#Through The Heart Is The Only Way

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Through The Heart Is The Only Way. Chapter Thirteen. "As An Idiot Sees It."

Hooo boy! So! An update after less than two months! Now that is more fucking like it! I hope you all love this. See this year I wanna focus more on my long fics and my original writing, expect some more of this, more frequently. I got some very sweet comments and messages about this fic and it gave me a good kick in the ass, so here it is. After the way the last chapter ended, I couldn't stay away for long. Series Masterlist found here. Now let's go!

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 5.9K. Charles Lee Ray/Tiffany Ray Valentine/FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings. Confessions Of Feelings. Pain Play. Cigarette Burns. Coming Clean (In Some Regards.) Drinking. Blood. Gore. Murder. Intense Violence. Stabbing.

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The words left you with a startling ease, as if completely natural, expected, as if you had uttered them a million times to him, instead of them being the first time you said them to anyone period. 

You are looking into his eyes, and you witness the change, your words wash over him and his eyebrows raise a fraction, he asks quietly, “What?”  

His tone is as if it is fabricated from pure disbelief, yet he wears a half smile, and you confirm it, warmth personified as you realize that you don’t regret it at all even if you hadn’t planned on saying it. Now it was out there, and you tell him again, reverent and sure, “I said I love you.” 

Again the expression changes, eyes intense once more, a reminder of the look he had that first night at the club, or when he wants you, when he craves your body, when he's hungry. He leans in, his hands find your wrists, he grips, tugs and pulls them up and with him leading you let him change your position, you fall on your back, head to the pillow and him on top of you, his hips slotted between your legs. He squeezes your wrists, nails bite in slightly, you realize his cigarette is still between two of his fingers, your mind flicks the thought of how dexterous he is and how easy it would be to burn you again until his hands start moving as does his body, continuous perpetual movement.

Chucky is watching you as his hands roam, wander and touch, neck, shoulders, arms, chest, stomach and sides, careful he doesn't burn you again. He reaches your hips, and he finally speaks, spoken like a statement of fact he is still in the process of coming to terms with, “You love me.” 

He is leaning down, between your thighs, his fingers circle easily around the shiny pink burn mark he left, “I hurt you and your response is to tell me that you love me?” 

His question isn't unexpected, and from his perspective it makes sense.

“I loved you before you hurt me, this just…I don't know why, but it prompted me to spill my guts.” You laugh nervously as he presses the burn with his thumb, you inhale and then so does he from his cigarette. 

He exhales, smoke curling out over your hips as you continue, “I think I have felt it for a while, but I've never said it before, to uh, anyone. So I think it took a while to really identify the feeling. If it helps, as soon as I knew for sure? It came out.” 

He leans in, his tongue licks over the cigarette burn, before his teeth nip and the new spike of pain affects you deeply, tugs at you from within. It is as if his arms broke through your rib cage and his hands are cradling your heart, fingers and palms flexing as he squeezes the organ and wrings further emotion from you by doing so, the image of the most morbid kind of massage possible unignorable.

You swallow thickly, and tell him again, on a swell of emotion you confess again, “I do. I love you.” 

He smiles at that, the remainder of his smoke is finished, forgotten to the side, and he climbs back on top of you properly. His body covers yours, much skin to skin contact, hip to hip and chest to chest, he kisses you. It steals breath, the taste of lingering smoke, overwhelmed by the turn of the afternoon and of him, when the kiss breaks it has you asking, “And do you?” 

He laughs, “What, love you? Are you asking, do I love you?” 

A minor nod and he kisses you again, deeper, and you want to push him up, make him answer, but fuck kissing him is too good to ever want to stop it early. He doesn’t make you wait long and when that kiss ends, he tells you, in what might be the most honest tone of voice you’ve ever heard from him, “Yeah, of course I do, you idiot.” 

That last word is said as sweetly as any term of endearment could be, said the same way as someone saying baby or darling would, and you love it. You never thought you could love being called a disparaging remark so much and treasure it as if it were a precious gem. Idiot, you were an idiot but not only that you were his idiot, and you could get behind that, you think that you could be very happy being an idiot in love. 

The rest of the afternoon is spent about as close together as can be. You end up making some sandwiches for a late lunch, you eat in bed, share a pretty fantastic nap. When you wake the conversation is light, a drink is shared, the mood is sweet and leaves you feeling delightfully syrupy and by evening you are sending him off, asking him to tell Tiffany you missed her, he told you he would. 

You lean against the door frame and tell his retreating form, because you can, and you want to, you tell him, “I love you.” 

He looks over his shoulder, his eyes meet yours, and he stops, he comes back over with a grin, that confident sort of swagger you know him for, his hands reach out, and they find purchase on your hips, and he kisses you. When he pulls back, he says simply, “Love you too.” 

And then he leaves for real.

There are a myriad of reactions a person can have when they are in love, some people want to hold it close to the chest, protect it like an injured bird, treat it like an aggressively private matter, while others, like you, apparently, want to tell everyone about it. You couldn't do that easily, but the following night at work, you decide to be much more honest than you had been previously. You loved your coworkers, considered them close friends, and why not tell some stuff, revel a tad? 

Once your fantastic shift had come to a close, and you had totally crushed it and made a ridiculous stack of tips, you are sitting at the bar, counting your bills, watching Logan out of the corner of your eye. He is cleaning one of the more delicate specialty cocktail glasses, polishing it when you say far too casually, “So I told my boyfriend that I loved him yesterday.” 

The next sound is of your friend fumbling, muttering, "No, no, no-", followed by glass hitting hardwood and breaking, followed by Logan cursing, “Shit! God-fucking-dammit!”

He hangs his head for a moment, a deep breath in, and then he lifts his chin, hands on his hips and asks, “What the fuck?” 

You smile, coy as can be, asking him in a tone of faux innocence, “What?” 

He steps over shattered glass, rests his elbows on the bar, hands brought up together in a prayer pose, and leans forward, eyes studying you intently for a moment before he asks, “Are you serious?” 

You can't hide it or help the grin that creeps onto your face and that gives him his answer, and his brows raise, eyes wide, back straight and his palms slap the bar, “No fucking way!” 

That gets some extra attention, Jackson, Rachel and Marcy have wrapped up their work and made their way over, almost ready to leave. Jackson asked, “What are you yelling about?�� 

“Oh nothing major, I was just in shock, she just casually dropped that she not only has a fucking boyfriend but told him she loves him yesterday.” Logan informed with a gesture to you which caused an overlapping chorus of, “What?!” and “No fucking way!” and further still, “Why didn't you tell me?”

You are surrounded, other stools are yanked off the bar top and set back down right side up, coats and bags dropped, seats are taken, and you know the questions are about to begin. Logan is pulling out a bottle and getting glasses, you are laughing, fully aware this was going to be the reaction. You put away your tips, banded now that they are counted.

Logan is pouring drinks, and the rabble quiets, Marcy starts it with the question, “Who is it?” 

You take the offered drink from Logan giving a quick, “Thank you, so-” and he cuts in, “Wait, wait, don’t start without me.”

Everyone had drinks in front of them, but Logan was rushing with a brush and dustpan sweeping up the glass from earlier. Everyone else jokingly taunted him, you starting it, “Hurry up!” causing Rachel to chime in,“Yeah! Hurry the fuck up!” and Jackson, not one to miss out, tacks on, “We are all waiting on you, bar bitch!” 

“I’m hurrying, I’m hurrying!” You hear the sound of the glass going into an empty box to be tossed safely on the way out, and he stands up, “Okay, I’m ready!”

Marcy asks, “So again, who is it?” 

You draw it out, let everyone lean in as you take a sip from your drink, let it hang for a touch too long before you say simply, “A guy.”

The chorus of groans that ring out as well as everyone pulling away makes you laugh heartily before telling them, “Okay, okay, his name is Charles, but he prefers to be called Chucky.”

“Finally a name, oh my God.” Rachel says with a grin before asking, “Where’d you meet him?”

You take another deep pull from your glass before imparting simply, “Here.”

That got some raised eyebrows, Logan asked the next question, “You met him here? He is a customer?”

“Yes he is. That a problem?” You asked, and Jackson was quick to cut in and say, “No! Just you are like literally the last person I think any of us pictured dating a customer.” 

Logan agreed, “Yeah, exactly!”

You start, “Well, even I in my infinite wisdom can be proven wrong. We just clicked, and it was a slow thing, I met him like three months ago-”

“Three months ago?! And we are just hearing about him now?” Rachel’s mouth was agape, and you continued, “Yeah! But it was just a regular customer kinda thing, to a, we ran into each other outside here, started dating a while ago and became official not that long ago."

You fight off the curious stares, adding on, "I didn’t want to say anything until it was serious, and I mean, fuck, saying those three little words usually makes a relationship serious from everything I’ve ever heard.” 

Marcy reassures you, “Don’t listen to them, I get it, I’m just glad it has been working out, and you are telling us now, so what’s he like?”

You brighten, “Thanks Marcy, and he isss…” Your voice trails off for a moment before you find the words, “He is funny and biting, sarcastic and can be a bit intense, fun to watch movies with, I like his opinions and outspokenness, how he is down for new experiences and can go with the flow. He smokes, but it isn’t a dealbreaker, dresses well, he likes art, our last date we went to a museum.”

Jackson hums with a genuine smile, “Wow, he sounds like a great catch.” 

“Seriously, talk about winning the lottery.” Rachel muses, and you sigh, “Yeah, he is really great.”

