#until i discovered that there is more to it
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Give Me Shelter, For My Heart | Alpha!Bucky Barnes x Omega!Reader | One Shot? 3k
Things are missing around the Avengers' compound and a newly returned Bucky is acting weirder than normal...Steve and Sam go to investigate and discover more than they bargained for.
Warnings: 18+ for language and suggestion of Hydra violence/torture/experimentation, omegaverse themes including alpha & omega, suggestion of pregnancy/pups, wolf shifting Rated F for Fluff and G for good friends
Challenges & Prompts: @buckybarnesevents Alpha Bucky April with extra prompts - word count, nesting, purring, beta characters, (I'll let mods decide if this hits the breeding/baby fever prompt). And @fandom-free-bingo 'forehead kisses'
Graphic by me and Canva, dividers by @firefly-graphics & @reveriesources
Masterlist | Bucky Barnes
“Hmm,” Steve looked around the supply room, surveying the gaps and empty shelves, normally well stocked with blankets and provisions. It was the third time this week he’d found himself at a loss, not just for words but his things too. Everything seemed to be going missing.
First it was a few plates and mugs from the galley kitchen by his office, then it’d been the lunch he’d left for him and Bucky in the fridge. Last night he’d gone into Bucky’s room to make sure he was okay and found the man sleeping on a bare mattress, all the sheets, pillows and blankets were gone and the newly revived Bucky refused to explain what had happened to them or even acknowledge that there was anything wrong at all. He hadn’t even addressed that fact that the window was wide open and it looked as if he was sleeping in his shoes.
Which brought Steve’s thoughts to the man himself. Bucky had been so odd since he’d returned. For a day or two, he’d been something like his old self, despite the awful situation they found themselves in, he’d joked with Steve and reminisced with the few memories he had. They’d enjoyed a beer together and he’d even met with Tony during their mediation and patched things up.
Then, they’d all climbed onto the jet and he’d become distant, pacing like a caged animal until they’d landed. As soon as the doors were open he’d vanished for forty-eight hours and sent the entire compound into mayhem before strolling back in as if nothing had happened, bruised and covered in blood. Judging by the bandages he sported later that day, his cuts and bruises spread under his shirt and trousers too.
Steve knew that he’d changed during his time with Hyrda, back in the 30s they’d both been betas, happy to plod along ignoring the madness of the few alpha’s in Brooklyn. It had been a rare thing then, to be an alpha, now they were considered a dying breed, so when Bruce’s tests had revealed that Bucky was an alpha now, they’d tried to take it in their stride that he might go off on his own sometimes, especially since omegas were even rarer. But there was still so much they didn’t know, so much to unpack and discover about the Bucky they’d rescued, and Steve was so desperate to spend time getting to know this new man that all the time apart was making him worry.
“You okay?” Sam asked from the doorway, leaning in to hand Steve a hot cup of coffee.
“Just doing a stock check.”
“He take something else?” Sam stepped into the small room, lined with shelves and shelves of tents, camping stoves, parachutes, it seemed to go on and on. The bare grey shelves where stock was missing was stark against the white washed walls.
“He?”
“Barnes,” Sam sipped his coffee, matter of fact, and Steve confronted the worry that had been plaguing him.
“It’s Bucky, isn’t it?” Steve dropped his head heavily and Sam patted him on the back, still sipping his drink.
“Sorry man, told you, he’s not right yet. He’s not hurting anyone though, if he hates his bedding, who cares, if he hates your lunches, who could blame him.”
Sam sidestepped Steve’s halfhearted swipe with a grin on his face.
“But what’s he doing with it, Sam? Where’s it all going?”
“Hell, I don’t know, have you asked him?” Sam raised his eyebrows.
Had Steve asked his best friend, who flinched at his touch and shied away from any conversations? Bucky who vanished for hours at a time and came back looking as if he’d been dragged through a hedge? No, he hadn’t. He’d been too scared to confront what might be going on, what latent part of his programming might be at play.
“Look, if you’re too scared to ask why don’t I?”
Now it was Steve’s turn to raise his eyebrow, it wasn’t that Sam and Bucky didn’t get along, they just didn’t get along yet. Steve was working on it.
“What if we…followed him?” He offered instead and Sam laughed again.
“Who knew Captain America was scared of his own friends,” he couldn’t contain the chuckles. “Fine, fine. Let’s keep an eye on him.” Sam turned to the ceiling, more comfortable with the AI than Steve was. “FRIDAY, if Sergeant Barnes leaves his room, please can you alert us - privately?”
“Of course,” the soft voice answered and Steve gave his friend a weak smile.
FRIDAY’S alert went off twice a day, every day, over the next week. But despite their best efforts neither Steve nor Sam managed to catch up with Bucky.
It wasn’t until the following Saturday that they managed to follow him. Bucky was supposed to be at a training session to get his official certifications but they’d both had a feeling he’d try and skip it. As predicted they’d spotted the blue of his new henley edging around the side of the compound, a full backpack strapped to his back.
Bucky ran across the grass and towards the thick forest. His still uncut hair was tied back but tendrils fell out as he sprinted into the wind.
He was surprisingly loud, as he strode quickly between the trees, snapping twigs and branches that Steve knew he could’ve dodge even before the serum and his training. Sam looked at him, both of their feet silent as they followed.
Bucky’s speed increased as he turned his face up into the breeze, his backpack jostled against the trees, bouncing when he began to run.
Steve kept up, sending Sam wide, into the breeze, in case Bucky doubled back.
Just as he was starting to feel lost in the repetition of trees and ferns, Bucky burst into a clearing and Steve slammed to a halt.
The pine trees gave way to a small patch of clear sky, shining down on an old shed. Unlike the other abandoned guard houses, this one had obviously been cleaned recently. The small porch was swept and a pair of Avengers camping chairs were arranged neatly facing into the forest. A line had been strung between the cabin and the trees where one of the missing blankets fluttered in the gentle wind.
Steve crouched down, motioning to Sam on the other side of the clearing to stay out of sight.
Bucky approached slowly, “Cățeluș, are you here?”
At first there was nothing and then a wolf nosed its way out from behind the door, it’s chestnut brown fur almost gold in the sunlight. It leaped forwards from the porch and shot across the clearing, leaping into Bucky’s arms.
Steve whipped his head up to try and find Sam and by the time his eyes found Bucky again the wolf was gone, replaced by a woman pulling on a large t-shirt from Bucky’s backpack.
“James!” Her sweet voice rang out in the otherwise quiet forest.
Swamped by Bucky’s familiar red henley, you shot from the door and into Bucky's waiting arms, the back pack dropped to the floor and forgotten.
She was swamped by Bucky’s red henley and he wrapped you in his arms, one large hand on the back of your head, tucking you into his neck. The other supported your legs, now wrapped around his waist.
In the clearing Bucky's shoulders relaxed as he sank into your embrace, kissing and nipping at your neck. In return you tipped your head, practically purring at the attention and wriggling in his arms.
“Have you been okay, baby.” Bucky asked, pulling away enough to look you over.
“I'm okay, I missed you though, James, please don't leave me again.” You begged cupping his stubbled cheeks in your hands.
Bucky turned into your palm and kissed it, “I know, I know, I’ve been making sure it’s safe for you.”
Steve's heart sank. Bucky didn't feel safe?
“You trust me, don't you, my little omega.” Bucky rubbed his nose into your cheek and you giggled, holding him even tighter, your hands in his hair.
An omega?
Sam stared over at Steve, eyes wide.
It was clear to them both that this was no chance encounter and all Bucky’s odd behaviour suddenly started to make more sense.
Steve motioned for Sam to leave, they could sneak back to the compound and perhaps bring this up tentatively. Perhaps leave some items you might like lying around in the hopes that Bucky would take them and understand that his secret was out, but it was safe.
Sam moved swiftly round the clearing as Steve continued to watch Bucky.
Bucky vanished into the cabin, leaving you on the porch alone, snuggled into his shirt and pressing the collar to your nose.
“She’s cute,” Sam whispered, squeezing up against Steve, still hiding in the overgrown ferns that lined the edge of the cabin.
“We can’t let her sleep out here. She must be hungry and cold.”
Bucky emerged from the cabin carrying two of the missing mugs, balancing them carefully on the railing before scooping you up into his lap. His hand hovered by his mouth, sipping in slow motion as his eyes scanned the tree line and Steve took a breath, sitting back quickly.
“Stay here, Cățeluș,” he was up in a flash, eyes always on the tree line even when he reached into his boot to pull out a familiar gerber knife.
Instead of flipping it into his palm, he balanced it on the arm of your camping chair. Eyes still on the trees he placed his metal hand on top of your head, “stay here and stay safe, follow the plan, do what you need to.” His voice was low, series, almost a growl. Far away from the happy, loving tones he’d been speaking to you with before.
You nodded, and as soon as he felt your head move he was up and off the porch.
Steve and Sam looked up in time to see a wolf leap towards them.
It was true then, the experiments had worked and Steve had the cold feeling that returned every time he discovered something new about his friend during a fight, but he had no time to worry about it now. Not when the wolf was closing in on them.
It was huge, its white fur dusted with fallen leaves, but its teeth gleamed in the afternoon sun as he pounced, snarling. His paws the size of dinner plates slamming into the ground in front of them, teeth bared and snarling.
Steve rolled away, pulling Sam with him and covering his body, regretting not bringing the shield.
“Bucky!” Sam shouted from under Steve’s arm
“Bucky it’s us we don’t want to hurt you!”
The wolf pulled back from the two men pinned beneath him, and something like clarity passed over Bucky’s icey blue eyes and he sat on his haunches, head cocked to one side, ears floppy. Then it stood, rounding the bushes and, in a blink, the man had reappeared still hiding before the foliage to cover his naked body.
“Steve -” Bucky looked thoroughly confused,
“Bucky, we’re so sorry we shouldn’t have followed you.”
“What are you doing here?” Bucky’s voice wavered, his body cold without his fur and with his clothes left behind in the cabin.
“We were worried about you, man, you’ve been so weird - stealing stuff, going missin’, can you blame us for getting creeped out?” Sam raised his eyebrows and Bucky’s brow furrowed.
“Sorry, I’m sorry, I just had to -” he gestured back towards the cabin and, as if remembering he’d left you behind with no way of knowing he was safe he turned and ran back to the clearing.
Steve and Sam jumped up, chasing after Bucky once more.
The cabin porch was empty when Steve picked his way down the slope of mud and rocks into the clearing.
A howl rang out as he got closer to the little house, a high, pained sound and then the response came, low and level.
There were two wolves now, hidden at the side of the cabin in the shadows.
The white wolf kept itself half turned towards Steve and Sam, who kept quiet and still, barely daring to breathe, allowing its companion to approach slowly.
The brown wolf dropped in front of the white, ears flat back against its head, and then rolled over, showing a soft belly that the white wolf nuzzled gently before turning back to Steve and barking sharply.
Steve held his hands up and the wolf barked again, turning tail and returning to the cabin.
It took only moments for Bucky to show himself on the porch, pulling his henley back down over his now dirt streaked belly.
“Come in,” he gestured up the stairs and vanished again.
The cabin, though run down, was well kept. The porch was swept of leaves and there was even a little mat by the door.
“Shoes,” you whispered, pulling on Bucky’s sleeve as you entered the main living space, making an attempt to hide behind him. You’d dressed again too, also in one of Bucky’s henleys and a pair of leggings that Steve recognised as Avengers recruit issue.
“Do you mind?” Bucky asked while Steve and Sam stared between you both.
“Shoes,” you turned to look up at Bucky again, eyes pleading in one moment and then flicking to the two new men treading mud into your home.
“Your shoes, take them off.” Bucky helped them arrange their boots neatly by the door while you pottered around the fireplace. “This is her nest,” he whispered, making sure the doormat was straight and the little curtain was neat over the window. “It’s important to omegas, to her,” you turned shooting a glare over your shoulder, “to us-that it’s kept just right and she hates shoes inside.”
In the small living space a camping stove had been set up with a kettle, a portable fridge, and an assortment of mugs, both Avengers field regulation and novelty, which were set neatly on the mantel. You chose four, and placed them next to the kettle while it steamed happily away.
Bucky spoke softly to you in a mixture of English and Romanian, but you didn’t come any closer to the strange men. You’d seen them before, on the television and in Bucky’s notebooks, but now that they were here, so large and imposing, you couldn’t bring yourself to even look over.
“This is Cățeluș, well, that’s not her real name but we couldn’t find that. She - uh -” you watched Bucky struggle for words and lay a hand on his cheek, smiling warmly up at him. Your Winter, your James. “-I don’t want to say the word, it upsets her, but she was with me when I was - him - part of the experiments.”
You poured the tea quietly, watching the steam rise into the darts of sun making their way through the broken knots of wood in the wall, and you took a deep breath. With shaking hands you gave the first man, Sam, a cup. He had a gentle face, a wide smile and he didn’t look at you with pity, as you feared, only interest.
The second man held his breath as you approached, keeping his hands as close to his body as possible until you pushed the cup towards him. Steve. Bucky had lots of pictures of Steve in his notebooks and had told you more stories than you could remember, but he didn’t look sickly, he looked too big for the space, his shoulders drawn in, slouched. You appreciated that he was trying not to look scary, even though your every nerve was on edge.
Bucky took the proffered mug from your hands with a kiss to your forehead and you sighed, allowing him to steer you to the only arm chair in the room and then passing you your own tea.
“We got out, eventually and - I brought her here.” Bucky sat on the rolled arm of the chair, draping his own arm over your shoulders and fitting you into his side.
Steve and Sam could only stare.
“Why didn’t you bring her to the compound? She can stay -” Steve turned to you, “you can stay, either in Bucky’s room or you can have your own room if you’d prefer.”
It took you a moment to process the offer, but eventually you shook your head, turning into Bucky’s side.
“It was awful - in there, with them she, we both -” Bucky struggled for the words, the desire to protect you rising inside
“It’s okay,” Sam said carefully, “I know the transition’s been rough on you, Bucky, I can’t imagine what it’s been like for her, how you even got her out here. But there’s nothing to be afraid of, maybe she’ll come with you? If you suggest it?”
Sam kept looking at you, his eyes soft and encouraging but you turned away, pressed your face into Bucky’s ribs where his scent had soaked through his shirt, reassuring and primal, chanting in your head Alpha, safe, Alpha, safe. You did miss him, when he was gone, but how could he keep you safe in that place.
You’d seen it, once or twice, through the trees when you took a walk, looking for whatever you could find in the forest. Guards left lots of things behind, bottles and coats and jackets, useful things. You collected them all, skirting around the edge of that horrid white building and hoping to never see the terrifying things that flew out of it, men in suits and robots, it was too much.
“You can bring whatever you like with you, and maybe Nat and Wanda could help you with some new things, if you liked?” Steve followed Sam’s lead, keeping his voice steady and low.
“James - my nest.” You mumbled, gripping his henley in your fist.
He dropped a hand onto your head, “we can do whatever you like, baby. You want to stay here, we can stay, you want to go to the compound, we’ll go.”
You felt Bucky’s heart rate pick up, its beat hammering and your anxiety grew too, your breathing more ragged, you turned even further into him, practically climbing into his lap, the henley you’d taken from him riding up.
Instantly you knew it was a mistake, the scars of your time in Hydra were still visible, raised on your skin, yellowing patches of healing bruises and calloused skin from repeated bouts in the chair.
Sam and Steve could barely conceal their inhale of breath.
“Bucky, did you get her checked by a doctor or…” Sam trailed off, Bucky looked angry again, his arms fully surrounding you.
“And what would I have said, Sam?” He growled, “I know she looks like she’s been kept in a cage and beaten but please don’t arrest me, I promise it wasn’t me? Her social security number? Sorry, I don’t have it, we don’t even know her name. I did the best I could.” His anger tipped over into a resigned sadness. Bucky cupped your face in one hand and forced you to look up at him, “I did the best I could, baby, I really did.”
You nodded and his grip loosened so you could nuzzle into his chest again, your own tears running down your cheeks at the memory of those early days. Bucky’s shaking hands patching up your burns and cuts, the whisky you’d slugged before he pulled out a stray bullet from your arm and stitched it with floss. Every touch had been gentle though, every time he’d changed your bandages or cleaned you up, it had been gentle. It had been everything he could give you.
“We didn’t mean it like that, Buck,but we could help, get her checked over and then you can come back here.” Sam’s voice was plaintive, deliberately soothing and it made Bucky’s blood boil.
“I’m not taking her to that place.” He bit back, there was no mistaking the way he curled you into his body, tucking your head under his chin and wrapping his arms around your back.
It didn’t hurt anymore, to be touched, but then it’d never hurt to be touched by James. His hands had always been careful with you, his strength used only for protection and it was for that reason that you lay your trust in him completely.
“Don’t make me go, Alpha.” You whispered, your lips brushing the base of his neck where you’d marked him, right over his scent gland, your teeth marks an eternal brand. You nuzzled into him, your chest rumbling again.
“I won’t make you go,” he looked back at Steve and Sam, the finality of his decision sat heavily in the air.
“Can we at least bring some medical things here? Would you let Sam check you out?” Steve offered, he was increasingly concerned by the way Bucky had retreated into the chair, his own legs now curled up on the overstuffed cushion.
Above you, James nodded once, “just you and Sam, don’t tell anyone else. I’ll know if you tell anyone else.” The panic edging Bucky’s voice had Steve raising his hands in surrender.
“I promise, Buck, just Sam and I.”
Sam and Steve left the cabin at dusk while you and Bucky watched from the deck. As soon as they were beyond the trees he pulled you even tighter against his chest, his heat warm.
“Everything is going to be okay, baby, I promise, no one’s going to ever, ever, hurt you again.” His hands slid down your arms and across the slow swell of your belly. “But we should consider their offer, make sure we’re making a choice that’s good for you and me, as well as them.” His palm pushed up under your shirt, splayed on your tight skin and, deep inside, your pup pushed back.
#bucky#bucky barnes#bucky barnes x reader#bucky x reader#bucky x you#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes fanfiction#bucky barnes x female reader#alpha bucky barnes#alpha!bucky#alpha bucky x reader#alpha bucky x omega reader#omegaverse#bucky barnes events#Alpha Bucky April
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more than friends ; lando norris + part twelve
In which your best friend is going to help you to gain more sexual experience and say goodbye to your insecurities, but he's quick to discover that he never wants to share you and your new experiences with others - the only problem being, him having to confess his feelings.
masterlist - playlist
fem!y/n x lando norris
warnings: smut with a plot. minors dni! probably grammar or spelling errors due to english not being my first language.
requested: yes, based on this request: something with a driver sister that’s still a virgin & lando (her bestfriend) suggests to teach her things
part one / part two / part three / part four / part five / part six / part seven / part eight / part nine / part ten / part eleven
“Fuck.” Lando can’t hold back this time. The word leave his mouth before he can think about it. He wants to intervene, but he knows he can’t. If it was up to him, he would drag you away and fuck you until you can’t even spell Pierre anymore, but that’s not something he can do. At least, not anymore. He fucked it up.
Oscar sends him a pitiful look, but doesn’t say anything. His teammate knows that something has changed between Lando and you, but he doesn’t know what. Oscar wishes he knew, he feels like he needs to help the two of you before everything is broken. He keeps looking at Lando, waiting for him to snap and to say something, but nothing happens. All of Lando his focus is on you - and on Pierre who’s dancing with you.
Lando sighs. He wants to cry. If he thinks about what happened long enough, then maybe he’ll cry for real. He feels the gaze of Oscar his eyes burning on his back. Maybe he should talk with his teammate. Maybe Oscar can help? He doubts it, but there are no other options. Maybe Oscar is his last hope. When he turns himself to Oscar, the boy is already waiting for him to speak up.
“I think I lost her,” Lando stammers. He has never said words like this before, never have words felt this painful to say out loud, it breaks him down even further.
“What happened?” Oscar asks.
“I fucked it up,” Lando sighs.
+++
“Lan?” “Yeah?”
“I uh, I was wondering how this will continue between us?” You ask a bit careful, “I mean are we going to continue to have sex or are we going back to how things where? It feels like you’ve learned me quite a lot and I don’t know what will happen now, you know?” The words are coming out like a mess, you can only hope that Lando understands what you mean. Maybe this is your coward way of asking Lando if he wants to make things different.
Lando doesn’t know what to say. He realizes that this is the moment to come clean about his feelings for you, but he doesn’t. “Uh, we can continue like this?” He suggests at first.
“But what will happen then?” You ask, “How will it affect our friendship?”
“The same as now, right?” Lando doesn’t know where you’re going with the questions.
“But we can’t always stay friends who fuck, right?” You question. An annoyed feeling creeps up. Why doesn’t Lando understand your deeper meaning?
“There are plenty people who do so, it’s called friends with benefits,” Lando informs you. He almost slaps himself for telling it so casual, why isn’t he confessing about his feelings? Why can’t he find the right words and tell you?
“I know what that is,” you sigh, “but do you want that for us? What will happen if you meet another girl? Or if you’re done with me? I mean it feels like some sort of endless situation which will only slow us down at one point. What if our friendship gets in the way?”
Lando tries to follow all the questions, but he doesn’t know if every one of them actually got into his mind. It feels like it’s all too much. What are you saying? Why are you talking about him with another girl? Does that mean you want to search for a boyfriend yourself? In some weird way he convinces himself that it must mean that you want a boyfriend - someone else then him.
“You can just say so if you want a boyfriend and want to stop this with me,” he eventually snickers to you.
You show Lando a confused look. “That’s not what I’m saying?” You react surprised.
“No, but it is what you actually mean with your words, isn’t it?” Lando continues. He feels himself getting frustrated. Why did he even have hope that things would end different? Suddenly he’s glad that he didn’t confess his feelings, you would have turned him down anyway.
“Lan, that’s bullshit,” you reply a bit annoyed, “I’m just saying that this is an hopeless situation. I need some clearance.”
“Okay, here is your clarity,” Lando spits the words out, “We’re not fucking anymore, we’re just friends and you can find yourself some boyfriend to fuck with.” His voice gets louder with every word he says. What he doesn’t notice until it’s too late, is the way you look at him. Tears are rolling over your cheeks.
“If that’s what you want,” you softly mutter, “then that’s fine.”
Lando doesn’t think before he talks. He speaks up with only angry and frustrated feelings inside of him to do the thinking right now. “Apparently it’s what you want,” he states angrily.
“I uh, I need some time for myself,” you softly say, barely being able to hold back your cries. “I’ll see you later in the club.”
With those words you walk away from Lando. He watches you leave. It almost feels like some stupid movie scene. Lando watches how you walk away from him, dressed in a beautiful dress - that was already starring in his plans for when the two of you came back to the hotel room tonight. He feels a small tear rolling down on his cheek. Why did you leave? No, he can’t ask himself a question as stupid as that. You left because he accused you of the most stupid shit, just because he was too afraid to tell you about his feelings. Again. Fuck, he should have told you. He thinks about running after you, but when he opens the door he notices that you’re already gone.
He wonders how you’re going to the club, since you told him that you’d see him there. How are you going to get there in a strange country where you don’t know anyone expect a few drivers? Lando sighs. He starts to worry about you. Hurriedly he changes his outfit and makes himself ready to also head to the club. He needs to make things right.
+++
“Fuck man,” Oscar sighs, “That’s so fucking stupid.”
“I know,” Lando confesses, “I don’t know what I was thinking.. Fuck. How am I going to fix this?”
Oscar doesn’t respond at first. It gives Lando the time to take another look at you again. You’re still dancing with Pierre. The Alpine driver is almost pressed against your body, Lando feels himself getting angry. Why him? You have been with Pierre since Lando saw you again. The looks you send him when he tried to approach you said enough. You’re not in the mood to talk with him.
“Just confess mate,” Oscar eventually says, “You can’t make things worse right? Just explain everything to her.”
“But.”
“No buts,” Oscar interrupts, “just be honest with her.”
Lando sighs. He can’t look away from you. He notices the way Pierre moves his head to get closer to your neck so he can press his lips against it. Lando hopes his marks are still somewhere on your body. Fuck, that seems really territorial, but he can’t blame himself for thinking like this.
“Lando, go to her,” Oscar states again, “Staring and acting like some mad caveman won’t help you.”
He sees Pierre moving again. This time holding you closely in front of himself. It looks like he wants to kiss you. Is he going to try to kiss you? Fuck. Lando wants to do many things. Walk away and stop watching so he can’t see it happen or walking as fast as he can towards you and pull you away from Pierre. When he continues to watch, he notices that you finally seek eye contact with him. Then he notices your look. Are you asking him for help? It seems like you’re really uncomfortable. Or is he just imagining things to make this better for himself?
Lando stops thinking. He almost sprints towards you and Pierre, leaving Oscar by himself while doing so. When he’s standing in front of you, he still doesn’t think about his next movements. Lando grabs your wrist, pulls you towards himself and tries to walk away with you.
“What the fuck are you doing?” You ask him.
“Mate fuck off,” Pierre sneers, “you’ve had your chance.”
“Lando, you can’t just drag me away from Pierre. It doesn’t work like that!” You yell annoyed. A small part in you hopes that Lando does drag you away from Pierre. After all, the only reason you’re dancing this close with Pierre is to cause a reaction by Lando. But you don’t know what will happen after.
“Watch me,” Lando grunts. Easily he lifts you up and puts you halfway on his shoulder. Holding you close he starts to walk away from Pierre. “Can’t just drag you away,” he mutters annoyed, “As if I’m going to look at him with my girl any longer.” He puts his hand on your ass, making sure no one can see anything from underneath your dress. The small gesture makes you smile.
When he passes Oscar, he notices the way his teammate is almost laughing out loud. “Fucking caveman,” Oscar is quick to tell him before Lando continues walking with you on his shoulder. “Just confess!” Oscar yells when Lando walks away from him.
You really don’t know what to think right now. Yes, you did want a reaction from Lando. Yes, you did want to annoy him until he would finally snap. But did you want it to end up like this? You don’t know if you’re honest. Not that you expected such a big reaction from Lando. He literally put you onto his shoulders to take you away with him. That seems a bit much, right? When Lando reaches his rental car, he opens the passenger door and puts you down on the ground again. It’s obvious that he wants you to take place in the car, but you don’t.
“Y/N,” Lando groans, “I swear to god, go sit in the fucking car.”
“Why?” You ask him.
“Because we’re going to talk.”
“We did talk,” you sigh, “and you made yourself perfectly clear. We’re not fucking anymore so I can find myself a boyfriend, since that’s what I want according to you.”
“Correction, I’m going to fuck away this terrible attitude of yours and then we’re going to talk.”
You don’t say anything. Maybe because this is kinda what you wanted? Who can blame you. Lando is fucking hot when he’s mad. Quietly you step in to the car.
The car ride is in an awkward silence. Lando his hand lays on your thigh. It feels like he’s marking you as his with the simple move, but you don’t know who he expects to reach since it’s just to two of you. His eyes are switching between you and the road. You’re also looking at him. At first you tried not to since you’re mad at him, but when you gave him a small look you couldn’t stop anymore.
The harsh conversation between the two of you isn’t longer then a couple hours ago, but you can see it’s impact on Lando. Or maybe it’s the impact from watching at Pierre and you? At first you never knew when Lando cried or how to spot the signs that he was about to. But after being his friend for so many years, you now know. Lando looks like a mess. Your mess.
It feels weird when you enter Lando and yours hotel room again. Both of you don’t know what to say. It makes you annoyed when Lando keeps pacing around and doesn’t say anything. And doesn’t fuck you.
“I thought you were going to do something?” You ask him, “Or do I need to get myself back to Pierre to get fucked?” You don’t know where you found those words and how they end up leaving your mouth, but at least Lando isn’t pacing around anymore.
He feels like he lost all of his sanity right now. Lando rushes towards you and harshly lifts you up again, only to throw you onto the bed. He turns you so you’re laying on your stomach and pulls you closer to himself. Within seconds your dress is pulled up and Lando his bottoms are hanging around his legs. He tugs on your thongs until they fall apart. Satisfied he looks at your snapped string.
Before you can say anything about it, Lando makes sure that your ass is lifted in the air. Without any sort of warning or foreplay he lets his dick enter you. It causes you to let out a loud scream, “Fuck Lando!” He doubts for a bit about himself and his actions, but when you follow that scream with multiple moans, his doubts are quick to disappear. He fucks you without thinking about being soft, nice or anything like that. It’s animalistic. He has lost all his patience and can only focus on fucking you as hard as he can manage.
“Fucking slut,” he grunts when he hears a loud moan from you.
“Your slut, sir,” you say softly. You almost don’t dare to say it. When you feel Lando his pace decreasing, you feel ashamed of your words.
“What did you just say?” Lando asks you. He’s barely fucking you anymore, rarely he moves his dick in and out of you. He needs to make sure that he heard you right.
“Your slut, sir,” you tell him again.
“Fuck,” Lando mutters, “Only mine?”
“Yes,” you agree with him.
“Not Pierre’s?” Lando continues to ask.
“No,” you quickly state, “Wanted you to snap.”
Lando lets out a low chuckle after hearing your words. You wanted him to snap? He doesn’t know what you mean with that, but he does know you just said that Pierre’s not even close to him. He pulls back a bit, letting his dick leave your body. It causes you to let out a soft whine. Lando turns you around and looks at you. You already look fucked out.
