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setsugekka · 2 years

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❥hate & hurt (with all my love) (m)

↳ two things always remained true:

1) for better or for worse, change is inevitable.

and 2) chan always came back.

bang chan x fem!reader — childhood friends to lovers, friends with benefits, heavy angst, romance, sexual content [12.5k wc] cws: physically abusive parents (somewhat detailed), parental death, emotional manipulation, drinking, recreational drug use, sex as a coping mechanism, unhealthy relationships, language, heavy themes throughout. sexual content: penetrative sex (unprotected), a lot of carelessness emotionally.

February is cold, and that's reason enough to find little joy in this month as well and many of the ones surrounding it, but your space heater at work giving out twenty minutes into your shift at work is certainly cause for more.

You can't help but wonder, how do situations like this always come to find me?

Typically not anything too egregious, but most can admit that the small things tend to add up. Now, work is cold, and you have an unreasonably large number of books to wade through that must, ultimately, find their place amongst the numerous shelves that line the walls and walkways.

What else could possibly go wrong?

A lazy thought to yourself accompanied by a similar, tired blink as you bend down behind the front counter only to then hear the doorbell ding to signify the entry of a patron. Because of course they would right now, when you've already resigned yourself to the horrors of sorting by last name.

The words begin to tumble out of you before you've even stood fully again—halfway into turning your head towards the sound as it quickly dies out behind the door closing. "Welcome, what can I do for—"

The rest of them die in your throat, which is no match for the feeling of anxiety-fueled dizziness once eyes meet.

"Chan."

In fifth grade, Chan had decided he was going to be your best friend.

It really had been as simple as that; the memory sticks out despite a long line of them that involve him, the way he had caught you on the curb after school as you waited for your parents to come pick you up—cupcake in hand, not even particularly caring of sweets.

Of course, he couldn't have known this, you weren't best friends yet.

"You're going to be my new best friend." he proudly declared, no room for argument from you.

At such a young age, girls and boys being best friends is far less of a topic for discussion as it would become later on in middle school, in high school. Not even something on the radar, in fact. Chan was friends with a lot of girls—one in particular—classes were small, and it had been simple enough to keep up with your peers even if none too close to them, yourself.

Everyone knew Chan and Sana were a package deal, until Sana's parents had decided to move elsewhere, leaving Chan without that one person that really held him down in a way that no one else really seemed to. You couldn't help but wonder why he had chosen you as the follow-up, and as adults, the idea of it wildly amusing to the both of you no matter how many times it had been rehashed.

Suppose there's something special, maybe even magical about the concept of having one, true best friend when you're a child. Nothing else like it, no one else who holds that special place in your life. Difficult to keep on keeping on without that role being filled.

Whatever the case may have been, you found yourself next in line.

And perhaps you were too young to consider how wildly bizarre such a proclamation really was in the grander scheme of things. No concept of ulterior motives (and really, what ulterior motives could this child even have), but with a bright, dimpled smile and a baked good that you didn't have any particular interest in, suppose you were down to partake in his first round of try-outs.

"Okay," you remember answering, and firmly at that. Probably because you didn't have someone holding down the title in your life, either. "Best friends then."

"Hey…"

Voice wobbly, you drop the book in hand and circle around the desk to greet the man. It's been three years at least since the last time he'd come around, not that you were ever keeping count. The two of you do something of an awkward dance with one another as you first go in for a hug and then halfway through contemplate whether or not it's appropriate to even do so. Chan, at least, attempts to meet you halfway before you second-guess the gesture.

Eventually, a messy hug is decided upon by the both of you, though not without its chaotic logistics and limbs tangling among one another like two people never before engaging in such an act with another person before.

The irony in that.

"Hey," Chan says then through a smile that's so forced you wish you could ignore it. "Didn't know you worked here."

Of course not, how could you?

"Oh, yeah, a little over a year now."

Silence.

There's a part of you that sort of hopes the floor will open up and swallow you whole, but you force yourself to remember that it's a bit like this every time he comes back around. Always too much time between the last, always so much history but not enough of it that's recent. Huge, towering holes of time left unaccounted for between you with every year that passes by. Every year since he left.

You don't blame him, not purposefully, at least. Moving away was the right call for him, and even the frequency in which he did come back coming as something of a surprise to you with how tormented his relationship with his family always had been.

Hopefully Chan says something soon, because you're out of beginning statements, not that you had all that many to begin with. Besides that, the skin on the inside of your lip is beginning to grow thin from nervous chewing, and you'd rather not have to swallow blood along with the mounting lump in your throat.

It wasn't always like this.

Chan's eyes fall to the floor between the both of you for a split second before flashing back up and towards you. It's a face that says I know, it's weird, and I'm sorry for that, but with no real ability to make it any better either. In fact, you suspect he's about to make it worse.

Call it Bestie Intuition, or whatever.

"So," he says with a drawl, pulling his bottom lip between his teeth before finally finding the strength to get the words out. "My parents died."

Oh.

There's so much history in that statement. So much feeling, and contempt, and distaste that even when he says the words as plainly as can be, you can't help but catch the hint of relief that accompanies them. It's bad enough when someone's parents pass away, even worse when there is so much love there that it's excruciating.

Where does that land those who take solace in the fact then?

Maybe once upon a time you could have reacted to the statement with unbridled and hysterical glee. Congratulations buddy! Drinks on me! a potentially anticipated response maybe five or six years ago, but now there's too much space, too much distance between the two of you to say anything other than the obvious. The standard fare towards people in grief even if they aren't, actually.

"I'm sorry to hear that."

"That makes one of us."

You can't even blame him, knowing everything that you know. Parents are people and deserve the amount of respect that they give to others, and they certainly never took it upon themselves to be deserving of it from Chan, or anyone close enough to him to hear the yelling coming from the other end of the phone line, much less see the cigarette burns and bruises left when he was finally comfortable enough around someone to roll his sleeves up behind closed doors.

For people like them, you hoped Hell to be everything that the religious fanatics had ever made it out to be, and maybe even a little more.

"Anyway," he says abruptly with a sigh, not wanting to linger on the fact too long. "Next of kin, so I'm sort of tasked with dealing with the aftermath of everything. They have a shit ton of books in the basement and I heard this place takes in that kinda stuff if it's worth anything."

"Yeah, we can give them a look, for sure."

"You want to come over tonight and maybe take a look around before I bother dragging everything over here?"

Forever constant, forever in a state of metamorphosis. You wonder how the two can exist simultaneously in such a way.

He continues the thought. "They didn't die in there or anything, but you're welcomed to rummage through my mom's old shit and take anything you want. Jewelry or whatever."

"I'm sure that's precisely what you need, a constant reminder of that woman every time you see me wearing a set of earrings." you chuckle softly.

Chan grimaces. "Good point, maybe don't wear them around me. Either way, you know they have that big firepit in the back so we can have some drinks, get some food, catch up?"

Catch up. Code.

Besides the fact that Chan makes very little effort to keep up with you in all of the time that he's away; social media messages back and forth exchanged between the two of you dwindled down over the years to nothing more than the standard handful expected of friends. Birthdays, Christmas, maybe New Year’s if we're feeling particularly giving.

There's no catching up, and every time Chan has returned for one reason or another since having originally left, the knowledge that you come to learn about the new him, his new job, new everything—is limited.

A chain link fence erected between you, and perhaps the very second of his departure. You have a difficult time pinpointing the precise moment of your realization. Always held at something of an arm's length now—you can see him through the holes and around the silver, metal wiring—but you couldn't get through it if you tried.

You can't help but wonder if his new best friend lies somewhere on the other side, right beside him. Or maybe he has simply grown past the necessity for such things. An emotional crutch because he needed it as a young boy, as someone trying to make sense of the world around him and why his parents hated him so much for seemingly just existing.

Then he moved, and things got better. Chan built the fence, but never told you.

You can't help but wonder if you remind him of everything that he has tried so hard to distance himself from. Maybe you don't need a pair of earrings for that, after all.

A fence to keep him within the barrier of healing that he has created upon leaving, or to keep you out?

"Okay."

From: Weasel (lovingly)

19:12 : want to catch dinner tonight?

To: Weasel (lovingly)

19:13 : can't, something came up

From: Weasel (lovingly)

19:14 : what could have possibly come up on a thursday night?

To: Weasel (lovingly)

19:20 : chan's back in town. he stopped by the shop while i was at work. we're gonna catch up.

From: Weasel (lovingly)

19:21 : ahhhh riiiight. 'catch up' i know what that means. same thing it always does when he comes back around and is bored -_-

To: Weasel (lovingly)

19:21 : hyunjin please. his parents passed away.

From: Weasel (lovingly)

19:22 : okay? good. they were pieces of shit and i'm sure he's thrilled i don't see why he's got to pretend to drown his sorrows with getting his dick wet. he barely even talks to you when he's not around.

From: Weasel (lovingly)

19:30 : whatever. i love you. hit me up tomorrow to pick up the pieces. i'll be around.

"Fuck."

Breathy and punched out of your lungs with a particularly hard thrust, you attempt to find purchase in the sheets beneath your fingers as Chan roughly rocks into you from behind. His hands feel tight around your hips to hold you in place for him, and while you can't very well view the expression on his face from this angle, you can certainly hear the litany of bitten back groans that just occasionally drop from his lips.

"Close, close—" you follow the expletive with then, and his grip on you gets even harder—hips firmer and faster as you snake a hand down between your legs to get the rest of the way there.

You remember the first few times that you and Chan began sleeping together—taking your relationship to the next level—the both of you used to joke as if there was anything particularly romantic or emotional about it for either of you. But he used to be more involved in the process, more present, more engaged and interested and with some insatiable desire to please…even if you guys were just friends who would fuck every now and then.

The first time he came back after moving, you recognized the change.

"Chan—" you say, and receive no response.

"Fuck, you feel so good—" you continue on, an attempt to bring back some of the passion that you remember so vividly once having been there.

"Want you—"

"Shhh," you finally hear, accompanied by a particularly harsh thrust that feels something akin to some sort of threat. A few beats of silence follow after it, as if he's rethinking having ever done it to begin with before eventually landing on his feeling of correctness in doing so. "Don't talk so much."

If you were anyone else—maybe less used to this, less expecting of it—it might ruin the whole thing for you. Instead, you're thankful for the position and the way that he can't see how you roll your eyes at him, at the way that he is now before you come.

Yours brings about his, a louder, still pulled back groan as if anyone in this house is going to hear him. Chan wastes no time pulling himself from you and then flopping over to lie beside you as you situate yourself similarly.

It's always like this, every time; every feeling held so heavily in your chest bubbling up to sit inside of the dryness of your throat. Choking, drowning. Never actually dying, no matter how much you wish for the release from this.

Hyunjin always tells you not to go, and in the end, your mind is made up to do just that long before you ever even inform him of your consideration to do so. Your new best friend—though you don't call him that.

For whatever reason, you've still not been able to relinquish the title; put up 'help wanted' adds in the absence of the original title holder.

Because he's still around. Sort of.

You always wonder why you feel like crying afterwards, swallowing the burn down just in time for Chan to get up and head to the bathroom for his own clean up. It's a means to an end, less about remembering anything that ever existed between the two of you, and more about forgetting.

"I talk too much?" you finally say sarcastically as he disappears into the connected bathroom. Chan doesn't bother to stop and turn back, or really acknowledge the fact at all until a few, long moments and you hear the shrieking of the shower knob turn.

"Sometimes," he says.

"God forbid I try to spice things up with a little dirty talk, for old time's sake."

"Well, I wish you wouldn't."

Blinking slowly, the memories of doing this so many times before all come flooding back to you. A heavy sigh through your nose and you're sitting back up to collect your clothing from the floor beside the bed.

"Okay Chan," you say in response, now with evident contempt laden within it. "I won't say anything next time. I'll just come over and you can do whatever you need to do with me and then I'll go quietly, alright?"

You wonder if anything you say will even bother him, but just as quickly you hear the glass from the shower walling slide open and the man in question's head pops out from around the corner.

"You didn't come?" he says angrily, exhausted. Knowing fully well that you did. "You didn't enjoy yourself, right? Don't make me out to be the scumbag that's using you for whatever-the-fuck like you don't come over here time and time again knowing exactly what's going to take place."

He disappears back into the shower, ending it off with the additional "as if you can't just say no."

Dressed again and quickly heading down the stairs to take your leave, you don't bother informing him of the fact—you're sure he knows as much—it's far from the first time that the two of you have partaken in this exact scenario. Doing the same thing over and over again, each time thinking that the outcome will be different for some inexplicable reason.

The thought comes to mind as you reach the bottom of the stairs and upon glancing to your right, are met with a family photo of Chan with his parents—smiling, grinning ear to ear, as if the child in the photo isn't wearing jeans at the beach in the summer time because father dearest gifted him with a brand new cigarette burn only a couple of nights prior.

The thought being: perhaps he's just dealing with some things, even unbeknownst to himself. The death of loved ones is difficult even in the best of times, and you're not entirely sure where hating your abusive parents falls within the scope of that. Probably coming along with a whole different set of complications that often go unexamined, unspoken of—because God forbid you ever say it out loud, to anyone, that the people that were supposed to love, cherish and protect you did any and everything but that, and in fact, made your loving of them an abject impossibility.

Chan never told anyone else in his life about his parents abuse, only you; because the first time he admitted hating them with a shaky yet certain voice, you held his hand, gave him another red solo cup full of beer, and told him that you understood.

So, where's your red solo cup now?

It wasn't until your shared sophomore year of high school that you really started picking up on the signs.

There was always regret in that, too. That you should have noticed it earlier, but you were kids and what did you know about family dynamics that sat quite a bit outside of your own norm. In your own home, you had parents that loved you, supported you—they weren't perfect but they tried, and it wasn't until a few years into Chan's coming over to yours for dinners and hangouts that the comments about how nice your home life is started to come with more and more frequency.

"It's so nice here," he would say, as if dreaming of a life just like yours for himself. He probably was. "Your parents are so kind."

In high school—when he started going out to parties more, skipping school more, underaged drinking more like the troubled kids in movies and television shows might oftentimes be depicted in such a crude and stereotypical way—did you decide to finally take him up on one of his offers to come along with.

Sitting in the backyard of some stranger's house, probably a college aged guy that you can't imagine has any good reason to be hanging out with young high schoolers, Chan scooted his lounge chair closer to you with a sort of tipsy messiness that had you giggling at the time, though that joy was relatively short-lived.

"Remember I told you I wanted to try out for the swim team," he said just before taking a sip of a beverage he had no business drinking for his age. "I didn't make it. Go figure."

You reeled, shocked by the fact. "What? But you're good, I've timed you myself."

From a distance. Never able to get close enough before to see the implications of everything that surrounds him.

"Yeah," he sort of laughs, like he has to or else he'll cry. "Can't swim if I can't take my shirt off, can I?"

Eyebrows knitting together, you look at him contemplatively, like it's a puzzle you're meant to put together yourself except that you're missing so many of the pieces necessary in doing so. Chan's lips thin into a straight line, looking out into the empty, dark of night ahead that leads to nowhere before taking another sip of his beer.

A puzzle gifted to you, carefully handed to you personally to keep along with him. It's not so easy to just say things sometimes, sometimes…the best that you can do is just set someone up to ask so that you have a reason to say it.

"Why can't you take your shirt off?"

"We heard about Chan's parents."

Breakfast with your own folks is easy. Usually.

Mother's voice is compassionate, but beneath the words is something else—you figure that she must have some kind of understanding, if not the full picture. You never told them, it wasn't your place and you knew Chan wouldn't have wanted you to. Still, the adults in our lives have a way of knowing things without us really saying them—years of life and experience on us, after all.

"Yeah, I saw him yesterday, actually."

"How's he taking it?" your father then asks, equally compassionately-knowing.

"It's always hard I guess, he's doing his best."

"You should have him over for dinner some time," mother then adds, and internally you're screaming. "We always loved having him."

You know. They were the only set of parents in his life that loved him. Part of you doesn't want to deprive him of that, even now. Even after all of the miles of growing apart the two of you have done over the years.

You can't tell them that he only calls you when he's back in town to fuck you, there's guilt in tarnishing their opinion of him no matter how deserving of it he may be. It's not really his fault, you think to yourself, and then wonder if you'd be willing to give any other man who treats you this way the same kind of leniency in doing so.

What makes him so special? Special enough to treat you like this.

Best friends.

"I'll ask him," you lie, no intention of doing such a thing. "We have plans later in the week so I'll see what he's up to." you continue to lie, knowing perfectly well that he hasn't messaged you at all since the night before.

Three days go by without a word, and on the fourth, Chan finally messages you again.

From: Chan

13:03 : hey, i'm gonna set some of my folks shit on fire tonight in the back yard, do you want to come over?

You read over the message two, three times—biting the inside of your cheek in thought for a moment before putting your phone back into your pocket and proceeding with filing away the book in hand. This can wait, it's early enough in the afternoon that he doesn't need a reply right now, and besides, it's not like his parents’ stuff nor the firepit is going anywhere any time soon.

Plus, you're still kind of pissed off about last time, contemplating your willingness to put yourself right back into the same situation all over again, and not giving any thought to why it is that you keep doing so to begin with.

A few minutes pass, and you hear your message tone again.

From: Chan

13:08 : don't ignore me, we don't have to do anything. you're seriously mad about last time?

13:08 : you're really gonna ignore your best friend?

You're wise enough now to know manipulation when you see it, but maybe not wise enough to do anything about it just yet.

To: Chan

13:10 : yeah, i'll come over. but only because there's a photograph in there i really want to fucking burn.

"What are you going to do with the house?"

When you ask the question—and rather abruptly, at that—Chan is mid-overhead swing into tossing one of many ugly, ornate throw pillows into the billowing blaze of the fire that resides in front of the both of you. It lands with a plop, the fire moving to accommodate it only to quickly thereafter swallow it as intended. He already has another one awaiting the same fate tucked up under his other arm.

"Sell it," he says simply enough, tossing the other pillow and then hunching over to pick up his beer bottle again. "If I never see this place again it'd be too soon. I'd be happier setting this place ablaze, but you know, laws."

"Yeah, I've heard people are a little touchy about arson nowadays." you chuckle.

It's only then that you really put two and two together—the death of his parents, the selling of the property, and what that means for any future of him ever returning to this city again. If you had to guess, it's a weight lifted off of his shoulders, the no longer having to play pretend with these people even with the rarity in which he has done so now into adulthood.

No more pretend, no more reason to ever come back here.

Your chest feels tight at the thought. All Chan has spent the past few years doing is creating space between you and him, and now? The final nail in the coffin of your friendship. It was good while it lasted! you imagine him saying to you in some flippant, heartless way while not necessarily meaning for it to come out as such, but you can't help but latch onto the thought and think it further through—when was it good? Not for a long time, now.

"It's getting chilly, we should go back inside soon."

On your lap sits the picture from the wall at the bottom of the stairs, and as you pick it up and stand to throw it into the fire, Chan happens to take notice of your choice. The two of you meet eyes, and for a second you wonder if there's a part of him that wishes to protest in your doing so—you wait, give him time to say not that one, or anything of the sort, but instead you're met with a bizarre concoction of softness and relief. As if he's thankful for your being there, because you're strong enough to do it, and maybe he kind of isn't sometimes.

Chan takes a sip of his beer as you throw the framed photograph into the flames, right where it belongs, and as the both of you watch it burn, you still watch him out of the peripheral of your vision.

"I still have some of the scars," he says. No particular feeling behind the words. Stating the obvious.

"I know," you reply softly, opting into biting your tongue so that the pressure of angrily gritted teeth doesn't give you a headache. "I see them every time."

"Why did we never date?" you ask, somewhat drunkenly and from the far end of a couch that no longer adorns ugly pillows as decoration.

Chan's eyes narrow towards you, beer bottle in hand and a movie that neither of you care about playing on the television that's actually kind of nice—he has decided to take that back with him instead of destroying it. Him enjoying it would probably piss his parents off more, anyway.

"What kind of insane question? What do you mean why?"

Inside, the house is warm but empty and dark in a way that somehow feels fitting, all things considered. It's somewhat eerie—maybe because people who were once evil and now are dead once lived between the walls—too much space for how little space the both of you take up inside of it. Strangers inside of someone else's home, a place that doesn't belong to either of them, even with the ties of familial relation present.

"I feel like it's pretty common in high school that best friends catch feelings and eventually date, or at least try it out just to see because they don't know any better—Oh! Remember when Jisung thought we were totally dating in junior year just because he saw us sneaking off to your car during lunch period?"

Chan snorts into his bottle at the memory. "I mean, we were definitely sneaking off to do something, but it didn't have anything to do with us dating."

"I don't know, I guess it's fascinating that through all those years, and hormones, and puberty, and even actually sleeping together we just never…thought about it."

You had. Pretending that you hadn't was a long-upheld lie told not only to him, but especially to yourself. Chan was unreachable past a certain point, and you knew it well enough. In high school, the relationship between the two of you had reached its blissful peak, though you suppose you hadn't known it at the time.

The top of the mountain. Then graduation came, and the subsequent scaling down the other side of it.

"I was never in any position to have a girlfriend, you know that."

He doesn't bother going into detail, he doesn't really need to, either.

Unable to take his clothing off for the swimming team, unable to take his clothing off for any potential partners. Only for you.

"My parents asked if you wanted to come by for dinner some time, by the way," you finally say, though originally with no intention of doing so. Part of you silently begs for him to say no.

He smiles gently. "That's nice of them."

Close enough.

A few awkward beats of silence make themselves known between the two of you before Chan finally sets his empty beer bottle down and slides himself closer towards your end of the couch. He doesn't say anything—doesn't really need to when his hands curve around your calves and pull you down into a lying position against the cushions for him to settle himself between.

Up over your knees and down the slope of your thighs towards the button on your jeans, he's quick with it—always has been—and shimmying the fabric down your legs along with your underwear, well, you knew this was going to happen.

Chan sits up, thumbs his own pants open and pulls them down his hips just enough to expose himself as necessary. He extends a hand towards you to help you up and to bring you over onto his lap, though you're met with the intrusion of fingers before anything bigger makes an attempt.

Whining into the crook of his neck, Chan smells like burnt firewood and beer. As well as cowardice and selfishness and a lot of regret shared between the two of you.

When you're ready, you say as much—sinking down slowly onto him and being met with the trembling exhale of his breath against your ear once fully seated. One hand comes up to the back of your head as if to hold you in place, as if you have anywhere else to go.

At least this time you know better. Better than to try to engage him in any way outside of precisely what this is at its foundation. It's been a long time coming, but you know where you stand.

It still feels like shit, though.

Fit and strong, Chan lifts you up and pulls you down along him in all of the right ways, because sex with him has never been anything but perfect. Just the right amount of everything to a shocking degree, though it has waned ever so slightly over the years.

Pulling away from his neck, the circling of his t-shirt slides to the side ever so slightly to make one of many scars along his body known to you. It's not new—far from it—and you know the stories behind most of them anyway. This one in particular; a long burn about the length of a toothpick just over his shoulder. Mother curling her hair in the bathroom and he young child having the audacity to desire loving attention from her.

How can anyone be so cruel?

Leaning down, you kiss it lightly, then thumb over it gently as if doing so will offer him some sort of solace whilst inside of you.

Instead, it does the opposite.

"What are you doing?" he says, sudden and curt but still dragging your body along his own. "Don't touch—"

You're happy to apologize for having done so, and there's terror that springs up in your chest though it feels somewhat displaced. An acute feeling of fright at what's about to happen to you in the way that his voice changes with each word that drops from his mouth, and before he is even able to finish the sentence, Chan is pulling you off of him entirely, and pulling his pants back up instead.

"Why do you have to do this? Why do you always have to do shit like this? Every single time."

