#always left behind those poor souls | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

auragasmics · 4 months ago

Note

onlyfans creator!toji meeting fan!reader but getting so drunk off of them that he keeps bringing them back & eventually only makes vids with them… *heh*

CAMERA ROLL LOOKIN’ LIKE ONLY FANS!

synopsis! he knows better than to get involved with fans. But upon meeting you, Toji’s found himself in a world where he can only have you—and you alone.

pairings! fan!fem!reader x onlyfans creator!toji fushiguro

cw!3.5k words, pwp, dubcon(?), consensual filming, pussydrunk!toji, doggy style, mean!toji, cunninlingus

mwuahaha, i loved this thirst sm! i couldn’t stop thinking about it!

have a thirsty thought? read my guidelines and start sending them in!

In truth, Toji knew better. While unspoken and better left assumed, it’s still the number one rule amongst fans and creators alike.

The golden rule of never, ever hooking up with a fan. Toji’s all too aware of this, but he’s no saint to abide by the rules. It didn’t help that it was all his friends were recently raving about, claiming that it would boost views—and sales for those with even the slightest glimmer of naive hope in their eyes.

And when a thought replays like a broken record, it’s only a matter of time before one succumbs to incessant influence—and Toji’s no better. He had it figured out; announce his little plan to all his cock-hungry fans, run their users through an online random generator, and whoever’s name pops up on his screen is his lucky vixen for the night.

But the generator just had to pick you.

He was blind—or better yet, naive, to the possibilities that could arise from his little adventure with danger. It never crosses his mind that maybe he’d regret the choice of taking down a fan—or maybe he’d fall in love with the idea and add it to his usual lineup.

But that didn’t stop him from sending you that message and bringing you into his humble abode of a high-rise apartment. That didn’t stop him from fawning over your pretty face and kind attitude, as if you both had forgotten what was to follow through the night.

He was simply so blind to it all that Toji had written off the slim chance of him getting addicted to you.

Until he was.

Why the memory of Toji slipping just the tip of his cock inside you still lays fresh on his mind and vigorous to his nerves. He remembers how cocky he was, thinking that he’d be the best you ever had, how no one could ever come close to how he imagined fucking you.

But the gummy halo of your cunt enveloped his blushing pink head with a sopping wet kiss, condemning the poor forsaken man down the path of egotistical demise.

Toji, the Toji Fushiguro was victim to a state that he’d never ventured into before; suddenly his mind was shot blank, his eyes threatening to rest into the dark abyss of his skull and the brawny chest he worked so hard for was rigged with shuddering breaths.

Within a matter of minutes, Toji was out of his body, out of control, and without a single means of putting up a fight.

If your pussy claimed his resolve, your body claimed his soul. Every arch, squirm, and jolt gave way to Toji’s heart. He’d even found a serenade within your outpouring moans, every hymn motivating him to his newly found goal. For in that moment, the unmoved Toji was concerned with something he never allowed to faze him—his ability to please.

Toji knew one thing; he utterly had to please you, to bring your mind, body, and spirit to the sheer face of ecstasy. He was always so sure of himself thanks to his past of collaborations, but not a single woman of his past could compare to you. Because, unlike those past collaborations for work purposes, everything that night was genuine.

The way you whimpered whenever he leaned over for a kiss was real, how your hands clung to every inch of his misted skin was bonded behind the truth, down to the orgasm he had no choice but to sit through because of the suffocating clench your walls bestowed around him.

The last thing he remembers from that night is the words he drunkenly allowed to fall from his lips, almost begging you to come back. When waking the next morning and found you gone, Toji realised he had to work to earn both you and your trust.

From that day on, something in Toji has him running ragged on your behalf. All of a sudden, he’s caught up with buying you lingerie he can’t wait to rip off of you, he’s sitting through hours of research to buy the best camera to catch every single moment of filth amidst you two. Why, he’s even gotten into the habit of calling you every morning and every night just to give you a glimpse of the real him.

A month’s swept by since that momentous night, and within those four weeks—Toji’s reserved at least fifteen of those nights just for you and him. Just this week alone, he “needed” you twice, and tonight would make it thrice.

The third time of making you cum off his tongue alone before he had the privilege of fucking you raw beneath the starry sky. And each time he does indulge in you, he can’t silence the raging urge to leave your pussy plump and dribbling with his thick white cum.

But he holds back, it’s already an honor to have you raw and he’d hate for something as minuscule as natural instinct to ruin a good thing.

Though it’s that same natural instinct that had him calling you just under two hours ago—and waiting by the door like a new puppy waiting for its owner to return. His friends call him pussywhipped, so immersed in you these days that it’s all he talks about, his newest tease with a pussy that gets so sloppy for him.

Toji could fight back, but he isn’t one to play delusional. Pussy-whipped, that’s exactly who he is and who he’s become. And somewhere deep, deep down in his subconscious, he’s found satisfaction in that. Just a puppy with a—

“Toji! It’s me!”

The pretty croon of your muffled voice has Toji springing off the black leather couch and onto his feet. He looks down at himself—nothing could be more apparent than opening the door and revealing him to wear nothing but black sweatpants.

It’s too late to apply any effort, Toji thought as he twisted the door handle open, yanking the door to greet you.

“Hey Gorgeous, come in,” he hums, his arm racing to lace around the waist of your black leggings. “Hope you didn’t wait too long~maybe I should give you a key soon…”

Returning his regards, You give in to Toji with a swift embrace, linking around his bare waist. “No, I didn’t wait at all. It was like you were waiting—”

“I see you didn’t bring a bag. Why don’t you stay the night…you never do,” Toji interjects as he leans back to close the door. His eyes fall matched to your own, wide and glimmering but afraid to step any further than what’s been established.

Your shoulders give into a heartless shrug, your chin whipping away from his sight as you utter plainly to Toji.

“Oh, I didn’t think you wanted me to, and I honestly don’t care to sleep over either. But I guess if there’s a next time, I will.”

That’s something you really shouldn’t have said. Toji can’t pinpoint where it hurts, but he knows it does. If there’s a next time? Didn’t his constant calls, random splurge days, and his mere insisting presence give way to his budding sentiments—there’s always going to be a next time.

“C’mon, don’t be like that! I know it takes a lot of effort to leave afterwards. And you don’t even kiss me goodbye…so cold…but I like it.”

You know the strategy by know as his hands work to court your body to his touch. He’s dangerously close to the thick globes of your ass, the tips of his fingers delicately tracing the outline of your thong.

Toji’s smooth, that’s exactly why you followed him in the first place, and it’s what got you laid beneath him that first night all the same. Like the best charades, his suave whims soon grew weary and transparent, but it’s his confidence that keeps you around.

And just how easy it is to tease him.

Taking a finger to Toji’s chest, you decide to spur him on, to paint an image of what lies just beneath your attire. “I’m wearing the set we got last week…in case you’re wondering.”

His once heavy eyelids shoot wide apart, forcing Toji to dumb gawk at you. “The…red one with the…cutouts?”

“Mhm,” you nod coyly, “But the thong is just so thin and so easy to rip too. Guess the quality wasn’t all that good.”

Toji darts his eyes over your face, his sly azure hues taking in your faux act of innocence. He knows it’s all just to tease him, but with the slightest chance that some kind of truth stands behind your words, he can’t forfeit his chances of making an advance.

“Okay, then let’s make a deal. Stay over tonight and tomorrow, we‘ll go out and buy the best lingerie that money can buy. How’s that?”

A sheepish scoff rings from your barred lips as you stroll away from Toji, leaving him to stare at your wading presence. “Let me think about it.”

“Oh, but you won’t have time to think…not after I’m done with you,” he adds with haste behind you.

Your hand settles upon the cold silver door knob of Toji’s bedroom, revealing the sacred altar within a mere glance. Not much has changed since the first night he brought you over—a king size bed that stands in the room’s centre, tall windows with black curtains, a desk in the corner with a computer, and of course, a shelf against the wall that holds Toji’s vast array of sex toys, photos and even a few awards he’s won from the platform.

But as the days passed, the raunchy nature of his bedroom died out when small potted plants replaced the sex toys and trophies. The thick black curtains were traded for white gossamer, and the typical red blanket set was nowhere to be seen in the face of red silk sheets and pillowcases to match.

It’s a heavy claim to say that you’ve played a hand in his transformation, however, considering that you told Toji how nursing plants are a hobby of yours, you prefer more natural light to enter rooms, and that sleeping on silk simply has its benefits—one could safely make that assumption.

All your observations fall short the moment you sit on the edge of the bed, the mattress graciously dipping beneath your curves.

“Yeah, yeah, so what do you have planned for tonight?”

Toji takes his time to reply, setting his heavy hands to brace the waistband of his black sweatpants as he stands before you. “Oh I was thinking maybe some POV shots, I haven’t done those in a long time. Think I should bring them back more often now.”

Musing him, you tilt your head at Toji, a faded smile playing on your lips. “Is that right?

“You know the deal. I’m not gonna start recording until you say so. Why, maybe tonight we don’t even have to get it on film. Can’t we just…fuck around and see where that gets us?”

“That’s a new attitude, what’s wrong?”

“Nothing, honest!” Toji flusteredly fumbles out. He didn’t think he’d have to explain it, but some words are better said than just acted upon. And what’s on his chest is heavier than what gravity supplies Mother Earth.

He’s been given the slim window to confess what he wants from you, a question you’ve plagued him with since the second night he called you over.

He sends a hand to the nape of his neck, mindlessly pinching at the sparse hairs as his frazzled brian searches for the best words to explain his story. “ I just…really like having you to myself. A lot, actually. And it has me thinking…would you be open to being my…partner? C-Content wise, of course.”

“Oh…sure, we can do that! I thought you were gonna–oh!”

The brash clash of Toji’s lips steals the very words from your mouth and pins you underneath him. He more than happily donning the lead of setting the rhythm, painting his kiss against your lips as tenderly as he can.

Just like that, Toji’s gotten his burning wish within a matter of seconds—and what’s a better way to celebrate than by making his favorite girl cum all throughout the night?

The excitement has Toji running on salacious fumes, his eager hands surging across your body. First he’s tugging off your brown hoodie, pulling the soft knitted cotton over your head on and off onto the floor.

Your leggings follow swiftly behind that, and before Toji can even breathe, he’s got you pinned under him with the lingerie you’ve hinted at earlier with his sweats and briefs joining the array of discarded clothes.

The very set he plucked out just days before with the lacy red bra that barely leaves anything to imagination. He’s already inclined on tending to your pebbling nipples plowing against the fabric. He’s drawn right back to your lips, using his wandering hands to trek across your physique.

Upon his travels, Toji brushes against the panties you mentioned before, so frail that he could tug on them right now and free you from their rein. Rather, he relies on a mere pinch to inch the seam of your panties to sit within the plushy crease of your thigh.

“Mm, Toji?” you huff out between a kiss, “Let’s start, okay?”

Frantically shaking his head, Toji aimlessly reaches out to prowl along the top of his bedside dresser until he’s met with the familiar structure of his camera.

Slotting himself between your thighs, Toji points the keen lens to capture the timeless scene of him between your legs with a single hand. Clicking the camera on, Toji’s granted a clear sight of your bare pussy caught within the camera’s eye.

“ ‘Kay, camera’s on. Don’t you dare change a thing!

He isn't hesitant to begin, leaving you with a final request to hold your legs back before he’s pressing lazy kisses to the supple mounds of your cunt.

It’s that first breathless gasp of yours that throws Toji down a spiral of his own arousal. He’s already a throbbing mess, dripping all that precum into the silk sheets, but he doesn’t care. Not when his tongue is tasked with the honor of tracing along the pulsing canal of your glossy folds, just for his greedy ambitions pitting him to suck at the swollen pulse.

“Such a pretty pussy, Gorgeous,” he’s mumbling to himself as blown eyes scale up and down the sinful display.

He wants the camera to catch everything—from the way your fat lips split around his worked tongue to the very twitch that rattles your clit. He carefully shadows the camera over your cunt, his thick digits spreading you apart.

“Fuck, look at that, so soft ‘nd smooth…so wet for me too.”

His thumb rests against the cute pink bulb of your clit, the sullied pad sketching slow, tight circles over the bundle of nerves.

“Mmm-oh shit!…Toj—fuck, that’s so good!”

“That’s it, say my name Baby, c’mon!” He cheers along your twitching bulb. His name’s just sitting on the tip of your weak tongue, so desperate to break through the air. As its bearer, Toji’s waiting to hear it, the magic word set to pull him underneath your spell.

His hand’s encroach along your supple sides, softly squeezing at whatever fits within his grip. “I know that look, gonna cum on my tongue just how I like it, right?”

“Mhm,” you frantically affirm with nods, “…it’s right…it’s right there, Toji!”

You don’t have to pay him a teary-eyed glance to know that Toji’s hiding that sinister grin amongst the fat plush of your folds. That same smile that blossoms into a pout as he guides your poor clit to dance with his tongue.

Every which way, he’s swiveling your spry mound, All those lazy flicks, pedaling that soft curve of his slicked muscle around your stiffening bud. He’s even placed his hand right beneath your navel, using a soft grip to pull the stubborn hood of your clit back, leaving you open and raw for his selfish amusement.

Your hands race to tug at the noir crown of Toji’s head, keeping his head still while your trembling hips rock against his lush pout. “Fuh– yesyesyes! Toji please! Please make me cum, ��m so close!”