“Baby girl,” Lando mutters softly, “You’re the actual worst.” Lando stays silent for a couple seconds before speaking up again. “Should punish you for those actions,” he says.
“What’s stopping you?” You ask Lando.
“You,” Lando chuckles.
You show Lando a confused look. What does he mean with that? Lando takes place to you next on the bed. Softly he grabs your waist and pulls you on his lap. Careful he presses a few kisses against your neck and shoulders. He moves his hands on your body. Kneading your tits and softly pulling on your nipples. It causes you to let out multiple soft moans and whines. You want - no need, more of him.
“Lan,” you softly speak up.
“I know, I know,” Lando replies, “but be patient baby.”
“Aren’t you mad anymore?” You ask confused. You still don’t get why Lando is all calmed down after your confession of using Pierre to make him snap. Could it be that he feels more calm now he knows that you only think about him?
“What did you mean with making me snap?” Lando asks you.
“What you just did,” you explain, “fucking me like you own me. Snapping at Pierre and me, dragging me away only to show me and everyone else that you think I belong to you. Showing how you actually feel. Just waiting for you to tell me.”
You know you’re passing the safe way back now. With everything you just said, Lando can probably fill in the blanks himself. It should be pretty obvious now how you feel about him. You can only hope that you got Lando his feelings right as well. You’re putting a lot of fate in Oscar right now. In the mean time you move yourself, getting off Lando his lap and taking a seat next to him on the bed.
After your earlier discussion with Lando, you left and got to Oscar his hotel room. Together with him you made up this plan. Oscar was sure that only a bit of dancing with Pierre would make Lando snap within minutes. It took a bit longer, but eventually Oscar was right. Now he only has to be right about Lando his feelings for you…
“You want that?” Lando asks you confused.
You only show him a small nod.
“You really wanted me to act like this?” Lando continues to ask, he still can’t believe it. When you nod again, Lando doesn’t stop with his questions. “You actually wanted me to act like some sort of jealous caveman?”
“I didn’t expect you to put me onto your shoulder,” you confess, “but I wanted you to show me that I belong to you.”
“Why?” Lando asks confused, “I really don’t get it babygirl. Like, I don’t even understand why I’m acting like this and I actually feel ashamed for it - but you, you like it? You want this?”
“It gives me hope,” you tell Lando.
“Hope?” He asks confused.
“Hope that you like me back.”
Lando doesn’t know if he hears you correct. Did you actually say that it gives you the hope that he likes you back? Likes you back? That means that you like him, right? Lando really can’t wrap his head around everything that’s happening right now. He thought you would be mad at him. Mad for the way he acted earlier today and for what he said. Mad for the way he acted in the club. But you are glad that he acted this way and you’re telling him that you like him? Is this even real? Isn’t he still standing in the club, looking at Pierre dancing with you and imagining this to make it feel better? He can’t even help himself and softly pinches some skin on his arm.
“I’ve said too much,” you say when Lando keeps quiet, “The hint is clear Lan. Sorry for the way I acted. Sorry for falling for you, I hope we still can be friends?”
Just when Lando thought he was finally processing everything you just said, you’re saying stuff like this. He thinks about telling you how much he likes you too, but eventually he lets his actions speak for himself. Softly he grabs your shoulders and pulls you back on his lap again. This time you’re turned the way he can properly face you. Lando softly puts his finger underneath your chin and lifts your face up a bit. Then he presses his lips against yours. He kisses you the most loving way he can.
When Lando puts his lips onto yours, you wonder if this means what you think it does. Is this Lando his way of showing you that he does like you back?
You show Lando a small grin when he pulls back and looks at you. “I never want to be friends with you again,” Lando mutters with a cheeky smile. If he wasn’t smiling like crazy, you would have stressed right now. “I really need you to be my girlfriend babygirl,” Lando continues, “and I really need everyone to know that you’re mine so they will finally stop flirting with you.”
“You want me to be your girlfriend?” You ask Lando with a happy expression.
“I need you to be my girlfriend,” he states.
“Okay boyfriend,” you reply.
“But now I really want to feel your cunt around my dick again,” Lando tells you cheekily. You let out a soft laugh. You position yourself a bit different, then you line up Lando his boner with your entrance and slowly let him enter you again.
+++
The following morning Lando patiently waits for you to wake up as well. He hasn’t slept as good as last night in a couple months. He feels ten times better then before. It’s mostly a relieved feeling now that the two of you finally confessed. When you open your eyes slowly, you notice that Lando is already awake and staring at you.
“Good morning girlfriend,” Lando whispers when you look at him.
You show him a small smile. “Good morning boyfriend,” you reply.
Lando presses a soft kiss against your lips. “I can get used to this,” he tells you.
“You better do,” you laugh, “It’s not like I’m going to let go of you anytime soon.”
“I love you,” Lando sighs relieved. “Oh that’s probably a bit soon to say,” he adds quickly after realizing what he just said.
“I love you too Lan,” you tell him, “and I think you could have said it way sooner.”
Lando grins. He pulls you close towards himself and hugs you. “I could fall asleep all over again, but we have a flight to catch.”
Later that afternoon when the two of you are sitting in the plane, Lando has been quite busy on his phone. You look curious at him, wondering what he’s doing. Before you can ask him, Lando speaks up. “I’m going to hard launch us,” he states, “Okay?”.
“Okay.”
a/n;
that was it everyoneee :') hope y'all liked this story
i do want to write further, but for this moment i have no inspiration about what i'm going to write now (expect that it's about lando ofc). so any idea is welcome ! thanks for all the likes, comments & reblogs
taglist: @booksandplushies @dinodumbass @formula1mount @words-are-cheap @allywthsr @inejghafawifesblog @chonkybonky @formulas-bitch @harrysdimple05 @vildetry06 @wherethefuckisthething @nonameishere @lauralarsen@meadhbhcavanagh @obliviatevamps @shy4turcs @fix5idiots @nightlockcornucopia @marialovesf1 @kapsylia @im-an-overthinker @jule239 @lanando4 @lauralarsen @leclercdream @agentadhd @rewmuslupin @allsouls-emma @iamshiningeuw @teenagedreams-cl@kiskso @loxbbg @vellicora @thomaslefteyebrow @avg-golden-retriever @amorydsmt @killjoynotes@barelytolerabled @starmanv @changetyre @kami10471633 @2bormaybenot @httpmrklee @buendiabebeta @aliceespector@ryiamarie @mickslover @sop-hie092 @miniemonie2001 @greymarvelskaikru @kapsylia@swiftiedrafts @thatchickwiththecamera @formulas-bitch @venisvendetta @t3a-3njoy3r @landowecanbewc
taglist p2: @chezmardybum @booksandflowrs @mineandneveryours @strawberryy-kiwii @noneofyourfbusinessworld @secretgal66 @trinity2058 @evieepepi08 @shutupmymomsc4lling @smiithys @nanamilkbread @hellowgoodbye @annie115 @random-1927 @sadmeal444 @christianpulisic10 @peachiicherries @toppersjeep @lovingaphroditesworld @kiskso @silentreader128 @lauralarsen @scopeiguess @trinity2058 @shy4turcs @moonlight-girls-posts @xjval @saachiep81 @leclercdream @adalynneva @swiftiedrafts @oscahpastry @customsbyjcg-blog @idontcare011 @f1fantasys @emyladia @f1fantasys @oscahpastry @chrissiekitty19-blog
#lando norris#lando norris x reader#lando norris x y/n#lando norris fanfiction#ln4#lando norris imagine#formula one#f1#lando norris imagines#lando norris smut
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God do I love how Ame and Suvi’s conflict is representative of the wider conflict between Witches and Wizards. (Long ass post incoming)
First lets look at the conflict in Chapter 2 about trusting Sly’s predictions of the conclave compared to other Citadel diviners. Witches are about community and connection. Ame trusted Sly because he had a connection to Wren, no other diviners in the Citadel had Wren’s trust that we know of just Sly. Wizards on the other hand put their faith in institutions and hierarchies. If Sly’s predictions are contradicted by those of several other diviners with more influence in the system, then his predictions should be discarded. (Also keep in mind that Sly was relegated to obscurity because his predictions were largely about things that didn’t line up with the Citadel’s priorities)
So we get tension at the end of Chapter 2 because Ame (through Wren) has a connection to and trusts more in Sly as an individual than the Citadel’s diviners as an institution. Suvi on the other hand hears Steel say that a group of diviners might have contrary evidence to what Sly predicted and instinctively puts her trust in the institution over the individual.
As a result Suvi and Steel dismiss Ame’s concerns about Sly’s predictions until Ame gets so worked up about the issue that she takes drastic action to return to Toma and prepare. Of course Suvi is right to be upset with the manor in which Ame leaves, it’s incredibly reckless and could have lead to several civilians (and Eursalon!!) getting injured or killed. However she fails to see her and Steel’s roles in pushing Ame into immediate action. Steel never took Ame seriously, and Suvi largely agreed with her.
And now we get to Episode 25 and Suvi’s scathing tirade against Ame.
A big theme of this arc seems to be how both Witches and Wizards look down on one another. Steel has her line about Witches seeing Wizards as “devious, paranoid, and buffoonish,” while Suvi blows up on Ame for “that smart ass tone about Wizards.”
And you know what they’re right. Witches do look down on Wizards.
I find myself wondering how Ame, Witch of the World’s Heart and the steward of humanity, could NOT look down on Wizards. The Wizards of the Citadel may be the brightest minds humanity has to offer, but they use those gifts to fuel a seemingly endless war with Ruve and Gouthmai (a war that threatens the lives and homes of Eursalon’s family). The Citadel seems to glorify violence (remember in Chapter 1 when Suvi proudly displayed that she spilled blood on behalf of the Citadel?). We also know from Kalaya that over time the Citadel went from what was essentially a huge university, to a homogeneous and militarized society.
Thats without even mentioning how Steel herself proves the Witches assessment of Wizards correct! Steel concocts a plan for Suvi that is devious in its intentions, paranoid in its secrecy, and buffoonish in how it could undermind the meeting of the Coven and cost both Ame and Suvi their lives if discovered. While Suvi is lecturing Ame on judging Wizards she has unknowingly agreed to a plan that proves all of her assumptions correct.
Suvi is probably my favorite character in this campaign. Aabria absolutely BRINGS IT every session. I’ve no doubt that many of the things listed in this post crossed her mind and were intentional. After all, the Citadel is a defining part of Suvi’s identity.
Wizards exist in a world that does not take them seriously. We’re 25 episodes in and spirits and witches alike have constantly referred to Wizards in pejorative terms. It’s not hard to see how someone like Suvi, born in the thick of the world of Wizards would cling to the Citadel as the lone institution of the world that advocates for Wizards. Because Suvi is a wizard she is preemptively judged by nearly every witch and spirit in the story. So of course she’ll judge them too.
After all, wouldn’t you?
#worlds beyond number#erika ishii#aabria iyengar#brennan lee mulligan#suvirin kedberiket#ame the witch
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Unwanted: Chapter 28, Unwanted - Pt. 3
Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Avenger!Fem!Reader
Summary: When your FWB relationship with your best friend Bucky Barnes turns into something more, you couldn’t be happier. That is, however, until a new Avenger sets her sights on your super soldier and he inadvertently breaks your heart. You take on a mission you might not be prepared for to put some distance between the two of you and open yourself up to past traumas. Too bad the only one who can help you heal is the one person you can no longer trust.
Warnings: (For this part only; see Story Masterlist for general Warnings) Language, violence, death
Word Count: 2.9k
Previously On...: Jade's running, Bucky's chasing, and you've had the shit beat out of you.
A/N: It's our Battle for Pride Rock, ya'll!
via GIPHY
NOTE! The tag list is a fickle bitch, so I'm not really going to be dealing with it anymore. If you want to be notified when new story parts drop, please follow @scoonsaliciousupdates
Banner By: The absolutely amazing @mrsbuckybarnes1917!
Thank you to all those who have been reading; if you like what you've read, likes, comments, and reblogs give me life, and I truly appreciate them, and you!
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After several long minutes of being manhandled through the forest, you heard a distant roar through the pine needles, and while you recognized the sound of Bucky’s voice, the absolute rage evident in his tone was completely foreign to you.
“CARTHAGE!” he bellowed, sending a group of birds, squawking in indignation, into the sky. You tried to focus, to determine how far away he was from you, but the pain in your body, in your head, was too disorienting for you to figure it out.
So, instead, you decided to offer him some metaphorical breadcrumbs to point the way to your location. “BUCKY!” you screamed, as loud as you could, trying to break free of Jade’s grasp so you could run toward the sound of his voice. “BUCKY! I’M HERE!”
You made a valiant effort, but Jade would always be stronger than you. Gripping you tighter, she began running with you, away from the direction of Bucky’s voice, but you kept shouting for him.
He screamed your name again, and you were relieved to hear he didn’t seem as far away now, closing in. His voice was shattered with desperation, but he was gaining on you. Despite the pain each time your body jolted, you purposefully stumbled, hoping to slow Jade’s progress, but she kept moving, kept dragging you even if your feet were not perched solidly on the ground.
You ran behind Jade until time had no real meaning, not knowing how far you’d traveled from the base, or where she intended your final destination to be. All you could do was take every opportunity you had to scream Bucky’s name and wait for him to call back to you, each time his voice coming from less distance than the time before.
Eventually, Jade came to a sudden halt, and shoved you down to the ground. You took a brief moment to catch your breath and survey your surroundings. You’d reached a clearing in the woods, and behind you stood a steep drop leading to boulders scattered below. Jade had gotten herself trapped, and you knew she would become reckless, be truly dangerous, now that she was cornered.
You could hear Bucky now, running through the woods as his combat boots crushed twigs and pinecones underfoot. He was coming for you, but he’d be walking straight into danger, facing off against a wounded animal that had to know there was no real chance for her to escape, and that would make her desperate, a loose cannon.
Jade jerked you back up again, and you felt the cold press of a gun barrel against your temple as she held you in front of her. You held your breath, waiting for Bucky to burst through the treeline. Your entire body ached, from your swollen face, to your broken nose, to the scratches that covered your bare feet and body where branches and stones had cut into your skimpy dancer’s outfit. Blood was running down your legs from cuts too numerous to catalog.
Soon, the crashing sound of Bucky moving through the trees gave way as he threw himself into the clearing, guns raised in both hands as he pointed them in the direction of Jade’s head. She gripped you tighter and pressed her gun harder into your skin.
“Stop there, Jamie,” Carthage shouted before Bucky could come too close. You clocked his movements as he quickly assessed the situation: the gun to your head, your useless left arm, all the blood pouring from your nose and various injuries, but he did as she asked, stopping not far from where he’d exited the trees.
“You okay, doll?” he called to you, searching your eyes with desperation. The look on his face was devastating, the sheer helplessness on it as he took in your state. He was covered in blood, an avenging angel who wouldn’t have looked out of place in a nightmare, yet the sight of him made you feel like you were dreaming.
“Gotta say, I’ve been better, baby,” you replied, flinching as Jade squeezed your arm with more force than was necessary. She held a gun on you, for fuck’s sake– where did she think you were going to go?
Bucky nodded. “A gun to your head, and you got jokes. That’s my girl.” He offered you a small smile, then turned his focus to Jade. “Let her go, Carthage,” he said, his voice now low and menacing. “This is between you and me. She doesn’t need to be here for this.”
“She has everything to do with this, Jamie!” Jade cried, pulling you back against her chest. “This is all her fault! Everything would have been perfect if you could have just let her go!”
You watched as Bucky inched closer, his movements so slow they were barely noticeable. He’d raised both guns in the air, no longer pointing them at Jade, but not removing his fingers from the trigger. “Let’s talk about this, okay?” he asked her. “There’s got to be an understanding we can come to, you and me.”
“All I’ve ever wanted is you,” Jade sobbed, moving the arm not holding the gun up to wrap around your neck. “We’re the same, you know that, right? We were created by the same people, using the same serum. We belong together, Jamie! I was built to love you! And you’re never going to be able to see that until she’s gone for good.”
“Jade,” Bucky said slowly, “Hydra’s messed with your mind, they’ve brainwashed you. You don’t even know me. You only love what they made you think I was.”
“NO!” she shouted, moving backward and pulling you both toward the edge of the drop. “She’s the one who’s been brainwashing you! If it wasn’t for her, you’d love me, you’d want to be with me the same way I want to be with you! Once I kill her, once she’s finally out of the way, you’ll be able to see that. You’ll finally understand!”
“That’s not gonna happen, Vix,” Bucky said sadly. “I love Pocket more than I’ve ever loved anyone, anything, and that’s never gonna stop. I’m not gonna let you hurt her, and I’m sure as shit not going to let you kill her.”
“But you made love to me, Jamie!” Jade sobbed. “In Russia, we made love and it was so beautiful! You can’t pretend that didn’t happen! That it didn’t mean something to you! I know it did!”
“Jade,” Bucky shook his head at her, the look he gave her fully of pity, “the only reason I ever touched you was because I thought Pocket had been with Steve, that she had betrayed me, and I was so angry, I wanted to hurt her back.” His eyes moved to find yours. “I was a fucking fool for ever thinking she would have done that; she’s too good a person, and I don’t deserve her.” His eyes went back to Jade. “It’s the only reason. I didn’t want you. I never wanted you. Fuck, I had to pretend you were her just so I could get hard, so I could finish. I could have never finished just from being with you, Jade, because I don’t love you. And I never will.”
Bucky’s words brought tears to your eyes. You’d seen the video, you knew he was telling the truth. He’d been angry, and she’d used that anger to manipulate him, but he had never stopped thinking about you. Because he loved you, and he always had. You saw that so clearly now. And because he loved you, he was going to risk letting her get away.
“LIES!” Jade screeched, her voice so shrill you thought it might burst your eardrums. “I can make you love me! Once she’s dead, you’ll forget all about her. Hydra will erase her from your memory, and we can be happy!”
“Let her go,” Bucky pleaded. “Let her go and you and I can talk. We can come to an agreement.”
“No! She has to die, so you can be free, Jamie! So we can be together. She needs to die.”
“Bucky,” you sobbed, trying to keep yourself upright. “Bucky, it doesn’t matter what she does to me, you have to stop her. She can’t go free, and you can’t go back to Hydra! I’m not worth it. I… I never have been. I love you so much. And I always will. I never stopped. But you have to stop her. Pozhaluysta, lyubov' moya.” Please, my love.
“SHUT UP!” Jade shouted, hitting you on the back of the head with the butt of her gun. It wasn’t enough to knock you unconscious, but it knocked you off balance, rattling your already pounding skull. Bucky made a move to come closer, but the barrel of the gun was back to your temple in an instant, and he halted.
“I wish we’d had a chance to start over, baby,” you said to Bucky, tears streaming down your face. Jade was going to kill you. She was going to kill you, and you’d never hold Bucky again, never kiss him, never feel him inside of you, laugh with him over something incredibly stupid, ever again. Never see your family again. Never see Tony. Fuck. You’d never see Tony again. But it would be worth it. Your loss of life would be worth it if it kept Hydra from getting its hands back on Bucky, from ever hurting him again. You knew that once your life was no longer on the line, Bucky would be able to overpower Jade, to subdue her, send her to the Raft where garbage like her belonged. “I wish we had time to start everything fresh and build something new, something better,” you sobbed. “But we don’t. You have to let me go so you can stop her, Bucky. Please.” You choked on the final word, a desperate plea. He had to know it was for the best. He had to.
“No,” Bucky choked out. “No, I’m not going to let you get hurt again, doll. Not because of me. Never again.” He slowly and gently set his guns down on the ground in front of him.
“I can’t be with you if you kill her, Jade,” Bucky said, voice full of saddened resolve. “I’d never be able to see past it, and I’d… I’d never be able to love you if I knew you were a murderer.”
What the fuck was he doing? You wondered. You both already knew she was a murderer– you’d seen the same footage, for fucks’ sake!
“Bucky–” you began, but he continued, speaking over you.
“If you let her go, I’ll come with you. You can take me back to Hydra, and we… we can be together. I’ll let you love me, and I’ll learn to love you. But you have to let her live. If she dies, it will always come between us. I know you don’t want that… and… and neither do I. Don’t you want us to be happy, Vix?” He took another step toward her. “We can be happy, but you have to let Pocket live. Please.”
“I don’t fucking care about Hydra anymore!” Jade cried. “I stopped caring about what they wanted the minute I fell in love with you! I’m not going to let them have you, just like I’m not going to let her have you! You’re mine, Jamie!” She squeezed your throat tighter, and you began to find it difficult to breathe. “You’re mine, and I’m yours! You have to say it!”
Bucky closed his eyes, as though what he was about to say was going to physically pain him. “I’m yours, and you're mine, Vix. The way it’s supposed to be. The way we were made to be.” He opened his eyes and looked at you, and you could practically taste the sorrow in his gaze, the apology he was wordlessly begging you to accept.
“We’re gonna have such a beautiful life together, Jamie.” Jade’s voice took on a lighter, happier, yet infinitely more terrifying tone. “We’ll get a house, a dog. Have so many beautiful babies! We’ll be a happy family, just us.”
Bucky nodded slowly. “We can have all of that, Vix. Everything you want, and more, but you have to let Pocket go. Can you do that for me, honey?” He choked out the words as though it made him sick to say. “Can you show me that you’re a good person, that you don’t want to start our new life with blood on your hands? I don’t want that for you, or our future kids. Do you?”
You felt the hold Jade had on you loosening, her grip relaxing. “No,” she said before tossing you aside as if you were nothing. “If it’s not what you want, then I don’t want it, either.”
In an instant, Bucky was positioning himself so that he was between you and Carthage, and she wasted no time in throwing her arms around his neck and pulling him in for a kiss. You watched in horror as he kissed her back, and it was like every nightmare you’d had over the last several months had come to life before your eyes.
“Bucky,” you begged, reaching for him.
He pulled his lips away from Jade. “I’m sorry, Pocket,” he said, without turning to look at you, “but Vix is my girl now. We’re going to be together.”
“Oh, Jamie! Do you promise?” Jade asked, her face awash in delight.
“I promise, honey,” he said, leaning down to kiss her again.
You thought you were going to be sick as you backed slowly away from the two of them. You knew that he was only doing this to save your life, but it didn’t make watching it hurt any less.
Bucky carefully tracked you with one open eye as he continued to kiss Jade. Once he seemed satisfied that you were far enough behind him, and that Jade was thoroughly distracted with her guard down, he grabbed her throat with his vibranium hand and began to squeeze.
Jade’s eyes bulged open as she began struggling for breath, swatting at Bucky’s hand with the gun she still held in her fist. But a super solider alone was no match for a super solider with vibranium, and Bucky continued to choke her.
“You think you can just hurt my girl and I’d let you walk away?” Bucky growled, any trace of softness gone from his voice. “You think you can lay a hand on her and I’ll let you fucking live?”
“You… promised…” she gasped with the little air she had left in her lungs, and the look she gave Bucky was almost heartbreaking in its sense of betrayal. Almost. She was still a cunt, after all.
“Yeah, well,” he began, tightening his fingers, “my promises don’t mean shit.”
With the last remaining ounces of her strength, Jade raised her gun and pointed it in your general direction. “If I…” she choked out, “can’t… have you… you… can’t have… her… either.”
Time distorted into slow motion as you watched Jade pull the trigger of the gun, saw the bullet race toward you and plunge into your abdomen with a force that knocked you backward. You gingerly touched your stomach, your hands coming away nearly black with blood.
“Buck?” you asked softly, before your knees buckled and you fell.
You heard Bucky scream, the sound full of rage and despair, followed by the sickening crack of bone breaking, and the thump of a body unceremoniously hitting the ground.
You lay there, blinking up into the impossibly blue sky. It was so bright, yet seemed to be growing dimmer by the second. Bucky’s face soon filled your vision, his eyes filled with tears, and you felt the pressure of his hands as they tried to staunch the bleeding of your gunshot wound.
“Pocket,” he cried, “baby. You gotta stay with me, okay? You gotta focus. I’m so sorry, doll. I’m so fucking sorry.”
Why was he so sad? You wondered. God, even when he was crying, he was still so pretty.
“Hey,” you said, reaching up to touch his face and leaving a bloody smear across his skin. “Don’t cry.”
You felt him slide his arms under you, lifting your body to him as he cradled you. “I’m so sorry, baby,” he wailed. You weren’t sure what he was apologizing for, but you didn’t want him to be sad. You never wanted him to be sad.
“Hey there… handsome soldier,” you wheezed. You coughed, and droplets of blood from your mouth speckled across Bucky’s face. “That a gun… in your pocket… or… you just… happy… to see me?” You tried to smile, just wanting to make him laugh, but you could feel blood run out of the corner of your lips. You were getting so cold.
In the distance, you could hear a roar, like the sound of a tornado drawing closer, coming to pick you up and carry you away to Oz.
“You’re dying in my arms and you got fucking jokes?” Bucky exhaled a terrified laugh. “You just gotta hold on a little while longer, love. The teams’ on their way. Can you hear the jet? They’re coming.”
But you couldn’t hear the jet. You could barely hear Bucky’s voice as darkness enveloped you. “I… I love you… Buckar–” you managed to breathe out, one last time, before everything went silent, and black.
<- Previous Part / Next Chapter ->
#bucky barnes x reader#bucky barnes x you#bucky barnes x y/n#bucky x you#bucky x reader#bucky fanfic#bucky barnes#bucky barnes fanfic#bucky x female reader#bucky barnes fic#bucky barnes fanfiction#james bucky buchanan barnes#james buchanan barnes#mcu bucky barnes#james barnes
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analyze the ball kicking scene 🫶🏼 (out of joke, love your posts <3)
Yes, even kicking balls has symbolism in Chainsaw Man
You're joking, Anon, but I wanted to do a post about it yesterday, and now you've given me the opportunity.
Everything in this chapter is about the symbolism of kicking balls, yes, even the beginning!
Haruka Iseumi flicks through several TV channels, rather blasély, until he comes across a woman whose speech seems to resonate with him, a woman who seems to feel betrayed, disoriented like these teenagers who have been put in danger by an institution that has never seen their good, the church. But this girl only talks about her disappointment following a scandal surrounding over-mediatized stars.
What Haruka is going through right now is disillusionment, believing that his problems would have been taken seriously, his situation as an escaped high school terrorist, would have interested the public. But people prefer not to face up to these kinds of problems; an epidemic of people turned into demons is as commonplace as wars. To avoid jeopardizing personal comfort, people prefer to focus on other problems.
Because people literally don't have the balls to face reality.
But contrary to what Haruka thinks, he's not so different: he's also an angst-ridden child who had totally surrendered to his idol, Chainsaw Man, to the point of convincing himself that he was bound to him, even pretending to be him for a semblance of trust. What the chapter seems to show is that Haruka is more down to earth than that girl on TV, but what it really shows is that he's exactly like that girl, but no longer admits it to himself.
No, Haruka, you're not dreaming, or rather you have been until now and now you can't do it anymore.
Because you've reached his idol, you have literally reassembled his image, you've seen the boy you have no interest in behind that reassuring mask.
What this chapter is about is the illusion into which we accept to insert ourselves in order to better resist our fears and existential ills.
Denji doesn't have to exist to shatter the illusions he needs to survive; even his awakening and his speech are too much, as his image no longer matches the one he wears as a universal puppet. He's literally cuter when he's inanimate, because that's what he's made for. At least, that's the only way we accept him. He's made to fill your person, and it's impossible for Chainsaw Man to be a person in his own right.
As proof of this, when Denji wakes up, his first reflex is not to discover that he's complete again, for he exists only to fill others, hence his question to Asa as to where her arm has gone. Unknowingly, Denji has accepted his role.
For Katana Man and Yoru, Chainsaw Man is a goal, a dream to be achieved. Seeing the person behind it, the other half, disturbs them. Considering it might even make them reconsider their choices.
Katana Man has deluded himself into believing that Denji no longer has the heart of a man, that he was his grandfather's tormentor and not the child who was the victim. He needs this revenge to move forward, just as Yoru, as a war demon, needs to fight an unattainable adversary to continue wreaking havoc.
But what's that got to do with it? What does this have to do with beating Denji's balls off?
Who kicked Katana Man in the balls? Aki and Denji. If Chainsaw Man is the metaphor for the comforting illusion of others, Aki is the symbol that revenge (often impossible) is a long-term, survival goal for hearts scarred by resentment. Beating the balls off? The meeting of the two.
When Aki and Denji beat up Katana Man, the illusion of a proud, virile, traditional man who swore by his honor had been shattered. What Katana Man represented to himself and to the readers, this formidable adversary, had been dismantled.
But above all, this was a gentle, more accessible form of revenge, one that would allow us to survive, a way for Aki to avenge Himeno in her own way, without actually avenging her. It's about beating your opponent while admitting you've lost in some way.
Similarly, when Katana Man and Yoru defeat Denji, they lead to a renewed desire to dismantle Chainsaw Man's image. To bring it together as their long-term goal of revenge.
But despite this balance of power, this gesture symbolically demonstrates that they are not certain of their victory.
Above all, the important answer in this chapter is once again in the background.