"I'm sorry! I didn't really think about it, I didn't think you would—" you stammer in response, word vomiting in an attempt to quell the volcano in front of you at any cost.

"Didn't think I would notice? Like I don't have a perfect mapping of every single scar, every single memory that these people left on me in all of the years that I was under their care?"

The last word being so rife with sarcasm that you can't help but recoil from the way that he says it. It's so stupid, so so stupid because of course he knows. As if he will ever be able to forget so long as he lives.

You claw to get dressed again, scrambling your things together quickly as Chan stands and runs a hand through his hair like he isn't entirely sure of how he wants to even deal with this. Like he's trying not to say something that he doesn't mean, or maybe something that he does.

"Can't we ever just have a nice, fun time together?" he finally lands on, exasperated and airy in the words. "Can't we just fuck like old times when I'm in town without you doing something to make me fucking regret it?"

You full stop. Rage and confusion and hurt feelings simultaneously all making their way through every nerve and every bone in your body—a race to see which one gets out first and is the underlying emotion within your reply.

"Regret it? You regret it?"

Rage wins.

"You fucking regret it?" you ask, once again laden with sarcasm as so many times before, because the concept of what he says is just so selfish that you can barely even fathom it. "We were best friends for years, we grew up together, you were everything to me and when you left, I understood why—I was happy for you, I wanted you to heal. Then the messages died off, your visits died off, and the only time you've ever been bothered to come and find me when you are in town is because you know I'm an easy lay for you, isn't that right?"

Chan doesn't answer, but his face has since twisted into something you can't even really recognize. Somewhere between disgust and awareness, though you can't be certain which one is meant for who.

"Right?" you nod, continuing on—halfway into a laugh now as if delusionally humored by the fact now that everything is laid out onto the table. "We're not friends, we're certainly not best friends anymore. You come find me when you're in town because you know that even though you've moved on from this place, from everything that happened to you here, from me—I haven't. And when you fancy yourself a pathetic fuck for old times’ sake, you know exactly who to call, right?"

There's only a second of silence, Chan begins to say no. Not that you let him.

"Right? Isn't that right? You can say it, we're all friends here, allegedly." you laugh again.

You grab your bag from the floor next to the couch, sling it over your shoulder, and make your way towards the front door.

"That's not true." he says, defeated, like the words are what he means but he knows his actions have said otherwise time and time again.

"Sorry about your scar, I shouldn't have done that," you say with finality as you reach the door and crack it open for your departure. "Now please do us both the favor and never contact me again."

"You look so pretty like this, you know."

One of Chan's old things that he would be so amused by was calling you pretty, gorgeous, beautiful—something of the like—when either covered with his cum, or stuffed full of his dick. It became such a thing, that he would make allusions to it even outside of the bedroom, though no one else in your shared circle of friends would ever become any of the wiser about what all of the giggles were about.

The night before he moved and with legs hooked up over his shoulders, you remember the words like they were yesterday. Like they were important.

Maybe to you they were.

"I'm going to miss you saying super annoying stuff like this," you said, an airy giggle punched out of you with his deeper drive inside. "Who else will call me pretty while balls deep inside of me?"

"I don't think you'll have a particularly hard time finding that."

For years, the words would pop up in your memory—trying to dissect some hidden meaning between them. As a relatively inexperienced teenager, you didn't really understand what he had meant by it. Now, obviously, it's not that uncommon for guys to be in their lovers’ guts and calling them pretty, it's actually pretty common. Though, Chan hadn't said it since then.

The first time back since moving, Chan fucked you the same as always, though a little bit quieter, a little less verbal, and with eyes that didn't meet your own quite as much as you remembered from before. Only a year between, maybe you were remembering it differently than it was. Maybe you had just placed a lot of extra thought and feeling where it never really belonged to begin with.

You didn't recall it feeling so much like just sex as it did upon his return, always a little something extra, a little something different that felt like some kind of intangible more that also sort of wasn't there at all.

And thinking back to before the move, before everything changed—you remember lying with him after the fact as he checked social media from his phone, damp from sweat and other such sticky bodily fluids.

A fingertip lightly tracing over the scars, and Chan softly smiling into the touch.

"And then I told him that I don't think I was going to want to fuck some guy who wants me to do his laundry every time I come over, like, isn't that fuckin' weird?"

"Extremely weird," you reply, nodding lightly towards Hyunjin in agreement as you take a sip from your beverage. "Sounds like he wanted you to be his mommy or something."

"Uhg," Hyunjin sighs out in answer to such a concept, leaning back into his chair and slinging one arm up over the back. "Totally fuckin' weird."

It's a typical spot for the two of you to be dining at: a small, relatively unknown corner restaurant that sells mostly sandwiches and drinks and not much else outside of that. Not far from your job, and an ideal meeting place when Hyunjin texts you to catch a break and get a bite to eat real quick.

You take a bite of your food in the small lull in conversation, though Hyunjin's strange, stiff movement stirs your attention quickly back to him. Mouth a little too stuffed full of bread to ask, you unfortunately have no other choice but to try to make out what's happening based on the expressiveness of his face—and expressive he is—first eyes wide in shock, then narrowed in what you can only gather is disapproval of some sort.

"Not you…"

"Hey."

You don't choke on your food and that's impressive enough of a feat once it immediately dawns on you just who it is and why it is that Hyunjin is so suddenly displeased. They don't have history—not really, not personally—but he's heard enough in the meantime since Chan has left that he's been able to construct enough of his own opinion about the guy.

They met once, Hyunjin was cordial enough. Earlier into Chan's Return To Fuck And Then Disappear Without A Trace tour that he was much more able to pretend that he respects the man at all.

"What?" Hyunjin says, already an evident bite to it that you have concern might start something of a scene. "What do you want? What are you doing here?"

"Easy man," Chan answers, hands up in the air in front of him like he's already admitting defeat at the scene. Probably a good idea. "I just want to talk to her. No funny business."

"You'll have to forgive me for not exactly believing you have the best intentions at heart. You never really do, after all."

"Look, I know you have some problem with me and that's fine but I didn't come here to fight with you about—"

"Alright, enough."

When you finally speak up, it shuts the other two up almost immediately. You're thankful for that, because you don't really want to have to fight or plead or get into something of a shouting match just to settle this situation. Especially in public.

So, you sigh, putting your fork down against the plate and looking up towards Chan as he stands beside the table—a strange sort of half-frown curved into his lips, like he knows it's there and he's trying to not look so pathetic but he also can't entirely help it.

"How did you find me?" you question, exasperated.

He shrugs. "Snapchat location. Sorry."

Turning to look towards Hyunjin—who is now rolling his eyes at the simplicity of the mistake—you shake your head and whisper something to the effect of rookie mistake, then stand slowly from the table and point a finger straight into Chan's face.

"You've got thirty minutes. Hope you brought a script."

Chan's truck is just like you remember it.

It's not often that you find yourself riding with him in it, and for obvious enough reasons. Neither he, nor his parents, ever sold it once he moved out of town and thus it has remained in the driveway of his folks' home for years—awaiting he return once more.

One of the tires feels a little bit wobblier than you remember, perhaps an alignment that needs retuning and a suspicious clicking sound that may or may not be coming from the transmission. No doubt the wear and tear of years of neglect, but Chan doesn't really need the thing to be in perfect working order anyways, as the backend is filled as full as road-safety-possible with things he intends to drop off at the dump.

A fifteen minute drive of silence, meaning that he only has another fifteen once he parks the vehicle and the two of you sit in each other's company awkwardly.

If you intend to keep count, of course.

The radio is on but it's so low that you can't make out any of the words being said, paired with the static of being such an old model—it gives you something to hone your attention in on though, rather than the nervous way in which Chan picks at the skin around his nails as he presumably tries to figure out how to make this better without ever admitting fault.

You can make it a lot easier on him, because you've already come to a conclusion of your own approximately a week prior—maybe even more. Maybe the last night you were with Chan at all.

"I don't want to have sex with you anymore."

"Why?"

He answers it surprisingly quick, and that kind of makes you feel worse about the whole thing; such a nasty, sinking stomach feeling that hangs in your gut about how it really only ever has been about the sex for him ever since he left. That you carry no other meaning, no other interest to him outside of being able to offer that when he happens to come around.

Might as well tell the truth, the whole truth.

"Because you don't make me feel like I'm actually there."

Chan's eyes remain glued on you, and although his expression is one of confusion mostly, there's a particular hint of disgust that settles through upon hearing that. Like he didn't know. Like this is news to him.

"Rather, having sex with you makes me feel as though you wish I wasn't."

Looking at Chan is hard, but you suppose it has been for a long time. Like looking down the barrel of a loaded gun, one with the high probability of misfiring and killing the person standing at the wrong end.

You take the opportunity as the man sits dazed to grip at the door handle and jimmy it open with the kind of practiced ease that tells the story of having done so many times previously. A door rusted and misshapen from the elements, a door that Chan undoubtedly would have to reach over and open for anyone else.

But not you. No, you've been here so many times before, you know this door like the back of your own hand, and that makes all of this hurt just that much more. Every happening, no matter how small and seemingly insignificant carrying the weight of the world within—the weight of years of friendship, the weight of something else not dare ever said.

Slipping out of the seat, it takes Chan a few moments to even realize what's happened; already a good bit of the ways back down the nasty, dirty road of the dump back towards the main road. You hear the truck rev back to life, tires spinning beneath themselves before he manages to pull it back around and meanders up beside you as you continue walking towards the pavement with phone in hand.

"Come on, don't do that. Why are you walking home, seriously?"

It must be your lucky day—though, you're not entirely sure how much of that can be true on account of the way that all of this has played out. You know when to take the wins that life hands you through the abundance of otherwise losses, though, and when you manage to snag a rideshare that's only five minutes away from your current and completely bizarre location, you breathe a sigh of relief, and allow yourself the freedom to tell your best friend precisely what it is that's been eating away at your mind since that night. Since before that night, really, though it's been difficult to come to terms, find the words, and swallow down the feeling of wanting to vomit every time you have to make peace with it in some way.

"Because we're not friends," you say firmly, looking him dead in the eye as you do so. "We haven't been for a long time, and I hate to admit that now I'm wondering if we ever really were."

The truck slows to a standstill as the words wash over the receiver, and you're proud of yourself for how strong you must appear to look.

Fuck, fuck, fuck, is what really rattles through your mind with each step away that you take. Go back to him. Don't go back to him. He's fucked up and you know that but you know he's a good guy. Dealing with his issues isn't your responsibility.

You are not a rehabilitation center for fucked up men.

Between the back and forth in your mind, the to and fro in such a way—an internal battle that feels like every organ inside of your chest is being strangled and wrung out on the cool, dusty flooring beneath your feet—that is the one thing you keep reminding yourself like a cultist chant. Over and over and over again until you're inside of your ride and swept off towards your home.

Where you can cry in peace, be honest with yourself and your feelings and not have to put on a face of strength in front of a man who wouldn't be able to bear the truth upon his own shoulders if he tried.

"What if I said I thought I was in love with you?"

You had huffed out something of a laugh at the words, not really sure what to do with them but opting out of putting much stock in what was said at the time either.

There was a brief glance towards him, not that it made much of a difference in the pitch black darkness of the bedroom closet where the two of you were seated. It was another house party that you somehow had gotten roped into—the last week particularly bad at Chan's house, and he had the bruises on his arms to prove it.

When things had been particularly bad at home, Chan acted out just that much more in an attempt to not have to think about it—not have to count how many days there were left until he would be able to escape. Heavier drinking, more reckless driving, longer nights out and less days in school for you to be able to check up on him, so sometimes coming out was the only way you'd be able to keep something of an eye on him.

He wasn't drunk this time—a brief moment of relief felt—squashed by him admitting instead to partaking in the joys of recreational cough syrup abuse.

And so, here the two of you sat now; two in the morning on a school night as Chan rests curled up in the dark of someone's closet because the trip had become just a little bit too much. You didn't know much about this sort of thing outside of the bit of reading you'd done, but auditory hallucinations were not uncommon.

"And why would you say that?" you asked him in response, because it wasn't really the time for this sort of conversation, and you weren't sure if there ever really was going to be a time for it either.

"Why not?"

"That doesn't seem like a very good reason to say it," you replied, playing it cool as best as you could, all things considered. "Plus, I don't know that you're in the best state of mind to be making any sweeping declarations of love to anybody."

Chan sat up straighter, as if his ability to be upright was meant to prove you wrong on the matter. His hand fished around in the dark for something—grabbing at your sweater, then your leg, until inevitably finding its target in your hand and clumsily curling fingers within your own.

"You're always so difficult when it comes to talking about feelings, but I guess that's something that the both of us understand pretty well, isn't it?"

Yeah.

You hadn't bother responding verbally to it, and eventually Chan changed the subject towards some other inane story that barely had a conscious beginning, middle or end. Or maybe it did—your mind still wholly left back on the original comment, revisited frequently for many years to come.

Over two days, twenty-two missed calls, and fifteen ignored text messages, the one that finally has to drop the wall that you've now erected between the two of you is one that you always knew to be coming anyway. Reading the words hits you harder than expected though, maybe because you thought you would have more time to make things right.

From: Chan

18:09 : i know you're not talking to me but wanted to let you know i got someone to deal with selling the house, so i'll be leaving town tomorrow finally. it was nice seeing you.

You lose count of how many times you've banged on the old, ornate wooden door in front of you, though you accept that little time has passed since your beginning of doing so. Do you look deranged to any potential passerby? Probably. You can't be bothered with that right now, however.

Halfway into another swing towards it, the door finally budges and pulls open abruptly—Chan stands there with something of a confused, slightly dim-witted expression that would likely have the ability to melt your heart if not for the beating that it's already taken in his brief stint of being here. Bandaged and bruised and with wounds barely scabbed over, your heart aches upon laying eyes on him again because now you know for sure, without a shadow of a doubt, that this will be the last time.

Chan always came back. Until, of course, he wouldn't anymore.

"I…" he starts, slowly, clearly somewhat confused by not only your fervor in banging on the door but also just your being there at all. "I didn't think you would come. I was on the phone, I thought it was—forget it. Hi?"

"What happened with my parents a year ago? When my mother went on vacation without my father?"

You watch Chan's eyebrows slowly pull together at the center of his face, contemplating not only the question itself but the purpose of you presenting it entirely. When you urge him further, he stutters and falters under the time crunch, garbled words lost in a mouth that has no idea what to do with them.

"I—I don't know!"

"Last summer, I was considering staying abroad somewhere. Where was I thinking of going?"

This time the thinking through of your question is shorter, most likely on account of his catching on to the reasoning behind them.

"I don't know."

"And when I finally adopted my dog, the dog that I loved so dearly and had been looking forward to so much, what did I decide to name him?"

Chan's features have since twisted into something more akin to compassionate sadness—and no doubt because he has figured out the purpose behind all of this.

"I didn't know you have a dog."

"I don't," you sigh, fighting tooth and nail to choke back the sob that threatens your throat and chest. "He got hit by a car five months after I adopted him."

Closing his eyes, Chan's body goes limp in front of you as his head drops to face more towards the floor than to you. You don't really understand how it is that he couldn't have known, gone all of this time without knowing anything happening in your life, and still thinking that everything could remain precisely as he left it between the two of you during his short visits back.

Treating you like you only matter when right in front of him, something that he has no choice but to acknowledge then.

"My mother had an affair, it almost ruined their marriage. Actually, I would say that it has, they've just stayed together through it anyway, I don't know why. I wanted to go to Switzerland, because it'd have been such a huge change of scenery. And his name was Greg, because I thought it would be funny to give a dog a person name."

Chan lets out a small huff of laughter through his nose, seemingly unsure as to whether or not he's even allowed to find humor in such a thing now.

"It is funny."

"Why did you shut me out when you left?"

Even just saying the words feels like a punch to the gut—toppling over and grasping at your midsection in thought of it as you somehow manage to say what it is that you've been thinking for all of these years since then. It feels so bad to acknowledge it for what it is; eyes stinging and so unfathomably choked up that it feels as though you're drowning on the doorstep of people who eventually got what was coming to them. For living as terribly as they did, and taking their poor son down with them until he remain unable to self-regulate even after they've passed on.

"Do you want to come in?" Chan says then, a shake to his voice that you haven't heard from him in a long, long time.

It reminds you of the first time he told you about everything. About them. About his life. The terror of opening up and being honest and God forbid…telling somebody the truth.

"Please…please come in," he finishes in a plead.

The house is mostly empty now.

He's certainly made quick work of it, and you can't help but assume it to be largely on account of wanting to end his time attached to this city as swiftly as he possibly can. There's a strange, looming ambiance of sadness that sits idly in the air as you follow Chan inside, up the stairs, and towards what once was his bedroom. So many memories residing in these walls—almost none of them pleasant—you imagine a child that at some point in time was happy here, playing with toys, loved…until one day everything changed. Forever and for always.

Chan keeps his hands stuffed into the pockets of his gym shorts like he's afraid of daring to touch the walls or the railing of the stairway. Like having done so had once resulted in one of the many scars that sit along his flesh to this day. It's only once the two of you reach his bedroom door and he nudges it open does he finally withdraw them and usher you inside with the flip of a switch along the wall.

Inside, only a small handful of things remain; bed still intact with a small box set beside it, as well as his suitcase sitting next to the doorway.

He takes short strides towards the bed, slightly hunched as if still nothing more than a child who is the recipient of a scolding like so many times before in this home. Old habits die hard.

Chan sits on the mattress with a metallic creaking that follows the bend of it, and with a pitiful running of his palms over his face, he finally manages to gather the courage to look you in the eye again.

"When I was eight, my dad started telling me that no one would ever love me like they did. No one would ever love me because there was nothing about me that was worth loving. I don't think I ever told you this."

He hadn't, but the thought of it makes your stomach drop. You wonder how many other stories of the same caliber he has still tucked away in the back of his mind, things that he dares not spare conscious thought to, yet they seep into everything that he does regardless of the fact.

He chuckles a bit before continuing the thought.

"It's like, you try not to believe that stuff, you know? But when the people who are supposed to be the ones who are everything to you are the ones saying it, it's hard not to believe it. I grew up seeing depictions of families on television, from my friends, the movies—that was never my reality—but I had to believe that they loved me, because if they didn't then how could anyone else possibly do so?"

"Your parents were shitty people, Chan," you say firmly.

"I know. I mean, I know that now, right? Because I'm an adult, and even as a teenager I knew that. Maybe I was lucky in the way that I started hating them young, it gave me the gift of sight, to see them for precisely what they were and not have that veil kept over my eyes for any longer than I had already lived with it, but still…"

"It's hard. Hard to accept. To move on from."

"Yeah, exactly."

Remaining steadfast in the center of the room, you can't do much else besides look upon him as he continues thinking through the words that he wishes to say to you. He's missed so much of your life as an adult, and it's no one’s fault but his own. The price he has to pay, but still a difficult pill to swallow as someone who wants nothing more than to have him there.

It's always been like that, for as long as you can really remember.

"I don't think I ever really knew what love actually was, or looked like. What it felt like to have it, or to give it to someone else. I think I tried. I think I tried a lot, with you, with us. But—"

Chan grimaces then, as if the memory of so many attempts to do something right and failing are all coming flooding back to him like a tidal wave. He flexes his hands twice, a subtle jerk to his head before finishing his words.

"I just couldn't ever get it right. So when I left—"

"You stopped trying."

With a couple of small nods, Chan's eyes finally come up enough to meet yours. "Yeah."

More than anything else, you know there is deep self-loathing and disappointment embedded within him. Thoughts and feelings and regrets that the man has spent years trying to bury in hopes of never having to face them ever again, now all laid out on the table before you in the most honest and vulnerable display.

I love you, I love you, I love you, you think to yourself as you watch his eyes dance and glitter in the shining light of the overhead lamp. Chan had said it to you once before, so why can't you now? Frozen in place and terrified of the potential outcome from such an outburst. Say it, say it, say it—

"Anyway, after tomorrow I won't be back here. The rest of the paperwork I can do back at home, so we don't have to, like," he pauses mid-sentence, glancing away for a split second before attempting to come back to find your gaze—falling short of it and looking past you, instead. "Ya know, do this again. This is the last time."

Ask me to come with you, ask me to come with you, ask me to come with you. "I guess that's for the best, for you."

He laughs again, now giving up the ruse of ever trying to look you in the eye at all and instead looking off to the side, elsewhere entirely.

"For me, for you. For both of us, probably."

Chest tight and that familiar choking dryness in your throat once again making itself known, you have no other option but to attempt to swallow it down—take this well, guard yourself and your own feelings when it comes to him because he has dropped the ball in doing so time and time again. Chan can't be what you want him to be for you, and maybe he never really could have been. A teenage dream; where love conquers all, even very real, very present trauma.

"I just didn't want to leave and you think that I've been like…doing this on purpose. Hurting you, I mean. I've never wanted to do that. You've only ever been the person in my life who has meant the most to me, and I'm sorry for how I've treated you since I left. When I came back. Everything. You don't deserve that."

I don't, but you can be better too.

"You remind me of being here, but you probably think it's only in all of the worst ways. That's true, but it's not only that. You're the only thing that makes ever coming back to this city bearable," Chan says, now finally able to meet your eyes again. "I should have done a better job at making the feeling mutual."

You want to speak, so badly have so much that you wish to say. The words get lost in your throat before they ever meet the air of the room, however. Say it, say it, say it.

"Well, I ought to get you home, huh?" he then says with a bit more of a chipperness to his tone. Standing to his feet and making his way towards you. "Your parents like me, don't want to burn every bridge when I leave."

It takes you by force before you have even so much as an opportunity to consider otherwise; arms stretched out and around him, pulling him close and hard against you, completely closing any of the distance that remained between your bodies. Chan collides into you with something of an amused and stumbling huff, but allows the embrace to carry on while you shove your face into the soft, warm plush of his black sweatshirt.

The sob that rips through you is nearly choking, and you no longer have the ability to fight it back any longer as your fingertips grip hard into the fabric beneath—as if in an attempt to keep him there, precisely where he is. Precisely where he has always belonged.

Don't go, don't go, don't go. I love you, I love you, I love you.

Chan holds you there in the middle of his childhood bedroom, full of horrific memories, old cigarette smell, and almost certainly a long forgotten splattering of blood that had been missed over the years.

"Hey," he whispers eventually, what feels like hours having passed since the first moment of your intimacy shared like this. "Hey…don't cry."

The words are so softly spoken, it almost doesn't sound like the man you know at all. You can't help but snort at the fact though, because what an absolutely asinine thing to say, all things considered. Still, Chan sets his hands on your shoulders and pulls you back just enough to get a good look at you—tear-stained cheeks and wet eyelashes clumped together in a mess with a quivering lip that just won't seem to quit.

And still, he smiles. Lips thin and tight, but at the very least, he is at peace. He is happy.

Because of you. Because of your love for him, felt but not spoken.

"Remember the good stuff, yeah? It wasn't all bad, though maybe you were better for me than I ever was for you. I think that might have always been destined to be the case. Ever since I picked you back in grade school, just looking for another girl to save me, huh?"

"Why do you say stuff like that?" you manage out through a sniffle, a lazy attempt made at drying your face in the aftermath. What you really mean, however, is why do you still believe you have nothing to offer? Why do you still believe you're unworthy of other people's love?

"Hey." he says again, and this time you're able to give him your attention as you look him in the eye from where you stand.

The two of you stand like that in silence for a long moment. Chan nervously biting at his bottom lip as if everything that he has ever wanted to say to you lie just behind it, desperately waiting to be freed.

"I—"

Chan kisses you then for the first time in years. Soft and meaningful, as if everything he has ever thought and felt reside in it. No good at words (neither of you are), so maybe this will simply have to do.

