leave your key on the kitchen counter beside a vase with wilted carnations. 

"I wake with your memory over me, that’s a real fucking legacy (it was maroon)."

Six months later, the ache never fades. He calls. When he returns from tour to find an empty apartment, cursive letter calling it quits, he calls. You almost consider changing your number at one point. 

There’s a flood of text messages. Small letters on a shining screen filled with all the words you needed to hear so many months before. All of the things he should have said, now revealed too late. 

You don’t reply, because if you reply, you’ll change your mind.

You tell yourself it’s for the best. That in order for him to achieve what he’d wanted, he couldn’t have someone back home weighing him down. You were a road bump on his path to everything he was destined to be, and this was for the best. 

At some point, he gets the message. You wish he hadn’t, selfishly so, but he does. The phone calls stop. The text messages don’t light up your phone at midnight anymore. You keep up your end of the lease on your once-shared apartment, sending checks to pay your half of the rent until the lease agreement has ended. You have no clue if he moves. Returning to that side of town would simply hurt too much. 

A new normalcy is found. It is a lonely one, but it is one all the same. Sparse phone calls are still exchanged with your friends from Hawkins, but none of them ever bring up Eddie. You’re sure they know, that he had told them, that they had witnessed the aftermath (if there had been any). They were always his friends first, though, and so when the calls dwindle, it doesn’t surprise you. 

It’s a year later when someone mentions his name to you. You had kept up well enough with Corroded Coffin, the last remnants of your past life being something you couldn’t get rid of. You knew they were thriving; they were in the talks of releasing a second album, and going back on tour soon. His name is mentioned when a coworker brings him up. 

They ask you if you want to attend the Corroded Coffin show with them next week. They have a spare ticket and would prefer to not go alone. 

You lie and say you have plans.

But the only plans you have on that bustling night are the ones spent in your apartment. Your one-bedroom apartment is in a nicer part of town, better views out of the window now. When you pull back the curtains, you don’t find a brick wall forever tainted by what once was - you can see the entrance to a music venue that’s sign currently advertises tonight’s show. 

CORRODED COFFIN, ONE NIGHT ONLY - SOLD OUT

You avoid the window at all costs as you get yourself ready for bed that night. Neighbors had already off-handedly warned you it would be a noisy night, claiming you’d feel as if you were at the show yourself based on proximity. On your way home from work, you bought earplugs. 

But the night grows older, a chill in the air as the clock strikes ten, and you can’t help it. You’ve been laying in bed for hours now, earplugs in, only feeling the faint thrumming of intense bass for less than an hour when you finally stand up. You approach the window timidly, scared of what you find. Maybe a ghostly reflection of him, standing in the street, holding up a boombox playing a mixtape of your favorite songs. 

It’s a bitter hopefulness that is full of childish dreams. 

When you stand in your window, curtains pulled back and earplugs finally disregarded on your nightstand, Eddie Munson isn’t standing on the street. All that is there is the neon glow of a red sign that shatters crimson shadows across your cheeks. 

He’s not on the street. He’s too busy on the stage inside, being the rockstar he had always been destined to be. The one he could be now that you had let him go.

All that you see as you look out the window is your own tired reflection, donning nothing but a wine-stained t-shirt and a delicate, silver chain around your neck, a ring you couldn’t bring yourself to return resting heavily between your collarbones. 

"That’s a real fucking legacy to leave."

reblogs, likes, and comments appreciated! <3

[sirfrogsworth]

Frogman's Camera Buying Guide

A few weeks ago someone asked if I could recommend an interchangeable lens camera (ILC) to supplement their smartphone photos and hopefully get better pictures of important things like vacations and pets.

I decided to go very extra with my response and due to that... I'm still not finished with it.

I'm worried I am letting this person down because they did not ask for a giant post explaining every detail about cameras in the history of forever.

So I am going to do a camera recommendation post without as much explanation and hopefully I can finish the giant post at some point in the near future.

If you want to take better pictures you are probably going to need a camera with a decent sized sensor, a fast lens, a tripod, and a flash.

The bigger sensor gives you more dynamic range so you can capture brighter and darker things in the photo.

A fast lens has a giant hole in the front that lets in a ton of light. That hole is called the aperture and the bigger it is, the better your photos in dark environments will be. So you will want something that does f/1.8 or f/1.4 (lower f-stop number = bigger hole = more light). This can also help you get a lot of cool background blur.

A tripod will help get you longer exposures without any blur from camera shake. Especially good for landscape photos.

And a flash is for taking photos of pets and other moving subjects when you are indoors and don't have a lot of light. A flash is an absolute game changer for indoor photos.

HOWEVER, never point it directly at your subject.

Point it at a large white ceiling or wall. The flash happens so fast that it freezes motion. It is how I got all of my indoor photos of Otis.

Here he was playing and being rambunctious and he is not blurry.

I used no special settings. I just stuck on a flash and pointed it at the ceiling and suddenly sheep are sticking to things.

Oh, and one other huge benefit of using a flash... you can take much better photos of pets with dark fur. So if you have a cute little void in your home, a flash can help you capture detail in their fur.

Just lift the shadow slider in your image editor and that beautiful fur will reveal itself.

If you get an ETTL or TTL flash, it will output the correct amount of light automatically. You can literally just put your camera in automatic mode, aim the flash at the ceiling, and press the shutter button.

Before I talk about recommendations I want to make one thing very clear.

GETTING A GIANT CAMERA WILL NOT AUTOMATICALLY GIVE YOU BETTER PHOTOS.

Aside from my flash aimed at the ceiling trick, a big boy camera is not a magic solution for better photos. In some cases, you might actually get *worse* photos than your smartphone. You need to learn the basic fundamentals of photography and you also need to learn some basic photo editing skills.

Smartphones employ powerful algorithms and computational processes to make every photo you take look as good as possible.

ILCs say, "Here is your RAW data, you figure out the rest."

You don't have to become an expert, but if you watch this free 6 hour photography course, that will ensure you have the knowledge needed to improve your photos.

Okay, let's get into the nitty gritty of buying a nice new old ILC.

If you are on a tight budget and cannot afford a fancy mirrorless camera, I would highly suggest a used DSLR. You can get them for very reasonable prices. And unlike just about every other modern technological gadget, cameras and lenses are built to last for decades. So I have no qualms about recommending used photography gear.

However, I do highly recommend using either KEH or MPB, as they have a long trial period and decent customer service. If something goes awry with your used gear, KEH has a 180 day warranty and MPB has a 6 month warranty. So there is much less of a risk than eBay or Facebook Marketplace. You pay a bit of overhead, but the piece of mind is worth it.

Before I start my recommendations I want to quickly explain the difference between APS-C and Full Frame camera bodies. (For brevity's sake I am going to omit Micro Four Thirds bodies as they are not typically geared toward beginner photography.)

APS-C has a "crop" sensor. It is a bit smaller than full frame and does not perform as well in low light (more noise). However these bodies are cheaper and can still produce great photos. You can see above the sensor is still significantly larger than a smartphone. APS-C adds a 1.5x zoom to all lenses. This can be annoying in small spaces but advantageous for outdoor photography like wildlife and sports. You can use full frame lenses on a crop sensor body (within the same brand). APS-C lenses are usually cheaper but of lower quality.

Full frame has a larger sensor that will give you less noise in low light. It is also much easier to get background blur. Full frame also allows you to work in more cramped spaces. You *cannot* use APS-C lenses on a full frame body. However, the lenses meant for full frame cameras tend to be better quality in general.

If you can save up a little more and get a full frame body, I would recommend it. These bodies used to be geared more toward professional use, but since mirrorless cameras became popular, used full frame DSLRs have become much more accessible to those on a budget. Full frame cameras make it easier to get better results in challenging circumstances. And challenging conditions are really the main area where ILCs still kick a smartphone's ass.

For tight budgets I would recommend the following...

Canon or Nikon APS-C DSLR camera body

50mm f/1.8 lens (Nifty Fifty)

18-55mm APS-C lens (good for landscapes and portraits)

Yongnuo ETTL Flash

There are lenses called "superzooms" which can go from (as an example) 18-200mm or 70-300mm and other crazy focal lengths. That sounds fantastic and very versatile... but these are usually utter shite. You may be tempted to get one of these lenses hoping it can do everything you need, but there are no free lunches in lens land. Unless you are spending many thousands of dollars, the wider the focal range, the worse the lens will be.

When you stick to the 18-55mm range, you can be assured the images will be decent. And if you find yourself really needing a telephoto lens, you can save up and add it to your collection later on. The 18-55 will give you wide angle for landscapes all the way to slightly telephoto for portraits and moderately close wildlife. This lens cannot be used indoors or at night without a flash. Which is why I recommend the Nifty Fifty for that purpose. $100 for a moderately sharp low light lens is a no brainer.

Also, stick to Canon, Nikon, Sigma, or Tamron lenses. You can try exotic 3rd party lens brands when you know more what you are doing. And always make sure the lens has autofocus before buying.

It's hard to give you exact recommendations as used items are not reliably in stock. So I'm going to show you an example of the above, but I am not necessarily saying you should buy this *exact* combination. You might be able to get something similar with Nikon as well.

Canon 60D APS-C DSLR

50mm f/1.8 lens

Canon 18-55mm APS-C lens (EF-S mount)

Yongnuo TTL Flash

(I wouldn't recommend getting a used flash, as the Yongnuo is already a great price and you can't know if someone used the flash 100,000 times or 20 times.)

Altogether that is about $500. You can start with the 60D and the 50mm Nifty Fifty for $330 and add on the other two items later on.

My recommended full frame setup...

Full frame Canon or Nikon DSLR body

50mm f/1.8 lens (same as before)

24-70mm full frame zoom lens (full frame equivalent to 18-55mm)

ETTL Yongnuo flash (same as before)

And an example from KEH might be...

Canon 6D Full Frame DSLR

Canon 50mm f/1.8 Lens

Sigma 24-70mm Full Frame Zoom lens (EF mount)

Yonguo ETTL Flash

And that would be about $800 total.

Again, you can start with just the camera and 50mm lens and add the other items later. So invest $500 initially and go from there.

And just to give a Nikon example as well...

Nikon D600 Full Frame DSLR

Nikon 50mm f/1.8 Lens

Tamron 24-70mm

Yonguo ETTL Flash (Nikon version)

I highly recommend researching any camera body and lens before purchase. I can vouch for the items above, but you should definitely check out some YouTube videos before buying.

All of the stuff on KEH and MBP is marked down in price for aesthetic reasons. They do test everything to make sure it is functional. If you care if the camera or lens looks pristine, it will cost a little extra. But if you don't mind if it is beat to hell, you can save some money. Ugly or not, you will get the same photos out of the gear. As I said, photography stuff is built to last for a long time. Almost all repairs are due to user damage and not defects. And usually defects manifest when the product is brand new.

Oh, I forgot about the tripod!

Amazon's $35 tripod is surprisingly decent. It even got a good review on a very picky tripod review site. I recommend starting with this and then upgrading when you know more what you need out of a tripod.

Amazon 60 inch Tripod

I worry I'm leaving out a lot of important information, but hopefully I can expand in the other post I am working on.

That said, if anyone is thinking of buying a camera and you are not sure about the items you selected, please feel free to message me and I will help you assess your choices. Please make sure you include a budget range when asking for buying advice.

I hope that helps. I will try to finish the more in depth post soon. And it will include tips for how to get better photos from your smartphone if you cannot afford an ILC at the moment.

Further resources...

Recipe for Landscape Photos Froggie's Encyclopedia of Lens Terms

[hareofhrair]

While I'm yelling about House MD--

I see in the notes of my House posts sometimes people being like "ooh, maybe I should watch that" and I always kind of wince and want to grab them like, yeah, please do, but also watch out. There's a reason we call it hate crimes md, and it's not just because of the queerbaiting.

So the thing about House is... It began airing in 2004. The 2000's were, for those of you who missed them, an... interesting time for what was then still called "political correctness." And these times were heralded by a certain Type of Guy, with a certain type of Edgy Humor. In pushing back against the admittedly very white liberal language policing of the PC movement, his goal was to be as offensive as possible, to every demographic possible. For those that had thought it through enough to justify this behavior, the claim was an intent to shake things up and force people to confront their unspoken biases and have hard conversations. The catch phrase was "I'm not racist, I hate everybody equally." These were your Jeff Dunhams, your Dane Cooks...

(For my part, I think it was, at it's heart, white guys attempting to parrot the marginalized groups demanding radical acceptance? A gay person saying "yeah I'm a faggot, what's it to you?" A disabled person saying "yeah I'm crippled, fight me about it. Call me a person with special needs again and I'll break your kneecaps with my cane." They picked up on the "we'd rather be called a slur than this avoidant, self righteous, language policing bullshit" and came away with "so I should call everyone slurs, got it.")

Enter House MD.

The tagline of the show is "Everybody Lies," and it's a very consistent theme throughout. The thesis of the show is that our society, with its shame and repression and bias, is incapable of real honesty. And approaching problems with soft, non confrontational language that talks around the issue instead of dealing with it only makes this worse.

So naturally, House is one of Those Guys.

I doubt there is a single episode in which he does not at some point, say a slur. When Foreman (the only black character and, until Kutner and Park, the only non white major character) is in the same scene with House, you can be absolutely certain he is going to say something racist, while staring at Foreman with a shit eating grin, daring him to make a fuss about it so he can monologue about how Affirmative Action is actually condescending to black people.

It would be one thing if this were strictly a character choice, something that was specifically wrong with House the person. Unfortunately, even when House is not involved the show itself is still, just, blindingly racist, all the time. Any time the patient isn't white, it's a horror show. Racist caricatures as far as the eye can see. It's also intermittently sexist, intersexist, nauseatingly fatphobic, and while it generally does better with disability than most any other show of the time, it is still shockingly ableist at times given the main character is, himself, physically disabled, and implied to be autistic as well.

What makes it worse is that they set House up as someone who wants to deflate people's egos and make them confront their biases ect, and then almost never puts him in a position where he's punching up. There's even a specific episode where he's treating a conservative campaign manager who released an insanely racist anti-migrant political ad, and his racism just doesn't get brought up. The ugly truth about himself he's forced to confront is that he's gay, and the man he's in love with and the people he surrounds himself with are, well. Conservatives.

All of this is not to say you shouldn't watch House or that House is a bad show. It's just very much a show from a very specific and unfortunate moment in the recent history of the ongoing battle for equality. The worst part is, its heart is in the right place, it is just doing a real bad job. It wants to be progressive. It just thinks being polite and respectful is weak and lame.

On that note! The show also features a canonically bisexual woman who actually says the word bisexual-- fucking wild for the time, where the best you generally got was vague allusions to "swinging both ways."-- And it shows her in relationships with both women and men. Including, very notably, Foreman. And if I need to tell you how revolutionary it was for them to show a romantic relationship between a black man and a white woman in the 2010's, take a minute and think about how many relationships like that you've seen in TV or movies since then. Or ever.

It centers on a nuanced and compassionate portrayal of an addict, and tackles the realities of that in an incredibly honest way I don't think I've seen anywhere else. Just the simple, consistent reminders that both House and the other addicts featured on the show are using for a reason, and it's often because they have medical needs that have been neglected by bigoted doctors. There's a whole arc where they try to restrict House's use of painkillers by reducing his prescribed dose to basically a handful of ibuprofen, claiming he only thinks he needs such a high dose because he's addicted and he'll "adjust" to a lower dose in time-- IE, get used to just living with the extreme pain. Unsurprisingly, the increased pain makes him awful to be around, worse at his job, and eventually drives him further into addiction. The way the show deals with this is honestly fantastic, especially given, again, this was the 2000's and 2010's. For a somewhat contemporary comparison, take a look at how addicts are portrayed in Breaking Bad, which came out four years after House in 2008. The general attitude towards addicts was not great.

This show has a lot going for it. The relationships and the stories it tells are honestly incredible. But it is also very flawed, and people should be aware of that going in.

If you want to start watching House, awesome! But maybe look up trigger warnings first.

(Also, completely aside from All That^ there's also the genre typical medical gore and body horror, so, you know, also be prepared for that!)

[cheriden]

「 yours to claim 」 。。。

"A bond supposedly as thick as blood. Together, they shaped what would become of their dynasty out of rubble and poverty. A rite so sacred and ancient it brings out envy from outsiders who wish to share the same oath. A vow so sanctified, it rivaled that of marriage."

── synopsis 。Your presumably fated familiar is averse to your relationship dynamic, and makes an all-out effort to convey so.

pairing 。cat hybrid!taehyun × novice mage!reader

.ᐟ genre 。fantasy, (somewhat) angst, smut

.ᐟ tags 。forced proximity, enemies to lovers, dubcon kind of, forced proximity, (one-sided) enemies to lovers, hybrid au, master/servant dynamics, unintentional drugging, heat sex (kind of), dubcon (kind of), a bit of bloodplay (smearing, licking), use of leash, dirty talk, praising, sub!idol, handjob, orgasm denial, blowjob, cunnilingus, riding, missionary, pet names and etc (pretty, kitty, noona) au, master/servant dynamics

.ᐟ status & word count 。oneshot | 10.7k

.ᐟ warnings/notes 。i'm a stupid bitch who deleted the original again. reader is fem and uses she/her pronouns, sorry this took so long college started and i want to be in the dls :b !! this was actually done two weeks ago but i could not for the life of me write a smut scene so im just gonna post this now! sry its dumb and not proofread

You stand in the center of the colosseum, the moon round and at its peak with the wind howling violently. Taking a deep exhale, you stand up to the podium and dip the customary wand in a pot filled to the brim with some sort of luminescent concoction, chanting the rehearsed spell like a prayer in hopes that everything goes smoothly. Through squinted eyes, you take in the seats full of adults and youngins yet to commence in an identical rite—anticipation in their eyes as they watch the heir of the historic, most respectable coven known to man. 

You gulp down a lump that expands in your throat, focusing on your low whispering and the chanting of the guardians around you. They position the orb you’ve brought, or rather, the orb your parents insist you choose. Deep inhales, and you move your staff to point at the sphere, remnants of a gilded soul swirling around within it. The wand shoots its beam, a path of pink glitter and dust hatched from pixies trailing it as it knocks the sphere into the air. It rattles, darting in all directions across the space. You shift to cast, but a palm on your shoulder forbids you from doing so.