Fami continues to eat undisturbed. She eats all the time, but in this chapter, she seemed almost to be regaining her strength.
Why was that?
Her plan was clear, to make people fear Chainsaw Man as well as the war, to make Yoru and Chainsaw Man champions. But what about the media? They prefer to do what's most profitable, keeping viewers entertained for as long as possible, so that they forget about the real issues.
People prefer to delude themselves, to dream dreams, rather than focus on reality, so will Chainsaw Man and Yoru have their strength increased to the point where they'll be potential opponents for death?
because people are already escaping the fear of death through entertainment, which is even the best champion.
Instead of thinking about our existential crises, we flood our brains with unimportant information.
As the philosopher Pascal would say: "Since men have not been able to cure death, misery and ignorance, they have decided, in order to make themselves happy, not to think about them. Notwithstanding these miseries, he wants to be happy, and only wants to be happy, and cannot not want to be happy".
But let's close this loop of questions: if Chainsaw Man allows this comforting disillusionment, Denji is the opposite, something we refuse to see, if Chainsaw Man is a dream, Denji is reality. Let's get back to our main subject: beating up balls.
When Aki first beat Denji up, he wanted to disgust him enough to prevent him from signing up as a public hunter. Literally, he preferred to spare Denji from reality, by killing the symbol that is Denji (did you miss the headaches I caused?). But when Denji retaliates, to insist that he wants to enlist, it's the other way around: it's the harshness of reality that Denji fully accepts that will prevail over Aki's attempt to protect him.
When Katana Man and Yoru beat Denji's balls off, in reality they're trying to fight the reality of what Chainsaw Man is, this mixture between a boy, reality, and the bloodthirsty enemy, the dream, Chainsaw Man. Beating up Denji is an attempt to avoid the harshness of life. It's that illusion.
So when Denji helped Aki beat up Katana Man, he allowed him to escape his survival mechanisms, his revenge, his illusion, by enjoying the present moment, pure reality.
But when Denji defeated Aki, it was also the announcement of the reality of Aki's fate, which would outweigh this illusion - the success of his revenge.
That's why Pochita, the dream and illusion, prevents Denji from opening the door. When Denji sees reality, he can't help opening it. Just as Makima concentrated on her Chainsaw Man dream without seeing reality, Denji right behind it.
Just as the dream allows Denji to escape reality, the contract between Denji and Pochita has allowed Denji to become someone else, escaping from himself, himself a victim of the dream without being able to know exactly what he is.
But don't forget, beating the balls off is Denji's tactic.
Why is that? Because no matter how hard you try to escape it, reality will always prevail.
#csm 163#chainsaw#chainsaw man spoilers#chainsaw man#csm part 2#Denji#denji hayakawa#asa Mitaka#iseumi#haruka iseumi#aki hayakawa#yoru#katana#katana man#my thoughts#ask#THANK YOU
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Curious on how the Pleiades interact with Flower of Nazarick Mc.
I've already done Entoma and Solution
but here are the others!
🖤🖤🖤
Flower of Nazarick Reader with Pleiades | Yandere Overlord
Sebas Tian
“Master (Y/n)!”
“Oh hi Sebas…I seem to be in a predicament.”
“Master…how did you get yourself trapped in the wall?”
I figured out I could phase through things but then I somehow just stopped…But I’ll get out eventually! I'll just be here for a while.”
“I see. Would you like anything while you wait?”
“Hmm, can I get a–”
He finds you oh-so-precious
He just so happens to witness some of your weirdest and vulnerable moments
Internally he’s the happiest dragon butler there can be
He absolutely lives for the times you first discover different parts of Nazarick
When you aren’t training or being babysat by Albedo you’ll be doing your own thing
Sometimes monitored by him and the Pleiades
And the way he’s bared witness to your general silliness is a blessing to him
As much as he’ll preach to Yuri about their job to ‘raise’ you right he too will sway with a bat of your eyes
Yuri Alpha
“Come Master (Y/n). Lord Ainz summons you.”
“So early? Can’t he just wait a few more hours….”
“He’s already been waiting Master (Y/n). Please wake up”
“..”
“...Master. Master? I apologize in advance.”
"Blagh!!!"
Because the floor guardians tend to spoil you to bits no one’s all too keen on actually making you do anything
But with Ainz’s permission, she takes it upon herself to be some kind of disciplinarian
…a disciplinarian whose authority sways with her admiration
She’s well aware that you are a Supreme being in training
So she regales you with tales of the supreme beings who ran Nazarick in hopes of inspiring your greatness
Any kind of decision or even a break in your casual tone with the Pleiades she’s swooning with a blush
She can’t believe her Nazarick’s flower is growing well and will one day be fit to rule alongside Ainz
She will personally take over anyone she deems too forward with you
Whether in disguise or not you happen to be way too flippant about your importance to Nazarick
So until you take the proper discretion to threaten those who disrespect you she’ll do it in the meantime
With extreme prejudice
Lupisregina Beta
“Ah! Master I’ve never tasted something so wonderful!”
“Gee, thanks it’s a favorite of mine back where I’m from!”
“Hmmm~Learning about my Supreme Flower is the best!”
“Ah haha, LP make sure to chew your food before you speak.”
“Ack-! A nickname I’m dying!”
One of the most fun Pleiades to hang out with
Unless given specific instructions she’s all about fun
And she adores how you just want to have fun with her too
That often doesn’t mean being in Nazarick which means you’ll be going a little outside their perimeter
That’s where you’ll probably get to see just how little Lupusregina cares for anyone who is not you
You’ll have to stop her from turning invisible to silently slash away anyone who could take your time from her
She’s not good at filling in the blanks so you’ll have to be very specific
Otherwise, you might just find any place you visit to be a graveyard
Narberal Gamma
“Psst Nabarel…you’re scaring everyone away. I’m supposed to blend in.”
“My apologies Master. It’s just these dirty humans dare look at you so casually I feel inclined to–”
“Nabarel.”
“Right sorry.”
This whole pretending to hide among the humans thing has gotten on her nerves
To see Ainz be treated so flippantly by worthless beings no less
It doesn’t help when the prized Flower of Nazarick occasionally does the same thing
And while she might have the restraint to behave around Ainz
She slips a lot more around you
Glaring more openly at anyone who even looks at you
She won’t even let anyone put a friendly hand on your back
She’s breaking bones if they get too close
But if you bat your eyes and smile sweetly she’ll snap it back
She won’t apologize though
Not for hurting them or endangering their life
Disguise or not she refuses to accept lower-life forms even getting within your vicinity
But she can’t deny the pride and excitement when you allow her to wait on you
Taking a break from her stupid disguise to return to serving you makes it a little bit better
Though she much prefers you stay within Nazarick
CZ2128 Delta
“Master (Y/n).”
“Yes, Delta?”
“May I hold you?”
“Uh, sure?”
“Thank you, Master!”
She thinks you’re so so so so so so cute
She thinks she might short-circuit from cuteness
In her mind, you rival Eclair Eklair Eklare (The penguin Janitor)
If you give her permission to hold you she may never want to let go
But if it bothers you
She’ll settle by resting her head on your lap
Or holding onto any part of your person
She’s not as violent as the other Pleiades when it comes to protecting you but that doesn’t mean she won’t hurt anyone for you
If any creature divides her attention from you she’ll smite them quickly
And then try to get praise from you
#yandere x reader#yandere x you#lovelyyandereaddictionpoint#yanderexrea#yandere#yanderes#yandere harem#yandere overlord x reader#yandere overlord anime#yandere overlord#yandere overlord x flower of nazarick reader#flower of nazarick reader#yandere pleiades#yandere nabarel gamma#yandere sebas tian#yandere yuri alpha
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As someone who is really enthusiastic about the lore of Genshin, your hsr x genshin reader has captivated me. Right now I’m mainly thinking about characters from the IPC and maybe even the Xianzhou being aware of Teyvat’s existence but having no way to interact or make contact with it because of Celestia’s false sky.
So characters like Aventurine, Topaz, and maybe even Dr Ratio since he technically works with the IPC being curious about reader since they’re currently the only look they have into what Teyvat is like.
So I finally finished Penacony and firstly, ouch. Secondly, I have a lot of thoughts.
The idea that Teyvat is on the IPC's radar but they can't come into contact with it because of Celestia is actually such a big brain thought, you should be proud of yourself.
When it comes to the IPC, it's their hob to know what is going on with each planet within the vast universe, and so to discover that there is a planet that they've never heard of, that they aren't able to make contact with in any way definitely raises suspicion. Since Celestia is obviously filled with outside forces, I don't think they would be able to tell that the false sky was made by them. Because of their inability to make contact with the planet, they keep heavy watch in case anything happens and they're able to find a way in. They probably even give Teyvat some long, scientific name since there isn't really a way to figure out what the planet is called.
When it comes to the Luofu, their knowledge of the distant planet is even less. They, like the IPC, aren't able to come in contact with it, so they choose to remain neutral until the time comes. Unlike at the IPC, where I feel as though much discussion around the planet is bureaucratic, on the Luofu talk about the planet is much more lighthearted, spreading rumors on what could be hiding on it, if there is even any life on it.
This brings me to cultural differences, we obviously know that technology wise Teyvat is lacking, they probably see wing gliders and Ruin Guards akin to a child's first invention. But there are other differences too. What happens when the IPC learns that you don't worship the Aeons, that there are gods outside of the Aeons. And this isn't just some offshoot, visions are proof that these "Archons" exist.
Many other planets don't even know you exist, I highly doubt Sunday knew about Teyvat before hearing Aventurine talk about it with Ratio. Most common people aren't really considered with what's happening outside their home planet. So I don't think many of them would really assume you were from an unknown planet until you explicitly tell them.
#yandere x reader#soft yandere#platonic yandere#honkai star rail x reader#yandere honkai star rail#honkai x reader#honkai#honkai star rail
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Current fave idea is the karasuno gang meeting up after they graduate to catch up, and there's a person there none of them recognize(Sugas younger sister by like a year) and one of them (noya, tsukki, tanaka, kageyama... tsukki.. I'm bias lol) catches her eye, and suddenly, they're back at her apartment crying out for her
omh… I love when i get specific requests they r so fun to write 🥰🥰
ANYWAY. Sub!Tsukkishema x Fem!Reader
CW: Alcohol usage, cryin, overstimulation??, objectification, nasty (unprotected) pnv sex, chocking (mention of it at the end), kinda sadistic reader tbh, bondage, foodjob??
The old Karasuno team was gathering at their previous haunt, the local ramen shop near their high school. It had been a while since they'd all been together, and they decided to meet up, along with some other mutual friends from back in the day. As they chatted excitedly about their lives post-graduation, reminiscing about their volleyball days, there was someone among them they couldn't quite place.
Nishinoya, ever observant, noticed a young woman sitting quietly at the edge of their group. She was sipping her ramen and listening intently to their stories, occasionally smiling or nodding along. "Hey guys," Nishinoya interrupted, "Who's our new friend here?"
They all turned to look at her. "Oh, I'm Koshi’s younger sister," she replied with a warm smile. "I heard so much about all of you from my brother. It's nice to finally meet you!"
Nishinoya's eyes widened in surprise. "Suga's sister? Wow, I didn't even know he had a sister!" he exclaimed.
"Yeah, I'm a year younger than him," she explained, her hand circling the tip of her glass, the alcohol bringing the rosiness out of her cheeks.
Tsuki gazed at the girl seated in-front of him. Truth be told he didn’t really notice her until Nishinoya had said something, but he couldn't help but be intrigued. This girl had a familiar spark about her—maybe it was her smile, or the way she listened so attentively. She seemed to share Suga's kindness and warmth.
Throughout the evening, Tsuki found himself stealing glances at her. he didn’t know what it was, maybe her easy going demeanor, or her smile when she giggled at one of Hinatas dumb jokes. He wasn’t used to looking at someone and not wanting to immediately insult them.
As the night progressed, Tsukki discovered himself engaging in more and more conversation with her. Normally not one to talk much, he was content listening to her stories from high school, her interests, and more.
They hadn’t noticed the time passing until others started saying their farewells and leaving the venue. Amidst the commotion of the crowd, Tsukki momentarily took his eyes off her, and just like that, she vanished. He anxiously scanned the dining room, navigating through the sea of people in search of her.
It was safe to say he was hooked. He wanted nothing more but to be in her presence, and he was starting to give up on that idea, as he spotted Sugawara leaving too. Then, as luck would have it, he turned his head one last time and caught her gaze, smirking up at him through her lashes.
She was tucked away towards the back of the shop near the bathrooms, chatting with Nishinoya, casually leaning against the wall.
"Bye, [name]!" Nishinoya exclaimed, before skipping away in his usual hyper manner. She smiled warmly in response, giving him a lazy wave goodbye.
As Tsukki timidly approached her, he noticed a mischievous smirk on her lips. "Were you looking for me, like a little lost puppy?" she teased, tilting her head to the side with confidence.
His cheeks burned embarrassingly red as he shook his head and muttered a quiet “fuck you." He knew she was right, but he couldn't summon the courage to defend himself properly, especially when she stood up and closed the gap between the two. He could feel the warmth of her breath, tinged with the scent of alcohol, and he could almost feel her breasts press against him.
Avoiding her gaze, he looked away, attempting to maintain his usual stoic expression.
"You're all bark and no bite," she grinned again, grabbing his face to make him meet her gaze. His glasses were perched low on his nose, and he peered at her over them, his breath catching in his throat. The only thing on his mind was how good she looked up close.
She grinned at his hesitation, “I have an uber outside, would you like to come home with me, pretty boy?”
And that’s how Tsukishima found himself in this predicament, kneeling with his very own tie binding his hands.
He grumbled in frustration as he attempted to free his hands from the tie once again. He wanted to appear irritated, not willing to admit the reason why his dick was pressing against his pants at that moment.
But, when she leaned down and planted her foot, encased in sheer stockings, against his groin, he could no longer hide it. His lower lip quivered as a whimper escaped him, his hips instinctively moving to press against her foot.
She sneered at him, increasing the pressure as she spoke, "You will take what I give you, understand?" Her previously kind and gentle demeanor was completely replaced by a more intense and commanding presence. Tears welled up in his eyes as he nodded weakly, trying to maintain his composure in the face of her dominance.
She started to glide her foot up and down the length of his pulsating erection. He could feel the sticky mess seeping into his boxers, the urge to remove them growing stronger by the second.
He couldn't help but utter a desperate "please," a plea that earned him a sadistic smile from her.
"Please what, pretty boy?" She teased, her movements becoming more deliberate against his crotch. He felt his entire body heating up as he craved more stimulation. This was unlike anything he had experienced before, and he was on the brink of making a mess in his dress pants.
He took a deep breath before nervously replying, "Can't you use a little more..." his voice trailed off, unable to meet her gaze. He could feel her seductive eyes fixed solely on him, but he couldn't summon the courage to look at her, knowing that if he did, he might climax right then and there.
"Hmm... We wouldn't want you spoiling those nice pants now, would we?" She questioned, tilting her head slightly with a mischievous smile playing on her lips.
He finally mustered the courage to look up at her and replied with a shaky, "Y-yeah," his eyes reflecting a mix of nervousness and anticipation.
“Why don’t you join me up here then?” She suggested, patting the bed where she sat, a warm invitation in her voice and smile.
He stood up shakily, his hands still bound behind his back, but before he could even take a seat, she pushed him onto his back with a forceful yet gentle motion.
“Be a good toy and let me use you a bit,” she instructed this time, her hands deftly moving towards his zipper with a mischievous gleam in her eyes.
With swift movements, his aching member was now free, proudly displayed on his toned stomach. He couldn't help but let out a gasp at the sensation, feeling a rush of embarrassment as she gazed at him with interest.
"A-are you surprised?" he quipped, trying to sound confident even with a blush covering his ears. But she saw through his facade in an instant, especially when his tip was leaking pre-cum, giving away his nervous excitement like a virgin eager for his first fuck.
She sneered at his comment, biting back without hesitation, "Good toys stay quiet for their owner."
His head fell back in utter embarrassment at her sharp retort. Embarrassed at how his cock twitched she said that. Embarrassed that the second her pussy grazed his sensitive member, his hands instinctively pulled at the tie, his back arching in a desperate, pathetic display of need.
As his cock sank into her wet pussy, he let out the prettiest of moans, feeling a surge of pleasure as his eyes rolled back uncontrollably. Her hips rolled forward against him, causing his member to throb with intense arousal. He couldn't resist raising his hips, wanting to be buried as deeply inside her as possible, lost in the blissful sensation.
It didn't help that every time she raised her hips, just to aggressively slam them down, she whispered filthy things in his ears. Her words sent shivers down his spine and added a delicious layer pleasure to every sensation.
"Cummin'," he would slur, as she rode him through his body-shaking orgasm, but she never stopped. He wanted desperately to caress her soft skin, to cover his mouth to muffle the embarrassing whispers escaping him, but she would giggle at his struggles against the restraints. The sensation of her teasing laughter only added to his pleasure, driving him further into a frenzy of ecstasy as she continued to ride him with relentless abandon.
"Such a good... good toy for me," she panted between breaths, continuing to fuck herself on his raging cock. The natural curve in it, plus the sheer thickness of him, was just too perfect.
She brought two fingers to his lips and clumsily pushed them inside, his tongue swirling desperately around them, seeking distraction from the overwhelming sensations. But her fingers were gone too soon, leaving him wanting more as she pulled them away and pressed them against her sensitive clit. The sight of her pleasuring herself with the very fingers that had been inside him moments before was too much for him.
The sound of her gasps of pleasure as she pleasured herself was torture for him, even though he was still buried deep inside her. He yearned to be the one touching her, driving her wild with desire himself. The sight of her lost in her own pleasure, eliciting those intoxicating sounds from deep within her throat, fueled the fire of desire burning within him. He couldn't help but let out a string of whines, the need to touch her, to bring her to the edge overwhelming his senses.
He had likely cum at least twice, doing everything in his power to muffle his moans, even resorting to biting his lip until it bled. But she did not stop for a second, her relentless pace and intensity driving him wild with desire. The pleasure and the pain mingled together, making hot tears roll down his cheeks.
It seemed his tears only fulled her desire, as her hands made their way to his neck. “You would look so pretty with my hands around your throat.”
It became clear that this night was going to be longer than either of them had expected.
#sub haikyuu#dom reader#haikyu x reader#sub!character#dom!reader#sub character#haikyu smut#haikyu x you#haikyuu#haikyuu fanfiction#tsukishima x y/n#tsukishima smut#tsukishima x reader#haikyuu tsukishima#tsukishima kei#tsukishima fluff#kei tsukishima#hq tsukishima#hq tsukki
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CA: anywway a lot of us believve wwere meant to trace the footsteps of those ancestors evven though wwe can nevver knoww em
CA: and on that journey wwe can come across belongings they once had cause wwe wwere hatched to find em and finish their wwork
The human Guardians seemed fully aware of their offspring's special role in their planet's fate. Doubtless the same was true of the troll ancestors - especially if they landed with heirlooms from the Veil.
If any of our trolls had sought out the story of their predecessors, I'm sure they would have discovered some very interesting things indeed.
For no particular reason, I'm suddenly reminded of the fact that Terezi lived next to an ancient Sgrub construct - one which bore the symbol of her family.
And nothing of value was lost.
That being said, I'm a little concerned about Eridan's ability to do this. This is a move we've seen Rose use on him, and it feels like an ominous hint that his powers are a lot stronger than we thought.
If his science wand is at all comparable to the Thorns of Oglogoth, we should all be very nervous.
Looks like we’re getting a timeline refresher.
At the end of their game, Jack attacked the trolls. This event occurred about ten hours before some critical point, which is probably the moment the trolls' session dissolves.
Four hours later, he destroyed Prospit.
Frankly, I'm surprised it took him that long. Maybe he was just fucking around in the session until then.
After an hour dreaming in the Furthest Ring, Karkat woke up, and finally learned about the humans.
And an hour after that, we enter a scene I don’t think we’ve seen before. Judging by Nepeta's dream, we at least know it's prior to the destruction of Derse.
Also….
Is that Tinkerbull's body, somehow removed from its Sprite? Is it a plushie of Tinkerbull? What's going on here?
AA: hi
TA: hii?
AA: i guess i sh0uld say s0mething
AA: bef0re i g0
Aradia appears to have foreseen her own destruction. I used to think that Rose might be responsible - but now Eridan, too, has gained the ability to destroy technology with magic, and he's significantly more likely to use it maliciously.
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WHO AM I??
Hi baby
I’m going to talk a little bit about myself
I don’t wanna reveal too much
My face and everything else will remain anonymous for safety and privacy💕
Name:
My name is Honey(yes this is my birth name lol)
You can call me by my name or honeybee
Or even honeycomb
Do NOT call me beehive 😡
Unless it’s related to Beyoncè💕
Age: 23
Topics:
I discuss the void state, Law of assumption,Reality Shifting (I haven’t talked about this yet but will if you need more info)
And All kinds of Manifestation methods
How to talk to Honey!!!
Just dm me any questions I don’t take asks anymore so if you have any questions just feel free to dm me
Ethnicity/Nationality
My mom is Afro Peruvian, Indian,and Haitian
My dad is Jamaican
Sooo
I’m black hehe🤟🏾
I don’t do these I’m super private it’s soooo weird omg
What do I like??
Music food animals
Did I say music because
MUSIC!!!!!!
My favorite artists
I love all kinds of music
Even death metal occasionally
I like Harry Styles,Kid Cudi,Lady Gaga The Beatles,Ice Spice and many moreeeee
I also love movies
Literally almost any kind
But anyways
Let’s talk about something more interesting!!
Now that you know me(kind of)
I want you to know about this technique I discovered
It’s not new at all
In fact ppl on here have already talked about it I’m just late
As usual 😔
Anywayyyyyy
There’s a technique I want you all to try
It’s called the
“Wim hof breathing”
Method
No methods are needed But if you really want one
Then here you go pookie
(Found this on a website but it won’t let me copy the link😔)
WIM HOF BREATHING METHOD
Find a comfortable position.
Breathe in deeply through the nose or mouth and through the belly to the chest. Then let the breath go unforced.
Exhale through the mouth, then immediately breathe in again.
Take 30–40 such breaths in short bursts.
Take one final, deep inhalation then let the air out and stop inhaling. Hold the breath until you feel the urge to breathe again.
Inhale very deeply to full capacity and hold for 15 seconds, then let it go. This completes the first round.
Repeat the whole process, steps #2-6, 3-4 times.
After completion take time to meditate and enjoy the state of deep relaxation
After the very last step you should be a deep trance like state you should be really relaxed
I recommend that you let your next subliminal play
Which should be
Either a theta or epilson wave track or pink noise
Make sure your desired subliminal that plays after is Not a guided meditation you wanna still be in a trance
Start affirming in that point
And don’t stop
Just feel how relaxed you are feel that powerless body but powerful mind
Your body is at ease your soul and mind collide in such ways that allows you to breathe freely without any stress no harm
In the void state
Your main goal should be getting peace
Because if you’re entering just affirm
You’ll likely put it on a pedestal you’ll get frustrated and give up
It is not a wish granter bitch
It’s you
Baby you are powerful
Baby you are pretty
Baby you can tap in the void
And make the bring the 4D to your 3D and make it your home
Don’t use the void as a wish granter
Use it for peace
Don’t treat the 3D like the enemy
Treat it like a friend
After all it exists the way it does because of your assumptions
Whether you say this is hard or this is easy
Sugar, you’re right either way
Because if you assume something then that’s how it’ll be
If you think you’re pretty you’re pretty
But if you think you’re broke
Then you’re broke
If you think you’re rich
Then you’re rich baby
You could have wings
Superpowers
Be the biggest singer or rapper in the world
Star in the next Dune Movie
Be best friends with Ariana Grande
Be a Scientist
Be smarter than Albert Einstein(I mean was he actually super intelligent if he lacked common sense)
You could be get a bigger butt!!
I mean didn’t necessarily have a pancake ass
But I definitely didn’t have a Nicki Minaj
BUT I DO NOW!!!!
And bestie you can too!
Plastic surgery who???
Do we look like a Kardashian-Jenner?? I think the f not🙄
The void is our plastic surgeon
You wanna a smaller nose?
Got it
Tig ole biddies?
Got it
Nicki Minaj butt?
Got it
Floor length hair?
Got it?
Whatever you want to change about yourself
Got it!
And for the last time babies
You ALWAYS ENTER THE VOID EVERYTIME YOU SLEEP
Mentally just be
Physically sleep
In that moment baby
Forget the 3D and its fuck ass bob
Because the 3Ds not your enemy but its your puppet
You’re a ventriloquist CONTROL THAT MF
The 4D is you
The void is you
Quit saying what you can’t do babe
You CAN BECAUSE YOU ALREADY DID AND YOU STILL DO
“HoNEy I StiLL didNT gET inTO tHe vOiD”
YES YOU DID!!!!!!
You did it
You just didn’t know
Bro the void is just recognizing you’re asleep
And getting in contact with your mind
Which is where you already go when you go to sleep
So ha
Billie
There’s your answer
When we fall asleep
That’s where we go
The mf Void State
The only thing your cute ass has to do baby
Is just be aware
When Neville Goddard says just “BE”
Bitch just BE
That’s it
Be aware
Like that SpongeBob episode
“Be the crane”
Be the Void
It’s just you love
So why you stressing
Why complicate something YOU created?!
Baby girl make it make sense
Own your power bitch
I love you My darlings
Month is almost over
Bring me my success stories
Or I’ll be your sleep paralysis demon 😈
(Just kidding)
Or am I;)
NOW BITCH LOOK!!!!
YAYYYY
Imma keep pressuring you to listen to this(NOTE YOU DO NOT NEED SUBLIMINALS)
But I like this one🫠
Wrong emoji
I can’t find that cute one at the moment I’m rushing cuz I wanna eat my burger!
SLADE:
https://youtu.be/oKU8YIicYQg?feature=shared
THIS
because it’s soooo peaceful
Slade is the best
BYE BITCH GO GET THAT DREAM LIFE NOW!!!
I love you ⭐️💕
youtube
#law of assumption#law of attraction#void state#void#law of manifestation#manifesting#manifesation#subliminals#loassblog#loassumption#reality shift#desired reality#reality shifting#dream life#desired life#loablr#loa success#loa blog#loa tumblr#law of the universe#manifesting affirm and persist#robotically affirming#affirm and persist#affirmation#meditating#guided meditation#meditation#void success#Youtube
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Waxing, Waning, My Unraveled Body Beheld By the Moon [Yan!Aventurine x GN!Reader]
The sun is not always shining. But the moon can only shine because of the sun.
A companion piece to Sunrise, Sunset, My Destroyed Body in the Onset. This fic assumes you've read it, so I heavily recommend you read it first before reading this. It'll make more sense if you do.
Ao3
Word count: 15.4k
TW: Implied/referenced noncon, suicidal thoughts, suicide attempt, mild gore, violence against reader, choking/strangulation, Stockholm syndrome, Aventurine's Past shows up, EXTREME tonal whiplash due to the beginning (but frankly it's so you can brace yourselves...the calm before the storm), Reader needs a hug, Ratio where are you my man needs therapy NOW, twisted "happy endings" my beloved
Note: This got so out of hand. Aventurine is the most potent brain worm I've had in a while. Poor reader though. They used to be such a cringefail, now they're a poor little meow meow 😔
(Written before 2.2)
You stand on the top of a tower.
It’s a modest and small thing, but every second and breath you’ve taken is in its service. Time is its mortar, and actions are its bricks. It is stable, for you’ve built it straight up; a wide and strong base, with little deviation. If it had a shaky foundation, then you wouldn’t even bother.
You have no plans to construct it into something grandiose and spectacular. It’s best to keep your ambitions realistic, for it is so very easy to use and dispose of those with dreams bigger than themselves and small enough to be crushed in the palms of those atop skyscrapers. Your tower is modest, and you will keep it that way. You will have to become a cog in the machine for that to happen, but you can meagerly control the stability of your cog.
It is cruel that it has to be that way, but you aren’t capable enough to change the way things are done. You might as well make the most out of this.
You know this song and dance, by now. The park is closed at this time of night, but, and it might be your greatest achievement of them all, you found a way to sneak in undetected. Granted, there wasn’t anyone to stop you, but you were always good at being quiet, so rarely are you noticed.
You park your bike, well hidden in the bushes and trees. This is the noisiest part of your visit since the bike is heavy and you can’t suppress your soft grunts as you weasel it into its spot. But it’s worth it. After that, you walk along the trail, and when you’re far enough away, you stop trying to silence your steps and enjoy the sound of your boots falling onto dirt. It’s a soft but firm sound, and it brings you a sense of peace. You hike until you reach it. A little trail to the side; few sets of feet have paved the dirt, and even those who decide to pursue it usually turn back at the impenetrable foliage. But, you know there’s a stop. It’s tucked away, discovered by a much younger and adventurous you. You’re not sure if you found this place because you wanted to pretend to be a fairy princess or a heroic knight who saves the princess, or if you might’ve always been a little bit lonely. Whatever the case, you found this place, and it has since been your reprieve whenever things become too much.
