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#me: let's see what she slapped together for this one....good grief

subskz · 1 year

Text

ʚïɞ butterfly bandage - 02

note: this is part 2 of a series (part 1, part 3, part 4, part 5)

content: bang chan/reader, university au, reader is female and referred to with she/her pronouns, themes of soulmates, slight angst, slight hurt/comfort, themes of death/grief over a friend, mentions of past unhealthy relationships, nsfw scenes

18+ content: sub chan, dom reader, soft smut, unprotected sex (no condom, but reader is on contraceptives), praise, body worship, riding, light choking, under-discussed kinks (both parties are consenting), light possessiveness, biting, teasing, lots of begging, aftercare

word count: 15.8k

You didn’t want to go home.

Final exams were just a week away, and summer break would follow soon after. For anyone else, it would bring about a much-needed relief, a moment to breathe after the grueling interim leading up to the end of the semester. For you, however, all that awaited was a looming, unshakeable sense of dread.

You hadn’t returned to your hometown for nearly six months now, choosing instead to spend all of your vacation time on campus, pouring yourself into assignments and studies far sooner and far more vigorously than required. But summer break would be an exception to this new, comfortably avoidant routine of yours. The excuse that you were busy became significantly less convincing when you had no classes to attend to, and you were certain that your parents wouldn’t let you get away with not visiting home for at least a week or two, especially when the trip was less than an hour by train.

It would be the one year anniversary soon, of the loss of your closest friend. The memory was still too fresh in your mind, the wound was still wide open and festering. You hadn’t given it proper time to heal—or, any time to heal, for that matter—instead having grown accustomed to slapping on a temporary fix and replacing it only when deemed absolutely necessary. Just enough to get by, to keep yourself together.

It wouldn’t be that easy to ignore once you returned home, though. Not even close. Every flickering streetlight, every newly blossomed tree, every crack in the sidewalk that had once been so reassuring in its familiarity, was laced with memories of her. They were memories that used to make your life brighter, warmer; like a glowing ball of light you carried around in your chest wherever you went. Now, they only stung.

The sound of your phone vibrating against the nightstand snapped you out of your brooding. You reached out aimlessly for it through the darkness of your bedroom, squinting as the harsh screen light nearly blinded you in the process.

A familiar flash of gray was all you needed to see to open the notification with embarrassing haste.

chan 🐺 (3:08 a.m.) let’s go here!

For a brief moment, you were at a loss, then, the link to a nearby bungeoppang shop followed.

chan 🐺 (3:09 a.m.) their custard is so sooo sooooooo good

chan 🐺 (3:10 a.m.) akskdnsnsksjsjsk

You were grinning before you even finished reading his messages, fondness flooding your chest in place of the heavy, melancholic fog that had been occupying it all night.

you (3:11 a.m.) yummy~ we can go during finals week as a pick me up!

chan 🐺 (3:11 a.m.) yuo’re awake,??

you (3:11 a.m.) that’s my line!

Just as you were typing out another response, your screen changed to signal Chan’s incoming call, making you scramble upright in bed. You should’ve come to expect it by now, but even so, it still felt just as new and exhilarating as the first time that wolf emoji had popped up out of the blue. Predictably unpredictable.

His greeting came the instant you picked up, oddly cheerful considering how late into the night it was.

“Hey!”

“Hi, Channie,” you said softly. “Y’know, I think I’ve got you all figured out.”

“Oh?” Chan sounded taken aback. “What do you mean?”

“You’re only a phone guy when you should be asleep.”

Confusion melted into amusement, and you could hear the grin in his voice when he replied. “Hm…maybe you’re right,” he agreed. “But what’s your excuse, then?”

You paused. “I guess I’m only a good texter when it comes to you.”

The shy giggles that filled your ears didn’t disappoint. They made you feel light, carefree; like everything that had been responsible for keeping you wide awake for the past three hours was suddenly so trivial in the face of his laughter.

“So, what are you up to?” you asked.

“Trying to trick myself to fall asleep,” he said it like a joke, but you could feel the weariness behind his words. It tugged at your emotions in a way that you knew all too well. The urge to help him, to take care of him.

Your heart welcomed it, but your mind rejected it, and you were more keen on letting the latter call the shots these days. So, as naturally as it came, you pushed it away.

“By thinking about bungeoppang?”

Another giggle. “Well, more like thinking about things I wanna do with you.”

You held your breath to avoid letting a reaction slip out, but there was no way to repress the butterflies that fluttered to life in your stomach. Thankfully, Chan didn’t seem to notice. It was the one thing about you he could never quite catch, like his obliviousness to his own charm stood in the way of an otherwise razor-sharp intuition.

“How about you? What’s got you awake?”

You could clearly envision the attentive eyes and curious head tilt accompanying his question. It almost made you want to answer without restraint, to share all the thoughts that you’d been needlessly torturing yourself with for days now, rotating over and over in your head until they snowballed into something out of your control.

You stopped yourself just in time. He didn’t need to hear something like that at this hour—or, ever, really.

“Just thinking about the summer.” It wasn’t entirely a lie, and you hoped it’d be enough to get past his scrutiny.

“Oh!” he chirped. “Are you excited?”

Absolutely not. “Kinda,” you were grateful he couldn’t see your expression. “More excited about it than finals, anyway.”

“It’ll be fine!” he said confidently. “Just two more weeks, and we’re free, yeah?”

“Yeah,” you smiled. “I’m gonna miss our study sessions.”

Chan had switched from the astrophysics track after his spring semester of senior year—cutting it close was an understatement—so any classes you’d be taking for your final term in the fall would be completely new territory for him. You didn’t doubt for a second that he might try to continue tutoring you and Changbin regardless, but after finding out how hard he’d been pushing himself to help you with subjects that he already had experience with, you couldn’t in good conscience allow him to do that to himself again.

Not that you needed the study sessions as an excuse to see him anymore, but still, you felt strangely wistful about it.

“Me too,” he hummed, as if his mind had drifted to the same place. “That reminds me, you left your sweater here the other day.”

“Oh! I didn’t even notice.”

“You must’ve been distracted by something,” he sang.

You let your chuckle slip out this time, more than ready to indulge him. “Well, there was this really cute boy there. Do you think he’d be willing to give it back to me?”

“Ah…” his attempt at teasing you backfired so spectacularly that he went silent for a moment. “He was cute? I don’t believe you.”

“Cute enough to kiss,” you confirmed.

You registered a sudden rustling sound on the other line, followed by the faintest squeak, as if he were physically unable to contain his giddiness. The thought of it nearly had you burying your face in your pillow yourself. You wished you could see him.

“Then,” he swallowed. “He might give it back to you, for a kiss.”

The memory of his lips on yours washed over you all at once, so vividly that you could even recall how his soft cheeks had felt cupped in your palms and how his shaky breath had fanned over your skin.

“Is that a promise?” You held out your pinky in the darkness. It buzzed with warmth, and you wondered briefly if he was mirroring your action on his end, or if it was just the lingering heat that he’d left on you.

“Promise,” he breathed.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

The final lecture of PHYS 408: Thermodynamics and Statistical Mechanics, more or less went exactly as you had predicted. No review for the final exam, no rundown of what to expect, and certainly no heartfelt announcement from Dr. Choi, letting you all know what a joy of a section you’d been to teach. If it weren't for the date and time of the exam scribbled on the whiteboard behind him, you might’ve thought he’d forgotten about it altogether.

He’d droned on for the first hour of class, delivering your last lesson of the semester with the same perpetual stiffness as day one, then had so generously granted the remaining 15 minutes as free time for studying amongst yourselves. Changbin appeared ready to bolt the moment the words left your professor’s mouth, but you’d stubbornly convinced him to stay just a bit longer and study with you. It was more for his sake than anything else, considering he’d only attended one of the two final exam reviews with Chan.

Changbin, it seemed, had other plans, as he hadn’t let a minute pass by without getting distracted from the task at hand and trying to start a conversation with you.

“By the way, you'll be at the get-together won’t you? Before the summer ends.”

You looked up from your notes, already sensing some kind of trap being set up.

“And by get-together you mean…?”

Changbin’s lips curved into a sheepish half-smile; caught, even with his careful phrasing.

“Well, I guess it’s more of a party.”

You made a face. You’d been to a handful of parties the past three years of your university experience, each one having been more unpleasant and suffocating than the last.

“I’m not sure, Bin. Not really my scene, y’know?”

“It’ll be your scene if I'm there, trust me.” Changbin lifted his head with a grin, and you might have rolled your eyes if his overblown confidence wasn’t so endearing.

“Uh-huh,” you played along. “Now I'm just itching to go.”

“Doesn’t the bond we’ve built these past months mean anything to you?” he whined. “It could be our last chance to really hang out!”

“It’s not like we’re dying, Seo Changbin,” you said, unimpressed. “I know for a fact that you’re taking the same Experimental Physics section as me next semester because we both put it off.”

Changbin clicked his tongue, shutting his book dramatically—which made no difference, really, considering he hadn’t read a single line of text from it. “Alright, fine. You’ve made it clear how little you value our friendship today.”

Just when you thought he’d accepted defeat, he continued.

“And of course,” a devious glint crossed his eyes. “It wouldn’t change your mind if I told you a certain friend of mine was coming?”

Ah. Despite your vigilance, it appeared you’d fallen right into his trap anyway.

“A certain friend?” you echoed. It came casual, but inside, your mind was swarming with countless possibilities. You hadn’t yet told Changbin about everything that had transpired between you and Chan, and you weren’t sure if Chan had mentioned anything to him either. The issue wasn’t so much that you were afraid of how Changbin would react, it was more about preparing yourself to deal with the theatrics of it all, the internal battle between horror and smugness that was sure to ensue inside him; because, on one hand, he’d been right, but on the other hand, he’d been right.

You could already picture it: scolding and teasing all at once, “I leave you alone with my best friend for one night and you kiss him!?”

You would never hear the end of it.

“A certain Bang Chan,” he elaborated, looking a bit disappointed when you didn’t give him the reaction he’d hoped for.

Knowing that Chan would be there admittedly piqued your interest, but not in the way Changbin seemed to think. You were more so curious as to what would draw him into such an environment—if he would be in his element, or awkwardly out of place. He was a social butterfly, sure, with a friends list that could probably fill up your entire Theoretical Methods notebook, but even so, a college party just wasn’t the kind of pastime you’d imagined him to indulge in all that much.

Still, you could be wrong. You simultaneously felt like you knew so much about Chan, yet so little. It was like you could envision the completed puzzle of him in your mind, but still didn’t quite have all the pieces in your hand.

With a start, you realized that Changbin might mistake your silence for something else, and you forced out a response before he could get too suspicious.

“Chan’s going?” you asked. “Is that his kind of thing?”

“Hm…not usually,” he tapped your pencil against the tabletop, as if it required deep thought. “At least, he’s not big on drinking and all that.”

The surge of satisfaction you felt in being correct came so strong that you were almost taken aback. It went hand in hand with that ever-present desire to know him, every part of him, better than anyone else.

“So, what’s the occasion, then? Because I know you’re not exactly a party animal yourself, Mr. Principles.”

“I’m the life of any party I go to.” He said it so seriously that you couldn’t help but snort, earning you a defensive swat to the shoulder.

“But, you do have a point,” he admitted once your giggles had died down. “It is sort of a special occasion.”

You leaned in, fully immersed now. He was being uncharacteristically roundabout today, and when that signature, shy smirk crept up on his face, you knew there was definitely something else brewing under the surface.

“It’s an event for the student music organization here on campus, so we get to do a little showcase.”

Your eyes widened. “We? As in 3RACHA?”

He simply beamed, the look of pride on his face speaking for itself.

“Bin! Are you serious!?”

For once, you were the one turning heads in you and Changbin’s direction, but you couldn’t find it in you to feel self-conscious about your outburst. “Like, a live performance?”

He wiggled in his spot, clearly basking in your excitement. “Just one song, but, yeah.”

“Still, that’s amazing!” you piped. “You should’ve just said that from the beginning, you know I’ll go if it means seeing you perform.”

“I know,” he scrunched up his nose, the embarrassment finally starting to get to him. “But I didn’t wanna flaunt. Modesty is key, after all.”

You shot him an amused look. “Is that one of your principles?”

“The most important one,” he said proudly.

Though you were less than enthused about attending a party of that magnitude, in that moment you felt nothing but delight bubbling up in your chest; for Changbin, for yourself, for Chan. You wondered what his reaction to the news had been like, if he’d broken out into that thousand-watt smile of barely-contained glee, or if the prospect of sharing his music in front of so many people had reduced him to a panicked mess, scrambling to get everything in order to put on the best performance possible.

The clock struck 9:15 a.m. to signal the end of your final lecture period. Naturally, you and Changbin hadn’t gotten any studying done, with his little announcement serving as the nail in the coffin for your motivation to work. As you gathered up your belongings and rose from your chair, an unexpected wave of nostalgia overtook you. It was likely the last time you’d be sitting in it, given that even the most absent of students would be showing up on the day of the final and taking any spot they could find. In a weird way, you were going to miss it. Some of your most miserable recollections from the semester were associated with it—stress, exhaustion, confusion, pressure—but it had brought about some of your most cherished moments as well; some of your most cherished people.

Changbin seemed to notice the sentimental expression on your face, and he gave you a gentle nudge as you strolled together out of the classroom.

“A lot has changed since that first day, huh?”

“Yeah,” you let your shoulder bump against his. “It has.”

You hoped, desperately, that it was the start of something better.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

In the end, you and Chan hadn’t been able to line your schedules up even once throughout finals week to make room for your bungeoppang date. Amidst the storm of projects, presentations, exams, and papers, the two of you barely found time in the day to fulfill basic necessities, let alone to hang out with one another. You were particularly worried about the self-care situation on his end, already well-acquainted with his tendency to neglect his health whenever he was swamped. All you could do was send short, uplifting messages every few days, encouraging him to get some rest before the sun came up.

The dangling promise of fish-shaped bread (and, of course, the boy that came with it) had carried you through the week more than you’d like to admit, and by the time your last exam of the semester came around, your patience was on its last legs. You turned in your Astronomical Techniques test with plenty of time to spare, scurrying out of the lecture hall and making your way to the campus gym as quickly as your feet would allow.

Pushing open the doors to the natatorium where you and Chan had agreed to meet, you were immediately hit with the stinging scent of chlorine and thunderous sound of overlapping splashes. You scanned over the area in search of his familiar face, overwhelmed by the sea of identical swim caps. When you spotted him at last, he wasn’t emerging from the locker room like you’d expected him to be—freshly showered and, most importantly, clothed. No, instead, your eyes landed on him just in time to witness him rising from the pool, muscular arms hoisting his body up the ledge and sending streams of water cascading down his broad shoulders and back.

You froze, too mesmerized by the sight to even think about looking away before he could notice you. He pulled his swim cap off along with his goggles, shaking his wet curls free and confirming that it was, in fact, Bang Christopher Chan standing shirtless before you.

It was almost laughable, how your heartbeat picked up to an alarming speed, hammering faster in your chest the more you studied his figure. The full curve of his pecs, the toned ridges of his abdomen, the lean dip in his waist, disappearing into his swim trunks. His skin was glistening and almost annoyingly untouched. You wanted to sully it, to leave it marked up and littered with traces of you.

A sudden squeak of your name snapped you back to your senses. With how intensely you’d been staring, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise to you that Chan’s head would whip around in your direction, as if he could physically feel the holes your gaze had been burning into his skin.

“Y-you’re here!” he stammered. A part of you wondered if he might’ve done this on purpose, secretly hoping for you to find him like this when he’d suggested that you meet up with him after practice. But, judging by the way he shrank into himself, arms flying up to cross over his chest at the speed of light, he was just as mortified as you were.

You took a breath, forcing yourself to get it together. “I guess I finished my exam earlier than I thought,” your voice sounded steady, at least. “Sorry for sneaking up on you.”

Chan shifted his weight from side to side, eyes darting between you and the floor. “No worries,” he chuckled awkwardly. You made a point to avoid looking anywhere but his face for the sake of his comfort, but the way his ears had flushed a very obvious shade of red was just as distracting, if not more.

He cleared his throat. “Uh, we’re done for the day, anyway. I just gotta shower, then I’m all yours!”

You wished he hadn’t phrased it like that. “Sure, take your time.”

You managed a quick smile, turning towards the bench on the far end of the pool so he could walk to the locker rooms without worrying about covering himself up.

As if that whole altercation hadn’t been embarrassing enough already, it took the entirety of the ten minutes he spent in the shower for the adrenaline rushing through your veins to finally ebb.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

It was the first time you’d ever really heard Chan whine—childish and pouty in a way that could give even Changbin a run for his money.

You giggled triumphantly, waving the bungeoppang in his face to really rub it in.

Chan had made the grave mistake of offhandedly telling you what he planned to order as the two of you chatted on the way to the shop, and when he’d whispered to you that he was going to run to the bathroom as you were studying the menu, the opportunity that presented itself was just too perfect for you to pass up.

Instead of waiting, you’d lined up on your own, praying that you would make it before he returned. In the end, you’d succeeded, ordering for him and yourself and paying for both portions just in the nick of time, much to his horror.

“This upset over my first win?” you taunted. “I didn’t know you were so competitive, Channie.”

He huffed, pressing his lips together in a way that made his cheeks swell. The good-natured twinkle in his eyes remained, however, and he eventually accepted the pastry in defeat. “Still, thank you.”

You softened. “Of course. It’s the least I could do.”

The two of you slipped into the nearest booth, settling in across from each other. Chan looked ready to devour his order within seconds of sitting down, but before he could, you reached out, bungeoppang in hand, as if proposing a toast.

“Here’s to getting through finals alive,” you declared.

He grinned, tapping his bread against yours. “Cheers!”

You bit into your share, the light crispness of the crust blending perfectly with its filling. Chan had been right about this place’s custard; the way its flavor flooded your tongue was nothing short of heavenly.

“Oh my God,” you mumbled. “This is so good.”

He let out a blissful hum of agreement. You glanced up to find him already halfway done with his share, cheeks stuffed and lips puckered as he chewed happily away. A stray drop of custard had stuck to the corner of his mouth, right next to the curve of his dimple, and it took everything in you not to lean in and kiss him right then and there.

Chan’s eyes fluttered open as he swallowed his massive mouthful, and you straightened up in your spot, trying to pretend like you hadn’t just been daydreaming about eating custard off of his face.

“By the way,” you began. “Changbin told me you guys are performing at the end of the summer?”

“Ah…” he brought his bungeoppang up to his nose, like he hoped to disappear behind it. “Yeah, seems like it. It’s not a big deal, though, really.”

“It is! I wish you’d told me, I definitely don’t wanna miss it.”

His gaze peeked up above the half-eaten bread, and you might’ve thought he was just playing coy if the look in his eyes wasn’t so adorably hopeful, searching your expression for a sincere show of interest.

“Really?”

“Of course,” you said it like it was the most obvious thing in the world. “Plus, Bin would never let me live it down if I did.”

“True,” he grinned. “Would you believe me if I said I wanted to tell you?”

“Oh?”

“I was just kinda embarrassed about it,” he chuckled. “Dunno if I’d be able to face you after.”

Something about the way he said it nearly made you melt. How very like him, to feel self-conscious about performing in front of you before it’d even happened. Unable to help yourself any longer, you reached forward and brushed your thumb along the edge of his lips, scooping up the drop of custard—though, really, it was just an excuse to touch him.

Chan looked caught off guard for a moment, fingers flexing around the pastry in his hand. Then, the smile was back on his face, even wider this time.

“You’re so cute,” you murmured. “If you say that, it just makes me wanna see you more, y’know.”

He reached up to fiddle with his piercing, both dimples now on full display. “Will you be back in town by then?”

“I’m gonna be here for most of the break, actually,” you confessed.

His eyes lit up. “You serious?”

You nodded, praying he wouldn’t ask you to elaborate.

“So am I!” he beamed. “I’m doing an independent study, so I won’t have the chance to go home.”

It dawned on you for the first time that Chan’s family was, in fact, still living in Australia while he attended university. You hadn’t even considered the possibility that he might not be visiting them over the summer. That same, familiar ache touched your heart again—it must get lonely for him. Here you were, purposely avoiding your hometown at all costs, when he was likely longing for his.

“Oh no,” you frowned. “Not even for a short trip?”

“Nah.” He waved his hand, seemingly unaffected. “But it’s alright. I’ve got you, and my buddy Felix will be here for a while, too.”

Felix. Another name you’d heard thrown around by Chan and Changbin on more than one occasion. He was yet another junior that Chan had managed to befriend somehow, and, just like him, he’d grown up in Australia. It eased your mind a bit, knowing that he and Chan at least had each other when everyone else was home for the holidays.

“But what about you?” He cocked his head. “Any reason you’re staying?”

The dreaded question. This time, you couldn’t depend on the safety of a phone call to keep him from gauging your reaction.

“I just prefer it here, I guess.” You picked at the paper wrapping of your bread, hoping to sound nonchalant. “There’s some stuff I don’t wanna deal with back home. But, knowing my parents, I’ll probably still go for a week or so.”

Suddenly, the look on his face wasn’t quite so bright. It was subtle, just a fleeting crack in his typically bubbly demeanor, but not lost on you. Whether it was the mention of your parents or your vaguely cynical response that had brought about such a strange reaction, you weren’t sure, but you berated yourself for being responsible for dampening his mood, even if it was short-lived.

“I get that,” he said softly. “Let’s have a good time here together, yeah?”

Chan didn’t speak any further on the topic, but somehow, you couldn’t shake the feeling that he resonated with what you’d said more than he was letting on.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

Three days into your visit back home, you came to fully accept the fact that you were in way over your head.

From the moment you’d stepped off the train, hit with that warm, familiar air, tinged with the scent of pine, you could already feel it picking away at you. The trip from the station to your house, which you’d stubbornly chosen to make by foot, was full of bittersweet sights, sounds, and smells that had shaped you growing up, with each one tugging your seams loose just a little bit more. It felt akin to whiplash, a harsh dive into the deep end of reality after the past month you’d spent with Chan, stuck in a giddy haze.

Thanks to him, the harsh sting of summer had become more of a dull ache, not quite fading altogether, but soothed into something more manageable, at least. With Iseul, Changbin, and all your other friends returning home for vacation, you’d breezed through the entirety of June almost exclusively in Chan’s company. More often than not, Felix would join in as well, making for an unexpectedly pleasant dynamic among the three of you. You’d taken a liking to the boy in no time—it was impossible not to, when he had a smile like the sun and an infectious sort of vitality that brought joy to even the simplest of activities. He was a bit more reserved than Chan, at least around you, but he had a similar kind of warmth, the kind that was sure to enamor anyone he crossed paths with.

Between movie nights (more superhero movies than you’d ever thought existed), day trips to the beach (with Chan, thankfully, taking your sanity into account and wearing a tank top at all times), and far too many baking sessions (some successful, most failed), what you’d initially feared to be a month of nothing but heat and misery had turned out to be some of the best weeks of your life.

It was only natural, of course, that the universe would follow them up with a week that was carefully crafted to send all that happiness you’d built toppling unceremoniously to the ground.

The pit of guilt you’d felt in your stomach about avoiding home for so long increased tenfold with every comment from your parents and relatives, joking about how you were too busy, too good for your family to waste time on them anymore. You almost wanted to be upset, because you knew they knew. But you also knew that they meant well. In their minds, they were doing you a favor by not addressing it, not daring to so much as utter your friend’s name around you. It was much easier to pretend like everything was okay. That was what you’d been doing for the past year, after all.

Still, no matter how hard you wished you could ignore it, the pesky, human desire for seeking solace in others persisted. You needed to release, to lift the top off the pressure cooker you’d kept so tightly sealed for so long.

You needed to talk to someone. But the only person in the world who you could’ve opened up to about losing her, was her.

Your thumb lingered over Chan’s contact, now on your fourth minute of debating whether or not you should throw caution to the wind and call him. You wanted to hear his voice rambling on, his absent-minded humming of whichever song was stuck in his head that day, his laughter.

With a deep inhale, you swiped out of your phone app, opening up your messages instead.

you (8:13 a.m.) hey it’s been a minute! how are u?

A response, almost immediately.

iseul 🪷 (8:13 a.m.) awful horrible miserable

you (8:14 a.m.) hello??? what’s going on?

iseul 🪷 (8:14 a.m.) family is driving me crazy and i hate men i also might be fired???? idk yet

You frowned, trying to process the unfortunate string of messages unfolding on your screen. You didn’t think it was possible for anyone to be having a worse time than you right now. It brought you back to your senses, reminded you of your place. Self-pity never suited you, anyway. Your sympathy was much better off reserved for others.

you (8:15 a.m.) oh my god? do you want to talk?

iseul 🪷 (8:15 a.m.) ugh yes i’ll ft you later at a family gathering rn 🤢 hate it here

you (8:16 a.m.) we’re in the same boat remember the right answer to every question is that ur focusing on ur studies

iseul 🪷 (8:16 a.m.) literally gonna be using that one all day ugh literally kill me

you (8:17 a.m.) being nosey is just how they show their love~

iseul 🪷 (8:17 a.m.) they should show their love a little less

you (8:18 a.m.) lmaoo

you (8:19 a.m.) btw do you still want me to look over that paper for your grad school app?

iseul 🪷 (8:19 a.m.) omg….. omfg yes i totally forgot omfg i’ll send it to u when i’m free pls read it fix it make me sound smarter

With the way Iseul was typing a mile a minute, you were certain you’d be in for an earful when you talked to her later. Strangely enough, it lifted a bit of weight off your shoulders. Maybe you could focus on reviewing her essay and offering her advice on the many, many issues she seemed to be facing as a way to take your mind off the growing itch in your skin.