Rays of white and amber escape through the cracks, blinding lights beaming through the arena. The creature breaks free from its holding, paws alight with a soft puff onto the rough concrete. It's more petite than the rest of the hatched familiars, about as big as your hand—large glossy eyes that mirror the hue of the sun. Its black fur reflects fragments of the moonlight, white sheen gracing its fluffy coat. You're awestruck, watching it circle you. Hesitantly, you reach out to it, inching your index closer to its snout. It stares at you momentarily, right before hissing sharply, scratching the back of your hand. You're thrown harshly onto the ground, flabbergasted as the rest of the audience watches in silence. 

Your family has always been traditionalistic. For generations, the coven adhered to distinctly strict rules: The art and mannerisms in spellbinding and potion blending, the prerequisite liturgies for sacrifice, even the specificity of the bark and carvings on your staff. Though out of all of these customs, one shows itself more principal than the rest—one that must never change under any circumstance. A partnership that had begun since the dawn of your descendants’ upbringing, a sense of loyalty that is not to be broken. 

The coven had strong ties with the Kang bloodline, stemming from an age-old friendship, a bond supposedly as thick as blood. A lineage full of feline anthropomorphic shifters that once are of age, devote themselves as companions, better known as familiars. Together, they shaped what would become of their dynasty out of rubble and poverty. A promise of knowledge, hunting, foraging, and camaraderie; in exchange for security. A rite so sacred and ancient it brings out envy from outsiders who wish to share the same oath. A vow so sanctified, it rivaled that of marriage.

You, on the other hand, beg to differ—grumbling as you watch your mother slap a healing rune onto your hand, a direct result from the earlier encounter with your own so-called familiar. The rest of your family sing you praises and congratulatory remarks, calling around to see if anyone has seen the black cat recently. Your father exclaims that you're lucky, rounding the corner of the sofa to face you. He takes a seat beside you; says that black cats are the purest and truest form for a familiar. If the orb you've chosen was an indicator, it must've been fate. You scorn and whine, and he all but dismisses your complaints when the doorbell rings, revealing his own “fated” companion. Once inside, he drags an infuriated boy into the room, nearly knocking him into the carpet as he’s forced to kneel at your feet. 

"I apologize for him, he's been hard-headed and stubborn even before he got put in that globe." Instead of hiding himself from shame, he scowls, disdain painfully obvious on every surface in his body—he shakes from it. "This is Taehyun, he's a year younger than you. An expert at gathering, as well as cognitive thinking, especially in potion brewing." He scoffs, back straightening as he retorts, "I was 19 when you sealed me. I've been cramped in that stupid ball for nearly a decade." The older cat heeds no attention to his snark, continuing.  "What's fascinating is he remembers the time he spent within the orb. Realistically, there is no drastic change in his body and mind; which is why he's being a pain right now. I do hope you excuse him."  The older cat turns to the younger, “I do believe you owe the young master an apology. Fix the mess you’ve made.” Through no thanks of his own will, he takes your hand in his, bending over to lick a clean stripe over your wound. You jerk at the cold sensation, back strained off the seat. “Claimed familiars have healing properties,” The ginger hybrid clarifies, “blood, saliva, tears, anything.” The deathly glare the ravenette gives as he goes over the scratch with his tongue has you shivering, and you’re not really sure why. 

He pulls away with his mouth pressed into a thin line, threatening demeanor faltering when a sound erupts from his stomach. It takes every muscle in you to stop yourself from smirking at his diminishing attitude, getting off the armchair. "I'll show you the kitchen. Have any cravings? Fish? Milk?" He’s left unamused. "Cake. Now."

Taehyun’s tail swishes in the air, paws submerged in frosting as he engorges down the slice of strawberry pound cake. “I like you better when you’re in cat form. You’re so adorable and small.” He attempts to claw your fingers when they reach out to stroke the underside of his chin; it lasts for less than a few seconds, but he purrs into your touch before jumping off the counter. You giggle at his obstinance, and out of spite, he morphs into his human state, telling you to shut up. 

“Is this your way of thanking me? ‘Cause I learned how to bake a cake for this. Took me everything in the pantry for it.” He grumbles a small “not bad” and “thank you”, his ears and tail pop up—swaying silently as he finishes the cake with refined poise he lacked previously. “It’s also better because you can’t talk. But I also like it when you’re like this, you’re kind of anthropomorphic. You’re cute either way.” He flexes his biceps, trying to prove a point. “Is this cute?” With a small smile, you clear the table of crumbs and dishes. “Yeah. You still have icing on your face.” His confidence wavers, wiping the side of his mouth. “Get up, I’m gonna show you around the house, then we gotta head into town.” 

He picks himself up, following behind. “To do what?” You feign innocence, shrugging; so sure he’d resist with all his might if you told him the specifics. “We have to meet with an elder. Mom said so. Probably gonna fit you for new clothes after.” In an attempt to divert his attention, you pull him into the second floor, dark purple wallpaper contrasting the whites and yellows of the old portraits and photos nailed against it. The dark oak creaks beneath your feet, and Taehyun is baffled by the state of the place.

It’s gloomy and old, hosting as little color as possible with run-down floorboards. You giggle at how little he does to hide how appalled he is, explaining. “Nobody really uses this floor but me,” You comment, nudging over to the door furthest from the hall, “That’s my room. Over there,” You point at the neighboring rooms, “Bathroom and potion den. The rest are just storage for books, inventory, or ritual stuff.” Reaching the end of the hallway, you open the door to your room and plop onto the bed. The disparity of your living quarters has the ravenette nearly blinded, bright pastel walls perpendicular to the equally bright, fuzzy carpet. The room is plastered with posters and knick knacks of all sorts, a few colorful vials with saturated flowers blossoming beside your window. Beside it is an uneven cabinet with chipped paint of stars and other squiggly shapes, a direct outcome of no doubt your own doing. He peeks to see it’s spacier on the inside, basically its own cubby with a sewing machine and rainbow-assorted frills and cloth. He counts puffy dresses, short skirts hemmed with lace, a few undergarments embellished with sheer tulle. You shut it hurriedly, “The family won’t let me wear all that outside the house—or outside my room. They think I’ve gotten rid of this hobby,” You sign with air quotes, “So it stays here. They’ll have my head if they find out.” 

He shrugs, “I don’t really care.” Though his actions say otherwise, rifling through all the hangers. “Why don’t you just use magic on making these? More efficient.”

Lips pursed into a thin line, you answer. “It’s not as simple as waving a stick around, I don’t even have my own wand yet, not until I make something of myself. I haven’t really figured out what the elders mean by that.” You clasp your hands together, standing awkwardly near the doorframe. “So um, you can unpack and then we’ll head out.” He jumps out of the closet, facing you. “I’m staying here with you?” You eye him weirdly, “Yes. It is tradition for familiars and their masters to sleep in the same room.” He growls at the word “master”, picking his singular duffel bag off the floor. “No way. You have plenty of rooms you don’t use. Let me—” You cut him off by yanking the bag and tossing it onto the floor. “No. It’s essential for us to bond better.” He backs up slowly. “No way. I am not bonding with you.” You massage the bridge of your nose. “Our parents would throw a fit if they found out anyway.” 

Taehyun contemplates his options, entering the room again with a defeated sigh. “Do we have to sleep on the same bed?” 

Hoping the disgust on your face is evident, you reply. “Not willingly. The guardians wrongfully calculated the phase of the waxing gibbous, so we had to rush to have everything in time for the full moon. We’ll look for an old frame or buy a cat bed later in town, whichever you prefer.” 

He stays silent, annoyance directed towards you as you shove past him aggressively. “My bed or a piece of cardboard on the floor. Your choice.”

Taehyun squirms in the robes you lent him, sensitive to the fabric as it clings onto his skin, hood high to avoid the light that shines directly into his eyes. His mother forced him to wear something of status, but he has no idea what that means when he’s  just some rich girl’s pet. You're wearing the same robe but with the hood down, hair in pigtails as you skip through the streets greeting people. Despite his frustration, he peeks over your shopping scroll, scanning everything from top to bottom. “What are you making?” You hum, turning your head. “A bunch of orders from the neighboring city. Most of them don’t really have the mana to wield magic or bless potions.” He takes the list from you, inspecting it further. “We already shopped at the reptile place, did you forget to purchase snake venom?”

“It’s abhorrent that you believe I would forget buying such an integral part of our best-selling potion.” You reel at the assumption, walking faster. “Their supplier ran out, and I’d probably have to deal with a new merchant, if there are any left. It’s really scarce this season ‘round.” He’s annoyed at your annoyance, pacing beside you. “You should tell me these things. I’m supposed to aid in gathering.” You stop, mildly crossed at how he portrays it as if you were the one being unreasonable, the one at fault.  “You don’t even want to be my familiar. Why are you here?”

“The promise of a comfortable new cat bed and clothing of my own.” He rolls his eyes, “Your snake venom can be substituted with burrowing lizard limbs marinated in regular spider venom.” You light up at his words, leaning into him. He chokes on air as your face nears. “Really?” The other places a finger on your chest, pushing you off slowly. “Yes, really. It’s one of the direct ancestors of proto-snakes.” You raise a fist into the air, giddily jeering in place as Taehyun lowers his head out of shame for you. “Thank you so much! Now I don’t have to call for the Chois’ overpriced bulk.”

“The Chois’?” He asks absentmindedly, examining the scroll once again. “Yeah, their shop has nearly everything—that’s why the markup is so high. Everything’s all in one store. My  parents are trying to set me up with one of their sons, hoping we’d score some kind of deal if we get married.” The other notes the slight sulk on your face. “That’s a little…”

“Scummy? Old-fashioned? Utterly insane?” The other shakes his head, “I was gonna say too much information for me, but yeah.”

“Too much information? If anything you have too much information. Mixing ingredients and whatnot.”

“You have a funny way of calling me smart. I’m also good at math, fast arithmetics.” He doesn’t know why he’s telling you this, if the brag is to make you jealous or to get you to praise him. “Where’d you learn to do all that?” 

He shrugs, “Figured if I learned enough, I wouldn’t need to serve a witch.” Your brows pinch in guilt while you clear your throat. “I’m sorry about that.” Taehyun mimics your expression for a second before putting on a blank face and turning away. “You don’t have to, it’s not like you forced me to be trapped in that stupid orb.” His statements do not help to quell your thoughts, “Yeah, but I picked you.”

“It’s better this way, now I don’t have to spend another year in there. It was like an amniotic sac but worse. You couldn't push around.”

“What was it like in there?” You ask, to which he makes a sharp exhale. “Hell, for the most part. I kind of just thought a lot. Kind of like being a conscious fetus. But the more I’m out the less I remember.” You beam at the sparkle of hope, a desire to make it up to him though not a fault of your own. “That’s good! Let’s make you forget then.” Grappling his hand in yours, you run with him past the sea of individuals, off to cross off the rest of your tasks.

Taehyun picks up two suits made of leather, adding a pair of boots from the same material. The cart is filled with various garments of black and white, no shade in between and no vibrance of any sort. You sigh when he adds yet another blazer onto the pile. “You need house clothes and pajamas too, you know.” Dismissing it with a grumble, he retreats his hand to cross it over his chest. “These are fine.” You yank the piece out of his hands, feeling up the fabric. “I’m not dealing with your whining when you find it too hot in this. You’re fussy enough already, and you’re wearing light silk straight out of a bombyx’s anus.” He attempts to get the jacket back, a childish back and forth between the two of you. “It’s made up of a bombyx’s cocoon, you idiot. I’ll be fine.” You raise your hands in defeat. “Don’t come crying to me when you get overstimulated by stuffy latex.” 

The other pouts, sitting on one of the changing room benches. “I just wanted something nice. It’s my first ounce of freedom after years, after all.”

If he’s manipulating you by sharing a sob story and batting his long lashes at you—it’s working. However, you’re not that gullible. “Two of whatever you want, then two sets of casual clothing and pajamas.” His doe eyes turn sharp with a grunt, “I’m an adult. I don’t need sleepwear.” You counter, “I’m older than you, and I wear them.” 

“I’m older than you!” You plop down the seat across from him, crossing your arms. “Mentally, sure. But physically? Not. You’re forgetting all that time now anyways.” He rolls his eyes, legs spreading as he sinks onto the chair. “Besides,” You add, trapping his figure in between your arms, “I’m your master. Not like that matters either, since I’m paying. You earn the right to choose when you start earning from our apprenticeship.” He snarls, breathing heavy. “So what do you say?”

He’s silent for a few seconds, staring at the space beside you. “Fine.”

Except he’s not fine with this predicament. You’re across from him, cooing at the boy in a pastel blue, wool pants and top decorated with stripes and stars. “No.” 

You frown, tossing him the next set of your choice. “Well, you’re not giving any recommendations. I had to guess what you liked.” He shuts the curtain behind him, stomping as he unravels the guess that you’ve made. “So you thought I would enjoy pink shorts with cupcakes and caricature cats on them?” 

“They’re satin!” You defend. “Just try it, I have the same at home~” Snickering at the audible disapproval, you’re surprised to see him actually shuffle to try it on. It’s quiet in the dressing room, until he pokes his little head out. “Does yours look exactly like this?”  You trace its cut-out to him. “It’s kind of like a night-dress instead of a tank top and shorts. Same print I guess.” He steps out of the booth, dropping a mountain of clothes onto your lap. “I’ll take these—and this.” he mumbles it so low it’s almost inaudible, pointing at the pink shorts and loose top from earlier. You nod, trying your best not to laugh, or pout at his cuteness, or anything to get him to drag this on further. 

Turns out, Taehyun wasn’t kidding about the cat bed. “You sure you want these? We can scrounge up allowance to buy you an actual bed.” He shakes his feline head as his paws mark onto the felt pillow, testing it by stomping on it profusely. He shifts back, standing next to you. “It’s fine, doesn’t really matter to me. It’ll save you space too.”

After transforming once again, his stomach plunks down on a pink fleece cushion, yellow paw prints and ribbons patterned across the cloth. It almost makes you melt, the image of his cute cat self playing around in your room. The illusion dissipates just as soon as it comes, as you remind yours;f of his personality. You’re not sure if time could change how hostile and unwelcoming he was to you, and that thought heightens your anxiety to newer levels. If you couldn’t even get along with your own familiar, a creature known to be so loyal and docile to its owner, how were you supposed to take your place in this world? Become the one to lead a new generation of young mages? Uphold the reputation of a family so well-regarded?

The shopkeep, or rather his son, comes by with a smile on his face, knocking you out of your deep thinking. “It’s my first time seeing you here. New pet?” You hum in agreement, pointing at Taehyun. “Sort of, my familiar wants a cat bed.” The boy follows your finger, giggling. The aforementioned rolls around on the soft fabric, face rubbing against the sides. “He seems like he loves it.”

He moves behind the displays to drag something. It’s a pet tree, scratch posts and dangling toys asymmetrically branching from the base. “That’s actually part of a new collection we just got,” he expounds, moving Taehyun to explore the collection—like a child’s first time on a playground. “We just got it, and I’d think your cat would love it.” He talks as if Taehyun can’t hear him. Nevertheless, the cat roams over the space, purring as he rubs his side against the post. “I don’t think I can afford it right now.” You say, keeping your hands pressed tightly behind your back. The other hushes you, hauling the set over to the register. “Don’t worry, it’s on me. I’ll ship it to your place some time next week. Besides, I kind of owe you for saving my life that one time.” You both smile sheepishly, looking away from each other. “You were gonna live anyway.”

“Still, I appreciated it. Your partner deserves something good to sleep in.” Smiling, you pull the other in for a tight hug, murmuring a plethora of “thank you”s. 

The door chimes behind you with a ring. Taehyun asks “Who was that?” Eyes twinkling at the food vendors. In increments, he swerves your walking direction, gaze locked onto the pastry stall. “Kai, we used to go to preschool together. I saved him from drowning, but I’m certain he’d live even without my help.” Tapping the glass, he turns to narrow his eyes at you, “You know he fancies you right?” You raise a brow, “What? No way.” The other tugs at your purse, grunting. “He gave you a—whatever that was. I’m positive it would’ve been hundreds of gold.”

You hand him the chocolate-filled pastry, tail swishing at its aroma. “It was for saving him.” He takes a big bite out of it, voice muffled as he replies, “You said it yourself, he would have lived. He just wanted an excuse to flirt with you, be in your good graces.”

“He doesn’t need to do that, he’s good looking and kind. Anyone who’s anyone would like him.”

“Do you like him?” You pause, having never really regarded him in such a manner. “Not like that, no.” The other clicks his tongue, “You’re leading him on then.” You turn a deaf ear to his provocations, marking the familiar signboard.  Grabbing his forearm, you shush him, “Shut up, we’re here.”

The tavern is filled with all kinds of books and crystals, you take in the way they shimmer against the dim string lights hastily nailed onto the wall. The shell door curtain clatters, revealing an old lady in a lilac tunic, cane hitting against the floor. Her smile turns her eyes into crescents, gesturing at you to come with her. You shadow her as she flops onto her chair, the two of you settling onto a floor seat. 

“I’ve received your call from earlier. It is no issue, these happen all the time.” Taehyun looks around, confused yet too prideful to inquire. “For starters, we must draw blood from each of you; a drop will suffice.” The boy's skepticism grows, finding it odd when you stick your tongue out. He does the same, stopped by the elder almost immediately. “Only the young lady. Your arm will do.” 

The lady brings out two incredibly thin needles, pricking you both at the same time. “To develop the bond pendant properly, you must stay within close proximity with each other. The next few weeks will be the most crucial to form it.” 

Taehyun’s body shoots up, backing up against the wall. “You didn't tell me you were going to bond me!” 

Cornering him, you stutter, trying to find the proper words. “You wouldn’t have agreed to come! We were never gonna bond naturally, you hate me!” He scoffs, “Obviously! You forcing me without my knowledge is not doing you any favors!” You hold him tighter as he thrashes against you. “With that bond, I’d be weak against your wishes. It’s as good as mind control!” He bellows, nails seeping into your shoulders. You hold back a yelp of pain, biting the inners of your cheek. “I would never do that! Do you have such little faith in me? That’s not even how bonding—” 

“The pendant’s objective is to strengthen your forming bond. I’d advise against an unbonded pair.” The lady chimes in calmly, “It would only cause more pain in the long run than do you any good. Especially for you, hybrid. Your body would slowly deteriorate, seeing as its main purpose is to serve its master; that’s what the sealing rite did to you.” Taehyun's face contorts in horror, waving her warnings off. “I’m fine with those chances. My life wouldn’t be mine anyway. I’d rather spend whatever fleeting moments I’d have free than under the spell of some neophyte witch.” He spits, shoving you to the ground and racing out of the clinic.