Toji’s too far gone to keep up with you, his trained hand trembling to find a steady frame of the homemade film. Your nectar’s seeping into his senses, blinding Toji from the surrounding world.

All he can think about is you, all he can taste is that sweet essence spilling from his lips and down his chin. It’s all just a mess he's made out of both you and himself, but when he finally catches wind of your crashing orgasm, Toji’s beaming with the glow of achievement.

Your thighs snap around his head as the weight of your high wrecks through your body in perilous tremors. Your hips drive up against Toji’s gape, stuffing his mouth full with your cunt once more. His greedy forte settles over you again, suckling the chubby swell of your clit against his hollowed cheeks.

Breaking away from your cunt, Toji pans the camera down to your folds, his fingers gently tapping along your pillowy lips. “That’s my girl! Look so pretty like that, c’mon, we gotta keep you going now. Turn around and give me a nice arch, okay?”

You’re more than willing to comply with Toji’s request, slamming your weak legs shut as he rests on his knees. It takes all the energy ebbing from your body to secure a strong arch, one that has your hips tilted and your ass parading about in the air.

“How’s that, Toji?”

“Just beautiful. Stay still and let me do all that hard work, yeah?” he hums softly.

Toji watches as the lens focuses on the sight between your bodies. His hand braces around his shaft, giving his aching cock one firm squeeze before tapping the head of his cock along your slit.

“I know you can take it, but what do you think?” Toji hints as he gently nudges himself against you.

You look back at Toji with a proud smile, “I can take it!”

“That’s my girl! Just relax and let me…oh..fuck, that’s the good shit!”

By the rushed dip of his hips, Toji’s subdued by the velvety warmth of your walls, the slickened heat coddling his cock with wet kisses. It’s just like he remembers, tight, warm, and carved out to home all the ridges, the veins and the throbbing underside of his length.

“Look at the mess we’re making,” Toji gloats as he shifts the camera around your sputtering pussy, “And I’ve barely even give you those deep strokes you love so much!”

Those very deep strokes that he’s so fond of too. It grants him the very bliss he can’t get with anyone but you. He’s learning all about how sensitive you are, the pace you, how many times you can cum before you’re fucked dumb, all these things Toji’s taken account for.

As for tonight, he just wants you feel good, his precious girl. That’s why he’s so kind to feed your walls short drives of his cock as you adjust to his size. You’re taking him better these days, your pussy greedily nursing all nine inches of Toji’s length.

He’s got such a fat girth too, so thick that you’re left to squirm beneath the burning stretch. It’s pain that gives way to pleasure all too quickly as Toji reels his hips barely a few inches away from you.

“Aww, tell me, baby…You like this dick, don’t you? Like how it stretches this cunt to my size, how I’m always hitting that spot, go on, tell me.”

“Mmm…it’s alright,” you attempt to tease, but the stillness in the air carries about a warning with no way of guaranteeing caution.

Toji fists the fragile trims of your thong in his hand, yanking the fabric taunt in his grasp. “Oh…that’s how we’re gonna play?”

In one harsh tug, he’s dragging you against his burly thighs with nowhere else to run from the brutal onslaught of his crashing hips. All the kindness he had for you runs out, leaving Toji on a hellbent venture of proving his words true. His unruly drive has you thrashing straight into the pillow headfirst, pitting your limp body to rock along to all his ministrations without prevail.

It’s a rolling barrage, one hard drive after the other. The lewd orchestra Toji’s conducting has the clash of skin breaking about the room, using the meld of your voices charred by vengeful bliss as vocals.

But he isn’t lying; even through his rage, Toji’s still tending to you. By sending the thick bulb of his cock to smother your sweet spot in kisses, each one messier than the last, the coil deep within your core bubbles with another budding orgasm. How could something so mean, so harsh, feel so good? So much that your eyes drift back into your head, your and the veil of pleasure dresses your body like the finest silk.

All just because you jokingly bruised Toji’s ego. Either way, the fact remains that he’s thoroughly aggravated, and his angered spiel falls on deaf ears.

“Stop lying to me!” He grunts out with a smirk, “ W-We both know you do! Why else would your pussy get so messy fr’ me? M-Making such a mess on the bed. ‘M splitting her open and you say you–”

“T-Toji wait! O-Okay, okay, I do! “ Your whimpering admittance of defeat breaks into the air, earning nothing more than the chime of Toji kissing his teeth.

“C’mere,” he huffs out, pulling your limp body up against his own. His chest carves out your arch like a sculpture, leaving no crevice nor crease hidden from his frame. The grip he has upon you shifts above to the slacked curve of your jaw, leaving Toji’s thumb to strum along your bottom lip.

His hazy stare catches wind of your misty doe eyes, coaxing a lump to build within Toji’s throat.

As an act of sympathy, litters of kisses melt against your skin, his unruly trail leading him straight to your dribbling lips.

“Don’t look at me like that,” Toji whispers against your lips, “Y’know I like you, baby. Don’t go being too mean to me or else someone isn’t cumming tonight.”

“O…okay! I’m sorry Toji, ‘m really sorry!” you sob, your hand racing to brace the thick of his forearm.

Your apology chants in his ear like a mantra, coaxing a crooked grin to shine inside the dark room.

“Now…” Toji giggles, his hazy eyes flickering towards the fixed lens of the camera. “‘m taking a picture for the thumbnail…smile for the camera!”

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gojorgeous · 10 months ago

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how do the jjk men treat you when ur on ur period? suguru specifically hehe <3

✰ JJK MEN: WHEN YOU'RE ON YOUR PERIOD ✰

pairing(s): gojo, geto, nanami, choso x afab!reader content: (MDNI 18+ only), nsfw-ish/suggestive, periods, period blood, period products, pet names, lots of fluff! a/n: i hope you like anon!! you have great timing cause i’m getting my period and i also have a uti pray for me besties i need help and antibiotics. left out toji and sukuna cause…. nah LMAO. enjoy, and remember ALL AGELESS BLOGS WILL BE BLOCKED!

✰ GOJO:

Lowkey loves when you’re on your period, but is just barely smart enough to never tell you that.

His favorite part is that you always want more cuddles, which means more cuddles for him.

Thinks period products are really amusing– loves playing with your hot water bottle cause it’s squishy. Finds those ones that look like stuffed animals at the store and brings home like five of them for you.

Will definitely buy you pads/tampons but not without the obligatory “what size is your pussy” text. Won’t buy them until you respond with “extra super pretty” and then sends back this emoji -> 😋.

Highkey likes period sex. Knows it can relieve your cramps and will use that as an excuse at every opportunity if you’ll let him.

Is always on some cheesy ass shit murmuring in your ear about how doing it on your period “bonds your souls”, too.

Constantly offers to get you pregnant so you can avoid your period for the next nine months… he’s only half joking.

Will actually skip work to stay home and cuddle with you if you give him even the slightest inclination that you don’t want him to go.

Watches movies with you and has gotten surprisingly good at rubbing little circles on your tummy that help with cramps.

Keeps the house stocked with candy, but, then again… it’s always stocked with candy.

“Babe. Look what I just found at the store.” You watch with furrowed brows as he sets the bags on your floor. You’re curled on the couch, a blanket tucked up around your neck. He’d made sure to roll you like a burrito before he’d left. He pulls out… a cow? It looks like a stuffed animal, but when he shakes it you hear something sloshing around inside. You raise a brow. “Ummmm–” “It’s one of those hot water bottle thingies! For your cramps!” He tosses the poor cow on the floor and digs around in the bag again. “Oh my god, they had so many. I got the cow, the dolphin–” He tosses a dolphin out of the bag, followed by a puppy, a raccoon, and a cat. “Do you want me to put one in the microwave for you?” He looks far too excited to turn down, even though you just heated up your old hot water bottle minutes ago. You smile and nod. “Yeah, baby. Thanks.”

✰ GETO:

Mans TAKES CARE of you. Like… fully.

Is really sympathetic and gentle when your cramps are killing you– brushing your hair back, rubbing circles on your tummy, letting you put his warm hands wherever it hurts.

Runs you a warm bath and climbs right in with you. Makes you lean back against him while he gives you a massage and works out all the knots in your neck and shoulders.

Buys you period products before your period starts if he remembers. If he doesn’t he’s happy to run down to the store. Doesn’t need to ask which ones you like– he already knows.

Wraps you up in the comfiest blankets and cuddles with you wherever you ask. Gives the best cuddles, too. Rubs your back in a way that has you falling asleep in seconds.

Makes sure you take your meds on time and brings you a glass of water.

Secretly loves period sex. Will never push you for it, but gets super horny at just the thought. Loves the sight of your blood on his dick. Makes him feel possessive of you in a way that’s kind of scary.

“Sugu…” you whine. Your cramps are bad. You’ve been curled in a ball all morning, even with all the meds Suguru has been giving you. “It hurts so bad.” You feel him shifting behind you and then his hands gently prying you to lie on your back. You whimper, the pain spiking again as soon you roll out of the fetal position. His face appears above you, a couple stray strands of black hair tickling your cheeks. His smile is soft, but full of sympathy as he settles over you. “I’m sorry, baby. I wish I could make it go away…” He moves down your body, settling between your thighs and resting his cheek on the plush of your thigh. You sigh when you feel his fingers skate over your tummy, rubbing little circles into the skin that somehow work wonders for the pain. You sigh with relief, a bit of the tension ebbing away. “That feels nice…” Your body relaxes a bit, finally getting a break from the incessant pain. Suguru only smiles, looking up at you through hooded eyes when he presses a kiss just below your belly button. You don’t fail to notice the way his thumb is sliding under the fabric of your panties. “I can think of something that would feel even nicer…”

✰ NANAMI:

Prepares for your period.

Has your cycle marked down on his calendar so he always knows when you’re starting.

Stops by the store a couple of days ahead of time to buy pads/tampons/meds and your favorite snacks.

Runs a bath for you every night and fills it with all of your favorite soaps and scents.

Cooks. Mans knows how to cook and does extra of it when you’re on your period. Will make you nutritious meals and urge you to drink water, but always brings you something sweet if you’re craving it.

Heats up your hot water bottle every thirty minutes without you ever having to ask.

Lays out a fresh change of clothes for you whenever you’re in the shower.

Cuddles you whenever you want, but only after he’s tended to all of your other needs (meds, food, water, etc.).

Will have sex if you want, but will never push you for it. If you just want the relief from your cramps, he’ll just use his fingers to get you off and then pull you back into his arms.

“Time for your bath, sweetheart.” You nearly grumble in protest, but how can you do such a thing when he takes such good care of you? Still, you don’t want to move. Just existing hurts, much less walking to the bathroom. Despite your resistance to saying it aloud, Nanami still seems to understand what you’re thinking. No more than a second later he’s scooping you into his arms and carrying you to the bathroom. “You know you’ll feel better after, love.” You nod weakly against his chest. “Will you get in with me?” He pauses. He’s got dinner to make and he wanted to change the sheets for you… One nuzzle of your face into his neck has him throwing all those plans out the window. “Of course, princess. I’ll get in with you.”

✰ CHOSO:

Is new to this stuff so he lowkey freaks out.

Worries that you’re actually in danger cause… there’s blood???

Chills out eventually, but is still irrationally convinced that you’re injured.

When i tell you this man is at your BECK AND CALL, I mean it. He will do every little thing you ask. Fetches water, food, snacks– whatever you need.

Mans is panicked when he can’t find the candy bar you want at the grocery store.

Happily buys period products for you but has to facetime you cause the poor baby is overwhelmed and confused by all the options.

Is kind of attached to you like glue. Thinks you’re somehow more breakable in this state will hold you in his arms permanently apart from when you need to bathe, eat, or use the bathroom.

Actually freaks when you have a bout of cramps that makes you hiss in pain. Cannot believe you have to do this every month and hates feeling so useless in taking the pain away. Eagerly learns that he can put his warm hands on your tummy and it helps.

Is actually amazed when you tell him that sex helps with the cramps. Worries about hurting you, but is completely down. Mans is definitely not afraid of a little blood lmao.

“Baby… there are so many…” You can’t help but stifle a laugh looking at your boyfriend’s stressed expression through your phone screen. He’d run down to the store to get you some more pads– you just hadn’t anticipated how overwhelming the experience would be for him. “I know, Cho. I’m sorry. Here– back up so I can see the whole aisle.” He does as you ask, flipping the camera around so you can see what he’s looking at. You have to bite your lip this time to keep the laugh in. You’ve never realized just how many options there really are. “The ones toward the bottom right, baby. With the pink box.” The camera shakes a little as he follows your directions, arm sticking out like he’s playing pin the tail on the donkey. “These?” His hand hovers over a box that is pink but not the pink you need. “Down a couple racks.” Finally, his hands close around the right box. “Thank you, baby. I didn’t think about how confusing this would be for you…” The camera flips again and you grin at the soft soft smile on his lips. “Don’t apologize. Want me to grab some candy, too?”

taglist (dm me or send an ask to be added!): @lacheri, @la-undercover-latina, @enchantedsylveon, @httpstoyosi, @bbyxxm, @6kabuki, @myriliy, @complexivelovely

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liveontelevision · 4 months ago

Text

Sweet Radio Demon Alastor x Reader

As promised, here she is -

It's inspired by Living Tombstone's song Alastor's Game!

