#'it's a shame you were busy that day' <-he was dying because she fucking poisoned him

[musical-chick-13]

ANYWAY, the moment when Amy asks the Teselecta to turn into River, and Mels/Melody/Not-Yet-River realizes that the person everyone has spent this entire episode talking about with care and fondness is actually her, they were talking about her, and then she just stands there tearing up and immediately decides to change the course of her entire life >>>>>>>

[cal-daisies-and-briars]

🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟🧟

165 for 🧟:

---

“Oh,” Buck says. “You’re not trying to, like, get her back? Big heroic rescue?”

“Uh, no,” Eddie replies, chuckling a little. “I’m not… God, this is awkward.”

“Sorry,” Buck winces.

“No! Not you.” Eddie assures him. “You’re fine… Just, I guess I need to figure out how to talk about this. It’s just been in my head, so far.”

“Oh,” Buck replies. “Well, take your time.”

Should he even be telling Buck all this? Buck might not care. He might not want details. Okay. No. That’s definitely not true. Eddie knows the names of everyone Buck went hiking with in Shenandoah, and the fact that one of them had a more advanced allergy to poison ivy than the average human. Buck definitely appreciates details. Fuck. 

“Oh boy,” Eddie sighs. “Okay, listen.. Shannon and I only got married because she got pregnant, right? We were kids. Still in high school.”

“Wow,” Buck replies. “That’s a lot at that age. I could hardly remember to do my laundry.”

Yeah. Yeah, it was a lot. And Eddie knows he didn’t make all the right decisions. He let fear rule him. And not only that, he felt the pieces of what made him Eddie snap and twist to fit a mold of what he thought a good man and a good father should be. A good partner. Part of that, in his brain, was a good husband and provider. No exceptions.

“I didn’t really know what I was allowed to want for myself,” Eddie says. 

“Ah,” Buck says. “And that’s not her?”

“No,” Eddie admits. “I thought it was… I love her. But, I’m not… I mean, it took the world ending, having no society to expect anything of me at all, and nothing but time to drive and think to really even realize what the problem is.”

Why is he still talking? He doesn’t need to explain this further. Buck doesn’t need to know. It’s nobody’s business. But… But what if he never gets to tell anyone? What if they die in Los Angeles and nobody ever got to know who Eddie is? The thought makes him sort of sick. Like beyond Christopher, he’ll have never really existed. 

“Well, what’s the problem?” Buck asks. 

Okay. Yeah. He has to just say it.

“Uh… I think…” No, that’s not right. “I am, I mean. I’m gay.” 

There’s a beat of silence as Buck processes. 

“Oh!” He says finally. “Crappy time to figure that out, huh?”

Eddie can’t help but laugh. It’s so absurd. 

“Yeah, it really is.”

“None of the apps are working. Half the users are zombies anyway,” Buck continues. 

“Half?” Eddie challenges. 

“Ninety-nine percent of the users are zombies,” Buck amends. 

“It’s a conundrum,” Eddie agrees. 

If only there were a very handsome kind man in the car with him…

Ugh. God. He should not be thinking those thoughts. They have more important things to do. Bad Eddie. 

“Man, she can’t even divorce you when she finds out.” Buck whistles. “All the judges are zombies.”

Eddie snorts. “Shut up.” 

“Sorry!” Buck laughs. 

But Eddie isn’t mad. Not at all. He hasn’t laughed about this once. It always felt too shameful. He always felt like a liar. A fraud. But here Buck is, teasing him lightly, like it’s just another thing. Put in contrast to the end of the world, Eddie’s sexuality crisis doesn’t seem like much of anything. Except it’s still fucking scary. But Buck has made it a tiny bit less scary, maybe. 

“Thank you,” Eddie says quietly.

“For what?” Buck asks. 

Eddie shrugs. “I don’t know, really. Just talking I guess.”

▪️▪️▪️

When they finally reach Los Angeles, later in the day than he’d expected, Eddie is surprised to find that the city is littered with dying zombies. It’s like what they saw through Santa Barbara, the first time. Except, more. They’re everywhere. On every roadway and streetside. Dragging themselves under the shade of any tree. They’re all in various stages of injury and decay. Suffering and bloody. Starving. Dehydrating. It makes Eddie sick to look at. 

This time, Eddie doesn’t stop to put any of them out of their misery. For one thing, he runs the risk of being overwhelmed, even if they are slow moving and withering. For another, he simply doesn’t have the ammunition. 

“I’ve never seen anything like this,” Buck says, looking out the window. His expression is horrified. “They’re all dying.”

“Yeah,” Eddie confirms. “I’ve seen a bit of it. It seems to be getting worse.”

“Is it… Do you think it’s ending?” Buck asks. 

“Ending?” Eddie asks.

Buck nods. “If they’re all dying, and there’s not a lot of people left for them to turn, does it end?”

Eddie takes a sharp inhale. “I mean, I guess, right? If it’s like this everywhere?”

“Right. We don’t know.” Buck sighs. “But, I mean, it can’t be worse elsewhere.”

“I have no idea,” Eddie admits.

“What do you think the world would look like? With no zombies?” 

Eddie thinks. It would be easy to imagine a world where, without zombies, survivors all banded together to rebuild society. Restore order. Repopulate. Farm. A socialist’s wet dream! And as great as that honestly sounds, Eddie doubts it’ll happen. All it takes is a few power hungry people in a lawless land wanting to fill the void. 

“I think it’ll be dangerous,” Eddie answers. 

“More dangerous than it already is?” Buck asks. 

“Maybe,” Eddie admits. “Different?”

“It’d be really nice not to walk around with guns,” Buck sighs. 

Eddie laughs. “You’re telling me. I thought I was leaving war. Not trading one warzone for another.”

“Eesh,” Buck sympathizes. “Yeah, fair enough.”

[ereawrites]

Dick Grayson x Reader - Mania

this was requested by: anon

word count: 10.5k / rating explicit

a/n: sex pollen so auto dubcon (?), but both reader and dick are affected so idk

taglist: @daddyissuesmademe @idkmanicantenglish

It's your fault, really. You should never have got involved in the first place, but the temptation was just too great to resist. How could you pass up the opportunity to investigate Poison Ivy's pollen? This was the first decent sample any of you had ever managed to get - even Bruce, though you suspect there have been a few times he's managed to get up close and personal with the pollen - and normally Tim would handle it, but he's away on business with Bruce, and Damian's too young to deal with intensive research, and Jason just can't bring himself to care. So, that left Dick, and you could've left it at that. You should have. Then again, Tim did text you to recommend that you helped Dick: actually, you would never have left your room if it hadn't been for his intervention. It's Tim's fault.

The thing is, everything was fine at first; you've, perhaps, been harbouring the slightest crush on Dick for a while now, and it's always nice to spend time with him. He's fun to be around, even if his classic charm sometimes borders on teasing flirtation, and he's got such an incredible mind. You forget that, at times - he has a bad habit of putting himself down as the 'kind one' of the family, the emotional support or the comic relief, and he forgets to let himself be brilliant, too. He doesn't realise you've noticed that. Or maybe he does, but he doesn't say anything, and you've happily spent the past two hours studying Ivy's pollen together.

"It's definitely pheromonal, but I've never seen a chemical composition like this before-", you say, eyes glued to the computer screen. Dick is leaning over the back of your chair, one hand on your shoulder and one hand on the desk beside you, and you shouldn't feel as tense as you do. "-look, this section doesn't occur naturally in any species we've seen. She's synthesising these pheromones somehow, it's not like she's injecting them, but I just - I don't get how."

He pushes off from the desk, grabs the back of your chair, and spins you to face him with a half-smile. "I hate to break your train of thought, but I think we need a biochem specialist.", he says, and you suddenly notice how tired he looks: his eyes are still vibrant, warm, but exhausted. "We've done as much as we can on this, right? No shame in calling in the big guns."

"Tim?", you reply, knowingly, relishing in the way Dick's smile grows into a full grin. He's still gripping the edges of your chair, effectively caging you in: you are not looking at his arms, and you can be certain of this because you are looking very, very intently at his face.

"Having a genius brother has its perks, I know. I'll call him now. It's late in Tokyo - he won't be in a meeting, he'll probably just be awake in his hotel room, tapping away at his laptop.", Dick says, finally moving away to fetch his phone, and his voice trails off into a mumble that he clearly doesn't mean for you to hear. "God, he worries me. He really does."

It's much too warm in here: you sigh, and shrug off your jacket, slinging it over the back of the computer chair before calling out,"You're such a mother hen sometimes, Dick."

"I care. Sue me.", he replies with a faux scowl. "You don't complain when you're ill and I bring you hot soup."

"You're a good cook, what can I say?"

"Husband material!", he chirps. You feel your stomach leap and your cheeks heat up at his words. He's only teasing, but the truth of it is, it has more effect on you than you would like to admit. Thankfully, he's quickly distracted by the crackle of Tim picking up the phone. "Timmy! How's things?"

Tim's voice is dry, as always, but with a noticeable undercurrent of frustration. "Shit. I hate it here."

"Hey, Tim. Bad day?", you say with sympathy. You feel a little bad for bothering him, now; as hard as everyone in the family works, Tim definitely pushes himself the hardest.

"I'm the youngest person here by at least twenty years, and my stomach can't handle sushi. Plus, Bruce gets separation anxiety from the rest of you. The one upside is that I've been able to practice my Japanese.", Tim replies. You feel bad for him, of course, but the image of him having to comfort a homesick Bruce has you suppressing a snicker.

Dick shoots an amused smile at you - he's too beautiful when he smiles, it isn't fair - that starkly contrasts the comforting tone he uses to respond to Tim. "Don't worry, darling brother - I've got something exciting for you! Check your emails - wait, only the most recent one, though, I sent you a link to a Red Hood fanpage-"

You interject with an accusatory wave of your finger. "Why the fuck didn't you send me that? Red Hood is sexy." If Jason were here, he would probably threaten to shoot you, but as it is, Dick's amusement only grows. His smile is so infectious, like it spirals out into the air and right into your chest, and you can't help but smile back at him. You don't know if it's the warmth of the room or simply from Dick himself, but you feel as though you're going to need to step outside for some fresh air soon.

"Because of your raging crush on Nightwing, probably." Tim cuts in, and you could fucking kill him. Dick gives you a pleased wink. "I'm looking at a pheromonal compound, right? Ivy's special formula?"

You muster as much venom into your voice as you can, without pissing Tim off so much that he leaves you to deal with this on your own. "Fuck you, Tim - and yeah. It's a newer version, though - I think she's evolving, if that makes sense? Her physiology is definitely changing." Tim gives a thoughtful hum in response to your words: you imagine it's in agreement.

Dick continues your train of thought. "We think she's working with someone else, or she's been experimenting on herself, maybe. Do you have any ideas about how she's making the new chemicals?"

"I'll need a few hours. Send me all the data over. You're right about it evolving, though - it's definitely airborne. Shit, this is actually really interesting - the molecules are more compact, smaller, so she doesn't need to rely on physical touch through her plants anymore-"

The rest of Tim's words are lost to a wave of horror. Airborne, he said - you'd doubt it if it wasn't for the similar shock that's written over Dick's face - and you have not been treating this sample as airborne. Ivy has always relied on physical, tangible contact to use her chemicals: you couldn't have known, there was no way you could've known, neither of you are experts on this kind of thing - you've fucked up.

"Airborne? How... airborne are we talking? Like, don't-sniff-the-test-tube?", Dick asks, cautiously, maintaining eye contact with you all the while. *Please, God, let it be don't-sniff-the-test-tube and nothing more than that. Please.*

"Shit, you haven't been wearing respirators - have you?". Tim sounds positively horrified. It does nothing to allay your fears, the worries that you've both been infected with Ivy's pollen; in fact, he all but confirms it. Everything is beginning to fall into place now. The tension around Dick - more so than usual, at least -, how warm you're feeling, the mental sluggishness that had you calling Tim in the first place.

You're angry at yourself, for your own stupidity - not Tim, but you're panicked, you're so unbelievably freaked out, and so you can't help but snap at the phone. "How were we meant to know, man? Ivy's never even hinted at having something of this level before!"

"You're working with chemicals, unknown chemicals, I hate-"

Dick cuts in before this can turn into a full-on confrontation. You've got no idea how he's managing to keep a level head. Perhaps the pheromones are already taking a more severe effect, or maybe it's a placebo effect, and you pray that it is, but you can already feel your heart beginning to pound against the confines of your chest. "It's just pheromones, right? We know it's not toxic, at least - Ivy's victims only take a few days to come around, at most. They're just kinda fucked up for a few days."

You admire Dick so, so much. He's right, he's always right, he always manages to keep you calm and make you feel safe: you'll just have to stay with him, and you'll be okay. If you stay here, he can comfort you, and maybe the impacts of the pollen won't even be that bad. And, if they are, well, there's no one else in the manor tonight, and Dick's so handsome and kind and strong, and maybe he'll - fuck.

Tim snickers. "Fucked, indeed. Only when Ivy's in a good mood, though. You guys better get ready for a tough night. I've heard it can get really bad, especially if you're deprived of - oh, fuck, I can't talk about this, this is too funny but it's so weird, oh my god-", and he dissolves into a fit of awkward, stunted laughter. Dick fixes you with an apologetic look, but you swear his golden cheeks are tinged with red.

"How long until it kicks in?", he asks. It's a stupid, stupid question, because you feel like you're close to dying already. You know what he means, though: when will it get bad? You've seen Ivy's victims before. They're entirely without dignity, practically begging to be touched, sobbing from the pain of it all - and you've only heard rumours about the depraved things they let Ivy do to them. What they ask her to do to them.

The huff of Tim's breath crackles through the phone. "Uh - I don't know, maybe an hour? A little less, since Bruce never opens the windows in there. Just seal the sample up, drink plenty of water, and try not to freak out. It'll pass. You won't die."

///

You thought you could do it - stay in your room, deal with this alone, avoid any potential awkwardness with Dick -but you can't. It's barely been an hour. Sixty-seven minutes since you left the cave, to be exact. Sixty-seven minutes since Dick grabbed you by the waist to halt your speedy departure, touch light but insistent, and said if you need anything, come to me. His eyes were dark when he said it. Deep, dark blue, an ocean that you could get lost swimming in; but pupils already dilating, breath already speeding up. He meant it as nothing more than a kindness. Still, though, that hasn't been enough to stop you from coming onto your fingers with the image of those eyes burned onto the backs of your eyelids.

Ivy's pollen is designed to induce lust, yes, but only for the first person you see after you're infected with it. This means two things: firstly, that you need Dick more than anything right now. Your head is pounding, your lungs feel like they're on fire - the sensation between your legs isn't aching, it's agony, and you've spent fifty-two of the past sixty-seven minutes trying, and failing, to fool your body into believing that your fingers are his. The first thing you know, is that you need him, because you saw him right after you were infected. The second thing you know - there was no one else in that room. You were the only person Dick could have seen.

So, stupidly, you seek him out. You go back down to the cave, without even taking the time to wash your hands, because that's what your body is telling you to do, and you're acting more and more on instinct. Potential awkwardness be damned. He'll fix this.

Dick's facing away from you, reclined in the computer chair: his posture seems almost relaxed, just almost, legs sprawled out and left elbow visibly sticking out from around the back of the chair, like he's got one hand close to his head. You'd assume he was still looking at the computer, if you weren't so hyperaware of everything right now, but you are, and you notice more. From what you can see of his body - it's low-blue-lit from the computer screen, enough that you can make out the muscle of his legs through his sweatpants if you squint, but it's not enough, you need to see more - he seems tense. Too tense. Normally, you'd sneak closer, but your head is practically spinning now and Dick will help you. He'll make this better. Your voice is hoarse and dry when you manage to call his name.

He immediately jolts in his seat, spinning to face you, and now that he's backlit by the computer, you can barely see more than the outline of his body. God, he looks so lean, so tall - "Are you okay?", he asks, and he sounds almost as bad as you feel. You swallow thickly before responding - and, through the fog in your head, you realise that your jacket is clutched in his left hand.

You, miraculously, manage a weak smile. "I just - I thought maybe it would, you know, be better to... be together, during this. In case - if one of us needs help, or something. I don't know.". You sound stupid. Dumb. You feel it, too, and you can't even bring yourself to care. The mere sight of him is helping: it doesn't remove the pain, or any of the physical sensations, really, but at least the panic of not being near him is being soothed.

"That's - yeah, okay. How are you feeling?", Dick replies. His voice is barely more than a whisper, but you hear it as clear as if he were right up against you. Chest pressed to your back, lips on the curve of your jaw, that voice going right through you and into the pits of your stomach.

It's wrong, to think of him like this, when all he's doing is trying to check that you're alright. He knows you aren't, but he's trying.

The best thing you can think to do is make a weak attempt at a joke. "I've got a newfound fear of Ivy." Dick even huffs out a laugh, but it's just as half-hearted as your words. "I didn't think it was going to be this bad at first, Jesus - but it keeps getting worse, and, it just-"

"-it hurts. I know.". Dick nods. As you take a step closer to him, you realise that your eyes have finally adjusted to the relative darkness of the cave, and you realise that you can see his cock straining against his sweatpants. He's hard. What's more, there's a distinct wet patch leaking through the material.

When you entered the cave, you couldn't see one of his hands; the chair wasn't moving enough for him to be stroking himself, and you're not sure whether you're glad he wasn't, but now that you think of it, there was definite movement. Like he was palming himself through his sweatpants, maybe. And the hand that was close to his head, it's clutching your jacket, he was holding your jacket close to his face while he-

"Dick - were you...?"

He sighs, halfway between embarrassed and resigned, and sinks back down into the computer chair. He keeps your jacket clenched in a white-knuckle grip. "I had to take the edge off somehow, right? I'm sorry, I didn't think you would be coming back down here, I never meant to make you uncomfortable or anything-"

"I'm not uncomfortable.", you blurt out before you know what you're saying. Dick's expression visibly shifts - you don't have the mental clarity to figure out into what, exactly - but you can feel your own eyes widen as you process  the implications of what you just said. "Oh, fuck - I didn't mean it like that, I - sorry."

Dick just shakes his head. He must mean for you not to worry. You stand in silence for a while, not exactly awkward but certainly thick with tension, before he pats a hand onto the desk beside him. "God, this is worse than I thought. Do you wanna come sit down?"

Do you? Although being closer to Dick sounds like the only thing you want in the world right now - god, you can't help but think about how good he would look, if you were close enough to really study him, now that you're beyond giving a fuck about etiquette - you're also acutely aware of how difficult it'll be to control yourself. Undeniably, you want him. You've wanted him for months, really - but the pollen has taken that desire and multiplied it tenfold, made it so that it's all-consuming and painful. In your room, nothing more than imagining him, it was bad enough. Now, now that you can see his fucking cock, now that the image of him rubbing himself with a blissed-out look on his face, it's almost impossible to control.

You move to sit next to him. You can't help yourself. Once you start moving, you feel like it's all in slow-motion: Dick's watching you, dark eyes trained so closely on your form, and you're wearing nothing more than a tight-fitting pair of leggings and a thin t-shirt. After what feels like an age - too long to be apart from him - you reach the desk, and upon clumsily perching yourself on it, you see Dick looking as though he's about to pass out.

"Fuck, did I - did I do something wrong? I'm sorry-", you say hastily, but he instantly shakes his head and trains his eyes on yours. The blue is nearly gone. It's all blown-out pupils now, so much that his eyes are nearly black.

He licks his lips as if to wet them. "-no, no, but - when you were in your room - when you were alone - did you do anything to take the edge off? Did you touch yourself?"

You could say no, if you wanted to. You could lie. He would know, but he wouldn't press it, and you could save yourself the shame. For all that Dick must be struggling just as much as you are, he's exceedingly kind, so much that no amount of fucked-up drugs could change that: he's still your Dick, underneath all of this.

"Yeah.", you admit after a heartbeat, and your stomach lurches when you see his cock twitch through the sweatpants. Still, you're embarrassed, and you feel the need to explain yourself just a little. "It felt like my skin was on fire unless I did. It still feels like that, though - like it just wasn't enough, I guess."

"I can smell it on you.", Dick says lowly. Oh, God. That's hot. That's so, unbelievably hot - especially when you see his cock twitch again - but absolutely mortifying. You're torn between wanting to jump on him, right here and now, and retreating back to your room. You compromise by burying your face in your hands, and letting out a pathetic whine to signal how fucked-up you are right now. Maybe you can calm down, now that you don't feel on the verge of a panic attack from being away from him, if you take a few deep breaths.

Naturally, Dick hardly gives you the chance. You feel his hand come to rest on your knee out of nowhere; it's a gentle touch, but you can feel him trembling, and the touch sends a bolt of electricity through you that's strong enough to make you jolt. "I want to help you. The whole point of these pheromones is to make it so that you need touch - it only hurts because we're not getting that. So, I can-", he says raspily, punctuating the pause with a reassuring squeeze to your lower thigh, "-touch you, just... platonically, if that's what you want. What you need."

His voice drops down an octave with the last sentence - you whine again, involuntarily, but you just about manage to turn the sound into words.

"Dick, you don't have to - we can just push through this, I know it'll be uncomfortable for you - I mean, I know it's not like we haven't hugged and stuff before, but this is different, I don't want you to feel forced because you feel bad for me."

Dick must lean forward, closer to you, because his palm slides further up your thigh. The pain that prickles insistently under your skin is beginning to turn into fiery heat: not unpleasant, but desperate, hot, and you're starting to feel like you're not going to be able to stop if he asks you to touch him. "I don't feel bad for you.", he insists, reaching up with his free hand to peel your hands away from your eyes. He curls his fingers around yours as he continues. "I just want to make you feel better - both of us feel better. See, it's already helping, right? Just relax. This is bad enough as it is."

His thumb starts to trace circles on the inside of your thigh. It's nowhere near high enough to be considered sexual, but the movement has your legs almost trembling. You wonder if he can feel the tension of your muscles. "It's... it doesn't hurt anymore. Thank you.". And, technically, you're not lying: it doesn't hurt, in fact it feels fucking incredible. You spent fifty-two minutes trying to replicate this sensation. He's only touching your thigh, it has no business feeling this good, but each little beat of his thumb has waves of pleasure crashing through you. God, how good would it feel to fuck him like this? You're shaking, and you know it, and it only makes him tug you by the hand to stand up.

Even the loss of his touch on your thigh feels devastating, but Dick's next words are more comfort than you could have imagined possible. "Here. Come sit, if you want.", he says - whispering again, voice so low and so deep, but it's just the effects of the pollen, you tell yourself - and gestures to his thigh. "You can lean back into me, don't worry, it'll be better for your back."

This has to feel as good for him as it does for you. Logically, it has to. You've both breathed in the same pollen, his skin has the same sheen of sweat that you can feel on your own skin, you're both trembling in every part of your body, and he's still rock hard. You can feel yourself leaking, god, enough that it might have dampened your leggings and left a wet spot on the desk. What would Dick do, if he saw that? He's clearly turned on, but maybe he still has the good sense to avoid fucking: maybe his view of you as 'just platonic' is so deeply ingrained, he would never touch you down there to feel how wet he's made you. Or, maybe he wants you like you want him.

"Are - are you sure?", you stammer. You can't stop looking at his lap. His cock, painfully obvious (and he mustn't care, because he blatantly drew your attention to it), and the corded muscle of his thighs, spread out straight to form you a perch.

"Mhmm...", he hums from somewhere deep in his chest, and suddenly you're grateful that he's still holding your hand, because the sound almost makes your knees buckle. He tugs gently. "Only if you want to be close to me, though."

He says that like an afterthought - like he knows exactly what you want, and like he's hungry for your touch and doesn't want to consider the idea that you don't want to give him it. You can't bring yourself to look at him before you move to sit in his lap, because you know he'll see the desire, and for now, you're still pretending that you don't want to push him down in that chair and ride him for hours. He'd like that, you think. He'd like it if you pulled his hair while you did it.

Dick lets go of your hand so he can take your waist in both hands, guiding you down onto his lap and gripping harder when your ass inadvertently brushes over his cock. You don't mean to do it, of course, and you jump like you've been shocked: you shuffle further down his thigh to avoid another mishap, but the movement causes your pussy to just barely drag against the hard muscle - you hardly manage to control your moan, forced to sink your teeth into your lip. Thankfully, Dick doesn't seem to notice, and he helps you lean back so his chest is pressed to your back, before lifting his arms to rest on the armrests. From here, he begins to rub soothing lines up and down your arms, and he tips his cheek down to rest against your shoulder with a relieved sigh.

"Fuck, that... yeah, that feels better.", you practically gasp. Feeling him pressed up against the entire length of your body, as torturous as it is, is the most relief you've gained all evening; his legs are shaking just enough that you can feel it in your core, though, and you're forced to tilt your head back to rest on his shoulder. You'll lose your fucking mind if you don't start to relax, he's right.

With your neck exposed, though, you can feel Dick's hot breath tickling your skin when he speaks. "Good, right? It feels good?". For the first time, you really hear the tension in his voice. So much so that you can't pass it off as your own projections, or a trick of his tone - he's just as desperate as you are, holy shit, he sounds halfway to begging, he sounds like he's dying to know that his touch is making you feel good. Your hips twitch of their own accord.

"Yeah... Dick?", you whisper after a few moments. He nods in response against your shoulder, a slow, dragging movement that feels like honey dripping through your veins from the point of contact. "Are you really warm, too, or like - is that just me? I - I feel like I'm burning up... Do you mind if I..." - you trail off, instead opting to tug cautiously at the hem of your shirt.

He sucks in a deep, rapid breath that you feel press against your back. For a moment, you worry that you've gone too far - it feels so good, but it's too weird, too strange for him even now - but then he slowly curls his fingers around the hem, replacing your own hands, and starts to pull upwards at a torturous pace. His knuckles drag over your lower abdomen for just a second and your hips twitch again, and he definitely felt it this time but he says nothing, and his breathing is warm and fast against the skin of your neck; with the shirt discarded, you're left in nothing more than a thin bra. Although the room feels warm, furnace-hot, you're all too aware of the blatant hardness of your nipples, and you tell yourself it's okay, he won't notice, because you're facing away and he won't - his palm drags against your breast on the way back down and it feels so good, too good, and you can't help but whimper, "Fuck, yes-"

Three things happen in quick succession. Dick freezes, you realise what you've done and move to jump up and run for the hills, and then Dick grabs your hips and pulls you back into him, right over his cock, this time. The friction makes both of you let out a breathy sigh, but where you clap a hand over your mouth, Dick follows it up with a hoarse proposition. "I can touch you properly, if you want. It'll make all this go away, I promise - do you want me to?", he rasps, pressing one, quick kiss to the skin where your neck meets your shoulder. "Do you want me to touch you?"

His grasp on your hips is tight, wanting, but gentle enough that you know he wouldn't stop you if you tried to leave again. When you make no move to do so - you're frozen, you can't believe he's just offered to do what your body is screaming for - Dick pulls at your hips, slowly, dragging your ass over his cock and then pushing you back down. He repeats the motion a few times, rolling his own hips up into you a little more with each motion, and soon your muscles start to work so you can grind down onto him. Dick rewards you with a quiet moan - oh, you want him to do that again, you're going to make him do that again, louder and louder - and then, with a touch so light you could cry, he traces one hand over your hipbones and down to your pussy.

One finger traces your slit through your leggings, and you hear yourself moan, but you're hardly aware of making the noise - just this simple touch feels almost as good as the orgasm you had earlier, even just this feather-light pressure through two layers of fabric, and every nerve ending in your body sets alight at once. This is what you needed, more than anything, for Dick to touch you and drag you down onto his cock, and you're so overwhelmed that every muscle in your body goes lax, leaving you to collapse into his chest.

Dick rubs gently at your pussy a few more times, like he's exploring you, and then suddenly he taps right where your clit is. You cry out, and he sighs against your neck. "God, I can feel how wet you are already. You should have told me, I would've done something sooner, you know that - fuck, you're so wet, let me - let me finger you, huh? Please?"

"Yeah - please, Dick.", you whine, and when you say his name, he moans and shoves his cock up against you again. He mumbles something into your skin that you don't quite make out, and then his hand is fumbling with your waistband, clumsily slipping into your underwear and then he's there, his fingers are brushing right against your clit, you sob out a broken cry - you're so wet that his fingers brush right through your folds, gliding like silk, and by the time he reaches your hole, two fingers easily sink in right to the knuckle.

Your pussy instantly clenches down, hard, and you feel more full than you thought could be possible. Dick moans into the skin of your neck and gives you a moment to calm down, to soothe the desperate jolting of your hips, before he starts to pump his fingers; slowly, at first, but soon picking up into a faster and more urgent pace. With each movement, he scissors his fingers a little, spreading you wider every time, and he starts to mouth at your neck with hot, wet kisses. "Do you like that, yeah? Am I making you feel good? Is this what you need?"

You fling an arm behind you to grasp at his hair, and when you tug after a particularly delicious curl of his fingers, he bites down hard onto your shoulder. "Fuck, yes, yes - please don't stop, please, Dick, don't stop-"

"I'm not going to stop, don't worry, I've got you - I'm here, I'm not gonna stop, you sound too pretty for me to stop, fuck - I knew you would sound pretty, keep making those noises for me."

Your body feels like it's going through the most intense orgasm of your life, especially now that he's given up on pumping his fingers in favour of curling them in rapid beats against your g-spot, but you know that you're not even coming yet: you're close, though, judging by the way the room is spinning around you, and the pressure building in the pit of your stomach - "I think I'm close, Dick, - oh, oh, oh my god, I don't - it's never felt like this before, I don't - fuck-"

"I know, I know, baby-", he croons, and the pet name has you tugging at his hair again, the other hand white-knuckled on the armrest, "-it's okay, it's gonna feel different - it's gonna feel better, I promise, it's going to be so good, I'm going to get you there, baby, come on."

"Fuck - fucking - Jesus, Dick, keep going, just like that-!", you all but shout, and Dick continues the massaging movement right up on your g-spot: the positioning of his hand means the heel of his palm is dragging over your clit, and your hips are frantically grinding up into his hand - god, you're gonna come, the world feels like it's crashing down around you, you feel the contractions start a few seconds before it actually hits you and it's going to be earth-shattering, you know it, every muscle in your body tenses up and through it all you hear Dick whispering, come on, that's it, I've got you, come on, come on, and then you're coming-

Distantly, you can feel his fingers continue their movements inside of you, unrelenting - and the other hand keeps a firm grip on your hips, grounding you onto his lap - but other than that, all you know is the white-flash across your vision and the pleasure slamming into each nerve in your body, one by one and then all at once: this is better than anything you've ever felt, better than every orgasm put together, and it feels feels for a moment like you're actually going to black out from the sheer intensity of the pleasure.

Then, suddenly, you're back in reality. Dick is heaving for breath against your shoulder, but it's nothing compared to the way your own lungs are screaming for air - god, you think you were screaming, given the scratching sensation in your throat - and his fingers are back to a slow, steady pumping, in and out of your swollen pussy. It hurts, a little, but this one orgasm has done nothing to sate your desperate hunger: in fact, it's only made it worse, only increased your desire for him, and you swear his cock is impossibly harder against your ass now.

"You - you're dripping onto my hand, baby, oh my god...", Dick pants, and there's a heartbeat where neither of you move - then, you feel his breath hitch, and suddenly his other hand is shoving unceremoniously under your waistband and going straight for your clit. He picks up the pace with the two fingers still inside you, matching each curl with a flick over your clit, and the motions are all so frenzied, those of a man possessed with some ravenous desire, like his one purpose is to have you writhing in his lap, and you give a wordless cry - too overcome with blinding pleasure to actually make a sound - that allows you to hear his ragged words. "Please, give me another one, one more - I want to make you squirt this time, it's going to be so good, I promise, just give me one more, pretty girl-"

This time, it's not just one wave of pleasure, spreading from your core and emanating outwards; no, it's wave after wave after wave, violently crashing over you and completely overcoming every part of your body, unrelenting and constant - this one lasts at least twice as long as the last, but you're hardly in the right state of mind to keep track of time, and every wave of pleasure that rushes through you is tenfold stronger than the last. You hear yourself shriek his name in the most pathetic, broken tone, and Dick cages you in against his body as best as he can as he keeps both hands working at your pussy, and you realise you're sobbing when he finally, finally stops.

