#Stipple Ceiling

[dokries]

that’s rough, buddy

pairing: kim mingyu x gender neutral reader

genre: fluff, (a bit of) angst, established relationship

word count: 1.6k

warnings: miscommunication (everything turns out well!), mingyu’s just a little forgetful, seungkwan best friend, a forehead kiss

author note: this was requested by a lovely anon <3 again, i’m so sorry it took me so long to get to it 😭 i hope you enjoy reading, and lots of love (as usual) 🫶

masterlist

mingyu thinks you hate him, and it’s not just because you haven’t visited his apartment for more than eight days—though that’s concerning as well; you’re usually over within a couple of days, even if you’re busy, which he definitely knows you aren’t, considering how much you’ve been going out with friends, namely seungkwan and chan.

he purses his lips, looking up at the ceiling from his comfortable spot on the couch…alone, just like the last two weeks. his phone dings and he opens it immediately, a frown appearing on his face when it turns out to just be seungcheol asking if something’s up between the two of you—of course he knows; seungkwan never even looked in mingyu’s direction the last time all thirteen hung out together.

mingyu sighs, responding back with a “ask seungkwan not me” before opening up to the last time you had texted him. he had said he was busy back when you had asked if he wanted to go to a photography exhibition, and you haven't responded to his hurried apology.

maybe it’s time to say something…? he pauses before sighing again, going back to staring at the ceiling, hoping the little stipples above him will make a decision so he doesn’t have to.

of course, the only reason you’re avoiding him is because you think he hates you—which may be a huge overstatement but what else would you call it? it’s one thing to not have time for dates because that, at least, you could understand. maybe it’s just that you’ve passed your puppy love phase, and that’s alright; you’re both very busy people but…why is he ignoring you? that’s not the mingyu you know, and it’s been almost a year since you started dating.

the most annoying thing is that he probably doesn’t even realize your anniversary is coming up in the next few days—though you’ve stopped caring (the dried tear stains on seungkwan’s couch pillow say otherwise).

so when he texts you while you’re at chan’s apartment, you frown in surprise, catching the attention of seungkwan, who’s beside you.

my gyu 🥰 ❙

hey it’s been a while since you came over… movie night at 6?

you move to pull up your keyboard but seungkwan stops you by quickly pressing the power button before you can even start typing a reply.

seungkwan glares at you when you start to protest, and takes your phone into his hands to prevent anything happening, as if he’s your parental figure. “don’t you even dare say yes.”

“maybe…” chan sighs and rubs his eyes with his palms, catching your attention—and seungkwan’s too, as he raises an eyebrow at his best friend, telling him to continue. “maybe we should give him a chance?”

seungkwan immediately scoffs and jumps into a rant about why you should do the exact opposite of what chan’s suggesting. “chan, have you not been paying attention these past few weeks? that man has left our dear baby—” seungkwan moves to shush you when you say you’re not a baby, continuing once you press your lips into a straight line. “he literally left them hanging multiple times, and all he had to say was ‘sorry i can’t make it sweetie.’”

chan frowns, tilting his head. “isn’t that what you’re supposed to say to your partner if you can’t make it?”

seungkwan pauses, sighing. “well…yes but come on, he could at least offer to make it up to them if he’s done this like ten times! also, he definitely forgot about their anniversary, which is so much more horrible.”

as seungkwan takes a deep breath to calm himself, you correct him quietly. “it’s been three times.”

“what?” seungkwan looks at you exasperatedly, and chan giggles from his seat on the chair in front of the two of you.

“i said he’s only done it three times. besides, he’s been busy…it makes sense for him to forget.” you hold out a hand to stop seungkwan before he launches into another spiel on how mingyu sucks as a boyfriend so you can keep going. “listen, kwan, i think spending some time with him would be right…but i’m not ready for that yet.”

seungkwan bites his lip before nodding, his expression softening. “okay. as long as you’re happy, okay?”

you hum in agreement as chan stands up, clapping his hands excitedly, and you exchange a look with seungkwan.

chan grins, pulling out an uno deck from a drawer in the table beside him. “how about we play uno to distract ourselves?” he nods towards you before smirking at his other friend. “i’m sure they’d love to see me beat you.”

seungkwan raises an eyebrow before scoffing again, raising his shoulders in a shrug. “well, lee jung chan, you should know you’re totally gonna lose.”

chan scoffs, and as your best friends start bickering like normal, you smile, knowing they’re amping up the dramatics to take your mind off…whatever you and mingyu are right now. well, you could think about your boyfriend after beating both chan and seungkwan in uno.

mingyu’s been sulky all day, and wonwoo not asking him why isn’t helping the sinking pout on his face.

he stares unrelentingly at his best friend as wonwoo faces the self-help bookshelf in front of them, searching for the book he’s been looking for since they entered the small shop.

“why are you like this?” wonwoo eventually breaks under mingyu’s pitiful gaze and huffs out a breath, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose before turning to his friend. “what’s wrong?”

mingyu sighs like he’s been doing for the past few days, and wonwoo puts the book in his hand back on the shelf, expecting his friend to not get to the point quickly (he’s right).

mingyu says your name quietly as a response, and wonwoo raises an eyebrow. “what is that supposed to mean?”

“it means that they hate me! i don’t know what i did either…i mean look, it was pretty busy at work so i couldn’t go on dates with them when they asked but that’s okay right?” mingyu frowns and bites his lip when he realizes he’s a bit too loud for the bookstore.

nodding, wonwoo processes the information he’s just been given before he puts a sympathetic hand on his best friend’s shoulder. “good luck with that.”

mingyu scoffs, about to scold the man in front of him before his gaze drifts off to the bookshelf in the far corner, where the two of you had been searching for cooking books around the time you had first started dating, which was probably around…a year–oh.

oh, he’s so dumb, isn’t he?

“hm?” wonwoo says when his friend pauses, looking up from the book he just picked up as mingyu groans and puts his head into his hands, moving to rest against a nearby bookshelf.

wonwoo looks over to the cooking section and turns back to mingyu. “hey, isn’t it–wait…you forgot the anniversary, didn’t you?”

mingyu groans again in agreement, and gets a head pat paired with a “that’s rough, buddy” from his friend before he’s left alone, coincidentally, in the relationship advice section.

seungkwan sighs as he comes back from checking through the peephole of your apartment door, gesturing towards it as he plops down onto the couch. “it’s for you.”

you raise an eyebrow, getting up to open the door—seungkwan already checked anyway, so there’s no need to look through the peephole again–and come face to face with mingyu, the man you’ve been avoiding. “oh.”

the paper around the bouquet of white orchids in his hands crinkles as he shifts his weight, a nervous smile on his face as he calls your name hesitantly. “hey.”

you nod in greeting before looking back to seungkwan, who’s glaring at mingyu with his arms crossed, and paying attention to the man in front of you as he clears his throat.

“i, uh…here.” mingyu pushes the flowers towards you, and lets out a breath of relief when you take it gently from him. “i’m sorry.”

you stare at him. “for what? forgetting our anniversary? for not apologizing for so long?” you sigh when he remains silent, looking back at the clock in your living room. “there’s only a few hours left of our one year anniversary anyway…it’s fine.”

mingyu shakes his head, coming closer to grab your arm gently with a serious expression. “no, it’s definitely not fine. i hurt you, and that’s not okay.” he pauses, frowning. “besides…i miss my partner–i miss you.”

you sigh, looking into mingyu’s eyes, and you know he’s genuinely sorry. you break your arm free from his grip, causing his face to drop.

you place the bouquet of orchids on the side table, and call out to seungkwan. “hey, kwan? do you mind finding a vase for these?”

“i have to make the most out of these last two hours of my anniversary with my boyfriend after all.” mingyu’s face lights up as you take his hand, still looking back at seungkwan’s soft smile, which matches your own.

you give mingyu a pointed look as you close the door behind you, trusting seungkwan to keep your small apartment safe. “but first, we really do have to talk about…whatever the last month was, okay?”

mingyu nods eagerly before placing a gentle kiss on your forehead as the two of you grin. “i missed you so much, baby.”

[interpolanticssuperfan]

nothing natural | ken x fem!reader | part 5 | 18+ only

hi everyone!! wow, i did not mean for this chapter to be so meaty!! i sort of had fun setting up the building blocks for ken's return, so i hope it makes sense and feels necessary. thanks for reading and supporting <3 <3 SMUT IS COMING!! DO NOT WORRY (:

tags: @heyareyoulistening @itsametaphorbriansblog @alyeria @chrispontiass

After Ken leaves you, the weekend passes by without notable interruption. Life goes on, and you have no choice but to keep going with it. If the blues of the sky pale, the whorls of white clouds disentangle themselves into nothing; if the pastels of colored buildings all seem duller afterwards, you don’t say anything about it to anyone. 

Not like you had anyone to tell.

Your supervisor ends up buying the flimsy lie you’d concocted as to why you were so behind on reports and emails. To compensate for the hindrance and cover your ass, you worked a handful of hours on Sunday, barely functioning after fighting sleep that night. Blinking blearily into your weak homemade coffee. 

The first night without Ken was impressively quiet. Hours of tossing and turning, counting stippled designs on the ceiling and squeezing your eyes shut when the blue or white light of your television grew too intense, your mind repeating on a loop that you’d never see him again. Funnily enough, the obtrusive screen could have easily been turned off, but the idea of laying cocooned in silence was worse than any other punishment imaginable. 

You remembered how clean and aromatic Ken had smelled in your kitchen, as you observed the featherlight movement of his stomach, his breath tense under your catatonic stare. Like fresh linen, the initial wave of those pink tulips planted in tiny little rows in front of the library, the relief of a clean, spotless home. 

Ken had smelled like a long-awaited sigh, like comfort, like the warm tailend of a nap that you couldn’t be shaken out of. A home you’d never known. Each element of Ken’s ever having existed had blown out the front door and followed him back to a place that didn’t sound real. Maybe wasn’t real.

How could you miss someone you hadn’t even really known at all?

Perhaps you could traipse out of the bedroom, wait out there in silence to see if you could still pick up any lingering traces of him in the dark, if you could pick up any notes of the pure bleach of his hair, pungent like a drying ink stamp. 

Something told you even if you had nuzzled against Ken’s head, it wouldn’t smell like chlorine, wouldn’t smell like sodium hypochlorite or aluminum foil, because Ken didn’t need to seek out alterations to make himself beautiful, didn’t need to add to or take away from any part of his physicality to fit some type of standard. 

He was naturally impeccable. Easily unmarred.

(Astonishing, really, how little time it had taken for your every waking moment to be consumed with thoughts of Ken.)

But now your living space was stoic. Fragmented by a deficit of light and life and sparkling teeth that glowed like ethereal cave moss. 

(Teeth you desired to feel with your own tongue, battling for dominance in his sweet, pink mouth that curved like a marble bow. You wanted to memorize the dips and juts of his molars, his canines, wanted to know them each by shape alone.)

The cold right side of your bedsheets felt freezing to the touch once you’d spent three hours awake in the small of dawn imagining how wonderful it’d be to share it with someone. Picturing the rise and fall of thin fabric as Ken rested, let his body go lax next to yours. The way he wanted to. The way he’d been angling for.

You frowned to yourself, twisting a fraying thread on the empty pillow around your pinky, the silk too plump, too… devoid of blonde companionship.

How could you have pushed Ken away? Was it mere loneliness that had conjured this visceral reaction out of you? The feeling that deep down, you’d never really been seen for who you were and subsequently accepted? Let alone fawned over?

Your head bobbed as if underwater, tumbling out of wakefulness and into disappointment.

The second night without Ken had been fretful. Restless. Two bottles of pink wine sent you straight to sleep, and after brushing Willa’s hair and ordering in ten dollar pad thai, the only flashes of blonde you saw in your conscience were drifting through sleep, hazy through lackluster dreams.

You tried cleaning. Tried scrubbing the tiles of the kitchen for something to do. Anything to remind yourself that you had responsibilities, that life carried on outside of the compelling stranger you’d met at the library.

When Sunday rolled around your work bag felt about as heavy as the ones under your eyes, twin weights that refused to be alleviated.

You wished you understood why this was taking such a toll on you. Even Willa seemed to be raising her eyebrows at you from her tiny enclosure.

You’d been the one to suggest that Ken leave. That he pack it up and go right back the way he’d came.

You’d never really been one for accepting good things that rolled into your life. Whether they made sense or not, had been earned or not. Displays of paranoia at even the most throwaway compliment. 

It’s how you’d reacted to receiving a scholarship – awkward declinations that catapulted house parties or family dinners into palpable silence. “No, no. Really, it’s nothing, I don’t even deserve this. Don’t mention it. Can we please stop talking about this now?”

You didn’t even like celebrating your own birthday.

How ironic, that the pinpricks of attention from your loved ones made you shrink under the pressure, but the laser-tight surveillance Ken directed towards you had the opposite reaction. You came to life under his scrutiny. Felt your heart swell and twist with each moment he spent watching you.

The cashier at the corner store nearly dropped his jaw in horror when he caught a glimpse of how ragged you were looking. Hair a mess, eyes barely open, your fingers fumbling with your wallet as you paid for another pack of cigarettes.

“Been a minute, (Y/N). Everything going alright?” What he really wanted to say was, what the fuck happened to you?

You ignore the stilt of his worried voice. “Fine. Thanks.” The kid doesn’t push it, just adjusts his baseball cap and shrugs, watches you shoulder out the front door with a loaded sigh.

Setting up at the library reminded you too much of the sweet, breezy morning you’d met Ken, the sunshine that had wrapped itself around you. You just couldn’t anticipate how you’d react while trying to pay attention there, surrounded by so many reminders of the only interesting, worthwhile thing that had ever happened to you, so the most sensible course of action seemed to be the patio.

You lasted about an hour in the sunshine before the glare bothered you and all you wanted was darkness.

Monday proved to be worse.

Reluctant to leave the apartment, you work again for the day in the kitchen, pouring a glass of wine at noon and logging off early at four when the carpet starts to spin, when email subjects blur into train tracks of nonsense that you can’t make sense of.

Your sister calls unexpectedly at dinner time while you’re dozing off at seven, drooling on the pillow. It goes straight to voicemail. How nice of her to find time away from her son to remember your existence.

Rubbing your temples, you chide yourself. Not nice to think things like that. Grow up.

Not calling her back, you throw your phone on the bed and follow suit, dropping down again and sipping a crushed can of beer from the night before, stale and tasteless.

Tuesday plagued you with the promise of nice weather, a drop in extreme temperature, but again, the second you got dressed to head down to the library, you felt laziness tug at your mind, felt depression sink into your chest.

