#the path is a fragile feeble thing

[heyitsrink]

C’mon Fitzy, just one kiss

[miumura]

HIS EXPECTED FATE — JUNGWON FF

“ one day, i will stop falling in love with you. ”

PART TWO OF (Y)OUR EXPECTED FATE. ( READ FIRST ? )

SYNOPSIS Jungwon was going to try to move on—he had promised you. But, with his new career choice, he found himself writing books about his past lifetimes with you. As he convinced himself it would help as he could finally “let go”, you just had to come stumbling into his life again…after all, promises are sometimes meant to be broken.

( 🗝️ ) THE PAIRING author!jungwon x fem!reader

𓍼 WARNINGS character death, mentions of injuries (blood), use of petnames (my love + dearest), profanity (barely)

⌞ + ⌝ GENRE doomed immortal x mortal, angst, fluff-ish?

♡⸝⸝ WORD COUNT — 2.6K+ ( 2694 WORDS )

AUTHOR’S NOTE FINALLY part two is here !! i just loved part one too much so i had to let it get its moment one more time ( yes , we have favs around here !! ) writer jungwon is to DIE FOR and ugh, i just might write a long fic based on that idea SOLELY for my own satisfaction so yeah the wheels r turning in my head as we speak 🤍 but i hope you enjoy ^^

Jungwon should’ve known.

Each step echoes in the hollow corridors of his mind, a haunting reminder of the cruel cycle of fate. Your fragile form lies before him, a mere whisper of the vibrant soul he once knew. "YN!" he cries out, his voice choking with anguish as he gathers you into his trembling embrace.

With his eyes blurred with tears, he notices how you looked up at him, life escaping from you within the minutes, or even seconds you had left.

Through tear-streaked eyes, he watches as your gaze meets his, a bittersweet reflection of love and loss. "Jungwon..." your voice is but a fragile whisper, fading like a distant echo.

“Why are you still smiling?” His voice trembled, his fingers caressing the side of your face as if he was trying to remember every detail about you into his memory.

How could you still smile so beautifully during your final moments?

Searching into your eyes for answers, he notices you trying to speak to him. Yet, instead of words, trickles of blood start escaping your lips, only intensifying the moment. “Take your time, YN…” His voice quivers as he tenderly brushes away the blood that mars your once radiant face.

Looking at your current state, he knew time was no longer a factor. Still, those words spill from his lips, a feeble attempt to offer comfort to both you and himself.

"I'm always here for you, remember?"

"I'm sorry," you murmur, your voice barely audible above the relentless march of time.

As the weight of your apology hangs heavy in the air, Jungwon's heart clenches with a mixture of sorrow and regret. "There's nothing to apologize for," he whispers, his voice barely audible amidst the suffocating silence of impending loss. “I should’ve done more.”

"You've done what you could. I was the stubborn one," you reassure him, your words a soothing balm to his troubled soul.

"I still could've tried harder," he persists, unable to shake the burden of guilt that weighs heavily upon him.

"Stop blaming yourself, my dearest," your pet name pierces through his turmoil, a reminder of the depth of your connection.

How many more times would he hear it before you slipped away?

“Listen, can you do me a favor?”

“Anything you ask, I’ll do it.”

“Anything?”

“Anything, my love.”

“Pursue in something else in your life. Something that isn’t me.”

"How?" Jungwon's tone is laced with uncertainty, his mind grappling with the thought of creating a new path without you by his side. He’d always believed that you were the person he needed to have to live peacefully. But, the more he thought about it, the more he had led himself to the most painful goodbyes he’d forever remember.

"I know you can do it. You've spent so much time searching for me, knowing that I won't remember a single thing about our past lives—isn't that right?" Your words striked something within him, a painful reminder of the futility of clinging to pasts that can never be reclaimed.

"Try to change your fate," you urge, your voice tinged with hope.

"I can't see a life without you—even if you're in different bodies, or lives—I need you," Jungwon confesses, his desperation laid bare for you to see.

"You're..." you cough out, a sudden wave of panic flooding through him. "You're only going to keep hurting yourself."

“But—”

"Jungwon. Please," you implore, your voice barely above a whisper yet filled with unwavering determination.

"Okay," Jungwon concedes, his resolve crumbling in the face of your earnest plea.

"Promise me," you insist, your hand trembling as you extend your pinky towards him, a silent vow of mutual understanding and commitment. Despite your weakened state, your arm strains to support your hand as it reaches out to him.

Jungwon clears his throat, his own hand trembling as he interlocks his pinky with yours. A fleeting smile graces your lips, a final testament to the love that binds your souls together.

"I love you, my dearest," you whisper, your words a tender farewell as the grip of your hand on his begins to loosen.

Tears stream down Jungwon's cheeks uncontrollably as he watches you slip away, the echoes of your parting words resonating within his shattered heart. No matter the amount of lifetimes he has gone through, he could never get familiar with the pain he’d experience when losing you.

The only thing that was different was the thought of him finally wanting to take your advice seriously. After all, he did make one last promise with you.

“I love you too, my love.” he whispers, his voice choked with emotion as he finally surrenders to the overwhelming tide of grief.

“I’ll try my best.”

Sinking into his chair, Jungwon's gaze drifts across the scattered stacks of notebooks adorning his desk. With a flick of his wrist, he switches on the desk lamp, its soft glow casting a comforting aura over the room as he reaches for the nearest notebook within arm's reach.

With pen in hand, he begins to jot down the fragments of ideas swirling in his mind. As the words flow effortlessly onto the paper, he can almost feel the weight of his burdens lifting, if only for a fleeting moment.

Dropping the pen onto the desk, Jungwon stretches his cramped fingers with a small groan, the fatigue of sleepless nights finally catching up to him. Adjusting his posture, he straightens his back and pushes his glasses up the bridge of his nose, the lenses reflecting words he had written in such a short amount of time.

Writing the last sentence, Jungwon closes the notebook with a sense of accomplishment, a faint smile gracing his lips as he flips through the pages one last time before setting it aside. It was one of the fifth notebooks he had put aside for this book—one of the books he’d spent so much of his time in because you had told him to follow his dreams.

So, he took it to heart, and he seriously never thought he’d be so committed until he finally managed to publish a couple of books of his own.

Finding himself in one of the bookstores, he found himself staring at one of the copies he had made. The countless hours spent hunched over his desk, the sleepless nights fueled by caffeine, and sheer determination had finally paid off.

Stepping closer to the display of his book, Jungwon feels a surge of pride swell within him as he runs his fingers over the glossy cover.

This couldn’t have been possible if it weren’t for your words.

Just as Jungwon is about to place the copy back onto the shelf, a voice startles him from his reverie. "Oh, you like that author too?" The sound of the voice breaks through the silence of the bookstore, drawing his attention to the person standing beside him—a cheerful stranger whose presence catches him off guard.

As he recovers from the sudden startlement, Jungwon's shock only intensifies when he realizes who is standing before him.

It's you.

You've been reincarnated, your familiar presence sending a shiver down his spine.

Quickly averting his gaze, Jungwon feigns casual indifference as he shifts his attention back to the shelves. "I was just curious, that's all," he replies with a slight nod, his heart pounding with a mixture of disbelief and longing.

Though he knows that you cannot possibly remember the countless lifetimes you've shared, the mere sight of you was overwhelming him. It was as if you knew, and you were simply mocking him for his misery.

“Oh, cool.” It would’ve been cool if he didn’t happen to bump into you now, especially since he tried his absolute hardest to not go out looking for you again. But, fate seemed to have their plans, and brought you to him like it was nothing.

“I didn’t know they released a new book—did you?”

“I’ve heard about it, that’s why I went to check it out.” he continues, his gaze fixed on the books before him as he struggles to maintain his composure. Despite the casual tone of the conversation, every fiber of his being longs to reach out to you, to hold you close and never let go. But he knows that such desires are futile, destined to remain unfulfilled in the cruel dance of fate.

He can’t fall for you again.

“Mind telling me what you heard about it? I’m quite curious as well,” Jungwon's heart races as you scoot closer to him, his pulse quickening for several reasons. It's been a while since he last saw you, and the sudden proximity is enough to make him feel flustered, a jumble of conflicting emotions swirling within him.

"Well, it's about a knight and a sorcerer," he replies with a bitter smile, carefully masking his true feelings behind a facade of casual indifference. After all, he can't afford to reveal his true identity as the author—not when he's spent so long hiding it from the public, especially for moments like this.

"Is that so?" you hum in response, your curiosity piqued as you peer over his shoulder to catch a glimpse of the book in his hands. Jungwon's shoulders tense up, unsure of how to navigate this unexpected interaction. Should he reveal his secret to you, or continue to play along with the charade?

"It's quite different as the male lead is convincing the female lead to stay with him—oh and I forgot to mention, the female lead is a knight," Jungwon remarked, his enthusiasm evident in his tone.

"Wow, that's kind of badass," Jungwon chuckles, momentarily forgetting his unease in the warmth of your reaction.

"She certainly was," he responds almost instinctively, before catching himself with a slight frown. "...from what I heard, that is," he quickly adds, cursing himself for the slip-up. He can't afford to reveal too much, not when his true identity as the author must remain hidden.

"What do you mean he was trying to convince her to stay though? What happened?" you inquire, effortlessly steering the conversation in a new direction. Jungwon feels a wave of relief wash over him at your gentle redirection, grateful for the sudden change.

"Well, since he's immortal, he had finally figured out a way for her to stay," Jungwon recalls, his voice tinged with a hint of melancholy. "But, she refused. And even with his pestering, nothing could convince her."

"Yikes—this author hates seeing people happy, huh?" you remark sadly, your empathy for the characters noticeable in your tone. "They always manage to write something sad, I feel bad for the characters."

Jungwon chuckles at your words, though there's a hint of sadness underlying his amusement. It's not that he hates seeing people happy; rather, he's grappling with his own memories, desperately trying to come to terms with the past in order to find solace in the present.

"It seems so," he finally manages to say, his voice betraying none of the turmoil raging within him. "But, you know, I haven't read the whole thing. It could have a good ending, who knows," he adds optimistically, though he knows all too well the outcome of that particular fate.

"I like the creativity though, I wouldn't have imagined this," you remark, your admiration for the author's imagination evident in your words. And as Jungwon listens to you speak, he finds himself drawn to the warmth of your presence, fully knowing he shouldn’t be.

He would only hurt himself again.

As silence envelops the room, Jungwon finds himself lost in his thoughts, the weight of his past with you casting a shadow over the present. But then, your voice breaks through the quiet, pulling him back to the present moment.

"I don't blame her though—I would've done the same," you added, your words tinged with understanding and empathy. Jungwon's gaze shifts to you, his heart aching at the familiarity of your smile. It's a bittersweet reminder of the lifetimes they've shared, each one leaving an indelible mark on his soul.

Meeting your gaze, Jungwon is struck by the overwhelming sense of deja vu that washes over him. Your face, so achingly familiar, holds a mirror to his memories—the way your hair falls in gentle waves around your face, the curve of your smile, and the moles that adorned your skin.

Your moles.

As Jungwon's gaze lingers on the moles scattered across your face, he can't help but feel a surge of nostalgia wash over him. Each mole seems to hold a memory, a testament to the countless kisses he had left upon your skin in your previous lives.

The urge to wrap his arms around your waist and kiss each mole floods Jungwon's senses, a longing that was meant to be fulfilled every lifetime. His heart falters, torn between the overwhelming love he feels for you and the bittersweet ache of your shared pasts.

You are just too pretty, he thinks, his breath catching in his throat as he struggles to contain the flood of emotions threatening to consume him. In that moment, you are more than just a familiar face—you are a living, breathing reminder of everything he has ever loved and lost.

He knows no matter how many lifetimes may pass, you will always hold a special place in his heart.

"Why?" Jungwon asks, his voice tinged with a hint of desperation as he searches for answers in your words, hoping they will provide solace for the choice you made to leave him in your past life.

"Living on forever doesn't seem like a good thing. It could get boring, so I would understand the female lead's thoughts. After all, not knowing the outcome of your life could only push you to work harder, no?" you respond, your words carrying a wisdom that resonates deeply within him.

"Even if it meant staying with your lover?" he presses, his heart pounding with anticipation as he awaits your response.

"Even if it meant staying with your lover," you affirm, your gaze unwavering as you meet his eyes.

Hearing your words stings, but Jungwon finds himself strangely grateful for the insight they provide into your perspective. They were all too familiar, and it was as if you meant to give him that reminder in every life of yours.

Perhaps he had always viewed love through a narrow lens, assuming that staying together for eternity was the ultimate expression of devotion. But now, as he reflects on your words, he realizes that love is as much about understanding and acceptance as it is about passion and commitment.

"I see," he murmurs softly, the words heavy with resignation yet tinged with a newfound sense of understanding. Maybe, just maybe, he should stop chasing after a love that may never be fully realized. "I understand, thank you."

Just as he is about to turn away, ready to take the first steps towards letting go of his past, he feels a tug on his sleeve—a gentle reminder that some bonds are too strong to be easily broken. Turning back to face you, Jungwon is surprised when you hand him a piece of paper. Confusion flickers across his features as he accepts it, watching as you walk away with a smile.

Opening the paper, his eyes widen in surprise as he reads the number scrawled across it.

"You're cute – call me? :)"

The boldness of your gesture catches him off guard, but a warm feeling spreads through him nonetheless.

Chuckling softly to himself, Jungwon realizes just how much he has missed you. Despite the promise he made to himself to let go, he finds himself unable to resist the temptation of reconnecting with you.

After all, you in your previous life never managed to keep your promises either.

With a sigh, Jungwon inputs the number into his phone, a mix of apprehension and excitement coursing through him. Perhaps, he muses, promises aren't always meant to be kept—at least not when they stand in the way of finding happiness and connection with someone he cares about.

Sending the first text, Jungwon felt like this was bound to happen.

As if it was his expected fate.

💬 : 🥸

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[f14fun]

Where the Asphalt Ends (oc x ob87)

synopsis: in which case morgan, an introverted girl with too many bruises, too many words trapped in the margins of her notebooks, and not enough escape routes, crosses paths with oliver, a reckless boy with oil-stained hands and a grin that makes trouble look like fun.

prose au (14.9K words) ✮ ⋆ ˚��𖦹 ⋆｡°✩ profile | masterlist ⋆.˚✮🎧✮˚.⋆

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

1986

Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer.

I've gone months upon months, seasons upon seasons, years upon years, from seeing you. Each cycle feels like a lifetime, the weight of time pressing against my chest as though the seasons themselves conspire to remind me of your absence. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember slowly engulfing a fragile piece of parchment, curling its edges until there's nothing left but the ash of what once was whole.

Faith keeps me alive, keeps me tethered here, waiting for you, even as the years pile on like heavy snowdrifts, threatening to bury me.

Surely, an alternative reality will bloom for us, one where we break free from the endless cycle of yearning. One day, past the colors that the seasons paint, fiery autumn golds, icy winter whites, tender spring greens, and sun-soaked summer yellows, my eyes will meet yours again, and in that moment, the world will thaw. Time will stop, the seasons will collapse, and everything I’ve waited for will finally take root in—

"Morgan. Morgan Chapman! Morgan Chapman, answer me this instant!"

The sinister click-clack of our teacher's heels—or rather the devil reincarnated (but also known as Mrs. Tillet)— echoed across the room, each step a sharp punctuation against the dull hum of the overhead fluorescent lights.

Unblinking, they watched the scene fold as well. Like me, we were all terrified.

The sound sliced through the air, growing louder, more deliberate, like a predator circling its prey. It was the kind of sound that made your spine stiffen and your stomach churn, as if you could feel the judgment creeping closer with every step.

She stood at the edge of my desk now, the shadow of her towering figure casting a foreboding veil over my scattered notebook pages. Her fingers, pale and skeletal, drummed against the edge of the desk in a rhythm that matched the tap of her heels moments before. Her sharp gaze bore into me, eyes like twin shards of ice, piercing through my feeble attempts to avoid her scrutiny.

"Morgan Chapman," she repeated, her voice a venomous drawl that oozed with the kind of authority only a seasoned teacher could wield. "I will not tolerate silence. Speak. What the bloody hell are you doing writing nonsensical things in my class?"

I stared at her, eyes unblinking.

I stared at her, eyes unblinking, my throat constricted as though an invisible frost had wrapped itself around my neck, freezing my words before they could surface.

"Are you mute? Are you dumb, girl?" Her sharp words sliced through the air, a biting wind that left me raw. The room seemed to shrink, the walls closing in as every pair of eyes in the class zeroed in on me. I could feel their gazes, heavy and smothering, like the oppressive heat of summer when the sun hangs too close to the earth.

Before I could muster even a semblance of a response, she snatched the paper from my desk with a swift, deliberate motion. The edges of the sheet fluttered for a brief second, a bird caught mid-flight, before she held it aloft. My blood ran cold.

"Ah, let’s see what we have here, shall we?" Her lips curled into a cruel smile as her eyes darted over the page. "What sort of drivel has Miss Little Morgan Chapman been conjuring in her little daydreams this time?"

She cleared her throat dramatically, the sound reverberating like the last crackle of brittle autumn leaves before winter’s frost claims them. Then, with exaggerated emphasis, she began to read aloud, her tongue slicing across the words on the paper like Excalibur.

"'Autumn. Winter. Spring. Summer. I've gone for months after months, seasons after seasons, years after years, from seeing you. The sense of longing envelops me like a small ember engulfing a piece of parchment...'" Her voice dripped with mockery, stretching each word until it felt foreign and unrecognizable.

The room erupted into muffled giggles, the cruel kind that stung like icy sleet against bare skin. My cheeks burned, a furious mix of humiliation and helplessness, as though summer’s scorching heat had collided with winter’s relentless chill.

She slammed the paper down on her desk with theatrical disdain, her expression one of exaggerated disappointment. "And this," she sneered, "is what you choose to waste your time on in my classroom? Silly little romance novels? Yearning and longing and all that nonsense? Writing this sort of rubbish isn’t going to get you anywhere, girl."

She turned her gaze to the class, addressing them all now, though her eyes never left me. "Ladies, take note: this is precisely what happens when you let your minds wander to frivolous pursuits instead of focusing on what matters. A woman’s place is to think practically, not to indulge in flights of fancy."

Her hand darted out suddenly, clutching the paper again. With a sharp, deliberate motion, she tore it cleanly in half, the sound of ripping paper as jagged and violent as a winter gale. Another tear followed, and then another, until the pieces fell like broken petals onto the desk.

I bit my tongue hard enough to taste copper, willing myself not to cry, but the sting behind my eyes was relentless. My chest felt tight, the humiliation a growing knot that made it hard to breathe. My fingers clenched around the pen in my hand, and I realized with a jolt that it was shaking, trembling against the weight of everything I was holding in.

A single tear betrayed me, sliding down my cheek before I could stop it. It fell silently, splashing onto the remnants of my torn paper, the ink beginning to bleed where the water touched it. I stared at the stain, a dark bloom spreading across the parchment, as though it were absorbing all the emotions I couldn’t let out.

My pen faltered, the tip hovering just above the desk, leaving faint, uneven lines where it quivered. I clenched my jaw, desperate to keep my composure, but every suppressed sob threatened to break free, rising in my throat like the first gust of wind before a storm.

Mrs. Tillet glanced at me briefly, her expression impassive, as though my silent struggle was nothing more than an afterthought. The room felt colder, the collective stares of my classmates piercing through me like icicles. Some were amused, others awkwardly looked away, but none of it mattered. I was utterly, completely exposed.

With an exasperated sigh that seemed to echo louder than the bell ever could, Mrs. Tillet straightened, smoothing the front of her charcoal skirt. Her heels clicked against the floor with a precision that made the sound even more menacing as she turned and strode to her desk. For a fleeting moment, I thought it was over—that she might let me gather what little dignity I had left and slip away into the crowd. But then I heard it. The unmistakable scrape of the ruler being pulled from the drawer.

The tension in the room thickened, sharp as the icy wind of winter. I froze, my breath hitching as she held the ruler in her hand, its polished wood gleaming under the harsh fluorescent light. It seemed absurdly long and heavier than I remembered, its edges worn smooth from years of discipline. She turned it in her hand, her movements slow and deliberate, like an executioner savoring the moment before delivering the blow.

"Three times this week, Miss Chapman," she said, her tone deceptively calm but undercut with a razor’s edge. She tapped the ruler against her palm, the sound crisp and deliberate, like the tick of a clock counting down. "Three times you've brought this nonsense into my classroom, wasting not just your own time, but mine. Do you think I’m here to entertain your fantasies?"

She approached, ruler in hand, and the whole room seemed to hold its breath. "Hands out," she barked, her voice cracking through the silence like the first thunder of an impending storm. I hesitated, the trembling pen still clutched in my fingers. "Now, Morgan."

I slowly extended my hand, fingers splayed and trembling, as though reaching out to grasp something that would never come. The first strike landed with a sharp sting that rippled through my skin, the sound cracking through the air like a brittle branch snapping in autumn. I flinched, but kept my hand steady. The second blow followed, harsher than the first, leaving a dull, throbbing ache in its wake. The third strike hit with the finality of winter’s frost, biting deep and unforgiving.

My breath came in shallow bursts, but I refused to cry again. I clenched my jaw so tightly it ached, keeping my head down as I pulled my hand back, fingers curling instinctively into a fist. Mrs. Tillet was not finished.

She reached for the pen still trembling in my other hand. "This," she said, snatching it with the same disdain she had for my torn paper, "is the very tool of your absurdity. A pen! You treat it like a wand, as though it will summon something meaningful out of the air."

Before I could react, she gripped it tightly in both hands and, with a startling crack, snapped it in half. Ink splattered onto her fingers and the desk, the bright blue pooling like fresh rain against the drab wood. My mouth fell open in silent shock. It seemed impossible, like watching someone twist the seasons out of order, and yet here it was—my pen, broken, its remains scattered before me like shards of glass.

"Let this be a lesson," she said coldly, dropping the pieces onto my desk as though they were trash. "Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere in life, Morgan. The sooner you realize that, the better off you’ll be."

I can't believe this fucking tramp is married.

The screeching ring of the school bell pierced through the suffocating tension, its sharpness a cruel imitation of relief. Like the first sip of water after a drought, it should have been comforting—but it wasn’t. It only marked the end of one torment and the beginning of another. I had never been so glad to hear that disgusting sound, yet it felt hollow, as though it rang only to mock me.

The shuffle of feet and scrape of chairs filled the room as my classmates gathered their things, their movements sluggish with boredom but fueled by the thrill of escape. Whispers trailed behind them like cigarette smoke in the cold, clinging to the stale classroom air.

"She’s mental, isn’t she? It's bloody cuckoo up there." "Thinks she’s some kind of poet or something." "Bet she fancies herself the next Barbara Cartland."

The giggles that followed were sharp and biting.

I kept my head down, willing the stinging in my eyes to stop. My hand twitched toward the scattered remains of my paper, but I hesitated. Each torn piece was an extension of myself, exposed and humiliated for everyone to see.

As the last of the girls filed out, I dropped to my knees, frantically gathering the scraps of paper from the floor. My fingers worked quickly, trembling as they clutched at the shredded pieces. The inked words bled together, blurred by the damp stain of my earlier tears. My breath hitched as I reached for a fragment near the desk leg, only to feel a sharp pain shoot through my hand.

I looked up, startled, to see the scuffed sole of a black leather Mary Jane pressing down on my fingers. Fuck, it hurt.

"Oops," the girl said with mock sweetness, her face twisted into a smirk. It was Harriet Price, one of Mrs. Tillet’s favorites, the kind of girl who always wore her skirt a perfect inch below the knee and still managed to seem untouchably rebellious.

Her blonde curls bounced as she leaned down slightly, her voice dripping with venom. "Didn’t see you there, Morgan. Funny how you’re always crawling around like a little mouse."

Her friends snickered, standing in a semi-circle just far enough away to pretend they weren’t involved. Harriet stepped off my hand, and I recoiled, cradling it as the dull ache spread through my knuckles.

"Come on, Harriet," one of them said, feigning innocence. "You don’t want to get ink on your shoes."

They turned and left, their laughter trailing behind them, echoing down the corridor like a cruel taunt. I remained there for a moment, kneeling on the cold linoleum floor, my chest tightening with each shallow breath.

I forced myself to stand, clutching the crumpled pieces of my paper like a lifeline. My vision blurred again, but I blinked rapidly, refusing to let more tears fall. I had to get out of there.

The walk to the exit felt endless, the corridors eerily quiet now that the chatter of students had moved outside. The school smelled faintly of damp wool, chalk dust, and leftover custard from lunch—a scent that normally went unnoticed but now clung to me, suffocating. The dull posters on the walls—warnings about the dangers of truancy, the importance of abstinence, or reminders to study hard for O-levels—blurred as I passed, their bright colors mocking in their cheerfulness.

Hah. I had no problem with abstinence. No man, nonetheless even a boy, wanted to come near me. I was boy repellent. The only boys that got near me were my fictional ones that I wrote. The ones who said the perfect things at the perfect times, who leaned against doorframes with a devil-may-care grin, who held your hand as if the world might end if they didn’t. Boys who existed solely in the confines of my ink-stained notebooks, far removed from the awkward silences and sidelong glances of real life.

I allowed myself a bitter smirk at the thought, the corners of my mouth curling in a way that felt foreign and fleeting. Even if the world outside my head seemed intent on tearing me apart, at least I had that. My worlds. My words. They couldn’t take that from me—not completely.