Logan asks the one question you had been dreading, “So when do we get to meet him?”

You laugh, then respond, “Haaa, uhm, I was thinking never?” 

Of course, your bar tending friend objects to that and naturally voices his displeasure, “What? Why not?”

“Because I want to keep him around! Why would I throw him to the fucking wolves?” You accuse with a point all around before taking another drink. 

Rachel cuts in before more complaining can occur, “Yeah, you know I am on her side for this.”

Jackson gasps, “Rachel, not you too-”

“Yes me too!” She throws her hands up, “I get it, we can all be a lot and with the third degree that likes to get laid down when anyone has brought a boyfriend or girlfriend around this group, you want to wait for the right moment. There is prep and care that must be taken, factor in that she has never brought someone by, and how protective we can get over her and yeah no shit she wants to save him.”

Thank the Lord for Rachel’s level head. “Seriously guys, I love you, but my relationship just got started, I’d hate for it to end so abruptly because you all scared him off.” 

There is grumbling, but they all ultimately agree to you taking your time on this is probably a safe bet. “I really like him and if it works out, of course you will end up meeting him at some point, just, not yet.” 

That was more than enough to placate them, you all finish your drinks as you tell them about a few of your dates, but this is tinged with a not so small amount of sadness because it isn’t the whole truth and keeping Tiffany out of it feels wrong. You know they all love you, but you are terrified they wouldn’t accept it and by extension, you. So pushing it down and swallowing that part up, you just tell them the safe, squeaky clean, heterosexual and decidedly monogamous version of events, as your finger traces the cigarette burn he left on your inner thigh through your sheer tights, as a reminder that not all secrets need to be shared, some can be just yours.

Jackson walked you to the train station as usual, the conversation was normal, away from the rest you asked about how it was going with that guy he was seeing, and it was going well, they spent most nights together, and it was also getting a little serious between them. You were happy for him. 

You felt secure, in a bubble of bliss, totally confident and content after your last date and shift at work. You hadn't set up a date with either of them, but you think you might call them tomorrow to set that up. It was a quiet moment at work, opened not that long ago, still basic set up being carried out but no large groups of people present. Tonight wouldn't be crazy anyway, you expect some people getting drinks post work, but that's all. You certainly didn't expect Tiffany to show up an hour and a half into your shift, bag of take out in hand. 

You give her a quick hug with a delighted, “Hello!” which she naturally returned, one arm slung around, other hand holding the bag, that sweet voice uttering, “Hey sweetheart.” 

You pull back, a point to what she held as you asked, “For me?” 

“Of course. I was in the area, figured why not stop by with a treat?” She handed it over, you opened the bag onto the nearby table, two containers, one holding those seasoned crispy fries you love, still hot, the other that classic birthday cake style slice from the diner you all frequent.

You remember that night it was pouring rain, and they invited you to sit with them, and you had this very order, the weight of the food in your hands, the sound of water hitting glass combined with the comforting din of the restaurant, the surprised joy at seeing them. You can't believe she remembered, but maybe you should have expected that, she is so sweet after all.

You look at her, standing there, pretty painted lips curled into a smile, eyes radiating warmth, expression completely soft, attention totally on you as the lights across the way flash in time to the music pouring from the DJ booth. 

It feels right. It doesn't need some big dramatic moment, a lot of the time the smallest gestures can mean the most, make us realize the true depth of our feeling. No, it doesn't matter that it's a quiet and slow Wednesday and you are in the middle of a shift and in your work uniform. Life can be far too short and finite, when you feel this way for someone, you should say it.

So you do.

A step forward, leaving the open containers on the table next to you, your hands lock onto Tiffany’s arms, staring into her eyes you say firmly, confidently, and thoroughly honest, “I love you.”

Her lips part, eyes widen before they dart to the left and right, even with the lights you notice how her cheeks turned pinker, the music is loud enough and everyone is far away, not paying attention. You squeeze her arms and say again, wanting her to absorb your words, want her to feel what you do, “I mean it. I really do, it took me a while to realize it since it's so new to me, but I love you.” 

Her eyes are back on you, and she nudges closer, she confesses, “You know I feel the same way. I have for a while.” 

Your mind is running over and over, "Say it, please say it, say it-" Your heart feels near to bursting, you need to hear it more badly than you realized, and she doesn't disappoint, not a moment later, those amazing words cross her lips, “I love you too.”

God, you wish you weren't in such a public venue so you could kiss her. You settle for another hug, she returns it fully this time since her hands are free, arms tightly around you and you both stay like that for a while, when she pulls back you thank her for the food and ask, “Stay?” 

The expression she wears is conflicted, “Oh. Oh God, I wish I could, baby, I've got something important to go do, but I can come back when the club closes, take you home?” She offers, and you can get behind that, a wide grin as you tell her, “Yes, please, I'd love that.” 

“Fantastic. I'll see you in a few hours.” Tiffany gave your hands a final squeeze and turned to leave, you watched her go, enraptured by the swing of her hips and the click of her heels.

She wasn’t expecting that, but fuck was she happy about it, she walks with purpose, her and Chucky have a date tonight, one she cannot be late for. 

Tiffany arrives on time and well-dressed, she enters the bar in question and sees who she is set to meet, sitting there, waiting for her. Eyes scan and find the familiar sight of red hair, seated at a table, a brief moment of eye contact and a nod, she paints on a flirty smile and walks to the bar, sitting next to the man, greeting him warmly, “Hi.” 

He turns and unsubtly looks her up and down, a cock of his head with a big smile, “Hi yourself sugar.”

It takes one drink to convince the man to leave with her, and it was not a drink consumed slowly, he has his hand placed on her lower back as they headed down the sidewalk. 

They got less than a block away before she grips his sleeve, she tugs, pulls him into the alleyway, the guy naturally follows. He is probably of the school of thought that Tiffany can’t just wait to get him alone, as if she was so attracted to him, she couldn’t help it, that she just has to have him, now. What an egotistical prick, but he isn’t totally wrong, she does want him for something.

She pushes him up against the wall, and he lets her, letting out an amused exhale at her show of control, he speaks, “You taking charge?” 

An upward curve of her lips as she responds, “You got a problem with that?”

“Not at all, baby, rock my world.” Tiffany laughs so she doesn’t gag. She covers his mouth with a gloved hand, it got a raised brow, and she reassures him, her voice flirty, “So we don't get caught too early, you understand, right? I'd hate to get interrupted before we reach satisfaction.” 

She can feel him grin for under her fingers, his gaze is more of a leer, obviously lewd in its intent, he nods once, giving his consent to more than he could have ever hoped for.

He doesn’t expect the knife. Then again, why would he? 

She had removed it from her coat pocket effortlessly, hit the release switch on the side and the blade flicked out, it was stabbed into the buzzed and hapless dumbass before he could even register the sound of it clicking open. Poor bastard never stood a chance against the practiced effortlessness and perfected elegance of her wielding the pearl handled switch-blade. Chucky is coming towards them now, hands in his pockets, gait casual, an undercurrent of that excited swagger he is well known for. 

“Got him started?” He asked, tone gleeful, and thank God for how Tiffany had covered this idiots mouth. Combined with the knife in the side of his neck, blood pouring down the inside of his throat, the sounds he lets out are muffled, wet and gurgled, disgusting to anyone else other than the two posied and ready to end this guy's life.

He wasn't struggling much at all, he must still be in shock.

Tiffany’s head turned and looked at her partner in crime, “Yup, you wanna get him from both sides?”

Chucky laughed, a big smile as he drew his own knife as he said, “You know it.”  

Tiffany's hand rips the knife from his throat, blood gushes, the angle is well-chosen, the spray hits the brick wall instead of her, thank Goodness for that.

She curls her fingers in the lapel of his jacket, her palm still holding the handle of her weapon, she yanks him from the wall, turning his body, presenting the man's back to Chucky. 

“Quick and dirty!” She declares, gripping the knife harder, her hand moves and she drives the knife into his stomach, Chucky reaches forward, a hand clasps onto his shoulder, his own blade jutting forward and digging into the man's back. He responded to Tiffany in a joyous tone, “Just the way I like it!”

She kept the man gagged, even when his blood spills from his mouth and squeezes between her leather glove covered fingers. 

Sometimes when they do this the victim puts up a lot of struggle, a hell of a fight, but not this man, oh no, this guy? He is a dream, he moves, reacts gives them plenty to work off of and some wonderful responses to enjoy, cries out as much as he can around the drowning torrent of blood surely pouring inside of him, tears trail down his face, however there is no attempt to get away. The guy was cut very off guard after all.

They fall into a wonderful rhythm, cold steel sliding into one side of the body as it is withdrawn from the other, on and on, one stabs as the other retreats, and the other pulls out while the opposite drives in. The pair when they kill together have phenomenal chemistry, it is undeniable, and fantastic, they kill just like how they fuck, in sync, passionately, revelling in it and having the most fun possible. Rip, tear, penetrate deep, cut brutally, taunt, and tease, on it goes.

The frenzy finds its natural conclusion, the man dies, his body turning to dead weight, slumping in their shared grasp. Tiffany wipes her glove on the man's jacket with a sigh, both of them are breathing heavily, enjoying the moment of quiet when it is over. 

She speaks first, asking, “Drag him behind the dumpster?”