Why even bother, you wondered? Why bother when I’ve a perfectly comfortable bed just around the corner where I won’t have to be looked at.

It should have concerned you. The drastic, melodramatic changes you’d been experiencing, the intense highs and lows of your emotional wellbeing all because of some guy you’d only met last week. 

Then again, you’d always been like this. Building up fantasy lives and scenarios in your head so fondly (stupidly) that when faced with reality, actual human beings tended to let you down, so this exercise always resulted in disappointment. Locking yourself in your childhood room, scrawling on the walls in pencil and then erasing what you’d written for hours. Your parents left clueless without any idea as to how to handle your outbursts.  

Wednesday seemed to tease you. A pointless company retreat at corporate meant your supervisors were all out of town until Friday, inviting you to slack off as much as you wanted – ergo, no one would notice your idling. 

So you slept diligently until noon, fed Willa her special pellets during a fleeting moment of salience, and then got ready to catch a taxi to your favorite bar. 

Who said you couldn’t work from a sticky countertop surrounded by shots of tequila and boisterous strangers?

Not like you’d be paying much mind to your laptop anyway. You showered out of habit and slipped into a skirt that fit your hips nicely, in your opinion, and shimmied into a tight fitting brown top. 

It occurred to you that calling your sister back would be a fruitful use of your afternoon, but shoving your phone into your bag, you decided to put that off for another time. 

Perhaps when your head wasn’t spinning with pathetic visions of being shoved into a wall and forcibly kissed breathless, strong hands glued to your side and tracking down the outside of your pelvis, repetitive circles rubbed into your skin with soft thumbprints until you could finally, finally undo the zipper, hurry the rest of his clothes off, shove him backward into your bed –

The taxi blares its horn out front in the road, shaking you from the vivid daydream. Leaving you with nothing but emptiness and a heat pooling in your abdomen that had grown difficult to suppress. Arid summer air filled your weary lungs, and you hid behind a chunky pair of sunglasses which successfully concealed how tired you looked from the driver, who looked to be as old as your father.

“Dropping you off right at Paulson’s? Or you going to the cafe right next door? Place is pretty popular from what I’ve heard.” His attempt at genial conversation was kind, but it wasn’t what you needed right now.

“Actually, Paulson’s is fine. I’m meeting a friend.” Pulse still racing in your throat from what you’d been imagining earlier, it takes mountains of effort to keep your voice even.

“No problem. Just making sure.”

 The bar is essentially empty save for you, two employees and a guy slouched into a newspaper near the television. Which is fair, seeing as it isn’t even two in the afternoon.

One tequila soda turns into two which turns into a blistering three which eventually turns into closing up your laptop in favor of chatting gregariously with the bartender, complaining about the weather and the price of gas (even though you don’t drive) and requesting ABBA on the ancient jukebox. Patrons start to trickle in as the sun sets and it’s just as well, you’d been feeling particularly lonely by yourself.

The pack of cigarettes you’d bought dwindles as you reach your fourth cocktail. You light another one, hold it to your lips just as a figure approaches from behind. 

A guy with long, stringy brown hair takes the stool next to you, his scrawny frame swimming in a button up shirt too big for him. He’d given you a once over before picking this spot, and you knew it. You swallow, your throat clicking, and think to yourself that were it not for Ken, he’d be exactly the type you usually go for. 

Quiet, unassuming guys who don’t have much going on in life besides perhaps their accounting job and a few friends they see in dingy bars. Maybe they play shitty music in shitty bands that you hate staying out to see.

You should hate how it reeks inside this smoking-allowed bar. You should hate that you’re capable of drinking so much in one sitting, that it hasn’t knocked you out, put you to sleep. You should hate the persistent way this skeleton-thin loser is eyeing you from behind his beer, but you don’t.

You should hate how easily you rip yourself open for men.

The guy tucks a strand of that hair behind his ear and it makes you squirm. Any music coming from the jukebox feels a hundred miles away.

“What are you drinking?” A beat of silence passes between you, and you flare your nostrils, unsure of how to proceed but honestly so sloppy from the liquor you aren’t giving it too much thought.

“Tequila.” You take another drag from the smoke, blow it away towards the propped open door, your mouth lazing in an “O”.

“How’s that going?”

“Pretty great.” It wasn’t a lie. If great consisted of your vision fuzzing at the edges and your mind falling blissfully quiet for the first time in days. 

“You have beautiful hair.” The offhand comment makes your cheeks flush. It could’ve also been combining with the sizable amount of liquor you’d imbibed. 

“Mind if I buy you another round?” You wonder if this a trap. If it’s a trick. The guy’s deep brown eyes swirl under the overhead lights, comfortably dim, and you can nearly smell the sweat circling the back of his neck. It’s like a starving lion fighting the urge to pounce at a wounded gazelle bleeding out profusely on a plain. Agony.

But the idea of Ken accepting a drink from a girl throwing herself all over him has bile crawling up your throat, and you pale at the thought. Absolutely not – no way. 

Not like you owned him. Not like you wanted to own him. 

“Sorry, I’m actually on my way out.” It’s a blatant lie, it feels thick on your tongue and it’s so obvious to the stranger too with his damp chest on display, the top two buttons of his shirt undone, but it’s not smart for you to entertain him for another moment longer. You round the bar to a less occupied area, take another shot, and close your tab.

Your bag has never felt so heavy on your shoulder before.

The taxi heading back home is initially uneventful, but as soon as the driver peels onto the highway, something about your stomach doing cartwheels and the melting streetlights makes you emotional. You can hear Ken’s voice at your side, hear his words playing at your neck. 

“That’s one enormous building, (Y/N). People work way up there? Even right at the top? Oh, man. Did you see that fountain – it’s like a lake! I bet you can ice skate there when it’s cold enough. Would you go with me? When it’s cold?�� 

You’re about to tell Ken yes, of course we can go skating, when you remember it’s not real. It’s so seamless to place him here, to envision how he’d react to the different sights and sounds of the city. Feels so correct, like it was preordained or something. He’d wrinkle his nose at the way you smell right now, but he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to be next to you.

It’s impossible to hide the tears that flow from your eyes as you rest your forehead against the chilly window. Choking back an audible sob, you dig your nails into your palm, everything so small and futile and fucking lonely. The covered seats smell like patchouli and you just want to get home.

Thoughtfully, the driver clears his throat, turns the radio down a smidge.

“Is there… do you have anyone you can call?” He asks politely and clearly despite his noticeable stutter. For some reason he surmises that you’re in a state to have a conversation.

“Uh, I... do I look that bad?” You question.

“I wasn’t trying to insult you, miss.” He seems offended.

“Well. My sister’s the only person I know within a fifty mile radius of the city, and she’s so busy with her kid I don’t think she’d give me the time of day. ‘Specially not when I’ve been drinking like this. Thanks for asking.”

He peers at the road like he’s ready to drop the subject, but he gives a light cough after a few seconds.

“A boyfriend, then?”

Oh, Jesus. Not this guy, too? Can you ever catch a break? His bizarre advances and body language were about to make you cry even harder.

“There was this guy. He was. He was everything. I pushed him away… I feel like I’m going crazy. Didn't even know him that well. He was so exciting. And he treated me like I was the interesting one, but I'm not. I'm not. And I told him to go home. I always do this.” Snot trickles from your nose in time for your bare wrist to catch some of it. If you weren’t so drunk, you’d apologize to the driver for being such a nuisance.

“I’m sure if he was feeling the same way you are, he won’t be upset to hear from you again. Distance can show a guy what he really cares about.”

Thumb scraping at the mascara clumps under your eyelashes, you nod, surprisingly agreeing with the driver. 

“I guess so. I don’t know, it just feels like I screwed things up with him. I have never met anyone like him before. Like if I lost him, I feel like I might die.”

“Sounds pretty serious.” He clucks his tongue, listening intently as the road whizzes by. 

“That, or I’m just an insane person. He relied on me for a lot of things.”

“Were you living together?” The driver wonders aloud, flipping to a local late night talk show. It occurs to you to check the time. Ten past nine. You’d been at the bar for that long?

“No, he was just… getting used to the world. He had been away for awhile. If that makes sense.”

The driver nods knowingly, a glint in his eye that you catch from the rearview mirror. “I see. He did some time and now you’re helping him get acclimated to life again?”

“Something like that.”

“That’s a lot of responsibility to put on your shoulders. Doesn’t he have family who can help too? Unless he cut ties with his family. Getting tangled up with the law can put a lot of stress on everyone involved. I know from experience. My brother robbed an electronics store when he was nineteen, he’s still paying for it.” 

Normally, this sort of long winded back and forth would annoy you, moreso after you’d been crying. But the driver’s words lulled you back down to earth, reminded you that other humans and situations and problems existed outside of your own insulated world.

“Sorry to hear that. To answer your question, I’m kind of his only lifeline. The only one who can help with all the things he wants to know. Like I’m a mother sometimes. I know how that sounds, but it’s not a horrible thing, not really. I have no idea how he’s going to find a job. I don’t know how much I’m supposed to be involved, or if I should just let him be an individual and figure things out on his own. You don’t mind if I smoke, do you?” 

The driver shakes his head curtly, rolls the windows down a pinch for you. You’d been hoping he’d answer affirmatively as you’d already pulled another smoke out from your bag.

“Well, not that you asked my opinion. But I say just be realistic. If you see a need you can fill, I say there’s no harm in helping. Oh, I almost forgot. I volunteer at an animal shelter right outside of town. You know where the Lyons Bridge is?”

“Yeah, my dentist is over there on the corner of Orwell.”

“It’s right across, you can’t miss it. Point being, I can probably talk to my manager, see if we have any work to offer. Not sure how your hubby does with animals, but it’s a start, right? And for someone jumping in fresh, you can’t really beat it.”

The unprompted offer caught you off guard, and you barely had the sense of mind to give him a smile, or positive acknowledgment. You flicked your cigarette with your thumb, watched the ashes dance away. “Wow. I mean. Thank you so much, seriously. That’s so kind of you. If I see him again I will definitely tell him that.”

“You’re very welcome. It was hard for my brother too, getting back on his feet. For years I was the only one in his corner supporting him, so I know how you feel.”

When he pulls up to the half circle parking loop in front of your apartment building, the driver scrawls the name and number of the shelter on a business card. He cracks a lopsided grin, and you realize that this guy is probably way too old to have been hitting on you.

“I really appreciate the opportunity, sir.”

“Call me Mike.”

“Mike. Thank you.” You made to pop open the door handle, ready to face the nothingness of the rest of your night, visions of the wine coolers in your fridge calling to you sweetly, but Mike piped up again.

“Not so fast, little lady. I think you should dry your tears and give him a call. Put on a nice dress, you know? Put your best foot forward. Lord knows he missed you while he was behind bars!” Obviously it was meant to be a joke, but the heart behind it felt a little too real, though you’d lied about the nature of your relationship with Ken.

Ken. Even saying his name had your palms growing clammy, your eyes welling up again with stupid, childish tears. Mike noticed this falter in your face, and he shifted his body fully in his seat to face you.

“No more of that, okay? It’ll be alright. Just get yourself cleaned up and give him a call. Think positive.”

“You’re right. Sorry for making a fool of myself. I’ve just had an incredibly weird week.”

“Don’t worry about it.”

It occurs to you that perhaps Mike is angling for a nice tip. He was your taxi driver, after all. You fish out a ten dollar bill from your bag and hand it to him, taking the business card and sniffling quietly.

“Thanks again. Have a safe rest of your night.” 

Wisps of the night air knocked at your ankles, the exposed skin of your arms, and you scolded yourself for not bringing a sweater. Your bag hung heavy at your shoulder, but you just stared down at the business card. Second Chances Animal Haven, the card read. Ask for Dominic – tell him Mike sent you!

As usual, the unexpected generosity of strangers is enough to make you weepy again, so instead you read the card aloud to yourself, digging absentmindedly for your keys as you head towards the back row of apartment units.

“Here at Second Chances, we believe animals and people deserve to be seen at their best. We’ve been proudly partnered with local rehab centers and addiction programs for twenty years to provide employment opportunities to convicted felons, or those reintegrating back into society. Are you or someone you know interested in volunteer or career information? Give us a call at three zero four…” 

You trailed off, flipping the card over to assess the cute graphic of a man petting the head of a labrador, absolutely beaming. The dog’s fuzzy snout brought tears to your eyes, and you wanted to scream at yourself, why does everything make me so goddamned emotional? It made you feel so puny and vulnerable, being affected like this.

“Stupid card. Stupid drawing. Stupid tequila, stupid fucking –”

Your embroiled utterances fell flat as if smashed into a wall, your eyes slamming shut instantaneously, registering that you’d just ran straight into something bigger than yourself, something moving – 

Something wearing long, chocolate brown corduroy sleeves, expert tailoring obvious even under the flickering sidewalk lamp; something waiting at the bottom of the steps leading up to your unit. 

The hard thud of your foot railing against a solid surface drowns out when you fumble backwards, nearly tripping onto your ass, your eyes widening at the speed of light when your vision focuses and drains of moisture. 

There was no mistaking it. Waiting at the stoop with what appeared to be… five or six baby blue suitcases (each embroidered delicately with swooping, elegant ‘K’ headings) of varying sizes all stacked up against one another, was Ken, who towered above you, clouded in the veiling mist of the summer evening air. 

Through the shadow his piercing blue eyes met yours, startled like a baby deer and even more innocent looking.

Were you hallucinating this? Was this really Ken, standing right in front of you, clad in brown and stunning, silky mustard orange pants that felt otherworldly in its softness, though your arm had only grazed it?

Etched into the face he gives you is instinctive surprise, as if the last thing he thought would wander around the corner was you. You drop the business card to the ground, don’t watch its descent as it flutters down to the sidewalk. Clutched under Ken’s left arm is a thick folder (maybe a book?) filled to the brim with papers stacked neat and horizontal. 

For a sickening pause that lasts thousands of centuries, you wonder if Ken’s here to tell you off. To tell you that he was only dropping by before his departure, that he was going far away and only wished to tell your guinea pig goodbye for posterity. 

You couldn’t have blamed him. In fact, you would have understood. I deserve that, you tell yourself, but Ken doesn’t say those awful things. He bends at the waist and plucks the business card you dropped, holds out his arm to return it. It’s then that you remember to breathe, remember to say something, and it’s then that you notice Ken’s gripping a bouquet of flowers in his right hand, pink and white thick petals wrapped in yellow that repel the light landing on them. 