But the thought soured as quickly as it came. Mrs. Tillet’s voice echoed in my mind, sharp and dismissive: “Romantic nonsense won’t get you anywhere, Morgan.” The words felt like grit beneath my nails, impossible to scrub clean. Maybe she was right. Maybe I was delusional, clinging to my daydreams like a child clutching a threadbare teddy.

Delusion got me fucking somewhere for all it counts, I'm bloody telling you I—

"OW!" My muttered ramblings were cut short as something—a force, a blur of motion—collided with me. The next moment, I was sprawled on the cold, uneven pavement of Clemsford’s High Street, my bag tipped over, its contents scattered across the ground like debris after a storm. A textbook flopped open, a pen rolled into the gutter, and my torn papers fluttered like fallen leaves.

"Shit! Are you alright?" a voice called out, jolting me from the daze.

I blinked up, startled, to see a boy hopping off a clunky red bike that was now lying on its side, its wheels spinning lazily. He pulled off his Walkman headphones—silver and bulky, with a tape that was still playing faintly—and crouched down, his face suddenly inches from mine.

It was the kind of face you’d expect to see on a cassette tape cover, all cheeky charm and easy confidence. His dark hair was slightly tousled, curling at the edges in a way that seemed both deliberate and careless, as if he’d just stepped off a football pitch or out of a record store. His uneven smile was what caught my attention most: crooked at one corner, as though it couldn’t decide between cheeky confidence and genuine warmth. And then there were his eyes—soft yet sharp, holding the kind of easy light that could shift between mischief and sincerity in an instant. I’d never seen him before, and that was saying something in a town as small as Clemsford.

"Bloody hell," I muttered, scrambling to sit up, my cheeks already burning.

"I didn’t see you! I’m so sorry," he said quickly, brushing a hand through his hair. His accent was softer, less clipped than the posh girls at school. "Are you okay? That was a bit of a nasty tumble."

I glanced down at my scraped palms and knees, wincing as I spotted a tear in my tights. "Yeah, I’m fine," I mumbled, even though my pride felt more bruised than my body.

He crouched lower, scooping up a few of my things—a battered notebook, my pencil case, and the cassette I’d forgotten I’d even packed that morning. "Here," he said, holding them out. His fingers brushed mine as I took them, and I nearly dropped the lot.

"Thanks," I muttered, looking anywhere but at his face.

"You’re sure you’re alright?" He tilted his head, his grin softening. "I didn’t mean to run you over. Thought I could zip past before the light changed, but..." He motioned vaguely to his bike, as if that explained his lack of control.

"It’s fine," I said, hurriedly gathering the rest of my things. My hands were still shaking, and I cursed myself for it. Of all the people in the world, why did the first boy to talk to me outside of school have to look like he belonged in a Duran Duran video?

"Good thing I didn’t break anything—your bones, I mean," he added, laughing.

I forced a weak laugh in return, still hyper-aware of the way his eyes lingered on me.

"Where were you off to, anyway?" he asked, leaning back on his heels. "You looked miles away. Daydreaming about something good, I hope?"

I shook my head quickly, clutching my things like a lifeline. "No, just… school stuff."

He didn’t look convinced, but he didn’t press further. Instead, he extended a hand to help me up, his fingers warm against my cold ones.

"I'm Oliver, by the way," He said, squeezing my hand . A mutual sign of respect. "Oliver Bearman."

The name suited him—solid, grounded, and somehow larger than life, as though it belonged to someone who could navigate the world with ease while the rest of us stumbled over loose paving stones. It rolled off his tongue with the kind of effortless confidence that made me painfully aware of my own awkwardness.

"Bearman," I repeated, my voice barely above a whisper, tasting the name like it might explain the way my pulse quickened.

"Hah! Yeah, like a bear and a man, but I think of my self less scary than those two things combined," He chucked.

"Scary," I quietly echoed, more to myself than to him, my eyes stubbornly focused on the ground instead of his face.

"Are you just going to repeat everything I say? That's no way to make conversation," he teased, his voice laced with amusement.

I glanced up for the briefest moment, catching the playful spark in his blue eyes before my gaze darted away again. My cheeks burned as I scrambled for a response, but the words caught somewhere in my throat. "I—I wasn’t…" I stammered, my voice trailing off as I heard him laugh softly again.

"You know," he said, leaning slightly closer, "it’s alright to talk back. I don’t bite. Well, not unless I’m really hungry."

His grin widened, and I felt my heart stutter in response. He was teasing me, sure, but there was no malice in it—just an easy charm that made me feel even more self-conscious. My mind raced, but all I could think about was how absurd this moment felt, standing here with my scraped knees and torn papers, talking to a boy like him.

"Sorry," I finally mumbled, clutching my books tighter to my chest. "I’m not great at… talking."

"No kidding," he said, but his tone was light, his expression softening. "Lucky for you, I’m pretty good at it. Guess that balances us out, yeah?"

I noded, but I couldn't get a sound to come out. My throat tightened. This was almost a worse case scenario for me.

Nearly doomsday, even.

Talking with new people was quite frankly, new. And weird. And sometimes (most of the time) unpleasant. But strangely, this one was, how can I put this, okay…

Oliver crouched beside me, gathering up a forgotten possession that was still resting on the ground. He picked it up in one sweepingly smooth motion. His fingers brushed against the edge of my notebook, and he paused, tilting his head as he glanced down at it.

"Well, well," he mused, picking it up and turning it over in his hands. "Morgan Chapman."

My breath caught in my throat.

I hadn’t even realized my notebook had fallen out—hadn’t noticed it lying there, open, with my messy scrawl bleeding across the pages. But Oliver had. And now he was holding it, his fingers casually skimming the edge as if he were about to flip it open.

My stomach plummeted.

Oh no. No, no, no.

That wasn’t just any notebook—it was the notebook. The one filled with half-finished stories, private musings, and embarrassingly dramatic confessions to fictional men who didn’t even exist. The one that, if opened, would expose every corner of my ridiculous, yearning imagination.

I swear the universe was playing one large comical joke on me, and I, Morgan Chapman, just fell right into the tip of Lord's karma sword.

Panic surged through me, and before I could think, before I could even register what I was doing, I lunged.

"Wait—!"

The force of my movement knocked me forward, my knee scraping against the pavement as I collided into Oliver’s chest. He let out a surprised oof as I practically threw myself at him, one arm instinctively wrapping around my waist to steady me as I crashed into him.

For a second, neither of us moved.

His warmth seeped through his jacket, his hand firm against my lower back, steadying me as if I hadn’t just flung myself at him like an unhinged lunatic. I could feel the rise and fall of his breath, the faint scent of something vaguely cinamonny and warm clinging to his hoodie.

Oh my god.

Oh my god.

My face burned, heat crawling up my neck, scorching my ears. I had just thrown myself at a boy. A boy I didn’t know. A boy who now had my notebook.

Oliver blinked down at me, his expression somewhere between amusement and curiosity. "Well," he said, after a beat, his voice light and teasing, "that was dramatic."

I made a strangled noise that barely qualified as human.

His lips quirked up at the corner. "Didn’t realize my touching your notebook was such a crime. Do you write about the MI6 in here or something?"

I scrambled, half-tripping over my own feet as I grabbed for the notebook, but he held it just out of reach, his grip infuriatingly firm.

Yes, how dare he use his height advantage to get an edge over me?!

"Oliver," I hissed, my fingers closing around the edge as I tugged desperately.

He raised an eyebrow, clearly entertained by my frantic reaction. "Alright, alright, keep your secrets," he said, finally letting go.

I snatched it back, clutching it to my chest like it was a lifeline, my heart hammering against my ribs.

Oliver rocked back on his heels, watching me with a knowing smirk. "Must be some very interesting stories in there," he mused, tilting his head.

I stiffened. "It’s nothing," I blurted, too quickly.

He grinned, eyes gleaming. "Right. And you just threw yourself at me because you don’t care about me reading it?"

I opened my mouth, then closed it. There was no winning this.

Oliver squinted at me, his expression full of exaggerated contemplation. "Yeah, you totally either write about some super top-secret MI6 government conspiracy that you don't want anyone to know about…" He stroked his chin dramatically, then his entire demeanor shifted. His smirk widened into something almost devious, his blue eyes glinting with unrestrained mischief.

"Or," he dragged out, his voice dropping just a fraction, "you write about good 'ole sex."

My brain short-circuited.

I went completely still, the words hanging in the air like an anvil poised to drop on my head.

And then—heat. A wave of it, roaring up my neck, flooding my face in an instant. My skin burned so fiercely I thought I might spontaneously combust right there on the pavement.

Oliver saw it. Of course he saw it. His smirk deepened, like a cat who had just cornered a very, very flustered mouse.

"Oh," he said slowly, dragging out the syllable like he had just unearthed the world’s greatest treasure. "So that’s what it is."

"No!" I practically squeaked, gripping my notebook even tighter, as if I could somehow strangle the entire conversation to death. "It’s not—I don’t—oh my God."

Oliver full-on laughed, tilting his head back in delight. "Morgan Chapman, you are so red right now."

"Shut up!" I groaned, covering my face with one hand while clutching my cursed notebook with the other.

I needed to burn this cursed thing in a firepit, throw it in a deep lake with all sorts of brain eating amobeas or bacteria, or blow torch it. This notebook was bringing me all sorts of shit luck.

"Hey, no shame in it," he continued, clearly enjoying my agony. "You’re, what? Sixteen? Seventeen? I’d be more surprised if you weren’t writing steamy little romance novels in your free time."

I whipped my head up to glare at him, my humiliation morphing into full-blown outrage. "I do not write romance novels!"

Oliver shrugged, completely unfazed. "Uh-huh. And I suppose your face is is just a coincidence? It totally is telling a different story than what you allegedly are saying…"

I groaned, my fingers tightening around the edges of my cursed notebook like I could somehow crush it into oblivion. "My face is not," I lied, feeling the heat still crawling up my face.

He just smirked. "Sure you’re not."

I exhaled sharply, willing myself to focus on anything else, because if I let him run with this conversation any longer, I might actually keel over from sheer mortification. "I’m eighteen, by the way," I blurted out, as if that was at all relevant.

Oliver raised an eyebrow, clearly unimpressed. "Oh yeah?"

"Yeah," I huffed. "I just look young."

He made a thoughtful humming noise, tilting his head. "Right. And I’m nineteen."

I squinted at him, studying his face like I could somehow see if he was lying. "Are you?"

His smirk deepened. "What do you think, Chapman?"

I frowned. "I think you’re full of shit."

Oliver let out a loud, obnoxious laugh, shaking his head. "God, you’re fun."

I bristled. "I’m not fun, I’m—"

"—thoroughly embarrassed that I found your secret romance novel?"

"I-," sputtered. He got me.

Oliver’s smirk widened, eyes practically glowing with amusement. "I-?" he echoed, his tone dripping with mock sympathy. "What’s that, Chapman? You were saying something?"

I clamped my mouth shut, my entire body locking up. My brain was screaming at me to say something—anything that would wipe that smug look off his face—but my mouth betrayed me, working uselessly around half-formed words that refused to come out.

Oliver chuckled, shaking his head. "Wow. Speechless. That’s a first."

I hated that he was enjoying this. I hated that he was right. And I really hated that my face was still burning hot, my hands nervously gripping the edges of my cursed notebook like it might somehow anchor me back to reality.

"I-It’s not—" I tried again, but my voice wobbled like a newborn fawn, and I wanted to die.

"It’s not…?" Oliver prompted, leaning ever so slightly forward, his grin all-too-knowing.

I swallowed thickly. "It’s not—" I squeaked again. Oh God. Oh my God.

His grin stretched even wider, and I immediately looked away, staring very intently at the pavement. Anywhere but at him.

"Chapman," he drawled, his voice teasing, playful. "You do realize that blushing this much is basically an admission of guilt, right?"

I groaned, squeezing my eyes shut for half a second. "I am not—"

"Blushing?" He finished for me, sounding obnoxiously delighted.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to do something before he actually made me explode from sheer mortification. Without thinking, I hugged my notebook even tighter to my chest and spun on my heel, determined to walk away from this absolute disaster of a conversation.

But before I could take more than three steps—

"Oh, come on," Oliver called after me, his voice still bubbling with laughter. "Now you’re just running away!"

I didn’t stop. I couldn’t stop. My legs were moving on their own, carrying me as far from him as possible before my dignity suffered any more casualties.

"Not running away!" I choked out, mortified beyond belief.

"Uh-huh," he called back. "So if I read one of those stories of yours, would it be purely academic? Not even a little bit swoony?"

I whimpered. I actually whimpered.

"You are the worst person I have ever met!" I shouted over my shoulder, my voice much too high-pitched to be taken seriously.

"Surely not!" his voice called out in the distance as I rounded a corner. Speedwalking up a hill—which proved to be more difficult than normal as I was already quite winded from that previous spat— I couldn't see him or hear him anymore.

Per usual, I was running away from my problems, and running towards my bedroom at home where I could write my silly little stories and disappear from my reality.

Three left turns, one long downhill stroll, and two rights later, I had arrived at home.

The small, weathered house sat tucked between two others, its faded brick exterior worn down by time and neglect. The white paint along the window frames was chipped, curling at the edges like dried petals, and the front steps creaked under even the lightest step, betraying any late-night attempts to sneak in unnoticed. The front door stuck when the weather was humid, and even in the cold, it needed a good shove to open.

The tiny front yard was more weeds than grass, stubborn green pushing through cracks in the pavement. Our mailbox leaned slightly to the right, rust creeping up its edges. I had long since given up trying to fix it. The roof slanted awkwardly, the shingles old and cracked, some missing altogether, exposing bits of the underlayer like a wound half-covered by a makeshift bandage.

But this was home.

I had never known anything else.

Inside, the air was familiar—stale but tinged with the faintest scent of detergent and whatever had been last cooked in the kitchen. The walls were an odd mix of pale yellow and peeling wallpaper, remnants of an attempted home improvement project that had never quite been finished. The floor creaked in specific spots, and I knew exactly where to step to avoid making too much noise.

The living room was cluttered but lived-in. A coffee table with one wobbly leg sat in front of an old, sagging couch, the cushions sunken from years of use. A pile of newspapers and unopened bills and letters gathered at the far end, half-forgotten and half-paid. The TV, an old bulky thing with a remote that barely worked, sat on a stand that had once been a proper bookshelf before the bottom shelf gave out under the weight of too many library discards. A single lamp flickered faintly in the corner, its shade slightly askew.

I looked down at my shoes, as I stood quietly in the doorway.

No shoes by the door except mine. No coat slung over the chair.

Mum wasn’t home.

Not that she ever really was.

I exhaled, pressing my back against the door for a moment, my fingers still curled tightly around my cursed notebook. The heat in my face had cooled, but my nerves still crackled from the encounter. If I let my mind wander, I could still hear his voice—teasing, smug, all too knowing.

I shoved the thought aside and made my way up the narrow staircase, two steps at a time. My bedroom door creaked as I nudged it open, the familiarity of my small, slightly cluttered sanctuary swallowing me whole.

This was where I escaped.

My desk was a mess of scattered notebooks, a few uncapped pens bleeding ink into their pages. Books I had yet to finish reading were stacked haphazardly on my nightstand, and the tiny corkboard above my bed was covered in pinned-up scraps of writing—half-finished sentences, phrases that had once felt important but now sat there, waiting.

I threw my bag onto my bed, dragging a hand down my face. God. That whole interaction was going to haunt me for weeks. Months. Possibly years.

Before I could dwell on it further, the front door downstairs slammed open.

Then came the voice.

"MORGANNNN!"

I tensed instinctively. Here we go. I was going to have to pretend to give a shit at my job as a therapist where no one was paying me to listen.

A few seconds later, I heard the unmistakable stomp of Janine’s shoes as she barreled into the house like a one-girl hurricane.

The whining began before I could even brace myself.

"Oh my God, you would not believe the day I just had," she announced, her voice reaching the very top of its dramatics.

I barely had time to turn around before she threw herself onto my bed with all the grace of a collapsing sandbag.

I blinked. "Hi, Janine. Nice to see you too."

She ignored me, sprawled out like she’d just finished running a marathon. Her school uniform was wrinkled beyond recognition, her backpack half-zipped, and her dark hair a little frizzier than usual—probably from whatever dramatics she had put herself through today.

"Miss Greene is actually evil," she declared, rolling onto her stomach. "She made us redo the entire maths worksheet just because, apparently, half the class did it wrong. And, of course, I had already thrown mine away, so I had to dig through the trash like an animal to find it!"

I tried to suppress my smile. "That sounds... traumatic."

"It was traumatic," she huffed, turning to glare at me. Then, just as suddenly, her expression shifted into something sharper, something vaguely mean. Her eyes scanned me up and down, her nose scrunching in distaste.

"Wow," she said bluntly. "You look like shit."

I inhaled slowly, schooling my expression into something neutral. I was used to this. Janine had a gift for making casual cruelty sound effortless, as if it was just another part of normal conversation.

"Thanks," I muttered, sitting down at my desk, pretending to be deeply interested in an uncapped pen.

"No, seriously," she continued, propping herself up on her elbows. "What happened to you? You look like you just lost a fight. Did you finally get bullied?"

I clenched my jaw, tapping my fingers against the desk. "No, Janine. I did not get bullied."

"Could’ve fooled me," she muttered, flopping back onto the pillows.

I exhaled through my nose. Don’t let it get to you. She didn’t mean it. Mostly.

Janine was like this. Always had been. There were times when her teasing was just that—harmless, annoying, the kind of back-and-forth that siblings had. But then there were other times, like now, when she wasn’t just being cheeky. She meant it, even if she pretended not to. Maybe she was just a normal thirteen year old girl who had a knack for being quite the bitch.

I didn’t bother arguing. It never helped.

Instead, I changed the subject. "Did you eat yet?"

She huffed dramatically, rolling onto her back again. "No. And Mom’s obviously not home, again."

A small pang hit my chest. Not unexpected, but still.

"She left some food in the fridge," I offered. "Probably leftovers."

Janine groaned. "I swear, we’re like stray dogs at this point. Just fending for ourselves, rummaging through whatever scraps she leaves behind."

My stomach twisted uncomfortably.

She said it like a joke. Like a complaint.

But I knew she felt it.

I did too.

Still, I forced a small smile, standing up from my desk. "Alright, stray dog. I’ll heat something up."

She made a sound of reluctant approval, flopping dramatically onto my bed once more.

As I walked downstairs, the house felt heavier. Quieter. The same kind of quiet it always was.

Janine trailed behind me down the stairs, her footsteps lighter than mine, but still deliberately obnoxious. She fiddled with her Walkman, adjusting the chunky headphones over her ears, pressing buttons as if she were about to unearth some hidden sonic masterpiece. The soft click of the cassette rolling into place filled the silence between us, the quiet hum of the tape player spinning in the background.

I made my way into the kitchen, not even needing to check the fridge before I resigned myself to my fate. There was no “leftovers” in the way people meant it—only the usual sad collection of things that barely passed as a meal. I grabbed the bread, flipping through the slices until I found two that weren’t slightly stiff at the edges, then reached for the nearly-expired mayo, a sad-looking pack of ham, and a head of lettuce that looked like it had survived some sort of traumatic event.

The Sad Sandwich™ was coming together beautifully.

As I spread the mayo across the bread, trying to ignore the way it smelled just a little off, I glanced at Janine, who was still wrapped up in her own world, occasionally nodding along to whatever she was listening to.

"What’s playing?" I asked, if only to break the silence.

She barely acknowledged me, eyes flicking up for the briefest second before returning to the invisible spot she was staring at on the table. "ABBA. Andante, Andante."

I paused for a second, then smirked. "What, feeling romantic?"

She scoffed, rolling her eyes. "I like the melody, duh." She was acting like it was I, who was the fool… What irony have I stumbled upon.

I snorted, adding the world’s saddest piece of lettuce onto her sandwich, the edges limp, its vibrancy long since faded. "You know, it’s kind of funny," I mused, pressing the slices of bread together. "A song about taking things slow, savoring every moment. But time never really slows down, does it? You just get older, and suddenly, you’re looking back, wondering when it all started moving so fast."

Janine pulled off one side of her headphones, blinking at me like I had just sprouted a second head. "What?"

I shrugged, placing her sandwich on the table in front of her. "Andante, andante. It means 'slowly, gently.' But life doesn’t wait for us, does it?" I exhaled, wiping the remnants of mayo off my fingers. "You blink, and everything changes. You barely get a chance to catch up before it’s all different again."

Janine squinted at me, unimpressed. "Shut up," she said, ripping her sandwich in half like it had personally wronged her. "Can’t you just let me listen to ABBA in peace without making it all philosophical?"

I smirked, grabbing my own pathetic excuse for a sandwich. "Nope."

Janine groaned again, throwing herself against the back of the chair like I had just personally exhausted her entire will to live. "You’re so annoying," she mumbled, taking an aggressive bite of her sandwich. "Like, actually, why are you like this?"

I shrugged, taking a significantly less enthusiastic bite of my own sad sandwich. "I have no idea. Must be a genetic thing. Guess that means you’re doomed too."

Janine made a dramatic gagging sound. "Ew. Don’t lump me in with your weird existential crisis nonsense." She waved a hand vaguely in my direction. "You’re, like, so much worse than normal today."

I raised an eyebrow. "Oh? And what’s my normal level of 'worse'?"

She smirked, licking a stray glob of mayo off her thumb. "Usually, it’s more like mildly irritating older sister levels. Today, though? You’ve graduated to full-on poet with a drinking problem vibes."

I rolled my eyes. "Good to know I’m evolving."

Janine snorted, tossing her crust onto the plate like it had personally offended her. "Speaking of drinking," she said, stretching her arms overhead in an exaggerated yawn, "can I have a beer?"

I rolled my eyes so hard I nearly saw the back of my skull. "No."

She sighed dramatically, slumping even further into her chair. "You always say no."

"Because you always ask," I shot back, grabbing our plates and stacking them haphazardly.

Janine shrugged, completely unbothered. "One day, you’ll crack."

"Unlikely," I muttered, heading toward the sink.

The thing was, she wasn’t really serious. Not really. It had started as a joke, some dumb throwaway comment she made a few months ago when she saw me grabbing a bottle from the fridge—*"Gimme one"—*and I had shut it down immediately, obviously. But since then, it had become some kind of weekly bit, an ongoing test of patience where she’d casually drop it into conversation just to see if I’d finally get tired and say fine, here, drink yourself into oblivion, you little menace.

I hadn’t cracked yet.

Janine, of course, took this as an invitation to try harder.

"Whatever," she drawled, swinging her legs over the side of the chair. "I’ll just find my own."

I froze for half a second, turning just in time to watch her actually start rummaging through the cabinets.

I narrowed my eyes. "Janine."

She ignored me.

"Janine, no."

"Janine, yes," she sang, standing on her tiptoes to dig through one of the higher shelves.

I set the plates down a little too hard in the sink. "There’s nothing in there."

She turned her head just enough to smirk at me. "Oh? Then you won’t mind if I check."

I let out a slow, measured breath. "You’re thirteen."

"And yet," she grunted, stretching onto the tips of her toes, "I’m the only one with any sense of fun in this household."

"You," I said flatly, "*have no idea what to do with beer."

"Oh, please," she scoffed. "You don’t even know what to do with beer."

I opened my mouth, then shut it.

She wasn’t wrong.

Before I could tell her to cut it out, her fingers closed around something. Her entire face lit up as she yanked her arm back, turning on her heel with a flourish.

"A-ha!"

And there it was.

A single, lukewarm can of beer.

Where had she even found that?

Janine looked entirely too pleased with herself, holding the can aloft like she had just unearthed some kind of mythical treasure.

I groaned, dragging a hand down my face. "Are you kidding me?"

She grinned. "I don’t kid about important things, Morgan."

I snatched it out of her hands before she could so much as think about cracking it open.

"Hey!" she yelped, jumping up to grab it back. "What the hell!"

"You are thirteen," I repeated, placing the can firmly on the counter, far out of her reach.

She scowled, crossing her arms. "Barely."

I shot her a look. "That is not how that works."

Janine stared at me, then at the can. Then back at me. Then at the can again.

And before I could even process what was about to happen—

She lunged.

"Janine,—"

Too late.

With the speed and agility of a raccoon stealing a piece of bread, she snatched the can off the counter, popped the tab, and chugged.

Not a sip. Not a taste. A full-blown, unhinged, humongous swig, like she was some weathered sailor downing grog after a long voyage.

I stood there, utterly paralyzed, watching as my thirteen-year-old sister took an entire gulp of lukewarm beer like it was the best decision she had ever made.

She smacked her lips, lowering the can with the dramatic flair of someone who absolutely thought they were about to look cool.

And then.

It hit.

Janine’s entire body convulsed.

She gagged, her face contorting like she’d just swallowed a mouthful of expired lemonade and battery acid at the same time.

Janine staggered back like she had just been struck down by divine punishment, her arms flailing dramatically. "Oh my God, the holy spirit!" she gasped, as if expecting Gabriel himself to descend from the heavens and cleanse her of her sins. "My tongue is on fire. This is Satan’s piss. This is the drink of demons. Morgan, I have been cursed."

I rolled my eyes, completely unbothered. "Yep. And you brought it on yourself, Judas."

She groaned, gripping the edge of the counter like she was about to crumple to her knees. "Oh, Lord in heaven above, I repent. I have walked in sin, and I have suffered." She clutched her stomach dramatically. "Smite me where I stand, oh merciful one. Deliver me from this agony."