Heart beating so fervently against your chest that you worry your ribcage may shatter beneath your flesh, Chan brings himself away and creates space between the two of you once again, though his eyes never leave yours for a second.

"Come on, let's get you home. You can come by tomorrow morning before I leave at noon if you really want to kick me to the curb yourself."

Waking up feels harder than ever, but simultaneously different in a new and exhilarating way.

It's sunny out—surprising enough considering the time of year—and you can hear your mother downstairs making breakfast as your father's footsteps make a sound one after the other as he heads up the stairs and most likely towards your bedroom to inform you of the impending morning feast.

But you don't have time for breakfast, because you have your future to enact.

You've pre-packed a bag, done so shortly after getting back up to your room the night before. The decision has been made to tell him, tell him everything, be completely open and honest about your feelings because you've never been more sure of anything before in your life.

Chan isn't perfect, but he doesn't have to be. You know him well enough to know that along with his faults come the newfound ability to become better, to grow, to heal. To work hard to become the best version of himself he can possibly be. Not only for himself, but for your future together as well.

Two knocks at your door, you call for your father to come in.

In hand, he has a small, white envelope, and though you can't quite put your finger on why just yet, you feel the beginnings of your stomach dropping in real time as he motions to hold it up for viewing.

"This was left at the doorstep this morning, must have been early, was already there when we stepped out to go for a walk."

You sit up abruptly, reaching wildly at the item and begging for what you think to be true, to not be.

Please don't do this, please don't do this, please don't do this.

"It's addressed to you," he finishes, though it's already in your hands by the time the sentence finds its end. Bless your father, always a perceptive one, takes his leave immediately thereafter.

Prying the envelope open, you pull out what's inside. White, folded paper from some notebook with the edges where it was torn all frayed and messy. You try desperately to swallow back the sob that's already attempting to make its way up and out of you, though you don't have the strength in you to do so as you unfold the item and inhale shakily to center yourself for reading.

We were so close, please, I love you.

At the top, right hand corner of the paper sits a scribbled little picture of a cupcake—brown paper to hold it and pink frosting with little blue and purple flecks on top for sprinkles. He must have found some colored pencils and decided to make good use of them for this in particular, or bought them precisely for this.

'Back at home, I've been a swim instructor for young kids for a few years. It's deeply rewarding, and I finally get to do the swimming thing like I've always wanted to. Well, not exactly, but at least I can take my shirt off in the pool now and I don't have to feel bad about whether or not people are looking at the scars.

I have a dog, too. Her name is Berry. I'm sorry I wasn't there for the joy and the loss of your friend, I think I'll always deeply regret that, right along with everything else about your life that I've missed when we could have just as easily shared it together.

I've never been very good at saying stuff, and neither have you. I think that's what always made our friendship so easy, because we clicked so well on a level that didn't require words. I've never had that with anyone else, and I don't think I ever will again. I have a lot of regrets, they all kind of involve you haha. Not your fault, you've always been amazing, but I don't think I've ever really known how to give that back in the way that you deserve to receive it. There's a saying, 'people know how to give love, but they don't as easily know how to receive it,' and I guess I've somehow landed myself as the worst of both worlds, because I don't know how to do either of them.

All of this is to say: sorry for lying about when I was leaving, I guess you've probably gathered by now that I'm a coward who ran away all over again, just like I did before. I run away when I'm given the opportunity to do so, because that's all I've ever known how to do. I want to be honest with you, I really, really do, but I'm scared about what that could mean. How I can't run anymore if I am.

I don't want to lie, and I can't tell the truth. So, I ran.'

By the end of the letter, your eyes are barely able to focus on the words—blurred vision through tears and shaking hands that won't allow you to hold the paper still between your fingers. You sob and sob, choked and desperate for quick breaths that have you heaving where you sit at the loss of the one thing you've wanted—the one person you've wanted—through it all. A beacon of hope, a small glimpse of promise as the two of you stood together in one another’s embrace in the middle of his old, and now to be forgotten, bedroom floor.

You clutch the paper tightly in hand, nearly crumpling it entirely before you realize you don't want to ruin it, but the act of having done so folding the bottom left edge over just enough to show there to be more written on the other side. Numbers as well as letters.

And so, you turn it over.

This time, a crudely drawn picture of a key next to a house; a stick figure in a black hoodie, another stick figure in the coat you had been wearing the night before, and a small, cute dog.

Below it all sits another note, much shorter and succinct in length.

'but if by chance you find the strength to say the words that I can't—no more walls, no more fences.'

Then just below that sits an address, and a gate code that has you jumping out of bed and reaching for the closest pair of pants that you can get your hands on, as if every second is more time wasted, more time slipping through your fingers at finally making all of this right.

'143—you figure it out haha.'

♡ send me your thoughts and feelings in my ask.

—this is a oneshot, there will be no part 2.

#bang chan smut #stray kids smut #bang chan x you #bang chan x reader #bang chan x y/n #bang chan imagines #bang chan scenarios #stray kids x reader #stray kids x you #stray kids x y/n #stray kids imagines #stray kids scenarios #skz smut #skz x reader #skz x you #skz x y/n #skz imagines #skz scenarios

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lurkingshan · 7 months

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Anticipating the LITBC Adaptations

One of the questions @bengiyo asked us this week is what parts of the book we are most looking forward to seeing in the upcoming film and drama adaptations. I had a good convo with @doyou000me and @stuffnonsenseandotherthings in the comments here, and I wanted to talk a bit about why I am excited for these adaptations.

Most folks who watch a lot of South Korean media know that there is precious little LGBTQ+ representation in Korean dramas and film. In mainstream kdrama, we are lucky if we get a queer side character a couple times a year, and it's even more rare for those characters to get a romantic partner (but not unheard of, see Be Melodramatic my beloved). There has been a big uptick in Korean bl production over the last few years, but most of those projects are underfunded and fly under the radar (with notable exceptions like Semantic Error, The Eighth Sense, and Love for Love's Sake). So it is a very big deal to me to see two mainstream adaptations of Love in the Big City, a story that is undeniably centered on a queer lived experience.

Let's talk about the film first. When I first saw the announcement that we would get a film adaptation starring Kim Go Eun, Steve Noh, and Kang Ha Neul, I was ecstatic. These are huge names in Korean media, drama headliners and movie stars. Now, does the choice to focus only on part 1 and center the story on Jaehee mean this project likely won't feel fully rooted in Young's queer perspective? Absolutely, we should recognize that and manage our expectations accordingly. But there will be a mainstream film about the relationship between a woman and a gay man living together, and that is already a very big deal for South Korea. We have to look at this project from the context of Korean social politics and recognize that it signifies progress. And I am still hopeful that Young will feel like a fully realized character, even if we are unlikely to see the full extent of his depth and complexity represented in this film.

And that is where the drama comes in. Sang Young Park himself is the screenwriter for this adaptation, and based on the production photos @my-rose-tinted-glasses shared here, we are getting all four parts of the story in this version. The cast here is not as famous as the film headliners, but they are recognizable, solid actors who have had main roles in other dramas. I don't know how these two projects came to be made at the same time, so I can only say that having them premiere around the same time is genius, whether by intention or happenstance. Because I can easily imagine that people who are exposed to this story for the first time via the film might then go check out the drama, where they will see a much fuller picture of Young's life and an authentic queer experience. @archiveofmystuff shared that there has been some reporting about the long process to secure funding for this full novel adaptation, and I'm not surprised it was difficult. But with Sang Young Park attached I feel confident that we will get a solid version of this story, even if it can't get quite as explicit about all the gory details as the novel did. I can't wait to see Young, Jaehee, Umma, Hyung, and Gyu-ho on my screen, and I'll be so curious to see how he structures the show to fit the four parts of his novel into eight 50-minute episodes. There are so many exciting possibilities and I am feeling optimistic.

TL; DR: it's a big deal that these adaptations are being made, and it will surely result in more people seeing Young's story. It's a signal of positive progress in the Korean media landscape, and I welcome it.

#love in the big city #litbc book club #korean bl #kdrama #shan shouts into the void

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goodeapple · 1 year

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be nice to your neighbors.

i have a million and two wip's in my Ysilla folder and somehow, i have to add one more.

i am an exhausting person. love y'all lots!

pairing : Aemond x Ysilla (Rhaenyra'sDaughter!OC)

warnings : Aemond is a simp & Ysilla is a plant nerd. Awkward flirting. Fluff. No smut :(

word count : 2,500+

It’s so fucking early. What self-respecting tattoo shop is open at 7AM on a Sunday? On God’s day? Aegon hasn’t stepped foot in a church since he was thirteen which explains the hours, but why the fuck is Aemond here and not him?

Aemond wasn’t exactly planning on going to church today, but maybe if he had the option, his ass would be in a pew next to his mother right now instead of perfecting a sketch for an appointment that isn’t even until next week. His Americano is lukewarm, steam long blown away by the small oscillating fan tucked up on a high shelf. A row of overstuffed books, on everything from Classic Americana design to Valyrian legends he wants to detail on paper, fill up the rest of the ledge. The next one down houses a line of knick knacks he could never force himself to part with- a tiny tacky snowglobe from Harrenhal, his grandfather’s Hand of the King pin from when he was in the courts, 8-tracks from his mum’s rebellious punk phase before she went to college, and at the end, a framed photo of him and his siblings the day they opened the shop. Three identical terrified grins are spread over their faces, nervous anticipation bleeding through the black-and-white snapshot. Little pieces of his life in his little corner of the world, where he gets to do what he loves.

And the most important little worm to him sleeps the day away in her glass vivarium by the door. Vhagar lounges under her UV bulb, baking on a large smooth stone after inhaling her breakfast. His little crocodile without the teeth. The soft garden green bearded dragon with her yellow belly has been his constant companion since he rescued her from a Oldtown pet shop when he was a pre-teen. He hid her under his bed for a full seven months before his mum found her one day when she was searching for missing socks. It was an impressive feat, one even she had to acknowledge after blowing her fucking top.

Aemond darkens the curve of the kraken tentacle he’s sketching, a piece for a client coming all the way from the Iron Isles. The little suction cups still need more depth and he hasn’t even begun to flesh out the texture of the skin yet when the bell hanging above the shop door tinkles, signifying an end to his blissful solitude.

“Hello? Helaena, you here?”

Aemond drops his pencil, shoving off from his desk, grumbling as he goes. There’s still a hint of sleep in his eye and he rubs it away as he walks up the hall to the lobby.

“We don’t take walk-in’s on the weekends and we don’t have any appointments scheduled ‘till 9. So, are you sight-seeing or are you just overly punctual?” He doesn’t mean to sound like a dick, it just comes second nature.

The back of the head that greets him as he blinks open his eye is a pretty one, thick brunette curls pinned up with gold butterfly clips. The girl abandons the magazine she’d been leafing through, turning at the sound of his voice. The wide-eyed look that’s spread over her face emphasizes plum-shaded irises, framed by palm leaf eyes. There’s a pair of beauty marks peppered on the dawn of her cheekbone. A rosy mocha mouth is pouted before it curves up into a charming bend of itself.

“I’m sorry, I'm not here to get any work done. I was just coming in to give something to Helaena.” The woman shimmies the large gift bag held tight in her fist as proof. “I’m a friend.”

Aemond shrugs off his disappointment. “Oh, my bad.” She’d be a gorgeous canvas. The golden brown of her skin would take color like a fucking champ. Black would be even better. Really make the contrast pop. The smooth peak of her shoulders from underneath the oversized cream cardigan she wears is a tantalizing taste of something he wants to indulge in. “She’s not here yet.”

Her expression collapses and Aemond regrets causing such a look to dim her face. “Oh damn, she told me she’d be in at this time.”

Aemond thinks maybe he should call his big sister, considering he hasn’t received her standard “i’ll be there in 10, I PROMISE 10 MINUTES AEMMY!!” text today, when the girl’s face blooms into one of recognition.

“You’re Aemond, right?”

“Uh, yeah- yes, yes I am.” He coughs, straightening up a bit, manners braided into every core memory he possesses. His mom is, in Aegon’s terms, a “tightass”, but damn him if he doesn’t know how to treat a woman.

“I always see you coming in and out of here, and well, you and Hel and Aegon all look alike, so I put two and two together and made four that you’re the missing piece of Three Headed Dragon.” She gestures to the air, implying she’s speaking about the name of the shop. The gold chains layered around her neck, some with pendants and some without, jingle with her movement. Aemond likes the softness of the sound. “And when she came in for a succulent recommendation a few months back, I asked about you and she told me your name, and… yeahhh. I just didn’t want you to think I was some weirdo who’s been waiting for the perfect moment to get you alone.”

“Oh no, I wouldn’t think that.” Aemond looks very serious, even knitting his brows in a thick, no-nonsense line, but he has to bite his lip to keep from snickering, which she notices.

She breathes out a laugh, dipping her head in surrender. She turns to the entrance, and Aemond is worried she might leave. He doesn’t mind her company, which is a miracle considering the hour.

“Hey-”

“Is this your’s?” She points to the hyperrealistic direwolf stencil he’d cranked out last year during an artist’s block that he couldn’t shake for the life of him. The piece is gruesome, wicked lines and keen edges that intimidate even him, and he drew the damn thing.

“Uh, yeah. Good guess.” The black frames adorning the gallery wall are a mixture of his and Aegon’s work, all in varying shades of grays and blacks. His brother’s signature new school style is easily distinguishable to Aemond, but he admits some of their earlier sketches are more uniform than not.

“You do beautiful work.”

Aemond’s eyebrows raise and he lets the compliment warm him.

“I appreciate that. Many wouldn’t call that beautiful, but I think it has a certain magnetism to it.” He looks the woman over, using the excuse of actually searching for ink so that he can appreciate her willowy arms and the peek of shapely legs through the dash in her skirt. “Do you have any?” Aemond gestures to the wall, before gesturing to her. She shakes her head no, freeing an errant curl that falls over her forehead. Aemond picks at his joggers to keep his fingers from doing something stupid.

“Oh no. I’m not the biggest fan of needles. Self-admittedly, I can also be a bit of a flake, so permanent artwork on my body kind of gives me hives.” She shivers and Aemond thinks her modesty is adorable.

“That’s a shame.”

Mystery woman snaps her fingers, spinning on her toes to pin him with a look, and Aemond basks in the scent of jasmine and sea salt that wafts his way.

“If I change my mind, I know who to go to.” She blinks suddenly, her pointed hand gliding behind her to rub at the back of neck in a bashful way. “That is, if you’d ever want to. Or, if you’re like, accepting clients.”

“For you? I think I could make an exception.” Aemond leans into the counter, settling to her level. The way the flush of her cheeks drips into the creamy sweep of her chest makes him hungry. She drops her hand, edging forward on timid toes.

“Well, aren’t you sweet.”

He doesn’t really know how to reply to that. He can feel the tips of his ears heat up, and when she tucks her lock of hair back in place, Aemond wishes he would’ve done it for her. He can see a thin line of dark walnut bracing the white of her eyes with how close he is, so close now he can smell the cinnamon on her breath from the condensating chai latte she holds in her other hand.

“Aemond!” The back door slams and his sister’s voice floats up the hall.

“Fuckin’ A, I’m sorry I’m late. I hit construction traffic and I had to get gas or I would’ve been pushing my Volksy here, and then I needed a coffee, believe me.” A white-blonde head of super short hair is unleashed when his sister yanks off her crocheted bucket hat, and she gasps as she catches sight of the shop’s first patron of the day.

“Good morning, muffin, I was trying to get here as fast as I could!” Helaena is a tornado of violets, lavenders, and magentas, purple her chosen color of the day as she spins into the room, tucking her backpack into the lockable cabinet by Aemond’s knees.

The girl’s smile is a thing of beauty and even if it’s for Helaena, Aemond will keep it for himself.

“Good morning, Hel. No worries, your brother’s been keeping me company.”

Helaena spares him a look, sending a delicately sharp elbow right into his ribs.

“Has he? It must be your lucky day- he usually scares off the customers that aren’t on the schedule.”

Aemond throws a sturdy blunt elbow into her shoulder and revels in the wince that she tries to hide.

“Mmmm, not scared off yet. But if you would’ve given us a few more minutes, who knows?” A wink is sent his way, showing she means it in all good fun. Aemond fires a smile back at her, curling his lip up in a smirk he knows carries some weight to it. She swallows- he can see the jump in her throat, before she damn near flings her reason for coming in onto the counter.

“Here! She came in yesterday towards closing time, a special delivery just for you.”

Hel snatches it with greedy hands, unknotting the twine laced through the handles so she can stick her whole face into the bag.

“Oh my word, it’s beautiful!” Helaena exclaims, wonderment turning her tone soft and breathy. Aemond can’t stunt his curiosity, knocking his sister’s head out of his way to peer into the gift bag.

“It looks moldy.”

Mystery woman looks mildly offended by his assessment, but it’s his sister that thwacks him in the chest.

“Shut up! You and Aegon practically drowned my cactus when I went on holiday last summer; what do you know about plants? It’s stunning and wonderful and all mine!” Helaena pulls out the plant with careful hands, gathering up the trailing vines like she’s lassoing a rope.

Hel oooo’s and ahhh’s , rubbing the silver spotted leaves between her fingers, smelling the somewhat heart-shaped sprouts for any lingering fragrance. Aemond’s surprised she doesn’t pop one in her mouth and give it a taste.

“A cactus?”

Aemond shrugs, happy to have the woman’s attention back on him, even if it is at his expense. “It looked thirsty.”

The giggle she gifts him makes his 5AM alarm worth it.

Helaena claps her hands together twice, calling attention to her like she’s a nursery school teacher. “Tell me about it- what’s its name and how do I keep it alive?”

“It’s a Scindapsus pictus, but satin Pothos or silver Philodendron is easier to remember. Even though it’s not technically a Pothos or a Philodendron, it’s in the Araceae family, which can be confusing, y’know? It’s naturally from the Hills of Andalos but it can also be found from Tyrosh all the way to Pinkmaiden.”

The siblings blink at her, both enjoying how she waxes on about something obviously interesting to her, even though it sounds like Dothraki to them. The brunette takes notice of the silence, tapering off her anecdotes while wearing a quiet, bemused grin.

“Anyways,” she twists the ring around her pinky in circles of nervous energy, “lots of light, water her like once a week, and she should thrive.”

“She’s perfect! Oh thank you for picking her out for me, darling. I’ll take such good care of her. ” Helaena has a way of hugging you with her words. It fills you with the warm and fuzzies, and the girl looks filled to the brim with them. She sighs though, shouldering the strap of her bag into place.

“I gotta get back to the shop- my early lunch break can’t go past 7:20, or Miss Olenna will be pissed if I’m not there to let her windowshop the roses.”

Helaena flutters around the counter, gushing promises of midday coffee dates and takeaway dinners before sweeping up the other girl in a rocking embrace.

The woman beams, happiness a good look on her, before pecking his sister’s cheek in parting. She pushes open the shop door, ducking out before catching it right before it closes. Her head ducks back in, and the same stubborn curl from before has come loose again, twisting around the corner of her eye.

“It was nice meeting you, Aemond.”

“Likewise…” Did he not catch her name once the entire time? Fuck him and his so-called manners.

Her smile is so bright, it burns itself behind his eyelids. “Ysilla.”

“Likewise, Ysilla.” Aemond rolls her name off of his tongue, discovering he quite likes the taste of her. A gorgeous name for a gorgeous girl.

She bids him a little wave of her hand before shutting the door softly. She looks both ways before darting across the roadway and into roots., an aptly named nursery that bursts at the brick with vegetation and flowers.

Aemond turns on his sister with alarming agility.

“Alright, share with the class. Who was that?”

“That’s Ysilla, Aem. Duh. She runs the plant shop across the street.”

He resists the urge to flick her in the forehead. His trainers are new and he doesn’t want her size seven foot print scuffing them up.

“I’ve never seen her before.”

“Well you would, if you ever bothered to come out of your room and meet our neighbors. She’s been in charge for about a year and a half now. Mr. Forel is an old flame of her grandma’s, or something like that, and she needed a job when he was thinking of retiring. So, perfect timing, I guess.” Hel fluffs the leaves, turning the plant pot this way and that, trying to decide which angle is most appealing. She carts it around the shop, holding it up to the spaces she’s thinking of occupying it with.

“What are you two, besties?” Aemond is so not jealous. Nah, never. Nope. No way, no how.

Helaena pauses, looking thoughtful before resuming her decorating.

“I’m kind of trying to be, but she goes to class after she’s done at the shop and if she’s not doing that, she has three brothers she helps take care of when her mum is working. So I stop off when I can and chat with her so we can catch up.”

Helaena cheers as she steps off the footstool she keeps around for high reaching access, admiring the vines cascading from the partition wall that divides the waiting room from her piercing studio.

“She’s pretty, isn’t she?” His sister is obviously speaking about the plant.

Aemond stares through the window across the street, the tan stucco building a bright bustle of life next to the high brow boutique to its left and Hot Pie’s bakery to its right. The numerous hanging pots from the ledge above the doorway would 100% split his skull if he wasn’t paying attention to where he was walking. Big glass windows are crowded by giant emerald fronds and stalks of leafy sprouts. The flower pots mirroring each side of the doorway are starting to wilt with the season, but the vibrant highlights of color splash a last breath of life against the stone.

If Aemond squints, he can catch a dark head of curls bouncing behind the register.

Maybe a plant wouldn’t be a bad addition to his shelves.

“Without a doubt.”

ps: i have another modern!au in the works of these two little fuckers, which is much longer, much angstier, and much more fun to read. should be out very very soon ;))

#hotd #aemond targaryen #ysilla targaryen #aemond targaryen x reader #aemond targaryen x oc #modern hotd #modern aemond targaryen #my writing

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bi-writes · 1 year

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what never left us | j.m.

there isn't a place dark enough to hide the things i've done for you.

type: one-shot, written in third person (no use of y/n) pairing: dark!joel miller x dark!afab!fem!reader word count: 11.7k (oops, strap in) warnings: implied age gap, extremely mature language and content, extremely mature written sexual content (see details below the cut), 🔞⚠️ summary: it isn't your fault that nobody understands how far you'll go for him; it isn't your fault that they don't understand what he is to you. complete masterlist

detailed warnings: extremely dark content ahead. includes themes of extreme violence and murder + sexual, emotional, and physical manipulation. read at your own discretion.

It was not quite clear when she realized she was not like other little girls. Her earliest memories were not the same as other women. She had no memory of life before, of dollhouses and pink tutus. She only had recollections of still-hot gun barrels and the stray bullets they left behind; she only truly remembered the pink that blood became when washed away by rainwater, and how it could stain canvas shoes the same color if she stuck out her foot to meet the flowing trails.

She had not been interested in the things that other little girls were interested in. She didn’t want to play pretend. She didn’t feel like braiding her hair or coloring pictures or reading stories. She was only fascinated by what was. By reality. By the things that shaped the world, and not the things that existed in fantasy. The scars on her fingertips from touching the sharp edges of blades too often attested too well to that fact.

The only thing she found she had in common with some other girls, finally, was the way her eyes followed other boys. She did not fawn over them as some others had. Some of them had been pretty, had smiles that were attractive, but this was where she again realized she was not the same as anyone else. Where others saw the possibility of romance, of love, of the idea of forever in one other person, she thought practically. The first boy she ever kissed was willing to trade the kiss for a box of ammo. The transaction had seemed agreeable to her then. She never saw affection or love the same way again.

Touch was a deal, a trade. It was not gentle or kind, it did not signify love or warmth or tenderness. She learned very quickly that in this new world, in the only world she had ever known, touch was scarce and a useful bartering tool. She could use it to her advantage, trick men into thinking they had control, kiss them until they dropped their guard and reap the rewards of their lust-clouded minds.

Perhaps that was why to show affection, she thought violence was her truest option.