Ken’s so tall above you, his legs so lean through his almost sheer pants, and you swear you can make out the swells of his kneecaps, the curve of his hip. The incline of muscle in his neck works as he cocks his head slightly, eyes persistent, dancing and twining with yours under the moon, the feeble crackle of the dying, cheap lamp.

Handfuls of silvering blonde hair tumble down across Ken’s tender eyes as he waits patiently for you to take the card. Blinking is an uphill battle. Moving your lips to form a sentence is some sort of sisyphean curse that you’re unsure of how to break.

“I – I’m. Ken. You’re.”

Unflappable, Ken elects to hold off on exchanging the card, and slips it into his pocket. Instead, he takes a brave step forward, and like he’s rehearsed this a thousand times on the sidewalk, puts on his most hopeful smile, extending his pristine hand that holds the flowers that you are starting to suspect might be plastic. Shrouds of crickets kick up their serenade around the both of you.

“(Y/N). These are for you. I tried relentlessly to keep them perfect on my way here, but you would not believe how difficult it is to stop objects from floating while you’re in a spacesuit, I will tell you that much right now.” You hear his heartfelt words but all you can stare at is his face, every inch of him that you can see, the imperceptible flat of his cheekbones, the angular jut of his chin, all of him so illuminated and real and right in front of you.

“You came back.” It’s all you can manage to say. Like as if a prank had been pulled on you. Could it be the case – all these days of torture and self hatred and drinking yourself to sleep had been completely in vain?

Ken’s smirk widens, crinkling the lines of his cheek, but it just makes him look even more like a timeless painting of someone who once had been real. Boyish charm bled from his every move, his honeyed words, every response he could give you.

“Told you I would, didn’t I? Do you like them?” Ken nudges the bouquet even closer to your line of sight, practically begging you to accept them. “Barbie told me – sorry. My friend Barbie who is a florist told me that these are quintessential spring colors. I wanted purple ones too but Barbie said that wasn’t staying on theme.” Ken enunciates every word, relishing in sharing his newfound knowledge of flowers. They appear to be roses, as if they were somehow handcrafted, each one made painstakingly, lovingly. 

Jolting at a realization, Ken raises his eyebrows hastily. “How could I forget? I also brought you a banana. From Barbieland! So that you can really understand what I’ve been working with my whole life.” 

Something in the lowest part of your heart snaps entirely in half, and with fingers trembling like a leaf, you finally take the flowers from Ken, cautiously placing your nose to the tips.

By some sort of miracle, though they’re obviously not real, they smell exactly like roses.

“Riveting, aren’t they?” Ken’s adding, watching through his curled eyelashes to see how you like them, but he doesn’t notice the stinging tears that rush down your cheeks until you’re crushing the bouquet between the both of your bodies, impatient to feel him for yourself, just to affirm this is real. 

The petals don’t budge or compress, they just twirl in different directions to accommodate the pressure, and the breath leaves Ken’s chest at once with the force of it. “(Y/N)? Tell me you’re not crying. The one thing I didn’t bring was a hanky with your name on it, which I was planning on having my friend Barbie who is a seamstress make for you, but my schedule was pretty tight. Here, let me just –”

There aren’t words for how you’re feeling, the relief, the overwhelming adoration, the incredulity that Ken had actually traveled all the way back for you, the sweetness of everything he’s telling you. It manifests as tears that race to escape your eyes and make you look even more disheveled than you already had been.

Ken carefully wipes at your cheeks with the edges of his jacket sleeves, folding the fabric over his thumbs like it’s brain surgery and he cannot afford to mess it up. Without asking permission, he sticks his hand out and tips your face up so it’s level with his. Gentle, so gentle, so endlessly attentive. 

“Why are you crying, (Y/N)?” Your brain should be throttling ahead, formulating a cogent response, but all you want is to hold his shoulderblades in your shaking hands and feel his body flush against yours, make him feel what his presence is doing to you, how it’s making you breathe and sway, unsteady on your feet.

“I thought I would never see you again.”

Ken quirks his eyebrows, dusted blonde and light brown, like he’s taken a punch to the gut. His hands don’t move from their spot on your chin, affixed. 

“You can’t be serious. When I accept an ultimatum, I never back down, and that’s a fact.” He seems to not mind the brazen tears and snot he’s wiped onto his (expensive looking) clothes, he just looks right down at you with a dizzying openness. Your fingers twitch around the stiff flowers where you’re still clamping them tight.

“I. I can’t. I didn’t know…”

“Look at me.” You don’t have the inner energy to fight him. Maybe it’s the liquor that’s rounded out the edges of your usually combative reflexes, or maybe it was the repressed emotional floodgates breaking, and suddenly you weren’t afraid for Ken to see what you’d really been feeling for him. The seeds you’d been sowing of your own destruction. “You really missed me that much? I thought you’d be working away like nothing ever happened.” 

It’s Ken’s turn to feel flummoxed now, analyzing what you’d said, but you can’t allow him the time to rethink. To backpedal.

His chest rises and falls in rabbit-fast motions. You swear he smells like aftershave, but you can’t pinpoint the precise scent, just that it’s minty and pleasant. Ken’s body is like a barricade of warmth and there’s roses in between you and desire gnawed at your stomach like a profanity.

“Please. Please don’t leave again. I need you, Ken.”

“You – what?”

“I need you. I n-need you to be here, with me. Don’t leave again. I. I made myself sick without you. I have a two bedroom place, I don’t h-have to use it for storage, you can have your own room and everything, I’ll be the cleanest, tidiest person in the world. Just. Please, just. Just promise. Can you promise me that? Ken?” It’s embarrassing. It’s humiliating. There's so many things you could've led with: I may be able to help you get a job, I turned into a complete and utter hermit without you here, I think you may be the best thing that's ever happened to me, I've had so much to drink tonight I shouldn't even be standing. But no, it was mushy garbage that decided to tumble out and settle in the cool air.

You know that you should have shut yourself up after the first sentence, but once the first syllable let loose, there was no taking it back.

Ken continues to wipe at your face where you continue to cry, and he rests his chin quietly on top of yours, somehow managing to hold onto everything he’d been grasping and still making just as much room for you as you needed. Your words move Ken to the point that his pulse has quickened, and – 

His pulse? Laying your browbone against his neck, just to see if you’d dreamt that forceful thrum of blood, Ken gives a submissive sigh for the contact. “I will never go anywhere ever again unless you want me to.”

“Your heart.” You mention, tucked against his frame but eyes wild with shock.

“I won’t even look out the window unless you think there’s something I should see.” Ken persists.

“Ken.”

“In fact, I think I’d be most comfortable just waiting for you to lay out what we’re doing every day, first thing, so I can get an adequate idea of –”

“Ken?” Your tone is sharp now, because he’s getting carried away – not that you weren’t receptive to his idea of what living together should look like.

“Yes, little firefly?” Ken muses, pulling you even closer to the front of his body.

“Your heart. It’s beating.”

[amwult]

applying a sticky hook to the stippled ceiling and attaching a hefty lampshade. whatever.

[vampyboys]

Movie Night 🎬

Boyfriend Miguel O'Hara x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST🌿

Tags: Fluff, Smut, Oral Sex, Vaginal Sex, Porn wo/ Plot, Biting, Slight Begging??, Cowgirl Position, Dirty Talk, 2nd Person POV

Word Count: 2k

Summary: Miguel comes over to your apartment every week just to be with you. For today, you wanted to watch a romance movie with him. Halfway through the movie things start to get steamy, giving Miguel an idea.

Every Wednesday is the day when Miguel comes over to stay at your apartment. The only day of the week when you both aren’t busy, becoming a routine since the start of your relationship. You’d spend countless hours watching movies, TV series and chatting.

Tonight you were in the mood for a movie, scrolling through the available options in your current streaming service. Surveying each genre and reading through the summaries waiting for your boyfriend. In the corner of your room, there were tiny knocks against the window.

Stumbling and, scrambling across the kitchen. You’d unlock the window to be enveloped in a lung-crushing embrace, knocking out all of the oxygen in your body.

“Ack! Too tight!” You barked, thrashing your palms against his back— demanding to loosen his iron grip.

“No pude evitarlo, lo siento.” (I couldn’t help it, I’m sorry.) He’d scuffle your hair entering under the window.

A massive man about the size of your apartment ceiling, covered in navy-blue latex with crimson patterns resembling a spider. The suit would perfectly outline his ripped structure, wide back, and small waist.

He tapped the temples with his index finger, making the mask disperse revealing his face. The man had tan skin, dark brown hair falling into place with curls at the ends, and maroon eyes.

“I’m home.” He leans down, pressing a soft kiss on your forehead— brushing away the stray hairs covering your face.

“Miguel, for the last time.. I’d prefer it if you went through the front door. I even gave you an extra key!”

“Going through the window is easier.” Big hands sliding down your waist, trapping you between his arms

You’d roll your eyes, pushing him away to flop over to the couch.

“Oh! Come on cariño!” Following after you.

His attire dissipates with a press of a button revealing a casual attire; wearing gray sweatpants and a white shirt.

Miguel hooks an arm on your shoulder bringing you closer to him, stippling kisses all over your face as a way to apologize for his behavior. But you know deep down he’s gonna do it again.

“Okay, that’s enough.” You giggled, palming him away.

Miguel would laugh in return, connecting his head with yours— his eyes land on the TV.

“Oh? Are we watching a movie today?”

You nodded, reaching over to the remote to start the movie. It was a romance movie about a country girl moving into the city to start her acting career. A very cheesy trope you secretly liked. Something about a person experiencing a whole different world while navigating its issues with what the protagonist knows interests you.

The plot progresses showcasing conflicts in her acting career with the classic mean girl who’d try to sabotage the main character’s career.

Besides all those troubles, she finds a man who continues to stay by her side, eventually falling in love. Fireworks explode in the background as they press their lips as if it’s the universe's way of celebrating their first kiss. It was all so magical!

“Aww, how cute.” You’d comment,

Suddenly, this wholesome movie took a turn. The protagonist invites her soon-to-be boyfriend into her room pushing him into the bed, pulling her along with him. Oh boy, you knew exactly where this was going.

Soft moans escaped the screen, making your face burn— a ticking time bomb ready to explode at any minute. Peeping over to your boyfriend’s side, his expression was completely blank! No lip twitches, grins, nothing!

Something caresses your skin, making its way down your arm to your thigh.

Miguel feels the warmth radiating in his palm, your eyes sparkled and lips parted. Moving his thumb in circular motions makes your stomach flutter. He flicks the band of your panties, making you shiver. Then presses a quick kiss between your brows angling you to face him.

He separates your lips with his tongue— lapping it with yours. Purring whenever he’d squeeze out a pleasured moan from your beautiful voice.

His kisses were growing desperate and needy. He looks at you with lidded eyes, addicted to the pure sight of his lover. He wanted you to beg for him, beg him to use him, scream his name, pleading him to pleasuring you in any way you wanted.

All Miguel had to do was give you a little encouragement. Pulling away, a string of saliva severing between your lips. Wiping away the remaining drool from his mouth.

It felt like every energy out of your body was drained but, Miguel wasn’t finished yet. He peppered soft kisses on your face adjusting your attention right back to him,

“I can give you what you want my love. All you have to do is say it.”

The kisses traveled down to your jawline to your ears. Miguel whispered your name in a tone that sounded like a lullaby tempting you to your doom.

His hand grazed over your pubes down to your clit sending jolts of pleasure traveling toward your core, enough to break down every patience you’ve had. 

“Miguel.. Please.” Your breathing grew heavy, you clutch onto his shirt pleading.

“What is it, my love?” He tilts his head as if he doesn’t know what you’re demanding, continuing to toy with your clit.

“Oh f-fuck.. Miguel, you—!”

“You can do it.”

Shooting him a hot stare that could practically burn a hole through his head, but Miguel wasn’t budging.

You swallow your pride, hanging your head in defeat.

“I-I need you.. please.”

“Good girl."

He chuckles, finally permitting him to eat you out like a full-course meal laid out on the dining table in front of him to eat. 

Repositioning himself, tossing the blanket aside along with the rest of your clothes and underwear. Leaving Miguel the only one dressed.

“Shirt off, now.” You tugged on the hem of his top demanding to take it off. 

He obliges yanking it away from his torso and discarding it to the side. You hummed in approval, and he smiled in return placing another loving smooch on your nose.

Migrating to your lips, stamping one to your chin, neck then collarbone. He wanders around your neck leaving occasional small love bites. Gliding his tongue over to your breast sucking on it. He’d pinch your nipples with his teeth, tease it with his tongue. The taste of your skin was addictive, resembling the taste of a salted caramel he’d eat from time to time.

Kisses trailed down your torso— getting on his knees— and slinging your legs over his shoulders. The sight was marvelous. The way the light from the TV would reflect to your skin, highlighting the curves of your breasts and tips of your nipples.

“You are a sight for sore eyes, mi amor.” He purred.

You were dripping wet, anticipating his next move staring him down eyes hazed with lust. His mouth latches onto your clit softly running his tongue around in circular motions combined with some sucking.

The sensation sends wave after wave of pleasure radiating through your body, making you squirm. Your fingers would comb through his brown hair giving him a pleased sigh that’d vibrate along your pussy, a silent gesture asking for more.

“Miguel.. oh my god, fuck—“ 

His pace grows faster, thrusting his tongue into your g-spot.

You’d curse, moan, grind on his mouth until your vision started to blur and you were seeing stars. He’d move at a fast rhythmic pace eating you out like a man who hasn’t eaten in years, licking out every sweet nectar he can making sure it doesn’t go to waste.

Just as you were near climaxing he pulled out with a soft pop making you whine at the loss of contact.

“Ten paciencia, mi amor.” (Be patient, my love.) Miguel chuckled, pressing a quick sloppy kiss on your inner thigh.

As he stands up, you slide your hand down to his abs and then to his visible cock seeping through his sweatpants. 

“Miguel~” you call out to him in a sweet tone he’s unable to resist inhaling between his teeth. Just your voice alone was able to make his cock twitch underneath your palm. 

“No tengas tanta prisa.” (Don’t be in such a hurry.) He says pushing your hand away.

“At least let me—“ Suddenly, he scoops you up pressing his groin against your wet cunt.

“Another time, today I want to focus on you.”

Your brows furrowed, “But-“ He engulfs you in another passionate kiss, tongues dancing in unison; leaving you breathless.

Miguel pulls back with a satisfied smirk, quickly averting your eyes in annoyance. Then you feel something hot that slaps against your skin.

His cock was girthy, large, and uncut. The veins pulsate against your abdomen, dripping with precum; served especially for you. He begins to move at a slow pace sliding down in between your folds and coating it with your juices. Now and then the tip would rub over your clitoris making you grunt in pleasure.