The sun dips into the horizon, sky violet as you trudge back to your home. Searching for him would be a futile hunt, he’d just slip out of your hands again. What he needed was space, a clear mind; as a matter of fact, you needed it too. Your stomach lurches in anxiousness, telling yourself he’s part cat after all, he’ll find his way back without a scratch on him. Despite the cries of wolves wail in the night, you will yourself to go further.

You lock the gates, a subtle frown on your mothers face when she makes out your figure in the dark. The manor and its lawn are coated in pitch black, with the exception of the warm glow peeking from the windows. “We were waiting for you for hours.” She says, voice laced with worry. “I was out looking for Taehyun.” You respond, moving past her. “He was here hours ago.” Your dad adds, halting you in your tracks. “What?” The two nod, pointing up to your room. “It’s past supper, and he’s not had a bite to eat. Cook him whatever he likes, he seemed like he was in a sour mood.”

How ridiculous. Mayhaps it’s a reach, but you pick apart their words for hidden subtext. You’ve done your hardest to ensure a comfortable stay and treat him as an equal and your parents nag and undermine both those efforts. They treat him no better than a cat, or perhaps they treat you as if you were his maid.

You slip into house slippers, fuzzy and contrasting the stiff arch of your trekking boots. It’s a small comfort, yet it eases your mind the most. The tension returns just as it disappears, cautiously stepping your way up the flight of stairs. The floor is eerily silent, air dry and hall dark, aside from the small light emanating from your bedroom, door ajar. You inch closer and closer, rustling of wood and shuffling of feet making itself more coherent. 

You try to peek through the gap, gasping and barreling inside once you see the ghastly sight in front of you. The carnage of all your hand-crafted pieces are torn to shreds and reduced to uneven textiles across the ground, sullied and unsalvageable—beyond repair. 

Tears clump at your eyes, threatening to spill as your mind races at a million words per second—yet no sound comes out, lips tucked between your teeth. You hold yourself back, knuckles whitening as you clench them. “What have you done?” You curse at yourself, always the ugly crier when outraged. His conduct is firm and anchored, face of ice and stone as he strides over. “You took away my freedom, and I took away your only escape from your burdensome reality.” He leaves you to hunch over your discarded creations, hiccuped and hushed breaths filling the air.

You’ve sacrificed much, yet you’ve yet to hear of the rewards. Were you bound to end up without companionship? Or have you decided not to let all of your hardships wilt away in vain? 

You’re tired, sluggish and lifeless as you drop onto your mattress, cries muffled through your pillow.

How do you scream at the top of your lungs a secret and a shame not even your parents are aware of? Would you still be punished, knowing the remnants of your art are now fuel to your fireplace, oxidizing into smoke, and then into nothing? What about the humiliation that you couldn’t even keep a conversation with your assumed life-long companion?

You decide that the best next thing is to arrange for company, not for one, but three of your friends—under the guise of them calling to court you outdoors. You rush out the door with hasty goodbyes, stopped at the front by your father. “Bring your familiar with you! He’ll tell you which brother is best to keep.” 

Keep, he says. As if the others, your friends, are to be scrapped like pawns. He talks big, as if Taehyun could sniff out your best pair, as if he knows you well enough to gauge what you like. Truthfully, you have not spoken or even seen him in weeks, passing each other in common areas and during meal times without so much as shared eye-contact. Your mouth opens to protest, but he’s quick to shoulder the hybrid out the door, a loud clunk of the lock behind him.

Strolling into town, your movements are constrained and awkward, weary of the ravenette as he keeps his distance at all times. Ironically, this is when you’re most in sync with each other. You step forward, he follows, and when you step back, he does the same. You try to widen that interval, but he’s precise with his footing, setting his pace to match yours. 

When you reach the cafe, you check twice for the address sent. It’s hidden from the square and difficult to navigate, but find it worth it as you ogle at the building. It’s a greenhouse made entirely out of glass, the whole layout in your view. A pair of outstretched arms wave at you, beckoning you to come in. You walk through the marble path surrounded by water, fountains dancing as the crashing of water and chirps of birds ring in your ear. Even with transparent walls, it does not do the interior justice, beholding the vision of fluttering insects, swimming koi, the blossoming array of seasonal flora, and overhead skyline.

You unbutton your cloak, dark and unseemly in such a wonderful setting. It reveals a pink sundress, one you spent sleepless nights repairing by hand. They smile as you drop the hood onto the tile, sitting on 

“Who’s this?” You spare no glance at their inquiries, humming. “That? That’s Taehyun.” They greet an awkward “Hi Taehyun,” and he doesn’t reply or acknowledge them in any way. One of them poke their heads out to inspect him. “Are you not going to introduce us?” 

You scoff. “Does it matter?” The siblings nod and look at you incredulously. “Fine.” Your face is stern and unmoving, gaze bored and unfocused. You don’t turn to address the ravenette, not even a contraction of muscle. “Yeonjun,” you start, pointing to the copper-haired boy. He sends a wink over you both, earning mutual disgust. “Soobin,” your index moves to the blonde, smiling meekly. “And Beomgyu.” The brunette tilts his head, tongue poking his cheek as he stares at Taehyun. “Sit with us.” He says, and the shorter shakes his head. He shakes off the rejection, “You’re affiliated how?”

“He’s my familiar.”

The three are rendered motionless, shocked. “You’ve bonded, and yet no say of mouth.”

“We are not bonded!” You say in unison. Clearing your throat, you continue. “We’ve not bonded. Now quiet; I’m here to gossip. I’m here to buy fabric and ribbon.” Soobin chuckles at your business posture, head high and hands draped on top of each other. “You just bought more than a crate-worth of them! The poor packhorse was put on probation afterwards.”

You sigh loudly “And I apologize. I run through material quickly.” The eldest picks up a strawberry danish, offering it to the boy standing guard. Taehyun is unsure of his intentions, but takes him up on it. “Your dad still hounding you about tying the knot?” You scoff, teeth gritting. “It’s all he talks about, now that I’ve got the familiar ordeal under my belt. Which one of you unlucky bastards am I going to end up with?” They cackle at your exasperated expression, brunette scooting closer to link his arms in yours. “I’d be lucky to have such a talented mage as my wife.” Soobin rolls his eyes, elbowing the younger. “I called dibs first, you imbecile!” You chuckle, taking a sip out of the raspberry chai. “Ladies, ladies. Plenty of me to go around.” The blond pouts, retreating to his seat. “I don’t want to get auctioned off for anyone else for the sake of business! I’d rather it be a friend I can tolerate.” It’s a half-lie, half-truth.

“You just want to wed me for my mana and free stuff. Plenty of sorcerers competent enough for that.” He whines in response. “It’s not the same, we would be roommates with tax benefits.”

The brunette shakes his head, stuffing his mouth full of chocolate. “How absurd. Have you given up on finding greater love?” He says it with conviction, as if he wasn’t just trying to get the other to stop courting you. “Greater love,” Soobin mocks, “such a thing is fickle and ever changing. Too difficult for me to comprehend” Beomgyu shrugs at his loss of lust for life. “Everything is difficult for you to comprehend, you dunce.”

“Just wait ‘til we get back home you—” Yeonjun sighs, fingers massaging the bridge of his nose. “That’s enough. Just jot down what you need, and I’ll calculate them from you.” You smile, resting your head on the table. “No best friend discount?” He tuts, faking a punch. “We sell them to you without interest. That’s the discount.” You feign hurt, “How cheap of you.”

The rest of the noon rolls by  seamlessly, the four of you indulging in child-like mannerisms and meaningless topics. By the second hour mark, Taehyun speaks up without prompting. “I don’t think you’re fit for any of them.” The three purse their lips and look away, busying themselves with food. You roll your eyes, “Who asked you, Kang?” He doesn’t even look at you, following the colorful wings of a butterfly, tail swishing in focus. “Your father told me to. If this is all, I would like to head back to the manor now.” So he listens to the irrational whims of your father, but not to you? “Go back home and do what? So you could lick yourself clean and lounge around the living room, being a waste of space?” He huffs in irritation, “A better way to spend my time than watching you galavant around town.” You stand, stomping over to him. “I’m rebuilding the closet you tore apart, asshole.” 

Soobin lets out a strained laugh, “Okay, let’s just calm down–” You strike his arms away,  “No. This blockhead ruined what I’ve worked so hard on for over a decade and a half. He has offered no condolences or apologies.”  Taehyun laughs arrogantly, stepping forward. “I’m not your servant.”

“You’re right. You’re lower. You sleep in my house, eat my food, and shit in my bathroom without giving anything in return. You’re a leech.” His jaw clenches at your words, eyes boring into yours as your chests heave. You challenge him, brows raising as if to ask him what his next quips would be. Without another sound, he storms off, slamming the door with a force that almost cracks it. 

Luckily, the cafe was nearly empty, saving yourself and your friends from embarrassment. You slump into your seat, eyebrows furling. Yeonjun breaks the silence, slowly reaching for a napkin. “You need to fix whatever’s going on between you two.”

“I know that, obviously.” You bite, heaving a dramatic sigh. “Everytime we talk to each other we end up fighting, I’m at a total loss.” Beomgyu reclines, suggestion in mind. “You should try Nepeta.” Your ears perk up, leaning inwardly. “As in… Catnip?” Soobin snaps his fingers, piling on. “Oh yeah! I think it has sedating properties that also induce oxytocin and serotonin, kind of like a get-along herb. It's used in pharmaceuticals for humans and especially on cats, so you might get him to relax around you.” Honestly, you never bothered to look into biomedicine, seeing as all your home remedies are holistic and passed down through families. “Where can I get some?” 

The three point their heads over to the garden-patch, dragging you along with them.”

There’s no way this was going to work; you’re fairly confident you weren’t gonna go through with it anyway. But you’d be lying if you said you weren’t curious. On the counter sits an eighth ounce of Catnip, inelegantly situated in a plastic bag. You’re unpersuaded of what to do with it, ashamed that you had to resort to such methods. Not like anyone would see, since the adults have left home for one of their yearly conferences, and it wouldn’t be a week or so until they return. Everyone else, besides you and Taehyun. You have to get rid of it fast—unwilling to be at the receiving end of yet another one of his haughty expressions. You attempt to focus, exhausting all your options. It would dry up by tomorrow’s eve, and you wouldn’t want it to go to waste. Dashing over to the cupboards you take out an array of pans and bowls. 

Your mind fails to register the sheer laughability of what you just spent two hours on, staring blankly at the fruit of your efforts. The pungent fumes waft into the air, brownies idle on the table as you poke into it. The chocolate all but oozes onto the plate, thin crust crunching against the utensil. They look… Really good. Good for a novice baker, good for someone who stuffed a bunch of inhibitors into the recipe haphazardly. You shouldn’t beat yourself over it, seeing as you only mixed half of what was in the bag. Why let such precious food go to waste? You recall the boys’ statements on how it’s as good as harmless for human consumption, hesitantly biting into one of them. You grin, nodding in approval as you scarf down on at least half of the pan. Your gluttony proves itself to be overboard, eyes growing heavier. They did say it had sedative properties. Yawning, you seal the rest of the baked goods into an air tight tupperware, scribbling your name onto the side with a sticky note and a marker.

The sound of clattering wakes you from your light slumber, along with thudding from the first floor. It’s probably the hybrid, but you could never be too certain, grasping for any heavy object to defend yourself with. Your tip-toes do nothing to muzzle the creek of the stair boards, dropping your makeshift weapon when you confirm that it’s just Taehyun. He’s panting on the sofa, legs sprawled over the cushions and floor. Inching closer, you observe his sickly state, sweat rolling down his face and ears downcast. 

You're not really sure what to say, unknowing of what to offer to make him feel better. “Are you fine? Do you need anything?” His eyes are glossy and his words come out nearly in whimpers. “Fine! I’m fine, just need my bag.” The implication of him being so ill that he’s unable to grab a bag a few feet from him alarms you, and you hurry to feel his body temperature through his forehead. He swats your hand and snatches the satchel out of your hands, discarding it on the floor when he shakes the pops the cap of his pill bottle. You read the sides as he shoves a few into his mouth, sinking back into the sofa in an attempt to get comfortable. “You have heat cycles?!” The other covers his ears at your voice, curling up with a pillow. “It used to be bearable, I don’t know what’s wrong with me these days.” He buries his head into the cushions, biting down hard. “Can you just get me water or something? I feel like I’m fucking dying.” Nodding frantically, you sprint through the room to get into the kitchen. You’re really not sure if it would help, but you collect ice, placing them into a cheesecloth as a compress. You pivot to open the tap, freezing in place as you see the dirty dishes in the sink. “Did you finish the brownies?!” You yell, receiving no answer from the other. Stomping over to the living room, you hand him the glass and compress, sitting cross-legged on the coffee table. You repeat it, looking into his eyes and emphasizing every word. “Did you eat my brownies?” He scoffs, and looks away, a clear indicator that he did. You roll your eyes and get up the seat, pacing around the room. “I’m on the brink of death and you want me to be sorry for your shitty brownies?”

“They had my name on it, Taehyun!” He groans, massaging the bridge of his nose. “Fine! I ate your stupid brownies. Now can you please stop talking? My head is spinning.” You rock back and forth, “This is bad, should I write to my parents? Should I write to your parents? Who the fuck should I get?” Confused, the other tilts his head at you. “Are we on the brownies or my thing?”

“My thing!” You exclaim, “Taehyun, those brownies were chock full of catnip.” He rises from his position, eyes wide and disturbed. “You drugged me?!” You blink, stunned. “I didn’t drug you! It wasn’t even for you!”

He hauls his feet to the bathroom, letting the faucet run as he grips the sides of the sink tightly. “The catnip wasn’t for the cat? Sure, whatever.” You stutter, keeping your distance by standing idle at the door. “I didn’t even know cat hybrids could digest chocolate.” He splashes his head with cold water, a half-witted attempt to get him to cool down. “I’m part human, you idiot!” Crossing your arms, you lean against the frame. “Am I supposed to guess? You have the stomach of a human and have the libido of a cat?” With a glare, he bumps past you, settling into the couch once again. “It’s in the family books—books you were supposed to read for your familiar!” He heaves a long breath, running his hands across his face. “What’s the point? You don’t take good care of me.” You laugh incredulously. “Eat shit. You don’t even let me around you.”

“You want to be around me?” He challenges, taking your hand and placing it on top of his slacks. He’s looking up at you from his seat, pulling you down to reach him. “Then help me out; it’s partially your fault anyway.” Your heart nearly jumps out of your chest, eyes flickering between him and the tent pitched in his pants. “I don’t think—” He cuts you off. “You’re my master, right? You take care of me.” He tugs you once again for you to hang over him, grinding against the arm between his crotch.

The morality of these actions are blurry, but you’re at your wit’s end with this—with everything surrounding the hybrid. You chew on your lower lip, closing your eyes as you let him guide you, tugging at his bottoms and resting them an inch above his knee. When his cock springs free, he keeps his other hand on top of his mouth, unsuccessful at restraining the moans that pass it. You’re in awe, mouth agape as his left wraps tightly around your right hand, fingers a step short from interlocking. “Move, I’m doing all the work here.” Taehyun orders like he’s owed, like he’s entitled to getting off with your hand. “You seem to be mistaken,” You state sternly, separating your hold from his. “I am helping you. I am doing you a favor, not the other way around. So ask nicely.” You take your frustrations out on his dick, a rollercoaster of speed as you take the pace from dangerously fast to painfully slow when you feel him near his peak. His pleas lodge in his throat, hips bucking into your fist and grip on your shoulders firm, like he was afraid you were going to pull away. You do, huffing loudly as you dramatically yank yourself away. He mewls, grasping at your unmoving hands. “Wha–why did you–”

“Ask me nicely.” He makes a noise that’s in between a scoff and a whine, “Are you insane?” You straighten your posture, feigning intention of leaving. “You can get off by yourself then.” His mouth drops slightly, clawing your arms. “No–wait!” He turns your head to face him, eyes glistening with an emotion you can’t quite figure out. “Please.” Clearing your throat, you compose yourself. “Please what?”

He inches closer, breath fanning your face as he trembles. “Please let me come.”

You really shouldn’t be enjoying this as much as you do, thighs clamped together as you desperately try to ignore the feeling that resonates in your core. Biting your lower lip, you watch the other basically salivate at nothing. A beat barely passes after you nod, jumping you with such vigor it knocks you back onto the armrest. Now he’s the one hovering over you, chest rising and falling so rapidly you almost fear for him. 

The concern is overshadowed by your surprise when he crashes his lips onto yours, teeth grinding as he licks all over your mouth, forcing your hand onto his member. His eyes screw shut at the cool skin, precum coating the rest of his shaft. You can still taste the brownies on him, and it’s no doubt the reason he’s licking you all over, in search of more. 

“A-ah I’m gonna–.” You don’t say anything, don’t look at him; eyes focused on his dick as you work it up and down with swift flicks of your wrists. Your other hand is situated in between your legs as you listen to all the different sounds in the room: The squelch of your hand, the whimpers from Taehyun, the heavy pants both you and him take. He yelps as he releases into your hand, white seed painting your bare stomach. You hadn’t even noticed your shirt was half up. You’re unmoving, unsure of what to do next. The ravenette inspects the mess he’s made, the mess he’s made out of you—backing away slowly before bolting out of the manor.

It’s been days since you’ve talked to Taehyun, and the tension between you has been replaced, from anger to something neither of you are entirely sure of, though you have an inkling as to what it may be. Shoving it at the back of your mind, you stir the cauldron with a long rod, asking the boy what step comes next. 

This is what you’re both good at—what you should have stuck to doing all along. It’s not so suffocating, you could even say it was bearable. This is what you desired. You don’t require friendship or some bond, what you necessitated was a competent co-worker and assistant; that’s what he’s here for.

You may have spoken too soon, a furious burst of light and smog rippling through the room. The pot and its contents spill onto the floor, glass shards landing all over the place. You land flat on your back, eardrums ringing. The only thing you can make out is ash, bits of gray and black swirling in midair. "What the fuck! You could've gotten me killed!" Taehyun scoffs, dusting himself off, no attempt to help you up. "Big deal, you screwed up the solute to solvent ratio." The accusation is both baseless and wrong, you would never blindly estimate measurements for tasks such as this. "How dare you I would never make such a—" 

All of a sudden, it clicks. You would never make such a rookie mistake, and neither would he. "You were trying to kill me on purpose!" He crosses his arms, leaning against the wall. "If I wanted to, you would've been dead by now."