CW: Reader is a cannibal and it's a p big part of the story so mentions and details of cannibalistic intent and murder

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Some people just don't belong in Hell. The structure of divine judgment must be rigged, punishing any poor soul who commits sin without realizing it. Those individuals don't belong.

Then there are those who do. Those who realize there's an afterlife and instantly come to terms with their placement. That's when all the Oh, I'm definitely going to Hell for this jokes start to bite back.

It's always easier for those who choose to be sinners to adapt to Hell's settings. The job market for porn stars and actors is extensive, and protection is almost guaranteed despite the souls owed or deals made.

But, what interested you the most, you depraved sinner you, was the loveliness of Cannibal Town. Not only was it the nicest part of Pentagram City, but you felt right at home considering your appetite when you were living.

It was immense. Some kind of craving that you could never satisfy, no matter how many callers you invited into your home and how many of them never left. You got creative, playing with recipes, spices, and cooking methods, but it was never, never, enough.

Sometimes, you'd wonder how you got to this point. You were a normal enough kid, went to school, had a nuclear home life, and you were comfortable financially, the works.

You remember it feeling like a stomach ache.

A stomach ache that brought you to tears and kept you from school some days. You almost assumed it was something every child went through until you learned what subdued the pain.

Meat.

It was the solution. You ate like a carnivore at first, then the food became increasingly rare as you aged up. Until you stumbled upon some strange forums online (There's something online for everyone, I suppose). You gave in to the cryptid suggestions. You tried rodents at first, only after thorough mental and food preparation, but fuck did it do the job. It made your body shutter and your mind hazy, momentarily melting any thoughts of guilt you might still have.

As time went on, you grew hungrier. Animals weren't cutting it.. but maybe he could.

You found him online, chatted for a while over some messenger, then discovered how much of a dirtbag he truly was. That seemed to disarm you from the whole idea.

Poor thing.

Maybe if he was kind enough, he would have been spared.

You invited him over.

As you watch him approach your door, you tussle your hair, and adjust your clothes that leave little to the imagination. With a continuous, you can do this, you can do this, you're drawn to the knocking of the door.

"Damn, babe, if I knew you actually looked like this, I would've come over sooner." He props his arm on the doorframe as he speaks.

Is.. is that supposed to be a compliment?

Your eye only twitches a bit before you cover your expression with a cute giggle. Holding your hands behind your back, you lean forward.

"Not too bad yourself, big guy. How's a movie sound?"

One thing leads to another, you're seated on your couch, and his hands are immediately on you. For someone who acts so big and tough, his touch is awkward and uncomfortable. Like he doesn't know what he's doing.. probably because he doesn't know what he's doing.

The inexperience helps.

You didn't take into account how large he was. Assuming this would go as planned, you'd be set for weeks, but the actual action of getting him down still worries you.

You're barely an hour into the movie, which you can hardly remember, before his sloppy lips are on yours, which you respond to with a grimace. He doesn't seem to take into account your reactions, grunting against your very unresponsive lips.

Disgusting.

Pig.

He places a large hand on your waist, pulling you roughly to him.

Strong.

Muscular.

You need more. You need to evaluate your prey. You place your hand on his wrist, delicately running your fingers up the entirety of his forearm, tracing and digging into each vein and muscle you can find. That continues up to his chest. Before long, you find yourself straddling him, his wide hips forcing your legs apart a decent amount. Despite his build, his composure clearly shows he's nearly at your mercy. While you're running your hands along his body continuously, occasionally kissing him or letting out fake moans to his ear, you're feeling his ever-growing length pressing into your leg.

You'd be disgusted by the sensation if you weren't planning your next move internally.

You hid weapons everywhere. If you remember correctly, there should be a knife sitting in the crevice between the couch’s armrest and the side table. You just have to reach -

"Take this off." You command with a breathy voice, tugging at his t-shirt that had some unknown stain on it. You almost regret putting so much effort into your appearance.

Oh, well. You're taking notes in the back of your mind for any future endeavors.

You guide his desperate hands to pull the shirt over his head. In one movement, you drop the shirt and take the hidden knife into your hand. You hadn't realized until just now, but -

You're shaking.

You let out a deep breath. With your arms reaching over the arm of the couch, you're essentially caging him in. Nothing looks suspicious yet. Not to him, at least.

You lean in to give him one final kiss. You aren't exactly sure why. It's not doing anything for you. Maybe some sort of sympathy is crossing your mind?

… You'll have to work on that.

You pull away slowly, giving yourself time to examine the state he's in. His eyes are glazed over, his breath shallow.

Now.

Do it now.

You're ready. You've studied anatomy, disarmed yourself to the idea, and prepared for the worst.

You have to do it now.

You straighten your back, the knife now visible to him. He doesn't seem to notice at first until your arms are in the air, hoping to find some momentum in the stab. With your eyes still open, you find the spot where it should end this without too much pain for either party. You dive as fast as you can, but you made a fatal error.

You shut your eyes.

The moment was immediately silenced by the tension of his hand fisting the blade of the knife. He caught it. He stopped it just before it could pierce his chest, only bleeding from his palm. You both sit silently, in disbelief, perhaps.

A silent curse slips from your lips, and that seems to snap him back to this failure of a hook-up.

"You fucking psychopath!" He screeches. He stands, effectively throwing you off his lap as he does so. The action forces a small yelp out of you, and your grip on the knife is immediately taken from you. You stare up at him from the ground.

The tables seem to have turned. He's looking down at you, stumbling and struggling to find his grounding, all the while holding the knife. Despite this, despite his large build and his newfound advantage, he bolts for the door.

Was this better than him attacking you? Will he go to the police? You almost hope he's fragile enough to not admit he was attacked by a frail creature, or that he'll use this as a story to brag to his friends over, I escaped a psycho bitch last night.

You start cursing again. They become more frantic and louder as you follow him out. You watch him stumble off your patio and back to his car. You manage to find reality when a previous thought hits you.

You hid weapons everywhere.

A shotgun sits by your front door. It wasn't the most hidden, but in your defense, it was dark enough outside that it went unnoticed. And you're in a rural enough area that some wouldn't bat an eye at the sight of it.

With shaky hands, you pick it up, already loaded, and aim it at him. He's already in the driver's seat, but you're too exposed to let him just drive off at this point.

You didn't really know much about guns. But in an emergency such as this, it seemed like it would come in handy. So when you took your shot, you never considered the consequences of shooting bullets at a running car, especially with your poor aim.

You come to moments later, fire and pieces of metal surround you. You try to take in your surroundings, but your ears are ringing, and your senses are overwhelmed by the severe burns covering most of your body. You manage to find your home, still mostly intact. The car, on the other hand, is completely decimated.

In the corner of your eye, you think you can spot some resemblance of your date sprawled along the asphalt. With a heavy breath, which you consider might be your last, you let your head drop onto the pavement.

"My my, what a predicament you've got yourself into!"

A voice?

It echoes through your head. You can still only see the crackling of the fire surrounding you, and your ears still ring, but the voice seems clear as day. There's a bit of a static to it, but still it's clearnes startles you. You attempt to respond through the pain.

"W-Who-"

"Save your strength, my dear. I'll be quick since it seems you won't be with us much longer." The voice says. You can hear footsteps, a clear clicking of heels that echo in this ethereal space you find yourself. You struggle to lift your head, only catching a glimpse of the stranger kneeling in front of you.

"I'll clean up this little mess of yours, and we can discuss my repayment once you're in less of a.. scorched state. Deal?"

How could you consider the consequences? Or even comprehend his words while you’re like this? You aren't sure what he means, and you have no time to question. Your consciousness seems to be honing in on the burns.

You let out a horrific scream, clutching your arms, only intensifies the pain. If you could see the stranger, you'd see a disturbingly unphased smile.

"Help me - H-Help me! Please!" You beg and cry out, finally reaching out your hand to him.

"So? Do we have a deal?"

"Deal - Deal! Fuck- I-It hurts..!" You sob, biting your blood-dampened lip to prevent any more screams.

He takes your hand, gripping onto the raw skin of your burns. Your next scream comes out silently. You feel your vision blur before your body finally comes to terms with its seemingly sealed fate.

You shoot up from your bed, your face running with tears. They feel cool, running down your heated cheeks. You quickly wipe your face, leaving a wet smudge of makeup and sweat across your fingers.

Right.. make-up from the date.

You scan your bed, no man in sight. It’s a relief to wake up in your bed alone. Shifting out from under the covers, you look to your hands, waving them in front of your eyes and running your hands across your own skin.

Smooth.

Maybe even softer than you remember previously.

Some sort of calming amenity seems to be sweeping over your body. With glazed eyes, you examine your body that should be severely burned, yet you feel nothing.

Still, in a state of shock, you rise and wrap yourself in your blanket before leaving your bedroom looking a mess. You roam your home, looking around with still-damp eyes. You feel like a tourist. Like none of this is yours.

Not anymore.

You find yourself standing by your front door, opening it without hesitation. It's a clear sunny day. The grass is just as green, if not greener, and there were flowers there that you don't recall ever planting.

Suddenly, your bare feet against the heated pavement sends a slight panic through you, as the more gruesome details of the previous night conjured in your mind.

That's why nothing looks right. You were sure your porch was blackened by the fire. The grass was a flame, and there was a car - and that man and the voice -

You approach where his car was parked, only to find a torn-up strip of rubber, assumingly from its tire.

"What the.." unable to even complete a thought, a familiar voice only brings up more questions.

"Ah, my apologies! I assure you it is quite out of character for me to miss a spot." You see a disturbingly tall figure come from behind, swooping down to pick up the rubber scrap. He examines it within his red talons, turning it back and forth. You stand dumbfounded, but he goes on anyway.

"So, what exactly caused your date to ..implode? Was he not to your liking? Too handsy? Too-"

...

You're too tired for this.

You rub the sleep from your eyes, turning on your heels and letting the blanket drag across the rugged pavement behind you as you head back inside. You almost expect some sort of resistance from him, a qwip on how rude it is to walk off in the middle of a conversation, but there is none. Maybe you just imagined that little interaction. Maybe there wasn't really anyone there, and you're still tired or still sleeping.

You open the door, and that same bright smile greets you from inside your own home.

That seems to wake you up.

Your wide eyes scan his face, then peek inside your home behind him. You turn back around to see where he previously was, and obviously there's no sign of his travels. You slowly turn back.

"May I speak now?" His voice is laced with a radio filter, and it hits your ears in the strangest way. The reality of the situation turns your exhaustion into apprehension, yet you nod your head anyway.

"I may have caught you in the midst of your disarray, but I must admit, I'm curious about what led to it." He steps aside and gestures for you to come inside. To your own house.

"H-He got the upper hand is all." You decide not to comment, moving inside sluggishly. As far as you know, this strange being has no idea of the sins you've committed. You quickly fib.

"He attacked me, actually."

"Oh, how devastating!" He lets out a saddened sigh, a hand over his heart with fake sympathy. "Now, was that before or after you attempted to drive a knife through his chest?"

With a defeated groan, you flop onto the couch.

"What are you? A sleep paralysis demon? A.. nightmare? Am I still asleep?" You grumble, running the possibilities out loud and not expecting a true answer. You actually hoped that it would all go away. That this voice in your head, this hallucination, is just that.

In your head.

"Ooh, I like the sound of that.. A nightmare~ has a nice ring to it wouldn't you say?" He stands in front of you, his hands folded formally behind his back.

"Now. Enough with the compliments. What truly happened, my dear?” When his voice suddenly turns sympathetic, you find yourself actually in need of someone to vent to.

“Well, since you're clearly just a nightmare - or.. something - ” You sit up, take in a deep breath, and with its release, you reveal yourself.

All of you.

Every single animal you've killed to curb your pain, what seems to work and what doesn't, and the previous nights failure. You talk about the number of friends and family you've scared off throughout the years, everything.

“I.. was gonna eat.. him…” You squeak out your final sentence. You've never really said it out loud before. And never in front of someone else. It made your own blood run cold. Not the thought of the act itself, but just sharing it aloud. your eyes stay fixed on your fidgeting hands in your lap when a loud cackle interrupts your anxiousness.

“My word, aren’t you just the cutest basket case? You're lucky to be dealing with a demon of similar tastes.” He hisses his final words, all with a sly smile. He sounds prideful in his admission. His words seem like they're meant to disarm you, and even though he essentially admitted to being a cannibalistic demon, it works.

“Well.. since we have sooo much in common-” Your voice drags, the notion of being similar to this demon feeling strange to mention out loud, “-would you.. help me? With all this..?”

Expecting another laugh, maybe some more teasing, you're met with a confusing expression. His smile is still there, unmoving, but you catch the smallest twinkle in his eye. He stands and faces away. The hope of finding an outlet for your cannibalistic intent starts to dwindle.

Your misplaced disappointment is overtaken by the flickering of lights and the soft tunes of a radio nearby, one that you recognized but were sure had been broken for decades. He turns his head unnaturally, looking over his shoulder to meet you with blackened eyes.

“I would be absolutely delighted.”

“Lucky for you, some of your late-night delivery seemed to withstand the flames!”

You follow that transatlantic accent to your kitchen, unamused by his continuous puns and casual speech. This big scary demon friend of yours presents a commically large plate, with a very familiar carcass sitting atop.

He did nothing to make it look any less disturbing than it truly was. the skin was nearly burned off, the smell was just awful, and the shirt was somehow still recognizable through it all.

You cover your mouth in response. The fact that it doesn't smell much different than some of the other carnivorous meals you’ve prepared nauseates you more than the sight of the corpse itself.