That was all you had to do, really. Make yourself useful, keep yourself preoccupied with something at all times until you could return to campus and restart the process of tucking away every memory associated with the previous summer from scratch.

It was just a matter of holding yourself together. Just one more week.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

In the back of your mind, you couldn’t help but think that a day like this one shouldn’t be quite so sunny.

The sky was bright and spotless, an endless expanse of soft blue without so much as a single cloud daring to interfere. Some might say it was a good omen, a sign that you were being watched over with a smile, but to you, it almost felt like a taunt.

Still, the nice weather at least meant that your walk to the cemetery wouldn’t be met with any unexpected rain. Your mother had offered—or demanded, rather—to drive you if you weren’t going to drive yourself, so as not to keep your friends waiting; but much to her exasperation, you’d refused. You had an important stop to make along the way, anyway, one that both fueled your apprehension, and eased it.

It had officially been a year now. A year since you’d lost your best friend, a year since you’d ended your relationship, a year since your sense of self had become muddled. Nothing in the city felt like home, anymore. It had belonged to the both of you, and with her gone, there was nothing left for you.

A sudden call of your name nearly made you jump out of your skin. You looked up from the concrete, shocked to find that you’d zoned out long enough to have reached your destination without even processing it. Your eyes raked over the worn-down stand, once a pure, striking white, now chipped and rusted with age. Still, it brought a smile to your face, the first real one since you’d arrived home.

“Is that really you, kid?”

Steeling yourself, you lifted your head fully to face the man before you. He looked the same as ever, albeit with a bit less hair on his head, but his kind eyes and jovial smile hadn’t changed one bit, they never did.

“Hello, Uncle Geun,” you greeted. “How have you been?”

Gruff, booming laughter met your ears, and you were pulled into a bone-crushing hug before you knew it. The smell of his colorful apron, musky from the heat, but not unpleasant, sent a wave of sentimentality crashing over you. It took everything in you not to tear up the moment it touched your senses.

He was a man that had watched you grow up, in the truest sense of the words. Over a decade ago, on this very street, you’d rounded the corner with a bit too much energy on your way to school, slamming into another little girl and sending you both toppling onto the unforgiving sidewalk. You’d managed to come out of it with just a skidded palm, but she, on the other hand, was bawling the instant she’d recovered from the initial impact.

Even as a child, you’d gotten the feeling that she was being a bit too dramatic about it all, sobbing about how her knees hurt and how her new jumper was ruined. Regardless, your stomach twisted with guilt, and when you saw that your apologies weren’t getting through to her, you’d done the first thing your little mind could think of, scurrying over to the nearby flower vendor and asking if he could spare you a gift for her. His smile had been just as grand back then as it was now, his laughter just as boisterous as he picked a chrysanthemum from his stock and handed it to you.

The second you’d shoved the round, yellow flower in her face, her crying came to an immediate halt, tears drying up and sniffles dying down, as if on cue. She accepted it with a smile as bright as the flower itself, pulling off a few petals for you when she noticed the scrapes on your hand.

You’d continued the walk to school side by side, and by the end of the day, the two of you had come to a mutual agreement that you were now, officially, best friends.

You blinked rapidly, hoping your expression wouldn't betray you when Uncle Geun finally pulled away from the hug.

“It’s good to see you,” he beamed. “Aren’t you a sight for sore eyes?”

“That’s all you, Uncle. Even the flowers are jealous.”

Another raspy burst of laughter. “Clever as always.”

“Maybe that college education is worth something,” you joked.

His grin grew impossibly wider, silver tooth gleaming in the sunlight. “We’ve all missed you,” he said. “Doesn’t really feel like the summertime without the sight of you walking around the city with—”

He cut himself off at just the right instant. You felt a light pang in your chest, but you forced yourself to keep smiling.

“Well,” he cleared his throat. “You girls were always a joy.”

“We had a lot of great memories because of you,” you replied quietly.

An uncharacteristically somber look crossed his face, and your eyes fell back to the ground.

“So, what’ll it be, today?” he began, trying to put the pep back in his voice. “Don’t tell me you’re just here to give the old man a visit.”

“Chrysanthemums, please,” you requested. “They’re for her.”

You unzipped your bag, reaching in to pull out your wallet. Before you could even prepare your payment, however, his calloused hand rested over yours, shooing it away.

“This one’s on the house.”

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

You never made it to the cemetery.

However necessary it had felt for you to visit the flower stand and see Uncle Geun, the toll it took on your state of mind was far heavier than you’d ever anticipated—and you’d anticipated. Your conversation with him had left you disoriented, a strange ache pulsing through your body. Whether grief or nostalgia was at its core, you weren’t sure.

With blurry vision, you’d texted your friends that you wouldn’t be able to make it and returned home, clutching the bouquet of flowers close to your chest. In a matter of twenty minutes, you gathered up all your belongings, tossed them into your hardly unpacked suitcase, and arranged to take the first train back home. Your new home, the one that felt right for all the wrong reasons.

Despite your parents’ adamant protests, you stood by your decision to leave. You promised to make it up to them with another visit, and after almost an hour of arguing, the hollowness of your voice finally seemed to get through to them. Disapproving but ultimately understanding, they’d quietly allowed you to go.

The train ride was a blur. You didn’t remember much of it, and only when you approached the front door of your apartment at last did you feel the fog in your head begin to clear just a bit. As you dug around for your keys, you realized for the first time how stiff your hand had become. You’d kept it wrapped tightly around the chrysanthemums for the entire trip home, not loosening your death grip even once.

The heavy sigh of relief you let out as you stepped into your apartment was cut short when you registered an unexpected figure standing near the window. Even in all your shock, you didn’t have the energy to call out louder than your usual volume.

“Chan?”

His reaction was priceless, yelping in fear and spinning around at a breakneck speed. You were lucky that he at least managed to avoid dropping the watering can in his hand and send it crashing to the floor.

“Y-you’re here!?”

The fact that it sounded like a genuine question when you were standing right in front of him shouldn’t have endeared you so much. You placed down your bags, praying that your exhaustion wasn’t as obvious as it felt.

“Surprise,” you nearly cringed at how weak it came out.

In all your turmoil, you’d completely forgotten that Chan had offered to water your plants for you while you were gone. Though, to be fair, even if you had remembered, you wouldn’t have expected to stumble in on him doing so at near midnight.

“Welcome back!” His face broke out into a radiant smile. It felt more like home than anything you’d experienced the past week. “Are those new flowers for me to water?”

Despite everything, you smiled back at him, placing the bouquet on your countertop and padding over to him. He opened his arms in an instant, and you fell into them, squeezing him tighter than was probably necessary and earning a cute, tiny grunt.

“Thank you, Channie,” you simply said. His warmth enveloped you and his scent wafted over you, freshly-washed laundry and the fading, sweet citrus of his cologne. “It’s good to see you.”

“I missed you,” he sucked in hesitantly through his teeth before continuing. “But, is everything alright? I thought you still had another few days.”

“Yeah. Just a little change of plans,” hoping to lighten the mood, you added, “Guess I can’t be kept away from you for too long.”

You knew he wouldn’t buy the excuse, but he giggled anyway, shoulders vibrating against you as the melodic sound graced your ears. A part of you had initially been horrified by the prospect of Chan catching you like this, but now, all you felt was an overwhelming sense of calm.

Reluctantly, you pulled back to face him. His eyes were drowsy—nothing new there—but there was a healthy complexion to his skin. He looked just a bit tanner than the last time you’d seen him; he must’ve spent a lot of his free time at the beach.

“Well, I’m glad you’re here,” he didn’t let go of you, even after the hug had ended. “Felix will be, too. Pretty sure he secretly thinks you’re a better baking assistant than me.”

You let out a hum of amusement. “Can’t say I blame him when you steal all the chocolate chips.”

He puckered his lips into a pout. Not truly upset, but enough for you to lean in and press an apologetic kiss to them. You would’ve taken any opportunity to do so, anyway.

His breath caught in his throat—you’d quickly learned that it was inevitable, no matter how many times you kissed him—but he returned it instantly, melting into you like he’d been itching to do from the second you’d arrived. It was something you hadn’t fully adjusted to yet, how impossibly soft his lips were. They demanded all of your attention in their fullness, moving against yours with a timid sort of vigor.

You hadn’t expected it to be more than just a light peck, but once you’d gotten a taste of him, of his warmth, you couldn’t help yourself. It was his fault, you decided, for diving into you with such unabashed eagerness. Your teeth grazed delicately along his lower lip, and he opened his mouth to let out a sweet, airy sigh.

The feeling that you’d so narrowly escaped on the night you’d first kissed him took hold of you yet again, so strong in its grip that you worried you may not be able to ignore it this time. Your hands roamed down to his abdomen, brushing over it just enough to feel the outline of his muscles beneath his clothes. You remembered the sight of him in the natatorium that day—toned stomach and soft hips, smooth, irresistible skin that looked like it hadn’t been marked a day in his life. You wanted all of it, all of him.

Chan angled his head to further deepen the kiss, nose bumping against yours in the process. You felt his lips curve into a shy smile, and another sound escaped him, almost like a squeak.

You weren’t sure how much time had passed when you finally found it in you to break the kiss. When his eyes blinked open, he looked adorably lost, gaze falling right back down to your lips as if to ask why you’d stopped. He swayed just barely under your hands, and you strengthened your hold on his waist to steady him.

“You look like you’re about to fall over, Channie,” you teased.

“Sorry,” he chuckled breathlessly. “My heart’s kinda racing.”

It was such a sincere admission, so simple and honest. Even if you couldn’t already tell what he was thinking on your own, he wore his heart on his sleeve. Or rather, he held it out in his hands, offering it up to you.

You let go of his waist to lock your fingers with his. You’d grown used to the heat by now, but everything else you were feeling in that moment made it burn just as much as the first time you’d touched him. With just a light tug at his arm, he was following you to your bedroom, clutching your hand a little tighter.

“Is this better?” you asked, settling down on the bed with him.

He ducked his head, too flustered to respond. Playfully, you lifted two fingers and placed them on his neck, as if to check his pulse. You pressed down into his skin, and he nearly gasped. If it hadn’t been racing before, it certainly was now.

“I-it’s been a while,” he meekly tried to explain.

Given how his body reacted to your every little touch, you had no trouble believing it. You couldn’t deny how much it excited you, too. He was such a sweet boy; you felt a need, a hunger, to see the most intimate parts of him, to see what pleasure and vulnerability and desperation might look like on such an angelic face. You wanted to make him a part of you, to engulf him and protect him, to take on his emotions and forget about yours.

Driven by a newfound urgency, you all but crashed back into him. He met your fire with equal enthusiasm, parting his lips to let your tongue slide against his—hot and wet in a way that made the both of you shiver. Your hands began roaming again, feeling up the broad expanse of his shoulders, his chest, his arms. You palmed and squeezed at them to your heart’s content, as if to make sure the moment was real, to make sure he was real. It was still hard to fathom, that the man you’d been dreaming about for almost three months now was here in your bed.

You trailed further down in your touch, fingers sliding under his loose shirt and palms flattening against his skin. Suddenly, Chan tensed, retreating from the kiss just enough to speak, but still close enough that his lips brushed against yours with every word.

“W-wait,” he stuttered out. “I don’t…I didn’t…”

You paused, fearing for a moment that you’d misread the situation. He had said it’d been a while, after all. Maybe he wasn’t ready. Maybe he wasn’t used to moving this fast; you certainly weren’t.

“Is something wrong?”

“I don’t have protection,” he warned quietly. “I-I didn’t think…”

Despite every cell in your body crying out in protest, you pulled back to get a proper look at him. His eyes were dark, pupils blown wide and putting his longing on full display for you to see.

He seemed to be struggling with getting his sentence out, so you guessed for him. “You didn’t think this would happen?”

He averted his eyes. “Just…didn’t wanna assume anything.”

Cute, cute, cute. He was so painfully cute.

“I’m protected,” you reassured him. “You don’t have to worry.”

Even if he had brought contraceptives, against your better judgment, you weren’t quite sure if you’d be content with using them. You wanted all of him, skin on skin, every inch. Nothing else would satisfy the burn, the ache that had been burgeoning inside you since the day you’d first met him.

“You don’t have to worry about a thing,” you pressed your forehead against his. “Let me take care of you, Channie.”

The sound he made in response, low and needy in his throat, set something off in you. Miraculously, you managed to prevent yourself from digging your nails into his stomach, just to relieve some of the tension that was consuming your body at an alarming rate.

Instead, you took his chin between your fingers, tilting it up. “Is that okay with you?”

Chan swallowed, so hard that you could see his adam’s apple bob in his throat. “Yeah,” he breathed. “I c-can pull out. Just tell me when, please, and I’ll listen.”

He said it so earnestly that you pressed your thighs together. You had no plans to tell him, and you got the feeling he understood that from the look in your eyes alone.

“You’re good at listening, aren’t you?” you cooed.

He nodded, eyes squeezing shut when your hand came to cradle his head. “I’ll be good for you,” he mustered up the courage to say it, grateful for the lack of eye contact. “Whatever you want, I’ll do it.”

Good for you. The words made your heart sing. He was already so good for you just existing. He was perfect for you.

“Whatever I want?” you brushed your thumb up and down his cheek. “Everything I want is already right in front of me.”

A blush crept up on his face, dusting it that unmistakable rosy shade that was so Chan. You felt his skin heating up as he nuzzled into your palm with a flustered laugh, and you took the opportunity to gently guide him down, resting his back against the bed. With bated breath, he watched you come to hover above him, his hands bunching nervously at the bedsheets. You slipped your fingers back under his shirt and began tugging it up his torso. He stiffened, but still raised himself slightly off the mattress to allow you to pull off the garment.

The moment your eyes landed on his bare upper body, he was looking away again, chest rising and falling rapidly in anticipation. You rested a hand over his left pec, feeling up the defined muscle and his heartbeat along with it.

“Beautiful,” you murmured.

Chan stammered out something that sounded vaguely like a protest, but he didn’t have the chance to finish before you were leaning down and pressing a kiss to his neck. His response was immediate, tilting his head and baring his skin to you. Your mouth traveled along his jawline and down the column of his throat, sucking and nibbling at every spot you touched. By the time you reached his collarbones, he was already squirming in barely-concealed want beneath you, and you stole a glance at him to find him biting down hard on his lip in restraint.

“You’re so beautiful, Channie,” you dragged your teeth along the curve of his chest, and his hips shot up into you. “I can’t believe I get to see you like this.”

“Please,” he buried his face in his hands. It was adorable, but not as adorable as the sight of embarrassment and pleasure twisting his features. So, you rested your hands over his and pulled them away, pinning his muscular arms above his head and rendering them powerless.

“You said you’d do whatever I want, right?” you began. “So, no hiding.”

His eyes glazed over with lust, so taken by how exposed he felt below you that he almost forgot to nod.

“And,” you continued, lowering yourself to speak right into his ear. “No holding back, okay? I know you have a pretty voice, let me hear it.”

“I…” for a second, he appeared at a loss for words. “O-okay.”

“Good boy,” you let go of his hands, dragging your fingers lightly down his biceps and watching him shudder. You readjusted your position to resume your earlier ministrations, kissing down the valley of his chest and fighting the temptation to sink your teeth into it—hard. You wanted nothing more than to leave his skin red and bruised and blossoming with love bites, but you knew you probably shouldn’t when any marks you made would be clear as day to his teammates during swim practice. Instead, you settled for pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along his body, grazing his skin with your teeth just enough to appease yourself without leaving a lasting trace. The softness of your lips pressed against the lean ridges of his abs, making for a contrast that neither of you could get enough of.

“Such a pretty baby,” you mumbled, licking a stripe down his stomach and feeling his muscles contract under your tongue. “My pretty baby boy.”

It slipped out like an instinct, and before you could stop to wonder if it may be too much for Chan, a long, shaky moan met your ears.

Oh. He was loud.

Suddenly, his frantic attempts to suppress himself made perfect sense. You had a feeling that he hadn’t let completely loose yet, either. Heat pooled in your stomach at the thought of what kind of noises you could draw out of him. You couldn’t wait much longer.

“Do you like that? Baby boy?” you asked sweetly. Chan raised his hips off the mattress as your fingers danced delicately along his sides, soothing and exciting him all at once.

“M-mhm.” It was all he could get out without making another mortifying sound.

“Tell me what you like,” you swirled your tongue around his belly button, slowly approaching his v-line. “Tell me what feels good.”

“All of it,” he gasped. “All of you.”

You smiled against his skin, and your lips found the waistband of his shorts, allowing you to see for the first time just how much he meant it. You’d been so focused on attending to his upper half that you hadn’t even thought about the state of him down there. He was hard, fully hard. You wouldn’t be surprised if he was leaking in his underwear by now. It almost made you feel a tinge of guilt, leaving him neglected for so long; but his building desire was palpable, and it fed into your arousal like nothing else.

Mischievously, you gave his bulge a kittenish lick. Chan all but jolted, hand flying over his mouth a moment too late to mask his hiccup.

“I’m gonna make you feel so good, angel,” you promised, fingers dipping under the elastic of his waistband. “So good, you won’t be able to think about anything else.”

“Oh, God,” he whimpered. “Need you.”

“I’m right here, Channie,” you pulled his shorts down in one go, removing his underwear along with them. He hissed through his teeth as the air hit his exposed length, cooling the drops of precum that had dribbled from his tip. Carefully, you took him into your hand, licking your lips when you felt him throb at the contact.

“Poor thing,” you feigned sympathy. “You’re so worked up.”

You knew it took everything in Chan not to bury his face in the sheets. Instead, he bucked up into your grasp as a wordless plea, struggling to gain some kind of friction. His body was just as honest as he was with his words. Every subtle shift in his expression, every sensitive twitch of his body, every poorly concealed sound—they made it so easy to understand what he was feeling. He made himself so easy for you to take apart.

Gently, you gestured for him to sit up. It took him a moment to process the command, and you couldn’t help but think he looked akin to a lost puppy, blinking his foggy eyes in confusion before clumsily willing himself upright. You ushered him back until he was resting against the headboard, slipping off your own shorts and underwear and settling into his lap in one fell swoop.

“You’re not the only one, though,” you drawled, taking his cock back into your hand. You pressed his tip just barely against your heat, allowing your wetness to mix with his precum. “Do you feel it?”

A desperate groan rumbled in his chest, going straight to your core. “Y-yes. Please, let me feel you. Wanna make you feel good, too.”

You hummed playfully, circling the head of his dick around your entrance and gathering up more of your essence. His thighs jerked up against yours, a weak apology immediately following it. Just to tease him further, you stopped what you were doing and turned your attention to your own shirt, taking your sweet time in slipping it off your torso and discarding it.

The ache between your legs was almost unbearable at this point, but the way Chan’s breathing picked up when he realized what you were doing made it all worth it. You unclasped your bra from behind, letting it slip off your shoulders and exposing your bare body to him.

His stare dropped, locking on the sight of your chest with a shaky inhale. A mere few inches separated you, but he gazed at you like you were untouchable, like he could only admire you from afar. It made you giggle—even now, he was still so shy.

“Are you ready, Channie?”

He looked back up at you with a nod, and you almost wished he hadn’t, because the pure adoration swimming in his eyes effectively sent the last of your self-control crumbling.

You lined him up with your entrance and sank down on his cock all at once. The gasp you let out was only rivaled by the sound of his own cry, loud and shameless, like he himself didn’t even realize it was coming from him.

Heat rippled throughout your entire body, stronger than you’d ever felt it before. It held the exhilaration of something new, yet the intimacy of something familiar, and it set every one of your nerve endings ablaze. You clenched around Chan the moment you connected with his base, taking in his size and shape, wrapping yourself around him; all of him, just like you’d wanted.

He surged forward with another strained noise, head falling into your chest and nestling into its softness. You rested a hand on the back of his head, tangling your fingers in his curls and placing your other hand on his shoulder.

“Mine,” you whispered.

Vaguely, you heard it, timid and breathless, mumbled into your skin. “Yours. ‘M yours.”

There was no way to hide how the words affected you, not when your walls tightened around his cock in a way that made him tremble. It almost made you wonder if he knew about the burn, about the inexplicable need to make him a part of you—or, rather, to take him back as a missing part of you. Did he feel it too?

You took a few moments to calm yourself and adjust to the feeling of him buried inside you. It felt right, like he was made for you. Like you were made for each other.

Every twitch of his length tested your patience more and more, and you knew that he himself must be hanging on by a thread by now. His hands hovered awkwardly above your hips, fingers flexing as he tried to decide what to do with them.

“You wanna touch, Channie?” you urged. “Go ahead.”

He peeked up at you from where his face was burrowed, as if to ask for the permission you’d already granted. You gave him an encouraging smile, and he took hold of your waist at last, squeezing tentatively.

“Th-thank you,” he stuttered.

He was thanking you. You didn’t think you could conjure up a more endearing, a more devastating detail if you tried. It made your heart melt and your arousal skyrocket. You needed to ruin him.

“You’re so cute,” you purred. “Hold on tight, okay?”

He pressed the pads of his fingers a bit deeper into your flesh. Using your grip on his shoulders for leverage, you lifted yourself off his cock bit by bit, relishing in the feeling of it dragging slowly along your walls. Without missing a beat, you snapped your hips back down, both to elicit a response in Chan, and to satisfy the immediate need to be full of him again. You succeeded in both, engulfing every inch of him even tighter than before, as if your body didn’t want to let him go a second time.

“A-ah, fuck!”

It sounded so strange coming from him, sweet voice cracking with a whimper, but so, so delicious.

“Is it good, Channie?”

You repeated the action, gliding up and down with ease thanks to the arousal that was all but dripping down your thighs at this point. Each bounce coated his length with slickness, creating messy, wet sounds that were sure to make his ears burn.

“Feels like I’m on fire,” he threw his head back, mouth falling open to give you a breathtaking view. “So—ah—good. You feel so good, so warm.”

You puffed out a giggle, unable to get a word in amidst his babbling. Instead, you picked up your pace, fueled on by his reactions as the pleasure steadily overwhelmed him.

“So beautiful, I—” he gasped. “Need you.”

Your heart swelled with affection; he was already so far gone. “I’ve got you,” you ran your fingers through his hair and he practically keened. “You’re doing so well for me, Channie. You’re perfect for me.”

Half-lidded eyes blinked up at you, and he subconsciously tugged at your hips, trying to pull you closer.

“I’ll be good,” he repeated his earlier vow. “You can even be m-mean to me, I’ll be good.”

The words caught you by surprise. Still, you kept your expression calm, something to ease his mind amidst the slew of sensations clouding it. You slowed down to trace your thumb along his cheek, so delicately that if he didn’t focus hard enough, your touch would be lost on him.

“Do you want me to?”

Remembering how he’d reacted earlier, you let your hands slide down to his neck, resting them there experimentally without pressing down just yet. Chan let out a whine, the vibrations of it making your palms tingle.

“There, please,” he tilted his head even further back, bumping it against the headboard. “Wanna feel you everywhere.”

Your stomach flipped, adrenaline coursing through your veins as you wrapped your fingers completely around his throat. It was thick, pumping with life. You had to use both hands. Chan bit his lower lip in anticipation, another low whine spilling out of him.

Taking great care in your movements, you began riding him again, lifting yourself on his cock, then sliding back down just as you squeezed at the sides of his throat. You didn’t want to hurt him—not really. You just wanted to toy with him a bit, watch him squirm under your fingertips. You wanted to push him to his limit, then guide him safely right back to you.

“Let me know if it’s too much, okay?”

“Y-yes,” he managed. “I will. Promise.”

The response was so immediate, so desperate, like he was afraid you might change your mind and stop. He throbbed inside you when you applied more force to your grip, almost sounding relieved in the airy moan that escaped him. You watched, fascinated, as his face flushed a shade deeper, whether from arousal or shortness of breath, you weren’t quite sure.

To better control your grip on his neck, you halted your bouncing to switch to a slower, deliberate grinding of your hips instead. Chan jerked up beneath you, the newfound rhythm pressing your walls against his cock and making him dizzy.

You contracted your fingers around his throat repeatedly, adding and removing the slightest bit of pressure to match the rocking of your hips. His tip brushed against your sweet spot, and you let out a soft moan that only seemed to bring him closer to his breaking point.

“Oh, God,” he groaned. “W-wait…slow down, please. ‘M getting close.”

“Slow down?” you tilted your head. “Why? Don’t you wanna cum, baby boy?”

He squeezed his eyes shut, and you loosened your hold on his neck so he could speak properly.