When his fingers slip out of your pussy and exit your leggings, they're dripping wet. Dick audibly gasps, and then he brings his fingers to his mouth and sucks, moaning around the digits, and through hazy eyes you can see the most fucked-out look on his face just at the taste of your cum. He licks his fingers clean - you feel your pussy clench down again at the sight - before opening his eyes, fixing you with an intense stare, and panting, "You taste so fucking good - baby, I'm not going to be able to stop, I'm sorry, I need this, I need to fuck you - please."

He's asking permission, you realise. Neither of you are in control of what you're doing anymore, and he's still asking, as best as he can, if he's allowed to fuck you. There's a terrified look in his eyes, behind the frenzy and the lust - you clumsily crash your lips against his. He tastes of your juices, but it's one of the hottest things you've ever experienced, and he moans openly into your mouth, eagerly meeting your tongue with his own. You're exhausted, but kissing him renews your energy tenfold. You're suddenly overcome with the urge to feel his cock - inside you, yes, but you want to see it first, you want to make him cry out and moan and gasp for you - so you manoeuvre in his lap, keeping your mouth against his, to straddle his narrow hips and face him.

"Ah - ah, god, that feels amazing.", Dick moans, broken up between sloppy kisses, saliva starting to drip down both of your chins - but it's hot, so hot - as you frantically reach down to palm at him. The instant you finally touch his cock, you're gone: there's no stopping now that you can feel how achingly hard he is, now that you feel how he twitches under your hand each time you kiss him, and it takes much longer than you would like to undo the drawstring of his sweatpants, pull them down, and wrap your hand around the exposed length of him. He hisses as his whole body jerks.

Instantly, you set a frenzied pace of stroking him, relishing in each ragged moan that you rip from his throat; he's leaking into your palm, you realise, dripping over your fingers as you pull him back by the hair and attach your lips to his neck. When you suck a bruise into the softest part of his skin - the salty-sweat-tangy hollow beneath his Adam's apple - he shouts out your name, loud, followed by, "-fuck, fu- let me fuck you, baby, please, I - I'm close, you have to stop-"

"Come on my hand, Dickie.", you plead, and you're granted a thick spurt of precum when you lick a stripe up the column of his throat: he tastes so good, his skin so hot under your mouth, you can't stop, and you croon right into his ear, "It's - it's gonna last for hours, still, you're still gonna be hard - I'm still so needy for you, Dickie, look - come on my hand, let me see it, please. You can fuck me after, just come for me where I can watch it, oh - oh, please." His moans start to pick up in volume and frequency, coming from a place deeper in his throat. He's close, you know.

You've started to grind onto his thigh somewhere along the way. It feels amazing, it feels even better because you know he's twitching and aching for you just inches away - once you finally drag yourself out of the crook of his neck, you see that you've left a damp streak on his sweatpants in the wake of your hips, and the steady stream of precum leaking from his cock has soaked the material higher up. "Come on, Dickie, come on, let me see you come, I wanna see it, I - I'll, fuck, I'll lick it clean after, Jesus-", you blurt out, too far gone to be horrified at the ease with which the words spill from your lips.

"Oh, baby, shit-” he cries, and then his voice dissolves into a broken jumble of incoherent mumbles and whines. His cock twitches hard in your palm, once, twice, three times against the rapid pace you maintain on him, and then Dick bucks his hips up into your hand, back arched, perfectly still and tense; he comes hard, almost whimpering, head thrown back and eyes tightly shut, looking so, so perfect as you stroke him through it and grind feverishly onto his thigh. It's the image of his cock that has the breath snatched from your chest, though. Several thick ropes of cum spurt from him as you work him through it, some hitting the skin of your abdomen and some dripping down the length, and it just keeps going, no sign of stopping until Dick completely collapses, after almost a minute of moaning and coming - your hand is drenched with him.

The sight of his cum dripping from your palm makes something in your stomach clench hard, painfully, and suddenly you need to taste him, you have to, it hurts so much and it'll go away as soon as you get your mouth on him. You scramble off the chair, almost falling to your knees in front of him - he rushes to steady you, even with weak and shaky arms - but you don't care about how graceful you look right now. As soon as you manage to nestle yourself between thighs, you lick flat up the underside of his cock. The taste of it makes your eyes roll back in your head. Dick spits, "Holy shit!", and it trails off into a deep gasp as you wrap your lips around him and sink down as far as you can go. You'd take your time, usually, but everything in your body is screaming for you to taste him, let him fill you, and you're in no position for argument.

With each dip of your head - punctuated with a moan from the man above you, each one becoming closer to a growl, animalistic, and you think the pollen is beginning to send your bodies into total overdrive now - you take him as deeply as you can. You're nearly gagging, but that's what you need. His hands tangle into your hair; at first, you can tell he's trying to be as gentle as he can, but that's soon overcome with a tight, guiding grip that pushes you further down onto his cock with each bob of your mouth. The burning heat under your skin is killing you now, too much to ignore, so you manage to shuffle out of your leggings and underwear and kick them away: Dick groans roughly, maybe because he can smell you more clearly now-

"Come here, pretty girl-", Dick says, sliding his hands from your hair to lift you up by the jaw. You mean to whine, perhaps beg him to let you back down, because he feels so good in your mouth - then you see the look on his face. He looks totally gone. Nothing like the Dick you know, warm and gentle and relaxed: his eyes are completely clouded over, lips parted and slick with saliva, brow furrowed with something between pain and carnal desire. You imagine you look much the same, with spit dripping from your chin, the heat you can feel burning your cheeks, and the wetness you feel running down the insides of your thighs. He meets your eyes, and there's a moment of stillness. One thumb slips from your cheek to trace over your lower lip.

Then, both of you move at once - you surge forward to kiss him again, those perfect, pink lips - you fumble with the hem of his shirt, ripping it up and over his head while barely leaving his mouth for a second - Dick's hands slide down your body to your waist. He pulls you into him as he leans forward, half-supporting your weight, and suddenly your back is against the floor and he's on top of you, kissing you hard and bruising, the chair long since kicked away and forgotten about. Every inch of freshly exposed skin feels like molten silk under your touch: you slide greedy hands over his torso as he licks into your mouth, feeling the network of ridged scars and each ridge of muscle. Thankfully, Dick grants you a few precious, savoured moments to feel his skin, while he alternates between rolling his hips against your bare pussy and kicking off his sweatpants.

It's all ungraceful and clumsy - wet kisses stolen between your movements, each of you moaning against the other's lips - and it takes much, much too long for both of you to finally shed yourself of all your clothes. Dick's hands grab greedily at your breasts as he ruts his hips against you a few times, and you can feel how your wetness spreads over his cock. Then, his hands fly down to find your knees, and he drags them to fit around his waist, pulling up until your hips are fully tilted, the stretch of your muscles verging on uncomfortable. "Oh, fuck, that's it, baby. Keep your legs there for me, won't you? Come on, wrap your legs around me - I want to get as deep as I can, it's gonna feel amazing, I promise.", Dick says, bordering on a growl now that his voice is so deep and strained, and you do as he says immediately. You need him inside of you, now; you hook your ankles behind his back, kiss him, and desperately grind your hips into his.

And then, with one deep roll of his hips, he's inside of you. One quick thrust and he's buried to the hilt, and, God, he fits inside you so perfectly: your body all but melts at the feeling of finally being filled, and you keen as you instinctively use your ankles to press his hips further into you. Dick's just large enough to stretch you out, even with how wet and ready you are, without becoming painful, and the pollen means it only takes you a short moment to adjust to his size before your body is pleading to be fucked. He's shaking and panting with restraint above you whimper, "Ho-holy fuck, Dickie, please... please move, oh my god."

"I know, baby, I know.", he says, breathlessly, voice tight with pleasure but still sympathetic. Even with him motionless inside you, it already feels so good, better than anyone you've ever fucked, and you can hardly stop yourself from grabbing him by the shoulders, pushing him down, and riding him. "It just feels so good, you feel so good - I don't want to rush it, I want to make it last. Jesus, my body feels like it's on fire while I'm touching you, I - oh, fuck, I want to take it slow, make you feel so good you cry-"

"-We have all night to be slow, Dick, you can do whatever you want to me, just fuck me-"

Dick's hips roll into yours and a drawled curse falls from his parted lips. He pulls out, almost completely, enough that you panic and squeeze him tighter with your thighs, but then he pushes back into you, slowly, letting you savour the way each nerve ending inside your pussy is set ablaze; he repeats the motion, faster, his curses morphing into sweet mumbles of your name each time he bottoms out. You can hardly breathe - it feels so good, and each thrust of his hips is met with a pollen-driven roll of your own, so it's half-grinding, half-fucking - the slight curve of his cock has him dragging deliciously against your g-spot every time. His movements are picking up in intensity now, and you can tell the pollen is taking him over completely. The same is happening to you: fuck it, you don't want to think about the pollen anymore, you just want him.

"Ah, yes! Yes, right there-right- keep going-", you cry out after a particularly hard slam of his hips. Dick is propped up on one elbow, hair clinging to his forehead with sweat, and the other hand slips down to grab at your ass and pull you up into him. He's deep enough that it hurts, but it's the best pain you've ever experienced. "Fuck, faster, please!"

He obeys, mercifully, and you think you can see sweat starting to bead on his temples. "Is this what you need, pretty girl? Come on, tell me what you want - tell me I'm making you feel good, because you're making me feel so fucking good, I swear, better than I ever even imagined - fuck, you're so wet, are you going to come again? Please, please let me make you come on my cock."

The combination of his cock inside you, and his pelvis bumping against your clit, and the overwhelming sensations coursing through your body: it's all too much to bear, your body is going into total overdrive, and it's so embarrassing that he's got you like this. You never normally beg, you never normally come so fast, but this is different and addictive and incredible - you cry out an affirmation to his words, and suddenly his hand is gripping your chin. He's fully collapsed onto you now, and his movements are more frantic rutting than anything else.

"Look at me-", he pleads, using his hand to guide your face so you're staring right into those glassy eyes. "-look at me while you come, and it'll make me come."

You can feel your muscles beginning to tense up as your orgasm starts to grow. Already, your world is spinning, and you feel halfway to blacking out from the sheer intensity, so you tangle your hands into his hair as a way to ground yourself. "Please come inside me!", you whine - the idea of being filled with his cum, letting it drip out while he fucks another load into you, it's fucking mind-blowing and you can't imagine anything better than feeling him shoot into you while you come on his cock.

Dick's jaw clenches tightly. "Are - are you sure, baby? Is that what you want?"

The next thrust hits you perfectly, and you can't help but pull him tighter into you, so his head drops to the crook of your neck. "I need it, Dickie, you know - you know that - you need me too, right? Fuck, fuck - it's gonna feel so good, I'm so close-". He spends a few moments sucking a bruise into the most tender skin of your neck before moving to press his forehead to yours. Each rough movement of his hips has you jostling against the floor; your nipples are dragging against his chest every time, making you keen, and your swollen clit is being hit so perfectly by his hips, and he's making the most perfect and breathy noises against you - he looks so fucked-out, so gone, so completely absorbed in the feeling of his cock inside you, and your vision is starting to blur at the edges as the spark in your stomach finally bursts into flames-

"That's it, baby, come for me just like that.", Dick gasps, just as your orgasm rips through you. You've got no choice but to clutch at him desperately and ride out each devastating wave as a scream tears itself from your lungs: it feels like your body is tearing itself apart with each ripple of pleasure emanating from your core. Like your body is folding in on itself like a black hole does, when everything becomes too much to bear. You actually feel like you've died, you must have, this is too good and too much and too overwhelming - you hang on to Dick through it all, and your pussy clenches down so hard he can barely move inside you, and he chokes out your name before his own orgasm hits him.

You've come down just enough to process the way he looks and sounds as he comes. Your eyes are still hazy - you kept them on him, you must have - but you nearly come again at the mere sight of him. He's too far gone to even make sounds, and instead he stutters out broken breaths through wet lips, cheeks flushed and eyebrows furrowed hard, and his eyes stay fixed on you the whole time. Even as the rest of his body spasms and rocks into you uncontrollably, even as the hand on your chin slips down to your neck and squeezes, he keeps staring at you with all the lust in the world. The best part of it all, though, is how you feel his cum spilling out into you; even more than he shot onto your hand, somehow, and you realise you're crying from how relieved your body is. Fully, fully, crying, and Dick kisses away your tears as he collapses against you.

Despite how both of you are wincing at the overstimulation, neither of you ever stop moving through it all, and you keep grinding gingerly, carefully but sloppily, against each other even while you gasp for breath against each others' lips. It can't be more than ten seconds from when you come down, before you can't control the urge to whisper, "Give me another one, Dick, please. Keep fucking me." It hurts - it hurts because he's not fucking you, he's not moving enough - you need more.

Dick keeps rolling his hips against yours in shallow movements for a few seconds. His mouth is occupied with sucking more bruises into your neck, up your throat and across your jaw: he's mumbling something incoherent, slurring his words. Each fresh bruise has you gasping his name. You're going to be covered in marks after this - not just your neck, his grip on your ass and hips has been tight enough to leave bruises there, too - and you're entirely certain you've left scratch marks down his back. You nearly come again just at the thought of that; Dick, walking around for days with your marks left on him. Scratch marks under his dress shirts when he's on business, or under the tight material of his Nightwing suit, or blatantly visible through the obscenely sheer shirts he wears out clubbing. He's going to be marked as yours.

"You look so pretty like this, holy shit-", he says, pulling his head from your neck to admire his work. "You're so gorgeous - you always are, you always fucking are - but you look even better when you're mine, fuck-"

“-make me yours, then, please-"

You gasp in shock and disappointment as Dick suddenly pulls out, and his own face crumples at the loss of touch, but his palms are firm and insistent on your waist - he kisses you once, firmly, before he's manoeuvring your body like putty in his hands. You're flipped onto your stomach with another whisper of how pretty you are, and then Dick runs calloused palms down the soaked flesh of your thighs, up over your ass, over the curve of your spine and all the way up to gently, gently, press your cheek flat against the floor. He follows his hand with hot tongue, and when he reaches your ear, he murmurs, "You taste so good, pretty girl. Stay there for me. It's okay, let go. I've got you."

Uncontrollably, your ass jerks up and backwards against where his cock is pressing into you. He chuckles. He fucking laughs with his lips pressed to your cheek - maybe having came inside you has cleared his head enough that he can think straight enough to find your desperation funny - and one of his hands slides back down your body, spreading your pussy open for him to look at. You sense his body tense as he gazes at you. "...My cum is dripping out of you, oh my god."

Fuck it back into me, you think, but you're too far gone to string together a coherent sentence anymore. Your body can do the talking. You keep your cheek pressed to the floor, maybe because your muscles are too exhausted to lift your head, or maybe because it was so fucking hot how Dick pressed your head down, but you manage to meet his eyes. You plead with him as well as you can.

Dick's piercing blue eyes roll right back into his skull when he pushes into you again. From this angle, he feels even deeper than before: with one of his hands running lines up your spine, and his lips wet against the backs of your shoulders, and the steady, strong pace he sets fucking you, you're brought to the verge of tears again within minutes. You can hardly move your body to work with him in this position: he uses the weight of his body to press you into the floor, and each thrust of his hips has you moaning loud against the floor.

He brings a string of kisses and nips up your nape, so he can kiss your cheek again. It's sweet, a gentle gesture, only amplifying the pleasure that each deep snap of his hips brings. "I - I'm not hurting you, am I? I know it must be sensitive, baby, I understand if it's too much, I know - you can tell me if it's too much-"

"-no, please-", you whimper, terrified he's going to stop, "-it's so good, please, Dickie, you're exactly what I need-", and then your voice cuts out into a broken sob as one of his hand snakes between your body and the floor to find your clit. The rough pad of his finger brushes over it a few times, eliciting whimpers from you, before he settles for simply resting his finger on your clit. With each thrust, your hips are jostled against his finger just enough to send sparks of electricity shooting through your veins - every time, it feels like flames licking through each limb, and he's fucking into you so perfectly, claiming you with teeth at your neck, rasping your name against your skin - there's wetness against your cheek, like you're drooling, and you're almost certain you can feel the wetness of your pussy dripping onto his hand.

You're so swollen with desire, you can feel how tightly you're clenching down onto his cock. The mind-blowing pressure Dick's applying to your clit is only making it stronger. "You feel so good, baby. So, so, fucking good - holy shit, you're taking me so well." Then, there's a savage thrust of his hips, one that has both of you crying out in surprise and pleasure: he freezes buried to the hilt inside you. "You're going to make me come again soon, sweetie."

That means more of his cum inside you, more of his delicious moans and groans as he comes, and you say, "God, please-"

"-not yet, I want to make you come for me again. You feel so tight and hot when you do - I need it again, I want nothing more than that, please - you think you can give me another one, huh? One more for me?"

"I - I - yeah.", you stammer. You can, you know you can - your body is practically vibrating from how hard you're trembling on the edge of another orgasm - but you don't know when it's going to stop, you don't know it ever will - maybe this will go on all night, maybe he'll fuck you for hours on end and make you cry and let you lick your mess of his cock. But maybe it won't. Maybe your body will give out, or the pollen will leave his system: this will end and nothing will ever compare. You don't want to come again if it means the end of this pleasure. "...Promise you'll keep going after, Dickie."

Dick starts rubbing rapid circles on your clit with his ring and index finger, and kisses your hairline to soothe you as you sob again. "I'm only going to stop if you ask me to, baby, I promise. You feel too good to stop, I swear - I never thought you would be so fucking perfect, but now I know, I can't stop - I'm right here, I've got you, I'm going to make you come so many times you forget your name if that's what you want."

God, you're going to come again, holy shit-

He hardly gives you the chance to come back around before he's crooning, "-one more, one more for me, right on my cock like that-"

You can't even breathe. Your lungs are on fire, your vision is completely blacked out even once the second orgasm ends, your muscles and bones have turned into mush and you can't feel anything other than the sensation of flying. You're weightless, Dick is the only thing grounding you - he coaxes you down from the aftershocks with soft kisses to your cheek, and his hand tracing circles onto your aching hip, and the muscles of his abdomen are flexing with restraint against your back. "I'm gonna come, baby-", he hisses, and you manage the barest nod and then he sinks his teeth right into your shoulder as he starts pounding into you like a whore, fuck, it's sending you spiralling out of control again-

"Fuck, yes, take my cum like that, that's it, keep coming for me, holy shit-"

You're both boneless and drenched in sweat by the end of it. You're collapsed against the floor, Dick's collapsed against you, and he's still hard inside of you. You can feel his cum - it must have spilled out onto the insides of your thighs, judging by the wetness you feel there. His cock twitches inside of you with every ragged breath he takes. You're so exhausted; this is destroying your body, it's ripping you apart from the inside out, and you're terrified that if you come again it'll split you into pieces. And you want that. You twist your body, wincing against the waves of pleasure that crash over you at even the slightest movement of his cock inside you, and kiss him.

[currentfandomkick]

Bio! Dad Strange part 3

Marinette, she had no idea how this happened, she swore, somehow got lost in gotham during an Arkham jailbreak. All she knew was one minute she was talking to Uncle Ed and then the next there was explosions and then she was... wherever she was.

Apparently Two-Face recognized her on the streets and grabbed her... only she didnt know him.

Her response was to flip him over her tiny shoulder and flee with a vengence. Guess which member of the batfam saw?

If you guessed Tim before he became a Robin because Dick was still Robin—albeit in charge of the Titans and not in Gotham at the time.

Tim did the reasonable thing and somehow convinced the freaked out french girl to go into a cafe while they called her parents.

Two-Face, convinced that tiny Tim kidnapped tiny Marinette and somehow his family would hurt tiny Marinette. Which given that she has how many Rogues around her little finger—Strange, Joker, Quinn, Ivy, Riddler, Penguin AND Zsasz. He did a coin flip to see if he should save her from being in the public eye and possibly expose her family. The coin was in favor of keeping Marinette from being on the news with pictures.

Two-Face decided it was safer to kidnap her from said public place and bring her to Ivy and Harley.

So he grabbed mutliple machine guns, raided the cafe and threw tiny Marinette over his shoulder and sent out shots at abyone that tried to get near them. He wasnt dying becuase of this kid, ok?

Of course said kid is super-powered, terrified, and did i mention its sunny out so her treatments are wearing out faster? No, well they are. This means everything is much scarier and louder and overwhelming that bwing thrown over a stranger that shot at people should be in any situation.

Tiny Tim is very scared for her. He finds Batman and alerts him to the tiny foreigner’s kidnapping—nearly getting killed by Mr. Freeze in the process to boot.

Batman is angry for many reasons, manages to take down Mr. Freeze and tells Gordon to be on alert for Two-Face who kidnapped a tiny french girl.

Only it gets worse.

Superman saw what was going on in Gotham and went to help out—his freind was dealing with a mass prison break of very dangerous criminals, why wouldnt he help?

And on hearing a tiny kid that freaked out in french was in danger? Well, what was he supposed to do Bruce? Ignore her?

He sent Conner after her while he helped out with a number of distrubed individuals, including a pyromaniac (firefly).

Conner manages to track down the pair on his own and almost loses it when he sees tiny Marinette kick Two-Face hard enough he falls down and the girl bolts a lot faster than a normal kid should. He comms in that the girl is a scared foriegn meta, and requests backup.

Kidflash is the one who answers, and takes care of Twoface while Conner tries to track down a terrifed tiny meta that screams in french.

Conner sees her running to a greenhouse and follows her in. Especially as the tiny girl jumped a lot higher than she should and it felt too familiar for comfort.

He manages to sneak in, followed by Kidflash, and they have an ‘oh shit’ moment when they see the scared girl run to a younger Poison Ivy with brown hair, crying. This teen holding a crying child is Rose.

Rose is visibly pissed. “Do you want me to kill him? J called dibs on his brother this time and Harley’s aiming for Tetch after last week.”

Tiny marinette shakes her head and delivers the best line for the young justice members, but worst for a baby Rogue.

“I dont want him to die, i just want him to stop hurting people.”

*remember, she is Jill in Gotham.

“Jilly bean, the world isnt nice. If it was, then batsy wouldnt have dropped me onto an ecoterrorist when i was a week old, and i would be allowed to leave the greenhouse. You wouldnt need to have nearly as many aliases as you do. You can try to make it nice in a lot of ways. I’m happy to handle extermination sicne thats the only thing i have shot at besides the rkc.”

Tiny marinette is frowning. “But then the world wins. I want to beat the world, not lose by being like it.”

Conner is (understandably) confused. Kidflash is processing that oh fuck. This is a meta raised by villians. And another meta raised by villians and goddamnit batman, why did you give a villian a baby? (He didnt. He gave ivy a ten year old. He thought she was her kid and she was raising her or something.)

Tiny Marinette is not happy with Rose’s conclusions.

“Can we call Ghoul and Frost? Maybe they can help with their dads?”

“And why not Puzzles?”

“He has asthma and he cant dodge.”

Rose considers for a moment before nodding. She grabs a plant and talks into it. “Ghoul, Frost, i need you at HQ. Someone has to reign in our dumbass parents. Bring the nuetralizers and tranqs.”

A voice came from another flower. “Should we have zsasz come with?”

“No! He’ll switch sides again!” Marinette yelled.

“Oh. Nets, what the hell are you doing at HQ?”

“Two-Face stole me. I ran.”

“Well, Fuck. Be there in five. Uh, how are your treatments holding?”

“She’s getting lighter. Might want to break out the rocks again.”

“Double fuck. Ill force Frost out of lab. Be there in a few—any crews to aviod or...”

“If they have a green arm band dont give them the fear toxin fixes, and Jerimah’s cult is back,” Marinette added.

“Fuck me up why dont you Gotham!” Ghoul cursed.

“Hey, she’s a kid!” Rose snapped

“Im older than you though!” Marientte chirped.

Conner had a lot to process with this information. Kidflash put together that they were applarently going to try to help the gothamites rather than the rogues, and decided they should leave and focus on helping the others.

Given that Marinette didnt catch the pair (she was still trying to focus on near things) she doesnt know that anyone but Batman and maybe Batgirl is fighting.

So she doesnt hide her abilities, flying at low levels to aviod Batman’s attention. But Kidflash and Batman see her and have a Moment of ‘which of us is telling Superman he might have another clone?’

Marinette, oblivious to this, is seen beside Jason Todd giving people Fear Toxin Antidote and Joker Gas Nuetralizer. Marinette is getting and distributing the antidotes. Jason Todd is making sure she doesnt die by wielding his baseball bat and riding his bike while she flies.

The day ends with most going back to Arkham and Marinette and Jason hiding from heroes for obvious reasons—including a teen and small child ignoring evacuation orders and avoiding GCPS.

Batman is aware of Marinette’s existence as “Jill” and “Nets” and that she helps a group of Rogue’s children that are content to undercut their parents crime. And now he knows Rose is either mcuh younger than he thought when he gave her (he thought brought her back home to) Poison Ivy. And is feeling guiltyTM

If you thought he was having a case of Serial Adopter Bruce Wayne, you are correct. He is now actively looking for these kids and where they are hiding since they moved post-breakout.

Zsasz is only slightly disappointed that Marinette didnt kill Two-Face. Jerome thinks its great and somehow convinces him to apoligize to her by offering to make up a number of contracts between rogues and the gotham underground in general to make things more organized so she and other rogue kids have a safe way of handling situations like that in the future.

Why dies JEROME of all people think this up and not Eddy or Riddler? The answer is he stole the idea from them, gave them no credit, and yes, is doing this as an attempt to score a few extra of marinette’s cookies. He has no shame in this, and riddler hates sweets so he isnt mad. Ed is too busy teaching Marinette Science to realize what happened until long after it did.

This puts Marinette and the RKC in a very odd position. Not only is The Batman trying to find them now, but they have to handle the Rogues trying to baby them. Ghoul and Frost are almost an adults, most people think Rose is almost an adult when irl she’s 5, and yes, Marinette is very much now Gotham Underground’s Princess as the Council is basically set up to ensure her safety.

Marinette knows none of this, as she is small child that just wants to cuddle her stuffed kitty Chaton and sleep on her Father (Strange) while he finishes up in his lab. She does this.

Mr. Freeze and Scarecrow got pictures. They use these to insert themselves in the Teach the Kids Science and Dangerous ThingsTM.

At one point marientte learns how to diassemble a bomb, reassemble one, and diffuse various bombs.

Riddler starts to use bombs more when she’s around to help her practice. Batman is confused as that is Not his usual M.O. Robin/ Dick gets called in and thigns get messy for the Batfam dynamics (he saw the research on the RKC and is pissed that He Was Right! Ivy Didnt Have Rose! and then saw plans for new batkids and reacted BadlyTM due to Teen AngstTM).

The summer ends with Batman having a bad fallout with Robin, Marinette thinking No One knows she’s kyptonian. When Conner suspects, Batman and Kidflash put two and two together, and no one has told Superman yet because um. Well.

They need the girl as proof and would rather not send Clark into another spiral about havig kids he wasnt aware of, ok? He just got decent with Conner. No need to rock the boat, right? (Wrong)

[writehardwhumpharder]

Carson Poisoned by Magic - (Part 2)

This part focuses more on Daniel’s end of things. They’ve started working on a way to reverse the poison but things look hopeless. Carson helps as much as he can but it’s up to Daniel, and he knows it. It took a surprisingly angsty turn. Next part will have more Carson whump. 

After Diana looked Carson over they were sure that his condition couldn't have been caused by anything medical. Nothing matched up. The only consistent symptom he had was the high fever that never seemed to go down no matter what they tried. His mom assured Daniel that Carson could handle fevers better than most people and the side effects were a little different when caused by magic. Usually it happened when he took in too much stray energy from many different people at once, confusing the hell out of his system. This was similar in that his body was probably trying to burn away the poison spreading up his arms at an alarming rate.

Diana sat down with Daniel to give him some tips on searching through their books on magic by causes, symptoms, and treatments. Fortunately they had a lot of information on those topics, unfortunately trying to find out what was wrong with Carson was like looking for a needle in a haystack and unlike science, magic often didn't feel the need to follow its own rules.

His phone rang, drawing him out of his thoughts, and Daniel looked down at it with a grimace. He thought he'd put it on mute. Seeing that it was his brother calling he figured he could spare a minute or so to talk to him.

"Where the fuck have you been?! You were supposed to open today!" Jason yelled into his ear.

Daniel found himself getting irrationally mad, already regretting picking up the phone, "So?"

"What do you mean so? You didn't even tell anyone you weren't coming in."

"Yeah I'm busy, so busy that I have to go," he snapped. There was an exasperated sigh on the other end.

"I can't cover your shifts man, you better have a good reason for flaking out like this," Jason said harshly.

Diana sat on the other end of the couch minding her business even though he knew she could hear them with how loud Jason was yelling.

"Carson's sick so I'll be gone for a little while. Don't call me again," he replied, getting tired of this conversion.

"But you-"

Daniel cut him off, "I can't even begin to describe how little I care right now, figure it out yourself." With that he hung up and tossed his phone aside in an effort to refocus.

"Do you need to be somewhere else?" Carson's mom asked tentatively. She could easily watch Carson if he needed to step out for a minute to take care of things.

"Nope, I have the week the off," he replied.

Just as he was getting his notes back in order Carson's door opened. For a second he thought that maybe they didn't close it all the way and a draft pushed it open but after a few long seconds Carson stepped out of his room, holding tightly onto the door the whole time.

"What are you doing up?" Danny and his mom asked in unison.

"I'm bored," and lonely, but Carson didn't say that part out loud. He was the picture of illness. Dark bags settled under his eyes, his skin had lost of its color, and a blanket was draped messily over his shoulders. The fact that he didn't put a shirt on before coming out of his room was proof enough of how bad he must be feeling. Danny could practically see the rays of heat coming off of him.

Watching him cross the room at such a slow and labored speed was borderline painful but Carson looked steady enough to make it to the couch and they knew he'd take it the wrong way if someone got up to help him.

"It's a war zone out here, almost like someone is dying," he commented dryly.

Diana shot him a sharp glance, "That is not funny."

Carson grumbled to himself, he should at least be able to joke about his own shitty situation. Feeling a general tension emanating from his mom Carson chose to sit on the other couch. He had to push a few things onto the floor so he could lay down and his eyes felt heavy as soon as he was settled in. It was a conscious effort not to fall back asleep.

"So where are we at?" Carson asked.

"Well I called your detective friend and he's looking into where you went the other night and who might have something against you. Riley said she'd be available to get anything we need," Daniel told him.

"Mmm, good," Carson replied. He got the gist of it but sort of lost focus after he referred to Morris as his "friend". The sharp pain behind his temples was the only thing keeping him grounded at this point. The constant fever, headache, and occasional coughing fit had really sapped away all his energy.

"So you've figured out that it's a magical poison, thus we need a magical solution," Carson confirmed. His mom nodded.

"But we can't do magic, so even if we find a way to reverse it there's not much we can do." Daniel sighed. He leaned back into the couch and rubbed his eyes. Meanwhile Carson could feel himself slipping. He needed to help as much as he could while he could still think.

"That's not strictly true. There's a box in my closet with your name on it, go get it." He mumbled.

Danny got up quickly to fetch it. It was unusual for Carson to give anyone permission to look through his things but these were desperate circumstances. Sitting at the bottom of the closet, Danny found a shoe box with his name scribbled across the top. It appeared to be leaking something. At first he was hesitant to touch it but once he turned on the light he saw that it was just sawdust settled around it.