But there was nothing romantic about this. If she looked up and tried to forget what laid underneath her, she might pretend; if the only thing in her view was the sky, then perhaps she could play along with the idea that it was just another day. But the shielded view was brief, and when her eyes dropped back to the body beneath her, all she could really do was wrench the hatchet out of the girl’s neck and clean it off against the fabric of their shirt.

The girl was pretty. She had long hair, glassy eyes, and pouty lips. She thought maybe those lips were what drew him to her. They resembled her own, the curve of them just round enough to almost look like they belonged to her. She bent down, fishing through the girl’s pockets, finding crumpled rations in one and a few pieces of contraband in another—cigarettes, a few batteries, and a tube of 20 year-old lip gloss. She clenched her jaw at the sight of it. It was strawberry flavored, and when she popped the cap open on it, she smelled the moldy, sickly artificial candy flavoring that she had noticed against the collar of his shirt just a few hours ago.

She wondered if he knew what he smelled like. She wondered if he knew she was observant enough to smell something different on him. Something new. Unwelcome. She wondered if he knew and chose not to change his shirt or decided to see how she reacted. She wondered if he knew at all how much she felt, and how easily she let it consume her entire being.

No. He was a man. He definitely had not thought that far.

She tossed the lip gloss back on top of her, standing up straight as she slipped the hatchet back into its place on her belt. She rolled her neck out, taking a few glances at her surroundings before leaving the girl to rot in a forgotten corner of the city.

No one would find her. Not for many days, at least. Perhaps it would be the smell that they would follow to her. Or maybe the rats would discover the girl first and cover her tracks better than time could.

It was dark, much too dark. It was too far past curfew to be able to use the excuses she normally used; it was too long after work shifts to pretend an extra shift ran over, and it was too early to be on her way to a morning one. So, she kept to the alleys, taking cover in doorways when she noticed lights flooding through the streets. She was small enough to fit into hidden spaces, and she used it to her advantage, slipping between buildings barely making noise. Going through undetected, being able to disappear into a crowd, blending in and fitting in and being unseen was her specialty; no one could hide better, and no one could get their hands on what she could.

Smuggling was all she knew. Since she was small, growing up on the overgrown city streets meant learning how to survive. She was not able to work enough to live, but she found that as a child, she could get through places that adults could not. With this knowledge and just a bit of bravery, she learned how to move through the city in corridors and through spaces that only she knew of. If someone needed something hidden, it would not be seen until asked for again. If someone needed something taken from one end of the city to another, she would get it there every time. She was resourceful, determined, and too good at what she did.

Even as she grew, she kept these routes to herself, even made new ones when others seemed to follow her tracks, earning herself an unrivaled reputation that too many people needed in the city to ever try and stop her. She knew many, many people; but there was only one man that she ever cared to learn the name of.

Joel.

He had heard from a friend of a friend about what it was that she did. Hiding, disappearing, moving things around, it was what he needed, and he needed the best. It was just another job, taking a bag from him, not asking questions or looking inside of it, and taking it to a secure location before dropping it off somewhere very specific on the west side of the city.

But sometimes jobs got messy. She didn’t lose the bag. She hadn’t looked inside. She hadn’t left the package in the wrong place. No, she just let the job get personal.

She was a bullet that he never saw coming. The first moment he laid eyes on her, he knew she was nothing but trouble. Such pretty features she had; he couldn’t stop looking at her. Hair lovely enough to pull. Greedy lips. Eyes he could get lost in. Figure-hugging denim, with enough pockets for her to hide something dangerous. And her voice—a siren song, a soft beckoning, a sound that he would never forget again.

The look in her eyes when he met her gaze for the first time told him she was thinking just the same thing. It was hard not to. There were men, and then there was Joel. All hard lines and words that stung like venom, but she liked them that way. And so she had smiled, wet her bottom lip, and purred as she took the contraband from him—tell me where you want it. In lieu of payment, she found herself tangled between the sheets of his bed, waking up to the sight of him counting the ration cards on the table and nodding for her to leave.

She had left. But it didn’t mean she stopped coming back.

She wanted to feel bad for sleeping with him. She wanted to regret every time she left his apartment with a shakiness in her step from how rough his touch had gotten. She wanted to take herself seriously when she promised that one more night was all she needed, and then she would never come back, but she always ended up right back where she started.

It was simple; she could not stay away from him, and he would not turn her away. There was a kind of satisfaction that came with ending up in his bed. Joel had his own reputation. He was good at what he did, too, and his name was enough to make others nervous. Joel could get his hands on things that no one else could; cigarettes, drugs, even books or the nostalgia of a certain candy for the right price. He ran his business like he fucked her—quiet, deliberate, easy.

He was not known to be a kind man. Often, she heard groups talk about him with distaste, complaining about the sway of prices in contraband or how they met the wrong end of his fist for trying to undercut him. She even heard a woman cry at the way he had killed her partner, but she just licked her lips at the thought, thinking the woman had been holding back part of the story, maybe perhaps a moment when her partner tried to hold a gun up to Joel’s head and cut their deal short. Joel was not a man someone tried to subdue; he was too good at reading the room, at handling himself around a gun, at using the rough timber of his voice to make others shake under his tense gaze.

And because of this, she felt her own power in the way she could have him underneath her any night she liked. What started out as a business transaction turned into genuine attraction, into learning what his kisses felt like and how warm his hands were on her bare skin and how nice his voice sounded as it spewed profanities into her ear. She was satiated inside having influence over a feared, unruly, unforgiving man, one at her beck and call. Joel was hers. He belonged to no one else.

She just wish he understood that. Then she wouldn’t have had to dirty her favorite weapon and dull its edge. Maybe, just maybe, that girl would still be so pretty.

When she shut the door to her apartment and turned on the lights, she bit back a smile at the sight in front of her. He was there, taking up her space, legs spread as he sat at her kitchen table and sipped liquor from a chipped glass. She realized early on that Joel had no clue how attractive he really was. He had no idea how the solidness of him was enough to have her on her knees; he had no idea that the low tone of his voice could get her off alone, and that there was no other living thing in this Godforsaken world that could handle her body the way he could. She put down her backpack, making her way to him, surprised but not unwelcoming of him waiting for her like this.

She stopped in front of him, expecting him to stand and kiss her and manhandle her into her bedroom, but he just sat there still, his jaw hard and tight as he moved the glass around in his hand and watched the liquor swirl with the movement.

“Where were you?” He asked. Her excited expression faded into something a bit dismal, and she tried to not let the annoyance show on her face. She made her way into her kitchen, opening one of the cabinets and taking out her own glass. She took a seat across from him at the table, tipping the bottle over and letting the clicking of glass against glass make up the only response to his question. She took a long sip of the drink, letting it burn her throat nicely before looking at him again.

He was staring right back at her, glaring almost. Joel could be mean; he often was, even to her, but she had learned to ignore this behavior. He was mean to everyone. He was mean and cruel and impatient, but she liked that about him. It meant there was no room for fluff, for nothingness. It was all or nothing with him, and she never liked to prolong a chase. She was quite content to let him have what it was he wanted.

“I don’t have to tell you that,” she said matter-of-factly.

“No?” He tilted his head to the side, laughing even, but it was dry and humorless. “Don’t make this harder than it has to be. Answer my fucking question.”

She tipped her head back, downing the rest of her drink before standing. She shook her hair out of the style she had put it in that morning, shaking it out before starting for her bedroom.

She didn’t make it very far. Just as quickly as she had started to walk away from him, he had caught her by the arm and slammed her up against the wall, towering over her with his height and broadness. She grunted a bit as her head hit the surface roughly, biting her tongue to not spit in his face in protest. She stared up at him angrily, but he put a forearm to her neck, holding her eyes to his so he could stare right back.

“Tell me where you were,” he muttered. “I ain’t askin’.”

She tilted her head to the side, gritting her teeth as she struggled against his obvious strength. She tried to turn her head to the side, but he pressed his arm against her throat harder, forcing her chin up just to breathe.

“What did I say?” He snapped. “Tell me.”

“Or what?” She shot back, a sick smile ghosting her face as she coughed a bit against him. “What are you gonna do, Joel? Hit me?” She snickered a bit, shaking her head as much as his grip allowed. “You won’t.” She leaned forward as much as she could, but it was close enough for her breath to warm his jaw. “You know I’d like it too much.”

He let his arm fall, his hand wrapping around the expanse of her throat and pushing her head back into the wall. She let out a hard breath at the new hold, but he was in control. He was too strong to fight against, but there was a gnawing in her belly that didn’t want to fight against this. If anything, his angry eyes were pretty, and his touch was hot, and his commanding voice was making her head dizzy with filthy thoughts. His intimidation was not having the effects he desired; he should’ve known better, should’ve known that they wouldn’t work on her at all.

“Listen to me—” He choked her a bit, almost lifting her up off her feet as he pressed her as hard as he could into the wood behind her. “If I find out you were up to no good, you won’t like what happens. I fucking mean it.”

“Yeah?” She let out with a strained breath. “You think I—You think I care, Joel?” She smiled again, a sickly sweet one that made his entire body feel hot with indifference. “If you’re going to try and scare me, you could at least not lie to me.”

“And you could try and not make fucking messes that I gotta clean up,” he growled. His eyes trailed a bit down her face, along her jaw. He lifted his thumb up, touching a speckle of something on her neck and watching it smear across her skin. Blood, still wet, painting her throat eerily. “What…what did you do?”

She felt his grip loosen just enough, and she let her eyes fall down the expanse of his face before settling on his lips. She stared at them, watching as he breathed steadily. They were a bit dry, a bit chapped, and she wanted to hydrate them, swallow him in kisses and let the night melt into morning into another forgotten day.

“Strawberry,” she whispered, licking her lips slowly.

“What?”

“It was strawberry,” she said again, a bit louder. “Strawberry lip gloss.”

Silence, and she scoffed a bit.

“I thought it was cherry,” she added, a terrifying smile on her face. Eyes sparkling with nothing but mischief, a sickening amount of enjoyment and satisfaction swimming in the depths of them. “But it was fucking strawberry…”

She finally let her eyes slowly rise to meet his, and she tilted her head to the side. She stood up on her toes, her nose touching his, their faces close enough that they could breathe each other in.

“Was it worth it, Joel?” She asked, putting a hand to his chest. “Tell me. How did she feel?”

He let her go finally, his features knitting together. A clear frown came over his face, and he stepped back from her. He still had a hand on her throat, but it laid there with no force, just holding her there. His eyes moved over her face, trying to discern what it was that she was saying. She looked so calm, too calm, and that smile on her was making him feel more uneasy with every passing second. He said her name, but his voice was so low, uncertain.

“What did you do?” He asked again. “What the fuck did you do?”

She put her hands on his chest, caressing the warmth of him for a moment. She leaned up on her toes more, her lips just barely grazing his, and he followed her instinctively, leaning towards her to try and close the space. Instead of giving in, she drew her head back just enough to deny him and pushed roughly on his chest, shoving him backwards with a grunt. She slipped the hatchet from her belt, putting the sharp edge to the middle of his chest, keeping him at a distance.

It was almost poetic, holding him there with the same blade that had sunk so deep into that girl’s carotid artery. She remembered her eyes as the life left them. She had watched as the blood that was supposed to be pumping into her pretty little brain spilled out onto the cracked floor instead, feeding nothing but air until she stilled and never moved. For someone that had gotten close to Joel, she remembered thinking that someone with so little fight in them didn’t deserve to be in his vicinity, in his circle, to breathe the same air as he did. The girl wasn’t worthy. She didn’t know how to survive. She would never have lasted, anyways.

Disposable. Naïve. Weak.

But worst of all, in my way.

“I should be asking you that question,” she murmured darkly. She let the blade drag up his chest, along the column of his throat, until it sat on the edge of his jaw. She let it dig in just slightly, forcing a low growl from him as a small bead of blood followed the invisible trail she had traced with her hatchet. She met his eyes, smiling again. “But it’s okay, Joel. I fixed things. You’ll learn.”

Because you’ll be sorry if you don’t.

She came close to him again, leaning up and putting her lips to his. Against his better judgment, he leaned closer, giving into her just like he always did. She licked into his mouth, letting the kiss warm him everywhere in all the wrong ways, and she tasted something so dirty on him. She was sure he must have tasted the same thing on her because he was desperate to keep her close, to keep kissing her, to get lost in the essence of her as he normally did. She bit down on his lip hard, drawing a hiss from him, and she pulled away slowly.

She whined with satisfaction, knowing she had him exactly where she wanted him. Staring up at him, into those sad eyes, she could see no matter how much blood she had on her hands, he would end up right here, following her lips and desperate for her to touch him in any way she desired. She separated Joel from other men because of how she craved him constantly, but she was always put at ease to know she could play him just like any other.

“Now…” She stepped back, letting her hand holding the weapon lower as she tossed it onto the table beside her. “Unless you’re going to join me—” She nodded her head to the bathroom, where a cold shower was waiting for her, “—you can let yourself out.”

She didn’t look back as she made her way into the bathroom. She looked at herself in the mirror as she heard the front door of her apartment slam shut. She smiled anyways, smoothing a hand over her neck, watching the splatters of crimson smooth over her in strange, abstract lines.

She was so pretty.

He would come back. He always did.

His name was Brian.

I think.

He was new. He had a lopsided grin on his face, an easy demeanor, and he sipped alcohol with a slight wince, meaning he had yet to really get used to the bitter taste of whiskey. He was young, but he was just like the rest of them. She guessed he had grown up amongst the groups that ran the city. He had the stench of a boy dressing up like a man, and he had an eerie confidence in his eyes. He knew nothing of how things really worked, but he believed he did, and that was why he was talking to her in a husky voice, letting his lips graze the shell of her ear as he talked sweetness into it.

Her nails drew lines against the skin of his exposed forearm. She was staring up at him, pretending to listen to what he was saying, a little smile on her face. She looked sweet, as she always did, but he had no idea the thoughts that ran through her head. He had no idea that all she was thinking about was the contraband he had promised her, and how much more she could get out of him if she batted her lashes a bit more.

He was a man that responded to her advances. This was the trade, this was the deal, and he was falling into her waiting arms. A carnivorous plant perhaps, flashing and beautiful with a sickly sweet aroma, all too wonderful until they realized the sweetness would stick them to her, and they would have nowhere to run as she ate them right up.

There was nothing she wouldn’t do to get ahead. There was no person she wouldn’t step on. There was no place dark enough to hide the red on her ledger. She had no remorse for the things she had done, and she never would.

The noise around the speakeasy was low and buzzing, and the lights were dim enough to hide the way Brian’s hands smoothed up the skin of her thighs, but her eyes were adjusted enough to meet a certain man’s gaze from across the room. At the sight of him, she leaned in, letting the stranger crowd her space, his breath warm against her cheek, her smile coy and dark and hiding her true intentions.

Joel could see right through her. He had others around him, others wanting his attention, his opinion, his time, but he couldn’t concentrate on them. His eyes were fixed on where she sat at the bar. The boy was too close to her, he knew that much. He couldn’t see underneath the bar, but he imagined that there were unwanted hands in places that only he was allowed to touch. It was infuriating how she provoked him. She knew he was there now, he had locked eyes with her, and she seemed to be urging his anger to bubble up to the surface. She seemed to want him to lose his temper, to lose his composure, to stride over and slam that kid’s face against the counter until he had no teeth left to chew his food.

She wanted Joel to be mean. She liked when Joel was mean. He had heard her say it before, heard her moan it in his ear as he practically choked her into oblivion against the wall of his bedroom. She liked Joel when he was mean, and he could only guess that at this moment, she wanted Joel to be mean for her. He clutched a lukewarm beer tight, turning away from her. She was doing this on purpose. He did not want to entertain her irritable advances.

But, God, it was so hard to focus on anything except for her. She had taken her jacket off now, revealing a black tank top that revealed all her pretty skin. She was sweating a bit in the dark summer heat, and her chest was glistening with a slight sheen, drawing eyes exactly where she wanted them. She was too good at this, too good at playing the stupid, gullible woman. She was too good at hiding how dangerous she was. She was too good at letting men think she would coo and lick and kiss when in reality, she would bite their heads off as soon as she got them alone.

She liked biting. The taste of blood only fueled the hunger in her.

But then she were gone. She had disappeared into a small corner somewhere, leaving the boy to sit at the bar and order her another drink. Joel found himself moving through the crowd, weaving between bodies until he put his empty bottle down on the wood counter and motioned for another.

“Ought’a be careful with that girl,” Joel said finally as he waited for his drink. The kid lifted his head a bit, turning to face him. He raised a brow, looking Joel up and down before shrugging.

“What, you speak for her or somethin’?”

“Reckon nobody does,” Joel muttered. “Nobody can.”

He was wrong, but he didn’t really know he was wrong.

The kid had the audacity to stand up straighter, moving a little closer to Joel, glaring a bit.

“I don’t think it’s any of your business what we do, man,” he warned. “So why don’t you fuck off before you really piss me off, yeah?”

Joel didn’t even flinch, turning his head to look at him. He narrowed his eyes, clenching his jaw just enough to show his irritation.

“All I said was t’be careful with her. Rest is up to you,” Joel finished, taking his new drink off the counter and taking a long sip of it. The kid leaned forward a bit more, shaking his head.

“Listen, man, I don’t know who the fuck you are or what your problem is, but fuck off,” he said lowly. “I don’t know who she is to you, but she sure isn’t with you, so I’m gonna take her out back, have my fucking way with her, and you’re gonna leave us alone. Because if I see your fucking face again, I won’t hesitate.”

Joel just smirked a bit, shaking his head before taking another sip of his drink. The boy had no idea who she was; he was so new that he had yet to learn her name, and it would be a mistake he would never forget, a lesson he would remember forever. She was all sharp nails and teeth, camouflaged in figure-hugging jeans and a beautiful smile, and the boy would learn too late how volatile she really was.

“Keep telling yourself that, kid.”

As Joel made his way back to his old spot on the other end of the room, he passed right by her. She let her hand catch his arm, dragging along the length of it. Her fingers brushed through his, almost intertwining, before making her way to her seat. He followed her figure as she took a seat again, whispering in the boy’s ear, something that made the kid smile and nod his head to the door behind her. She slid off the stool, her hand in his as they both disappeared out the back. Her eyes found Joel’s, and all she did was lick her lips visibly before the door shut behind them.

She knew he would follow. She knew he wouldn’t be able to help himself. She knew he would open the back door just a bit, just to watch her as she took the package from the boy towering over her. She pocketed it, staring up at him as she slipped the small package into her bra, a sultry smile on her face as he got close to her. Leaning down to whisper in her ear, two hands gripping her waist and shoving her into the hard brick of the wall behind her. She made a small sound of protest, but Joel knew she was playing a part. It was too easy, the kid was too comfortable; besides, Joel couldn’t remember the last time a man other than himself got the upper hand on her.

She sucked in a warm breath when she felt his two hands grip her ass possessively, forcing her to spin around and slamming her face into the rough wall behind her. She felt the rubble cut her face a bit, but she wasn’t worried at all by the compromising position. She could see Joel, staring from the crack in the door, and as the kid’s hands wandered to the front of her jeans, the door was kicked open hard, smacking against the wall behind it as Joel dumped the beer still left in the bottle and smashed the glass against the back of the boy’s head.

She smiled a bit, turning around slowly. The bottle made a sickening crunch when it shattered against the back of the boy’s head; his knees buckled instinctively, and he clutched the opposite wall for balance as he tried to regain his focus. She leaned against the wall as she watched Joel pick up the kid by the collar of his shirt and slam him against the brick over and over and over again. One large hand fisted through his short hair, using it as leverage to bring his face down against the rough, cracked surface of the wall. The sounds were unforgiving; bone crunching, struggling and pained breaths, the clatter of teeth as they fell against the pavement, hurried and spit apologetic words for mercy.

She let her fingers drag down the back of her neck, over her chest, and she bit her lip hard to keep from letting out a satisfied whine as she watched this man lose all of his constraint, all of his control, all of his poise just for her.

Just for her. All for her. Anything for her.

She had never seen this look in his eyes. Joel was hovering over her, staring down at her as he took shallow, angry breaths, finally letting the broken beer bottle fall to the ground with a loud clunk. She took her bottom lip between her teeth again, her eyes falling over his face in the low light of the street. His features were lit only by moonlight, but it didn’t hide the depth of his disapproval. It took everything in her not to let out a sound as he raised a hand to put a knuckle under her chin, tilting her face up to his to bring her just that much closer.

“Is this what you fucking wanted?” He asked. His voice was a rumbling, deep whisper, and if she was anyone else, it would’ve terrified her. Instead, she just met his eyes easily, wetting her lips and letting a little laugh slip out. “What the fuck is wrong with you? Huh? Is this what you wanted?!”

She shrugged a bit, not cowering even a little under his hard glare. She seemed to enjoy it, too much for his liking.

“I mean…I’m not thrilled…” She sighed deeply, looking down where the body laid beneath their feet. “It’s gonna be a pain in the ass to find another contact.”

Joel gripped her face harshly, his large hand suffocating most of her face as he squished it hard, making her look at him.

“That’s what you’re fucking worried about? Not having a goddamn contact?” He scoffed. “You don’t wanna talk about how you fucking let this boy put his hands on you? And that you didn’t do a damn thing about it?”

She shrugged again.

“You were here,” she said easily. “I knew you’d take care of it. You always do.”

Take care of it.

She knew Joel would not be able to help himself. She knew he would lose his temper just at the thought, and she knew what he might do when he saw it with his own eyes. She let it happen; she enjoyed it.

“You knew I’d kill the fucking kid—” Joel pressed his forehead to hers, unsure whether he should kill her, too, or kiss her. “—you knew what I might do. That’s why you did it.” He smoothed his hand up her face, across her cheek, into her hair. She let out a soft whine as he tugged harshly on it, his fingers tangled between the strands. “You don’t even fucking care.”

She shook her head, agreeing with him. It was true. She didn’t care. The boy was nobody, not to her. He didn’t matter. He was blood and flesh and uselessness, and nothing about him mattered. If anything, he would do more good fertilizing the dirt beneath him.

That’s what he was to her. That’s what everyone was to her, except for Joel. They were beneath her; blips on the same timeline as her, molded skin and pulp and bone and thoughts that would never mean anything. They either served her a use, or they were simply disposable.

“You’re right, I don’t care,” she echoed. “He’s nothing, Joel.”

Joel swallowed hard, pulling back to look at her. She stared up at him just the same. He dragged a thumb over her wet bottom lip, tracing the skin there. He shook his head slightly, his face almost saddening at the sight of her. She was too pretty for the twisted thoughts inside of her head. She was too beautiful to think so little of others, but he couldn’t help himself when it came to her. The possessiveness, the need, it fed the demons that lived in him, and he could feel them growing. She was no good for him; in fact, she would probably be the death of him, but he liked the feelings that scorched his insides when he did things for her.

Dirtying hands, wringing necks, forcing broken glass into soft flesh—doing it with purpose had only made the violence easier. This was not romance, it was evil, pure death and smoke and malice that would fester the longer Joel stayed by her side. Everyone thought it was Joel blackening her insides. They had no idea how torn apart she was from the inside out, and how her pretty features only made the vicious woman inside of her that much easier to ignore.

If they could see what swirled in her eyes now, they would hide in their brick houses. If they knew the kind of blood she had on her hands, they would never make the mistake of crossing her again. If they knew how easily she decided life and death, they would probably hang her.

“You killed that girl,” Joel accused her lowly. “Didn’t you?”

She tilted her head to the side slightly, parting her lips and letting out a soft breath.

“What girl?”

She grunted as Joel yanked at her hair, pulling at it hard enough to make her head throb.

“Don’t play games with me,” he commanded. “I know it was you.”