Chucky agrees, they both pull him along, set him against the dumpster, hidden from the entrance way of the alleyway. An earlier stashed blanket is pulled out from said dumpster, it is stained and smells terrible, it is unfolded and put over the man, covering the bloody mess, at first glance you'd think he was a homeless man who passed out drunk. 

The blood was flowing freely during their fun, there would need to be a bit of clean up, nothing crazy, their clothes made it out relatively unscathed for the most part. The pair help each other out, tissues pulled out, specks of blood wiped off cheeks, a wet wipe taken to leather gloves and wiping down the outside of coats long before the blood could hope to sink in or stain. The act of cleaning is broken up by the intimacy that permeates the pair post kill, the intense feeling settles like thick mist, kissing, hands wander, pulling closer, nearer, but not desperate.

Spring is coming in, but it is still late, the cold is present and so the alleyway is abandoned.

“Home?” He asks, and she grabs his arm, holds up his wrist to her eyes, she is checking his wristwatch for the time, “Yeah, I can head home for a while, I got some time to kill” 

“What, you gonna go back out later?” He asked, and she says, “Yeah, I promised when I dropped that food off earlier, I said I’d pick her up from work, take her home.” 

She drops his arm and then hits his chest with the back of her other hand, a gasp accompanying the gesture as she says, “Which! I had to launch right into the date for this kill, so I couldn’t tell you, guess what she told me when I came by?” 

He rubs at his chest, the action is joking, the hit she laid down hadn’t hurt at all, he is smiling, brows pinched as he asked, “What?”

The pair had been walking, and she stopped, her hand now clasping his, staring into his eyes, “She told me she loves me.” 

“Oh my God!” He threw his arms around her, hugging her tightly, she returns it, and he asks, “How’d it feel?” 

She sighs softly, telling him, “Incredible. We were at her work, so we couldn’t do much, but I cannot wait to see her soon, get her alone. I wanted to kiss her so badly.” 

He pulls back, his hands resting on her forearms, “She does have that effect, wanting to kiss her and having to hold that urge back is fuckin’ painful sometimes, right?”

She nods, and they start walking again, both pull out their packs of cigarettes and lighters, they light up and continue the trek after that first post kill inhale is taken, a shared delighted moan as they do so. He waits until they are half way through their smoke and Tiffany has finally stopped gushing about you, before Chucky then says, “So now I guess I can finally tell you.”

“Finally tell me what?” She asked and he responds easily, “That day you were busy and we had our museum date?”

“Yeah, that day you told me you stole the shirt for her and went back to her place, I remember, it was all of like two days ago.” She does remember when he did come back home, he smelt like your perfume and was happy as could be, he filled Tiffany in on his date already, what else could there be to share?

“She told me she loved me then too.” He revealed it with little fanfare and it made Tiffany stop in her tracks, a loud excliamation, causing echos down the street as she called out, “What?!” 

He stopped too, three steps ahead of her, he turned slightly, a big shit eating grin, and she asks, “Are you serious?” 

He nods and says in that tone of voice that tells her that he is being honest, not fucking with her at all, contrite and sincere but still being a dick about it, something she is sure only he can pull off, “Oh yeah.” 

“Chucky what the fuck?” She stomped one heel and he laughs, she storms up to himi and smacks his arm, “Why the fuck didn’t you tell me?!”

“And miss this kind of reaction? Not a chance!” He is still laughing, and she huffs, “Stop fucking laughing, oh my God!”

She starts down the street briskly once more and lights up another cigarette, the last one abandoned in her shock and minor indignant rage. An aborted cigrette is one of her least favorite things, she intends to finish this one fully or she won't be satisfied, the itch would still be living nestled in her ribs. He is following up quickly, still all smiles and snickering, “You really thought that you beat me on that front, hm? Finally got one over on me with her?”

Tiffany throws a withering look to her boyfriend and says, “Yes, I did, but that isn’t the point, you were sitting on this for days without telling me, why? And don’t just say to see me flip out! I mean really why.”

He sighs, fingers comb through his hair, and he explains, “Cuz I know you Tiff, I know how jealous you can get, and so far with her, it hasn’t been a problem, but I didn’t wanna go spilling this before she said it to you too, just for, I dunno, safety’s sake.” He takes one last inhale before dropping the end of his cigarette, finishing his statement with, “Sue me.” 

She hates that he is right and loves that he cares. Instead of expressing either of those, she scoffs and rolls her eyes, “I woulda been fine, you asshole. I’m a big girl.”

“Mmhmm, you mighta been okay, or you might not have been, whos to say?” He still has a smile on his face, the tone is still light, he shrugs, hands now in his pockets.

She lets the conversation die, when her second cigarette is done she asks, “How’d it happen for you?”

He tells her, about being in your bed, about the banter and talk, how he burned you, and it just slipped out, “You should have heard the way she said it, gasped it out, just totally swept up in it, was real flatterin’.” He expounds further, about how he asked for clarification, and you went harder, told him it was your first time saying it to anyone, what a big deal it was, how you didn’t regret it. 

Tiffany is quiet.

She gets why he didn’t tell her right away, she might have gotten in her feelings about it, especially if the next time you saw each other, you didn’t confess to her too, she might have put weird pressure on it, potentially ended up ruining this.

She loves what you have and doesn’t want to screw it up, and she isn’t saying she would have, but she might have, the might is more than enough reason.

Chucky’s precaution has merit, besides you would have always had to confess to one of them first, the fact you hadn’t ever said it to anyone other than the two of them made it unbelievably special, she is glad some stupid petty jealous feelings didn’t even have a chance to ruin your first time saying those three little words. She is smart and knows herself, well aware that she can let her emotions get the best of her at times, her temper can flare, and it can run away from her on occasion. 

He is the first man you have ever told that you loved and she is the first woman, both were different, speical, intimate moments. She could never be mad at you, or at him for this, Hell, she loves him too, she understands better than anyone how you fell for him.

When Chucky is done they are back home, she hugs him, kisses him, and then thanks him quietly for his forethought, and he surprisingly lets it go and doesn’t say I told you so, instead he asks, “Share a drink with me and tell me how she said it to you?” 

She does just that, she tells him how sweet you were, the look in your eyes, the body language, how she felt at the moment it happened, shares just as much as he does, in equal detail, “She jumped right into reassuring me she really meant what she said, and I told her I’d been feeling the same.”

Chucky took a sip of his drink and set it down, his hand holding hers squeezes and says, “You know if you had another solo date with her before I did, she would have confessed to you first, right?”

She sighs, a hearty drink of her own before telling him, “I do know that now, and sorry I was kind of a bitch earlier, you did what you did for good reason.”

“Don’t mention it.” He leans back into the couch and says, “All I ask is that you remember this the next time somethin’ like this happens,-”

She laughs, leaning into his shoulder as he continues on, “-they say a broken clock is right twice a day, but Charles Lee Ray is right a lot more than anyone gives him credit for.” 

Tiffany snorts a laugh into the sleeve of his shirt as he hooks an arm around her, she rests a hand on his chest and the giggles quiet down. She says softly, “Tonight was really fun.”

“Oh, the most, I love killing with you.” Chucky agrees, a kiss dropped onto the top of her head, “It’s been so good lately, racking up the numbers with you.” 

She looks up at him, “I cut out an article earlier from the paper, by the way, gonna put it in the scrapbook later, they finally found that body we dumped last month.” 

He laughs again, louder, “God they are so behind it is embarrassing!” 

“Chicago cops are hopeless.” Tiffany coos, and that is a statement he agrees with wholeheartedly. 

He leans forward, scooping up his glass he says, “I swear everything has been getting better ever since she came around, she is pointing us in the directions to some of the best victims we could hope for, all without her even realizing it.”  

The blonde presses a kiss to the underside of his jaw, “On that note, there is something I wanted to run by you.” 

A questioning hum from him, and she says, “I was thinking, with all the wonderful, blissfully ignorant help she’s been giving us for our favourite ‘hobby’, and with how great everything is going, what about we get her a gift?”

“What kinda gift did you have in mind?” His interest is piqued, she can tell. 

“One that further satisfies our desires but also would benefit her in a major way.” She raises an eyebrow, and he gestures for her to continue. She takes another drink, lets the anticipation build, allows it to all hang for a moment longer before she asks, “How familiar are you with the financial district?”

He catches on immediately, he kisses her, and when he pulls back, that look in his eye that a plan is already starting to take shape, he tells her, “Not familiar at all, but I sure as Hell would like to be.” 

They still had a while before you would be done work, before Tiffany had to break away to go pick you up and take you home, and your boyfriend and girlfriend had an awful lot to talk about before then. 

[orions-aether]

eastern european haunted emily axford pc, transfem daughter of libertarians ally beardsley pc, spot on pub representation grizzled old british lady siobhan thompson pc, nasty old gun guy zac oyama pc, posh boy brian murphy pc, famous explorer with a book series that really falls off lou wilson pc we're fucking eating this season my god

[poorly-drawn-mdzs]

Conceal, don't feel, don't let it show.

[First] Prev <–-> Next

[autumn-may]

terrisas really funny ithink

[sweetestflow3rs]

thank you for lending me your babies!!

ocs / pcs owned by: ( from top left to right ) @rosurie @smartytarty @ladyofalabyrinth @psychophanticpervert @thedolmainblog @xibaxiba @evilnightowl

[javierduffy]

different.

[deathandnonexistentialdread]

I'm going to disagree with Anzu a bit here because while Yami does fight the duels, Yuugi helps him in every step of the way as well.