It only took a few seconds to find but by the time he came back to the living room, Diana was kneeling in front of Carson, snapping her fingers in his face. He almost dropped the box.

"What happened?"

"Nothing, he just fell asleep again. What's inside?" She nodded at shoebox in his hands.

"Oh, I haven't checked yet."

They sat down opposite each other with the mystery box in the middle. Daniel opened it slowly, expecting it to perhaps catch fire, or disintegrate on contact. Instead all he was met with was more wood shavings and a crudely carved stick.

"What is that?" His mom asked, leaning forward to get a better look. Danny pinched it between his thumb and forefinger as he pulled it out.

"If I'm not mistaken, I think it's a magic wand." He said. It was hand carved with an array of symbols etched in, most of which Daniel recognized. "He must have carved it himself."

"Clearly," Diana commented. Carson was never much of an artist.

"Hey, s'not finished," a mumble came from the bundle of blankets next to Danny.

"Should we let him have that many blankets when he has a fever?" Daniel asked.

Diana frowned, "probably not."

Carson, who still looked very much knocked out, tightened his grip on the top blanket he'd brought with him from his room. Daniel tried to casually peel it off but Carson's eyes snapped open and he practically growled.

"Don't you dare."

It wouldn't have been hard to wrestle it away from him considering he had almost no body strength at the moment but Daniel backed off, looking back at the wand.

Carson's sleepy eyes followed his gaze, "oh you found it," he laughed lazily, "Happy Birthday." With that he passed out again, for real this time.

It was a shame they had to bring out the gift now, unfinished and a month early, but if it would help them do the magic they'd need to cure him, then he was glowing with happiness that Carson had gone through the trouble to make this ahead of time.

Diana smiled, "It must have taken weeks for him to carve in those symbols."

"Yeah," he agreed.

"It's not often I see him put that much time into something."

Danny nodded.

"Must be really special." Diana was anything but subtle when it came to the topic of their "friendship". She had a point though, it looked like it took a lot of effort, but he still had no idea if it would work. Carson did say it wasn't finished.

"We'll set this aside for when we need it." Danny decided, closing the box and setting it down next to the coffee table.

--

They worked quietly until the sun went down, which was at like 4pm in the afternoon this time of year, yet Daniel still felt like he'd spent days looking through these books. He didn't find anything particularly useful in his own notes which wasn't very promising. Even going through Carson's notes proved fruitless, and a little traumatizing. There was some disturbing stuff in there.

Initially, he thought it would be nice having Carson in the living room with them. But after hours of listening to him moan and whimper in his fevered sleep, Daniel couldn't take it anymore.

He glanced over at the foot sticking out of the blankets. Slowly but surely the poison found it's way there too, starting at the ankles and moving up. There wasn't enough time. He didn't know how to do this.

Before he knew what was happening, Daniel couldn't breathe. His chest felt tight and he struggled to bring in a full breath. Something cold washed over his body. A kind of darkness and fear he'd never felt before. While this was happening, the same few thoughts swirled around in his head. What if he couldn't save him? What if he ran out of time? What if he wasn't good enough and Carson died because of him? What if Carson died?

His vision grew hazy from lack of oxygen. It was like the weight of world was actively crushing him. A rapid thumping in his chest told Danny he needed to move, to do something. Break things, run away, scream, just... something. But all he could do was sit there on the couch, covering his face in his hands. If he even looked at Carson he'd start crying. Scratch that, he was already crying.

Diana was in the kitchen making some soup when she heard panicked gasping. Her heart dropped as some kind of motherly instinct took over. Setting the soup aside off the burner she dashed back into the living room. Carson was still deeply asleep but Daniel wasn't reading anymore. She found him curled up on the couch, crying through his hands and hyperventilating.

Unlike Carson, Daniel was a touchy person, he needed that kind of human contact. And while he couldn't regain control of himself and the world was still crashing down on him, it felt nice to have her hand on his back, drawing calming circles.

"W-what- if, what i-if," he could barely choke out the words. "I, I can't. I can't. I can't..." He got stuck in a loop. It was all too much, he couldn't do it. But Daniel also knew that if he gave up, Carson might not survive. He was plagued with even more guilt for thinking that way.

"I need you to breath with me, just like this," she moved his hands so he could see her and started taking in slow, exaggerated breaths. Much like she would with the kids she took care of at the hospital. It took a few minutes but eventually he was able to match her rhythm, breathing at a normal speed again. The fear didn't quite go away but his vision came back and he was vaguely aware of Diana kneeling next to him. When he met her eyes again he couldn't help but throw his arms around her tiny frame, burying his face in her shoulder. She gave him a reassuring squeeze. In the back of her mind she caught herself liking the feeling of having a son she could hug. While she always respected Carson's boundaries, she kept wishing she could do more for him. Daniel pulled away abruptly after a minute, feeling embarrassed. He looked down and wiped at his face with his sleeve. Diana took the hint and wandered back into the kitchen to finish dinner.

A sleepy feeling replaced his anxiety and he felt a little empty, like his mind had gone quiet. It was great in comparison to how he felt a moment ago but Daniel knew he was still far from okay. With no time to waste he got back to work, starting on a different book about dark magic.

Though no one realized, Carson had woken up at some point while Daniel was panicking. He kept his eyes closed but listened to his friend gasp and sob. He couldn't allow that.

The foot that had slipped out of the blankets earlier edged closer to him. He acted like he was just stretching but when his toes made contact with Daniel's knee, Carson drew away some of his pain. Just a little. He didn't give away any of his own energy but he could take on a little bit of his. It's not like he could feel worse than he already did.

Daniel's eyes widened as he felt Carson's foot graze his leg, and while it did, his pain dulled a bit. There was a warmth to it that he recognized, it felt a little bit like taking a sip whiskey to take the edge off. But Carson was in no state to be doing magic, especially magic that would only hurt him more.

"Don't do that," Daniel said, jerking away. "I'm serious, you can't be doing that right now. You need all the strength you can get."

"You stop doing that," Carson replied. He was so quiet Daniel almost couldn't understand him.

"Stop what?" He asked.

"Stop crying."

[chibimultishipper]

For the Zerhys prompts: Zer0 gets hurt and is a huge baby about it. Rhys helps comfort them.

((Thank you for this!  I had a lot of fun with this one AO3 here is the link!))

Rhys was in his home workshop tinkering with a new gun prototype for Atlas.  He had gained inspiration from his inability to aim and was currently trying to work an a line of Atlas guns that would track enemy movements so all the user had to do was fire.  He had hit a snag in his last testing session and couldn’t stop thinking about the stupid prototype.  Even now it was his day off and he was still tinkering with the damn thing.  He wished his busy mind would allow him to leave things alone, but it didn’t seem like that would happen today.

All of a sudden he heard a faint banging noise.  Banging?   Where the heck was that coming from?  He put down his tools for a moment to open his workshop door.  Doing say made the sound increase in volume, in which Rhys realized someone was banging on his front door.  Rhys checked his watch and looked at the time.  7pm.  It wasn’t terribly late but usually anyone he knew would at least call before coming over at this time.  The only person who would usually come unannounced was Zer0, but at this point in their relationship they usually just walked in.  He looked to see if he had received any messages and he noticed several calls from… Maya?  Why was she calling?  Before he got a chance to check any of the voicemails she left the banging on the door got more aggressive.  Rhys was sure it would break at any moment.  “I’m coming I’m coming!”  He yelled running to the door.  He checked the peep hole real quick just to be safe.  There he saw Maya as he suspected but she was holding Zer0?  He quickly opened the door.

“I was beginning to think you weren’t home.” Maya comment letting herself in as she held Zer0 bridal style in her arms.  Damn she was stronger then she looked.  “You didn’t answer any of my calls so I was prepared to break in.”

“Sorry.” Rhys apologized, glad that he didn’t have to repair a broken door.  “I usually turn all forms of communication off when I’m in my workshop so I can focus.”

“Put me down.  This is / embarrassing.”  Zer0 muttered.  Rhys raised an eyebrow at Zer0’s lack of effort to finish their own haiku.  It wasn’t uncommon for them to drop the attempt all together, but it felt different this time.  

“Are they okay?”  Rhys asked worry now apparent on his face.

Maya rolled her eyes as she not so gracefully dropped Zer0 onto the couch.  They make a sound in annoyance but didn’t say much else.  “Yes their fine, they are just being a drama queen.”

Rhys crouched near Zer0. “What happened?”

Maya shrugged.  “They got slashed up pretty bad in the stomach.” Maya pointed at the cut in their suit that Rhys was for some reason noticing just now.

“What!?”  

“It’s fine.  Admittedly it was a pretty fatal wound at first but I was able to heal it- well most of it. “  She sighed in frustration.  “The blade they were slashed with was laced with poison so I wasn’t able to heal them completely.  Right now it’s just a minor scratch.  It definitely hurts but not as much as Zer0 is milking it.  They have had worse!”  Maya yelled at them causing Zer0 to dramatically put a hand to their helmet.

“I am dying.  Words / are difficult. I can barely / count syllables now.”  They paused. “See I messed up.”

This was a lot to take in for Rhys poor heart. “Wait so you said poison didn’t you?  Are they really dying?”  Rhys tried to keep tears from welling up in his eyes.  All the things he hasn’t said yet.  All the stuff he wanted to do with them.  He wanted them to still take a vacation with him.  He wanted to convince them to try ice cream.  He wanted-

“They aren’t dying.”

“Oh thank god.” Rhys let out a sigh of relief.

Maya shrugged.  “Yeah turns out they are completely fine on the poison front.  Normally that type of poison at that dosage would have killed a human but well, you know.”  Maya gave a vague gesture with her hand  as if that somehow represented ‘Zer0 is an alien!’, but Rhys still understood what she meant.  “The only thing wrong with them is that they are a little sore and the poison is causing them to experience intoxication like symptoms.”  

Ah, things were beginning to make sense.  “Okay um, just to clarify.  I mean I know you said it already but you’ve also said a lot of things that to a non vault hunter like me sound super fucking alarming, they’re not dying right?  Just in a weird intoxication type state?”  Rhys asked.

Maya smiled. “Exactly.  I want to apologize about bringing them over like this.  I was going to take them back to Sanctuary but they insisted they come here.”

Rhys gulped. “R-really?”  

Maya nodded.  “Yeah it was annoying.  Like, super annoying.  I told them ‘I’m sure Rhys has better things to do then to listen to you whine and complain the whole time’ but then they threw a tantrum.  Then they started screaming about how much they liked you and- Ow fuck!”  Maya held their side and moved away from the couch.  Zer0 had just kicked her.

“You know you can leave now.”  Zer0 said.  It sounded more like a threat.

Maya rolled her eyes.  “You don’t scare me Zer0.  Just for that, when you ‘sober up’ I’m telling Rhys about all the embarrassing things you’ve said today.”  She looked at Rhys, clearly annoyed. “They’re your problem now.”  

“Ah huh um o k-kay.”  Rhys was still reeling from the information that was thrown at him.  Zer0 wanted to see him that badly, and the idea that Zer0 had thrown a tantrum when they didn’t get what they wanted.  He kinda wanted to see it.  

He shouldn’t be surprised that Zer0 wanted to visit him.  They had been dating for some time now so it’s only logical that you would want to see the person your dating after a near death experience.  Rhys just couldn’t help the fact he that he was still wowed that Zer0 for some reason liked him and was dating him and wanted to see him and-

“If they start breaking stuff, call me.  Otherwise, don’t.”  Maya clearly had her daily dose of Zer0 for the day.

“Uh yeah okay got it!” and with that she was out the door.

“I don’t throw tantrums.”  Zer0 stated as soon as she left.  

Rhys smiled to himself.  That sounds like something someone who throws tantrums would say.  “Okay.”

Zero shifted their head to look at him.  “I’m serious.  I don’t.” [(︶^︶)]

Rhys kneeled down in front of the couch again.  “I know, I believe you.”  He turned his attention to the hole in their suit which revealed his scar.  “Does it hurt?”

“Yes, very much so.”  Zer0 attempted to emphasize their pain by making a groaning sound but it didn’t translate well with their communicator so it just sounded like static.  

Rhys looked determined to assist.  “How can I help?  Do you want some ice? I can put ice on it.”  He paused.  “Does ice reduce swelling for you?”

Zer0 shook their head. “No, opposite.  Heat.”  Heat?  Did he have anything that could generate heat for them?  “Oh!  Hold on I’ll be right back!”  Rhys ran into his bedroom and pulled out a chest from underneath his bed.  He opened it and quickly shuffled through it’s contents.  An old photo album,  his first binder- ah here it was!  He grabbed what he was looking for and pushed the chest back underneath the bed.  He brought the item back to the living room and Zer0 looked at him with a slight tilt to their head. [ ? ].

“It’s a heating pad!”  Rhys exclaimed as he plugged it into the nearest socket.  “I use to get really bad cramps underneath my stomach and this always worked wonders for me.”  He pressed it against Zer0’s wound causing the vault hunter to flinch away slightly.  “Sorry! I’ll be more careful.”  He gently placed the heating pad on Zer0’s wound this time.  They didn’t flinch away.

“Anything else?”

“Water. Please.”

“Right!”  Rhys ran into the kitchen and got Zer0 a cup of water quickly bringing it back.  When he tried to hand it to them, they made no effort to grab it.

“I’m just, so weak.”  [T_T]  to try and prove their weakness, they attempted to raise their arm but it just fell back into their lap.  

Rhys tried really hard not to laugh. “Uh.  So you can’t lift your arms now?”

Zer0 shook their head.  “Poison spreading.  My limbs feel fuzzy.  Like… “  They tried to remember that phrase that humans always use.  “Jam.”

Rhys accidently let a snort slip through.  “Do you mean jelly?”

“Yes, that.”

Rhys really tried to keep it together but a small fit of laughter came out.

[T_T]  “This is serious.”  Zer0 complained.  

“Yes of course! I’m sorry.”  Rhys consoled, a few giggles escaping.  “Can you lift your head for me please?”

“I don’t know if I can manage.”

Rhys placed the water on the end table next to the couch.  “What a shame,  I was going to have your head rest in my lap and try to-”  Before Rhys can finish Zer0’s head immediately shot up giving Rhys space to sit down.  “Wow you did it!”  Rhys exclaimed with fake excitement.

“It took all my willpower.” [´-﹏-`；]

“Right.”  Rhys sat down and Zer0 immediately placed their head in his lap.  Rhys hand gently tapped on the glass of Zer0’s face to which they responded with [｡>﹏“Can I take this off?”  Rhys had seen Zer0’s face before, but they still didn’t feel comfortable being without their helmet all the time yet.

Zer0 was quiet for a moment. “Yes.”

Rhys gave them a gentle smile that made Zer0’s heart feel like it was going to beat out of their chest.  “Thank you.”  With that Rhys released the two clasps that resided on each side of their face.  They gently pulled off the glass in the front and placed it on the end table.  Rhys paused, staring into the four red eyes that were looking back at him.  Now was not the time to get embarrassed!  “I’m going to sit you up a bit okay?”  Rhys used his hands to sit Zer0 up a bit more so that they wouldn’t choke.

“This is what you wanted right?”  Rhys asked gently placing the water to Zer0’s lips so that they could drink.  Zer0 placed one of the hands that they supposedly couldn’t move because they felt like ‘jam’ on Rhy’s thigh to anchor themselves as they slowly drank from the cup in Rhys hands.

It was a simple gesture, one any person would be willing to do for their loved one while they were sick or in pain.  Still this moment felt… intimate.  Super intimate.  Rhys let out a quiet yelp as Zer0 tightened the grip on his thigh.  Fuck he could feel his heartbeat banging on his ear drums.  The steady rhythm of it seemed to radiate throughout his whole body.  He wondered if Zer0 could hear it too.  He wondered if Zer0 was having the same problem or if he was overthinking it.

Zer0 began to pull away from the cup but Rhys wasn’t paying attention and accidentally spilled some on their face. “Fuck! Sorry.”  He quickly put the cup back on the nightstand and tried to get up.  “Let me get you a napkin-”

Zer0 stopped him.  “It’s fine.”  

It was silent.  It wasn’t awkward necessarily but it felt like something unresolved was in the air.  Zer0 had begun staring at him, or did he start staring at Zer0?  He didn’t know for sure.  They stayed like that for a moment  and Rhys felt antsy. “Do…do you want anything else?”  He asked.

“I want… “  Zer0 stopped themselves.  They seemed confused, or rather, concerned.  Maybe worried?  A frustrated chirping noise came from their lips, not their translator this time.  They glanced back at the water and then looked at Rhys again. “Drinking is hard.  You should siphon the water into my mouth with yours.”

A beat of silence, and then Rhys burst out into laughter.  He didn’t know why he got so nervous.  He always put Zer0 on this petesdal because they were this cool ass vault hunter.  He often thought that he wasn’t good enough for them, and that he was a nuisance to ask for things.

But moments like these brought him back into reality.  Zer0 was for sure a cool ass vault hunter, but at the end of the day he was also just Zer0.  His nerdy awkward datefriend who loved him.

“I am not spitting water into your mouth, that’s gross.”  Zer0 looked mildly disappointed “Can I kiss you instead?”  Zer0 perked up and nodded vigorously.  Clearly this is what they actually wanted.

Rhys leaned in and gave Zer0 a gentle peck on their mouth.  Their lips were a bit rougher than his own but Rhys always appreciated the contrast in the sensation.  Zer0’s jam hands (Rhys was never letting them live that down) caressed Rhys face, bringing him in closer.

When Rhys parted for air, Zer0 attempted to dive in for more, but Rhys stopped him.  Zer0 gave a chirp whine in protest.  “I don’t know Zer0 you still seem pretty week, I don’t want to stress your body out to much~”  Rhys teased.

Zer0 gave him a deadpan look before standing and stretching their legs.  “I feel better already.”

Rhys bit his lip to die down his laughter. “Looks like a miracle to me.”  

“Yes. Miracle.”  Rhys screeched as Zer0 picked him up and brought him to the bedroom where the two proceeded to make out for the rest of the night.  

[ain-t-bovvered]

Epiphany 11

read first ACT 1

EDIT:  @waywardbaby​

Summary: Less than two years later, you finally passed the men of letters’ initiation and, finally, you now set foot in America eager to be reunited with the Winchesters. But if Dean thought that you spent your days only with your nose in books and hands in monster’s guts, he was dead wrong. Your mission? Something that the British branch tried and failed miserably,  or at least that’s what they told you anyway.

Pairing: Dean X Reader

Characters: Dean, Sam, Castiel and Jack

Warnings: slow burn guys…slow burn. Also, some fluff, humor, feels and angst.

You were testing the sharpness of the blade of your machete after strapping on your thigh holster, filled with dead men’s blood darts.

“I thought you were going to stay back and give me cover,” Dean asked, as he put his usual gun in the back of his jeans.

“Changed my mind,” you said curtly, swinging the blade and swiftly sliding it back in its sheath, on your hip.

Dean’s critic eyes studied you. You were dressed lightly, arms and neck completely exposed, armed only with that machete and those darts. His blood boiled.

 He grabbed your arm as you were moving past him. 

“Hey! hey! Where do you think you’re going?”

“To make some vamps’ heads roll.”

“The hell you are! Not like that!” he barked, putting himself between you and the door, arms crossed.

“Dean…” you rolled your eyes.

“Do not fucking ‘Dean’ me.” he hissed and you blinked surprised.  “Look at yourself!” you followed his hand which was pointing at your attire.

You felt your cheeks burns and bit your lips in shame. You had gotten carried away. What a rookie!

Dean’s tone and eyes softened as he saw some sense washing over you. “I know you’re angry and all you wanna do is go and kill every single bloodsucker son of a bitch in there. Believe me, I do too!” 

You lifted your eyes at him. “Oh hell, I wanna kill them slowly and painfully. But if I let you go with me like this, we are going to be their next meal, because I’ll be busy not letting them take a bite out of you. You know I will.”

He paused to see if you were listening. “You asked for trust, and against my better judgment, I’m gonna give it to you. But you gotta ask yourself if, right now, you’d trust you.”

You wanted to avoid his gaze, but it held yours, unwavering and your eyes watered. “….No.” 

Your hand unfastened the sheath, letting it fall on the floor. “I guess, I’ll wait for you here then,” you said, voice cracking.

“No…” he signed, bent down and grabbed the machete. “I want you with me but first, I need you to get your shit together.”

Taking a big breath and tightening your grip on the machete handle, you looked at him, dead in the eyes. You both nodded.

Getting up, you changed into something appropriate and also fastened Darcy on your back.

Standing side by side, in front of the motel door, you searched for his hand.

“Let’s go kill some vamps” he squeezed back, grinning.

You have never seen Dean fight.

He moved like a machine, a perfect killing machine. Every blow seemed calculated and precise. Each move, smooth and natural like he was born with it. 

That was Dean Winchester. 

Hunter. 

Legacy. 

Michael’s true vessel. 

A descendant of Cain. 

One half of the Winchesters that had saved the world more times than you could count on your fingers.

You were transfixed. He didn’t even need your help, actually. You were already down to the three last bastards. The difficult ones, you guessed. Got the one that flung from the head of the stairs with your darts. You quickly run to him as he wobbled, weakened by the poisonous blood and you swung your blade.

While Dean was fighting the one to his right, you noticed one that was watching the scene. That must have been the ‘father’ of the nest you thought. Knowing the hierarchy of the nest, that must also be the one that gave the order on the attacks.

“You son of a bitch” muttering under your breath, you were ready to run blindly towards him, uncovered and purely on instinct. Without a plan. But Dean’s words resonate in your head. Halting yourself, you quickly took cover and instead fired at him. The bitch was quick enough to dodge the dart, but you already expected that. In fact, you just wanted to distract him, as Dean, who you saw had already killed the other, charged him from the blind side you had provided him with.

As Dean, with some trouble, pinned him to the wall, you shot again, this time hitting him on his thigh. Once weakened, it was not difficult to keep him in place. Dean’s elbow nearly crushing his throat.

He looked at you as to offer the kill. You shook your head.

“ All yours.” 

You knew the little girl’s death had shaken him too. He needed this more than you, now.

He nodded and turned around, slowly lifting the blade, raising it to the vamp’s neck. “Look at me, bitch!” he said, in a tone you’ve never heard from him. You felt shivers.

He bent forward putting pressure on the blade and the vampire began to squirm in pain.

“She was just a little girl, you sick son of a bitch!” and with not so much of a single noise the edge of the machete blade, hit the wall behind.

A single thud was heard as the body detached from the head and fell on the floor followed by your labored breaths which were the only sounds left in that disgusting place.

“You okay?” you asked, as your fingers traced his chest. The hand that was grazing softly your shoulder stopped and went to rest on your head. He bent down a little and kissed you.

Sighing contently, you closed your eyes. Tangled in your bed, showered and tired, both just wanted to sleep, but the adrenaline buzz was taking its time to wear off.

He hummed and you looked at his face. His eyes were closed, the red neon lights sharp on his features. He looked more relaxed now, the crease between his eyes smoothed down a bit. Sensing your gaze he opened an eye.

“I am, now.”

“You’re thinking that if we had left sooner, that girl might be still alive,” you said matter of fact. He closed his eyes and sighed.

“I did, but ...even if we had left the instant I found the case, we still couldn’t have been here to save her in time. Nothing we could have done.”

You rested your cheek on his chest. “Sorry I freaked out.”

“Don’t…!” he turned on his side, curling around you. Your arms sneaked behind him, “I saw you back there…” he mumbled in your hair. He sounded tired. “... you were ready to jump on him, but you stopped….” 

He squeezed you tightly. 

“You stopped and made the right call”

“Yeah, well…I didn’t want your insults to be the last thing I heard before dying.” 

You laughed. 

He didn’t. 

Dean pushed you back to look at him, his face dead serious.

“I don’t want to lose you, and let’s be real. In this line of work ...” he let the words float between you.

“Dean…” he buried his face in your chest, keeping you tight against him.

“You did good, kid...” 

His words were slurred against your heart, “…really good …” he said, so low you almost didn't hear it.

His body went limp, his breaths slowed down and he was asleep.

You looked at the window above his shoulders, seeing the red neon lights reflecting on the thin curtains. You felt your heart squeeze and your chest constricted. Words were wrapping around your throat like ivy.

“I love you...” you whispered at the night.

The next day you drove all the way to Florida. You were starting to understand what could be classified as a long drive. Before, a journey of 4/5 hours seemed long to you. Now, you just ate 9 hours on the road in a vintage car. 

Kudos to Dean that made the drive hilarious. 

 “Dean…I like classic rock. I just can’t name all the band members or know what year a song came out! You are being unreasonable!” 

Your lack of classic rock knowledge sparked an outraged gasp, and a long, very long explanation. At least it kept you busy for an hour or two. 

Then came songs with guitar solos longer than the lyrics, and the way he drummed his fingers and knuckles was endearing and entertaining.

“You have a great sense of rhythm.” 

Your head tilted watching him. “Have you ever tried karaoke?”

“No!”

“That….. was waaaaay too fast!” 

Squinting your eyes at him you mentally promised to get him drunk enough one day.

“‘Sure you wanna go alone?” he asked slowing down next to a little cabin in the middle of a little run downtown.

“Yep, it’s my job. And anyway you’ll get bored. Go and eat some pie and I’ll call you once I’m done.” you said, checking the address. You began to chew on your lips as your hands smoothed out your dress skirt.

“Just ask for coffee this time” he shouted at you as you took your trolley and headed to the front door. You stopped, turned around and stuck your tongue out at him.

“Y/N, are you even listening to me?” Dean waved a hand in front of your face.

“..Eh?” you blinked, refocusing your sight on him.

“You’ve been chewing on that straw for half an hour and you didn’t even finish your fries.” 

Looking down at your half-eaten food you pushed the plate towards him. He gladly switched his empty one for yours.

“‘Shouldn’t take it so bad. I’ve warned you and anyways, there are plenty of hunters.” he said licking the salt from his fingers, your eyes following his tongue.

“…I know. But you are all so …..so American!” you huffed, falling back heavily against the worn backrest.

He shrugged, squirting the ketchup on the fries. Your stomach rolled, making you feel queasy. Looking out the window, you lost yourself in your thoughts again. This time you had other orders. All guns, firearms and other little fun toys. But they had quickly dismissed all that regarded your department. They seemed skeptical at your attempts to explain your products. 

'Hunters don't use all those ...things.' they had said.  

Dean was right though. There were others. Still, it had stung, seeing your work dismissed as not better than witchcraft and that put you in a foul mood.

“So now what ?” you asked bored, swirling your straw, the ice cubes clinking.

“You are done with your thing, I’m done with mine so... I guess …” he began tentatively,

“Home?...yeah, I guess.”

You blushed as you realized what you had just said. “…The bunker, I mean.”

Dean studied you for a moment “It is your home now. That is if you want …well um… I mean if …you can think about it as your home …err…as long as you want it to be.” he said scooping a big blob of ketchup with a fry, not looking at you.

Shit, you hadn't thought of that. Your time here was not permanent, and you hadn't  expected things to ... get complicated like this. What were you going to do once HQ called you back? Just the thought of going back, leaving Dean here, Sam, Cass, and Jack too, caused a knot in your throat and a throb in your head. This was something you would have to face when the time came, though but for now…

“I’d like that!” 

“Damn, it’s hot,” Dean groaned while walking back to the car. He shrugged off his light jacket and tossed it over his shoulder as his hand searched in his pocket for the keys.

“It’s like you are naked, “ you said, eyeing him pleased.

He looked at you strangely, as he slid into the driver seat, you following on the passenger seat.  

“Just two layers? Aren’t you showing too much skin for an unavailable man?”

He grinned mockingly and rolled the grey Henley up his forearms. You could see the veins and how his muscles twitched and moved under his skin as he drove. You rolled down the window, feeling your face hot. Not only your face, everything else felt hot and uncomfortable so you took off your leather jacket and threw it on the backseat where it joined Dean’s. Sighing, you slid a bit down the seat, Led Zeppelin blasting again, Dean talking to you over them. You weren’t really listening but nonetheless, you were staring at him. He was a bit tanned, all those hours driving with the sun high in the sky.  

He looked good… he looked really good…glowing almost. His hair was made lighter by the sun, freckles more visible, lips pinker, the shadow of the beard on his jaw and those striking green eyes which now, in contrast to his tanned skin, looked even lighter. Good, God! He is gorgeous ...and yours.

The thing he could do with those li-

“Hey!”

“What?” you asked, startled.

“You're  staring…..and for some reason, it’s making me uncomfortable.”

You scoffed and turned to him fully. 

“Oh?.... I don’t believe for a second that you aren’t used to being checked out.”

“Well…no …but… ” he said, his voice low as a hand slid up your thigh. You could see the difference between his tanned skin and yours. 

“I can, literally, see what you were thinking!” he winked at your blushing face.

“You can not! “ you said laughing. God, you hoped he couldn’t.

He side glanced at you again and slowly smiled. 

“You…my little minx…” he began, and his hand slid up, the skirt ruffling around his fingers. You used all our willpower to press your knees together since they now decided they wanted to be as far from each other as possible. 

“…You were thinking about what I could do …” his hand, now under the skirt, reached your upper thigh, thumb circling your skin and your legs relaxed under his silent order. It was enough for Dean to gently but also suddenly shoving them apart, “… when my head is right here!”

Reaching his goal, your hips jerked and you involuntary kicked the box full of tapes near your foot.

“...Guess I was right… judging by the situation here!” 

He licked his lips and you made a sound between outrage and a surprise when he moved those fingers the way only he could.

“Dean...” you tried to say, clutching his forearm.  “... you are driving, you need…” He managed to slide under the soaked fabric. “...ah…you need to …need to look ...Dean, the road!” you breathed out gasping, trying to push his arm away and parting your legs more at the same time. “Oh don’t worry sweetheart, “ he said, his gaze never leaving the road “I don’t need my eyes on you...” 

One of your hands gripped the door handle and the other slammed against the car ceiling. 

“I can feel you just fine!”

Baby never swayed.

“What’s up, Sammy?” Dean chirped, very pleased with himself as he glanced at your dreamy expression. Still, in a state of blissful afterglow, you barely heard him. Lazily you turned your face at him and he chuckled passing you his phone.

“Yes..?” you whispered.

“Y/N, it’s Sam…you okay?”

“…eh?”

“Were you napping?” 

Sam sounded confused and his brother tried to conceal his amusement.

“…Ah no…NO!..I mean, yes!” you shot Dean a stern look. “Sorry…I’m just a bit…tired” 

“Oh…well, maybe...”

“Something happened?”

“No...well yes. One of our contacts. She just came back on the job and heard about you. She’s on your route if you want to check it…but if you are tired ...”

“No, no, I’ll take it. Text me the address.” 

“Ok, it’s a small detour but you may need to take another day to be back.”

“It’s alright. More customers. It’s great. Thanks. What about you ...found something?”

“Maybe ...Dean will brief you” You heard Sam moving the phone and saying something then some more sounds. You waited. “ …Jack says hello.”

You chuckled, “ Tell him I said hello, too.”

“…Yeah…Cass, hey...ok...ok… Cass says hello, too.”

“Hello!”

Sam snorted, once in control of the phone again, “Well, safe journey guys. See you in a day.”

“Bye!”

You handed the phone back to Dean and you stared at him waiting.

“What?”

“I’m waiting for you to tell me about your mom. Is there something else I don’t know

He squeezed his hands on the steering wheel and you definitely didn’t miss that.

“…Dean?...please tell me.” 

You gently put your hand on his. He relaxed, took your hand and squeezed it, lowering it down on his thigh.

“ I said that Mom punched the devil into the other universe and the rift closed behind her…”

“ …yes…  and that she was trapped there.”

“Thing is ...she's dead, Y/N! I know she is!” 

He looked at you, his expression haunted. “She trapped Lucifer too, and I really don’t think he let her live.”