“You’ll have to be more specific, Joel,” she cooed, smiling up at him. “You know me. A lot of girls cross me. A lot of girls try and take what’s mine. It’s not my fault they have no idea what’s coming.”

It’s not my fault they don’t understand how far I’ll go just to prove a fucking point.

She spat out the last sentence, gritting her teeth as her eyes darkened. He pursed his lips, letting go of her only to nod down the alleyway.

He was motioning for her to start moving, and she did so without protest. She could feel his eyes boring a hole into her back, and every so often, she made sure to shake her hair out a bit and let her hips move with her slow steps. It was dark, and she had to keep to the shadows, and when the sound of a truck passing forced them to hide, she made sure to press her back to the front of him as they both used the backside of the building they were passing through as cover. He let out a sound of disapproval, but his hand still came up to hold her waist, and there was no mistaking the feeling of him against her.

Joel might’ve been a steel wall of hardened resolve, but he had his weaknesses. He was still a man, after all.

And God, what a man he was. As soon as the apartment door shut behind her, he was on her. Filthy, bloodied hands in her hair, lips biting into hers, knee shoving her legs apart as she used the wall to balance herself. She let her eyes flutter shut, savoring the taste of beer and warmth and maybe stale cigarettes. He tasted good, just like he always did, and she wrapped her arms tight around his neck as she sunk her weight down onto his thigh, dragging her hips in eager grinds. The friction of the denim of her jeans against his felt too good, and she let her voice spill satisfied whines and gasps into his ear whenever their lips parted.

“Can’t fucking believe you—” Joel muttered between kisses. “—there’s something so fucking wrong with you—” She slipped her tongue into his mouth, covering his lips with hers, giving him nothing but sloppy, wet kisses that was making it hard for him to breathe. She put both hands on his chest finally, pushing him back and off of her, staring up at him with a little smile as she forced him to walk backwards until his knees hit the back of the couch. She rested both hands on either side of him as she dropped herself into his lap. “You’re not listening to a goddamn word I’m saying—”

She kissed him again, swallowing his words, letting them die on his tongue as she guided both of his hands to grab both sides of her ass and squeeze. She moaned into his mouth, letting her senses be consumed by him.

The touch of him, his touch on her, leaving nothing but hot, wet skin in their wake. The way he smelled, a bit like fire, maybe blood, something so him and so dark and so utterly good that her mouth was watering. The taste of him, so bitter and tangy. The sound of his gruff voice, groaning and grunting and whispering filthy words as she dragged her hips just how he liked. And fuck, the sight of him—brown eyes blown wide with desire, the filth and grime of today’s work enveloping her as his arms covered her in their security. He was a man too overwhelming to take in all at once, but she was trying, and it was killing her.

How could he not see that she was the only one that could handle him? How could he not see that there wasn’t another woman in this entire fucked-up world that could understand him the way she could?

How can he not understand that he’s mine?

She pulled away from his kiss reluctantly, but her lips found the edge of his jaw. She lapped at the skin under it, dragging her touch up to just under his ear, just where he liked. She found the hollow with her tongue, the place that made him hiss and grit his teeth and buck his hips up into hers, and she delved into the space there with as much fervor as her swollen lips allowed. She pulled a harsh groan from him, his hands slipping up her waist, her top coming with it to reveal her bare skin underneath. She let him lift the fabric over her head and toss it aside, and she adjusted the bra she wore, letting his eyes wander low and admire the sight.

“You’re gawking,” she panted, putting a hand to his chest. She tilted her head to the side, bringing her other hand up and running her fingers along the edge of the dark material, his eyes following eagerly. She leaned in, to talk into the skin of his cheek. “You can touch, Joel. You can rip it off of me…you can do whatever you want to me. I’m yours…” She sat up in his lap, and he mouthed at the skin of her breasts spilling out of her bra, wet kisses that were making her realize she was soaking through her jeans now. “You can take whatever you want from me, Joel. You don’t even have to ask.”

It was true. She never wanted him to ask. Sometimes, she would stare at him from across a room and wish that he could saunter over and just take her against the wall she leaned against. She wished he would bend her over her kitchen table and not give her any warning before burying himself so deep, she felt him in her guts. She prayed that he would wake her up with a hand on her throat, his teeth against her ear, and his hips drilling into hers as his way of fucking a good morning into her.

I wish he would see that everything I am belongs to him, and that all I want is for him to just take and take and take from me.

She fiddled with her belt as Joel took care of her bra, tossing it aside. She liked how he paid such attention to her bare skin, how he kissed and sucked and breathed against the precious parts of her now exposed for him to taste. He lifted her hips to slide her jeans off, nearly ripping her panties as she tried to take those off just as eagerly. She was completely bare, naked in his lap, but she made no move to undress him.

There was something so enticing in the air. Joel, fully clothed and letting his hands wander and squeeze and grope and touch her everywhere, while all she could do was whine and tug on his curls and lick over his lips—it created a power dynamic that had her leaking onto his jeans, darkening the denim until he hissed, feeling the damp fabric against his skin. She cupped his face in her hands, kissing him hotly, begging him with soft words not to move away from her, to hold her tighter, to fuck her silly.

She gripped his shoulders tight, starting to pant with need as she rocked her hips into him with more force. He had barely ghosted a few fingers over her, but she was eager to come, in any way he would let her, and as he sat back with a smug look on his face, she realized he wanted her to ride him just like this, to get herself off pathetically fast without even seeing any part of him naked. She felt the denim smooth against her pulsing clit, and it only drove her hips faster against his, her face dropping to rest in the crook of his neck as she chased what she could only hope was her first high of the night.

Soft, wet, palpitating, every part of her aching with need, he could feel it. As she found her breath again, just after wetting his lap with her bliss, he had shoved two fingers deep into her, thick digits spreading her open and making her whine with overstimulation. He fit his thumb over her clit, watching her jaw go slack as she let her hips chase his hand. She was just reacting, her body absentmindedly following his every move, responding to him as he knew she would, and it was raw and wretched and pulling at every part of her.

But it was an act. It was a show. She was just pretending. Even though it looked every bit like she was just the submissive, pathetic, whining, pretty girl Joel was fucking at the moment, she knew that she had this man wound so tightly around her finger. Although he spoke the filthiest words and was making her wet his hand with need, he was hers to do with in any way she wanted. All she had to do was bat her lashes, kiss him soft, and beg, and he would give her whatever she asked for.

Whatever I want, whatever I need, whatever it is that my little heart desires—he will do it for me. And it won’t matter who has to die or who he has to hurt or who he has to step over to get it.

As much as it seemed Joel overpowered her, she was the one who painted the picture. Whispering in his ear, guiding his hands, telling him what he needed to hear. He could growl in her ear all he liked, but it never convinced her otherwise. She knew this was true; even despite what he knew about her, even despite all the lies she told, he was still here. He was kissing her, pumping his fingers inside of her and drawing soft moans from her, and she knew he would give into her like he always did.

Joel could pretend he was done with her as much as he liked; but he would come back for her eventually.

“Please—” She begged, throwing her hips down against his hand, feeling full but not full enough. “Please, Joel…I need more…”

“Now you’re begging?” He scoffed, sucking roughly on the edge of her jaw. “Now you wanna listen to me? Is that it, sweetheart?” She nodded in response, whining, pawing at his shoulders to get herself even closer, melt into him if it was possible. “Maybe you don’t deserve it.”

“Joel—!” She gasped, shaking her head. “I-I do…I do!” She brought his lips back to hers, breathing in his groans as she let her hands wander between their bodies, her hands finding the outline of him and squeezing eagerly. “I do deserve it…”

If it was possible, his eyes darkened, a black hue of anger and lust that made her heartbeat pick up faster. He tilted his head to the side, leaning close, his lips kissing just under her ear, mouthing there as he curled his fingers and shoved his fingers so deep, she stifled a scream. His other hand tangled into her hair, gripping her tight, making sure she understood that she was at his mercy, and not her own.

“Listen here—” He tugged on her hair until her eyes met his, and she let out a gentle sob of need. “Look at me—there you go, give me those eyes—” He put her forehead to his, and she spread her palms against his chest, feeling the warmth and broad expanse of him. “If you think for one second that you deserve more, you’ve got it all wrong.” He licked over his bottom lip, shaking his head. “I know what you did. I know that it was you.”

She arched her back, pressing her bare chest to his own, his flannel feeling so soft against her hot skin. She tried to grind her hips, but his other hand dropped from the back of her neck to her waist, keeping her still.

“I’m sorry—”

“Don’t fucking lie to me,” he snapped. “You’re not sorry.”

She let out a shaky breath, shaking her head.

“I’m not sorry for doing it,” she whispered. “I’m sorry for making you upset.” She cupped his cheeks, kissing him warmly, using her weight to push him back against the couch. As they kissed, she felt his grip loosen just enough, and she moved her hips again. His fingers flexed inside of her, his thumb finding her clit and making her moan softly with relief. “I’m sorry for making a mess, Joel. I’m sorry for making you mad…” She moved her hips a bit faster, riding his fingers as her apology, giving him the moans he wanted to hear and drenching his lap to show him how sorry she really was. “I-I’m sorry for letting him touch me…”

“Fuck—” He kissed her back eagerly, trying to find serenity here. It was impossible with her. She was all heat and fire, all bite and sharp edges. There was no calm with her, no peace. Chaos followed her, and sex was a vice that she used with fervor. She didn’t know who she was if she wasn’t running. She had no idea what life was like without risk, without blood, without the good, bad things that had her on an adrenaline high constantly. If she came down, if she stilled for even a second, Joel feared what might be left of her. He feared he might not recognize her. He feared that without her pretty face painted with that sick, sweet smile, he might not like who remained.

Reluctantly, she pried his hand from between her legs. She slipped dirty fingers between her lips, licking her arousal off his calloused hand. She kept her eyes on his as she ran her tongue over his knuckles. They were bruised, split probably from wrenching answers from some poor soul or perhaps the boy he had pried off of her, and she soothed the bite of his wounds with wet kisses and her soft tongue. She let his hand go, letting her own slip between their bodies and work on his confining belt.

“Now you listen, Joel,” she murmured, undoing the buckle, listening to the metal clink as she loosened the denim around his waist. “If I ever find out about anyone else touching you, I won’t hesitate to do it again—” She cupped him roughly, drawing a grunt from him, and she smiled darkly. “You can’t hide anything from me. And you’re stupid if you think you can—” She swiped a thumb over the tip of him, spreading the slight dampness there over him. “—and I’ll kill every woman in this God-awful place just to prove my point.”

She kissed him, letting her tongue find his. She lowered herself in his lap, the heaviness of him in her hand making her feel even warmer inside. She let go of him, putting both hands on his shoulders as she sat down on him, feeling him slip between her folds. She grinded down against him, smoothing her slick over him and watching his face twist with need and want and rising anger at her words.

She gripped his jaw roughly, gritting her teeth.

“You’re mine, Joel—” She put her thumb to his bottom lip, forcing his mouth open. She gathered wetness in her mouth, leaning forward and spitting right onto his tongue. His eyes were blown wide, pupils dilated as he swallowed the spit she gave him easily. It tasted like her, like the cunt he adored too much, and if he wasn’t so embarrassingly hard between her folds, he knew he wouldn’t hesitate to put his face between her thighs. She was such a filthy, sweet, delectable woman for him, and it twisted his insides in terrifyingly good ways. “—and I’ll kill you, too, if you don’t stop testing my fucking patience.”

This was what really drove her crazy. They were fabric cut from the same cloth, two sides of the same coin. Instead of soothing the fires inside of her, he set them ablaze. The kiss they shared was all teeth, all bite, all rough breaths and filthy curses. They were both fighting for control over each other.

He pressed her into the couch, her back against the worn cushions. He gripped her hard, one hand on the back of her neck and the other gripping the outside of her thigh, her legs wrapped around his waist as he finally sunk into her with no warning. She let out a gentle cry of relief, enveloping him and squeezing around him as he buried himself until his hips were pressed to hers, his mouth at her jaw as he gave her no time to adjust. The feeling of him filling her to the brim, stretching her in every good way, would never be enough. She needed more, needed him inside of her, tangled around her, filling all her senses until it was all she knew.

“Can’t even call you a good girl—” Joel grunted, beginning a grueling pace as he fucked her into the couch, not letting up for even a moment. She wrapped her arms around his neck, arching her back, trying to meet his thrusts with equal power, but it wasn’t fair. Joel was too hard, too rough, too overpowering, and she was failing as she tried to keep up with him. “Cause you’re not—you’re not a fucking good girl—”

She mewled, pressing her lips to his, trying to drink in his words and taste them and kiss him until he couldn’t breathe. She arched her back more, pressing herself tight against him, and she moaned as he mouthed at her breasts, sucking the skin there and leaving soft bruises as he dragged his teeth against her.

“You’re always up to no good,” he kept growling. She panted, dropping her head back a bit as he kept up his pace. His hips were hitting her hard, punctuated by his words, and she closed her eyes to savor the stretch, the roughness, the perfection of his cock molding her insides to his. The squelch of skin on skin was so lewd, but it only made her wetter. “Always gettin’ into trouble…my pretty girl—”

My. Mine. She’s mine.

She was sin in one woman. She was the personification of every horrid, murderous thought Joel had ever had. She was the embodiment of his nightmares, the devil in disguise, the incarnation of the scars on his heart and the blood under his fingernails and the notches on his belt and the tick, tick, tick of the timer on his inner clock, the one he knew would break when he went just too far. Maybe that was why he loved her so much. Maybe that was why every part of her made him hot and bothered and needy. Maybe that was why Joel could not stay away from her.

Maybe that was why no matter what atrocity she committed, he never saw her as anything but his, and his only. He never saw her as tainted. Or evil. Or impure. She was just his, and that was enough.

That was perfect.

Perfection.

That was what her cunt had to be. It was perfection. Joel would drown in it if she wanted him to, if she allowed him to. He thought, selfishly, that relinquishing breath just for one more taste of her would be a kinder death than the one that probably waited for him. He thought about this as he nudged her head back onto the arm of the couch, going for the warm skin of her neck, biting it, kissing it. He wanted to bruise her and mark her, so darkly that she would find them in the mirror days from now and think of him.

He didn’t stop her as she threw her arms around his neck and brought their lips back together. She was whispering softly between kisses and whines, rocking her hips against his with just as much force. They were sloppy together. He had both hands on her hips, manhandling her taut flesh as he drove her body back to his again and again and again. She was so wet, dripping between them, a weeping cry from her own body that told him she needed him so badly, she would do anything to have him.

“Oh, now you’re quiet, honey?” He muttered in her ear, reaching up and putting his hand around her neck again. She sputtered as he sat back on his heels, yanking her with him, holding her up in his lap as he brought her body down on him over and over again. He looked up at her, at the pretty bounce of her on top of him, limp to his touch and crying for him. “Look at you—” he groaned, feeling the walls of her clench and squeeze and suck him in, telling him all too well how much she liked this, “—can’t even fucking speak—ugh—” he kissed her hard, “—have I fucked the brat out of you yet?”

“Joel—please—” she begged, letting out a soft sob of relief as his thrusts got shallower, faster. “O-Oh…” She put her hands on his face, cupping his cheeks, feeling the scratch of his beard rough against her palms. She met his eyes, could see the shine and the darkness of them, and she leaned forward to kiss him softly. Despite the grueling pace Joel had set, despite the bruising smack of his hips against hers, her kiss was delicate and sweet, taking his breath away. She was too good at that, at making him feel. “Joel…” She sniffled, tears coming down her face at how good he felt. “Joel, I need you…”

She was so pretty. It was all he could think about. He caged over her again against the cushions, this time with his lips against hers and his body towering over her, the warmth of him and space of him enveloping her. He wasn’t fucking her anymore, this was something else. He hiked her legs around his hips, grinding deep, his pace slow but his thrusts just as heavy. She needed him. Just a few words, spoken through her lips, and Joel was soft. Petting her tangled hair, kissing her warmly, pressing his cock deep into her and staying there for just a few moments before pulling out slightly and doing it all over again. He drew long, relaxed moans from her, and he breathed deeply as he thought about how much her cunt felt like heaven.

He didn’t know how it was possible. She was not an angel, anything but; everything she touched blackened to its core. But he couldn’t think of another word to call her, to call this. He only felt this searing pleasure in his dreams.

And buried between her legs.

“I-I love you, Joel,” she purred, arching her back. Her chest pressed to his, and he couldn’t help but dip his head and lick the sheen of sweet that had gathered between her breasts. Salty, dirty, entirely her, and he dipped his head again to suck her breast into his mouth and smooth his tongue over her nipple. She cradled his head to her chest, panting now, her thighs shaking a bit as she met his eyes. Her pupils were blown wide, a haze in them that was cloudy and drunk with bliss. There was lust, more than anything else. If there was love there, Joel had no idea; he had never seen what loved looked like in her eyes.

He didn’t think it was possible for her to love anything. And perhaps it wasn’t. She thought it was love. To her, nothing else could explain how she behaved around him. The obsession with him, the possessiveness that overcame her, the protectiveness she felt whenever he came home with new wounds that would scar, the revenge she sought when anyone touched him. She didn’t care whether those touches were warm or kind. He was hers, and she would make them sorry for putting their hands on him.

She tugged his face back to her, feeling that coil in her belly tighten and tighten. She put her forehead to his, licking over his bottom lip before kissing him hard. One hand slid to press between his shoulder blades, the other pushed against his lower back, a silent gesture to get him as close to her as possible.

His breaths became more broken and shallower. She arched her back into him, pebbled nipples poking him as he snaked an arm under her and used this new position as leverage to fuck up into her at a quicker, more aggressive pace. He punched into her again and again, quickening with every breath as he chased the mind-numbing feeling that was growing in him. She squeezed him, her entire body trembling slightly as she tried to take every thrust, but they were both losing to each other, in the feeling of one another. She gripped his biceps now, her nails digging in hard enough to elicit a harsh hiss from him. She could feel blood, but it didn’t faze her—she wanted to mark him, scar him, until no other woman could have him like this.

If another woman held him there, they’d feel her hands, where her nails dug into him, and they’d know they were preying on another woman’s territory—one they would not live to speak of. She thought of this as he fucked her into a pleasure-drunk headspace, her high blinding her. She didn’t even register the scream that left her until Joel was kissing her quiet, swallowing the sounds, drinking in the cries of her ecstasy and tasting her mewls. It was like her cunt was taunting him, begging him, scolding him for not coming just yet—it took only another whimper of his name for him to collapse on top of her in a fit of groans.

She thought she might have come again when he did, it felt so good. Her thighs shook, her body molding to his as she felt him sinking deeper into her, so snug, his spent trapped in her as they both refused to move away from each other. When he tried to move off of her, she kissed him, making a soft sound of protest and keeping him close.

“Don’t go—” she gasped, slipping one hand low and gripping the back of his thigh, coaxing him to slide deep again and settle there. “Fuck—” She craned her neck to bury her face into the side of his, nuzzling her nose against his cheek. She chased the closeness of him, the muskiness that the air around him held. She never wanted to leave this place. She wanted to stay here forever, Joel cock-deep inside of her, and she wanted him to keep her here and never let her leave. She wanted him to chain her ankles to this place and force her to stay, naked and waiting. She wanted him to use her, to never let her go, to be selfish and mean and merciless with her until she was nothing but his, his, his.

She wanted to forget her name. She wanted to lose her memories of the outside world and confine them to these four walls. She wanted to kill the sad things inside of her and focus only on the pleasure and the love and the unforgiving warmth that settled inside of her whenever she was underneath him like this.

She wanted to sink her teeth into his flesh and bite it, sustain herself only on Joel and whatever he would feed her. Because she knew she was dying inside, and only this feeling could save her.

She could not explain why she felt nothing inside when she did the things she did. She was not sorry for anything. She felt no regret or shame or sorrow. She didn’t think she could’ve done things differently or spoken softer or spared any more lives. The only time she felt even remotely human was like this—with Joel connected to her in the most intimate way possible. Then, for a few moments, she felt warm in her chest. She felt vulnerable. She felt new—as if she had been born again and was learning the differences between happy and sad, angry and alone, deep love and utter hatred. She felt all of those things with him and nowhere else, and she would fight tooth and nail to keep him here, with her, always.

There was no one she wouldn’t kill for him. No one she wouldn’t torture, no one she wouldn’t crush under her booted toes. In fact, she would take pleasure in it. She would seek out the feeling. Just like she did with the pretty girls that put their hands on him. Just like she would again.

Because she knew it would happen again. She didn’t know when or how or why, but she knew there would be more girls that would try and lure him in, more men that would try and cross him, but she would be ready for them. Because he was all hers.

They would learn quickly what that meant and the distance she would go to keep it that way.

She turned over, in bed now, laying on her back, her head settling against the pillow. He was turned to face her, their eyes meeting for just a moment before they went back to looking over each other. She reached over gently, her scarred knuckles meeting his cheek and running slowly down the skin there. Her eyes were soft, softer than he had ever seen before. She was looking over him, studying him in the light of the moon, letting herself commit the moment to memory. Something about it felt romantic; something about this made her feel something akin to emotion. She thought maybe this was why she cared too much for him.

He was the only man who had ever made her feel anything at all.

“So is this how it’s gonna be?” He asked lowly. His voice was gravelly and quiet, but it was still heavy with feeling. She met his eyes, her thumb circling over the apple of his cheek. “You don’t like how someone acts ‘round me, and you just…get rid of ‘em?”

She turned more, fully facing him, letting her thumb roam to trace the line of his nose.

“This isn’t…you,” he said finally, and this got a reaction from her. She laughed a bit, bitterly, shaking her head.

“Then you have no idea who I really am, Joel,” she murmured. She let her thumb fall to trace his upper lip gently. “I don’t think I’ve ever been anyone else. If you didn’t know that by now, then you haven’t really been paying attention.”

She leaned forward and kissed him softly, closing her eyes gently, breathing in the Joel that remained in the early hours of the morning.

“And I know that it’s you, too.”

“Wasn’t always me,” he muttered. When she opened her eyes, she saw a flicker of something in the way he looked away from her. Guilt. Abandonment, maybe. It was the faraway of losing something he had tried to hold onto. “Whatever I am now…wasn’t always me.”

She shook her head, leaning her head to rest against his shoulder.

“If you think…the way the world is now to blame for who we are, you’re wrong, Joel,” she said softly. “I don’t remember what it was like. Before.” She put her hand in his, intertwining their fingers. “I’ve always been like this. And so have you.” He moved his head to look at her, frowning, and she shrugged simply. “The before…all it did was hide you.”

Joel looked away, back to the ceiling. She was right. As much as he wanted to think otherwise, to believe that the end of the world was to blame for the man that he had become, the thought would be wrong. Inside of him had always been the man he was. The man that made the tough decisions. The man that killed someone before dinner and fucked the woman he loved later that same day. The man that bartered and tortured and murdered and crushed and fought like hell—this man was someone that had always lived inside of him—judge, jury, and executioner. There had just never been an opportunity for that man to come apart, to come alive, to manifest itself into the hungry, angry thing that clung to him now, the man that had never left him. Unlike her, the man he was had been dormant, hiding among the memories of his daughter and the life he once loved. She had always been this way; she never had a need to hide her ugly thoughts away, it was a person that had never left her. They thrived. They kept her alive.

A soft kiss to the side of his face made him blink the thoughts away. Another kiss brought him back to earth.

“I love you, Joel,” she whispered. “I love you more than anything.”

But now he believed her. In her own sick, twisted way, she did love him. In the horrid things that lived in her head, he was there, bubbly and bright and bathed in pretty lights. She was not good for him. She would turn him black and blue inside, she would take all the good that still rested in him, and she would bury it deep.