Moving his head to your ear, his hot breath would send shivers down your spine whispering to you,

“Estás listo para mí?” (Are you ready for me?)

Nodding, he starts to readjust himself positioning the head to poke at your entrance then gently burrowing his cock in you.

Miguel always took his time with this part, hurting you was the last thing he wanted.

He’d perch his head over your shoulder cooing praises at your ear stroking your hair, smooching your temples.

“Lo estás haciendo muy bien, solo un poco más~” (You’re doing very well, just a little more.)

You’d cry out feeling your walls slowly stretch around his length, latching onto him like your life depended on it— leaving small scratches against his back which Miguel approved greatly.

“Look at how perfect you fit me.” He cups your face tilting you to your stomach.

The head was protruding from your abdomen, he enjoyed the sight of it feeling him swell up inside you. He gives you a moment to adjust to it before moving, pumping at a medium pace.

Your cries would echo the walls and the sound of skin slapping against each other.

“Tu voz es muy atractiva, mi amor~” (Your voice is very attractive, my love.) He whispers, trailing his tongue down your neck and then leaving a hickey.

He’d cup your ass, slapping it with one hand leaving behind a sizzling mark. Miguel was fucking you so good, your eyes would roll to the back of your head and tears would well up in your eyes.

Still, that stunt he pulled earlier would often reoccur in your mind. Just when you were about to meet your sweet release, he wrenched it away from you.

A lightbulb pops up in your head. Your finger slithers into his hair. Twirling a stranded brown curl around the nape of his neck. Laying a quick kiss on it, before throwing all your body weight at him causing Miguel to lose balance.

The two of you would crash to the ground with a loud thud! Before Miguel would protest you’d immediately silence him with your pointer finger. He looks at you wide-eyed, but it shined with intrigue.

You slot his cock in between your pussy, crying out feeling it fill up your inner walls again. Holding his chin to you while grinding ruthlessly like you were in heat.

He smiles watching you ride him up and down engraving the vision of you in his head. Your hair is disorganized, his love bites pepper across your body, and the sweat glistens on your skin.

He latches his hands on your hips pulling you in to penetrate you deeper making you collapse after a couple of thrusts.

“Fuck.. you.”

“Haha, te encanta…” (Haha, you love it.)

He relentlessly continues to pound against your pussy, increasing his pace over time. Miguel was reaching his end whimpering out random curses in Spanish.

“M-Mierda.. (Fuck) I’m—I’m close.. oh, god.”

Saliva was welling up in your mouth making it hard to speak,

“M’too—“

His cock was pulsating under you, just as he was about to cum. He bares his fangs biting onto you, the venom flows into your body heightening your senses.

Your heart was palpitating, and the pupils in your eyes would dilate. Each thrust would send shockwaves of delicious pleasure sending you to a trance.

You cry out as Miguel’s warm juices would gush out of your core.  The venom in your system started to take effect shutting down the nerves in your body, making you unable to move.

You lay between Miguel’s chest passed out from the toxins and him fucking your brains out.

“Shit, I’ll go get the antidote.”

He panics, laying you on the couch before rushing to the bathroom.

__________

“Does it hurt?”

Miguel gently prods at the bite marks with a cotton pad. But, surprisingly nothing. With the remaining venom, it diluted the pain. Nothing you can’t handle.

“Nope, not really.” His eyebrows turned, giving you the ‘I don’t believe you’ face.

“Miguel.. I’m fine, I swear! Quit fussing.” You sigh, running your hands along his back.

“You are precious to me, I hate to see you hurt.” He redirects your hand to his face, cupping his cheek— intertwining his fingers with yours, massaging away the last remaining numbness in your hands.

“You really need to control when you bite.”

“I’m sorry, I can’t help it with you.” He coos, pressing a quick kiss on your thumb.

Miguel lets it stay there for a couple of seconds, admiring you with an adoring gaze.

It's as if the warmth of your body is the only thing that keeps him alive. The corner of your lips widen, leaning over; throwing a quick peck on his forehead. 

“Now scootch over,”

He makes a hand gesture telling you to move. You laugh moving to give him some room in the bed. The moment he settles down, you wrap your hands around him suffocating him in a big hug.

“I love you.”

“I love you too, mi tesoro.”

[cicidarkarts]

GIRRLLLL, sorry for being gone, I was busy with exams lol, and I LOVE THE FANARTS!!! SLAYYY— And I have a question, are there more headcanons for idrees? I just LOVE them, theyre make the character more entertaining than usual

I just recently got some hate for my crush on Idrees, so this is the perfect time to answer this ask. Last time, I did a bunch of "as close to canon as possible" answers. This time? I'm doing pure fanon Idrees based off of my fanfiction. Naturally, people reading this may or may not find it out of character, but I'll try to explain myself as succinctly and comprehensively as I can.

Fanon!Idrees/Fanfiction Headcanons:

Literally the smallest little things will set off Idrees' guilt. He holds the door open for someone, particularly if that person is a woman, and they say "thank you that's very kind"? Instant downward spiral of all the awful things he did and how he doesn't deserve to be labeled as kind or good.

Idrees is not good at making friends. Now that he doesn't live in Afghanistan, and he's exposed to a very different culture, he just kinda shuts down and doesn't know how to interact with people. Rather than saying something stupid and triggering himself, he prefers to just stay quiet, and needs an ambivert/extrovert to adopt him in order to make friends.

(I apologize for this picture I forgot I drew)

Razaq was his mentor during the war. Originally, Idrees was resistant to Razaq's teachings and wisdom, thinking of him as just some jaded old man who had no idea what he was talking about. But the more entrenched in war he became, the more he started to listen.

He's afraid of change. But thanks to Razaq, he was coaxed out of his shell into different ways of thinking. It still scares him sometimes, leaving him wondering where and how his life went so wrong.

(Here's a more serious sad Idrees pic I drew omg he's so cute I wanna run my fingers through his hair so bad dude)

Idrees has put himself in physical danger to protect other people. Particularly protecting women from men. This started with Razaq encouraging him to stand up for what he believed in. Violence horrified Idrees, and he refused to participate where he had the option. This evolved into stepping in to protect others, which involved him getting the shit beat out of him on several ocassions. It's the one thing Idrees feels so strongly about and that he refuses to give up.

Idrees is a pretty capable fighter. Despite being so scrawny, Idrees had to learn to fight in order to survive. It's very easy to underestimate him which has led to several abusive and horrible men getting laid the fuck out.

Idrees' PTSD has resulted in OCD-like rituals to cleanse his hands of blood and war. He will scrub his hands in steaming water until his skin is raw and bleeding. Sometimes the water runs red from how badly he injures himself. In a pinch, he'll douse his hands in hand sanitizer. The smell of the alcohol and especially the occasional burns on his cuts and picked cuticles help pull him out of his memories.

And finally, Idrees is very introspective. It's a skill he learned from Razaq, and has honed over the years. He's spent many long nights trapped in his own head, ruminating, pondering, fearing for the future. He does this to his own detriment sometimes, perhaps as a way of punishing himself. Excerpt: Damn mentor. Making him think. Sure, Idrees had thought before, but he felt like he never truly thought until Razaq taught him how. Though he certainly wasn't taught to ruminate ad nauseam until the stippling on his ceiling swirled.

And that's it for my self-indulgent Fanon!Idrees headcanons. Feel free to agree or disagree with any of this! But he's my baby cinnamon bun and I love him very much. :) (And I hope your exams are going well! ♥♥)

[hellkitepriest]

fulfilling the prophecy of all bisexual men (looking to the stippled ceiling for salvation)

[fallingsatellive]

When I was young, a good child Was a good student. My mother told me during exams One year, “If you aren’t go- ing To graduate from a good college, Then you can expect your life To be coming home from your Shift at a restaurant to Your dark little room And laying in bed late at night Staring at the popcorn ceiling Contemplating your regrets until you die! Think about how miserable you’d be, And study hard.”

I moved away after I dropped out.

Tonight I came home from my Shift at a restaurant to My dark little room And laid in bed late at night -- Late enough to be morning, And as I stared up at the ceiling I noticed I couldn’t see stippling of the ceiling in the low light Of the creeping dawn filtering through the blinds but I did I did notice that light, far wavering indigo like the sky was an ocean Casting my room deep underwater. I did notice the flickering off of the streetlights, A quieter announcement of morning than any other. I did notice the orchestra playing Outside my window: thousands, and thousands of singing cicadas. The co-emergence this June, Rarer in the entire universe than a total solar eclipse, a quieter announcement of freedom than any. The songs, the sounds of Earth. Quite the anomaly. I did notice you. Sleepless underwater beside me. I did notice -- oh, my god! You don’t have a blanket! Why didn’t you say something? Here you go. It’s chilly this early. Sleep well. I love you. The rarest thing in the universe.

[p1nkcanoe]

can the lonely take the place of you?

[ dewdrop x aether angst ]

summary: Dewdrop feels suffocated by the silent sound of loneliness and grief and wanders down into the same ballroom where he'd once danced with his now absent mate. warnings: mentions of death, grief, loneliness word count: 1750

Click here for AO3 or read below ⤵︎

Dew can’t sleep. His head won’t let him rest. The clock on the bedside table blinks red: 00:00. Casts eerie shadows into the textured ceiling of the hotel room. He’s suffocated by time. 

It’s been days, turned weeks, turned months since he’s been able to sleep, even rest his eyes for more than a half hour, and now it’s become a nightly habit to stare into the dark and try to make sense of the patterns in various hotel rooms. Sometimes it’s the texture of the carpet, the symmetry of the bathroom tiles, the print of the wallpaper… he stares until he’s memorized every centimeter and each imperfection. Tonight it’s the ceiling, stippled with plaster in irregular swoops and swirls. He tries to find clouds, petals of flowers, maybe even a strange resemblance of an animal, but no matter how hard he reaches he always sees him. 

Everything reminds him of him. He sees him in everything. Feels his phantom touch when he walks through the fog of the bathroom, when he fixes his belt in the morning… He’s always there, yet never at all. A million miles under the ground. Unreachable. 

They’d arrived late in the same town where they’d all celebrated only a year ago. The same hotel, the same halls, the same copied rooms placed side by side with nothing to distinguish them but a number. The same people, just two gone and two to replace them. A hole in the band patched by another body, but a wound in Dew’s soul that refuses to heal over like it has for the rest of them. It burns, hurts more than anything he’s ever felt before, and he hopes he never recovers. He wants to bleed forever. Spill, and bleed, and leave a trail so that everyone is reminded of what they took from him. Who they took from him. He can’t just move on like the rest of them. He’s already lost him once, losing the memory of him would surely kill him.

There’s a ballroom on the ground floor. A grand room with tall windows and chandeliers adorned with a thousand crystals each. A year ago they’d gathered there together as a pack with their papa, adorned in expensive suits and finery. They’d danced in the hall, drank together until they were bubbly and loose, and at the end of the night he’d retreated back to his room with him, and he’d asked him to be his mate. 

Tonight the rest of his pack had done the same. They’d dressed up in their best regalia and danced together in the ballroom. Dew didn’t go. He couldn’t make himself pull the suit from the hanger on the back of the door. He couldn’t push himself from the suffocating grip of the sheets. Even when they’d knocked and knocked and knocked on his door and asked him if he was coming he ignored them. Eventually they stopped asking altogether and he listened as they all left in a cluster to celebrate. The hall had been quiet for many hours until they slowly started filing back into their rooms, drunk and high on the night. 

The halls were quiet again now. They had been for a long while. The clock blinks red. The numbers are persistent: 00:00. They scream at him even when he puts his hands over his ears and squeezes tight until his head hurts. Dew’s lost all track of time. He aches with grief. 

The feeling in his chest tightens, grips his fragile rib cage in an iron grip that threatens to shatter it from all sides and Dew holds his breath until his lungs burn. It won’t be the first time his heart has shattered under the crushing weight of the silence and the darkness, and certainly not the last, but he told himself that he wouldn’t cry tonight. This was supposed to be a time to celebrate, to remember the good times, and reminisce on the feeling when Aether had grabbed his hand and asked him the question that finally made him whole. Of course that plan didn’t go exactly as he’d hoped, but he hadn’t broken again no matter how much he wanted to. Dew finally sucks in a breath that tears through the tightness of his throat, rips him apart, and a single tear gathers at the root of his lashes. He wipes it away with the back of his hand and counts the stipples in the ceiling. 

00:00

00:00

00:00

The clock keeps blinking red and he keeps losing his place. Each time he’s forced to restart. He never gets past three. 

He gets more and more frustrated with each flash. He knows counting is hopeless, that he’ll never be able to keep his place or even distract himself from what’s going on in his head and his heart, but he keeps trying anyway. The clock is taunting him tonight, screaming at him and reminding him of how alone he is in this room. He wants to rip the sheets between his claws as a brief relief, to throw the comforter to the floor, and lose the pillows to some dark corner of the room, but he knows that it won’t help. It won’t make him feel better–won’t make Aether come back… So he stays rooted to the mattress, his arms out to his sides and his fingers woven between folds of starchy fabric. He tries to count again. One, two, three, fo– 00:00. 

His chest aches, his throat tightens again, and his bare feet make contact with the carpet at the same time the clock blinks red again. He fumbles through the darkness, guided only by the artificial light and the moon’s beams that leak through the cracks in the curtain. He escapes through the door before the walls collapse on him and as the heavy wooden door locks him out the embellished suit hanging in its bag on the other side collapses in a heap on the floor. 

Dew lets his feet carry him through the halls that feel like an endless maze. He passes his packmates’ rooms, pays no attention to the numbers or the signs on the walls for navigation, just follows his instincts and relies on his heart to pull him to the right place. Around wallpapered corners, through iron doors, and down dusty stairwells until he pushes open towering mahogany doors and spills into the ballroom. 

The smell of old, expensive wood and dusty tiles hits him in the face at the same time his memory does. The room is pitch dark, illuminated solely by the moonlight that spills through tall windows and the faint haze from the emergency sign at the opposite end. Red. The darkness taunts him, taints his memory. The tile is frigid under his feet, cuts through his skin straight to the boil of his blood, and the heat of his vessel only makes it worse. Some of his steps are wet as he pads through puddles of water left not yet dry. He barely registers them, too caught up in the flood of emotion and longing for someone who is absent, someone who used to be here. Right here. In this very room, walking these same steps on the same vanilla tiles. If he closes his eyes he imagines that he can still hear the music over the sound of his footsteps and the loneliness that followed him out of bed. The ballroom is somehow quieter than his room. Everything echoes. Everything dies in mid-air. But something here lives. It lives in here, in him. It is him. 