It made sense you thought. Never met the devil but you guessed he wouldn’t be too pleased. Your thumb rubbed against his skin, trying to give him some comfort.

“…but…Sam…” you began, trying to find some way to give him hope.

“Sam’s convinced she’s not… but …come on, even you don’t believe it.” He smiled sadly and bitterly and you lowered your eyes, feeling guilty.

“…You are indulging him…” you concluded.

“It’s my baby brother. I don’t want to crush his hopes... just yet.”

You nodded. “…But there is news now…?”

“Dream walkers.” 

“…Oh.”

“We could use them to find that world, and maybe…maybe we could…I - I don’t know…”

You could see that Dean’s faith wasn’t big on this and you searched for the right thing to say.  “Dean…don’t you at least want to be sure? If there is even a small possibility, wouldn’t you want that? You’ll mourn or you’ll have another reason to fight. One way or another, you need to know.”

He stayed silent and you glanced nervously back and forth between the road and him until he lifted your hand that was still in his, kissing it softly. You smiled and laid your head on his shoulder. Disentangling your hands, he passed his arm around you and brought you closer.

“So…Sam’s said her house should be in the suburbs, just outside Wichita Falls.” Dean said, slowing down and passing from house to house checking the numbers.

“I’m trying really hard…” you said, looking out the window to check the other side.

“I know you want to…come on, spit it out!!” he said with amusement.

You inhaled and let the words spill out of your mouth like a waterfall, “Oh my God, oh my God… it looks just like I had pictured it. I’m just waiting for the newspaper boy with his bicycle or some dad having a barbecue in some yard, drinking beer. Where are all the soccer mums going for a walk all together throwing shade on the neighbor's gardens??? Where is the cul-de-sac??” you said, excitedly.

The car stopped abruptly in front of a big house with red bricks, perfectly mown, green lawn and a white painted fence. 

You both looked at each other, confused.

“Well…this is …different!” you said, being accustomed to run-down houses, run-down dirty lawns, menacing barking dogs and warning shots... You walked on the perfect footpath made of carefully placed flat stones and stopped in front of the front door. With some hesitation, you knocked while Dean was, not so subtly, peeking through the window. You quickly pulled him beside you by his shirt, right before the door opened. 

In front of you was the perfect soccer mom, like the ones from TV shows. She even had a pastel cardigan around her shoulders and pearl earrings adorned her ears.

“Yes? “ she said, balancing something on her hips. Your eyes looked down at the toddler she was holding, who looked back at you with big questioning eyes.

You were still frozen on the spot and she was staring at you, suspiciously.

“‘Morning ma’am. Sorry, we must have the wrong house.” Dean began, pulling you back.

“Wait!” she called back, “Are you the hunters?” 

You both turned slowly and nodded.

“Well, you are definitely in the right place. Come on in, come on in!”

You slowly entered the cookie smelling house, stunned.  

“Dean…” you whispered, leaning into him. “What the fuck?”

He was at a loss for words too. She turned back and you both tensed and plastered a tight smile on your faces.

“Oh, don’t just stand there! Sit down! I just baked some cookies. Would you like some? Coffee? Lemonade? Sweet tea?”

She asked chirping as she put the babbling toddler in those…play jail thingies.

“Anything is… fine…” you managed to say.

“I know what you must be thinking.” she smiled while sipping her lemonade. “Someone like me couldn’t possibly be a hunter.”

You both nodded, you sipping your coffee and Dean slowly chewing on a cookie.

“Well …I was a hunter, met my wife on a hunt. She’s in life too, mind you. Got married, still hunted and then we decided to have Avery. I thought that was it. Nail the shotgun and machete to the wall kind of situation. But you know how that thirst never leaves you, right?” she took a cookie and chewed happily.

“So there we were, struggling to go back into life when my old friend Jacob - you know the one in Topeka - called us about these new toys going around. He was at one of your first ‘parties’ when you sold some stuff. Anyhoo, he told me about some of the things you sell and I must say… big fan. So… whatcha got for me?”

Dean poked your side with his elbow.  “Ah...yes ...well...here-” 

You spent the rest of the hour advertising the variety of the products. She was indeed a big fan because she made a huge order and emptied your last reserves. You were distracted though by that thing babbling and drooling in the room, though. Especially, when she started crying. Hunter soccer mom, rocked her while still talking nonstop. Not hearing a word, you interrupted her. “Wait ...wait ...I'm sorry but I gotta ask…what… how … why?” you stood up from the couch, Dean’s eyes following you. Stuttering, you gestured at her and the toddler that was drooling on her cardigan.

She looked confused “ Why… hunting is who I am. I knew we couldn’t stay away long.”

“But…the..?”

“Oh, honey. We don’t hunt like before, just simple cases. Some salt and burn, maybe some vamps but nothing more. We are very selective. There are other hunters too around here, anyway.” 

You opened your mouth to say something when a ‘ping’ coming from the kitchen was heard.

“Oh sorry. Here, can you take her? I need to check on that pot roast.” She put the toddler in your hands and vanished in the kitchen.

You stood frozen on the spot, a drooling tiny human in your outstretched hands, your eyes fixed on her as hers were on you. Studying each other for a few seconds, she slowly raised her chubby fingers, grabbing a lock of your hair and pulling sharply.

“Ow!” you exclaimed, causing a fit of delightful, baby giggles. You felt like something had just punched you in your stomach.

Dean stood up quickly, wanting to take the baby from you, but stopped midway when you brought the squirming bundle to your face. Her giggles grew louder then and Dean resumed his steps, coming to stand in front of you. You were making the stupidest, ugliest face he’d ever seen, Avery still pulling the lock of hair in her fist and the other slapping gently on your cheek. Dean’s eyes widened and his chest felt tight when a hearty laugh escaped your lips, a laugh he never heard you make before. 

As a bit of drool threatened to spill out of the toddler, you giggled through your nose, snorting adorably, and used the cross-stitched bib, around her neck to clean her mouth. Dean was transfixed on the image before him, watching you both interact, as you placed her on your hips like her mother had done before and pried your hair out of that steel grasp, replacing it with your crystal pendant which she promptly put in her mouth. Only then did you remember that Dean was there, too. Blushing, you shifted your eyes on him. “Mmm… sorry I…I look stupid…” you said, tucking the lock of hair behind your ear and out of reach.

“I...I think you look magnificent...” he said, before clearing his voice.

“Oh, my…aren’t you two absolutely adorable!” 

Soccer mom chirped, entering the room again, a pair of oven gloves still on her hands. “Where were we?”

She refused to take Avery back since she seemed happy where she was and you continued your work, trying not to be too distracted. Once the check and the documents for shipping were signed, you noticed that Avery had become heavier and slack against you.

“She doesn’t usually fall asleep on other people,” she said amazed. “You must give out the mom vibe.”

Before she could see you grimace, she stood up quickly, “Well, I’m gonna pack you some leftover cookies for the road!” and without waiting for your response, she disappeared again.

You looked down at the sleeping child in your arms, and your heart squeezed, as a lump formed in your throat. Without looking away you gripped Dean’s arm, to get his attention.

“….can you…” you gulped, “ can you take-....” you placed the sleeping child in Dean’s arms, “I…I’ll wait in the car,” you said, quickly picking up your stuff. 

He wanted to follow you the moment he had seen your eyes, but the sudden movement rouses the child, causing it to whimper. Dean stopped himself and sighed bitterly, looking down. 

Your expression and laughter had shaken him deeply. 

That…that had been something else. 

It almost looked like a possibility that he had never dared to look at. Thinking about it was a thing, but seeing it right in front of his eyes, touching it…. He pressed his lips together and looked out the window, searching for you.

You were putting away your phone and leaning on the side of the car. He watched as you lifted your head, searching for the sun as a gust of wind moved your hair, trapping it in your aviators. Annoyed, you swatted them away, only to worsen the situation. He laughed softly almost hearing the swears that were passing through your mind, as you tried to disentangle the sunglasses from that mess.

“You two together? Because if not, you better tell her soon. That look on your face is ridiculous!” 

Startled Dean turned around, finding soccer mom staring right into his eyes, smiling brightly.

“ …Err…” was the only thing he managed to say before handing her back her sleeping kid. He glanced back at you as your hands were still busy in your sunglasses- hair mess and he smiled, “…yes...yes we are together…”

He closed the door behind him and walked down to the car. You were turned around, facing the other way.

“ That went great, right? And look…” he said, lifting the plastic plate, “...free cookies!!” You let out a shaky, sniffling, soft laugh. Dean’s eyebrows furrowed worriedly and he turned you around with one hand.

“…Sorry…I…this damn thing! I can’t …I can’t disentangle it.” you were on the verge of tears as the sunglasses dangled in front of your eyes.

He gently put the plate on the roof of Baby and started freeing your hair patiently. Murmuring ‘thanks’ as he handed you the glasses back, you both slipped into the car, Dean glancing at the house on more time before taking off.

“What kind are these?” you asked, eyeing the cookies.

“Don’t know…they look like chocolate chip.” 

“I sure hope so. If they turn out to be oatmeal or raisins I’m gonna throw them out the car like a Frisbee!”

“Sam might want them.”

You looked at him pausing, “...ew!”

[lifecursed]

i can’t continue talking about morgan and james’ kids without this dude first.

Name: Lucifer Morningstar Age: ageless Gender: whatever he wants Status: uhh...how do you?? alive???

Current location: Hell. Birthplace:  To be named world. Relatives:  Jesus (  son  ;  deceased  )  , To be named  (  daughter  ;  deceased  )  ,  To be named  (  son  ;  deceased  )  ,  Eve  (  wife ; deceased  )  ,  Mary  (  girlfriend ; deceased  )  ,  Joseph  (  boyfriend  ;  deceased  )  ,  Morgan Harvey  (  separated   ;  alive  )  ,  Irvine Magnus Malcolmson - Wallace  (  stepson ; alive  )  ,  Lucifer has nothing much to do with Maria during his time with Morgan.

sexuality:  whatever he wants.

very general and complicated bio  :  first off. don’t come at him with the bible or any kind of christian history. he’ll either laugh it off if he’s in a good mood, or he might immolate you if he’s in a bad mood. but most important of all he will tell you “ it’s all bullshit. fake news.”

god never existed.

neither did the angels.

he is the father of jesus.

lucifer is only here after being banished from his own world during the time of the dinosaurs. he didn’t even create the earth. it was already here. truthfully, lucifer is a fae / faery. he was banished by his queen tbn after an ongoing dispute reached boiling point. there is a version of humans where lucifer is from as well as morgan’s mother heather. they were the superior magic users when lucifer was in his homeworld, but they were terribly cruel and savage towards the other races. lucifer tried to start an uprising against the humans with many other magical creatures. but the queen insisted it was not yet time. the result left him with his wings being torn and sent away to earth.

demons are a result of lucifer’s first failed attempts to make man for his own companionship. and although they often turned cruel and manipulative, due to manifestations of his own anger at the fae queen during the creation process, he protected them deep underground in hell when the meteor came to wipe out the dinos. for this they have always been deeply loyal to lucifer and do as he asks of them. they may be assholes, but it is controlled to a degree. 

Adam and Eve were the first two humans successfully created by Lucifer. And they were created equally, there was also no evil snake and stupid apple test involved. These are all man made stories of which he has no idea where they come from. apples didn’t even exist when adam and ever were made. anyway, adam turned out to be an asshole, and eve decided she actually preferred lucifer to adam. pissed about this, adam swore vengeance and tried to poison lucifer. it ultimately failed. adam was banished from the garden and eve lived in it with lucifer quite happily. Eve was not truly 100% human like we know. She was more like the one’s from his home world. A sort of fae / human crossover. the earth humans still came about from evolution.

But as the world began to slowly grow again many mannnnnyyyyy years after the meteor. Eve became unwell as her body could not quite cope with the environmental changes happening around her. Lucifer became enraged and thought to smite the world for taking his love away, but Eve pleaded with him to let the world be, to grow, to thrive, and that there would be more love for him to experience. Eve died happily and at peace much to Lucifer’s sadness. 

He mourned for a long time but still explored this new world at Eve’s dying insistence. He helped the early people learn to create fire and shapes, build societies. but he also witnessed war and was horribly reminded of his own homeland constantly at war with someone over something.

as people grew and moved out over the planet creating civilisations, making the world their own. lucifer drew back to that first underworld place where he had sheltered the demons. a place that would come to one day be named hell. he started to create his own world there, far beneath the surface. one much like the world above. during its creation, lucifer was one day informed that humans from the surface were showing up in the demon’s space. upon further inspection it was clear the humans were dead and that for some reason they were unable to leave this place. lucifer has never truly discovered why his earth home became the place for the dead. it just did. he does research into it but has no solid theories as of yet.

lucifer’s next relationship concludes in the birth of Jesus, yes, Jesus. Lucifer is the father of a boy named Jesus who can perform miracles. Mary is his mother and Joseph his stepfather. Lucifer enters a polyamorous relationship with the two at some point after meeting them on one of his earth travels promised to eve. they are free spirited and mary is an outcast like himself.

when jesus is born, lucifer visits him from time to time as well as his lovers, but he is a busy being and hell has become a priority as well as managing the demons. he only learns of jesus’ death when he turns up in hell one day after over exerting his healing powers so much that they ultimately used up his life force. lucifer is devastated at once again not being able to save someone he loves. he doesn’t see mary or joseph again for shame of it all.

Hell is not the christian hell we think of. it doesn’t just contain the souls of bad people. it contains the souls of ALL the dead. there just happens to be shitty demons there that were there first and a grumpy old fae that is fucking tired of them all. hell is just an eternal continuation of your earth life....which in hindsight can be considered hell for many. if you commit a crime in hell you suffer for it which is now the demon’s primary function. they do operate on earth too as servants of magic users. they are essentially free agents to do as they please. lucifer is running this show on his own and can only do so much to keep things under control even if he is a very powerful being.

meeting morgan when he prayed for satan to take away his abusive father was coincidence. but it intrigued the tired fae for children never prayed to satan of all people! by this time he had become a demonised character in religion. it didn’t really bother him. some demons probably bs’d the whole thing to gain some wealth of treasure. think of it as a shitty tabloid that makes up stupid stories to sell more copies and get more money. demon’s sold lucifer out to humans to make a buck because it was just in their nature to do bad things.

the bible - helped created by demons.

christian mythos - started by demons to cause chaos and conflict.

lucifer is a very neutral being. he’s not especially evil, he’s not especially good. he’s too old and tired for earth bs. but morgan intrigued him in being one of the first children to pray to him. he answered after morgan began insulting him in prayer because he was failing to get results. and it was true, god did nothing when people prayed, because god didn’t exist. all they really had was him. a being from another world. trapped there without his wings.

after responding to morgan and scaring the shit out of him in the process. he kept an eye on the child swiftly growing into an adult that was so interested in following teachings he had never even really endorsed, practicing magic that even he didn’t truly know where it came from. but the people that professed to be followers of the lord satan reminded him of something from a long time ago. they reminded him of himself---rebelling against conformity and injustice. choosing to live their lives and they saw fit and not how society deemed it fit. he slowly became more involved with the ‘satanists’  and even began to enjoy getting attention after so long of being alone. morgan was especially attentive in his worship and had become a beautiful being from the scared child he met in a pantry years before.

though there is flirtation between the two and brief moments of passion over the centuries. the two don’t embark on a real relationship until james abandons morgan and irvine after causing the death of his other son. he sees morgan at a very low point and unable to really look after irvine properly because of their emotional state. lucifer offers a rare hand of kindness to make morgan the queen of hell in exchange for helping him run the place with their vast magical knowledge. stunned, morgan agrees. running hell, marrying lucifer, and keeping an eye on irvine keeps them distracted from thinking about james’ betrayal as much. plus, lucifer grows fond of irvine quickly. helping to raise him as if irvine was his own son. lucifer becomes aware of james searching for morgan and irvine, but never says anything of it for many years. the two start to grow apart in the early 20th century and morgan takes a break, leaving hell to go live in new york with irvine. the two amicably separate after some time though a divorce has never taken place.

lucifer’s has another blood child that is thought to be the anti-christ. but it is once again more demon and human propaganda collaboration. not much more if known about him at this point.

[breeeliss]

If you're Still taking alluralance ideas, I'd love a laundry Room au. Like One of those ones where A thought they were alone So they Were Dancing around while they Fold and makeout with fresh out of the dryer Clothes and then they hear laughter, And it Turns out that B was Just folding in the Shadows and now it's Awkward

allurance

ao3 + masterpost 

//

the laundry room in lance’s apartment was, to put it quite frankly, fucking horrific. he was pretty positive is used to be a torture chamber in the past, but maybe that was the marathoned hours of american horror story talking. 

either way, it wasn’t uncommon for lance to put off his laundry for a couple of days because he was terrified of going down into the basement by himself. people could make fun of him all they wanted, the place looked like something out of a saw movie. 

the fluorescent lights always flickered, the floors were disgusting, the boiler made the most horrendous noises, and the gaping, dark storage room pressed to the back of the room was currently without a door and left plenty of room for lance to imagine what kind of monster or murderer was hiding in the shadows. 

he really needed to cool it on the true crime podcasts. 

but there was no excuse today. lance was officially out of underwear so he needed to stay down there and get at least one load done. so lance plopped his speakers on top of his laundry basket, plugged in his phone, and played the only song he knew that could fill him with a sufficient enough amount of courage to plunge into the depths of the basement. 

“be a man” from the mulan soundtrack. 

once the drum line got started and li shang’s voice echoed through the room, lance immediately got pumped. yes, he was gonna fucking get down to business. this laundry was gonna get done and he was gonna make mulan proud. it’s not like he had anything else to do on a saturday night. might as well twerk it out to disney songs while his boxers dried. 

he was sorting through his clothes as he sung rather loudly along to the lyrics. he threw a glare over to that hellishly dark storage room while he worked as if that was going to stick it to whatever was hiding in there. 

“not today, satan,” lance called out. “i’m about to hit this chorus and your demonic ass is about to be shook.” 

lance was measuring out the detergent the minute the chorus dropped, and he really went in and stretched out those sixth grade glee club muscles. he had this song memorized for years – as every respectable millennial disney baby should – and he couldn’t help but start dancing around the room as he poured in his soap, danced over to his basket, and started throwing clothes in. 

“you’re a spineless, pale, pathetic, lot,” lance sang, really getting into character. “and you haaaaaven’t got a cluuuuuue – woah!” 

lance turned around to grab from the basket, and for a moment he thought it was a ghost standing in the doorway of the laundry room. but he realized it was just a girl – one he recognized, maybe from four doors down, he’s mad he can’t put a name to that head of dyed grey hair. she was holding her own laundry basket under her arm as she laughed at the performance he was unintentionally putting on for her. lance coughed into his arm and tried to play it off like he wasn’t totally making a damn fool of himself, but then the next verse of the song came on and the girl in front of him thoroughly surprised him. 

“i’m never gonna catch my breath,” she smirked. 

lance’s eyes widened. “say goodbye to those who knew me.” 

she dropped her basket on the laundry machine next to him. “boy was i a fool in school for cutting gym.” 

“this guy’s got ‘em scared to death!” 

“hope he doesn’t see right through me!” 

“boy i really wish that i knew how to swiiiiiiiim!” 

“BE A MAN!!!” 

they both roared into the chorus with so much overdramatic vigor that lance was sure people on the first floor could hear them. but who cares, this was a classic. and this super cute girl was seriously giving him a run for his money with how well she knew these lyrics. god, she even held that long note at the end of the chorus like a total champ. they let the song keep going on without them as they collapsed into laughter against the dryers. 

“oh god, i haven’t heard that song in a long while,” the girl laughed. 

“seriously?” lance gasped. “i watched mulan like…last week.” 

“it’s one of my favorite disney movies. well, that and aladdin. you can’t forget aladdin.” 

lance pounded on his chest. “princesses of color. represent.” 

the girl snorted into her hand and started to throw some of her sweaters into the washing machine. “sorry to interrupt you, but i had to jump in.” 

“oh please, you did me a favor. that harmonizing we had going on was…” lance pressed his fingers to his lips and made a loud chef’s kiss to the air, “perfecto.”

“well, singing is always better when you have company,” she said. “besides, i was sort of hoping there was someone else down here. this laundry room always creeps me out.”

“doesn’t it? i feel like someone is gonna pop out the shadows and kill me.” 

“i had a bloody nightmare about this basement the first time i came down here! swear on my life!” 

“well, if you ever need back up and a bomb ass disney playlist when you’re doing laundry, i’m your dude. that stuff helps.” 

allura grinned and shook her head at him as if she was surprised to see him suddenly standing in front of her. “i didn’t catch your name…” 

“lance,” he said, holding out his hand. “i feel like i’ve seen you before. i’m in 507 if that helps.” 

“allura,” she supplied. “and yes, i’ve definitely seen you going out for jogs early in the morning. i’m in 501.”

lance winked. “oh, well, hello neighbor. it was a pleasure dorking out to disney soundtracks with you.” 

allura bowed dramatically. “likewise. have you got anymore queued up?” 

“let’s see. i’ve got ‘be our guest,’ ‘friend like me,’ ‘let it go,’ and ‘i just can’t wait to be king.’ pick your poison.” 

“‘friend like me’ obviously,” allura scoffed. 

“right, right, aladdin junkie. why didn’t i realize sooner?” 

“jasmine was my spirit animal. i dressed up as her for halloween three years in a row back when my hair was still black. i was the splitting image of her.” 

“wait that’s so adorable. i’m so basic, i think i reused the same pirate costume for like five years.” 

“you were a pirate for five years?” 

“well, for the first year. next year i was a ghost pirate. then a zombie pirate. demon pirate. and a cuban pirate.” 

allura chuckled. “what on earth is a cuban pirate?” 

“a pirate with a cuban flag wrapped around his head that says truco o trato to all the gringos that answer the door.” 

he left her laughing so hard that she stumbled back a couple of steps and had to catch herself against the machine behind her. “are you like this all the time?” 

“please. this isn’t even me trying. you should wait until i really get the jokes going. you won’t survive.” 

allura shrugged. “i mean, i have to stay here until my clothes are done washing. so i’ve got nothing but time.” 

lance smiled. “alright. but remember. you asked.” 

“listen, if it keeps me occupied on a saturday night, i promise i won’t mind.” 

“well, if you eventually get tired of my jokes, i have aladdin on dvd back at my place. i could pop some popcorn and throw it on for us. i was getting kind of bored sitting in my apartment all day and laundry can only get so exciting.” 

allura bit her lip, distracting herself with loading the rest of her clothes. “i’d like that. i’ll bring blankets and some sweets i brought back from work.” 

“yes! sleepover! haven’t had one of those in a while.” 

“hm?” allura smirked, raising a brow. “want me to sleepover, do you? you ought to ask me to dinner first.” 

lance sputtered. “w-wha? no! no no. no, that’s not what i meant, no. totally platonic, buds being buds, watching a movie, five feet apart ‘cause we’re not gay.” 

“that’s a shame,” allura shrugged. “if you wanted me all to yourself, all you had to do was ask.” 

lance leaned into the start button on the washer at the same time she did and tried to play off the fervent jolt of excitement that lit up the length of his spine. “that was really smooth, allura.” 

she giggled. “why thank you.” 

“do you like takeout?” he offered. “i was thinking thai food.” 

“i’ll pay if you show me pictures of all of those pirate halloween costumes. i feel like i’m only going to believe this cuban pirate story if i see it for myself.” 

[seokeros]

A Ticket to the Sun — 2

GENRE — dystopia / best friends to lovers au.

PAIRING — min yoongi / jeon jeongguk / feminine reader.

WORDS — 17.7k words.

SUMMARY — in a world where your life is determined by a piece of paper on a monthly basis, love is practically impossible. but there's always an exception, and with that exception, there comes a price.

alternatively: yoongi gets punched in the face by a girl who believes she is cursed, and he stupidly, helplessly, falls in love.

INCLUDED — time jump. strong pining and angst. recreational drug and alcohol use. implied sexual content. metaphorical references to weapons and death. kind of unhealthy relationships? hinted infidelity?

Yoongi has never been without her for more than a week.

The only time he can think of is that one August, four years ago. Her father had to take her on a business trip, nine days abroad in a northern city. Yoongi had wondered, at the time, whether she would look different; act different; be an entirely divergent person after spending such a time apart from him. After tasting the flavour of a life untainted by his presence.

Though when Yoongi had rode to her house on the day she arrived home, he had realised that his concerns were groundless. She had been lugging her belongings out of the car boot, but the sound of his tyres skidding to a stop at the end of the driveway had hooked her attention. At once, she had dropped everything and clambered over to him, toppling their bodies onto the grass in a fit of laughter and whispers of I missed you, hidden in the dip of his neck.

Nothing about her had changed. She still had eyes that swallowed him whole. She still had a mouth and tongue that crafted angel’s lullabies. She still had a touch that surged enough electricity through his bones to bring him near death; forever teetering on the edge of ascending to her heaven, or keeping his feet grounded for a few moments longer. A constant tug-of-war with his soul, since she never went too long without knocking his knee with her own, or poking at his shoulder.

Now, Yoongi wonders how different somebody can become after three years. Surely, days upon days must bend and manipulate one in the long run.

Time does not fly. Without her, it slows to a near halt. Like wading through thick mud and never reaching the other end of the puddle. The sludge sinks into Yoongi’s pockets, dragging his feet down until he is neck deep, barely breathing, and she is still nowhere to be found.

Her hand does not part the clouds. It does not reach from the crystal clear skies, offering to pull him out and up into the stars where she sleeps, and no laws of such inhumane genocide are imposed. Where Yoongi can brush his fingertips over her cheeks, kiss the rosiest of lips, and feel the softness of her sigh tickle across his collarbone. He can love her without the fear of losing her to a mint green envelope, reeking of death, in her letterbox.

It is difficult to find somebody when they do not wish to be found. Or, more so, it is worse when you know precisely where they are, but they would rather have their spine twisted until it snaps in two than see you.

That is how matters go after their lips touch in flawless harmony, as if made for one another. She runs, and runs, and never comes back. She hides like the truths Yoongi keeps beneath his carpets, wedged in the crevices between the floorboards, tucked too tightly away to ever be properly found again. It is a game of hide and seek where nobody is found. They stay trapped in their bedroom. They never stray down the street. They never message, call, or provide an inkling of something. Anything, to at least hint that they are still alive and breathing.

Not necessarily okay. Just managing enough to live without you.

But Yoongi does not persist. No matter how much he misses her. No matter how desperately he wishes to, at the very least, hear her voice whisper that she is okay, that she is doing just fine. Because even if he were to knock at her front door until his knuckles were shredded bloody, or throw stones at her window until the glass pane smashes, or leave her cell phone to constantly vibrate with fifty-seven missed calls and texts, he knows it would only drive her further away. She would dig deeper into the grave of their friendship, just to keep the distance.

Instead, Yoongi did all of the above once, and then ceased to engage further. One visit to a door left unopened. One phone call that rang through to voicemail. One text message that never even received a read-receipt. He was too late. She had already taken to the axe and hacked the tree of their relationship to a stump, because the flowers that were blooming smelled of anything but death. They blossomed in glorious shades of hope and devotion. The tree bore a forbidden fruit that she let rot because the taste was too bittersweet; too intimate on the tip of her tongue when she took the smallest of bites in the shape of his lips.

Yoongi accepts, but refuses to forget. He cannot bear to be without the memories that are taped down in the photo album of the past seven years, albeit faded of their colour and eaten at by moths. A vanilla milkshake shared between them at the diner bar, no qualms about sharing saliva; no thoughts of indirect kisses. A hand clutched firmly at the hem of his school shirt until he would grin and throw an arm over her shoulders, tucking her into his vessel; not noticing the peculiar stares aimed at her shy eyes or his careless affection. A whisper, stolen by a midnight breeze that had the dead leaves in the gutters dancing, and encouraged her to wriggle deeper into his sweater which adorned her figure. All the while, he shivered with a smile, oblivious to the gentle knocking against his heart that did not belong to the tune of living. Rather, they mimicked the symphony of beating in time with another.

No. Yoongi cannot forget. Such memories are not poisonous. They are not tainted by her sudden, yet expected neglect of the truth that she so arduously demanded. That she received barely a glimpse of, though it was still enough for her to cower away.

Anger boils his stomach raw with its vicious tongue of flame as the days pass on; as the earth rotates without her. But forgiveness has been ready to extinguish the fire since the very moment she spun on her heel, and ran with no expectations of him trying to catch up.

They are not selfish. The world made them this way. Soulmates thrown into a war zone that was bound to tear them apart from the beginning.

Yoongi leaves for college two months after the great contretemps that severed the red string linking their pinkies and hearts. A new chapter, his parents insist. A time to start anew and breathe a fresher air that no longer tastes of honeysuckle and her laughter. A city that does not remind him of her cum on the back of his throat, nor her heartbeat in the silence of his bedroom.

Little do they know that Yoongi makes sure to bookmark the pages of her with the remnants of their scarlet thread. Horribly tattered at the ends. Nothing that a needle cannot mend.

THREE YEARS LATER...

Yoongi is dying. An overdramatic statement, but he would not be surprised if it were the honest truth.

An earthquake is taking place in his head. Sandpaper has replaced the surface of his tongue. Sunlight that drips between the drapes like honey feels akin to daggers against his squinting eyelids, rather than drizzling sweetness. Draped across his bare stomach is an arm that holds no familiarity. Yoongi has little to no recollection of what happened after he lost a game of beer pong with Seokjin last night. Cue internal damnation.

When he subtly shifts against the foreign mattress, the aroma of honeysuckle and vanilla arises from the lithe body laying facedown beside him. Bird nest hair conceals her make-up smudged face. A shiver that is neither unpleasant nor welcoming irritates his skin. He wonders if that is the reason why he ended up going home with her last night. The perfume of his nightmares.

“Morning,” croaks from beneath the midnight fluff, and Yoongi stills in his motion of exiting the situation. He fixes his eyes on the girl, vaguely concerned that she thinks this might have been more than what he was intending. It would not be the first time.

“You don’t mind me heading out, right? Got things to do.” Yoongi half-smirks. He spots his shirt draped over her desk chair and decidedly makes a beeline for it, stumbling when his hangover decides to drag his head by the nails down to Hell. “That was a lie. Jus’ hate awkward morning after shit.”

Yoongi almost gets down onto his knees to praise whoever is watching him from above when he discovers his underwear tucked nicely into the crotch of his jeans. He slips the both of them on, and then grabs his shoes.

“You and me alike,” the agreement is followed by a chuckle, which quickly dissolves into coughing. It seems like her night was just as rough as his own. Her heaving lungs sound like cigarettes.

“Well, it was nice fucking with you,” Yoongi says as a way of goodbye, and the girl, once her partial asphyxiation has calmed, half-heartedly lifts her hand in a wave. She does not bother to remove her face from the pillow and reveal her identity. He wonders if she even remembers who he is, too.

Thankfully, no other housemates are spotted on his Walk of Shame out of her room. All of them must either be still in bed, or in the same situation as he, but elsewhere. Yoongi, in a true streak of unbelievable luck in such an unlucky world, spots his cell phone upon the kitchen counter. Lighting up the screen, he discovers four missed calls from Seokjin, all sent in the earliest hours of the morning. There is a single message from Hoseok, received eight minutes ago.

Received [11:12AM]: Jung Hoseok

need me to come save u from some persistent hoe, damsel in distress?

Delivered [11:20AM]: Jung Hoseok

eat my ass

Received [11:21AM]: Jung Hoseok

oh baby don’t tempt me

shake shack on 5th?

This is not an unusual morning for Yoongi. Truly, it is his every single Saturday and Sunday (sometimes Thursdays, as well) since branching out and making friends within his Engineering major.