“Wanna finish with you,” he slurred. “Wanna make you feel good, too.”

You should’ve expected it. Of course he would have such an earnest, such an adorable reason to ask something of you—it was Chan. Even at the height of his pleasure, he was still thinking of yours, making sure you were enjoying yourself as much as he was. It spread an unbelievable warmth in your chest, different from the intense, sultry heat brewing between your bodies.

It also made you want to mess with him.

“Don’t worry, Channie,” you dragged your nails along his neck, not enough to draw blood, but enough to scratch, to make him shudder beneath you. “I feel good just watching you fall apart like this.”

His hands stayed latched to your hips, following them with every tortuous rock, but making no attempt to try and stop your movements. Despite that, his pleas didn’t let up, demanding in the sweetest, most polite of ways.

“Please,” his voice grew more frantic. “I’m really not gonna last, please, please.”

His whines chipped away at your resolve more than you let show; each one buzzing his vocal chords beneath your hands. He sounded so helpless, like he might burst into tears if he didn’t bring you to a climax with him.

“You sound so cute when you beg,” you marveled, sinking the pads of your fingers into his skin to feel his hammering heartbeat. “Maybe if you keep it up, I’ll change my mind.”

Much to Chan’s dismay, you continued your grinding, and you could see the concentration written all over his face as he fought to hold himself together. His hair had grown damp with sweat, face flushed and glistening from all his efforts. He looked so wrecked already; you could only imagine what it’d be like to see him cum.

You leaned in and kissed him. His lips were puffy and glossy and right there. It earned a cute mewl of surprise from the man, and it turned up in pitch when you took his lower lip between your teeth and nibbled. He let go of your hips to wrap his arms fully around your waist, trapping you as close as your bodies would allow.

“So—mmph—close.” His tongue slid against yours, jumbling his speech even further. “Please, please, please!”

You tugged at his plush lips one last time before breaking the kiss. “Gonna cum, angel?” You clenched around him, encouraging him to let go. “Don’t hold back. Empty inside me like a good boy.”

“Oh my God.” Chan’s whole body tensed beneath you, head dropping right back into your chest with a choked sob. You felt his cock pulse wildly inside you, and soon after, the flood of his release. Coupled with the moan that spilled out of him, drawn-out and broken and still so loud despite being muffled by your flesh, you were almost sent over the edge yourself.

“That’s it, Channie,” you played with his hair as his climax rippled through him. “Look at you, filling me up so well. Good boy, good boy.”

It was almost devious, the way you stopped moving like he’d so hopelessly been begging for, only once he’d come down from his high. He slumped against you, his pants gradually dying down into cute, content sighs. When he finally found a strong enough grip on his consciousness to speak, it came whiny, sulky.

“Not fair,” he mumbled into you. “Wanted to finish together.”

He lifted his head, and you broke out into gentle giggles. The expression on his face would’ve been one of pure bliss if it weren’t for his very prominent, very effective pout.

“Can I count this as my second win?” You tapped his nose.

He huffed, but the beginnings of a smile tugged at his features, betraying him. “Please, let me do something for you.” He glanced down at the spot you were connected, wetting his lips. It made your core clench in a way that you knew he couldn’t miss. “Let me make you feel good.”

“I do feel good, Channie,” you insisted, and you meant it. “Better than ever, actually.”

Though the guilt didn’t fade from his pleading stare and furrowed brows, he at least seemed to believe you. He studied your face for a split second longer before leaning in, nudging his nose against yours to ask for another kiss.

You could’ve easily stayed that way for the rest of the night, savoring his warmth, the fullness, the wholeness that you felt when nestled into each other in every possible way. But judging by how sensitive Chan was, you knew there was a very real chance of him getting hard again, and regardless of how much you wanted it, neither of you had the energy to go again. Reluctantly, you hoisted yourself off of his length, sharing a flustered exhale with him when some of his seed trickled out of you and dripped on to his thigh.

Ten minutes later, the two of you were laid side by side in your bed, staring at the ceiling with your hands brushing delicately against each other.

“This…” Chan spoke up suddenly, breaking the comfortable silence. “This isn’t a usual thing for me.”

You couldn’t deny the relief you felt upon hearing it. The answer to a question that had been floating in the back of your mind without you even realizing. It was selfish—meaningless, too—but you felt it all the same.

You were well past the point of pretending like your relationship with Chan was something ordinary, anyway. Whatever existed between you, it was magnetic and burning and inevitable, almost like you had no choice in the matter. In fact, that had to be the case, because if you’d had a choice, you certainly wouldn’t have let yourself fall into him so hard, or so fast.

“Me neither,” you admitted.

You heard the sheets rustle next to you. “Really?”

“Really.”

There was the faintest smile in his voice as he continued, and it made you wonder if he was indulging in the same, selfish satisfaction as you. It wouldn’t be a surprise, considering the way he seemed to mirror even the most intimate parts of you— parts that you barely even knew of until you saw them reflected in him.

“Yeah,” he breathed. “I…I’m never so…quick?” You could tell he was trying to choose his words carefully, but there was only so much he could do when his emotions were still running high and his head was still in a haze. “It can take months, e-even longer sometimes, for me to—”

“I don't think you’re easy, Channie,” you teased. “If that’s what you’re worried about.”

You turned your head, just in time to see that rosy tint spread across his cheeks, still visible even in the dim light. It was a sight you might get addicted to.

“I just want you to know that this means something to me,” he said softly.

Something gripped you, dropped a pebble in the calm surface of your lake. You didn’t have much time to think about it though, to worry about finding a window to break out of before you were past the point of no return. For tonight, you let yourself lean fully into that persistent flame.

“It means something to me too,” you murmured. “I wouldn’t have done this with anyone but you.”

Chan let out a shy hum, going quiet for a bit before stroking your pinky finger with his.

“So,” he began. “Are you ready to tell me what happened?”

You tensed slightly in your spot. You’d hoped he would’ve forgotten about it by now, or, at least, been too busy basking in the afterglow to bring it up again so soon. The endorphins that had been flooding through your system ebbed just a bit. This moment was too precious to sully by thinking about it—about him.

Suddenly, it felt all too reminiscent of what had transpired exactly one year ago; the first and last time you’d ever tried talking to anyone about the loss of your friend. It had been with someone you’d thought you loved, someone you’d thought loved you. And maybe, he really had believed that he loved you, too. You’d never know, now.

Imbalanced didn’t even begin to describe it. Imbalance was the balance of your relationship; you’d provide everything, and he’d take it all. The roles had come so naturally to the both of you that you’d never once questioned them, or where they might lead you.

He needed comfort, you liked comforting him. He needed support, you liked supporting him. He needed someone to depend on, you liked being depended on. Equal exchange, the perfect dynamic on paper, and—for the most part—it had worked. You didn’t really have the chance to notice how thin you were stretching yourself, because he was happy, and that made you happy.

One simple question was enough to shake that foundation, however, enough to expose how fragile it all really was and send it toppling to the ground in the ugliest of ways. A question that, in all its simplicity, hadn’t crossed your mind until you were all but forced to confront it last summer.

If your relationship was built solely on your ability to accommodate him, what happened when you couldn’t accommodate him anymore?

You were always encouraged with the most deceptively sweet words to open up to him, to share your thoughts and feelings and troubles the same way he did with you. But every single time without fail, his reaction made you want to seal your mouth shut, never to have the audacity to utter a single word about yourself again.

“I regret asking” or, “Well, now I’m just depressed” or, “Let’s talk about something else” or, sometimes, even nothing at all. You soon came to find that the role you had taken on wasn’t just to his benefit, it was to your detriment. You were a mere footnote in his happiness, and nothing could ever break that mold.

“My best friend died.”

“Oh,” he’d said. “Are you serious?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s horrible.”

You’d nodded, sensing instantly that you would’ve felt better if you’d kept quiet.

“I don’t really know what to say.”

You shut your eyes, unsure of what you’d expected from him in the first place. It was pathetic, anyway, to hope for words of comfort that you knew would be hollow. Nothing could’ve made it okay, especially not anything he could offer you.

“That’s okay,” you replied. “You don’t have to say anything.”

A deep breath, and then, a glimpse of weakness.

“Just…stay with me, please.”

The request had sounded so unnatural coming out of your mouth, like it was a phrase you were learning to say in a foreign tongue for the first time. You winced at yourself, but it was already too late to take back.

“Oh, yeah. Sure.”

The two of you had sat in silence for some time. It could’ve been seconds or hours, and you wouldn’t have known the difference. His hand rested on your back for part of it, running up and down in a motion that you used to calm him down when he was upset. Eventually, though, he seemed to have decided it was a lost cause and awkwardly removed it.

You still weren’t quite sure how you’d managed to hold back your tears that day. But your sniffling and sobbing being the only sound echoing throughout the deathly silent room had been the last thing you’d wanted; you already felt vulnerable enough just letting him see you like that. You didn’t want to break in front of him, and you were certain he didn’t want you to either. A crack in you meant the absolute shattering of him.

After shifting around uncomfortably in his spot for a few moments, he finally spoke up.

“Maybe this isn’t the best time, but does that mean tomorrow’s off?”

It took several seconds for you to process the question. You wondered, briefly, if you’d imagined it at first, or if he really was just that horribly out of touch with reality—with you as a human being.

You wanted to glare at him, to ask him why that would even be something to consider right now, let alone ask about, but miraculously, you’d restrained yourself.

“Yeah. I might need a few days.”

More silence, and then you felt his weight lift from the cushions next to you. He avoided eye contact as you raised your head to look at him.

“I should probably go.”

A pang in your chest. “Why?”

Please don’t. You’d desperately wanted to add.

“I feel bad. Like, I shouldn't be here,” he mumbled. “Just…let me know when you’re feeling better, alright? Love you.”

And then he left.

A few days later, he’d texted you like he always did. No question of how you were, no condolences, and most definitely no apology. He’d said he missed you—which, you’d come to learn long ago, was never just an honest expression of attachment when it came to him. It was a signal, a sort of code to let you know there was something he needed from you. He didn’t just miss you, he missed what you could do for him.

Another week passed, and you’d broken up with him. It was unusually cold of you, doing something so drastic through text, but you couldn’t find it in you to even leave your apartment, let alone face the maelstrom of emotions that were sure to unleash if you’d met him in person. You’d experienced it once before, the first time you’d tried to end things. Crying, begging, apologizing, all so profuse yet so hollow.

The second time, his guilting and false assurances hadn’t worked, or rather, they might have if it weren’t for the distance between you. If you’d tested your conviction in front of his distraught, teary face, swearing that he wouldn’t be able to live without you, you weren’t so sure you could’ve gone through with it. He looked so innocent, so harmless, you’d never guess that he’d be the one to suck the life out of you without a care in the world.

When the usual tactics didn’t work, he’d resorted to anger. In a way, you understood—he was hurt, and no matter how hard you tried to spell it out for him, he simply couldn’t comprehend all the ways he’d hurt you first. He hadn’t done anything, but that was exactly the problem.

As much as you wished you could’ve brushed it off, it had stuck with you. The accusations that you were a liar, a manipulator who promised him boundless love and care only to rip it away with cruel indifference once he’d come to rely on it. Even now, you weren’t entirely sure if he’d been wrong, and that in itself was enough to make you want to lock away your heart and toss out the key for good.

But here, you had Chan. The boy who could be carrying the entire world on his shoulders, and still offer to take some of the weight off of yours. The boy who could be struggling to keep his own head afloat, and still pass you his life preserver without a second thought. The more time you’d spent around him, the more you’d come to witness firsthand just how much he did for everyone, even people he wasn’t particularly close with—from small, thoughtful acts that might go unnoticed, to favors so arduous that they left him physically and mentally drained. All with the sweetest of smiles on his face.

You wanted to be the reason for his smile, not for his weariness.

“I told you,” you said lightly. “I just wanted to see you.”

“C’mon,” Chan giggled. “I know it’s more than that.”

You wondered just how much he knew. You wondered if he knew better than anyone else. Despite the complicated thoughts unfolding within you, you grinned, turning on your side to look at him. “I promise I’ll tell you later, okay?” You held out your pinky for good measure. “Right now, I don’t wanna focus on anything but this.”

Chan curled his finger around yours, the glow in his eyes rivaling the moonlight peeking through your blinds. You must’ve thought about how beautiful he looked a million times throughout the night, but now, faced with his tousled curls and his puffy lips—still reddened from all your kissing and biting—and his gaze that was watching you like you’d put the stars in the sky, it was all you could think about. He made it so easy, you mused, to focus on nothing on him.

You tried to snap yourself out of it. He was sweaty, he was sticky, most importantly, he was exhausted. He must be uncomfortable, laying in all the heat and perspiration that had accumulated in those sheets—thirsty, too. You unhooked your pinky from his and rolled off the bed with a bit too much haste, catching his attention.

His expression changed as he watched you rise to full standing, taking some time to stretch your spent muscles before searching around for your discarded top.

“Oh. Should I get going?”

It came quiet, demure, and it made you whip your head around.

“What?”

Chan paused, uncertain. “I-I mean…do you want me to leave?”

“Of course not,” you said instantly, just short of sharp. You were almost afraid to, but regardless, you asked, “Unless…you want to?”

“No,” his reply came just as fast. “Not at all.”

You had half a mind to ask him why he would even think you’d want him gone, especially given the conversation you’d just had, but you were too distracted by the look of pure bewilderment on his face. You didn’t understand it, nor did you like it.

“I’m just getting a washcloth and some water,” your voice softened, and it seemed to get through to him, at least.

“Oh,” he repeated. “Okay.”

It was followed by a small, bashful nod that eased your concerns just a bit. You padded to your bathroom and shut the door behind you, trying not to keep him waiting for too long as you cleaned yourself up and prepared a towel for him. His eyes followed you curiously when you stepped out and passed him on your way to the kitchen, retrieving two water bottles before finally joining him on your bed once more.

There was a short delay when you offered the water bottle to Chan. He blinked at it, as if it were some kind of unknown object, before thanking you quietly and accepting it from your hands. You told yourself he was probably still just a bit dazed, but it was hard to ignore the tinge of worry that pricked your mind.

As he tilted his head back to drink, your eyes fell down to his neck, admiring the way his throat bobbed with every gulp of water. The skin around it was blooming with noticeable, red marks along the lines you’d dragged your fingernails. It made you cringe slightly at yourself. You must've been more lost in the heat of the moment than you’d thought.

“How do you feel?” you checked once he’d downed half the bottle. “Does it hurt?”

You gestured to his neck, and he raised a hand to brush his fingers over the tender skin. “It doesn’t hurt,” he gave you a reassuring half-smile before adding, “I like it.”

You tried not to let the words affect you, to make you pounce at him and take him all over again. Instead, you took hold of the washcloth you’d prepared and pressed it to his neck. The water you’d soaked it in was warm, but it still felt cool to the touch when pressed against his burning flesh. He sighed contently, eyes drooping as you rubbed the reddened areas, taking great care not to irritate them further.

“Wanna lie down for me, Channie?”

“Ah…” He looked away, already leaning back despite the hesitance in his voice. “I-it’s okay, you really don’t have to.”

“I want to,” you said simply.

Chan seemed to sense the sincerity behind it, as he laid himself out the mattress without any further objections. Sheepish, but willing. Carefully, you began dabbing the towel at his face, wiping away the sweat from his forehead and making his eyes flutter shut. His muscles visibly relaxed as you moved further down his body, rubbing his neck, his shoulders, his chest, his stomach, his hips—you left no inch unaccounted for. The warm water you’d soaked the washcloth in calmed his every nerve-ending, so soothing, it almost distracted from how hyperaware he was of your every touch.

His breath caught in his throat when you brushed over his thigh to clean up the mix of fluids that had begun to dry up on his skin, legs threatening to squeeze shut.

“You’re so sensitive,” you remarked.

He shifted slightly, an awkward chuckle escaping him. “Sorry.”

“It’s cute,” you gave him one last once-over before removing your hand, satisfied. “How are you feeling?”

“Good. Really good.” he blinked up at you lazily, a silent invitation for you to stop fussing over him and settle down next to him in the sheets at last.

You placed the washcloth on your nightstand, collapsing into the plush pillows with a sigh of your own. Chan scooted closer to you within seconds and, chest swelling with fondness, you opened your arms for him to nestle into. Even in all your intimacy, the two of you still couldn’t get enough of each other, filling every curve and gap between your bodies and interlocking your legs. You pressed a kiss to the top of his head before wrapping your arms around him, leaving no room for doubt that you wanted him there.

“Good night, Channie.”

“G’night,” it was barely audible, but even so, you could still hear the faint tremor in his voice. “I…thank you.”

Your eyes flickered down to him one last time before sleep overtook you. For a fleeting moment, you could’ve sworn you saw a wet gleam brimming in the corners of his eyes.

。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。⋆。˚ ʚïɞ ˚。⋆。

In retrospect, going out to buy groceries on a Sunday afternoon probably wasn’t your smartest move.

After you and Chan had awoken the morning prior—or, just you, you weren’t sure how much sleep he had really gotten—groggy and ravenous only to find an alarming lack of food in your apartment, you wanted to restock as soon as possible. In your defense, you hadn’t been home for over a week, and even before that, you’d been spending a considerable amount of your time out and about with Chan or at his apartment. Still, it was embarrassing enough for you to not want a repeat of the situation, especially given how often you’d make a point to scold him and Changbin for not eating substantial meals.

You’d trudged to the nearest convenience store with a list of basic necessities typed out in the notes of your phone, only to soon discover that you’d be lucky to find anything you were looking for judging by how packed the place was. The state of most shelves was enough to make you think people must be preparing for some kind of apocalypse unbeknownst to you. Frowning, you made your way over to the prepared meals section, hoping to at least find something to get you through the next few days. As you maneuvered past the suffocating amounts of people, the sight of a familiar face across one of the aisles stopped you in your tracks.

A sharp, sculpted nose bridge, eyelashes swooping out like a ski slope, and a slight lean in his posture. Lee Minho. You hadn't expected him to even be back in town yet, let alone to be running the same foolish errand as you at this hour (all for the sake of cola, apparently, if the ridiculously large stash in his basket was any indication).

He seemed to have noticed you just a split second before you did him, fixing you with a stare so sharp that you had to blink a few times to make sure you weren’t imagining it.

You weren’t.

His eyes were dark and unwavering, boring into you with an intensity that made you feel as if you were the only two people in the store—and not in the romantic, heart-fluttering kind of way. It was more like everyone else had scattered the instant they’d sensed the tension, leaving you to fend for yourself under a glare that singled you out with an almost predatory accuracy. You waited for the reveal, the cheeky smirk that always followed, but it never came.

Oh.

Minho didn’t like you.

He really, really didn’t like you.

You felt stupid for not realizing it sooner. At the same time, however, he’d never really given you a reason to, and you liked to think you weren’t dense enough to completely miss it if he had. Suddenly, you found yourself re-evaluating every interaction you’d ever had with the guy, scanning and analyzing your conversations down to the most minute of details to try and recall if that same coldness he was emitting now had ever been present before. You thought back to the last time you’d spoken to him, just a week into summer break before he’d gone home. The two of you had started up a short, innocuous chat about the current anime he was watching, and outside of his very serious claims that it was undoubtedly the best of the season, nothing else about it really stood out to you.

You’d even taken his suggestion and watched it in your free time—one of the many, many distractions implemented in your visit home—and you’d planned on sharing your thoughts with him when you saw each other again. With the look he was giving you now, though, like he hoped you might spontaneously combust if he focused hard enough, you got the feeling he wasn’t exactly interested in hearing what you had to say.

Minho turned his head, preparing to leave the aisle without acknowledging you any further. Despite every one of your instincts telling you not to, you followed him, too consumed by curiosity to ignore whatever kind of message he’d been trying to send with just his eyes. You needed to test things out, to be absolutely sure. You needed to know what had changed since the last time you’d spoken to him.

Well, realistically, you knew what had changed. One very major, very undeniable thing had changed. But that couldn’t be it—could it?

“Hey, Minho!”

He might not have bothered stopping if it weren’t for an older woman passing in front of him with an overloaded cart. You squeezed past the rows of people as quickly and respectfully as you could, managing to catch up with him just in time.

It was a bit harder, you noted right away, to mitigate the effects of his stone-faced expression up close. He gave you a terse nod.

“Hey.”

“You’re back in town?”

His face changed just barely, trading out stoicism for something a bit more amused. “Very observant.”

You forced out a light laugh for the sake of extending the conversation, just long enough to get a proper read on him. “How was your vacation?”

“Fine,” he shrugged, adjusting his grip on his basket. “Not long enough.”

“I feel that,” you made a noise of sympathy, as if you hadn’t spent the past two months counting down the days until the fall semester began.

“How about you?” he was at least polite enough to return your question, but for some reason, it didn't really sound like he was asking. “Had fun?”

You barely caught it—a sneer. He definitely knew. It made your stomach flip a bit, if you were being honest, but you managed to keep a straight face.

“Yeah,” you replied evenly. “Me, Chan, and Felix made the most of it.”

“I’m sure.”

In your efforts to talk to him, you seemed to have accidentally stumbled into some kind of one-sided staring contest with this guy, because he hadn’t broken eye contact even once from the moment you’d strided up to him.

“It’s a shame,” he continued casually. “That you won’t be coming over anymore.”

You paused. “What do you mean?”

“Don’t tell me you’re planning on using Chan as a tutor this semester, too?”

Something about the way he said it, the way he phrased it, made it difficult for you to keep up your composed front.

“Of course not. He’s done enough for me already.”

“Good,” Minho hummed, and though it appeared to be in agreement, it only put you further on edge. “He’s graduating after this term—you know that, right? So, playing hero for you is the last thing he needs.”

You narrowed your eyes. For a brief moment, you wondered if he might actually be jealous of you, if he somehow saw you as some kind of threat. But you dismissed the idea almost as soon as it came—the look Minho was giving you wasn’t of someone who was threatened, it was the look of someone who was threatening you.

“Why are you talking to me like that?”

“Like what?” he cocked his head innocently.

“Like I’ve done something wrong.”

“I don’t know what you mean,” he dismissed. “Maybe it’s just your guilty conscience?”

You wanted to be annoyed, to call him out for how he was behaving in a way that he couldn’t twist. The problem was, he was being so fucking weird. You couldn’t even fully understand what he was trying to get at, or what his angle was. You weren’t even sure if he had an angle outside of just trying to get a rise out of you.

The corner of his lips curved up into a smirk. Just like the day you’d first met him, it was pure trouble, only now, it was missing the playfulness you’d come to know.

“What’s with that face?” he chuckled. “I’m only joking.”

Whatever this situation was, you decided you’d had enough of it.

“You’re usually funnier than that,” you said curtly.

At that, you dipped your head, stepped to the side, and walked past him, determined not to let the strange feeling bubbling up inside you reach the surface.

Minho’s stare followed you as you stalked off, piercing into your back. Even after you’d rounded the corner into another aisle, the chill of it lingered on your skin.

#bang chan x reader #skz x reader #bang chan fanfic #bang chan smut #skz smut #sub!bang chan #sub!skz #dom!reader #skz fanfic #skz imagines #bang chan imagines #sub!chan #stray kids x reader #bang chan x you

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matcha-flavored-cake · 10 months

Text

୧ ‧₊˚ 🥐 𝐌𝐈𝐋𝐄𝐒 𝐄!𝟒𝟐 𝐇𝐂𝐒.

. warnings: mentions of death (Jefferson) and grief, grammar erros (english is not my first language).

. featuring: Miles Morales (e!42)

. wc: 1.4k

.a/n: if you see grammatical errors, or me saying something in Spanish wrong, please feel free to correct me. My Spanish is rusty as fuck

hcs for miles 1610 here

He listens to a lot of reggaeton, afrobeat, and R&B. C'mon guys, look at my face and say to me he doesn't, also he prob like old school rap too, thanks to uncle Aaron and his dad, Jefferson probably showed his some jazz

I feel like Mama Rio and Abuelita Gloria showed him some old Puerto Rican singers and he listens old songs from time to time, specially when his nana is visiting

This man knows mechanics. Period. Help his mom to fix things around the house, shower, the lights etc. Bet his 'son and dad' time involved something with fixing things around the house and Jefferson 'passing the knowledge ' to Miles

"Listen Miles, you're the man in the house when I'm not around got it?"

"'kay dad"

"When I'm not around you're responsible for your mom deal? Gotta make sure she's in good hands when I'm not around"

"I gotchu dad, don't worry"

Ok listen, I'm kicking my feet thinking about Miles tuning his uncle's Ducati (and prob Aaron has a Ducati Scrambler. I do not take criticism), while listening music I'm just *giggling like a schoolgirl*

Btw I feel like if Miles ever had a motorcycle for his personal use and not for Prowler activities, it would be a Kawasaki Ninja or a Yamaha XSR 900. For Prowler activity honestly, he would have a Hayabusa bc it's fast as fuck, with purple neon lights like his Prowler suit. you cannot argue with me. I feel like it was a way of him and his uncle spend time together before his dad died

Miles prob is always tinkering with the titanium claws and his paraphernalia. (I love this word btw)

So yeah prob hes always with his uncle doing shit on the motorcycle or his suit while listening music or sum, or practicing boxing together.