In the beginning of Battle City, Yami and Yuugi stay up all night preparing Yami's deck

In the KaibaCorp Grand Prix Arc, we see Yami and Yuugi discuss things in the middle of the duel (that was more about the ethics of battling Leon when be was manipulated into doing so than about strategies, but it was about dueling)

Also in Battle City Yami says that the deck he uses contains both his and Yuugi's souls in it

(Yuugi's soul is in Yami's deck i will never move on from this)

The only time we've ever see Yami duel completely alone was in the Orichalcos/Doma arc and he was not coping well without Yuugi. And even then he was thinking of Yuugi while dueling

so all of this is to say that, while Yami is the public face during dueling, he does not battle alone. Yami and Yuugi have always battled together.

[1000sunnygo]

The Rocky Port incident...

...turned out to be another instance of Law meticulously crafting a plan only to shoot himself in the foot, then forming an emergency alliance and somehow turning the tide in his favor. That's incredibly consistent 😭

But now everything makes more sense. It seems Law's intended bargaining chip for becoming a Shichibukai was to hand over a Poneglyph/rubbings to the World Government, and he was accepted not because he submitted 100 hearts of random pirates, but primarily because he played a key role in taking down Ochoku and saving some VIP royalties (also for securing the Poneglyph, I suppose).

According to the translation we have in hand rn, the name of the vessel Law hijacked was "Rocky Port". We know there's a port in Hachinosu with the same name. Maybe it was named after the ship after this incident? (edit: it seems it'd always been a ship and not a port, so, nevermind lol)

But what "important" Poneglyph was there, anyway?

I don't think it's the missing Road Poneglyph. Probably a Rio Poneglyph protected by the resident pirates. I wonder if Law was originally looking for the Road Poneglyph possessed by the man marked by flame, but then changed his target. Curious that he didn't know two of the Road Poneglyphs are possessed by pirates, let alone Kaidou and Linlin..

The chaos that broke out was not part of Law's plan, he was lucky that Blackbeard arrived to join the fun, and they could come to an agreement. Koby, on the other hand, was probably the only marine who agreed to work with the pirates, and thus was able to save the most number of innocent 'Rocky Port' passengers.

I'm pretty sure it was Law who proposed the alliance. Scoring cookie points aside, his conscience surely kicked in. It wasn't his style to drag a ship of innocent civilians to a devil's nest, so he offered to form a pact with the marines to reduce casualty. Without his presence that buffered both sides, a three way alliance wouldn't have been possible.

I had a hunch that Blackbeard and Law might have worked together for some time. But why did Blackbeard need to work with Law? Was Ochoku that strong?

It seems Law didn't know Blackbeard could use two fruits at once (during their flight at Winner island), so Blackbeard likely didn't go all out. Possibly it was of Blackbeard's best interest to secure his victory without greatly damaging the island that he was soon going to rule, so he decided to follow Law's plan. He likely invited Law to his crew too, similar to Kuzan.

In retrospect, it makes sense as to why the alliance with the Straw hats puzzled Law so much, it wasn't because he didn't expect the chaos but because it was entirely different from his previous experience.

I didn't expect the main story the dive deep into Rocky Port incident, it was only a matter of time until we got a short summary. There's enough meat to it to extend it into a short comic, and there's plenty of time in future.

For now, I'm looking forward to the Japanese fanworks flood on Monday 🍿

[lotus-pear]

rewatched madoka magica again today bc i fucking hate myself and to absolutely no one’s surprise i went through all five stages of grief in a single evening

[bisexual-horror-fan]

Through The Heart Is The Only Way. Chapter Twelve. "The Bigger Picture."

Well hey! I wanted to update this one more time before the new year and here it is! With some time to spare! I hope you all enjoy this, cuz it has been a long time coming. There is a moment near the end of this that I have been planning since before I started writing this fic, so I hope this lives up to expectation. Series masterlist here.

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Rating. Explicit. Length. 7.3K. Charles Lee Ray/Tiffany Ray Valentine/FEM! AFAB! Reader. She/Her Pronouns. Warnings. Polyamory. Fluff. Date. Stealing. General Crime. Making Out. Grinding. Vaginal Fingering. Raw Sex. Rough Sex. Forced Cream Pie. Spanking. Praise. Degradation. Dirty Talk. Scratching. Multiple Orgasms. Kink Without Communication. Choking. Overstimulation. Cigarette Burns. Feelings.

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You wake up with feet that are a little sore from so much dancing in your heels, hair that is a mess and caught in the middle between him and her. Tiffany is already awake and starting to untangle herself, she gets out of bed and fuck, it’s cold! You huff and roll over, Chucky already pulling the blanket up higher to cover you both, you nudge closer into him, and he slips an arm around you. Ahh, blessed warmth, much better.

This is such a comfort, you find yourself craving this more and more the nights you are away, wishing you could wake up to Chucky and Tiffany, you cuddle more into the firmness of his chest as you muse silently. Your nose traces up his throat as you inhale, smelling the slight lingering of last night’s post sex cigarette, a smell you have come to associate with them and find yourself enjoying in a way you never used to B.C. (Before Chucky)

You can hear Tiffany messing around in the ensuite bathroom, you still doze a little until she comes back into the room, the drawers start to open as does the closet and is she already getting dressed?

Chucky must be thinking the same thing, after another minute of rummaging, he lifts his head up slightly and asks Tiffany, “Where the fuck are you off to in such a hurry?”

She laughs, a beautiful melodic sound, you look over your shoulder to see her fondly shaking her head, “I told you last night before I left for my date, I had that appointment this morning, and then the thing after it, and after that too, basically my whole day is booked up so I gotta go.”

You sit up and Chucky groans, “Don’t you get up too-” Ignoring him and the chill on your exposed skin, arms crossing over your naked chest, nipples hardening with the temperature shift and attempting to ease it, you ask her, “You didn’t say anything last night, everything okay?”

She smiles in that comforting way you love, she comes over, she is half dressed, bra and jeans on, she leans down and kisses you, it’s soft yet firm, a hint of tongue and totally Tiffany, your eyes fall closed. As soon as you lean in she is pulling away with a laugh, you pout, eyes opening back up to see her apologetic expression as she says, “I'm sorry baby, really, I wish I could spend the whole day with you both and I hate to have to run, but I can carve out a little time to see you later this week?” 

You sigh, pretending to be put out, hiding the true reaction inside, the one of your heart fluttering over getting to see her multiple times this week, “I suppose I can live with that.” 

“You’re too good to me.” She straightens up and walks over to the dresser, she pulls out a tank top and slips it on before reaching for some socks. You finish watching her get dressed, and then she is sitting at her make-up vanity, you love to watch her do this, you bring your knees up and hug them as you observe her. She applies powder, liner and eyeshadow, lipstick in such a precise manner, knowing exactly the look she is striving for, you enjoy the domestic nature of it and the quiet of the morning, lose yourself in sweeps of colour over her lips and the clink of the jewellery she puts on, the hum of the radiator kicking on.

She is done with the process all too soon, she comes over and gives you both a peck goodbye, Chucky tries to entice her into a deeper kiss which makes her smack his shoulder in response before she breaks off, “Asshole-” She says it with approximately zero bite, tone lighter as she said next, “-love you Chuck, I’ll see you later, bye!” 

“Bye Tiff, love you.” Chucky echos your statement, you hear her shoes being put on, and the door slamming closed, and she was gone. 

You look at him, he is laying back, one hand behind his head, the other resting on his chest, he is looking up at you and with a smile he says, “Hey.” 

A small laugh as you greet him in kind, “Hey.” 

“Just you and me, hmm?” He reaches over to his pack of cigarettes that had been left on the nightstand, you watch him do the usual moves of pulling it out, putting it between his lips and grabbing his lighter. You hum in response as he lights up, once he exhales he says, “Almost feels like you’ve been favouring Tiff over me.” 

You laugh, “I have one date with her just us and you start getting jealous?”

He scoffs and bites back as he flicks the lighter open and closed, a habit you've seen him do many a time while smoking, “You have had more than one solo date with her, and no I am not fucking jealous, I just wanna spend some time with you too.” 

“Just us?” The question is soft in tone and content as you look in his eyes.

He takes another drag, maintaining eye contact, confirming on the exhale, “Yeah, just us.”

You lay back down beside him, facing him on your side, and you say, “Well I’m off today. What are you doing?” 

His eyes squint in consideration, “Not a damn thing. Why?” 

“I was thinking how about we spend the day together then? I have nothing planned, and I can’t think of anything I’d rather do.” You grab his hand that wasn’t holding his smoke and pull it towards you, kissing the back of it.

He grins at that, fingers run over the curve of your cheek and says, “Soon as I am done with this-” he gestures to the cigarette, “-we’ll get presentable and go out for breakfast and then plan what we are gonna do.” 

Sounds perfect. You and Chucky laze in bed a little longer, enjoying the warmth of the sheets, before finally starting the day. As you are using your finger to give your mouth a once over with some toothpaste, you wonder if you are going to be spending the night more often if you should keep a toothbrush here, you wonder if that is too soon to suggest, or is it okay to ask because you are their girlfriend?

You end up borrowing some clothes so you aren’t running around in last night's clubbing attire, you can get away with a pair of Tiffany’s pants and one of her tops, your shoes and coat are fine and honestly, after brushing your hair and stealing some eyeshadow and lip gloss? You feel pretty cute, you think she’d approve, the heels elevate the whole thing.