You know the area like the back of your hand, so you turn off your phone’s flashlight as you make your way. It’s a small clearing of forest, but it’s perfect. Bushes and trees surround you in a half-circle from behind, and in front of you is the ledge of a cliff. From here, the sky has a clear view and it is always lovely whenever there’s a sunrise or sunset. Sometimes, when your mind wanders, you wonder how long you’d fall if you tripped over the ledge. But those are just musings you have no intention of acting on.
The moon does not grace you with its shine, but that’s alright. You’re here to see it shine on everything else. You’ll bask in the darkness, and admire the silver sheen on the rest of the world; the world which gets a fraction of the sun, even at night. You settle into your spot against the tree trunk, shaped so it nearly encircles you in its embrace. A silly thought crosses your mind: has this tree loved you? Of course not, but it’s just that: a silly little thought.
You’re not here for any especially soul-crushing reason or anything. It’s the usual: schoolwork ramping up and deadlines creeping up. And the accompanying existentialism of what comes after. It’s just another peaceful night during a stressful time. It will soothe your soul, the comfort within shall ebb and flow, and then it will all fade away when you’ve returned to the world blanketed in the sun’s golden sheen. When it all piles up again, you know you can always come back here: your special place, where you can curl into yourself as much as you want to. And as always, you will fight the urge—so tiny that it’s insignificant but still so omnipresent—to sink your head fully into your stomach and become a mass of unthinking flesh. Becoming smaller and smaller until you aren’t even a speck.
The wind picks up. The cold doesn’t bother you much, but your so human, and instinct propels you into nuzzling into your cotton scarf. It does mean you have to wash it often, but the inconvenience outweighs the comfort it provides. Yes, tonight will be a lovely one, spent doing nothing but staring at the moon from the shadows, alone with your thoughts and nocturnal critters that may tussle in the shrubbery. You hear a series of quick rustles—squirrels, maybe? Two of them, considering the frequency of rustling and the fact that it’s their mating season (well, you’re pretty sure spring is mating season. It could be wrong, but it’s useless trivia anyway, isn’t it? In the back of your mind, you imagine someone berating you). Another rustle plays, and you sigh wistfully. And then—
“…Hello,” A voice, shrewd and low sounds out.
Ink makes your vision go black and the only reason you don’t gasp or scream is because you’ve always froze before you ran. But even if you were a runner, where was there to go? You don’t know who this person is, where they are, why they are in your special place and why they’ve come here like a malicious boy kicking down a toddler’s sand castle or could they be here to prevent you from ever coming back to your special—
You swallow your panic and look for an exit before it forces itself back up. It’s not the first time someone’s noticed you, but you never really had to worry; you could just slip into here, and they’d give up when you couldn’t be found. But this is uncharted territory. More importantly, if anyone else were to know about this place, it would be a ranger. And you aren’t very interested in counting empty donut boxes and coffee cups during a run-of-the-mill interrogation.
Slowly, and as quietly as you can, you make your move. Your hands are clammy, and each step feels like it will cause the earth to crack and you’ll fall into its molten core. You’ll be melted down, and the idea that you may be reforged sends another surge of panic within you. You cannot let a single brick crack.
“I’m not here to hurt you if that’s what you’re thinking,” the voice says, much much much closer now. The words themselves should be of relief to you, but the fact that he’s closer means he knows where you are—in fact when you turn to look behind you, you can see a vague silhouette. Still, the few seconds you took to turn around also made it so that rather than relief and panic nulling each other, somewhat cool relief washed over you. Even if this entire situation is very, very, very weird.
Should you just leave? He could just be lying to you. You weren’t great at figuring out people’s intentions, but you’d think that the most likely one in this situation leaned toward the malicious. However, you didn’t even notice his existence until he spoke. The fact that at the very least, he could weave through mostly undetected. If he could do that, then you think it’s not very likely you can just get away.
You accept that defeat, so you decide to do something a little stupid. You talk to the stranger. In the event he’s a serial killer or something, maybe a conversation will let you get a good enough handle on him that he might just…let you go. Your heart hammers and you want to do nothing but shake, but you will yourself into a blizzard. If you are there, then you might be able to freeze and delay the ink that begins to drip.
“I’m pretty shocked,” you mutter. Your voice is still a bit disconnected, still reeling, “I’ve never met someone here. How’d you find this place? Why’d you come to this place?” You ask these questions, and you won’t mind dying as much if they’re answered.
“Work,” he cryptically says. You just barely pick up on a sardonic lilt.
“So you’re a park ranger,” you deflate, and you nuzzle into your scarf as you brace yourself. But levity is powerful, and you’ll tap into it. “Here to arrest little ol’ me, then? You could’ve waited, at least until the moon started to dip. It’s a pretty solid night, methinks.” Your heart feels a little numb from hammering into your ribs so much.
The ranger hums, “Moon’s the moon. It’s not bad, but the sun’s always pretty nice. But you’re right. It would’ve been better to wait till the sunrise. Alas, my schedule as of late has been a horribly rigid thing. I’m sure you know how it is.”
“Hmph,” you frown. It feels like he’s a cat playing with a mouse. You sigh with defeat, “Oh well. I’m not exactly known for being slippery, so I’m not even going to try and outrun a ranger of all people,” you extend your hand lazily, “Just get the cuffs already,” you decide to pout, to turn the situation around to something more comical and less soul-crushing, “Any longer, and the suspense’ll bury me six feet under. The records might call that cardiac arrest, but I call it embarrassing—the thought of dying like that is a real heartstopper.” Ha, look at you! A true punster, you little rascal. There is no reason for you to defame or attack a guy just doing his job, so if you go down, you’ll at least go down with a slow-witted joke or two. Across from you is a law-abiding Joe, and you are the evil thief mothers warn their children about. Truly, it cannot be more black and white than this, so it’s best for everyone that you don’t make too much of a fuss. See? You are capable of ethics! Or maybe that was more like philosophy? Eh, what’s the difference? You’re still fucked, and you very much want to die.
“Arrest you?” The ranger’s voice teeters toward, um…you think it’s some mix of sarcastic, mocking, and—oh wait, you’d call it ‘teasing.’ “Do you want to be arrested?” He teases, but it feels like the way an owner would talk down to a beloved puppy. You don’t appreciate it.
You frown. “No. Why would I want to be arrested?” You deadpan, “Can you please stop skirting around the issue?” More ink blots your sight, as your palms start to clam with unwanted anticipation. You think they could be gushing with your blood, if this guy keeps dragging your arrest out like this.
The ranger laughs. Laughs. You aren’t sure if you want to join him or shove him off the cliff. Whatever the case, now you know that there is a nonzero chance this ranger has a bit of a sadistic streak. Instinctively, you take a few steps back, as if that could save you from disaster, from plummeting over the edge of your tower.
“…Please tell me you aren’t planning anything…” The words you were thinking of saying suddenly elude you, but you���re already speaking. You have no choice but to see what haphazard replacements you make, “…goofy silly. Or something.”
The ranger clicks his tongue. It seems he’s fully dipped into a playful veneer; whether that’s his true self, or the mask he thinks you’ll best respond to in the way he wants, it nudges you a little further to the edge. You defensively nuzzle into your scarf, trying but failing to calm your nerves. You’ll give yourself one point, though: you thought you’d be more inclined to be screaming or crying. That’s probably because you are technically doing something illegal, so there’s really no one but yourself to blame for this predicament. Really, why do you still come here like this, when you know it’s against the rules? It’s not the first time you’ve asked yourself that question, but it’s certainly the first time it feels sort of tangible.
“‘Goofy silly?’” The words seem all at once perfect and dubious when carried in the ranger’s voice, “Hm…you know what? I do feel like I’m in a ‘goofy silly’ mood!”
Oh. Well, guess you’re double fucked. It was a good life, the clean record, you suppose. But what is life if not change? You’re entering a new era now, hardened criminal you. Crime will be your lifeblood; anything scared shall disintegrate into something depraved at your touch. You’ll do it all: tax evasion, defamation, shoplifting, parking offenses. Society will not be free of your crime sprees—all will fear the Suburban Terror. Karens will cower before you, the neighbors will hate you, the teenagers will prank you, and the children will scream with fear at you. All because the consequences of your actions caught up with you at the behest of the actions of some guy who just so happens to be able to arrest you.
“So, about that arresting,” the ranger continues, “I won’t be doing that!” he peps.
Everything stands in place. “What?”
“I’m not gonna arrest you!”
“W-well, I heard that,” you stammer, “but why? You literally said you’re here for work!”
You can practically sense the ranger’s lighthearted shrug, “I am. And I’m not arresting you. Simple as that!”
Everything feels like it's going too fast and too slowly. Whiplash isn’t good for the soul, in your opinion. “But…but the law…”
“Who said the law needs to be followed?”
“The government and state…” and then something clicks, “Hey, if you’re a park ranger, then aren’t you working for the government? Is this corruption?”
You imagine the ranger smirks. “What is corruption but a tool of the game?”
“What does that have to do with this conversation?” You find yourself deadpanning. “And why aren’t you answering?”
“Life’s a game,” he breezily purrs, “and conversation is a part of life, so really, it has everything to do with this conversation.”
“I think I’d rather go through a physics textbook than deconstruct that sentence,” but you find yourself smiling. The ranger has a good sense of humor, you find. You take a few more steps, no longer teetering on the edge. In the back of your mind, you think that he could just be lowering your guard, but honestly? Maybe you shouldn’t doubt a person’s goodwill, even if it’s technically illegal. Well, you don’t care about what’s illegal and not; if hairless monkeys with godless monkey brains are imperfect, then the things they make are imperfect too. Regardless…you don’t know his face, and he doesn’t know yours either. In other words, you’re both complete strangers. If you ever meet each other, you won’t even recognize each other, won’t ever truly register each other’s existence outside this singular shared moment.
That anonymity, the opportunity to exist without future consequence…it entices you, and you’re drawn into it. Drawn into levity and shedding your superficial guard.
“Careful, you might insult a doctor of physics or two,” the ranger says with an insinuating lilt. Perhaps he knows a physicist or a student suffering with their doctorate thesis. Information that is all at once useful and impeccably useless. “You might just get a piece of chalk lodged in your skull.”
You shrug. “I’m living my best life while they’re stressing over the mechanics of a rat yawning and how that like. Affects the physics of the air or something.”
That gets a soft huff, like he breathed out a laugh, “I say that too, but then he starts going on about quantum mechanics and wormholes…probably a lot more than that, but the stuff’s so incomprehensible I tune out.”
“Your friend sounds…well, like a scientist,” you unceremoniously blurt. “Sure, they’re called nerds, but for good reason. They can talk your ear off, all the while you nod without understanding a single thing…and then they sigh to go talk to someone who actually knows what they’re talking about.”
“‘Talk your ear off’ is a bit of an understatement,” the ranger says, “though I think it’s better to say ‘gives a tongue-lashing.’”
You wince at the image. “Oof. Sorry about that.”
“I’m used to it,” the stranger says. “Besides, I have a quip or two to throw back.”
“Oh.” You aren’t sure how to react. “That…that sucks.”
“‘That sucks?’” his tone isn’t accusatory; it’s curious, with a hint of what you believe is wariness.
It flusters you a bit, for some reason. “W-well,” you stammer, “if you’re used to it, then that means you get, uh, ‘tongue-lashings’ a ton, right? I don’t think people should be getting a ton of tongue-lashings…”
“But what if I do things that deserve a tongue-lashing?”
“Well, then you’d get a tongue-lashing. But, I dunno. I don’t think people should be mean to each other all the time, I guess,” you try, practically rambling, “Maybe it’s just cuz I know I’d just be on the floor in a sobbing heap if someone so much as raised their voice at me…but…but…w-well, you know what I mean!” You raise your hands, making desperate gestures as if you could telepathically communicate with them. Unfortunately, you do not live in a sci-fi with magical reality-bending wizard monk powers, not unless you devote yourself to a singular concept. “There’s always plenty of room for, um. Positive reinforcement, yeah! In fact, let’s practice!” Shit, your cheeks are heating and at this point you’re just incoherently blabbering but now that you’ve started you just can’t stop oh dear Aeons save you— “Uh…you…you follow your heart! By choosing not to arrest me out of…out of principle or, or, or pity…um, well, point is, you have defied the law of your own choosing, which is a pretty uh, gr~eat show of your super strong will! Your beliefs! They say within all delinquents lies a heart of gold, after all! And you know how to be sneak of super! I mean sneak super! I mean super sneak! Urgh, I mean suppppperrrrrrr sneaky. And I bet that’s really nice and I know that’s really cool! It’s a super power on par with that of uh. Uh. An Aeon? Yeah, an Aeon!”
You’ve lost your steam, and now you’re left blinking. The embarrassment flusters you, and now you’re something in between a fish being choked in the hand of a cruel fisherman and a wonderfully eloquent failing car engine. You truly are the epitome of grace and elegance. There was no way the ranger wasn’t at least cringing. Maybe he’d change his mind and just arrest you; after all, how else to fix cringe if not rehabilitate it? Well, if he did arrest you over this, you’d be back to haunt him with like, cheese, or something. You’d jump that hurdle when you got there.
Hm…but you think you kind of wanna crawl into a hole and die…but that expression is too cliche, so instead, you think you wanna crawl into a hole and start a society of mole people. It’ll be like LARPing, except you wouldn’t be role-playing! …Actually, yeah…someone should just kill you right now before you start to laugh and then cry as your embarrassment transitions into self-conscious despair……..that’s how it usually went when you got like this….
It’s a good thing you can’t be seen.
You think the ranger will laugh, stand in baffled silence, mock you, or just walk away, but he chuckles. “Hmmm…you know, I could get used to this; hearing people stumble over their words to compliment me!”
You’re a little dumbfounded, but you’re decent enough at rolling with the punches. You can come up with a headcanon or two on the spot. “Yeah! That’s the spirit! Now that’s what I call some good old-fashioned character development!”
He lets out a soft whistle, “That so? What trope would you say I embody, out of curiosity?”
“Hm…” you tap your chin in thought. You’re in a forest, and there’s a moon, and you get an award-winning idea. “Maybe…hrmmmm…a mysterious vampire, here to whisk the unassuming protagonist away to a forbidden romance, sustaining your very being on their essence…”
“Oh? Am I really that charming even without a face?” He teases.
You laugh. “Well, you are pretty charming, but I was just kidding. I couldn’t just let that opportunity slip away,” your laugh calms into a soft chuckle. “No, I’d say…a mysterious stranger, with a past unearthed and a charming veneer, but beneath it all lay an affable man…who may or may not heed the word of law.” Sure, it’s cheesy, but you don’t care about if he likes cheese or not. You like cheese, and that’s all that matters in this cruel world! If the world doesn’t like that, it can kiss your ass! (You think all of the is while very aware that the world can just as easily kick your ass)
“So…you’re just saying you don’t have a single clue about what my deal is.”
You feel a little offended. In hindsight, maybe you wouldn’t have been great at terrorizing Karens. “I mean, I’ve only known you for like, half an hour. All that I know about right now is that you’re some flavor of anarchist. Probably. Maybe.” But the same applies to him! He knows nothing about you! “But if you’re so confident, then it’s time to prove your mettle!” You point towards him challengingly, even though again, he cannot see you, “You tell me what character trope I am!” (And you briefly realize that you feel light and happy, that your smile is wide)
And at that moment, just at the cusp of truly extraordinary conversation (a claim which may or may not be exaggerated), an annoying thing happens. Your phone vibrates and your screen lights up; your alarm has gone off. Your phone always has the best timing, and you don’t want to scream at it and crush its sorry little body into itty bitty pieces.
“Oh…” you awkwardly exclaim. You’re wearing a light jacket, so the ranger can see the soft glow just as you do. “That’s…yeah, that’s sorta…alarm. Yeah. It’s my alarm. Not me alerting the IPC or the CFSS or something. I…have to go.”
“I see,” the ranger’s voice is light and airy, entirely unaffected. “A shame. I really did enjoy our conversation.” Your mind tells you it’s all empty, but your heart is aching to soar to heights unseen. Because you are only human, those with lone hearts die first.
You want to ignore it so badly, to just converse with this ranger a little bit longer but…but you really can’t. You must abide by it if you want to mitigate your suffering in the morning (re: you’ve run out of energy drinks and coffee at home and it’ll be hell to start your morning without slugging around like a zombie). And just like that, the ranger and your conversation will fizzle away into a distant memory. And you’ll still live, the same as you’ve ever been. And because you’re both strangers, there is no reason to ask each other for anything. Because if you do, then you will both have to live with the consequences of your words. And who knows? Maybe the ranger has only spared you this night because he was in a good mood. Maybe he won’t be so affable the next time you meet.
But there’s something to it. Some allure—no, the same allure of your special place. So you offer something, and you think your face might melt off, with how your cheeks fluster to the point its searing.
“...I come to this place a lot. It’s like…my special little place,” you awkwardly offer. “If…if you were curious about that, er, sorta thing. Yeah. Bye, have a good night.” You stutter awkwardly, stiffly and uncertain. And then you walk away, simultaneously desiring and afraid of hearing what his response to that would be. Of having your fear being validated with rejection.
If there was one moment you could point to that sealed your fate, it wouldn’t have been that conversation by a longshot, nor was it your second, third, tenth, or even your final conversation before he revealed himself to you; it was your offer. After all, people only think fate is immediate whenever it comes to hit them straight in the face. In truth, fate is gradual, of many bricks stacking up into a skyscraper. That offer led you to swim in ink; to traipse into fields of cotton; to weather against frozen infernos; and then finally, to dance in a flowering meadow, your feet raw and bleeding, sanded against the soft blades of poison ivy and oak.
—
He sees you’re on the balcony.
(Only right after when he woke up and felt that you weren’t in his arms and nearly tore apart everything and anything with a scream and that you were gone and had left him like everyone else—)
He’s rather taken aback by this. He was sure you wouldn’t even be able stand come the dawn. But you still unwittingly find ways to surprise him even now. You should really give yourself a pat on the back! Even if it seems like you’re leaning onto the railing for dear life.
The moon covers you in its silken silver sheen. The breeze tussles your hair and makes your robes softly billow. It’s a heart-throbbing serenity, and he finds an iota of respect within him to make his ambush on you gentle. You’ll squeak, pout, insult him, banter, and hiss before you resign and then he can hold you in peace. It’s a predictable song and dance, but he hasn’t tired of it. Seems even he can surprise himself.
(But oh, it’s because it’s something resembling something warm which has become so familiar…and a sturdy rock he can hold onto)
The smile spreads on his face easily (but whenever he’s around you, it’s a little less weighted, a little less about pitiful survival), “Sick of me already?” he adopts his signature lilt, albeit weighed by sleep, as his arms encircle your form. “We’ve only been a couple for a few of months.” You squeak, comically so, and violently flinch as he settles his head in the crook of your neck. Your reaction almost immediately invigorates him, like he’s wide awake in the sun. Your heart rate beats more rapidly, but your tensed muscles relax, just a little. You’ve been practicing, he thinks, to lessen your own burden rather than increase his pleasure. Maybe there’ll come a time when you can mold yourself however you please, and he’ll be none the wiser in your embrace when your hand snakes into his back.
(Don’t do that. Please, he just asks that you melt in his touch, melt right into him and stay—)
He inhales—his chest expanding into your back, and he feels your own breath hitch as if it slices into you—taking in your scent, all at once overwhelming and (newly) customary. A pungent ink comes to burn his nose at first, but underneath it comes moonlit snow, fresh and cool; dancing within a floral and earthy aroma, a dusty cedar scent with wilting flowers; and the afternotes of a decaying musk, passionate and vying for an end. He hums in appreciation, exhaling with contentment. You shudder in disgust because it’s him and you still aren’t used to the way his breath feathers and scratches your skin, over the bits of dried blood speckled over your neck.
“Aw, nuts…” you softly curse, but there’s no surprise to be found. Your words are laced with sleep, but there’s something else to them, he’s noticed. Your words still drip with vitriol (though it’s always been measured with ink, and it makes him purr in delight and it makes him feel even more empty—), but they’ve gotten softer, for lack of a better word. Exhausted, the same way one is when they’ve walked through a blizzard or sandstorm for long enough. How one gets frozen in the bowels of hell’s fires, or how one burns in solitary inferno in the frigid arctic.
And still, you haven’t reached your limit and killed him.
Surprisingly, you turn to face him, and he turns down the urge to lean in and kiss you. For now, at least. He’ll take it when you’ve said your piece.
You probably think yourself expressionless, but there’s a certain way your mouth subconsciously curls in displeasure like you want to scream or vomit your organs. Your eyes can host anything from enraged clarity to dull acceptance. The latter has only appeared a few times, but he anticipates that it will be a common sight as the months pass by. He wipes that look from his mind, and smiles wide as he looks intently into your eyes. The scent of ink burns his sinuses. Right now, your eyes are exhausted, disgusted, and a touch confused; nothing he isn’t used to. His smile goes soft, for he is more than willing to swallow poison you gift him. And as lovers, you’ll have to reciprocate, won’t you?
(Stop. Let him apply thinner to that ink, let him wash it all away and please please stop drowning in it)
“I was sick of you the moment you revealed yourself as the orchestrator.” you bluntly say, as if it’s an obvious fact—and it is—and for a moment he feels like he’s touching ice. You shake your head and sigh, looking back to the moon. You don’t want to discuss the matter, so you move on to another. “I just woke up and couldn’t go back to sleep. It’s nothing personal. Happens all the time.”
“‘All the time?’” He echoes and slides his hand into one of yours, where you lean on your arms against the railing. Your hands have been clamming; gosh, he really was something, to get you so worked up in a matter of minutes! His self-restraint is already on a thread when it comes to you. He gives in and gives you a chaste peck. Your lips slightly pucker with disgust, like you’ve sucked on a rancid lemon. But the kiss was meant to be brief, so that’s not an issue he’s too hung up on in the moment. He’ll just work on it with you, later. He trusts that you’ll cooperate, anyway.
(That you do not immediately hurl in his mere presence is miracle enough. He’ll take what he can get, and work from there. That’s how he got here)
He tilts his head boyishly and gives your cheek a playful pinch, “I mean…lately, you’ve been able to fall asleep without medicine—” your eyes widen and your cheeks flush as you’re caught off guard—but he doesn’t cut open your stomach or slice at your ribs to let your own body be the weapon which kills you—and he’s, his goal is always to win, but that doesn’t mean you have to fight. Right now, he’s merely having a heart-to-heart with you, sweetheart. So he doesn’t bother to point out the red on your cheeks, because he knows you hate it. Knows you understand it on a logical basis but still hate it so, so, so deeply and intricately. He doesn’t mind pushing you, but he would rather not see you bashing your head on the wall, crushing your skull and mind into lumps of grounded flesh, to try and ‘fix’ it. He sees that you’re mentally dismembering yourself when you locate the opening you gave him anyway. He doesn’t really need to try with you sometimes; it’s not an insult, it’s the truth, and he still loves you so very much. “These nighttime stirrings of yours aren’t going to be the norm, you know. If you’re able to fall asleep in my arms once, you can do so twice.”
Your eyes flit through a captivating kaleidoscope of disgust, intrigue, disgust again, pungent ink, and then victorious confusion. You scoff, but you don’t entirely deny what he said. “Waking up in he middle of the night and not falling asleep is a common thing. You shouldn’t misconstrue these sorta things y’know. Makes you seem desperate.”
“‘Desperate?’ Coming from you, should I consider that bonafide or just another desperate act?”
You frown. “I was only desperate because of you. The shit you pulled gave me no other choice.”
“Really?” He smirks, letting out a mocking huff, “You weren’t desperate before that?”
You scoff. “If you’re talking about school, then fine, I guess I was desperate to graduate as soon as possible.”
“Errr,” he mimics a buzzer, “two strikes.”
“Are you just projecting?”
“Make that three.”
“Bruh.” You deadpan. You’re quite amazing to be able to momentarily take yourself out of reality, he muses. “I’m not desperate,” you insist, practically hissing the words.
(He’s a bit jealous)
“If you weren’t desperate, then why’d you blindly befriend someone whose face you didn’t even know?”
“…I don’t know my online friends’ faces,” you weakly respond. You’ve conceded, and all you did was for show. For him or for you or for you both. He’s not sure either.
“Alright,” he pretends to concede, “Putting aside that they could just trace your information and learn everything about you…” his hand strokes your neck, goosebumps blazing in its wake, “They wouldn’t have been able to just…snap your neck, with you none the wiser,” He presses a kiss to your uneven pulse with a soft huff of laughter.
“It’s not like I didn’t think that,” you shoot back, “I figured at the time that if you could sneak up on me like that, then I’d be helpless to your whims.”
“Ah, but then…you offered me something: another night, in your special place, underneath the moon…who’s to say that I wouldn’t have been able to carry out any malicious actions? To continue to gain your trust and then stab you in the back?”
You frown. “Well…I…”
“Cat caught your tongue? Well, as I’ve said, the word you’re looking for is ‘desperate.’”
You swallow, and then you say, meekly, softly, like your voice is about to crack, “…I guess. And in the end, you did stab me in the back.”
He did, it’s true. That same iota of respect emerges, which makes him gently kiss you instead of speaking. Anything he’d say would only dampen your mood. You both may know about how disposable—
(Yet when it comes to you, something unpleasant twists his tongue, whenever he calls you disposable and he can’t truly come to vocalize such a statement)
—the two of you are. Nothing more than dots in the universe, nothing more than pawns in another’s game. The hand that moves him is the IPC, and it’s only natural he’s found a pawn of his own: you. Even if you’re not particularly valuable on the grand chessboard.
[Do you even want them on the chessboard in the first place?]
“I’ll make it up to you,” he promises. But you don’t believe him.
“You can make it up to me by never showing your face to me.” Ice encases his hands, stabbing into him; but it also roots him right at his spot. He is unused to the ice’s painful cold, but for as much as it is a deterrent, ice has a tendency to trap.
“Hmmm…how about no?”
“You half-ass…” You groan, tired and defeated. He feels a thread fall. “Seriously, people like you who use others to make promises you can’t and don’t keep are just…well, you know just how much you disgust me.”
(But he admits. He admits that your vitriol is tiring. He admits that he wants to hear you whisper in his ear, the same way he does to you, that he wants you to harbor the same carnal adoration he has for you—that he wants you to tear into him and expose him and then kiss and embrace him and that he wants to feast on you devour you consume you infuse you with his heart and soul so that he knows you’re here and will always be h—)
His jaw expands and closes down. Blood spreads along his tongue like wine, bitter, salty, metallic, and well-aged. You let out a scream of pain, and he only bites harder so that he burns himself into your skin to prove that he has you and that he is hu—
“Ah—ow…ow ow ow owwww—” you hiss, muddied by a sob, “W-why…?” You whimper, “When you already—AH!” His mind is blank, excited by the sweet flesh, only focused on devo—
“S-s-stop! Please!” You beg, and he feels you struggle uselessly, “H-hurts! I-I, what d-did I do to—?! Gh!”
Satisfaction and triumph weave into him. Your screams mean you’re here, means he’s carved himself into you, means he’s indulging in wine.
(But that’s a bit of a leap. He wishes he was as calculated as he makes himself out in front of you when it comes to you)
He pulls away. You breathe laboriously, looking at him with hate and terror, cradling your weeping neck with your hand. You aren’t completely exhausted, but he has made you even wearier if such a thing was possible. “Sorry,” he emptily apologizes, and presses a soft kiss to irritated skin, before moving on to your tears. Blood quickly smears your skin.
You growl, the pain making way for your unfiltered words. “You keep doing it, and it’s always so fucking painful.”
“It doesn’t help with how irresistible you are, sweetheart,” he smiles, and you bristle. “You know it’s because I love you,” he says, to rile you up a little. It helps that he means it.
(So you don’t notice the fact that he was in a hypnotic daze)
“‘Love.’” Your voice shakes. Your eyes are wide, angry, disbelieving, and blank.
“Yep.”
You shake slightly with anger. “Eat shit.” You spit. “Whatever the fuck this is, don’t call it that. Don’t you dare twist that word like that.”
He blinks. It’s not the first time you’ve lashed out over the word or the admission, but he still doesn’t quite know how to answer you. He settles, then, for what he’s always said. “Then what is it?”
“I don’t know. Obsession. Hate. Sadism. Loneliness. Whatever it’s called, it’s one hell of an insatiable beast. All that matters is that it’s hurting me.” You grunt, and bury your face into your hand, sighing blearily. “It’s late. Let’s…let’s not,” you exhale, tired, “Let’s not,” you repeat as if it were all a hopeless prayer. It might be more fitting to see you as a beggar, however. Leave me alone, you beg. Get buried beneath the sands already you Sigo—
“Why don’t you come back to bed?” he softly mutters, gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear, and presses a kiss to your cheek. The lingering blood on his lips blossoms into a weeping flower, a venomous and invasive species. They can be found throughout your skin, dried and wilting, but they’ll always blossom back. “You can sleep in.” Translation: he’ll still wake you up, but only for a kiss before heading to work. Though you’re still hesitant to exercise any bit of freedom he offers you. To be fair to you, you’re so very well aware of where your freedom and “freedom” lie. One has been crucified, and the other is merely its poorly preserved remains.