“Quite a specimen, very good choice! But, you needed tips, correct?”

All you can think of to respond is a simple nod of your head.

“Then let's get started!” With a snap of his clawed fingers, a sleek black apron covers his suit.

The next few hours were grueling, but.. fun? If you're allowed to call it that. You were given multiple pointers, and sure, they were all quite helpful, but they were in excruciating detail. What certain parts of the body you should pick or avoid was one thing, but discussing what wine pairs with what organs? It's not a conversation you ever thought you'd have.

By the time the meal looks normal, all decorated with spices in a baking pan and in the oven, you instinctively go to do dishes. As you fill the sink and start bringing things over, a little creature has you nearly tripping. You look down, seeing a strange little stitched doll carrying most of the dishes to the sink. No matter how strange it looked, you respond with a curious hum, fully desensitized to it at this point.

“Huh..” is all you can say. You take any remaining dishes and follow suit, plopping it all into the water. The little doll seems to be tugging at your leg when you try to walk off. It's holding its arms up to you, letting out little murmurs that sound restrained by the stitches across its mouth. You hesitate at first, but scoop it up in your arms and place it aside the sink. And it gets to work scrubbing away.

“Damn, you're cute, and you clean? Can I keep you?” You ask it quietly, giving it a quick pat on the head. It seems to smile.

“Quite a delightful little thing, one of my better creations, I must admit.” The response from him seems to scare the poor thing straight. It immediately lowers its head and focuses on cleaning. You scoff at the interaction between the two. if his own toy is scared of him, should you be as well? “That being said, I simply can not part with it. My apologies.”

“Oh, I was kidding. Mostly.” You reply quietly. You hear the first chuckle from him that seems genuine. No ill intent, just a joyous response to your little quip. It felt kinda.. Nice.

“So, Mr. Scary Demon Man-” You clear your throat before you speak. “-why are you here, exactly? did I do something to summon you? Or-” He cocks his head to the side at the title, a little twitch to his eye.

“Not at all, my dear. I simply wanted to help you in your little endeavors, from one cannibal to another, Haha!” His tone goes back to that of a salesman. Like he’s trying to convince you he’s something he’s not.

“Well.. thank you, I guess. I don't really understand why you’d want to help me without wanting something in return, though. You don't seem like-”

“-A charitable man? I suppose that’s fair.” He doesn’t give you a chance to reply. “If you’re so desperate to return the favor, why don’t we strike a deal? Just a little one. Between friends.”

You weren’t stupid. His words made it clear that this was his intention from the moment he chose to save your life. You shrunk a bit.

“Sure, between friends.” You let out a sigh, your somewhat chipper attitude immediately fading. He takes no time to be empathetic.

“Good! Now, you seem to have an eye for food. This meal was ideal considering your poor execution.” You can’t stop your eyes from rolling. “And you can’t get meals quite like this where I’m from. How about you keep providing, with my assistance, and I’ll make sure it’s prepared to the best of my abilities. In exchange for all my hard and generous work, I get half the spoils! Seems far more favorable on your end, but I’m feeling rather generous today.”

Where he’s from? You want to question it. You want to know more about him, you want to know -

“What’s your name?” Your sudden questioning leaves him speechless for a moment, but he’s quick to recover his charming smile. “You never told me.”

“Well, considering you won’t need my name if you don’t agree to this little game, how about I throw that in as well? You provide the living flesh, and I’ll handle the rest. And, you’ll get my name.” He stands before you, a bit too close for your comfort, as he reaches his hand out to you. “Call it a deal?”

An ominous green glow surrounds the two of you. It sends some kind of wind through your clothes and hair. His hand is especially bright, and his eyes go back to that frightening black that you experienced previously.

At the end of the day, if this is what you have to do to stifle those damned pains, it doesn't seem all that bad. You extend your hand, instinctively flinching at the seemingly impending danger. But that still doesn't stop you.

“O-Okay.. Deal.” With the touch of his palm against yours, the glow flashes, forcing your body to tense and your eyes to squeeze shut. It only lasts for a moment, though. When you open your eyes, you first examine your connected hands. His hand is huge compared to yours. From this proximity, you can truly take in how unnaturally tall he is.

Attempting to tug your hand back, his grip tightens, forcing your hand to his lips for a quick kiss to your knuckles. An outdated and surprisingly intimate action leaves you a bit flustered.

“My name is Alastor. It’s been a pleasure, my dear~”

And so, your transactional deal went on, right until your demise. You used a similar tactic to bring more meals to your doorstep, finding a handful of poor saps online. You weren’t exactly sure what he meant when he offered his assistance, but when the time came, a strength took over your body that you never experienced before. There were no more shaky hands or sympathy. Your aim was always true, and it was just so easy. Any impending dangers or possible retaliations were alerted to you by a subtle whisper, a voice, coming from just behind you. It was startling at first, but quickly became a comfort.

When it came to preparing the food, which Alastor said he’d handle, you’d essentially leave your victim's remains in the kitchen and would come back to a meal ready for the oven. Sometimes, you’d leave the body as is, limp on the couch, or sprawled on the floor, only when you were too exhausted to deal with the clean-up. On nights like that, you’d wake up to a completed meal the next morning. You liked to picture him going through your home, rolling up his sleeves and wearing that apron, cleaning things up, and cooking in your kitchen how he did that first night.

That being said, you didn't normally see his physical form. There was the lent strength and whispers during your hunts, but other than that, contact seemed to nearly cease. Why was that upsetting you? You cursed yourself for being too much of a romantic - for making this seem like anything more than a delusion you conjured up to make this whole action easier for you.

And that pain? That constant hunger that was never sufficed nearly went away. In fact, you’ve never felt fuller.

He did return on especially rare occasions. You never complained, and you attempted to hide your excitement when you'd catch him lurking in the corner of your eye.

Sometimes, it was to cook for you again. Despite the deal being in full swing, you would ask him to show you some of the recipes. Normally, it would just appear, looking delicious and homemade as always, yet you still pestered him to show you how to prepare some things. He always acted burdened by it, but seeing him cooking felt.. Domestic. Like, when he was cooking, he was truly in his element. It made it easy to forget what he was, which you found yourself questioning less and less. It simply didn't matter anymore.

One particular visit was late into the night. He actually woke you up from the racket, which had never happened before. Stumbling out of your bed, expecting to see police raiding your home or something worse, you’re instead met with a swaying radio demon and a shattered vase. Whenever he was around, soft music would play from your busted radio, a contrasting notion to the fumbling man in front of you now.

“Alastor?” You call out, a wave of relief hitting you and bringing the baseball bat from your hands to the floor. “What the hell are you doing? It’s like.. three in the morning..” The realization of the time makes the previous adrenaline seep out of you.

“Ha-ha! Isn’t that an interesting concept? The Devil’s Hour. Throw some religious implications, and it drives people mad! In reality, it’s just when your feeble body is at its most vulnerable.” He rambles on, spilling the drink from his bottle as he exaggerates his actions. He walks to you as he goes on, his body still swaying. “When your little fragile human heart reaches its lowest speed. When waking you would cause.. distress.” He goes on, his words suddenly sounding melancholic.

“Your breathing is erratic.” He adds, staring intensely at your heaving chest. “And you are hot to the touch-” The back of his claws trace the apple of your cheek, where even you can feel the heat radiating from your skin. Because his voice has no filter. You’ve never heard it like that before. You’ve never heard him sound so human.

His hand traces down your face to press against your chest. He’s feeling your heart. And it’s beating erratically.

“Your heart is fast. Are you distressed?” He leans in closer, to the point where you can smell the alcohol on his breath. “Do I make you distressed?”

In a flustered panic, you push him away. His closeness, his touch, it all threw you off guard.

“N-no, I’m just tired. You woke me up in the middle of the night, asshole.” You cross your arms over your chest, watching him laugh and struggle to find his bearings after being shoved. With a groan, you pull him by his slender arm over to the couch. He sits down with a thud, and you sit a careful distance next to him.

“That is what is so refreshing about you, my dear.” He lets out a dreamy sigh, and you pull the whiskey from his hand before he can break anything else. “Why - you have no idea who you’re dealing with, I could be a powerful demon overlord,” He slurs his words. “But, to you, I’m just your sweet radio demon~” He sings out.

Alastor leans into you, uncharacteristically tapping your nose. You swat his hand away, forcing another loud chuckle from him. He stays leaning forward, even seated beside you, he towers over you. Your wide eyes meet his.

“Even your eyes show no sign of fear. How curious.” You stay like this a little longer. His breath still reeks of expensive whiskey, but you can’t seem to tear your eyes from him. You’re terribly focused on keeping your distance, but he doesn't seem to have the same concern.

With a sly smile, he removes his coat and flips to his back, laying his head in your lap. With his long legs crossed over each other and hanging very much off the couch, you’re almost nervous to touch him. He wasn’t especially touchy, only doing so when necessary; fingers brushing against fingers, a hand on the shoulder for a mere second- why can you remember each moment so vividly? Why is it so fresh in your mind?

“Alastor, what are you doing here? Why aren’t you at home? or.. wherever you are when you're not here?” That’s still something you’ve questioned. You weren’t one to pester him so insistently, wery on losing the good thing you have going on.

“Unfortunately, I’m not sure! Be careful with your alcohol, my dear! Ha-haa!” He slurs out with a grin. “I suppose.. I prefer to be here.”

“What? Why? If you’re some powerful overlord, don’t you have somewhere better to be getting sloshed?” You scoff, keeping your eyes away from his head that was still perched comfortably in your lap. He seems to even nuzzle into your thighs a bit, and it only flushes you more. You take an unpermitted swig of his confiscated drink.

“Hm! Well, I can’t exactly get meat this fresh in Hell-” He taps his chin in thought to your rhetorical question that clearly went right over his head. “-besides! It’s not nearly as nice without you.” He sounds so matter of fact, so sure of his words. You hold your breath, suddenly reliving every moment together before this.

You’d chat and joke around in the kitchen, but you’ve really learned more about him than you thought. How he sews together those strange little creatures. And he seems so proud of them, despite their clear fear of his presence. You noticed he always puts some sort of spice in the meals he cooks, and that even if it's too much, you eat it anyway. How he simply hates getting dirty despite his occupation. He rolls up his sleeves, has that dumb apron, and uses those little toys of his to keep clean.

You loved it.

You’ve done nothing but enjoy every moment with him. You don’t need to know what he is to know that.

Wait, did he say Hell?

“You’re from Hell? There’s a Hell??” With a more shocked exclamation than feared, you finally look down at him. He’s too far gone, humming along to the music, he barely hears your questions. With a clearly defeated sigh, you brush his hair from his face. He winces from the action, his smile wavering but not breaking under your touch.

“Ah, I wish I knew how you survive this cozy little life.” His voice is quiet and mumbled.

You.

I can live this way because of you.

He manages to finish off the bottle with one more swig - when did he take that back?

Your thoughts begin to wander, absent-mindedly twirling strands of hair through your fingers, raking your fingers down his scalp, only to startle yourself with the sensation of animalistic ears. And they’re twitching. Whether it be your reaction or his, it seems to force a little yelp from you, so you reel your hand away.

“I didn’t mean to alarm you, darling.. Could you - or.. You can.. Continue. If you’d like.” His voice had dropped that strange filter again. You feel woozy. That whiskey you had shared, maybe it was strong. Or.. it was the middle of the night, you were sure you were just tired. You spiraled to come up with any reasonable excuse other than developing feelings for a Hellbound demon. You wonder if you-

Oh, you’re definitely going to Hell.

But, could it be something to look forward to?

Your intimate thoughts cloud your mind, leaving your hand mindlessly petting a literal demon. Your fingers combed through his hair, delicately clawing up the ears and pinching the softness at the tip of each one. Despite your thorough and elaborate massage, your mind has wandered to how a relationship with a possible hallucination of a demon would work out. But that's ridiculous, isn’t it?

“Alastor, can I ask you-” your words are brought to a halt and your eyes drop. A quiet hum of satisfaction, leaving a barely conscious radio demon, who’s head still sat in your lap. With a curse under your breath you decide you're trapped.

There was absolutely no chance of escape. What, were you supposed to wake him? What if you upset a powerful overlord demon, or whatever he claimed to be? Albeit uncomfortable, you force yourself to sleep. Enjoy it while you can, who knows if it's even real?

You didn't see him for awhile after that.

Alastor was a poinient man. He never missed a pick up before. So when you realized the meat you've portioned off for him was still sitting in your fridge, you start to worry. You're not exactly sure why, you’ve pushed any and every intimate thought from your mind.

This is purely transactional.

Even though his portion had gone untouched for a few days.. A few weeks, if you really think about it, you already had a date set with another victim.

It went on as usual. A dumb hunk of meat thinks he’s all that until you’re straddling him. You decide to stick to what you know works; a knife to the heart.

You mapped exactly where to plant it, as he fiddles with your top, and with a raised arm, you go to claim your next victim.

There was no warning.

There was supposed to be a warning.

The next thing you know, you're pinned to the floor, your wrist being gripped so tightly you have no other option than to scream and lose your grip on the knife.

Your date took no time. No hesitation.

The last thing you see is the opposing view. A stranger straddling your body with a knife held high above his head.

It seems so quiet.

And it's awful.

Where was the warning?

If anything, you should've at least heard Alastor's voice telling you how to avoid this. You always do. A slight pang of worry hits you, but it's quickly overtaken by anger.