He lets his feet guide him to the spot on the floor where Aeth had asked for his hand. He’d laughed, thought it was the dumbest request in the world. To dance. Dew doesn’t dance. At least not vulnerable and surrounded by strangers… But that night he did. And he loved it–every precious second of it. They danced until their feet hurt and their cheeks ached from smiling. Aether had spun him on his toes, gripped him by his slender waist, wrapped his strong arms around his belly as they swayed to a beat entirely different from the song that played overhead. Completely lost in their own world, in love. And they laughed and they giggled as if there was nobody else there, just them under the bright, glittering lights of the chandeliers. 

And this time there’s nobody there to hold him when he finds the divot in the tile he tripped over so many times. He feels so empty, incomplete, without him. He has for a long while. But the feeling is suffocating now. There’s a dagger in his heart and a rock in his throat that hasn’t gone away in weeks. The ballroom makes it twist, makes the stone grow and grow and grow until his eyes sting and his lip trembles between his teeth. But he won’t let himself cry. Not yet. Not now. He swallows it down but it doesn’t budge. 

He follows his heart to the center of the floor, follows his ghost in his reflection in the tiles until he recognizes the spiral that Aether spun him on. He traces it with his toe before vaguely recalling the steps they took together to dance. It comes back to him gradual and slow until he finds himself dancing by himself. Aeth is there in his mind, in his soul, in spirit, holding him so gentle by the waist and peering over his shoulder to watch his beautiful face. He’s smiling, he can see it. It makes his lips twitch up. 

Dew gets lost in it. He spins in circles, lets his arms reach out for his mate to grab onto and pin to the small of his back. He glides and travels across the tiles in the same pattern that he did before, remembering how warm his skin felt against his back and pressed against his chest as he fell in love. He gets lost in time, lost in the memory, lost in the darkness… So much so that he doesn’t realize when he starts to finally cry. 

His toe gets stuck in the divot–just like it had so many times before– and when he opens his eyes and expects to see a room full of people and Aeth there with strong arms ready to catch him, he sobs when nobody is there and his knees make contact with the floor.

title and inspiration taken from "the lonely" by christina perri. mv included below:

[the--highlanders]

His head bowed almost automatically, as if he was in mourning. Maybe he was. Mourning the smoking ruins of their friendship, everything they’d had, the best thing in his life. Would the Doctor even want to travel with him anymore, now he knew how Jamie felt? “I meant it,” he mumbled. “I – aye, I – I meant it. I thought I wasnae going tae have another chance.” When he dared to glance up, just for a moment, he found the Doctor staring at him, lower lip captured between his teeth like he was trying to feel the ghost of the kiss. Or to chase it away. Jamie had tried both, last night, lying in his bunk and staring up at the stippled metal ceiling. “Jamie, ah -” Even with his head bowed, Jamie could see the Doctor’s fingers moving, twisting over each other restlessly. “I’m not human. You do know that, don’t you?”

Believing they're about to die, Jamie kisses the Doctor. The next morning, they face the consequences.

[xsapphirescrollsx]

Sunshine pt. 2

Written: Nov 12 2019

Ray Merrimen x Black Female Reader

10 Years Ago

Ray kissed your neck. His hands drew your palms to his chest as he leaned into your shoulder. You lay upon him, resting your body against his warmth never the wiser of his intentions. He licked the skin there, his hands gliding up the hump of your ass over the smooth skin of your spine until he cupped your face.

“I love you.” His voice was light but muddled in tone. A morning husk that often reminded you of the first time you met him years ago. A younger Ray, a teenage asshole who ditched first period to sleep, only to drag his ass in at the end of third with sleep still in his eyes.

“Ray…” his name always tasted sweet in your mouth. You whispered his name again and it turned into a moan as he kissed you.

You slid down his long abdomen, rubbing the heat of your vee along his taut muscles. You are slick and willing but Ray squeezed your thighs forcing you to stop.

Smooth, his voice silkily rolled over his tongue as he spoke. “Sunshine.”

Though you noted the waxy, perturb tone in his baritone voice. It annoyed you a bit but you felt victorious when his head fell back to the pillow. Your hips rocked front to back over his length, his brown eyes focused on the stippled white ceiling in a haze of lust.

For a moment he laid like that, swept up in you and the heat of your thighs but as you began to grip his shaft Ray’s head rolled back to you while his hands fell to your shoulders stilling your motions.

“I have to go soon. There’s no time for this.” He said.

You kissed his clavicle and then you lightly kissed the warm skin of his pectoral. Ray’s body tensed. You began to lick over his stiff nipple with a wide stroke. “There’s always time for love,” you said softly. “You don’t have to go…” you said between licks.

You felt his hips grind up into you, the length of him brushes against your wet folds. The tip of his cock throbbed, the dull wanting aches shot up his shaft. If your body was the heavenly release, then the lead up was purgatory. He was standing at the pearly gates awaiting entry but there was no time to confess his sins.

It was too late. There was never enough time.

You pulled away from him. The setting gold sun blasted through the window and caught the ebony and crimson of your curls. Horny, ready to fuck as he was he couldn’t help but be reminded him of the little sun catchers on his grandmother’s front porch when he looked up at you. Soft fingers wiped over his cheek as you laid down light feathery kisses along the way.

“Hey, I gotta go.” Ray rasped and planted a kiss on your pouty lips.

Ray rolled you over with a tight grin thinning his lips. Naked, Ray stepped out of bed and began to dress quickly. You curled around a pillow, drawing your legs up close and wrapping your arms into it and wished that it was Ray.

“You don’t have to do this.” You whispered.

Ray glanced back at the bed. You were watching him with those big brown eyes. The sun was soaking into your brown skin and at the same time casting a heavenly halo around your coiled form. He paused, a few seconds considered your words. But it was dumb. Why stop now? You couldn’t understand.

“We don’t have enough. So if I don’t do this you can kiss that car good-bye, those clothes in your closet-“

“Alright.” You cut him off and sat up, your naked breast became exposed but Ray did his best to ignore the flashing extra skin.

“It’ll work out.” He grunted as he hiked his jeans up. His tone is reassuring but leaves little room for that guarantee in you. Crime wasn’t reliable. Sometimes you can get away with it. But most times it can come biting you in the ass again.

When Ray does not come home that night you worry. But it was normal. You always worried too much when he was out on a job. It was the way this worked. 9-to-5’s were not his type. So it was natural for things like this to happen, as thin and uncertain as they were, took time to complete.

But two days later the worry turned to horror.

You tried to make sense of what was happening. Your calls went unanswered, as did your pleas to the accomplices that tossed their burner phones when you came calling.

It wasn’t until the next week when the police crashed into your home. Knock-knock, and then a giant clash of plastic and kevlar and too many masked officers to count that came barreling into your apartment.

They took you in the night. Half-dressed, hair still wrapped and going on little to no sleep they held you in a cold bright cell.

You knew that this was part of the game. If he had ever been caught you swore to God you would never tell. And you didn’t. Even when they threatened to throw the book at you.

And you kept your promise afterward too. After his sentencing you drove one hundred miles to the prison he was housed. You walked in, beaming a comforting smile and holding your head high when you saw him. Being his brave girl. It was the first time to see him in three weeks.

But Ray stared at you from across the sticky metal table in the visitor section. His buzzed hair grown out a bit more, darkness under his eyes to match the plumb colored bruise on his cheek. Little emotion was expressed, he blinked, nodded to your words. Until you finally decided that you too would just sit in silence.

“I don’t want you to come back here.”

Your hands shook but your voice was steady as you softly spoke back. “Why? You can’t think I’m just going to leave you in here…”

“Don’t come back. You’re a loose end.” He clipped back.

“What?”

“You fucking heard me.” Ray’s voice was sharp, commanding.

“So we’re off?”

His voice was still ringing in your ears when he spoke again. “It was never on.” He said flatly.

“I lost my job-“

“Get out.” Ray stood up from the table, hands cuffed in front of his hips and stared down at you from his six-foot five-inch frame. “Don’t come back.”

And after that, you didn’t.

Now

St. Tropez. French Riviera in October. Tourists have all but vanished in the coastal town. You followed Ray’s instructions along the way leading to the sophisticated seaside village. Now you sat in a little bistro near the weekly market. You felt off about it. The Place de Lices buzzed with the hum of people and the smell of sweets, and breads offered there. Your eyes moved the crowds, sometimes lingering for too long on very tall men in hats. You hoped it was him.

You had wished for a week that when you stared at the back of a man more than six feet it was Ray.

And like a kick to the gut you realized that maybe you were wrong about Ray.

Again.

Maybe he had left you once again to figure out what came next.

So you ate a small dinner, drank too much wine and left the bistro heavier than you arrived. You swayed when you walked. Your hair hung in your face, strands of curls stuck to your cheeks, a bit of sweat beaded on your top lip as you struggled to see the path in front of you.

You decided to take the long way back to your little hotel. Might as well take in the sights for what they were. You decided with a hiccup. A dizzy train of thought sped through your mind that perhaps this shit with Ray was off.

Because it was never on, remember? You laughed at yourself as you walked. A tarry, rigid giggle bubbling up from the pit of whirling doubt and moderately priced wine. He had told you that once.

So why were you here?

Your head tilted back, panned your eyes up that darkening French sky as your body became wrapped in the pale yellow glow of lamps along the way. You took the lonely feeling growing in your heart. You could smell the water. The breeze on your skin felt like a comforting kiss from a man you couldn’t wrap your mind around.

And the wine, the damn alcohol was sitting on your stomach. The slosh of it was ignored but you loved the numbing effect inside and out.

You remembered the jail. The day Ray all but said he didn’t want you. There wasn’t much left of that memory. Only the smell of wet dog the jail had cultivated and the icy glare of his eyes when he told you to go.

Now, the only memory that came first when you thought of Ray was him laying on top of you. The two of you wrapped together in an embrace decades in the making that the only sound you could make when you thought of it was a sigh.

The stoic gestures of Ray had always been there, even from the beginning. But this Ray, your Ray, was different now. Somehow more quiet, and more adept at holding in plans meant for the far future that you questioned his actions in the present.

Like now. You hiccup again and then paused along a stone fence. Another wave of the alcohol-induced dizzies you stood there with your face to the sky.

It would have been better to be more on guard.

But you weren’t.

And you were snatched.

Ringing in your ears, a bang from your temple pulled you from a dreamless sleep.

The lack of clothing concerns you but not near enough to truly shock you. It had to be Ray. 

You shift around on the soft sheets until you lay flat against the bed. Your head rolled to the left, the right, it looks different than your hotel room. A decent room with sparse decorations, a pile of clothes on one of the chairs in the corner and a lingering smell of men’s cologne.

You think back to the bistro. You were drunk but not wasted.

A shadow. It had been a large shadow from near you along the fence and a prick to your neck had been the last thing you remembered.

The only door creaked, lazily swinging in the southern France breeze drew your eyes back to the right. Along the floor dark leafy shadows swayed over the stone flooring. They seemingly merged into a dark outline against the bright morning sun. It got bigger, swelling in size until the shadow overwhelmed the light.

Around the corner, you could hear heavy footsteps. Ray stepped in with only a pair of cargo shorts and sandals. Water dripped from his nose as his head swept in your direction.

“Good morning,” he said gravelly as he smiled.

“You drugged me.” You croaked and then hold your breath as he began to peel off his soaked shorts.

“Had to—you would fight back.” He chuckled and dropped his box briefs.

Your eyes fell to his cock, limp but quickly gaining girth but you looked back up to him. “Wouldn’t have to fight at all Ray if you would have shown up.”

Ray began to walk toward the bed. Slivers of sun caught the green in his brown eyes as they roamed from the sheet to your bare chest.

“I’m a wanted man.” He pressed his knee into the bed followed by the other. “I had to make sure you weren’t followed.”

You began to gather the sheet up but Ray grabbed it back and pulled hard on it as you scooted back further against the headrest. “You can’t be mad at that.“

Ray tugged again the white sheets slipped from your fingers. And when his lips touched yours any thoughts of the budding animosity was pushed away.

Maybe it wasn’t important. Perhaps now being in his arms was the apology you had been seeking for the last decade that led up to last night.

And when Ray’s tongue licked between your thighs, his thick fingers gripped your silky skin it was a promise. His palms, not as smooth as you remembered, roughly scrapped along your thighs you wondered how long this would last.

Ray lifted his head and stared into your eyes. He rose above you a slight grin plastered on his lips under the slick of you and spit he mumbled: "I’ve missed you.” and then kissed your lips, ducked his tongue inside your mouth.

He was inside you before another kiss. No warning to the power you knew he held there. He pushed harder driving his length deeper. Desperately you clung to him letting him take what was his.

Your Ray missed you.

He was close. His hardening cock, the fevered thrusts. Ray was lost in you.

You missed him too. You watched his hooded eyes stare into your mouth, his eyes fluttered with his final pump filling you with warmth.

You didn’t cum. But you got something else.

You had your Ray.

Ray falls to the sand.

You smiled hard down at him, you don’t suppress the laugh coming up. In a burst of giggles, you sit back down on the lounger holding your chest and stomach.  

He had tried to dig a hole. Not just any hole—THE hole. Little did he know that halfway through its construction he would abandon it only to fall into it hours later.

Ray looked up at you from the cool sand.

“I knew that was there.” He grinned and then got to his bare feet.

Amused, your eyes dance from the hole back to his sweaty face. “You’re an idiot.” You said still clutching your chest from the ache.

“I’m your idiot.” said Ray and sat on the lounger with you and pulled you into his arms.

Your head rested on his broad warm chest. The strong flutter of his heartbeat under your ear and an arm stretched across his waist made for a perfect feeling. 

You missed him too.

“Only because no one else would put up with your shit.” You chuckled back, settling into his heat.

“No.,” he said, his voice hummed in your ear over the sound of his heart.

“No, what?” you asked, tilted your head up toward him and the fading grin on his lips.

“No, I wouldn’t want anyone else,” said Ray wrapping both of his arms around you encasing you in his protective embrace. “There’s only you.”

He peered down at you over his cheek barely moving his head before he looked back at the white-tipped waves.

“Donnie wants to meet up.” He said softly, almost under his breath as an afterthought.

But you caught it, and the meaning, even if he did not express it. Donnie was the architect of the last job.

You sit up on your palm and look down at Ray. Your dark eyes burning holes into his passive expression only makes you slap at his chest.

“Don’t you have enough?” you asked. "God, I can’t believe this shit.” You sat up fully now and pulled out of his arms. “You have millions, millions! So god damn greedy, Ray. Why?”