"Then what the fuck was that! Or are you such an airhead that you couldn't even do what you say you’re so good at properly?" An unamused laugh exits him, nostrils flaring at the implication that he would be so careless. "I just wanted a small explosion so that I could report you as unfit to hold a familiar in your care! Not my fault you overdid it." 

"My fault?" You yell, grabbing the other by the chin to face you. "You ungrateful piece of shit. I feed you and nurse you to health and you've done not a damn thing but bitch about nothing of substance. You should thank the elders they gave you someone like me." He keeps his eyes shut, muttering profanities. In all his ineffectual attempts to break free, he never lays a finger on you. 

It's odd, and as you watch his biceps flex as he tucks his arms in between his legs, you don't believe that he's too weak to overpower you. Cocking your head to the side, you kick his arms out of his front, prying his hands apart. He curses as you gape at the view, leather stretched to its capacity as a noticeable bulge plants itself beneath the cloth. Your gaze finds his, irises shimmering like molten gold. It fades just as soon as it shows; your heart booms through your chest, and suddenly you find it hard to breathe.

He has bonded you.

“You pervert.” Claws protruding, he pounces forward, causing you to fall onto cobbled ground. It digs the flesh of your throat, piercing skin yet carefully maneuvered to not hit anything vital. He doesn’t add pressure, nor decrease it. Blood splatters across your collarbone when you move to take hold of his wrists, no force needed as he submits without resistance. “Look at what you did to my neck, it’s all tattered and ugly!” You scold, fingers clenched at the root of his scalp as you tug him over. “Kiss it better.” Amidst his whimpers, he swiftly climbs onto your lap, wet pecks all over the crimson dripping down your nape. You click your tongue, untangling your fingers to stroke the back of his head. “You’re still sick, Kitty. You get off my violence, and act like a brat when you don’t get what you want.” His ears twitch at your comments, leveling with you. “Hands off me. Now.” You roll your eyes, discounting his empty threats. “You didn’t seem to hate my hand when you force-fucked yourself into it last time.” His snarl grew more venomous, replying, “I’ll kill you.” The corners of your lips raise, tracing his cheek with your fingers. “As if. You need me.”

“I need you?” He amuses, knee jabbing right in between your legs. “I can smell your cunt from here. It’s not exactly subtle. You reek.” A haughty sound makes its way through you, lightly grazing the fabric of his slacks. “And you’re practically leaking. I’m not taking shit from someone who can’t even stop themselves from humping someone they hate so much.” You palm him through the cloth, and he elevates his hips into your touch.  “But I’m a kind owner, so who am I to take no notice of someone in need?” He grunts, “Not my owner.” You coo, “Sure. Now be good for me for a sec.” He murmurs curses, staying still regardless. He anticipates your hand, short-circuiting at the sudden heat from the tip of your tongue. It swirls the head of his dick, and you look up to find the other staring back down at you. You kiss at the sides before dipping your head, a sharp exhale leaving the other. You instruct him to keep his arms behind him, and he fights with himself as nothing actually binds him from keeping his hands to himself. He’s mewling and moaning and thrashing in your hold, high screeches and low moans sending waves straight to your mouth. “‘Can’t do it, ah—need it deeper.” He sighs, pressing a palm to the back of your head and forcing himself down on you. You hold back a gag and glare at him, dragging your mouth off his cock with a resounding pop. 

He whines at the loss of you, head thumping onto the wooden floors. "Why—” Wiping the sides of your mouth, you sit up. “This is gross.” He scrambles upward, “But you started—” You’re easy to dismiss him, although your complaints were nothing but a farce. “I don’t care. This is gross, and I get nothing in return. If we’re keeping score, you’ve done nothing to please me.” He narrows his eyes at you, leaning forward. “Please you? I don’t need to do that.” Rolling your eyes, you match his challenge by leaning in too. “Don’t need to or can’t do it?” he gulps, eyes shifting to the side. “I’m not falling for your manipulative tactics.” You tilt your head innocently. “I’m not asking you to,” You feign offense, “but wouldn’t it be better if you came with my mouth, instead of something so pathetic like your own hand? Aren’t you sick of it yet?” The hybrid stays silent, thinking heavily as his tail rocks slowly. 

“What do you want?” You smirk, pulling the other’s disheveled self through the hall as you make your way into your room. You slam it shut behind you and fiddle with all the locks, skipping over to the dresser. 

“See, you’ve ruined all that’s important to me. It’ll take me months–no, a year to finish all this again.” You sigh, acting hurt. “It’s only fair that we do something about it, no?” The other’s mind goes to the worst of places, tail stiffening as he asks, “Are you gonna make me dress up?” The look on his face is priceless, he’s obviously scared and on high alert, gaze shifting in distraught. “I mean, as long as it’s not super degrading maybe I—” Your laughter cuts through his rambling, clutching your stomach. 

“Aren’t you adorable?” Patting the empty space next to you, he settles down timidly, shuffling in his seat. “Thanks for your open mind, but your little temper tantrum cost me everything in my inventory. So no, I have nothing for you. Maybe next time?” Taehyun exhales a breath he didn’t know he kept, nodding. You play with the neckline of his blouse, “But since I have nothing, you shouldn’t have anything either.” You tilt your head with a smile that almost feels threatening as it looks innocent, “Strip.” 

The hybrid shimmies out of his garments, shifting nervously on the bed. He feels cold and exposed, blush coating his porcelain body. “Now I just have one last thing for you.” You take out some sort of collar from behind, placing  it onto your lap. It’s pink and frilly, no doubt a creation of your own. The sides are decorated with metal spikes and chains, seemingly sharp but dull and harmless to the touch. “Where did you even get this?” You shrug at his question, linking the accessory onto a chain. Taehyun’s tail tucks in between his thighs. “I know it doesn’t match you, but we’ve got to work with what we’ve got, no?” You reply, securing the piece on him. He’s patient and quiet as you fasten the collar, tugging between it and his neck for allowance. “You look so cute.” 

The ravenette says nothing, but his tail sways at your words, pink flushing deeper through his ears and cheeks. For a while, the two of you are just staring at each other. You note his smooth skin and slender figure, caressing the sides of his arm. He shivers at your contact, some fingertips more calloused than others. He takes in the darkening red across your mouth and neck,  skirt hiking up as your body shifts to kneel beside him. Call it impulse or passion—you both lean in at the same time, kissing soft and slow as his hands wander around your waist. He snakes them up your chest and unhooks your bra, heaving your shirt above your head. He cups your cheek, brushing it slowly. It’s almost chaste and virginal, void of any sexual intent and malice. 

But you remind yourself why you’re here in the first place. You bite down on his bottom lip—metallic tang coating your tongue. You part from him with a trail of saliva, blood flowing in steady beats. You smudge it across his cheeks with a satisfied smirk. “You can’t tell yourself it’s because of your rut anymore.” He keeps his head down. “You're forcing me to.” You sigh in return, inching closer. “You have a lot of false notions on bonding, Taehyun.” Leaning over, you place soft pecks onto his face.  “This is what you want. You can leave anytime you desire, have anything you desire.”

Taehyun blinks heavily, right before he takes your lips in his again. It’s carnal—it’s him; letting go of his inhibitions and the potential consequences of his actions. He accidentally nips the mound of your lip with his canine, a soft squeal sounding off your lips and into his. He thinks it the most delicious sound he’s ever heard. 

He wants to hear more, see more, but all he can do is kiss you deeper. He licks the blood off your mouth, sucking on the cut until it stops streaming. That’s not how that works, you know he knows. He savors the taste of it, only relenting when you tug at the collar. “You’ve hurt me again, are you sure you’re not doing it on purpose?” You say it with an adequate amount of confidence, but your eyes are downcast—hands trembling. He shakes his head fervently, ears shooting up. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t want to say anything in fear that it makes him look pathetic and needy. Instead, he licks a long stripe along your inner thigh, stopping at your sopping cunt. He rests his head on your skin like a pillow, silently waiting for your next move. You pull at the leash and the other stumbles forward—nose pressed against your core. He plays with the lining of your panties, using nothing but his tongue to take them to the side. He tastes you like he’s been starved for days, lapping over your entrance like clockwork. Your grip around the chain and his hair, making him groan into you, hands reaching over to play with the plush of your breasts. You’re knocked onto the mattress, eyes screwed tightly as your orgasm builds up, barely suppressing yourself of moans. The way you chant Taehyun’s name pushes him forward, making out with your cunt like his life depended on it. When you come on his face, he drinks every drop that flows out of you, kissing and praising you through narrowly audible whispers. 

You open your eyes to find him on top of you, waiting for you while the both of you catch your breaths. “You’re really good at that.”You mutter, playing with the gap on his garter belt. He smiles sheepishly, head ducked and pressing his fingers into your hips. “Does that mean I get a reward?” You scoff half-heartedly at his change in manner, drawing his face closer to yours. “What was it about forcing you again?” You tease, sitting up and pushing him down. “I’m just kidding, ‘course you do, Kitty.“ You swear he purrs when you caress his cheek, throwing a leg over his torso. “I’ll make you feel better.”

You line the tip of his cock near your entrance, eyeing the other with hunger. Taehyun ingrains the image of you over him in his memory—your parted lips and heaving form contracting when you sink down on him. His pre-cum and yours mix to make such filthy noises, spurring the both of you further. Grinding your hips, you throw your head back as he fondles your tits. You’re quiet, save for the few grunts when the other sneaks his pelvis to meet your ass. 

Taehyun really wants to hear you again, wants to see your pretty face when you come on his dick, the pretty squirms you make when he bottoms out from above. So he takes matters into his own hands, shoving you on your back as he rams into you. You throw a hand over your eyes and mouth, and the other is quick to swat them away, pinning them down. “Wanna hear you, pretty.” He rolls his hips really slow, right before slamming them against you. “A-ah Taehyun, don’t—” He pays no attention to your cries, thrusting irregularly. “Don’t what?” You yelp, “Don’t stop—fuck!” His mouth latches onto your throat, littering the skin with love bites as your pussy clamps down on him. “Faster–‘m so close.” You sob, marking his back. Taehyun leaves no room for you to breathe as he pounds into you. “Me too,” he lets out, whining at the feeling erupting from him. His body shoots up in preparation to pull out—but you stop him, heels digging at the plush of his ass. “Don’t. Want you to cum in me.” He’s more than willing to respect your wishes, smirking down at you as your eyes roll in pleasure, drool trickling down your chin. Your back arches off the bed, chest meeting his. He fucks you through your high, pulling you in and letting you bite down on his lips. With one last plunge, he empties himself into you, white liquid displaced as it runs down the entrance of your cunt. 

For a while, both of you just stare at the ceiling. Nothing but the sound of your own racing thoughts and the clock ticking are present, until Taehyun breaks the silence. “I’m not your sidekick.” 

You sit up, clearing your throat. “I don’t expect you to be.” You reply, tracing the veins on the back of his hand. “We’re a partnership. We need each other.” You pause to look him in the eye, and your breath hitches at the full sight of him post-sex. “I need you.” 

He smiles, teeth tugging at his lips to prevent such an action. “I’m still upset about the blood pendant you made without my permission.” You chuckle at his ignorance. “You’re not as knowledgeable as you regard yourself to be?” He’s confused and a bit offended, as indicated by the twitch of his mouth. “I’m sorry, I just meant—the pendant is supposed to help speed up the bonding process between pairs. The mind control thing is just a myth too.” He goes silent, twisting his head away from you. “So earlier, that was,” He trails off, and you finish his thoughts. “Yup, that was all you. If it was true, it would've been illegal, Tyun.” He’s quick to change the topic, watching you settle back down into the covers. “So we have nicknames now?”

“Oh,” You alarm yourself, “Sorry—I just—” He laughs, “It’s fine. Should I call you anything?” Before you’re able to say anything, he interrupts. “I’m not calling you master.” You giggle, nodding. I wasn’t gonna call you that anyway. Tilting his head, he narrows his focus on you. “Noona?” You stare at the ceiling, lips pursed and ignoring the incessant prodding at your sides. “You’re blushing. You like, Noona?”

“Shut up. I thought you said you were, albeit circumstantially, older than me?” Turning back to him, you take in his face as it glimmers in the warm, dim light that emits from the singular candle lamp. “I’m willing to admit I was wrong.” You let out a sound of amusement. “Huh, that’s new.” He rolls his eyes, boring his gaze into yours. It’s slight, but you feel the ravenette wriggle closer, inching his pinky around yours. With that, you intertwine your hand with his, and the both of you gape at one another in silence.

if you saw the original..u didnt

thank you for reading! feedback, reblogs and tags appreciated♡

[ghostieblr]

the perfect star that hid

written for @sterekbingo square "soulmate au." kind of a new take on soulmate au? at least i haven't seen this particular type (if you have, please link them to me!! <3) also, my card is under the cut! at the very end. the full fic is here, but you can also read it on ao3 (where i'll post it when i get back home) if that's more your style.

The name unfurls on his wrist at the mall, filled with people, a scratch to his bone that goes unnoticed; he always wears full sleeves, a habit borne of shame and fury, fury at himself and his life and at the one who is writing it. He's 27 — older than the average population of those without someone by their side, someone who are made with dust and ashes that together make the perfect star.

He's celebrating his 27th birthday, actually, in this very mall. Friends that appreciate his appreciation for Star Wars, that don't mind him or pity him, who actually care about him — they booked an entire cinema hall for him, pulled certain strings to make it happen, and none of them had to pleaded or begged for it. They just love him.

He doesn't have his soulmate, yet, perhaps never will, but there is this truth as well: he has friends that love him like family, like their own. It might just have to be enough.

That's what he's thinking, the epiphany dredging up his past agony and mulling it over, layering it over with itself, a sort of aftercare that he's giving a try. And he's tired, too, of the heartache and the negativity — his own most of all. And he is tired of the day, muscles aching, and hey. It's a good time for a relaxing shower, now that he's home.

So he smiles at no one in the apartment but at himself in the mirror he's hung in the living room, a sort of statement piece that Lydia insisted on after taking one look at his at the time barely furnished abode, and shrugs.

"You don't need anyone, Stiles."

The words don't sound quite right as he hears them, the meaning of it turned desolate instead of triumphant as his thoughts become intangibly tangible, an epiphany to something he might just have to get used to. Still, he's said it, it's out there, and it's gonna have to do.

He picks the clothes off of himself, hopes the shower will help him pick himself up. Decides a bath would be better — but he's not got that now, has he? Perhaps he should start saving for a house, now. But it's just so much harder with one income only; he could move back to Beacon Hills? San Francisco isn't bad, but the prices of real estate are no joke.

The pros and cons of that potential scenario run through his head, his legs out of the jeans now, his hoodie off of his body next. Huh, he's almost out of toothpaste; he should go to the grocery store tomorrow. He should also see what's in his fridge and what's not but — later.

He's getting ahead of himself.

The t-shirt he's wearing comes off, too, a full-sleeved one, white, that looks rather good on him. Accentuates the lean muscle thing he's got going on from his years at the Track Team in high school and college. There's this scar he has on his left palm from falling once in the middle of a tournament. He turns his hand—

It's not bare, anymore. His wrist — it has a name.

His soulmate's name.

He stares. And stares and stares because what the hell. This has to be a joke, right?

It just has to be.

He has been within 100 metres of this person before multiple times. Has been to his childhood home, to the fucking police station he works at because hello — Derek Hale is one of Sheriff's Deputies, and Stiles is the Sheriff's son.

They've been within 100 metres of each other before.

But this has never happened.

But...

He rushes to his bedroom, naked, panicked, ecstatic. Picks up the phone from where he'd chucked it on the bed, opens the contact of a person he hasn't contacted since the last project they did together in high school.

Cora Hale picks up on fifth ring, when he's about to hang up and try again.

"Stilinski?" She sounds confused. "It's been a while. What's up?" A muffled voice, a male. Cora says, "Are you fucking kidding me? It can't be him — you've known each other for — it's impossible —" She's clearly not speaking to Stiles.

"Is Derek there?"

Cora stops talking.

"Cora, is he — did he get it too?"

Sounds of footsteps, labored breathing. Phone changes hands and then: "Are you Mieczysław Stilinski?"

Stiles stops breathing. It's real.

Derek is asking him the name nobody but his father and the people at the DMV know.

"I don't know any other Stilinski’s. Just your father and you," Derek is saying. He sounds confused, happy, breathless. "And I know your name starts with an M. I saw some papers on the Sheriff's desk once, by mistake but — how is it you?" A pause. "Not — I didn't — I mean like —"

"How is it me when we have been around each other for so long. I have been at your house, you've been working at the BHPD for... fuck, 3 years now?"

"Since I came back from NY, yeah."

"I don't know, Derek, I don't but I... you were at the mall today, right?" He just wants to be sure.

"Yes. Yeah. I was, I was buying a gift for my parent's anniversary."

"And today's my birthday, I was —"

"With your friends watching Star Wars. I know. I saw you and the Sheriff let the whole station know about it yesterday."

Stiles can't fucking believe this. And also... "I'm so fucking cold. I really should wear some clothes."

"What?"

"Long story short — Shower, saw the name, called the one Hale's number I had."

Derek's chuckle is sexy and seriously, how has he never heard it before? It's a crime. And Stiles should be in jail. At least then he would have met his soulmate earlier... but wait, that's a paradox. Isn't it?

"I thought you were short story long kind of person," Derek says, and follows up with, "And if you're free right now... I know it's late but, would you forsake your shower and meet me to figure out why he haven't met before?"

Stiles cuts the call.

Then calls Cora's cell again. Derek picks it up with an exhale that seems very anxious, so Stiles closes his eyes at his stupidity and admits, "That was a yes. My brain just jumped ahead a few steps. Please text me your number so we can let Cora have her phone back," Cora cheers in the background, "And I can end the call so that I can wear my clothes and you can text me whatever address and we can finally meet and I'm sorry for ending the call so abruptly and seriously why haven't we met before? It's so —"

Derek chuckles again, and really, it's such a nice sound. "Stiles, breathe. I don't want you to die just yet."

"I can absolutely do that, yep."

Silence.

"Stiles? Wear your clothes. I promise I'll help you out of them when —"

There's a sudden struggle at the other end, and then it's Cora's voice coming down the line, "Ew! No! Do it on your own phone. Stiles, I'm texing you my brother's number, so go! Now!"

She ends the call.

Stiles lets his own phone fall onto the bed, processes what happened for just a minute, and then smiles goofily when Cora makes good on her statement.

Somehow, even though they haven't interacted in all these years despite all the things connecting them to the same peg on the board, Derek texts Stiles: "Stop dawdling and come meet me at the diner on 5th. Remember to wear your clothes. For now."