Jung Hoseok, of chocolate brown locks and a billion watt smile, is the campus known partygoer. He is greeted to every frat weekend, and welcomed by every night club within a twenty-mile radius of their university with open arms. He is gifted all of the VIP tickets, he receives all of the free rounds. Duly crowned as the royalty of their university party life.

Kim Seokjin, on the other hand, hones popularity within his charm and phenomenal appearance of slicked back blonde hair and a physique refined by hours at the gym. He is the A-grade student who finishes his assignments weeks before they are due, while still having enough spare time on the weekends to get absolutely smashed. Well, until he is sobbing and calling Hoseok and Yoongi. Or, on the other hand, is waking up the next morning with three unknown figures tangled amongst his sheets and limbs.

There is another, Park Jimin, who has been Hoseok’s best friend for the past four years. He can compete with a flute of champagne for effervescence. Since he majors in Theatre Arts, Yoongi only sees him amongst sweltering bodies while they are drunk or high, or both. But that is the thing about Jimin, with his misleading half-moon grin, and his jet black hair that frames a baby face. He is in the thick of the student body drug scene. All actors do it, Hoseok had once said, and Yoongi never questioned it. He is unsure if he has ever seen the guy without blown pupils or reddened scleras; a jitter to his voice and an incessant urge to be moving. Jimin is a nice person, nonetheless.

When Yoongi stumbles out of the apartment complex, he is not sure whether he should be concerned about the fact that his car is parked (albeit very crookedly) in the student parking lot, directly across the footpath. He is usually never prone to drink-driving. The boys always ensure that everyone catches cabs to their homes, or to their one-night-stand home-away-from-homes. But Yoongi must have managed to sneak around them.

Or, they were simply too intoxicated to even realise.

Delivered [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

I drank and drove

Received [11:27AM]: Jung Hoseok

fuckin idiot

Received [11:28AM]: Jung Hoseok

come pick me up then I’m at home lol

Ever the delight, that guy. Yoongi makes a mental note to cross Hoseok off the funeral attendance list for when his car bends metal around a tree trunk, or runs through a red light and finds its driver side crushed by an oncoming heavy-loader because he was too drunk on vodka or high on molly to swerve and brake.

Opening Google Maps on his cell phone, Yoongi is provided with three routes to get back home. He also notices that the campus he is currently on rings painfully familiar with a dream that was held by a girl deep in his past; never far enough to forget. The bitter acid that forms in the back of his throat at the memory is quickly swallowed down, burning less painfully in the pit of his stomach. He is beyond used to feeling flames eating away in there. The walls went numb long ago.

Driving back to his own college only takes ten minutes, and then another two while waiting for Hoseok to exit their apartment building. He, alike Yoongi, appears crippled by a hangover. Chocolate hair is mussed into a whirlwind; usually glowing skin dimmed down to neutral. The black shirt he wears is on inside out, the tag flapping beneath his chin as he somewhat skips over to the passenger side of the car, forever wrapped in delight. Even when the guy feels as though he has been dead for a century after a night like the last.

“You look like you made a pitstop at Hell and Satan fucked you ten ways to Sunday,” is the first thing Hoseok comments as he gets into the vehicle with his bright smile. The kind that somehow manages to glare like real, golden sunlight, and encourages Yoongi to wince away from the luminosity. His head seems to be splitting down the centre.

“Likewise,” Yoongi weakly mutters back, putting the gear into second and taking off. He ignores the indifferent comment made by Hoseok of: Wouldn’t mind that. Bet the Devil has top dicking game.

The drive onward is silent of words with their hangovers thick in the air. Only the radio plays softly between them. Yoongi mentally attempts to piece the fragments of his vague memories from last night together.

It started at a frat party, held by the fraternity that this one overly nice guy, Wang Jackson, currently leads. He was also the guy that gave Yoongi two ecstasy pills, which he popped roughly twenty minutes before the game of beer pong that Seokjin insisted they both play. Normally, Seokjin is not one for such party games, but the exception was that they were versing two girls he wanted to fuck. From then on, everything was lost in murky rivers of being too drunk, feeling too high.

Yoongi wonders how on earth he was able to score a night in an anonymous girl’s bed whilst in such a state. She was probably just as plastered as him.

Hoseok suddenly screeches when Yoongi almost rear-ends another vehicle as he distractedly tries to park in front of the restaurant. He swears to every entity that the sound makes the world end within his head. Aspirin and at least a week of sleep is required, pronto.

“I wasn’t going to hit it,” Yoongi grunts as he switches off the ignition, unbuckling his seatbelt.

Hoseok, as if to make the current struggle of living more of a damnation, slams the door with mild indignation. Glass shatters inside of Yoongi’s skull, and he tries to not collapse into a ball right then and there on the bitumen. Hitting his head against the gravel and falling unconscious sounds like less pain than the pounding migraine that inhabits his brain right now.

“The fuck you weren’t. Your headlight would have clipped the boot of that car if I didn’t help you pay attention.”

Normally, Yoongi would bite back until his point won. But his internal struggle to stay standing overrules all persistence to argue. “Whatever.”

The restaurant is particularly full for a Sunday, mostly with college students, some that the pair can partially recognise from their own campus, other parties. Everyone, of course, is either deadbeat hungover or hitting their comedown. Just like them.

A girl seated near the counter sparks Yoongi’s familiarity as one who he has been inside of beneath sweaty bedsheets. He barely manages a nod at her when they pass to make their orders, more out of pain than shame. Hoseok flirts ostentatiously with the young man at the till, offering a lewd wink that causes roses to blossom upon the cheeks of the employee. Yoongi wonders how on earth this guy has the energy to be so amorous when he is currently dragging his feet through a hangover. And ordering the greasiest meal on the menu.

As always, Yoongi skims past the words vanilla milkshake, ignores the gentle tug at his heart, and orders an iced tea. The three minutes spent waiting on the orders are ones of silent, slow-build regret as the hangovers claim their souls. Quicksand of the mind.

Once Hoseok grabs his tray of grease and Yoongi takes the perspiring plastic lidded cup of liquefied hangover cure, the pair find an empty table by the windows. Immediately, Hoseok launches into conversation, simultaneous with wrapping his mouth around the burger dripping with melted cheese.

“So, how was Seulgi?”

Yoongi cringes at his lack of memory, faintly assumes it may be the girl he abandoned no more than an hour ago to her asphyxiating lungs of smoke. “Who?”

“The girl you went home with last– Fuck, how can you not even remember that?” Hoseok drops his burger, throws his hands up in exasperation and then slams them down on the table. Yoongi swears something implodes within his head at the splitting sound. Probably his brain. “You really don’t give a shit, do you? Just fuck and leave. Rinse and repeat. What about feelings, man? Ever thought about making a connection?”

“As long as it feels good, that’s all that matters right?” Yoongi shrugs, sipping at his iced tea. “We’re all dying anyway. No time for love in this world.”

Hoseok blanks. “You’re really depressing, y’know? A serious downer.”

“Sorry that the sunshine doesn’t shoot out of my ass like it does with you, pal.”

“Maybe you should start learning from me.”

“I’d rather die.”

Hoseok slams his hands on the table once more, and Yoongi genuinely thinks about slicing them off. “There you go with death again. Do you really want to live your life being so miserable? Pessimism will send you to your grave sooner rather than later. It’s a proven fact that optimists live fuller lives.”

At that, Yoongi grins razorblades. “My one true wish.”

“Okay, enough,” Hoseok shivers, lips pulling into a pursed, triangular shape that flags down the end of the morbid subject. “Your obsession with ceasing to exist is going to start rubbing off on me. That girl who made you this way must have been a real shocker.”

Yoongi, at those simply spoken words, blanches. Ice water rushes in a flood over his skin, halting his motion of lifting the plastic cup to his lips. “What did you just say?”

But Hoseok only blinks, wedges four crinkle cut fries into his mouth, speaks before swallowing, “The girl. ___? You told–” Then, he is choking on the fried potatoes, eyes tearing up before he determinedly drinks his whole glass of water to clear the airway. Yoongi, all the while, continues to stare in shock. “Fuck me, man. I almost died and you just sat there like–”

“What exactly are you saying?”

Hoseok, after a few laboured breaths, sighs. “Jesus, you really don’t remember anything from last night, do you? It was after beer pong, right before you went home with Seulgi. When she walked past, you turned to me and started freaking out, blabbering how she smelled just like this ___ girl before you stormed over to her and began angrily making out with her against the kitchen table. She seemed pretty into it, so I guess that’s how you ended up at her place.”

Oh, shit.

The finer details are coming back to him now. The moment the girl, Seulgi, had strutted past was while Yoongi was attempting to control his rolling eyeballs from circling all the way back into his head. The aroma of her perfume, distinct honeysuckle and vanilla, had straightened him out within an instant as it wafted from her skin and into his senses. His dilated pupils had flicked back to attention. The drug and alcohol infused fog that was looming heavy around his mind had cleared for the faintest of seconds, because he was so sure that it was her, it was her, it was her.

The ocean of bodies had barely parted when he charged himself between the waves of limbs. Yoongi had pushed and shoved and waded his way to the home of the scent that his mouth watered for; that his every fibre craved. When he grabbed at her wrist, it was with the expectancy of her face. But when it was not her that was watching on with an oblivious, mildly curious expression, his heart had plummeted to the core of the earth. Shrivelled up and burning within molten lava.

Yet it did not stop him from taking her lips between his teeth. An unfamiliar kiss against his tongue that was dirt in comparison to the succulent heaven he knew, belonging to a girl he had bookmarked with torn red strings. He grimly wonders if he had moaned her name while he was fucking the poor girl, Seulgi the smoker, last night. That would not be another first.

Hoseok finishes wolfing down his chips and takes a large gulp of his shake. All the while, Yoongi is having this brain splitting revelation that makes death truly not sound all that bad right now.

“Do you wanna talk about it?” Hoseok asks.

In response, Yoongi drops his forehead to the table with a bang that resonates around the restaurant. The sound catches the brief attention of the customers seated around them, until they realise he is just being dramatic. Unfortunately, not collapsed into an unforeseen coma. Or, you know, dead.

“I’m a great listener,” Hoseok encourages, all sweet and singsong. Yoongi presses his forehead harder against the wooden grain of the tabletop. “I already know part of it from what you were moaning and groaning about last night. The love of your life, or some shit.”

At that, in a quick movement that makes him lightheaded, Yoongi sits back up straight and lays his palms flat against the table. His gaze rests firmly on Hoseok, who suddenly pales, as if aware that he might have accidentally dipped his feet in poisonous waters. Ones that Yoongi would have no qualms about dousing Hoseok’s entire body in until the acid disintegrates the bones of the sunshine man.

Suffocating golden beauty was his speciality, after all.

“We were the same. Morbid and sad. But she was lovely. Born in the Culling year and everything. We were best friends back home.” Yoongi speaks quick in a mutter, nervously tapping his nails against the tabletop before running the same hand through his hair. The incessant pounding of his head has worsened, thumping in time with her name as it loops in a continuum through his mind. “But that’s all she thought we could be. Anyway, don’t mention her again. That was a mistake, she’s not worth talking about anymore.”

Hoseok nods, shrugs indifferently. “No worries, I get it. My lips are sealed.”

The conversation stalls to make way for silent eating, and Yoongi allows himself the smallest of moments to indulge in the sober thought of her after so long. He wonders what she must be doing right now. She would have finished up high school, endured the blood and sweat of exams, earned a score that can become meaningless once the clock strikes midnight on her eighteenth birthday. She would be twenty years old now, three-years-aged from the seventeen-year-old girl that taught him curses are not all so bad. Especially when they taste like the sea on his lips, and can moan so beautifully just by the work of his fingers.

But she was much more than that. Greater than a feeling induced by numbness. She was delight singing off-key in the passenger seat of his car. She was comfort tucked beneath a blanket upon a vanilla-flavoured diner, with the moon to keep them company. She was love curled in a calm smile, in star-strung eyes that always searched for him in the crowds, where nobody else mattered but each other.

Yoongi loathes how they screwed up so badly. How they ruined themselves to a split second of lust that felt more driven by their hearts than their desire. That may have been to forget the momentary pain, though was in fact their bottled up feelings, spilling all over his bedsheets where they soon after lay. And it was there that they were able to dwell in it, mull it over, become consumed it by until they were convincing themselves that it was wrong, wrong, wrong.

For more than the hundredth, even thousandth time, he wonders what would have happened if they had never hit that kink in the road. If they were never set on that collision course. If he had reached out and grabbed her wrist before she could sprint into the shadows and out of his heart. If he had whispered don’t leave me against her lips. If she were not so afraid of love in a world that suffocates honesty.

Too many if’s that he wasted time on; enough to let her escape.

Knives slice through his back and drive into his heart. Here, Yoongi remembers precisely why he never thinks of her when his mind is not clouded by white dust on the tip of his nose, or the acrid burn that stays slick on the back of his throat. Maybe, that is why he is content with spending the later end of his weeks in a drug-and-alcohol-induced illusion, since he becomes numb and invincible to the blades and spears that the memories tainted with her bear. He can think of her without the agony that the pair of them lived within. He can remember her touch without feeling as though her fingertips will shatter him like glass.

Hoseok suddenly severs the reverie straight down the centre. Yoongi, for once, is grateful.

“Jimin wants to smoke weed at his place. Wanna join?”

Usually, Yoongi would immediately be up for such an activity. He has nothing to lose anymore. Nowhere else to be. He left everything behind in his backyard, within the shadows that the large oak created. Right where he tasted infatuation and honesty in the crevices of her lips. Right where he realised that love in such a godawful world would be completely worth it if he was spending such affection on her.

But today, something holds him back. Whether it be the desperation for a shower, or this murderous hangover, or the unnerving memory of her bloody knuckles amongst ocean waves, Yoongi is unsure. The straw poised between his lips loses the watered down taste of tea, and starts to suck at air and chipped ice.

“Nah, I need aspirin and fifteen hours of sleep,” Yoongi huffs, dropping the empty cup and grinding the heels of his palms against the burn that thinly veils his eyes. “If I hang out with you any longer, I may fall into a stress-induced coma.”

“I’m delightful,” Hoseok quips, and Yoongi cannot help but twitch his lips. “You know what makes aspirin work quicker?”

“What?”

“Snorting it.”

Yoongi barks out a short, fierce laugh. “Pessimism may kill me, but drugs are gonna bury you.” There is no malice in his tone, no matter of care for wellbeing, just genuine fact. He stands up, jostling his keys. “And after the shit that went down last night, I don’t think I will be doing lines ever again.”

“Don’t eat your words, man,” Hoseok waggles his eyebrows, pushing away his tray and standing up. The pair begin their departure, but not without Hoseok blowing a kiss to the flustered cashier. “Ten bucks that on club night this Friday, you will have your nose pressed to a dirty basin like a cheap crack whore.”

Yoongi, amid his head-splitting ache, manages to file away the mental note of ensuring he brings a ten dollar bill this weekend. He reaches out his hand to the deal and clasps palms with Hoseok, shaking on a bet that he has already lost. Both of them can see it from miles away.

“Deal.”

Well, you only live once, they say.

“Jesus fucking– Hey asshole, your cutting game is weak,” Hoseok whines, forefinger pressed to the side of his powdered nostril. He inhales hard and winces as the rocks catch on the flesh. “It feels like I just sniffed shards of glass– Ugh, yeah my nose is bleeding now. Douche.”

“Shut your ass up or your free line days are over,” Jimin grunts, licking his dry lips and bending down to the basin to shoot up his own line. He tosses his head back with a hiss, blocking his nose and sniffing repeatedly. “Okay, alright, you’re right. But excuse me for not being able to crush this shit into baby powder on a goddamn basin.”

While the pair argue without malice, sweat gathers in Yoongi’s palms. His mouth waters as he stares into the dimly lit mirror, cracked right down the centre and separating his face into two. The pounding bass that thumps on the walls of the bathroom; the light bickering between Jimin and Hoseok; all of it becomes background noise as he squints, blinks, observes the saucers of his black pupils. The slight buzz that coats his hearing translates into his vision, and his surroundings attain a shimmering quality.

The pill that he popped two hours ago is already reaching its comedown. A dud. Or maybe, the ratio of ecstasy to dishwashing powder, rat poison, and all of the other toxic filler that was used in it (and is clearly stated on a package somewhere to not be consumed) was minimal in this particular batch. A cheap tactic to produce more product. College dealers are becoming stingy as fuck, lately.

“Move,” Yoongi mutters, elbowing a giggling Jimin out of the way.

He retrieves a small baggie of cocaine from the bottom of a cigarette packet, and takes to the credit card to start sorting it into thin lines. He licks the pad of his forefinger and swipes up the white dust that still clings to the plastic edge, rubbing it into his gums. Already too far gone to react when the acrid taste hits the back of his throat.

“Yoongi, what was it you were saying the other week? Never gonna do lines again?” Hoseok jeers, poking at Yoongi’s ribs as he rolls up the ten dollar bill and blatantly ignores the comments that bounce about the bathroom. Hoseok is practically tripping over his own words, sentences blurring together. “And look at you now, going at it like a pro! Didn’t you drop only two hours ago? Fuck me, this shit is working quick. I feel like I’m spitting bullets. Hey, that better not be the ten dollars you owe me–”

“It is,” Yoongi bluntly remarks. Then, he is positioning one end of the rolled up note to his nostril, aligning the opposite opening to the first line of cocaine, and quickly inhaling it all in a refined, unpleasant hit.

Yoongi makes quick work of the second and third lines. Not able to dwell too long on how many germs this dirty basin must be swarming with, for the intensity of his high slams into him like a truck. Yoongi’s eyes roll as he throws his head back, loudly exhaling.

Hoseok snatches the crumpled bill out of his hands. “Thanks, asshole. My hard-earned money is not only covered in drugs and bacteria, but also your blood. Go clean yourself up.”

Yoongi wipes his bloody nose on the back of his hand. He has no time to dwell on crimson rivers and cleanliness. It is time to drown in the sound that is leaking underneath the bathroom door and sliding across the tiles. Grabbing him by the ankles. Luring him into the heat of bodies and the dazzling strobes that intensify the ecstatic craze of his mind.

Effortlessly, Yoongi lets the techno notes take control of his limbs. Barely dancing, just simply swaying. Allowing the blood and bone that surrounds his form to shove him side-to-side. Head tilted back, he gapes at the fluorescent rainbow that drips from the black ceiling in brilliant, over-exposed colour.

The night at the club is alike any other. Hoseok and Jimin are dancing with more coordination, more momentum than they should be capable of after consuming so many drugs. Seokjin is wedged into the corner of the leather couches, a girl straddling his lap and very obviously grinding against his crotch, while another latches her mouth to his neck, fiddling acrylic nails down the first three buttons of his black dress shirt. Yoongi, as always, lets the numbing hum consume his being. Lets it drag him into the limbo betwixt life and death; reality and imagination; heart screaming against his ribcage while the lights entertain, distract.

He distantly believes he might have taken it a little too far tonight. Forced too many toxins through his bloodstream. Overworking the vessel that has barely kept him standing as it is since she left.

Oh. Oh god, that is right. Her. Herherher. Yoongi can think of her right now in this near comatose state where his body becomes invincible. The knives that stab through his back turn into plastic rather than metal, rebounding against the muscle. Or perhaps, still cutting through, though he cannot feel a thing.

Star-shine smile against a backdrop of pale blue sky. Laughter of the gods. Red dirt knees washed by a backyard hose. Electricity fizzling between joined palms. Lips like vanilla milkshakes and eyes drowning in expanses of infinity.

We will always protect each other.

Shallow insults made out of adoration. A car swimming in the salt of tears. Four hands touching dusty ivory keys and performing the sound of their love in terrible harmony. Blue icy poles licked up from wrists where they drip, drip, drip.

Your laugh sounds like home. Is that weird?

Her tongue, behind his teeth. His tongue, pressed to her cunt. Bloody knuckles cradled in his hands like the truth exposed. A cello and viola, they are. The End of The World by Skeeter Davis. Vicious stench of bleach.

The bleach didn’t work, Yoongi.

It’s grey, ___. It’s fucking grey.

Maybe this means you really will live until your old.

Jesus I hate you, shut up.

You are such a terrible liar.

It feels so good. Yoongi feels exhilarated. Alive. His heart is about to burst out of his ribcage and be trampled by the bodies that push and shove. He wants to die by these thoughts, he truly does. How pathetically unromantic. Hatred tastes like love. Another lie. Could never hate her. She just wears feet that betray the truth.

Wait.

There.

In the crowd.

Yoongi thinks he must be hallucinating, that he really did take it too far this evening. For there is a face across the dance floor that he has not seen, has nonstop thought of, since his feet were rooted to the earth in the shadows of his yard three years ago. When the face was turning away, never to be seen again.

He blinks, grinds the heels of his palms against his bloodshot eyes, looks again.

Has he died?

Lipstick clings like blood to a mouth. Smoky eyes of burned out charcoals, smeared with sweat, reside beneath arched eyebrows. The kind that have always had a querying angle, as if constantly doubting. Thick tresses are styled into a mess that he is all too familiar with; that has stirred his own heart into a whirlwind alike too many times for him to count. The dress that clings to the figure is all black, strapless, dipping in a tempting arrow between breasts and glorifying legs that sheen with sin. Hunched shoulders are cloaked by a leather jacket that screams bad intentions, yet hides a heart of gold.

If this is a hallucination, Yoongi never wants it to end. He wants to stay high for eternity and a day.

If he truly is dead, then he is more than glad to be welcomed through the gates of Heaven. Or maybe, this is closer to Hell.

She delicately sips her cocktail and glances between the half-circle of people that huddle close. Friends. Her crimson lips move to seemingly form responses.

A helpless bout of hope suddenly starts to bloom poison ivy inside of Yoongi’s chest. Because that is the thing, he has hallucinated not once, but twice in the past. So, he understands a little of the logistics. He knows in the dot points of the symptoms that imagined bodies may interact with life, but life will never legitimately return the favour.

Though the people surrounding her like shadows, without a doubt, respond to the shapes that her lips create. They laugh in perfect harmony when her chin tilts back, eyes scrunch, and she looks fifteen all over again.

Convenience plays its hand when Hoseok walks within arms reach, heading straight for the bathroom, fists already rummaging in his pockets for the next hit. He stops stock-still when Yoongi clasps a hand around his elbow. For a brief second, Hoseok stares him down with wide eyes, almost as if he cannot recognise the person that the hand belongs to. But then he is frowning with familiarity, and the boy of silver hair and a stone heart is scrambling to find words.

“Hoseok,” Yoongi barely manages, suffocating on his own voice. “H-Hey, man. Tell me, can you see that girl over there?”

“What? In the leather jacket? Yeah, why–“

Before Hoseok can even finish his sentence, Yoongi is throwing himself into the clutches of the crowd, parting the sea of bodies and wading over to her. She is real, this is no hallucination, she is real and here and oh my fucking god, she looks precisely the same. Nothing has changed, nothing has changed. They never kissed, they never fought, they never nearly fucked and ruined everything.

Yoongi does what he should have done three years ago before she was swallowed up in the oblivion of a black hole. A place where she could look out and see, but he was only ever faced by thick banks of darkness.

Yoongi reaches out, can feel every fibre of his hand, the movement of his knuckles, the stretch of muscle. Time seems to thin and extend, pulling out until seconds drag into minutes, where his movements are ones of underwater. Glacial and paced.

Contact is made, and she turns. No, whirls, like a tornado set on destroying him where he stands. A storm that he embraced to be ruined by long ago, though she was too kind; too selfish to let her rains come crashing down on him.

Her skin, beneath his palm, is searing flame. The pulse that flutters in her wrist is absolutely genuine.

When her eyes land upon Yoongi, it is as though she is seeing the ghost of the ouija board they did when they were kids all over again. Her complexion drains, bloody lips parting in silent horror. She seems to shrink into nothing but a speck.

Before Yoongi can tell whether she is going to speak love or claw out a scream, her wrist is being yanked from his grip and she is running away. Just like the first time.

Yoongi wonders if this is what dying feels like. If this is how it must feel to have someone dig their nails into your chest, cutting through flesh and bone to reach the vessel that only thrums because it avoided the monthly sentence. To have it yanked out from where it pulses, disposed in the dirt where it turns black and forgotten.

A rush consumes him. Before he can completely grasp onto any sense of abandoned rationality, his feet are moving.

Instinct, more than anything, directs him. Yoongi shoves and ignores the empty accusations made by those who are pushed, squinting and blinking when his eyes start to betray him; shuddering figures into doubles before they become single solid beings again. The strobes that soak everything in violent pink and deep ocean blue do absolutely nothing to help him.

Yet still, he surges. Must appear like a desperate fool when he bursts out of the club entrance, gasping and gulping for air. There, he realises that, from the moment she ran, he had been holding his breath as though he could not bear to let the oxygen they momentarily shared escape his lungs.

A stranger swathed in shadows asks if he is okay, and blindly, Yoongi waves them off. He stands up from his hunched position to take a few paces forward, right into the line of action where other club-goers stand to smoke, or wait for the bodyguard to allow them entry. He keeps still and stands on his toes, despite that his body jitters and seems to bend and wave beyond his own command. Surveying. Searching.

There.

Standing on the curb, she hunches into her jacket as though she is hiding, rather than feeling the chill of the air. Blue smoke plumes around her, dancing in a veil until it disperses. Though by that time, another curtain of toxins has already risen to take its place. Yoongi, for all his feet were worth in the club, is cemented to the pavement. His bones are now of lead, blood like tar.

Go to her. He urges himself, lifts his left leg and barely manages to plant it forward without toppling over. Gotoheryouneedtogogogo.

She looks over her shoulder, eyes locking.

But she does not run.

And just like that, his limbs become air, drained of all their weight. As if the consent of her willing to stay is all he ever needed. A ticket to approach the sun in all of her might and maybe (just maybe), she may not sear him into ash.

Yoongi comes to a stop five feet away. He firmly closes his eyes, and when he opens them again, she is still there. Watching on with an expression that he, in all of his years of knowing and not knowing her, has never seen before. Familiar, yet unrecognisable.

The cocaine sharpens her every feature. It defines the slope of her nose, the angle of her cheekbones, the arch of her brows, and the dip of her cupid’s bow in unadulterated clarity. Refined beyond a perfection he once saw her as, beneath the gentle light of the moon all but three years ago.

She appears to tremble. Yoongi is unsure whether it is the piercing cold of the evening, or the quiver of his pupils with the high. Perhaps, it is consternation over the boy she so earnestly escaped, now standing mere feet before her, high as a fucking kite. Soaked in the unfair stench of lost love that she long ago decided to associate with the putrid scent of despise.

She is the deer. He is the headlights.

When Yoongi parts his lips, the inside of his mouth feels like a volcano. Bone dry. Threatening to erupt with the slightest misplaced movement, to spew vulgarity held dormant since she decided to cut the ties with her bare hands.

“Say something,” Yoongi manages, taking a tentative step forward, ignoring the pain that fleets through his heart when she shuffles slightly back. “Anything. ___, please.”

In silence, she observes, analyses, swallows him in from head to toe. Yoongi wonders if she is more deprived than she first realised, greedily taking in all that she can while he exists in scarcely coherent state before her. He wonders if the rush that devastates her being is unidentifiable, the deja vu near sickening, as though everything she has held back since the moment within the umbra of the oak tree is starting to submerge from the places she confined them within. He wonders if her heart demands to soar, yet she tugs down on the reigns, knowing full well what occurs when it disobeys. A veteran of past experience in the field of the forbidden.

Yoongi can see that she will not let that happen again. She must believe that neither of them will survive the second time around.

“Are you high?” Despite that the words come out with a tinge of insult, they still hold that blue velvet quality, the lustrous flow that drapes his skin in years of comfort and warmth. It feels like coming home. He wishes to pluck the chords of her vocals from the air and tuck them to his chest for safe-keeping; to never let the gorgeous sound escape his hearing ever again.

Yoongi tilts his lips in a tiny smirk, a miracle in itself that he can shift his features into an expression other than awe. He fixates his gaze on the pale cloud she exhales. “Are you smoking?”

As if to spite him, she takes an especially long drag, eyes watering and all before she breathes out the smoke between smiling teeth. Her iron exterior cracks, only barely, yet it is still something. Enough to make his bones feel as though they are melting into butter.

“Touché.”

They are encompassed in private silence, consumed by the presence of one another. Yoongi, in all of his feeble bravery, takes another step forward, and this time, she stays still, save for the ash that she flicks from the tip of her cigarette. The flecks stir dizzily in the air that he disturbs with his precarious advance.

One pace. Two more. This near, the oxygen is stolen right from his lungs by the pleasance of her perfume pervading his space. The smoke hardly manages to veil the distinct honeysuckle that only she suits. On any other entity, it is utterly ersatz. The tension coiled in her shoulders noticeably loosens, newfound tenderness smudging at the circumference of her irises. Almost as though she is daring to give in. Head losing to heart.

Yoongi can feel her exhalation skitter across his cheeks. The cigarette is abandoned in the gutter. In one fell swoop, he could crumble her resolve right where she stands. The walls of the maze are collapsing, yet he knows the route like the back of his own hand.

When he focuses on the plush of her lips, he can still see the truths nestled in the corners. The secrets that only he could ever notice. She is a puzzle that he has solved a million times over, and he does not intend to kid himself with false hope. But by the way she is staring at him right now like she is being suffocated by her own mistakes, he can almost think that she is letting him get all of the answers right.

He presses his nose to the glass surrounding her heart.

“___! Jesus, I’ve been looking for you!”

It is a voice that calls in a tone dripping with depth, the sound of bottomless oceans, and it tears the two of them apart within a split instant. The approaching owner, a tall stretch of darkness, a shadow wrung out and pulled taught over muscle and bone, draws her attention immediately. Her hair fans out in her movement to acknowledge the new presence, and Yoongi soaks himself in a waft of ambrosia because christ, it really is her.

The guy seems nearly sober. His gaze passes through Yoongi as though he is not truly looking. Could not really care. “Who’s this?”

She hesitates, minuscule, though Yoongi sees it. “He’s a friend from home.”

He almost wants to laugh out loud. In disgust; in disbelief. The word friend has betrayed him so much throughout his lifetime. Even more so when it lacks the tag of best.

“The taxi is almost here,” the guy says after a brusque oh, gaze flitting away from Yoongi in an instant. He takes her by the shoulders. “Let’s go.”

“O-Okay.”

He has never seen her this nervous and unsure. Yoongi almost reaches out to grab her wrist and stop them both, but he is terrified she may yank it away again. Third time is a charm to break a heart. The only solace he clings to is the fact that, as she is whirled, her chin tilts back. The pair of eyes that deceived him so long ago anchor to his own with barely a hint of a smile.

“Next time,” she mouths, her voice ceasing to wash over his skin. But Yoongi can hear the words with perfect clarity in his mind, no matter the shroud of drugs that mantles his every other thought. She shines through, crystal clear, like she always has.

Standing on the curb as headlights swing by, dousing him in bright white while other club patrons holler and scream as though they hope for the stars to hear, Yoongi realises something. No hallucination could ever compare, nor think to perfectly replicate the experience that is her standing before him.

He stares at where she stood, merely a breath away. Faintly, in the silver lustre of the moon, Yoongi can make out the scintillations of glass fragments against the pavement where her obduracy had started to shatter.

Next time comes at a small convenience store, no more than a week after their encounter. It must be near three in the morning. An hour, nonetheless, that girls who run from truths should not be.

She fashions cheeks that shimmer with vulnerability, and a black sweater a size too large. They are matched with thin tights that hide legs known to take his breath away, and a pair of battered white sneakers locked at the ankles. Comfortable; approachable. She sits with a cup of steaming instant ramen, intently swilling the contents with pinched chopsticks, hood pulled over her hair in a meagre attempt to appear nonexistent.

As always, she shines too brightly to ever be completely hidden away.

Lit up with florescent, Yoongi sees her right there, through the window. Never for a moment did he doubt it was her as he leisurely strolled by the store. The glint of her damp face caught his eye before he had managed to completely walk past. He knows those tears like his own secrets.