And selfishly, he wanted to do the same to her. So, “me…me, too, darlin’,” was what he said back to her. Because—fuck—if anyone was going to truly ruin her, it was going to be him.

He would make sure of that.

#joel miller imagine #joel miller x you #joel miller x reader #joel miller x fem!reader #joel miller smut #joel miller fanfiction #the last of us fanfiction #joel miller fanfic #joel miller x y/n #the last of us #the last of us hbo

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lovejosephquinn · 2 years

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I also need a bit of comfort, Lana, so I'm gonna request night comfort cuddles with Joe

Your hopelessly romantic boyfriend loves to comfort you whenever you need it. This is one of your favourite things to have Joe do when you’re sad or in anyway feeling low and he never refuses to oblige.

Joe won’t let you do a thing without him by your side when you’re in this mood, if you’re feeling stressed out or anxious he’ll be wrapped around you like a large koala bear. Even if you need to pee, he’ll be by your side, holding your hand cracking jokes whilst you sit on the toilet.

He’ll bring you snacks to bed, feeding you like a baby and ask if he can have some for himself, you won’t let him go without so you nod along even after he’s already eaten some of it. Making sure you’re comfortable at all times, his hands do the majority of the work, they sooth your back, stroking down it, drawing shapes and letters onto it, your body consumed by goose bumps in seconds from his delicate touch. He’ll move to your arm, dancing his finger across them. If you’re really sad he’ll even delve in playing with your hair, running his fingers through it and carefully massaging your scalp to help destress whatever shit you’ve got on your mind.

Joe will happily lay in silence with you, no words need be spoken and you won’t have to tell him a thing if you don’t want too, he’s happy just being there for you and comforting you with a smile or even just laying his angelic stare upon yours, giving you little kisses to signify that he’s right here when you’re ready to open up. His fingers intertwine with yours, his thumb rubbing against yours in an intricate manner.

The way he snuggles with you is beautiful and heartwarming, whether it be spooning you from behind, his nose breathing in your scent when your hair tickles his nostrils or you laying your head on his chest and wrapping your legs around him, cocooning him with your body and letting him envelope his arms around you until you fall asleep. He holds you like a baby, squeezing you slight and swaying you little by little, a hushed and personal lullaby.

He’ll tell you he loves you a lot, explaining in detail his favourite things about you - physically or personality wise. His favourite memories in which you’ve shared together and the way he can’t wait to create more. His favourite thing to say is that he can’t wait to spend the rest of his life with you, you’re his future.

Joe is your happiness, your god damn world, your closest feeling to a human form of home and he is the reason why you’re stronger everytime you relinquish yourself from this state of mind. He makes it all better by doing little, but to you; it’s everything. There is no means to an end for his feelings towards you, they’re intense yet so damn sweet. He swears to the heavens that his main aim in this one short life is to make you happy everyday, no matter what.

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notyourmajesty · 1 year

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"I Can't Believe I Was So Wrong About You": Parallels between the Love Scene and Alex and Henry's First Meeting.

CW: I talk about a part of the love scene in a bit of detail here.

So thanks to this amazing post and reblog by @sylvidra and @manic-pixie-fever-dream, I've been thinking more and more about the Paris Love Scene. Particularly the shots that precede this moment:

Gif by @gay-bucky-barnes

When I first saw this scene I thought of this dialogue as more a general, romantic observation Alex makes of Henry - a result of months and months of being with him and seeing him in a way that very few do. It was only on rewatches that I was able to recognise why he says it in this exact moment.

We know, from the way Henry uses his hand to gently press the small of his back, that he is guiding Alex. But the extent to which Henry guides him, aware that it's his first time with a man, comes from small gestures that are easy to miss because a lot of it is out of frame.

Gifs (from the same gifset as above) by @gay-bucky-barnes

These two moments follow the shot where Henry presses down on Alex's back. In the second shot here, if you look closely enough, you will notice Henry's thumb below his knee, leveraging his thigh to make access for Alex easier. In the first, you see his other arm slightly raised, carefully guiding Alex inside.

Not physically easy to work both your hands when you're so overwhelmed yourself by the sensory and emotional impact of what's happening, but Henry is determined to make Alex's first time an unforgettable one.

At the very beginning of this scene, Alex tries hard to "play it cool" the moment Henry requests they make love - first by simply agreeing (with a catch in his voice), then by breaking into a joke. It's only as they kiss - signifying the start of the lovemaking Henry's proposing - that he admits that he has never had sex with a man before. Alex is nervous and insecure and afraid to show it, but trusts Henry enough to confide in him.

When Henry comforts him and lets him know that he is in good hands, this - this gentle, loving guidance that will not scoff at their partner's inexperience, that is patient and will ease him into the process - is what he means.

That Henry will care for and help him. That it is okay for Alex to ask when he doesn't know. That Alex doesn't have to feel scared, or feel insecure or inadequate. Not with him.

The more I think about that, the more it brings me back to the first time they had met. Not the royal wedding, but the Melbourne Climate Conference that happened years before (according to the film - in the book it was the Rio Olympics).

Gifs by @chiefnooniensingh

Alex is - in his own words - a formerly anonymous working class kid whose mother became President. Someone who always fears putting the wrong foot forward, who feels the weight and responsibility of the platform and position he has, who moves around all these elite spaces feeling a little out of place.

At the very beginning of the film he grimaces when the British press calls him "The American Prince Henry", admitting to Nora that unlike Henry, he wasn't born into this life and "...if I use the wrong fork at dinner, they'll just...eat me alive". Nora is shown helping him with his anxiety just before they enter the palace, reminding him that "you're handsome and charming and everybody loves you". It's pretty clear that a lot of Alex's bravado and humour hide his very deep-seated fears that he won't be good enough, and he's had those fears for a long time.

So when a guy his age - who was born into literal royalty, and who he clearly looked up to - looked at him like he "had head lice" and seemed to not even want to be in the same room as him, you get why he held on to his resentment of Henry that long.

Henry understands this the moment Alex admits the truth, and even offers his perspective of that night so Alex will know that it wasn't him - it was the pain and stress of having to pretend everything was normal, while he was still grieving his father's death. (There is also the fact that he possibly fell for Alex that same night...but of course Alex doesn't get to know that until the State Dinner)

And from this point on, Henry makes sure that whenever Alex reveals his insecurities and self-doubt to him without the varnish of humour, he is there to help him.

Sometimes it's in the form of his letters - reassuring a worried Alex who thinks he's letting his mother down, by telling him about Imposter Syndrome and reminding him of the incredible work he has done so far.

Sometimes it's in holding Alex's hand even when he's shit scared himself, and telling his grandfather and King that he loves the man next to him, deeply, and they are committed to each, deeply.

Sometimes it's in the simple act of wearing a tie that represents Alex's home state, and showing it when Alex feels nervous and scared and regretful, wondering if he is responsible for the (possible) failure of his mother's campaign.

And sometimes it's like this - reassuring a nervous Alex, letting him feel safe both sexually and emotionally, putting Alex's needs first, making him feel safe.

Making sure that when Alex asks for his help, he doesn't regret it.

#rwrb #red white and royal blue #alex claremont diaz #henry fox #henry fox mountchristen windsor #henry george edward james hanover stuart fox #rwrb movie #firstprince #taylor zakhar perez #nicholas galitzine #rwrb thoughts #rwrb meta

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kingwiltcher · 5 months

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The Smiling Critters Take Real Life!

Episode 1: The Package of A Lifetime

(Synopsis)

When Angel saw the listing, it was too good to be true, eight whole, vintage plushies, in excellent condition, for that low of a price? It had to be a scam.

But Angel bought them anyway, and of course, when they arrived, there was something very odd about them.

They were all alive.

(Story Below! Or click the link above for the AO3 entry. It has better tags)

Angel sat alone in their living room on a cloudy summer morning. They’d already eaten breakfast and weren’t planning on doing much else with their day. As of right now the most they were doing was laying on the couch and eating leftover pizza from last night while waiting on their Amazon delivery.

About a week ago, Angel was browsing Amazon for some new plushies when they saw something very, very interesting.

It was a listing for a bundle of plushies…but not just any plushies, it was the entire Smiling Critters collection from Playtime Inc. Angel was absolutely floored when they saw the listing, and even moreso floored when they saw the pictures of each plushie, showing how good of a condition they were all in. And Angel thought it wasn’t possible to be any more floored than they already were at that time, but then they laid eyes on the price for all of those plushies.

$14.56. For 8 plushies that hadn’t been released since the 80s, and were some of the most sought-after collectors items ever.

Angel didn’t think twice about snatching them up from that listing, and once they’d given up their credit card details, they finally took the time to look at the description of the listing. Just in case they’d missed something important…

“I bought all these a long time ago for my son, Liam.” The blurb began. “But times change, things grow different, and even after he left I’ve just been sort of holding onto them. But as of late I’ve been convinced to give them up finally, so to whoever buys these, I hope they bring you as much joy as they did to my son when he was still around!”

After reading that, Angel felt really guilty for mentally calling the seller an idiot for selling the plushies at such a low price…but oh well.

And today was the day the package was supposed to arrive. Angel never trusted Amazon’s projected arrival time, but they would be pleasantly surprised when the doorbell to their house would ring, and a notification would pop up on their phone signifying that the order had arrived.

In an instant they shot to their feet and strode over to the door and swung it open. The delivery driver was seemingly already long gone. Angel took a moment to applaud that before taking the package inside. Angel sat it down on the edge of the coffee table in front of the couch, and once they did, they noticed a note taped to the top of the box…

Angel removed it from the box and squinted to look at it, as it was written in very old-style cursive that was almost illegible.

"These little guys just love to play, may these Smiling Critters bring some joy to your day!" Angel read the note aloud. They found it quite cheesy, but equally as endearing.

But then all of a sudden…the box began to shake…Angel froze up in startlement as their eyes locked onto the shifting box. It was as if there were several live beings moving around in there, trying to get out…Angel could even hear what sounded like muffled speaking from within it…no way these plushies could be alive like that…there must’ve been some kind of mix-up in the delivery.

Angel slowly and hesitantly moved over to the package and began to slowly peel off the tape…and once they fully peeled it off…

“HELLO!” A chorus of voices all rang out at once, all in a sing-songy voice as the package top burst open with all of the plushies jumping out at once.

Angel let out a horrifically loud scream and jumped back onto the couch in fear. “Wh-What the heck?! What in the- What?!” He sputtered out.

One of the plushies, that being Hoppy Hopscotch, looked over at Dogday, (Who was front and center in the box) with an expression of annoyance.

“Great plan Dogday…now he’s terrified of us.” She groaned.

Dogday frowned in exasperation and looked back to Hoppy before responding. “H-Hey! I thought it would be nice t-to surprise him!” He whimpered.

Bubba Bubbaphant cleared his throat before talking. “It was a nice thought Dogday…but uh, we kinda warned you that it wouldn’t turn out like you hoped it would-“

Dogday sighed in defeat and rubbed his head, then looked up towards Angel, who was holding a pillow in front of themselves defensively.

“Um…sorry for scaring you like that, mister. I thought it would be nice if we all…jumped out and surprised you.” Dogday apologized.

Angel slowly lowered the pillow. “You…you guys are alive?” They questioned.

Dogday scratched the back of his head and hopped out of the box…jumping right off the coffee table and landing flat on his face.

“Ow…” He squeaked pathetically. Angel unintentionally let out a snicker at that.

Meanwhile, all the other Smiling Critters rushed to the edge of the box, all crying out in concern for Dogday. Buuut as soon as they had all crowded around the edge, the box tipped over and sent them all careening down to the floor. With a comical plop, they all landed in a pile, and the empty box fell on top of the pile of critters. Angel let out another snicker.

The critters all began to move around inside the box, all going in different directions and walking and crawling on top of each other.

“H-Hey, I can’t see!”

“HOPPY GET YOUR FOOT OUT OF MY FACE-“

“GET YOUR BUTT OUT OF MINE!”

Dogday quickly got back to his feet and shoved the box off of his friends, freeing them from their ‘prison’.

“Thanks Dogday!” The critters all cried out in thankfulness.

Angel had been watching the scene the whole time, and while they’d initially found it creepy and unnatural, considering they were all plushies that had just come to life…now, Angel was beginning to find it pretty adorable.

After making sure all his friends were good and well and back on their feet, Dogday turned back towards Angel and cleared his throat. “To uh, answer your question sir, yep! We’re alive!” The dog said, placing his hands on his sides in a proud stance.

“Uhh…how though?” Angel asked, setting aside the pillow they were holding.

At Angel’s question, all of the critters slowly turned their heads towards Bubba Bubbaphant (Except Catnap, who had fallen asleep on the floor under the table).

Bubba made a noise of annoyance and glanced around at the other critters before clearing his throat and speaking. “Well…you read the note you got with the package, right?”

Angel nodded.

“There’s your answer!” Bubba said, nodding.

“Huh…so you’re like…voodoo creatures?” Angel stated, for they had watched Night Of The Living Dummy last night.

“Well I suppose so. If…that’s what you’d like to think.” Bubba mumbled the second part of his sentence.

“Well uh…how is this like…possible?” Angel asked.

Bubba held his hand up, preparing to say something, yet no words came out, and eventually he just put his hand back down in embarrassment.

Angel began to look to each of the critters one-by-one to see if he could get an answer from any of them, but no answers could be found in any of them.

“Hey man, if Bubba doesn’t know it, we don’t either.” Kickin Chicken said with a shrug.

“Alllllright then.” Angel sighed and tried to lean back on the pillow they were previously using, but then they felt something much, much different than the pillow meet their arm. Angel scrambled backwards, and saw that Catnap had somehow gotten onto the couch with nobody realizing, and was now laying up against the pillow comfortably.

“What the hel- heck?? How’d you get up here?” Angel sputtered out.

Catnap slowly inched his eyelids open and signed something out in sign language. Angel deflated at that, as they couldn’t understand sign language at all.

Dogday seemed to pick up on this, and tried and failed to jump onto the couch. He quickly gave up and just decided to talk from the floor again.

“He said you have really nice pillows!” Dogday translated.

“Uh, okay, but how did you get up here?” Angel questioned Catnap again.

In response, Catnap held an index finger over his mouth and shook his head, indicating that he wouldn’t tell.

Angel sighed and just patted Catnap’s head in response. Catnap purred in response.

By now, all of the Smiling Critters’ attentions had wandered elsewhere, and they were now beginning to explore Angel’s living room.

“W-Wow…this table is really pretty…” Craftycorn, who was underneath Angel’s coffee table and looking up through the glass.

Meanwhile, Hoppy and Kickin had began racing to climb up a bookshelf in the corner of the room.

And in that very moment, Angel came to a realization.

They had just adopted 8 ambiguously-aged plushie beings into their home.

How the hell was Angel going to manage all of this?

#alternate #au #alternate universe #dogday #catnap #kicken chicken #kickinchicken #hoppy hopscotch #bubba bubbaphant #picky piggy #craftycorn #poppy playtime #poppy playtime 3 #ao3 #ao3 fanfic #fanfic

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crushingcasanova · 6 months

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To have someone love you the way Jay Gatsby loves Daisy.

Quite honestly, he is the most obsessive man ever. He restructured his life after the war and during his days in the army just to become what he believed Daisy craved or needed. He gets back from the war and immediately establishes a house--a castle, the place she had always wanted to live in--across the bay from her house so he can always see the little green light of her dock. He stands at the edge of the water reaching out for that light and for her, and he throws extravagant parties in the hopes that she'll one day come to one. He plays their song every night, cast across the water, in the hopes that she will hear it. He puts endless amounts of thought and care into everything he does to secure her and fit into the world of her dreams.

He is obsessed with the way things used to be and the stubborn refusal to let go of the past continues to carry him towards getting her back. In some senses, she signifies what he lost from before the war and he needs her to have some semblance of his old life back. He even creates an entire recreation of their famous party together and attempts to sweep her off of her feet again. He brings back the willow tree, their old outfits, the same singer from at their party. Even before this, when he has a tea party in the hopes of seeing her again for the very first time since they were separated, his attention to detail shines--he puts so much effort into gathering everything and anything he thinks will make the gathering better so she likes him again. He brings her to his house and they reminisce on older times; times he admits he has never let go of. He never waivered, he always waited for her to come back, even when she was married.

And in the end, they almost run away together. He refuses to believe she ever could have loved anyone else--why would she, when he is all she had ever needed--and he drops her off at home to get her things before they run away. And he waits.

He sits and waits for her, for hours. And she never shows up.

All his life was crafted by her design, in a way--he notes that everything since they met has always been for the goal of securing her and giving her the world of her dreams. Time after time he repeats it, his own mantra of sorts:

"It's all for her."

And those words--the obsession that drives him--become his downfall. She is his weakness and his strength at the same time. He cannot live without her.

How wonderful it would be to be loved so wholely and recklessly like that. To have someone so devoted that they mold their life to your needs... it would be an honor.

#sorry if this is not cohesive im emotional as hell #casanova's posts #great gatsby #great gatsby musical #irl yandere #obsessive thoughts #casanova's writings #jay gatsby

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thatuselesshuman · 1 month

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Character Introduction: Zero

So uh in the spirit of everyone knowing what the fuck I'm ever talking about, I've decided a character Introduction was in order!

*<- will be used to mark plot details that will be explained at the end of the post

Disclaimer: Bro goes through shit

Name: Zero (originally Kian Whittaker)

Gender: Man

Sexuality: He's fallen in love with one person in his life and then got traumatized out of ever falling for someone again (within the canon time frame)

Age: 634 years old, but he looks like 2 days over 19

Appearance: emo He has chin length pitch black hair, most of it tied up in a bun for a half up half down look. His skin is pale. The top half of his face is mostly covered by a black ornate mask, but you can just see his bright white eyes. He's thin and only 5'10 (but will still kick ass). He has what looks like a black choker at first, but black tendrils spread down from it through his body that look oddly like wires.

Outfit: He wears black pants, a black cropped zip jacket (typically unzipped) with a black shirt under it, and standard issue black combat boots. The jacket and pants have white accents, and the jacket has a white X* across the back. A couple of seemingly normal swords can be seen hanging from his hips. Under his shirt, a small silver chain with two rings on it (one simply engraved and one with floral detailing) hangs.

Personality: He seems very unapproachable (purposely) but if you have a strong enough personality to push past the bullshit he's actually pretty witty and funny.

Affinity: He can control a dark energy, usually used to form 2 twin scythes. His other powers include immortality (the not dying of old age +longer time you can go without necessities kind) and the ability to sense his surroundings. No one lives long enough when confronted to learn his other two powers

Rank: Archreaper**

Public Backstory: Very little is known about Zero, as most people aren't even sure he's fully human. Only one thing is known for sure, he's old enough to rival the country itself. No one knows where he comes from or even what his face actually looks like. Some swear that he was born from shadows and the day he returns to them is the mark of the end.

Real Backstory: (pictures, cause I ain't transferring all that—read the pics from last -> first)

Other fun tidbits:

The ‘choker’ is a control device. It can cause immense unstoppable pain, prevent Zero from taking his own life, and cause every one of his muscles to seize up. It can also send poison to his brain in different doses, either making him lethargic or straight up killing him

He was born with only the whites of his eyes (no pupil or iris) so he can't see. Brother is blind if not for the sight-adjacent thing his Affinity does

*The X is the only required part of the 'uniform' for Archreapers. Archreapers must display the stars (markers of achievement/rank signifiers) they have on the back of their uniform. An X = 500 or more stars.

**Archreapers are the second highest rank in the military, the first being the general. Because of their high rank, they are allowed to wear whatever they want. There are only 9 Archreapers in service at each time, and you have to be specially selected (and exceptionally strong) to become one. After Archreapers are selected, they replace their name with whatever number they were replacing. Their old name is erased from everything and they are banned to ever go by anything other than their number, unless for a mission.

Well, that seems like that's it. If you have any questions, PLEASE PLEASE PLEASE ASK MEEEEE WHETHER ABOUT THE CHARACTER OR THE WORLD OR IDC

v Tagging who may care v

@moltenwrites @willtheweaver @wyked-ao3 @katenewmanwrites @agirlandherquill

@the-golden-comet @finleyorion @illarian-rambling

#If anything seems angstier or cruder than usual it's because I'm running off of a hospital visit and a prayer #And because Shine a Light (reprise) is constantly playing in my head #Lol whoops #writing #writer #writeblr #writerscommunity #writing community #writers on tumblr #my oc stuff #my ocs #my ocs <3 #my oc character #ocs #original character

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hopepaigeturner · 2 months

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Will, Alice and the Question of Class

I’ve already explained a couple of my thoughts here about S3 subplots. And done a prior review of the Mondriches here.

Essentially:

I was disappointed that the only working class family in Bridgerton got sucked up into the upper-class and is now like every other character in the entire show.

Will and Alice’s storyline could have been used to show the rigid structures of class system in Bridgerton (more here). Will and Alice's ostracization from the ton, rather than acceptance, could have been explored therefore not only expanding the world but also letting the audience understand the stakes that Benedict and his working-class love interest will face in the next season. And give these two actors some meat to get their teeth into.

But also, and I think a bit more sinister, is how the writers positioned the conflict for the Mondriches.

The main conflict with Will and Alice becoming upper-class was initiailly portrayed as Will needing to give up his club as people of the ton would look down on him being a businessmen. (And truthfully there probs would have been stuff like that). In the first conversation/mention it was made clear that it was the rigid, prejudiced societal expectations that were causing this conflict.

Here’s the exchange from S3E2

“Mr Mondrich if you wish to be a part of society you must know, you cannot continue to run this place. Memebers of society do not work” “Does being a part of this world not man freedom to do what I like?” “Everything has limits.”

(Another little detail I think is worth pointing out. I find it interesting that the person who spouted all about the freedom of the ton to Will was a white moneyed man from a generationally titled family-Benedict Bridgerton. While the person to show Will the reality was a black Lord who was given his title by QC. I def don't think that is a coincidence. See! The writers do have some awareness yet why does it not extend to class?)

However, after that first mention, the narrative around this conflict shifted. The conflict shifted and became about Will’s struggles with letting go of the past.

See Alice and Lady Danbury Scene in E4

Alice M: “I did not wish to miss another ball, but I also was not looking forward to coming here alone.” Lady D: “Your husband should be here with you.” AM: “Mr Mondrich seems to be having a hard time relinquishing our old life no matter how hard I tug at him, he’s quite attached to his bar.” LD: “The Queen will not smile favourably on a man of ran working in a club. You must show Mr Mondrich that this new life is worth his sacrifice.”

If you look at Lady Danbury’s delivery of the line “your husband should be here…” it is slightly accusatory. Alice’s words signify that it’s Will’s personal choice that is leading to the tension between them.

Suddenly its not the prejudiced class system, its Will who is the problem.

And then the writers go further. Will’s indecision is the one affecting the family.

As Alice says in S3E5:

“Your ledgers will not miss you but your family will.”

At the engagement evening when talking about their daughter riding a horse “All I could think was…I wish her father were her to see this.”

And this is how the conflict continues to be presented. Will’s conflict around past vs. present becomes club vs. family. Will’s decision to cling onto his past and working class roots is making him a bad father.

It’s framed that its It Will’s choice that is hurting the family.

So ofcourse he should give up the club! Why is he dawdling??? Family is more important than business!

And ofcourse they’re right but…do you see it?

The real problem here is the BS societal structures of the ton where class divides are as defined as a knife edge, meaning the only way to traverse them is to sever yourself from one to another.

Class structure is the real reason for Will and Alice struggle this season. The class structure, that prioritises lineage over labour, you could even say family over labour, is the problem here.

Yet this problem and this conflict is all framed as being Will’s fault.

And yes this is a fantastical romance show where five different styles of fashion are somehow all present at the same time—I don’t expect razor sharp class critique.