"God is busy, Janine," I deadpanned. "And even if He weren’t, I think He’d have better things to do than smite a thirteen-year-old for drinking one sip of warm beer."

"ONE sip?" she shrieked, slamming a hand over her chest like a televangelist about to collapse into a faint. "ONE sip?! I think my soul just left my body, Morgan. I saw the pearly gates. And St. Peter slammed them in my face. He said,* and I quote*, ‘Ew, no. Go back.’"

"Pearly gates? You are definitely going to Hell, but nice try," I muttered, tossing the half-empty can into the sink, letting it clang against the metal. "Maybe now you’ll stop asking me for one every week."

Janine ignored me, still mid-breakdown. "This," she rasped, "is what people willingly drink? This is what grown men write sonnets about? They fight wars over this! They DIE in pubs for this!"

I shrugged. "Well, Jesus turned water into wine, so—"

"Wine," she snapped, still hunched over like she was about to perish on the kitchen floor. "Wine, Morgan. Not whatever hellish concoction this is. This is not what He had in mind. This is—this is like—" she waved a hand wildly, searching for the words—"—the blood of Pontius Pilate."

I barked out a laugh. "Pontius Pilate?"

"YES!" she hissed, marching toward the sink and turning the faucet on full blast. "Betrayal in a can. The affliction of the masses. And my stomach—oh my God, I think I’m being punished. This is worse than the plagues of Egypt."

I leaned against the counter, thoroughly entertained. "Well, I did warn you."

Janine made a sound somewhere between a gag and a groan, clutching her stomach like she was a dying soldier on the battlefield. "Morgan," she wheezed, "I think my intestines are dissolving."

I rolled my eyes. "You took one sip, drama queen."

"One sip too many!" she cried, still doubled over the sink. "This is what Judas must have felt like at the Last Supper. Betrayed. Slandered. Poisoned by the wicked!"

"Judas betrayed Jesus," I reminded her, grabbing a paper towel and shoving it in her direction. "You're not the victim here."

"I beg to differ!" she wailed, wiping at her mouth like she was scrubbing away the sins of mankind. "My stomach feels like the ninth circle of hell."

And then, like the horror had just dawned on her, she snapped her head up, eyes wide with absolute panic. "Morgan, I drank on an empty stomach."

I froze. "Oh my God."

"Oh my God."

I lunged for the plate on the table, grabbed the half-eaten remains of her Sad Sandwich™, and shoved it into her hands. "Eat. Now."

Janine blinked at me, still reeling. "What?"

"The bread will soak it up!" I snapped, pushing the plate further into her chest. "Jesus Christ, Janine, do you want to die a gruesome death by booze?"

Boy did I love absolutely scaring the shit out of her. Maybe this might teach her a lesson.

She gasped, gripping the sandwich like it was a sacred relic. "Oh my God, you’re right."

And then—like she was a starving prisoner who had just been granted her final meal—she shoved the entire thing into her mouth in two unholy, horrifying bites.

It was grotesque. I had never seen someone eat that fast in my entire life.

"Chew," I commanded, watching in horror as she barely made an effort to comply, just stuffing the bread into her cheeks like a damn hamster.

She nodded aggressively, eyes darting wildly, still chewing like she was racing against time itself.

"Breathe," I added, half-expecting her to choke and add actual murder to my list of daily stressors.

She lifted a single finger, telling me to wait as she gulped it all down in a single, borderline inhuman swallow.

And then—silence.

We both stood there, unmoving. Janine stared at me. I stared at her.

Slowly, she touched her stomach. Paused. Waited.

Then—"I LIVE."

I groaned, pressing my fingers against my temples. "You are actually insufferable."

She let out a deep, exaggerated sigh of relief, dramatically patting her chest. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. The devil tried me, but I have PREVAILED."

I rubbed my temples harder. "Oh my God, just go to your room."

"With pleasure," she huffed, grabbing her Walkman from the table. "And for the record," she added, stepping dramatically toward the hallway, "this was your fault."

I whipped my head up. "MY fault?!"

"If you had just given me a beer weeks ago, I wouldn’t have had to steal one and suffer like this!"

I let out a strangled noise, resisting the urge to throw something at her as she disappeared up the stairs.

I listened for her door slamming, counted the seconds until she was gone.

Then, finally, I leaned against the counter, exhaling.

The house was quiet again.

For a moment, I just stood there, staring blankly at the chipped kitchen counter, letting the silence settle in around me like dust. The only sound was the faint hum of the fridge, the occasional creak of the house settling. The lingering smell of stale beer and cheap mayo clung to the air, reminding me that I should probably clean up the mess before Mum got home—if she got home at all tonight.

But I didn’t move.

Instead, I sighed, turned on my heel, and headed back upstairs to my bedroom, my body dragging with exhaustion with my sandwhich in hand.

I tossed my bag onto the bed and pulled out my arithmetic book, the thick spine of Linear Algebra & Calculus: A Comprehensive Approach landing with a dull thud on the wooden surface.

I cracked my knuckles, rolled my shoulders, and flipped to where I had last left off—somewhere deep in the trenches of eigenvalues, vector spaces, and transformations. Numbers were easier than people. They made sense, followed rules, didn’t shift unpredictably like everything else in my life.

So I worked.

And I worked.

The numbers blurred together, symbols morphing into something less concrete the longer I stared. I scribbled in the margins, erased, rewrote, checked my notes, tried again. Pages flipped. The clock on my nightstand ticked, eating away the hours as the evening bled into night.

Somewhere in the back of my mind, I registered the dull ache in my stomach, the hollow emptiness that had been there since dinner—if you could even call that dinner. The Sad Sandwich™ had barely been enough to hold me over, and now, after hours hunched over my desk, my hunger gnawed at me again, a quiet, persistent reminder.

I ignored it.

I was so close to solving this problem—just one more step, just one more equation, just one—

I stopped.

I stared at the page.

I had hit a wall.

My pencil hovered over the problem, my brain refusing to find the next step, like a door slammed shut in my face. I furrowed my brows, running through every possible solution, but my thoughts were muddled, slipping through my fingers like sand.

I sighed, rubbing my eyes. The hunger was worse now, creeping up my ribs, making my limbs feel heavier, my mind slower. I should eat something. Anything.

But getting up felt impossible.

So I didn’t.

Instead, I let my head fall against the open textbook, the paper cool against my forehead.

I told myself I would rest just for a second.

Just long enough for my brain to reset.

Just long enough to push past this problem.

But sleep crept in before I could stop it, pulling me under, the hunger still lingering, unanswered, as the numbers faded into the darkness.

A sharp clack rang through the house, jolting me awake.

I blinked, disoriented, my face still pressed against the open pages of my textbook. My body was stiff from being hunched over for too long, my hand still limply gripping a pencil that had long since stopped moving.

Then I heard it again—the familiar sound of the screen door smacking against the main door. A telltale thud, slightly muffled but unmistakable.

Mom.

My stomach clenched.

I peeled my forehead off the paper, my eyes groggy as I squinted toward the wall. The old analog clock, its hands barely visible in the dim light, read midnight. No—one in the morning.

I sighed through my nose, automatically adding an hour to account for the fact that the damn thing was wrong. It had been like that for months, ever since daylight savings had messed it up, but it was too high up for me to fix, and, honestly, I was too lazy to bother.

My ears sharpened, listening for movement downstairs. A rustle. Keys dropped onto the table. The faint shuffle of tired steps.

I moved.

Quick, quiet.

I tiptoed toward my bed, careful not to step on the spots in the floor that creaked. My body was still heavy with sleep, my limbs sluggish, but my urgency overrode the exhaustion. I knew what would happen if she saw me awake.

She’d yell.

She’d berate me.

She’d demand to know why I was up, why I wasn’t in bed, why I was wasting my life away with my nose buried in books instead of being useful, why I wasn’t doing something real.

I had made the mistake before—being caught in the glow of my desk lamp, eyes still bleary from equations, my pencil slipping in my fingers. And she had let me have it.

So I wasn’t going to give her the chance tonight.

I reached my bed, lifted the covers, and jumped in, flipping onto my side and squeezing my eyes shut just as I heard the faint click of her heels being kicked off near the door.

My breathing slowed. I forced my shoulders to relax.

Footsteps on the stairs.

I lay still, forcing my face into a neutral expression, willing my chest to rise and fall in the slow rhythm of deep sleep.

The footsteps didn’t stop outside my door.

They passed.

She didn’t check.

I stayed frozen anyway, just in case.

The air was thick, the silence stretching.

Then, a door shutting.

I exhaled.

Slowly.

Carefully.

The tension in my limbs barely eased, my heartbeat still too fast in my chest. I let my fingers curl into the blankets, my body still coiled tight beneath them.

I didn’t move.

I wouldn’t move.

Not until I was sure she wouldn’t come back out.

I stayed still, my body curled beneath the blankets, listening for any sound that might betray her still being awake.

Seconds stretched into minutes. The house was still.

She wasn’t coming back out.

I exhaled slowly, cautiously, like even breathing too loud might summon her. My body remained rigid for another few minutes—just in case—until I finally reached out, fumbling in the dark for my alarm clock.

The cheap plastic felt cold under my fingers. It was a clunky thing, slightly cracked at the edges, the numbers on the screen glowing faintly red. It had been discarded in a dumpster behind the pharmacy two months ago, tossed away like trash, and for reasons I didn’t fully understand, I had taken it home. Fixed it. Given it purpose again.

At least something in this house deserved a second chance.

I pressed the buttons mechanically, setting the alarm for 8:00 AM. The beep was sharp, intrusive in the quiet.

I turned onto my side, facing the wall.

Tried to sleep.

Tried to let go.

But the weight in my chest didn’t fade. My heartbeat was still too fast, a dull, uneven rhythm that felt wrong.

My limbs felt stiff, too aware of the blankets pressing down on me, of the air in the room that suddenly felt too thick. I swallowed, my throat dry, my jaw clenched without me realizing.

I turned over. Then turned again.

My body ached with exhaustion, but my mind refused to shut off.

Every sound in the house became a reason to stay awake. The faint hum of the fridge downstairs. The occasional creak of the walls. The wind pressing against the windows. The lingering possibility that she might come back out, open my door, catch me—just because.

The thought sat heavy in my chest.

I curled in on myself, wrapping my arms tighter around my body, my fingers digging into the fabric of my sleeves.

I needed to sleep.

I needed to sleep.

I closed my eyes, but the dark behind my lids wasn’t quiet. It was loud, restless. The remnants of the day replayed behind my eyelids—Janine’s dramatics, the *Sad Sandwich™, the feel of Oliver’s stupid smirk still lingering somewhere in my brain. The feeling of running, of the screen door slamming, of knowing that at any moment, I could be—

I forced myself to breathe.

Slower.

Calmer.

Even if it didn’t work.

Eventually, exhaustion won. My thoughts didn’t fade, they just blurred, softening into something hazy and restless.

I didn’t fall asleep.

I drifted.

A sleepless slumber. The kind where you close your eyes, but you don’t feel rested. The kind where the weight in your chest never quite leaves.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

The thing about being half of something is that people always expect you to feel whole. Like you can take two separate, mismatched pieces and press them together to form a perfect, seamless image. A puzzle that fits cleanly. A line drawn neatly down the center, where neither side bleeds into the other. But that’s not how it works. Not for me, anyway.

My mother is white. Painfully white. The kind of woman who wears neutral tones and calls dinner "supper," whose side of the family is speckled with sunburn-prone cousins and blue-eyed aunts who all have the same thin-lipped smile. The kind who doesn’t talk much about my father—doesn’t need to, because he was never really here to begin with.

I don’t think of him often. Not because I don’t want to. Not because I’ve made some conscious choice to erase him. But because there’s nothing to think about.

He exists in fragments. Fleeting memories that might not even be real. A deep voice I can’t fully remember. A presence that feels more like a ghost than a man.

And what does that make me? Some days, I feel like a half-finished sketch. A painting where the colors never fully set. I look in the mirror, and my features don’t fit neatly into a single frame. My skin is too light to be fully Black, but too dark to be fully white. My hair is a mess of curls that never quite listen, never quite fall into the kind of clean, brushed-out waves my mother’s does.

It’s an in-between existence. And it’s lonely. Because the world doesn’t like in-between things. It likes categories, labels, boxes. It likes when you fit neatly. I don’t.

At school, the white girls don’t see me as one of them. At best, I’m interesting. At worst, I’m an outsider—something different, something "exotic" in a way that makes my skin crawl.

With Black girls, it’s not much better. Maybe it’s my voice, the way I talk. Maybe it’s the way my mother raised me, or barely raised her. Maybe it’s the fact that I don’t even know how to braid my own damn hair.

Either way, I always feel like I’m not quite enough to belong anywhere.

I exist in the cracks. The spaces between.

Half of one thing. Half of another.

But some days, it feels like I’m not half of anything at all.

Just missing pieces.

I remember the first time I noticed it—the difference.

I’ve lived in this town my whole life.

Stockbridge Village, formerly known as Cantril Farm, is a small community in Merseyside, England. Built in the 1960s to rehouse families from inner-city Liverpool, it was intended to be a fresh start—a new beginning. But by the 1980s, it had become a place where everyone knew everyone, and everyone knew me.

In a community that was predominantly white, I stood out.

This was the kind of place where everyone knows everyone. Where people smile at you in the streets, not because they like you, but because that’s just what people do here. Where the shopkeepers remember your name, your mother’s name, and what kind of milk you usually buy.

But the thing is—no matter how many times I walk down the same roads, past the same butcher shop, the same post office, the same old church with its half-crumbling bell tower—I have never quite felt like I belonged here.

Because in a town like Stockbridge, people notice things.

And they notice me.

It happens in the grocery store. The lingering glances, the subtle shift in body language when I walk past an aisle. The way an older woman might clutch her purse just a little tighter, the way a man might glance twice, not out of recognition, but out of curiosity. The cashier at the till, the same one who’s been working there since I was old enough to count change, hesitates before handing me my receipt. The briefest flicker of something—confusion? Mistrust? Pity?

I never know.

I tell myself I’m imagining it. That it’s all in my head.

But then, sometimes, I hear it.

Not often. Never loud. Never to my face.

But in passing. Whispered.

"Who’s that girl again?" "Not from ‘round here, is she?" "Her Mum’s that blonde woman, isn’t she? Wonder where her dad is."

I don’t answer them. I don’t correct them.

What would I even say? "I’m from here. I always have been." "I know these streets better than you do." "My dad isn’t here. He never was."

But words don’t change the way people look at you. They don’t stop the shift in their eyes when you walk past, the way their attention lingers a second longer than necessary. They don’t change the fact that every time I step outside, I am reminded—subtly, quietly, constantly—that I do not belong the way they do.

Like now.

The morning air is crisp, biting at my exposed skin as I walk down the narrow pavement, my breath curling in faint wisps against the chill. The sky is a pale gray, the kind that threatens rain but never quite follows through. It’s too early to be out, and too late to feel like I’ve beaten the morning rush. The grocery store opened thirty minutes ago, and I’m walking toward it with an empty stomach and the one twenty-pound note clutched tightly in my hand.

The money had been saved, not given. That was an important distinction. I had tucked it away in the safest place I could think of—between the books under my bed, wrapped in old, crinkled orange paper from God knows how long ago. I never spent unless I had to. But this morning, I had to.

Janine had eaten the last slice of bread. The milk had gone sour two days ago. I was pretty sure the lettuce in the fridge was evolving into something that could speak.

So here I was.

My stomach twisted—not from hunger, but from the quiet, familiar tension that always settled in my bones when I had to go into town alone.

The road to the shop was always the same. Past the small butcher’s shop, where Mr. Whitmore stood outside chatting to an older man, both of them wrapped in their tweed coats like they had stepped out of a Visit England poster. Past the post office, where a queue of pensioners waited with envelopes tucked under their arms, some clutching their purses so tightly their knuckles had gone pale. Past the church—the same old church with its crumbling bell tower, its doors propped open by a brick, where someone had already laid fresh flowers outside on the steps.

Everything in Stockbridge was predictable. Routine. Except me.

A passing car slowed—just slightly—as it rolled by. A woman in a beige coat turned her head when I passed her on the pavement. An older man sitting on a bench lowered his newspaper, eyes flicking up for a second too long before turning the page.

It was always like this. A quiet, unspoken reminder: I was noticed. I tugged the sleeves of my sweater down over my fingers, gripping the money tighter in my palm. The coins in my pocket rattled with each step, an uneven weight I was suddenly very aware of.

I reached the store. The automatic doors slid open with a mechanical hiss, the warm scent of stale bread and disinfectant washing over me. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, too bright, too sterile.

A woman at the entrance glanced at me, then away. I exhaled, shaking off the stiffness in my shoulders, and grabbed a basket (not a trolley, they were big, bulky, and made god-awful noises when pushed). It was just groceries. Just food.

I moved through the aisles with quiet precision, keeping my head down, my steps light. The store wasn’t too crowded yet—mostly older women with their baskets, a few men flipping through newspapers at the front. It smelled like disinfectant and aging produce, with a faint, lingering trace of something fried from the little hot food counter near the back.

I clutched my shopping list in one hand, the twenty-pound notes in my pocket pressing against my leg like a reminder. Three apples. Probably about 35p each. I hovered near the fruit section, selecting three that looked decent enough. £1.05 so far.

Tomatoes. Maybe 50p for a few decent ones. I picked up a bag and weighed it in my palm, my mind automatically rounding the total up to £1.55. Eggs. A dozen should be around 60p. I added them carefully to my basket. £2.15.

Meat. I hesitated near the butcher’s counter. I usually skipped this part, but today, I had a little extra to spare. Something cheap. I scanned the options and settled on a small pack of minced beef. It wasn’t much, but it was enough. The price tag read £1.90.

£4.05 total.

I moved toward the bread aisle, the soft hum of the store’s radio filling the silence. Bread was usually one of the last things I grabbed—it was an easy choice, no need to overthink. I reached for a loaf, the familiar texture of plastic packaging crinkling under my fingers.

And then, I took a step back. Right onto someone’s foot.

"Oh, hell—"

I whipped around so fast I nearly knocked my own basket over. "I’m so sorry, I—" And then I saw who I had stepped on.

Him. Oliver.

I blinked. Then blinked again. What the—

"You!" I blurted out, my voice somehow both sharp and flat at the same time.

His mouth curled into a lopsided grin, the kind that immediately put me on edge. "Call me Ollie. We’re practically friends now."

I rolled my eyes to mask the fact that my brain was currently short-circuiting. "We are not friends."

His grin widened, like he could hear the lie in my voice. "Practically," he repeated, leaning against the shelf like he had all the time in the world.

I crossed my arms, my heart still hammering from the shock. "What are you doing here?"

He cleared his throat, shifting slightly. "I—uh—" He scratched the back of his neck. "I totally didn’t follow you here, if that’s what you’re thinking."

I squinted. "I was not thinking that." (I was now, though.)

"Good! Because that would be weird,*" he added quickly. "And I am absolutely not weird."

I gave him a look. "Debatable."

Oliver—Ollie—straightened up, clearing his throat again, as if he’d just remembered what his actual excuse was supposed to be. "I work here."

I frowned. "Huh?"

"Yeah," he said, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "Started last week. Part-time."

I raised an eyebrow. "Why?"

"Because money exists, Morgan. And people need money to buy things."

I ignored the way my stomach flipped when he said my name.

"You—" I hesitated, eyeing him carefully. "You work here."

Ollie tilted his head slightly, amusement flickering in his gaze. "That is what I just said."

And I should have just left it at that.

I should have rolled my eyes, muttered something dismissive, grabbed my stupid loaf of bread, and walked away like he didn’t affect me at all.

But instead, my eyes flickered—just for a second—to his mouth.

It wasn’t intentional. It wasn’t planned. But once I looked, I couldn’t seem to unlook.

His lips curved into the beginnings of another smirk, the kind that sent a sharp little thrill down my spine before I could stop it. They were pinker than I expected, softer, like the kind of lips that would probably be really good at—

Oh my God.

My breath caught, a sudden rush of heat prickling at the back of my neck.

Had I just—?

Had I seriously just thought about—?

My entire body tensed, my fingers tightening instinctively around the handle of my basket.

No. No, no, no, absolutely not. Not happening.

I blinked rapidly, tearing my gaze away, my heart hammering so hard I was convinced he could hear it.

Ollie was still talking—something about nepotism and barely working and customer service—but I couldn’t focus. Not when my own brain had just betrayed me like that.

What was wrong with me?

This was Oliver Bearman. The same boy who had run me over with his bike, who had rummaged through my notebook, who had followed me here (okay, fine, maybe that last part wasn’t confirmed—but still).

He was a nuisance.

A smug, infuriating, insufferable nuisance.

So why—

Why had my brain, in the middle of a perfectly normal conversation, decided to briefly entertain the thought of what it would be like to—

I swallowed hard.

I needed to leave.

I needed to grab my damn loaf of bread, pay, and pretend this—whatever this was—never happened.

So that’s exactly what I did.

I turned sharply on my heel, grabbed the first loaf I could reach, and marched toward the till like I had somewhere very important to be.

Ollie chuckled behind me, low and knowing.

"Where are you going?" he called, voice laced with amusement.

I clenched my jaw. "Away from you," I shot back, my tone indignant but kept to a hushed whisper because, unlike him, I had some concept of volume control in a public setting.

But of course, Ollie, being Ollie, took that as a personal challenge.

"Away from me?" he repeated, deliberately raising his voice, eyebrows shooting up in exaggerated offense. "Morgan, I’m hurt. Truly. You wound me."

Heads turned.

I panicked.

Before I could think twice about it, I grabbed his arm, my fingers wrapping around the sleeve of his shirt, and dragged him down an aisle, maneuvering him behind one of the taller shelves where fewer people would see.

Ollie stumbled slightly but let me pull him along, clearly enjoying this far too much. As soon as we were tucked between rows of canned goods and breakfast cereals, he turned to me with that same boyish grin, eyes bright, breathless from my sudden ambush.

"Oliver, shush yourself," I hissed, glancing over my shoulder, making sure no one had followed.

Ollie, of course, didn’t shush himself.

Instead, he leaned against the shelf with that ridiculous kind of casual ease—one arm propped up as he pushed his tousled hair away from his face, like he was posing for some imaginary camera.

"This is very suspicious behavior, Morgan," he mused, voice dipped in mock conspiracy. "Dragging me into a hidden aisle? All very intimate, very secretive. Should I be concerned?”

I glared at him. "You should be concerned about me throwing a can of beans at your head."

He let out a huff of laughter, looking far too pleased with himself.

I turned away, inhaling through my nose, pretending like the heat crawling up my neck wasn’t happening. My basket was still half empty, and I refused to let Ollie derail my entire morning.

I focused on the shelves, scanning the prices.

Eggs, bread, apples—those were covered. I still needed—

"Shouldn’t you be doing something?" I muttered, grabbing a can of canned corn and tucking it into my basket.

"I am," he said simply.

I frowned, glancing at him. "What?"

Ollie grinned. "Watching you."

My entire body tensed.

Heat bloomed across my cheeks, and I hated how immediate it was. I could feel him watching me, his gaze trailing as I reached for another item, as if my very existence was now entertainment for him.

I ignored him, setting my focus back on my mental math.

Canned corn—probably 30p each. That brought my total up to £4.35.

I reached for a tin of beans—around 20p.

Ollie shifted slightly, still leaning lazily against the shelf, arms crossed now. "You’re really serious about this whole shopping thing, huh?"

I scoffed, plopping the can into my basket. "Yes, Oliver. That’s generally how grocery shopping works."

"Ollie," he corrected smoothly.

I ignored him.

"See, I just figured you’d be the type to wander around, daydreaming about something dramatic," he continued, voice teasing. "But no—look at you. All business. Calculating costs like a real grown-up."

I rolled my eyes, grabbing a bag of pasta. "Yes, imagine that. Being financially responsible."

Ollie smirked, shifting his weight onto one foot. "Hot."

My fingers fumbled around the pasta bag.

I turned to glare at him, heart hammering in my chest. "Do you ever shut up?"

"Not when I’m enjoying myself," he said, flashing that insufferable grin.

I exhaled sharply, forcing myself to focus only on the basket, only on the numbers in my head.

Pasta—around 50p.

Total: £5.05.

I exhaled slowly, forcing my shoulders to stay relaxed as I moved toward the meat section. Chicken. That was next.

I scanned the shelves carefully, my fingers tightening slightly around the handle of my basket. The cheapest cut I could find—a small pack of chicken thighs, nothing fancy, just enough to stretch across a few meals—£2.50. I hesitated, weighing the cost in my mind, but eventually added it to my basket.

Bananas. A safe choice. Cheap, versatile. I grabbed a small bunch, about 40p, estimating the weight in my palm before placing them inside.

Next was ham—a small roll, nothing extravagant, but enough to make sandwiches for Janine. £1.30.

And then—tilapia.

I shouldn’t.

I shouldn’t.

Fish wasn’t a necessity, wasn’t part of the list, wasn’t safe. But for some reason, I reached for the fillet anyway, my fingers grazing over the cool plastic. It wasn’t the most expensive choice—£2.00, hardly anything outrageous.

But still, the moment it landed in my basket, a pit settled in my stomach.

I stood still for a moment, mentally stacking the numbers, adding them up again and again to make sure I hadn’t miscalculated.

Apples, tomatoes, eggs, minced beef, bread, canned tomatoes, beans, pasta, chicken, bananas, ham, tilapia.

I swallowed.

£10.25.