With a final yelp that's fueled with frustration, hurt, and a broken heart, you met your demise quickly and alone.

By the time you've come to, you're surrounded by a handful of black eyed children. You immediately scramble backward, hitting your back against a brick wall. You’d notice your surroundings if these little scavengers werent eyeing you with an innocent curioustity. You let out a hiss, holding a hand over your eye. A streak of blackened blood comes from it, your palm thoroughly stained with it.

“You must be new~”

“You’re very handsome!”

“How did you die?”

A bombard of tiny voices and questions go straight over your head, a ringing in your ears forcing your mind to go hazy.

“Alright, give ‘em some space, kids!” A sweet voice seems to bring you back. You look down to your seated body. Your skin is a deathly gray, and your top is stained with your own blood. It’s still red. “Don’t overwhelm the poor thing, I’m sure they’re quite shaken!”

Your eyes then trace up the silhouette of a vintage looking entourage, then to a sharp-toothed smile. The woman stands before you, a hand held out to you.

Her eyes are just as black and her skin is just as pale as those children that now whisper and giggle to eachother nearby.

It didn’t take you long to realize your misfortune.

You died.

You’re upset sure, but you find that you’re mostly angry. None of this wouldve happened if you- if he-

“Come on, cutie! Let’s get you cleaned up.” Her considerate smile clears your mind almost immediately. You don’t hesitate accepting her assistance.

“He was supposed to help me. He said he would be there for me! I died because of him..!”

A strained smile and a quick nod is the only response you get to your angered rambling. The kind face that scooped you off the streets was Rosie, one of the most powerful overlords in Hell, who just so happens to own most the souls in Cannibal town.

Lucky you.

She did exactly as she said, having her fun and playing a bit of dress up with you. It wasn't exactly your style, but there were more concerning things when it came to your appearance. Your eyes were just as black as Rosie’s. As those children who have been following you around.. In fact, most residents of cannibal town had this feature.

You really are in Hell.

Right where you belong.

Right along side people who are just like you. It almost felt.. Comfortable.

You confided in her, going on and on about some jerk of a demon who broke a promise that cost you your life. How he had been helping you in fights, saved your life a number of times, taught you how to cook, showed up drunk to simply sit in your lap, then just fucking disapeared when you needed him most. Your face was turning red, from anger or the way you gushed about him, Rosie couldn’t quite decipher.

What wasn’t comfortable was the period clothing you were put in. But according to Rosie, it’s Perfect! What a doll!

“Is Alastor. The radio demon?” She completes your sentence with a sigh, standing to tower over you and placing a hand on your shoulder. “I hate to break it to you, hun, but no one’s seen him in quite a while.. If i’m being entirely honest with you, he’s a dear friend of mine.” You instantly tense at her words. You just went on a rant about how shitty he was, only to find out he’s disapeared with no explanation. Maybe it was a good reason. A good enough reason to leverage your own life? You aren’t sure.

“I have to find him!” You finally say, as if a lightbulb switched in your head. He seemed so unattainable all these years, but now? You’re in his house. “Miss Rosie! Can you help me? His name-”

“I can’t say he didn’t wrong you, but he’s a man of his word, hun.. If he’s not holding up his promises, then he might be in some real trouble.. ” You hear her voice crack, yet she doesn't let her smile drop.

Another factor to consider that Alastor might have bitten more than he can chew, yet she still sympathises with you. You nearly knock the wind out of her with your arms encircling her small waist. Your head rests just at her chest. You can’t see her face, but her arms are around you almost instantly.

As you got settled in town, you did actually use the skills that Alastor had taught you throughout your lifetime. You understood why he made your previous deal. Demon flesh was just fine, but you really needed to spice it up to be anything special. And even then, it still couldn't compare to fresh, living, meat.

You started off just making and baking your own food. Then, when one cannibalistic child asked to try some, they told their friends, who told others.

After a while, you were cooking for half the town. You had a line every morning out of your own home. Once Rosie took notice, it was time for you to make a deal.

“Why can’t I sign a contract with you? You’ve done so much for me, I trust you with my soul.” You had taken Rosie out for dinner, where you planned to discuss a potential deal. Even with you barely being in Hell for a year, you heard plenty about Extermination Day, contracts, dealing in souls, all of it. You did your research. You talked to some of the townsfolks and saw no real downside in giving your soul away. Your proposal seems to surprise her, though.

“You still have your soul? Didn’t you make a deal with Alastor?” She asks, quieting her voice when she says his name, as if just the sound of it would make you upset. It only makes your eye twitch, though, just at the thought of the whole ordeal.

“I did, but he didn't say anything about my soul.. Was he.. Supposed to take it?” You question.

“Well.. he’s made deals like that before, favors for favors, right?” You nod. “But to go all the way to Earth just for some food? That’s.. Not like him…” Rosie seems to be lost in thought, trying to piece together his intentions. You clear your throat, and attempt to calmly bring her back. You slide a tupperware container of lady fingers you had made just before this.

“I want a restaurant, Rosie. I’ve been keeping an eye on that abandoned shop in the town square. I can feed everyone in town if you’ll let me. And.. protection, of course. Would that work?”

She opens the box with a sparkle in her black eyes, almost immediately popping one of the delicate treats to her lips. With a hum of satisfaction and a snap of her fingers, the glowing golden paper floats in front of your eyes.

“It’s a deal, darling!”

You could barely call it a restaurant at first, but you were elated. Rosie granted you some extra hands to make deliveries and assist in the kitchen. Everything seemed to be going your way. Your first extermination day went by quickly. For some reason, angels weren’t destroying everything in town. And you and your little shop were both safe, untouched, really.

You had a steady job, loving customers, and a residency near the center of town. You were almost surprised how having a shared interest, in eating human flesh, can bring people together. And after just a few years, you had a community.

You had a family.

Something you never really though you’d have, in life or death; A home.

Things were going so well. This was supposed to be your happy ending. It had been a few years since you had signed the contract, and you still feel satisfied with your decision. You could really be yourself here.

In Cannibal Town.

In Hell.

It made you laugh sometimes, how much joy the underworld brought you.

On a say that seemed like any other, you had sold out your stock for the day early, and went on to send the rest of yout employees home, when you heard a ruckus near the gazebo.

The screech of a microphone, and a very distant agitated Susan, is all you can truly hear from where you are. You drop everything to join the crowd.

It was the princess of Hell.. You weren’t one to keep up with politics or media, there was no need for you. You entertained yourself plenty just by residing in town. But, you managed to hear her blow up before being dragged away. A tall, rugged figure takes their place, ready to entertain the crowd while the Princess gathered herself.

“Come one, come all! While our little princess is collecting herself, who would appreciate a quick song, hm?”

“There is no fucking way..” You mutter to no one but yourself.

Alastor.

He holds his hand up to his ear, waiting patiently for the adoring crowd to praise his presence before he went on. You knew Rosie was a friend of his, he was a cannibal afterall, but for the entire town to love him just as much? Including Susan?

It’s absurd.

He went on to perform some showtune, one that sounded familiar to you. The crowd excitedly surrounds the pavilion, dragging you nearly to the front. You held a look of disgust. A look of betrayal.

You didnt want to see him, you told yourself. Things were perfect as is, you felt no need to repair a relationship with your imaginary friend you conjured up while alive.

Although, you never thought you had to. He had been gone for years, he nearly became just a passing thought.

An unreasonable part of you stayed put. A part of you wants him to see you and recognize you, to remember what he had forgotten. You stood with your arms crossed, your heart beating rapidly just at the sight of him.

He looks entirely the same, completely unphased. You’ve changed so much visually, and you’re happier now. Bolder. You’re not shying down now.

He catches your eyes.

The music screeches to a halt, sounding like a record player needle dragging across the disc. You’re holding back a smile, almost proud that you were able to stop him in his tracks. This had to be the first time he’s thought of you in over seven years.

And stops singing.

Lucky for him, the princess is finally ready to make her own point. You stick around, not exactly paying attention to her lyrics. You keep your face of disdain strong, stepping away and flinching at any advance Alastor would make to reel in the crowd. He seems to distract himself just fine until Charlie whisks away the crowd. Again, you're firmly planted in your spot.

Alastor turns to you, much more apparent of who he’s dealing with now that you stand alone from the crowd. His ears are flat against his head, and his smile is turned at the corners. His eyes seem to dart back and forth as if he’s deciding whether or not to stay. To be with you.

Oh, he’s nervous.

You’ve never seen him nervous before. It feels good. You’re making the almighty Radio Demon nervous. You smile just slightly. But not a smile between old friends, but a smile in response to his realization that he fucked up.

Despite your delay, Alastor continues on with the rest of the parade. Your body immediately lost all tension once he leaves.

“Well, well! I knew I recognized that menu. I was ready to tear apart some poor sinner for using my recipes.” A familiar, antagonizing voice echoes throughout your little empty shop.

You turn on your heels, almost startled by the sudden intrusion.

Almost.

But, you'd be lying if you said you weren't hoping for it.

Just a little.

Of course, he'd come back. Maybe to make another lowly deal. Or to get you to do more menial tasks for him, to flaunt his power and authority.

“Yeah, well.. when you've been left for dead, and all you have is your skills, you do what you have to, to survive.” You snap, turning your back to him to continue wiping off an already spotless counter. “Plus, it never hurts to marginalize.”

“I've actually tried some of your food here.. Hm! And I hadn't the slightest idea who prepared such a meal. You've gotten better, I'll give you that! Such a small world.” He says with a nostalgic sigh. You can hear his heels clicking throughout the empty store, circling the room before eventually approaching you.

How can he speak to you like you were still.. aquitanced?

“I hope whatever kept you busy these seven years was worth my life.” You mutter. You weren't sure if you wanted him to hear that or not. Maybe if he did, he'd finally apologize or-

“Oh, it was! A nice little sabbatical is exactly what I needed.” You quickly turn to see him polishing his claws against his coat and smiling quite brightly. “I will say it is a pleasure to be meeting you here! I'm glad you settled in so easily.”

“You killed me, Alastor! You were supposed to keep me safe.. and now I'm dead! Because you disappeared without a word!” You start to scold him, finally hitting a breaking point. All he does is scoff at you.

“Oh please, I didn't even take your soul. And it's not like you'd end up anywhere else if you were to perish later on.” He speaks so casually about it all.

But, you were ready to cry. To kick and scream at his arrogance.

The feeling of sharp fingers engulfing your shoulders leaves you suddenly tense and puts your murderous thoughts on hold. He's vanished from in front of you and now looms over you, his eyes meeting yours from over your shoulder.

“Plus, you seem to be quite happy here! Why don't we just call it even then, hm?”

He can not be serious.

You pull away from him, the tears welling in your eyes finally letting loose.

“Alastor, stop!” You yelp, turning to face him. “That’s.. so unfair! You broke a promise! And you-” you hold your finger out to scold him even more, but you feel your body simply going slack. “-you hurt me.. I just.. thought that after all that time, after that night, you'd care a little more..” You look up to him, in the hopes of being met with some sort of sympathy. But his unnatural smile goes unwavering. You rub your arm awkwardly, losing your confidence as your words turn more vulnerable without your realizing.

“Oh, I can feel your pain, not to worry dear. I truly meant no harm when I couldn't hold up my end of the deal.” He's smiling and drawing out his words, only setting off a sense of unease within you. You finally let out a shaky sigh.

“With everything you've done for me.. I thought that.. you might've liked being around me…” You let out, your voice running slightly ragged from the previous shouts. “I thought we were having a good time! Then after all this?” You grow an uncertain smile.

A previous sight that made you giddy before only brings you dread now. His ears are flat, his eyes struggle to meet yours. He's losing his composure.

“I wouldn't be surprised if you wanted it to happen.” You laugh through your words, your hands raking through your hair in a stressed manner. In your little pits of passion, you don't get the chance to see his wavering smile, the grimace on his face, any of it. When your words are met with silence, though, that's when you finally look up to him.

He's nervous, again.

“Oh.. my-” your sentence barely starts before he attempts to cover his slip up.

“Now let's calm down, I really didn't mean for- I didn't intend-”

“Isn’t there rules to this? Were you ever allowed to meddle with my life in the first place - let alone - be on Earth??”

“-God! You killed me on purpose?? Just so I could come down here to do your bitch work?” You snap, your laugh becomes delirious and your tears betray the anger you're meant to be showing.

He’s scrambling for a witty reply, his expression finally showing his true intentions for the first time in a long while. He’s speechless.

“I’m such an idiot.. Of course, you never cared. Bastard.” You mumble your words to the room, losing any fear of him hearing your insults.

Your vulnerability sends a strange shiver down his spine. One he’s never felt before, one that makes his chest ache and his muscles tense.

“Well - Now, let's just talk for a moment before you-” Alastor extends his hand out to your turned back, but it never reaches you. A delicate grip takes his wrist, bringing him to a full stop. He stops, unnaturally snapping his neck to see who would dare disrupt the Radio Demon himself.

His ears flatten against his head, and with a sudden disbelief in what he’s seeing, his eyes return to their normal crimson.

Rosie towers over his hunched form, her eyes stern.

♡♡♡

“Al, sweetheart, you gotta go. You're disturbing my client.”