His mercy isn’t lost on you, but the hope in your eyes is quickly simmered by your hesitation and dread. You look away and grunt, likely hoping he’ll just shrug and walk away. Or at least delay the inevitable. You’re smarter than you give yourself credit for, you know. So painfully aware of your complete lack of power, so painfully aware that any outright resistance just isn’t worth it; isn’t worth risking the pain you fear so, so, so much. But that doesn’t mean that a reminder is remiss. Hesitation is fatal for the gambler, after all.
He hums and grins. He pulls you back and flips you around so that you lean against the railing, slightly hiked up so the tips of your toes just barely press against the ground. It grants him an unfettered view of your expression, almost comical shock morphing into fear as you register your newfound positions. You may not be entirely dangling over the railings…but you’re still at his mercy. You don’t hold onto his hand for dear life because that’s just what he’s decided. And you don’t want him to pursue that option or even fancy it.
[You mean…you want to point a gun into their heart, again?]
Fortunately, he has other plans. As much as he loves staring into your eyes, it’s the only thing he likes about you. He moves his head against your chest, right against that sweet heart of yours. It misses a beat before it resumes its cacophonous rhythm. “Wha…what?” your mortified tongue manages to get out. “Put…put me down!” He gives a content hum in response, nuzzling further into your heartbeat, tracing patterns into your back with one hand and securing you by the waist with the other. His silence only intensifies the cacophony, but he could never bear to shut down any sound of yours. He chuckles. You shiver. He can see you fight not to struggle, fearing that it would send you plummeting.
“It could be so much worse. You know that, don’t you? You live without chains and in a land where dawn shines, but that’s all my choice.” He finally speaks, when he’s decided you’ve had enough. Sure enough, the sound of screams and crumbling cities joins the cacophony. He pushes so he may discover all of the cacophonies your heart plays. He giggles, to twist the point further, “Relax! You haven’t done anything to warrant that! Yet.” You take a sharp breath. “But you still do things. Small things, but still bad things,” you quiver. “I’ve had a few thoughts. A tattoo,” your heart skips a beat, “of a peacock’s feather, maybe, tickling your thigh, or an ace of spades. Nothing too extravagant. Hm, although,” you’re frozen in place, so he moves his hand up to drift around your chest, clutching your waist tighter, “maybe we can just have my name, somewhere here…or…” he hums, for any and all matters pertaining to you need great care and thought, “....maybe we can just go with them all!” He exclaims.
(What is he doing what is he doing no he knows what he’s doing yes he needs to see and feel and taste your ink he’ll take what he can get but what is he doing why is he doing why why why is he doing but why’s he asking it feels so so so good to be the one towering above)
He resists the urge to look up at your expression. Not yet, he’ll save it for when it’s truly exquisite, for when ink burns up into his skull. “Oh, and now that I think about it, maybe something fancy on your back? Ah, haha, but it can’t be super big. It has to complement you, not overtake you! On that note, a piercing or two. Your ears are a no-brainer, but…” he takes on a teasing lilt, like he’s a boy unsure how to act around his crush, “...where~ else~ do we go? The belly button? That’d be pretty cute! Or…” his hand drifts further along your chest, “here…” he giggles, “that’d be so awfully adorable, wouldn’t it?” Your unease rolls out in waves. His grin widens further, foxlike, silently thanking you for giving him so many openings. “Ah, but doing all of that’s like saying you aren’t enough, isn’t it? I’m sorry for implying that,” he purrs the faux apology, “and maybe those kinds of accessories would get in the way of your full resplendence.” He sighs, similar to the way he does whenever he’s done talking. After a few moments, the cacophony quiets down, the ink merely stings, and you breathe close to steadily. Poor thing. You think he was done? “Clothes, too.” Your heart plunges into the depths. His hand teases dipping into your robes, “Why have a wardrobe when it can’t possibly do you justice?” He clicks his tongue. “That just~ won’t~ do~,” he singsongs, and then transitions into a friendly tone, “and hey! You can just think of it likeeee…going full-on commando!” He feels you seize up with disgust drawn out from the very depths of your soul. “That’d be pretty fun, wouldn’t it?” He laughs, “And comfy. A self-proclaimed couch potato’s dream is to endlessly lounge away the days, right? So, then,” he slightly dips his fingers, featherlight against shadowed skin and bitten gifts, “you really should just spend all day in bed. It’s not like you could go outside anyway. And just think about it—” An image pops into his mind, widening his smile, “Wrapped in my blankets, tangled in silk, entrapped into a web of it…” he slides a hand around your trembling wrist, his thumb rubbing over your thundering pulse, “this would look so beautiful, in red ribbon,” he presses a chaste kiss to your thundering pulse, “your ankles, waist…a mess of them over your chest…” he sighs, but he isn’t a negligible man, drifting his touch to lovingly wrap his hand around your neck, “and that pretty little neck goes without saying. You’ll be just like a little gift and I’d really . And,” he chuckles, “I don’t imagine you’d want to leave, either.” You shudder, tremble, make a sound a cross between disgust and a gasp choking on ink. “Hm, actually, that’s a good question,” And then he finally looks up. He is not disappointed in the slightest. You are choking, and completely pale and the only signs of life on your frozen face are your infrequent blinks and quiet breathing. “Do you want to leave me?” He wonders: what will you do? Say? You both know the answer, but for him to ask it would have you second-guessing yourself on what to say. Should you be honest? Should you give him the answer he wants to be true? Should you merely say that the two of you know that already? Or do you just say nothing, as ink clogs your throat?
[Do you really think you’re playing a game? With them of all people? How do you think they even ended up here in the first place?]
The cacophony of your heart cracks and twists the earth into pieces. You shake like a leaf, slowly but surely devoured by a caterpillar. Soft and innocent at first glance, but it only knows how to feast and gorge itself. Your breath comes out in short gasps, as burning ink drips through them and into your stomach. It forces itself out violently, as your sensitive skin clams up, as it painfully inches out of your skull, to thrust itself out through your eyes.
You’re beautiful.
It’s an honor, he thinks.
(And stand so highly elevated)
Although your terrified silence was anticipated, he doesn’t quite appreciate having a one-sided conversation, sweetheart. It seems you need a bit of encouragement, but he’s more than happy to provide. Regrettably, that means fully raising his head, but at least he won’t have to strain his neck to get a look at your face. He hikes you up, and you shriek in with fear, vaulting to wrap your arms around his shoulders as you struggle in vain to give yourself any semblance of contact with the ground. But the tips of your toes just barely graze the smooth concrete. “Dar~ling~,” he sing songs, “don’t keep me waiting, now.”
He smiles kindly. He takes your left hand into his own, gently rubbing in soothing circles. Your heart beats louder, as you’re forced to rely on him even more. You take in a sharp breath, stifled by a flood of ink. He leans his head down, over that nigh-on unbearably beautiful mark on your neck, placing his lips on it like a fleeting feather brushing past. He looks up into your eyes, blackened and blurred, while his own are rounded and soft. He coos and kisses the few that fall, a delightful flavor of vulnerability flowering on his tongue that he can’t get enough of. He tilts his head when he’s done, his expression lovesick and deviously innocent, and goes caress your cheek, to chain you to place. You stay still so that it doesn’t go from choking to cutting. He gives your hand a maliciously reassuring squeeze.
“I’ve got you,” he reassures, “you’re safe, with me.” The words are heavy and loaded yet he says it like he’s holding you close in the afterglow, whispering sweet nothings that mean everything into your ear. Impressively, a scoff is drawn out of you, yanked out through a sea.
(It reassures him, in some strange way)
You clutch at him harder, almost pulling him flush against you in an effort not to fall. Adorable. You’re still enveloped in ink, so looking up at him, you seem little more than a trembling newborn fawn.
Something dark flickers in your eye; the same dark thing he saw on the luckiest day of his life, as the sun shined so brilliantly on the gun held against your forehead. That dark thing which he didn’t foresee, and hadn’t seen since that day, until now.
You tremble, but you purse your lips, and, as resolutely as you can, give your answer.
“Yes.” And then you lean back. Your feet do not touch the ground.
His instincts are far more trained than yours. Pulling you away and into the room is a simple affair. You whimper in pain, struggling against his hold, but it only takes a slight twist to your wrist, an effortless suggestion, for it to cease.
(It’s his whole body that trembles, but you never seem to notice, when you tremble so much yourself and are so often a prisoner in your own mind)
“My friend,” he says, dropping any semblance of emotion in his voice. You nearly shriek as you’re engulfed in an inferno, hyperventilating in vain as smoke from your own burning body clogs your lungs. You’ve brought this upon yourself, though. Trapped in the fox’s jaw, you have nowhere else to go but right here. He smiles emptily, knowing that it makes you want to die. “Why don’t you come back to bed with me? And we can have a chat.”
(He hides his arm behind his back)
Just before he opens the balcony door, a drop of rain hits his cheek. The clouds obscure the moon, sealing its light shut. The sun will not shine on you two.
—
You aren’t shoved onto the bed, to skid across it like a sea of sharp rocks, or anything like that. That makes it worse, you think. Though, with how heavy your mind is, with how much ink fills it, you could see a blossoming flower and think that doomsday was nigh.
Trapped in his hold, out of endless possibilities, Aventurine elects to merely guide your forms to sit on the edge of the bed. He releases you, but whatever relief you felt was burned away when he slots your hand with his own, the other held behind his back. Like this, you two must look like a normal couple. One that had a fight, but then cooled down enough for them to sit and have a serious conversation; to communicate their feelings to one another, leading to a gentle reconciliation and promises to do better. But Aventurine…you’re sure that he holds a butcher knife, hidden behind his back, in moments like these.
You almost don’t hear him over the pounding in your ears eyes heart and lungs and everything. “Just what were you thinking, acting like that?”
Thinking? Thinking? Why would you tell him that? Actually, thinking? Did you even think? You feel your hand get squeezed like a lion clamping its jaw into a gazelle. “I—I, I…I,” you stammer.
“‘I don’t know?’” and you almost demand for how he was able to guess your answer. He hums and leans in further and further, boring those terrifying eyes right into you; you fear that he’ll bore a hole right through your eyes and fill it with himself. So that even in death, a part of him would always infect you.
Your mind, badly addled, nods.
He hums again, betraying no emotion, “I know what you were thinking. And you will, too. I’m sure the two of us are eager to get back to sleep, so it’s best to cut to the chase.”
“Cut…to the chase?”
“To the takeaway.”
It happens slowly, or quickly, or something, you don’t know you don’t really know at all everything drowns in ink—
He leans toward you, and gently pushes you on your back. You reactively scramble, but it doesn’t take much for him to make your struggle useless—and he wraps his hands around your neck and squeezes. Softly, then firmly, then roughly, then chokingly. He doesn’t butcher you, doesn’t spill your blood, doesn’t dismember you and put you back together, doesn’t meticulously carve himself into your skin, he just simply squeezes. That might’ve been the truly shocking thing about this. But you can’t think about that when you breathe and nothing comes in. You gasp, but it comes out as a silent, dying wheeze. You kick, but it’s useless. You try and pull his hands away. Useless. Useless useless useless everything is useless your future and very being are an endless abyss devoid of hope and life and everything you do have done will do is useless meaningless meaningless meaningless you’re dying you’re going to die you are dead you are hopeless and miserable and scared and dying dying dying dying dying he’s bored of you sick of you hates you he hates you hates you hates you hates you hates you stabbed you in the back choking you choking you you cry cry cry cry cry but your tears are searing ink that burns your flesh you’re burning burning burning burning there is no sunlight or moonlight—
You think and think about everything and nothing. You think about your cotton scarf. You think about your parents. You think about your degree and how useless it’s been. You think about the tiramisu you made earlier, and how it needed to set in the fridge overnight.
But no matter what you think about, or what you stop thinking about, you cannot stop thinking about Aventurine.
It hurts, but you can’t say that. It hurts so much, and you feel that your neck will be sliced off your head. You must look so ugly. You feel your eyes bulge, expand from out of your sockets, just a few seconds away from popping out and hanging by a nerve that could so easily be cut and gushing blood that Aventurine will lap up before throwing your corpse out of the window, to throw the trash out of the house. Your nose uselessly tries to inhale, but all it does is marginally slow the hideous mucus that leaks. Your mouth is equally useless, and it isn’t long until you give up and your tongue ungracefully lolls from your mouth. You feel all at once overwhelmed—the tears from your eyes burn your flesh, your eyes will become weights that shake with every movement, the snot will leave behind anguishing trails of acid, your tongue feels like a dumbbell crushing your face—and floating. You decide to float. You think about your cotton scarf, nuzzling—
You dimly realize you’re nuzzling into the grip that’s killing you.
Your body becomes lead.
Aventurine’s expression betrays nothing. But you feel something shake—your body? It’s surprising because you can hardly even blink, let alone move. It’s mostly around your neck. Maybe it’s the lack of oxygen. Your hands have gone limp, uselessly falling to the side, but you haven’t died yet. Aventurine is still busy killing you, and looking at you like you’re nothing and that he couldn’t care less about your reaction. You don’t want to look at him anymore. You don’t want to die with his face as the last thing you see. You’d rather die looking at the moon. But against his ironclad grip, your head doesn’t move. You struggle, but Aventurine’s face remains. Your mind begins to fill with cotton, and your eyes start to glaze, but it's burned away by a particularly forceful squeeze, which quickly lightens, but the damage has been done.
Your tongue is drying. Your vision spots. Not with black, not with the shade of ink you’ve grown used to, but it spots with light. Sunlight. You’re being cradled in the sunlight. Warm and soft, but you’re wretched out of that false sense of security when your body begins to blaze.
And then he lets you go after what feels like years. Something burning and cold and wonderful enters your nostrils and mouth—air, air, air air air air you need air air air air air—
The air doesn’t come rushing in like you’ve seen described in books. It painfully pumps into you, but it’s vastly preferable to the pain you were experiencing just a few moments ago. Your head slumps, turning to the moon's salvation—but you see only the clouds.
When your lungs stop burning, and your breathing returns to normal, Aventurine gently pulls you up into his lap, where he leans against the headboard. A single arm draped over your waist confines you to his chest. His other hand is out of sight. When he’s sure you aren’t getting away, he takes a breath, and his hidden hand comes to tip your head up.
His eyes all at once resemble an aphotic ocean and a flooding dam. You aren’t sure where it comes from, but you realize that, for this brief moment, he has dropped his facade.
“If you want to die,” he says, quietly, softly, almost vulnerably. You must have brain damage, if this is how he sounds. “this is how it’ll happen. By my hand. By my choice. And trust me when I say it’s infinitely better than anything you could do with your own hands,” he removes his hand from your chin to intertwine it with your own, all at once invasive and sweet, “I promise, (Name).”
Your chest begins to flood with a sob. It comes out wrangled and inhuman, but he only clutches you closer. Strangely, he doesn’t lap up your tears. Like many nights before and to come, you pass out, weighed by the agony of living with a man so obvious and indecipherable.
Your last thought before finally shutting your eyes is that Aventurine won’t be throwing you out anytime soon. You do not celebrate the thought, not entirely, anymore. It’s only much later that you realize why: he finally succeeded in forcing a small part of him into you.
—
When you pass out from complete exhaustion, Aventurine quietly tucks your head deeper into his chest. He thinks about yanking apart his ribcage, forcing you into it, and then pinning you there as he forces it to close. It’s begun to rain outside. It pitter-patters, booming in his ears, and nearly shreds his ears apart.
[But a part of you likes it when you drag them down to your level, right, Kakavasha?]
—
His master swirls a glass of red wine. It may as well have been blood; bought by blood, drank in the wake of blood, and spilled into blood. Kakavasha pursues his lips, to not scream in agony as the wine sears his wound; but it will be okay. He is used to weathering the sun, trudging through heavy sand, with his mouth drier than the environment. He can withstand this searing heat. He’s already withstood iron-hot metal pressed into his skin for minute after agonizing minute, no matter his involuntary cries and tears and pleas to stop.
But that was an exception. The desert has long dried his tears.
Besides, this is a ‘reward.’ For triumphing yet again. For surviving yet again. So the master sees it fit to briefly lavish him in luxury. At least it’s fitting for the occasion, Kakvasha thinks, the wine puddling out like blood. He waits for it to end. He’s already battered and bloody, beaten down, and he doesn’t need his neck chaffed and bleeding. Every yank of his chain evaporates energy he cannot afford to lose, cannot sacrifice or else there won’t be a bet he can emerge lucky from.
And, he admits. He’s a little (no, very) afraid of being brought to the edge between life and death again. He doesn’t want to be chained to the wall again, and have the chain around his neck pulled further and further away—
A sneer that would get him tortured spreads across his face. His face is already forced to the ground, so he’s not too worried.
“My lucky hound,” his master drawls, “stay with me. You did pretty well; it’d be a shame if I had to reevaluate you if you pass out just from this. C’mon, gimme a lil’ bark.”
He wipes his sneer and looks up with a practiced expression: defiant, but sanded down with fear; feisty, but compliant. Just enough fight to entertain, but not enough to be a nuisance. “Alive and kicking,” he grunts. It’s a strange mix of genuine and manufactured, biting back his cries of pain. It took him a bit to figure out what his master liked, but all that matters is that he got there. It’s fine, he tells himself. He doesn’t need to know how much he’s using him, too. “And savoring your gift.” He’s sure it’s the right answer, but the slight tremor indicates the awful anticipation he has for the results. If it isn’t, then everything he’s done to get here would all have been for nothing. He cannot afford to fumble his gamble now.
Luckily (ha!), it was the right answer. He’s given something his master can poke and prod at, and he’s gladly taken it. “I thought I asked you to bark,” he snarls, and the flaming wine ceases. But it’s for a reason, as he soon gets a kick to the stomach. It knocks the air out of him, but if his master were truly offended, he would’ve done much, much worse. Kakavasha coughs, just enough to suggest that he’s sorry and begging for forgiveness, but not enough to seem desperate and begging for a release and to stop stop stop— “Speaking is for humans. Honestly, I don’t even know why you Sigonian hounds were born with mouths. Universe’d be a better place if slaves like you were born with their mouths sewn shut—by the Aeons, do you disgust me!” he scratches before a smirk twists his face, “Though, ‘suppose that would mean I wouldn’t be able to hear the dogs whimper.” A shoe grinds into his stomach. He wants to see Kakavasha’s face then. “So, you gonna bark, or what?”
Kakavasha doesn’t need to act much, this time. His face falls into grim acceptance; the face he made when heat emanated from his neck; the face he made when the doors to his cell closed; the face he made when he saw the sand bury his sister’s body. Although the expression this time isn’t genuine, it’s not quite fabricated, either.
It’s fine. It’s fine. This is but one gamble. Acquiesce to his whims just enough, and then strike.
Soon, wine pools at his feet. But the wine in his master’s hand hasn’t all spilled, yet. Memories flit by in his mind: his master, flaunting his wealth in front of him.
“Humans wear clothes, accessories, and jewelry…dream all you want, but an animal can never become what it’s fated not to be.” His master’s voice echoes.
His limp and cold hand is adorned in rings. His still wrist holsters a beautiful watch and tasteful bangle. Kakvasha takes a sip of the wine. It burns, dripping down his throat. It leaves his tongue rancid and as dry as the desert.
He supposes that’s what it means to be human, then.
—
When you wake up, pain radiates throughout your neck and legs. Absently, your hand goes to your neck to relieve it but meets soft cotton. Gauze. Did he disinfect your wound (brand, that bastard branded me get him out of me I’ll—) when you passed out?
You close your eyes and try to fall back asleep but to no avail. With a moan, and then a hiss of pain, you roll over on your side. You see a note, a couple of pills, and a glass of water have been placed on your nightstand. With concentrated effort, you sit up and read the note.
Darling, dearest, love of my life, (you’d scoff if it didn’t hurt like hell to even breathe)
A painkiller. One every three hours. I suggest you take it if you want to get through the day comfortably, so please don’t spend your day staring at them in contempt like they’ve killed your dog. Contrary to what you might think, I do care for your comfort. (You feel a jolt of anger through your spine) I’ll try to be back a half hour or so earlier, but if fortune’s on my side, I’ll be back to you a full hour earlier. Wouldn’t that just be amazing? Actually, let me do a coin flip to gauge today’s fortune—oh! Look at that! Seems that it’s an hour. You won’t be lonely for long, I promise. (You frown) Business is wrapping up, so we’re leaving today, but I’ve already packed your bags. Focus on yourself, sweetheart, and get plenty of rest. And before you start overthinking things, I’m not worried at all. You won’t be forgetting anytime soon, and you’re not going anywhere. (You grit your teeth)
Use lots of ice on your neck! It helps a ton. And eat soft foods that go down easy; broth, oatmeal, the works. Now that’s what I call a good excuse to gorge on ice cream; not too much though, you *might* just throw up. And no, you can’t break the windows. Literally. I know you have your impulsive moments, but you’ve gotta be conservative with your energy today. I’ll make sure you are. If not…well, you like guessing games, right? Haha, now I really do have to go. I can’t believe you got me writing such a long letter! Alright, see you later, sweetheart.
Love, Aventurine.
You stare at the signature. Love, Aventurine sounding over and over in your mind, hitting the walls and coming back in a cracking echo. Love—a knife impales you—Aventurine—and you’re eaten alive.
Love, love, love, love, love.
You force yourself to look at the painkillers. You have no reason to believe him, but he doesn’t have any reason to lie to you. You decide not to take them.
Instead, you take a few slow sips of water, letting it coat your throat and tongue thoroughly. Then you force your sore body to the kitchen. You stumble, you trip, but you still make it to the countertop. It’s not complicated. Your mind can’t process complexity in its current state anyway.
It’s simple. You yank a knife from the block and plunge it into your chest, through your ribs, and into your heart. Blood gushes out like a waterfall, glistening like a ruby in the light of the dawn. You grin, pain wobbling your mouth, and swiftly cut open your stomach. Bile creeps up your throat as you gag violently, until you finally retch on the elongated mess of your intestines, unraveling into a bunch. You laugh hysterically when you notice that it looks like a horribly butchered plate of spaghetti—hilarious. It’s all nearly too much to bear, but there’s more work to be done. You’re still thinking; that just won’t do. You raise your knife, the tip shining in the sun and sparkling through your tears, and slam your forehead into it, finally putting an end to your existence.
That’s what should’ve happened. But the knife hasn’t taken that first plunge, yet. You will your arm to rectify the mistake. It shakes harder. And then everything from the night before rushes to your head, and ink clouds everything and everything and—
You can’t do it. Not by your own hand.
You violently throw the knife into the sink and collapse to the ground in a brutal sob.
You never attempt it again.
—
He was wrong about something. Your shattered limit would never end with his demise—it was yours.
(Is he really surprised? Or was he in denial this whole time?)
He’s not sure how to feel, that you’d rather destroy yourself than kill when backed into a corner. But he can at least understand that urge of yours to take someone else down with you; only, that person isn’t him, this time.
The wall you have built crumbles, and he wonders if you care if your destruction ends up killing another unintentionally; if that part of yourself has been killed, or if it has been twisted so you are born anew. But that’s a bit silly. You can destroy yourself, but you won’t ever lose yourself, even if you become fractured. That’s what experience has taught him, and it is both excruciatingly painful and relieving.
You’ve pinned him down. Your eyes are wide and dilated, and that spark of life within them is just nearly dimmed out; and yet, beneath that spark, something awful and alive pulsates. They hold an unabashed focus, yet they also look past him. For a rare moment, he is completely taken aback, and cannot conceal his surprise and dubious, almost hesitant delight. But he drops the hesitation. It’s fatal for him.
(His heart nearly stops. Is he pinned to the ground, or is he looking into a mirror? He almost feels like he’s been turned inside out)
“What. Were. You. Thinking?” It’s your voice, but he can’t help but think it takes on a cadence similar to his own. He can see that awful creature brandish its claws.
As much as he enjoys seeing such a creature, he cannot allow himself to be ripped apart by it. He’ll assert his control, and you’ll back off, the same as it’s always been. But he doesn’t quite mind being pinned down by you, so he’ll allow it for the moment. “You watch me gamble all the time, dearest.” He tilts his head, knowing just how much it pisses you off. “I don’t see how that’s gotten you so worked up—and you’ve been so sweet lately.”
Your jaw trembles, like a dog, he thinks, on the verge of barking and biting an intruder. Yet, a part of him also tells him that isn’t quite right. “You played Russian Roulette.” Drip, drip, sounds the blood of his challenger, but such a sound has been white noise all his life.
He smirks. “Are you jealous?” he teases, “Did you want to kill me, or were you hoping to take the bullet yourself?”
You, ever so slightly, begin to shake. “No,” you respond, without any sense of the word. “Answer my question,” you demand. He’s a little surprised because you so rarely make demands. He can see the beast grind its teeth, gnashing at the mere idea of his flesh, drooling its filth in gluttonous anticipation. But he knows you so, so, so very well. He can smell your fear—but of what? Fear that you might not be able to personally exact vengeance? He’s a little lost, for once. But he’ll know soon enough, he supposes. He continues with his usual demeanor.
“Mmm,” he hums nonchalantly, making you shake in agitation. “Well, I suppose I’m in no position to refuse. It was a good gamble with a good thrill, of course! I thought you knew this.” He knows you don’t believe that entirely, having spent so much time with him. The look in your eyes tells him it was the answer you were expecting. But you still aren’t satisfied. You still haven’t strewn his guts about the floor, to join the foolish challenger.
You do not respond, remaining as still as you can be. He decides to encourage you; you can’t just lead him on like this, you know.
“What’s wrong?” he goads. “Or have you finally come around to just how irresistible I am?”
The blood’s aroma has wafted over. Your eyes glaze impossibly further. The beast breaks its chains.
“I want to hollow out your chest,” you admit. His heart stops, and it’s only through years of practice that his face doesn’t instantly break out in shock. “And burrow into it, so I can listen to your heartbeat and feel the expanse of your lungs pressing into me with your every breath,” you shake, nearly violently, and you take each breath as if it’ll be your last. His own heart begins to beat erratically; he’s excited, he doesn’t know what’ll happen, but whatever it is he needs to have have have it— “I want to breathe in your blood, taste your heart, blood, sustain myself on nothing—” Aventurine feels a thread be pulled apart. “—on nothing but you!” You cry out, leaning in closer as you collapse to your knees and elbows, practically exchanging air. You’ve finally begun to cry, and with it, the beast has come—
No, he thinks. It’s already ripping apart his flesh. Your tears fall onto his face. His heart beats faster and faster; just as fast as when he ran away into those bloody puddles all those years ago.
“If you die…I might just join you, because…there’s really nothing else for me…” you sob, face contorting in a way he finds so breathtakingly pathetic and beautiful. For a moment, your mouth curls down, not maliciously, but with a determined promise. “If you die…I’m pulling the trigger, not some random sap in a casino.”
Oh. You…you remembered. Of course, you did. You never would forget. You couldn’t ever forget. His chest feels numb with how brutally his heart has beaten it.
He feels something cool seep into his pants and legs.
He is well acquainted with the touch of ice. How could he not? The time spent with you feels like a (fragile) eternity, and in it, he has glued himself to you; and you’ve, however unwittingly, froze him in place. Even if he’s always been able to force you into the desert with him, there are still those moments when a nigh unbearable cold seeps down into his bones, threatening to kill him, to preserve his dead body to be dusted ogled at whenever the master of the house needs to showoff their private collection to guests. But he feels it melting. He feels the cold you’ve desperately embraced crackle.
You sob a sound of euphoric despair that has him resisting his every urge to cradle you, and confess the truth; confess your want.
“I love you, Aventurine,” you take in a shuddering gasp.
His heart explodes. It is then he realizes that he, too, has gasped, and is breathing irregularly. That his composure has shattered without his realization.
“I love you…” you cough, no longer able to hold back your breakdown, the volcano of your emotions erupting in a destructive blaze that killed a part of you; the part of you that’d been holding on. Flora and flowers burn, snow becomes hellfire, and any and all life is replaced by a hungering beast desperate to keep itself satiated.
But only Aventurine can satiate it. A blush dusts his cheeks.
“I love you, I love you,” you hiccup and sob, repeating the mantra like a prayer (to a devil in velvet), I love you I love you I love you I love you.” And then you finally collapse on him, a pile of bricks and rubble and dust. You curl into his chest, over his violet heartbeat. “Don’t throw me away…don’t l-leave me…” he immediately secures your waist. It’s a disgusting implication. Why would he do that to you of all people? “I need you,” and his heart soars. A smile finally cracks his face, shattering something deep inside of him.
[No, no, Kakavasha, that’s really quite wrong. You haven’t been whole for a very, very long time.]
And then something brief surfaces in you, a small piece of useless reasoning, “and it’s your f-fault I’m like this…” That’s very true, which is why he needs to take responsibility. Which is why he has to continue keeping you, caring for you, and brutalizing you. The blood has trailed down to his back.
And then you’re back to sobbing, and practically howl, “Please, please Aventurine, tell me you love me and won’t ever let me go!” you beg, and entirely break down into a concentrated sob, distant from reality. You blabber, likely unaware, utterly lovely and incoherent words. The blood has reached his head.