Here, the subway shudders beneath his feet. Yoongi almost expects the train to travel explosively through the bitumen and crash straight through his heart. Maybe, with it smeared across the glass pane, she will finally understand the honest truth. She will see the gory details, painted out in crimson, that he can never stop loving her.

She, still unaware of his presence, barely flinches when Yoongi stands directly before the window; a thin pane of glass their only barrier. It is no more than a few seconds of him staring with a faint smile curving his lips, hands wedged into the pockets of his hoodie, that she calmly comes to a still in the process of lifting ramen-laden chopsticks to her lips. By the time her eyes have lifted to his own, slowly flaring with recognition, he is already entering the store.

Yoongi takes his time. Enough for her to notice that the person who just trudged through the entrance is well and truly him. Enough for her to forget the half-eaten ramen cup, abandon ship, and escape him for the third––or is it fourth?––time. Yoongi can no longer recall. The numbers are melding into a figure too many, to say the least.

He carefully selects the most bearable noodles that he can squeeze into his tight student budget, then approaches the counter to exchange coins with the clerk. Yet, the moment he turns on his heel, she is still there, observing his stride through the reflection in the window. Her expression, cast in the glaring white light, is one of forbearing.

For a sparse moment, Yoongi considers waiting; providing more of an opportunity for her to escape. Though he quickly finds himself completely fucking that idea off. If he does not continue moving forward, the courage will slink back into the shadows, and he will barrel himself right out of the store once more.

At a pace as languid as he can retain, he strolls down the aisle until he is standing right at the food bar, beside where she sits. He quietly peels open his cup, empties the seasonings inside, and fills it with hot water. Then, he circles around her ever-shrinking frame and sits on the stool to her right.

Silence has never felt so suffocating. This is newfound territory between them; their instances together have always been filled with their voices. But she was the one to build the wall, and she damn well knows that Yoongi will not be the one to bring it down to ruin.

She did this. She must deal the first blow.

Two heartbeats unite at a steady pace. Her lips part, and the quiet is so dense that Yoongi hears them separate. The sound is almost comforting. It rings with the familiarity of past conversations, had whilst lying side-by-side in the belly of darkness. It is the soft noise she would make before her younger voice asked a question about the stars, or idly commented on the pathetic performance that is existing in a world which crushes those who dare to defy the unspoken illegality of love. A world which strips your soul from beneath you, so effortlessly, by the bold-black of your name, inked on paper.

The click of his chopsticks snapping apart echoes around the store. Her voice is quick to follow.

“I can never find waffles as good as home around here.”

Yoongi freezes, stunned silent. He momentarily wonders whether it is due to her voice resembling that of nirvana. But he is quick to realise it is because he is completely unsure of how to respond to such an elementary statement.

She speaks as if the past three years were merely a blank spot in his memory. A period of amnesia where, for the entire thirty-six months, they were still best friends; red strings uncut and remaining to be tightly coiled around the knuckles of their pinkies. Or perhaps, an expanse of time where he was living in a nightmare in which she had become invisible, though she could still see everything in refined clarity.

A thickness builds in his throat, the welt of a sob. But it burns like furious indignation.

“That’s the only thing you have to say?” Yoongi, in all of his venomous tone, stabs his chopsticks at a vulnerable leek floating in the broth. He pretends that it is her heart. “Honestly, ___. Fuck you.”

She sighs, as if he is behaving childishly. “I know, fuck me. But you and I both know that saying I’m sorry will never cut the cake with what happened between us. It’s like shouting into the abyss and expecting something good to come from it.”

He realises, as she always used to be, that she is right. Apologies are more like weak excuses than a resolution for travesty. And when they are confessed this late, after all the excruciating damage has worn its wear, it is like attempting to stitch up a wound that has already scarred over. There is no point. An empty avow.

“I still want to hear you say it,” Yoongi says under his breath. He scoops noodles into his mouth and slurps loudly, just because he knows she hates it.

Her cringe is almost audible. He cannot decipher if it is from the sound he makes, or the way the words taste on her tongue. “I’m sorry.”

“Say it genuinely.”

Yoongi almost jumps when he feels careful fingertips through the fabric of his sweater, laying upon his wrist. His gaze instinctively tracks to them, noticing how they still look the same, shiny oval nails with chip-free edges. A small fondness swells in his chest, which he immediately attempts to trample down. If anything, it blossoms viciously as his eyes travel up her arm, her throat, until they settle on her own.

Her gaze is neither firm nor gentle; simply watching with that ever curious contour.

“Min Yoongi.” God, only now does he realise that she has not once spoke his name since they have reunited. His stare instantly surges down to her lips, just to catch the end of them shaping around the three syllables. What a sight, it can never get old. “For everything I have done: taking advantage of you in a moment of vulnerability; kissing you back while we were both drunk; running away and ignoring your calls; being born in a timeline where the world is so undisputedly fucked up that the both of us were doomed from the very start... I am deeply, and so sincerely sorry. The profundity of my contriteness is utmost.”

Her expression is so bona fide that Yoongi has to look away. Otherwise, he truly might convince himself that her apology is the only salve that can soothe the laceration she created on his chest. He might convince himself that the pain dealt by her own hand will always be worth it if that is the way her voice will sound––cold silk against hot flesh––when she makes her amends after the blade has damaged his heart beyond repair. No matter how deep she drives the knife.

“Christ on a bike,” is all that Yoongi responds with. But even she does not seem persuaded by his dismissive tone.

The contact is ceased; her hand slinks away. They return to silent eating without him uttering a single thank you or I’m sorry, too. Neither of them expect it, either.

When she finishes first, she does not get up and leave. Rather, she rests her elbows upon the tabletop and leans her chin into her palms, directly observing his chewing. The sheer weight of her gaze is enough to lure bumps to form across Yoongi’s skin. Tiny mountains of prickled flesh that she traverses with a regardful sweep of her tentative eyes.

If Yoongi were land, she has conquered him a prodigious number of times.

“So, instant ramen is the next best bet?” Yoongi leads on from her initial comment. An attempt at conversation to shake off the sensation of her emphatic vigilance, which follows his every move. It is almost as though she is waiting for the pin to drop, expecting him to abruptly implode in a rush of accusations and insults. Ones that have tied knots around his tongue over the past three years. No, even beyond that.

Her lips are a ghost of a smile. “Ramen fits the budget.”

“True,” Yoongi chuckles, and it actually tastes sincere in the back of his throat. “But you’re wrong about the waffles. There’s a diner ten minutes from my campus that serves them up just like home.”

Yoongi does not mention how many nights he has spent there, more than in the beds of other women who taste like honeysuckle. High or intoxicated, his forehead would be pressed to the cold tabletop. He would imagine that he is at their diner, and she is sitting across from him, sipping at vanilla and about to hit him over the head with a menu while her voice sings out: Wake up!

The version that exists beside him, the real-and-now girl––beyond better than what any figment of his fantasy could ever consider creating––gapes. “You’re kidding.”

“Dead serious.”

“What campus?”

“South, at the State University.”

“Oh, that’s where–! Oh,” she says, eyes lighting up, as if she is about to say the name of a friend. But her expression instantly falters, realising he probably would not know them. “I’m there often. Funny how we’ve never run into each other throughout my entire first year.”

Absolutely fucking hilarious, Yoongi should say. Though his tongue trips into something just as dangerous.

“I’ll take you there sometime. To the diner.”

Yoongi inhales the remaining noodles spooled at the bottom of the cup. She, out the corner of his eye, worries teeth to lips; habits playing his heartstrings like a harp. A tiny crease forms at the centre of her brow, though it smooths out almost as soon as it surfaces. Her gaze flits down to where her fingers pick at the peeled back lid of the ramen cup.

“I’d like that,” and she says it in a tone that reminds him of car windows rolled all the way down and red dirt caked on their knees. It reminds him of the girl who loved him before she ran away after realising how frightening the monster of truth is up close; how sharp its fangs gleam.

Yoongi chokes on a stray string of pasta. He does not miss the glimpse of a tiny smile tilting her lips before the heel of her palm comes down hard on his back.

Once he has calmed, the pair of them discard of their rubbish and exit the convenience store. They fall into step with one another almost naturally. There is no parting of ways, nor calling for taxis. The night opens its arms and welcomes them in, four in the morning already so near, telltale in the way the pitch black spills into a vague navy across the horizon. Neither of them consider the possibility of separating and saying their goodbyes. Even if he had to go the opposite way, Yoongi would have silently agreed that it was his route too. Home may have been safe for girls to navigate in the thick of the night, but the city is crawling with monsters.

They are both prime examples to that. Living paradigms, slinking through the shadows.

They stroll at a languorous pace. Not out of tiredness, but more so to make up for lost time. It is reminiscent of their lazy saunter home from school, all but five years ago as the sun would beat its fists onto their backs. They would milk the twenty-minute walk home until it would last up to an hour, merely so they could spend as much of their afternoon together before they would have to part ways.

“Are midnight walks like, your thing now?” she lightly teases. Yoongi’s heart is stirred into a frantic storm when she grazes her shoulder against his; barely a nudge.

“I had a lot on my mind.” I had you eating me from the inside out. “It helps to get some fresh air. Clears the thoughts up.” Ironic how you just happen to invade me, even outside of my head. Then, he remembers the streaks of silver. The shimmering diamonds against the skin that he once, a lifetime ago, had his lips upon. “Why were you crying?”

“No reason worth sharing,” she says without missing a beat, as though she had been expecting the question all night. The answer was just waiting to be up to bat. “Girl dramas that boys like you would know nothing about.”

“She, the bane of my every single drama says.” Yoongi states it bluntly, incapable of finding the audacity to care when she flinches. She wants it all out on the table, exposed and brutally honest? Well, he is going to take to the scalpel and cut himself open until he has pulled out every shred of agony that she has tucked between the joints; threaded through the sinew.

It is not as though she is unused to blood on her hands. The mere date of her birth year is sheer fact to that.

Once those two sentences surface in his overtired mind, Yoongi mentally punches himself in the stomach for ever conjuring such a disgusting thought. God. You would think it was hate instead of love.

She comes to a halt in the middle of the road. Yoongi continues to trail a few steps before he realises she is cemented to the bitumen. For a single, distressing moment in which his heart lodges itself in his throat and then plummets like lead into his stomach, he fears he thought those twenty-five words loud enough for her to hear. The only giveaway that such a matter is not the case is her expression.

Instead of pained or horrified, it is distant. Far from here.

“Hey, you know what you need to do?”

Yoongi raises a brow. “What?”

She was looking past his shoulder. Now, she looks over her own, and then twists to stare directly at him. He is in a constant state of reminding himself how deadly those eyes are when used in full, undeviating force.

“Yell it out,” she shrugs indifferently, as if she is no longer sure about the answer herself. “Have at me. Scream everything you need to say.”

What a joke, he thinks, like their emotions are some ridiculous game and one of them has to come out a winner. Neither can rule together; a fight to the death. But she has always called him sarcastic, and so it could not do much harm to humour her request.

“Right here?”

She shrugs again, looks at his feet, and then slowly tracks back to his eyes. “Better place as any, right?”

Silence passes between them, voices reduced to make way for the breeze that caresses the leaves of a neighbouring tree. The rustling is so dense that it sounds akin to rain. Yoongi buries his hands deeper into the lone pocket of his sweater, clenching them into fists so tight that he almost expects to feel the skin split over his knuckles. After a moment, he relaxes the joints and slides his palms out of the fleece, calmly resting them at his sides.

“I’m not going to hold back.”

“I don’t want you to.” It sounds like a lie. She almost seems nervous.

“Fine,” he huffs, running a hand through his hair. When he speaks, there is no difference in volume, nor tone. “First of all, fuck you. From the very core of my being. Fuck. You.”

At that, she smiles, and the sheer sight has him scrambling for what he was going to say again. He inhales so deeply that his chest stretches with pain, and then he breathes out a calamity.

“I know that we took it too far. I know that we overstepped an unspoken boundary in our friendship. But what you did...” Yoongi can feel his voice crack. He does not notice how it rises in gradual increments; the build of a wave before it plunges down and floods the streets. “Christ, I knew you had it in you. But I never thought you would actually go ahead and do it, you know? At no point––not even when we were so close to one another on the beach that day, not even when I was touching you in my bathroom––did I convince myself that you would actually cut the ties.”

“For a few days? That’s reasonable. Two weeks? I would've given that decent leeway.” The water starts to break, hurtling down in a swooping undulation. The land is Her, and Yoongi encounters no remorse when the deluge swamps her coast and drowns the homes that they built when they were kids who knew no better. “But three years. Three whole fucking years! You picked up your things and left like the seven years of us being best friends never existed. As if we were living in some fantasy, and you decided to wake up without letting me know it was all just a dream too.

“I wanted to go after you so fucking badly. I wanted to beat down the front door to your house and grab you by the shoulders, just to ask you why. Why did you have to be so goddamn dramatic? Why did you have to act like one of us had received the envelope and it was safer to end things then and there? Why, ___, did you think I was so meaningless and insignificant that you could just throw me away without a care, after all we had been through?”

“You ruined me.” She is drowning. Yoongi can see it from here. He cannot tell if he should grin victoriously or reach out and save her. “The way you left made me feel like I was just some fucking toy that you grew out of. You tossed me away and left me for dead because you’re a heartless bitch. Yet here I stand now, still wanting– No, needing you! Here I stand, grovelling at your feet with my pleas for forgiveness, confessing the truth of how badly you screwed me up by leaving without glancing back. It’s almost as if I’m the monster who abandoned you when you knew I was going to be right by your side until the very end. No matter if the conclusion was made by a natural cause, or a piece of fucking paper sent by the government.”

“The thing is that I didn’t care if you wanted to stay as friends, or be lovesick idiots who should know better in a world like this, ___!” Air is tight in his lungs, fuelling wildfires. “I couldn’t have given a damn about whatever decision you made for us because as long as you were in my life, I was content. Don’t you fucking get that? Can you genuinely tell me that the past three years have been better off without me? Did you never sit and think that I would never push you into something that you didn’t want? That just because I know what your cum tastes like doesn’t mean I expect us to hold hands and fuck each other like we’re something more?”

“All I ever wanted was for you to be in my life. I need you. Not solely for friendship, not only for love. I just know that I have always, and will always need you!”

There are so many words left in his lungs, too many confessions and accusations that he needs to inscribe on her black as tar heart. But Yoongi’s throat crumbles; the sentences strain and fall limp. White flags are kept down. No draw is announced. Nobody is victorious because the game has been burned to ash.

Deeply, she exhales. “Are you good?”

Yoongi stares at her from across the street, partially washed in the muted orange of the overhead lamp, the rest of her concealed in the shadows. His shoulders still heave, teeth sunk in his bottom lip in order to keep the floodgates closed. She stares at him like she knows him, and god, nobody else in this world does as much as her. Even if she only discovered the raw truth of his emotions mere moments ago.

Before he can contrive any further blades in the form of his words to slice into her skin, she is gravitating close. The crunching of gravel is deadened beneath the soles of her sneakers until she stands as near as they had last week. A proximity that would have been considered mundane for them to be within beyond three years ago.

Now, all Yoongi can do is drop his gaze to their feet. Calculating the distance that separates them; only centimetres when it seems akin to vast oceans. So close, yet he has never felt so far.

“Good?” she murmurs once more, tilting her head down so that she can peer up at his drooped chin. Yoongi cannot even find it in himself to wipe away the tears. His fists loosen, useless by his sides.

What he does not expect is for her to breach the minimal space that remains. Her arms come around his waist, palms finding purchase against his shoulder blades and pressing him so tightly to her own chest that they may as well be a sole being.

It may just be his imagination, or the dissipating anger that leaves a dull ringing in his ears. But Yoongi swears he hears something break in her voice when she speaks again. Maybe, the last of her heart.

“Are we good?”

She holds on tighter when he precariously nods against the side of her head.

Yoongi does not hug her back out of fear that he may lose himself completely in her vessel. Become trapped within the bone cage of her ribs. Instead, he tips his chin back to face the stars, cheeks feeling damp and cold. He stares accusingly at the incandescents bodies, mere pinpricks of luminosity, as though it is all their fault.

How could you do this to us? Why did it get taken this far? Neither of us deserved such devastation, yet you awakened an apocalypse right where we both stood.

The stars are left speechless.

To say that matters resumed to how things were in the past would be obscene. Yet, genuinely, it is somewhat how the treacherous tides came to calm into clear waters.

The unbosoming that tainted the atmosphere of that isolated street was merely the chains to the drawbridge unhinging. From there, it plummeted back down so that the two of them could be on even ground. Enabled them to understand and embrace the differences, the hardships, which were emphasised and catastrophised beyond their initial extremity.

To themselves, they cannot help but wonder if such dramatics would have happened if they were born in a different timeline. If they existed in an entirely divergent world to the one where a ballot can tear their life from beneath their feet, even before they make it to the year’s end.

Adjustments are made with their developed maturity. Yoongi no longer waits at the bus stop to pick her up on a school-day morning. Rather, she drives to his campus and takes them to the local library to study for their courses every Wednesday afternoon.

The new diner is visited regularly, though not as often as the convenience store in the middle of the night. Usually, these ventures are planned. Yet they sometimes arrive unexpectedly when either one of them strolls up to the store entrance, discovering the other already watching with a sheepish grin through the window.

They rarely go out to parties together. Their assignments often conflict with the dates, or other responsibilities take the advantage. But Yoongi ceases with the narcotics, and instead sticks to the pleasures of alcohol. It is a matter that none of his friends seem to care for; they almost appear to admire him. He no longer needs to hallucinate in order to see the one person that his heart has been sewn back together for.

The wilted flower of their friendship slowly revives with every small step that they take forward, the petals blossoming into something familiar. Yet Yoongi cannot help but notice the vague restraint that she upholds with their every lighthearted conversation; in the small flinch that she makes when their elbows brush too close; when he squeezes her knee out of reassurance. The red strings are knotting back together, though they cannot deny the fraying of the ends. The ties are loose and unsure, as if suggesting that they may snap once again.

Yoongi only pulls tighter. All the while, she watches on with guarded contemplation, letting the threads go limp in her palms like she is wondering whether all of this was such a great idea.

Two and a half months, on the cusp of three, and only then does he discover her worst treachery of all. The reason behind her unwillingness to allow their bond to return to its utmost potential. Yoongi does not know how she hid it this well for so long.

It is made infinitely worse by the fact that he is so beyond hungover, his brain seems to have transformed into a cement brick.

On Sunday morning, he makes the trip to Shake Shack alone. Hoseok is still passed out under the dining table, Seokjin is actually studying something other than the female reproductive system with his dick, and there is the smidgen of a possibility that Jimin might be dead. It is eternally a mystery as to what happens to him after a hefty night out.

The restaurant door chimes, alarm bells that echo in cymbals through his head. Yoongi is focusing too strenuously on keeping his brain from splitting in half to realise that they might actually be warning him.

Honeysuckle captures his attention as soon as the door swings shut, sucking still air through a vacuum that drifts the aroma, like an instant hangover cure, into his senses. Yoongi, once he is convinced that his head is not about to topple off his neck, levels his gaze to see straight before him. Instantly, his eyes lock onto a figure that he could identify, even when she is merely a silhouette in the distance.

She turns from the counter, holding an extra-large takeaway cup of freshly brewed coffee. The world stutters to the slightest of stops before kickstarting again when she notices him watching on, probably appearing like a goddamn fool standing at the entrance of the restaurant. So, Yoongi decides to will his feet forward, casually calling out her name.

But he stops dead in his tracks when he sees fear ambushing her wide eyes. Yoongi almost does not notice him until her alarmed gaze sweeps away from Yoongi and up to his face.

It is the guy from the club. The one who had sundered their reunion with a single sentence. The one who had managed to draw her gaze away from Yoongi; something that always took a breath of a moment to do in the past, but was as effortless as blinking in the now. The one who had softened her eyes when he spoke, the way Yoongi always could. The one who had clambered her into his jacket and Yoongi did not, at the time, have a chance to think twice of it.

The guy from the club, who has his arm curled neatly around a waist that has always belonged to Yoongi. The guy from the club, who has the fucking stars gleaming in his eyes, because that is just the effect that belonging to somebody like her will always have.

They approach like royals striding toward a peasant. The heart thief glances between the two of them with mild scrutiny. But before the guy can say anything, she parts her lips. The sound that comes out is hardly a croak, yet it sets off World War III within Yoongi’s ribcage.

“Yoongi–”

“Oh! This is the guy– The friend from home right?” He affectionately jostles the arm around her frame, knocking her back into rationality. Her chin barely tilts in a nod. She no longer looks at Yoongi.

Underneath the seething rage that is making his migraine throb like the brink of death, Yoongi vaguely contemplates how to sever the foreign limb attached to her body.

When the guy extends his hand, Yoongi has to restart his dying heart in order to reciprocate the gesture. The defibrillator is charged, and he almost hopes that it will not work. He wishes that the flimsy vessel will collapse, and he will be sucked right out of this moment, swallowed by a most welcome eternal darkness.

“Hey man, I’m Jeongguk,” the guy says.

Three... two... one...

“I believe we already met. But I didn’t get the chance to introduce myself properly.”

Clear!

“I’m ___’s boyfriend.”

Yoongi feels his heart stutter back to life. He wonders how much betrayal the average human being endures in their lifetime, or whether he is just that fucking unlucky.

Jeon Jeongguk is one of the lucky ones in the form of a platinum certificate, declaring a free pass on genocide; cleaning his fingertips of scarlet. A promise to not die by an unlawful hand.

That is what happens, after all, when your life is deemed valuable to this world. When your intelligence is too good to be wasted. When the zeros tacked onto the end of your future inheritance are far too infinite to be ignored. They say this is the secret to immunity: hone pockets weighed down by gold, and bear diamond fangs that can tear through a piece of paper, splotched with the ink of your name.

In a town as small as their own, such a matter was deemed a myth. Then, she met him.

She never knew whether it was sheer fascination, or genuine attraction. Even now, she remains unsure. But Jeongguk was drawn to her; opposite poles of a magnet that met in unexpected harmony. He had knocked into her elbow at the campus cafe and spun to apologise. Instead, he had found himself struck silent by the graves that were on blatant, unadulterated exhibition in the cemeteries of her eyes.

Maybe, he was convinced that he could uproot the dead from where they slept. Thought he could dig his fingers into the soils, and grow bouquets from the minerals that the bones had scattered beneath the surface. Maybe, he wanted to know the secrets. The reasons behind the ghosts that lurked about her irises, eternally trapped betwixt the limbo of Heaven and Hell. Maybe, he was as selfish as the rest of the world. Precisely like her and the other, who was buried the deepest in the boneyard of her heart.

Too many maybes had filled her mind, yet she had found herself saying yes. Not just once. But again, and again, until the two of them were sharing coffee against the lips of the other instead of over a cafe table, and she could describe precisely how it felt when he entered her. Again, and again. Yes.

Now, the boy of platinum teaches her about things that she already knew, but from a different perspective. A preferable one, where one is not concerned with their fate. When their life is not threatened at the beginning of every new month, because their skin and bones are invincible to the bullets of a Government rifle.

Jeongguk takes her to the theatre. In the shadows of the back row, where their mischievous chuckles hide, he shows her what salt and butter tastes like on his tongue. He lets her listen to the sound of their voices blend off-tune with the song playing on the radio. The windows of his car are rolled all the way down, spring breeze curling through her hair, his hand resting on the sunlight that seeps gold onto her thigh. He shows her the bridge that connects the southern and northern ends of the city. The lights that are cast onto the glass surface of the river from street lamps resemble stars, flickering beneath their feet, shining on the gentle ripples rather than above in the hazy, dark skies.

This is where Jeongguk whispers that he loves her. This is where he accepts that she cannot find the voice just yet to say such a burden back. But he helps her take her dress off in the backseat anyway, and he kisses every inch of her skin as if he is trying to find the answer tucked somewhere between her joints. Engraved in her bones.

When he thrusts into her, he moans in such a way that she digs her nails deeper into his flesh, as though she can bury herself within him. Become a part of his platinum shield. She, too, can be untouchable.

It is not that she does not adore Jeongguk. Of course, her chest thrums with that certain warmth when he grazes his knuckles over her throat. Her gaze softens when she finds him walking into the room, lighting up with a grin that is specially reserved for her. He is a secure anchor amidst the raging ocean of this society, and she swears that such a matter is not the reason why she laces her knuckles together to connect at the palms, or swallows his laughter into her own lungs, or presses her lips against his bare spine when the moonlight turns his skin into stardust.

Somewhere, deep down, she thinks there may be a hint of love, too shy to reveal its face. Maybe, it is insecure; unsure whether its roots are woven through the carcass of a natural demise, rather than the tacky mint shade of an unwanted envelope.

No. That is not the reason why she desires him. She may be cruel, but she is not a monster. That is what she tells herself, at least, as she ignores the blood red gaze that watches on from the darkest shadows of her mind. It folds its talons in its lap, wearing the glint of a wicked grin.

The sight is too repulsive to even glance at.

Now, when she parts her lethargic eyes, it is to find Jeongguk already gazing at her through the tangle of her sleep-heavy lashes. He draws the tip of his finger down her nose, outlining the shape of her lips. A map that he marks with his touch before he presses his own mouth to them in a quiet good morning.

“What were you dreaming about?” he murmurs throatily, and it is then that she realises she is frowning. The sunlight that slides into his bedroom attempts to soften and smooth the crease between her brow, though it cannot seem to fade. “You were stirring and mumbling.”

She thinks back to the realm she was briefly visiting. It held the taste of vanilla, and the eyes of blackholes that would bend her at the edges. Although she had clung fiercely to the stars and suns that surrounded him, he let her be free, just like that. There was no fight left in him. No force. No will to drag her into his desolate infinity.

She is unsure if she is grateful, or if she would rather be dead.

“Nothing that I can remember,” is all that she whispers before her face finds solace in the dip of Jeongguk’s throat. There, he will not be able to see the betrayal that brews in her eyes. His ignorance is all the more confirmed when he hums indifferently and slides his palm beneath her rumpled shirt, gliding up her spine.

Because Jeon Jeongguk, with platinum luck threaded through his veins, with good fortune as a shield against unnatural fate, is not, and could never be Min Yoongi.

That day at the restaurant was like giving Yoongi all of the stars in the universe, only to rip them away into the mouth of a black hole. Leaving him with nothing but a handful of tenebrosity.

A boyfriend. A lover. A something that she claimed she could never have because this world took intimacy by the throat and squeezed until the skin blossomed blue. A lie that she threaded through Yoongi with barbwire, as though she could never actually love him. He was just another puppet that she controlled the strings of for all these years.

She was never his best friend. It was always betrayal that stuck by his side through thick and thin.

After the introductions had been made, she had dragged Jeon Jeongguk out of the restaurant without a second glance at Yoongi. She knew she had banjaxed the secret, that this took the cake for being the ultimate egregious bullet point on her list of perfidy. Yoongi did not go forth and make an order. Rather, he had waited five minutes before exiting the restaurant himself, praying on the drive back to his campus that his hangover would make him swerve off the road and bend his bones around a tree.

As per usual, he is never that lucky.

For days, they do not communicate. It eats at him; hollows his body out into a carcass of his true being. He can feel himself slipping back into the skeleton of who he once became; the version who has pupils the size of Pluto and snowy powder on his nostrils.

That is, until Yoongi is in the sanctuary of his dorm room with glass bottles containing the remnants of his heart strewn about the bedside table. He finally gains the liquid confidence to light his phone screen, pulling up a conversation that details the time and location of a recent meet up they had had. Sent over a week before he had discovered that all those times she had said she could not hang out––that she had more important plans––were probably to see him.

Delivered [2:11AM]: ___

why didn’t you tell me

It is late, and Yoongi expects no reply. He just needed to get those five words out of his head; the question that has been persisting his every thought. The memories of the past two months where she entailed no such relationship, never hinted that her heart belonged to another while Yoongi was still convinced that it was the fondest for him; they were all marked with that one word, now.

Why?

There is a gentle vibration that almost goes unnoticed, if not for the way that the shadows of his bedroom shrink away from the dim light that the screen emanates. A lump forms in Yoongi’s throat when he swipes his thumb across the device to unlock the two messages, labelled with her name.

Received [2:16AM]: ___

because it’s not important

why did I need to?

Yoongi is calling her before he even realises he has dialled the number. She, to his disbelief, answers after two rings.

“You know precisely the reason why,” he seethes. The words are laced in malice, yet airy in their tone; exhausted. “Not important, my fucking ass. What kind of horrible excuse is that? Aren’t you tired of making up bullshit? Will you ever be?”

On the other end of the line, there is the shifting of sheets, the distant scuffling of feet, the slide of a balcony door before it clicks shut. Her exhalations are shallow, hair rustling against the speaker with the hint of a breeze. Or perhaps, the distressed combing of her knuckles through the strands.

“You’re with him right now, aren’t you?” Yoongi almost laughs at the realisation, a dead smile drawn on his lips. She audibly gulps.

“Y-Yes. I mean. He’s my– Well, he’s–”

“Your boyfriend? That– That thing that you always claimed you could never have?”

She makes no acknowledgment, nor no confirmation of the aforementioned statement. Only when she sniffs does Yoongi realise that she is quietly crying. He suffocates the surge of regret that threatens to soften his anger. He is tired of being pitiful.

“What do you want from me, ___?” he barely whispers. His heart begins to detach from his body. “All this time, what is it that you wanted?”

Static crackles between them. When her voice finally sounds, it shudders.

“Everything. I wanted, no, I want everything from you. Of you. B-But it can never work.” The words are muffled around a sob, the kind that claws right out of the pits of your lungs. “Yoongi, everything you said all of those months ago is precisely the way I feel too. I need you in my life, no matter the circumstances. But being together is such a risk. We have lost so much already. And– And I don’t want to hurt you–”

“You’ve already done that, sweetheart,” Yoongi barks out with a humourless chuckle. He runs a clammy hand down his face. “You’re doing it right now. You’re doing it constantly.”

“I mean that I’m cursed, for christ’s sakes! You and I both know that!” she nearly shouts, and then her voice drops into an undercurrent. He can almost sense the way that her gaze must be darting back to the glass door, providing the view of a dark room where her lover may or may not be listening to her confess to another man. “You know that first night at the convenience store, when you asked why I was crying? A girl that I’d only just become friends with was drawn from that damned ballot. Honestly, a week before her name was pulled out, we exchanged numbers and made plans to meet for lunch.”

“This was a girl I had only just met. You would’ve been dead from the moment I gave in to you, Yoongi. I’m trying to protect you from this. I want you to live a long and happy life, as normal as it can be, without me being a burden. If that means hurting you in the process, then so be it. I refuse to let you die, especially because of my birth year...” her voice trails off, clamped down by a palm pressed to her lips.

Yoongi swings his feet off the edge of his bed and pads over to the northernmost wall of his room. Even after so many years, he refuses to believe that she still thinks of herself as a bad omen who drags those that surround her to their demise. That she continues to attain such a childish perception; a fib whispered by kids who know no better.

They are adults now. It would be moronic to believe a wives’ tale regarding the four numbers that signified the change for a better world, where all those who were born in that year supposedly honed the curse of death.

“Then why is he so different?” Yoongi murmurs, grazing his knuckles against the plaster. “Why is he the special one that gets to experience being in love with a girl who claims to be cursed?”

“Because he is exempt from the project, Yoongi,” she sounds so empty. A hollow heart. “The rumours about the wealthy families are true. They have no involvement in the ballot.”

Skin splits over bone. Scarlet streaks down his wrist and marks the wall in four bloody patches. Yoongi grunts, but the stinging sensation is soothing compared to the knife that stabs deeper through his back.