It's all one block of text too, the dork.

Guess that's his dork now.

Greatest. Birthday. Ever.

[ohwaitimthewriter]

The Memory Keeper

Chapter 6: Cruise

Pairing: Noa x human!reader

Warnings: None!

Summarize: A woman, allowed to live as long as the virus keeps running through her body, living on autopilot for 260 years, is going to see her life takes a new turn, finding hope in something that might come to put an end to her wandering.

Words: 3k+

A/N: Hi there! After all this time, I've decided to post the first part of this chapter. So it's not complete in what I wanted to tell entirely about this chapter. However, I find myself with a rather significant lack of inspiration and motivation, which has been going on for over a month now. I hope that working in this way will enable me to start the rest of this chapter under better conditions.

In the meantime, I hope you'll like this first part!

Enjoy your reading 😊

The Memory Keeper Masterlist / Planet of the apes Masterlist

Gifs credit (1) & (2)

Your brain was about to collapse. Its cogs were running at full speed in an engine flooded by years of letting yourself sink. Reaching the bottom of the ocean and letting yourself be carried along by the sea currents, getting used to seeing nothing but the crushing blackness of the abyss. Getting the engine running again made the rusty nuts creak, and no matter how many times you jabbed the storm-shaken screws with a screwdriver, it felt as if every turn sheared through your temples.

And everything was suddenly too heavy. The weight of your head ended up in the palm of your hands as your fingers desperately tried to cling to the hairline that defined your forehead.

Your cogs floundered in the muddy sand of the seabed that had become your brain. A flooded, clogged and slimy wading pool that struggled to rid itself of the stagnant seaweed that had accumulated until it filtered out the slightest particle of emotion that dared to try and find its way back to the surface. Drowning in your own wading pool. In your own brain, so as not to see the immeasurable extent of the damage inflicted by the tidal wave that had left you shipwrecked.

Shipwrecked. Today, it was difficult to remember when the boat had capsized. Had it happened gradually? As each crew member fell overboard? One after the other. And despite the lifebuoys, despite the rafts, all you could do was watch them sink, helpless as the ocean slowly took what had always belonged to it.

Shipwrecked on a wandering ship, meant to stay afloat despite the shattered hull and torn sails. Sometimes you still wondered why the ocean had chosen never to come and get you. The one that decided to toss you around like a lost buoy in the middle of the blue vastness, the one that made you swallow water at will, knowing full well that salt water couldn't carry you off. The one that dragged you to the open sea with no promise of ever seeing the end of it. Now the ocean was offering you the chance to wash ashore on a white sandbank.

But how do you dock without a captain at the helm?

A broad hand came to rest on your shoulder, engulfing half your shoulder blade, and a few comforting taps pressed against your shoulder.

“How do you know his words?”

Raka. He seemed to have a better grasp of the concept of empathy than did his friend. But you couldn't blame Noa. Even you didn't know how to steer your boat. So to ask a near-stranger to trust you to navigate between waves and sea rocks and reach that sandbank…

And how could you dock without a captain at the helm?

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

The world was changing.

And the more you watched it burn away, the more you realized there was no one left. There was no one to tell the story. Radio, TV news, newspapers, books… no one would run them or write them. The human ability to convey an event around the world as we would slip a letter into a mailbox had gone to ashes when the virus had set humanity ablaze.

You no longer knew what the world was becoming, and only its progress could be observed directly through the lens of the camera you'd found in the ruins of a crumbling city center.

There was no one left to hold on to a lost humanity… except you. These history books, these tales of the years that modern society had never had the pleasure of exploring in its own lifetime, but only through the remnants that others recounted - in those historic eras of the birth of societies - were going to be the last. And the world you knew would eventually die in the memories of the few humans who would in turn die out without being able to ensure an offspring.

Only you would be left to remember this humanity. And if you dared to hope that the memories of the apes around you would be passed down through the generations, there was little hope that humans would live on in their memories and the tales you imagined would come to life around the rise of simian societies.

Perhaps that's what prompted you to bring back that camera. A Polaroid you knew would only last a year, or as long as you could find enough to keep it going between the batteries and photo paper it consumed with every click to capture an event, a group of apes fishing, or the sometimes gigantic wooden constructions rising several meters above your head.

Those pictures that were instantly printed would stay. They would tell the story. They would remember the time when humanity had been turned upside down and could not turn back. They would remember the new world that was being built under your admiring gaze. And they wouldn't forget. They wouldn't forget what the world had been, what humans had done and what the world was about to become.

It was important. You couldn't fully imagine how significant it was, but you'd been steeped in history classes and there was something comforting about knowing about a past you'd never witnessed. Perhaps because it was proof… the only proof of the existence of the past.

And if you'd been willing to give up the humanity you'd lived in, you weren't yet ready to forget its existence.

Through the lens, you could see the symbol made from pieces of wood hanging at the entrance to the village. A circle containing the shape of a four-pointed star. The symbol of Caesar, his words and the ideology he embodied. It was the kind of memory one shouldn't forget.

“Why… symbol?”

A sudden jolt.

Your finger pressed the button, completely out of focus on the image you'd just tried to center, and the click was followed by the distinctive sound of a photo printing. Your eyes turned for a second to the owner of the baritone voice as an amused sigh escaped your lips when you saw the blurred picture emerge from the polaroid.

“Because it's important.” You answered casually, a small smile on your face.

Caesar puffed through his nostrils, lips pursed in a brief upward movement as he tried to grasp the interest you had behind every picture you took. He'd seen it all before, thanks to Will. He knew humans liked that sort of thing even if it made no sense to him.

“It's important to remember.”

You went on, again looking into the lens to adjust the image of the symbol. This time, the photo came out clearly and the four-pointed star stood proudly in the center, the angle of the picture making it even more imposing than it was.

Caesar remained silent, his face eternally scowling, but you had a well-trained eye, you spotted a certain curiosity well hidden in the corner of his solemn gaze and you handed him the picture with a big smile.

“Long from now, the apes will be able to remember, thanks to this photo.” You carried on, lowering the camera to observe with your own eyes the life of the apes displayed in front of you.

Caesar listened carefully, and the ridge of his eyes hardened, puzzled by your words.

“Why… keep… the past?”

A very human notion, certainly. What's the point of remembering what yesterday was when today brings everything you need? And you seemed to be asking yourself the same question. Caesar didn't often see you with your eyebrows furrowed, your facial features slightly tense as your eyes sought a suitable answer to give him. Your hand went to the back of your neck to try and soothe the tension in your muscles, and he knew from this simple gesture that you were going to need time to build up a thought that you probably hadn't even considered yet.

You kept this attitude only in those moments when a simple question made you question again everything you were sure of, and Caesar took a certain pride in it. An ape making a human doubt. There was something exhilarating behind this feat. Even if you'd never seemed narrow-minded in your ideas, it was pleasant to see you reflect on a notion that seemed so obvious to you.

Humans were always like that. Sure of themselves and their beliefs. Confident that their values were the best, without questioning for a second their credibility or the nuances that might exist.

Why remember the past? What was the point of knowing about the advent of human societies? The horrors and destructive wars? The great names of men and women who have left their mark on history in one way or another? The great dates, whether of atrocity or freedom?

And beyond human history, and in the more mundane events of everyday life, what was the point of remembering our childhood home? Or that old aunt telling of her travels to the other side of the world? Or that birthday when nobody came?

Your fingers traveled to your wristband, tracing the outlines of the polished bone pieces under Caesar's gaze. If not for this wristband, or this lame hip, what would drive you to remember why Caesar and his kind had taken you under their wings? There was nothing else. Your body had forgotten the torture and pain. There was nothing tangible to prove the existence of abuse apart from that wristband and that hip. The brain was quick enough to forget what was of no use to it or what was too painful to remain in living memory. And if the brain forgot, if there was nothing to remind it to remember, how could one prove the existence of what had been?

And… why should one prove it?

“Because it existed… and… if we forget, how could we do any better?”

Caesar snorted, and you watched his eyes widen dubiously. Had humans done better? He wasn't very knowledgeable about humanity's past, and on second thought, maybe he wasn't interested enough: whatever had been, good or bad today, that's what was important.

“Humans… have they done better?”

Caesar was skeptical, and had every reason to be. On second glance, perhaps humans were doing worse today. The lesson was never learned, and the human was diving headfirst back into his bad habits, making sure to choke on them. This made you smile. His skepticism was right in spite of you, and you even suspected that he knew more about the human species than you did.

“No,” you answered with a giggle. “But apes might.”

There was a glimmer of hope in your eyes. The human cause was lost, and had been for a long time. Even before the virus had spread, humanity had already begun to dig its own grave. Beyond the wars and hatred, the Earth itself was rotting from the inside out under the impact of the human hand. It had only ever been a matter of time before humanity came to the end of its reign.

You weren't even sorry to see your species die out. You were only sorry that it was taking everything else with it.

There was a form of supplication in your eyes. Let the apes do better. Better than wars, better than hatred, better than the destruction of nature, better than the aggressive ambition of some men, better than… the human species in all its consequences.

Caesar raised his head proudly. He was sure of one thing: apes were, in all their consequences, better than humans.

“Apes… don't need… to remember… to do better.”

His gruff voice was adamant, and despite his assurance, a twinge of anxiety settled in the pit of your stomach. How could one do better if no one remembered what had been? You looked up at him, and couldn't help admiring the self-assured features Caesar wore on his face. Broad-shouldered and imposing, his chest puffed out in defiance of anyone who wished to argue with him, what would become of simian society if he were no longer present in the minds of the apes?

You saw it every day. All you had to do was say his name and the apes would bend their backs without batting an eyelid. But none were afraid of him. Caesar had earned the respect of his people because they knew how, thanks to him, they had won their freedom. They respected him and his words, because they remembered.

“In 300 years, don't you want to become the legend of Grumpy Caesar?”

Your gently teasing laugh was greeted by a grumble, probably offended by the nickname you kept harping into his ears, but for the benevolent smile that followed every time, Caesar could never take it the wrong way. It was you, and he'd learned that your words of affection sometimes resembled those teasing words. Those words always followed by a slight, playful shove of the back of your hand against his biceps as your lips stretched happily. He'd also noticed that this was the only time you dared to touch him. And that made him smile.

To become a legend, there was no such thing in the minds of the apes. When his body had breathed the last breath of oxygen that life would grant him, and the sun had decided to stop shining on him, the apes would find another sturdy branch on which to stand. This was how it was meant to be, and his name would become nothing more than the caress of the wind, forgotten once it had gone by.

“Too faraway, apes will forget.”

Caesar preferred to sign these words. Sign language always seemed to have a deeper meaning. When audible words didn't speak loud enough to resonate emotions swallowed up far beneath the ribcage, signs spoke with more truth. A truth that seemed very heavy to you.

The apes will forget. Perhaps that was the truest and saddest thing of all. His name will crumble in the memory of the apes like wood devoured by growing flames. And once the wood has shattered, it will simply lie in a pile of ashes, waiting for the breeze to carry it away and scatter it as it pleases until there's nothing left.

It was his truth. At least, if there was nothing to remind them of him. Your eyes fell on the camera hanging around your neck before settling back on Caesar. He was looking at his people the way he looked at his sons, and if that's all it took to save his name, whether he understood it or not, you'd immortalize the little stones that were building his empire as many times as he'd let you.

〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️〰️

An empire shaped like a ship to endure the years, and when it was the captain's turn to walk the plank to fulfill the ocean's call, the rudder had slipped into your hands. And you accepted it. You knew that sailing against wind and tide would be an arduous task. You knew it. And it seemed to you that you had fought well. Sails wide open to catch as much wind as possible and the remaining crew paddling hard against the pull of fallen anchors. The endeavor had been going on for a long time.

For so long.

For too long.

Every crew member was an anchor desperately dragged along by the ship you were trying to keep afloat until the mainsail gave way. The increasing weight and the fading wind had worn away the fabric until only the tatters floated scattered in the wind. And the boat that had sailed at full speed for so long found itself slowing down… more and more, until the natural swell of the blue vastness became its only driving force.

No matter whether you wanted to go to port or starboard, the ocean pushed the boat in the direction it thought best without ever consulting you, sometimes leading it into storms where the sea grew high above the masts. You often watched helplessly as the huge waves crashed over the deck, washing away the rubble that an earlier storm had caused, and soon, shipwreck would be bound to occur.

How long had you been at the helm before you let go? A rudder that had let you down long before you gave up. And how long had you just watched that rudder go from left to right at the mercy of the ocean without doing anything about it?

You weren’t sure how to act upon it. As natural as it had been in the past, navigating Caesar’s memory again across this ocean had become a mystery.

If time hadn’t run its best sprint, perhaps there would have been a time when explaining would have been easy.

But today…

Today, the sand bank on the horizon might just become a mere illusion.

Your glassy gaze fell on Raka as he watched your fingers run over the frame and brush against Caesar's image. Such a simple question demanded an equally simple answer. But was it really? Telling them that you'd known him would most certainly trigger a cataclysm that would turn your dilapidated ship upside down, and you were already lacking strength at the mere thought of having to put it back afloat. Swimming to the end of an endless journey was not in your plans, even if the countdown to impact was already ticking away in front of your eyes.

Raka's green eyes eventually found yours, and a series of soft hootings encouraged you to speak as you could only swallow as you spoke anxiously.

“ What about you… how do you know them?”

You watched his gaze slide from your eyes to Noa's, who was listening to your conversation with great interest. His curious stare dropped like a domino to the gauntlet on his left hand, and with a precise gesture, Noa pulled out a pendant crafted from what looked like white wood.

A pendant in the shape of…

“The order of Caesar, naturally!” Raka exclaimed as if it was an obvious fact.

A four-pointed star.

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[slxsherwriter]

Out of Trauma Comes....

Fandom: Don't Breathe

Pairing: Norman Nordstrom x reader

Warnings: Child death, loss of limbs, ptsd struggles

Word Count: 4,076

Author's Note: I have fallen down the Stephan Lang rabbit hole. This is the first in a series of Norman one-shots. Reader does have a military background. This decision was based off of the relationship that Norman had with Hernandez in the second movie. Hope everyone likes! As always, not beta read, so mistakes are mine.

You woke with a start, gasping for breath that wouldn't seem to fill your lungs. For several agonizing seconds, it felt like it would never happen before finally, your body kickstarted itself. The silence of the room was only broken by the brief choking gasps of air as you tried to regulate your breathing. Then your ears registered the frantic beeping of a heart rate monitor. Your own. Forcing yourself to take a few slower breaths, it calmed down as you managed. Stiffness below reminded you that you were stuck in a hospital bed. Right. The accident. 

With a grimace, you forced yourself into a seated position. The pain was a worthy distraction, taking your mind off the vivid flashbacks that played before your eyes. Like a bad horror movie that you couldn't pause. 

A nurse came in, far more quickly than they had the past three weeks. Must have been fewer patients on the floor for them to monitor. When you had first arrived four weeks ago, despite your status, it had taken time for them to show up. 

“Everything okay?” No, nothing was okay in the least about the entire situation. Swallowing down the words, you found yourself giving a shaky smile. 

“Yeah, fine. Just a bad dream.” PTSD. Post traumatic stress disorder, that's what it was. You knew well enough to recognize the signs after seeing some of your closest brothers go through the same thing. “Sorry, didn't mean to cause any worry.” She gave you a softer smile, one that felt like pity. You hated every second of it. Of all of this, if you were honest. You wanted to be back home, away from the world and everyone in it. Why should you have lived?

 “Not a problem at all.” She checked over your IV line and monitor before moving to the door, taking her leave. But before she fully left, she looked over her shoulder. “From what I heard, you're getting out of here tomorrow.” There may not have been a God but that news could have brought you to belief. 

“Thanks…for everything.” 

*****

Using the crutches to get into your home, you grunted with the effort. The cracked ribs were healing and could bear the brunt of your weight with some protest and discomfort but you weren't hanging around any longer than absolutely necessary. 

A chill ran down your spine and the urge to look at the street was almost overwhelming. But you knew what you would find there if you did. Just repeated flashes of blood, broken glass, and phantom pains. Unconsciously, your jaw had started to clench, something you only realize when you heard a small crack. 

“Fuck.” The word bounced through the empty house. A slow sigh and you were moving to the staircase. Life now had a whole new set of obstacles and challenges. Ones that you couldn't have ever dreamed of if one were to ask you. Yet, here you were. “Don't have a fucking pity party now. Get your ass up the stairs so you can take a proper shower. Then, you can check on Norman.” it was the right thing to do. You had heard from your older neighbor just once in the entire time you had been in the hospital. Understandable, given the circumstances and what he had to be dealing with, but it didn't quell the drive to follow up. Having been a neighbor for the better part of five years now, you had grown close to Norman and Emma. Just the thought of the girl was enough to constrict your throat and threaten to have tears spilling from your eyes once more. 

White knuckling the crutches, you slowly made your way up the stairs. It was both painstaking and painful but there was a small sense of accomplishment when you hit the top landing. One thing out of the way, many many more to come. No use in getting too excited over it all just yet. The shower was the next thing to tackle. 

***********

Having only fallen once, the shower could be considered a success. Dressing wasn't as difficult as anticipated, the bed that you had easy to get on and off of with the wall right there that you could brace yourself against. Now, down the stairs? That was a whole other ballgame. Slow, very slowly, you worked down each step. It probably would have been easier to admit defeat and go down on your ass but that stubborness that often got you in trouble decided to rear it's head. This was life now so it wasn't like something that you wouldn't have to get used to. Might as well start that right now.

The shower made you feel a bit better. Something about being able to shower at home, in your own space, with your typical washes and shampoos just did something different than when you were stuck showering in a hospital. While you still were in tremendous discomfort that bordered on pain that was barely tolerable, you still felt better. Plus, being out of those hospital clothes just helped give a little mental boost. 

Tossing a jacket over your shoulders, you opened the door with a slow breath. The street was quiet, just as it often was. There were so few left in this neighborhood, the stranglehold of the economic crisis squeezing life out of Detroit day by day. Those that remained were too headstrong to go more than anything else. You and the man across the street had that in common. Not the only thing. The memory that came of the first meeting had you wanting to laugh. It was either laugh or break out into tears because the bad came rushing hard. Shaking away the thoughts as if the physical action could dislodge and remove those mental images. 

The walk across the street didn't take too long, though getting up his steps took a few moments. It seemed that Shadow knew of the presence on the porch before you could even knock. The bark that came from inside was excitement, something recognizable and in a way somewhat comforting. It was normal. Routine. Despite the fact that nothing about this would ever be the normal that you both once knew. There was no answer to the rap of knuckles against the wood. Not for a minute. Or five. 