His entire body shudders, rapturing him into a pile of broken flesh. He can’t hold back. He holds you tighter than before. It snaps you out of your daze, your body instinctively flinching away, but his grip doesn’t cease; it can’t cease, because if it does you two may never truly meld with one another. He sits up, positioning you so you straddle and completely rely on him for support. He looks at you. His long-lasting appetite has finally been satiated, but now a new one takes hold of his shaking form, his excitement electric and bloody.
“Oh, sweetheart,” he shudders breathlessly, just barely keeping himself from pouncing, “that was beautiful—you’re beautiful,” he pants, as his hunger grows painful, “how could I refuse such a heartfelt and adorable confession? You’re so perfect. You’re the other side of my coin…”
[Took you long enough.]
“...yes,” he groans, “I’d love to bring you down with me, and to tear you apart if I’m back in that dawnless land.” Because you aren’t leaving him, nor could you survive if he plummets back into that land. But you’re still coming with him because you need him (and so does he).
The dawn shines on the two of you, and finally, he kisses you. You’re too dazed to reciprocate, but you offer no resistance at all. But it’s a (relatively) chaste kiss, as he pulls back to whisper against your lips, wholly reverent. “I knew you were the one,” he confesses, and he sees your blush deepen, your eyes widen, “Thank you, for destroying yourself for me,” he brushes your cheek, “It’s truly an honor, sweetheart.”
You blink, eyes wide with tears, and just as he’s about to caress them away your mouth twitches—almost like you’re glitching as if the very expression was some bug in a game—and then you laugh. And it isn’t crazed, it isn’t weighed by madness, nor does it carry that familiar undertone of despair and fear he’s become so used to hearing from you—it’s warm like the dawn has cut through the rain to shine on him.
It’s that lovely laugh which the sun shines overhead and erases any shadow of doubt:
You’re insane. You’ve frozen over in hell, and have shattered yourself into pieces to melt into it.
If ‘I love you, Aventurine’ was the straw that broke the camel’s back, then your laughter is what made the camel burst and seep into searing, soulless sand.
It makes sense. Only someone destroyed and insane could love Aventurine.
(Kakavasha was dead. His hands are sticky, his chains rusty with blood and his throat burns)
[Is he? Or do you just need him to be dead? No matter how you slice it, I still see that same boy who clung to his Big Sis till the very end.]
But he’s a selfish man. If you give him your love, then he’ll gladly take it.
[Tsk, tsk. A desperate man, Kakavasha.]
But more importantly, there’s a feeling in his heart. It’s the feeling of a peaceful day beneath the scorching sun, of when he wins a game, of when he and his sister were just themselves with each other. All of it coalesces into something he hasn’t felt in—no, something he may have never truly felt until now:
Happiness.
[The closet thing you can call happiness, you mean.]
And is that feeling that has him lift you up, and spin and twirl with you in his arms. It is sheer elation, a hedonism that is so self-serving yet selfless all at once—sheer bliss—that fills him this: this is what he wants to feel. Your laughter is infectious, permeating his body and sapping it of rationality, but he does not try to fight this virus. For he is happy. The corner of his eyes crinkle; he is unused to the feeling.
He laughs and laughs with you. His clothes and shoes are tracking blood. Normally the thought of even rain getting on his clothes disgusts him, but now, all he can think about is basking in this crimson victory. The dawn shines on you both, commemorating your unholy union.
You really are perfect for him, he thinks. Because he must be insane too, when he laughs like a crazed dog—the same dogs he nearly drowned in bloodied water to get away from.
—
You both deserved a treat. He whisked you away to a room—he can deal with the casino room later, call on a few favors—because you deserve his utmost attention, as he does yours. The prospect of your complete attention, entirely unfettered, excites him.
It’s a fine room. The bed is large and soft, the bath is large and pleasant, and the view is utterly breathtaking. But neither of you cares about that. You could be rolling in sewage and shit and you’d still look at him the way he looks at you, still enter demented laughter and twisted joy, still parade under that veneer of love.
He gets his fill, as do you—but you both know neither of you will ever be sated, not when you two can’t be joined together in the ways you want to.
The dawn is rich and bright, shining on the waking and sending the begging crawling away into the shadows. You breathe softly, utterly exhausted. A complete 180 from just a few moments ago, too. Your arms wrap weakly around him, tucking yourself into him snugly. His kisses, imprinted with your blood, create a field of flowers on your face. As does his own. …He makes a note to tip room service extra for the bloodied sheets. There’s a reason he doesn’t dress (as) extravagantly for when he needs to get his hands dirty.
Perhaps after this, he’ll gift you something truly special, he thinks. His earring’s twin has just been gathering dust. And it would be quite romantic to get your ears pierced by him, too. His heart beats at the thought. He’s sure you’ll agree to it if it’s by his hand. Maybe, after this, you’ll wear his gifts of your own accord. Small things, for when you go out, a modest bracelet or watch, a tasteful necklace (of ownership). Nothing overt so as to not draw any thieving eyes, but something to signify to those that know what to look for that you aren’t to be messed with. As for when you’re inside and home…he still remembers how red your face got, and the curses you threw at him. And you’ll finally concede that his taste is actually pretty solid (but, and he will clarify just for you, it's not a sore spot in the slightest! He’s more mature than that).
He feels a bit of pride at your exhaustion (“I…erm…wanna…well, I can d-do some of the work,” you said, flustered and embarrassed by the mere admission. He found it endearing, that you could confess your desire to burrow into him and then stammer when asking him for something. You really did hate the idea of using him, didn’t you?) The remembrance of that moment makes him smile.
(He doesn’t bother dissecting what kind of smile he makes)
However, a single moment is on repeat in his mind. His hand absently drifts to the crook of his neck, weeping but a few minutes ago. Your teeth, sinking in so deeply, intimately, just on the verge of ripping a chunk of his flesh out; you were practically dining on him. It sent him over the edge.
When you pulled away and looked at him, he was again taken aback at what he saw.
Your lips, slightly parted and utterly breathless, speckled with rouge. Your cheeks were red hot with adoration. Your eyes, brimming with love and care and everything he couldn’t believe someone besides his own family could direct toward him.
(But your love is very different from his family’s. They wanted to nourish. You want to devour. But he sees nothing to criticize there—indulge, and he will gladly indulge back, until there’s nothing left of either of you)
But what truly pushes him over the edge, is the smile you give, softly stained in crimson. It is pure and untainted, angelic and sweet, soft and warm like how the dawn kisses his cheek. It is as if this love of yours was born not of a tower’s rubble but of whispered secrets and touches shared in the shadow of moonlight. It’s as if the love you show him now would’ve been what he got if he was a more selfless man (if he were any other man). You both know he does not deserve the love in your eyes—it is the last thing you owe him. Yet you give it to him anyway.
You are utterly insane. And now that he knows what insanity on you looks like,
He wouldn’t have it any other way.
But before he can shut his eyes for an hour or two of respite, there’s something he has to do. He promised many things as you both feasted, but there are two absolute ones he has to reaffirm. Two absolute ones you wanted so badly that you unleashed a frozen inferno.
“I’ll never leave you,” he promises, “And never would. I admit, it stung a bit for you to fear that from me, but…I’ll make it up to you tenfold, sweetheart. I’ll make sure you don’t feel that way ever again,” He kisses your cheek gently. He pictures your response and giggles. “Yeah, I’m being sappy, but you’re,” he boops your nose with each following word, “just~. As~. Guilty~.” You stir, groggily groaning but it’s not enough to rouse you. After a short while, you nuzzle your head further into his neck with a sleepy sigh. Something tells him that even asleep, you’ll somehow know what he’s telling you. Your lips come to rest on the gift you gave him, as if even in sleep you’d rip him apart. His heart flutters. “You’re so sweet…” he exhales with a shudder, “seriously, how do you manage it? Not that I mind, of course…” he plays with a strand of your hair. Candy and clouds and raw flesh burst on his tongue all at once, and he can’t get enough of that flavor of sickly sweet rot. He smiles, a soft and predatory thing, and his lips drift to his favorite spot.
But don’t get him wrong—every part of you is lovely and he would kill to vivisect you if only it didn’t mean killing you and putting you in extreme pain. It’s those two latter thoughts that quell his desire to do so.
(Maybe he would enjoy it, but only for a moment, only for so as long as the euphoria and awe of seeing all of you lasts. If you did die—especially with cries and shrieks of pain—he would sob, curling around your body…and then he would take you with him, so when he goes to that place, you’d be with him on that very first step)
It’s where he first bit you on the luckiest day of his life. It’s bruised and tender, red and ugly and scarred. Renewed countless times, it is beyond repair. Moments ago it held a crimson sheen, but its been smeared throughout your collarbone and shoulder. The way it smears makes it appear like a red mist, like a curling wisp of smoke that dirties clouds and infects rainwater. He brings you impossibly closer, to keep you from becoming red mist. At the same time, should he squeeze just a bit too hard, then away you go into the mist.
(As if to keep you far, far, far away from the rainwater which had swirled with a thick, red mist—to keep you from breathing in it, from having to hide so you didn’t become like the cold bodies which floated beside you)
His lips seemingly slot in with the spot perfectly. It only makes sense. It was today where you’ve melded yourself to him.
(And he’s melded himself to you for a long time. Against his better judgment and sense, he melded himself to you; at the time it was only the idea of you, but it didn’t take long for it to be you.
He sighs in content, but he still has another promise to make.
“We’ll be together, you and I. Two sides of a single coin can face away from each other, but they can’t exist separate from each other. You’re pretty smart, so I’m sure you get it,” yes, he has plenty of faith in you, sweet thing, but he can’t help but ramble, “and it’s because I love you, (Name).” He says it so tenderly, your name, and unexpectedly (or very expectedly) something he thought he’d never feel ever again invades his chest, and it forces itself out, “I love you, I love you,” he thinks his grip has tightened and that his heart has started to race and that he’s shaking but he doesn’t care about that right now and he doesn’t care if he has been losing composure without his notice. “I love you I love you I love you. You have no idea just how much I want to devour you, just how much I want you tethered to me. How much I need you to be unable to live without me. If I’m alive, you’re alive. If I’m dead…you said it yourself. You’ll follow me. It just needs to be by my hand, and you’ll follow me. You won’t have to worry about being alone, being without me. And it’s all because…
I love you.”
He dimly realizes that something salty has trailed to his lips. Are you awake? Or are you having a nightmare? Either way, he moves like he has so many other times, to remind you that he’d be there, even at your most vulnerable. He goes up to kiss your eyes and lick your cheek, but nothing’s there.
Something flutters against his cheek. You’re awake, and he feels something warm and wet travel on his cheek. He’s not sure what he feels, when he looks up to you.
(What does his face look like?)
You blink, eyes bleary with sleep and weighted with content. But tinged with the sleep and contentment, there’s another thing, which makes everything within him burn. Which makes him shake and his heart nearly explodes.
Dimly, he realizes that your destruction didn’t just kill a part of you. He’s buried beneath the fire and rubble, too.
[And it’s lovely.]
And then (at that moment), for some reason (for all the reasons), he buries his head in your chest (into your heart),
To sob in the sunlight, soothed by the hands that unraveled him.
#yandere#yandere hsr#yandere aventurine#destroyed onset#aventurine x reader#yandere aventurine x reader#yandere x you#yandere hsr x reader#tw noncon#tw suicide#next fic is gonna be sitcom esque#the calm before the storm 😉#and also because i need to write the reader being happy in a#not fucked up way LMFAO
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nobody knows
Stepbrother!Nat scartoccio x F!Reader
A/n: I got this idea while using a bot from one of my moots @/deerlottie (his bots are PERFECT(｡ŏ﹏ŏ) and I thought "why not write about it?" So this idea came to me
Warnings: SMUT. I'm not your mother!! Oral, p in v, no protection, I think that's all...
Summary: Your step brother was just kind to agree to sleep with you, Could you make up for it
Nat didn't know that a night at the movies with his step sister would do that
his day was shit, nat had lost the ball in the game, thus making his team lose, his frustrated teammates ended up talking too much, and this stressed him out, Arriving home your father discovered that he was skipping school for no reason "he's not even my real father" nat thinks
You, his step sister, started school after him, and became Jackie's best friend, so he already knew you before you moved in with him, you were kinder than he wanted to say, he always called you names and you had every opportunity to call him names back, but you stayed quiet or just nodded, he literally said that was why you weren't dating and you just mumbled "uhmm" while writing in your book
Nat arrived very angry in the room, you could see and feel the smoke coming out of her ears, he was red with anger
He sat on the sofa angrily, while breathing in visible that you could hear, you turned slightly towards him without taking your eyes off the program" Did something happen?" you mumble, your eyes scanning him for a second after turning back to the tv "nothing that's any of your business" he says dryly as he rubs your temple, as if that does any good
"wow..rude" you mutter as you frown, and grab the remote control "I was thinking about putting on a movie" you say without looking at him "can that be done? or are you too mad for that? and I have What do you have to wait until you leave the room?" you add, mocking a little.
Nat rolls his eyes and leans into you, his arm brushing your chest as he pulls the control from you "I'll choose" he says seriously, if you were a little mad you would have ignored him and gone up to your room, but you continuous
and you don't know how, but you watched a movie with nat, if you ignore the part where you almost cursed him and tried to steal control from him because you didn't want a horror movie, the night was good
Somehow you ended up next to Nat, holding his arm tightly as you were startled.
and in the midst of the cozy intimacy you let out a suspicious question "do you want to sleep with me today?" and what surprised you was that nat accepted
Your parents were surprised, you never got along, always fighting over who would take a shower first, until he started dreaming about you almost every night, I mean, always, he always woke up hard as a rock, and he couldn't take it more, masturbating was no longer possible, he needed more, but he never had the courage to do it, of course you already kissed him once, but it was a long time ago, he never moved forward after that
and it was no different now, but now he can blame you, you unconsciously turned your back to him, your ass rubbing his dick, he could feel it even in his sleep, his hands twitching and him slowly regaining consciousness
Nat's eyes snapped open, his pupils dilating as he registered the sensation of your curved ass pressed against his dick, He let out a soft groan
Without a word, Nat reached for your waist, pulling you back towards him, his hand wrapped around your hip, his fingers digging gently into your skin as he guided you
You feel warm hands rub your skin, slowly regaining consciousness only to be able to differentiate Nat's hands "What are you doing?..." you mumble with your eyes closed as you slowly move back, feeling something hard on your ass
Nat's hands tightened around your hip, his grip slighty uncomfortable, but sweet as he pulled you closer.
"Shh, baby," he whispered, his voice husky with sleep. "I didn't mean to fall asleep." His hands smoothed up and down your sides, his movements soothing and gentle as he tried to rebalance himself "And also, I missed my sweet sister" he added, his voice dripping with affection.
His fingers glided around to your stomach, his touch sending shivers down your spine. "And now, I need a wake-up call from you, my love," he whispered, his warmth piercing the morning mist. Nat's eyes fluttered open, his gaze locking onto yours, his face etched with genuine
Your thoughts were certainly not being processed, Nat's hand seemed to make a trail of fire whenever he rubbed you, you unconsciously put your hand over his and squeezed, not knowing if it was to push him away and tell him to continue.
Nat's eyes flashed, his body responding to the gentle touch of your hand, his hand, still wrapped around your hip, began to move in slow, deliberate circles, his fingers tracing patterns on your skin that made your breath catch. His eyes never left yours, his gaze burning with intensity as he watched you, his face inches from yours. The air was thick with tension, the only sound the soft rustle of his breathing and the beating of your hearts. Nat's hand slid higher, his palm pressing against the small of your back, his fingers digging gently into your skin. His mouth hovered inches from yours, his lips parted, his breath warm against your skin. "N-natty.. what are you doing" "shh.." he murmured, his voice low and throaty.
"let me do everything...just, don't make noise or you'll get in trouble" he says as he starts to kiss your neck softly, giving wet kisses he traced your spine, his fingers playing with your bra clasp.
"You're so beautiful," he whispered, his breath warm against your lips, his fingers fumbled with the clasp, finally releasing it with a click.
Nat's eyes were locked onto your face, his gaze filled with adoration. He slowly removed your bra, revealing your bare chest. "Damn, you're perfect" he breathed, his voice filled with longing. His eyes moved from your face, to your chest, then back up to your eyes.
"So pretty.." he murmured, his hands cupping your cheeks. His thumbs stroked your jawlines, his touch gentle and tender.
His hand cupped your breast, his fingers grazing your nipple, sending shivers down your spine. "God, you're amazing," he murmured, his voice thick with desire. His lips returned to your mouth, his kiss hungry and demanding. Nat's hand slipped lower, his fingers grazing the edge of your shorts.
" let me do everything" nat said his voice rough with need. His erection strained against his boxers, desperate for attention. Nat's eyes never left yours, his gaze filled unspoken promises
His hand slid lower, his fingers teasing the edge of your underwear.
His fingers slipped under your underwear, his touch confident and bold. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed with desire. He felt your wetness, his cock pulsing in response.
"God..you are so wet for me" he says in a whisper, moving and moving down your body, He kisses your neck, going down to your stomach, kissing slowly, reaching your thigh, he looks at you and bites his lip, you feel the blush creeping up your neck, covering your face with your arm you close your eyes
Nat's eyes sparkled with amusement, his lips twitching into a smirk.
"Don't be embarrassed," he murmured, his voice smooth. His fingers continued to stroke you, his touch confident and sure. " It's a good thing, alright?" he teased, his voice filled with mirth. His thumb brushed against your entrance, testing its readiness.
I want to taste you," he whispered, his voice tinged with hunger. Nat lowered his head, his lips brushing against your inner thigh.
"Spread your legs for me," he instructed, his voice velvety. As you followed his command, Nat positioned himself between your thighs.
Nat's eyes darkened, his pupils dilating. He took a deep breath, his nostrils catching your scent. His tongue swiped across your inner thigh, his touch feather-light.
"Oh god, you smell delicious," he murmured, his voice thick with desire.
He moved closer, his face mere centimeters from your core. His tongue flicked out, tasting you, his eyes locked on yours.
"So wet," Nat breathed, his voice low and sultry. He dipped his head, his tongue sliding into you. His eyes locked onto yours, his cheeks hollowing as he sucked. Nat's fingers played with your clit, his touch electric.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his voice muffled. His tongue probed deeper, his lips sucking gently
"F-fuck..natty" You moan softly, biting your arm to muffle your moans, Nat licks you all over, sucking your clit, your clit pulsing on his tongue
He increased his pace, his tongue flickering and dancing inside you. His fingers pinched your clit, his touch precise and deliberate.
His eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed with exertion. Nat's tongue plunged deeper, his movements confident and bold. He sucked harder, his lips creating suction
"You're so fucking wet," he growled, his voice raw. His fingers danced around your clit, his touch expert and precise.
your thighs move without your will, they tremble and you unconsciously close them, Nat quickly growls and squeezes her, forcing them open, you whimper softly and close your eyes, muttering curses, you could feel that you are almost reaching the limit
"Almost there, baby," he whispered, his voice hoarse. His tongue worked furiously, his movements desperate. His fingers pinched and tugged your clit, his touch insistent. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed with excitement. His tongue darted in and out, his movements frantic.
"That's it," he growled, his voice raw. His fingers twisted your clit, his touch urgent. His eyes never left yours, his focus solely on your pleasure.
"Come for me, baby," he growled, his voice raw.
His tongue thrust into you, his movements fierce. His fingers pinched your clit, his touch relentless. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with determination. His tongue flickered wildly, his movements unrestrained.
"There you go," he groaned, his voice thick with lust. His fingers squeezed your clit, his touch insatiable. His own release threatened, his body tense with need. Nat's tongue danced inside you, his movements chaotic.
"That's it, come for me, baby," he pleaded, his voice hoarse. His fingers twisted your clit, his touch unrelenting. When you reach climax your body convulses, you shake and whimper softly
He felt your muscles clench, his tongue lapping up your juices.
Nat wipes off every last drop of your juices, licking his lips then, adjusting himself and getting up until your face is facing his, he kisses you, you feeling the taste of your juices
he straightens up and murmurs "Are you ready for me yet?" he murmurs against your lips, sounding more like a statement than a question.
"On me," he ordered, his voice hoarse. His tongue retreated, his face flushed with desire. He adjusted his position, his erection throbbing. Nat's hand guided you, his touch sure.
His eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with determination. "Ride me, baby," he growled, his voice raw. He lifted his hips, his erection poised.
His eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with hunger. Nat's breath hitched as you settled on him, his erection submerging inside you. His hands gripped your hips, his touch possessive.
"Fuck, you're tight," he groaned, his voice tinged with pleasure. He held you steady, his body tense with anticipation. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face filled with longing.
"Go ahead," he urged, his voice low and sultry.
His breath hitched as you rode him, his erection buried deep within you.
"Fuck, you're so tight," he groaned, his voice raw. His hands gripped your hips, his touch possessive. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with pleasure. His own release threatened, his body tense with need. He thrust upward, his movements matching yours.
"Harder, baby," he growled, his voice hoarse. His hands gripped your hips, his touch insistent. Nat's eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with hunger. He thrust upward, his erection hitting your G-spot.
"Oh god, yes," he moaned, his voice tinged with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, his touch unyielding. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face flushed with desire.
"Take it," he growled, his voice raw. His hands gripped your hips, his touch insistent. His eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with determination. Nat's thrusts became more forceful, his body moving in sync with yours.
"Oh god, you feel so good," he panted, his voice hoarse. His eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with longing.
you feel filled to the brim, his dick hitting your cervix He thrust upward, his erection hitting your spot perfectly.
"Fuck, yes," he groaned, his voice tinged with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, his touch unyielding. Nat's eyes never left yours, his face etched with desire. "That's it, ride me, baby," he urged, his voice low and sultry. His own release threatened, his body trembling. Nat's breath came in short, ragged gasps, his eyes locked onto yours.
"You're so fucking tight," he moans, getting close to your neck and biting it, leaving a mark "f-fuck nat" you moan loudly
Nat's eyes flashed with ecstasy, his own release imminent.
"Fuck, yes" he growled, his voice hoarse. His hands gripped your hips, his touch insistent. His eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with pleasure. Nat's release erupted, his body trembling. His thrusts became more frantic, his body shaking.
His eyes never left yours, his gaze filled with hunger.
"That's it, baby," he urged, his voice low and sultry. His release surged, his body shuddering. Nat's breath came in short, ragged gasps, his eyes locked onto yours.
"Oh, fuck" he moaned, his voice tinged with pleasure. His hands gripped your hips, his touch unyielding. His release poured into you, his body quivering. Nat's eyes locked onto yours, his face etched with satisfaction.
"You feel so good," he murmured, his voice hoarse.
you feel exhaustion seep into your body, your body relaxing without your will into his neck, closing your eyes and sighing into his neck as sleep settles in
"You're amazing," he whispered, his voice soft. His arms wrapped around you, his embrace tender. He held you close, his chest rising and falling with heavy breaths. Nat's hands caressed your back, his touch gentle. His eyes locked onto yours, his face filled with contentment.
"Thank you," he murmured, his voice filled with gratitude. His breath hitched, his body still trembling. His fingers tangled in your hair, his touch affectionate.
You wake up the next day alone in your bed, your head hurts as you remember what happened last night, getting up from your room and heading towards the stairs, your knees buckle and you almost fall, this has never happened before...
Going down the stairs, you notice that your stepmother, your father and Nat were at the breakfast table, your mother talking to Nat while your father read a newspaper, she gives a smile when she sees you
"Good morning sweetheart" she says softly, and nat looks at you and waves "good morning idiot" she greets you normally, you roll your eyes fake not at all offended "good morning smelly" you say as you sit next to your stepmother "stop arguing" she says lovingly
"I'm not" you say bluntly, breakfast continues as normal, you and Nat acting like you always do on a daily basis until your stepmother says something "Have you resolved yourselves yet?" She murmurs softly as she fixes the dishes, you and Nat look at each other
"What do you mean?" "You were arguing last night in your room" she says, you and Nat's eyes widen and you can see Nat blushing, your father looks at your stepmother "always, they always arguing" he adds and your mother rolls her eyes and smiles "
They don't even hide it, you speak too loud, dear
#lottie yellowjackets#natalie scatorccio x reader#natalie x reader#yellowjackets x reader#natalie scatorccio#yellowjackets#natalie scatorccio smut#natalie scartoccio x reader#lottie x natali#Natalie scartoccio x y/n#Natalie scartoccio x reader
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ALEXITHYMIA CH 5: detergent, thrifting, and cake
Roommate AU: Carmy Berzatto x Reader
Chapter Rating: T (11k)
ao3 link, ch 1, ch 2, ch 3, ch 4
Chapter Summary: It’s his roommate’s birthday this week, and Carmy doesn’t find out until it’s a couple days away. Once he finds they’re unluckily spending their birthday alone, he makes it his mission to make their lonely day better. It’s the least he can do. Little does he know how much more he has to discover about them and about himself.
Tags: reader having trauma, carmy having trauma, toxic families, domesticity
A/N: It’s time… it’s time. I said last chapter was the longest…just kidding. THIS ONE is the longest, and it was hardest to write so far. The duo gets to have a lot of fun this chapter, though! arguably the most so far! A lot of domestic goodness and good food and shopping! Until… :)
also HUGE shoutout to @justaconsequence on tumblr for being my beta reader for this chapter! she was so kind and so helpful. this behemoth of a fic is too much for me to proofread on my own. anyway, thanks for reading and enjoy! can't wait to hear what y'all think!
Typically, by this time on Monday morning, Carmy's usually three cigarettes deep into paperwork, urgently (and poorly) calculating the sales the restaurant needs to make this week to stay afloat. Because even though it's a Sunday closing activity, he never seems to find the occasion to get around to it, and by 10 pm, he doesn't have the capacity to be crunching numbers.
Not that 8 am is much better. At least he's not dissecting the debt this morning—he's studying detergent prices.
“Why is this one, like, almost 20 dollars?” Carmy stops reading the price tags and glances over at his roommate, who's squinting at products on upper shelves. The lights are always too bright in this place. “And for such a small bottle…”
“Pre-mixed organic sulfate-free 100% vegan bleach,” Carmy reads dully.
“So stupid.” They shake their head. “Does grocery shopping ever depress you?”
“Usually,” he replies dryly. “Inflation is pretty depressing.”
“Don’t even get me started. Capitalism in general depresses me.”
“Hm, yeah. That too.” He sighs through his nose and tries to refocus. He's having a hard time processing all the numbers and letters today. “You see any unscented detergent? Somethin’ mild?”
“Um…” They crane their neck up and down, and then they crouch on the ground. They pick up a white bottle. “How's this? It's like, 8 dollars. It's not name-brand, but…”
“You know I don't care.” He kneels with them, huddling in close. They smell faintly of a sweet, yet musky perfume. He reminds himself to focus on the detergent, not the way they smell (even if it's far more interesting). “Yeah, this looks good. Thank you.”
“For your vintage denim, right?” They stand up to put the detergent in their shopping cart, which is barely separated with his stuff vs. theirs. He doesn't understand why his face grows warm at their comment, but it does.
“Uh, yeah. It is.” If the blush shows on his face, they graciously don't comment. “Although I'll admit I don't get around to washing them as much as I should.”
“You're not supposed to wash jeans that often anyway, right?” They lean their elbows onto the rickety cart as they push it, and he ambles along next to them, matching the slow, relaxed pace of their walk.
“Yeah, but I really…” The implications are clear. They fail in suppressing a laugh, and it makes him smile. “And I’m supposed to hand wash them, so.”
“Oh, so what you're saying is that you never wash them,” they tease.
“That is not at all what I'm saying.” They make an unimpressed face. “I do laundry, it's just…”
“Not often,” they supply helpfully. He tries to come up with something, but he's got nothing. “It's okay, I understand.”
“I promise I wash my clothes,” he mumbles, wilting.
“I know.” There's that new smile he's grown to recognize more clearly. It's this mischievous one they get when they’re teasing him, and it's so cute he doesn't have any room in him to get even a little irritable. “I've seen you do laundry maybe once or twice.”
“Hey,” he says, warning, and they laugh and run ahead of him, the squeaky wheels of the cart giggling alongside them.
After the night he almost burned down their apartment, he had felt different. It was like a switch being flipped, light abruptly filling up a dark room, and he's been squinting, struggling to adjust. But as he walks with them today, grocery shopping lit by blinding white fluorescents, he finds that he can see them rather clearly.
The connection between the two of them is tangible, palpable. It's workable pasta dough that's been kneaded to uniformity. The dough is malleable, clean, and when he touches it, sticky, glutenous residue doesn't cover his palms. When he catches at them peeking over their shoulder to make sure he's still following them, he chases away the urge to pull them into his arms. He throws the desire into boiling water in hopes that enough pressure will change those feelings into something more palatable. He's not sure if it's working.
Something happened when he hugged them that Saturday night. He doesn't dare name what that “something” is, but it's rising from where it's sitting at the bottom of the pot, just about to hit the surface—
“Hey, I gotta get some stuff in this aisle.” Carmy snaps out of it and follows them as they veer the cart to the left. He raises his eyes to read the categories on the sign.
“You bakin’ somethin’?” They both move out of the way for an oncoming cart.