I love when Alastor fucks up and found out

THIS IS A TWO PARTER I PROMISE

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#hazbin hotel #hazbin #hazbin hotel fandom #hazbin hotel alastor #alastor hazbin hotel #alastor x reader #hazbin alastor #alastor #alastor x you #hazbin fanfic #hazbin fanfiction #hazbin fics

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writingsofwesteros · 4 months ago

Note

Could you do a au where Helaena is just being fucked dumb by her knight? Like all the orgasms she never had with aegon she has with her knight?

AN: Hi, I hope you like it x

NSFW

Helaena was always a sensitive soul; and that did not stop even now, the knight thought to himself. It was a surprise they had not been caught with the whimpers and mewls of pleasure escaping her pretty mouth so loudly. His larger hands that felt rough against the Princess’ soft skin had his lover whimpering. A shiver running down her spine with ease. “I have missed you.” He whispered into her ear; pressing soft, open mouthed kisses down her neck that had Helaena arching into his touch. She could only whimper his name; those bright eyes of hers in a haze of pleasure as he pushed deeper. Gods, she was still so tight. Aegon had done one thing right it seemed, and stayed away from his wife.

More for him, the Knight thought to himself as Helaena’s soft, creamy pussy clamped down on his fat cock. His mushroom head pushed against her soft spot again and again. “Ah–ah..” His eyes moved towards the door and oh what a sight they would have made if someone was to walk in. Their bare bodies on full display as he pressed deep from behind her; his body pressing down. Helaena always enjoyed feeling weight on her; it was something he learned early on. The idea of her not being able to escape him was something he enjoyed more than he would ever admit. “Please….” The Princess whimpered; gasping in the pillows that her head rested on whilst his movements stayed a deep thrust.

The obscene, wet sounds of their bodies slapping against each other echoed in her royal chambers. A smirk tugged on his lips as Helaena’s begging only resumed; her whines as she rocked back against him. “Sh, shh, I know…” He purred as his larger hands snaked around her stomach and slowly moved to cup her fat, milk filled breast. His thumb brushed over her pebbled, sensitive nipple which had the pretty Princess crying out. “Poor thing, left all alone.” His free hand moved to her slender neck, gently squeezing as he brought Helaena against his chest. Her lips now free to capture after she had hid her face into the pillows and the knight took full advantage.

His tongue pushed in without invitation as Helaena began to melt against his body once more. The intense pleasure tightening in her stomach as his touches drove her wild. Her sweet, leaking nipple was harshly captured between his knuckles as her milk began to drip down her body. Helaena’s eyes squeezed shut as she bounced on his fat cock. The Knight palmed at her breasts, collecting her falling milk on his slender fingers before he soon swiped them against Helaena’s bottom lip. Soon, two of his fingers were pushed inside her hot mouth as she gagged and drooled. His fat cock twitched inside her spasming pussy at the sight of her. He would have her on her knees before the night ended, he was sure of it.

“You always do enjoy something in your mouth.” He taunted her and watched as her cheeks became pink under his words. The sight alone had his dark chuckles in her ear as he matched his fingers to his thrusting. Still, he was a Knight after all and knew how to bring his lovely girl pleasure as his hand slowly moved down her stomach. Helaena gasped; her body shaking as his hand cupped her soaked pussy; his thumb eagerly circling her clit. His fingers were becoming slick as his Princess fell back into the pillows, grabbing at the sheets as he began to push her over the edge. The knight could not help but look down at the erotic display of his fat cock spreading her puffy lips as he rocked his hips with ease.

A ring of cream already formed around his thick length and each stroke had Helaena sobbing out; her wetness gushing down her thighs now as her climax ripped through her. He grunted as her weeping pussy tried to milk him but he only fucked her harder. Helaena’s toes curled as he took no notice of her orgasm. She was always so sensitive and this time was no different as Helaena began to thrash underneath him, trying to escape the pleasure tightly wrapping around her like a snake would do. Alas, her sweet knight was too strong. He only followed her before pushing Helaena into the sheets once more as he raced towards his own release.

He could not help but watch her reactions; she was sculpted by the Gods themselves, the knight was sure of it like nothing he had ever been in his life. She was the mother reborn. His hand reached for her arse; harshly palming and spreading her cheeks as he groaned out her name. “Fuck, that’s it - good girl.” Helaena shivered under his praise as her eyes began to roll. His pretty Princess that the realm thought was so innocent enjoyed it when he filled her sweet pussy and he did just that. Helaena whimpered and rocked against him; a smile coming over her face as his cum flooded her with ease. Her own hand instantly moved between her thighs as she began to collect what was leaking down his length.

Gently, he began to stroke her arms whilst staying inside her. Helaena never enjoyed her knight removing himself, especially so soon after. Soft hums escaped her as she stroked the inches of his cock not burrowed inside her and he could not help the twitching; more cum flooding her. He imagined that is why she did this. “Good girl, so beautiful.” The knight whispered sweet nothings in her ear as Helaena rested her head back down. Her tiredness always came quickly and he could not stop himself from watching her peaceful face. His free hand brushed those bright locks of hers before leaning down and pressing a sweet kiss to her cheek.She nuzzled into his face; their noses brushing together for a moment as those bright eyes of hers locked onto him. He made himself at home in her neck as he reached for the covers; placing them to their chins as Helaena softly began to doze off. Her smile never fully left her face as he cuddled impossibly close from behind. The knight would slip gently away before the sun would rise again.

#helaena targaryen x reader #hotd smut #hotd fanfic #house of the dragon #request

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neoneun-au · 4 months ago

Text

THE MIRROR-BLUE NIGHT; ACT I

―PAIRING: joshua hong x fem!reader ―GENRE: SLOW burn, affair au, suggestive, angst, romance ―CHAPTER WORD COUNT: 11.2k ―CHAPTER WARNINGS: mild language, very minimal josh in this chapter (sorry), death mentions, cheating, lots of introspection ―STATUS: ongoing

―AUTHOR'S NOTE: this is act i to my entry for svthub's world tour collab. it's heavily inspired by wong kar wai's film 'in the mood for love', and it's been fun to play around with a totally different atmosphere and setting, and i hope everyone that reads this enjoys it! if you do, please consider reblogging with your thoughts and comments i would love to hear them. hopefully before long i will have the following two acts out for you to continue <3

ACT I

. . .

It’s raining. You hear the patter of droplets as they fall against your windows, a symphony of sorrows cascading from gray skies. When you were a child your mother used to tell you that the rain meant the heavens were crying. That some angel high above was weeping for the sorrow of those below–for the tragedy of humankind. She made up a lot of lies when you were young, stories to either make you feel better or to just force you to stop asking her questions while she was trying to watch her favourite shows.

It never worked, and you never believed her.

It was raining, too, on the day that you cremated her. A near torrential downpour that had washed out the roads on your way to the funeral home and caused a four car pile up on the on ramp. You made it, breathless and haggard, just in time to drip your way through the procession to the front of the church pews where you sat, cloaked in the black of mourning, to watch a small line of people espouse pretty stories and prettier lies about the woman who raised you.

Were you sad about her death? Of course you were. Death was always sad, in some deeply philosophical and uniquely human way. The ending of all things–life moving onwards to something better (or worse). Leaving everyone else behind to deal with the sorrow and suffering and debt. You could feel her death around you everywhere you went. The last breath of her life sighing over you on windy streets, the final whisper of her words in the chattering of birds in the morning dew. She was omnipresent. Oppressive. Somehow even more than she had been when she was alive. A heavy shroud over your every move.

You were sad about her death, but you did not feel the pang of it in your heart as you might have if she had been anyone else. Instead it was abstract–elusive. A fleeting thought that followed you throughout the day. A thought that you were sure would dissipate over time. Molecule by molecule as her soul moved on from this world it would dissolve and you would finally be left standing in a life of your own making, no longer bent to the will of the woman who molded you to fit neatly into her own life. Her death was sad but it also finally opened you up the hope for freedom.

When it was your turn to speak, after the mass had ended and the few other speakers had said their peace with your mother overseeing from inside her casket, you hesitated. Standing in front of the crowd of people that had managed to crawl their way through traffic for the promise of a free lunch and a voyeuristic look at the poor, bereft daughter left to deal with this whole mess. The only remaining relative of this woman that had made everyone’s life around her a living hell. You stared out at their faces, blank with waiting, and expected the words you had prepared to come out as you had rehearsed. None ever did. You stood silent under the scrutiny of a hundred eyes and seconds ticked by into minutes as the blank expressions morphed into confusion or pity. Even your husband’s carefully neutral expression devolved into one of concern as he stared up at you from his seat.

Thunder clapped outside the church, the rain picked up speed, buffeting the stained glass windows in its fury, and you thought that maybe your mother hadn’t been lying to you when you were a child. Maybe it was her fury that was clinging to your clothing–soaking you to the bone.

You left the altar without a word–just one apologetic glance cast over the audience of mourners–and sat back down next to your husband. Head held high against the brewing storm. You realised finally that you had nothing to say.

For your husband’s part, he played it well at the time. His silent hand found yours and gripped it tight as you both kept your gazes focused on the priest as he tried his best to stitch the proceedings back together after the abandoned eulogy. He kept your hand in his throughout the rest of the funeral–from the end of the mass, through the reception, and all the way to the committal he was there with you. The anchor at your side.

When had he stopped?

When had he stopped being there–holding your hand, playing his part as your partner through it all on this grand stage of life. When had he decided he no longer wanted to be that?

You watch a rivulet of rain carve a line through the reflection of your face, splitting you in two as you stare out through the window in your living room and into the neon darkness of the city surrounding you. Who were the heavens sad for tonight?

For your own part, you couldn’t bring yourself to feel much sadness. Only a hollow aching at the pit of your stomach, like a hunger long ignored. Gnawing at your insides as you stare out into some unfixed point on the horizon and wait for your husband to return home. Late, again. Always late these days. Always some excuse or another. Traffic, work, friends wanting to grab drinks, errands to run. Tonight though, perhaps, the excuse would be the rain.

With a sigh you abandon your post at the window, floating through the apartment by the dim light of the city pouring inside. No reason to turn the lights on inside–you knew your way around. The remnants of your dinner sit undisturbed on the kitchen counter, steam long since evaporated, as they wait for a mouth to enter, a stomach to fill. You had lost your appetite when you received the text message.

You knew it was coming, had known for months. At first it was easy to trick yourself into believing that nothing had changed at all. Everything was normal. These excuses were all truths and you were in fact in the wrong for not believing your husband when he told you. After a time this denial stopped working, however, and you moved on to believing that the changes were only superficial–temporary–that the fissure that had opened up in your marriage was not a yawning pit preparing to engulf you but an easily repairable crack in the foundation. Before long he would return to you as a ship to the shore. He would pour out his feelings and you would mend them easily, with tears of your own. Your relationship would grow in strength for enduring this storm and all would be well again.

As the days and months dragged on, though, it grew harder to ignore the signs. You had seen them so many times before–on television, in film, in friends’ relationships, in your own parents’ marriage before it fell apart when you were 9.

A whiff of an unfamiliar perfume in the air, breezing behind your husband as he enters the apartment after work–orange blossom, ginger, patchouli and jasmine. Cloying and heady. A scent of seduction and sex in the wake of a man that hadn’t touched you in days. He waited to kiss you hello now, waited until he had changed out of his clothes, maybe until after he had a shower. You would sit, perched on the arm of the couch, and stare out the window of your living room while he scrubbed the scent of another woman off of his skin.

More evidence collected over the next few months. Pastel purple and blue splotches dotting the nape of his neck–just above the birthmark you used to trace over with a loving fingertip in the early days of your marriage. Lipstick stains faded on the white collar of a shirt–brick red, a shade that never painted your own lips. He was getting careless–bold. And you continued to observe without a word. Maintaining the calm on the surface of your life, letting the stains and perfume to sink deep underneath.

Maybe you should have confronted him early on, when the days were still young and you still had lingering affection for this man that was becoming a stranger to you. You should have yelled, screamed, fought, let your tears flow freely in a torrent of anger and betrayal. Every rational thought in your mind was screaming out for you to face him down and do something. You would work yourself into a fury of anger and anxiety waiting for him to come home but the second he stepped across the threshold of your apartment, all of it dissolved. Melted away into nothingness and left only that old, hollow ache until that was all you had left inside.

You remember how your mother had reacted when she found out about your dad’s affair. The consequences were swift and brutal–a storm of emotions and rage bursting out and swallowing everyone in its vicinity. If rain was sadness, surely her rage had been a tsunami. Your dad left and you retreated–into your room, into yourself. Left alone to rebuild in the wake of this natural disaster.

When you got married your mother warned you–warned you of your duties as a wife. To keep him happy, keep him home, and remember that marriage is work. Life was so hard after your father abandoned us, she would say, don’t let the same happen to you. She would sermonize his weakness and cruelty, and you would listen. But you loved your father, in spite of all his flaws and humanity. He was kind and soft-hearted and you never blamed him for what happened, how could it all have been his fault? This one man that bought you ice cream and tanghulu and took you shopping for school uniforms up until he died? No. You blamed your mother.

What would she say to you now, sitting alone in the dark staring at a photo of your husband with his arm slung casually over the shoulders of another woman, her head resting against him with a soft smile on her face. Pathetic, spineless child.