“It’s full proof.” He said, still laying on the lounger his fingers crisscrossed over his chest. He didn’t move, barely even opened his lips as he spoke. “I’m not greedy. It’s for us. Imagi-“

“No!” you shouted, paced over the sand as it gritted between your toes. “This is –“ You turned back to him, still unmoving, and shook your finger at him. “This is for you. Always. You do this shit. The world doesn’t owe you, Ray. You can’t just steal what you want as if it doesn’t matter. Do you want them to catch up with you? To us? I can imagine that!”

You dragged yourself, dejectedly, away from Ray on the beach. You felt the sadness, the disrespect rising up from the pit of your stomach. And even when you returned to the room it hadn’t lessened. Instead, your eyes swept around to the messy bed, a pile of Ray’s clothes on the floor, and an empty bottle of wine taking in the mess he had left behind.

He was always leaving shit behind.

Even you.

“You’re right.”

You turned around to find Ray standing there. His expression still passive he stared at you, he ducked his hands into his cargo pockets and waited.

It concerned you he was so easily swayed. That was not the Ray you were used to dealing with. Not the man of the past who would have gleefully left you behind to follow his own path.

“I’m right about what?” you asked, crossed your arms over your chest and studied him.

“About that job. About me…I don’t want to be that anymore.” He said simply and took a long step near you. “You’re enough.”

You were impossible to look away from. Dark coils sweeping over your damp forehead, your brown eyes watching lovingly over the scene, a happy smile pulling your full lips over white teeth.

It was a dream. Ray decided this moment right here superseded all other moments. Not even the wedding, the birth of the second or even the third kid could compare to this moment.

You lifted your skirt, squatted down near the creation one of his sons had constructed. He was smart like you, reckless like his father and Ray stared as your hand moved the little door open and closed on the castle of wood and stone he had created.

The Alps stood, gray rock and snow-capped peaks, in majestic contrast against the vivid green pastors, and the wood homes billowing smoke from their well-worn chimneys.

The oldest and tallest of the bunch ran over pushed on the shoulders of the youngest son playfully. Fighting brothers, but best friends, he teased his younger brother before clapping him on the back.

You stood watching them. Hands on your wide hips you gazed at them tease each other, Ray was sure you were remembering their birth and imagining the kind of men they would grow to be. You loved to talk about it. Sometimes, in the dusk of sleep, you muttered to the air of how much they looked like him.

A girl, the youngest, about five years old bounded down the hill from the house and wrapped her arms around your waist.

Chestnut curls caught the wind, blew around her rounded chubby face as she turned to Ray.

She pushed off from you and ran toward Ray and into his arms where he willfully pulled her on to his lap. Her small hand wrapped around his four fingers, squinting she stared up at Ray stroked his smooth face before pinching his chin.

Ray tickled her, under the arms around the ribs sending her screaming in a fight of giggles back to her mother. Ray’s eyes followed and then landed back on you.

The little nick-name he used seemed fitting more than ever. The white alpine rays of the sun steadily cascaded under the horizon turned orange and yellow. Your skin absorbed the light, shined more beautiful than he had ever seen it. His sunshine.

You were enough.

[comatosebunny09]

You've been putting off that oil change for far too long, sis.

You can't ignore that angry, red oil lamp leering at you from the dash much longer. So, you call a mom-and-pop shop to schedule an appointment for an oil change. And to your surprise, they have an opening right now!

Sure, you don't want to shell out the coins to keep your car running. Rather spend your money on booze, food, and whatever other oddities get you through the weekend. But you're an adult now. You've got 'sponsibilities. You want to trade that car in for a Mercedes someday.

Right?

You whip down the sunny highway, weaving through traffic. Pull up to the quaint repair shop you'd phoned earlier, still wearing your uniform and smelling like the struggle—it's inventory week. Lots of heavy lifting, sweating, and hating your life. 

It's surprisingly clean inside despite being low-key. Freshly painted, ivory walls. Glittering tile floors. Smells like bubblegum and lemon interweaved with motor oil. Warm and homely in contrast to the biting cold outside.

A neatly-arranged lobby sits on your left, two rows of chairs flanking the wall-mounted T.V., abuzz with the weather. Ceiling high windows permit sun rays to shine through. To your right is a marbled counter with a black top, unmanned, tidy stacks of paper, and intricately arranged business cards adorning it.

The door behind the counter is cracked open, a conglomerate of drilling, whirring, and shouting over heavy machinery pouring in. You ring the bell perched on the counter's edge to get serviced. Wait a few beats. Convinced no one will hear you over all the ruckus going on outside, you turn around to lean against the counter, thoroughly engrossed by your phone.

You don't notice when he sneaks in. Situational awareness has always been shit despite your profession. Hear him before you see him, his tone like static tearing into a quiet room. You flinch, spinning around to face the room's new occupant with squinted eyes.

"Good morning, Miss!" says this blond mountain of a man, throwing you off kilter. "How may I assist you?"

He's all teeth and sunshine, this guy. Towers a good foot over you. He wears sandy skin stretched over sharp features. Wiry, dark brows. Freckles stipple his nose. Dimples crater his cheeks. Wheat-colored hair bleeds into a deep crimson on his shoulders and frames his jaws. His face is smudged with what you assume is oil. But it does nothing to detract from how incredible he looks.

You can make out the virility of his body through the confines of his royal blue jumpsuit. Arms lean and bulging with veins pouring from his rolled-up sleeves. Homie clearly works out. He drums his thick fingers on the countertop. You gnaw on your lip, unconsciously imagining them wrapped around your throat...

Despite majoring in linguistics, you've suddenly forgotten how to speak. Mouth gaping like a fish. Eyes blinking rapidly. Your heart is pounding over time in your ears. You're scorching hot.

Breathe, girl.

Breathe.

When you've found your voice again, you clear your throat. Try to act all casual, like you didn't almost wet your panties. "I-I'm here for a nine-o-clock oil change."

"Ah!" he remarks as if you've unearthed the meaning of life. You resist snorting, watching this ball of electricity bounce around and fiddle with a clipboard. He passes it to you, grin never faltering, your nerves slowly draining away. "Please fill out all of the highlighted areas with your information!"

He's intense, sure. Like an ecstatic puppy waiting for its owner to toss a tennis ball. But he gives you good vibes. Smile is infectious. You can't help the ghost of one sliding past your lips as you grab a pen. Feel heat pervading your cheeks, and you glance down to jot down your info.

You slide the beach boy your documents and keys when you're done. He dangles them between you, chuckling at your choice of keychain. A gaudy, fuzzy, pink ball that's been through some things. You're suddenly self-conscious. A little more self-aware, with your hair sticking up at odd angles, your uniform coated with a film of dust, and the laces of your boots peeking out. Though, dude doesn't seem to notice or care.

He tells you to make yourself comfortable halfway out the door again. Motions to the coffee bar nestled beneath the T.V. Flashes you another thousand-watt smile. Says, "my name is Kyojuro, by the way," before going outside to bring your ride around back.

As you plop your weary bones into a chair in the lobby, you can't help wondering how someone that hot ended up working at a place like this.

But dammit, if you don't enjoy having something nice to look at while you wait.

Masterlist

[revelisms]

It's a dance, this life—that, he learns soon enough.

A dance of fingertipped-tracings and brushed lips; poisoned words off honey-sweet tongues; snagged breath behind dragging teeth, sweat-slick nails, pulse-battered nothings. A dance of satined shoes and spotless silks and his breath breaking like a tide against strained sheets, his nails in their hair, ash in his lungs and all of it not enough—

(Never enough.)

How his brothers had made do with it—walking off stages to emptied rooms cold as death; to Her red-lipped glower, to the snarkings of their white-capped root of creation but never Father; to a home that is no Home, at all—he doesn't know.

He finds replacements. Something of a sort. Shrieking audiences with starlit grins. Gloves splayed beneath black robes and adorations melting in his ear. Desperate fingers scraping red-tracked lines down his skin, a familiar symphony of there and yes and oh-oh-oh—!

A routine so commonplace he hardly cares where it finds him, these days.

He'll devour it from any corner, anywhere those hands will drag him: as though with every dangling promise of its provision, it is a well drying by the day; a reservoir he has taken from too greedily, yet will take again (and again, and again), as he always has.

But he shuts the door before the dawn comes. Bids them goodbye with a sleaze of a smile and a kiss at their temple. Stands again in an emptied room, cold as death; his head buzzing, his bones liquid, a raggedness still in his chest.

The performance left at his feet. Strips of his being as discarded as the carnage strewn about the floor.

The adoration dissolves in bathwater that scalds; the taste of those scant traces of praise buried the box he keeps in the recesses of his mind, only opened as a reminder for how he may let his greed snatch it all again.

A proof that this body is worth something, for all its weakness: all its frail-hearted uselessness: all the wrath he will not display to them.

The underbelly that consumes him worse than the heat of their own teeth and tongues.

Without that stage, he has nothing.

(And even on it?)

His fingers itch against his cigarette, wet-printed stipplings. He stares at the ceiling: a gray-lined abstraction, kissed with candlelight and steam. Studies the grouting of millennia-old stone he's studied for a lifetime, already.

The tobacco simmers in his throat. Sighs out in a stream of silvered blue.

(Even on it?)

He squeezes his eyes shut, bathwater a tear-track warmth down his temples, beaded at his lashes, and lets his head slump back against the tub's lip.

Music chases away the thought. A blur of harpsichord notes that cascades like a rainstorm, soothes like a bass's thrumming. A heartbeat coalescence with a knife's bite.

He pinches the cigarette between his lips, rolls over to reach for the idle pen and artist-minded mess he calls a notebook. Water drips off his raggled fringe, blinked away beneath his frowning.

The pen moves like something possessed: a streak of ink that takes the start of a stanza and slices it to a symphony of its own.

Then he writes a chord, smoke trickling past his teeth.

And another.

And another.

terzo, on rituals / blood roses

[jiubilant]

What do you think the Falmer do to make special treats for food? Like desserts and such. Relatedly, what sorts of holidays do you think Falmer observe/invented, if any? What does a typical Falmer party sound like? Do they use more tactile decorations like furs and soft seating, since visuals aren’t important?

on food:

sugar as we know it is not part of the falmeri diet but many clans do cultivate sweetish roots and tubers with which to flavor their food; chaurus "honey," which is thicker and more tart than bees' honey, is also used to flavor spit-roasted fish and root mashes. food hunted or foraged during an aboveground foray would be considered a rare treat by a deep-dwelling clan. berries are especially prized for their flavor and usually eaten plain or used in sauce or jam

falmeri "finger-gardens" are comprised of large underground caverns in which long roots ready for harvest hang down from the cavern ceiling. they're called finger-gardens because the roots trail along the harvesters' shoulders like fingers

on holidays:

because the falmer are a subterranean people, they pay less heed than overlanders to the changing of the seasons and the passage of years. falmeri feast days are usually dedicated to coming-of-age milestones such as the growth of a child's milk teeth or the child's first naming—on these occasions the whole clan sets aside a day to celebrate the child

other occasions that are celebrated are fruitful (rootful?) harvests and certain propitious signs divined by the clan's elders. these religious observances are marked by feasting and song (less vocal and more the humming, whistling, and tapping that usually comprise falmeri speech) and, rather than having a fixed calendar date, are decided upon spontaneously by the elders of the clan

on fashion:

falmeri textiles are usually woven of spidersilk. clothes are undyed and richly-textured—the finest falmeri clothes and leathers are adorned with elaborate knotwork, beading, and stippling in order to make them as pleasant to touch as possible. soft furs are also prized

[deada55]

Kloktober 2024, day 12: tattoos or piercings

Another steamy little diddy from Being There.

Rating: Teen and Up

“Don’t be shy.”

She kicked the hot tub cover into a pile on her deck as the jets started to blow. Then, she peeled off her shirt and was left only in her panties. She always wore her hair in neat, light brown Dutch braids, didn’t she? The tails made her scapulae look sculpted and soft. She giggled,

”Need me to show you how?”

If not for the couple shots he took in his car before he turned onto her street, he would have been scared as hell. He hummed and got clumsy with his belt.

She mimed pulling a rope while he settled down beside her, their beers in hand. When he handed hers over, she raised it, “Cheers!”

”Cheers.”

Clink.

She sighed. “I’m glad you could come over. I don’t think my parents are coming back tonight.” Moths drew closer to the light on the underside of the roof above them, even though they were slapped now and again by a ceiling fan dragged by a trapped breeze. She shivered and lifted his arm over her like a blanket.

”Y’know, Nathan… I think you’re the best kind of person I could have met right now. I don’t know what I want to do in life, but you…” She lost her train of thought and raised her head. “I just feel better when you’re around. I bet you have everything figured out.”

He looked to the corner of the deck at a cockroach spinning in circles at the edge of the light.

”You really are different from what I expected.” She slid over and straddled his lap before he could be angry with her, but he had the same expression as always. She smoothed back his hair with her fingers.

”And your eyes are prettier with your hair out of your face.”

Her lips were so soft. At one point, she leaned forward and put her elbows on the backrest behind his head, over either of his shoulders. With him slouched under her and her carefully poised just above him, they both shook a little from the social pressure of such intimate positioning. It was one thing to hook up, it was another to enjoy someone’s company. Mandy was nearly aching.

She parted, and it felt like tearing herself away. “I want to go to bed.” The jets roared. Her ears burned. “You should come, too.”

He watched her get out first. Three blue stars on her lower back stood out from cheerful stippling, lighthearted and begging to be seen. While her back was still turned, he got out and was relieved that he shrank back a little bit, so that the towel she passed him wouldn’t be stuck on a peg.

[willshipanything-blog]

Rules of the Game- Chapter 24

We're nearly there! The penultimate chapter is here. Y/N wakes in Al's bed for the first time. Both think about their possible futures together. Hope you enjoy! ✨🖤

MINORS DNI. Detailed tags over on AO3.

For full chapter index, click here

For AO3 link, click here

Chapter 24- The Shape of Things to Come

Soft morning light woke you the next morning, warm on your face as it filtered through the thin red curtains, casting a hazy rose glow into the room. Your eyelids fluttered open, and you felt invigorated after such a peaceful sleep on a plush mattress, not once waking up in the night with shivers or nightmares. If the red aura of the room matched your passions last night, then the gentle morning pinks signified a serenity. A peace that had been unmatched in all the time that you’d been here. You wondered if Al might let you stay the night in his bedroom again, perhaps on another special occasion. These gratifying thoughts in mind, you turned in the bed to face him.

“Good morning-” 

Clunk.