A part of you wondered if you should just leave him be. You had your own trauma from the entire thing but his loss was so much greater than your own. A leg compared to a child? No comparison. Still, something rolled in your gut at the thought of leaving Norman to his misery, grief, and pain. You had been alone in the hospital. Being alone and isolated was never good. So, that thought made you knock again and call out. 

“Norman?” Your voice nearly cracked and you had to take a second to take in a breath. The situation called for composure. Letting your own emotions shine through wouldn't help the moment at all. “I'm sure you don't want to see anyone right now…” What words were supposed to be spoken for this sort of thing? Huffing out in frustration, you stared at the door. 

“Can you please let me in? You don't have to talk. I know you aren't alright, I wouldn't expect you to be but seeing you would at least settle my own mind. Please?” Maybe appealing to that part of him would get the older man to agree. Another few moments passed, bringing about a sense of defeat. This wasn't something to barrel through, to hit head on like a bull in a china shop. If Norman didn't want to see anyone,you couldn't force your presence upon him. At least not with his house closed up like this. Just as you were getting ready to turn around, locks disengaging rang out and the door opened. Shadow's bark was significantly louder, the thump of his tail against the door frame audible. 

He looked rough, like he hadn't been sleeping. Something that was relatable. More than that, it was in the way that he held himself. A man defeated had a certain posture after all. An awkward silence fell over the two of you as you stood there before the door opened a bit more and he stepped to the side, a silent signal to come inside. The crutches hopefully made enough noise for him to be able to keep his feet out of the way as you entered the home, as mindful of where you were placing them as you could be. The last thing that was needed was for you to cause a physical injury to the man. 

“When did you get home?” 

“Today.” A grunt was the response that you got and honestly, you hadn't expected much more. The house was dark, though it didn't matter much to Norman and you weren't going to say a damn thing. He led you to the kitchen, where he was having some coffee from the smell that lingered in the air. 

“They have her in jail.” That perked your ears up as you eased yourself into the seat. Crutches were kept close by just in case quick movement was needed.

“Good.” Your voice had come out firmer than intended. But really, it was where the young woman deserved to be. She had killed someone, not just someone but a child. All because she had been stupid about drinking and driving. Frankly, at this rate, she shouldn't leave. Two lives permanently altered in ways that could never be repaired by one decision of a third party. Maybe it would have been just injuries to you and Emma if you had moved faster. Hurling your body in the way of the oncoming car in an attempt to get the girl out of the way or at least shield her to some degree had been an instant reaction. If only it would have worked. 

Clearing your throat a little, you tried to shrug off the anger that had been growing in presence day after day for the last two weeks. “It's no less than deserved. The police hadn't been by to talk much to me besides that first week I was actually conscious. I've been a bit out of the loop on what is happening.” The idea of checking your phone had fallen to the wayside in the focus of getting ready to leave the hospital. He set a cup of coffee down in front of you without having asked. The warmth of the cup seeped into your chilled hands, causing you to close your eyes for just one moment. 

“She'll rot in jail.” She better. But it wasn't like a trial was going to happen any time soon. Those things took time. An extended amount of time, with additional suffering to come for the both of you. Norman fell silent for a long while, staring off in that unseeing fashion of his, eyes seemingly focused just above your right shoulder. What more was there to say?  “You're on crutches.” An observation without any real direction.

“Yep.”

“They wouldn't give you a prosthetic?” 

“I opted not to get one right away. Getting out of there and home was more important to me. I have an appointment set up in two weeks with a physical therapist and someone who can fit me for one.” Your voice grew softer for just a second, obvious to the both of you. Was it self consciousness that caused it? A worry of bringing up something that would upset him? 

“And your other injuries?” A wince that you were thankful could not see came before you could stop it. A feeling of guilt crawled the back of your throat, robbing you of your voice for a mere moment. 

“Things that will heal with time. Some medicines for the rest of my life.” And the daily reminder that you just hadn't acted quick enough. Something that would haunt you every time you looked down and saw the empty space where your right left should have been. “All things that I can manage.” He hadn't said anything about himself, about how he was dealing. Poorly. There was no need to put a word to it but hearing it would at least lead in a direction of knowing what to do to help him. He was deflecting, though you had pleaded with him to let you in on the basis of not having him talk. Silently, you were able to reach out and carefully curl your fingers around his hand. For a brief moment, tension wracked you as the expectation of him pulling away reigned up. Instead, there was a slight tremble and he was curling his own fingers in response, squeezing her hand tightly. 

*****

Daily trips over to Norman's became routine. It was good for the both of you, in all honesty. Getting out of the house instead of sulking around and wallowing, despite arguing that it wasn't a pity party, did you no good. And the same could be said for the older man. A familiar motion that helped dictate the day and forced the both of you to keep to a schedule. He was a little more open in talking about it, letting you know what the detectives had to say and where everyone was at with the case. You couldn't speak to the sinking feeling that rolled in your gut any time that it was discussed but it was shoved to the side and never mentioned. The man had enough stress. 

He was good for forcing you to talk about where you were at with your physical therapy and the prosthetic. You had been fitted for it several weeks ago. Things weren't one size fits all. The molding process had been interesting, with a reassurance that it would be correct once it came in. And finally, after a long wait, it came in two days ago. You hadn't realized physical stress that just the therapy would have you going through, let alone the entire concept of learning to walk again. Because that was what it was. Relearning to walk. Balance would be all new, weight shifts entirely different, and movement to adjust to when it came to walking. 

There had been an argument between yourself and your therapist that had left you stewing, in a rotten mood that was volatile at best. Norman had realized something was wrong when he ran into you while out walking Shadow. Shadow, as always, let out that excited bark and his tail started going a mile a minute. It was not acknowledged on your end and the silence was clearly enough of a tip off for him.

“Did it go that poorly today?” You jumped, startled by the comment, and the fact that he had engaged when you hadn't said a damn thing. A huff was the only response he got for a long moment. 

“I ended up in an argument with my therapist.” The words were a little sullen. Not typical at all. He waited patiently, not saying anything else, forcing you to elaborate. Pulling the information out of you without being too forceful but with the knowledge that he could be as stubborn as you. “They wanted to keep the prosthetic there until I properly learned to walk….” The words caught for a moment, not wanting to admit to struggling with it. Everything about the weight distribution felt wrong to your body. 

“I wanted to be able to bring it home so that I can work at my own pace, without all those eyes on me.” He hummed for a moment, not saying anything else right away, mulling over the information as his hands folded over top of his cane. 

“They let you?” 

“Yes.”

“Then why are you sitting here?”

“What?”

“If they let you bring it home, why are you sitting here and not walking?” The words that your therapist had said rang around your head. Coupled with the frustration over the entire situation, you had opted to sit and stew in the anger. It was easier. Mentally and physically. Still, Norman was right. And if there was one person in the world that you couldn't argue with right now, it had to be Norman. That sight less gaze seemed to settle on you, his head ever so slightly tilted, listening for your reaction. You knew the signs well enough by now. “Get your things and come over.” Now, that was entirely unexpected. Realizing that he was serious, you pulled yourself up and moved to grab everything into a bag.

*******

Norman knew his house intimately, which is the reason why he chose to do it in his space rather than yours. Every uneven floor board that would cause a balance shift, which wall would easily be reached as a brace if falling down. And how to move easily through the space, forcing you to move after him. Like a game of chase. An annoying game of chase.  

But there seemed to be a method to his madness as you were starting to get the hang of movement. It wasn't just walking in a straight line. No, this was actual movement, natural in hoe you would operate day to day. There were plenty of stumbles, sending you crashing down to the hard wooden floor. But the gruff responses demanded that you get back to your feet. 

Exhaustion began to tug at the edges of your consciousness. Muscles ached and protested each movement as they strained further and further under unfamiliar stress. The stumbles became more common and that sense of anger came rushing back, but along with it an embarrassment that you weren't picking up as fast as you wanted. That you were looking like a fool in front of Norman. 

He had demanded that you attempt the stairs. Well, more like a suggestion without room for any argument. It took effort to even think at this point how to shift your weight and the movement needed to swing your leg. Norman was close this time, closer than he had been while moving throughout the house. A brace of sorts, just in case there ended up being a tumble down the stairs. 

The first step was managed well enough, the second with a little more difficulty but by the third, your body had decided that it had enough. Thankfully, you want tumbling forward instead of backwards into Norman. Your fingers scrapped against the wood of the stairs, a shaky breath taken as your throat constricted for a moment. 

“I think that's enough for today. Come on, let's get you resting.” The raspy, grizzled voice of the older man was the only thing keeping you tethered to reality at this point; grounding you in a way that let the desire to scream, to cry, to throw things fade into the background. You were tired, hurt, and angry. But the warm hands against your hips helped to guide you back to a standing position. “Think you can get back down? Or do you want the crutches?”

“Might as well try.” The stairs were narrow, so Norman couldn't stand beside you. But, he stayed in front of you despite the risk of being toppled into, hands remaining against your hips to help act as an extra brace. The stabilization actually helped as you managed to get down the two steps, nearly sagging into the wall to your left. The older man had the audacity to chuckle. You wanted to be upset about it but found that you didn't have it in you. 

“We will work more tomorrow.” 

“Norman, you don't have to…”

“I'll stop by after my morning walk with Shadow.” You knew the routine well enough after all. When the man had his mind made up, he was all but impossible to deter. It was in that moment that you realized his hands were still pressed against you. A fact that you hardly minded. They weren't moving and neither was he as he was still crowded close. The presence was both exciting and comforting. You would be a liar if you said that he hadn't felt attraction to the man, had since you had first met. But it had never seemed appropriate. 

“Okay.” Again, it was an argument that wasn't going to be winnable. His mind was set. This close, you could see the way that his lips seemed to twitch upward, the hints of a smile present. And in response, you found yourself mirroring the expression. “I'll be ready.”

“Good.” With that confirmation, he pulled you away from the wall, as if you were nothing more than a feather in his grasp, one arm sliding around your waist to help you keep your balance. “You can take it off on the couch. Do you need to do anything with it now?” 

“Gotta make sure I don't have any blisters, pressure patches, or breakdowns in the skin.” That was easy enough to focus on, even as the warmth of his body beside yours was making it difficult to focus. “I'll clean up when I get home and use the cream that they gave me.” He helped you get settled down on the couch. 

“Can I?” His hands moved forward before hesitating. You hadn't had anyone besides the doctors and nurses touch the area. You hated having to do it yourself. But, as he waited for permission, you found that you couldn't deny the request. 

Carefully, you took his hands and guided them to the prosthesis. Norman moved his hands slowly over the entire thing, kneeling beside the couch to be able to trail them down to the foot before back up, all the way up to your thigh. 

“They did a good job.” Again, the touch lingered. For a second, you swore he could hear your heart racing, the almost unsteady beat loud in your ear. The moment was far more intimate than it had a right to be. Were you reading into it too much? Maybe. Norman hadn't exactly shown all that much interest in anything more than the steady friendship that had formed between the two of you.

“Yeah.” Finally, he pulled away and inched up to settle onto the couch beside you. The entire world felt off kilter, in an entirely new way. “Yeah, it's supposed to ultimately function better than some of the older models. I didn't exactly understand the technical stuff on how the knee hinge works but I know it cost the VA a pretty penny.” 

Carefully, the process of removing it was begun. The movements were still a little foreign to you but something you were getting the hang of; eventually they had said you would be able to do it in your sleep. Norman's fingers wrapped around your forearm, squeezing lightly. Actions paused immediately, you glanced towards him, trying to determine what the touch was for. 

“Give yourself a second.” You didn't understand what he meant. “You're shaking. And I can hear the little noises of pain.” You hadn't realized that you were even making noise, and now that he had pointed it out, you could feel the tremors in your hands and arms. He had noticed it all before it had registered. 

After a few moments, the process was finished and you tucked the prosthetic in the bag, along with the sock. The skin was a little red and there were some indentations along the pressure points but overall, nothing looked worrisome or terrible. Thankfully. 

“Better?” A rush of gratitude welled up. Shadow nudged your hand on the other side and in that moment, you realized that just as you hadn't wanted Norman alone, you weren't either. Swallowing hard to push back the emotion and chalking it up to the exhaustion that you were feeling, it took a second to respond. 

“Yeah, better. Thanks, Norman.” Unable to help it, you found yourself leaning into him just a bit as you scratched Shadow behind the ear. It didn't feel like it was too much or stepping over the line after the way that Norman had been close before. Hopefully, that wasn't too bold an assumption. For a second, it may have been when he seemed to tense before you could feel him relax. The final reassurance was when his arm curled around your shoulders, an unfamiliar but incredibly comforting weight that brought a smile to your face.  

[touyaism]

better than him — touya todoroki

(cross posted from ao3)

wc: 5,272

content: your boyfriend cheated on you, again, and your older brother isn't pleased (or is he?)

warnings: dubcon, incest, minor voyeurism

You nearly threw your phone at the wall when you got the message.

The text was wordless, with only a single video attached from your best friend. It didn’t need an explanation; the video spoke for itself. Your boyfriend was with another girl again, even in the dull atmosphere of the club and through the bad quality of the Snapchat recording, you could make out his stupid face and the hickeys on his neck as clear as day. The taller woman was all over him, hands digging into his hair, pulling his face closer to hers, and you watched as he smiled against her, letting her do as she pleased like he had every right to do so.

You’d had enough, you opted for screaming into your pillow just to let some of the rage out. You could still hear the video blaring on your phone, the club's loud music sounding obnoxiously through the small device. Part of you wished you’d shown up to that event tonight, just so you could be there to beat his ass.

But no, instead, here you were, at eleven in the evening, screaming into your poor fluffy pillow. It felt good, sure, but you still felt like punching something (someone) afterwards. You slapped the pillow a few times, but it didn’t suffice (shocker).

You were only snapped out of your rage when someone knocked on your bedroom door.

“Hey,” Touya said, monotone and evidently fed up with your drama already. “The hell’s gotten into you?”

Your brother had weird ways of showing he cared, even though he would never admit to it. And more often than not, he wouldn’t take no for an answer.

“Go away,” you groaned. You weren’t in the mood for this. Not when you felt like punching someone.

“No,” he said, typical, and then somehow, forced your locked door open.

The sight he was presented with was you on your stomach, face planted into your pillows and your hair completely dishevelled. You kicked your feet on the bed out of frustration, the stuffies and blankets falling off your bed in the process.

“Fucking hell,” he took a step inside and shut the door behind him, locking it. “What I’m getting from this is that you’ve been possessed, am I right?”

“Sure feels like it,” you groaned through a mouthful of pillows, the anger laced in your words perfectly.

“Oh? What’s this?” He said with a smirk. You heard him shift closer and heard the sound of the video change as he took the phone. He rewound it to the beginning, and when he fully understood what was happening, he laughed like he wasn’t surprised at all. As frustrated as you were, you didn’t blame him. You knew he always hated the guy, and obviously, it was for good reason.

“What did I fucking tell you?” And at last, he turned your phone off so the video would stop playing. “Fuck, you want me to kill him for you?”

“No,” you said, finally turning over onto your back so you could face him. He was already in his pyjamas, red flannel pants and a plain white tee that sat perfectly on his frame. And by the way he was standing, you could tell he was angrier than he was letting on.

“Fuck, I wanna be the one to do it,” you continued.

He laughed at that, taking a seat on the end of your bed, picking up a few of the stuffies that had fallen off as he did so. You sat up to face him better, not bothering to readjust your clothes on your body. One of your loose straps was sliding down your shoulder, but it didn’t matter, not when you were comfortable around him. He was your family, after all.

“I don’t wanna see him with you again, got it?”

“Yeah, whatever,” you smiled, you knew he was serious by the way he was glaring at you, and you knew your brother well enough to know he wouldn’t hesitate to kill for you.

“That didn’t sound very convincing, swear it to me.”

“C’mon, Touya, who else do I have?”

“ What ?”

Oh, now you’d done it, hadn’t you?

“I need someone to keep me company, he fills the void sometimes,” you sighed. “I get lonely, you know?”

“No,” he snatched your phone from the bed, “I’m deleting his fucking contact.”

“Touya!” You reached over to grab it from him, but his free hand quickly pinned you down, your back hit the bed, and he hardly flinched as you struggled against him.

“Fuck, where is he? You got him under a fake name?”

“Touya!” You squirmed some more to no avail. “Let go!”

“No, fucking tell me where you put him,” he said, gripping onto your wrist tighter, but not once taking his eyes away from your phone screen, angrily scrolling through God knows what.

How he knew your password in the first place, you had no idea.

You groaned, knowing full well there was no way out of this, “I put him under ‘No Caller ID’.”

“Wow, how sneaky,” he said sarcastically. And just like that, he turned the screen around so you could watch him delete all traces of the contact.

“Whatever,” you rolled your eyes, turning your face away from him. “I’ll just be fucking lonely.”

“Hey,” he tossed your phone away with little regard for its safety. “How can you say something like that when you’ve got the coolest fucking brother in the world?”

“Huh? You tilted your head teasingly, “Natuso isn’t that bad, but you know that’s not what I mean when I say I’m lonely. Natsuo can’t help with… some things.”

“Oh? Good thing I wasn’t talking about Natsuo , then,” there was a growl in his voice, and you knew you’d pissed him off, but you couldn’t help but taunt him further.

“Oh? Who’s my coolest brother then?”

With his other hand, he grabbed your free wrist, bringing it up and pinning it above your head beside the other.

“Me, and you fucking know it.”

“Whatever,” you shifted, trying to free yourself, but it was helpless, all it did was cause your clothing to become even more dishevelled on your frame. And even though you felt comfortable around him, you were beginning to feel humiliated, beneath him like this and showing off just a bit too much skin.

“You still can’t help in the ways I need, if you know what I mean,” your tone fell more serious, hoping it would convince him to back off. But if anything, he only got closer, drawing his face down, breathing just inches away from your face.

“Yeah? Why not?” He continued.

“You’re my brother, ” you tried to push him away, but he forced himself on top of you to restrict your movements, sitting so your hips were between his thighs.

“Think I give a shit?”

Your eyes widened and instantly met his. He was smirking, but you still searched his expression for any hint of humour. He had to be joking, right?

“What?” You shifted beneath him again, trying to ignore the odd way his body was pressing against yours, his crotch dangerously close to your own. You moved, not liking the way it only made him smile down at you harder, his grip around your wrists threatening to cut off the circulation. You really were trapped, and if it was anyone else, you’d probably feel scared, vulnerable and exposed like this.