You shrug off the ghost of your mother and focus back on the picture. They were in a restaurant, tucked into a corner booth. The low lighting cast soft shadows over their faces, obscuring the details of their features, but there was no doubt in your mind that it was him. It was the same slope of brow and cheek that you have run your fingers over so many times before. The same slight upturn in the corners of the mouth that you fell in love with. The glimmer of mischief and daring that so easily drew you in when you first started dating, now turned towards someone else. A stranger? You were sure you didn’t know her but there was something familiar about her in the photo, something about her profile that tugged at the recesses of your recollection.

Your imagination has been running frantic circles in your mind since you opened the message. Where had he met her? Work? He wasn’t a part of any clubs, didn’t play mahjong on the weekends with friends, hadn’t been selected for any work trips where he might have brushed elbows with her in a conference. Might have snuck into each other's hotel rooms, followed each other onto the plane. She could have been a stewardess–as alluring as they are professional. An untouchable creature bending to your every whim and all you can do is look and hope and wish. Slip her your number as you disembark, pray she deems you worthy enough to contact.

But he hadn’t been out of the city in at least a year. So that couldn’t be it.

Maybe she had a more humble occupation. She worked at the hot pot restaurant his company frequented after work. That was how you had met so is it so out of the realm of possibilities that lightning might strike twice?

Maybe he had always known her. Maybe you were the other woman–some twist of fate had led him to marrying you instead of his highschool sweetheart. A girl that had occupied his mind for longer than you had known him. Maybe she had traveled after graduation–moved to the US and taken his heart with her while he pined away and finally, losing all hope, he settled for the strange girl with the zealot of a mother. Turned you into a project to fill his loneliness and occupy his thoughts until she returned and he was reminded of all the things that she had been for him that you never could.

Maybe.

Or maybe she was just a whore.

Your thoughts flitter back and forth; all possibilities confronting you at once, neon red in alarm. You watch taxis and motorbikes speed through traffic on the rain soaked street 15 stories below your apartment–each one weaving a new thread of anxiety in your mind as you wait for one to stop in front of your building. Wait for your husband to emerge, shielding himself from the rain and rushing to get inside before his white-collared shirt is soaked through with the sins of his flesh.

He arrives shortly after you give up waiting and prepare for bed. The rain has begun to let up and with it he steps through the front door of your apartment while you sit perched on the edge of your bed, running a hand over the embroidered silk duvet coverlet you had received as a wedding present. You listen as he drops his keys, briefcase, coat onto the kitchen counter. Focus on the sound of his footfall as he walks through the short hallway to the bathroom. He doesn’t see you sitting in the dark, doesn’t seek you out to greet you. You watch as he flicks the light on to the bathroom and shuts the door behind him. The sound of the shower running follows a few moments afterwards.

You brace yourself when he enters the dark bedroom after washing himself free of the day. Body tense as he slips under the blanket beside you. The anticipation of something, anything, stiffens in your muscles and you wait for him to say something, to give you some explanation for his whereabouts. Nothing comes. He, believing you to be asleep, slips too into the arms of the night and you’re left alone–staring blankly into the dark of the room before you give into the heaviness of your eyes.

Morning dawns, grey and overcast. You’re alone again, your husband having left for work with the tin of leftovers you had pre-packed for him, and the day stretches out in front of you–long and lonely–as you shove all thoughts of last night to the back of your mind and turn your attention to the household tasks that require it.

The fluorescent lights of the supermarket buzz overhead as you make your way through the aisles with a basket hanging on your arm. You know what you’re getting–you’ve rotated through the same small selection of meals since you were 11 years old and started cooking for yourself–but you take your time anyway. Wandering through the rows of produce, fish, and imported goods. Enjoying the distant company of strangers, their idle chatter and routine conversations are a welcome reprieve from the oppressive silence that has dominated your apartment over the past few months.

You drift to the fruits, letting their bright colours draw you in, and reach for a melon. It’s heavy in the hand, weighed down with the density of the flesh inside. It would be delicious–perfectly ripe, bursting with flavour and juice–you could almost salivate at the thought of slicing into it, bringing a cube of its sweetness to the tip of your tongue. You haven’t had it in ages. Your husband was not fond of fruits–he never had been. Always preferred spice and heat over sweetness, and you were more than happy to accommodate–to oblige his tastes and sacrifice your own for the sake of love. But now?

The melon stares up at you in askance and you set it back on the stand with its brethren before you can give the temptation a second thought. As soon as you do, a hand reaches out to grab it, neatly manicured fingers wrapping around the fruit still warm from your touch. You smell her perfume before you see her face–that aroma of orange blossom, patchouli, and jasmine (with a hint of ginger) cutting through the air of the supermarket like a knife through fruit. It’s even more overwhelming first hand. You turn your head, catching a glimpse of her face, her bright red lips, before she turns away and clacks towards the green wall of vegetables.

You follow transfixed behind her as she weaves her way through the market, picking up an array of items as she goes. Mindlessly you fill your basket behind her, hands reaching out for whatever as you try to disguise your objective. You had only seen one blurry photo of her, clandestinely snapped with her head buried in the crook of your husband’s arm, but you would know her anywhere. In fact you did know her. Not by name, you had never been introduced, but you recognize her instantly now in the bright noonday lights of the shop.

She lives in your building, a few floors up, you were sure of it. You had run into her in the elevator a few times, never exchanging a word, but always evaluating each other with that cold calculation of strangers destined to become rivals. Not that you knew that at the time. She had a husband. A man with kind eyes and a kind smile. You weren’t sure if it made you feel better or worse to know that you weren't alone in your suffering, that someone else was tied to the other end of this red string that entangled the four of you in its noose-tight vice.

Does she recognize me? you wonder as you get in line a few people behind her at the register. Your eyes remain fixed on the back of her head while she pays and you tap your foot in anxious impatience as her form disappears through the doors and you’re left waiting for the elderly woman in front of you to deal out her entire coin purse to the cashier for spring onions and flour.

Finally you step out into the streets, bag of assorted groceries clutched tight in your fist, and you whip your head around to try to locate her. It doesn’t take long–she’s a flash of red in a sea of black–and you hasten your stride to catch up with her as she rounds the corner towards your apartment building, taking care to maintain a neutral expression. You trail her over the few blocks it takes to get back home, pulse quickening whenever her step halts–paralysed with the fear that she may turn around and realise what you’re doing.

Does she know who you are? Aa a neighbour, maybe, but as the wife of the man she’s having an affair with? Has he told her about you, have they shared jokes in confidence at your expense? Or are you some shameful secret he has kept hidden in his coat pocket. Maybe he slips his wedding band off before each meeting, spinning it around his finger thrice before tucking it out of sight, alongside his conscience. Does he know about her husband? Does her husband know about him the way you know about her? Were the same thoughts turning over in his mind as he sat at his desk at work, staring idly at their wedding photo?

You follow her, a few paces behind, through the lobby of your shared building. Part of you–a bold, reckless part–wants to slip into the elevator with her, just before the doors can slide closed. Meet her face to face. Confront her and lay bare your knowledge of her discretion. Maybe she would cry, maybe she would yell, maybe she would laugh. Not one of the scenarios you envision ends with you triumphant, in each one your husband’s arms reach forth to comfort her and leave you standing alone, consumed with the red hot fires of rage and seething hate.

You push that part of you away, back into the shadows, and watch as she gets into the elevator. The numbers on the display above the doors climb higher and higher as she ascends and you hold your breath, waiting for them to halt. 22. Higher up than your own, more expensive. So it wasn’t money that had drawn her to your husband. You jam your finger against the button, calling the lift back down and wrestling between going home with this new knowledge or feeding into your curiosity and following her up to her door. Would you know the right one if you saw it?

You press both floor numbers when you finally climb into the elevator, staring at the illuminated buttons as you slowly ascend. You stand still, staring at number 22, and wait as you move up and up–torn between the two options you’ve given to yourself. The doors finally slide open to reveal your floor, 15, and you stare out into the empty hallway, waiting for some unseen force to push you out of the lift. To make up your mind for you. Nothing does, and you just stand silent and still, frozen in time until they slide closed once more and you’re left looking blankly at your own twisted expression in the stainless steel. You keep eye contact with the twisted version of yourself reflected back at you and wait as the elevator continues its ascent.

What were you hoping to gain from following this woman? Confirmation that she is, indeed, real? As if the brush of her arm against yours as she stretched out for your relinquished fruit hadn’t been enough to convince you. Her head bobbing through the crowds of people on the street as you kept pace behind her was just a figment of your imagination. Did you think you would find him there? Waiting for her? Eating slices of fruit from her outstretched hands in an act of worship? Your reflection purses her lips, eyebrows knit in thought, and you shake your head at her in askance, a silent plea, before the elevator finally stops at floor 22.

The door slides open for the second time and you brace yourself to alight, but your path is blocked.

“Oh, sorry,” he says, stepping aside to give you space to pass, “are you getting off here?”

You freeze on the spot, standing on the threshold of a million converging thoughts as they crash through your mind. His smile is the same as you remember it, soft and kind. The smile of someone for whom life was easy, someone who hadn’t seen much strife. Or perhaps the opposite . Someone who had seen all the horrors life had to offer him and chose to remain soft despite them. You’re distantly aware that you look like a fool, standing there in the elevator with your mouth hanging slightly agape as you stare into the eyes of your husband’s mistress’ husband, but you can’t make yourself move. Paralyzed by a strange twist of fate that had, unbeknownst to him, entangled you in a web of deceit and betrayal.

Surely he didn’t know.

“Is this your floor,” he asks again, prompting you to move or speak or do something more than just stand still as the elevator beeps its final warning. It wasn’t going to wait much longer.

“N-no,” you stammer, trying to right your thoughts. “I was going down, actually.” In a panic you jam your finger against the button for floor 15. If he notices the obvious lie, he doesn’t say anything–instead politely skirting around you as he steps into the lift and presses the button for the ground floor.

The lift jerks as it starts to descend, and you hold your breath. Afraid that any movement might somehow reveal every thought you’re holding tight within. He keeps a polite distance, checking his phone as he stands in the opposite corner of the narrow, enclosed space. The elevator inches closer to your floor and your muscles tense in preparation to bolt through the door as soon as it slides open at floor 15. You stare up at the numbers as they transform–20, 19, 18. Eyes transfixed on the digital display as your brain whirrs with static noise.

“We’ve met before, haven’t we?” You jerk your attention towards him as soon as he speaks, head spinning too fast to pass off your expression as casual and you’re sure that you look as panicked as you feel. “When we first moved into the building, I mean. It’s been a while but I recognize you.”

You nod and take a second to clear your throat of the built up nerves before replying, voice trembling with a light quiver. “Yes, I uh–it’s been over a year now I think. I’m sorry but I don’t remember your name.”

He smiles–that same soft, kind smile as earlier–and shakes his head reassuringly. “It’s Joshua. Hong.”

“Joshua?” your voice betrays a hint of curiosity–it’s not a common name here.

“I moved here from LA years ago with my wife,” he supplies the answer to your unspoken question. Unwittingly adding a layer of intrigue to his personage that you hadn’t expected. At the mention of his wife, however, you feel the hairs on your arms rise to attention. A cold chill ripples through your body. The elevator dings, startling you out of your daze as it arrives at your floor. You turn to face the hallway as it appears between the doors, lingering astride the threshold between him and the emptiness ahead of you. Something inside of you hesitates, hanging back to remain in his presence despite the anxiety still flooding through your body. Something about the way he spoke had drawn you in, a strange curiosity taking root in your mind. You shake it loose; it’s not your place to say anything, and it’s not your place to further entangle yourself in this web. His life is his own. You take a step forward, finally clearing the door just before it beeps its insistence at you.

You turn to say a farewell to Joshua–it wouldn’t bode well to appear impolite after he was so courteous to you a moment before–but before you can open your mouth to speak, he beats you to it.

“I think she and your husband know each other, actually. My wife,” he says, and you freeze again, stuck now staring at him from the hallway. He waves goodbye as the doors slide closed and you’re left standing statuesque in the hallways alone. Ears ringing with the echoes of his words.

Does he know?

Nothing in the way he held himself, in the casual expression gracing his handsome, well composed features would have led you to believe so but…why else would he have said that?

You stand still, staring at the scuffed stainless steel doors of the elevator as if they might reopen and he might still be there. That he might dull the sharpness of your anxieties with some clarity . Instead you’re alone, bag of groceries cutting the circulation in your fingertips off as they hang forgotten in your hand.

You try to search the memory of his face as it lingers in your mind’s eye for any clue–any miniscule hint–as to what thought had been hiding beneath his calm facade. His face twists and contorts in your mind, swirling and transforming as you try to keep hold of the static image. Joshua, your husband, his wife, your own warped expression in the polished metal of the door. Many parts of an ever colliding whole.

When you finally manage to get your legs moving and step away from the elevator the hallway seems to stretch out in front of you endlessly. You walk as if to the gallows, imagining all the horrors waiting for you when you open the door to your apartment. Your husband, Joshua’s wife. Limbs entangled in carnal desire. The heat of their bodies steaming the windows and fogging your vision as you stumble through the darkness. The thought overwhelms you, slows your already stuttering pace, though you know in your logical mind that no one’s there. She’s in her own apartment, and your husband is at work, and you’re alone. A state you’ve become numbly accustomed to.

The familiar silence of your apartment is all that greets you when you finally enter, in spite of the baseless worries of your frazzled mind. It soothes the storm of worries clouding your mind as you stow away your meager haul of groceries and set out the ingredients needed for dinner. Joshua’s face fades to darkness as you slip back into routine–letting your hands take over and your mind to narrow to a single thought.