And I bet his mom slapped them two when she once arrived and saw Aaron teaching Miles how to pilot a bike

"What you're doing with my son Aaron!" *that one meme of a man slapping the player on the shoulder*

"Ouch ouch! I'm just teachin' the kid how to pilot Rio, I surrender I surrender!"

"¿Y tú? ¿Qué diablos está en tu mente, Miles? ¡Montando una motocicleta! What am I going to do with you Miles Gonzalo Morales?!"

"¡Cálmate mamá! Uncle Aaron was just teachin' me, no es gran cos- ouch! Mom that hurts!"

Speaking of which, Mama Rio has insane strength on her arms (being a nurse demand a lot of strength to carry patients, changing their clothes, helping them bathe and all), that being said, when Mama Rio get ✨la chancla✨ oh boy, run, no kidding, run

(Everytime my mom grabbed her havaianas I runned more than Usain Bolt. I still do honestly)

I have a feeling that Miles knows how to cook, like he always knew. Arroz con pollo? Bet, does it with eyes closed. Fancy meals? Oh boy he's probably the only guy that the women of the family let inside the kitchen to help with Christmas banquet.

He eat his veggies, hates wasting food, it's not a picky eater but don't put pickles on his burger for the love of God.

Bet his nana tried to give him a bit of coquito without his mom seeing. (I hc his nana is one of those old lady that are a menace to society)

"Take a sip don't worry, No one is watching"

"No nana I'm all good"

"¡Mamá! Take this away from Miles."

Since his dad passed away he understood quite early that now he is the man in the house, that now he's the one to take care of his mom. So he started paying more attention to the chores. His mom is on duty? He's putting some music and cleaning the house, changing the blankets of his mom's bed, and probably making something for her to eat when she come back.

Prob has his mom schedule on his phone to make sure he knows where she is so it wouldn't risk her seeing his as the Prowler and he can watch out from the buildings while Rio walks to her work

Sunday family lunch was usual at Miles' house, his dad 'helping' his mom with the food (he just looked and passed her the ingredients), while Miles set the table. Music on the radio, enjoying the day before Miles need to go back to Brooklyn Visions.

Prefer more salty foods than sweets. Likes eating steak, it doesn't matter if it's BBQ or carne assada, he likes meat. For sweets, he's obsessed with the way his mom does Tembleque (sorry Abuelita Gloria)

We know his room is quite similar to 1610 Miles, but I feel like he doesn't have as many toys as 1610 Miles does. He sold some and used the money to help his mom somehow, he just doesn't want to be a burden for her.

I feel like he doesn't give his mom the money, he straight up pays the bill, or does groceries, so there's no way his mom can deny it. That or he gives the money to his uncle and they pretend that it is Aaron helping them.

It's confirmed by the artbook that Miles Prowler is a vigilante. That being said I think he decided to be the Prowler to help his place somehow, maybe even to make his dad proud, and to make his mom's life easier (just imagine the amount of people that get in the hospital because of how dangerous is the city now my god).

His mom is the priority in his life, he loves his family, his neighborhood and his friends. He's a kind soul with a shattered heart.

Miles is a quite good student. Not the '🤓☝️ actually that's happened at 09:12 in 1786…' type of smart, but the fast thinking kind of smart student. If he doesn't remember the formula he uses logical thinking. Prob takes classes ahead of his years and since he's always tinkering with his uncle his grades in calculus related stuff are pretty high.

Very good with Spanish by the way. Since his dad passed away he started learning more and more to speak with his mom in her native language to make her feel more 'at home' somehow.

I feel like in the first week after his dad passed away he slept in his house for some time and not in Brooklyn Visions dorms, he wished to be with his mom. He did not want her to be alone on her bed, mourning hi dad's death. Abuelita Gloria stayed some months with them too to help her daughter and to help Miles

Miles do his best to be organized, make his bed everyday after waking up, his cabinet is always organized, his Jordans are clean and probably have a collection of them on a shelf in his room. The only messy place on his room is his desk

Has a vinyl collection, don't argue with me. There's literally a bunch of vinyls in his room, guys.

Has some old Puerto Rican singers vinyls on his room thanks to Abuelita Gloria

Miles sings a bit, and have quite a melodic baritone voice. For my synesthetic friends, his voice sounds like honey, Miles is most of times humming when he's making upgrades on his claws

He's more athletic than 1610 Miles. Parkour, boxing and playing basketball with his neighbors and uncle

Started parkour because of his prowler activities to keep up with his uncle, same with boxing, after all he needed to defend himself and his mom. I don't doubt he knows krav maga too and I also don't doubt he taught his mom self defense.

Bought his mom a self defense kit

Uncle Aaron teached him forbidden movements in jiu jitsu, I take zero criticism on that one

Miles has a hard time sleeping sometimes, doesn't shift much when sleeping and has a knife under his pillow or something both in his house room and in Brooklyn Visions.

Loves, love, loves kids, as i said he's a kind soul with a shattered heart, and I think he's quite good with kids, and scares the shit of some at the same time.

I feel 'angry painter' vibes from him. He sketches and all but I feel like he's more of a painter and graffiti kind of guy. I do think he knows how to play bass or piano btw

Would get piercings on his ear and tongue, yes. But since he's the Prowler it would be troublesome because of the time that takes to heal

The old ladies of the neighborhood love him, he's kind to them, and always scare away weird looking guys

Is the crush nextdoor of almost every girl on the neighborhood

One time he scared the shit out of a creep on his neighborhood. Punched the guy so bad that dislocate the man's jaw. Since then he need to hide himself on valentine day, the good part about it is that he got a lot of chocolate to eat.

Seems like a bad boy all the time but he's an introvert. Miles do his best to don't get attached to people bc he doesn't want to drag them into his world or risk people he loves

He just don't want see people dying anymore, that's why he does what he does, to make the world a little bit safe, even if it's just a bit

@matcha-flavored-cake © • do not copy, translate or use as your own

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ladylooch · 1 year

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Drunk Me with Mat Barzal

A/N: The people wanted angsty and fluffy. So, here is is :D

Word Count: 2.9k

Warnings: Drunk, Swearing, Angst, smidge of smut but I’m not gonna slap a warning on it cause I kept it PG13 (you’re welcome or I’m sorry?).

All the promises I made to myself before I got to the bar tonight have been broken.

Don’t think about Mat.

Don’t mix your alcohols.

Don’t cry in the bathroom.

Each one of them is smashed to smithereens on the wet, worn floor of the bar in our hometown of Coquitlam, BC.

At that realization, I suck up the last of my “I swear this is my last” vodka soda.

I look to my left where my best friend, Maggie, is laughing with her new boyfriend. I scoff bitterly. We were supposed to be hot messes together this summer coming off long-term relationship break ups. Now, she’s moving on with the new love of her life, while I’m left to wallow about Mat being back in town.

Mat and I broke up months ago. Nothing crazy even happened between us. It was just the reality that we were at a pivotal relationship moment and I couldn’t do it. Mat said we are both on different paths, growing in different directions, but I don’t see it. Things were good how they were. He ruined it. Maybe on purpose. Maybe it was all just an excuse for him. Maybe Mat wants to fuck puck bunnies. I don’t know. All I do know is there is a gaping hole in my chest where my heart is supposed to be.

My chest is now heavy with grief and I consider going to the bar to get another vodka soda. But the neon signs are already spinning and another sip of alcohol will have me back in the bathroom, clutching a public toilet. A heat wave surges through my body and agitation crawls on my skin as I look at Maggie again. So much for girls’ night. Her new boyfriend showed up with a group of his friends and it became clear why we came here when I wanted to go somewhere else. Anywhere else. I hate this bar. Mat and I used to sit in that corner booth, disappearing from our friend group to touch each other and whisper the hot things we would do later.

It hurts to be here.

“I need some air.” I announce to the bar, lifting my long hair off my neck as a wave of nausea rolls through me.

Mat was wrong. We haven’t grown apart. We just… grew up, together, and yeah, I didn’t want to move to New York, but what was wrong with what we had? I flew out there regularly. I stayed for weeks until I had to leave the country again. It wasn’t my fault the U.S. government is so strict. Mat did bring up getting me a special visa that the other Islander’s girls utilized. But it felt too… daunting. After I said no, he started creating distance, then he came home just to leave me.

I should have said yes. I know that now. And I’ve gone back to that moment weekly since he’s been gone. Every time, I say the right thing.

I let my hair fall back onto my neck once I’m outside. Anger burns in my rib cage, fueling an unreasonable reaction. I decide, drunkenly and months later, that he had no right to ask me to move to New York. He put me on the spot. It’s my life and I get to choose for me. But he made it an ultimatum without even telling me. If he would have said move here or break up, I would have at least known what I was up against!

And I’m going to tell him that.

Before my rational brain can catch up, my phone is out of my pocket and in my hand. I pound at his name, once, twice, three times until I actually get the call to go through with my swirling vision.

“Hello?” He’s groggy and my stomach lurches out of my abdomen at the thought of him in bed.

“You know, I have something to say to you.” I slur at him. I ignore the way my throat tightens at the sound of his sigh.

“Y/N?” I can practically hear him rubbing his eyes sleepily on the other line. It is getting close to bar close and he sounds like he’s been asleep. I hear rustling on the other end.

“Are you with someone?” I whisper before I can stop it.

“No?” I suck in a breath at his sharp tone. “Where are you?”

“At Pete’s.” I say, making my way over to the wall and leaning against it.

“Are you with someone?”

“I was with Maggie, but she’s sucking some guy’s face right now. I just want to go home.” I kick at a pebble with my boot, not even registering the whining and desperation in my voice.

“Is that what you called to tell me?”

“I… guess.” I squish my eyes together. Mat is quiet on the other end. The silence in the air is filled with tension as I watch people leave the entertainment district, catching rides and heading to their beds, most of them not alone unlike me. It makes my skin crawl, thinking of my empty bed where he should be, holding me and stroking my bare skin after a night of loving each other. I purse my lips. “Will you come get me?” I beg quietly, tears filling my voice.

More silence.

“I’ll be there in five.” He finally says as I hear him walking through his bedroom to get dressed again.

“Okay.” I click end, then lean back against the brick wall to wait.

His expensive black car rolls up, dark tinted windows making it difficult to see inside. He comes to a stop in front of me as people on the sidewalk stretch their necks to get a peek of who it might be. I suck my cheeks in, watching as his driver’s side door opens. He stands, turning to look at me still leaning against the wall. His black Adidas shirt is stretched wide across his chest. His arms rest against the door and the top of his car as he takes me in. My make up has long since peaked, so black mascara smudges around my eyes along with smeared pink lipstick.

“Let’s get you home.” He finally calls to me. I push off from the wall, glancing at the passerby’s who study us curiously. Everyone in this town knows Mat. They know me too, but mostly as his ex-girlfriend. They wonder what we are doing together now. I reach the passenger side door, popping it open after stealing one last glance at his face. He looks so good, nothing like he was just fast asleep until a pathetic girl called him into the nightlife.

“Are you okay?” He asks, the clicking of his blinker filling the car. I nod my head. “Do you still live in the same place?” I wince, hating the reality that he hasn’t been over since the Islanders were in town in January.

“Yeah.” I finally respond. I pull my phone out, texting Maggie that I went home so she doesn’t worry about me. I don’t bother telling her with whom.

I thought I missed Mat earlier tonight, but being in this car, feeling his heat and smelling his body wash is a whole new level of ache. I shouldn’t have called him. I should have Lyfted home and deleted his number.

“This is nice.” I motion to the vehicle.

“Thanks. I wanted an upgrade from last year.” I think of the instagram stories he shared from New York with his big breasted rebound.

“In many areas.” I snort, my drunkenness becoming obvious to him with my loose tongue. Thankfully, Mat lets that comment slide off into the darkness, never to be mentioned again.

“How’s your mom doing?” He asks, switching to a seemingly safety subject.

“She’s good. She has this huge collection of jewelry she’s been making for the county fair. Tons and tons of really great pieces. She’s proud of how it’s all coming together. My brother is even building these cool floating-” I stop abruptly. The county fair I’m talking about is the place Mat and I had our first kiss six years ago. I don’t want to remember that night right now. Mat turns, expecting me to continue. “Yeah, she’s good.” I finish, looking out the windshield as he slows to a red light.

“That’s cool. Maybe I’ll stop by the fair to see her this year. It’s been awhile since I’ve been…” He trails off like he’s getting lost in a memory. I’m not self-centered enough to believe it’s about us. An uncomfortable silence descends that makes Mat cough before attempting small talk again.

“Um, how are you?” He wonders, thumb stroking against the leather of his steering wheel. The air conditioning blows heavily on my arms, making goosebumps tighten my skin. I push the vents to face away. Mat reaches for the air control, mumbling an apology.

“I’m… fine.” I finally settle on. “You?”

“Can’t complain.” He shrugs, turning onto my street.

“Thanks for coming to get me.” I tell him as he pulls to a stop in front of my building. He puts the car in park, but keeps the car running. I undo my seatbelt, slowly letting it fall back into the door. I turn to look at him, dying inside at his beautiful gaze looking back at me.

“You’re welcome. Glad you’re safe… and okay.” His eyebrows are furrowed as he stares down at the stereo rather than back at me.

I wait for another moment. I’m not sure what more I am expecting from this. Unfortunately, my drunken mind fills in the silence with more thoughts of us and New York. I can still see the devastated look on his face when I said no to moving. I hate how things ended with us. I hate my contribution to it and I hate that it’s so damn awkward being with him now. I purse my lips together, feeling emotion clog the back of my throat. I reach for the handle, pushing the door open and stepping out. I toss my purse back onto my shoulder, then lean down to meet his gaze again.

“I’m sorry.” I say to him, poking my head back into the car. I can’t let him leave without him knowing that.

“For what?” He asks, hand gripping the steering wheel with white knuckles.

“For not moving to New York.” I shut the door, expecting to hear his car peel off into the street. Instead, the purr behind me ceases. The pop of his door follows.

“You can’t just say that to me and walk away. I know you’re drunk, but that is not fair.”

“I’m just being honest.” I shrug, reaching for my keys in my purse, thankful they are still there. His footsteps get closer until his fingers reach around to grab my keys from my hand. He touches the fob to the door and holds it open for me to walk through. I pause, studying him. His long black hair flows against his forehead in a large curl that adds to his sexy agitation.

“Go, please. I can’t not walk you up. It doesn’t feel right.” He waves me in.

“You don’t need to do me anymore favors.”

“It’s not for you.” He shakes his head, following me into the building. I press the up button on the elevator, then select 4 for my floor.

Mat and I look at each other. I’ve made something shifted between us. I wonder if he feels it too. The depth of his eyes makes me think he does, but the truth is, I don’t know Mat as well as I used to. He’s changed in the last six months. Yet, my feelings for him are just as consuming. All the things I want to say to him are pressing into my tongue until it feels like I’m choking on the words. I’m too drunk and lonely and I miss the way it feels when he hugs me. I drop my gaze from his, lips twisting into a grimace.

Mat opens his mouth like he wants to say something, but in the end he doesn’t. We walk silently down to my apartment. Mat still has my keys in his hand. Slowly, he brings them between us for me to grab. Now, our transaction is done. He’s walked me to the door. I have my keys. How do we say goodbye?

“Thank you.” I finally say, turning to put the key in the door and flipping the lock.

“Call anytime. I’ll always be here for you.” Mat says, shoving his hands into the pockets of his shorts. “Goodnight.” He gradually turns to walk back to the elevator.

“Mat.” I hear myself sputter.

Uh oh.

“Yeah?” He asks, turning around, eyebrows furrowed like he’s struggling internally.

“Will you stay? I don’t think I can be alone.”

Unexpectedly, Mat agrees then walks back to me. Once I push the door open, he goes casually towards my bedroom like he has hundreds of times before, pulling his shirt over his head as he goes. The defined muscles of his back make my mouth go dry.

Our bodies go into autopilot, getting undressed and ready for bed in the way we always used to. It isn’t long before we are both under the blankets, firmly on our own sides of the mattress. Timidly, I feel Mat reach for me. I take his hand, letting him roll me onto my side so we are looking at each other, legs touching. The darkness masks our faces in shadows.

“Mat?”

“Hm?” His breathy grunt is warm against my forehead.

“Do you think of me when you’re in New York?”

“Of course I do. Why else would I be here?” I contemplate that for a moment, then continue.

“Are you going to regret this tomorrow?”

“Only if you do.”

- - -

The next morning, I awaken to sunlight rudely brightening my room. I groan into my pillow, feeling around for the spare pillow on the other side of the bed to bring back darkness. Instead of cotton, I come in contact with a face. Everything in my stills. I don’t remember much from last night, except a faint memory of fingers stroking my back. Did we…?

“It’s me and no we didn’t do anything.” I hear Mat say. His voice is deep and rich from sleep. It puts me at ease. Until he reaches across the bed, pulling me into his body. It’s so intimate as he seals my butt to his lap, back to his chest. His hand snakes around my stomach, holding me in place.

“What are you doing?”

“I need to tell you something, but I want to feel you in my arms while I do.” I still, barely breathing as I feel his calm heartbeat against my back. “I shouldn’t have asked you to move to New York. It was too much. I didn’t think you were going to say no, and I still don’t quite understand why you did, but I respect your choice.” My eyes close and I settle myself deeper into his body. He responds with a tighter grip on me, nose pressing to my shoulder until he speaks again. “I’ve been missing you… and us… When you called last night, and asked me to stay, I felt happy for the first time in awhile. I fucked everything up.” I put my hand on his over my stomach, interlocking our fingers together.

“Mat, I ruined this. I should have said yes. I was just really scared. What if I moved there and it didn’t work out? How was I going to come back here after that? I never let myself consider how much better it could have been. And I should have."

“You know, there is still time for you to change your mind. We could start slow. You move into my place here. Then, you move one suitcase at a time to New York until somehow all your stuff is there?” I smile, turning to press my lips into his forearm beneath my head. I want that. Desperately.

“On one condition.”

“Anything. Probably.” His lips brush against my neck as he speaks, practically kissing me. Each brush has lightning bolting through my veins. He gathers the courage to fully press his lips on my neck. I bring my hand around, holding his face to my skin, savoring his sweet touch.

“Tell me you’re still in love with me.” I whisper.

“Of course I am.” He murmurs. “How could I stop?”

“You’re the love of my life, Mat Barzal.” I turn awkwardly in his arms so our lips can connect. We make out. Every month, week and day we have spent apart has us greedily sucking each other. His hands run down my body, gripping my ass in his palms as I hook a leg over him.

“Somethings never change.” He says against my mouth, teeth connecting with my lips as he laughs. “Your nights at Pete’s still ends with mornings like this.” Mat ruts our hips together, building our excitement.

I think back to the promises I made in this bed last night before I went out, laughing at how each one of those broken agreements lead me to exactly where I wanted to be anyway.

Thank you, drunk me.

#Mat Barzal #Mat Barzal fic #New York Islanders #hockey writing #NHL writing #NHL fan fiction #writing request #my writing

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archieimagines · 1 year

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vaseline | kuina hikari

Summary: Kuina is more stressed about your chapped lips than the wounds from her death match.

gorgeous kuina. that’s all i have to say for myself. i’m weak. warnings: s2 spoilers, mentions of violence, elements of grief, blood and injury, smoking. a bit of angst, a bit of fluff, maybe a kiss. word count: 1302 requested by: anon (this is the reuniting with kuina/chishiya request. i’ll be writing a chishiya one separately!) written by: archie support me on ko-fi!

The sounds of battle rang through the centre. Cries of anguish, the clatter of metal, screams of the dying. Even just listening wasn’t easy.

You sat against the wall of the sports centre’s atrium, knees parted to rest your elbows on. You’d intended to be in the dojo to search for Kuina but… Well, after hearing it, you couldn’t help being glad you’d missed registration.

You were split from your girlfriend on the run from that damn King of Spades, and after so many days of searching for her, you were struggling to resist your harrowing thoughts. That the King was too good, that she was amongst the litter of bodies on Shibuya’s streets.

But, you’d reason, she’s too tough for that. She’d been through too much, fought for too much. Her own struggles, her mothers’, the things society would hold against her... No, Kuina wouldn’t be wiped out by some nameless, faceless entity. She was far too strong. To worry about her like that was an insult.

So, you searched, game after game. Asked survivors if they’d seen a tall, beautiful girl with dreads, a blue bikini-- they’d only ever shook their head, half of them with pity in their eyes. So many people had lost their loved ones to this land, and they saw you as just another of the bunch.

They didn’t realise how stubborn you were, nor how powerful Kuina could really be. If anyone were to be left standing after all this, it’d be her, a beacon amongst the dust and smoke. Your beautiful Hikari.

Hell, you missed that face. Somewhere in your search, you’d vowed to carry a physical picture of her in your wallet once you got back home together. But until then, you’d have to close your eyes and remember, as you’d done every time the search got hard.

The way her brows would pull together playfully when you teased her, the way her eyes would scrunch and she’d slap your arm or shoulder as she burst into laughter. The way her whole face would light up when you let her dress you at the boutique, and then that smile when you’d buy it all. God, that smile. You needed to see it again.

After searching game on game, you finally found an ounce of hope.

The Jack of Spades. Yes, her kind of game. You’d hunted out this game specifically just to see if she may be at the registration, and when you saw its setting, your spark of hope burned brighter than ever.

A dojo.

Surely, a dojo game would be the place to find her. Surely, she was behind those doors, kicking everyone within an inch of their life. You strained to hear any scream of effort, any curse that carried her tone of voice, but there were too many to focus on. If she was in there, she was drowned out amongst the masses.

You bit at your lip. The whole place was dark, barely a peek of light from the dojo door. Was it a blind game? Were her ears astute enough to carry her through martial arts blindly? Was she even in there?

The taste of iron seeped into your mouth. Fuck, you’d been chewing your lip too much. If she’d come out of that dojo and see you bleeding, she wouldn’t hesitate to scold you, and the thought brought a bittersweet smile to your chapped lip. You’d give anything for her to come out and scold you, to feel her dainty fingers rub vaseline on your skin like she always did, cigarette hanging from her own mouth. “Look after yourself,” she’d whine around the stick, “No lover of mine can have bad lips.”

Oh, the amount of times you’d plucked the cigarette from between her teeth. “What about this, then?”

“Hey, bad lungs are only on the inside,” she’d give an almost annoyed laugh and take it back. “And smoking looks cool on the outside.”

You chuckled to yourself in the darkness. It was a foreign sound in this land, even to your own ears. The kind of sound that only she could bring out of you.

She had to come through those doors. She had to.

Minutes ticked by, soon reaching almost an hour, and finally the violence from behind the door started dying down. Less screams and less sounds of impact - whoever was left was growing tired.

You squeezed your eyes shut and hoped against hope that she’d be out soon. That she’d come through that door with those bright eyes and pull a face at the state of you.

Shhhhk.

The door slid open.

A few pairs of footsteps trod the floorboards, barely visible until the blimp outside caught fire.

It lit up the air with its orange firelight, the smell of fumes and oil dropping from the skies, seeping in through the windows. It lit the trio that battled the length of hallway, falling forwards on heavy feet, one after the other.

And a pair of those feet clad in platform flip-flops.

The fire lit the side of her face, battered and bruised.

You shot up to your feet, mouth running faster than your mind. All you knew was that you needed her eyes on you. “Kuina!”

And they found you.

Her whole existence changed. Where she was before so visibly exhausted and hunched, aching and bleeding, her eyes lit up and a smile hitched the corners of her lips. She pushed past her fellow survivors and hobbled up the corridor as fast as she possibly could, though she couldn’t possibly match your sprint in her current condition.

You flung yourself at her, arms thrown around her waist as she clung to you, willing the tears not to fall from your eyes, “Fuck, I thought-”

“You thought I was dead?” She held tighter, a disbelieving, laboured splutter of humour parting her lips. “I’m not easy to kill, you know.”

“Not for a moment,” you pulled back with a shake of your head, unable to stop the trickle of a tear that fell from your eye as you held her face, cuts and bruises in abundance. “I didn’t think that for a moment.”

The fellow survivors passed without a word, and she took this time to look over your own face. She was so relieved to see you, her eyes so gentle and pretty-- and then, there it was. That little furrow of her brow, the quiet hint of irritation. “You’ve been biting your lips again, huh?”

A bubble of emotional laughter burst in your chest, raising a hand to wipe over your lip. It must’ve been only a spot of blood, but of course, she’d notice it. “I’ve been stressed without you.”

“What kind of excuse is that?” Her face lightened, gently taking yours in her hands. Those delicate thumbs ran over your lips, wiping away that minuscule drop of crimson before bringing you into a soft, indulgent kiss. She simply took a moment to share your breath with that closeness, live with you once more as if you were her cigarette.

You kept her close even once it’d drawn to a close. Fingers rubbing gently over the bare skin of her waist, careful to not hurt her, but you’re so aware of the slight raises on her skin, the trail of blood that your fingers slip on.