“Touyaaa~” You whined, “Stop being weird, I’ll tell Mom on you.”

“Mm, will you?” His face was only inches from you now, you gulped and ground your teeth together to stay silent. There was no way you could explain something as weird as this to her, and he knew it just as well as you did. He began to close the gap between you, lips just ghosting over yours, your noses barely touching.

“C’mon,” he whispered, “I know I can be better than him.”

You felt like a stranger in your own skin, heart racing and stomach doing somersaults from the contact. You dug your nails into your trapped palms stupidly hard. He was too close, weirdly close. One hand holding your wrists in place, the other reaching down and sliding underneath your chin, eyes staring into yours like you were his prey.

You swallowed.

“You’re really serious, aren’t you?”

His tongue licked the corner of his mouth, and you pressed your knees together unconsciously. You began to wonder what would happen if you just lifted your head, just a little bit, just enough to press your lips against his. You wondered how he would taste, would it feel wrong? Would it feel just the same as it did with other guys? You wanted to know how he would kiss you, his sister, if it was rough or gentle, slow or wet and sloppy.

It took every fibre of your being to fight away those thoughts.

“Stop it, Touya,” you spat. Still mustering whatever strength you could to squirm away from his firm hold.

“Go on, call Mom,” he chuckled. That stupid grin was still painted across his face, taunting you, tempting you. And at last, he let go of your wrists. You sighed in relief, but even now, there was no way you could free yourself. Not when he was on top of you like this. Not when he was so much bigger than you. You shoved a hand out towards him and flinched when you felt his chest against your palm. It was warm, solid, and for a second, you could feel his heartbeat racing, chest heaving with heavy, frustrated breaths. You pulled away almost as fast as you touched him, but didn’t dare move again.

“Oh?” He taunted again. “Fucking fight it, go on.”

As soon as those words came out, the harshness of his language hit your ears, you were a goner. Completely and entirely lost beneath him. You couldn’t fight your body’s natural reactions much longer. And when it became unbearable to not do so, you bit the bullet, and pressed your lips to his.

And, fuck, his lips were so damn soft.

The snakebite piercings tickled your bottom lip, and when you opened your mouth to kiss him deeper, he didn’t hesitate to slide in, teasing your bottom lip with his tongue piercing and biting down gently. You tried to be gentle with him, really, to not rush into things like a starved person, but Touya was starved, hungry and angry. He kissed you like he had a fucking point to prove. A gasp slipped from you as his tongue grazed yours, and you reached up and grabbed onto his shirt with one hand, reaching up for his neck with the other.

There was a stark hardness on top of you as he straddled you. A large hardness that pressed between your legs deliciously. You broke the kiss as you rolled your hips against him, more desperate for any sort of friction than you would ever admit.

Touya laughed a bit at your desperation, “and you’re telling me I’m the one being weird.”

Fuck. You stalled yourself at that. What the fuck were you doing? You opened your eyes after pulling away from him as much as you could, but his cocky expression was unreadable.

“Oh, no” he smiled, reaching down to peck you on the lips once more, “I didn’t say to stop. ”

He rolled his hips, rolled that painfully obvious erection in his pants against your clothed pussy. You tried to fight back a moan, but your efforts in concealing your pleasure were futile when your heart was racing like this, when your breathing was speeding up like you’d run a marathon, even at only the smallest of movements.

“C’mon, sis,” he continued, placing a peck against the side of your neck, “I know you want this.”

You closed your eyes, trying to ignore his taunts, because fuck, you couldn’t deny it now, not when you’d come this far. You squirmed beneath him again, just to feel him, and as if he’d caught on, he pressed himself into you. Your imagination ran wild, making you want to know just how big it was, how it felt in your hands, inside you.

And when he groaned, you knew, well and truly, you’d reached the point of no return.

“Just once,” you breathed, “and we’ll never speak of this again, got it?”

“Mm,” light pecks on the side of your neck became wet kisses, trailing down toward your exposed collarbone. “We’ll see about that,” he muttered against your skin, and you melted beneath him.

His body ran hot naturally because of his quirk, hot hands traced your sides, playing with your loose shirt, pushing it upward and revealing most of your stomach. You let him, squirming about as if you were inviting him to take everything off.

“So eager,” he smiled, finally lifting your shirt just so it could slide over your tits, exhaling shakily at the way they sprung so easily from your shirt. You tried to cover up, but before you could, he had his hands all over you, grasping, groping, pinching.

“Touya…” The sensation was new to you, to have such warm, big hands all over you like this, like they’d been dying for this exact opportunity. “Don’t be so-”

Your words left you as quick as they came when his hot mouth met your chest, tongue beginning at your collarbones, sucking the tender flesh and making his presence known in the form of gentle hickeys and bite marks. Your back arched into the gentle pain, pressing your chest up into him. You felt him smile against your skin at your body’s reaction, not long before biting down harder, evidently craving more of your cute little reactions to him.

“Mm?” He hummed against you as if daring you to finish your sentence. You couldn’t. Your mind was blank, only Touya occupied it. Touya, your brother, and his warm mouth on your skin, wasting no time in venturing further down, making gentle marks on your tits, tracing dangerously close to your nipples and teasing your sensitivity.

And despite everything, the wrongness of it all, you wanted more of him. You wanted to feel him everywhere.

One of his fingers began tweaking your nipple, distracting you from his mouth quickly closing in around the other, circling his tongue around the gentle peak and taking it between his hot lips. The piercings on his mouth touched you in ways you’d never known possible - with a precision that had your legs shaking for him.

“Fuck,” you breathed out, looking down at him, one tit in his mouth, the other held captive by the sweet torture of his fingers. His eyes opened, icy blue and glaring at you were his next meal. Your breath hitched at the sight, but in no way were you scared.

You needed more. So much more.

You bit your lip and pushed against him, harder than before, hoping maybe he would take the hint. He bit down on your nipple, gentle, but hard enough for you to cry out his name.

“Shh,” he pulled away. “You really want someone to hear you?”

“Please,” you continued, arching your hips up into him again, this time, your voice coming out in a high-pitched, pathetically desperate whine.

And at last, one hand slipped beneath the waistband of your pants, casually slipping under and moving his hot fingers over your clothed cunt. He pressed down harder, rubbing gently where he knew your clit was, and you gasped.

“Wow,” he teased, “someone really is excited, huh?”

It wasn’t like you could help it, not when his big hands felt that good, touching and grabbing you like he knew your body better than anyone else. He shifted his body above you, giving him enough room to begin pulling down your pants. You moved your legs, making it easier for him to slip the fabric away. He tossed them toward the corner of your room, knocking something over in the process, and when you looked up to check, he pressed his lips against yours again, pushing you back down onto the bed and trapping your there, entirely bare beneath him.

He didn’t even give you a moment to breathe before his hands were tugging at the waistband of your underwear, pulling and grabbing until he gave in, tearing the material in two in one swift motion.

“Touya!”

“Hm?” His middle finger found your clit, and your eyes fell closed. “C’mon, tell me how much you fucking love all of this.”

You frowned at him, “just fucking do it.”

“Tell me,” he repeated, “tell me how much you love your brother's hands all over you.”

“Stop,” you breathed, something like dread or guilt filling your gut at his words. But judging by his expression, he felt nothing of the sort. He slid his tongue along his front teeth, maintaining that smirk like the asshole he was.

“So fucking wet for me,” he slid his finger through your folds, achingly slow. “You don’t need to say anything, I know you love it.”

You wanted to hit him, push him off your bed and call for someone to get him the hell out, but your hands were far too busy tugging on his shirt, aimlessly pulling and trying to get it off. He understood quickly, and momentarily took his hands away from you to quickly pull it over his head. He aimlessly tossed it away, and this time, you didn’t care where the hell it landed. As long as he got back to whatever he was doing.

“Poor thing,” he cooed, rubbing his thumb in gentle circles on your clit, his middle finger tracing your slit and teasing your entrance. “You know how wrong this is, but you just can’t bring yourself to fight it, can you?”

You dug your nails into his bare shoulders, almost hard enough to draw blood, but he only laughed as he pushed his finger in knuckle deep.

Without any warning, your grip on his shoulder loosened, but your whole body went tense. Even just one of his fingers filled you up so well, the warmth of it was enough to make your eyes roll back. He smirked when your hips started to buck against it when he didn’t move right away, as if he was pleased by just how desperate you were to feel more of him.

He stayed like that for a moment, simply letting you fuck yourself on his idle hand. And eventually, one finger became two, and he angled his hand in a way that allowed you to grind your clit into his palm. You could feel yourself growing wetter, spilling and leaking all over his hand. And if he hadn’t already felt it, he definitely heard it. The lewd squelching was the only sound to fill the silence except for the sound of both of you breathing, deep, heavy, and both of you undeniably desperate for more.

“Fuck,” you breathed, “don’t m-move.”

You were close already, you’d worked yourself up too much, and his fingers were too damn big, reaching every place inside you without him even having to move an inch. You were so close, and you’d gotten there all by yourself. All he had to do was stay still for a second longer.

You should’ve known Touya wouldn’t cooperate with you.

“Nah,” he pulled his fingers out, painfully slow, making sure to brush it against your clit on the way out. “Not yet.”

“F-fuck you,” you said, collapsing beneath him in an attempt to catch your breath. You heard only the obnoxious sound of Touya sucking his fingers clean above you. Groaning around them like you were the best thing he’d ever tasted.

It was fucking disgusting.

You loved it.

You wanted to know what his mouth felt like between your legs, tongue lapping you up while those big hands of his held your thighs, keeping you still for him while his shoulders forced your legs apart.

“Please, Touya,” you whined. He hovered above you, eyes raking your body as his hands came down to hold you by the waist.

“Poor thing,” he smirked, “about to cum already, and I’ve hardly done anything to you.” You shivered at his words, and when his eyes met yours again, your heart skipped a beat.

“Please-”

You were cut off by the sound of somebody moving outside. The sound of light footsteps was enough for both of you to freeze, staring at one another wide-eyed as someone made their presence known in the room next door.

Where your eyes showed fear and apprehension, Touya’s showed challenge - some sick kind of excitement. Without taking his eyes away from you, he tugged at the waistband of his pants, rough as if in a hurry to be rid of them. He made no effort to conceal the sound of his belt, tossing the heavy thing to the side of your room and allowing it to crash against the wall.

You were about to protest, to scold him and tell him to stop, but once he’d pulled his pants down enough to reveal his boxers, he held his palm over your mouth, fingers holding your jaw firmly and tilting your face up toward his. You whined as he palmed his cock through his boxers, and he chuckled when your eyes widened at the sight of it. Even through the tented fabric, you knew something that big would struggle to fit all the way inside of you. When your eyes slowly drifted back up to meet his gaze, the asshole looked way too damn pleased with himself. He bit his bottom lip with a shit-eating grin on his face, clearly more than ready to devour you, his sweet little sister, whole.

You glared at him dangerously as he pulled his boxers down, just enough to let his cock bounce out, the thing was twice as big as you’d imagined it, thick and the length of it adorned with various barbell piercings.

You learnt something new about your brother every day, huh?

The ring on his tip was larger than the rest, already glistening in precome and just begging to tease the deepest spots inside of you.

With his boxers pulled down around his thighs, Touya moved his hands down to your thighs, forcefully pulling them apart to make room for him to get even closer. You exhaled through your nose as he ran his fingers between your folds again, smiling that same cocky grin as he pushed two fingers inside of you again, curling them right against your desperately needy g-spot. You clamped your eyes shut, fearful to make even the smallest of sounds as the person just outside continued to make noise by your bedroom door. Your nerves danced in your stomach as Touya shifted closer, and when you felt his bare erection against your thigh, your stomach flipped.

His fingers left you again as soon as he felt you begin to shake, the bastard.

And then you felt him press the head against your entrance. He teased it, moving ever so slightly so the coldness of his piercing could be known, and just when it got too much, he pulled his palm away from your mouth.

You gasped for air, as if your supply was somehow going to run out. “Touya-”

“Shh,” Touya soothed as he lifted up one of your legs to rest against his chest. You allowed him to do so, but not without making the apprehension visible in your expression.

There was no way you could be quiet like this, and whoever was outside was bound to catch on.

He pressed his cheek against your calf and waited for your body to relax before carefully pushing himself all the way inside - slowly, agonisingly so, but somehow still nowhere near slow enough to allow you to adjust to his size.

And fuck, did he stretch you fucking perfectly.

You whined, pathetically and far too loudly. But that didn’t matter, because evidently, Touya didn’t give a fuck about who heard you. He pulled out and shoved himself inside with no warning as if it was his goal to break you, to provoke you, to let them hear all of your adorable sounds.

He gripped you firmly and pushed in again harder, balls slapping against your ass as he bottomed out inside you. You had to bite your lip to stop yourself from crying out, and fuck, it didn’t even matter anymore, because you didn’t want him to stop. You needed him to keep moving to give you some sort of relief from the pressure in your gut. You needed him to fuck you until you forgot your own name, forgot about that stupid boyfriend of yours, and maybe so you could forget about the fact that the guy fucking you was your own older brother.

“So fucking tight,” he muttered and dragged his teeth along the skin on your leg, lips grazing your flesh hungrily. He looked down at you as you covered your face with your hands, squirming pathetically and vulnerably beneath him. He had to fight the urge to pluck them away from your face, he wanted to see how desperate you were, but your sounds told him more than enough.

“Please,” you begged, quiet enough so that only he could hear. “Go faster.”

He wanted to listen to you, every urge in his body was telling him to do just that. But more than anything, he wanted to hear you. Touya didn’t give a fuck who heard you. He wanted you to beg for it, to tell him you’ll never go back to that scum of a boyfriend and trust him instead. So he slowed down, even if it killed him to do so. He pumped out slowly, never sliding his cock in all the way, simply teasing you with the head.

“What the fuck,” you whispered through your teeth. “ Touya,” you scolded him, as if you had any right to do so as the younger sibling.

“Show me your face,” he smirked, “Come on, I wanna see you.”

You threw your hands to your sides, glaring at him as soon as your eyes made contact with his again.

What was supposed to be intimidating, a show of your frustration, only caused your stomach to sink. That same guilt, the looming knowledge that Touya was your brother, hung over your head like a bad omen of some sort. His face was usually so familiar, but not like this, not when he was looking at you like that.

“Good girl,” he cooed, pressing a kiss into your inner thigh. And fucking finally, he started moving again, hips snapping against yours unapologetically as his pace quickened.

Your entire body shook from the impact, and clearly, your poor bed frame felt it too. You cringed at the sound of it squeaking, combined with the sound of someone still lurking around in the room next door. Touya chucked, pounding into you even harder as if making as much sound as possible was his goal this whole time.

You couldn’t stop him now. You felt like you were going to split into two when he fucked you like this. You trembled and whined each time his cock bottomed out in the same spot, clashing into your sensitive walls violently, hitting places nobody had ever reached before, especially not like this. He reached places you didn’t even know you had.

“Fucking hell, Touya,” you spoke, shaky and wet as your eyes clouded with tears. You couldn’t handle it, he was too fucking big, too fucking good at this, and he’d effectively fucked you to the point of forgetting your stupid boyfriend already.

Fuck it, Touya was all you needed, it didn’t matter, not when it felt this fucking good.

“Yeah?” He said through a grunt. “Tell me how good I am, sis.”

You knew what he wanted you to say. As if it wasn’t already obvious.

“You’re-” You whined, “ fuck , you’re better than him.”

He rolled his hips into you before leaning down, allowing you to wrap your legs around his waist and your arms around his neck.

“Don’t stop, please don’t stop, Touya” you cried in his ear as his head fell snugly into the crook of your neck.

He smiled, you felt it against your skin. And of course, he didn’t stop this time.

He fucked you like he meant it, like he’d been waiting for this moment to come for years. It was overwhelming, the way his cock slammed into you and all but tore you apart. His body was warm, too warm against yours, and when his mouth found your neck, teeth grazing the vein and lips sucking harshly, you just about forgot who you were. You couldn’t hold on like this. You were trying to, just to savour it longer, to take in more of him, but it was an impossible feat.

“T-touya,” you stuttered, he chucked, knowing exactly what you were trying to tell him. Your cunt clenched around him perfectly, sucking him in and teasing his release out of him too. “Touya, oh my god.”

“That’s it,” he breathed as he slammed into you impossibly hard as if he was trying to force it out of you. “Fucking come for me.”

You whined his name as you came, only barely managing to stifle the sound of it in his neck. Your entire body shook as he rocked you through it, fucking you relentlessly through your high. Tears were still threatening to spill from your eyes and your legs tightened impossibly around his waist.

“Good,” Touya groaned into your ear, “so fucking good.” You could hardly hear him, not when you were this high. All you knew was him and his cock piercing you like there was no tomorrow.

You barely registered his hips stuttering, and he dragged his teeth over your skin, earning the faintest sigh from you as he bit down even harder than before.

And finally, he came, never giving you any warning before spilling deep inside of you. You whimpered as the warmth filled you, oozing through you and spilling out around his cock as he held you there in his tight embrace. You laid there as you both tried to catch your breath, bodies sweaty and hearts pounding, both of you evidently being hit with waves of what the fuck just happened.

Someone shifted in the room next door again, reminding you of where you were,but neither of you moved. Touya only pulled out of you slowly, wincing slightly at the sight of his come spilling out of you.

He hadn’t meant to, really . (Maybe a little).

But you saw the amused smirk on his face as he sat up, and you felt your body erupt into flames. Shocked at just how fucking proud of himself he was.

He ran a single finger between your folds, gathering the evidence of him that was beginning to leak out before gently pushing it back into you. You gasped when he curled his finger, body shaking pathetically at just how sensitive you were from such a small movement. He looked so fucking proud, too proud, as he studied you, listening to your tiny whimpers and cries as he teased his little sister's oversensitive cunt.

You were fucked.

Because despite everything, you loved every second of it. The wrongness of it all, the secrecy. It all made it so much better.

“Told you,” he taunted, “you’ve got the coolest fucking brother in the world, huh?”

[donnatroyyyy]

A (very long) list of my (semi) unpopular DC opinions

The Batfam shouldn’t work together as a whole big group as vigilantes. Whenever that does happen it ends up being character suicide for AT LEAST two of them and also usually ends up minimizing all of them to one of the skills/traits they’re good at (or the archetypes the writer wants them to be). The only exception to this is if it’s a long arc covering an actual catastrophe where each issue covers a duo or trio within the big group. Otherwise they should stick to no more than 4 ppl at a time in a team up. Also, this obviously doesn’t apply to them as civilians, they’re literally family obviously they’re gonna hang out as a group.