You noticed two things. The first: Al wasn’t beside you in bed, only a vacant spot where you expected him to be slumbering. The second: you felt a tug on your left arm. Looking up, you saw your wrist, cuffed to one of the wooden slats of the headboard. Did he still not trust you? Your heart dropped a little in your chest, like an elevator juddering, causing a momentary panic. But it was ok- just a precaution on Al’s part. You supposed the bedroom door didn’t have a padlock like the basement, and Al didn’t want you running off anytime soon. You’d have stayed in bed obediently if he'd asked, but you understood his reasoning behind the restraints. Even though Al cared for you, perhaps he never truly forgot about the precarious situation in which you both existed. 

You yourself tried to forget this fact as best you could (that he was your captor, and his house a prison), though it attempted to rear its ugly head frequently. Sometimes, especially during solitary moments, these dark thoughts crackled in your mind like staticy music on a cassette tape. No matter how hard you tried to rip out the tape, unspooling the entire memory into ribbons, it would always wind itself back up, ready to be played back. It was getting easier to stop pressing play on those vile thoughts, but they weren’t able to ever be truly erased.

You wondered whether it was the same for Al. How often he might also think of past violations. Did he distinguish between you, his captive, and you, his little dove? How meticulous in his planning, and how hard he must work: to keep you hidden, to meet your needs, to take care of you. And still, to never really know the extent of your trust, whether one day you would just stop speaking, or recoil at his touch, or try to escape. It made you pity him all over again. It was a gloomy thought, and not one you wanted to pervade the rosy morning air, so you thought of better things as you waited for Al’s return. 

You bunched up the covers around your naked body and reclined, hands resting above your head on the pillow. You stared absentmindedly at the stippled ceiling, tinted blush in the morning glow: your attentions were elsewhere, thinking dreamily of the previous night. Closing your eyes, you breathed deeply, feeling the soft embrace of the bedding you’d cocooned yourself in. The silky top sheet had felt heavenly last night on your bare skin, like water gliding against both of your bodies as you made love, but the comforter underneath was fluffy and warm. Even without these comforts, you still would have felt toasty this morning, warming yourself on the memories of the night before. 

Last night had been… nice. You smirked at the simplicity of this thought, but it was the word that came to mind. It had been quite the birthday. There had been hiccups of course, you remembered a little poignantly. But you had rectified your mistake after you first denied Al the opportunity to speak. You had given him a second chance to admit those feelings freely, even if you had no response to his heartfelt confession. But the rest of the night had gone so wonderfully. Al’s intentions had been so sweet and earnest. And a night of firsts for you: dinner; drinks; dancing. It was like a bygone era, like something out of Grease. You realized- Al probably had dated back in the 50s, when he was around your age. Your brows furrowed at this image, and the recognition of your own feelings made you literally gasp in disbelief. Were you… jealous that Al might have done this before?! You laughed away this thought- it didn’t matter. He had you now. Only you, his little dove, all to himself. 

You changed your mind as more and more recollections of the last 12 hours spun in your head like a movie reel of some Hollywood romance: last night hadn’t just been nice. It had been so much more. The dinner had been delicious, the wine sweet. The gifts, thoughtful and the dancing breathtaking. The sex had been amazing. And when you held each other, and Al had spoken those words to you, it felt like magic. 

“Well don’t you look like the cat that got the cream?” You sat upright upon hearing that velvety voice, wondering how long Al had been standing there in the doorway, watching you get lost in your serene musings. 

The sight of him standing in the bedroom doorway left you a little breathless. Al was wearing just a pair of striped pajama pants, leaving his stomach, chest and arms free for you to ogle (you secretly committed this image to memory, hoping your blush was hidden by the pink glow of the bedroom). But it was his face that had really taken you by surprise. No mask covered it; his blue eyes unobstructed by the pale, devilish horns, his beautifully crooked smile unimpeded by any false grin or frown he might have previously chosen to wear. You scanned the room in half a second, noting no sign of the mask on the nightstand where you had placed it last night. Had he really decided to let go of them, to stop hiding behind the shame and insecurity that ran deep in his veins? You snapped your head back to him, where he was waiting silently. In your surprise, you’d almost forgotten what he’d said.

“Where were you Al?” If your question was curt, it was softened by your wide smile that had broken out on your face at the sight of him. 

“Ah, sorry dove. Turns out pancakes are trickier than pot roasts!” he quipped, as he stalked over to the bed. You crossed your legs under the sheets, and he sat across from you, placing a tray delicately on the mattress between you both. It held a plate stacked high with fluffy, syrup-smothered pancakes and two steaming cups of milky coffee. You rattled the metal cuff against the wooden headboard, reminding Al that you were still shackled to the bed. He smiled wickedly, not averting his gaze from you as he casually picked up a cup, blew on the hot coffee and took a deep swig. So he was in one of his playful, impish moods- you didn’t need to see the toothy masked smile to discern that. With your free hand, you took your own coffee as Al began to cut off a piece of pancake, popping it into his mouth and humming emphatically at the taste. Teasing you. The next bite he offered to you, and you opened your mouth to allow him to feed you. The fork was placed carefully inside before you bit down, and Al removed the utensil, dragging it slowly, slowly between your closed lips. You both knew how provocative this felt. You ate in silence, save for low, appreciative hums as you enjoyed the sweet breakfast. Al alternated bites between the two of you, taking it in turns to eat. Just as you’d taken turns last night, each undressing the other. This felt like a continuation: a slow, seductive build up to something more. Al’s finger waded through the last glistening pool of sticky syrup on the otherwise clean plate; you happily accepted this on your tongue too, trapping his finger in your mouth as you licked him clean. His digit finally retreated, escaping your lips with a soft squelch. 

“So, what are you doing today?” you asked, a little anxious, though keen after a breakfast that promised such possibilities.

“We have a busy day planned, Y/N.” Just what he meant by ‘busy’ was anyone’s guess, but you could predict what some of the day’s activities might include. But Al had spoken eagerly, including you in his sentiments, and it warmed you more than the cozy sheets ever could. He sprung up from the bed, placing the tray on the nightstand beside you. He perched down, right by your side now as he palmed each side of your neck, thumbs delicately stroking your blushing cheeks before drawing you in for a deep, lengthy kiss. There was no mask to act as a barrier between you, and the feel of his bare face against yours, your skin against his, was magnificent. Not just for how soft it felt, but for what the shedding of the mask signified. This happy thought spurred you on, leaning into the kiss, offering up your mouth for him and finding his tongue with yours. Twisting together like ropes, lapping over each other like ocean waves. Your free hand dithered over where to go, but decided to grip Al’s covered leg, resting on his thigh and pressing four eager fingertips into the flesh beneath. 

As he pulled away smiling, your face still ensconced in his strong hands, he answered your question, albeit cryptically. 

“I suppose today, I’m going to take good care of my good girl.”

“Hmm, but what if she's naughty?” you teased, speaking through a puerile giggle and squeezing your hand a little harder on his thigh, just inches from his groin. You’d never ventured to broach this taboo so early in the day. But it had been a night of firsts- why couldn’t the morning be more of the same? Al’s grip on your neck became a touch tighter and his smile widened, an innumerable count of those dangerously charming teeth bared for you. No longer lurking in the shadow of the mask, his sky blue eyes still managed to flash a dark look, eclipsed by some celestial force that had reacted to your question. 

“Then it’s going to be a very busy day indeed, isn’t it, little dove?” he growled menacingly, though you sensed that wild theatricality about Al, and you weren’t fearful of anything he might do right here in his bed. He reached into the pocket of his pajama pants, retrieving a small silver key. He slid this into the lock mechanism of the cuffs that chained one hand to the bed, though he seemed to stop when it made a small click. Springing open the fastening around the bedpost, he paused to let his shiny eyes flicker your way for just a second before his hands quickly got to work. Deftly, he threaded the cuffs’ empty bracelet behind the bed frame and yanked your free hand towards it. He clasped it shut around your other wrist with a clink. In an instant, both of your hands were immobile, manacled above your head. Al hauled your body down the bed so your arms were outstretched, and you were hopelessly, exquisitely trapped. A bunny caught in a snare, with the hunter ready to go in for the kill. But Al’s prey wasn’t quite ready. In one swift motion, he tugged the sheets from the bed and they fluttered wildly to the floor like a ship's sail in a storm, exposing you fully to him. 

Even if the room was warmed from basking in the morning sun, the sudden change in temperature goosepimpled your entire body. Both the cold and the anticipation made you shiver. You prepared for the thunderous explosions he would soon wreak on your body, followed by the electrifying sensations that always followed. But there was to be a calm before the storm: he towered over you, unflinching but with an obvious hardness in his pants, and you lay beneath him, body tremoring like an addict craving a hit of what they desired most. It seemed the breakfast hadn’t satisfied either of your carnal appetites.

“What do you want, naughty thing?”

“I want you, Al.”

“Mmmm,” he cooed, as he traced a finger along your side, from your armpit to your hip. Your body writhed, both wincing at the ticklish gesture, and needing more of his touch on your skin, “You’ll have to be more specific.” You weren’t sure how his words could be spoken in that low, guttural rumble, yet feel sweet as caramel in your ears. Al was a walking paradox, always had been. 

“I- I want you to kiss me.” He acquiesced, and planted a soft but brief kiss on your lips. As he pulled away from your mouth he also pulled out a desperate, keening moan from you. It wasn’t enough, and he knowingly chuckled.

“You only have to tell me. Come on, you weren’t this shy last night, little dove.” You thought he’d found your shyness endearing, but he must have reveled in you asking for the same last night, inhibitions lost in your lustful stupor. That damn sideways smirk never left his face, and it infuriated you just enough to embolden you to take what you wanted. After all, he seemed to be obeying you, taking requests, even if you were the one fettered beneath him. 

“I want you to kiss me- everywhere. I want you on me,” you stuttered a little as he shuffled out of his trousers, his manhood erect and ready. “A-and in me. I need you inside me, Al.”

“One more question, dove.” You locked eyes. This was routine, and you were ready with your response. It was an easy question, with a truthful answer. 

“I think we can manage that dove,” he crooned, slowly clambering onto the bed, straddling your body as his hands touched your hips to start, “But we’ll have to work on your dirty talk later.” Your hearty laugh evolved into an excited shriek as the first rough kiss to your neck took hold. If it didn’t draw blood, it would at least leave a stunning mark for Al to fawn over later. Another swift trail of kisses and nibbles along your neck and his hands gripped ever more tightly on your hips, before Al withdrew, straightening his back as he sat atop you. The only touch he gave was one finger, which he traced purposefully below your collarbone. Where that white-hot engraving inhabited your skin, and your heart. 

“I’m yours.”

“Who do you belong to?”

With that, the deal was struck. Al explored your body with his hands, his mouth, tongue and teeth, and finally his cock. Pleasure lapped at your body. Slowly at first, though pacing ever faster like an approaching storm. Heat rising with each wet kiss he delivered to your jawline, each squeeze on your swollen nipples. The raging tempest building in your body as he stroked your heat, then added skillful fingers, before finally plunging himself into your core,  each new thrust an intense ocean swell that lured your orgasm ever closer. 

Your hands balled into fists, pulling helplessly against the metal cuffs. The restraints had become the worst punishment of all, more so than any bruise or mark inflicted by Al. Not a punishment because they bound you, held you in place as Al used you as he pleased, but they tormented you because you couldn't do the same to him. All you could do was wrap your legs around him as he thrust into you, moan his name and enjoy the waves of euphoria that washed over you. A riptide of pleasures crashed into each other, threatening to overwhelm you, your body unmooring from itself. Al crashed into your body like waves upon rocks, relentless and powerful and seemingly unstoppable. But eventually, he came with a thundering roar and relented, and you rode your own comedown on a gentle, bubbling current.

Al rolled off your body with a satisfied groan and you turned your head to look at him. His head mirrored yours and your eyes met, both of you staring silently at the other. The pair of you trying to steady your panting breaths, wisps of sweat-soaked hair framing your faces, but both wearing matching, wide smiles. Al cupped your cheek in his palm as he talked to you.

"You know, it's Saturday today, dove. I could just keep you here all weekend and come play with you when the mood strikes me."

You chuckled at his musings as you leaned into his touch, but your laughter ceased and you took on a sincere tone. Your thoughts (often so guarded and calculated before speaking) seemed to flow freely. Surely now, any subject could be discussed between the two of you.

"I could stay here Al. I wouldn't leave. You wouldn't need these." You rattled the cuffs once again on the bed frame, and Al was quick to produce the key and free you at last from the chains.

"Sorry sweet," he said, bringing your wrists to his mouth and kissing them gently before speaking again, "Old habits, I guess." He rubbed at the fresh welts embedded (only shallowly) in your skin, and you turned your body towards him. The pair of you silently watched him work, massaging away the pain and numbness in your hands. He still hadn't responded to what you'd said. Maybe he was thinking of the nicest way to deny your request. Maybe he would never let you stray from the basement.

“Hey, look at me, Y/N,” he said, gripping your chin between his thumb and forefinger, bringing your eyesight up to his “I want you to stay upstairs. I really do. But you know I can’t- not yet, don’t you?” His strained expression and pleading eyes told you how frustrated he was with this arrangement. He didn’t trust you, not yet- but he wanted to trust you so badly it hurt. You nodded slowly in acknowledgement but your tears were evident. Al stroked them soothingly away, his thumb pads feather-light on your wet cheeks. It helped to reassure you, especially when his hand rose to caress the white scarred line on your cheekbone. He knew how it soothed you when he touched you there, and with each steadying breath your quiet sobs lessened until the tears ceased. 

“How does this sound?” he asked after your last few strangled hiccups stopped.

“Al?”

“You can stay here, in my- in our room, at night,” he offered, his thumb still lovingly brushing your cheek. “You’d only have to go back downstairs while I’m out. Only if you want that, Y/N.”

Tears threatened to spring up again, in delight this time, but you stemmed the flow and nodded.

You signaled that you needed to use the bathroom, and Al rifled through his drawers to find you a pair of boxers and a pajama shirt, an oversized, striped shirt that matched the pants he was wearing. As you shut the door connecting the bedroom and ensuite, you ruminated on the way things were progressing, taking shape to form some tangible sort of life, a future with Al. You couldn’t be too upset that his trust in you wasn’t completely unwavering: there had been progress, after all. Last night had been a huge step, you thought meditatively. Al had allowed you to unmask him, and had spoken candidly about how he felt. The only thing that marred your thoughts was what hadn’t been said. Those words on the tip of your own tongue- could it really be true? Not today, Y/N. You washed away these introspective thoughts as you freshened up. Back to the simple things. There had been greater forward progress than you had expected- Al had promised no more nights alone in that cold cell, no more waking up without his assuring touches to dispel your fears. Even the idea of having a clean mattress and toilet thrilled you. Being able to brush your teeth! And eventually (Al had hinted), the basement wouldn’t be used at all- right?