You give a soft sigh. It hurts your chest physically to see her like this, a gnawing ache that you just had to fix. “I saw a bathroom back there. Let’s get you patched up, darling.”

“Wait-!” Her eyes grew as she reached behind her, patting at her back pocket as if to check something. Then with a relieved breath, she nodded, her smile bright. “I didn’t drop my vaseline. I knew you’d need it.”

#kuina x reader #kuina imagine #kuina hikari x reader #kuina hikari imagine #alice in borderland imagine #kuina #kuina hikari #asahina aya x reader #asahina aya imagine #asahina aya #alice in borderland #written by archie #aib s2 spoilers

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emonydeborah · 9 months

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SNW and DISCO spoilers

so I watched the Una episodes of discovery with no other context. So it’s just the episode where they find the sphere and the last two episodes of season two.

they really go buckwild on this ship. Tilly is being eaten by fungus and no one tells anyone. Jett and the mushroom man get high and slap each other out of it. Also did Jett appear from the vents? Michael is having a family crisis. Saru asked his friend to help him commit ritual suicide and I think a part of his brain fell out. Also I didn’t know he spoke so many languages so that was cool.

they are so dramatic here. The shocked and horrified stares around at each other made the finale an hour long otherwise it would have been like 30 minutes. I expect this from Chris but good grief. The letters goodbye one bye one? Sarek and Amanda somehow showing up ahead of a whole fleet to tell Michael they love her? The sibling fight as the ship is being fired upon? (that one tracks actually) I like it for the big moments but are they always like this?? And is the “eyes up” thing a thing and why doesn’t Chris do it anymore?

I do like the found familyness I am sensing. The whole fam banding together to go with Michael was sweet. And their goodbye to Chris. This is the level of found family where I’d expect to find at least a few of those foster kid fanfics where they refuse to leave each other and the foster parents get six kids at once. I have not looked but I would be disappointed if there aren’t any.

Pike’s stepdad energy is so strong. The whole crew does what they want and loop him in when they feel like it. They are fine without him and have their own system and dynamics going on. He knows it, too, which is hilarious to watch from just knowing him from snw. He really just intervenes to keep his genius stepchildren from straying too far off the mission. They are running around like overexcited puppies (“the sphere is trying to communicate!!!!”) and he keeps them from gnawing on the walls. But he is a good stepdad in that he is ready to throw hands and use his ship as a shield so they can get away from section 31.

then as soon as he gets back to enterprise he brings all of the evil fbi apparently. Una is not surprised and has tricked out the whole ship and the shuttles for battle without prompt. She went Chris was out of my sight for too long we need to be ready to fight the galaxy.

and some more Una notes: Katrina Cornwell seemed tall and commanding until she stood next to Una and it was hilarious how small she was. Took me out of the dramatic bomb defusing moment but I still had fun. And Chris knew someone was going to die from that torpedo and got Una out as soon as he knew there were no other options. My pikeuna heart.

And Una choosing violence with the interrogation sent me. SNW fans know she has been hiding and afraid of scrutiny her whole life, and this is how she shows it. What a woman. She did not even tell them her name. Did we know she was Una at this point or was she Number One all the way until snw premiered?

“Follow the queen.” *Chris immediately looks at Una* I see you Chris.

it is obvious that they did not know how they were going to open snw with Chris being depressed and Una going missing but I liked their shock and happiness when Spock showed up beardless.

idk if I am intrigued enough to watch this whole show but I like Georgiou being their personal annoying gremlin. “Everybody hates you. Congratulations.” Also queen Po going if I die I die.

did not like Una going “in English please” to literally another navigator. We know she’s a genius let her be one y’all. If it were a science person going off a thousand words a minute I would allow it. But Una was talking to a pilot. Do better.

IN GENERAL, a good time. I was there for Una and she was not there much, but that was expected I guess. I was not prepared for how emotional discovery's crew would be. They are all in their feelings at all times. I liked them as a crew and maybe I will return one day.

#discovery #snw #una chin riley #chris pike #michael burnham #saru #sylvia tilly #snw spoilers #disco spoilers #tw suicide #star trek strange new worlds #star trek #strange new worlds #katrina cornwell #seemed like a cool lady #but OH MY WORD #the number of times they said some variation of “you're my family”#this is a starship not youth group camp #we are not here to cry it out

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bookaddict24-7 · 3 months

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REVIEWS OF THE WEEK!

EVERY WEEK I WILL POST VARIOUS REVIEWS I’VE WRITTEN SO FAR IN 2024. YOU CAN CHECK OUT MY GOODREADS FOR MORE UP-TO-DATE REVIEWS HERE.

___

76. Legacy by Nora Roberts--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

There's truly something magical about reading a Nora Roberts novel--they're fun, sometimes simple, and a great way to pass the time. I'm starting to notice the formula to her romantic suspense novels, but you know what? I will devour them every time.

LEGACY was a good read with some sweet characters and a really creepy serial killer stalking women and hunting them. This is one thing I think Roberts is a little too good at--creating those creepy evil people stalking and threatening to kill the MC.

I loved the dogs in this and how everything came together at the end. I'm glad I was able to give this one a shot!

Will hopefully read more of her books in March!

___

77. Love Me Today by A.L. Jackson--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I started LOVE ME TODAY because I have found myself craving more romantic suspense and this one fed that craving pretty well. It had the romance, the smut, the mysterious murderer haunting one of the MCs, and the incredibly adorable kid. Also, the single parent trope? Yes, please.

LOVE ME TODAY wasn't anything mind blowing, but it was such a satisfying read. The FMC was someone who wore her heart on her sleeve and was so pure (not in a gross way, just in a "I will love you no matter what" way), that her personality on the page felt very wholesome. She was a great foil for the MMC, who was the epitome of dark, broody, and jaded.

While I did enjoy their romance and their interactions with the tiny human, I thought the nickname the MMC had for the FMC could have been...better, or at least not repeated as much LOL. The spicy scenes were sometimes cringe because of the repetitive use of the nickname.

Really, really enjoyed the murderer reveal. Also, now I want to read the next one in the series because it's another trope I love.

___

78. Villain and the Geek by L.C. Davis--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

That ending and the fact that the next one doesn't have a release date yet? Ahhhhh!

These are short, emotional, smutty, and addicting books. I devoured the first series near the end of the year last year and was thrilled to see that this one was coming out so soon after I finished book 1 in the sequel series. I want more! I want to get some answers and I want to see Constantine spoil the hell out of Devon because he deserves that.

I'm not going to lie, I love the whole emotional aspect of this book. It's like a punch to the heart to see how Constantine treats Devon, knowing it's going to bite him in the ass.

I need more and I'm sad the next book is supposedly the final instalment in their story.

___

79. The Book of Doors by Gareth Brown--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

Incredible. Absolutely incredible.

I don't know what I was expecting from THE BOOK OF DOORS, but it wasn't the twisty way everything connected. Or the way the characters were written and grew so much with the story. Brown absolutely killed it with this book and I definitely want to keep an eye out for his next books now.

THE BOOK OF DOORS is a book about magic, yes, but also about love, family, friendships, and grief--the power of letting go and how sometimes, even if we have the power to change things, it's sometimes best to leave things as they are because of their impact on us. Brown's book had so much more depth than I was expecting and I'm here still recovering from it all.

The amount of times I was left with my mouth open because of a revelation, or a turn in the storyline? Phew.

I highly recommend this one, even if the friend of the FMC was annoying LOL. She grew, too, as a character, but man I wanted to slap some sense into her LOL.

Definitely add this to your TBR! You may or may not want to cry a couple of times, too.

___

80. Fangirl Down by Tessa Bailey--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

FANGIRL DOWN is the first book I've read by Tessa Bailey in a long time and I have to say, I'm both surprised and impressed! I think this is going to be the perfect summer read for anyone looking for a light, quick, and sexy summer read.

The dynamic between the two characters worked fantastically and their communication level was *chef's kiss*. I also appreciated the inclusion of a main character with diabetes. Although I don't have diabetes myself, it was great seeing that representation in a romance novel.

The FMC was a badass, even if she was sometimes stubborn to the point of it being a bit frustrating. I loved how she handled the people around her in her new famous role. I extra loved that any simple issues surrounding that world didn't become any main issues in the book. I liked that Bailey focused on the couple and their growths as people.

I know nothing about golf, so it was interesting reading about a romance that featured it--it was strangely refreshing that it wasn't another hockey, or football romance.

I do recommend this one, if not for the great characters, then for the smutty good times.

___

81. Dead in the Family by Charlaine Harris--⭐️⭐️⭐️⭐️

I'll admit that it took me a bit to get back into this universe with DEAD IN THE FAMILY. I think because a lot seemingly happened between the last book and this one. I'm sure there are short stories and novellas, but I didn't read them so jumping into this one was like jumping into a deep end I didn't even know was there.

But when I finally DID get back into this, I actually found myself really enjoying it. Sookie is growing super jaded as she gets older and I'm actually enjoying that because it's more realistic. There's a scene where a character comments that the Sookie from a year ago would drink something without a second thought and now she's all worried. I like this because Sookie has seem some Shit.

I also really liked this one because it dealt a lot with grief and familial connections. ALTHOUGH, this is also creepy af with some of the themes and one new character. That made me incredibly uncomfortable.

___

Have you read any of these? What were your thoughts?

___

Happy reading!

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thefirstknife · 1 year

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Do you have a list of Mara and Sjur loretabs? I'm seeing Mara/Shaxx "The helmet stayed on" in the lore channel of a server I'm on, and am in need of proof next time it pops up (bc, lets face it, it will). :(

Absolutely!

The legendary first time Sjur faced Mara after being tasked to kill her:

Sjur Eido's fury and grief whetted themselves against Mara's thoughtless grace and ancient beauty, until at last her heart unseamed itself and spilled its hot blood in a shout. "Mara Sov!" she cried, throwing down her maltech matter laser between them. "I cannot live while you live, but I cannot bear to kill you. I challenge you to a duel to the agony. I will fight your most beloved companion to the death and leave you forever maimed or else die in the attempt."

After the duel ended in a tie:

On the tarmac, Sjur Eido threw off her helmet and parachute and knelt before Mara Sov. "My lady," she said, "as I have fought your brother to a tie, I leave my fate in your hands. Be more kind to me than you were to my lady the Diasyrm."

"Rise, Sjur Eido," said Mara. "Let us take the stars together."

Incredibly suggestive (really cool artist rendition of this):

She narrowed her eyes. "Sjur, can you hear what I'm thinking?"

"What, as in telepathically?" The Queen's bodyguard closed her eyes. "Everyone's been feeling spooky, but I'm not sure that extends to transmitting—Mara! Good grief!"

Mara being incredibly upset when Sjur says she knows how she'll die (this entire lore tab is just a really good interaction between the two while Sjur is fixing Uldren's injuries. It very clearly shows how Mara acts differently around her):

"I know," Sjur says, heavily. "That's when I'm going to die."

The most horrible thing about the words is that they slap down on Mara's consciousness like face-up cards, like truth revealed. "Unacceptable!" she barks, and then both she and Sjur begin laughing, and then, at last, Mara shakes her head and growls. "You can't know that, Sjur. No one can know that."

Sjur and Mara just being incredibly happy to know each other:

For her part, Sjur Eido wandered about in a daze, filled with joy to be alive and grief that she no longer knew the day when she would die. "In you, all things are possible," she told Mara. "I live because of you." When Mara saw her string her mighty bow, the limbs coiled behind her leg and around her opposite arm, she was glad beyond telling that Sjur had survived.

Helmet kiss in space (this entire lore tab is also a really really good increaction between them):

She leans forward and very gently kisses the inside of her helmet, where it meets Mara's: in her mind, in that place that is bound to all other Awoken, Mara feels the touch of gentle lips.

This speech ("her beloved" and literally just talking about loving each other):

"Sjur," Mara said, falling to her knees, clutching her beloved's face between shaking hands, "Sjur, on the day you worship me, you cannot love me anymore, for to worship is to yield all power, and I cannot love what has no power over me."

Another really good lore tab, nothing specific to highlight, but it's Mara resting and reading a book while Sjur is napping with her nearby. Very relaxed scenario, the one we don't really see Mara in otherwise.

This one where Mara learns about Sjur "dying" or rather becoming missing:

Powerful grief filled her chest, as thick and caustic and heavy as unset concrete.

In the same tab, Mara's reaction to being told that they can't divert their attention to Sjur's disappearance:

Paladin Zire flinched as if slapped. "My Queen. Our spies in the House of Judgment tell us the Wolves plan to attack Hygiea next. I loved Sjur, as I love all we have lost, and I grieve her. But if we divert our attention now to vengeance against an unknown enemy…"

Mara put down the coin and allowed herself a small, humorless smile. "Then let it be my diversion."

This is really remarkable because Mara would never deviate from her plans, especially during a time of war, to take care of personal business. But in this case, she does. She openly says that no matter what, Sjur's disappearance will be her diversion.

Finally, most recently, from The Witch Queen Collector's Edition, a note written by Shaxx himself, to Ikora (page 21):

have i ever told you about my night of passion with queen mara sov? the passion we shared was pothos, the longing for freedom. this was before oryx and before my own renewal. I longed for freedom from my duties; she longed for freedom from her doom. the tempest is a play saturated with the yearning for freedom! it is also concerned with the relationship between master and servant; and when i had finished reciting it, mara asked me to tell her stories of the once-servant who she yearned to meet again as an equal. sjur eido! the woman i named a tempest!

i told her stories of my friendship with sjur eido and her great bow.

Shaxx says they were friends. Mara wanted him to read "The Tempest" because that's the nickname he gave Sjur. They were honoring Mara's lover together because Shaxx was good friends with Sjur. Furthermore, he also says:

mara was delighted by my disbelief, she told me that she would tell me the truth about sjur if i would only take off my helmet, so she could look into the eyes that had gazed so often on her beloved.

Shaxx was fully aware and supportive of Mara's and Sjur's relationship. He specifies that Mara wanted to see his eyes because those same eyes "gazed on her beloved."

WQ Collector's Edition is so pointedly talking about that infamous event between Mara and Shaxx that I am fully convinced it was written solely to explain in no ambiguous terms what happened and to debunk any idea that Mara and Shaxx were in any way romantically involved. It also makes sure to point out that Mara loved Sjur and Shaxx knows this and was their friend.

By using Shaxx' POV, it's explained directly by him in very obvious and easy to understand way. Mara called him so they could talk about things they long for; freedom and a person they both loved in their own way. Mara loved Sjur as a lover, Shaxx loved Sjur as a friend.

For all of Sjur's lore in chronological order, see this masterpost!

#destiny 2 #mara #sjur #shaxx #long post #ask

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ash-and-snow · 2 years

Text

Out of all of Tyrion's relationships, I find the one he has with Cersei to be the most intriguing and thought-evoking. It is so interesting to me because it is terribly complex, and more so, incredibly human.

It sits on the edge of deep hatred and yearning. Which some people would find strange, because why do you long for the positive attention of someone who has been nothing but cruel to you? But it is rather common, truly.

Nobody likes being disliked. One might say "I don't really care", right, but it is a lie to say that being hated by someone does not evoke a certain feeling in your chest. Even if you do not care, you still find yourself wishing that it was different. And, perhaps without noticing, you start thinking about the what ifs. That is ultimately your downfall and what leads to yearning.

I think this is precisely the cause of Tyrion's terribly complicated feelings.

He hates her, despises her, even, yet:

He reached a tentative hand for her shoulder. "Don't touch me," she said, wrenching away. It should not have hurt, yet it did, more than any slap. Red-faced, as angry as she was grief-stricken, Cersei struggled for breath. "Don't look at me, not . . . not like this . . . not you."

Yet he suffers from her rejections.

It is easier to hate someone that is hated by everybody, someone whose good light you cannot see. But when you're hated or disliked by someone who is loved, or someone who treats their so in ways that you never knew they were capable of, that's when trouble begins. When you see their good aspects, as minimal as they could be, and the greyness of their character comes to the surface. And you're conflicted, and that is what leads to the what ifs, to the longing. For example:

Tyrion threw back his head and roared. They laughed together. Cersei pulled him off the bed and whirled him around and even hugged him, for a moment as giddy as a girl. By the time she let go of him, Tyrion was breathless and dizzy.

After experiencing and seeing someone's good side first hand, things change. Tyrion finds himself despising her again and again, yet again and again yearning for her love and appreciation, for her to act like an actual sister to him. For him to not be neglected and devoid of love anymore. Because nobody likes being the odd-one out, the one person that someone does not like, especially coming from family. And the thoughts come rushing, "what if we were always like this?", "what if this was always us?" "what if I could always experience this, instead of watching from afar?".

Ultimately, Tyrion's feelings always seem to stem from "what could've been".

#perhaps im just projecting my experiences on a fictional character but i think that is okay #a song of ice and fire #asoiaf #tyrion lannister #tyrionmonth2022

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cypreus-and-willow · 3 months

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2, 8, 29, 43 For the fic asks if u wanna

2. Where do you get your fic ideas?

Honestly, just from random places. I tend to theorize a lot. But sometimes the theories border on headcanon and are kinda whack (hence my other name 'The Crack Theorist') even tho they're mostly based on actual observations. For example, my Digimon Survive Highschool gang came to me when I was wondering abt the job of Shuuji's dad - is he a doctor? A politician?

Then i remembered his dad tells Shuuji he doesnt have the 'qualities befitting a Kayama son'. So I thought well what are the opposites of Shuuji's natural qualities? Possibly strength, ruthlessness, cunning, blah blah. And the stupid area of my brain concludes that his dad works for the mafia. And thats how the Gang AU was born.

As for my non AU fics, I try to stick as close to canon as possible... but they're still centered around some headcanons.

29. What's something about your writing that your proud of?

That they're self indulgent. Ive spent a lot of time, worrying abt word count thinking that its only good if its 1000+ words every chapter.

But now, esp w/ my shorter fics, i try to just write whatever feels right for the story. To let a story end at 300 words because its what feels right to me. Sometimes I sit down to write one memo and 2000 words come out and its fantastic but Ive stopped trying to force that feeling every time I write.

(And also that I can somewhat effectively mix purple and biege prose together even tho ive never heard of those terms until recently)

43. Is there a trope or idea that you'd really like to write but haven't yet?

Coffee Shop AU? Or maybe the florist and tattoo artist? Lol

Im mostly an angst writer. So sometimes I get curious abt what its like to write the cheezy cliche stuff. It doesnt have to be romance, I just want them to be happy.

(I cant believe Pet Shop AU is canon in TokRev - I feel blessed)

Oh, I was watching the first Pacific Rim the other day and wanted to write something on that. That drift compatibility is really something huh?

8. Post an out-of-context spoiler from a wip

CW mentions child death

The boy of red hair and twenty years looks up to the sky as a creature of thundering swords swoops down from the heavens. The strike of his blade cleaving the ground in two. From afar, he watches Ifrit crawl with the last of his strength towards the open ground bubbling with grief's plague. Raindrops hang on the tips of red eyelashes. Refusing to blink as the water falls over smouldering rock. There he sees the body of his keeper burning atop the lifeless earth. And remembers the day they drowned his mother. Fire is the essence of life in Solheim. In the temple of Ifrit, his mother taught him the ways of fire. Of healing warmth. Water. Rain. Is the herald of death. “Tianna.” “Yes child?” Though now his height inches over hers, she calls him child all the same. And it gives his heart comfort that some things remain the same. Even in this strange new world where fire burns under the rain and children are taken from their beds to their graves. “Stay with me.”

From the first ever fic I wrote in June 2018 but never published. I wrote like 3000+ words in one night. Also based on a crack theory.

Tho maybe I misunderstand this question...

Spoiler: Aoi slaps Shuuji’s brother while saying "How f*cking dare you"

#Ask #Answer #Fic #Writing #thanks maq

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mistwraiths · 1 year

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3 stars

The Last Hours has to be the most dramatic, messiest, frustrating trilogy CC has written so far. It's funny to me particularly since I didn't like TID much nor do I like Will Herondale or Tessa, but I don't remember being particularly so frustrated. Chain of Thorns is a better book than Chain of Iron in my opinion, it doesn't feel as long and boring as COI did. But there is still FAR too much unnecessary drama and miscommunication to this series.

For me there was only three characters I loved very dearly and were rooting for the entire time. Grace Blackthorn, Alistair Carstairs, and Christopher Lightwood. I loved Grace from the beginning and I will defend her with my dying breath, I loved every part she had in this book. Alistair has come a long way and I loved his character arc. And then, tragedy struck.

I KNEW someone was going to die. There's always a death of the main group, I knew it was coming. My money was on Matthew. It honestly made sense to me that he, being one of the unconnected to another character except for James, along with him suffering through withdrawals and going to Edom where he was not expected to go. It would have been a bit poetic since James' father Will had experienced something similar. But instead, CC kills off Christopher Lightwood.

I was shocked and furious, and I could have possibly accepted it better if it felt like any of the characters grieved or felt something for more than a page or two and then a half-hearted mention later. You're telling me that someone they've known their ENTIRE LIVES, someone who was so kind and genius, that you can't spare more than a mention here or there or GIVE GRIEF FOR HIM ON ACTUAL PAGES?? Instead, I have to read a whole intermission chapter on someone grieving TWO CHARACTERS WHO ARE ALIVE AND MADE A CHOICE (one they didn't have much choice but still) TO GO TO EDOM??? It felt like a slap to the face, an insult to the character. Grace and Christopher deserved to be a science nerds together. Of course the magic sword conveniently couldn't help heal and Lucie's powers to talk and raise the dead conveniently only worked on specific circumstances.

Okay, now that that's out of the way, let's discuss other things. The whole Belial plot felt super weak to me. He wants to possess James to walk on earth and become King of England?? Sir aren't you a fallen angel?? A Prince of Hell? Shouldn't your goal be more I WILL KILL SHADOWHUNTERS AND BURN THE EARTH or something?? Belial was also just all talk. He hardly ever really felt like a THREAT. Like oh shit this guy is going to SLAUGHTER people. I did like the part of him burning through the hosts because that felt horrific and violent and proper Prince of Hell stuff. Also the whole traveling to Edom's capital was very boring.

The whole Cortana sword having some paladin bond to heal the wounds it creates felt so ridiculously contrived and stupid to me. I can get behind a healing sword. I can get behind the sword only healing its paladin. But only healing the wounds it creates is so silly and only felt necessary to have this plot finished with the HEA intact. I knew James wouldn't die since we learned that he's alive to see Will pass away from old age. But honestly??? I think it would have been a very good ending if he had died. It would have had an impact.

Cordelia was overall a very average heroine for me, I don't think she's particularly my favorite mostly because of the drama and lies and miscommunication and pride/fear of being pitied. For the life of me, I don't understand why Lucie and her became parabatai. What deep friendship do they have because we certainly see no evidence of it. I did like James and Cordelia a little better when all that nonsense was finished, but again they don't have chemistry to me and their bond seems only physical to me.

I think I was a bit irritated that I'm being told after the bracelet is broken and done having been a plot device for two books, that it has had all these effects that we don't particularly get to see. Most everyone didn't understand James being in love with Grace but like... Grace was also secluded from everyone and they knew he spent summers with her. That to me personally isn't enough evidence to say "the bracelet kept you from considering it". Like I would have liked to see some examples of them thinking about it and becoming fuzzy or distracted or something. Also, we don't really get a chance to see James BEFORE the bracelet so telling me it utterly changed how he was/acted gives me nothing if I never knew him in the first place??

My heart goes out to Matthew it does but again, it very much felt like he didn't have much of an importance to the whole story. Which again, begs the question why wasn't he killed. It just blows my mind that Belial just allowed him to stay.

I actually really loved Jesse in the first two books but not only was he kind of boring and pushed to the side in this one, his attitude towards Grace really pissed me off. Jesse more than anyone should know how awful his mother could be and Grace was a CHILD and had to live with her. When she tells him everything, he reacts so poorly. Like, of course he can be upset, but GRACE IS YOUR SISTER AND A VICTIM. Like??? It made me so angry. Even Cordelia had better grace than her own brother.

I'm happy that Grace, Alistair, Thomas, Anna, and Ari get to be happy. Justice for Malcolm Fade in this book. I understand the whole interrogation thing with Tessa and Will and the others keeping such huge secrets. We know the truth that they are well-meaning but no one else does. There is a huge favoritism and lying doesn't give anyone a reason to trust. Would it have caused tension to be truthful? Yes. But it would have allowed trust and good faith. But of course obviously it all happened very conveniently to get everyone authoritative and Jem out of London and The Silent City so no one could stop the kids.

Overall, this book at least felt like everything was moving forward at a better pace and it was an okay ending.

#chain of thorns #cassandra clare #steph's book review #book review #steph reads #2023 reads

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rollercoasterwords · 1 year

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Ok, I know youre a dorlene enthusiast, but what about 20, for Dormary( Dorcas and Mary)

20. you’re in a car with a beautiful boy and you're trying not to tell him that you love him.

from this prompt list!

oooh challenge accepted >:) major angst warning tho ummmm u are getting. unrequited dormary past dorlene. post-marlene's death canon compliant. sorrryyyyy <3

"you should eat something," mary says, because it's easier than saying stop grieving, less selfish than saying please look at me.

please, just once, just look at me.

dorcas stares out the window like she's trying to haunt her own body, like if she turns herself into a sacrifice maybe god will exist and bring marlene back. like that's possible. like that's something she can do.