The Teen Titans (2003) is the best writing but (one of the) worst teams. On the other hand the original Teen Titans run and NTT run are the best teams (imo) but have either really bad or really mediocre writing. We as a society need an OG TT or NTT run written well.

Roy struggling with a heroin addiction has so many more layers and nuances to it than struggling with alcohol because as a non-meta hero most of his fights were against something drug-related. As opposed to alcohol which is now seen as a normal thing for soldiers/heroes/warriors to fall on as a crutch, this medium uses alcohol addiction with every other character. Roy’s addiction to heroin would literally be an opposition to all that he’s ever stood and fought for, all that his family and friends ever fought and stood for, and way more interesting because of that.

Garth (like Donna) is one of the most powerful and interesting characters but is never given enough panel time. However, unlike Donna, writers would rather write him out of the teen titans before they actually write a good interpretation of him. And I don’t know why but his role in the Aquafam too has been dwindling with time.

Garth’s openness about his inferiority complex and his inferiority complex in general need more panel time, it’s one of the most interesting thing to come out of the OG TT run

This is a complicated take because it’s literally two opposites in one take, but the main difference in characters as seen in old comics vs. now is two things. One, the writing of characters was much better, much more realistic, and much more nuanced in old comics. Two, when there is a well-written character in modern comics its usually a more show not tell character so everything is shown to us through actions and stuff rather than straight up words or them psychoanalyzing themselves in their speech bubbles and that just doesn’t work with modern audiences because media literacy is a dying art. Also, there’s the variable of the influence of fanon over how characters are written in comics but that’s a whole other post.

Roy and Donna are literally THE OTP like I don’t even want to hear it, they’re literally DC’s percabeth.

Every single Teen Titan had an inferiority complex, some were just easier to see.

Selina and Bruce and Talia and Bruce are two very different relationships that can’t be compared. Also they will always live side by side till the end of comics, this love triangle was one meant to last, and it will.

Jason Todd as we know him right now should get the YJ Roy Harper treatment, we need to find out that he’s a clone and the real JT is somewhere in Africa working for UNICEF or something, that’s the only way to fix his character.

Also, ignoring the top one, if DC doesn’t want to commit to that because they’re cowards, they should at least not make him a part of the Batfam yet, it’s too soon for either side.

Kara Zor El is the perfect character to be a white lantern, her arc literally matches up perfectly with each of the rings, and she’d wield it incredibly

Kyle Rayner is top 3 GLs

In my opinion, Diana is best written when the most important thing to her in the world is the world itself. Like, usually I hate the whole “hero would sacrifice u, villain would sacrifice the world” thing cuz it mostly doesn’t really apply, but to her it absolutely does. Diana would sacrifice the closest person to her for the world in an instant if it was for the sake of the world. And this isn’t like an angst thing because they all know it and are all ok with it.

Also, Diana is one of the most if not the most powerful characters in all of DC, if DC did a Deadpool kills the marvel universe kind of thing they should totally use her because she is sooo powerful. (Afterthought: that’s why I hate most of her appearances in anything JL because they underpower her soooo bad)

I say this as a batfamily Stan, the batfamily is the worst family in all of DC and sadly the one that gets the most attention.

The OG TT are the epitome of superheroes in the sense that each and every one of them defines every part of a superhero spectacularly and always has.

Kory needs an arc where she leaves everyone and everything for a while because as of right now, not only do the writers only ever see her in relation to others, but she sees herself that way. She needs an arc where she finds herself in relation to herself, who SHE is. Away from the love triangle, and the titans, and the Titans, etc.

Babs is a better character outside of the love triangle than she is when she’s in it. (Also a better character as Oracle but that only really unpopular amongst writers)

Every single woman character in DC is written in relation to the men in the comics, even WW. The only exception is Oracle, not Babs, but Oracle, which is actually so twisted considering that the creation of Oracle as a character came hand in hand with an event that literally inspired the cloning of the phrase “fridging”

BOP is one of the best teams

Harley Quinn shouldn’t be a hero yet, she was abused for over a decade, we need to see more of her struggle to undo all of the manipulation and heal from the abuse as well as try to undo all the damage she’s done. The Animated Series is the best version of her arc but it’s still not good either.

We as a fandom(s) need to normalize the ability to consume and enjoy things we don’t necessarily agree with. For example, as I’ve stated before multiple times, I absolutely hate any kind of abusive Bruce, however, I still read those long posts about it and I still read fics where dck punches him cuz he’s an abusive asshole, it’s okay to consume media that you don’t necessarily agree with. And same with fanon versions of characters, I HATE coffee-addict Tim, I’ve still enjoyed hundreds of fics with him in them though.

Damian Wayne is the most compassionate member of the batfam and one of the Keats likely ones to willingly kill

Blue devil and kid devil have arguably the most interesting story and tragedy in all of DC and the only reason they’re not given a lot of attention is because their tragedies have to do with something we don’t like to see: the wrongdoings and flaws of heroes, especially ones we like.

Speed Saunders should’ve continued as a character

Hal Jordan should’ve stayed evil for a while, the end of the parallax arc sucks and is a stupid cop out because they weren’t ready for a fully new GL. I don’t think he should’ve stayed the villain forever, but maybe for a few years, especially if that meant they would’ve ended the arc better.

Mera is more powerful than Arthur, always has been and always will be.

Wally West does see Barry Allen as a father figure and vice versa, it’s okay to see someone as a parental figure when you still have parents, especially when your parents are (canonically) borderline emotionally abusive and/or neglectful.

Any iteration of ANY hero being abusive is the worst writing ever because what the actual fuck, I’m sorry, but what happened to the whole they’re literally fucking heroes part??

There are so many characters that deserve solo series (or even mini series) but don’t get them because all the series are already being taken up by bigger characters (looking at you batfam)

So many characters get mischaracterized for the sake of other character’s stories (again, looking at you batfam)

Anyone who thinks Superman is boring either doesn’t understand him as a character or hasn’t read enough stuff with him in it (I recommend All-Star Superman and/or American Alien)

Anyone who relates to the Joker needs to turn themselves in at the nearest police station. (Unless it’s LEGO Joker, we like him)

The LEGO Batman movie is unironically some of the best DC media to ever exist

Atlantis and Paradise Island should be allies (especially once Diana, Arthur, and Mera come into the picture), I don’t know why they’re not

Lex Luthor is one of the most despicable villains because he’s a realistic villain, which is much scarier

Kon should be the next Superman

Connor Hawke should’ve stayed Tim’s age and Tim’s friend, it makes the most sense timeline-wise plus I think their dynamic was super cute.

Comic writers not making Roy openly refer to Ollie as his dad even though they’ve been father and son since they’ve debuted basically is actually so crazy to me

These next few are about Talia Al-Ghul because I love that woman:

Talia Al-Ghul Pre-Morrison was one of the best and most interesting characters in all of DC and that isn’t just my opinion, she was really popular amongst fans and writers for that exact reason

However, Morrison’s damage to her is near irreparable

BUT, if DC did want to repair it, I genuinely believe she’d be the best character they’d have character-wise and it would probably pull in a bunch of new fans

But even if they don’t, Talia Al-Ghul is one of the most important characters in all of DC and comics in general because she’s literally the documented history of WOC in media (especially Arab and Asian women) as well as their relation to white men in media. Her character and how it changes is directly tied to mainstream views on WOC at the time.

Talia Al-Ghul is literally of “I Bet On Losing Dogs” by Mitski, personified

Dinah Lance is the perfect example of a complex character done right and interpreted wrong/not interpreted enough.

If anyone should be the therapist within the hero community it should be J’onn or Red tornado, those are the two that make the most sense.

Helena Bertinelli is more important to the batfam than Jason Todd is.

Cassandra Cain shouldn’t be portrayed as mute anymore, it doesn’t make sense for her character or her arc.

The worst thing to happen to Poison Ivy’s character is Harley Quinn.

Mera is made to be a mother, whether to her own kids (Garth included) or as a mother figure to other kids.

On the other hand, Stephanie Brown wasn’t ready and doesn’t/didn’t want to be a mother, she gave up her baby willingly and will almost 100% not go out to look for her.

Lady Shiva’s appearances 99% of the time are out of character for her, the whole “training with Shiva” thing is also OOC for her, and Cass even existing is OOC for her. The reason that this continues though is because she’s been transformed from an actual character into a character tool.

Stephanie Brown and Cassanadra Cain are a good duo and anyone who hates on one but likes the other misunderstood both of their characters.

Dick hating Jason for what he did to Tim IS in character of him, and, in my opinion, correct of him

The rise in people who don’t like heroes’s pacifism is concerning. People calling Bruce a bad person because he doesn’t kill is concerning. People viewing Clark as boring because he’s a good person is concerning. People liking straight up villains more than they do heroes is concerning.

Anyone who recommends mister miracle should also tell them about the TW in the first few pages

Kingdom come isn’t that good, especially to non-Christians

Big Barda needs her own run. We need a Bug Barda run that covers everything from her origins to where she is now, and we need it done by a female writer who’s good at complex and heavy stories

Some of the most hated comic writers are some of the best at what they do

Chuck Dixon is just as much a blessing to any character he writes as he is a curse

Marvel’s comic writers and artists 80% of the town do a better job with their characters and their arcs than DC writers and artists.

DC should have sensitivity readers because the amount of racism in these comics is insane

It’s okay to put down a comic/run because you don’t like the art, it’s your time no one’s gonna judge you

Alex Ross’s art is actually nice, people just like hating

The Trinity should never be shipped with one another

Steve isn’t important to Diana at all, he’s barely in any of her comics actually, he’s less important to her (or at least to her character) than fucking swamp thing

Batfam is better smaller

It’s better to read the first appearances of characters, it helps you understand them better.

Lois Lane is the DC version of Susan Storm, aka the blueprint of women in that company’s comics, but also one of the most forgotten women in that company’s comics

Comics aren’t going to go anywhere arcwise for the characters long term, that’s the whole point. Batman will always have a robin. Love triangles will always be love triangles. They will all always stay young.

Old campy comics were better than modern comics.

Cheshire isn’t a redeemable character and shouldn’t be one. Women in comics should be allowed to be straight up villains and stay that way.

Cheshire having Lian is OOC. Cheshire leaving Lian is a racist trope.

Asian and Arabs are treated horribly by DC.

The New 52 is actually a good place to start for new readers, it was a good idea, but it should’ve just been an alternate universe (like mcu is to 616 kind of) or something (and it should’ve been down with the supervision of anyone who isn’t Dan didio)

DC has some of the best world building in the history of modern day media/literature especially considering how many facets of this world there were/are to build

Team rosters that are constantly changing are better than stationary ones unless they change too much/too fast

Canon is hypocritical 90% of the time, most times canon clashes and crashes and doesn’t make sense, so don’t worry about it, read a comic, count what you want to be canon as canon, throw the rest into to the “never existed” pile

I’m sorry to tell you guys this, but it isn’t an opinion, it’s an unpopular canon fact, one that even I don’t like: Dick Grayson likes pineapple one pizza

Something that I hate that been on the rise a lot lately is the fact that the fandom is so okay with character being sexualized just because they like how the characters look, I feel like we should keep our stances on this as they are with all over-sexualized characters.

Villains of the week are actually so fun, even more then the big villains sometimes.

JSA needs a comeback please and thank you (I’m begging atp)

Cassandra Cain shouldn’t be Orphan, ever, it makes no sense for her to take the name of her abused. The same way it doesn’t make sense for Jason to become red hood.

Complex characters who are dumbed down once can be dumbed down and mischaracterized every time after that, and this has been done A LOT.

The YJ shows is very much overhyped

The fact that DC overpowers their characters makes them more interesting, not less

Selina was right and in character when she left Bruce at the alter. She was not right and in character when she hid Helena from him, she wouldn’t do that.

Bruce Wayne is more fun to read when he has a pipe and fun colored robes, please give him back his pipe and his fun colored robes.

[kanohivolitakk]

Your recent posts reminded me of Greg wanting Matau to be the turncoat in WoS instead of Vakama and trying to make Vakama's fall from grace into something he apparently fakes in the novelization (failing bc it still comes off as a genuine fall from grace and tbh i think it enhances what the movie already had going for it). Its like he wants to make simple black-and-white sort of characters but he just keeps adding complexity to them apparently by mistake

Oh yeah, Greg really disliked Vakamas heel-turn and vocally expressed his distaste for it whenever asked what aspects of the series he personally didn't like or would've turned differently. Ironically the reasons he disliked Vakamas heelturn gives a really weird reading of Vakama: from what I recall he felt it was OOC for someone as dutybound, honorable and passionate of his job as a Toa as Vakama to abandon his duty and I'm just sitting here like. Greg. Are we talking about the same character? Vakama spent an entire arc seeing himself as not worthy of being a toa. How can you say a man who spent most of the story being in the refusal of call phase and struggles with self-worth wouldn't be suspectible for temptation?

I don't know if you know this, but your comment on Greg wanting to write simple black- and white morality actually isn't that off mark as you may think. Greg actually has said a few times that he doesn't like villain redemptions (or complex villains at all for that matter), and prefers to write simple villains, because that's just something he personally prefers. Interestingly Greg does like prefering complex heroes though, and loves to make heroes with flaws, who are tested and fail at times. He has actually explained this paradox a few time: goodness is challenging, evilness is simple to be tempted by and it is far easier for good guys to fall to the dark side than the other way around. His mindset is essentially that one classic Ursula Le Guin quote of how evilness is simple and good is complex.

And while I get that mindset idk..I just find that rather limiting. Maybe it is because I personally prefer when characters are human and complex regardless of their moral alingment but Greg's idea of heroes being complex and villains being simple never sat with me. Especially when a lot of his better written characters were villains and morally ambigious characters. While Greg did succeed in writing some compelling and likable heroes, he really excelled at making some damn memorable and at times interesting villains. So for Greg to dismiss some of his more morally complicated characters as being more simple than they come across in the text itself is rather frustrating. Like, Greg you wrote some damn interesting characters, stop making them less interesting than they actually are.

I also feel Greg's statement of villains and heroes is somewhat ironic when you remember that three of his best written and most memorable characters are: 1. arguably the only redeemed villain in the entire series 2. a morally ambigious catgirl who can flipflop between an antagonist and antihero depending on the story 3. Unholy fusion of Joker and Deadpool who started as a villain only for later stories to use him as either a neutral wildcard or outright antihero. All three are characters he has admitted of liking, with at least one of them (the catgirl) being among his personal favorites. So basically outliers to the general writing philosophy he had.

[cyren-myadd]

Let's talk about the first look at Avatar 3 (pt 2)

🚨SPOILER WARNING FOR AVATAR 3!🚨

Next up, I want to talk about the next two images I saw from D23: Neytiri riding on her ikran, and the sky ship.

You can read my post discussing Varang and the Ash People here.

In the first image, we see Neytiri flying at night on her banshee, with what appears to be several large flying ships behind her, and in the second image, we have a clearer shot of the "sky ship" in daylight.

The ships are clearly Na'vi-made, since we see the natural weaving pattern and no metal. They have a large sail-like structure on top, and behind Neytiri we see a flying stingray-like creature that appears to be harnessed to the sky ship and pulling it along.

This was really exciting for me to see because I never imagined we'd see the Na'vi creating actual flying vehicles rather than just riding on the backs of flying animals. Most interestingly, even though these sky ships are more complex technology than anything we've seen from the Na'vi before, they appear not to break any of the laws of Eywa. They don't appear to be made of stone or metal, and they don't use wheels. I really like seeing this because I hate that one theory that Eywa intentionally keeps the Na'vi from technologically advancing out of some malevolent goal. Eywa doesn't have any problem with technological advancements, she only prohibits things that would harm the balance of nature, like mining metal and tearing down the forest to build roads for wheeled vehicles.

I believe that these sky ships belong to the Windtrader clan James Cameron has hinted at. These ships look pretty different from anything we've seen from the Ash People, plus Neytiri is flying alongside them like they're allies. It would also make sense based on the name for people called "windtraders" to fly through the sky using the wind and also have large ships capable of carrying material to trade with other clans. I can't wait to see what a windtrader Na'vi looks like and if they have unique adaptations to set them apart from other clans! Perhaps they would be smaller in order to be lighter on the ships and have bigger lungs to process oxygen at such high altitudes.

Now to talk about the sky ship itself, it appears to have three main components: the cabin, the steed, and the sail. The cabin is the woven part of it that is the actual ship where the Na'vi would ride and store their goods. The steed is that stingray looking creature behind Neytiri that looks like it's harnessed to the cabin and pulling it through the air. I would really like an in-universe explanation for how in that giant stingray thing is flying. It looks HUGE, maybe a little over half as long as tulkun. I know Pandora has lower gravity and a thicker atmosphere, so the physics are different, but come on that things has to weigh a hundred tons! They better have a sci-fi explanation for how that big thing flies. And if you look closely, there seems to be a na'vi riding on it's back, implying it has kurus to plug into up there. From what I can see of its back, it looks blue with white spots, kind of like a whale shark.

The last part of the ship is the large sail-like structure that appears to be keeping the whole contraption buoyant. I saw folks on the r/Avatar subreddit speculating about what it is, and I believe they had the right idea when they guessed it was a Medusa.

The medusa is a giant, flying jellyfish-like creature that James Cameron dreamed up many years ago. Here are some old concept arts for it, and as you can see, they look quite different. Cameron never settled on a final design for this creature, just that it was a flying carnivorous jellyfish. He wanted to include it in the Avatar universe, but never had the chance to. He recently said in an interview a few months ago that Avatar 3 would finally include his alien creation, but he didn't say how. Since the Na'vi would lack the ability to create hot air balloons or zeppelins like humans, I believe the windtraders are using a creature from their environment to lift their ships, and that creature is the medusa, given a final design by James Cameron and his creative team. The sails are a pale purplish membrane like in the concept art, and if you look directly behind Neytiri's head, there seem to be tentacles hanging down from the ship, implying it is a medusa.

So it seems to me like the windtraders weave their boats out of the same material that maruis (Na'vi homes) are made from, then they attach it to a medusa to lift it into the air, and then they harness it to a flyinf stingray to pulls the boat where they want to go. The windtraders must be super smart to come up with all this! I cannot wait to see it in action!

And the way Neytiri is flying with them gives me the vibe that she and Jake have been reaching out to other clans to join the fight against the RDA and the windtraders agreed to team up with them and now they're flying off on a mission together!

What do you guys think of all this? Did I miss anything?