“Of course I want that.” Your voice was muffled as you buried yourself into Al’s chest, clinging tightly as you hugged him. Naturally, he reciprocated, holding you close and rubbing his fingers in soft, undulating strokes on your back, like soft, foamy waves breaking on the shore. 

“Hey, Al?” You had propped yourself against the doorframe after finishing up in the bathroom. He had been looking out of the window, but turned to look at you as you spoke.

“Hm? Yeah, dove?”

“If,” -you looked at him, and his soft azure eyes spurred you to think more hopefully- “When I stay up here, permanently I mean- what happens with the basement?” Those dark thoughts threatened to fog your mind like an approaching storm cloud. Would that empty room, vacant without you, be a temptation for him, that monster you would no longer name? You didn’t think so, but you needed to hear it from Al. He had understood your meaning, and hurried over to you, placing his large hands on each of your shoulders. Reassuring, but serious too. 

“Nothing at all. It’ll just be an empty room.” he whispered sincerely, rubbing your upper arms to allay your shaky fears. You pictured it all: the bare stone floor, the damp walls, dingy mattress, broken phone, narrow barred window, filthy toilet. Collecting dust from disuse, cobwebs clinging to the severed cord of the black phone, stagnant gray water in the toilet cistern. The metal door jammed shut. No-one, except perhaps ghosts, inhabiting that musty cell. You could see it all so vividly, a realistic future that so easily appeared in your head. 

The part of yourself that was trapped- the one you had locked away to forget things, the one that flashed the knife in your visions, the one that tried to pierce images of past abuses in your head- that voice wondered: would the Grabber ever truly be gone? From your life, and from Al’s? You hoped so. You believed so. Your fears quelled. But Al’s shiny eyes had dulled- perhaps he was saddened by your thoughts that he could revert to that beast he once allowed to roam free. 

You pitied him. It wasn’t an emotion you wanted to feel for him, but it was present nonetheless. Secretly, in your own private thoughts, you felt it deeply for him. Al certainly didn’t want this from you. He believed he deserved nothing in this world, especially not you, as he often told you plainly. Your constant reassurances that you were his sometimes consoled him, but not always, and he would continue to bear that burden, not allowing you to free that heavy weight from his shoulders. He was so tormented, such a poor soul. The things he had done were unforgivable- but you would allow Al (not the Grabber) to live freely, even if freedom was the one thing denied to you. 

The realization struck you like a truck; Al had never really been free at all. He’d been trapped in his own twisted mind, thinking the only way to serve his mad urges were those things too terrible to even think about. At the mercy of the Grabber, his other half. In your own mind, by staying and submitting, allowing yourself to fall for Al, you had freed him from those violent, decaying thoughts. You had freed Al from the Grabber. 

“So!” Al grinned, squeezing your shoulders as you broke away from those notions that had raced through your mind in a matter of seconds. You responded with a kind smile, waiting for further instruction. “If you’re staying here at night, you can change here in the mornings. Make some room in those drawers, Y/N. And have a look in the bathroom- you’ll have to let me know if you’ll need anything.”

“Alright, thanks Al. Aren’t you going to stay?” you asked, curious why he was walking towards the bedroom door.

“I’ll get your things from downstairs. Can I trust you, little thing, or will I need to use these?” He produced the handcuffs from his pocket, spinning them on one finger as he gave you his signature smirk. You exhaled a breathy laugh as they jangled playfully on his finger, but answered with sincerity.

“You can trust me, Al. I promise,” You’d both gotten quite good at keeping those in recent memory, “But will you leave the books down there for me please?”

“Of course,” he replied, retreating the handcuffs to his pocket, “Won’t be long, dove. After we’ve sorted your things we can get a shower.” You beamed at the thought as he left, but just a heartbeat later his body appeared from behind the door, as if he had forgotten something.

“Was it obvious I meant we would shower together?” he jested, feigning confusion.

“It was!” you chortled at his steamy suggestion, blood rushing to your cheeks. He winked at you, then vanished once more as if magicked away in a cloud of smoke. 

You got to work after his footsteps faded down the hall, opening the dresser drawers, shifting some of Al’s clothes to make room for the few items you had- some pajamas, a couple pairs of panties, the blue fleece jacket he’d given to you on that cold evening stood on the doorstep. Often though, you simply wore Al’s shirts, and chuckled as you rummaged through the drawers, realizing you’d worn most of their contents yourself. A quick glance in the bathroom, and you made a mental note of some things you’d request, some toiletries that Al was sorely lacking as a man who (at one time) lived alone. 

The dress you had worn last night, discarded and forgotten in a corner when Al had stripped you, you thought best to hang in the closet. It was a little overkill for today, you scoffed to yourself. As you tried your best to smooth down the rumpled fabric and put it carefully on a hanger in the closet, you noticed a stray strip of something, like a belt, dangling from the storage space above where it looked like Al kept a supply of spare sheets and towels. But it was thinner, narrower, and you realized why it struck you. You recognized it. It was the fastening to one of the masks. You glanced nervously to the door, but discerned no sign of Al returning. Grabbing a chair, you positioned it in front of the open closet and hoisted yourself up for a better look. There they were, pushed back a little way. Four sections of the masks- the pale horns curved in a slight frown, and each mouthpiece- the grin, the grimace and the vacant, smooth lower half. Each part you’d faced a hundred times over. Hidden, but not discarded.

With all the strides you and Al had made, you still had to wonder- how much would these porcelain faces still play a part in the things you did together? Would they still participate in the game? He hadn’t thrown them out entirely, so you assumed the masks would make a triumphant return- all for show, of course. Al no longer wanted to keep you prisoner in his basement, keep you shackled to the cold walls and hide himself and his thoughts behind a frightening mask. Those fears had long gone. But you imagined the frowning mask in particular, returning to play a part in your enthralling games of Naughty Girl, a role for both of you to inhabit, play pretend for a while. Al wouldn’t really be mad, it was an elaborate performance he played so well. Him as master, subjugating his little dove, inflicting torments on your as-yet unbroken skin, using you as a plaything for his devilish machinations and electrifying touches. You, as willing captive, submitting yourself to his wild whims, taking delicious punishments and pleasures at his hand. Just like the paradox of pleasure and pain that came from the game, the game itself was a one of contradictions. By playing it so well, acting as Naughty Girl for Al, you epitomized how good you could be. What was his usual sentiment afterwards?- ‘Perfect little dove. You’re perfect, Y/N’. Where was the harm in playing still? You laughed at the irony as you climbed down and shut the closet door, hiding the masks once more. At least for a little while.  

Busying yourself, you made the bed and pulled back the curtains (tentatively at first), to find the window looked out onto the little yard you’d once visited with Al. No houses overlooked, no prying eyes would see your figure standing in the window. You basked in the bright, cold morning that inched silvery winter sunlight into the room, though the creeping beams reminded you of each minute passing. What was taking him so long? Maybe he was putting a surprise down there, to make the basement more comfortable, like he had done with the blanket. You thought affectionately about the small kindness Al had given you, from so early on in your time here, suffusing even some of the darker days with hopeful flickers. But how different the future would look in comparison with that murky past. You would have to stay in the basement, it was true. But only as little time as possible would be spent in its bowels. There would be no pacing, wondering what, or who, was descending, what torments or mind games or unknown punishments were to appear from behind the metal door. You knew it would be Al, every single day, coming to greet you without fail. Raising you from the basement’s depths to the lofty heights above. Not freedom by definition, but freeing in so many other ways. 

Still waiting for Al, you sat on the bed and thought a little more. You used to hate this, having time alone with only your perturbed thoughts as company. Once, it had led only to despair, thinking of your seemingly hopeless situation and the fear of what violence and abuse that monster would inevitably inflict. Even with those anxieties gone, some thoughts still felt like unwelcome guests in your mind. Heavy implications of how Al felt, how you felt about him (still unuttered), the hidden knife, the whole complex situation- casting logic and reason aside to escape the reality in which you lived. But not today, you asserted, resolute in your belief. Al had promised today would be a good day- and he didn’t break promises. 

He really did seem to trust you, leaving you alone for this long. Yes, you had woken cuffed to the bed, but you half-believed this to have been a mischievous trick, a playful excuse for Al to start your little games so early in the day. But waiting now (for minutes longer than you thought would be necessary), you had begun once again to do the exact thing you had been trying to avoid- letting your mind wander. Your knee bobbed quickly in nervous anticipation of Al’s return, rustling against the silky sheets that your tense fingers had also clawed their way into. You desperately hoped this wasn’t some kind of test. Just outside the bedroom door, down the hallway and in the living room, a working phone. Right beside you- a window that might not be jammed shut, ready to use as an escape. Early in your stay you’d attempted similar, and failed miserably. After that, you’d always told yourself these things were too dangerous to attempt, the risk of failure too great. This shifted to then start asking the questions- If I could, would I? If I could open that bike lock, would I walk out that door? If I could fight Al and beat him, would I? These answers were becoming clearer in your head, unblurring like a camera coming into focus. Like rain clouds dissipating to reveal a bright, clear sky. The answer was no. You wouldn’t run. You wouldn’t fight. You’d stay. Because you loved him. 

As Al sauntered down the hallway from the bedroom, his heart palpitated excitedly. A thin, cold vein of dread had threatened the morning’s tranquility, when his other insidious side had been alluded to. He had promised her the Grabber would not return, and she had trusted he was telling the truth. Her reassurances had bled that painful memory away, and he felt truly content. 

This is what he’d been wanting for a long, long time. Desperately hoping some semblance of a real relationship might take shape. He’d make sure he was there when she woke the next morning. And the morning after that. And the next. He wanted her in his bed for always; to fall asleep with her in his arms every night, and to gently coax her from restful sleep with morning kisses and caresses, as unfailing as the sunrise. 

And if it brought them closer? He wonders when she might return that gesture, say those words he’d admitted to last night. She’d been so patient with him, not pushing him to remove the mask, getting used to his acquired tastes, allowing so many transgressions and still forgiving him. For her, he’d wait forever for her to say it. Even if it went unspoken, at least they had each other’s trust, their shared promises. 

There was a small, niggling feeling she might never reciprocate those words. Al wasn’t delusional: he was under no illusions she might never say it back. But she is warming to the situation, and he believes she likes him, hell, maybe even loves Albert Shaw. But who could love such a monster as the Grabber? Even if he wasn’t coming back, he couldn’t erase what had already come to pass. He feared what he once was, but feared more Y/N’s remembrance of that beast, that dark half of himself. He cursed it. 

In the belly of the house, Al grabbed the book he’d given his little dove for her birthday, as well as a few scattered ones around the living room. In the kitchen, he spotted the portable radio and took that too. Anything that might help her while away time spent alone in the basement. He’d make those times as brief as possible. Descending the steps and entering the chilly room, it surprised him just how cold it felt. She wasn’t on the other side to warm him, and it truly was a hideous place to inhabit. She had spent so many miserable hours here and it killed him, tore him up inside. It shamed him, but it wouldn’t be forever. 

He placed her things on the mattress, thinking what else could make her more comfortable. Clean sheets, certainly. Maybe a TV? He could just ask his precious dove. They seemed to talk about anything these days without guilt or uneasiness; talked as if there was something here, a real future. Al smiled as he thought of the immediate future: he had the whole weekend off. Two whole days he could spend with her, and she wouldn’t have to step into this awful room, no reminders of the heinous things that had happened inside these four dank walls. 

Al grabbed her silky pajamas from the toilet area, and picked up clothes that were strewn on the bed, the cleanest surface in the room (though still disgustingly fetid, he thought shamefully). His sweet thing had said he had given her so much, but in reality, the opposite was true. He’d provided her with so little, enough to carry in his arms. He determined to resolve this. After all, she had looked stunning in her outfit last night. He wouldn’t hesitate to provide her with more material comforts. 

Scanning the room before leaving, he realized he’d missed the blue fleece cardigan he’d gifted her, on the corner of the mattress near the broken phone. He strode over, averting his eyes from the black rotary on the wall, and bent down to add the jacket to the pile in his arms. Sliding the jacket from the bed, he noticed a small hole in the mattress, just a couple of inches from the top. He really did let her live in such a squalid place, he worried. 

He rose to leave, adding new sheets to his to-do list for the day, but that small niggling sensation ate away at him, and as he reached the door, he found he couldn’t ignore it. Turning on his heel, he tossed the clothes he was holding on the mattress, squatting once more at the top corner. Inspecting it with his index finger, a confused frown grew on his brow; it wasn’t moth-eaten. It looked like it had been cut, as if with a serrated blade. He reached inside, clawing desperately, beginning to sweat, hoping to find nothing there. For this to be an old tatter, made long before Y/N’s arrival. 

Clawing through layers of rough foam, his fingertips hit something cold and hard, and slowly, slowly, just as he had removed the fork from her mouth this morning, he carefully (though with a shaky hand) extracted its sibling from its hiding spot. He looked down at the blade in his hand. His lip quivered and his eyes began to water. He closed them, exhaling slowly, as he allowed that icy vein in his body to freeze those feelings.

When he opened his eyes in the shadowy basement cell, they were black.

[hidefdoritos]

The doctor's office hours are 8-5. I call at 4:30 pm on Friday. They already left for the weekend. I need a doctor's note from last Monday's appointment. I was so sick then that I forgot to ask for one, then spent the week wondering where it was.

I call the center desk. The human transfers me to the empty office's answering machine. I hang up and call her again. She sends me to the same answering machine. I leave a message this time. I ask the robot for help politely. I hope that a human hears me.

I go to the website to schedule a second appointment. I can't afford a second appointment. The only one available is Monday 7:30 am. Before the clinic lists that it's open and before I want to be awake. At least it's well before my work time.

I fill in a reason for the visit. I get 1.5 lines to explain myself. "Need doc note from 4/15. Please call (number) I can't affor" will have to suffice. The robot tells me my field contains invalid characters. I change 4/15 to 4-15 and it goes through.

I go to my clock app and set an alarm for 7 am on Monday. I hope the little robot wakes me up on time. I have infinite characters to explain myself, but "Call doctor NOW" in the memo line will suffice.

I lie back down and stare at the stipple pattern on the popcorn ceiling (which, good news, is actually asbestos-free). I have one $100 that nobody knows about. I might have to break it this week. I have gas to get to the appointment and to get to work this week, but that's it. Nothing can go wrong.

I hope they don't charge me for this appointment.