Too much.

The realization made my stomach churn.

I reached into my coat pockets first, fingers blindly searching for anything—anything—that might push me over the limit. I patted down my jeans next, then dug into my purse, moving through the worn fabric with urgency.

Nothing.

No loose coins, no hidden extras.

My chest tightened as heat crawled up the back of my neck.

I hated this.

I hated this feeling.

Just as I was about to resign myself to putting something back, I caught movement from the corner of my eye.

"Here."

I turned, and my stomach dropped.

Ollie stood there, holding out a few coins in his palm.

I froze.

My jaw clenched as something hot and uncomfortable curled inside me.

"I don’t want your charity," I muttered, voice quieter than I intended but sharp nonetheless.

His brows lifted slightly, taken aback, but only for a second. Then, something in his face shifted—not into pity (thank God, because I could not handle pity), but something softer. Something… understanding.

"It’s not charity," he said, tilting his head slightly. "It’s called being a decent person. I know, shocking concept."

I wanted to scoff. I wanted to roll my eyes, to shake him off and prove that I was fine—that I could handle this, like I always did.

But my fingers twitched.

The idea of putting something back made my stomach turn.

Ollie must’ve seen the hesitation on my face because his smirk came back, this time more playful than smug.

"Alright, look," he started, shifting slightly on his feet. "If it makes you feel better, think of it as an investment. One day, when you’re rich and famous from your ridiculous romance novels, you can pay me back with interest."*

My head snapped up.

"I don’t write romance novels."

"Mhm." He grinned like he knew something I didn’t. "Sure you don’t."

I hated how fast my face heated up.

I glanced at his hand again, at the coins, at the easy way he held them out—like it wasn’t a big deal.

Like it wasn’t humiliating.

My jaw tightened. My pride screamed at me to refuse.

But I also wasn’t about to let my stomach growl all night over a stupid fifty pence.

I grabbed the coins before I could overthink it, shoving them into my pocket so fast it was like I had been burned.

"This doesn’t mean we’re friends," I muttered.

Ollie’s grin stretched.

"Oh, obviously." His voice was all lighthearted amusement. "But if it did, I’d be your favorite friend, wouldn’t I?"

I rolled my eyes so hard it hurt.

He laughed, stepping back, rocking slightly on his heels like he had won something.

And—against my better judgment—my lips twitched. Just a little. Barely there.

But I refused to let him see it.

I tucked the coins into my pocket, exhaling through my nose as if that would somehow steady the weird, jittery feeling curling in my stomach. It’s just some change. Nothing more. Get over it.

Ollie, however, did not get over it.

"So," he started, still grinning like he had all the time in the world. "Now that you’re officially in my debt—"

I whipped my head toward him. "I am not in your debt."

"Sure you are," he said breezily. "Fifty pence is no small sum, Morgan. That’s, like—"

"Not even worth one of your fancy coffees," I muttered, grabbing another can from the shelf, trying to focus on the numbers in my head instead of him.

"Exactly," he said, as if I had just made his point for him. "Which means you owe me, and since you seem so set against paying me back financially, I’ll settle for information instead."

I gave him a look. "Information?"

"Yep." He leaned against the shelf again, arms crossed, eyes sharp with mischief. "Who is Morgan Chapman?"

I blinked.

My fingers tensed slightly against the can in my hand.

"I—what?"

"You heard me," he said, tilting his head slightly. "You’re a mystery, and I like solving mysteries."

I rolled my eyes. "Oh, come on. There’s nothing mysterious about me."

"Mhm."

"Stop making that noise."

"What noise?"

"That—" I waved vaguely. "That smug little noise."

"Ah, that one." His grin widened.

I exhaled sharply, very close to just leaving my basket and walking out of the store altogether.

"Why are you like this?" I muttered, my voice half exasperation, half genuine confusion. "Why are you bothering me?"

Ollie just shrugged.

"Because."

That was it. No reason. No explanation. Just a simple, infuriating, because.

I stared at him.

"You are—" I stopped myself before I could say something rude and instead reached for another item, willing my face to not heat up. "—ugh."

"See! You have nothing to say!" he quipped back cheekily.

"Because you won’t leave me alone," I shot back.

"True," he admitted, completely unapologetic.

I pressed my lips together, shaking my head as I focused back on my shopping. I was not going to entertain whatever this was.

As Mrs. Tillet said (also can't believe I would fucking reference that goddamnned wench but here we are), pure hogwash. Learn to ignore the silly stuff.

"So, how long have you lived here?" he asked, switching tactics.

"My whole life."

"Huh. Must be nice, knowing everyone."

I let out a soft, dry laugh. "Not really."

"Really?" He raised an eyebrow. "Because I just got here, and I’m having a great time."

I shot him a look. "That’s because you don’t know any better yet."

"Ouch." He pressed a hand to his chest like I had personally wounded him. "What makes you think I won’t love it here?"

"Because it’s Stockbridge," I said flatly, shoving a bag of rice into my basket.

Ollie laughed. "Alright, fair point. But I don’t really have a choice."

"What do you mean?"

His grin wavered slightly—not disappearing, but softening. He glanced away for a second, running a hand through his hair.

"My parents split up," he said after a beat. "A couple months ago. It was messy. Too much arguing. So my Mum sent me here to live with my aunt until I turn twenty and can get my own place."

I blinked.

"Oh," I said quietly.

I didn’t know what else to say.

I knew what divorce looked like from the outside, but I had never been close enough to it to understand it. And hearing him say it so casually, like it was just another fact, made something in my chest twinge.

Ollie must have noticed my discomfort because, within seconds, he bounced back, his smirk returning like he had flipped some internal switch.

"So now, I get to spend my days working at this fine establishment, helping lovely customers such as yourself."

I arched an eyebrow. "You mean your aunt’s store."

"Yep."

"Wait—your aunt?"

"Aunt Sarah," he confirmed.

I blinked again.

"Sarah Davies?"

"The very same."

That made way too much sense.

Mrs. Davies—his Aunt Sarah—had always been the type to hover behind the counter, keeping an eye on customers like she was waiting for them to try something. She was sharp, observant, no-nonsense, but I could see it now—the similar curve of their noses, the way their eyes flickered with humor when they spoke.

I scolded myself for noticing that much about him.

"Huh," I muttered. "That actually explains a lot."

"What, my natural charm and work ethic?"

"More like your ability to slack off and still have a job."

"Hey," he said, feigning offense. "I stock things. Occasionally. When I feel like it."

I shook my head, turning back to my basket.

"Alright, then," I said, shifting topics. "What do you want to do after this? After you turn twenty and don’t have to work for your aunt anymore?"

Ollie brightened. "I want to build cars."

That caught me off guard.

"Like—" I tilted my head. "Fixing them? Or—?"

"No, like, engineering them. Designing them. I love how they work, how everything fits together, how every part has a purpose. It’s like—" he gestured wildly with his hands, "—a massive puzzle, except the puzzle can go 200 miles per hour if you do it right."

I blinked at the sudden energy shift.

"Oh."

"Oh?" He looked almost offended. "Morgan, cars are incredible. They’re a mix of art and engineering and physics all in one. Have you ever actually looked under the hood of a car? It’s brilliant. The way the pistons fire, the way the cooling system regulates everything—it’s like clockwork but a thousand times more complex."

I stared at him.

"I don’t know how to drive."

"That is devastating information."

"Well, excuse me for not having a car lying around."

Ollie gasped dramatically. "How do you even get around for long distances?"

I shot him a look. "I walk."

His face twisted like I had just told him I fought wild animals for sport. "You walk?"

"Or I take the bus," I added, grabbing a tin of beans from the shelf.

Ollie blinked, processing. "That’s… tragic."

I rolled my eyes. "It’s called public transport, Oliver. Most people use it."

"Yeah, and most people hate it." He paused, shifting on his feet, a spark of thought flickering across his face. Then, suddenly, he perked up. "Oh! I actually found something the other day."

I glanced at him warily. "That’s never a good way to start a sentence."

"No, no, hear me out." His voice dipped into something conspiratorial, and I immediately regretted engaging. "So, there’s this old junkyard, right? Just outside of town. It’s filled with tons of abandoned cars. Some of them are still in decent shape."

I blinked. "And?"

His grin stretched. "And we should go."

I stared at him like he had just grown a second head. "Go where?"

"To the junkyard!" He gestured wildly, like this was obvious. "Think about it! A midnight adventure, surrounded by forgotten machines, peeling paint, and cracked windshields—like walking through history! And if—hypothetically—we manage to find one that still works…" He wiggled his eyebrows.

My stomach dropped. "Oh, absolutely not."

"C’mon," he pressed. "Just picture it. The two of us, sneaking out in the dead of night, dodging security guards, hotwiring some old car—"

"I'm going to be so honest, I don't think this little town has security guards," I cut in.

"—peeling out onto the open road, wind in our hair, not a single care in the world—"

"Oliver."

"—a total Bonnie and Clyde moment, but without the murder, obviously—"

I shot him a sharp glare. "Do you hear yourself right now?"

He only grinned wider. "Morgan, this could be the plot for your next novel! Two enemies forced together by fate—"

I groaned, gripping my basket tighter.

"—an old car, a midnight escape, forbidden tension—"

I gave him a look.

He snapped his fingers. "Call it Driven by Desire. You should pen this idea down right this instant Morgan. I've given you a millionaire man's idea!" He threw his hands up, voice increasing in decibel by the second.

I stared at him, deadpan. "I hate you."

"You don’t," he said smoothly. "But it’s okay, take your time realizing it."

I let out a slow, long exhale. "There is no way I’m sneaking into a junkyard with you in the middle of the night."

Ollie clasped his hands together like he was in prayer. "Morgan. Morgan. Think about the narrative. Think about the adventure."

I shook my head, shifting my basket. "Not happening."

"Eleven-thirty," he said as if I hadn’t spoken, his voice dropping to a hushed tone, full of exaggerated secrecy. "Back gate of the old scrapyard, just off Holloway Road. You can’t miss it—big, ugly rusted sign, looks like it’s been there since the Holy Roman Empire, which by the way, was neither holy, nor Roman, nor an empire, which quite frankly, is odd," He trailed off, lost in thought. Regaining his senses, he continued to speak, "Meet me there."

I squinted at him. "You are seriously asking me to meet you at some abandoned lot at night."

"Yes," he said, sliding closer. Before I could react, he deftly slipped a piece of paper into my basket, right between a can of tomatoes and a bag of rice.

I stared at it like it had personally offended me.

"Did you just—"

"Consider it an invitation," he cut in smoothly.

I picked up the crumpled scrap of receipt paper, unimpressed. "You wrote it down?"

He grinned. "Didn’t want you to forget."

I groaned, stuffing the paper into my coat pocket without looking at it. "You are actually the most ridiculous person I’ve ever met."

"Uh huh, sure," He rolled his eyes.

"My life was never this messy and chaotic before I met you," I said.

"Silly, silly, Morgan. You never even had a life before you met me, that's why," He let out a huge grin.

"Oh you bastard," The corners of my lips were inching up in a smile.

"You are showing up Morgan, I hypnotize you," He waved his hands in front of my face in a silly motion. His slender pale fingers waving in front of my face so closely, I could see the individual calluses on his hands.

A boy of hard work.

I scoffed. "You think I’m actually showing up?"

"Absolutely," he said, no hesitation.

I huffed, shaking my head, determined to ignore him as I made my way toward the checkout.

But three hours later, standing in my bedroom, staring at that stupid crumpled receipt, I realized—

I was going.

─────────────────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───────────────────

taglist: @thatsnotaddy @schumacherluvr

author's note: this chapter was originally 22K words but then tumblr said i exceeded the number of line blocks (it apparently is 1000 lines and i had 2552 lines 😭 i didn't realize how many lines dialogue actually takes up) let me know what you enjoyed about this fic and any pieces feedback if you have any :) anyways, comment to be added to the taglist!

[hurtghul]

ㅤⓘㅤCORRECTING ERRORS.

⩇⩇ 🗼 ▍ FRIENDLY RELATIONSHIP. WARNINGS? MILD INSULTS. READER'S GENDER: NEUTRAL. ¡ 1692 WORDS ! SPANISH VERSION HERE.

ⓘ ¡Damian is the type of friend who is honest and gives you sensible advice!

ⓘ He will always tell you when you're wrong… although he may not be the best when it comes to providing emotional support!

ⓘ He won't sugarcoat anything: he is direct and tough if necessary!

notes: SORRY FOR MY BAD ENGLISH.

If there's one thing you've learned about Damian, it's that he never stays silent, especially when he sees someone close to him veering off the wrong path. Whether it's for minor or insurmountable issues, he refuses to stand idly by without intervening on their behalf.

He's not someone who beats around the bush, and his frankness often (or rather, always) leaves you breathless, and you don't even know why… But it's probably because his penetrating gaze never wavers from yours.

And no matter how hard you try, you couldn't hold his gaze, so pure and burning green. Behind his carefully composed features, you could sense how he expressed his contempt with every prolonged silence. His clenched fists betrayed the tension he barely managed to contain, as if he wished to strike you so you could finally understand.

"You're being a pathetic idiot" are the first words that escape his lips, launching directly at you, and you can't help but feel as if he punched you in the stomach with every syllable dripping with disdain and disappointment, each statement striking your senses already battered by your own thoughts.

While he may be your best friend, his words didn't seek to comfort you in the slightest; his touch didn't promise the solace you were looking for. He hadn't come to heal your wounds but to tear off the poisoned bandage you thought would cover them.

Forget the notion that best friends treat each other nicely, with love and tenderness. For him, friendship wasn't a bed of roses to seek refuge from pain.

His devotion to you wasn't expressed through caresses or pretty phrases. It was his fists that would push if necessary to pull you out of the mess you were sinking into, and with a sword in hand if needed, due to your stubborn way of acting.

There was no room for subtlety when it came to saving what he considered to be his. He wouldn't even allow you to take shelter in the embrace of sorrow, to take root in the muddy ground of the very people who left you in such a state. He would uproot you, like removing a cancerous growth, even if the process was as brutal as a surgical amputation.

He would never allow you to succumb to your own pain. He only wanted to help you, even if he wasn't the right person for it.

With your face red with humiliation, you try to defend yourself, babbling excuses that sound increasingly feeble to your own ears. You wanted to articulate a defense, to provide an explanation that would appease his anger… but the truth is, you had no words. Your barely uttered excuses sound weaker and weaker to your own ears. His truths had cut you open, exposing your most intimate miseries.

You felt naked and defenseless under his presence, so overwhelming that it seemed to drain the oxygen from your lungs with every breath. The solidity of his posture, so upright and unyielding, made your fragile structure tremble. In his presence, you felt tiny and insignificant, an insect tossed about by the currents of your own misguided self-disdain. How could you stand under the crushing weight of such a presence, which paled your will with the ease of a fading light? Everything about him seemed designed to diminish and break you, leaving you on the edge of the precipice.

Who could avoid feeling this way when Damian's gaze remains unwavering, his furrowed brow indicating that he won't be deceived by your cheap justifications?

"Why can't you see that you're sinking?" he interrupts you before you can speak again, his tone already irritable, cutting through the heavy air that has accumulated in the room. "I know you're better than this."

His hand reaches out to your face, gently holding your chin to force you to lift your gaze, to face him.

"You have to stop," he insists, his voice now soft, lowering in volume, and that hurts even more than his previous harsh criticisms. "You can't go on like this."

"I'm not the one who is wrong," you deny, "I'm not…"

Damian lowered his hand, gripping your shoulder with more assurance. He's aware that he has been aggressive in the past, so now, with relaxed nerves, he tries to show you that he's not your enemy; he's your friend, doing what needs to be done.

"You are," he shakes his head in resignation, watching as you barely acknowledge his words with a devastating expression. "Hey, don't start with that."

That was the damn expression you had on your face every time you felt bad about something, guilty like a puppy hiding its tail between its legs.

"I don't hate you for that," he immediately continues, "but I can't see you doing… this. I can't let you keep lying to yourself."

You slump on the edge of the room's sofa, using it as a way to ignore the discomfort of the lesser hero's influence over you. But he doesn't stay behind for a second, sighing and sitting by your side.

You can still feel him next to you, and it suffocates you, but it's comforting at the same time. It's the knowledge that he's present, that he's not leaving you hanging.

"Do you understand me?"

You take a minute, or maybe ten, taking deep breaths and assimilating his words. Your mind is a whirlwind of conflicting emotions, doubts, and criticisms that threaten to bring on a migraine for which you won't be grateful at all.

And he remains there, squinting his green orbs, searching for any trace of understanding in you.

"I know," you whisper, with a dry throat and a hitched breath. Your heart races, trying to make its way to acceptance, but you can barely manage it.

"You know?" His smile is that of someone who has accomplished their goal, the smile of a man who has broken through the wall of your pride and now appears satisfied.

You hunch over a little more, allowing yourself to fully feel the humiliation in which your friend has exposed you. You settle in, back against the cushion, hands gripping your knees, gaze fixed on the emptiness of the well-maintained wooden floor.

The only thing Damian thinks is best to alleviate the situation is to put his arm around your shoulders. Not in a comforting gesture, but in a supportive squeeze. It's his way of showing you that you're not alone, that you notice it, that you feel it.

"We're going to fix this," his jaw tightens, and you can feel the pressure of his arm growing.

"How?" you stammer, gripping the surface of the sofa. You don't know where to go, what to think, or what to feel.

"By starting with owning up to your mistakes," his firm tone leaves no room for discussion. "And by acknowledging that you're not alone."

His eyes open slightly, never leaving your sight, fixed on every one of your movements: the twitch of your fingers, how your eyes dart from side to side to avoid it, or even how you purse your lips to hold back any impulsive words.

"I'm here," he reminds you, and his smile, now, is kind. "And I won't leave you."

You allow yourself to release a deep and shaky sigh. Your mind is a chaos of emotions seeking an escape, but he doesn't allow it with his hand lightly squeezing your shoulder, causing you to start accepting what you're hearing.

"But I'm not going to be your mother or your diaper-changing nanny," he raises an eyebrow in disdain. "You have to be the one to make the decision."

He turns you to face him directly on the sofa, his hands delicately moving on your arms, refusing to let go of you for the moment.

"Why are you so tough?" you complain, catching his attention and causing his lips to curve into a mocking smile.

"Because if I'm not, who else will be?" he responds, maintaining his layer of seriousness. "I don't think your neighbor will point out how messed up you are down to your neurons."

"Do you think I don't know that I'm damn messed up?"

"You know?" he says, barely flinching. "Then go fix it."

Your fists tighten and loosen in an endless cycle of frustration and anxiety that consumes you inch by inch.

"I can't."

"Why not?" his questioning, despite sounding like one, is not an attack but rather a push for you to examine your own fears and excuses.

"Because…" your mouth dries up, your breath halts in your throat.

"Because…?"

You get caught in an uncomfortable silence, the walls of the room feel tight, and the weight of your mistakes accumulates in your chest.

Your friend, the one who fears no truth, the one who doesn't allow life to slide by you without leaving marks, stares at you intently, still waiting for your response.

"Why can't you?" his persistence continues.

You take a moment, sighing, trying to articulate the reasons that remain silent on your lips. Your gaze drifts, searching for answers in the emptiness surrounding you.

"Because you're afraid," Damian finishes the sentence, with the certainty of someone who has already fought the monster that now torments you. "Because you believe you don't deserve to be happy without it."

Reluctantly, you nod in response to his harsh words, wishing deep down to dismiss them as incorrect despite their accuracy.

Damian knows it, and that's why his smile widens, displaying that damn smile he always wears when he's got you figured out. But it's not a cruel smile like in most of his victories; it's the smile of someone who knows you're making progress.

"I'm here for you, remember that, you hollow-headed fool. So don't you dare whine any longer about that stupidity."

That's just how he is. His tough, and sometimes even hostile, way of speaking is his peculiar way of showing you that he cares, that his honesty isn't a weapon to hurt you but a way to help you see yourself from a different perspective.

He has his own way of expressing his friendship and concern for you. It's that same affection from someone who isn't afraid to burn you with their truth if it means rescuing you from the clutches of your worst enemy: yourself.

Did you know that for that reason, and only for that reason, Damian would always be ready to pull you out of there because, in his own way, he cared about your well-being.

[crimson-kisses]

Yandere Allies and Axis with a nymph darling that doesn't wanna be with them. Because anyone that the Gods have been with that isn't a God as well has ended in tragedy, something the darling is trying their absolute best to avoid so they don't meet an early demise. So as soon as the darling has found out that they are the Apple to not only one but multiple gods eyes, they ghosted all them. It was like they never existed. However the darling's sisters does know where she's hiding...........

Do what you will with this. ( Gods AU )

Ah yes, my long forgotten abandoned au ;-; I tried to keep this rather simple and short! I like the tragic undertones this ask has 🐝✨

Warning: contains usual yandere themes, toxic relationships and violence.

Fleeting wings

The evidence of it all remained etched on the walls, arts hidden in cave paintings and harsh whispered tales in the dark recounting and retelling the warnings.

The beings were aware of the tragic history that had occurred and unfolded before them, most carried the resilience of their broken ancestors, determined to survive against all odds.

Your mother had been one of them, a being born from the marrows of nature itself, she reminded you of the unfortunate women who gripped the hearts of the deities’ only to end up in a tragedy that wrote the end of them.

And so, you had always threaded carefully when it came to love- the most powerful, corrupted thing which once shattered entire worlds.

It was a solemn warning, when an old cherry tree, rooted atop the ancient mountains had beckoned you closer with it’s thorny branches, entangling in your dress. Hundreds of whispers echoed in your mind as it told you of the events that were bound to repeat if the deities’ so willed if they didn’t get their hands on their beloved sooner.

Their beloved being a lovely maiden, born from the very essence of untamed nature.

That maiden was you, a nymph.

After realizing the horrifying fate that could befall after their corrupted sense of love poisoned their divinity, the only thing that could help you or even delay the horrifying outcome was for you to conceal yourself into the depth of the fragile earth.

Following the long faded away paths of your ancestors, deep down into the abyssal caverns, you had found solace and refuge.

Months had passed, when not even the sunlight had the privilege of kissing your skin with its warm rays, and the wind had to squeeze in through the cracks as you lay in a slumber with the nature curling itself around you, moss covering your entirety and roots cradling your body as a womb of a woman protecting a child.

Unbeknownst to you, the world shifted and groaned, while the winds howled relentlessly and clouds descended, unleashing a torrent of icy hailstones upon the land.

On what appeared to be a tranquil morning, the deities withdrew their feeble mercy and fragile loyalty.

A gentle curl of foam unfurled, its seams unraveling, and soon it overflowed, submerging the islands under its weight.

Inhabitants desperately sought higher ground, mothers cradling their sobbing infants, sons and daughters salvaging remnants of their homes, and fathers striving to protect and guide their loved ones to safety, though their efforts seemed futile.

Sooner or later, things turned sour.

A foreboding realization gripped the hearts of some, understanding that this calamity would escalate to an unimaginable extent. The echoes of their ancestors' experiences were about to resurface, and no one possessed the strength to appease the ferocity of the deities' unleashed wrath. The very structure of the worlds trembled under the weight of their fury, threatening to shatter the boundaries that held everything together.

With a mere curl of their fingers, the sisters, torn from their deeply rooted abodes, were forcefully brought before the imposing throne of the deities. None dared to defy their commands, for chaos ravaged the worlds, teetering on the brink of unleashing something tremendous and catastrophic.

"Speak, for we demand your answers,"

A deep grumble reverberates through the chamber, while gentle droplets of dew caress the roots of the sisters, nurturing their well-being. The deity presiding over the fourteen oceans, the overseer of every movement of the water, fixes them with a stern gaze, awaiting their response.

"We shall not forsake our inherent nature, our lineage, or the vows we have made. Do as you will to punish us, but we implore you, if your divinity is true, grant us mercy," the sisters speak with unwavering determination, remaining steadfast in their convictions.

A heavy silence descends upon the room, mirroring the intense tension and seething wrath that soak through the atmosphere. The skies above darken, as if reflecting the turmoil reaching its breaking point.

A mirror materializes, its surface transforming into a silver portal that shimmers with an ethereal glow. As the portal opens, writhing green flames dance and flicker within, creating a mesmerizing spiral that beckons with an otherworldly allure.

"We shall bestow mercy!" a smooth voice exclaims, resonating with an uncanny clarity.

Chaotic visions envelop the room, casting a hazy, disorienting hue that distorts reality. Horrifying and incomprehensible images swirl around the sisters, accompanied by series of unsettling sounds.

The deity, his figure is surrounded by the flickering green flames, same glow as his eyes, the flames unleash a thunderous roar filled with hunger and echoes the agonized screams of the unfortunate. The atmosphere becomes suffused with terror and despair.

But of course, he wasn’t the only visitor.

Suddenly, amidst the shadows shrouding the room, another dreadful figure emerges, emanating an oppressive presence that drains the very essence of the sisters.

Overwhelmed by the malevolent presences, the sisters stagger, their bodies weakened, as if being crushed beneath an invisible force. They feel trapped, as if buried deep within the earth itself.

The terrifying figure wears skeletal armor that glistens ominously in the sunlight, exuding an aura of darkness and ink-like malevolence. Burning red eyes and searing green eyes fix upon the sisters, both feigning interest while concealing a deep-seated disdain.

"Death is often the pathway towards mercy," the other figure declares, his voice laced with a chilling resonance.

"And even after that, mercy is not always guaranteed in my domain".