Spring is coming in, you can feel it in the nearly aggressive sunshine, the warm wind starting to blow, you are glad you got that last skate in, no way would you be able to have another go at the rink until next November at the earliest. You and Chucky are holding hands as you make your way to the usual diner, the sidewalk is wet, much less icy from the thawing of winter hitting the city, you think that you kind of love that breakfast food is becoming your thing with them. 

Once seated in the usual booth, steaming food in front of you and a mug in your hand, the conversation flows over what to do, starting with a joke from you, “So what are you going to do to win my favour? Because I dunno if you’ve noticed, but Tiffany plans some superb dates.”

He nearly chokes on his coffee, setting his mug down, with a clearing of his throat, he asks, “And what was last night's date that was so stellar?”

“She took me out to my first gay bar.” You say nonchalantly, and he pauses for a second before cursing, “Fuck, that is good.” 

“Duh.” You taunt with a smile, and he says, “Well I can show you a good time too, and I don’t need an abundance of lesbians paired with flashing club lights and too loud music to dazzle you-”

You mouth the word, “dazzle” in question, disbelief that he said that as your eyebrows furrow, and he cuts in before you can make fun, “-shut it, point is, I can prove, by day's end, without a shadow of a doubt that I can give you a date as good as she does.” 

“I’m excited to see you try, doing it sans lesbians though will be a challenge.” The tone is playful, and he sighs as he starts cutting into his eggs, then pointing at you with his now egg yolk coated knife, “You need to have more faith in me.”

Taking a sip of your coffee, you hum before setting the mug down, “You are right, so what are you thinking of for the rest of our day?”

A swallow before he imparts, “I feel like any day out like this needs to have some element of spontaneity, so here is what I think, we pick the main event and then see where the rest of the day takes us.” His offer held endless appeal. 

“And what do you think the main event should be?” You inquire, and he says simply, a gesture of the silverware in his hands, “The museum.” 

You like it, but still you ask, “Which museum? There’s kinda a lot of them in a city like Chicago.” 

He laughs, as if it is obvious, “The Art Institute Of Chicago.” 

Of course, where else would you go? You remember very vividly the conversation you had over pizza and sodas that night awhile back, after Tiffany spilled about his love of art, told you about that date he had with your shared girlfriend where he painted her. You suggested going to the museum sometime offhandedly, and him remembering and suggesting it first made you happy.

“I love it, let’s do it.” You gush, and he seemed pleased by your enthused reaction. 

Breakfast is delicious, he thoroughly enjoys the usual eggs, bacon, potatoes and toast, as do you the fruit and whipped cream and syrup laden waffles you decided on. You steal a bite or two of his hash browns, he gives you shit over it, a joking call of, “Hey!” 

You mollify him with some bites of waffle in trade, which he accepts without complaint.

Next up you go to throw money down for the meal, and he stops you, “Put that shit away, I got it.”

“You sure?” Asking as you bring your mug up to finish the remaining coffee.

He pulls out the appropriate bills and puts them down on the bill. “Yeah, honey, M’ sure, think of my masculine pride.” 

You laugh unapologetically, “Oh if I don't, who will?” 

A raise of his eyebrows, a mischievous smile as he starts to put his coat on, “Exactly. Now come on, got a whole day ahead, let's not spend it all in this diner, hm?”

That you more than agree with, your own coat shrugged on and you were off.

You had a good handle on the subway system and finding the nearest station and how to get to the museum was an easy enough task, it was near the water, totally too far to walk from the diner you all liked. The trip took less than an hour all in, the time filled with idle chat and comfortable silences. 

While you and he were on the train, you were seated, him standing and holding the bar above his head in front of you. He had his favoured long coat open, showing off the mostly buttoned red wine coloured shirt and dark-coloured slacks, he still had some gloves on to fight the lingering chill. 

“So you’ve been to this museum before?” You asked, and he gave a nod, “Yeah a few times, when I got the time and want to-” still holding the bar with one hand he made air quotes as he said, “-immerse myself in the arts.” 

You smile at how he said it, and ask, “And that is often?”

He shrugs as he tells you, “Yeah, often enough. It’s a good way to kill time, especially since they almost always have some new stuff or exhibits that are there for a shorter stint, hard to find a better place to wander for free.”

You had to agree, and you were very excited, the knowledge of him being an art lover and a painter was relatively new to you, and being in a place where you could talk on it at length and hear all his opinions? Sounded like a fantastic way to get to know him on a deeper level. 

The ride passes smoothly and once getting off at the right stop you both make your way to the museum. You had never been to this particular one, you’d been to others in the city sure, but this one had escaped you till now, that fact made this date all the more special in your eyes, sharing this brand-new experience and letting him take the lead, Chucky was good at that. You both had your coats off and holding them, folded over one arm, while you held hands with the other, making your way through the rooms. 

“So, I gotta know-” You begin, and he hums questioning, a look away from the impressionist work he had been eyeing and instead turning his attention to you. 

“-where did the love of art start?” 

He looks thoughtful for a moment, he usually speaks his mind easily, his mouth opens and words flow off his tongue, natural, him taking time to seriously think on something wasn’t the norm. “Probably sometime before I started school even. I was one of those kids that could be easily entertained with finger paints or a box of crayons and sheets of paper.” 

“Early start then.” You say, and he tells you, “Yeah, kinda always remember being into it, sure it has changed, shifted, focused over the years, but it’s one of those-” he makes a gesture with his hand, a kind of wishy-washy movement, eyes up to the ceiling, before snapping his fingers when finding the word he wants, “-constants! Yeah. It’s been a constant in my life. You?”

“Eh, I took a few art classes in school, but it all kinda stopped after that, the most artistic and creative thing I do now is nail art.” You say, holding your joined hands up, showing off your current manicure, a deep sapphire blue and sparkly. 

“Still a skill, still pretty, besides, I dunno if my ego could take it if you were a better artist than me.” He teases, and you laugh, he piles on before you can respond, “I mean it! I need to be the most creative person in the relationship, otherwise what am I bringing to the table?” 

“Oh, I dunno, your sparkling wit? Your car I still haven’t seen or ridden in? Your company? Your dick?” You list off, grinning all the while, and he says, “First off, thank you, second off, when the salt is off the roads you’ll get a ride in her, third, so true it is a gift and I think that last point should be higher up on this list.” 

“My mistake, you are right, my sincere apologies to you and your fantastic dick.” You pivot next, “So, back to the topic at hand, what do you like the most about art?” 

“Full of questions-” He starts, and you scoff, “Oh fuck off, you can’t have it both ways! We are in an art museum, you are THE artist boyfriend, the supposed creative one in our little three-way relationship, this is the time and place for this, so please, expound.”

You said it in a very comical way, and he laughs this time, head thrown back, and you add on, “Seriously Chuck, don’t look a gift horse in the mouth, your girlfriend is over here begging for you to brag on your artistic knowledge, do I gotta wave you in like a plane coming in for landing, just so I can lap up your every word? You’ve got a good thing here, take advantage of it, perhaps?” 

“Quit while I’m ahead, hmm?” He offers, and you release his hand only to link your arms together, pull him nearer as you walk, “Yes, precisely. Now. Tell me, puh-lease, what do you like most about art?”

“I think it’s the practical application, the execution, the reward of it. You think of something, you put in some work, you see the results, and when you nail it? When it matches your expectations? It’s satisfying, a kind of rush on its own, an odd kind of power in the feeling.”

You sigh, “I can relate to that, not in a big way, but in small ones, seeing the fruits of your labour is one of life’s pleasures.” 

“Exactly! It’s a pleasure, the work can sometimes be hard, or frustrating or whatever, but it is a pleasure.” 

You and he share a look, and you feel good, hearing him talk about something he is passionate about is good. 

The conversation grows, evolves, you ask about favourite artists, and he has ones he likes, but he doesn’t know much about them as people, said he didn’t care to know about their lives, just could appreciate their work. You pried a bit, and he pointed out aspects he liked, colours, use of light and shadow, and he went on further, it wasn’t so much about technical skill but more personal than that. It was about how it made him feel, if he likes a work it isn’t about who it came from, or how expensive or old it was, or any other pretentious crap, it was about the complete work in front of him. The bigger picture.

He had some artists he liked, but he could be objective, he wouldn’t quote, “-be some dick sucker like oh everything this guy does is amazing, if I don’t like a subject or a pose looks weird, I’ll be honest about it, every work should stand and speak for itself, not be lauded just cuz what’s his face slapped his name on it.”

You listen to everything he has to say, you provide some of your own thoughts when he asked your opinions on paintings you stopped in front of. You’d on occasion ask what the true meaning and artist intent’s was on some work, and he laughed that off, “Who cares? I read some art books sure, but I mostly just looked at the pictures, or read how a couple particular brush and paint techniques worked, that is the important stuff.”

“Really? You think the original artist's intent doesn’t matter?” You asked, and he said, “Sure it can have some value, but you know what I find much more interesting?” 

“What?” He stopped your step and put his hands on your shoulders, he turned you around and steered you towards another work, a massive painting that took up several feet, no one else was around, he stopped you right in front of it. He leaned over your shoulder and said, “I’d find what you have to say about how this looks and makes you feel a thousand times more interesting over what the jackass who painted it was thinking or ‘intending to say’ with it.” 

He squeezes your shoulders and says as his hands falls away, “So!” He steps to be right beside you, he claps his hands once and then points, his eyes on you. “Enlighten me.” 

Wow. You weren’t sure what to say or where to start or why he was even doing this, you say, “Chucky…I…I’m flattered, sure but why?”