The hearsay was no new knowledge since he moved to the city. He has known a few people himself who honed the platinum certificate, bestowing them with normality. A natural end to this world that all human beings should be granted, no matter if their pockets are full of dirt rather than diamonds.

But Yoongi’s fist connects with the wall again when Jeon Jeongguk’s face violently blooms within his mind, eating up the space that she always accommodates. The guy who she can never claim to have slaughtered by the four digits of her cursed birth year. Yoongi swears she winces at the dull thud, followed by a short gasp between his gritted teeth.

“God, aren’t you just selfish,” he mutters, staring at the torn flesh of his knuckles. He clenches them tight when they remind him of her smaller, crimson hands floating amongst ocean waves. That memory, with her mouth that tasted of salt and untruths, should not be tainted by an incident like this.

There is no jocularity in her tone. “It’s a refined talent.”

The plaster is cold against his forehead; his palm is warm with drying blood. After a glacial moment of basking in the sound of her breathing––existing––Yoongi’s voice drops to merely a whisper.

“You need to realise that having you in my life is a decision that I make, not you. And what about these past two months, huh? If that were the really the case, I would be dead already, don’t you think? Stop being so ridiculous. Stop thinking you can make all of these choices for me when you’re ticking all of the opposite answers to what I want. If you don’t want me in your life, stop acting like you do. Don’t lure me in just to throw me back out in the water.”

“I can’t willingly cut you from my life, you know that,” her voice is weak, just like the both of them. “That’s why I’m pushing you away. I can accept it if you leave, but I can’t voluntarily let you go.”

“Why, ___?” God, he is so tired, the words barely come out coherent. “Why don’t you just do it already?”

“I can’t say it, Yoongi. I couldn’t before, and I especially can’t now that– Now that I’m with him.”

At that, Yoongi’s chest caves inward. The vessel within is sucked into the abyss, because the one person in this world who he cares infinitely for practically admitted the truth. She had ghosted over it, yet it was there. An echo of honesty. An admission so vague, though ringing with the utmost profundity through his head; a record that stutters back over that one same line.

I love you, Yoongi. I love you, even now that I am with him.

Yoongi sighs a lifetime of air through his teeth. “Me too, ___. Always.”

Between their paced exhalations that taste like devotion at long last divulged, there is background sound. A door sliding open. The crackle of a voice that is not her own.

She does not say that she has to go. There is no utterance of a goodbye. The line simply hangs up.

Yoongi, the next morning, cannot recall for how long afterwards he listened to the dial tone.

In July, the monthly draw lands on a Friday. The final day of the semester.

It is the end of exams. The return of the summer holidays, celebrated by a barbecue down by the foreshore. A place where all students alike arrive in their respective groups to rejoin before they part for home, but everyone mixes, mingles, and congratulates.

Friendly tournaments of beach volleyball are held between the colleges. The aroma of sizzling meat and charcoal manages to overpower the scent of salt that wafts from the waves. Laughter and conversation tucks itself into every available space. Alcohol is poured graciously and in volumes considered comparable to a frat party.

Yoongi cannot help but wonder how many of the students who have flocked to the beach are going to have their name drawn from the ballot. Whose exam scores are going to become insignificant. Who might be celebrating for the final time with their peers––their friends––before they return home to a family with cheeks stricken by tears and a mint green envelope, bloodied with their own name.

When Yoongi arrives at the foreshore, there is a solid seven minutes of texting back-and-forth with a half-drunk Hoseok––who is dreadful at giving directions as it is––to figure out where the hell he is. Though it is only when Seokjin puts the latter on his shoulders that Yoongi manages to find them amongst the dense crowd. Nobody could miss that Hawaiian shirt paired with a sunshine smile, arms flailing like one of those wacky inflatable tube men.

Their area consists of a canopy housing three coolers filled to the brim with ice and beer, and a scattering of chairs to take up the remaining shade. A portable barbecue is set up to the left of the arrangement, currently left unattended. The sausages are starting to sizzle beyond cooked, but everyone is too busy enthusiastically welcoming the new arrival to care.

Yoongi greets them all with muted excitement. Though his gaze immediately drifts down to the only person who had remained reclined throughout the entire feat, spread on the grass like a starfish. With his blank features partially concealed by his large black sunglasses, Park Jimin––who is known to be the most mercurial of the whole lot––almost appears dead.

“Is Jimin okay?”

“He’s sober,” Seokjin laughs, kicking at the ankle of the aforementioned, who grunts something incomprehensible.

Jimin shifts up from his leisurely position to lean back on his elbows.

“Three weeks off it,” Jimin squints so fiercely that it is even noticeable behind his glasses. He sounds slow, the words drawn out on his plump lips. “It’s not right to do it around family. Plus, my Ma would probably send me to the fuckin’ moon if she caught me shooting up on the coffee table that has been passed down through the generations for like, ever.”

“The fuckin’ moon, he says,” Hoseok quips whilst a safe distance from Jimin and his fists, dousing an overly burnt hotdog in sauce. “You’ve been there every weekend since the start of first semester, Mr. Low Hallucination Tolerance. Hey Yoongi, remember when Jimin literally thought we had managed to make it into outer space and we were walking on the moon like Apollo 13?”

Jimin seems to contemplate whether he should get up and beat the shit out of Hoseok. Ultimately, he decides to slump back onto the grass. “Eat my ass.”

Hoseok genuinely sighs. “You all keep offering, but you never pull through.”

“You mean Apollo 11,” Seokjin circles around Jimin to stand beside Hoseok, raising an eyebrow. “Apollo 13 never landed.”

“Amazing, Seokjin knows facts! And here we all were, thinking that he only knew the precise anatomy of the female body.” Hoseok jeers, the disparages flying out like they are a second language. “Who would have thought?”

“One, I’m not sure if I should be insulted by that,” Seokjin takes his hands out of his pockets and uses an elbow to knock Hoseok in the arm, causing the sauce he is squirting to spray over his own shoes. “Two, you’re honestly asking for a beating, from all of us. But I guess three-on-one is just your style, right?”

“Oh daddy, you know it,” Hoseok, despite that his eyes blaze lividly over the ruined shoes, takes a disgraceful bite out of his hotdog with a lewd wink as if to prove a point. Everyone gags in perfect unison.

“Speaking of, what are you guys doing for the holidays?” Yoongi asks the feuding pair, wrinkling his nose when Hoseok offers him a sausage that resembles charcoal. He opts for a beer instead, and it fizzles pleasantly on his tongue. An old friend that his liver has known well for the past three years.

“My family lives in the town just beyond Hoseok’s, so I’m going to be dropping him there on the travel home.” Seokjin states while cleaning up the grill of the blackened mess, shooting the occasional accusing glare at Jimin, who appears to have initially been on barbecue duty. “God knows how I’m going to deal with that for six hours straight, but I consider it my good deed for the year.” Seokjin effortlessly dodges a kick to the shin by the insulted. “How about you?”

“You’re driving back with ___, right?” Hoseok questions, plonking down beside Jimin, who parts his lips in a demand for a bite. The poor guy nearly chokes when Hoseok eagerly shoves half the hotdog into his mouth.

A shiver is elicited when her name infiltrates the atmosphere, crawling up his spine in a sensation near pleasurable. But now, it is weighted with the touch of a forbidden truth. She no longer belongs to him, no matter if she still keeps her heart nestled between his palms.

Yoongi chugs back a quarter of the beer as if to wash away the feeling, cringing immediately afterwards.

“Yeah, it makes sense to go in one car. Her– Uh, the boyfriend is going to be visiting his family in the east, so he won’t be coming with us,” Yoongi speaks dismissively whilst running a hand back through his hair. His friends appear to not notice the fervent longing that resides beneath his skin.

Yoongi is about to take another sip of his drink. That is, until he stares directly ahead and finds the devil herself, drying off her hair with a beach towel.

It is eternally mesmerising watching her. From the way she moves with the fluidity of water, to the beautiful manner in which her features transform into her signature expressions. Most of them are private inclinations to an opposite emotion. A habit that only he knows of after such an extensive period of time observing her throughout their growth.

She laughs at something her friends says. The surrounding commotion swallows it whole, but Yoongi can hear it in divine clarity; the harmonious melody that has been the repeating soundtrack to half of his life. The calling of songbirds; the gentle notes of a piano; the tinkling of wind chimes in a summer breeze.

There is a faint vibration against Yoongi’s thigh. When he reaches into his pocket to retrieve the device, she makes eye contact from across the grass. A smile drifts about her lips that he cannot help but return, gazing at one another like a secret. Then, she purposefully distracts herself with the entertainment surrounding her.

Yoongi stands up and departs from the group, who are already indulging in other topics. He answers the phone without checking the identification. The line crackles with static, and then, his mother is sobbing through the speaker as though the world is about to end as they know it.

And when she finally manages to choke out the syllables, he realises that such a figure of speech may not be far from the truth after all.

NOTE — this has also been adapted into third-person perspective!! to those who have never read this before, I’d love to hear your thoughts on the piece. besides that, all likes and reblogs are super duper appreciated!! ♡

our finale should be coming very soon. get ready for a true rollercoaster of emotion. I’ve already cried twice while writing certain scenes of it dfsghs.

also, I’ve removed the links to the individual parts of attts because tumblr is being dumb by deleting posts/blogs that are using links or something. until they’ve resolved this issue, you can access the other parts of the series via my master list!!

ALL RIGHTS RESERVED © SEOKEROS. TRANSLATING, REPOSTING AND/OR MODIFYING OF THE MATERIAL IS PROHIBITED.

[musical-chick-13]

who is your favorite iteration of the doctor to be shipped with river?

I thought a lot about my answer to this, and unfortunately I am going to give the BIGGEST cop-out of a response and say that I can't actually choose between Eleven and Twelve 😭😭

Just for the sake of having an answer, I'll say Twelve, just because he's my favorite Doctor. (And as much as I love it when characters are so broken up about losing people they love that they can't even talk about it--i.e. series 7 Eleven--I do very much appreciate the fact that we got to see Twelve actually consistently grieve onscreen. Also don't TALK to me about how the specific type of goodness he was able to successfully impart to Missy-about helping someone even when there's little to no chance of it succeeding, of getting anything good out of it for yourself, or of the other person ever knowing about it-CAME DIRECTLY FROM RIVER.)

But I really don't have like. A Specific Preference. I skew more toward the Doctors we've seen River interact with onscreen (and specifically during the Moffat Era because as everyone knows it's my favorite, lol), but I've really liked the fic I've read of her with Eight, and some of the stuff in the supplementary materials has gotten me to come around on her with Ten as well (I am notably not a Particularly Huge Fan of Ten). And I also even wrote a story once about her and Thirteen (that I then orphaned later for very stupid reasons). (It's here, if anyone's interested.)

All this being said, I wouldn't have fallen in love with this ship as much as I have if Eleven/River didn't exist. Twelve/River sees them both finally on the same page, and the whole "HE WOULDN'T BE IN LOVE ENOUGH TO BE STANDING [IN DANGER] WITH ME (*has actually been in the middle of said danger the entire time because he is in love enough*) was...look, that CHANGED MY BRAIN. PERMANENTLY. But I don't think people appreciate how truly DERANGED Eleven and River are.

She insults him/makes him look stupid and he just goes like this -> 😍. He starts accepting his interest in her WHEN HE LEARNS SHE'S IN PRISON FOR MURDER (probably for murdering him). They get so caught up in flirting (over River being A Scary Person specifically) that they completely forget that their best friend/family member is in the room with them and also in extreme danger. She expresses her affection by shooting his ridiculous hats off of his head. "Are you married/are you asking/yes." (*cue the most charmed expression on his face to ever exist*) "It's a shame you were busy that day" (<-because she had POISONED HIM AND HE WAS DYING). "And unlike me, she really doesn't mind shooting people, I shouldn't like that, kind of do a bit." "You graffiti-ed the oldest cliff face in the universe!"/"Well you wOuLdN't aNsWeR yOuR pHoNe." "You've got that face on again"/"What face?"/"The 'he's hot when he's clever' face"/"This is my normal face"/"Yes it is." "I do NOT sneak out at night to parties with RIVER SONG"/"How is she?"/"Fine. 😊"

His response to someone bringing her up and mentioning that she tried to kill him is "totally married her XD." She confessed her love to him via "getting the whole universe to mention how much they need him and agreed to marry him and he's still like, "Oh, gotta go check my fucking hair before I say hello to her again" in TATM. (Fun fact, the "Sorry honey, traffic was hell" line was originally, "Traffic was a bitch" which would have been the like. Highest-level curse word we've ever seen this man say, and it would have been in the context of trying to cleverly greet River which AGAIN, DERANGED BEHAVIOR.)

Fixed point that would destroy the universe if it were messed with? Too bad! Not if she thinks she has to kill him! "I'LL SUFFER IF I HAVE TO KILL YOU, MORE THAN EVERY LIVING THING IN THE UNIVERSE" OH MY GOOOODDDDDDDDD. (<-Worth noting that he calls her out over this for all of about two minutes before deciding the best way out of the situation is having an impromptu wedding.) She tells him TO HIS FACE "When I was little, I wanted to marry you" and then ALMOST INTENTIONALLY PERMANENTLY KILLS HIM LIKE TWO MINUTES LATER. He's dying on the floor in Berlin and still has the energy to go absolutely FERAL over the idea of someone hurting her. In the series 7 finale, she isn't even tangible and only exists through a conduit in Clara's head and he goes, "Too bad! I can hold you and kiss you and talk with you because I miss you, screw the actual laws of physics." (And then he's like, "Hmm, I probably look stupid right now. Oh well, back to talking to my wife, who I refused to say goodbye to for God Knows How Long because I would have been too sad.")

HE FALLS FOR HER POISONING GAMBIT BECAUSE HE'S HAVING TOO MUCH FUN FLIRTING WITH HER.

DUDE.

(Like, Twelve is also Deranged™ about her too, as evidenced by responding to her threat of cutting out his organs in alphabetical order with, "Which alphabet" and being jealous at the MOST inopportune times and, while in the middle of them fighting over who gets to risk sacrificing themselves, saying, "NOT ONE LIVING THING IS WORTH YOU" which is. Sure a line!!! That sure lives in my head rent-free!!!!! Also they have a Bonding Moment™ about carrying a severed head around in a bag. But the absolute INSANITY that goes on between River and Eleven is. Incredible.)

.........uhhhhh this. This got away from me. I also didn't really answer your question. Sorry? (<-Not actually sorry.)

[sasuhinasno1fan]

The perfect double surprise

So @ebhenah, I tried twice and hated both of my attempts so I really hope you enjoy this. I mixed your date night and planning a surprise prompts and changed it up just slightly. Enjoy.

Edit: @vldpolyexchange

Adam was focused on grading papers, music helping him focus when a pair of hands slammed on his shoulders.

“Ahh!”

He pulled his earphones out and turned around to see Matt laughing at him. Adam let out a huff. He liked Matt as a friend and also as his boyfriend’s other boyfriend, but he could be such a little shit sometimes.

“What the fuck asshole?”

“Not my fault that you don’t pay attention. I was trying to get your attention for 5 minutes.” Adam rolled his eyes. “Anyway, what are you and Shiro doing for Valentine’s day?”

Adam stopped himself from stiffening. As much as he’d love to go out with Shiro for Valentine’s, Shiro had been busy with work recently and he thought Matt should get the chance to spend the day with him. Now if he could finally get the confirmation email for their surprise.

“Um, I don’t know if we’re doing anything. What about you?”

“I don’t know if I have to work that night. We’ll see.” Matt answered.

Adam’s phone buzzed and he picked it up to look at the screen, stifling a smile. It was the confirmation email he’d been waiting for when he purchased tickets to an orchestra who would be playing some of the songs from Matt and Shiro’s favourite video game.

“Anything good?” Matt asked, leaning in trying to snoop.

“Just one of my students trying to give me a sob story about their boyfriend dumping them so they can’t finish an essay. Nothing I haven’t heard around this time. Now another question. This is my apartment; how did you get in?”

“I might have stolen Shiro’s keys.”

Adam sighed, already done with Matt. “My boyfriend is dating a kleptomaniac.”

“Hey, this klepto managed to hack into a terrorist mainframe and find their location.” Matt said, boasting about his job as a government hacker.

“Ah yes, my hero. If you’re gonna stick around for Shiro, at least go and cook something.”

“Fine. Only because we all know you’d poison all of us if you were let into the kitchen.” Matt teased.

“Hey!”

Matt covered the pot to let the keep the finished pasta warm when his phone rang.

“Hello?”

“It’s your favourite person.”

“My stuck up and terrifying boss, Kolivan?”

“Asshole! It’s Lance!”

Matt laughed. “Calm down.”

“I can just hang up and tell Hunk to take his reservations back.” Lance warned, making Matt drop the spoon he was moving.

“No, no, no! I’m sorry!” he hissed.

Valentine’s was coming up and he wanted to treat Adam and Shiro to a date night. He didn’t mind spending the day with his video games. The two deserved it, so he asked Shiro’s brother’s boyfriend if he could ask his best friend to squeeze them onto the reservation list.

“That’s what I thought.” Lance said, sounding princely. “Hunk got Shiro and Adam onto the list but it’s under your last name because Hunk can’t remember how to spell Adam’s obnoxiously long last name and the hostess kept struggling with Shirogane for some reason so he got frustrated and just put your name.”

“Ouch.” Matt said.

“I mean, some people still struggle with Keith’s last name, which isn’t far from Shiro’s but whatever. Point is, they’re on the list. You’re welcome.”

“Thank you. Are you sure you don’t want me to hack into the system at Keith’s job and get him the night off?”

“I don’t think the police force would enjoy that but thanks. He already said I can come over and have Chinese in one of the conference rooms with him.” Lance said.

“Alright.” Matt heard the front door open and the nails of Shiro’s dog Lion running in. “Gotta go. Thank you again. Whatever you need next time, it’s yours.”

“I’ll hold you to that.” Lance said before hanging up.

Matt left the kitchen and pouted as Lion ran over to Adam. “Hey, she ran to me last time. What gives?”

“Oh, so I guess my kisses won’t suffice.” Shiro said, dropping his bag on the couch and walked over to Matt, who opened his arms to let Shiro pull him in to kiss. “You left the door unlocked by the way. If your going to steal my keys at least make sure the two of you are safe.”

“Everyone in this building has seen Adam mad, I’m sure they know not to rob the place.” Matt joked.

“Hey!”

Shiro laughed at his boyfriends. “Not that I’m not happy to see you, but I left from your apartment this morning. What are you doing here?”

“I had to ask Adam something and I wanted to tell you something anyway. Besides, I made dinner.” A white furry body shoved her way between them. “Easy girl, you can join us.”

While Lion scarfed her dinner down, the three had sat down and dinner, talking about their day from Shiro’s job as a therapy dog trainer, the schemes Matt got into at his job and the insanity Adam dealt with in the classroom that day. Shiro took the plates to the sink and brought over a tub of Italian gelato and three spoons.

“So, what did you guys want to do for Valentine’s? It’s on Thursday.” Shiro asked, letting his boyfriends dig into the tub first.

“I have a surprise.” Adam and Matt said at the same time, making Shiro look at them.

“Is it the same thing?”

“I hope not.” Matt said. “Let me go first! I got you and Adam reservations to the restaurant Hunk works at for Valentine’s day. It’s under my last name so don’t give yours.”

Adam slowly pulled his spoon out of his mouth. “Um, Matt. I got you and Shiro tickets to that orchestra, the one who was doing a whole set of songs from that video game you like. It’s on Valentine’s day.”

“Oh.” Matt said.

Shiro looked at his boyfriends. He was really happy that each of them wanted him to spend the day with the other and he wanted to fix this. “Adam, when’s the performance?”

“Uh, 6:30 for an hour and a half.”

“Reservations?” Shiro asked Matt.

“8 because you two don’t like dinner at 7 for some reason.”

“Well then, I don’t see why I can’t do both.” The bispecaled boys looked confused so Shiro explained. “Matt and I will go to the concert and I can drop him back home and meet Adam for dinner. And if it’s ok with you guys, Adam and I can bring back dessert and we can all end the night with a movie.”

“That’s actually…” Adam started.

“A really good idea.” Matt finished.

“I’m glad you think so. Thank you you two. I’m sure there presents will be fun. And don’t worry, I’ve got something for you two as well.

“This is strange.” Matt sad, letting Adam fix the cuffs of his shirt.

“You doing an extremely casual cosplay of that character you and Shiro can’t stop drooling over?” Adam asked.

“Oh please, this is so not the first time I’ve casually cosplayed for an event like this. I mean, Shiro and I went to go see the BNHA movie the other day and we dressed in a version of their school uniform.”

Adam looked completely confused. “What? You know what, I don’t want to know. It’s enough that my boyfriend is a complete nerd. I don’t want to think about what you two nerds get into.”

“I mean you can watch.” Matt joked, Adam frowning at him. “Joking. But I was actually talking about this whole situation. I mean, Shiro, our boyfriend, spent the night at my apartment and we stayed here just so we could help the other choose outfits. Like we were like best friends or something.”

“Well, I consider you a very good friend.”

“I do to, it’s just, I also know you as my boyfriend’s other boyfriend who makes me feel compersion because you make Shiro really happy.” Matt said.

“You make him happy too. Goodness knows that if you never came along, I’d be dying trying to understand his gaming obsessions.”

“Hey. Usually we only go out with Shiro and we’ve never tried to go to something we all enjoy. My little sibling works at the local planetarium and there’s a ‘Myths behind the Stars’ event happening soon and I know you like the Greek myths a lot. I mean all of us are interested in space, maybe we can all go.” Matt suggested.

Adam’s smile was grateful. “I’d like to do that. Even though you and I aren’t dating, doesn’t mean we can’t all go out. You’re ready by the way.”

“Thanks. And thanks again for the tickets.”

“Of course. Are you sure the suit I have is fine for the restaurant? I heard what Hunk said, it’s a high establishment.”

Matt rolled his eyes. “It’ll be fine. Jez look at us, completely worried about what our boyfriend will think when we both know he’ll be completely head over heels for us anyway.”

“We are acting a bit crazy.”

Both their phones buzzed as their group chat got a new message.

“Shiro’s here. I’ll see you when we switch out.” Matt said.

“Have a nice time.”

Shiro was waiting for Matt in front the apartment, smiling when he realised what Matt was wearing.

“I’m letting you know it took everything in me not to do the same.” He said as Matt climbed in.

“Well great minds do think alike. Now let’s go. Adam said there’s supposed to be a small museum of things from the game before we go into the theatre.”

“Yes sir.”

They arrived at theatre and became the two nerds Adam had called them as they took in everything on display. When they finally got into the theatre, they were really excited for the concert.

“I’m really happy Adam got these tickets for us. It’s a shame we can’t get him into gaming.” Shiro said, resting his cheek in Matt’s hair, while the shorter one looked through the program.

“I think he’s happy with that. Hey, do you remember when you think I thought he didn’t like me?”

Shiro couldn’t help but laugh at the mess the relationship had been when Matt first joined. “Adam thought you didn’t like him.”

“He was so sophisticated.”

“And you were a complete nerd and he thought I’d just leave him for just you, just like you thought I’d dump you just to stay with him. Thank god we got that cleared up.”

“Bonding over the same insecurities, fun.”

“But I’m glad it worked out. I don’t know what my life would be without the two of you.”

Matt pulled his head away so he could smirk up at his boyfriend. “If it wasn’t for the fact that I was going to be spending the rest of the night with you and Adam, I’d think you were trying to get lucky.”

“Very funny. I’m serious.”

“Yeah, I know you are. You’d be lost without us.”

“Yes I would.” Shiro happily admitted, pressing a kiss to Matt’s lips.

“And don’t you forget it.”

“Reservation for 2 under Holt.” Adam told the hostess.

“Of course. Yes, here it is. Right this way.”

Adam took Shiro’s hand and squeezed through the unfortunate group of people who didn’t have reservations and were waiting. They were seated at a table, Shiro pulling Adam’s chair out before sitting himself. They were left with the menus and not long after a familiar face came to their table, wiping his hands on his apron.

“Hey lovebirds.” Hunk cooed.

“Hunk. Thank you for getting Matt the reservations.” Adam thanked.

“Of course. Poor guy kept begging, I couldn’t exactly say no. you are lucky that the person in charge of reservations though liked me. Don’t bother ordering from the menu, I have a set menu set up for you two.”

“Oh, you don’t have to.” Shiro tried to deny.

“Chef’s orders.” Hunk said, placing his hands on his hips.

Shiro sighed. He knew that pose. Hunk would push and push until he got his way and he always got his way.

“Can I at least request that dessert be taken home though. We have a very nerded out person back at the apartment.”

“Huh?”

“I got Shiro and Matt tickets to see this orchestra that was playing songs from their favourite game. Matt was still gushing about it when we switched.” Adam explained.

“Aww, Shiro, your boyfriends wanted to surprise you other halves.” Hunk gushed.

“Yeah, I’m a pretty lucky guy.” Shiro said, staring at Adam with a fond look as he took his hand.

“Don’t worry, I’ll take care of dessert. I’ll take these. Enjoy the night you two.” Hunk said, taking the menus and going back to the kitchen.

“I really am lucky you know.” Shiro said, taking Adam’s other hand, squeezing lightly at his fingers.

“I know. How was the concert though? I’m surprised I didn’t ask that on the ride over.”

“I thought Matt’s reaction would have been enough. It was amazing. Thank you for the present.”

“Your welcome. Though I think this dinner is more than enough repayment.”

Shiro couldn’t help but remember what he and Matt had been talking about while waiting for the event to start. “You know, it still surprises me that I’ve got the two of you. I remember in beginning when I started dating Matt, I was so worried you two wouldn’t get along because each of you were so sure the other didn’t like him.”

“Guess that’s proof that even V relationships still have to have communication.” Adam said, still remembering how ridiculous worried he’d been that Shiro would dump him for Matt. Now look at them, a prefect working machine to give their very deserving boyfriend all the love he needs.

“And I’m very glad that it worked out. I told this to Matt and it’s still very true, I don’t know where I’d be without the two of you.”

“Probably overworking to help people and maybe adopting too many dogs.” Adam guessed.

“You make it sound like adopting dogs is a bad thing.”

“Sweetie, Lion is enough of a handful and you’ve got me and Matt. You don’t need any more bundles of love.”

“Yeah, I guess I can’t complain with these amazing points.”

“Ohh,” Matt awed over the dessert Hunk had sent Shiro and Adam home with. Netflix was up and Shiro was choosing his pick of the three movies they’d watch for the night. “This is that lemon raspberry crepe cake Hunk makes. How did he do this? There’s no way this was on the menu.”

“It’s Hunk. I learn to just not question it.” Adam suggested.

“I do the same with Keith. And my sibling. Those two would get along.” Matt said.

Shiro uploaded his movie to their list when he remembered something. “Oh, I haven’t given you guys your gifts.” He passed the remote to Matt and got up off the couch.

“Grab some plates while your up. And a knife?” Matt asked.

“And forks, we’re not heathens Mathew.”

“That’s not what Shiro told me after last weekend when he stayed here because I had a long shift.” Matt teased, grinning as Adam turned red and threw a pillow at him.

Shiro came back with the requested items and two wrapped boxes. He checked the little marks he made on the side before handing them each to the right person. They opened the boxes to reveal a picture frame with three sets of pictures.

“Oh, this is my favourite picture of you and Matt.” Adam said looking at the photo next to the one of him and Shiro when Shiro first adopted Lion. Matt and Shiro were at the beach and Matt was on top Shiro’s shoulders.

“Hey, your pictures are different than mine.” Matt noticed. His favourite picture of Adam and Shiro wasn’t of them with Lion, it was them on a Ferris wheel with the night lights in the background. The one with him and Shiro was at their first convention together where someone happened to ask to take a picture when Shiro started carrying Matt on his back.

The last picture however was the same for them both. Adam, Shiro and Matt had a day off and decided to spend it in Disneyland and Adam insisted they all get matching headbands so they all wore matching sequenced Micky Mouse ears.

On the bottom, under the last photo the words, ‘It doesn’t matter who it started with, my life and love are complete with you two’ were etched on the bottom.

“Oh, Shiro.” Matt said looking at the words.

“Do you like them?” Shiro asked, seeming nervous, “It’s nothing like the two of you did but I wanted you two to remember how much I love you guys.”

“They’re perfect, thank you.” Adam said. “Come here.”

Shiro already knew what they wanted, and leaned down so his cheeks were presented, which had kisses pressed onto them.

“Happy Valentine’s day you two.” Shiro said.

“Happy Valentine’s day. Now can we eat the cake?” Matt asked, not even sorry as Adam and Shiro laughed at him.

[erosjeon]

Hiraeth 4

Hiraeth: (n) homesickness for a home you can’t return to, or that never was.

Jimin is a vampire who would stop at nothing to save his dying mother. What lengths would he go to if the only cure to her disease was destroying you?

Series warning: angst, emotional abuse, physical abuse, witchcraft, vampires, werewolves, fluff and eventual smut.

*THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS IMPLIED SMUT*

A/N: Releasing this chapter early because it’s Jimin’s birthday, Happy Birthday Mochi!

Words:1.9k

Jungkook looked down to see who had run straight into his chest only to find your tear stained face that was painted with fright, his first reaction was to insulate you with his strong arms and pushed you back into his chest, hugging you. He didn't know what else to do to make your panic and tears go away but nonetheless he wanted you to feel safer, because he was protective over you, and he was ready to fight whatever was chasing you no matter the consequences. When he felt you were a bit calmed down, he hesitated to ask you what was wrong or why you had been crying, not wanting to stir up the memory back in your mind. Neither of you know how much time passed by when he hugged you but only before separating you had hugged him back. You had never had comfort in that way from anybody but the long forgotten, you were startled at first but the heat that radiated from him instilled peacefulness in you, making you forget about the scene that unfolded earlier momentarily. "J-jungkook" you tried to push him away, afraid that somehow whatever happened before can still happen again, it seemed to follow her everywhere and Jungkook is the last person she would want to get hurt, even if she didnt know him. He didn't deserve it. "Do you wanna talk about it? What happened?" He looked at you with worried eyes that only made yours tear up, how can you even begin to explain this. No one would believe it. "I.. I dont even know" you stuttered, "You won't believe me because I cant believe it myself, its crazy" you wiped your tears with the back of your hand ready to turn around and walk away. "You can't just assume that... Try me" he reassured you. "I think... Someone tried to hurt me, she called me a witch and then s-she just died in my hands" you were shaking again, "Just like how Sally died, she had a number on her forehead again and I don't know what this means am I a murderer?!" "No, no you're not. You're not a witch either" he looked at you with gentle eyes. "You don't smell like them" he laughed, stunning you. "You... you dont think this is crazy?" You met his eyes. "No... it's not" he took a step closer, "I don't think its your fault either, that a person died in front of you unless you intended and physically done so". He brought his hands and cupped your cheeks "So don’t beat up yourself over it". 

"Why the hell do you smell like a dog?!" Seulgi had found you after you parted with Jungkook, he had finally left you alone after you insisted you were okay and had to go home alone, he resisted at first but agreed to it. "What?" Was your only reply, why is everyone accusing you of smelling strange, you couldn't pick up anything. "You know what. I dont even care. Keep walking". The drive back home was quiet, Seulgi glanced you some strange looks but mainly kept her eyes on the road. You thought her company was over you reached your new home, but she had gotten out of the car and locked it, following you in to the house. You were both met with a Jimin sitting on the black couch, his eyes darted upwards as he saw you enter. "Hey babe" Seulgi behind you greeted him and raced you into the living room to give him a kiss, he didn't seem to be fond of it but didn't look like he minded either. You excused yourself and went upstairs to not disturb anyone even further. The night unfolded and you grew hungrier, you had barely anything to eat but some food samples in the market and forgot your appetite after the eventful afternoon. You had decided to go downstairs to find something to eat but your plans were disrupted when you hear moans from downstairs. "Jimin don't stop!" You hear Seulgi's voice, followed by a loud moan. You were disturbed. The image of them doing such a personal activity disgusted you. They had no shame and didn't even care to acknowledge your existence for not taking it upstairs and giving you some space. Yet again, you forget that you were just captive and your life was a ticking bomb at his hands. You dont know how much time had passed before they've stopped, but you managed to gather some courage to go downstairs. As you walked down the steps you glanced around to see if there's anyone there, you thought you were alone before Seulgi jumped into view. She was barely covered and there was a bite mark on the base of her neck. "Did I tell you Jimin-ah, your little friend here smelt like a dog this morning, all in the intimate places" she smirked. "She, what?" Jimin came into view. "It was him wasn't it?" He asked looking slightly annoyed. "I don't know what you're talking about" you said, "I wasn't playing around with a dog, I stumbled upon Jungkook by coincidence in the market and we spoke a little"

“Spoke about what?” he glared at you, “Do you think that all of this is some joke?” he scoffed. 