The sisters huddle closer together, their trembling bodies consumed by an overwhelming fear that courses through their veins.

A brief moment passes, air heavy with anticipation.

The figure of the deity of Wisdom and Wealth rises from his throne, moving with a measured calmness toward the center of the room, standing before the sisters.

He offers a gentle smile, though it fails to reach his vacant eyes. Slowly, he begins to speak in a voice dripping with honeyed richness.

"Our mercy shall be our forgiveness", he utters, each word laced with authority and concealed threat.

"Speak, unless you wish to endure eternal suffering. Your loyalty is admirable but misguided in the eyes of us deities. Do not test our patience, for our wrath knows no bounds."

No other deity stirs or makes any demands. The room is enveloped in an eerie stillness, as if time itself has come to a stop, casting a frozen stupor over the surroundings.

Silence reigns supreme, leaving everyone in a suspended state of uncertainty.

The sisters gasp for breath, their chests heaving with fear. Is this their end?

Will they suffer mercilessly and face a fate devoid of peace, even after death?

Uncertainty grips their hearts, as they ponder the grim fate that looms before them.

The silence is soon broken, when the king of the deities gives off an amused smile, sky eyes glinting with a newfound excitement.

𖣊𖡛𖣥𖡗𑗋𖣙𖥟𖢅𖢌𖥠

You supposed the elderly forces had exerted all they could, using their waning strength to shield and protect you, but their ancient power could no longer unleash its full potential.

Within the depths of your enclosed casket, a steady flow of essence awakens you from your deep slumber. Weakened vines and branches still try to hold you protectively, cradling your form.

A towering figure, adorned in gleaming metallic armor and wielding mighty weapons, enters the cavern. With a single swipe of his resplendent sword, he shatters the feeble attempts of the cavern to shield you.

The deity of War and Vengeance.

His helmet conceals most of his visage, revealing only a pair of glowing violet eyes fixed upon your captivating figure. Swiftly, the deity tears away the remaining vines and branches, careful not to cause you harm.

You knew deep down that this moment was inevitable. The ancient times did not truly capture the full extent of reality. Those days were long gone, as the world order had changed since those bygone eras.

It was different now. Their attention, once scattered among their own darlings and the allure of their beautiful women, was solely focused on you. It wouldn't have taken much longer for them to claim their beloved treasure. The powers that had thrived in ancient times could not withstand their might, or perhaps they chose not to.

Above you, the air opened up like a celestial maw, its glimmering teeth of stars welcoming you to your tragic fate.

[mournedme]

hey , look at me -- it's not real . it's not real . ( alice @ brian )

The dilemma with remembering is that it comes with all the residual feelings that he's done his work to flush out of his system. It has always been easier to rise above the pain, to use it as fuel for his own sick fantasies. With trauma, it either makes you stronger, or turns you into some sick, nihilistic animal. He's unsure of where he follows, although the path seems to be rather clear.

It is daunting - the remembering. The sticky feeling of his mother's blood latched to his skin - the smell that permeates into his flesh. His throat is dry, his head hollowed with a feeling of no longer feeling real. Alice has seen him at his worst, just like this, one too many times. It is a weakening feeling that rots at his stomach. Brian was many things. Weak was not one of them.

A heaving in his chest that persists without any hint of ceasing. It isn't until she speaks that he feels the light at the end of it all. Instinctively, a hand reaches out. Lengthy digits wrapped around the expanse of her feeble wrists. He forgets just how fragile she feels beneath his brute touch. A heavy breath taken, his gaze settling upon her. A beat of silence that lingers, eerie & heavy. An unpredictability that ticks away like a bomb. This vulnerability he finds with her is almost nauseating. It was never supposed to be this way.

He cannot manage much. Very little could be said. "Thank you," spoken just above a whisper.

[sing-faithful-sing]

"The Heroes"

What makes a hero?

Where is the chart

that maps out a person

and unearths their heart?

Some heroes are friendly

and noble and good

they know what to say

and they do what they should

Their admirers are many

Their critics are few

And when there is a problem

they know what to do

They save every day

With their courage and might

And leave people feeling

more hopeful, and light

Their hearts beat so loud

That everyone knows

Yes, this is a hero

This is how the story goes

But what of the heroes

who don’t shine as bright?

What makes up the heroes

who don’t seem quite right?

Some heroes are fragile,

they’re feeble, and weak

Some heroes are shy

and don’t know how to speak

Some heroes are cocky,

and proud as can be

Some heroes are wild,

untamed and carefree

Some heroes are angry,

they’re harsh and they’re mean

Some heroes have hands

that are so far from clean

Some heroes are damaged

and tired, and sore

And some heroes don’t want

to fight anymore

What makes these heroes?

When really, it seems

like these, and the others

are different extremes?

Their hearts are still good,

so then why do they hide?

Why do these heroes

get wrapped up inside?

Well, some of them don’t

have the power to choose

the fights they would like

or the weapons they use

Some of them can’t fight

the power of fate

Some of them got there

a little too late

Some didn’t stop

to consider the cost

Some gave too much

and have already lost

Most of them can’t find

a place to belong

Most barely have

enough strength to go on

So maybe their one-liners

aren’t always too slick

But if you hurt their loved ones,

they'll come for you quick

The weak appear strong

and the shy become loud

The wild become fierce,

the fragile stand unbowed

The harsh become soft

and the guilty atone

No one said mistakes

must be set in stone

They’ll take any punishment,

suffer and bleed

They all rise up fighting

when there is a need

For these are the heroes

who do what they can

whether human, or otherwise,

child, or man.

They go on long journeys

though they don’t know the way

And fail in their quests

at the end of the day

They fall to false justice,

yet kindle the spark

They follow the narrow road

into the dark

They fight for their families

whatever they do

They fight for their people, their friends

And for you

For you who can’t do

what you think that you should

For you who would fight back

if only you could

For you who have bodies

that are broken and lame

For you who have minds

that are lost and in pain

For you who they see, and say

“Look at that freak!”

For you who they don’t think

Is worthy to speak

For those who can’t do things

the way the world says

These heroes stand tall

and they throw back their heads

Saying “See what I’ve made here

the good I have done,

the tyrants I’ve fought

and the battles I’ve won”

“Despite what I’ve lost

and despite what I lack,

my actions still matter

and I’ve never turned back”

“Regardless of weakness or

sin or of shame

My efforts still counted,

my value’s the same”

“As all of the heroes

the world loves to praise

who fight the good fight

in their typical ways”

“Our paths look so diff’rent

from those the world lauds.

They’re harsh, and they’re long

and have so many odds”

“But if I can walk down it

And come out having won

Then I’m sure you can too

Before your story’s done”

So those are the heroes

That don’t look the same

as those who win praises,

win fortune, and fame

They’ve beat all the odds

And come out with a song

Their hearts saw so much

And emerged twice as strong

They’re some of the ones

and I’m sure you’ll agree

That you see the most in you

I see them in me

I see them before us

on that dark, narrow trail

Guiding us, helping us

tell our own tale

For the ones who are different

Those who aren’t quite right

These heroes go before us

And bathe us in their light

The world sees those lights shine

And finally, it knows

WE are those heroes

That’s how our story goes

DO NOT REPOST

[yuki4amano]

Timeless love. Chapter 4: Shadows of Deceit

Izuku stood before Yuki, his mind raced with doubts and uncertainties. Why had he given her that note? What had possessed him to ask her to meet him after school? And what on earth was he going to say to her now?

He berated himself for his impulsive actions, wishing he could turn back time and undo the mess he had created. But it was too late for regrets now. His only option was to directly confront the consequences of his decisions.

Yuki's presence before him only intensified his internal turmoil. She looked nervous, her eyes darting around as if searching for an escape route. He could sense her apprehension mirroring his own.

"Hey, Midoriya," she managed to say, her voice tinged with uncertainty. "You wanted to talk?"

Izuku nodded, his expression carefully neutral. "Yeah. There's something I need to tell you."

He took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. Instead of confessing his feelings, however, he found himself veering off course, fabricating a lie on the spot.

"I… I wanted to ask for your help," he began, his words stumbling over each other in his haste. "I want to befriend Shinso, but I'm not sure how to approach him. I thought maybe you could give me some advice?"

It was a feeble excuse, he knew, but it was the best he could come up with on such short notice. He hoped Yuki wouldn't see through his deception, and realize the true reason behind his request.

To his relief, Yuki released a sigh of relief, her tense shoulders relaxing slightly. "Oh, um, sure," she replied, her voice softening with a hint of uncertainty. "I'm not good at these kinds of things, but I'll do my best to help you."

Izuku nodded, a sense of relief flooding through him. His plan seemed to be working, at least for now. He would use Shinso as his excuse to get closer to Yuki, to bridge the gap between them and hopefully earn her trust.

While leaving the classroom together, Izuku was plagued by the unshakeable sensation of guilt gnawing at his conscience. He knew he was deceiving Yuki, manipulating her for his own selfish reasons. But he told himself it was necessary, that it was the only way he could protect her from the truth of his feelings.

Deep down, however, he couldn't help but wonder if he was doing the right thing. Would his lies only serve to push Yuki further away, to erode whatever fragile connection they had begun to build? Or would they pave the way for something more, something real and genuine?

As they walked side by side down the empty hallway, Izuku knew one thing for certain: his path was fraught with uncertainty, his heart torn between love and deception. But he was determined to see it through, to navigate the twists and turns of fate until he reached the truth, whatever it may be.

Before parting ways, Izuku took a deep breath, steeling himself for what was to come. He turned to Yuki, his expression carefully neutral, hiding the turmoil of emotions raging within him.

"Um, Yuki," he began, his voice slightly hesitant. "I was thinking, since we're going to be spending more time together and Shinso is someone I've been wanting to get to know better, it might be helpful if we could stay in touch. You know, in case we need to coordinate or anything."

Yuki's brow furrowed in confusion, but she nodded slowly, sensing the sincerity in Izuku's words. "Sure, that makes sense," she replied, reaching into her pocket to retrieve her phone.

Izuku's heart pounded in his chest as he watched her, his nerves on edge as he waited for her response. With a small smile, Yuki handed him her phone, already opened to the contacts page.

Taking a deep breath to steady himself, Izuku entered his phone number into Yuki's device, his fingers moving with practiced precision despite the trembling in his hands. He couldn't help but feel a rush of anticipation as he completed the task, knowing that this simple exchange held the potential to change everything.

Once he was finished, Izuku handed Yuki back her phone, their fingers brushing briefly in the exchange. "There you go," he said, his voice tinged with a hint of nervousness. "Now we can stay in touch." Yuki nodded in acknowledgment.

As they parted ways, Izuku couldn't shake the feeling of apprehension that lingered in the air. But deep down, he knew that this was just the beginning of a journey that would take them both to places they never imagined. And with Yuki's phone number safely stored in his device, he felt a glimmer of hope amidst the uncertainty of the path ahead.

As midnight descended upon the city, Izuku transformed into his alter ego, the vigilante known as Phoenix. With purposeful strides, he navigated the shadowed streets, his senses alert for any signs of trouble.

As he patrolled, he encountered various crimes in progress—robberies, assaults, and acts of vandalism. With swift and decisive action, he intervened, using his quirk and combat skills to subdue the perpetrators and protect the innocent.

As Izuku continued his patrol through the city streets, his senses alert and his mind focused, he couldn't shake the feeling of unease that had settled over him since his encounter with Yuki earlier that day. The weight of their impending conversation hung heavy on his shoulders, but for now, duty called, and he pushed aside his personal concerns to focus on the task at hand.

Midnight cast long shadows across the deserted streets, broken only by the dim glow of streetlights and the occasional flicker of neon signs. With each step, Izuku felt the weight of responsibility settle upon him, a constant reminder of the role he had chosen to play in the city's never-ending battle against crime.

As he rounded a corner, his keen eyes caught sight of a familiar figure engaged in a fierce battle with another masked individual. Instinctively, Izuku moved closer, his footsteps silent as he approached the scene.

It was Earsearhead, his class teacher, engaged in a fierce battle with Nocturne, the alter ego of his friend Shinso Hitoshi. A surge of adrenaline coursed through Izuku's veins as he watched the clash unfold, his mind racing to make sense of the situation.

Instantly recognizing the danger of the situation, Izuku moved closer, his footsteps silent as he approached the scene.

Nocturne fought valiantly against Eraserhead, but Izuku knew that his friend lacked the experience to match their teacher's skill. With a heavy heart, Izuku understood that Nocturne stood little chance of winning this encounter alone.

Determined to assist his friend without escalating the conflict, Izuku intervened, not to engage Eraserhead in combat, but to create an opportunity for Nocturne to escape. His movements were calculated and precise as he positioned himself strategically, his focus solely on ensuring his friend's safety.

As the battle raged on, Izuku waited for the opportune moment to act. When the chance presented itself, he sprang into action, using his agility and Quirk to distract Eraserhead and create an opening for Nocturne to slip away.

With a swift nod of acknowledgment, Nocturne seized the opportunity and made his escape, disappearing into the shadows as Izuku held Eraserhead's attention.

Alone now with their teacher, Izuku knew that direct confrontation was not the answer. Instead, he focused on evasion and evasion alone, using his agility and Quirk to stay one step ahead of Eraserhead's attacks.

Despite the tension in the air, Izuku remained calm and composed, his mind racing as he searched for a way to de-escalate the situation. He knew that victory was not their goal tonight; survival was.

As Nocturne vanished into the darkness, Izuku's senses heightened, his focus solely on evading Eraserhead's attempts to capture him. With each calculated movement, he dodged and weaved, his agility and reflexes pushed to their limits as he maneuvered through the narrow alleyway.

Eraserhead's binding cloth snapped through the air, narrowly missing Izuku with each swift motion. With precision born of desperation, Izuku danced around the makeshift weapon, his movements fluid and deliberate as he bought precious seconds, waiting for the opportune moment to make his escape.

With each passing moment, Izuku's heart pounded in his chest, the weight of the situation bearing down on him with unrelenting force. But he refused to succumb to fear, drawing upon his resolve and determination to see him through the ordeal.

As Eraserhead pressed his attack, Izuku seized a fleeting opening, a split-second window of opportunity. With a burst of speed, he darted past his opponent, his senses on high alert as he scanned the surroundings for any sign of Nocturne.

Spotting his friend disappearing into the distance, Izuku knew that now was his chance. With a silent vow etched in his heart, he propelled himself into the air, his Quirk propelling him upwards with incredible force.

As he soared through the night sky, the wind whipping past him, Izuku's thoughts raced with a mix of relief and determination. With Nocturne safely out of harm's way, he knew that his mission was a success, his actions ensuring the safety of his friend.

And so, with the city sprawled out beneath him and the stars twinkling overhead, Izuku disappeared into the shadows, leaving behind only the echo of his footsteps fading into the darkness. As he melted into the shadows, he knew that this encounter with Eraserhead was just one of many in the ongoing dance between hero and vigilante.

For Izuku, evading Eraserhead had become almost routine, a nightly ritual that tested his skills and resolve. With each escape, he honed his abilities, learning from his mistakes and adapting to the ever-present threat of capture.

As he moved through the city streets, Izuku's thoughts turned to the events that had led him to this point. The war against All For One, the loss of his beloved, and his journey back in time—all had shaped him into the vigilante known as Phoenix.

But amidst the chaos and uncertainty, one thing remained constant: his unwavering determination to protect the innocent and oppose those who sought to do harm. It was a mission that drove him forward, even in the face of overwhelming odds.

As he navigated the labyrinthine alleyways and dimly lit streets, Izuku remained ever vigilant, his senses attuned to the slightest hint of danger. Though the night held many dangers, he refused to falter, drawing strength from his resolve to make a difference in a world plagued by darkness.

With each step forward, Izuku braced himself for the challenges that lay ahead, knowing that the road to redemption would be long and fraught with obstacles. But he was willing to face whatever trials awaited him.

And so, with a silent vow etched in his heart, Izuku pressed on into the night, his path illuminated by the flickering glow of streetlights and the burning flame of hope that blazed within him. For in the darkness, he found purpose, and in the shadows, he found strength. And with every beat of his heart, he vowed to continue fighting, no matter the cost.

As Eraserhead watched Phoenix vanish into the night, a weary sigh escaped his lips. This was not the first time their paths had crossed, nor would it likely be the last. The vigilante's presence in the city had become an all too familiar occurrence, one that Eraserhead had grown accustomed to over time.

Though tempted to give chase, Eraserhead knew better than to pursue Phoenix further. Their encounters often ended in a stalemate, with the elusive vigilante slipping away before Eraserhead could apprehend him. It was a frustrating reality, but one that Eraserhead had learned to accept.

With a resigned shake of his head, Eraserhead turned his attention back to his patrol. There were still criminals to apprehend, citizens to protect, and a city to safeguard. Phoenix may have eluded him once again, but Eraserhead remained steadfast in his duty as a pro hero.

As he continued on his patrol, Eraserhead remained vigilant, ever watchful for any signs of trouble. Though Phoenix may have evaded capture for now, Eraserhead knew that their paths would inevitably cross again. And when they did, he would be ready.

For now, however, there were more pressing matters at hand. With a firm resolve, Eraserhead pressed on into the night, determined to uphold the peace and maintain order in a city teetering on the brink of chaos.

[honeybeewhereartthee]

MY DARLING DOLLS 49

PREVIOUS || PT9 CH49 || BACK

"hey can I ask you how you found that dimwit?" The visitor, Aice the owner of the house who's looking at his pond-- aobara Tojou

"Oh... do you mean that forgetful child?" Old tojou laughs as he realize who Aice was asking about.

"obviously." Aice rolled his eyes but then cross his arm when he remembers something.

"This place shouldn't have something like that, especially in this world." He rub his temple when he think about how complicated it seems.

"ou... Well it's been years ago but I'm very proud of my memories. That child is found by those little fluffs ya know~" he remembers that many of his fluffy buddies all tries to get his attention that day to point him in a danger zone on the area.

Where all the spooky stuff happens. He found you accompany by....... Isn't it one of the fluffy thing? Ah... Was he remembering it wrongly...?

"huh.... I seems to forget something." He can't remember who it was but that day.

...

FEW YEARS AGO: THE MOMENT YOU ARRIVE IN THIS TIME PERIOD.

"come on little fellow! It's dangerous here!" The young blue haired was puzzle when his fluffy friends are pushing him to one direction, they all seems to be worried and in frantic moment.

He sigh as he follow through, soon he found himself in an old mansion that' he never seen before.

The sky that was clouded earlier begone to darken as storm seems to began. Rain pours out droplets upon the land as if the heaven is crying.

"What the..." He was about to question what's this mansion doin in this place now but he was push inside until he found himself in the darkness where there's only those fluffy guiding him. And the fact the rain is getting heavy.

Oshiete kimi ga miteta kioku ni yakitsuiteru buruu

Drip drop he found himself stepping on top of a water, on a glowing clear water that's seems to be so deep like the abyss yet he never went into it.

The a beautiful voice of someone singing somewhere in front of him made the water ripples and vibrate. As if something magical is happening, something that shouldn't be seen by just anyone.

"...this is so crazy..." he mumbles, he already want to leave this place but it seems that when he turn around there's no path behind him but just a wall of water in cage him, there's no way out but to go on.

Nandomo mezame nagara doko ka ni wasurete kita nara ~

The voice echoes again but this time it's much more closer, that's when he found someone glowing holding a glowing ball that barely gasping. Water ripples around him like a wings made of clear water.

Ao vividly remember seeing horns that's remind him of one that mystical creature of Chinese have. Those long Dragons embed with beautiful gems. Fits for a royal and divine.

"oh my kami...." Ao cannot help but gasp when he felt his legs give in as if his in a presence of a being that he shouldn't lay his eyes on.

He fallen on his knees, he cannot meet the eyes of the stranger nor remember it. But the soft smile that seems welcoming... Like the sweet embrace of abyss and death.

Are you perhaps the friend the souls brought to help me?

He heard the voice of the stranger, each tone made his ears ring and almost felt it bleeding.

His whole body sakes, dread and uncertain terrible fear in the unknown being in front of him, makes him want to flee, to run away from this lovestruck creature.

Ah.... It seems your too feeble and fragile... Like the people of this world..... I'm sorry I don't mean to harm you....

He hears footsteps yet he cannot look up. Then someone pat his head like his being praise.

Thank you for coming here. I'm sorry to ask you this but can you take care of someone for me...? In my current state I cannot do more than this... Or else the overseer will find me here.

The person says to him before something blinded happened. When he open his eyes. He thought everything was a weird imagination. He look at the sidewalk and saw you sleeping on the ground with a blue with greenish tint fluff hovering over you.

The sun shine behind the clouds, the rain have stopped yet he doesn't know if the thing he saw was made off his mind but he taken you home and things seems to become lovely than ever.

...

"what?" Aice look at Ao who was silent for a moment.

"Ah I was remembering a crazy dream ya know? It's odd I still remember it now. But I felt I seems god or whatnot. How odd." Ao laughs as he think how silly such dream it was..

"...a god you say?" The visitor now wonders what up with that. Clearly ao did not tell everything or he cannot tell everything.

[st6rly]

There was a chill in the air, one that had nothing to do with the temperature. It made your skin crawl, coupled with the feeling of eyes burning into your back, even as you turned to find an empty street.

As you walk, a single strale slips from your hand, tumbling to the pavement. To an outsider observer, the sound of it clattering on the ground is a simple mistake, but a trained eye sees no accident. You continue on, daring the eyes to intervene, to prove your suspicions correct.

A few seconds later, there is a clink across the pavement and the currency is skittering to your feet, as if it was kicked back towards you by a foot hidden amongst the shadows.

You turn sharply, scanning your moonlit surroundings. The street is quiet, unusually so, but you have the nagging sense that you’re not alone. Whatever second presence follows you is silent, unwilling to reveal themself, but you’ve played this game enough to tell when there’s someone lurking out of sight.

“I know you’re there—” You breathe into the darkness, eyes fixed on a slight ripple in the air. “Moze.”

For a beat, neither of you make a sound. You don’t dare to breathe, waiting for the other to make the next move. After a long silence, the shadows began to dissipate, revealing a man standing at the other end of the street, half-hidden by the shadow of a rooftop.

“You knew it was me, then.” Moze says lowly. It isn’t a question, only a statement. You hum in agreement.

“I see you made it back from your mission,” You note, surveying him up and down. “In one piece too.” The last part is added on as an afterthought, with a slight intonation of question. Knowing the dangers of his job, there is always doubt to how unscathed he is after every mission, even if he appears perfectly intact. For all you know, the layers of clothing obscuring his skin are the only things keeping his organs tucked within his body.

“Yes,” Moze nods once, moving closer, steps as silent as his every other movement. In a blink, he is by your side, moving in step as you continue your stroll. 

There are no words to be exchanged, none that would befit the comfortable, yet vaguely tense atmosphere that you have carved for yourselves. It has the air of a clandestine meeting between two forbidden lovers, a secret, intimate moment stolen in the dead of night. And perhaps the label is close enough to the truth, but nowhere near enough to accept it as fact. Clandestine, your meetings were, but lovers, you were not.

It wasn’t as though you were opposed to the thought of being even closer to him, but a life lived in the shadows was never meant to be brought into the light, and vice versa. Truthfully, it mattered very little how his name made your heart stutter, and how your voice made his eyes soften. It was for both of your benefit that the secret trysts that you shared stayed secret; your quiet, unspoken affections only traded when there were no eyes to see.

Maybe in another, happier life you both walk the same path, with sunlight streaming out onto both of your backs, and maybe in that life, you don’t instinctually check around corners to make sure you’re alone. 

“I’ve been waiting.” You say suddenly, if only to fill the silence. “Since the last time you left. It’s always boring when you’re busy.”

“I’ll be busy for quite a while to follow.” Moze’s face darkens, and he stops in his steps. “I need to leave, very soon.”

“Okay.” You swallow back the disappointment, and try to pretend you’re surprised. “I’ll see you then.”

There was a bond between you, a feeble, fragile thing, with a heart exposed and beating limply for you to see. Whatever it was—love, or otherwise—it connected you both, intertwining your lives together, but neither of you dared speak it aloud. When you did, would it disappear? Would the thread tied to your souls fray and snap? 

One day, you would have to face it, but tonight you let the air simmer and settle. Moze was quiet, before giving another quick nod.

“Soon. I’ll see you again, soon.”

- 🕸️

IM SORRY IT TOOK ME SO LONG TO ANSWER THIS TwT i hoarded it for the longest while so that 1) it could power me through exams and 2) so i could answer it as a little birthday treat to myself <33

I SAID THIS BEFORE IN THE FOLLOW-UP ASK YOU SENT BUT OML YOU DID?? SO GOOD??? ON HIS CHARACTER and this is coming from someone who hyper-fixated on moze since he was leaked and has been working on his fic for almost just as long-

STARS THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD READ KJGFHFDKGJH

“A few seconds later, there is a clink across the pavement and the currency is skittering to your feet, as if it was kicked back towards you by a foot hidden amongst the shadows.”

like yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes he’s sokjhjkfdhgjfjkjhkf he’s so stray cat… so very much a little hissy thing to me… and the silently just giving back what you dropped it so mwah mwah

“… moving closer, steps as silent as his every other movement. In a blink, he is by your side, moving in step as you continue your stroll. ”

ALSO THIS PART. HEHEHEHEHHEHEHEHE IM GIGGLING

“There are no words to be exchanged, none that would befit the comfortable, yet vaguely tense atmosphere that you have carved for yourselves. It has the air of a clandestine meeting between two forbidden lovers, a secret, intimate moment stolen in the dead of night. And perhaps the label is close enough to the truth, but nowhere near enough to accept it as fact. Clandestine, your meetings were, but lovers, you were not.”

this lowkey lives in my mind rent free im going to. LIKE YOUR WORD CHOICE. THE SENTENCE STRUCTURES. THE PACING. ESPECIALLY THE LAST LINE???? UHGHGHGFHDHHGH

“There was a bond between you, a feeble, fragile thing, with a heart exposed and beating limply for you to see.”

the entire last narrative paragraph in general was soooo good but this line. this one right here. the slight alliteration with “a feeble, fragile thing” HITS SO NICELY.