Your eyes meet his, and he looks confused, a cock of his head, and he says what might have been one of the sweetest things he ever has to you, “Why? Why I would find the opinion of my girlfriend, who I care for, and give so much of a shit about it is crazy, over, what? Some dead dude I have never met? Why I would value your insight on this work of art and what that says about you more than the idiot who put a brush to a canvas?”

When he laid it all out like that, it seemed painfully obvious, and you felt a little stupid, not from how he spoke to you, but because of the doubt you had in yourself to begin with. You say softly, “Yeah. I guess.” 

“Humour me?” He asks, and you can do that. You shake your head and breathe out, confidence still a bit shaky, but you are willing, you start. 

You take in the work, the people, figures walking in the rain, the architecture of the buildings, the wet cobblestones, the almost yellow cloudy sky. Taking a moment you let yourself think, as you look, let your eyes get naturally drawn along, and finally you speak, “It feels weirdly, lonely. Considering all the people depicted.”

He hums, and you say next, “The more muted colour emulates how a rainy day feels to walk through, so does the body language of the people. They aren’t enjoying being out there, it’s more rushed, trying to get somewhere, it gives me the feeling I get when I have to brave shitty weather because life demands it.” 

You can hear the smile in his voice as he says, “Go on.” 

“I am left with a question though, this couple, here-” You point at the pair in the foreground to the right, sharing an umbrella, “-their gaze is somewhere off over there, I wonder what has their attention on a day like this, what they are looking at, what can make them linger for a moment in weather like this. I like a painting that lets you wonder about things like that. I like this one. It feels rooted in reality and human nature, even painted so long ago, also I love how wet the ground looks, it’s what sells it to me even without actually painting in the raindrops, the hazy quality of it all helps communicate that.” 

You look, and he isn’t looking at the painting, he is looking at you, and you are unsure of how long he had been doing that. “How was that?”

“Illuminating, obviously truthful, it was revealing about you, everything a guy could hope for when talking about art like this.” He sure can have a way with words sometimes. 

“So that is why you find this interesting? For what it can tell you about someone else?” You inquire, and he says, “That’s one reason sure, another is, I just like hearing what you think, now come on.” 

He starts to pull you away, and you look at the name of the painting as he does so, you laugh and ask, “Wait what about your thoughts about it?”

He looks over his shoulder and says with a smirk, “Baby, why do mine matter when you already nailed it?”

The shockingly sentimental fucker. “Ask me about the next one.” He offered, and you would take him up on that. 

Two hours flew by at the museum, when you are leaving the sun is higher in the sky, it is warmer still and both you, and he were happy. You feel a little high, you come away feeling like you have a better understanding of a side of him he doesn’t trust just anyone with, and you feel special. 

As you walk down the street, coats on but open, you wonder what to do next and soon enough an answer presents itself, you see a thrift store, and you decide to go in, browse about, because why not. 

You aren’t looking for anything in particular, except for some stuff that you could wear outside of work, something fun, a thing you can get just because you like it, and not because of the tips it could rake in. You are flipping through racks, as is he, and after a while you come across a shirt. It is cute, weirdly it reminds you of him and her, it is a more masculine style but in a colour and material Tiffany would totally rock. You think you could pull this off, wear a tank top under it and have quite a few buttons open, pair it with some pants and that would be a good look, and one you wouldn’t traditionally wear to work. 

You take the hanger off the rack and turn around, holding it out, “Hey, what do you think of this?” 

He looks over at you, a brief scan of his eyes over the garment in question and he smiles, “Oh, I love that.”

“Me too.” You then look at the price tag for the first time and your eyebrows raise, “Yeesh.” 

“What?” He asks and you say, “Expensive.” You look inside at the inner tag and see it is a higher end brand name, usually thrift stores don’t know what they have, but not this one apparently, they are all too aware how much this is worth. You have a couple bills you need to square away and as much as you like the shirt, it probably isn’t a smart idea. Putting it back with a sigh, you look at a few other tags, and apparently this is the cities most expensive thrift store. 

You both leave empty-handed and when you are down the street a few storefronts, he turns his head to you and says, “Hey.”

A quirk of your brow, paired with a sideways glance, you respond, “Hey?”

He opens his coat and pulls a wad of fabric out, he tossed it to you, “Catch.” 

You reach out and snatch it out of the air, “Woah!” You stop, holding it, you unroll it, eyes going wide, “Holy shit, you bought me the shirt? When? You were beside me basically the whole time and also fuck, it is SO expensive, you really shouldn’t have.”

“Oh don’t worry. I didn’t buy it.” He said, an air of mystery and a shit eating grin on his face. It takes all of two seconds to connect the dots. Your voice drops, “Chucky, you stole this?”

He says in a way that shows how proud of himself he was, “Yeah, I did.” 

“Oh my God, why?” You were genuinely shocked, and he said, “I saw how bad you wanted it, and that place is charging highway robbery, so fuck them, I’d much rather you get that shirt than some rich asshole.” 

You step forward, shirt gripped in one hand, arms hooking around his shoulders, hands behind his neck, you say genuinely, “Thank you.” 

He is staring into your eyes, mouth so close to yours as he says, “Hey for you? Anything, anywhere, anytime.” 

He calls you variants of sweet all the time, but you think he is the real sweet one, especially today. You kiss him on the street corner there, revel in it, before he breaks it, “C’mon, not a good idea to linger at the scene of the crime.”

He leads you down the street, quickly, as you ask, “You got a lotta experience with this?”

He throws a look over his shoulder as he says, “Oh yeah, more than you know, haven’t you picked up on it by now? I’m a total bad boy.” You laughed then, if only you knew how true that statement was. 

Once you were another block away, you were wondering what to do next, and he said, “Well, to be perfectly honest, I think I want to see you in that new shirt.” 

You could do that, but before you could think of taking your coat off, he says, almost as if he'd read your mind, “Just that new shirt.”

Smooth as butter and very doable. Your place was closer to where you were than theirs, and also, you honestly just wanted to host him, so the effort was made, and you find yourself back at your place, you picked up light groceries on the way to make lunch eventually too. 

The door is unlocked, and you hold the door open, “After you.” 

He heads in, you follow, door closed, keys and bag dropped, coat hung up, and you take his as his own shoes come off. You tell him, “Welcome back.”

“Been too long.” He admits as he looks around, you go to the kitchen and start to put away the groceries, once they are in the cupboards and fridge you come back out, leaning on the door frame of the kitchen entryway, looking at him, “You want a drink?”

He was standing in your living room, a few feet away, “Sure, won’t say no to that.”

“Anything you are craving?” You ask, and he tells you, “You mean other than you?”

A look over your shoulder has him saying in a tone of mock innocence, a hand to his chest, “Oh, you mean for the drink? Nah, I’m not picky. Surprise me.”

Soda it is, you bring back a can for him and yourself, he has taken a seat on your couch, you come close, and hold out the can, he takes it with a simple, “Thanks.”

You set your can down on the coffee table and you step away, you pick up the new shirt from where you had set it down, hearing him crack open the can behind you and make your way back over, dropping the shirt on the couch beside him, you start to undress. Chucky’s eyes are immediately on you as the shirt comes up and off, you open the pants and slide them down until they pool on the floor, stepping out of them, leaving you in just your underwear. 

A move is made to pick up the shirt again, and he stops you, a hand on your wrist, “You forget what I said already?”

You hadn’t, but you liked him stepping in, taking charge, reminding you in that tone with a slight edge of warning to it. You grin and say, “Nope, just testing you.” 

He lets go of your wrist and sighs, “Swear to God, more playful than a puppy, that’s you.”

“You got my number, alright.” Your hands go behind yourself, you unhook your bra and slip it off, dropping it with the rest of your clothing on the floor and then your thumbs hook in the sides of your panties, you drag them down and now standing there totally naked, him drinking in the view all the while. “Don’t think I am ever gonna get tired of this.” 

Why would he? You feel the same, a partner stripping in front of you is a treat no matter what, it strikes a chord, what is that old saying? A sunset is beautiful whether the first time it’s viewed or the thousandth? You think there is something to that. 

“Flattery suits you.” The comment is light as you start to shrug on the shirt, it fits a little loosely around the waist, but doesn’t obscure your curves in any major way, the material feels good on your bare skin. It falls near your hips, you do up the two buttons in the middle, a fair amount of stomach and cleavage on display, you lean forward, a hand resting on the back of the couch near his shoulder, body brought closer for him to get a better view, “What do you think?”

His own drink has been abandoned on the side table, on the end of the couch that you keep your telephone on, hands coming forward to rest on your waist, thumbs rub, he says, “Looks better than I thought it would.”

His hands grip tighter, he pulls you nearer, and you allow it, you lean down, a knee comes onto the couch cushion he is seated on, and you kiss him, one of his hands slides onto your lower back, and soon you aren’t half standing bent over, you are on top of him, straddling him, seated comfortably on his thighs. It is one of those kisses that as soon as your lips tough you feel yourself filling with lightness and warmth, nerves coming to life and need curling low in your stomach.

Your hands find him the same way his do you, with an easy kind of intimacy, the kind that has been improving and developing, deepening as of late. Your fingers run over the back of his neck before starting to tangle into his hair, winding carefully and using that point of contact to draw him closer, and in response it has his hands running down your back and kissing you more fervently.