"we can get something," mary says, "we'll go somewhere. where do you want to go?"

dorcas shrugs. mary strangles the steering wheel. she tries to feel less like a house of cards, collapsing.

they used to do this, all together. pile into the beat-up dust-brown hunk of muggle metal like it was a chariot, windows down and hair whipping in the wind. mary steering, marlene calling shotgun. sunshine hair and laughter and radio tyrant, spinning the dial, fighting with lily in the backseat, freckles and indignant hand-slapping when she leaned forward to complain. and mary would laugh and laugh and look into the rearview at dorcas meadowes, the calm in the center of the storm, leaning on one elbow and smiling that tiny, private smile that had mary's heart skipping beats.

and then lily had james, and four became three, and marlene turned around one day and saw dorcas in the backseat and it was always going to be them, wasn't it? no resisting gravity, no resisting the thunderstorm of a girl that was marlene mckinnon, the lightning crack of her attention and the thunderclap of her desire. mary had her hands on the steering wheel and her eyes on the rearview, watching dorcas watching marlene, watching marlene looking back and seeing the finally in dorcas meadowes' smile.

maybe she was a little bit in love with both of them. how could she not be?

mary parks at a chip shop, and dorcas doesn't answer when she asks what she wants, and mary pretends that it's because she's tired and not because the answer is that she doesn't want anything--nothing but the thunderstorm girl lying cold in a grave, the gravity-giant that dorcas cannot stop orbiting, that she refuses to bury. mary picks up the shovel and says grieve with me, grieve, and dorcas turns grief into a child, a needy wail that she cradles in her arms like a mother. mary returns to the car with a greasy bag of food, and turns the keys, and puts her hands back onto the steering wheel.

they drive. mary parks at the outcrop where they used to smoke with remus, the rocky scrub overlooking the sea. get her out of london, lily said, it'll do her some good. well, here they are--out of london and out of england and nearly out of gas, but still sitting in this fucking car. dorcas doesn't get out, so mary doesn't, either. she turns off the engine, lets the silence swallow them both.

in front of them, the sun is setting. the light kisses dorcas's skin and mary tries not to hate it, hates herself for the way she wants to crawl into the body of anything that is allowed to touch dorcas meadowes. before everything--before the war, and lily's wedding, and the Order and the death eaters and the dark mark hanging over marlene mckinnon's house--mary used to think about bringing her here. dorcas. she used to imagine it was just them in the car, looking at each other without the rearview in between, and she'd finally say it--finally say i haven't stopped thinking about you since i first saw you on that train and your smile makes me want to eat all the magic out of my body and if you would touch me, just once, i think i would become an entirely different creature. but she was afraid, and she waited, and lily married james, and marlene looked back, and the war came to kiss them all goodnight.

"i'm going to kill him," dorcas says, while they watch the sun bleed itself to death.

mary presses her eyes shut. she doesn't say marls wouldn't want that, because they both know it's not true. marlene mckinnon was a force of nature, and she couldn't die quietly, and anyone who loved her can hear her whispering from beyond the grave. avenge me, avenge me, love me with blood and hate and glory. there is no way to love a thunderstorm of a girl without being struck.

but god if mary doesn't hate her for it. if mary doesn't hate marlene mckinnon for being all that she was, for her gravity, for her laughter and her shark smile and her beauty. doesn't hate her for wanting the one thing that mary wanted too, for wanting it better and louder and braver, for being such an excruciating joy of a human that mary can't even blame her for it, for any of it, that mary still sometimes wants to crawl into the grave with her and beg her to come back.

dorcas meadowes is sitting beside her, in this car, in the place that mary has always wanted her to be. she's right there and she's not, and she'll never be, and she's already lost, and mary knew it from the moment that marlene mckinnon turned around in that front seat.

"you should eat something," she says, because it's the only thing left she can say.

#i actually. love how this turned out #unrequited love just Does Something to me #but yeahhhh sad sad sad sorryyyyyy #siken prompts

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late-to-the-magnus-archives · 8 months

Text

Refrain, chapter one - a Malevolent fic (The start of Surrogate, season two!)

Kayne's "season one" ended with a choice: whichever father Faroe picked, he was ready to let that slingshot fire.

She picked Arthur. Well, that was nice, wasn't it? Especially since he'd spent almost a year pulling that rubber band back, loaded.

Of course, he had no idea how well it would work. Humans are weird, and pieces of Hastur seem to respond particularly well to prolonged exposure.

It was time to deny a wicked man his prize.

Time to give a good man a second chance and see what he did with it.

Time to take the abused piece of a god and find out how it changed when given to someone else.

Part of Surrogate, a Malevolent AU. Written with @sepiabandensis.

AO3 (chapter one)

-------

Peter “Parker” Yang gasped, shuddered, and opened his eyes.

He was facedown in the dirt, which didn’t make sense, because the last thing he remembered was being in the office. Sweat (or something) stuck his clothes to him, damp and uncomfortable, and his throat was badly sore.

He wheezed, every muscle in agony, and touched his hand to his throat. His eyes widened. He’d been strangled. He knew how that felt. Some asshole had clamped their hands around his neck and squeezed.

“What the fuck?” he whispered, shuddering, and looked around to find he wasn’t in Arkham anymore. It was a veritable wasteland he had never laid eyes on before. Above were two suns (already cause for concern), one blue and one red (significantly more cause for concern), high in a cloudless, lavender sky. His clothes pulled at him unpleasantly, and he looked down in abject startlement to see his legs, clothed in the nicest suit he owned. He never wore this fucking thing. It fit bad. He hated it—but he’d certainly never torn it to shreds and stained it for sucking. It had been trashed, and that was even more concerning.

What the hell happened? “What the fuck?” he said again.

Ah, you’re awake. That’s good—very good. It was a voice.

A voice in his fucking head.

“What the fuck?!” he said, louder.

Peace, the voice said, smooth and calm like the shore of a mirror-flat lake. I’m a friend. The only friend you have right now.

Parker tried to get to his feet and failed immediately, swaying unsteadily at the head rush before slumping back to the ground. He felt like he’d been in a coma—like he’d been knocked cold. His neck felt like one big bruise, and his breath came ragged.

Easy—I don’t want you to fall, or hurt yourself. You were just subject to an intense magical surge, and I want to ensure that you’re alright. Now, if we’re going to get out of this situation, we’re going to need to work together. Do you understand me?

“Who are you?” Parker’s voice was hoarse, just right for getting two thumbs directly into his windpipe.

I am the King in Yellow, the voice said.

Parker took off the thoroughly wrecked jacket and opened the vest, then started pulling at the buttons on his shirt. “Am I supposed to know who that is?”

The voice made a sudden sputtering noise. You don’t? That didn’t jog your memory?

“Nope. Fuck,” Parker froze. It wasn’t sweat. It was blood—just old enough to be sticky and terrible, and the amount of it was very bad. It had soaked down his pants, halfway to his knee. “What the shit happened?”

I was hoping you’d remember, the voice said, with a tone almost like grief. How about you tell me your name, friend?

“Parker,” he said. “Parker Yang.”

Good! Very good. You didn’t forget everything. There’s a distinct relief in the voice.

“Everything?” Parker looked around. “How the fuck?”

Perhaps let's start at the beginning. What do you recall?

Parker rubbed his face, giving his cheek a bit of a slap to see if, somehow, he would wake up. The voice let out a soft, sharp gasp—which maybe meant it felt that, which sort of made sense, because it was in his head, but as that part was impossible, it actually made none. “Right,” he said. “Gimme a minute.” He had to remember something. Anything. “I was… At the office. There was a package, I think, with a book—” He trailed off.

His throat. Parker touched it again, tracing the bruising, remembering exactly whose hands had choked him down.

Familiar hands.

Hands he knew as well as his own, hands that had dropped that book, and had flown at him faster than he’d ever seen their owner move, the hands of—

Important information, to be sure, and we will discuss that in time. But I meant… after that. Before we arrived here, immediately before. Do you remember anything?

It was all creeping back, but slowly, like smoke under a door.

He was glad the voice had turned his attention to something else. He wasn’t ready to consider what happened in the office.

Their office.

His heart hurt.

Perhaps this is too much, too quickly, the voice said soothingly, but Parker picked up something more to it, a badly-hidden panic underneath that placid calm. That’s alright. We have been together for a short time now. I am attempting to ensure you remember the important things. The magic surge scrambled your brain a bit, but you’ll be alright. You’re coming back to me.

“Magic wha?” Parker said. He looked around. “The last thing I remember…”

Oh.

He did remember, all at once. No longer smoke creeping under a door, this memory slammed that door open and knocked him in the head like a fuckin’ boot.

The chanting was… familiar?

Shouldn’t be familiar. He’d remember weird chanting like that.

But maybe it felt familiar because he’d been hearing it for hours, maybe even in his sleep, because it felt like the words were burned into him, echoing in his head.

He was asleep now, maybe. Couldn’t seem to wake up. Couldn’t seem to move.

C' ymg' uln

Yeah, yeah.

C' llll ah'mglw'nafh ymg'

Come on, how many times were they gonna say it?

He couldn’t remember why he’d heard them say it so many times. Or where he was. Or why he couldn’t wake up. Or see. Or… feel?

Well, the whispering was new. All right.

He could almost understand it; it was talking to him, calling him somehow in some way deeper than a name, and it felt weird, like a rope or something, pulling him up out of this dark sleep he couldn’t seem to shake on his own.

Only now did he start to grow concerned over the things he was apparently missing. Like limbs.

Oh, this’ll be a gag, said a voice, clear as day, and then all his nerves switched on like an explosion.

It was an explosion, he was sure. It didn’t feel too good; his throat, in particular, felt real not good, but at least he could breathe through it, which was more than he could say for… for…

For himself?

He smelled funny. Kind of bitter. Like… (his mind flipped through images like an anachronistic rolodex) a funeral home.

That ain’t good, he thought, and tried to sit up.

Which sucked.

He felt like he hadn’t moved in a month. Everything was stiff, sore; his suit fit him badly, too—it wasn’t his usual daywear, but the fucked-up fancy one he’d needed for that Chancler case. He hated the thing. Why would he wear the thing? It chafed.

His eyes were gluey, and that taste in his mouth… “The fuck,” he croaked, and finally managed to look around.

So this was a situation and a half.

The room had no windows, and looked like a bomb had gone off in it. A starburst of black spread beneath him like he’d flash-banged into the scene, and all around sprawled a bunch of white guys in robes, covered in blood.

He was worried about the blood for all of six seconds, which was how long it took to note that none of them were bleeding, but there sure were a lot of dead pets in here.

“What?” gasped some guy whose robe had yellow piping, and so probably thought he was important. “Wh… where did you go? My lord? Yellow!”

Oof, wouldn’t want THAT name, Yang thought, who had enough trouble with idiots calling him that as a pejorative.

Which was when it got… weird.

What the fuck? A voice, there was a voice in his fucking head, and—

“Where… where are you? Where are you?” snarled the guy with the piping, and then gasped.

Something… someone… was there.

Parker didn’t generally believe in spooks. Nah. Cults were plenty real (the case from Pelican Lane came to mind), but that stuff wasn’t real, magic and all of that, no matter what anyone in Arkham said. But this being… this was real, and he could not comprehend it.

A shape, a presence, a shadow far bigger than this room or this building or this world, squashing thoughts against the inside of his skull like smeared paste, grinding his thought processes to a halt.

“What, this isn’t what you wanted?” rumbled the thing, and the guy with the piping gawked at it (Parker could relate).

Oh. Oh, fuck. That’s an Outer God, the voice said.

What.

A what.

Where was…

No. No, no, no—

The voice really was in his head. So. That was fine. This was fine. Parker smacked the side of his head as if trying to shake it loose.

Ow!

“N… no, this… we… we didn’t call you, oh great one, oh honorable… lord,” piping-guy said, and then started off in some language like gargling rocks. It sounded pleading. Desperate. He kowtowed, bowing repeatedly.

The thing (Outer God? What the fuck?) was between them. This, Parker decided, really was not his scene, and he looked for an exit.

“That’s what they all say,” said the being. “I mean, sure, I’m not the guy you asked for, but hey… I’m even better! You should thank me.” And it cackled like a headache about an hour after too much vodka.

Parker winced.

Listen to me. I don’t know you, and you don’t know me, but we need to get the fuck out of here. There’s a door behind you. It’s unlocked. While they’re distracted, you need to get to it, and fucking run. Do you understand? If you don’t, we are going to fucking die.

Parker was a deeply rational person. Had to be, in his line of work. He decided, in this moment, given what information he had and what his senses were telling him, that the voice in his head might be a sign of craziness, but it still made plenty of sense. He tried for the door.

His body still wasn’t working right. It was like he hadn’t moved in ages; he tripped over himself, fell, scrambled.

“Ooh! There he goes!” said the being, the stool pigeon, the great big fuck, and just disappeared.

FUCK!

Leaving the piping-guy staring right at him. Apparently, he hadn’t noticed Parker until this moment. “Who the hell are you?” drawled the guy.

“Seeya,” said Parker, and launched for the door.

“Ah'ehye!” shouted the piping guy, and fucking vines or something came right out of the ground, out of nowhere, around his legs, up to his waist, and pulled him down like a bouncer’s tackle.

Parker got the wind knocked out of him. He tried to get up again.

Piping guy was panting; the guys all around were stirring, coming back to themselves after whatever the hell had just happened.

Parker snapped a vine. Snapped a second. Almost got to his feet.

Fucking—Wallace, you idiot! What did you fucking do?

“Stop him!” ordered piping-guy, and somebody went simple and just thocked Parker on the back of the head.

He had just long enough to be pissed at that person before he went down.

He woke not to chanting, but to an argument.

“You will return home. What the hell do you think you’re gonna do with that for a host, huh? With this weaker vessel. Stop fighting me!”

He was tied. He felt… damp. It wasn’t great. But that wasn’t nearly as not-great as the weirdness of his mouth moving on its own. All by itself, not even using his accent.

“I am not fighting, Wallace,” his voice said, just at the edges of how deep it could go. “I am unable to leave. I am attempting to, and it is not working. Perhaps you should call up the fucking Outer God you summoned and ask for an explanation?”

“Wow,” Parker said, testing to make sure he could.

“Oh, good. You’re awake,” said the piping guy, and came into view. He was skinny, blond, wore glasses, his hair parted in the middle, and a gods-damned bowtie, and that just somehow figured, altogether, that a guy like that would be neck-deep in whatever weird bullshit this was. “You. Release him. Now. You pathetic excuse for a human being.”

Parker stared at him and analyzed his situation. His arms were tied down by his hips. He was on his back, lying on something hard and not quite cold enough to be stone. Whatever it was, he lay at above waist-height for this guy—good height to get real fucked up, practically speaking—and his ankles were tied, too. His jacket had been removed, and his shirt opened.

All of that said this was gonna get real bad real fast. Parker didn’t know what this guy was gonna do, but he was pretty sure it would hurt. “Happy to,” he said. “Soon as you tell me who ‘he’ is and what the fucking hell you’re talking about.”

“Boston?” said the man, looking surprised. He glanced over his shoulder. “Robbie—cancel the call. We won’t need a translator.”

The voice in his head made a noise like a deep sigh. Listen, friend. I know about as much as you do regarding what’s going on, but I don’t believe you’re here by choice. Your mouth tastes like fucking formaldehyde. Just… Release me, and when I’m back with him (and that word was said with so much venom) I’ll do my best to get you released without injury. All right?

Parker was still and silent for a long moment. Yes; formaldehyde. That’s what that was.

There were very few circumstances in which a man’s mouth should taste like that. He registered how his throat felt. Really registered it—then pushed it away, because this was not the time for revelations. He glanced at piping guy. “Can you hear the voice in my head, then, or is it just me?”

The skinny little fuck clenched his fists. “How dare you talk to me like we’re equals? Release him, you little shit!”

So they were obviously gonna be best friends. “The way I see it,” Parker said, because he was feeling his throat, because he was smelling funeral home, because he was unable to remember how he got here but some looming thing sat in his head like an ambush, “is either I went totally bugfuck crazy, or this is happening. Not a lotta room for anything in between.” He pulled against the ropes; they creaked, straining. The material was surprisingly soft, which he hadn’t expected—he’d have thought it would be rough stuff, tearing his skin. “And I don’t think I’m crazy. So. That voice? In my head. You want it back?”

This is a fucking disaster. The voice said, very quietly.

“Oh, very good,” drawled the skinny fuck. “You can talk like a person and pretend to think. Give. Him. Back.”

“Yeah, don’t know how to do that,” said Parker, not pulling further on the rope because he needed to test it properly when not watched. “How the fuck did I get here?”

“That, you disgusting little thief, is the first intelligent thing you’ve said,” drawled the guy.

Wow, did Parker dislike him. Wow. Well, at least it seemed to be mutual. “I’d say sorry, but none of this was my idea in the first place.”

“We’ll see about that. You stay,” he snapped as if Parker were a dog, and marched out of the room.

No, not the room. The cell. This was absolutely some kind of prison cell. No window. Just that door, which clanked and clanged as mister Southern Belle locked it.

“Geez,” said Parker. “So he’s a piece of work. Hi, voice. This weird for you, too, or am I the only one playing catch-up?”

I cannot fucking believe I have to do this again, the voice rumbled. You seem to be in a pleasant mood, all things considered. Are you sure you don’t know how to release me?

“Buddy, the last thing I remember was working in my office, and suddenly, I’m here. And… I’m not so much in a great mood as there’s no point in flipping my lid yet. You feel me?” He tried the ropes.

They strained. They creaked. Something in the structure he was on cracked.

You… you are quite strong. That is good.

“Yeah, well. Gotta be, in my line of work.” He breathed a few times, over-oxygenating, and then tried with all his might.

The rope was newer than the thing he was tied to; the rope did not break. The wood slots the rope threaded through, however, seemed to be a little less sturdy. With a crack, he got his right hand free. “So, uh. Ghost? Is that what this is? I didn’t exactly go to Sunday School, so if it’s the devil or something, I don’t got a fiddle to play.” His left hand was proving harder to loosen.

Easy, friend. He used a bowline knot. Do you know how to untie those? It will be by feel. He let out another rumble. I… I am not a ghost, no. I am a piece of a god.

That took a moment. It wasn’t crazier than anything else happening, so he could still stave the panic off. “Guess that’s better than the devil,” Parker muttered, breathing very slowly, trying to keep it calm. “Yeah. I know what to do with that knot. If I can reach it.” The challenge being that the knot was under the lip of the table. He couldn’t quite twist enough to get the knot on his left side. He tried, anyway, pulling. “Piece of a god, huh? They take resumes for that? How’s the pension plan?”

I am unsure of what you mean, the voice said.

“Just making small talk.” He strained, fingers digging around the lip of the table, or whatever it was.

See if you can find the outer cord on the knot, and scratch it looser on the wood, the voice said. Small talk. Interesting.

“What, they don’t do small talk in god-town?” Parker said, wrenching the rope back and forth, trying to wear it thin.

No. And humans—at least the ones I have encountered thus far—have not been keen on it either. I’m afraid I’m out of practice.

“Small talk’s—” he strained—”good stuff, ‘cause—” he pulled—“gives you a chance to get to know a guy. Then you can spot their patterns.” The rope was shredding. “Come on, you son of a bitch…”

Voices in the hall brought him up short. “Shit,” he said, wrapped the rope around his right wrist, and lay back again. “Don’t give me away, now.” It was a test. Simple. He hadn’t been able to tell what this voice in his head really wanted, not yet.

I wouldn’t dream of it. Small talk… Hm. Are you finding a pattern with me, friend? Or do we need to get to know each other better? I realize I have neglected to ask for your name.

The door opened before he could answer. The guy came back in with two people, and Parker took a careful breath. He knew the look on piping-guy’s face. This was about to get painful.

“Still determined to be stubborn?” said piping-guy, clearly hoping the answer was yes. “To hold onto a treasure far above your… doubtlessly stellar pay grade?”

“Wish I could help you, buddy,” said Parker as casually as possible, steeling himself. “Don’t know how the voice got in there. Don’t know how to get it out.”

“Why don’t we see if we can’t jog your memory?” said piping-guy, low and pleased and eager.

Parker wasn’t surprised to see the brass knuckles. Well. He had no information to give. There was an eerie peace in that, knowing that no matter what they did, he couldn’t give anything up. Kind of took the edge off.

Fuck, the voice said, and all of a sudden Parker’s mouth betrayed him again. “Enough, Wallace. I have been questioning him, and I doubt he has the capacity to lie this convincingly to me. What you should be asking is why an Outer God brought you this man, which I was attempting to ascertain before you returned.” Parker could feel his mouth twisting into a scowl—he must look a sight, eyes wide and shocked with his mouth operating completely independently. “Perhaps one of your cultists has sought other powers, and one of them attempted to interfere in our ascension with sabotage?”

“Well,” said this Larson. “You might be right.” He peered at Parker, leaning in, frowning. “Or he might be smarter’n you—both possibilities, as we have seen. I don’t know why an Outer God got involved. Somebody must’ve done something terrible. Was it you, little man?”

“Wish I could tell you,” said Parker. “Don’t know.”

“What is your name?” said Larson.

“Peter Li,” said Parker, because they’d never find anything if they looked him up under that.

“Go,” said Larson, and the third guy left with that information. Larson studied Parker. It was a steady look, keen.

Shit, Parker thought, because smart bad guys were always a pain, and he had a bad feeling this guy didn’t miss much.

“I’m not sure how dense you actually are, son,” said Larson. “But I figure I can lay things out for you, nice and simple. I’ve had a real disappointing day—and I think you know you’re not getting out of this no matter how it goes. Don’t you?”

“Figured as much,” said Parker, because lying about that wasn’t the game they were playing.

“So here’s my proposition. You tell me what you know. You give back what is mine. And I’ll only let you suffer a few days. A week. You might even get to die in a proper ritual—going to something greater than yourself, which… ha, I know wouldn’t be your fate otherwise. Meaningful. Worth something.”

“Or?” Parker prompted.

“Do you need me to lay it out?”

“Let’s just say I’d like to hear it.”

“Fine. I’ll keep you weeks. Months, if I can swing it. I’ll skin you. I take your muscle apart fiber by fiber. I will give you in worship to the gods I serve, and they’ll reward me for offering them someone young and healthy—even as inferior as you may be. It’ll be worse. I promise, it’ll be worse.”

“Sounds fun,” said Parker. “Wish I could help you. Ain’t bravado. I don’t know shit.”

“Guess we’ll have to find out about that, Mister Li,” said Larson. “Maybe you’ll think of something with a little help.”

Here we go, thought Parker, and spared a thought for his already-sore throat, because it was gonna get worse with screaming.

They worked him over for an hour; a professional job, but not the worst he’d had. At the end, it didn’t even feel like they’d done more than crack a rib. This was to hurt, not wound—they meant him to last.

He’d kept his right hand apparently tied down, which was the big thing, and given them the yells they wanted. Guys like this were always the same. If they thought they were getting to you, they’d get all happy, and while the pace might pick up, it tended to get less precise.

And he had nothing but his pain to give them. There was no fear of bending, or giving up some secret, or sinking some ship. So: it was just enduring. He could do that. He’d always done that.

Just sucked that his throat was so sore.

And it sucked that when they hit him in the jaw, the voice in his head yelped, begged pointlessly for the pain to end, and finally cowered in silence.

That was just so mean.

He didn’t enjoy hearing those whimpers, those cries. Made a guy want to do something, be rash, but he stuck to the plan.

Larson obviously got off on this shit, but he also wasn’t getting any answers. After that hour, torn between scowling and smirking, Larson finally made some stupid comment like, you’ll talk, whether you want to or not, and headed off to get himself a shower and a fancy dinner.

Probably champagne, or pheasant, or something. Rich fuck. They were always rich fucks.

He waited—occasionally spitting out some of the blood in his mouth—until he was sure they were gone, then went back to work on his left wrist.

The voice evidently noticed. Fuck, it moaned. How are you back to doing that? Aren’t you injured? You were screaming!

“Yeah, it don’t feel great,” Parker grunted, and shook out his right hand. His fingers were numb from holding the rope, from staying down when instinct had wanted to raise it in defense of himself. He grit his teeth as he reached, feeling for the loops on his left. “Was always the plan here—just get through it. Knew they’d do that. Surprised they didn’t do worse. They will next time. Still. Sounded like that hurt you, too.” He just managed to catch one of the loops between finger and thumb. Straining, core tight to keep him in position, he began working it loose.

It… It did, the voice said, half a sob. When they hit your face. I think I can feel everything around your mouth. It makes sense—I can control it, when you’re not, but I didn’t… do you feel it? Or is it numb?

“Yeah, nothing’s numb.” He took the opening. “Surprised you didn’t tell them you could feel it.”

Larson would not have cared, the voice said, subdued. It is… possible… that he suspected it hurt, and desired to punish me as much as he attempted to punish you.