KJFHDGJKFD I CANT THANK YOU ENOUGH FOR WRITING THIS (FOR FREE. ON YOUR OWN WILL. FOR FUN. FOR ME OF ALL PEOPLE LIKE. UM. IM SO??? FLATTERED?? AND LOWKEY TEARY-EYED) AND ALLOWING ME THE CHANCE SO EXPERIENCE HOW GIFTED OF A WRITER YOU ARE OML IM JHDFKJDFGJKFHJKDF THANK YOU THANK YOU THANK YOU I DONT THINK I CAN SYA THIS ENOUGH no but seriously this got me through exams season the way i kept rereading it- KJHFDKJGHDFKJ

[nuportpleasures]

A proper goodbye

The first one was nice. A short, sweet, innocent phone conversation where we both laughed and smiled as we said goodbye. There were plenty more in-between the first and last one. Some short, some long, some full of lust and longing, others were brief. But it never felt like it was going to be the last one, and they always felt like they were going to lead to somewhere. The second goodbye was also sweet. The two of us slightly confused, but enveloped and enlightened in each other’s presence. It was something that was long awaited, something we knew that was to come, and shortly at that. But it was still sweet. Kisses at red lights, sweet music, eye contact with those beautiful beady brown eyes. We were saying goodbye before we said goodbye. One last look, one last hug, one last kiss, and one more goodbye. It felt right, and it was a proper goodbye for what could be considered to be the first “real” one. The last goodbye hurt. I don’t think it was right. It wasn’t the same as the last time. Things had changed since, they weren’t like they were before. Two forks in the walking path formed and we walked parallel, in tandem; not seeing what one another seen down our separate paths, but still walking. In our final bit of time we spent together, it didn’t feel like before. It felt as if we already said goodbye, but not the way we did last time. When we got to the bus station I realized that maybe this was no more. We already had the conversation the night prior, and a similar one weeks or months before as well. It wasn’t what it was when it began, at the time it wasn’t okay with me, but now it is. We stood there with what felt like uncertainty and uncomfortable air, I kissed you on the forehead, you said goodbye, and I said see you later. I knew there wasn’t going to be a later.

I didn’t expect to hear from you that day, and you being here was the last thing I expected you to say. I kind of knew the last time, was the last time. But my hopes shot up like a dogs’ ears when an unfamiliar noise comes about. I lied, I didn’t have plans on being up there, I lied in hopes maybe we would cross paths, highly unlikely but a dreamer can dream. If it happens in the movies why cant it happen to me? Nonetheless it never happened. I wasn’t looking for anything, neither did I want to do anything. Maybe just a short walk, maybe some food and drinks, maybe we could have just sat still and shared one more conversation. I’m not upset with you, and I’m not mad at you. If anything, I feel those feelings towards myself. My feelings are fragile and my mind is feeble, cowardly if you will. I just wanted one final goodbye, whatever it could have been, or however it could have happened. That’s all I was looking for, was one last goodbye. A proper goodbye

[zepskies]

Oh God, here we go...

Your mind, moonstruck and lunatic, spun complicated cobwebs. Your feeble body and fragile bones threatened to crumble and crack underneath the devastating weight of the truth.

Wow, this bit of description struck me right away. What a lovely and devastatingly poetic way of conveying this...

Because as soon as he would acknowledge it, he’d lose you. How could he live with that?

Oh Barlen, pls. 😭 I just knew he'd be feeling this way. My heart is breaking for both of them really. 💙💙 But of course they're both blaming themselves (perhaps Beau even more so than her). His admission that he wasn't ready to see them together again broke my heart for the 15th time, dear God. 🥲🥲

He knew it was over. You’d never pick him. He wasn’t the love of your life. He wasn’t your once in a lifetime. He wasn’t true love. He was your second choice. The one you were stuck with. Your rebound.

Oh dude, something tells me he couldn't be more wrong about her and how she feels... Or at least, I hope he's wrong? 🫠

As you stood there, feet calcified in front of his bed, a set of familiar whiskey-colored eyes found you.

"Calcified" just really hit me in this moment. Along with "whiskey-colored" -- you're so very good at painting a vivid picture through your word choice.

In a way, her and Randy are so sweet together. It feels calm and warm and familiar, but maybe not quite right anymore? At least for her? As opposed to when she goes to Beau in the scene right after--them two together are just sparks flying off the stove. With them, there's actual passion.

But backing up to the Randy scene -- I really like how you played it and his accepting personality. Like, I know it's been a few years and you've probably moved on already. I guess we're not married anymore? But we could just get married again? loll Poor guy. As if surviving what he went through wasn't enough, now he's going to have to deal with the fact that his wife is head over heels in love with his best friend now. ❤️‍🩹

She's really not the same. Not only because of Beau, but because she's been through too much after Randy's "death."

“Wow, congrats, man. You deserve it,” Randy said with a genuinely happy grin. He seemed like a kid who was catching up with all his friends on the first day of school after summer break. Beau gave him a tight smile that said he didn’t think he deserved it. But only you could read that one. “Uhm, thanks, bud. I see you tomorrow, okay?”

“It’s okay. I get it. Trust me. I do. He’s your husband, and I’m just… Well, I’m nothin’,” he said, his voice laden with heartbreak. “Just don’t come closer, ‘cause if you do, I don’t know if I can hold myself back, alright? ‘Cause all I wanna do right now is kiss you and love you, even it’s the last time. I can’t do that to him. You understand?”

Goddamn it, Beau!! Can you give her, like, a minute to adjust before you already decide you're "nothin'" and she's not gonna pick you? For God's sake. 😭😭 (But totally on brand for him. Great characterization. Sigh.)

“Not the ring I thought I’d give you…”

Just keep pummeling my heart, that's fine. 🙃

He replayed the clips of the hospital in his mind over and over again. How Randy held your hand. How he touched your cheek. How he kissed you. How he looked at you when he first saw you – like he had finally found the piece of his heart again that he lost years ago, the same love in his brown eyes that had been there since day one.

Okay, but he was so focused on Randy's reactions, he didn't bother to watch her reactions, her struggle, and her reluctance.

“You ain’t nothing.”

What a romcom movie moment, I love it!!!

I can't go back to the way things were. I know you think me and Randy are some great love story, but so are you and I.

I'm with Beau on this one--please let her really, truly mean this and not change her mind and leave him later, because I don't think my heart could take it. 😭😭

“I want you,” you assured him, your mouth trailing a path of featherlight kisses along his jaw and down to his throat, his groan vibrating against your soft lips.

“I want you,” you assured him, your mouth trailing a path of featherlight kisses along his jaw and down to his throat, his groan vibrating against your soft lips.

How I love these little moments of softness and tenderness in between the amazingly hot ones. ❤️‍🔥❤️‍🔥 And I feel like Beau probably really needs that right now--that reassurance.

Your heart was the North Star, and your heart had led you to him.

Ahh I love a callback to the title! 🥹✨

You placed a gentle kiss on his lips and nodded. “I’m not going anywhere, corazón.”

Ugh, God, my Latina heart sang on that last bit! 😭 But girl, you outdid yourself on this chapter. I can honestly say that was some of the most stellar romantic smut I've ever read. 👌🏽😮‍💨❤️‍🔥

Aaaaand now I'm both excited and scared to see how Randy handles this news. 😬 Something tells me he's not going to take this news as well as the other stuff...

Polaris – Chapter 9

Series Summary: When Beau Arlen moved to Montana, he left behind a past he wasn’t proud of. But when a series of murders requires the FBI’s help, Sheriff Arlen‘s ghosts come back to haunt him one by one. With a wrong turn waiting at every crossroads, it’s hard to make the right choices and find his way back home – back to you.

Pairing: Beau Arlen x FBI Agent!Reader

Warnings: 18+, ramp up the angst, guilt trips all around, hospitals, bits of fluff in all the chaos, smut (with a heavy dose of more angst)

Word Count: 5.4k

A/N: Well, there was no way this wasn't going to be angsty af. Enjoy the ride, loves! 😘

Series Masterlist || Main Masterlist || Tag List

Chapter 9: Marooned

The cool, breezy autumn air whipped you across your face, a sharp, frigid sting in your lungs that burned right through to your heart. Each breath you desperately clutched was a fight for life.

Your mind, moonstruck and lunatic, spun complicated cobwebs. Your feeble body and fragile bones threatened to crumble and crack underneath the devastating weight of the truth. You crouched down on the parking lot asphalt, head heavy in your shaking hands.

“Hey, hey, just breathe…” Beau’s deep voice and warm hand on your back were a short-lived comfort before the first sob broke through you.

He knelt down in front of you, large hands cupping your head when your own grew too tired to hold it. He rested his forehead against yours, green eyes leveling with you. His thumbs wiped the tears from your cheeks.

“Maybe it’s not him,” Beau bargained, his voice a soft whisper. His disavowing mind refused to accept what his breaking heart knew to be true.

However, there was no doubt in yours. “No, I’m sure it’s him.”

“It still might not be true… It could be one of those CGI deep-fakes. You know, they’ve gotten crazy good… She just wants to mess with us,” Beau tried to reason, every bone in his body fighting to accept the truth. Because as soon as he would acknowledge it, he’d lose you. How could he live with that?

Your eyes lifted from the ground, your gaze boring into his. “You really believe that?” Your voice was harsh enough to break through the solid brick barrier he had erected over his heart, your words a wrecking ball. A jittery and hesitant lick of his lips was his abdication. He lowered his head in resignation. “How’s that even possible? You saw him die, right?

Beau’s mouth opened without an answer, his eyes flickered alive with memories. Panic rose with realization and poisoned the pumping blood that coursed through his heart. “I-I saw him get dragged away… I heard the shot.”

He was sure. He was so, so, so sure. And then, it all fell apart. What had he done?

You straightened up, slipping out of his grasp, and clasped your mouth, turning your back to him as your body rattled with shock. “Oh my God… Oh God…”

Beau rose to his feet behind you and swallowed harshly as the realization hit him like a freight train. He wanted to reach out and touch you, needing you now more than ever, but he didn’t know if he still could. His mind raced a mile a minute with questions he couldn’t find an answer to.

How was Randy still alive? Had the cartel kept him all this time? How did Diane find out? And how the hell did she get a hold of him?

“Y/N, I-… I don’t know what to say.” His voice trembled. He could feel you drift further and further away from him till you were just a dot out on the vast ocean. He didn’t want to lose you but didn’t know how to stop it, either. He thought all he needed was for you to just look at him, and it would all be right again. But when you did, it shattered his heart into a million pieces.

“All this time he was alive and God knows where. I-I could’ve looked for him. I could’ve helped him…”

“You didn’t know,” Beau said softly, pushing your blame onto himself. He could’ve known. He should’ve known. He felt helpless, lost, adrift. “Y/N, what d’you want me to do?”

You needed a moment to clear your head enough to think straight. If it wasn’t Randy but any other victim, what would you do next?

“We need to find that bunker. Get him outta there,” you concluded. “You think he’s still alive? You think she’d kill him?”

Recalling the snippet of the video, you remembered the timeline only read an hour instead of the usual forty-eight. It wasn’t about making you suffer through his death because you’d already done that. Diane just wanted you to see.

Beau knew there were only two possible options. Either Diane caught Randy only to show he was still alive and then kill him, or she brought him back into your life to wreak havoc. But the hows and whys didn’t really matter. Both options would cause a rift between you two wider than the Grand Canyon. If Randy was back, dead or alive, Beau’s relationship with you wouldn’t survive it.

He knew it was over. You’d never pick him. He wasn’t the love of your life. He wasn’t your once in a lifetime. He wasn’t true love.

He was your second choice. The one you were stuck with. Your rebound.

“I don’t know,” Beau replied and forced some oxygen into his lungs. He didn’t know for how long he had held his breath. For a minute there, he had forgotten how to breathe at all – and he didn’t even care.

The ringing of your phone broke both of you out of your haze and fatal fantasies. You fished it out of your pocket and stared at the screen with a furrowed brow.

“Who is it?”

“Unknown caller,” you replied before you answered the phone, pinning it between your shoulder and ear. “Hello? Yes, this her…”

Beau watched as your eyes widened, how your brow rose, how your mouth fell open, how your heart stopped. As you hung up, he could see you swallow before you found his eyes. He waited with bated breath for news he already knew.

“That was the hospital here. They said someone brought in my husband.”

The stone silent ten-minute drive to the hospital felt like an eternity. Beau drove, his grip stiff and knuckle-white around the steering wheel. The heat of the old Jeep had barely kicked in by the time you arrived, your hot breaths coming out in vaporizing clouds as you bit your nails bloody and down to their beds on the passenger’s seat. Neither of you spoke a word, too terrified it would cut the last string between you that still tied you to each other.

As the bright sign of the hospital came into view, your heart thudded in your ears, so loudly you could barely hear the world around you anymore. Everything was subdued and distorted as if someone was holding your head underwater. All you wanted was air, but your lungs flooded with water.

Beau killed the engine in the parking lot. Both of you sat there in silence and petrified in time, two fossils buried deep in the earth and uncovered by archeologists with fine brushes millions of years later.

His gaze drifted up to the star-filled sky, green eyes locked on the North Star. He wished he could rewind the tape to that night, all the way back to the start where the two of you were still alive. His eyes then swerved to your hand that lay there untouched on the edge of your seat, his own palm twitching to hold it in his.

“You want me to come in with you?” Beau asked carefully.

It was the first time since you’d left the Sheriff’s Department that you looked at him again. Your eyes were pleading. “Of course I do. Please don’t go. Don’t let me do this alone.”

Then, you saw it – the flicker of relief that flashed through him. You recognized the insecurity and apprehension in his eyes. Your heart dropped. You had been so consumed by the news, you hadn’t noticed how he had spiraled. You clasped his hand tightly in yours. He squeezed it desperately back. He was drowning, and your touch was the lifeline he had been waiting for.

“I don’t know if I’m ready to see him. I don’t know if I’m ready to see you with him,” Beau confessed. He had endangered his best friend, deserted him, and left him to die. And that wasn’t even the worst he’d done. The worst was you.

“Me neither,” you admitted and interlaced your fingers with his. “We’ll take it step by step, okay?”

He nodded.

As the nurse sent you down the hallway to your believed-to-be-dead but actually only-long-lost husband, you didn’t know what to expect as your hand lingered on the door handle.

Beau could not only feel the tension in your body but physically see it. The stiffness in your neck and shoulders, the tremble in your hands, and the twitch in your eyes were a dead giveaway.

As you felt Beau behind you with a hesitant palm resting on your lower back, you wondered if you should tell Randy. You supposed you had to at some point. And suddenly, you felt overwhelmed.

You had been so focused on what awaited you in that room, you hadn’t thought about what your husband expected. Or was it ex? Did he know you had moved on? Were you still allowed to? Would he be happy for you? Would he let you go? Would he hate you for it? He probably would, considering who you ended up with. Or maybe you had it all wrong, and he would be relieved it was someone he loved, too. Wouldn’t you be if the roles were reversed?

His death had severed your ties, but now that he was back, were your vows, too? Did he even know everyone thought he was dead? Had you cheated? Was that what Diane had been trying to tell you? That you had sinned? That you were a liar? That you were awful? That you were a whore?

“Should I-, uhm…”

“No,” Beau answered your dangling question as if he could read your mind. He dropped his hand from your back and ceased all contact, even going as far as taking a step back. If you hadn’t known any better, you would’ve thought you were radioactive. That should’ve been answer enough. “Not yet, at least.”

“Okay.” The rejection hurt, but you understood. This was hard for him, too. Maybe even harder. You had to weather the storm alone, ship-wrecked and marooned on a desolate island.

“You wanna go in alone first?”

“No.” You shook your head and pushed down the handle, suddenly feeling more courageous and determined than before.

You barged in. Not gentle. Not slow. The urge to see him, face to face within the same four walls – after all these years, after all the tears – washed over you like heavy rainfall. You didn’t want to weather the storm – you wanted to be it. It felt safer than to seek shelter under driftwood.

Then, your heartbeats halted. The world around you paused. No murmurs in the hallway, no beeping machines or bustling footsteps. It felt like you were standing in the eye of the hurricane, everything else flying fast around you, but the center was calm.

As you stood there, feet calcified in front of his bed, a set of familiar whiskey-colored eyes found you. The slightly furrowed brow above them softened, his lips parted in awe. He still looked the same, only slightly aged by the years and what he’d been through.

“Randy?” Your voice was a quiet tremble but still filled the entire room.

A smile flickered alive on his face. “Hey,” he said, his own voice raspy and dry as if he hadn’t had water in several days. Deserted like he had been. His hazel eyes lit up, full of love and adoration. It was the same look he had always worn when he gazed at you. For a second, it felt like nothing had changed. It saturated your frozen heart with warmth and your gray and bleak vision with technicolor.

“I-I don’t know what to say,” you stammered with a thick swallow.

Randy snorted a bit. “Now, you know how I always felt,” he quipped, blinking the tears in his eyes away. He’d always been a ray of sunshine. He was light and sweet and good down to his bones. A part of you had expected that light to fade, though, considering what he must’ve experienced the last few years. But it hadn’t. He was still shining as bright as ever, his spirit untouched by the darkness that had tried to swallow him. “Are you just gonna stand there like a moron?”

A small laugh escaped you as tears began to sting your eyes when he spoke those same words you once had said to him. You wanted to cry when you heard them. What sliver of doubt remained in your mind that it wasn’t truly him vanished upon his words. Your feet wanted to move forward, but your heart tugged you back.

You glanced back over your shoulder and found Beau, standing with lovelorn patience by the door as he watched the exchange between you two. The muscle in your chest then stung, like someone had dropped it into a pit full of cacti. You felt torn in two, pulled into opposite directions.

Randy followed your gaze and finally noticed his second visitor, his brow shooting up in surprise. For a second, Beau felt nervous as he awaited a reaction. He expected resentment, hatred, blame, and anger. What he got, however, was a rising smile.

“Hey, man.” Randy seemed happy to see him, not an ounce of animosity detectable. “You two realize you’re staring, right?”

“‘S good to see you, Randy,” Beau managed to say and forced a quivering smile to his lips. And it wasn’t a lie. A big part of him was elated to have his best friend, his old partner, his brother back. But he couldn’t ignore the gnashing, lethal wound in the shape of you that Randy’s return caused.

Carefully, you stepped closer and let out a nervous breath as you sat down at the edge of his bed. He reached out and tenderly caressed your cheeks, brushing a few strands of hair behind your ear. A smile curved his lips as soon as he touched you again. It felt like he was holding a miracle while you looked at him like he was a ghost.

“You look good, sweetheart,” he said. His hand then slid down your arm to hold yours, fingers brushing over the one. His gaze dropped when he couldn’t feel what he was looking for, the tan line of the missing item around your ring finger still visible. Pensively, he licked his lips. “They told me everyone thought I was dead.”

“Yeah, uhm, that’s kinda my fault. I’m sorry, buddy,” Beau said and swallowed harshly. The sight in front of him almost took him out. Even though it was a familiar picture, one he had seen a million times before, seeing it now was a different story. After everything he knew, you in someone else’s arms that weren’t his felt like a bullet piercing through his chest. His heart was bleeding. “I thought you got shot.”

“It’s okay. Don’t blame yourself, man. It was crazy in there. It could’ve happened to anybody. I did get shot. Only the slug went straight through the shoulder,” Randy explained. “Cartel then took me to Mexico. Juárez.”

Your wide eyes wandered to Beau, the two of you sharing a horrified look. Randy had been right underneath your noses this entire time. You could’ve saved him.

“You were in Juárez? We were there, too,” you muttered in shocked realization.

“Oh, I know,” Randy said, surprising you both. Your heart beat faster, accelerating to lightning speed and close to jumping out of your chest. Did he already know about you and his best friend? But he answered your question before you could ask it. “Cartel talked about a task force moving in on them. I overheard them once. Said my old partner and wife were looking for me. When y’all got too close, though, they moved me further south. There’s nothin’ you coulda done.”

“What did they do to you? How are you still alive?” you asked and didn’t want to sound ungrateful for it, but you were completely baffled. You had too many questions racing through your mind.

Randy chuckled a little at your line of questioning. “You’re still the same.” He smiled and tore your heart apart, because you knew you weren’t. Not really. “I think they thought they could keep me for leverage. Trade me at some point? They held me in a basement at first till they moved me south. Kept me at farm of some cartel member. It wasn’t highly guarded, but even when I had opportunity to flee, I didn’t know where I was or where to go. I thought they’d either kill me or give me back at some point, but then months… years passed. I gave up hope they’d ever let me go. And then, one night they threw a bag over my head and I woke up in some weird bunker… in Montana. Apparently. Anyone wanna explain what I’m doing here? How did you guys get here so fast? They only brought me here a few hours ago. Had to convince them a little to find and call you since they thought I was dead.”

“I was already here for a case. There’s a crazy serial killer lady who took you. That’s who locked you into that bunker,” you explained and watched his brow crease.

“Huh.”

“I work Major Crimes now. It’s a long story,” you added quickly. You didn’t even know where to start. How could you recap three years?

“Really?” His smile was back. This time, it was a proud one. “That’s good. You always wanted that.”

“Yeah.” You blushed a little and gave him a small smile in return.

He squeezed your hand, his gaze flickering to your missing ring on your finger once more. “So, uhm… since everyone thought I was dead, I guess we’re not married anymore, huh?”

Your heart exploded like he had just deposited a grenade inside of it. You averted your gaze to your joined hands. “Uh, Randy…”

“No, hey, it’s okay, sweetheart,” he quickly soothed and chuckled to lift your worries, and you weren’t sure if it was a real smile or just one for your sake. “I’m just trying to catch up, you know? Get up to speed. ‘Sides, if we’re not married anymore, we could have a second wedding. Might be fun, right?”

Tears gathered in your eyes as you tried to smile through the pain. “Uh, yeah.” You nodded and hoped he couldn’t see your reluctance.

Randy then stretched his neck and pulled you closer, his lips meeting yours in a slow and chaste kiss that felt like your first. Tears of happiness mixed with sadness as they rolled down your cheeks. When Beau softly cleared his throat, you broke away from Randy, your cracked heart shattering into sharp daggers that sliced through your skin. What were you supposed to do, though? Reject the man you married because it would break the heart of the one you currently loved?

“I-, uh, I should go. Let you two catch up,” Beau said uncomfortably. The crestfallen look on his face destroyed you. “I’ll keep the press away from this for as long as I can. Lord knows they love a good back-from-the-dead story.”

“You can do that?” Randy arched a curious brow.

Beau pulled his jacket back a little and tapped the badge on his belt. “Kinda the sheriff here.”

“Wow, congrats, man. You deserve it,” Randy said with a genuinely happy grin. He seemed like a kid who was catching up with all his friends on the first day of school after summer break.

Beau gave him a tight smile that said he didn’t think he deserved it. But only you could read that one. “Uhm, thanks, bud. I see you tomorrow, okay?”

“Beau, wait–”

But he had rushed out of that room so fast, he couldn’t even hear you as the door fell shut behind him. You offered Randy the same tight-lipped smile and stroked his cheek. Your emotions were a mangled mess. A part of you was hauled back to the past, old feelings that you had buried deep coming back alive, while new ones reminded you that it wasn’t the same anymore.

“Give me a sec, okay? I’ll go talk to your doctor. See when we can get you outta here,” you said and waited for Randy’s nod of confirmation before you darted out of the room.

Your heart thrummed in your ribcage as you raced down the hospital’s corridors all the way to the parking lot where you finally caught up with Beau. He was on a fast-paced escape to his car before he stopped when you called his name.

“Beau, wait!”

As he spun around, he dragged a palm over his face in an attempt to wipe away the tears. But the evidence was still visible, his eyes red and distraught. “You should go back, Y/N. He needs you.”

The heart in your throat caused you to choke. “So do you. I’m so sorry,” you said, sniffling as tears flowed down your cheeks. But as you stepped forward to hold him, he took a step back.

“It’s okay. I get it. Trust me. I do. He’s your husband, and I’m just… Well, I’m nothin’,” he said, his voice laden with heartbreak. “Just don’t come closer, ‘cause if you do, I don’t know if I can hold myself back, alright? ‘Cause all I wanna do right now is kiss you and love you, even it’s the last time. I can’t do that to him. You understand?”

Everything in you wanted to break through the fence he had set up, full-throttle with a lead foot on the gas, but you thought it was best to respect his wishes for now. You didn’t even know where your head was and wanted to avoid hurting him more.

“Here, uhm, you should have this back.” He fished out your wedding ring from his back pocket and dropped it into your palm, the quick brush of his skin tearing you apart even more. The golden band suddenly felt heavier than it ever had. You didn’t even know when he had grabbed it from his desk drawer, but the foresight scared you. He let out a humorless chuckle as the sadness brimmed in his green eyes. “Not the ring I thought I’d give you…”

Your lips parted, your brow lifting in realization. Whatever dusted remnants were left of your heart plummeted. “Beau…”

“Don’t. ‘S okay,” he wrung out with a doleful smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow, alright? Call if you need somethin’.”