Like so much other media, both entertainment and otherwise, it’s a Bridgerton plays into the overarching narrative that the problems faced by underprivileged individuals are their fault rather than the societal/cultural structures that actually cause these problems. (Hit me up if you need examples).

And even worse? I bet the Bridgerton writer had no idea what they were saying with this storyline. I bet it was much easier to write this storyline in this way because it is easier to blame people than the structures intermingling with them. And therefore, it is easier for the privileged who sit on the throne of these societal structures to solve problems—just have the victims pay the price themselves.

*~*~*~*~*~*~*~*

Now, I probs need to go and grab some jasmine tea.

#I know its #bridgerton #but it's still not right #will mondrich #alice mondrich #s3 #spoiler free for S4 #stop blaming people #start dismantling opressive cultural structures

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becauseplot · 8 months

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hi hello :)

so i just reread ‘miss me?,’ which first of all, love it, it’s on my kindle so i don’t think i originally commented which is a shame. i love properly scary cell, but also this glimpse into the beginning of him trying to figure out how to actually live. the only tool he really knows is fear so that’s what he’s using on felps, but he just doesn’t have the same power in the outside world and if he just goes around threatening/murdering people he’ll just get tracked down. Cell’s scary, but felps has food and shelter and stability and isn’t a wanted criminal and probably /could/ get him arrested, even if he got killed in the process. interesting dynamic.

and poor felps, man doesn’t deserve this, but it’s rather hilarious to me that his worst nightmare shows up and… wants to crash on his couch. and according to the end notes, this keeps happening? i want to see how this evolves, because if cellbit has to keep coming back for handouts (which i imagine doesn’t gel well with his ingrained need to be self-sufficient against the world) he really can’t be great at figuring out Society. he needs felps, who has a foothold in regular life.

eventually the terror has to wear off and it’s just ‘you again? can’t you get a job or something?’ situation where Done With This felps teaches his roommate who grew up in the murderwoods How To Person. how to make a purchase at the grocery store without murdering (or threatening to murder) the cashier. what ‘hobbies’ are. cellbit discovers gravity falls and spends a week on the couch enraptured. felps is not delighted with this situation by any means but they’re kind of stuck together now.

i’ve been following your posts about the little dagger au and i’m excited you have ideas about how to fit it together! it’s really cool and makes me have thoughts (as you can see)

and the reason i started this ask, which got out of hand, was the interesting death mechanics in ‘miss me?’. i really like the Void and uncertain respawn mechanics, and wondered if you could elaborate some on how it works in your head? did the same mechanics apply in the hunger games (i think so, since cell said he’d ‘climbed his way out of the Void more times than you can imagine) and does this mean that players leave their bodies behind as well as get new ones on respawn? (again i think so, because cannibalism. really my questions aren’t very specific, but i think it’s cool and if you want to talk about it i’d like to hear it)

Aaaaaa Saga hello!! o/ I’m so glad you liked Miss Me? it was incredibly fun to write! Love writing a character who is just plain scary and evil heheheh >:)

But yeah!! The fic was based off the premise “hey what if Cell showed up at Felps’ apartment and instead of stabbing him just wanted to crash on his couch” because I thought it was really fucking funny and I ran w it. So it’s supposed to be a scary situation, yes, but also kind of hysterical? And ridiculous? Like, Felps gets into a petty shouting match about the meaning of the phrase “fuck off” with the same guy who gutted him a month ago and blackmailed him for ages. And then the guy—who is just an utter dick, by the way—basically mugs him at knifepoint and demands to crash on his couch. And he gets mud all over the fucking cushions.* Like what? The fuck??

*Fun detail! The reason Cell sleeps with his boots on is because he has to be ready to run at the drop of a hat! It's a habit he picked up on in The War, as you can see in Hunting Lessons, where it's mentioned that he (Dagger) still has his boots on when he wakes up! A signifier of Cell finally feeling genuinely comfortable, safe, and at-ease with Felps is the first time he takes his boots off when dropping in for one of his "visits" :D

"eventually the terror has to wear off and it’s just ‘you again? can’t you get a job or something?’ situation where Done With This felps teaches his roommate who grew up in the murderwoods How To Person." YEP BASICALLY LMAO. No but that's exactly it, that's basically the plot from that point onward.

Also the Gravity Falls thing,,, idk if we're just on the same wavelength or you saw me going batshit in the tags on that one post about cc!Cellbit's Bill Cypher tattoo but yeah. He basically gets personhood via multiple visits to Felps. See if he really had to, Cell could do this entirely on his own. But---and he'll never admit it---he got used to having Felps around in the prison. He got used to the company (even if it was under duress) and now he misses his "old friend."

And Felps? Yeah I didn't get to explore this in Miss Me? but in this AU, Felps was not very popular with the other guards. He was younger than most of them, they saw him as one of the more "spineless, naive" ones working there (and perhaps they were right?). Though he would talk to some people on his breaks, the person he ended up spending more time with, for better or worse (definitely worse), was Cell. And Cell knew/knows this. So Cell is like, "yeah we spend enough time with each other, that basically means we're friends right?"

And then in the years post-Fuga Cell actually starts to mellow out and put effort into trying to be kind (through Felps' guidance) because eventually he...doesn't actually want to see Felps hurting. And it's...been a long, long time since he's actually genuinely cared about someone (which is terrifying, btw). He almost forgot what it really means to have a friend. And Felps recognizes that there are just straight up gaps in Cell's understanding of the world and society and is...honestly kind of intrigued? And it's wild to see Cell be passionate about something so normal and in a non-murderous way. And hey, they're kind of stuck in this stalemate situation, and Felps COULD call the cops but he's really not a rock-the-boat kind of person, he's just trying to keep his head down, so might as well make the most of it.

(I actually kind of started poking at a Miss Me? continuation where Felps and Cell are juuuust about at that "you again? can't you get a job or something?" stage. It's also the first day Cell is introduced to Gravity Falls. There are more thoughts about how this continues but that's a whole other post and fdhjsk I'm getting distracted.)

Anyway onto the main event: RESPAWN MECHANICS!!!!!!!! You have NO fucking idea how overjoyed I was when you asked me about those. Alright here we fucking go.

So to be clear, these respawn mechanics apply to the Little Dagger AU and Miss Me? because, well, they're the same universe. I was trying to find a balance between a) honoring the respawn mechanics of Minecraft, b) lining up with what we've seen of respawn mechanics in qsmp, and c) making death meaningful/damning/dangerous enough to still make the time Cellbit/Dagger spent in The War terrifying.

So how it works is this: when you die, your soul gets sent to the Void. In the Void, you have to make a choice: respawn, or be consumed by the Void / wake up from the Long Dream / rejoin the Source Code / respawn in the next World / whatever you believe in. (The "choice" aspect is meant to reflect the "Respawn / Title Screen" options for the death screen in Minecraft.) You have to want to go back, to try again, and then you have to fight for it. It's a test of will.

So there's different ways of dying and being killed. You can never be 100% sure that someone you kill is going to perma-die (permanently die). There are ways to try to ensure it, like a) what Cell does (horrible, terrifying deaths that makes people afraid to come back, thus they fail the Void's will-check), or b) spawn-trapping / deaths in rapid succession, which wears down the individual's will until they eventually break. Thus, perma-killers are honestly more terrifying than your run-of-the-mill murderers, since they've developed techniques to not just kill people, but break people. (In this world, there is a difference between telling someone, "I'm gonna kill you," and "I'm gonna kill you dead." The latter implies you will break them.)

NOW. Sliiiight caveat: the strength of the Void's pull varies across the globe. In most regions/servers (like Brazil) the Void is "normal": a simple will check.

In other regions, however, it's different. The server where Dagger fights in The War has a VERY powerful Void, so much so that if you're killed, you're basically perma-dead without aid from an Admin. And even with Admin intervention, it's not 100% guaranteed you'll come back, as you still have to pass the will-check. Your chances are just exponentially higher.

(Btw I haven't mentioned this anywhere but The War in Little Dagger AU isn't an actual war, it's an unethical, war-themed, televised hunger-games-ish tournament that has an audience of people who place bets on the "soldiers" (players). Sponsored players (players with big-spenders officially supporting them) get perks and respawn privileges from the Admins. The perma-death nature of The War is part of its audience/hardcore-pvper appeal: a true survival-of-the-fittest challenge! Dagger is a...special case of a special case, let's say, but bottom line is that he's not sponsored and does not have respawn privileges. If he dies, he dies.)

The other end of the spectrum is 2b2t, where the Void is exceptionally weak. This might seem like a good thing but uh. That just means that spawn-trapping people is kinda a big deal. In a server with a "normal" Void, if someone spawn-traps you, you'll probably break and perma-die within an hour. In 2b2t, if someone spawn-traps you, it could be anywhere from a few hours to a few weeks before you finally perma-die and escape the torture of dying over, and over, and over. And trust me, the people in 2b2t have gotten good at finding ways to extend that threshold to months.

Also, death is traumatic! Even if you have to respawn, you can develop a host of mental health issues (the main one being PTSD), and respawning isn't a painless process that leaves you unscathed. Scars remain, and phantom pains are very common, especially in violent deaths. Some illnesses/injuries carry on through a respawn, too.

Anyway, yeah! Respawn mechanics!!! Summary is: when you die, to respawn, you have to want to come back. If anything is keeping you from wanting to come back, you may be consumed by the Void. Some servers have a stronger/weaker Void than others, thus making respawning harder/easier.

#HOHH. long one lmao.#have fun sifting through this one o7 #dont mind me im just rambling #Little Dagger AU #asks for curly

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staywhore · 9 months

Text

frostbitten heart

felix x reader

word count: 2188

genre: heartbreak.

warnings: heartbreak. mentions of self harm

an: hehe I hope you all enjoy this! sorry for the cliffhanger? if that's what you can call it.... also did not spell or grammar check because I'm fucking tired so sorry if there is any mistakes <3

taglist: @mingigoo @ravenjoongie @wickeddarkness-place @whatudowhennooneseesyou @teezers99 @mirror-juliet

new years confession part two- click here for the master!

“Come on Felix! It’s getting cold.” You begin to squirm underneath the weight of his strong but lean form. Now feeling the fight or flight response kicking in, not wanting to acknowledge the clear tension between the two of you. He simply nods and releases a gentle breath before he gets up, extending a hand down towards you. He pulls you up until you are chest to chest; his eyes never once leaving yours. You can now feel the warmth of his arm wrapping around your waist, keeping you tucked into his broad chest. Feeling slightly uncomfortable you push away gently with both hands firm on his chest. You look up and simply smile at him before you pat his peck and walk out of his grip.

Not particularly caring if he’s following you head into the cabin. It’s Felix’s family cabin that they just recently had redone. Considering the events that unfolded last year, you didn’t want to go to another party. Pretty much since last year you haven’t been to any party. The two of you didn’t really speak for about a month after that night. Not truly spoken. You had conversations, but it was still awkward and you were just trying to lick your wounds. So when Felix asked to go to your favorite spot together, an old outdated diner where you both first met, things just fell back into place between the two of you. It’s been 10 months since then and things are pretty much just as the way they were before that kiss.

You are hit with a wave of heat as you step inside the cabin. A glow of warm yellow floods your vision, almost hurting your eyes from the juxtaposition from the bleaky snowy white outside. Your boots squelching against the glossy hardwood floor, you quickly remember to kick the snowy boots off before walking further inside. Walking into the living room almost makes your heart leap from your chest. The huge vaulted ceilings held up by exposed beams that have hanging lights casting a glow all over the carpeted floor. Deep wood furniture scattered around the living room complementing the light chocolate coloring of the ceiling, floor boards, and staircase. A plush set of couch, loveseat and twin chairs sit before a fireplace that must be the source of the heat.

The scuffle of wet shoes followed by the heavy thud signifies that Felix followed you inside. Your chest tightens despite the deep breath you let out. You head toward the blaring fireplace and pull a couple of pillows and two blankets and set up a little nest for yourself right by the warmth. Heading toward the kitchen to make yourself some hot cocoa Felix shouts from the top of the staircase that he is going to take a shower, how he got up there so fast is news to you but oh well.

20 minutes later, you are now sat with your hot cocoa and a book surrounded by the comforting glow of the orange and yellow flames dancing on the blacked logs. Your face wouldn’t show it but you were drawn in deep by the knee trembling smut scene in the book you were reading. A Cinderella retelling, but reversed with a mafia twist after 200 pages of angst finally the two characters finally have gotten together. Engrossed in the extreme detail of the male love interest eating Cinderella out within an inch of her life, you didn’t notice the presence of someone over your shoulder.

“Fucksake y/n.” You quickly shut the book, face now red hot. Whipping your head towards the direction of your soon to be dead friend.

“Don’t sneak up on a person like that felix!” Your fist connects with his arm causing him to fall back on his ass with a laugh that cuts right through your heart. His sweet scent of amber and peaches swirls around you causing you to go all heady. You sit up a little straighter and pinch the part of your leg that you have been doing for nearly a year since that night. To remind you physically of what pain he caused in your heart. If he noticed the act, he didn’t mention it. He scooted over to your little almost picnic set up rearranging the pillows so his head is now closest to the fire and your feet.

“I didn’t know you were such a dirty girl y/n.” He joked with one of his signature smiles lighting up his face. Folding your legs in a way that will hide your pinching, not letting the pain show on your face.

“Shut up felix.” You say no longer enjoying the sight of him. Making a mover to get up, he lays a hand on your sherpa blanket covered ankle. The lines on his face soften, not in a sunshiney felix way but in the way that he knows he crossed a line. He’s been crossing that line frequently, not on purpose. As good as things have been since the incident, not everything is the same.

Touching, joking, and filtration no longer is innocent, now it has a deeper meaning. A memory of a night where he crushed your heart and got away with it. It’s suddenly a year ago, and you two are in that tiny bathroom again. It’s different this time, now there is the looming reminder of the pain from that night. The heartbreak of his text coming in that the kiss was a mistake and you should just be friends again.

You stay seated, but you move your legs in closer towards you; however they offer you comfort. The hurt still lingers in his eyes despite the cool smile he plasters on his beautiful face. You can’t help but feel the longing in your heart for him. For the Felix he once was to you. Who never once hurt you, but now he’s different, he’s tainted. This time you flinch slightly at the pain of your fingers pulling at the no doubt black and blue skin of your upper thigh.

“Y/n..” Oh no. You pinch harder instinctively. You can feel him stare hard at you without you having to look up from the bright white blanket no longer keeping you warm. A chilled whip of fear slithers it’s way down your spine and off into your bloodstream.

“I need to talk to you.” He says his voice a little more high pitched, as if he’s nervous. Your head replays, ‘I can’t do this again.’ over and over until you realize you might have said it outloud.

“Can’t do what y/n?” Still not looking up but sensing that he is no longer laying casually on his side by the fire. You almost can hear his mind telling him to move closer, to touch. You wish you could make yourself as small as a mouse and go hide in the walls.

“I can’t do it again, Felix.” Your voice barely above a whisper. No longer feeling the pain in your leg from the repeated pinching, you feel no way of getting the release of whatever emotion is building up inside you. You look up to see Felix’s eyes glossy and his mouth is shut firmly in a straight line.

“I- I don’t know what to say.” You let out a noise that should’ve been a laugh but it comes out more throaty. You settle on the other thigh this time, the pressure not relenting.

“How about you tell me why?” Once again barely audible, this time it only came out in a loose breath.

“I can’t hear you y/n.” He tries to say calmly but there is a little irritation taint the naturally deep voice that once used to make your heart race and toes curl. Anger filling your belly makes you want to scream at him. Scream until you consume him the same way he has consumed your entire being for the past year.

“TELL ME WHY FELIX!” Fire behind your eyes, you see him flinch at your volume.

“Y/n…”

“JUST FUCKING TELL ME AND BE DONE WITH IT!” You now find yourself standing, looking down at your friend. Friend, because that’s all you’ll ever be to him. He just looks at you with a blank stare. You could hear the ticks of the grandfather clock from the corner of the room that had a floor to ceiling bookcase with cloth bound books of all different colors and sizes. Each tick of the second hand only further enraged you. Your limbs moved without you. Carrying your body away from him towards the door.

The chilled metal of the door knob sends a shock to your system, but a big enough one to stop you from opening the heavy wooden door and getting hit with a wall of freezing winter wind. Pushing through, your mind just screaming at you to get away, escape, do anything to not feel that pain again. Your legs push you off the porch and onto the snow covered walkway towards the garage that sits about 10 feet from the house. You get as far as the ruined snow man both you and Felix had made then ruined before you feel a set of warm hands grasp your shoulders.

Before you can escape from his hold he pulls you to his chest, arms wrapping around your chest and shoulders. You sink into his warmth, wanting to forget just this once to go back to the way things were before. The tears come before you can stop them, he turns you to face him. Still not registering the melting snow seeping into the thick wool fabric of your socks. You look up onto Felix’s face and notice the tears welling up into his eyes just as one falls down his freckled cheek.

You reach a bright red hand towards his face and wipe away the wetness. You let your hand linger a moment longer, reveling in the feel of his skin against yours. When you move your hand away his own keeps it in its spot. His other wraps around your waist, keeping you as close to him as he can get you.

“I never meant to hurt you.” He said, each word followed by a puff of cold air. The tears are now falling freely from both yours and Felix’s eyes.

“You did though Felix.” you pause. “You crushed me.” You want to push back but he won’t let you this time. His grip tightens.

“Y/n…” His eyes now big as he searches your face for something.

“Stop Felix please.” You try turning your head away but his hand quickly moves from your cheek to your chin. Keeping your head facing his as his big brown eyes flick from your own to your lips and then back.

“Y/n… I-” Stopping him by placing both hands on either side of his face.

“You tore my heart out that night Felix. I haven’t slept properly since that night, and then you come back wanting things to go back to the way they were. But they can’t Felix.” A pause. “You broke me.”

Felix’s cheeks are wet with tears, his head falls forward. His forehead rests on the top of your head as he lets out a haggard sob.

You say in almost a whisper, “So please don’t say you didn’t mean to hurt me. Because Felix you didn’t just hurt me, you killed me when you walked away.” Pulling back slightly and holding his head once more, you were so tempted. The pain in his eyes. His rosy red cheeks, and swollen full lips. He tempted you without even trying, but you had to shut off the rest of the emotions. So you leaned in and placed a soft kiss on his lips. He kissed you back, promising more but not giving it.

“We should get you back inside before you get frostbite.” Not acknowledging your own confession, realizing your need for him to just accept it. He did as you pleaded with your eyes, and he led you back into the cabin. Back onto your pile of blankets and pillows. He helped you set down as you just watched him. Moving you with so much care, you thought that was it. You figured he’d want to be alone, but no. He sat down next to you and helped you take off your soaked socks, and held your feet in his hands to warm them up. But his hands were as cold as ice. You lean forward to grab his hands but stop, just pulling your feet from his hold.

“Y/n, you're soaked.” You nodded in acknowledgment. The snow has melted on your sweatshirt and seems almost like it is soaking into your bones. Same goes for your leggings, the flare of the pant leg is also soaked and spreading up toward your shin because of the material.

“I am going to shower and change.” You say flatly.

He looks up at you just before you leave. “I’ll be here y/n. I’ll always be here.”

#skz #felix x reader #felix stray kids #staywhore

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thegloweringcastle · 9 months

Text

A Million Lifetimes

Happy holidays to @sideralwriting!! My dear, I appreciate your patience with me as I navigated life (& the gift swap) this holiday season. It has been SUCH a delight getting to know you these past few weeks and I look forward to hopefully staying in touch after the swap! I'm sorry this isn't my best work, but I hope you like it nonetheless. I tried my best to add small little details you might appreciate, and I know it's not great but I hope it may bring you some joy. <3

And the absolute biggest hug and thank you to @acotargiftexchange for being so patient with me - I'm sorry I had to be *That Person* this year. Thank you all from the bottom of my heart<3<3<3<3<3

No warnings to be found! Just silly feysand fluff and shenanigans.

_~_~_~_~_~_~_

Many people use the holidays as a time to reflect on all which has changed. Some measure how much they’ve grown as individuals, others use it as a way to mark the end of a long, grueling year - seeing the short break as a way to signify a year’s worth of change and prompt improvement for the months between the next holiday.

Feyre and Rhys, on a similar note, liked to use it as a way to track how many times they have found each other, over and over again.

***

This time the wind blew gently; not hard enough to urge people inside, but not so gentle that it went unnoticed. In the crowded holiday market of Velaris, two people huddled closer together, sharing heat and smiles.

“I’m just saying,” Feyre’s words formed between them as frosty clouds. “I still think that the winter we spent in Greenland was better than the one in London.”

“But Feyre darling,” Rhysand’s words were not as clear as Feyre’s, thanks to the scarf he kept tight around his face. “London!”

“Yes, London, but it was early nineteenth century London and we had just run into each other - quite literally - from slipping and sliding through sewage.”

“Oh, darling, you forget how I so smoothly saved us from certain doom.” He tugged the scarf away from his face, rewinding it around both of them.

“You didn’t save my shoes, that’s for certain.” She huffed. “All I’m saying is I believe you’re looking at it through rose-colored lenses.”

He chuckled. “I’m not going to win, am I?”

“No, my love. You’re not.” She offered him a pat on the cheek - a consolation.

They wandered between stalls of vendors, watching the holiday lights and decorations in quiet awe. Feyre itched to blend the colors together on canvas, perhaps make a mashup of every holiday she’d ever spent with Rhys. There would be golds and reds from the market they currently walked through, but there would also be greys and browns and greens. Light and shade, with a fair share of tears to balance out the smiles. It would be… chaotic. And perfect. A strange, haphazard image that perfectly depicted their lives.

She tugged on his hand, drawing them to a stop in front of a Bavarian craftsman.

“What about that christmas in Germany?”

“That was a pretty good year. Bloody cold though.” He shivered, as if just the thought of it sent chills down his spine. “I think it’s still one of my favorites of our firsts. It was refreshing to see you so at ease. Remember how simple it was that year?”

Yes, Feyre remembered that life well. It was among her favorites, she supposed; one of their cozier lives.

***

Feyre could feel the cold seeping through the window of the train even on the farthest side of her bench. Her lace gloves didn’t do much other than look pretty, and not for the first time she grew irked at women’s fashions for being so terribly impractical. Sure, petticoats galore were plenty warm in such low temperatures, but not very easy to maneuver; and narrow-heeled boots weren’t especially stable in slush and ice.

Nonetheless, she was enjoying her travels. Watching the world blur past the window was meditative - reassuring. There may not have been much left for her to escape, but being on the move was the only way to ensure peace and quiet - and the only way for her to feel less adrift in her search for… whatever it was she thought was missing.

The train drew to a halt, wheels screeching against the tracks as it stopped for a station in Munich. The hustle and bustle of people unboarding began immediately, luggage being jostled down the aisle and people rushing past. It was a wonder Feyre even noticed the booklet which tumbled to the floor - she wouldn’t have, if it hadn’t fallen from the pocket of a man with violet eyes.

She leaned over, snatching it during a break in the crowd while trying to keep track of her stranger. Right before he stepped off, his gaze found hers.

Her heart tugged, and before she knew it, Feyre was out of her seat - belongings snagged at the last minute - and braving the crowd to follow the man with violet eyes. The notebook couldn’t have been more than thirty pages or so, yet it sat heavy in her hand as she navigated the crowded station, ducking between people and dodging around suitcases. Feyre realized that she had lost sight of her stranger, but there was a sense of urgency she couldn’t shake. It wasn’t until she was panting for air and had almost certainly gone in circles that she slumped onto a bench, setting her things down with a clatter and letting the book fall open on her lap.

She knew it was rude to look, but it was unlikely that she would find the owner to return it. One peek couldn’t hurt; if it was a grocery list - well, nothing terribly personal there. If it was notes, or perhaps a novel in the making… She was an artist too. It would be fine.