What the hell were they to each other, anyway? “Yeah… so something I’m trying to figure out here.” Loop one was loose. He worked on the second. “You on my side or his?”

I need to rejoin with him, the voice said, very softly. He is the only way I can return to Carcosa and my greater half—rejoin with the King in Yellow, and return to my full power. Unless you somehow know of a way to do this, it must be done.

He sat up and began working on his ankles. “Okay,” he said slowly. “Where’s Carcosa? Sounds Spanish.”

Somehow, he felt the entity in the back of his head perk up. It is in the Dreamlands, and is the seat of my power. We would need to travel there first, either through magic or… well, we could attempt to find an alternative route.

Parker had to take a moment. “Gods and magic. Okay. Okay.” Again, he shook it off. This was a lot. He knew he couldn’t process it fully now. There was no time. “Dreamlands?” His legs were free, and he slid down, then began stretching carefully.

This is genuinely all new to you. It was almost suspicious, the voice. An Outer God plucked you from the aether and dropped you here, and you truly have no idea what’s going on?

“Guess we don’t got wizards in Arkham.” His voice was tight. He reached up and felt his throat.

His first thought had been right: he’d been strangled. And that—

A memory. But it made no sense. Arthur with… with yellow eyes like a wolf, Arthur with a twisted face, some kind of horrible, hateful sneer, a look he hadn’t even worn when he was stone drunk and picking fights.

Something hid behind this memory, something huge, something his conscious mind wasn’t processing.

He understood that phenomenon. He’d seen it in witnesses of tragedies and crimes plenty of times, and so he knew that soon enough, whatever was lurking back there would come to the fore. It was gonna be a rough ride, he suspected.

No time right now. He picked his jacket up off the floor and began rummaging in its inner pockets.

What are you doing, Peter?

“It’s Parker. Parker Yang. I didn’t give him my real name. And I’m looking for my lockpicks. Never leave home without ‘em.” And hopefully, he’d left a set in this jacket.

Pahh-kah? The voice asked, full of raw curiosity.

“Yeah, close enough. There they fuckin’ are,” he said with relief, taking his lockpicks from their hidden pocket, but as he did, that smell—

That formaldehyde smell, that funeral home smell, that—

He knew. The truth of it landed, went off like a bomb, and his thoughts were scattered.

Parker went down to his knees, breathing fast, breathing hard, suddenly weak. “Shit,” he said. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”

Easy, Parker. I need you to take deep breaths, or I will do it for us.

And now that he was paying attention, he could feel the strain in his lungs, the same tightness that had been in his muscles, and he understood why, because they hadn’t been working, because, who knew, maybe they’d been filled with goop or something at the funeral home, because he remembered what happened, and this was a big one, this was a little too big to tuck away just yet, and he swallowed. “So, uh.” What the fuck could he say? “Uh. Your Outer Gods like dead people, or something?”

The voice is quiet for a very long moment. I… There are Outer Gods who can bring the dead back to life. But that was not Shub-Niggurath, or an agent of hers. I am sure of it. A pause, and Parker got the sensation of abject horror. You were dead?

“Yeah.” It felt weirdly better to say it, like letting air out of an overinflated tire. His laugh was strained. “Yeah. I was. Fucking hell.” He shook, and he didn’t like that at all. “What the fuck, Arthur? Why would you…”

The voice gasped. Arthur? You know—you know him?! And that voice turned into a roar. That murderer! That fucking monster, he’s the reason I am here!

“Whoa, okay, whoa. Hold up. Just. Hold up.” He wiped his eyes. “Hold up. Doubt it’s the same Arthur. I mean. The name exists.” He breathed carefully and touched his throat again. “Easy, Parker. You can do this. Right.” And he slapped himself.

The voice yelped. Don’t! It cried. You’re right, it’s a different Arthur! Don’t—don’t hit me again, you’re right. I’m sorry, you’re right, I’m wrong, just—please, don’t.

Yikes. He’d forgotten. “Sorry, buddy. Fuck. I wasn’t hitting you, okay? I’m trying to get myself moving. I forgot you could feel it. Fuck. Sorry, buddy.” So that pulled everything to a stop for a moment.

The voice was silent, but it was the silence of a kicked dog, cowering in the corner.

Weird, for a piece of a god to be… like that. It was another puzzle piece, thrown into the box, since he had no idea where to fit it yet. “Shit. I’m sorry, man.” He breathed slowly. Then he stood. “Right. Get the fuck out of here, figure it out after.” He headed for the door.

So there was an Arthur here. Sure. It absolutely could not be the same Arthur. It would be a connection—but it made no sense. “Where are we, buddy? Do you even know?” He knelt in front of the lock, wincing.

I do, the voice said, cautiously. Do… Do you want the large picture, or small? This floor, or the whole space?

Parker rubbed his sore jaw. “I really forgot you could feel it, buddy, okay? Sorry. And I meant, like… are we in America? California? Where the fuck are we?” He went back to picking the lock.

We are in New York, at a lodge in the woods about two hours from New York City, the voice said. Larson built it in his youth to house the Order of the Fallen Star. Here, he intended to conduct rituals to grow his power—and, more recently, my own. At present, we are in the second sub basement, the west wing. While you were unconscious, your eyes were closed, and I had to guess based on the sound of turns and doors opening. He paused. It is deeply convenient that you can see.

Parker paused. “Uh. I wasn’t… you can’t see? I’m a little confused.” The last tumbler turned over, and he pressed his ear to the door, listening.

No, I can, though I am not exactly sure how. Simply that when you were unconscious, I could not. There was a pause. I… my first… host. Arthur. I had his eyes, and he was blind.

Eyes.

Arthur’s eyes had gone—

Parker shook for a moment. Took a slow breath.

The being dead thing was too big. It was threatening his focus, his awareness. Making his hands a little numb, making his face feel weird. Parker grit his teeth and pinched the hell out of his upper left bicep. The shock of pain helped, got his heart pumping, got his adrenaline going.

It was strange, the entity rumbled. I didn’t understand it. But he had managed to crawl through the snow with, apparently, two broken legs while blind, and didn’t seem very bothered when I was there—until he realized I was not John, of course.

Parker blinked. “We’re gonna have to go over all of that later. Okay? Right now, we get out. Larson’s gonna be real pissed. You understand that? We get one shot at this. After that, he’ll make sure we can’t get loose again, so this has got to count.”

I will navigate you to the best of my ability. Larson used several secret passages—I can guide you through them. If you turn right, that will bring you to the center of the compound, and we are likely guarded—but it is early in the morning, now, and perhaps our guard trusts that your bonds will hold. And… The pause was contemplative. You… you are willing to take me to Carcosa?

“I’ll level with ya. I don’t know where Carcosa is. I don’t know anybody who does magic. I don’t know how I could get you there—but I’m willing to try. Somebody shows up selling tickets to it, I’ll buy one. But right now, we gotta leave. I will die if we stay here, and it’ll suck. Real bad. We on the same page, buddy? I need you to work with me on this one, or our chances get real low.”

I will. To your right, Parker, the hallway leads directly to the guard station. Whomever is guarding it may be asleep at this hour. If you go to the left, at the end of the hall… There is a hidden stairwell to the main building. If memory serves, we will come out near a trash chute. It’s risky, but you might be able to climb it. The voice paused. You will be rewarded, Parker. Riches the likes of which you cannot even begin to imagine. I will remember this.

“I’ll settle for gettin’ out of this.” He went left. Quietly, closing the door behind him. This was the dangerous part; the hall was open, and anyone could spot him.

The passage hid behind some big tapestry thing. He crept up the stairs and into the hall above.

Empty, lit only by ambient pre-dawn light, it boasted suits of armor and more tapestries. It also had that chute. It was narrow, but he thought he could manage it. “Hope it ain’t full of broken glass,” he murmured, and climbed in feet first. He tied his jacket around his waist and braced himself, arms out, letting the skin of his elbows take some of the damage under his stained shirt sleeves, but keeping his climb slow. Sliding down wildly would help no one—and who knew? It could end in a furnace, or something, and they might have to climb back up.

Which might not be possible, but he wanted the damn option.

Dead.

He’d been dead.

Arthur.

It couldn’t be the same Arthur, but…

His eyes.

Parker had to pause and breathe halfway down, just calming himself again, forcing himself to keep steady.

You’re alright, Parker. We’re halfway there. This should take us to the bottom of the cliff the manor overlooks, and then you and I will get the fuck out of here. Just breathe.

Cold air was grasping up at him now, and that was the best thing he’d felt all day. “Trying, buddy. We’re gonna make it.” Wincing—working around bruises, abrasions, and that possibly cracked rib—he continued working his way down, sweating, breathing between clenched teeth, and never lost control once.

The chute opened above a dumpster, wide open and snow-topped. There was a tricky moment; he didn’t want to just drop in, not knowing what lay under that snow, but he managed to stretch and get his shoes on the edge of the dumpster and ease his way out.

His dress shoes. Shoes he’d never wear in everyday life. Because he’d been buried in them.

Parker needed another moment beside the dumpster, crouched, breathing hard and trying not to throw up.

You fucking did it, Parker! The entity crooned. Incredible. Take a moment, now, you’ve earned it, alright? And when you’re ready, look around so I can see. There’s a dumpster, so someone must empty it, and that means a road.

“That’s… that’s pretty good thinking, buddy. Good deduction.” He sounded strained. “Fuck. This is a lot. Sorry.” He finally took in his surroundings. Trees. Snow. Distant curving forests. He sighed. “B.F.E.”

B.F.E.?

“Butt-Fuck, Egypt. Means we’re in the middle of nowhere. Maybe we can steal a car.” He peeked into the dumpster. “Jackpot.” And he took out a branch—just one of many, trimmed, brush that had been cleared.

He used this to carefully remove his footprints as he moved along the wall, staying low, listening. “What was your Arthur like?” Crap. Not what he’d meant to ask. But it just… the question came out.

The voice was quiet for a long time. He… He was an angry man, it said carefully. Very angry. Our time together was brief, but I learned enough about him—he had lost this John, and made a bargain with something that ended with me being put in his head. At first, I attempted to reason with him—and he did not like that. Then I attempted to command him, and he threatened to send me back to the Dark World—to kill me.

“Doesn’t sound like the Arthur I knew,” Parker said, but… his heart would not settle. “What did you do?”

I acted as his eyes. I had no choice—at the time, I believed he would kill me if he felt the need. We left a cabin in the middle of a blizzard and found ourselves in Addison, a town we later discovered belonged to Larson. The entity’s voice is somber. Some things happened, we were kidnapped and brought to Larson’s estate. There was… A pause.

It was a huge pause. A tremulous pause.

It’s not important. We realized that Larson—he was going by Andrew at the time—likely meant us harm, and was imprisoning us. We escaped, briefly. And we were recaptured.

“Shit,” said Parker softly. “This sounds real bad.”

It was nearly ten years ago, the voice sighed. It very nearly feels like a lifetime ago, now. We thought we were making the best choice. But Larson knew of the gods of the Dreamlands, of the Great Old Ones, and he had brokered deals before. He revealed this knowledge, and of a sacrifice he made, and Arthur lost his gods-damned mind and started making threats. Larson punished him, forced him to play piano for him, and I think something in his music shunted me over to Larson’s head, instead of his. I don’t fucking know. After that… fuck, that’s an entirely new set of horrors.

Piano.

No. “Ten years ago… okay. Definitely couldn’t be the Arthur I know.” But he couldn’t shake the damn gut-feeling. “Sacrifice, huh?”

Yes.

The tone tipped him off. “Your Larson’s a real peach, sounds like. What, he kill someone?”

Yes and no. His daughter was the sacrifice—he did not kill her. The god he’d offered her to did.

Parker stopped moving. “He killed his kid?” because that’s what it was, and he was calling it.

He did, said the voice, and Parker respected the admission. It granted him some sort of eternal youth, as well as servants. The god in question was not keen on explaining. A sigh. My… Arthur ended up killing Larson’s own son in return. Jack. He had been keeping us captive, pursuing us. Had a music box of Arthur’s, which Arthur got very upset about. I recognize this turn: there should be an area for parking about a quarter mile down the road to your right.

“Ten years. Can’t be him,” Parker muttered. “Well. At least we got confirmation your Larson’s a monster. What a fuck. His own fucking kid… makes me sick.” He glanced back. All those windows… the sun would be up very soon, and they’d be spotted. He’d have to workp fast. “Don’t suppose you got a last name for this Arthur.” He hurried, doing his best to swipe away footprints, but he knew it wouldn’t stand up to hard inspection. This was about buying time.

Lester. He spat the word out. Arthur Lester.

Parker stopped. “What?” And he froze.

He felt balanced on a precipice: on one side was functioning and escape; on the other was shock and helplessness.

No time, there was no time. He could go into shock later. “That… fuck, Parker, move,” he told himself, but he shook. It couldn’t be. It couldn’t—

Those yellow eyes.

“Who the fuck is John?” he muttered, switching stations, resuming his scuttle, sweeping at prints. He had to do this.

A line of fancy-looking cars sat ahead in neat rows on a snow-dusted lot, with a pathway leading up the hillside from what looked to be a small shed.

From what my Arthur said… the voice was pensive. I believe he was another fragment of the King in Yellow.

“In his head? Like you’re in mine? In his… his eyes.”

Yes. Arthur could not see. He had been with John for four months before he’d made the deal that tore me away from my home and shoved me into his head. There was bitterness in the voice. The deal he made stated that John would forget everything, but would be returned to him from the King: this did not come to pass. Instead, he got me, and when I was not his friend, he became very angry.

So gods could lie, on top of all everything else, even when making deals. Good to know.

Parker needed to focus. To get them the fuck out of here. To— “Huh. Those are some fancy cars. Never saw those before.”

It’s the latest style. Larson just bought a Cadillac.

This wasn’t a Caddy he knew, but it didn’t matter. A rock took care of the back window, and from there, he could get the doors unlocked.

A rock sat in his heart, too, because he knew, logically, what this meant. The resurrection. The weirdness of Arthur… all of Arthur. This weird car.

He knew. There was one possible conclusion that included all the facts, assuming he hadn’t gone mad.

He couldn’t face it yet. Not yet. He put it in the back of his head. It was getting real full back there.

It wasn’t hard to hotwire a car. Even one that looked like the President must drive it. He got the thing started. “Don’t suppose you know the roads here.” This engine, he knew, would get attention. He had to leave. He drove, desperately hoping he wasn’t heading toward a dead end, or there wasn’t some trick to getting out of here.

I do. If we go to New York City, we may be able to find some texts that could get us to the Dreamlands. Or we can regroup there, perhaps go somewhere with a library of esoterica. Keep driving down this road until we reach a four-lane highway. Then take a right, and head southeast.

Parker followed his directions. There was lead in his stomach. “Arthur Lester, who played the piano. Dead guys. Gods. Weird cars. Hell of a curveball I got thrown today.”

There was a long silence. Parker. What year do you think it is?

He would answer that. He would. In a minute. “Don’t suppose he mentioned his daughter.”

No. He did not mention a daughter.

“But he lost it over Larson killing his.” Parker sighed. “It’s 1934. Tell me it’s 1934, buddy.”

Parker’s mouth betrayed him, opening, licking his lips, his face making a grimace. “Fuck,” his voice said. Fuck. Sorry. I… The voice hesitated. I don’t want you to be angry with me.

“Why would I be angry with you?” But he got it. He’d seen this before. “What, Larson would get pissy with you for what year it was? Like you had any control over that?”

There was another long silence. It is 1943, Parker. November sixteenth, 1943.

Parker was silent for a long moment. This snow was nerve-wracking to drive in; New England had given him practice, but this was unplowed and unsalted. Very shitty. “All right.” He exhaled slowly. “Seems I’ve been dead a while.” Another slow, careful exhale. “Right. Time to face some hard facts, I guess.”

If you died in 1934… Yes. There is another long silence. I am sorry, Parker. About… He let that sentence die.

“Where’s Arthur now? You really got no idea what happened to him after?”

Yes and no. Larson dropped Arthur into the mines beneath his estate, but Arthur killed the guardian down there and escaped. We then tracked him to New York City, and Larson sent an assassin after him. The assassin caught him, and we were on the verge of confronting him ourselves, but the man escaped again. And then… Three years later, he just fucking disappeared. Gone, without a trace.

Parker gripped the steering wheel so hard it creaked. “Fucking hell, Arthur,” he muttered. “Got yourself into it this time. Shit.” He wiped his eyes. “Shit. Damn it, Arthur.” So far, no one was following them. “He’s in trouble.” Maybe was the trouble.

Parker… The voice was hesitant. Pull over, please. Take a break. We should… take a break.

“Can’t, buddy. We gotta get out of sight. They know this car. We need to at least get into a big enough town that we can lose anybody following us.” He swallowed. “Though I won’t lie—I could use that break. Could, you know. Scream in the snow, maybe, for a while. Chop some wood or something. Turn around and punch Larson in the fucking nuts. You know. Normal stuff.”

You would do violence upon Larson?

“To him? Yeah. But honestly? What I want to do is drag his ass to jail. Problem is, guys like him? They fucking own the police. The judges. They never pay for what they do ‘cause they’re rich and powerful.” And on some instinct, he added, “Not like Arthur. Not like me.”

Hm. He earned his power.

“Not in a way I’ll ever do, buddy.”

Yellow didn’t seem to know what to do with that. We are close to New York City. About a two hour drive—Larson made that trip many times, back and forth. New York is very big.

“Heh. I hope to hell he also stashed money in his car, or we’re gonna have a time. But… I know some shelters. Some decent priests, back in the day. Shouldn’t have to sleep on the street.” He wiped his face again. “Arthur’s not a bad man. I know you don’t believe that, and I don’t blame you. He sounds like he was at the end of his rope. That John guy in his eyes…” He exhaled slowly. “Sounds like that John drove him to the edge.”

The voice was quiet for a moment. The Arthur I knew had killed, multiple times, and he confessed to me that he’d liked it. But… you may be correct. The King in Yellow, my greater half, is an expert at breaking minds, at manipulating those under his sway to do his bidding. John may have done this.

Oh, Arthur.

This hurt, so bad. There was another tremulous pause.

Arthur claimed he made the deal because the King took John away from him, he said, like a confession. The King had punished him for his transgression, but he claimed John had not wanted to go back. I do not pretend to know what the fuck that meant, but it is possible that this John had warped the mind of your friend. A sigh. I am unsure if the man is even alive. He disappeared almost six years ago, and trust me: Larson has spared no expense attempting to track him down.

“Is that so?” Parker sucked in another deep breath. “Well, it would be like Arthur, to stick in a guy’s craw. And you… You want to join back with this King, huh?”

I do. I do not belong in this world, Parker. Trust me: I have learned that lesson quite well.

Parker exhaled and kept driving.

He was silent the rest of the way. All this new information, all this horror, simmered in his head, and had nowhere to stream out.

The bad news was the car ran out of gas not long after they reached the City. The good news was Larson left four hundred dollars in the glove box, for whatever crazy rich-guy reason. Parker took a hundred. If he got caught, he didn’t want to be on the hook for any more.

He was still silent when they ditched the car, some distance down the Henry Hudson Parkway in Hamilton Heights. These shoes were not made for this weather, and neither was his suit; he didn’t even have a hat, and shivered as he hunched along the street, hands in his pockets, trying very hard not to be overly visible.

But he was Chinese, and he had no hat. “Fucking November,” he muttered, his first words in hours. “Don’t like this. Feel like there’s eyes on me.”

It is natural to feel that way, after what we have experienced. We’ve left the recognizable car, and you’ve been dead for ten years. No one will recognize you.

“Yeah, well, I stick out, in case you didn’t notice. Clothes are wrong. No hat. And I’m about as white as that fire hydrant.” He nodded at the gritty yellow metal, half-rusted. “I know a guy, but it’s a ways.” He frowned. “Maybe I’m makin’ a mistake, using Broadway. But… well, it’s a toss-up, right? Get there faster, and maybe get some safety, or take longer, risk fucking frostbite, but avoid this watched feeling.” He stopped and looked around, but could find nothing. “Gut instinct’s never wrong. Someone’s watching us.”

Fuck. I recognize that face, the voice said. Go into that clothing store, buy a new coat, a hat. That should be enough to distract them for a bit.

Yellow recognized someone? What were the fucking chances? “Can’t buy new skin, friend,” but he did as requested.

The shopkeeper was visibly displeased to see him.

Parker could guess why. He looked fucked; his throat was bruised, his face was bruised, his funeral suit wrinkled and wrecked. “Thanks,” Parker said to the deeply unwelcoming shopkeep. “Little extra for your trouble. Cold out there, right?”

But the shopkeep still looked suspicious. More than Parker expected. “If you’re done, get out.”

Geez. “Yes, sir.” Parker tipped his new hat and left.

Something had happened. He didn’t know what, but this wasn’t the usual superiority or bias.

He frowned as they left, pulling his hat low. “Buddy,” he said. “What’s happened over the last few years? People are real damn tense.” He tried ducking through an alley, aiming to take a street less busy.

I did not make the connection, the entity said softly. You would not have known about the war. That does complicate things significantly.

“War? The war’s over.”

The war with the Axis. Japan launched an attack on Pearl Harbor, in Hawai’i, and the United States declared war on Japan and their allies. There is… a lot of poor sentiment about your people.

“Fucking what? We’re at war with Japan? I ain’t Japanese. I’m Chinese,” Parker muttered. “And nobody is gonna give a damn about that. Fuck!”

The voice was quiet for a long moment. I… I did not realize. If I had, I would not have suggested we come here. You may be arrested just for walking around. A pause. I’ve never had to think about that before. Larson moved through this city effortlessly.

“Larson’s a rich white fuck,” Parker said, peering out the alley. He couldn’t see who had followed them yet, but that persistent feeling of being watched remained.

If we get placed in a camp, I will endeavor to help you escape, the voice said. Make no mistake.

“A camp? Shit. They’re serious about this.” And he stopped and ducked behind a dumpster. “We are being followed, buddy. This is as good a chance as we’re gonna get to get the drop on ‘em where nobody on the street can see.”

I will not be much help, the voice said, and there was a bit of something like shame in those words.

“You’re fine, buddy. You’re not even along for this ride on purpose. Just hang tight.”

And he hadn’t been wrong. Two goons came down the alley, moving fast, eyes sharp like polished blades. They looked tough; they looked pissed.

Parker had been hoping there was only one. He stayed low, shadowed.

They passed him. “Which way?” said one.

“Should be easy to figure it out,” said the other. “Worst case, we split.”

Yes, Parker thought. Split.

They got to the end of the alley and crossed over to Amsterdam, doing what they’d said—splitting.

This whole war-thing was gonna make it tough. Before, he would’ve had a chance; could’ve taken one down, and if somebody questioned, he could’ve talked his way out of it, or tried. But now… now, any copper would assume the worst.

Going back the other way would get attention, too—returning might make people think he was up to something. But this wasn’t a place to hide out. “We need somewhere to lay low until it gets dark,” he murmured. “I don’t even know if those were Larson’s guys, or just some fucking eager citizen.” After a moment, he added, “Bet I’m not like how you thought I’d be, huh? If they’re locking people who look like me up in camps just for existing.” He sighed. “And if… you said you guys come down here often?”

Those were Larson's men, the voice said. And yes, we did. He has several offices in this city that he works from, as well as the estate we just left. I would avoid East 2nd as much as possible: that is where one of his offices is located. He let out a sound of discontent. He must have called them as soon as he discovered we were gone, told them to watch out for us where the Henry Hudson entered the city. I hadn't even considered—shit. Shit!

“Easy, buddy. Hey. He can’t use magic to find us, can he? ‘Cause, uh. I don’t know anything much about this stuff, but he’s got my blood, and they have enough of my scent for dogs to follow me, as it is.”

He almost certainly can, though I know the failed ritual took it out of him. He’ll be able to after he rests. I… I hadn’t even considered that. There was an edge of panic in the voice, now, of frantic energy. I shouldn’t have left. I shouldn’t have helped you leave. He’s going to make the both of us suffer, and it’s my fault.

Parker was quiet for a long moment. “You wanna know what my first job was?”

What?

“It wasn’t a regular job,” he said softly. “Had a neighbor. Nice old lady. Dorothy. Mrs. Kerning. But her husband? He wasn’t so nice.” He peeked; no one else had come into the alley yet. “That lady was a doll. She made cookies for all us kids, and let me tell ya, sometimes, that was the only food I got that day. But her husband… that guy was a piece of work.” He made his choice and headed toward Amsterdam, toward the bad guys he could recognize, banking on there not being more of them out there so he could slip through.

How was he a ‘piece of work?’

“Hit her. A lot. Hit us, too, or anybody who bugged him too much, but you know… there’s something worse about hitting somebody you swore you’d be good to. Feel me?”

Yellow didn’t seem to know what to make of that. Parker was unsurprised. He peered.

Both guys were in sight, having each gone down to the corner to look around.

He breathed carefully. He could do this. He could do this. “Anyway,” he said. “My mom—before she died—told me that nice lady lost her kid because of him. That everybody knew he’d suffocated the kid in its sleep when it was a baby, because he hated the crying. But nobody did anything. There wasn’t any fucking proof.”