With a passive nod, he jumped into his Jeep. You clutched the ring in your hand so tightly it almost burned through your skin as you watched him drive off.

Beau uncapped his third beer of the night (plus two tumblers of whiskey and a shot of his old friend Don Julio) as he sat on the bed in his trailer. A pile of your clothes still lay on the floor to his right, your favorite coffee mug stood in the kitchen sink, and your shampoo was stored in the shower. It felt like you hadn’t left, even though you had.

He replayed the clips of the hospital in his mind over and over again. How Randy held your hand. How he touched your cheek. How he kissed you. How he looked at you when he first saw you – like he had finally found the piece of his heart again that he lost years ago, the same love in his brown eyes that had been there since day one. And Beau understood, because he had felt the same way once, too, when you walked into his office – back into his life.

He told himself it was the torture he deserved for all of his sins. And he swallowed it all down – the hurt, the heartbreak, the jealousy, the possessiveness. He had no right to feel those things. Not anymore. You weren’t his. You never were.

How long did he have with you this time around? Five weeks?

Suddenly, he regretted leaving Houston, regretted leaving you. He wasted a whole year that he could’ve spent loving you. He always thought, in the end, he'd have more time. Eternity, even. How fucking foolish was that?

The headlights and sounds of a car in front of his home drew his attention to the window, shadows and lights dancing along the walls of his trailer. He couldn’t see his visitor, but considering it was in the middle of the night, he assumed it was either Jenny or Cassie checking up on him. He had texted them to let them know what was going on. But as he opened the door, the sight left him speechless.

“Y/N…” Your name fell from his lips like you were an angel he had prayed for. For a moment, he wasn’t sure if his eyes were seeing things right, or if you were a booze- and depression-induced hallucination. You wouldn’t be the first ghost that came back to haunt him, after all.

“You ain’t nothing.”

With those words still floating in the night air, you cupped his neck and crashed your lips against his, kissing him fervently with everything you had as tears streamed down your cheeks. He returned the kiss just as passionately, although you could feel a part of him fighting against it. But his large hands grabbed your waist and pulled you flush against him, the kiss lasting till both of you were bluer than the sky. You didn’t let go of him, though, hands holding onto his shirt, too scared he would slip through the cracks of your fingers if you did.

“Y/N, I can’t…”

“I love you,” you interjected his hesitance with firmness and gripped him tighter, your gaze drilling into him like you hoped your words would. “You think I’d just forget? You think my feelings for you just vanish into thin air? It doesn’t work that way. I can’t just snap my fingers and stop loving you. I can't go back to the way things were. I know you think me and Randy are some great love story, but so are you and I. Look, when he died, I grieved that loss and it felt like I was dying, too. I never thought life would be... exciting... and fun... and happy... and so full of love again. And then… I-I fell in love with you, and my life somehow started again. And I know this whole situation is fucked up and confusing and impossible. And I don’t know what to do… I don't know what the right thing is here. But I do know you feel right, and I can’t just pretend you and me and everything good that came with it never existed. I don’t want to. Please, just… I need you, Beau. You said you wouldn't leave again. You're not making things better by walking away...”

With a stretch of your toes, your nose grazed his before you gently claimed his plump, soft lips once more. Your tear-stained cheeks met the roughness of his beard. The kiss started ginger and careful, giving him time to withdraw if he wanted to. But he didn’t. His tongue slipped inside your mouth and stoked the flames of the fire that burned for him deep within your soul. Inhibitions were set ablaze as the kiss turned searing. He hoisted you into his arms, your legs wrapping around his middle as he carried you inside.

The trailer’s peaceful silence was disturbed by panting breaths, a pathway of clothes leading from the entrance to the bed. You peeled off his shirt, and he slid off yours over your head. You unclasped your bra and tore it off, pressing your tits against his bare chest as your lips tried to remain connected to each other through it all. By the time he sat down on the edge of the mattress with you on top, only two naked bodies seeking friction remained.

You wanted to feel him everywhere, wanted him to fill you and make you whole again until you stopped feeling like you were breaking apart at the seams. Hands roamed and explored as tongues mingled and savored tastes. As you straddled his muscular thighs, his arms wound around your middle and kept you firmly pressed against him, his hold on you strong as his fingers dented your flesh. You hoped it was enough to leave bruises behind. You never wanted to forget him, wishing his marks would be permanent ink on your skin.

“I need you,” you murmured against his thoroughly kiss-swollen lips, his cock rubbing against your soaking core as you gently rocked your hips.

“I want you,” you assured him, your mouth trailing a path of featherlight kisses along his jaw and down to his throat, his groan vibrating against your soft lips. One hand steadied itself on his broad shoulder as your other one fisted his hard, throbbing length and positioned it at your entrance, his cockhead gliding through your slick and teasing you till you shuddered with wanton need to feel him inside of you.

“I love you,” you whispered and gasped as you sank down, sheathing his thick cock in your warmth as your velvety walls welcomed him. With a needy and yet tender kiss, you soothed his grunt when he was fully inside you and prodded at your cervix. “Wanna make you feel good, okay?”

He nodded and squeezed his eyes shut. “Fuck, Y/N, don’t do this to me if you’re gonna leave,” he pleaded, his gravelly voice laced with desperation and pain. His hand softly caressed your face as he rested his forehead against yours. His love for you radiated in his green eyes like kryptonite.

You cupped his bearded cheeks and forced him to look at you, lifting his chin to find your eyes. “I’m not leaving you, okay?”

“But–”

You kissed him before he could bring forth all the reasons why you should, but you didn’t care. Your heart was the North Star, and your heart had led you to him. When you left the hospital, there was nowhere else you wanted to go, no one you wanted to see more. Your heart had only ached for him.

You were finally home, and now that you were back in the arms where you belonged, you kissed him so hard till his mind quieted down to a soft lullaby. You kissed him so hungrily till his cock twitched inside of you because you were the only one he wanted, too. You kissed him so passionately he felt your love for him seep into his own heart.

As you began to roll your hips, he met you thrust by thrust as he pounded up into you. His massive hands and sinful mouth roamed every inch of your body. Palms groped your tits and fingers tickled your spine. Lips kissed your throat and tongue massaged your nipples. Teeth grazed your flesh and beard burned your skin.

Your nails dug into the thick muscles on his shoulders and scraped his scalp as his cock split you open with each pump. His girth tore you apart, each time you eased back down a new pleasurable burn coursing through you as your walls stretched to accommodate all of him.

Your pace rose with the tides of your hips, your thighs flexing as your cunt stroked his cock and came closer to the finish line. Beau buried his head in the crook of your neck, writhing and groaning underneath you. His fingers bit into your flesh, surely leaving bruises behind this time. Your tits rubbed against his chest, and you could feel his muscles tensing and straining underneath your fingertips with each bounce. He was barely holding on.

“Come for me, baby,” you beckoned him, feeling your own orgasm approach. The fuse was sparked and burned a path right to your explosive core. “I love you…”

“Fuck!” Beau cried out and spilled into you, his body trembling in your grasp. Those words were all it took to tip him over the edge.

You came with a thundering moan. His release triggered your own, your pussy pulsing violently around him and milking his cock for all he’d got. His cum mixed with your arousal and gushed out of you, trickling down your thighs and coating even his balls. Your thighs shook with exhaustion as you let yourself fall down on him, his arms catching you and holding you close.

Still panting, his mouth found yours in the dark. His thumbs stroked your flushed cheeks, the rest of his fingers dangling in your hair, the grip soft turned bruising as he kept you lip-tied to him, the kiss tender turned rough.

His nose brushed yours as he looked deeply at you. You could see the despair drowning in his pine green eyes, his emotions overtaking him.

“Pick me. Don’t go,” he begged in a harsh whisper, your flushed face in his warm palms.

You placed a gentle kiss on his lips and nodded. “I’m not going anywhere, corazón.”

Chapter 10: It Matters – DECEMBER 06

Phew, writing that hospital scene nearly killed me 😮‍💨 Next up, we have even more drama as the awkward throuple reaches a boiling point...

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[messeduphood]

Jason Todd stood in the snow, his gaze fixed on the warm glow emanating from the house before him. Through the frost-kissed window, he witnessed a heartwarming family scene unfold—a scene that tugged at the depths of his longing. Laughter echoed from within, mingling with the tantalizing aroma of a festive feast. The room was adorned with holiday decorations, and a brightly lit Christmas tree cast a kaleidoscope of colors on the walls.

But as the scene unfolded before his young eyes, a mixture of emotions surged within him. A torrent of longing and unfulfilled desires threatened to engulf his tender heart. In a desperate attempt to shield himself from the pain, he clenched his fists, his brows furrowing with determination.

"Who needs all that dumb family stuff anyway?" he muttered, his voice barely a whisper against the wintry breeze. "It's all stupid and pointless."

His words, dripping with defiance, were aimed not at the enchanting tableau before him, but at the depths of his own vulnerability. He tried to convince himself that he didn't need those warm embraces, the joyful exchanges, or the sense of belonging that eluded him. The pain of yearning for something he never had cut deep, and he willed himself to believe that those things were trivial and unworthy of his attention.

But as his voice trailed off into the frigid air, a single tear escaped his eye, glistening like a diamond in the moonlight. It traced a path down his cheek, mingling with the delicate snowflakes that adorned his face. It was a tear born of the conflicts within—a testament to the profound impact the scene had on him, despite his efforts to dismiss it.

In that fleeting moment, the young Jason Todd grappled with the weight of his desires and the harsh reality of his circumstances. His words were a feeble shield, an attempt to protect his fragile heart from the ache of longing. Yet, deep down, beneath the armor of bravado, he yearned for the love, connection, and sense of normalcy that he glimpsed through that frost-kissed window.

[caretaker-au]

CHAPTER 10

Bright light spilled into Chara’s vision as the world manifested around them. Their body—heavy and fragile—struggled and dropped them to their knees.

As they fell forward Chara caught themselves with their hands. They stared out at their small, feeble fingers that were splayed on the lavender colored floor, each digit tipped with a dull, flat fingernail. Where were they? And what was that awful pounding sensation? They pulled a hand to their chest. That’s right. Their heart. No longer made from monster magic, Chara’s human flesh felt comparatively sluggish and dense. The body they were never supposed to return to. Chara crossed their arms and gripped themself tight. Fierce emotion flooded through their body: a touch of grief for their own death, relief for their survival, and most of all, rage.

“Asriel…” they breathed, their voice a shaking whisper, “How could you?”

After everything they had done, after all that they sacrificed for him, Asriel had betrayed them. Again. As he always had. It didn’t matter how hard Chara worked or how many timelines they chased, their wretched partner threw away everything they had to protect accursed humans. This time was the worst, however. Asriel’s betrayal ended in orchestrating a shared execution.

“You really hate me that much?” Chara’s voice was little more than a shaking growl. They wanted to scream, to declare that they wouldn’t allow it, that they would find someone else who would respect them and carry out their plan. But they didn’t believe it.

“Chara?”

A small voice broke through the fury. Chara looked up and saw them. A child hesitating in a stone doorway just ahead of them: Frisk.

The child’s expression relaxed into a smile, “I’m glad you’re okay.”

Anger flashed across Chara’s face. They pulled themselves to their feet, wavering slightly. They staggered towards Frisk with heavy steps, increasing their speed into a run. Frisk’s eyes widened for a moment before they scowled. The child braced themself and held out their arms, “Chara, stop!”

The caretaker grabbed Frisk by the collar and wrenched them up against the doorframe. The kid’s teeth chattered as their skull thudded against the stone behind them.

“Why?!” Chara barked, hatred seeping from their every pore, “You took everything from us! Our lives, our future, the salvation of all monsters!” Frisk turned their head away, clenching their eyes tight as Chara berated them. “Nothing was stopping you from leaving. So why?” Chara demanded, “Why did you return? To mock me? To torment me?”

“No…” Frisk answered quietly, “To save you.”

Their answer didn’t make any sense. Chara stared back, unable to even articulate a response. Instead, they slammed Frisk against the wall again. “Liar!” Chara cried out, “You expect me to believe that?”

“It’s the truth!” Frisk squirmed and pulled on Chara’s hands to no avail, “Escape isn’t worth anyone’s life. Not even yours, Chara!”

Chara’s fists clenched tighter around the slack of Frisk’s sweater. With a heave, they tossed the child to the side. Frisk splayed across the floor with a grunt.

“You are wrong,” Chara huffed, “And you… are a fool. Did you not learn the first time? I don’t care about your mercy.”

Frisk pulled themself to their feet. They straightened and returned Chara’s frenzied glare with a quiet gaze.

Chara continued, “I will not stop. This time I’ll take the souls, ignore you, and escape to the Surface. There, Asriel and I… we’ll…” Chara trailed off as Asriel’s face crossed their mind again. They sank to the floor, the air feeling heavier and heavier. “That traitor… he will never… he will never cooperate.”

The realization was like a knife twisting in their gut. Even with his betrayal, Asriel was always the most devoted. No one would be able to replace him. Despair crept into their heart as Chara realized they needed him more than Asriel needed them back. Chara had considered Frisk their greatest opponent, but it was Asriel who truly stood in their way.

Chara’s vision swam, so they turned their head away from Frisk, their hair falling in front of their face. Knowing the human was seeing them like this made their skin crawl, and they wished the ground would swallow them up. As Chara spoke, they held their breath to keep their voice from shaking. “Leave.”

Frisk hesitated, surely coming up with a response. Mockery? Pity? Chara wouldn’t bear it.

“Out of my sight! Now!” Chara shouted; their roar made the air tremble. Frisk didn’t wait to be told again. The sound of scuffling footsteps faded from earshot, and soon Chara was alone in the silence once more.

Finally, Chara let the tears fall from their eyes. They were disgusted with the way their breath hitched and sobbed no matter how much they tried to stifle it. Asriel did this to them. Asriel would have to pay.

Chara indulged in several minutes of sickening self pity before they finally wiped their face. Looking around, it took Chara a moment before they registered just where they were. They were deep within the Ruins, just outside the chamber Frisk had fallen into. But that didn’t make sense. From Chara’s experience, time could only be turned back to the most recently fixed point. Frisk should have been returned to just before their battle, perhaps in the jail. Instead, here they were, back to the moment they first met. Was Frisk not confined to the same limits of time travel?

Chara shook their head. They couldn't think about this now. Only one thing mattered: Asriel’s punishment. Drawing the will to stand, Chara pushed themselves upright to follow the child.

In one way or another, Frisk had made it past all the traps, through the house, and—presumably—out the exit. It was for the best; Chara couldn’t stand to cross paths with the child again. Inside the house, they paused to collect a large padlock they had stored in a table drawer. It was heavy and nearly the size of a text book with ornate designs engraved across it. The lock was imbued with abjuration magic, made specifically to lock the Ruins after Asriel was nearly killed by the human years ago. The lock would render any door unbreachable by human or monster, and Chara held the only key.

Chara carried the device with them into the basement, down the hall, and to the large exterior doors that lead to the snow draped forests beyond. The doors were slightly ajar, revealing a set of footprints that dotted the snow off into the distance.

Chara sighed, taking one last look at the snowy view, before pulling the doors shut. For decades, the lock had only been placed on the outside, removed only when Chara came through to patrol the ruins or escort monsters between Home and Snowdin. Today, for the first time, the doors would be locked from the inside with Chara within. They looped the padlock through the handles of the door, and when they snapped it into place, the doors shuddered and clamped together with a jolt. Chara traced a fingernail down the seam of the two doors. No one would be passing through without their permission.

Confronting Asriel directly was not an option. After all, any progress made with Asriel could be undone by Frisk. Not to mention they weren’t even sure what they could tell him. Asriel’s traitorous inclinations were buried deep into his core, waiting until Chara was at their most desperate to stab them in the back.

But there was one tactic that Frisk would be unable to interfere with. Silence. If Chara withdrew to the Ruins without a word, Asriel would surely blame himself for Chara’s sudden absence. Chara knew Asriel well: he’d beg for Chara’s return and apologize for things he didn’t do, all the while ignorant of his traitorous compulsions. Cruel, perhaps, but nothing was as cruel as what he had done in those erased timelines.

Chara checked their phone. They already had one message from Asriel inquiring as to when they’d return home. The caretaker marked it as read before slipping it back into their pocket.

---

As predicted, Asriel came to the door and stayed all night long. Knocking, calling, pleading-- Chara relished each pathetic attempt at reconciliation. He deserved to be confused, heartbroken, and alone, just as Chara was. Over the course of the day Chara received messages from Asgore, Toriel, and many other monsters. They all asked the same thing: Are you okay? Do you want to talk? We found this human named Frisk, do you know them? Even Muffet demanded an explanation. Chara would have to deal with her later.

Leaving everyone wondering and begging for answers was the only power Chara had left. Word was getting to the monsters in Home as well, evidenced by the additional messages piling up on their phone. Chara ignored them too. Eventually they would realize they were trapped on this side of the door as well, unwilling hostages in Chara’s scheme.

No matter. The monsters deserved to be trapped. Every one of them was just like Asriel: eager to please and sentimental to a fault. Chara had devoted their entire life to serving them and in return they never offered to help collect the souls that would free them. In fact, Chara had to resort to time travel to push them in the right direction for just an ounce of support. They all deserve to rot in this dark, claustrophobic hell.

---

“So you just let a human walk on by?” Muffet inquired in a sing-song voice, “That doesn’t seem much like the great caretaker at all!”

The two of them were sitting in her parlor, each on a lavish chair. A full tea set complete with baked goods sat on a low table between them, though Chara knew better than to partake in it. Spider legs stuck out of the scones like coarse hairs, and they couldn’t even imagine what the tea had been steeped with.

“Yes. Well.” Chara said, looking down at their lap, “There is not much I can do about it now.”

“Oh yes, I imagine the sweet thing is the new royal favorite, aren’t they?” Muffet’s fanged smile turned up in a mocking grin, “The queen has always had a soft spot for filthy little strays. You know that better than anyone, right, dearie?”

Chara bit back a retort. With time no longer under their control, they had to be careful while inside of her lair. It had been a week since they sealed the Ruins, and Muffet was the only person they had spoken to since. The crime lord wasn’t their first choice of confidant, of course, but she had been insisting on meeting and they knew better than to reject her invitation.

“I suppose so,” they responded softly.

Muffet giggled to herself, then suddenly reached for the plate of cookies between them. It was only after she grabbed a couple treats that Chara realized they had flinched when she moved. They tried to relax but the attempt only made them more tense.

“So, is that why you locked the exit? Had a bit of a falling out with the in-laws?”

“Something like that.” Chara frowned, “I’d rather not talk about it.”

“Oh of course, a lady like me wouldn’t dream of indulging in distasteful gossip! Instead, I have a business proposition~”

Chara straightened. In their current circumstance, they didn’t have much in the way of influence or leverage.

“How can I be of service?” they asked.

“I want to relocate,” Muffet paused to bite into one of her cookies. It sounded... crunchy. “You see, the Ruins are awfully drafty, and the cold isn’t good for my constitution. I was thinking about moving in the next year or so, but now that you’ve so... graciously sealed us all in here, I predict the traffic in my shop will be slowing down considerably.”

“Understood.” Chara nodded, “I will make an exception for you and open the d—”

“I wasn’t finished, Chara.” Muffet said, her voice lowering. There was a tense pause before she smiled again, “I want a limousine~”

“A—A what?” Chara asked, incredulous.

“A heated limousine that will chauffer my employees and I all the way to Hotland,” she gestured to the spiders that skittered between the tea cups, “A necessary luxury to ensure we make it safely through the biting cold of Snowdin. Should be a simple task for a monarch, correct?”

“Of course. Leave it to me.” Chara smiled, “Is that all?”

“Not much for business, are you, Chara?” Muffet smirked, “This is where you negotiate the terms of the agreement~”

“No need. I am happy to do this as a gesture of goodwill.” Chara outstretched their hand—it wasn’t trembling anymore, thankfully—and Muffet gave it a dainty shake.

Once Chara was safely out of Muffet’s lair, they heaved a sigh of relief. Somehow they had managed to leave in one piece despite Muffet’s attempts to bait them. Now they just had to figure out how to serve her outrageous demands. Chara fished their phone out of their pocket, dismissed several dozen missed calls and text notifications, and opened their address book. They were going to need to call in some discreet favors.

---

One month had passed since they sealed the Ruins. It wasn’t easy, but Chara managed to arrange for Muffet’s departure without alerting the Dreemurrs. Eventually, the royals found out the Ruins door had been briefly opened which led to a fresh barrage of calls, messages, and knocking on the resealed door, all of which Chara ignored, of course.

Chara walked the streets of Home late at night, the crystals in the ceiling sparkling above. They could feel the eyes of the monsters on them, but after weeks of Chara ignoring and scowling in return, the monsters had given up on approaching them. Wordlessly, they did their weekly shopping at the local market. As a member of the royal family, Chara had never needed to pay for any necessities, and it seemed the benefits even extended here. It was only fair compensation, of course. After all, Chara was still serving the undeserving monsters by patrolling the Ruins every day for human threats.

---

“Ugh, really?” Chara muttered. They were nearly done with their patrol, having reached the large trap of spikes that was circled with a moat. Chara pushed down on the edge of the spike panel’s pressure plate with their foot, but the spikes failed to retract completely, the deadly points standing out by a few inches. It wasn’t a good sign: the springs inside were starting to give out. And if the springs snapped while Chara was standing above it…

Chara shuddered. They had witnessed that messy result and they didn’t care to experience it first hand. Typically, Chara would order replacement parts and perform maintenance themself, but the machinist that created the pieces was in New Home. Unsealing the door again was out of the question.

“Of course this would happen now,” Chara grumbled. They moved their foot off the plate and the spikes shot back into place. How many more compressions would it tolerate before it broke? Before Frisk came to the Underground, Chara could risk it and undo any unpleasant accidents, but if the past five months were any indication, Frisk was not nearly as eager to manipulate time. In fact, time had been rolled back only two times since Chara let the child go.

It was inconceivable. How could Frisk resist the urge to erase the inevitable little mistakes that ruined every day? Embarrassing moments, broken tea cups, scraped knees… all could be fixed in an instant with the right application of their power. To have such power and yet choose to carry the weight of their failures—it defied reason.

More importantly, if Chara suffered a tragic accident while isolated here, no one would come to their rescue… whether through time manipulation or otherwise.

“Unfortunate.” Chara said to themself with a resigned sigh, “I will have to dismantle them. All of them.” They turned around and headed back home. While they didn’t have access to their machinist anymore, they did have a few hand tools and plenty of time.

---

Eight months had passed since Chara had let Frisk go. As they walked the path of the now defanged Ruins, they revised and repeated their old plan over and over. If they could just get one more soul to replace Frisk, they would have the seven required to break the barrier and purify the Surface. The only thing missing, of course, was a willing monster to absorb them.

They reached the end of their patrol: the entrance to the Underground for lost, unlucky humans. The chamber was empty, as it had been every day since Frisk fell in. Chara walked into the center of the room and stared up into the vacant darkness looming above. One hundred years had passed on the Surface and only eight humans had fallen in that time. How long would it take for another to arrive? Ten years? Thirty? Without the help of their powers Chara could very well die before seeing the next human soul.

Chara turned to leave, but did a double take as they glimpsed a glimmer of gold on the ground. They kneeled and pushed the grass aside to reveal a small yellow bud, barely beginning to open.

“It cannot be…” Chara breathed, “A Golden Flower?”

Golden Flowers were common on the Surface, but had no presence in the Underground. Chara was so sure of this that they had incorporated them into their original plan over 20 years ago. By requesting to see the wild flowers on their deathbed, Chara could ensure Asriel would cross the barrier with their corpse in tow.

Or at least, that was what should have happened.

Chara clenched their teeth at the bitter memory. It was the first of many perfect plans ruined by Asriel’s cowardice. The caretaker grasped the plant and ripped it out of the ground by the root.

Immediately, Chara felt a pang of regret. They stared down at the pathetic thing. Their favorite flower, somehow growing in this dark, sunless prison. When had it taken root? Did some seeds blow in from the Surface? Or were they brought in by a... passenger?

Chara shook their head. Regardless of how it was introduced to the Underground, it was now a part of the Ruins—their Ruins. It didn’t deserve to suffer for Asriel’s mistakes. Reflexively, Chara attempted to turn back time, but nothing happened.

With a sigh, they returned the flower to where it was and buried its roots back into the soil. The stem was bent and it wouldn’t stay upright, but weeds were resilient. With a little help, it might still make it.

---

Chara hesitated before their latest masterpiece, knife in hand. Resting on a serving plate was a beautiful, hand crafted chocolate ganache cake. Strawberries perched on top of the silky dark topping, and the intoxicating aroma filled the house. Somehow, even without their powers, it had turned out almost too perfect to eat.

Emphasis on "almost". Carefully, Chara slid the knife through the decadent construction and placed a slice on their plate. They paused to admire the moist cross section before sliding a fork through the end and taking a bite.

Absolute bliss.

"Not bad for a humble birthday cake," Chara said to themself. They were thirty-seven today. Chara looked across the dining table into the empty living room. The only sound was the fire crackling in the hearth, emitting heat for a one person abode. They wished this house wasn’t nearly identical to the one in New Home; the similarities made it too easy to imagine Toriel in her chair, Asgore in the kitchen, and Asriel leaning on the table with his elbows, big goofy grin on his face. The Dreemurrs loved birthdays, always spending weeks preparing for a large and lavish party.