Still, she wasn’t quite prepared for what she found on that random, worn page.

In that icy chill

Of those depthless blue eyes

I see only warmth

I wonder

How might it feel

To succumb to you

Adrift in your blue

“There you are,” A voice deep as night stood out over the din of the train station. “From the train. I’ve been looking for you.”

Feyre snapped the book shut with a resounding thwack and stood abruptly, only to be pinned in place by a pair of violet eyes.

“I’ve been looking for you too. For a while, I think.” She held out the journal. “This is yours?”

“Indeed. Thank you for finding it for me.” Their hands overlapped, making it impossible for Feyre to let go.

“This may sound odd, but for quite some time I’ve been looking for something I think I lost. You seem to be good at finding things,” She could listen to his voice forever. “Perhaps you could help me once more?”

Even as he asked, the pieces began to fall into place. Sounds of past lives ringing through to the present, urging her to hang onto him. Memories returned to both of them, and his grip moved from the journal to her hand.

“Of course.” She smiled, watching carefully for a crinkle around his eyes. “I would love to.”

***

“I have to admit, all those skirts were warm, but they sure were a pain to deal with when nature called.”

Rhys’ laugh boomed between the aisles of vendors. “And it made it much more challenging to undress y-”

“That’s enough!” She clapped a hand over his mouth before he could say anything too filthy. “We are in public, Rhys!”

He smirked. “I wasn’t going to say anything.”

“Yeah, sure you weren’t.”

“I think it’s you who let her dirty mind get carried away.” His grin was impish.

“If I have a dirty mind it’s only because you’ve rubbed off on me.”

He put his hands up, surrendering. “Whatever you say, love.”

They wandered some more between vendors, debating over their favorite holidays together and which first-meeting was their best.

“I thought it was funny when your friend introduced us,” It was a memory that Feyre often thought of, no matter how plain it might have been. “Not sure if it was the best, but it was… normal.” Out of everything, that had to count for something, right?

Rhys laughed loudly, grabbing her hand even tighter. “And he kept meddling in our business no matter how clear we made it that we were together.”

“It was flattering to know he thought we went well together, at least.” She wagged a finger at him, laughing slightly. “At least it was better than the one where you saved me from being burned at the stake. That was pretty horrid, wasn't it?”

He pulled her close, teasing and hinting at a kiss. “At least I got to play hero for you.”

“Oh,” She dragged it out. “That’s right, because we were early in the game and I was, at the time, still half convinced you were a complete prick. Yes, you did need those extra points.”

He hummed, half in amusement and half in agreement. “What about that one we spent at that inn? That was one hell of a time.”

“The place with the armadillos?” She shivered. “Unfortunately, I do remember that.”

***

Feyre did not like the high desert for two reasons. Reason one: The air was too dry, it hurt her skin and chapped the inside of her nose. Reason two: there were too many creepy crawling critters that wanted either to kill her, to eat her, or to steal her body heat.

It didn’t matter if it was winter and most animals had either migrated or gone into hibernation underground. She did not. Like. The. desert.

“Almost there, darlin’.” Rhys encouraged, ignoring the fact that she had just chewed him out in an hour-long tangent for “dragging her into the middle of nowhere for a single, stupid job in the blasted desert during a snowstorm”.

“I thought the desert didn’t get snow.” Feyre was pouting. She knew she was pouting. Unfortunately, she was too uncomfortable to care.

“This is the high desert, love. It’s a bit more dramatic than what we’re used to.”

“Rhys,” She pulled their horses to a stop and faced him. It was getting harder to see as the snowfall grew heavier. “Please tell me we’re close. I don’t want to cut this life short, I especially don’t want to cut this life short because of one stupid decision.”

“I promise you, darlin’, we’re not far.” He turned to face forward, pulling out his compass. “There’s a small town just around this bend. We’ll stay there ‘till this weather clears up.”

Feyre didn’t waste her energy responding - she wanted a hot drink and soft bed now.

Sure enough, Rhys hadn’t been lying. There was a town - small and rundown though it was, Feyre was just grateful they wouldn’t freeze to death in the most miserable place on earth.

Rhys held the door for her, the two of them stepping into an inn and stomping the snow from their boots and shaking the ice from their scarves and coats.

“Howdy there and welcome, I’m Shirley and I sure am happy to see you. What can I do for you lovely folks tonight?”

Feyre looked up from where she was struggling to undo her buttons, ready to charm the lovely owner for a room, before letting out a startled gasp.

The woman - Shirley - held an armadillo to her chest as one might hold a cat or puppy. A snake rested coiled on the hearth, another few armadillos trundled between tables at the restaurant. Other patrons sat at the bar normally, seemingly unconcerned with the lizards crawling around the counters.

“W-we um-”

“Howdy ma'am.” He stuck his hand out, not once looking at the armadillo the lady held. “The name’s Rhysand, this here’s my lovely wife Feyre. We got caught in the snow and were hoping you might be able to spare a room for the two of us?”

“Of course! I hope you two don’t mind cacti too much. Any concerns? You know what, doesn’t matter. I’ll grab a key and show you two on up!”

“That’s perfect. Thank you, ma’am.”

Not even thirty minutes later they had gotten a room and were getting ready for bed. Or, Rhys was getting ready for bed.

“Rhysand, you know I love animals. I adore animals. I do not, however, adore snakes. Or any desert dwelling creatures. They're gross, and dusty, and out to get you. Remember that Christmas in Australia? Boiling hot and everything was trying to kill us.”

“But darling, that’s Australia.”

“That’s irrelevant!” She huffed. “My point is, I want to celebrate our first christmas in this life somewhere other than an Inn filled with wild animals.”

He grabbed her hands, stopping her pacing and making her meet his gaze. “We will. I promise.”

Sure enough, the storm had passed by the time they woke in the morning. They were up and at’em in a hurry, Rhys’ compass taking them to the next town over in time for a holiday spent indoors, together, and most importantly away from wild animals.

***

“I think I still have that compass, somehow. I remember finding it again in an antique shop in that area a few lives ago, then I tucked it away for safekeeping - and the future. Sort of like you do with our rings.”

At the mere mention, Feyre brought hers up to the light. It glimmered beneath the street lamps, scratched and nicked from centuries of wear. Some people may have been bothered if their wedding rings had been so damaged, but Feyre just saw it as lives well lived and loved.

She shrugged. “So that may not have been my favorite, but it wasn’t the worst. In hindsight, it was a more entertaining year, so I can’t hate it.”

Rhys’ shit-eating grin dimmed, shade by shade. “I know which one was my least favorite.”

It was Feyre’s too.

They both sobered and held one another a little bit closer.

***

In all of their lifetimes, through dozens of centuries, it was the longest they had been apart; the loneliest they had ever been, too.

War had a tendency to do that.

In this particular life Feyre had been teaching art classes at an elementary school, biding her time while waiting for something. Someone. There was a pain in her heart amplified by a holiday season spent alone. It felt like every day the rain would just fall and fall and fall, unbroken by sunshine or snow. Even ice would have been welcome - anything to cut through the long, unending shadows.

She sat in a late night diner, avoiding returning to an empty apartment while sipping burnt coffee over a half-finished portrait of a man with raven hair and violet eyes. Something familiar, someone unknown. Behind the counter a server switched the radio to a news channel broadcasting the latest updates from overseas.

Had she known that her next life would be so much fuller, she might not have been so hopeless. Had she known that, a lifetime from then, memories would come rushing back and the stranger in her painting would not be so strange, she might have been less disturbed by the sheer number of renditions she had made of the same man.

Alas, she did not know these things. She didn’t even know the cruel twist of the universe - the war? - taking from her the man she didn’t know she waited for. And so for many many more nights she sat in silence with a tepid, burnt coffee (she preferred hot chocolate) and endless half-finished portraits, always hoping for the rain to stop.

***

Children rushed past them, dodging around holiday shoppers and festival booths with shocking agility. Silence hung between them like a clock’s pendulum at its peak, ready to come falling down at any second.

He squeezed her hand. “It made our next-first-meeting even better, I would say.”

Sparkling lights of all different colors turned to smudges in the background as Feyre focused her gaze on Rhys; on his violet eyes. Some things about him had changed, especially after the war, but his eyes stayed the same. The way he smiled with his entire being remained the same. Reliable. Constant.

“I think I would have to agree.”

***

With time their memories would fade. They would begin again, growing into new lives and apart from each other, but they were inevitably always nudged back together. And each time, they remembered one another a bit more easily.

So when Rhys settled in after the war and his new neighbor felt like home, all he needed was a light push in the right direction.

That day in particular had been windy and icy. Roads were closed, businesses were shut down, students were off of school. The universe handed Rhys an excuse to seek out his neighbor on a silver platter: the power went out, and Rhys knew his apartment was the only one with a classic wood-burning fireplace.

She answered after only the first knock.

“I have hot chocolate at my apartment and a working fireplace - if you need. Hot water too.”

Her gaze was soft, and she didn’t hesitate before agreeing.

They kept that year simple, soft, easy. It’s what they needed - something comforting. She stayed even many hours after the power had gone back on and the world had returned to operating in full-swing. They fell into easy company as years long since passed came rushing back, and a new promise was made to never be separated for that long.

***

They still had yet to break their promises.

“I thought that was very domestic, even for you.” Feyre grinned, exchanging a few coins for a small cone of roasted chestnuts.. “But I wonder if maybe we’d earned it. So many different adventures and lifetimes… maybe it’s good that we finally have the time for things like hot chocolate and wood fires. And roasted chestnuts.”

His lips turned up, the creases around his eyes softened. “Maybe you’re right.”

When it inevitably grew too cold outside and even their shared scarf and intertwined hands weren’t enough to keep them warm, the couple navigated through the crowded streets towards their shared townhouse.

Cozy, small, but most importantly - theirs.

He took her jacket, she put away his hat. He put the kettle on, she got their mugs and measured out the tea. They moved fluidly together, silently; familiar over so many different lives spent together. It wasn’t until they had settled in together on the couch, warmed pumpkin beside steaming tea on the coffee table, that Feyre spoke again.

“I still don’t know which of our holidays is my favorite. Maybe I don’t have one.”

Rhys reached out to tuck a lock of her hair behind one ear, cupping her face with the movement. “My favorite one is the one with you.”

“That’s most of them - I don’t think that counts as any single one, as romantic as it is.” She placed a kiss on his cheek. “But you sure are a sweet talker.”

“Then it’s this one, right here, right now, with you. When we can finally have forever.”

***

In every one of their meetings and partings, Rhys and Feyre fell together into one single life. Whether it grew from eye contact across a supermarket, a quick handshake in a business meeting, or simply bumping shoulders on a crowded sidewalk, and no matter how it ended, there was another life waiting for them. Homes to be lived in and loved, holidays to be spent bundled up together in a bubble outside of time.

It was the general consensus between the two of them: The best lives were the ones spent together.

#secret santa 2023 #acotar gift exchange #feysand

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the-sound-of-her-wings · 1 year

Text

i'll be the reason you repent

❀ Premise: You are the Sun Summoner, originating from Noyvi Zem. You've come into your power outside of the Darkling, and without his help, are determined to tear down the fold. He, of course, tries to get in the way. ❀ Pairing: Fem!Sun Summoner!Reader x The Darkling ❀ Word Count: 2,744 ❀ Content Warning: ANGST, Implied Past/Current SA, Political Machinations, Yelling, Love/Hate but it's mostly Hate

The reports were wrong about many things. You arrived at the little palace with a handful of “servants” and one guard. The army you were supposed to have brought with you made no appearance. The large carriages filled with gifts for the king and queen were also a lie. As were the details of the carriage you rode in. It was simple, adorned with some decorative flowers- mainly sunflowers and daisies- and pulled by a sturdy horse.

The only thing accurate about the reports were your reason for travel and what you were wearing. The dress you chose for travel was one you wore often, so the color faded from frequent washing. It was a summer dress, a bumblebee yellow color embroidered with white and yellow flowers. The A-line silhouette was considered mildly scandalous by those in Ravka’s court, as was the obvious boning beneath it. Still, it was not an entirely sleeveless gown- the puffy sleeves fell right at your elbows. Its length was more than adequate, falling at just above your ankles.

In addition to the dress, you wore jewelry signifying your power. A large sun pendant fell right at your collarbone, while sun-shaped cuffs adorned your wrists. You had gold anklets with small suns layered on top of your socks.

You step out of the carriage to greet the man you know is your counterpart.

“General Kirigan, it is an honor,” You say, bowing your head. He is more or less how you imagined him, how you dreamed of him. Tall, handsome- brooding. Looking at you with eyes full of lust and something else, something much more sinister.

“Sun Summoner,” He replies, returning the gesture. It isn’t lost on him that you have refused to adhere to any of Ravka’s customs, that you have outright rejected the safety of a kefta. You dress the way an Otkazat'sya princess may dress.

“Please, everyone calls me Y/N” You retort.

“I was told you come bearing gifts.” He states, clearly implying they were expecting something more.

“I have. Though I suppose my biggest gift to Ravka is yet to come.” You turn your back on him, retrieving the packages wrapped in plain paper you had prepared.

“The King would like to speak with you,” He says, purposefully letting his eyes linger on you for more than you would consider comfortable.

“No one wants to keep a King waiting, but I usually help my friends unpack when we arrive somewhere new.” You reply, gesturing to the people currently trying to find where to store your carriage and horse.

“Your friends?” He questions.

“The people who follow me tend to like me. Those who come with me I trust with my life. Why would I not consider them my friends? Or do you disapprove of befriending the common folk?” You question, stepping towards him.

“Come. The King will see you now,” He ignores your questioning and holds out his arm.

You take it.

XXXXX

The meeting with the King goes about as well as you expected it to. He asked why you were here, you laid out your intention to destroy the fold, and he attempted to offer the hand of one of his children as payment. You politely refused, stating that an alliance with the nobility of Shu Han would be much more lucrative since your country does not have nobility. The King visibly does not take kindly to your rejection but maintains his composure enough to say that he would consider it.

“Not many would turn down the chance to marry a Prince,” The Darkling comments once you’ve left the room. He takes your arm in his as he speaks. You have a feeling this man will be impossible to shake.

“Royal life comes with a lot of rules and restrictions that I’d rather not conform to.” You reply, playing with your left cufflink.

“You think an amplifier will be enough to bring down the fold?” He asks.

“No. But I think a third one should be enough,” You state.

The expression on his face changes, “Third?” He’s looking at you like he’s never seen anyone so beautiful in his life.

“I’m told multiple zowa were lost when the fold was created. I assume their power was in some way used in its creation. I will need to be incredibly powerful in order to bring it down.” You reply.

“Why do you want to destroy it?” He questions.

“Why don’t you?” You counter.

It’s not visible on his face, but you know you’ve pissed him off. You feel his grip around your arm tighten. You counter by digging your nails into his arm.

“Where will I be staying?” You ask, pretending the power play between the two of you isn’t already in full swing.

“I will escort you to your room. It’s a few doors down from mine,” He replies. It’s a threat.

“I hope you enjoy your time at the little palace,” He says as you arrive.

“I will certainly try to enjoy it,” You reply, removing your nails from his arm and snaking out of his grasp.

He pretends you do not exist as he walks down the hall, but you know you’ve gotten under his skin.

XXXXX

A ball is put together rather quickly to celebrate your arrival, occurring only a week since you’d first set foot in the palace. You glance over the kefta that Genya has brought you.

“It’s a gift. From the General.” She says with a small smile.

“Is he trying to court me?” You ask, closely examining the gown. These are his colors, of course. To show you as his possession. The longer you’ve been here, the more possessive he’s become, regardless of your lack of real interest in the man. You’re divine counterparts, sure. That doesn’t necessarily mean you like him, let alone love him. You could, maybe. If he ever saw the forest for the trees.

“How offended would he be if I didn’t wear it?” You say, tracing your fingers over the delicate embroidery.

“No more than he usually is in your presence” She states, waiting impatiently by the door.

“I will wear it,” You state, picking up only the overcoat, “Incorrectly.”

“Y/N” Genya warns.

“I will wear something underneath it.” You say, dismissively, “Don’t you have to help the queen get ready?”

She, as pretty as she is, does not have the same ability to keep her emotions fully hidden that the Darkling possesses. You see two emotions flash across her face- one you expected, one you didn’t. And it’s the one you didn’t that has you concerned.

“Did something happen?” You ask, setting the kefta overcoat back down. “Does she hurt you?”

“No.” She replies, looking away from you.

“But someone else does.” You conclude, watching as she tries to hide her shaky hands.

You stare at each other in silence.

“You could always come with me,” You suggest. You are no longer going to be wearing any piece of that kefta.

“That would just make the king angrier than he already is,” Genya states. She leaves without another word.

XXXXX

The ball starts beautifully. You light up the room with your gift, dazzling the Ravkan Otkazat'sya and mildly amusing the emissaries from other countries who have already seen you do this multiple times. You get a round of applause before quickly removing yourself from the center of attention. You have other business here.

“Gerel, I didn’t expect to see you here,” You say, greeting the Shu Han emissary. “Are relations with the Ravkans improving?”

The woman rolls her eyes, setting aside her glass of wine, “As if you don’t already know.”

“How is my favorite princess doing?” You ask, resting your hand on her wrist. “Still dreaming of a normal life?”

“Will she still have it with the idea you put in that man’s head?” Gerel retorts.

“She should, in the end. I can’t promise her life will be normal right now, but it will be in the future.” You reply.

“She is counting on you, you know. She trusts you,” The woman replies.

“I know. There are a lot of other people counting on me. How are the zowa in your country?” You ask.

“Conditions have improved.” She says, noncommittal.

You assume this means that they’ve started to crack down on the experimentation, though some persist.

“I’m glad.” You say, spotting the Bastard of the Barrel across the room. “If you excuse me,”

He is out of place here, as he is in most places that aren’t made of filth. Still, you appreciate the familiar if not entirely friendly face. You make no effort to reach out to him, knowing better than that.

“Mr. Brekker.” You greet. Unlike Gerel, you really didn’t expect him to be here. There’s no reason for him to be here.

“Sun Summoner,” He replies.

“What brings you to the little palace?” You ask. What the fuck are you doing here, is what you mean.

“Business. Something you might be able to help with,” Kaz responds, leaning against his cane. Someone hired me to kidnap you, not knowing we know each other.

“Oh, I’d be delighted to. Could we discuss it another night? I don’t often get the chance to enjoy myself,” You explain. I’ll go along with it but now’s not a good time.

“I’ll be in Ravka for a few days. Just let me know when you’re available.” He states. I have time. Let me know when.

“Of course.” You reply, “Please try to enjoy yourself. I know you don’t get the chance to come to things like this often.”

“I’ll try,” He says with a smirk. He doesn’t mean it.

You are about to make your way to your friend, the Noyvi Zem emissary when you are stopped by a familiar brooding figure.

“General Kirigan.” You greet, politely.

“Y/N,” He states, not moving.

“Did you want something?” You question.

“The dancing is about to begin. Follow me.” He commands. You follow, reluctantly. You were hoping to get out of dancing.

You bow towards one another, and he takes your hand.

“Needed to talk to me alone?” You posit.

“We’re not alone.” He dismisses.

“I think we’re both aware of that. But you wanted to talk. So. Talk.” You reply, focusing more on the waltz than whatever’s coming out of his mouth.

“Have you noticed the people leering at you all night?” He questions.

“I try to ignore them.” You state, trying to ignore the fact he nearly stepped on your toes.

“They’re jealous of your power.” He muses.

“And why is that important?”

“Because they will kill you for it.” He states as if it will happen. As if it has already happened.

“And what must I do so that they don’t kill me?” You retort.

“I think you know the answer to that.”

“You seek to destroy these people?” You ask, purposefully stepping on his foot as you dance.

“Only to protect our people.” The Darkling responds, tightening his grip around your waist.

“And was the fold to protect our people, too?” You press, digging your nails into his back.

“You believe there was a better option? They would have killed me out of fear.”

“And so you kill them out of fear for what they would do to us. Do you not see the flaw in that logic?” You ask.

“There is no flaw in killing those who seek to harm you.” He retorts.

“But not all of them seek to harm us. You seek genocide, General. That does not win hearts and minds.” You say, letting him twirl you.

"I am not trying to win hearts and minds," He replies, pulling you in.

“Do you care only for the zowa who support you? Have you no desire to win over the rest?” You challenge, gazing into his eyes. Given how Genya has been treated, you doubt he even cares for those zowa.

“The Grisha will come to my side when they see my strength. They will follow me.” He retorts. The choice of words is deliberate. The Grisha are his.

“Only because you will make them. Fear does not breed loyalty. It is not a long-term tool for power and control. Because one day, people will start asking why they are so afraid. As you already have.” You tell him.

The song ends, but your dance isn't over. He spins you away from him so you can bow toward each other. He comes back to your side once the formalities are over, his hand resting on the small of your back.

He will not leave your side for the rest of the night. Any attempt you make at trying to dance with another man is immediately shot down by him. No one wants to cross him, even if they want to dance with you.

But you are not a possession. And you will not be treated like one. You deliberately ask the one person in the room he cannot hold power over to dance, and he accepts. The ball continues, but the Darkling has enough of your shenanigans.

"Come. We have much to plan for tomorrow," He says, practically dragging you away from the party.

You walk in silence up to his office.

As soon as the door closes behind you, you speak.

"I wonder if I frustrate you half as much as you frustrate me."

"You do not know what they are capable of. What they made us do to each other out of fear." He retorts, carrying on the argument from earlier.

"Then why give them more reason to fear you?" You ask. "You could help me destroy the fold. You could bring about an era of peace. Real peace. Not whatever revenge scheme you've concocted from your misery."

"There can be no peace with the Otkazat'sya," He says.

"You are impossible!" You shout at him.

"You are naive," He counters.

"Do you even know anything about me? What I've done for the zowa? Does none of that work mean anything to you," You ask.

"What work have you done? The druskelle will still kill any witch they see. The Shu Han still experiment on our people. None of your political maneuvers have changed anything." He replies, referencing the treaties your government had signed with both nations.

"Do you know why I waited to come here last? Do you know why I made deals with the other countries first?" You question, leaning forward.

He does not respond.

"It was you. You and your army of child soldiers-"

"I am giving them a purpose," He interrupts.

"THEY ARE CHILDREN!" You yell, slamming your fists on the table. "They do not need a purpose."

"Many would be dead if not for me " He tries defending himself.

"Many are dead because of you." She retorts, "More suffer because of you. Do you even know what happens to the girls you give to the queen?" You ask.

"I know what happens," He says with no remorse.

"Then you are more of a monster than I thought you were." You say.

"Someone has to be the villain." He states, quietly.

"That's the worst part about it, Kirigan. You don't have to be the villain. You don't have to do the things you do. But you do them anyway. And that's what makes you a monster." You explain, knocking all the pieces off of the map. "I will find the stag. I will tear down the fold. And if you do anything to stop me, I will not hesitate to kill you."

You feel the wisps of darkness slowly begin to crawl up your body, and you let them. You could easily burn them away, but you will let this man think he can threaten you.

"It doesn't have to be this way. You could rule the world by my side," Kirigan says, approaching you. He reaches out to caress your cheek while the dark tendrils lightly choke you.

"I don't want to rule the world. I want to live in it." You say, before the light from your body engulfs his darkness.

You brush a piece of hair away from his face, as he looks at you with those greedy eyes. "Do not come tomorrow. Do the right thing. The world might not be grateful you did. But I will."

He does not stop you as you leave. And he is not there the next morning when you kill the stag.

#the darkling x you #the darkling x y/n #the darkling x fem!reader #the darkling x reader #aleksander morozova x reader #general kirigan x you #general kirigan x reader

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