“Yeah, was thinking about it.” They halt to a stop in front of the boxed cake mix and step back to fully peruse the shelves. He stands next to them, and they glance at him out of the corner of their eye. “You’re not judging me for getting box mix, are you?”
“Not at all,” he answers honestly. “Food is always better when made from scratch, but box mix has its uses. Besides, I’m not a baker.”
“That’s true, but I’m sure you still make an insane cake.” Carmy’s aware he can’t make them unsee his flash of a smile, but he still shrugs. “Sure, stay humble.”
“I try. What’s the occasion?”
“Ah, nothing much. It’s just my birthday.”
“Oh, okay.”
…And he's about to move on, just as casually as it came, but then the processing finishes.
“Why’re you lookin’ at me like that?” They ask confusedly.
“Is it your birthday today?”
“No, um, it’s this Thursday.” He exhales in palpable relief.
“Why didn’t you tell me?” He hates at how worked up he sounds.
“Um…” Their face is twinged with guilt. “...There was never a good time to bring it up?”
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be getting upset.” He sighs, shakes his head. “I just feel like I should’ve known, I guess.”
“No, it’s fine. It’s not your fault. I never brought it up. Um…” Their hands are fiddling with the edges of their sleeves. “I just have complicated feelings about my birthday.”
“Ah, I see. I get that.” That, he can understand. “Is it all the gifts and stuff?”
“Kinda. It’s a part of it.” They lean down to grab a box of devil’s food cake, and that makes him remember that they’re in a grocery store. Not quite the best place for a personal conversation like this. They’re being vague, but he won’t press. Not right now.
“You shouldn’t be baking for yourself on your birthday,” Carmy mutters. They smile at that, but it’s different. It’s heavy with melancholy.
“It’s alright. I’m gonna be celebrating with my friends this weekend, just not on my actual birthday.” His conflicted expression persists. “It’s okay, really. It’s just a day. It’ll be enough of a present to not have to go into work.”
“Put that back,” he blurts out. “I’ll make you a cake.”
“Don’t you work?” Their eyebrows are arched in surprise. “You really don’t—”
“I know I don’t. But I want to. I do work, yeah, but I’ll, I’ll get someone to cover me.” He’s never said those words before in his life, and now that they’re out, he can’t take them back. As a matter of fact, he doesn’t want to take them back. “We’re friends, aren’t we?”
“Of course,” they reply quickly.
“Then let me do this. Please.” He has no idea where this courage is coming from. “I want to. I know I'm always working, but I really…” Their eyes are wide with wonder, yet watchful. It shouldn't make him falter, but it does. His heart stutters and whatever bravado briefly gripped him fades away. “I’m…probably being too pushy right now. Tell me to fuck off?”
“I’m not gonna tell you to fuck off for wanting to bake me a cake,” they laugh, easing his worries like they always do. “C’mon, Carm.”
“So, uh, is that a yes, or…?”
“Just so we’re clear, I’m not trying to ask you to take off of work for my birthday,” they start carefully, “but I wouldn’t object to it. So, yeah. It’s a yes.”
“Okay.” He can’t help his giddy smile. There's someone saying you look stupid like this, but he’s with them, and it makes everything else silent. “Okay, good.”
“You’re…being super sweet about all this.” He doesn’t understand why—maybe it’s the way they say it—but hearing that makes his neck go hot.
“I mean…friends do stuff like this, don’t they?”
“Only the good ones.” They beam beautifully at him. He hasn’t done anything to warrant their affection, he thinks, but the feeling of their smile is so warm. He can’t resist soaking in it.
He's glad that lady luck blessed him just enough to stop their birthday from passing him by. He's been itching for an opportunity to repay them for all the bullshit they've had to take from him as of recent (although he knows if he brought it up, they would say it wasn't anything worth repaying). They deserve something good from him for once, not panic attacks and nightmares.
He just wishes he could figure out why they were going to spend their birthday alone. He knows them a lot better now, but there's still so much left shrouded. He wants to know them inside and out—he wants to learn what makes them tick, what keeps them up at night, what makes them happy. He wants to know all of it in its entirety, to fill in the gaps in the puzzle he doesn't have the pieces for.
He has some of the pieces. He understands that their relationship with their family to his—distant, strained, and difficult. Unfortunately, that’s about it. He doesn’t know any of the specifics. It’s not like he’s talked to them about his family outside of the off-handed bitter remarks, just as they have, but he finds that this fact leaves him dissatisfied.
He just hopes that they'll let him in. He's not sure if they will, but…he's gonna try. He has to. He's sick of not trying.
. . . . .
“You want to take off?” Richie’s staring at Carmy like he’s grown a second head. They're taking a smoke break in the back. “I don’t know what sort of doppelganger bullshit this is, but if you’re trying to pretend to be Carmen, you’re doing a shit job.”
“Very funny, jackass,” Carmy mutters. “I’m being serious. This Thursday.”
“All day?” Carmy grimaces, but he nods. Richie shakes his head. “You’re being weird. Really fuckin’ weird.”
“I know I shouldn’t. It’s a bad idea, but—”
“Cousin, no, that’s not at all what’s goin’ on here,” Richie interrupts, and Carmy’s at a loss for words. “This is the best idea you’ve ever had.”
“What?” Carmy squints at him. “Are you being serious?”
“‘Course I’m serious. I’m always serious.” Carmy decides not to comment on that. “Do you know how many times I’ve tried to get you off this ship for just one fucking second?”
“As the owner of this place, you’ve tried way too many times,” he replies dryly.
“Uh, as the original co-owner of this place, you don’t listen to me enough.” Again, Carmy decides not to elaborate on that one. It’s not worth it. “Take the day off. I was running it fine before, and I’ll keep running it.”
“No, no, we’re not saying that, it was not fine,” Carmy starts, but Richie’s already flipping him off.
“Whatever, I already know, new fucking system and all that. Don’t get anxiety or whatever over it, that’s why you got Syd hustling shit your way, right?”
“Uh.” Carmy didn’t realize that Richie had even been paying attention to the new hierarchy in the restaurant, let alone respecting it in any capacity. “Yeah, she is.”
“Then it’s fine.” Richie blows smoke in his face, and Carmy swats it away with a glare. “It was fine when you came in an hour late today, wasn’t it?”
“You guys knew I wasn’t gonna come in until later,” Carmy argues, defensive (although he’s not sure if there’s actually anything to argue about).
“Exactly.” Richie sighs all of a sudden, a long one that sounds like it’s bone deep. “Carm. Let me be straight with you. You need to do this. Okay? No backing out of this one.”
“Why’re you sayin’ this? What are you sayin’?”
“It’s ‘cause of your roommate, right? This Thursday?”
“...Yeah.” Carmy pales. “How did you—?”
“Fuckin’ knew it,” Richie says, grinning. “It was obvious.”
“No way. I didn’t say shit.”
“You didn’t need to.” Richie flicks the ash off his cigarette. “They’re changin’ you, man. We can all see it.”
“...” Carmy can’t deny that. He doesn't have time to ponder on that right now. “Is it really okay?”
“Yeah, you could stand to have an attitude adjustment.”
“I wasn’t talking about that, asshole. I was talking about Thursday.”
“Yes, for fuck’s sake, it’s completely fine.” Richie claps a hand on his shoulder, solid in its grip. It makes Carmy’s eyes snap to him, mostly in confusion. “So what’s the occasion? Must be important.”
“It’s their birthday. I mean, I could just go home early that day, but—”
“Yo, if you’re gonna take off, don’t halfass it—”
“That’s not what I was gonna say. When I’m here, I can’t seem to find my way out. This place…it just has a way of trapping you in.” He doesn’t expect Richie to nod, but he does. “I know if I don’t take the whole day off, I’ll never get out of here in time. Not until it’s too late.”
For some reason, that makes Richie laugh.
“Yeah. That's it.” Richie shakes his head as smoke trails out of his mouth. “That’s just it, man. You have to make time for the things that’re important. Even the recitals where you have to listen to five year olds play twinkle twinkle little star 20 times. You can’t miss shit like this. Because once you miss it, it’s gone.”
“Rich.” Carmy wants to say something to make that haunted expression leave Richie's face, but he doesn't come up with anything in time.
“Don’t give me that look.” Richie’s hand falls from his shoulder. “I’m just tryin’ to stop you from fucking shit up. They actually seem like a good person.”
“Y’think so?”
“I do. You?”
“Yeah.” Carmy doesn’t bother hiding his smile, even though he can already sense Richie’s teasing coming from a mile away. “They’re a really good friend.”
“Friend. Sure.” Richie snorts.
“Don’t push it,” and for some reason he adds, “they were gonna spend it alone.”
“Huh. Sociable guy like them spending it alone?”
“I know. I didn't ask. Maybe I should've.”
“Maybe. I dunno, cousin. Everyone's got their secrets. Especially the ones that try to act like they don't have any.”
“You're strangely full of wisdom today.”
“Fuck right off,” Richie responds in regular Richie fashion.
“I think they're like me. Like us.” Carmy's not sure why he's saying this on a Monday afternoon at work out of all times, but the truth bursts out of him beyond his will. Richie's expression shifts into something more solemn, something recognizable. “Y'know what I mean.”
“...Yeah.” Richie claps his hand on Carmy's back again. “Shitty parents club.”
As Carmy stands there in the back, feet sore and tobacco in the air, he sees his childhood in flashes. He's five years old again and is following Mike around with scuffed sneakers and untamed hair, although he supposes that unruliness never truly changed with time. There's warm sunlight filtering through green summer leaves. He hears his mother behind him, somewhere, but maybe he doesn't.
He thinks of home, of his bedroom, and it is cold. He has homework he’s failed to complete again. It's sitting on his desk, on top of all of the other shit he can't finish. There's screaming, and he's not listening.
He blinks. He’s 30, and he hasn’t talked to his mom since Michael died.
“Shitty parents club,” Carmy repeats hollowly.
. . . . .
When Thursday morning arrives, Carmy ends up greeting his roommate with flour in his hair and eggs sizzling on the pan.
“Um,” they say, just as Carmy goes “G'morning.” They both freeze, brief awkwardness circling between them before it dissipates with their breathless laugh.
“Good morning. I didn't think you'd actually take off,” they admit.
“I said I would,” he replies quietly, but it's not accusatory. How many times had he said he'd be home for dinner just for him to arrive when they're already asleep? He tries not to make empty promises anymore. Nonetheless, he understands their surprise. “Um, I'm almost done with breakfast. I didn't get to the coffee yet.”
“Am I supposed to be offended?” They laugh. “That's the least I can do, with you doing all of this.” They sluggishly shuffle behind him to reach down into some kitchen cabinets. “It's a special day, so I'll even make us pour overs.”
“That's true. It is special.” He peeks over his shoulder, pausing from basting the eggs in brown butter to see them setting up on the kitchen island. They gently place the hourglass-shaped glass onto the counter with a light clink. He silently switches the button on for the electric gooseneck kettle to his right. “Am I allowed to wish you a happy birthday, or should I not?”
“Hm, I don't mind. Just don't overdo it, which I doubt you will.” They pull out a bag of coarse ground coffee and a filter. As soon as they open the bag, he can smell the sweet scent of the light roast floating towards him.
“Okay. Then, happy birthday,” he says as casually as he can.
“Thanks, Carmy.” He studies their expression, searching for annoyance in their content expression, but he doesn't find any. “That's not even really what I meant by today being special, though.”
“How else did you mean it?” The eggs are done. He reaches over the hot pan to cut the heat.
“Well, y'know. I dunno if we’ve ever had a full day off together.” They're carefully scooping grounds into the filter fitted on top of the glass, creating a small hill. “I think I managed to catch you coming home early on my off days sometimes, but never a full day.”
“Huh.” Carmy has to take a minute to think about that one. “Yeah, I don't know either. I think you're right.”
“Then, like I said. It's special.” They seal up the bag of coffee grounds, and then they frown. “Shit. I forgot to turn on the kettle. Can you—”
“Already did it,” he reports, pleased, and his sense of accomplishment only doubles at their sigh of relief.
“Thank god.” There's the familiar clicking sound of the kettle reaching the perfect temperature. “Just in time, too. Can you hand it to me?”
“Yes, chef,” he says, because it always makes them laugh. Today is no exception. He slides the metallic kettle over to them.
“So what delights did you whip up over there?” They ask. They begin pouring the almost boiling water over their coffee grounds in a slow circle, gradually inching towards the middle. “It smells amazing. I want the full break-down.”
“The full break-down, got it.” On two circular plates, he's carefully placing a fried egg, thick cut bacon, and a slice of toast with jam and butter. “Uh…it's nothin’ special, just stuff we had in the fridge. We've got a, uh, brown-butter fried egg with a little paprika, sage, pepper, salt…”
“Oh, just an egg made with liquid gold, no big deal,” they imitate.
“Cut it out,” he snips back, but he's smiling and they know it. “There's honestly not much to it. This thick-cut bacon was in the back, so I cooked the rest of it. And the toast is just brioche with salted honey butter and blueberry jam.”
“Carmy. C'mon. That's nothing special to you?”
“I mean.” It's not quite nothing, he thinks. “I can make nicer breakfasts, is all.”
“That's what you said when you made me garlic bread, and that fucking blew my mind.” They set the kettle down with a thunk. The glass is full of dark coffee. Prepped next to them is their favorite glass mug alongside Carmy's. He's not sure how they knew that it was his favorite, but he doesn't question it.
“I'm just letting you know that you should wait to be really impressed.”
“Too fucking late, man.” He's turned around and placed the two breakfast platters on the kitchen island, and they gawk openly at it. “Holy fuck.”
“It's ready,” he says, surprisingly meek. He can't comprehend why anxiety's hitting him now of all times. He's served acclaimed food critics, top-security government officials, and celebrities more times than he can count. Before that audience, he never faltered, but in front of his roommate in their crumpled pajamas, his heart stutters.
“Oh, wow…” They regard the food with undeserved softness. Like a punctured balloon, his anxiety immediately begins deflating. They're staring at the food like it's a painting in a museum. “You seriously didn't have to do all of this.”
“I know. I just wanted to.” He feels heat on the back of his neck. “Is…is that okay?”
“It's more than okay.” Suddenly, he notices their eyes are puffy, like they were crying. “Goddamnit, get over here.”
He only registers what's about to happen for one second before they're hugging him. Their palms are on his back, and the top of their head tucks under his chin perfectly. He makes a small, surprised noise.
“I, I'm glad you like it.” He links his arms around them, allows himself to rest his chin on their head. With their face turned to the side, their ear's pressed up against his chest, and he's instantly struck with the paranoia that they're gonna hear his rapid heartbeat.
“I haven't even taken a bite yet, and I love it.” They lean back then, arms still wrapped around him and head craned upwards to look at him. It's far too intimate for what they are, and Carmy hates how his heart beats even harder. “Thank you for doing all this. Seriously. I…”
“The breakfast's just a side thing, I'm, um, still baking you a cake.”
“What? You're doing this and a cake?”
“Um,” Carmy repeats intelligently.
“Carmy. Carmy, Carmy, Carmy.” Their words ooze affection, but surely he's just imagining it. Their hands are crawling up his back. “God, I could just ki—”
“There's the timer,” Carmy blurts out, because his phone's ringing and so are his ears. At the sound, they let him go, and he grabs two towels to retrieve the two circular cake pans from the oven. A toothpick poked through the middle comes out clean, so he sets them on a wire rack to cool.
He needs to focus on the cakes. That's the most important thing.
“Oh my god.” They lean in close to the cake and take a deep breath. “Is this—”
“Devil's food cake, yeah.” The heat searing his face is surely from opening the oven.
“You—how did you—” Their smile is luminous with joy. “You really pay attention to every little thing, don't you?”
“Sometimes. When it counts.” He fidgets awkwardly, nails picking at the sides of his fingers. “Wanna eat by the window, or…?”
“Fuck yeah I do. Can you bring the plates over? I'll have the coffee over in just a second.”
Carmy sets up at their little table first, placing the plates just right across from one another. The morning sun casts a cozy glow through their speckled window, streaking planes of light across the floor. He patiently waits and watches them pace from the fridge to the counter, splashing cream into their mugs. Through the transparent glass, he watches the white fizzle into the dark coffee, blending into a warm brown.
“Just a tiny spoon of sugar for you, right?” They peek over their shoulder, catching his stare, and he nods. He's also not quite sure how they know that, either. They've had coffee in the morning maybe a handful of times before.
He supposes they also pay attention sometimes, when it counts.
“Alright, here we go.” They bring a mug in each hand and set them delicately down on the table. He notes that his coffee is the perfect color. “Oh, thanks for waiting. You didn't have to.”
“I, I guess so, yeah. It's just, uh, you always wait for me, so…”
“That's—that's true.” An odd tension sets in their face, but they laugh it off, and it disappears. “I guess I’m not used to it anymore.”
A part of him wants to ask further by what they meant by that, but they're already taking pictures of his food so dutifully. He doesn't want to ruin it, so he eats.
It's nice to have a solid breakfast for once. He had taken their advice from the other night and had been drinking milk with protein powder. It was nice not to feel like he was teetering the edge by lunch time, but truthfully, it was a bit unsavory. This breakfast platter is much more palatable. It also helps that his stomach pains aren't active today.
Time rolls by slowly this quiet morning, and Carmy recognizes the oddity of it immediately. It's clear to see when by this time, he's usually already done at least ten laps through the restaurant. An irritating signal in his brain is telling him that he needs to get up and do something, not sit around and eat, but for once, he doesn't want to listen.
A memory from roughly two weeks ago (or was it one week?) unearths all of sudden. He was up early, drinking shitty coffee and sinking into dissociation. Mornings were lonely, as he was usually the only one up, but not that day. His roommate came stumbling into the kitchen, awake from a restless night. They chatted before he had to head out, and he remembers wishing he had more time in the morning to spend with them.
He imagined a morning just like this one, with pajamas, food, and messy hair. He daydreamed about having all the time in the world, and he thought about getting to spend it all with them. Now he’s sitting in that moment he imagined, except that it’s real. They're across from him in their wrinkled pajamas and bedhead, contentedly mowing through their food. There's a smear of jam on the corner of their mouth. He takes a sip of his coffee, and it's perfect, just as they made it for him.
This amount of good should scare him, needs to scare him, but he just can't bring himself to care anymore. He wants more than nightmares, cigarettes, and floating just above the budget. He wants this.
He tastes his coffee and reminds himself that he’s still here. The moment hasn’t passed him by.
“Is it good?” He asks quietly. It’s a rhetorical question, it always is, but he can’t help himself. He wants to hear it from them.
“So. Fucking. Good.” They have to finish chewing before they answer. “You always knock it out of the park. If this is the prelude, I don’t know if I can handle what’s next,” they say, gesturing towards the cooling cake.
“It won’t be ready for a while yet. You have time to prepare yourself.” That makes them smile. All according to plan. “Got anything in mind for today?”
“Nothing glamorous. I was just gonna go out for a little. Go thrifting, maybe watch a movie later. Smoke a joint.” They shrug. “Just my usual sort of thing.”
“Mm.” He dusts off crumbs from the toast off his fingers on his pants. “Sounds like a good time. You still wanna go?”
“I do, yeah.” They stare at him for a moment, as if processing his words. Or just him. “Do you…wanna tag along, or…?”
Whenever they ask him if he wants to spend time together (whether it’s grocery shopping, smoking, or watching a show), they usually offer it with an air of nonchalance. Carmy’s assumed it’s been out of politeness, restraining their expression as to not put any pressure onto him. That’s the person he’s used to, not this uneasy anxiety, someone afraid to ask him to spend time with them.
It reminds him of himself in every way.
“I’d love to tag along,” he answers easily, just as they’ve always done for him. “I’ve got the whole day off, after all.”
“Right. ‘Course.” He watches their little smile double in size. “I promise to not make you watch me try on clothes for too long.”
“I wouldn’t mind. I like thrifting, y’know.” And you, he thinks to himself.
“You do? Oh, of course—” They make a contemplative noise to themself. “Vintage denim. I always wondered how you managed to have so many pairs.”
“Once you know where to look, they’re pretty easy to find. I can help you find some, if you want.”
“I’d love that. I realized the other day that I don’t have any dark wash jeans, so—actually, the truth is that I do have a pair, but they’re so fucked up and old that I never wear them anymore. Anyway, I need new jeans. Think you could find some dark wash blue jeans for me?”
“If you’re willing to hit up more than one store, then definitely,” he replies, just a smidge cocky.
“I’m willing to hit up even two more stores.” He pretends to gasp, to which they nod confidently. “Yeah. That’s right. Maybe even three.”
“We won’t need three,” Carmy promises. “I’m better than that. Probably won’t even need two, but…” He shrugs. “We’ll see what they’ve got.”
“Okay, Mr. Confident over here,” they tease. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
They head out after they both clean the kitchen and freshen up. Carmy gets the flour out of his hair and rewets his hair to revive some of his curls. He silently thanks his past self for showering the night before. With the passage of the morning cold and the rising sun, the afternoon weather’s become brisk and pleasant. However, the weather’s barely a factor in how he’s dressing.
Is this too much? Is this not enough? He’s switching shirts and pants in the mirror like he’s about to go on a date. He knows he’s not, swears to himself that he’s not, but he’s put product in his hair and cologne on his wrists and temples. It’s not a date, but he can’t fucking decide what to wear.
He sucks it up and settles on a gray sweater, light wash blue jeans, and white sneakers. From under his collar and at the bottom of his sweater peeks out a brown button up. It’s probably too much, but this is his sixth outfit change. He’s fed up with it and himself.
After adjusting the gold chain that got hidden under his collar, he steps out.
He finds them already waiting by the door in this thick knit cardigan and fitted plaid pants that makes his heart stutter. When they hear him approaching, their head snaps up from their phone, and their skin sparkles with touches of makeup.
“You look really nice.” He has no idea how he let that slip, but he’s more shocked that he didn’t stutter once.
“Ah, th—thank you,” they stammer, fingers fidgeting with the edge of their sleeve. He’s not sure if it's their makeup or their skin that’s doing the blushing. It’s nice to see them being the one tripping over their words for once. “You look pretty handsome yourself.”
“Oh. Um.” Handsome? It echoes in his head. He instantly feels self conscious. So much for being the more suave one for once. “Thanks, uh…I just didn’t wanna wear my work clothes,” he lies in an attempt to ease his embarrassment.
“I gotcha.” He’s glad they don’t challenge him on it. “Shall we head out?”
“Yeah. Where we headed first?”
They take the metro to their personal favorite shop a little up north. The metro’s surprisingly busy for a Thursday afternoon, but the crowd forces the two of them to be huddled next to each other. They’re both standing close to a pole by the window, each with one hand wrapped around the metal.
As passengers come and go, they step closer to him to move out of the way. Eventually it just gets to a point where they’re standing nearly pressed up against his chest. He tries not to dwell on how that makes him feel, but he can smell the fragrance they put on, and it’s very distracting.
Luckily, the ride is short. Any longer on the train, he might’ve put an arm around their shoulder, god forbid.
“If we can’t find what I’m looking for here, maybe you can show me one of your favorite spots to go thrifting,” they say as they enter the thrift store. The interior is decorated, clean, and lovely, and unlike the metro, it’s not packed to the brim with people. It smells faintly of incense, and there’s local art framed all over the walls for sale. It oozes warmth and excitement, much like them.
“There’s a ton of shit here, so maybe we won’t need to after all.” He finds himself intaking everything at once, eyes flickering from sign to sign. “I’ve never been here before. This is really cool.”
“It’s my favorite place to find new clothes.” They trail down the racks, finger flitting between clothes. “I hope you can find something you like here, too.”
“I’m sure I will.” He’s already walking to their denim section and immediately spots some contenders. “I think I already have.”
He’s not sure if they mean to spend hours in there, but he certainly does. There’s more than just clothes to look at, although that’s what takes up most of his time. There’s dishes, furniture, cds, vinyls, books, even electronics. He goes back and forth with them, clothing articles piling up in his arms as they sit on battered couches together and peruse scratched cds. Everywhere he looks, there’s just more, more, and more.
“Okay, I’ve gotta cut myself off,” they say as they leave the furniture section. They’ve sat on nearly every chair in that place. “I already have so many clothes to try on, and that’s not even including the jeans you’ve picked out for me.”
“If it helps, some of these are mine.” Carmy flips through the layers of hanging jeans that have built up on his forearm. “If you can believe it, I even found some stuff that isn’t denim.”
“I’m not sure if I can, but seeing is believing.” They thumb through some long-sleeves he’s carrying that are seeping out from under the jeans. “I’m just glad you were able to find some stuff for yourself, too. Not that I was that worried.”
He hands them the jeans he’s found for them, all dark wash and in their size. To his surprise, they also hand him an article of clothing for him to try on.
“I thought you’d look good in this. You’ll have to show me when you try it on,” they say, and it’s innocent, completely meaningless, but as soon as Carmy agrees and rushes to hide in the changing room, he views in the mirror and sees his flushed face.
Doesn’t mean anything, he repeats to himself, over and over and over. Stop getting in over your head.
He tries on his items of choice first. The first is a dark green henley that looked better on the rack than it did him, so he puts it in the reject pile. The second is a dark blue long sleeve that fits just right. It’s cheap, too, so it’s an automatic purchase. He presumes the way to word it is that it hugs him in all the right places, but he’s not sure. The rest are jeans, of which only one he decides to buy. A bit pricey, but for the brand and year, it’s worth it (although he basically always uses this reasoning with himself).
Now, for the piece of clothing they picked out for him. It’s a dark brown t-shirt that seems like it’s just the right length. It’s a muted, yet warm brown, a bit rosey in hue. He doesn’t realize it’s a v-neck until he gets it over his head and down his shoulders.
“I’ve never worn a v-neck before,” he calls out to the room next to him.
“Oh, are you trying it on? Do you like it?” Their slightly muffled voice calls back to him.
“Um…I’m not sure,” he admits with a shaky laugh. The collar is lower than he’s used to. It dips below his collarbones, and between them dangles his chain. “Should I show you?”
“Yes! Hold on, lemme get some pants on. …Okay, I’m stepping out!”
He hears their door open alongside his. When they see him, their expression snaps into what he believes is surprise and delight. He’s sure he looks somewhat the same.
They’re wearing one of the vintage jeans he picked out for them—dark blue Levi’s. Although they’re rolled up a couple times at the bottom, it seems to fit them just right. As he stares, he’s reminded of his many pairs of Levi’s, and it’s more or less like seeing them in his clothes, which is. Which is. Uh. Yeah.
“I knew that would suit you,” they say with a grin, to which he realizes he can’t hide his blush.
“It’s not weird?”
“Not at all. It looks good.” They tilt their head to the side as they openly look him over, hip cocked. Something in their gaze is making him hot. “No pressure to buy it, of course.”
“It’s different from what I’m used to, but…” He looks down, smooths the fabric with his palm. “It’s kinda nice, something like this. Um, and what do you think about the jeans?” He needs to direct the attention off him quickly.
“Oh, I love them. The others ended up fitting not quite right on me, but that’s how it goes.” They move from side to side, almost twirling. It’s cute. “I love these, though. Just a little long, but I’m used to it.”
“That’s how it always is. I can hem them for you, if you want. I usually hem mine.”
“And he sews,” they say, seemingly to themself, but they’re looking right at him. Embarrassing. “If you don’t mind, that’d be amazing. Either way, I’m probably getting them.”
“Good. You should. They fit well.”
“Yeah?” They glance back into their fitting room, likely examining themself in the mirror, and then back at him. “Okay, then. Definitely getting them.” With that and a cheeky grin, they go back into their dressing room to try on the rest of their clothes. Carmy follows suit, grateful to hide his embarrassed face.
Carmy heads to check out with the dark blue long sleeve, a pair of jeans, and the brown v-neck. They’ve decided on the pair of jeans they showed him earlier and a little purple tank-top he wishes he got to see on them.
“Will that be all for you today?” The cashier asks him as he checks out first. Even the cashiers here are pretty nice, he finds.
“Oh, their stuff, too.” He nods to them, who’s standing right next to him.
“Carmy.” They glare at him.
“What?” He feels himself smiling.
“You can’t do this to me.”
“C’mon.” He nudges them gently with his elbow. “It’s my present to you.”
“Oh, so the present wasn’t the breakfast? Or the cake? Or helping me pick these out?”
“Why can’t it be all of them?” He decides to stop this in its tracks and takes the clothes out of their hands, sliding it onto the counter. “Just these two, and that’ll be it.”
“Just you wait until your birthday hits,” they mutter darkly, shaking their head. “Just you wait.”
“I haven’t told you my birthday.” He pauses. “Right?”
“I’ll ask Richie.”
“No, you won’t.”
“You’re giving me no choice.”
“You could also just, I don't know, not ask—”
“I wouldn't have to if you didn't force my hand—”
“You guys are cute together,” the cashier comments with a smile, surely a harmless, meaningless thing, but it shuts the both of them up. Carmy can already feel the impact of it on his psyche, and he decides to tuck away the surging emotions to unpack later. At least, he'll try.
“You really didn't have to get those for me,” they tell him when they're exiting the store. “But I guess I should just be saying thank you. So…thank you.”