This was the first birthday they had spent alone since they were thirteen. They had forgotten how miserable it could be.

Chara checked their phone. They had over one hundred notifications that had come in just today. They scrolled through to find the only contact that mattered: Asriel.

“Happy birthday, Chara!!” the message read, “Mom and Dad and I are thinking about you lots! We even got you a gift, so I hope we can give it to you one day! Wherever you are, take good care of yourself, okay?” A line of party and heart related emojis followed.

Chara read the message over and over. Asriel’s texts would always fill them with disgust and hatred, but not today. Instead Chara just felt… lonely. It was a pathetic, shameful feeling, but a true feeling nonetheless. Despite all the ways Asriel had disrespected them, Chara couldn’t hide from the fact that they missed him.

The caretaker allowed themself to vocalize a thought they had been pushing out of their mind for months. “Maybe…” Chara spoke, their soft voice breaking the quiet, “Maybe it is time to go home.”

They sighed, resigning themself. The eternal silent treatment was never a realistic plan, and while Asriel was the intended subject of the punishment, it was unpleasant to Chara, too. Scrolling up through his messages, Asriel had sent hundreds upon hundreds over the past year begging them to “just talk”. All had gone unanswered. The confusion and desperation in those messages were clear; he was perfectly primed for a reconciliation.

But Chara wanted more than reconciliation. More important than companionship was freedom. Freedom not just for undeserving monsters, but most importantly, freedom for themself.

“There is still a way,” Chara muttered to themself, “I simply… pushed Asriel too quickly. Asriel always responded better to a softer approach.” Chara stood, pacing.

“We will delay soul fusion until the end of my natural life. Nothing barbaric or tragic. My dying wish will be to live on within him. He cannot turn down my final request.”

Chara nodded, they could see it now. After a few decades, Chara would peacefully pass from their old, frail body into Asriel’s strong, youthful one, a benefit of his species’ long life span.

“Then we gather the rest of the souls. But not right away. Asriel will need some time to adjust to sharing a vessel with me. But he will with time. Perhaps even the child can be convinced to willingly donate their soul to the cause.” Even though Frisk wouldn’t be a child anymore, it was hard to imagine Frisk as anything but a meddling brat. Honestly, they’d probably still be a brat in thirty years.

“If not, that is... fine. The child can be suffered to live.” The decision was a reluctant one, but giving mercy to such an undeserving creature gave Chara a pleasant feeling of self-righteousness. After all, it didn’t really matter if Frisk lived or died. The important thing was purifying the Surface and breaking the barrier. One human would not make a difference.

“Yes. This will work.” A smile crept onto Chara’s face and their heart thrummed with excitement. They would return to Asriel, who would embrace them with utmost relief and joy. After all, absence makes the heart grow fonder, and Asriel had shown no signs of giving up on them.

Chara would enjoy a long life in the company of their loved ones until the day they would embrace their prophesied purpose as the Underground’s savior.

It would require patience, but their splendid utopia was once again within reach. They began planning their grand return.

chapter 10 // end

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[heli0s-writes]

Clumsy

Summary: Serendipity, it’s the only way Steve can describe it. His ma was right: he’d always been slow.

Pairing: Steve Rogers/Reader

A/N: Fluff with a tiny sprinkle of Steve angst because I love one sad boi. Written for @wkemeup​​‘s 4K Challenge like an entire year ago!! I’m so sorry, Kas!! The prompt was Bright Eyes’ “First Day of My Life”. 2.8k words.

It was supposed to rain.

Thunderclaps rolled in the distance all morning. Moisture hung heavy in the air and the earth smelled like wet already--- salty, thick, sweet. The app on his phone blinked gray clouds straight across the screen. Seventy-three degrees and a nine-five percent chance of precipitation. Winds NE 20 miles per hour.

But at 2:30 in the afternoon when Steve slides into the car, it’s clear and blue.

So he figures it’s coincidence and poor meteorology when the engine quietly rumbles to life. He fixes the collar of his shirt, checks for hotels around the midway point, and sends an uneasy look to the empty passenger seat.

Then, he makes his way to where you are.

-

The two-lane country road stretches on. Winding and curving, pitch-black and howling with wind and wildlife. Bugs splatter on the windshield and he mechanically sprays a bit of fluid, wiping them off, the squeaks giving his radio a bit of rhythm in all this late-night talk. It’ll be another half hour before he gets to the hotel and he’s still wrestling with himself if he should even break.

No reason to now. He can drive all night. No reason to other than his pride.

“So what is it?”

There’s an imprint in the seat. An outline of a warm body folding soft creases in the leather. Late night talk radio fizzles out, and he’s tired, so he can’t get too upset at his brain for seeing the shape even though it’s been months since anyone’s sat there.

He chances a look over, then quickly back ahead because sure—the sedan is small, but this tiny strip of pavement feels even smaller. Too right and he’ll careen into the woods, too left and if another car’s coming around the bend Steve would roll out alive, but he’d be the only one.

He looks again.

Legs folded. Bare feet. Ankles crossed on the dash. Casually sitting with one hand on your phone and the other one behind your head, face lit incandescent by the screen. It was the first time he’d been alone with you after New York; he remembers this.

You hadn’t even given a glance sideways at him, still fixed on the screen, thumb sliding up and focused on mission details in a perfect picture of indifference.

“Your whole thing. Mister Red-White-and-Broody, most eligible bachelor in all of America—which, by the way, is so far up your ass all fifty states might as well be coming out of your mouth—”

“Stop it.”

“Okay, Rogers.” A smirk. His last name slipping between your lips like military title. “Fine, you’re all gilded in the front, suffering in the back. So—” You turned finally, pulled your feet back and tucked them under your body, “What is it?”

Steve pretended to think, left hand clenching a fraction tighter on the wheel, feeling its strength beneath his grip. His face remained impassive and dedicated forward, turning the seconds in his head, counting down the appropriate time for his reply.

It was a game, certainly. Your assertion, your poise, hand propping up your head—all of it. Your entire being was a foil to one Steven Grant Rogers and he was strapped with you for half a week. Already the car ride was beginning to foreshadow what was quickly seeming to be a long assignment.

“It’s my job—”

“So weak.”

“I’m busy—”

“Are you even trying to lie?”

You were known to do this: lay out a path of questions that only gave your company the pretense of a genuine conversation. You’d lead them like a wrangler leading horses to water, knowing they wouldn’t drink, but giving them just enough time to stare at their own reflection in the pool before you’d yank the harness elsewhere.

It was always a short path, but what you lacked in subtlety you made up for with honesty.

Agitated, Steve snapped before he could rein himself back in.

“What are you, my psychologist?” Horse.

“You don’t have one. You are the only Avengers Tower resident who has run off every psychologist on Stark’s payroll. So--” a twist of your torso, your back pressed up against the door handle as you stared at the outline of his side profile. Wrangler.

The question dangled in front of his gritted teeth. The answer he’d known long ago was behind two perfect calcium rows, pressed up, trying to find its way through the cracks.

What’s your thing? We fought together. We live together. We suffered a cataclysmic event in the form of aliens together---so why doesn’t anybody know you?

You leaned forward, body tilting until it almost touched your former footrest. Your head sloped to find his face and when he flicked his eyes sharply to yours, Steve knew it wasn’t sharp enough.

“You don’t want to be vulnerable.”

You’d led him through the brief route of your inquisition and had seen all you cared to see. Your voice bounced off the window when you closed your eyes and turned away.

“Steve,” you sighed, mouth going to the side in a smile. “Vulnerability is clumsy, but it’s the only thing worth anything.”

He had thought: No, it isn’t. He’d spent too long being vulnerable already, and he couldn’t afford it again. Twenty years of a miserable half-life and seventy years of sleep and suddenly the world was new and different and strange. Coming back into his body was new and different and strange but it was the body that afforded him invulnerability.

Mostly, anyway.

Steve decided, then, at least he could make up for that lump of mortality—that lump of weakness—with performance.

So, he became the blacksmith to his feeble Brooklyn boy heart. Forged carbon steel, gold-plated, immaculately polished like his own shield at press conferences. Smoothed himself into a monumental display of impeccable posturing and hid the boy away where no one could reach him. Let him go back to sleep, too. Frozen in a time long passed, long forgotten.

He wasn’t Steve Rogers anymore because no one knew Steve Rogers anymore; it was the only way he could carry on. Didn’t you know?

No, he supposed, you didn’t.

On the ride back you surrendered yourself to the backseat, laying down in the most comfortable position the sedan would allow, and chatted his ear off the entire ride home. Called him Steve and looked at him through the rearview mirror. Eyes met eyes, and yours crinkled at the edges with some secret knowledge.

By the end of it, all he could think about was how he didn’t mind the conversation and that his first name even sounded a little nice coming out of your mouth.

You shimmer in the passenger side until your hair hangs a little longer. His brown leather jacket is around your shoulders. A stretch of your arms. A stretch of your lips. Months passed and Rogers befell the man you knew during the Manhattan Crisis while he became Steve.

Steve on missions and in the field—On your six, Steve! Keep up, old boy. Steve at the tower and Steve in the gym— don’t touch my weights, Steve, you’ll throw your back out.

Steve getting the door and pouring the whiskey and letting you wear his jacket when you were cold. Finding you across rooms at parties because there was an easiness to your presence that calmed the crowd. Shooting pool and watching movies. Up late and out late and laughing until the early hours.

He was Steve, your friend, because he finally allowed himself to have a friend.

You change. Shimmer again until your hair is pulled back from your swollen face. A hospital gown crinkled around your shoulders. Asleep, cold. Too close to death, too close to him. He couldn’t even sit by your bedside, only standing by the door, shuffling from one wall to the other and watched the monitors with a too-loud and static-filled brain.

He was hesitantly Steve when you stepped too close to him on the balcony nights later, hand precariously hovering over that fragile boy heart, finally pressing down on it, feeling his delicate pulse thawing and crawling towards you. Tipsy smile and you tasted like whiskey and easy joy.

The kiss was clumsy, like you’d said. Vulnerability threw him back to the 40’s, all gangly limbed and ill, his lungs malfunctioning, his breath smothered in his mouth. He stumbled, but the banister held him up.

You didn’t mind that his knees felt boneless. You chalked it up to too much drink, but the touch of your still-bruised cheek abruptly burned down his throat—warm and smooth and cataclysmic until he caught sight of the way you winced as his hand cupped your tender face. Steve stepped back, then, and apologized for what he said should have never happened.

There was a small quiver from your shoulder before you quietly went back inside.

He cursed himself on the balcony. Cursed letting it all happen in the first place. Captain Rogers watched your retreating steps, burying the spark and the fire. And the boy must have cried in his ice-block coffin when he buried him again, too.

“Don’t look at me like that.” God, he’s going crazy. Poor night-vision and an addled brain causing him to scold an empty seat. “You stopped talking to me.”

His grip on the steering wheel tightens the way it does when you’re too deep in his head and he can’t get you out. Days without hearing from you smeared together in careful steps of a cagey dance. Comments always presented as half-truths—riddles he struggled to deconstruct. Breadcrumbs never leaving enough of a trail to lead him anywhere. He wants the harness back. Wants back your confident hand.

“You could have said something.” Steve scoffs, because you always had something to say. “Anything. You could have said anything. We were—friends.”

And hell, doesn’t that sound stupid out loud? Maybe it’s best that he’s got nothing but infinity beyond the sedan’s glaring brights and a million thoughts of unsaid words. It’s all useless, anyway. Best that he can get it all out now, talking to your ghost. It keeps all his thoughts in his head and keeps him from yelling every time he sees you not-looking, not-smiling, not-talking to him.

Steve flicks the wipers on again. Shuts off the radio. Shuts off the navigation. Takes the car off cruise-control to give himself something to do. He’ll stop overnight, after all.

Suddenly then, in the distance, two glowing eyes greet him steadily. Measured paces, in a firm and crisp trajectory, growing closer and closer. Glaring and vivid, beating the monotonous grind of nighttime out of him. His pinky moves, and his high beams flip to low beams, white giving way to yellow and the glistening road signs and tree-shadows in the distance slowly diminish.

Bleached spectral glaring of leaves and road signs soften ochre and brown, indigo dark. For a fleeting moment, even Steve’s enhanced eyes feel half-blind again as he readjusts to the pitch-black night barely lit. The car coming toward him does the same, highs blinking low and they pass each other in quiet understanding. In blind trust on the dark road, dependent on each other’s good faith to see it through.

He thinks of Sarah Rogers in a tiny Brooklyn kitchen, floral wallpaper yellowed and peeling behind her. One hand on an apron-clad hip, cooking interrupted by her son stumbling in dripping blood down his shirt, her other hand clenched around a wet kitchen rag.

“Steven Grant Rogers! Oh—wretched! What else can I say,” she’d sigh as she pressed it to his nose, “You do whatever you please, anyhow. You just put this on your face—and don’t think it’ll get you out of doing the dishes, either.”

“But—” he’d attempt.

She’d put up her hand, “Lord have mercy on any young woman that’ll have you. May she have your poor mother’s patient heart.”

His ma always called him slow. A dolt through and through. Quick to temper, but laborious to do much else. Common sense always took its sweet time-- took the long path home to get to Steve Rogers. In seventy-odd years, he hasn’t changed.

Better than coincidence and better than poor meteorology. Serendipity. It’s the only way he can describe it.

Like finding a crumpled up twenty in his pocket—or in his case, a five—enough then for a week’s worth of meals. Like having that nightmare— the one right before the plane crashes and instead of going down with it, he wakes up. Like expecting to drive five hours through a storm and stopping overnight, but instead it’s clear and blue as far as he can see.

The rush, the relief, the deafening joy that shuts everything else up and out.

Sarah Rogers was right: he’d always been slow.

So he careens back onto the highway from the service road, steadying his foot on the pedal and flies about fifteen miles faster than the speed limit says he should. The car is vibrating to a thrilled beat inside his chest. Steve can’t help smiling.

-

It was supposed to rain. All the way to the next mid-morning but the sky parts a brilliant orange sunrise and he nearly sprints to the door. He doesn’t wait for it to open all the way before he barrels in. A sliver of parting wood is enough, and Steve throws it wide with his enormous shoulders, kicking it shut firmly with his boot.

The imprint of your body on the couch is still warm—you, halfway across the room in alarm—real and even warmer when Steve gathers you into his arms. He’s been awake for over 24 hours, talking to himself, talking to your hallucination, so he apologizes when his teeth click against yours in a frantic kiss.

“Rogers--!”

You pull away, dazed, a little bit pissed off, but you cow the swirl of emotions into professionalism. “What are you—you’re not supposed to be here until late—did you drive through--”

“Steve,” he interrupts, “Steve.”

He’s so tired of the long road. Can’t stand another second of maneuvering in the dark down winding paths or broken streetlight avenues you’re not at the end of so he keeps his next phrase short: “I really like you.”

You raise your brow and brush the back of your knuckles over your lips, the light from the balcony streaming over your face. His hand tenderly brushes your cheek, the same one he touched all those months ago and you blink in surprise. Quick, calculating movements even as you lean gently into his touch.

“Steve…” you say slowly before your mouth pinches together in a poor attempt to hide the smirk threatening to surface. “You drove all night to… ask me to call you Steve.”

“Well,” he shrugs, “And the mission.”

“Right, the mission. The debrief didn’t mention that it required a lot of… kissing.”

“It came up recently; I haven’t adjusted the file yet.” He grins at your rolling eyes, your swollen lips peeling back to reveal a joyful display of teeth at his stubborn defiance.

“Took you long enough,” you mumble.

You place your hand over his chest, over his heart.

You kiss him and Steve hears himself sighing into your mouth. His cheeks flush with embarrassment, but you’re not letting go, and he presses his lips to yours a little slower, a little firmer, learning the ways you like to feel him there.

“Steve,” you breathe, and it paints him in the most galvanized care. “Steve,” you say again, and his eyes slip shut, like he’s being laid to rest. And maybe he is. Finally weary of lugging around all his armor, all his pretense.  

The boy emerges, thawing toward his name held sweetly in your mouth.

He fumbles with his awkward limbs—a newly birthed foal trying to find its footing—but you’re patient and enduring. He takes in his trembling body—knobby knees and gangly elbows. Inept gait still learning how to be. He takes the sights—white casting over the balcony. You, even brighter.

It was supposed to rain, but you link your fingers through his, leading him toward the open doors, smiling against a backdrop of sherbet swirls. He stumbles, but you’ve got him. A few short steps, just a few more, and Steve kisses you again in the sunbathed daybreak, resurrected and anew.

[yingren]

if the combination of cigarette and coffee is an awful, filthy concoction, then dan heng and ren are ten times worse - possibly more, though numbers were never ren’s strong suit. he’s not about to overthink the tangled mess they’ve created between them when all he ever seems to do is make it worse. worse, and worse, and worse still. it’s maddening how effortlessly he finds his way back to this unbearable closeness, where dan heng is barely a small breath away, and ren can feel the warmth of his own breath ricochet off dan heng’s cheek. even with a cigarette precariously balanced between his lips, a feeble and half-hearted attempt to maintain some distance, it’s as if no gap exists between them that they can’t, or won’t, bridge.

his gaze lingers on dan heng’s draconic features, the long, silky hair that falls gently over his shoulders, untouched and smooth compared to ren’s own disheveled mess. this must be the way he was always meant to appear - completely and undeniably ethereal. even the reddened marks on his flawless skin blend seamlessly into his beauty, as if crafted for a high elder of his stature, a living masterpiece. it’s harder to fully appreciate when they’re not skin to skin, breathless, devouring each other with fervent kisses and desperate hands searching for more of each other. everything with dan heng becomes more difficult when it isn’t complicated or violent. violent in a way that threatens to break him open, violent in the way it leaves marks on ren’s back from sharp nails, the crescent-shaped bite on his shoulder, the consuming heat of taking, claiming, and owning dan heng - even if only for those brief, intense moments.

there’s no resistance from ren when dan heng effortlessly climbs into his lap, as though it’s the most natural progression of their unspoken dance. ren’s lips barely twitch or part, his hand settling on dan heng’s hip as he straddles ren with a maddening ease. if things were always this simple between them, it’s a rhythm ren has long forgotten. if they always moved in such perfect harmony, it’s a trait he wishes he could erase. but those kinds of things are etched into his very being, like dan heng had claimed him long before their paths ever crossed. and now, like a puppeteer, he has ren moving along with every shift of his intentions. when dan heng moves left, ren follows. if he runs, ren is right behind him. if he pauses, ren stays. and when dan heng claims ren’s lap as his throne, ren holds him there with a hand around his throat.

that’s exactly where ren’s free hand moves, fingers curling gently around dan heng’s throat, curious about what it might feel like to press down, to crush the softness beneath his touch. but he holds back, knowing that to push too far might shatter this fragile moment, breaking it into irreparable pieces. it’s enough to simply feel him like this, to press his thumb against the pulse that beats steadily beneath his fingertips, to feel the heat of dan heng’s skin sending a ripple of sensation through his hand. he watches the warmth flush from dan heng’s cheeks and the sharp tips of his ears, knowing that he’s the one who’s caused it. this isn’t dan heng as imbibitor lunae, or as the proud former high elder of the xianzhou’s legendary ship. no, this is dan heng as he truly is, stripped down to something raw and real - his. an old lover, now an insatiable being, hungry for more. the scent of cloudhymn clings to his skin, stubborn and lingering, like sweat that refuses to fade. ren can almost taste it on his tongue, mixed with the thick, rich smoke from the cigarette still resting between his lips. he inhales deeply, his lungs straining as they beg for more air, before exhaling the smoke slowly through his nose.

“ a week was too kind of an estimation. ” dan heng doesn’t need to speak, and neither does ren. the tension between them is thick, tangible, hanging in the air with an intensity that doesn’t need words to be understood. ren inhales again, his free hand shifting from dan heng’s hip to snatch the cigarette, creating space for more taunting words, a dangerous game in their quiet exchange. his fingers tighten around dan heng’s neck, applying pressure until the faint sting of his nails sinks into soft skin. so close to that steady pulse, but still keeping that distance - no need to rip it away just yet. ren shifts beneath the weight of the headboard pressing into his back, his hips rising instinctively to meet dan heng’s, searching for friction, for warmth, for that fire he knows is simmering beneath the surface. he craves dan heng's insatiable hunger, the kind he’s willing to drown in, to lose himself within. the next drag of the cigarette burns in his tired lungs, filling him with a sharp sting. then for a fleeting moment, ren holds his breath, savoring the sensation, suspended in the heat of the moment. “ well ? don’t just sit there. ” when he shifts, it's only to press the smoldering tip of the cigarette against dan heng's soft, unmarked skin. the glowing embers dying as they make contact with dan heng’s thigh, and then the burnt remnants of the cigarette are discarded thoughtlessly onto the floor. “ move. ”

@yingren x.

This nondescript room with its creaky bed and its diaphanous, off-white sheets contains these moments like a furtively kept secret. Because it was a terrible decision, perhaps the worst decision either could have agreed to. It’s because they both know it but refuse to speak it aloud that it’s grown wild and unchecked. There was something inexplicably right about the way ren’s slender hands sink into his hair, pressing half of his face ruthlessly into the bed and whispering salacious depravity into the shell of his pointed ear. addictive was perhaps a more apt representation of it because like someone deprived of their substance of choice he returns desperate, hungrier, with each opportunity presented to him. It was disturbing, to feel the magnetic pull of ren and lean into it, encourage it, rather than desperately jerk away. It cannot cause him much distress because tangled in the rumpled sheets dan heng is delineated as something ethereal. He has yet to trouble himself with the onerous task of thinking about retrieving his urgently discarded clothes and appears utterly serene despite the lurid marks in the shapes of ren’s hands and mouth that deface his otherwise pale skin.  As pleasure recedes into a dull, intermittent ache, dan heng is able to gather his frayed thoughts. any semblance of regret is absent which he has already committed too much time dwelling on before to agonize over now. through lowered lashes he has enthralled himself with the strange, sinuous creatures the smoke seeping out of ren’s cigarette become, wreathing over one another again and again in a ravenous, dissipating, frenzy. It’s hot, that was the response he had chosen ? the pellucid water of dan heng’s gaze immured ren beneath their surface, retaining the way his lean frame harbours all of the tension the room could hold within his taut sinew and hollow bones. he was charged with it, as if it might disgorge violently from him in an instance. encircled by it, tangible waves undulating off of ren’s broad shoulders, he felt exposed, vulnerable, which seemed absurd considering the fervent way he had compelled ren to sink his teeth into the soft, pliant juncture between his throat and shoulder. a shudder curled up his spine, his fingers flexing absentmindedly to stave it off. Dan heng had never thought about smoking before, lining one’s lungs with a slick of virulent toxin seemed detrimental to his attempt at wanting to survive. When ren’s teeth sink into the crooked end of that cigarette though he is mesmerised, his pupils slithers of darkness amongst ravenous rapids. then, as if affronted by a lack of something he nonchalantly dips the cigarette into an abandoned cup long since tepid, leisurely stirring it as if to mix the dregs of caffeine and the abhorrent black ash into a bilious concoction. He merely stared at it for a long moment, drinking in the ripples as they slowly stretched to the outer perimeter of the cup and then dissolved into nothingness. There was something alleviating about it, he could correlate the dull cadence of pain echoing through him to their unfurling and when he dared repossess his focus he found ren moving again. He seemed incapable of remaining still, like it might drive him mad to be stagnant, it was a sentiment dan heng knew intimately. Still, the languid way he stretched commanded dan heng’s eyes to brazenly traverse his skin, devouring each inch of him he offered up with the avarice only a dragon could poisess. It’s a terrible thing when their eyes meet again, being caught staring causes a heat to rise from his cheeks to the tips of his pointed ears, he averts his gaze intentionally, hastily. ren has seen, touched, tasted, all of him, it seems like such a futile thing to be flustered and adhering his gaze to the low, decrepit table below but he needs to anchor himself somewhere else, anywhere else. 

It isn’t until ren approaches him, crossing the distance that feels insurmountable as soon as they’re not pressed together in a slick of sweat and desire, that he commands dan heng’s attention once more ━ as if he could fully commit it anywhere else. coming this close he tucks a wayward strand of dark hair behind dan heng’s ear and the gesture, so miniscule, so insignificant to most, has his breath held captive behind his teeth, appraising him with an expression that was not quite prepared to be guarded ━ but felt, when touched so gently, so transiently, that it needed to be. With his knuckles bereft of their usual bandages, ren's skin grazes the warmth of his cheeks and he finds himself inadvertently leaning into it again rather than away. “ a week, that’s how long you think i’ll last.” he says, it sounds like a challenge but not unlike his expression his voice is still soft, breathy, the impression of him obscenely moaning for ren haunts this constricting space. He shakes his head but still leans over, the sheet falls away from his stomach as he stretches, revealing long plains of skin, pooling around his waist like an invitation. Holding the lighter feels excruciatingly intimate, considering it with a wary gaze he instead does something reckless, something bolder, something to negate the peculiar servility of doing something like this for ren. With it still in hands he rises from the sheets revealing more tantalizing inches of skin before impudently sinking into ren’s laps, thighs spread, focusing on the click, click, click the lighter makes as he coaxes a spark from it rather than the molten heat from the contact of ren’s skin against his skin. “ perhaps you are right after all.” he says lowly, obediently lighting the end of his cigarette. “ I am the insatiable one.”