This is by no means the first time you’ve made out with Chucky, and not the first time you’ve done this solo, but it is the first time you’ve had him like this totally alone in your apartment. You do notice that the mood feels more intense this afternoon, the atmosphere a little hotter, a bit needier, you aren’t sure what it is, maybe the increased vulnerability earlier, it feels incredible and right, so you go with it. 

You feel lightheaded by the time his hands are on your ass, and he starts to lead you, helping you grind on him, and you feel that you are not the only one who is excited and wanting more. A particularly good grind has your mouth breaking apart from his, a moan falling freely, it gets louder when his mouth doesn't relent and attacks your throat. It is messy, teeth bite and your body tenses, you can't help it as you grind down, you curse his name, and he says yours in kind. You tug on his hair, and you get the wanted response, he bites you again, harder. Yeah, you don’t want to be in the living room any longer. You remove your hands from his hair, and get up on slightly unsteady feet, you take his hand and pull, “Come on.”

You lead him to the bedroom, leaving the cans behind, and in less than a minute you are falling into bed. Next you are on your back, he is on top of you, his hand is between your thighs, fingers curling inside of you, causing your own fingers to fumble as you unbutton your shirt, letting it fall open. 

While all this feels incredible, you want him already, you reach out to the nearby nightstand and open it, fumble blindly and fingers catch on the cardboard of the box. You yank it out and towards you, moving to dump out the contents, only to find it empty. 

You groan and ask, “Do you have any condoms?”

“On me? No.” He sighs, fingers slowing, and the idea of not getting to fuck him simply won’t do. You've been seeing him for a while, and you are official, he is your boyfriend for fuck’s sake. It isn’t like he is fucking around to catch something, and you are on birth control, the condoms were meant to be an initial precaution anyway, and now? You feel like throwing caution to the wind.

“Fuck it, we don't need condoms anymore, I'm safe.” You breathe, his fingers curl into that sweet spot once more, and you bite your bottom lip. Giving him a pleading look, you tell him, “I want it raw.” 

Time isn't wasted, he trusts you and there is no asking if you are sure, he has been wanting this, badly. He pulls his fingers out, you are glad for it, no more foreplay is needed, you are aching for him, and you start to help him undress, you rush, and soon he is even more bare than you are. 

You don't let him get on top of you, as soon as he is on the bed, you get astride him, one hand wraps around the base of him, and you line him up, tip kissing your hole, he speaks, “Fuck hurry up, enough wasting time.”

 He doesn’t get the full sentence out before you begin to drop your hips. His hands grip your thighs as you sink down, taking more of him inside, the stretch is as amazing as it always is but combined with the feeling of him bare it is even better. Your eyes are on him, taking in his expression the same way you are sure he is, the wash of pleasure across his features is intoxicating when you settle down. You enjoy the feeling of fullness for only a moment before you start moving. The ride doesn't stay easy for long, his nails bite into your thighs, and you moan, your hips rise and fall, you adjust, pitching forward so you hit the spot you need, grind inside and out beautifully, a hiss of pleasure sucking the air through your teeth as you grapple with the intense feeling.

You've had a good amount of sex so far, but this afternoon, it's different. He is more intense, rougher, you aren't on top for long. You work yourself up, he helps, encourages, or rather demands you find release, and it works, the cocky half smile, brows knitted together as he tells you to, “Go on, do it.”

His words are what tips you over when you are close, you cum while gasping his name, and before you are even through the pleasurable spasms he is taking over. 

The position is switched, quickly, he manhandles you, and you end up face down, ass up, your cheek to the covers and he roughly renters you, one hand gripping the back of your shirt, the other in your hair. He is in deep immediately, every thrust in grinds over that perfect spot inside but still, goes further past that, he bottoms out and that is accompanied by a slight stab of pain. It has you loud, like potentially get a noise complaint loud and his ego eats it up, increases his efforts. The mix of pleasure and pain is fantastic, he pulls your hair, and it's like both points are connected, every tug on your hair causing your cunt to pulse and ripple around him, threatening to milk him early.

The words he spits are degrading, talk of what a slut you are for not only letting him fuck you like this, but for clearly loving it, and so loudly at that. You do love it, every scratch of his nails and slap to your ass, the loud skin on skin of your bodies meeting, you cum again pinned under him minutes later, his chest to your back as he taunts you, “Cumming again so soon?” 

You are squirming, weak, your body is failing you, legs slipping out from under you and that isn't going to do so another position is found. Once you are on your side, one leg brought up, knee to chest, and he slides back in. His hands are now focused on your throat, they wrap around, and he squeezes, the pressure and slight lack of air has you wide-eyed, pleasure renewed as he thrusts with abandon, no care for a sense of rhythm, you've had yours a few times over, now he's getting his. 

Even with all the rough treatment, the bruises that will surely form tomorrow and him still getting so deep at this angle he is battering your cervix you experience a new sensation, ripped to the edge, your legs together how they are squeezing and putting just enough pressure on your clit to aid as much as needed, but this orgasm you experience is derived much more from pain than pleasure. On your come down, weak and struggling to breathe with his hands around your throat, and with you gripping firmly at his wrists, he reaches his end, a few more sure thrusts, and he is cumming raw inside of you.

He didn’t ask, as if being allowed to fuck you raw was all the permission he needed, like it was a question he never thought even needed to be asked, he is inside you raw? Cumming into your pussy is a give in. As he unloads in you with a groan of your name that is so arousing it sends a shiver through you and causes your cunt to clench around his shaft involuntarily, trying to draw every last bit of him out and into yourself.

His hands let go, you suck down a few deep breaths now that you are able, in a few minutes, you've untangled, laying beside each other. Your mind is quiet, you feel satiated, sore and happy, you ask him, “Where the fuck did that come from?”

“What do you mean?” He leans over the edge of the bed, gets his smokes out of his pants pocket, and comes back onto the bed, carton and lighter in hand. He lays back and starts the ritual of lighting up, and you are reminded of this morning. You laugh as you respond to him, “What do you mean, what do I mean? Look at my ass! Redder that tomato soup.”

“Figured why not try something new? Besides, it seems like you really enjoyed yourself, came yourself stupid, seriously, how many orgasms was that?” He quips, cigarette lit and exhaling, a healthy lungful. 

“Who counts?” You joke, your shoulder nudging his. 

This day has been one of your favourite in recent memory, a truly fantastic date, you feel unbearably happy, honestly the sex with them both has already been some of the best you’ve ever had but this afternoon, you feel like you’ve unlocked another level. You feel like your compatibility is ever-increasing, you feel soft, warmth, content beyond measure. 

He hums, amused by your joke, and you decide to take it further, “But seriously, wasn’t expecting all that, trust me I am not complaining, I did love it, just didn’t know you had all that in you. Anything else you are hiding from me?”

“I am an incredibly deep individual, I contain multitudes that will continue you to surprise you, I promise.” The look in those intense eyes, you believe him and yet you can’t help it, an unshakable urge to twist your finger in an open wound. “Oh, I dunno, I doubt you have that much more that could shock me.” 

“Oh yeah?” He gives you a considering look, as if mentally weighing his options, before he sits up, one hand rests on the back of your neck, he leans in and kisses you, slower than before, a searing meeting of your lips and his that could melt you, completely ruin you if he so desired it and then, the twist he promised. 

His other hand, the one with the cigarette held between two fingers, comes down, he touches the burning tip to your thigh and your whole body responds, you tense, attempt to move away, but he doesn’t let you. He presses the cigarette closer, twisting, burning you deeper as his tongue parts your lips, his tongue touches yours and once again, joy and agony meet, a new experience foraged that when both points of contact lift, you feel changed on some level. Your eyes had closed when you were overcome by what he had done to you, now they opened to see him, that wide grin, face still mere inches from yours as he asked, “How was that? Surprising enough?” 

His gaze drops for a moment, his thumb passes over the fresh burn, and you can’t help it, everything has built up, it all swells, and you gasp out, “I love you.”

[lightningbig]

sorry twilight princess will always be eating holes in my brain. constantly and forever. I cannot ever be normal about it.

it's such a haunted game. you are a dead thing going through a dead world. you are something in between. you can go back but it will never be the same. you will never be the same. you are walking, constantly, through ghosts of what came before. you are exploring places long forgotten. you are the only one on this path because there is no one else that can walk it. you were just a farm boy. you were in the wrong place at the wrong time. right place at the wrong time? wrong place at the right time? you were just supposed to deliver a sword.

[secriden]

Genuinely, from the bottom of my heart, I'm so grateful for the journey Fadel is forced to take in episode 9. In previous meta posts, I shared my thoughts on how the show chose to tackle previous discussions about 'love': for eg Episode 4 was really a promise of safety (which tragically becomes unfounded) and Episode 5 was really an exploration of trust and trust betrayed -- but I think Episode 9 is finally when we are dealing with love in a head-on collision between Style's unflinching commitment to stay by Fadel's side and Fadel's anger and fear of loving; a conflict which utterly demolished the last of Fadel's crumbling walls.

Because, while Episode 8 did give us this beautifully tender moment of shared camaraderie -- one where they were both filled with wonder at witnessing the way love can overcome hurt and anger, the way forgiveness can make a pathway to happiness; and a moment they were both aware of and wordlessly acknowledged to each other -- it was, unfortunately, also almost immediately tainted by this:

You can see the resignation and cynicism in the way Fadel is holding himself. This wasn't a betrayal from Style, but it was a harsh reminder for Fadel that love can be deceptive and harmful no matter the guise. Even when it (love) isn't aimed at him, he winds up betrayed (deceived) and in danger, and literally hurting (it's the first time Fadel overtly shows how much pain his broken arm is causing him), and it makes sense why we see Fadel harden once again after this point.