“Sure. I mean, it would've been better if it was wrapped and stuff, but…” He shrugs. “Had to get you a real present, not just food.”
“Not just food, my ass.” That makes him laugh. “It'll be nice to have something to remind me of this day, though. That's one of the nice parts of getting gifts. Everytime I wear these clothes, I'll think of you.”
“Good. Yeah, that's…good,” he finishes lamely. He nods like their words haven't flustered him, but he's sure they can tell. They laugh, and he can tell it's because of his reaction.
“I'm sorry that the cashier said that,” they say out of nowhere.
“Why're you apologizing? It's not your fault.” Any embarrassment he was feeling before is immediately replaced with a new, more potent sort of embarrassment. He was hoping they wouldn't mention it.
“I guess that's true. I don't know, I just…” They trail off. “Just hope it didn't upset you.”
“Not at all,” he lies, and he prays they believe it.
. . . . .
The metro is less crowded on the way home. They sit comfortably next to each other and watch the city pass them by. A part of Carmy mourns the closeness they had on the way there, but the other part tells him to get it together and keep his distance.
“I'mma take a nap,” they say with a yawn. Their cardigan and bag have been tossed onto the couch. The new clothes have been thrown into the laundry machine, and there's the muffled sound of running water. ��Maybe we could smoke and watch a movie later, though.”
“Yeah, that sounds nice.” He peers into the fridge to check on the cake rounds. Just as he left them. “Have a good nap.”
“Thanks, Carm,” they reply sleepily. “Wouldn't be a good day if I didn't get to have a nice nap, after all.” With that, they shuffle into their room and shut the door behind them.
Carmy spends the next two hours flying around the apartment, baking, cooking, cleaning. The sun slowly sets as he goes. He keeps his body and hands moving in hopes that his head doesn't have a chance to catch up, but it manages to keep the pace. It always does.
The crumb coat's fucked up on the left, his first train of thought says. He inspects the surface, eyes following the circumference of the cake. There's a little loose crumb. With the edge of his spatula, he tucks the crumb away.
The faint smell of chocolate wafts up from the cold cake rounds. He's hunched over the kitchen island, hands reaching between dark chocolate frosting and cake. The afternoon sun casts harsh lights onto the cake, and it glistens. He genuinely can't remember the last time he's made a layered cake. He's never been much of a baker, anyhow.
You're going to disappoint them, his second train of thought interrupts, running parallel to the other one at full speed. Who do you think you are? You don't make cakes.
He leans back, inspects his work. The crumb coats are perfect.
Fuck off, he thinks back, triumphant. Look at that shit. He runs his finger along the spatula, picking up congealed crumbs and frosting. He licks it off, and it's delicious. And it tastes good, asshole. So shut the fuck up.
You're being a nuisance, the thoughts continue. Carmy's pops the crumb coats in the freezer for a quick set. They don't actually like any of this. They're just being nice to make you feel better.
They seemed happy to me, he thinks, but he's faltering. He's washing the dishes, and the sensation of the warm water feels distant. They loved the food I made.
Couldn't you tell they were lying? He doesn't understand why these thoughts are rampaging through his head now of all times. It's not unfamiliar, but it's inconvenient. Keep this up, and you'll actually be surprised when they drop you.
Without warning, a memory hits him . As his hands drip with soap, he's reminded of playing with Michael and Sugar in the summer when he was five. Or six, or seven, he's never quite sure. They were outdoors at a local park, and the heat made the metal of the playground searing hot to the touch.
He was blowing bubbles, and the sticky mixture from the bottle was getting all over his hands. In his memory, Carmy watches the way the iridescent bubbles floated away and left little circles on the surface of the plastic slide. He can't remember why he wasn't playing with the others. He can remember the sound of their laughing voices in the distance, gleeful and delighted without him. He thinks he tried to join in, but it didn't work. It often just didn't work, and it was all his fault.
The memory ends, and Carmy's finished washing the dishes.
This is working, he thinks to himself. His hands are dried out from the hot water and soap. I swear to you, it's working. So just stop. Okay?
There's no response. Good enough.
He hears the door opening as soon as he's putting the finishing touches on the cake. With a damp paper towel, he carefully swipes away stray drops of frosting that fell onto the cake stand. He thinks it's best described as if a tiramisu was turned into a devil's food cake. It's not the best cake he's ever made, but it's definitely up there in terms of looks. All the components of the cake tasted good separately, so he hopes it makes sense in his mouth as much as it did in his head.
“Have a nice nap?” He asks before he turns his head. They're standing in the hallway, bed hair hastily tied back.
“Sorta. It was okay.” Their eyes are glued onto the cake as they walk up to the island. “Is this…?”
“This is for you, yeah,” he finishes for them. They take a seat on one of the chairs at the island. “It's a, uh, devil's food cake with vanilla mascarpone cream on the inside. The outside's this coffee buttercream…” He trails off, not knowing what else to say. He could mention the dutch processed cocoa powder, the expensive vanilla bean pods, or the endless sifting, but it feels too gratuitous.
“Wow…” They're still staring, as if it's not quite real to them. “I can't believe this is for me. It almost looks too pretty to eat, but you know I can't wait to tear into this.”
“We could, uh, have it now, if you, if you want,” he says hesitantly.
“I don't know if I could wait.” Their smile grows wider. “You even put candles on it?”
“We don't have to light them or anything if you don't want to,” he adds quickly.
“The candles are the fun part. I don't mind that. The song is…okay I guess, but…” They give him an expectant, excited look. “Were you gonna sing for me?”
“...Only if you wanted to,” he mumbles, suddenly stricken with embarrassment.
“Would that be okay? If I wanted that?”
“I wouldn't mind.” Not if it's you.
“Okay. Then, yeah.” They pull out a lighter from their pocket. “I’d really like that.”
Carmy cuts the overhead lights before taking out his own lighter to help them light the rest of the candles. One by one, the dark room gradually illuminates until it's filled with a warm, orange glow. The flickering flames cast shifting shadows onto their smiling face and reflect into their glossy eyes.
“Ready?” He asks quietly.
“I'm ready,” they whisper.
Carmy doesn't really need to clear his throat, but he does so anyway. He can't recall the last time he sang happy birthday to anyone, let alone by himself. This is the first time he's ever sung in front of an audience, too.
I can do this, he thinks to himself. I can do this.
His voice is awkward and scratchy. He never uses it like this, has never sang for anyone in his life. His ears burn, and he hates the sound of his voice, but he reminds himself to focus on their delighted little smile and warm gaze. The room is far too quiet for his voice, making the words painfully clear.
“Happy birthday to you,” he finishes singing, voice trailing off awkwardly. He's more than ready to finish singing now. “Uh, make a wish…?”
“Right.” The two of them sit in the flickering candle light for a moment longer, the silence thick. Carmy watches their face, their eyes boring into the candles with an expression he can only describe as longing. Then, they blow out the candles with a decisive blow, and the room goes dark.
He moves to switch on the lights. When he turns back to look at them, tears are streaming down their face.
“Hey,” he says softly. He props his elbows on the counter, standing across from them and tilting his head to the side. They're not meeting his gaze, glazed eyes boring into the dripping candles. “What's wrong?”
“I'm sorry,” they whisper with a sniffle, and it sounds like a reflex. Something about them suddenly seems so much smaller. “I shouldn't be crying.”
“It's okay. I don't mind.” That makes them smile, even if it's shaky. “Was the singing too much?”
“No, it wasn't your singing,” they say with a laugh. “Your singing was lovely. It's just—I'm so happy. You made today so special.”
“Yeah?” He fights the urge to reach over and wipe their tears. “I'm glad. I wanted to make it good. I…” He hesitates. “...I didn't like the idea of you spending it alone.”
“I didn't either. And I thought I was going to have to be alone…but then you—then you took off work, and you made me breakfast, you went shopping with me—even got me clothes—and now this—” Another rush of tears gushes from their eyes, and they hastily wipe at it with their shirt.
“You've done way more for me. This is the least I could do.” Before he can stop himself, his hand is brushing hair out of their eyes. They freeze for a split second, eyes finally flickering up towards him. “Sorry,” he mumbles.
“It's okay,” they whisper back. “Um…” They let out a shaky sigh, the sort of trembling sound that happens after crying too much. “I feel like I should explain.”
“You don't have to if you don't want to,” he assures them quickly, “but I…I'd like to know. If that's okay.”
“I want you to know. I, I do.” They open their mouth to keep talking, but shaky breaths continue to stifle them. It's hard to watch.
“Breathe,” he reminds them, quietly. He visibly takes in a deep breath, silently encouraging them to breathe with him. They follow suit, closing their eyes and taking a slow breath. Tears slip silently from their eyes. Gradually, their breathing becomes less of a staccato, evening out into something much more manageable.
“Thank you,” they murmur. He nods. They already sound a lot calmer. “I'm not sure where to start. I…I suppose I'll start with today.” Another deep breath. “I didn’t get a call from my parents today.”
“Ah…” The first missing piece.
“I knew they weren’t going to. But a part of me still hoped…” They stop and shake their head. “It's the first year that it's been like this.”
“What happened?”
“Uh…I went no contact with my family about a year ago.” Another pained, hollow laugh. The second piece. “I didn't even really want to—it was a complicated, shitty situation. My parents were being their usual shitty selves, and I just wanted them to apologize. It was over such a small thing, and, and I just…I don't know. I thought maybe I could fix things.” He's never seen them with such a heavy expression, etched with such weariness. “I just wanted them to apologize to me, Carm. That's all I wanted. And then they cut me off cold.”
Their voice is trembling again, and the tears are falling faster. The collar of their shirt is dark with moisture. Carmy hates that he doesn't know what to say. He hates just staring at them, silent as he tries to find the words.
Suddenly, he thinks of Michael.
“Michael never let me work in the restaurant,” he tells them. “That's why I went to culinary school. A big part of it, anyway. He just cut me off, didn't let me in no matter what I did, and it was…” He makes a vague hand gesture. “I felt insane. I was so fucking angry. I couldn't understand him. And I'm not saying that's anything like what you've been through, but…” He looks into their watchful eyes. “I'm sorry. I think I'm trying to say that I, that I understand. A little.”
“I…I appreciate that.” They give him a small, wobbly smile. He adores their smile, but seeing it through their tears twists something painfully in his chest. “He would've been lucky to have you. You're an excellent chef.”
“I am now, anyway.” He sighs. “Your family's missing out on you, too. You're…” Say it. Just say it. “You're a really wonderful person. I can't imagine…”
I can't imagine anyone looking at you and not loving what they see, he thinks suddenly, and he instantly realizes he can't say it. He can barely even comprehend that he just thought it.
He can't process this right now. This isn't the time.
“I keep trying to wrap my head around it all, wondering what I did wrong, what I could've done better… Sometimes, the conclusion I arrive at is that I must have done something to deserve this. That I just, I don't know, that maybe I'm just this permanent fuck-up, and…” They run a tired hand over their wet face, through their hair. “My parents fucked me up real good, man.”
There's something familiar about their words, and Carmy realizes it's because it sounds like him. He would've never guessed that under their easy-going smiles was a reflection of himself. He recognizes himself in their self-deprecation, the bone-deep pain. There was always a sense of sympathetic connection between the two of them, but he had no idea. He had no idea how far deep the mutual experiences went.
A part of him still can't believe that this is the truth, that this is what lies at their core, but then he remembers. He thinks about the night they were throwing up into the toilet. They were sobbing, crying into his shoulder about how much they hate themself.
“You know you didn't deserve it. Right?” Carmy's not sure when they started leaning in so close to each other. He's looking at their wet eyelashes with startling clarity. “You did all you could.”
“You don't know that.” Their words are so soft-spoken, but it still catches him off guard. “You don't know what happened.”
“You—” Irritation prickles inside him, his instincts itching to snap back, but he doesn't. He sees himself in them, and he holds back. “You're right. I don't know what happened. But I know you.” The shock is on their face as clear as day. “At least, I think I do.”
“I want to think you do, too,” they whisper. “But this—this messy bullshit is also me. I wish it wasn't. I wish you didn't have to see all this. I…don't want you to…think any less of me.”
“I don't think there's anything you could do to make me think less of you.” He doesn't resist dragging his thumb across a stray tear on their cheek. To his surprise, they lean into his touch. “Y'know when I almost burned down the apartment?”
“Oh my god.” They smile, and he feels their grinning cheek against his palm. “Yeah. Is it crazy to say I remember it fondly?”
“A little bit.” They laugh. It's quiet, but it's real. “Remember that talk we had after?”
“I do. Why?”
“You're allowed to mess up on onions,” he says softly. “It won't push me away.”
They stare at him for what feels like a long time. Their eyes refill with tears, but they don't spill. With a clammy hand, they shakily place their hand on top of his hand that's still cradling their wet cheek.
“Fucking onions,” they say finally with a wet laugh. Fresh tears drip onto his thumb, and he wipes them away again. As many times as it takes. “God damnit, Carmy.”
“No one deserves to have shitty parents, let alone ones that walk out on them.” He thumbs away more tears. “You being an imperfect person like everyone else doesn't justify that.”
“There must be something more I could've done,” they whisper. “Something I did wrong.”
“Maybe. But they're your parents, not the other way around. It's not your fault.”
“I know. I know that. I do. There just has to be a reason, because—fuck—the truth would just be too fucked up.”
“...And that is?”
It takes a long, still minute before they can get their words out.
“...It’s—it's that—” Their cries are verging on sobs, increasingly more staggered and uncontrollable. “It's that s-some kids—are just—some kids have parents that will never—never love—”
They can't finish. Their sobs have overtaken their whole body. Their body's hunched over the counter, curled into themself. Carmy can't think of a time where he's ever seen them crying so hard.
Without another word, Carmy pulls them into a hug.
They cry for a long time. Through it all, fleeting condolences pass Carmy by in his head, but they all feel too cheap, too meaningless. So all he does is hold them tight, letting them grab onto his shirt and soak the fabric on his shoulder. It's all he feels he can really do.
After a while, the tide subsides. He feels them wilting in his arms, exhausted from sobbing so violently. He doesn't actually want to let them go, but their sniffling nose sounds like it's completely stopped up.
“I'm gonna get you some tissues, ok?” He says quietly. They make a quiet noise of acknowledgement, and they pull back. He snatches up a box of tissues from the coffee table. He places it in front of them before grabbing them a glass of water.
“Thank you,” they mumble, voice scratchy. Carmy stands and watches as they blow through several tissues. The water gets downed instantaneously.
“Better?”
“Yeah. A lot better.”
“Good.”
“...I think, deep down, I know I didn't deserve what happened. Or just having shitty parents in general.” They sigh. “It's just easier to think that I do. That I deserve it.”
“...Yeah.” That resonates with a part of him he's not quite ready to acknowledge. “You're one of the kindest people I've ever met,” he admits quietly. “If someone like you deserves a shitty hand in life, I'm fucked.”
“Carmy…” Their smile is small, but genuine. “Thank you. I want to be able to genuinely believe that, one day. I'm going to try.”
“I know. I get it.”
“I know you do.”
That makes both of them smile, even if it's bitter.
“Thanks for telling me. About everything.”
“No, thank you for listening. For just being there for me.” They prop their chin in their hands, their elbows resting on the counter. “Y'know, this past year, I've been trying to find a sense of joy in all this mess. Sometimes it just feels so far away, like…like any happiness is just impossible. But I think I've found it. Rather, I've already found it.”
“Yeah?” Carmy looks at them expectantly, but he never expected this—
“I found you,” they tell him.
“...” He immediately fixes his shocked expression. He's at a loss for words.
Me?
“I never found a chance to mention it, but…my parents are the reason I decided to live with you. That's why I wanted to be your roommate, even though we were strangers.” They shrug shyly. “My lease was up on my last place. I was gonna go home, but then all that stuff happened at the last minute, and…yeah. I needed to find a place to live.”
“Seriously?” They just nod. “Damn. Uh…Yeah, that's fucking crazy. I had no idea.”
“At the time, I was miserable. I kept thinking to myself, ‘I can't believe how shitty this situation is!’ Don't get me wrong, it was fucking awful, but…it led me to you, so…it wasn't really all that bad, in the end. I got lucky.”
Fucking hell, he thinks to himself. Fuck.
“If you hadn't roomed with me, I wouldn't have been able to come back home for my brother's restaurant,” he says, mostly because he's so embarrassed that he swears his whole body's red at this point. Don't think about it. Don't think about it. “I think I'm the lucky one.”
“Can't we both be lucky?”
“I guess we can. Just doesn't seem very realistic.”
“Little too late to say that. It's already real.”
“...There's no other shoe?”
“Not that I know of. I think the other shoe's already dropped for us a while ago. Surely there's no other shoes left?”
“I hope not. I don't know if I could take another one.”
“Me neither.”
“...”
“...”
“Do you…want to eat your cake now?”
“Fuck, oh my god—I completely forgot! Yes!”
Just as Carmy planned, the flavors go perfectly together. Even though he knew it was going to be delicious, when he takes the first bite of the cake, relief washes over him. They seem to be overjoyed, inhaling the cake at dangerous speeds.
“You're gonna hurt yourself if you eat that fast,” he observes, both amused and concerned.
“Can't talk. Need to eat this.” That makes him laugh so abruptly he nearly gets cake up his nose. “This is the best birthday cake I've ever had, both visually and taste-wise.”
“I'm glad. Like I said, I'm not really a baker, but…I make an alright cake.”
“You make a fantastic cake.” They’ve got a bit of frosting on the corner of their mouth. “It doesn't get much better than this—eating a cake made by you.”
“Because I'm a chef, you mean?”
“No, not that. Not just that, anyway,” they amend with a cheeky grin. “Because you're my best friend.”
You're my best friend.
…
I'm their best friend, he repeats to himself. I'm their best friend.
He thinks about crying. He won't cry, but he thinks about it.
“Oh,” he replies intelligently. “...Really?”
“Y-Yeah. Unless, uh, you don't—”
“You're my best friend too,” he blurts out, and the anxiety on their face fades away into a relieved, beautiful smile.
“Thank god. That would've been pretty awkward if you didn't…” They shake their head.
“I've never been anyone's best friend before,” he confesses.
“Seriously?” They recover from the shock quickly. “Lucky me, then.”
“I thought you established we were both the lucky ones.”
“Oh, right.” They chuckle. “Lucky both of us, then.”
Carmy thought that life would always be the same. He thought that he was fated to a routine of nausea and nightmares, never quite close enough to reach a rest point. He thought that he was okay with it being his fate, because he never knew anything else.
He thought that loneliness, cigarettes, and memories would be enough, because it always stays the same. Nothing ever changes.
Until them.
He thought he had outgrown happiness, that his body had grown accustomed to living without it. That there was no longer space in his heart to withstand the weight of joy. But as he sits here with his roommate, chatting and laughing over a cake he made for them, he finds that's not true.
His capacity for happiness had never left. It had been there all along.
And with that, something in him lets go.
Carmy sees it all at once. It starts from the beginning—he sees the first day he met them, an initially hesitant meeting gone surprisingly well. He sees the first time the two of them smoked together, deliriously laughing through shared smoke. He sees them in the mornings, messy hair and wrinkled t-shirts. He sees them in nothing but an apron. He sees them in tight black clothes that leave little to the imagination. He sees them laughing at a joke that he didn’t think was all that funny.
He sees them in his dreams, red tomato puree bleeding from their gums. He sees them holding his trembling hands in theirs, soothing him back down from the storm in his hand. He sees them comforting him through his tears. He sees them sobbing, hot tears on their cheek and his hand. He sees them heaving into the toilet, whispering that they want to know him. He sees himself, embracing them tightly in his arms.
He sees it all. He knows that he can't avoid it anymore.
Carmy is completely, undeniably in love with them, and there is absolutely nothing that he can do to make that realization disappear.
…Some things, he understands, refuse to stay the same.
~
@zorrasucia @carmenberzattosgf @carmenbrzatto @thehouseofevangelista
#carmy berzatto#carmen berzatto#carmy berzatto x reader#carmen berzatto x reader#the bear#jeremy allen white#carmen berzatto x you#carmy berzatto x you#the bear fanfiction#carmy berzatto imagines#carmy the bear#the bear fx#my fics#alexithymia fic#GOD. IT'S FINALLY HERE. THIS ONE'S A BEAST.#ch 6 is gonna be the climax..... it's gonna happen yall. it's finally here. hahahaha#anyway this one took so long to write because it was so revealing for me... as i'm sure yall have guessed. sigh.
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Regretsy no more
Hey, y'all. It's the lurker here.
I've been in the funkiest of funkless funks for the past few months and over the past few weeks, I've been unpacking why. Seeing how much I'm isolating because of a constellation of health-related issues and generalized depression. Have been considering trying meds. But one thing keeps coming to the surface and I finally decided it's time to deal with it.
The one thing is the only thing in my life that I regret. That thing is never having finished my bachelor's degree.
I'm twice divorced, have lost several important friendships, and moved more times than I can count to places I didn't really want to live to maintain relationships I should have never entered in the first place, but I wouldn't trade any of those things. I don't feel regret about them. Why would I? I discovered who I am and who I am not because I experienced those things. Each of them allowed me to learn how to repair what's possible and how to let go of that which is complete.
I'm very good at this marketing copywriting work but I'm bored senseless. I want to challenge myself and taking online workshops is fine but it's just more interacting through a screen and lord love a duck, my spirit needs more. Plus, I am not using my gifts of communication, empathy, mirroring, and holding space for others in the way I know I am meant to use them. For two years I've felt like I'm wasting what's left of my life.
I am so afraid I will die full of this regret.
The cost has kept me from pulling the trigger on this dream for several years. I wish I started sooner, but clearly, I wasn't miserable enough yet. I'm well and truly stuck in the muck at the bottom of the lake about it now. There's nothing left to do but swim to the surface, so here I go.
Today I applied as a transfer student to the Psychology program at Kent State University to start classes this summer. It will probably take me 3 years to finish the 2 years I have left because I'm a single-income household and will have to work. I'm terrified I won't be able to manage both, but I hope I can rally.
I'm not sure if I'll continue on to get the Psych MA at KSU or go elsewhere to get an MA in Art Therapy after I finish the BA. I also want to get certified in Internal Family Systems therapy, so I'll be 63ish or older starting a new career as a therapist and I feel excited about my future for the first time in... well... I don't even know. A very long time.
I want a career that feels meaningful to me, helps people instead of businesses, and lets me use my gifts. One I can do until I'm dead because I'mma need to work until they're spreading my ashes.
I plan to take a class this summer to dip my toes in.
Holy shit, y'all. Lila will be a senior and I will be a junior on the same campus. She's so supportive and I've been crying happy-scared-overwhelmed-curious-excited tears all day.
Kelly's going back to college. Holy shit.
#it's been 35 years#that's a hell of a gap#my student loan debt can fucking die with me#no more thinking about it#time to grab it by the balls and swing
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The Small Back Room — Hour of Glory (1949)
Good Omens 2 begins with the visit to The Small Back Room not because it was meant to serve as an exposition scene for Maggie and her record shop. It’s a substantial foreshadowing of the main plot and the relationship changes between Aziraphale and Crowley.
As all the other classics referenced throughout the show, this 1949 Powell and Pressburger production is easily available online — whenever you have 100 minutes to spare, I highly encourage you to watch it.
Our story begins with the arrival of Stuart, a British military captain, who makes his way through a labyrinth of offices towards a small building — the research section led by an eccentric, queer-coded, bow tie wearing professor Mair — to ask for help with a secret Nazi weapon.
That’s when the professor calls our hero, Sammy Rice — an engineer and bomb disposal expert in the service of Her Majesty’s government and, not accidentally, the most brooding, wounded man in Powell and Pressburger’s impressive canon of dysfunctional and alienated characters.
Due to a prosthetic foot keeping him from active service and confining to work in the titular back room instead, Rice is dramatically slipping into alcoholism. Haunted by self-loathing and disappointment with the internal politics, he can’t see the point of his research anymore.
Sammy is also conducting a clandestine affair with the secretary of his research unit, Susan. They live in the same building and meet regularly, but can’t openly enjoy their company or even dance due to his injury, which makes him even more bitter and pathologically determined to wear her angelic patience down.
Susan puts up with it until the minister is forced to resign. She knows that if non-scientists take over, their section will become useless, Rice even more difficult, and the war possibly lost. She urges him to take action and when he dramatically refuses to make a difference, she leaves him.
Seemingly at his lowest now, Rice becomes a sudden chance to redeem himself. Captain Stuart calls him about two unexploded booby traps found in Wales, but left to himself, he dies during a heroic attempt to dismantle one of the thermos-like devices before our engineer arrives at the scene.
In a nerve-jangling finale, Stuart’s notes help Rice dismantle the second device. He becomes a hero, gets an officer commission as head of the new scientific unit, and discovers that Susan not only came back in the meantime, but repaired everything he drunkenly destroyed in the apartment after their breakup.
The parallels seem straightforward enough for me to add that in this context the role of Maggie through most of S2 may particularly reflect Crowley’s stagnancy in both work and love life. And if you’re unsure why the demon identifies with the heroic roles and characters, you might want to read this post on the subject.
Now, The Small Back Room was distributed in the US under another title — Hour of Glory. Which happens to be a specific Bible term referring to Christ’s “hour”, the period supposed to consummate all of his work on Earth and reveal God’s ultimate plan of salvation: the Son’s death.
John 12:20-36 Jesus replied, “The hour has come for the Son of Man to be glorified. Very truly I tell you, unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds. Anyone who loves their life will lose it, while anyone who hates their life in this world will keep it for eternal life. Whoever serves me must follow me; and where I am, my servant also will be. My Father will honor the one who serves me. Now my soul is troubled, and what shall I say? ‘Father, save me from this hour’? No, it was for this very reason I came to this hour. Father, glorify your name.” Then a voice came from heaven, “I have glorified it, and will glorify it again.” The crowd that was there and heard it said it had thundered; others said an angel had spoken to him. Jesus said, “This voice was for your benefit, not mine. Now is the time for judgment on this world; now the prince of this world will be driven out. And I, when I am lifted up from the earth, will draw all people to myself.”
Christ’s hour began in the garden — this time the garden of Gethsemane — as he prayed passionately for the cup to be passed from him, similarly to Aziraphale declining Metatron’s offers on screen, both regarding the hot drink and his reinstatement as part of the Heavenly Host:
Luke 22:42 “Father, if you are willing, please take this cup of suffering away from me. Yet I want your will to be done, not mine.”
All throughout the Old Testament, we see God’s wrath being described as a cup poured out on sin and those guilty of it. By accepting it, Jesus took the toll of all the sins — from Eden up until the last one to be committed right before his Second Coming — on himself, for the sake of his beloved humanity.
The passion of Christ continued as Judas betrayed him with a kiss, his disciples abandoned him, and the high priest accused him of crimes he was not guilty of. Even Pilate, the prefect of Rome, pretended to uphold the law; and remember we already expect a S3 trial based on another Archers movie.
All in all, it’s an hour of great injustice and pain, but also glory of God. We’re led to believe that the Ineffable Plan will similarly triumph over the great one (or whatever Metatron tries to implement at the moment), as it did in S1. And its ending will be a good one, back in a garden.
#bible fanfiction#actually quoting bible#cup of suffering#give me coffee or give me death#the small back room#hour of glory#good omens#good omens meta#good omens analysis#final fifteen#crowley#crowley is a superhero#aziraphale#supreme archangel aziraphale#ineffable husbands#yuri is doing her thing#drinking coffee#an oat milk latte with a dash of almond syrup
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Do you have any super random headcanons about eris
Sorry these have taken forever, my life is a FIRE rn.
These should not be controversial yet...😤🫠
He reads a lot, but is more of an intellectual mystery and/or experimental fiction kind of guy. I don't see him really liking romance that much. He's not opposed to it, but he's not seeking it out either. Same with adventure based and horror books.
Eris also likes cats. He is both a dog and cat person.
I feel like once he discovers coffee, he's never going back to tea
He and his mom and close in age, which he tries not to think about too much.
Speaking of age - Eris is not one to celebrate birthdays. But if you insist, he would like the pie his mother made him as a child, thank you very much.
Plays the piano - he's just okay at more technical stuff but really thrives on romantic era pieces.
Side sleeper
Eris DOES have close friends but they are all on the continent and minding their business until Beron dies.
Excellent at darts, loses at dice
Someone mentioned this on an eris week post but i definitely believe he's growing his hair out after Beron dies
More specific shit under the cut so i don't clog dash
Part of me thinks that Eris would decide to stay single forever and let the power of the Autumn Court select one of his nephews as high lord OR (honestly more likely) if he does get married, his wife is someone who never knew the true horrors of Beron or Hybern or all the Prythian bs, but they deeply respect him and honor the time it takes for him to undo all that trauma. haha what that's not my fic at all.
Similarly, if Eris did have children, I imagine one of them is a daughter who is basically a mini-him and he is not sure what to do with that. He's certainly not a bad father, but he has to really work at it. This is absolutely not the plot of one of my fics im writing what?!
He and cassian never become best friends, but they learn to tolerate each other.
Elain, however, grows on Eris and they become fast friends.
Okay I probably could think of more but im tired and im pretty sure everything above the cut was more in line with what you wanted.
Hope you enjoyed?!
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