“You said to not make it obvious that I got kidnapped, what am I supposed to do?! Everything I do ticks you off so just kill me already and get it over with” you don’t know where you gathered this sudden courage, “I’m tired of this, I just want to be at peace” you let tears slip through as you remember the deaths at your hand. 

You expected Jimin to threaten or even worse choke you but to death this time, but he didn’t say anything. He looked at you for longer than a moment, almost as if he was analysing you before walking away, with Seulgi closely following behind. 

You stood there for a minute, took a deep breath in and walked to the kitchen looking through the cupboards and quickly cooking up a meal. As you stood by the stove you contemplated living another day, if you were going to die why don’t you just die right now, why should you wait for it. The more days that pass the more pain you experience, with Sally gone your life was gone too. 

Everything after that happened in a blur, you remember taking out a knife from the knife-station just within your arms reach and after that all you saw was blood coming from the main artery in your forearm and slowly you felt yourself going unconscious, until you were met with the familiar blond, with bright red eyes and then darkness. 

It was so difficult to see your blood everywhere and not have the temptation to drink you empty. All it took was a few drops of his blood to heal you. Jimin was upstairs in a heated argument with Seulgi, she was never meant to let you out of her sight and she’s done exactly that. You could’ve ran away or had been taken by somebody, your ‘gift’ was quickly spreading as the word of town, a lot of people are finding out how precious taking your life is. When he sensed your heart beat quickly beating and smelt the sweet scent of your blood he knew something had gone wrong.

He had taken you upstairs to your room and laid you on the bed. He would be so angry if he didn’t pity you a little bit, he didn’t have time to waste feeling sorry for you as he had business to deal with. Jungkook.

“Jungkook” Jimin spitted, he knew where to find where he and his group of dog friends were. They weren’t difficult to trace given his supernatural scent and Jimin’s supernatural abilities. 

“Look who’s here... Is that you Jimin?” Jungkook grinned, people might think he was really happy to meet Jimin but he knew him too well, their relationship dates back and things were never good between them. 

“Don’t get too happy Jungkook, I didn’t come here to play. That’s what humans are for” Jimin smirked. 

“This brat is really asking to die” said one of Jungkook’s pact, someone Jimin can recognise to be Namjoon. 

Jimin disregarded him and continued. 

“I thought I made things clear when I told you to not cross paths with me ever again if you wanted to still have your tail” Jimin continued. 

“Yet you don’t fucking learn lessons do you, bad dogy” he laughed. 

Jungkook stood up and walked to the shorter man, Jimin knew well how to work him up with comments like these. He was no dog, he was a werewolf. He wasn’t going to stand there and accept demeaning comments from a blood sucker. 

“Why? Did Y/N smell good” he laughed.

“If I see you around her one more time, I swe-” his eyes went a deep shade of red,

“Look. I could care less about your empty threats, if you were going to do something then do it now. Be a man for fucking once” Jungkook said through gritted teeth.

“Besides, it’s not my problem if your bitches can’t keep their hands off me” he shrugged with a smirk plastered on his face. 

And that was all that had to be said to tick Jimin off. Hell broke loose. 

Jimin had superhumanly pushed Jungkook back, causing him to hit the ground with a thud. He had quickly hovered above him to land his fists onto his face aiming for his nose. It was only seconds until Jungkook’s mates gathered to flip Jimin around and start attacking him. Jungkook had managed to turn into his superhuman form and join the fight. 

Although Jimin had been outnumbered, he was still strong. He had killed two pact number by the poison of his own bite and snapping their necks. Jungkook was his strongest opponent and had landed good bites onto Jimin’s body which for a vampire would take ore time to heal if it wasn’t due to Jungkook’s nature. 

You woke up in cold sweat and you were really thirsty. You recalled what you had done before you passed out but when you lifted the long sleeve of your sweater, there were no wounds and no dressing. Was it Jimin’s work? Didn’t he want you dead? 

You were in the kitchen when you heard the front door open and somebody walking inside. You had peeked into the hallway in attempt to see who it only to find Jimin glancing at you. He looked like he was in pain, he walked slightly crooked before he stood in front of you. You had not realised you were between him and the wall until he placed one of hands on it, making you flinch on the process. He seemed to notice it and his gaze softened before he leaned onto you further. 

You were stunned, you had been in this position in his room the night before but the feeling was completely different. The environment around you still beamed with tension, although different from the last, at least for you... It was. 

[dontdietwd]

Don’t Die, day 24

The thick patch of woods around camp was lit at noon, the high temperature and hot beams of sun amongst the tree leaves making the wild life seem to be hiding, seeking refuge. Glenn wiped off a drop of sweat that threatened to fall into his right eye with the back of his hand, his baseball cap all but forgotten at camp; it only made his head hotter, he’d told me. By his side I considered, not for the first time, getting rid of the dreadlocks. The thick rolls of hair glued to my sweaty arms. One of them got tangled on the shoulder gun holster I still wore since I’d found it, and I had to stop to remove it.

“Seems to be clear,” he told me as I resumed walking. “We must be nearly out of the perimeter.”

“Few more yards,” I informed. “We use to check up until that big oak. I like to stand there for a while to see if the woods beyond are really clear.”

“Right. But you know, with how fast they walk, they’d take like a day to reach the camp from this point.”

“Some of them can be faster. I guess it depends on when –”

I stopped suddenly, a hand rising to stop Glenn from walking ahead of me. He had heard it too, though. Steps rustled the tree leaves ahead of us, stumbling shapes slowly becoming visible amongst the trees. Two females and one male walker growled hungrily looking at us.

“I think that one was at a party,” Glenn whispered as he pointed at one of the females with his knife. She wore a black strapless dress; a fancy pearl necklace was still around her neck, now dyed in red; one of her feet was bare, the other had a high heel silver shoe still strapped to her ankle, making it ever harder for her to walk.

“That’s why I never wore high heels,” I told Glenn as I also unsheathed my knife and took the first step towards the three dead people.

“Whoa, that’s a big guy,” Glenn said impressed as he reached the male, his putrid fingers reaching out for him only to find the empty air as he took a step back and to the side. The size of the dead man made him luckily slower, making it surprisingly easy for Glenn to reach up and stab him into his ear hole.

As I approached the two females, one was quickly kicked on the chest and stumbled back, falling on her bottom and groaning desperately. It would have been funny if I wasn’t too busy to give it any thought; I was fighting the dressed up walker who had taken hold of one of my dreadlocks and was pulling it with more force than her decaying body let show. Ignoring the pain on my scalp, I managed to reach for the walker head and bury the knife to the handle into her left eye. I nearly fell with the walker but managed to remain standing and untangle my hair from its hand – one of the fingers threatened to get unattached from the hand – in time to look around and see that Glenn had his foot trapped under the body of the walker he had just killed. It didn’t look like he had been hurt, but he was struggling to set himself free. The second female walker had stood up by now but didn’t have time to even try to attack. My knife, still coated with the other’s brain matter, was shoved strongly into her temple.

“You alright?” I asked Glenn as the walker fell heavily to the ground.

Glen stopped struggling, breathed out, head hanging a little in shame. “Yeah… He just… Fell on me.”

“Shit, Glenn, gotta be careful with the dead weight,” I said as I approached him and couldn’t help myself but laughing, “Hah, dead weight, got it?”

He also laughed despite of himself. “Yeah, got it. That was… Terrible!”

Letting it go I bent down to help him push the big walker away. “You’re lucky you ain’t alone.”

“Yeah, I know,” he mumbled as he rolled his foot, testing for any sign of pain. Satisfied it wasn’t hurt, he got up while I cleaned my blade on the fancy black dress of the dead walker. He stared at the three of them for a moment in silence before asking “What do you reckon it is?”

“What?” I straightened up and turned to him sheathing the knife again.

“This… Thing. Decease, virus, whatever. Nobody seems to have any kind of explanation.”

“We can only wonder… Don’t seem natural to me, though.”

“What do you mean?” he asked as we resumed walking.

“I don’t know, I don’t think nature would work like that. There’s a reason why things die in nature, the freakin’ circle of life and all that? I don’t see a reason for the dead to get back to life, I mean, happening naturally.”

“You mean you think someone did this? Like in a lab?”

“Yeah, why not?”

“Like terrorists?”

“Who knows? But well, if terrorists did this, they probably regret it by now. I mean, if this is really worldwide.”

“Must be. If it wasn’t, we’d be getting help from other countries already,” he paused. “Right?” and looked at me. I answered him only by returning his skeptical look, an eyebrow raised. “Well, so if it is manmade and if it is in the whole world… Who’d find the cure? If there’s any, I mean.”

“Who’d find it if the ones who should be looking for it are possibly eating each other as we speak?” and I raised a finger to make a point, “and not in a good way.”

“It’s hard to imagine that everything is really over,” Glenn spoke gloomily. “Life as we knew, I mean.”

“Is it really?” I asked just as we reached the oak tree and stopped walking. “Things were going to shit for a long time, Glenn. Violence, racism, wars, hunger. Of course there were still good things but… Maybe it was just so bad that there was no returning point, and we, simple people, didn’t even know how terrible things were. This thing that is happening sucks, it’s a fucking apocalypse, no good in that, but ya know… Many of the bad things might be over too.”

Glenn nodded his head, arms crossed. “Like pollution, pesticides, poisoned water, global warming, the next world war…”

“Yeah, there won’t be enough people to ruin the planet anymore. But what I mean is… We know nothing, right? Miserable little human beings who don’t understand the reason for anything in life. And we probably won’t know. There ain’t much we can do other than move on, keep living, keep fighting. Is what animals have been doing in nature since the beginning, we’ll just keep doing it.”

“Keep fighting,” Glenn repeated. “Build a life in this new world?”

“What other choice we got? Give up? Lie down and cry? If we didn’t give up when facing the other problems we’ve all had in life, why would we now? I’ve been though shit, Glenn. I don’t know your story, but I know nobody’s life is easy. We all are just gonna have to suck it up and move the fuck on.”

Glenn had gone silent for long minutes before speaking again. I let him think, his face showed how surprised he had been to hear my thoughts. It might have been hard to digest, but I knew I was right, because the more I thought, the hardest it was to find something about the old world that I would miss. Well, I would miss the supermarkets and all the available food and not having people try to feed on me, of course. But what in my past routine was so good that I would desire to have back? To wake up before sunset to go serve coffee all day? Run from the diner to the community school and study things I knew I was never going to really use in real life, until I fell asleep over the books? Take the bus late at night and walk home in fear of being robbed, assaulted, raped? To dream of the weekend when I could have a day off to go running on the woods and practice my free running with sport colleagues? I knew the colleagues were most definitely gone, but to run on the woods and jump up and down things was still pretty much possible, if not needed.

“We must plan things then,” the young man by my side cut the silence, removing me from my thoughts just as my mind reached the child I assumed I was having. No time to think about that now, though. “With this group we can do quite a lot, I bet.”

“Like what?” I asked. I had my own opinions about what we could, or should do, but I wanted to hear what others thought. My favorite thought is to fortify an area around us. Like, really close the space with fences, or walls. Stopping any walker would get to us and no people to rob our stuff.”

“First thing that came to my mind too,” Glenn agreed with me. “But how do we build fences? Wood?”

Glenn and I spent long minutes discussing it, just throwing ideas up in the air, one more unlikely than the other. We knew the notion of physically closing the area around was good, but extremely hard to comply.

“I just feel like this ain’t where we’re gonna stay,” I confessed after we sadly understood just how tied our hands were. “It’s too open; too close to the city, too uncomfortable to be for a long time. But it ain’t no good to think about this now, you know, ‘cause it’s working so far.”

“Yeah, you’re right, but what has to happen for it not to work anymore? Walkers?”

“I don’t worry about walkers, honestly. What worries me more now is that the food is running short. We’re twenty people eating twice a day; there’s children growing up, how am I supposed to feed everyone for long?”

“Your friends are out hunting, aren’t they?”

“Yeah, and they’ll come back with some meat, but I ain’t sure it’ll be enough. And if they bring a big hog or dear or something, we gonna have to cook it all or we’ll lose the meet. How long’s it gonna last? Two, three days?”

“With this heat, it would rot even before that long,” Glenn informed with an apologetic look on his face. “But we could salt it.”

“Come again?” I turned to him.

Glenn proceeded to tell me, more excitedly by the second, that he had read on the internet something about the process of salting meat to make it last, and that this process could preserve it for as long as months.

“Only thing, though,” Glenn concluded, his smile dyeing out, “is that we’d need to have quite a lot of salt. I mean, many pounds, you know.”

Crossing my arms, I went silent, Glenn following my lead as I turned around and started to slowly walk back towards the camp. I knew where we could go and try to find what we would need, but I didn’t feel like it was a good option. It seemed too risky, and none of us knew how things were back in Atlanta after the bombing. There was to guarantee we would ever find anything useful there.

“Did you know Shane has been teaching some of us how to shoot?” Glenn cut the silence after we had walked back about half way to camp. “We’ve been going away a few miles so the noise won’t attract walkers to the camp. I had learned before, but now I’ve trained and he said I’m doing pretty well.”

“I knew that. I’m the one who suggested you’d do it far from here,” I said walking but stopped right then and turned to Glenn. “Why do you say that?”

He had a determined face as he took a breath before saying “I am ready to go make a run to Atlanta.”

I only stared at him for a moment, eyeing him carefully as I looked for some sign of uncertainty, but other than Glenn’s gentle eyes and slightly raised eyebrows, I found none.

“You sure?”

“I am. Remember what I told you when we met on the road? I know Atlanta like my own hand. I used to deliver pizzas all over the city and –”

“And ya run pretty fast,” I finished and Glenn just smiled. “I remember.”

“So?”

“I worry, Glenn. You’d be alone out there with walkers all over. At least take someone with you.”

“I don’t think so, Sam,” he answered firmly, but still with his gentle tone. “I’ll be faster alone.”

“I feel responsible,” I told him crossing my arms, sounding life a confession. “I’m the one who brought you in. You’re in this group ‘cause of me and ya’ll be out there risking your life to get food for the group. Ya get it?”

He nodded with a tight smile. “I get it, Sam, but you’ve just said yourself. New life, we all have to face it? If this may be my job in the group, then I’ll do it. And I’ll be careful, I promise.”

After a moment, though reluctant, I said “Alright…”. Glenn smiled more openly now, glad. “But come back, ya hear me? In one piece. And bring food. And any sorta meds you can find.”

“And salt!” he completed with a laugh.

We both turned and restarted walking to the camp. Glenn proceeded to tell me what he thought he should take with him; a gun and ammo, more than one blade, food for at least a whole day out. I told him it all could be arranged, and with all agreed as we reached the clearing once again, I told him he’d leave in the morning and Glenn, happy with himself, left to start separating his stuff.

There, overlooking the clearing and the automatic motion the group seemed to have acquired in the past days, I had to double check to see if Merle and Daryl were back from their hunting, since Merle’s thundering, rude voice rang inside my head. They were not back yet, though. “…don’t wanna be responsible for all those shitheads. Wouldn’t wanna be in your shoes if they start seein’ you as the leader…” he had told me, and now I wondered when the hell had Merle Dixon turned wise. Glenn had just asked me permission to do something – something important – and I had considered, thought of pros and cons, and authorized him. Why hadn’t he asked Shane, when the two of them along with some other members of the group used to spend time together when training shooting – perfectly good opportunities to talk about it?

“Every pack need a leader, sweetheart.”

* * *

Ignoring my rolling, angry stomach, threatening to make me waste my breakfast, I slowly sipped out of an old, metal jug of water, careful breaths until I felt like it was safe to walk around again.

“Hey, Sam!” I heard and turned to look up at Dale on top of his RV. He pointed out in the direction of the woods. “Your friends are back.”

Smiling as a thank you, suddenly quite happy, I turned to where he had pointed, still unable to see them for a moment, but after a few seconds they appeared amongst the trees. First there was Merle, his clothes so dirty they even looked darker, strings of tied up squirrels hanging from his shoulders and, behind him, Daryl carried a dear over his shoulders, his face sweaty and dirty. As I approached smiling, I saw Daryl’s eyes dance around the camp, looking for something until they fell on me. I could have sworn I saw a smile on his lips, but it was quick, his face returning to the same closed, sulky one I knew. Still smiling, I headed to where they were both now being greeted by the better part of the group, cheering the prospect of having fresh meat tonight.

“Look at ya’ll fuckin’ vultures!” Merle was laughing when I got there. “Ya’ll never direct a fuckin’ word to me, but now I got the meat! Now ya’ll my best friends, ain’t ya?”

“We’re just glad you two got good result doing your part to get the camp going on, is all,” Shane was explaining as he took the strings of squirrel from Merle.

“Yeah, but ya’ll get to clean ‘em up,” Daryl said as he dropped the dead dear heavily to the ground.

“Hey, bro, old world had gold-diggers; we got ourselves some meat-diggers now!” Merle said and laughed aloud of his own joke.

“Don’t be a jerk, Dixon,” I told him as I stood by them.

“Hey, hey sugar face!” Merle said happily as wrapped an arm around me. “Miss me, didn’t ya?”

“Fuck, Merle, you stink!” and I started distributing slaps to get him away. “Fuck off!”

“Ya love me!” he said letting me go. “I know ya do, ya loved me before I got ya meet, unlike all there meat-diggers!”

“Yeah, yeah, you believe whatever the fuck gets ya going, now get outta here and go wash.”

“What won’t I do for ya, sweetheart?” he said as he turned to go down to the lake.

“Welcome back anyway, stinky!” I laughed as he left.

As I turned to talk to Daryl, all the other people were already walking away, taking all the dead animals with them. Daryl gave me a tiny, shy smile.

“Not smelling much better,” he told me.

I leaned a little closer and sniffed the air, making a face and getting away from him again, “You damn fuckin’ right!” and I laughed as he raised his arm and took a sniff at his own armpit, making the same face I had. “Ya been out long,” I damped it down because it really didn’t matter. “Good to see you.”

Daryl nodded but didn’t answer. He only started walking in the same direction Merle had gone and I stepped by his side. “How’s things ‘round here? Good?”

“Quiet, I guess. Few walkers around the perimeter but we’ve been catching them before they get here… But food’s starting to run low. Hey, do you know something about preserving meat?”

As we crossed the camp and descended to the bottom or the quarry, Daryl told me how to do it with salt and how this was, due to the circumstances, our only preserving option. If Glenn didn’t find salt enough to do so, Daryl would have to go away hunting with Merle much more often.

“Nah, no fuckin’ way I’ll do that. Can’t be alone with Merle that long.”

“How come?”

“Not used to it... He wasn’t around much. Every now and then he’d just vanish and not come back for a long time.”

“Yeah, I know… Was kinda noticeable when he was gone, quieter ‘round there. But why did he go away so often?”

“He’s got issues.”

“Yeah, I figured… But he’d just… Up and leave?”

“Yeah, most times without even saying goodbye; just left me there to handle it alone.”

“Handle it?” I asked looking at him, still slowly descending the patch. “What did you have to handle?”

Daryl shook his head, a bitter, little smile on his lips. “Forget it.”

“Ok… Well… For what’s worth, I also know all about handling things on my own,” I saw Daryl look at me then, curiosity in his blue eyes. Looking at him as well, I smiled. “I’ll tell if you tell.”

He held in a laugh, his smile enlarging, “Not a chance.”

“Alright then,” and we were silent for a little longer. “Hey, uh, how is he? I mean, with the drug thing? He’s been using that blue crystal he got?”

“Bit, not much. He’s trying to cut out. He’s been weird ‘cause of that.”

“Why’s he cutting out?”

“Well, ya know, if he’s high and a bunch of walkers come up he won’t have the reflexes to deal. Says he knows that, so he’s got to try and be alert.”

“He’s never been more right,” I agreed just as we reached the lake and see, yards away, that Merle is washing waist deep in the water. “We gotta keep an eye on him… Withdrawal won’t be easy if he cuts back altogether.”

 * * *

 On top of Dale’s RV, I stood observing the camp beneath me. Night had fallen and, with it, the sleepy silence of the post-dinner relaxation; it had been the first one with meat in a few days. It’d been amazing, Carol had taken over dinner tonight and cooked us all an incredible deer pot roast. The Dixons were praised again, to Merle amusement, and Carol was too. It had been a good night. I watched as Lori and Carol quietly left the clearing, each one bringing her child to the tents. Around camp men on their posts keeping watch; in the center Shane kicked dirt from the ground to the fire, putting it out. I breathed deeply but quietly, relieved to be feeling quite well after dinner. No night-sickness today, and I wondered if I was far along enough to be out of that faze already. Doing a quick math, I concluded it probably wasn’t the case. Maybe I’d feel sick in an hour or so, which was a shame because dinner had been amazing.

Turning around, I took a seat by Dale on the second folding chair, silence claiming us for a moment.

“Glenn’s going to Atlanta in the morning,” I quietly told the older man, who turned his head to look at me.

“Do you think it’s safe?” he asked carefully.

“No. I don’t think anything is really safe now… But it’s needed.”

“Can he pull it out?”

“Yeah, I think so. He’s confident, he can shoot, run fast. I’m giving him the chance.”

“Chance of what?”

“Of feeling useful,” I looked at him too. “We need food and other stuff he’ll be looking for, but I think it’s mostly about him feeling he’s needed. You know? I think we all need it.”

“You’re absolutely right,” Dale nodded, relaxing into his chair again and looking out. “Why do you think I stand here looking out for the better part of the day? I think it’s what I can do, my part. I’m not so good at killing them; maybe not fast enough.”

“I know…” I went quiet for a moment, both of us looking down and around. “Your lookout is crucial just like the job each one here’s doing. We need the guards around camp, we need the kids gathering twigs for the fire, we need Shane teaching people how to shoot and organizing the patrols, and Merle and Daryl going hunting, Carol and the others cooking and keeping water clean… I’m just… Still not so sure what I’m doing.”

While I spoke, I wondered why I was talking about it. I liked Dale but had never really sat down to talk to him. Perhaps there was something about him being the eldest of camp, with a wise look, that made people want to open up to him. I’d seen others doing it before. Andrea was the one who did it most; I noticed how they had become friends since the beginning.

“You’re not sure what you’re doing?” Dale asked, a tone somewhat unbelieving on his voice. “Sam, you’re –” he stopped to laugh a little “You’re leading us!”

I stared at him, mouth agape for a moment. Damn, that was said. Seems like it wasn’t real until someone voiced it. I was leading them. I was leading a group. Was I fucking leading the group?!

I shook my head forcefully, trying to make my brain restart, and leaned further back into my chair. “Fuck, Dale, I don’t know how it happened. Why? I mean it, why did I become the – the leader of the group? I’ve never done anything like that in my life, I was a fuckin’ waitress! How – how did that happen?”

Dale shook his head slowly, still smiling. “Since the road, before we all left looking for a place, you stated your opinions and they all made sense, you faced what was to come and thought about what would be best for all, and what I liked the most, personally, you stood up for Shane, who had taken the decisions for himself with his ‘I’m a cop’ speech. I mean, don’t get me wrong I respect and have always respected cops, and I like Shane, but his attempted leadership was all but forced upon us. Yours wasn’t.”

“I just had common sense, Dale. I don’t think anything I said or did was out of what would be right, no matter who was making the decision. Just… Yeah, common sense. And as for Shane, I – I mean, I never let myself scare by men, you know… Imposing, stronger, kinda sexist men. I stood up for my opinions and the rest just came with it.”

“So,” he made a gesture with his hands as if he was showing me something, “you’ve just explained exactly why you’re at the head of camp, Sam. Common sense, the best for all first. I, personally, would choose you over him without a second thought exactly because of that. And I know it must be scary being in this position all of a sudden, during the apocalypse, it’s quite the responsibility. But don’t forget than other than the four children, the rest of us are all adults who are also capable of having common sense. You’re not alone.”

I said nothing after that. I didn’t know what to say. I continued observing the camp with Dale for a few more minutes, thoughtful. Merle’s words kept coming back to my mind and scared me, but Dale’s thought helped her keep balance and not freak out.

Just common sense, it was all I needed.

[the-desolated-quill]

The Wolverine - X blog

(SPOILER WARNING: The following is an in-depth critical analysis. if you haven’t seen this movie yet, you may want to before reading this review)

I had absolutely zero interest in watching this movie. Why would I after X-Men Origins: Wolverine? It was boring, poorly thought out, badly constructed and it completely butchered the greatest comic book character of all time. (I’m talking about Deadpool obviously. What, did you think I was talking about Wolverine? LOL. In your dreams). Plus I just don’t give a fuck about Wolverine. Did that come across? Hell, at this point, I wouldn’t even pass water over Wolverine. But then my boyfriend at the time convinced me to give this movie, The Wolverine, a shot. Saying it was a massive improvement over the previous film that corrected all the wrongs. So I snuggled up next to him on the couch and watched it, anticipating the ride of my life.

That’s not what I got.

The Wolverine isn’t an improvement over the previous film. It’s not even as bad as the previous film. I’d go as far to say that it’s worse than the previous film (and in case you’re wondering, my boyfriend and I aren’t together any more).

Dear God, where do I even start with this mess? I mean say what you like about X-Men Origins: Wolverine, at least it was attempting to tell a story. The Wolverine is just… I don’t even know how to explain it. Nothing happens most of the time and the few things that do happen don’t make any fucking sense. It’s actually surprisingly hard to follow most of the time.

I suppose I should say the initial premise is solid. Once you overlook the stupidity of Wolverine using himself as a human shield to protect some Japanese soldier from a nuke (yeah, um… what about radiation poisoning? or can Wolverine absorb it all like a human sponge?), the idea of Wolverine losing his healing powers is actually a really good one. It could provide some much needed tension in fight scenes knowing that he can be wounded or even killed, and it could inject a touch of vulnerability into the character that would be interesting to explore. The problem is they never do anything with it. It doesn’t even really change Wolverine that much. He may get wounded, but he’s still fighting the exact same way, throwing caution to the wind as usual. He’s still shrugging off bullet and knife wounds, and there’s even one ridiculously stupid bit where he fights some thug on top of a bullet train, which should have turned both of them into pulp. It’s as if the filmmakers forgot the premise of their own movie halfway through. For fuck’s sake, if you’re going to depower Wolverine, actually commit to it! Don’t chicken out the minute it becomes inconvenient for you.

There are traces of the cure storyline from X-Men: The Last Stand in this. Wolverine wondering whether to give up his healing powers in order to live a normal, finite life like everyone else. But at this point it seems any interesting social commentary the X-Men films once offered has pretty much abandoned ship. There’s no real effort to actually explore the character (again) and the logic behind the premise is just baffling. Curing a mutant’s powers is one thing, but now you can swap them with other people? How the hell does that work? How does that spider thing attached to Wolverine’s heart somehow suppress his powers? How can sticking drills into his claws absorb his powers? I’m really confused!

It’s actually very hard to talk about this movie because I confess I don’t fully understand what’s going on half the time. Basically the Japanese soldier Wolverine saved at the beginning is dying and wants Wolverine’s powers so he can live forever. He has a giant robot samurai suit (don’t ask) that can drill holes into Wolverine’s claws and absorb his powers… somehow, but he doesn’t do that. Instead he concocts an elaborate plan to make his granddaughter the heir to his business empire, thus pissing off her dad and fiancé, leading them to contacting the Japanese mafia and trying to have her killed, which Wolverine prevents whilst having his powers suppressed by another mutant called Viper, and once all that is over and Wolverine has fallen in love with her (because obviously that would happen), the soldier kidnaps his granddaughter and uses her as bait, luring Wolverine to his giant tower of evil and THEN uses the giant robot samurai suit (don’t ask) to drill holes in Wolverine’s claws and absorb his powers.

Now… I think that was the plan, but I’m not sure. I tend to fall asleep about halfway through so I can’t be certain. Needless to say, the plot is convoluted and extremely boring. For starters if you have the time to send that Viper woman to french kiss Wolverine while he’s sleeping, then why don’t that soldier guy just use the robot samurai suit? Why even suppress Wolverine’s powers in the first place? I don’t think he’ll be much use to you dead. But the main issue once again is that I just don’t give a fuck about anything that’s going on. None of the characters are properly developed and I’m just simply not invested. The supposed friendship between the Wolverine and the soldier is never fully explored, which is a shame because the soldier had the potential to be a fascinating antagonist. A man so terrified of his own mortality, he’s prepared to sacrifice his cultural beliefs, his family and his morals just to survive. Plus this is ostensibly a villain of Wolverine’s making. But the film never even touches upon it.

One thing The Wolverine does improve upon over its predecessor is the fight scenes. In X-Men Origins: Wolverine, the fight scenes were so poorly edited and filmed that it was hard to make sense of what’s going on. Here that’s not the case. So at least I can see what’s going on, what little of it there is. Because as overly complicated this plot is, it’s surprising how very little actually happens in this film. Vast stretches of runtime devoted to absolutely nothing. The first 10 minutes of the film for instance are devoted to Wolverine trying to figure out who killed a bear. A fucking bear! And then there’s the incredibly forced romance with the granddaughter. Despite the fact that we never learn anything significant about her and the two share absolutely zero chemistry, we’re expected to be invested in them falling in love and fucking like rabbits because… he has a penis and she has a vagina I guess. I don’t fucking know! It’s all stupid. Not to mention it stands contrary to the whole woe is me crap with Jean Grey.

Oh yeah! Jean Grey is back in this movie! Albeit in dream sequences. Basically Wolverine has left the X-Men because he’s feeling all angsty about killing Jean (yawn) and now she shows up every five minutes encouraging him to die so they can be together forever and ever amen. I assume these scenes are here to get us to feel sorry for Wolverine and to get all wistful over his relationship with Jean. Except I don’t feel that because both Wolverine and Jean Grey are incredibly dull and poorly written characters and their ‘relationship’ mostly consisted of him sexually assaulting her. So no, I wasn’t moved. In fact the opposite, I was very, very unmoved. The only time I moved was when I got up to get a sick bag because I couldn’t believe this stupid romance was being forced onto me again and I was feeling rather queasy.

Plus the return of Jean Grey once again caused me to ask some very awkward questions about the X-Men continuity. So this film takes place after X-Men: The Last Stand, right? So how come Magneto has his powers back? Didn’t he lose them at the end of X-Men 3? And how come Xavier is back from the dead? Plus there’s all the discrepancies with the X-Men prequels (I’m assuming X-Men Origins: Wolverine is no longer canon, otherwise what the fuck is Wolverine doing in Nagasaki and where was Sabretooth). Also at the end of this film, Wolverine gets his bone claws back, but in X-Men: Days Of Future Past and the trailers for Logan, he has metal claws.

WOULD IT KILL SOMEONE TO HIRE A FUCKING CONTINUITY EDITOR?!?!

I just feel sorry for Hugh Jackman at this point. He’s a great actor and you can tell he’s really trying his best, but there’s simply nothing anybody can do with this material. No wonder he wants out. If I was stuck playing the same shit character for 16 years of my life, I’d want out too.