And as frustrating as it was for us to watch, I'm also glad that the show made room for Fadel's retreat behind the last of his walls. Because at the core of Fadel's fear is the experience he’s had that love, and more importantly loving, has always brought him pain: the traumatic and sudden loss of his parents and the cruelty of a lover who (maybe? I have my suspicions...) chose not to stay with him were both lessons Fadel has deeply rooted in his heart; a fear which his desire and now love for Style is constantly at war with.

Which is why we see Fadel so firmly choosing resistance at this point. Everything about his demeanour and the harshness of his words depicts a cornered animal with his hackles raised in self-defence. You can almost see the bared teeth behind his words. He doubles down on the assurance that he will see this decision through, that Style is destined for death by his hands. It's interesting because in Episode 9, Fadel seems to have mostly given up on denying that he has any feelings for Style whenever it's brought up (partly because Style has already made it clear he doesn't believe Fadel when he does), but has instead decided to claim that those feelings aren't strong enough to save Style from Fadel's decision to kill him.

So I kind of love that the narrative immediately forces Fadel face the reality of his claims. For what better retribution could there be than Style dying by becoming tangled up in the very thing he was supposed to put Fadel in jail for? What could be more fitting then to see Style destroyed by the very aspect of Fadel's life that caused Style's betrayal?

And even more, I love that the writers chose to have Style become injured like this. Because of course the boyfriend of a hitman who is on the run from the law was going to be shot -- the trope practically demands it -- but it is just deliciously dramatic that Style gets injured precisely dressed in the clothes he'd picked out so he could "at least die in something that's actually my style" and in the place Fadel said Style would haunt only minutes prior. It forces Fadel to face not only the thought of losing Style, but puts front and centre what it means for Fadel to be the cause of that loss.

Because the thing is, Style only needs to be bait at all because Fadel forgot to bring the extra bullets for his gun; because he does not have a plan when Style asks what they should do. I love that all of Fadel's training, and even his fastidious and careful nature, is being fundamentally compromised because his mind has been too preoccupied with his complicated feelings for Style. Fadel is being forced to face the consequences of choosing to fight against his heart about Style, and that directly puts both their lives in peril. And all Fadel can do is look at Style with a wordless plea to stay safe, even as he watches Style run directly towards danger.

And I love that Style's immediate instinct is to throw himself into the situation to help. There's no hesitation, no momentary pause where Style considers running away and leaving Fadel to handle the gunman alone. Style fully embodies the promise he made to stay by Fadel's side and moreover it shows that, on an instinctive level, Style trusts his life in Fadel's hands (even though we get verbal confirmation later in the episode that Style actually was only about 50% sure that Fadel wasn't actually going to kill him in the end!! That's! Fucking incredible!?!).

Which is also why I think Fadel's anger redirects itself once they get to the island. He's at the end of his rope, a mess of emotions, arm probably still aching and then he sees Kant: the source of not only the very real threat of Fadel and Bison being caught by the police, but also the reason why Style became entangled with Fadel in the first place. Fadel cannot help but lash out at him despite it making no sense to deny Style an additional pair of helping hands and, moreover, the comfort of a true friend that he trusts and who cares about him. Fadel is not thinking clearly, but it's also a sign that the choices he is making are still fuelled more by his anger and hurt then his love.

And again, this makes a certain amount of sense. For Fadel, anger is a familiar friend; something almost comforting, that gives him a sense of control, because he understands what to do with his anger. He understands how to direct his rage in ways that are productive and help to keep the things he cares about safe.

Until, that is, Style puts his life on the line next to Kant's and suddenly the gun in his hand becomes a danger to someone he has already been forced to acknowledge (in the conversation with Bison) that he cannot kill. I adore Style so much for immediately bringing this point up, because it means that Fadel has to actually consider why he didn't just let Style die. If Style had bled out and died from the wound, it wouldn't have technically been Fadel's fault; Style was simply caught in the crossfire. It was, in some ways, a relatively guilt-free way of getting rid of Style. But everything in Fadel rebelled at the thought of letting Style die and Fadel is once again forced to confront why he held Style's hand so tightly in both of his own, why he told Bison to be gentle and careful with Style, why hearing Style yell in pain was agony to Fadel too.

And this beautiful moment of friendship also gives both us, the audience, and Fadel this incredible understanding of Style's loyalty. To Style, the thought of dying next to Kant is not something he resents, but something that merely makes him wistful. And for Fadel, this puts into perspective what it meant for Style to promise to stay by his side; the full weight of Style's devotion is laid out for him to witness, and it's enough to shake Fadel lose from the hold his anger has on him.

But even then, even now, there's still something holding Fadel back and I think it boils down to the fact that Fadel has gone down this path with someone else before, and found only betrayal at the end of the road. He has loved and thought he was loved in return; he was ready to give up his job (his security, his sense of control, his “family”) for someone who he thought he could hide his darkness from and live in happiness whilst keeping the lie between them. It's so interesting to me that Fadel was about to do the exact same thing to Style (try to get out of the hitman life without ever telling Style about it), without knowing that the possibility of it was never on the table for him.

Because Style is the very antithesis of Fadel's ex: not only does Style find out his secret well before love truly blossomed between them, Style has no fear in him (anymore) of it. This gesture is legitimately insane, but it also illustrates how thoroughly Style embraces this aspect of Fadel's past and character. Fadel has just learned a very tangible lesson about Style's loyalty to the people he cares about, so this gesture carries the weight of knowing this matters to Style, despite the carefree manner of his expression. Style gives Fadel the security of knowing that he is making his commitment to Fadel whilst also giving Fadel permission to stay the way he is. Style's love isn't for what Fadel could someday become, but for who he already is, and that encompasses a level of acceptance that is as crazy as one would expect from a person who is in love with a hitman.

And it's just so great that they actually addressed the whole "dated me for a car" thing, because Style is right. Fadel is grasping at the last embers of his anger but all of it is directed at a Style who doesn't even exist anymore. I don't even think Style was avoiding telling Fadel about this; it just genuinely was a non-issue to Style because getting to know Fadel changed so much about Style's motivations (he said as much as early as episode three), that this wasn't even a factor that Style was aware needed to be addressed. But I also appreciate why Fadel insisted on coming back to this -- because I've said before that I think the biggest part of Fadel's hurt and betrayal comes from the thought that Style's interest in him was a lie, so this was important for Fadel to vocalise, especially because it took a certain amount of vulnerability to even admit that this bothered him that much. So as silly as I personally found this plot point to be, I'm glad the show actually decided to have our boys talk explicitly about it.

But my absolutely favourite part is that the final hurdle, the thing that ultimately makes Fadel completely let go of his anger and resentment is Style threatening to drown himself (or at least make his wound become infected). Partly because it was the exact kind of hilariously overdramatic gesture that feels fitting for Style, but mostly because this gesture opens the door for Fadel to finally (literally) take steps towards Style. Fadel's previous actions in this episode -- making sure Style was stitched up after he was shot and letting Kant live after he threatened to kill him --- were both incredibly significant, but largely leaves the relationship between them at a stalemate because for the most part Fadel is reacting to the circumstances whilst still maintaining the emotional distance between them. But what Style wants, ultimately, is not just to survive this very lethal roadtrip but to actually bring about a mending of their relationship and for Fadel show that it's what he wants too.

And I've seen some call this manipulative, but I think Style actually does understand Fadel well enough to be accurate in this claim. I've mentioned before that Style seems to have an almost instinctive understanding of when to push Fadel and when to back off (in this meta post on ep 5), and I think we're finally seeing a moment when Style could tell Fadel needed a little nudge. And the reality is that Style wasn't in any real danger, but it shows us just how much of Fadel's walls have been dismantled that Fadel's concern for Style overwrote his logic and reason.

And I just find it so lovely how it cumulates in Fadel kissing Style because it's an expression of his own desire. If Fadel had kissed Style at any point between the confrontation by the empty pool and before this moment, I think it would have, at least somewhat, felt like Fadel was giving into Style's demands (for his attention, for his affection, for his forgiveness). But this moment is different because it's Fadel giving into himself -- because Fadel doesn't truly want to hold on to his anger anymore.

And this journey was so important, so necessary because it's the reason why Fadel is able to be so completely transformed by the end of episode 9. We see him become almost carefree in his affection, everything about it is open and honest and loud in a way Fadel has never been able to be before this point, and it was only possible -- only realistic from a narrative standpoint -- because the show took the time and made space in the story for Fadel to have to face the truth of his love for Style over and over again.

Because this vulnerability, this clear comfort he feels around Style, this ability to rest in Style's arms, was only possible because Fadel was forced to grapple with the full depth of his love for Style and found forgiveness and happiness and peace in letting go of the last of his fear of being in love — and in doing so, proved the truth of Styles words in episode 4: “It’s okay to (be in) love”.

[front-facing-pokemon]

[wordswhisperinthedark]

Oh so we're just shooting all potential love interests in the head now??

[bandtrees]

Then finally, after what seemed like forever, a stupid, arrogant, little man cut the webs and set the monster free.

[crimsonsacrificialgoat]

did anyone else know and decide not to tell me that kenny omega sat out in the rain like this after he betrayed kota ibushi or did i just have to find that out on my own sad deep diving effort...