There. A stroke of luck: a beautiful woman, dressed in a black skirt and a white jacket that fit her form as if it had been painted on, and if even he found that distracting (it wasn’t really his favorite dish), he knew those assholes would. He waited while she drew one, and then the other guy’s attention, because he knew what would happen when she was out of sight.

This is human justice? snarled Yellow.

“It ain’t supposed to be,” said Parker. “But in this country, the law says, innocent until proven guilty. Obviously, we’re bad at doing that, too—but that’s beside the point.”

They certainly do not seem to be applying it to those they put in camps.

“Yeah. They wouldn’t.” Now. Both men, vaguely shamed about forgetting their duty to stare after a broad, had snapped attention back toward the street in front of them, focused.

Parker scooted. He went fast, across the street, making sure not to get near enough to traffic that anyone might honk at him, and into St. Nicholas Park. “Anyway. So I kinda figured out that if this guy was ever gonna go down… he’d have to do it to himself.”

I don’t understand.

“Heh. You will.” The park gave him cover, but he knew it wouldn’t last. These goons had found him fast; he had no doubt Larson had a lot of them in the city, desperate to get Yellow back. He paused to pick up a rock about the size of his fist and stick it in his pocket. “I was twelve or thirteen, and I set up a fuckin’ sting.”

A sting?

“Yeah. First, I got around the neighborhood. I found baby shit that got discarded. Clothes. Toys. Pacifiers.” He ducked behind a tree and checked, but no one was following yet. Unfortunately, they were running out of park. He watched from the shadows, checking for anyone who might be searching for anyone else. “Then, I started following that guy, and leaving him clues. I left them at his place of work. I left them where he had his smoke breaks. I even got real brave, crawled on the ledge, snuck in through his back window, and left a pacifier in front of his stash of booze.”

What was this to accomplish?

“Well, by itself, it just made him mad, of course—he thought his wife was doing it. But then it was obviously happening when she wasn’t even home. So then I started step two. I pretended to be a fucking ghost.”

Yellow snorted.

“Hey, my voice hadn’t changed yet. It wasn’t hard. I sneaked around the place. I made crying sounds. I made howling sounds. Always from a different spot. And then…” He laughed softly. “I was a kid, okay? This made sense to me. I started whispering, confess.”

Oh! said Yellow. That… there’s no way that worked.

“Honest to God, it did—but it shouldn’t have. Only reason, I figured out when I grew up, was this asshole already had it on his conscience. Normally, you can’t get a guy to confess like that—but I lucked out. So one night, I waited until he was fucking drunk, and I did my masterpiece. Not too proud of it now, but… what I did was, first, I called the police. Pretended to be a screaming woman, gave them his apartment number. Then, I sneaked into his place—look, he was shit at locking up, everybody was in that neighborhood. I left notes all over that just said CONFESS. Then I stole flour from his kitchen and covered myself in it, head to toe. Then I crawled out on the ledge, and stood in the window, and called his name until he woke up, and then… I just… stared. Wouldn’t answer when he shouted. He was too drunk to get the window open, so he just kept banging on it, shouting, begging me to go away. Sobbing. Anyway. Police arrived. And he yelled at them and was so incoherent they broke down the door.”

That worked?

“Because he was blotto,” said Parker. “He shrieked to them that the ghost of his son was here for revenge, and the whole damn thing came out. They took him in, and he didn’t come back.”

Parker, said Yellow. That’s… were you lauded?

Parker snorted. “You kidding? Anybody found out some immigrant’s kid was in on it, it coulda ruined the whole thing. I never told nobody until Arthur.”

Arthur. Flat. Angry. Even disgusted.

Parker sighed. “Wish you’d gotten to know him as he was. He sounds… really sounds like… he lost himself.” His voice caught just a little.

I only know him as he was with me—murderous. Deceptive. Evil.

“Fuck,” said Parker softly, and wiped his eyes again. “Right. Focus, me.” He pinched himself again, then headed on.

Why do you do that?

“Get myself more alert. Scare myself. Remind my dumb body it’s in a deadly situation. Same reason I slapped myself earlier, before I remembered you could feel it. It’s a way to sort of… make sure you don’t get in a daze, or start losing track.”

Yellow was silent.

Fair enough. Time to make his point. “I told you that story for a reason, buddy. Think you can guess?” Now. No one seemed to be looking. Parker hurried down the street. Huh—the Apollo Theater; he’d heard interesting things about that. Well, no time to check it out now.

Because… to… show me how… clever you are? said Yellow, sounding absolutely suspicious.

“Nope. You? Are like Dorothy Kerning. You don’t wanna be with that guy, but you’re afraid to leave because he might hurt you worse. I get what I’m seeing. Even if I knew how to send you back—which I don’t—at this point, buddy, I wouldn’t.” He was on Eighth, going south. If he could make it to West 118th, he could find help. He knew a guy—or had known a guy.

Hopefully, there still was a guy.

Yellow sat in baffled silence for what felt like ages before he finally sputtered. I am not like Dorothy Kerning. He huffed. I am a King. Do you hear me? Parker Yang, human, I am a god.

“A god who’s afraid of that asshole hurting you because he’s already hurt you. Right? So that makes us even right now. I’m pretty fucked up, too.” He suspected Yellow had forgotten. Parker had not. Moving wasn’t great. Wasn’t fun. But one did what they had to.

I… was only concerned for you. So mortal. So fragile.

“Oh, okay. That makes sense,” said Parker, who’d made his point and saw no reason to kick in the door.

One block more. He could do this. Almost there. Ten years without a drink—that was a thing to consider. He could use one now.

But the feeling of being watched was growing again.

He ducked into an alley. “Does he own the whole damn city?” he muttered, and peeked.

Larson is a very powerful man, especially with my help over the last ten years. We truly may have erred, Parker.

“Fuck that,” said Parker. “Fuck him. I’m not rolling over.” He peeked again. “Shit,” he said.

Coming down the street were more guys who had to be Larson’s goons—there was a look to them, he realized, something in their eyes that said they were glad to shed blood, maybe liked killing pets in a basement upstate—and they weren’t alone. With them came four police officers, looking grim, hands resting on the guns at their sides.

“Shit, shit, shit,” whispered Parker, and turned, and ran down the alley. “Fucking magic, huh?”

Yes! Yellow sounded breathless, too. We have to hide! We… we can’t… I’m afraid.

“Shit, shit, shit,” Parker whispered, trying every door in the alley, but all were locked. “They’re looking hard. Can’t hide now. Got to…” He peeked out the other end.

More goons with more police were on their way.

Parker had no doubt they had a good idea where he was.

He pressed back against the wall, breathing, trying to think. None of the fire-escape ladders were close enough for him to climb up. There was no dumpster in this alley—no way to get up to them. He had no weapon. He was severely outnumbered.

It would be so much easier if he were alone. Poor kid. Seemed so damned unfair that Yellow had to go out this way, too.

“Listen, buddy,” he said. “I don’t really care to go back with them. I’d rather die, and I’m pretty sure I could get those assholes with the badges to make it happen. But—”

No, Parker! Yellow gasped. Not the Dark World! I don’t want to go! I don’t want to die! Please!

The piece of a god was crying.

Shit.

To choose the harder way out meant… well. It would mean a lot of suffering. A lot of torment. But.

Maybe for the little guy, it would be bad to die. And Larson was an asshole, but… it wasn’t really Parker’s job to decide if an ally got to live or die. Not today.

Parker viciously scratched his scalp, as if he could summon ideas. “Okay. Plan time. Don’t suppose you have any magic we could use.”

No! You aren’t attuned, you… it would kill you!

“Great. Okay.” He looked again.

One of the ladders—just one—almost seemed like it could be in reach, if only he had something to stand on.

He could hear them out there, talking about how dangerous he was, how he was a spy, with answering murmur from the cops. They were close. A couple dozen feet from this place, at most. They were probably checking every alley.

If he jumped and missed, the noise would alert them.

If he jumped and made it, he might be able to climb up in time to… get shot in the back and fall.

“You sure, buddy?” he said, softly. “It’s that scary for you? You want to try, knowing what it means?”

Yes! Please!

Parker sighed slowly. “We’ll try. I’m gonna do my best. Sorry if it’s not enough, buddy. It was a good run.” He backed up, eyes on the ladder, breathing fast.

Parker… This is more than anyone has ever done for me. I trust you.

Well, then this would have to be the best jump of his life. The luckiest one. All his life’s luck, poured into this moment. It would work, or it would fail spectacularly. Come to think of it, that was pretty much just how he liked things to be. “Get ready,” he said, crouching as if for a race. “Get set.” The voices were right outside the alley. “Go.” And he ran.

Hard as he could, he ran, right for that part of the wall. He gathered himself, steeled himself, took a huge breath, and he jumped with everything he had, flinging himself so hard that his entire back twinged.

“Fuck!” he heard from the alley’s far end.

And he knew he wouldn’t make it. His outstretched hand would come about four inches short.

Four inches short of survival, or at least a dramatic ending. Four inches short of a mad victory, and maybe a rooftop chase, or who knew what else. Just fucking figured.

It all slowed down. His jump peaked, and he started to falling, hearing footsteps, hearing shouts, knowing they drew their guns, and still he reached, not even knowing why, just because of what could have been. It would’ve been a good show—a hell of a final ride.

You know, said a voice in his head. You’re right. This’ll be far more amusing. And a fist grabbed the back of his jacket, and suddenly, he was on the roof.

Gasping, on hands and knees. Over the edge. Safe.

What the actual fuck had that been? Wasn’t no angel, he was damned sure.

YES, Parker! Yellow cried. YES!

Coppers shot into the air after him like idiots, because coppers.

“Can’t take credit!” Parker said, and began to run. Whatever the hell gift horse that was, its mouth was safe from his nosy gaze.

That voice laughed in his head at a distance, disturbing, cruel, but the guns were firing, and rooftop-running with fucking snow was going to take even more luck than getting to that ladder.

Well, he thought. I promised a good show! And he flung himself headlong into danger.

(chapter two)

#malevolent podcast #malevolent au #malevolent fic #parker yang #peter parker yang #yellow malevolent #wallace larson #surrogate series

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inertflouride · 1 year

Text

Chain my heart

Prompt: Jake and MC dated in the past but somehow, between love and responsibility, Jake chose his responsibility, leaving his love to bleed behind. It's been 2 months since that and MC's blood still churns to avenge her broken heart. What she doesn't know is things are way more complicated than they appear.

Warning: Violence, Weapons, Angst?, Cuss words.

"Lemme give you a little advice. Never wear a backless red dress for action", I mumble to Dan who is aiming his sniper from the roof of a five storey building.

"That's why I got you a backless red dress with a slit", he replies back in a low tone, emphasising on the word slit.

I push part of my dress back, revealing all of my bare thigh and strap a gun holster around my upper thigh. "Yeah, the ONLY good part about it", I say as I slip a pistol in the holster.

"Boo, stop complaining about petty things", he relaxes his posture and looks back at me, leaning his head on his arm. I roll my eyes at him and push back my dress over my thigh, my lower leg still revealing.

"Sure. Now when will you stop sniping like a pussy and charge in with me?", I ask in exasperation from waiting in the chilly air in tiny ass clothes. "Though I hate you for making me wear this. Why can't I wear my usual assassin outfit?", I whine and irritatedly move my dress back and forth.

"I not only want those perverted men distracted, but also you concealed in the filthy rich crowd. Plus hackerman would recognise your badass aura", he says as he shuffles his bag for an energy drink.

"Come on Dan, he has a name", I groan at his habit of coming up with new names.

"One I don't give a fuck about AND one who shouldn't either", he scoffs back at me, "Aha, found it", and opens the can with his teeth.

That stung hard but hell with admitting that. "All things apart, I must say though, Jack Daniels without a beard is a tragedy", I quip back at him, masking the sudden grief I felt.

"Yeah yeah. Insult me all you want but if you let hackerman slip today, I'll strangle you myself with my bare hands", he nonchalantly replies back, chugging at the red bull. I look away from him, moving towards the terrace. Chilled Chicago air slaps my face, reminding me of how I was shattered, cheated, used and thrown away. And how I'm again feeling weak for that wretched man.

Who ruined me. Who broke me. Who made me beg for him to stay.

And I'm here again feeling bad for that man? I must be a fool. A dumb fucking fool.

But no more. I'll have him by his balls. Be it dead or alive.

"Okay little one, now's your time. The show's starting", Dan alerts me, snapping me out of my little self reflection.

"Hmm, okay. Right. I'll get going now", I tell that to myself more than him and take a quick breathe in as I feel my feet falter. Dan gets up and jerks me by my shoulder.

"Listen MC. I'm gonna be there in a few myself. Do not panic, do not give yourself away. If you feel suffocated, just merge in the crowd and give yourself time. Most importantly, if you manage to put your finger on hackerman, maintain your distance and observe. He'll recognise you the moment you speak or even look at him", Dan gives me a run through of the situation and presses my shoulder.

"Yeah right. Thanks again, Dan", I quickly add in before starting my mission. As I move towards the elevator, I hear Dan deeply sigh and crush the can he was drinking in anger. He knows what happened the last time Jake... he and I met. Dan was the one who helped me stick together the pieces of my shattered self, pushed me to move on and now is helping me with this.

If not for myself, then for Dan, I have to do this. I need to.

I rush towards the flashy building where the gathering has assembled, wearing my heels before exiting the five storey building I was previously in. The moment I see the door in front of me, I start walking elegantly, allowing my hips to sway from side to side.

"Your invitation, Miss?", the guard in front of me asks. I pull out the VIP token which Dan gave me, and flash it at the guard who quickly stiffens and bows as I make my way through.

The open doors reveal a giant gathering of powerful men and their wives. A few powerful women and their escorts too. I roam my gaze over everyone, spotting the infamous mafia who was arrested for adultery a few months back. But that's not who I am here for, I'm here for...

"Looking for somebody?", a voice breathes in my ear and I jerk my neck around, turning back at the source. But there's nobody there. Strange.

I grab a champagne from the waiter passing by me, and I gulp down the drink in my glass in one go and ask for another. The fuck is with me already hallucinating about him?

"Are you sure you can handle it?", a guy standing behind me asks. I look at him, my gaze going over him. Another rich aristocrat. Or a mafia's son? I don't know. He's wearing a crisp white shirt and black pants, one of his ear studded and hair reaching his neck. "Please excuse my rudeness, I'm Rygel", he extends his hand towards me in a handshake, which of course I return.

"I'm MC. Hello", I awkwardly babble at him. I'm not here for this, how should I tell him that. I do not have time for this!

"You seem a bit lost", he tips his chin and asks me, crooking one of his brows at me.

"Oh no no. Nothing like that", Fuck MC, compose yourself! I find a couple of people dancing towards the side. "Would you like to dance?", I ask, trying to divert his attention from me. A few moves won't hurt right? Plus it would keep me concealed from...

"I hope that isn't the alcohol speaking", pretty face tries to be quirky. Nah, I hope I don't throw up, especially on him.

"Oh haha, you're so funny", I reply back, sarcasm dripping from my sentence and lightly hit his arm in humour. He takes my hand and we move towards the dancing crowd.

"It's a mixer happening", Rygel tells me as he looks at the crowd, sounding disappointed.

"What's that?"

"Ah it's just normal dance with people switching their partners from time to time. C'mon now, the song just ended", he explains and then pulls me with him to the crowd. What did I get stuck into! Also where the fuck is Dan?

The song starts playing and so does everybody's dance. I can't help but think, what is the point of all of this? Yeah right. Rich people having too much time and money on their hands. Pfft.

Amidst my zoning out, I'm suddenly pushed forward by him towards the next person in turn but since it was so sudden, I find myself stumbling as I'm thrown forward.

"Woah, careful. Are you okay?", a familiar voice asks me, concern reflecting in his tone. I don't dare look up at him for he's going to recognise me. The place where his hands are, trying to break my fall, burn with excruciating pain.

Suddenly the champagne tower collapses down, diverting his attention from me. I quickly scram from his embrace and rush towards a less denser area, holding my holstered gun through my dress. Abruptly I'm pulled into a corner harshly via my arm and held against the wall. Out of instinct my voice moves ahead to scream but a hand is put on my mouth and Dan hushes me. My gawking eyes seem to return to normal when I take him in, deeply breathing to tone down from the sudden panic.

"What the fuck, Dan?", I whisper at me angrily, pushing him away from me, "You gave me a fucking shocker of my life!"

"What the fuck me? What the fuck were you doing? How did you land up exactly in that asshole's arms after I specifically asked you not to?!", he whispers back at me, more like a 'whisper shout'. "Thank fuck I arrived when I did and saved your sorry ass or I wouldn't know where would you have been by now. Probably on his bike into the unicorn world", he scoffs at me and gets out, revealing himself with his rifle in hand.

I rush towards him, not to stop him though. Screams fill the place by the people who notice the rifle and start calling for their bodyguards. But Dan already killed them. Aw, sad.

Dan hangs his rifle on his back and runs towards Jake, jumping on him from behind. The element of surprise takes Jake out, who then struggles to push Dan from above him. Dan starts landing punches on Jake's face after which I ask him to stop. He gets up and lets me take charge of the situation.

I offer a hand to Jake to try to help him stand. I snicker as I think about Dan's pissed off thoughts going like, "What the fuck, MC?" "Why this?". I pull Jake up who stumbles a bit, swaying a bit from side to side just from a few hard blows and look at him for a second. Man, how did we reach to this? I really wish we hadn't but no point doing that.

I push my dress behind, revealing my holster and take the pistol out, aiming it at Jake's forehead. "Any last wishes?", I dramatise the whole scene which keeps me from letting tears fall from my eyes.

"Yes. Just a second", I look at him bewildered when suddenly one half of the building blasts off, making me crouch down low. I scream from the suddenness of it when the pistol in my hand is kicked off and I'm being pulled away via my arm.

"Oh hell the fuck no. I'm not coming with you", I shout at being pulled away by Jake, trying to free my wrist, "Let me go, you bastard." But he still doesn't quit and lifts me up. "No no no, put me down. I can't be with you Jake, not anymore", I sob as I throw punches on his back to somehow get him to put me down but no, he stays stoic as hell and keeps going.

"MC, where are you?!", I hear Dan shout as he tries to find me in the chaos.

"Answer him and he dies", Jake cooly tells me and drags me out of the building. I see ambulances lined up outside through my tear blurred eyes and throw a few more punches on his back.

"I fucking hate you Jake! I fucking hate the very existence of you", I spit back at him from the disgust of again ending up with him.

"I know, doll. Now shut the fuck up", he tells me and opens his car's boot space and throw me in there. "Now if you want your hands or limbs to come in between the door, by all means, resist." He crooks one of his brows at me pausing briefly for any reaction from me before slamming the door shut.

Now reader, you must wondering that why didn't I resist. Well, I have a few... tools of me, one which can use to open this door. So why resist and waste my precious energy on putting on a show when I can easily escape out.

So, I lay calmly in here since I don't wanna pass out from less oxygen in here, waiting patiently for Jake to start the car.

To be continued...

(I had this draft from a few months. I just felt like posting it. Lemme know how you like it)

#duskwood #duskwood game #duskwood everbyte #duskwood jake #everbyte duskwood #duskwood fanfiction #duskwood mc #duskwood fandom #duskwood jake x mc #duskwood jake x player

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talktomeinclexa · 2 years

Text

A Feeling More Universal Than War

By: TalktomeinClexa

Ratings: Mature

Warnings: Violence and Blood in early chapters

Status: WIP (7/11)

Summary: Two soldiers, one Red, one Blue, are brought together by circumstances after a devastating battle. Despite the animosity between their two countries, they will have to work together if they hope to survive. Can they let go of prejudice and personal grief long enough to make it out alive?

***

Chapter 7: The refuge

“How are you? Do you need to take a break?”

Lexa was tempted to say yes. Her muscles burned from the constant strain they were under. And although the cuts littering her body weren’t too deep, they hurt with each step she took. Some rest would be nice. Yet, without knowing how far they were from the camp, she wanted to cover as much distance as possible before they settled for the night. Stopping every hour would do them little good, and Lexa forced herself to shake her head.

Ever since the previous evening and even more after their adventure in the river a few hours before, Clarke showed a lot of solicitude. Almost to the point of making Lexa uncomfortable. Never had someone before cared so much about her; her fellow soldiers used to harsh discipline and toughening up.

“I’m good, don’t worry. What will you do once you’re back in your country?” she asked to distract her companion. Whether Clarke saw the change of topic for what it was or not, she didn’t mention it.

“To be honest, I’m not sure. Up until recently, I thought that my life was already decided. That one path was led in front of me, and I would follow it until I died in battle or was old enough to retire from the army. But now… I don’t think I can carry on. More battles, more blood. I’m tired of being surrounded by death. And I doubt my ankle will fully recover from all this.”

Clarke paused, her voice cracking under the weight of her emotions. Lexa didn’t say a word, waiting to see if the younger woman would continue or stick to giving her directions. “I didn’t leave on good terms with my mother. As I mentioned, she wanted me to follow in her footsteps. She was furious when I became a soldier, and we screamed at each other until she told me that if I left, she wouldn’t let me come back.”

“I’m sure she didn’t mean it. She must be anxious to have news from you if you’ve been gone for so long.”

“I don’t know. I hope so. After the battle, the wolves, and the river, I realize I was given a second chance. I think I’ll return to my town and meet with her. Even if she isn’t ready to forgive me, I have to apologize for what I said to her and for leaving the way I did. And then, I want to become a healer. Maybe saving lives instead of taking them will make up for some of the things I’ve done.”

“We all have blood on our hands, you no more than any soldier I know. But for what it’s worth, I think you’ll make a great healer. You’ve taken care of me without much in terms of supplies. Besides, you already have the whole bossy ‘Listen to me, rest, and quit fussing’ attitude.”

“Take that back,” Clarke retorted with a laugh before gently slapping Lexa’s shoulder. “How about you? What will you do once you are back home?”

Keep Reading

#clexaweek22 day 7 #day 7 free day #clexa #fanfiction #enemies to lovers

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threenorth · 10 months

Text

Let's start at the bottom.

Yellow, Peace of mind? No mental health is important my dear, we both have struggles, it's going to be an interesting one... Especially now I'm learning more about my issues and I tell you what it kind of makes sense why I couldn't explain alot to you at the time, but I'd rather be in pain the you, but at the moment, I'm thinking about different things and I'd hate to say what some of them are until we talk more about things...

Black bottom right, I was supposed to ask you out? That didn't cross my mind,

I'll build a bridge, but I don't know how to say.

Let's go on a date via the internet, but to the movies, and hopefully you still have the movie Forrest Gump or Scott Pilgram, or a way I don't know if Scott is still on Netflix usa, but you should hopefully some how have the crap copy I gave you..? , that might be better..? and we can watch it together... If anything I'd tell you that I want to try see you everyday but it's going to be a grind... And you shouldn't stay up for me, again your mental health is important to me, so message me where ever it is you want and hopefully we can find a time that suits... I've got doctors, and mental health appointments and work and few gaps but we'll make it work...

Black left 2 up, you wish I was more honest?

About what? My mental health challenges? I didn't really want to trumaize you, or put through my shit... Then or even now post 2021...But I'd be honest if you tell me where I need to shed some light?

Black right 2 up, that night? The fight? If you didn't make a noise I was going to go full ham on that asshole, but I didn't want to put you in harm's way, so I tried to tell you what I needed and follow his game of my mental health at the time...

Black 3 up left, you can't hate me? You really should it's not like all your freinds you tell them you hate me last time I checked, so good luck trying to patch those issues because I'm not looking forward to the verbal abuse or a slap in the face from one of your girlfriends, it's not like my truma is around bullying and people who robbed my childhood and youth.

Black 3 up right, yes you are the only person I've ever felt anything for, I told you once and I'll say it again, all I wanted was your happiness, I just didn't know I too was looking for my own and would have to be dealing with depression and grief, I forgot I kicked you out of my life... And I've had issues around living my life on auto pilot per say, maybe I've been and had on/off depression since I was four and 1/2.

Top black left, I like you when you hold my hand, Iike it when I catch you day dreaming in my eyes, I like it when you wore tank tops, I like it when you asked me about changing your hair colour and it didn't even bother me what hair colour you had, I like it when your some how with me, I go alone to battle but soon I'll get a ring with a special message, maybe that will be the day you'll be a step closer but always be near my heart.

There's much that could feel of you, I don't know what your looking for as we don't talk anymore but one of the worst things I do, is follow everything best I can to what people tell me to do, I am a dog, I am loyal but I can't even follow my own thoughts... I probably was stuck in a manic on off state with axenity for years...even when it's dim some how I pull through... Soon I hope you come to vist me... My bed is half empty without you in it. And I'm looking forward to dating my old best friend, she's smart and worst of all she's beautiful.

I'll warn you that I might have to take notes.

Today was Sunday I woke up and had a shower, I went to church pretty yawn, and then just had a snack and went to have a bath, dinner and now I'm getting reday for bed early as it's going to be an early start to go to the cross fit gym.

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