So what if he did know. Would that change anything about your present circumstances? If he wanted a scene he had the chance to cause one and let it go. He could have held you in that elevator and interrogated you for all your husband’s many sins; pouring his hurt and betrayal out at your feet as you bear witness to your own anguish reflected in another person. But he didn’t. Instead he was polite, almost kind, and you parted without the cosmic clash the worst parts of you might have anticipated.

The water for the noodles starts to boil and you quickly finish chopping your small array of vegetables before turning the heat down to simmer and tossing them in. Leftover shrimp lay on the side of your cutting board, ready to add in at the end. It was a lazy meal–one you never would have made early on in your marriage–but who cared about that now? You knew it would be the same routine tonight. Eating without tasting, alone in the kitchen, lit only by the light filtering in through the windows, while you stare at the clock on the wall. He’ll show up after you’re finished–maybe 15 minutes later, maybe an hour–and eat the portion set aside for him while you disappear into the bedroom and will the day to come to an end.

Would Joshua’s night end the same or were he and his wife better at maintaining the charade of marriage? Were their hearts as distant when they lay in bed next to each other, barely touching?

You had a hard time imagining it. You try, between mouthfuls of noodles and broth, to capture the image of them. Joshua sidestepping his wife in the kitchen, carefully avoiding her touch–her skin stained by the kiss of another man. Was his smile as soft and kind when turned upon the face of the woman who, with every breath she took, dared to remind him of the sadness that lurked beneath the surface of their life? Was the love he still held for her enough to erode all of her transgressions, even as she continued to transgress? Did he still hold her in his arms at night like no one else had ever touched her? Like he was the only one for her? Why, if he could so easily absolve her of her crimes, could you not do the same for the man you had promised yourself to?

You shake your head, ridding yourself of the scene that was playing out. You knew nothing about this man–about his life or his thoughts. This scene you had conjured up, fleshed out with his feelings and emotions, was just a projection of some possible life dwelling within you.

But still, you couldn’t help but wonder. How different would things be if you tried?

The night drags on as all the previous ones have. You sit in front of the window, letting the TV drone on in the background, and stare down at the street below. Watching as people come and go–each with their own thoughts, their own lives, their own worries and desires. None more or less important than your own. It was comforting, in some odd way, to imagine the lives and futures of others. It took the distinct sting out of imagining our own.

The front door opens, earlier than expected, and you glance over your shoulder to see him enter. He nods in greeting and you return the gesture before acting on an impulse you haven’t followed through on in months. You move towards him. You don’t even realise you’re doing it until his form comes into focus only a few feet in front of you. He doesn’t notice you right away, too busy reheating the noodles; you wait and you watch as he moves through the task with a slight droop to his shoulders. He’s tired.

“How was work today?” you ask. The question spills unbidden from your mouth but you don’t rush to stop it.

“Long,” he sighs, stirring the food as it begins to steam in the pot. There’s no hint of surprise or shock in his voice at your sudden interest in his day. He accepts it–whether from sheer exhaustion or ignorance of the deafening silence that has defined your life for the past few months. Maybe he never noticed how distant you were. How could he when he still held someone so close? “How was your day?”

“Fine,” you reply, intending to leave it at that before a thought flashes through your mind. “I ran into one of our neighbours earlier, in the elevator. Joshua Hong. We met them once or twice when he and his wife moved in just over a year ago, do you remember them?”

“I can’t say that I do,” he shakes his head, flicking the heat off on the stove. His back is still turned, so you focus on his tone, on the micromovements of his muscles under his shirt. Searching for anything other than the polite disinterest he was feigning. Anything that might betray some feeling brewing below the surface. Fear, love, guilt. Anything at all.

“Hmm, yeah I couldn’t remember him well either at first,” you agree, pausing to allow him the space to settle in, to pour his dinner into a bowl and sit down at the counter. He leans forward, blowing the steam away as he prepares to take a bite. “He mentioned you though,” you say finally, watching his face as he glances up at you with his chopsticks suspended above his bowl. “He mentioned you know his wife.”

Silence. One brief, fleeting moment of hesitation. A slight lift of the eyebrow. You watch his Adam’s apple bob at the base of his throat, just above the knot of his tie.

“That’s odd,” he replies, voice carefully neutral, he drops his gaze from yours and brings his chopsticks the rest of the way to his mouth to slurp up the hanging noodles. You stay silent, watching–waiting–as he finishes his bite before he continues. “He must be mistaken.”

“Must be,” you nod, trailing a finger lazily over the countertop. You don’t say anything else. You don’t need to. You let the silence settle in between you–an observer of its own, interrogating him with the absence of speech. You’ve had months to become accustomed to it, to make friends of the stillness of the air in your apartment, but you can see as your husband carefully avoids your lingering gaze that he hasn’t. He’s been too preoccupied to even notice it as it slowly moved in, taking over his place at your side.

After a few moments you shrug, straightening your posture and smoothing down the front of your dress–releasing him of the heaviness of your gaze. The atmosphere settles back into one of easy stalemate and your husband resumes eating in silence. Nothing more is said. You slip back into blue.

You never wanted a traditional wedding.

With your father long buried and your mother under the spell of religious fervor, you never saw any appeal in the tradition or ceremony. You felt estranged from your scattered family–disconnected from the broader world. You floated in blissful independence, living life on your own terms and only reigning it in to pay fealty to your mother when required. Then you met him.

He was handsome–dark hair and dark airs and expertly sculpted features. The sort of handsome that was easy to overlook at first but unraveled more and more as soon as you tugged at a loose thread of it. You looked at him across the lecture hall and took your time, dissecting his profile as the lectern’s voice melted out into the distance. It didn’t take long for your introduction to follow these looks. College is like that. Friends of friends of friends, dorm rooms, study hangouts in the library. Before you could even notice, your blissful independence had given way to comfortable partnership.

After college, still in the early days of your courtship, you had grand ideas of elopement. The last lingering strands of your individuality. Traveling to a foreign country, marrying on a beach under the stars, and not telling your families until you either came back or decided you were going to live out your wedded bliss and future marriage in the streets of Rio de Janeiro or Sydney.

He would entertain these fantasies–feeding into them, one morsel at a time, filling you with the hope of your aligned future. Filling you to the point that when the proposal inevitably came you couldn’t see the hunger still gnawing inside of you.

Your husband was a good son, and his family paid for the wedding. It took little effort for you to resign yourself to ceremony and cast aside your dreams for love. The story of every fool in the world.

That should have been the moment you knew that this would not last. Or at least that the happiness and contentment that shrouded your relationship was just that–mere illusory material. If you could turn back time, redo the last years of your life, you would have taken your meager inheritance from your father and booked a one way flight to the US. Used what little connections you had from distant family to build a life and chase your dreams. Live for yourself instead of the external expectations that you had been raised to abide by. You could have sent your mother back what little extra income you had–supported her from a distance as she ruined her own life where you did not have to bear witness.

Instead, like the perfect picture of a good daughter, you went along with your husband and his family’s wishes. You let them arrange the entire thing and you–a mere passenger in your own life–silently went through the motions. Assured by word and by every soft kiss that all your dreams would be realised once it was all over. Your hands would reach the farthest destinations of your imagination, your feet would touch the sands of your desire. You let yourself be carried forward into this future with a smile, unaware that the only sand your feet would see would be the foundations of your own life as it crumbled and fell around you.

You could only blame yourself. Even your mother tried to warn you, in her own way. Her own misery bearing down on your throughout your life–her inevitable cracking under the weight of everyone else's dreams bearing down on her until she simply couldn’t take it anymore. If you had been smart you would have seen it for what it was when you were 12.

But you didn’t. You continued to simply go with it, smile waning as the years began to drag on and none of those golden promises spoken to you at night ever materialised. Business was good, now was not the time to take a break away it would only spell financial ruin for yourself and your entire family. Fine, you could wait. Were happy to wait, in fact. Dutiful and loyal and ever patient as you filled your days with the duties you had accepted in spite of yourself. Homemaking, cleaning, cooking. You had longed to work yourself, use your degree for something other than simply occupying space on your wall, then in a drawer–but no, your obligation was to the home, to your husband. Business was good. It was the right time to start trying for children. Did you want children? Did it matter?

The flames of passion burned bright in your union early on. Your skin was on fire in the moonlight, bathed in sweat and dappled by the heated kisses of your new husband. Your body felt like a temple of worship, and he was there to pay his respects. He was the first man you had ever been with and you felt like you had won the jackpot each night as he brought you to new heights with his devotion.

Maybe it’s true what people say about newlyweds. That passion is fleeting. The newness and excitement of having each other at the tips of your fingers would inevitably dull down until even sex simply became a part of your daily routine. A task to be completed, to stave off the questions of family and friends speculating on the growth of your family. Yours wasn’t meant to grow, though, it seemed. No matter how often you came together in pursuit of it, your monthly courses came as consistent as the full moon. Month after month until you stopped trying.

But there was love there, in the beginning. You think about it still, lying silent in the vast wilderness of your marital bed next to your sleeping husband. When you think to yourself ‘how could I have let this happen’ your mind drifts back to those moments–wrapped up tightly in his embrace as he peppered your face, neck, shoulders, with kisses and promised you the world. How could you have known that it was built on such faulty foundations? That it would all drift away over time?

You run a slow finger over your thigh, tracing the paths that he would take each night before. Remembering the love that you had shared. Wondering if the woman he shares it with now feels it as deeply as you had. Did he think of you when he was with her or had she eclipsed you completely in his memory? Was her back the only one that arched as he was deep inside her, spilling his love into her?

The thought digs its barbed wires into your chest–ripping and tearing at what little tenderness you still held for the man. You let the pain sing you to sleep–weeping and burning for what once was and what might never be again as you let the darkness consume you in the dim blue of your bedroom.

Dawn comes, as it always does, sunlight taking the place of the filtered neon of the city–streaming its way into your windows and nudging you awake long after your husband left for work. You’re alone again, and the thoughts don’t cease for the daytime.

The flickering bulbs of the supermarket welcome you as you hunt around for a decent bunch of spring onions for dinner. Your hands find them and you add them to your basket, moving on to the next item on your list while your mind is half-occupied by the thought of the woman from yesterday.

You wonder if she’ll make an appearance again. Standing behind you in line, perhaps, or waiting for you in the cold section–eyes scanning tanks of crabs for the perfect one. You wonder if she’ll be wearing red again. The contrast of the colour against her milky white skin as it hugs her body just so, conveying the image of someone with the world at her fingertips.

Your own dress–emerald green, accented with black florals–suited you well enough. It was clean, well made, and fit you well even after all these years of wear, but it was just that. A dress. Function over form. It was the dress of someone who didn’t want to stand out, who wanted to blend into her surroundings and remain unnoticed as she moved throughout her day. It was the green in the shade of the bright red orchard as it shimmered in the sun.

As if summoned, a flash of red lights up your periphery–calling your attention away from the pear you had been inspecting. You lift your gaze to see her, a few stands down from you, a beacon of red just as you had envisioned her. You blink a few times to solidify her existence–not entirely convinced that you hadn’t just conjured her up out of smoke and mirrors. She remains, gathering a small selection of tomatoes before striding out of the produce section.

The shock of her appearance from yesterday has long since faded. You’ve had time to reckon with the weight of her existence in your proximity. What was once a desperate, aching curiosity has since dulled to a cold, calculated interest. Instead of abandoning your grocery haul you stick to your list–taking the time to pick out the right ingredients–and achieve your own goals all while keeping her in your sights. You time your actions to match hers, moving on as she adds items to her basket, lingering by the teas as she stalls at the opposite end of the aisle from you. You make your way to the till, trailing her casually, and choose the cashier adjacent to her so you can pay at the same time.

You leave the market assured with the knowledge of your mutual destination. No need to hurry, no need to chase, no need to match her pace. You let yourself fall into easy step a few feet behind her–content with enjoying the temperate weather that the day has brought. She arrives at the apartment a minute before you but you meet her in the lobby, standing silent beside her as you both wait for the elevator to descend.

The anxieties of your trip yesterday melt away as you evaluate her through the steel mirror of the door–letting your gaze drift over her distorted figure. How long until she starts to notice your presence as more than mere coincidence? Would you be able to maintain this routine–living alongside her and watching from the peripherals as she goes about her daily tasks without so much as a second thought?

As if in answer her eyes meet yours in the reflection. You politely avert your gaze, unwilling to be bested in this dance before it had even begun. Whether she was aware of who you are or not, you didn’t need to relinquish the satisfaction of knowing to her.

The doors open at your floor and you alight into the hallway, leaving her to ascend the rest of the way to her own apartment where she would maintain her own charade. Your heart lurches at the thought, an odd disruption to the calm satisfaction you had been feeling up until now. You remember Joshua’s face from yesterday–the soft curve of his lips as he spoke to you. Polite, kind. You could blame yourself easily for your own husband’s infidelity but what had Joshua done to deserve this?

Was he plagued with the same self loathing thoughts that haunted your every step? Or was his kindness, too, an illusion? Hiding some deeper malice that lurked at the heart of everyone wrapped up in this love affair.

You shake your head free of him as you enter your apartment and set your groceries down on your kitchen counter, but he returns as swiftly as he leaves. A thought circling round and round–unable or unwilling to give you a moment's peace as you unpack your bags.

Somewhere in life you had adopted this sense of pessimism about life and the people that walked through it. It was easy to imagine cruelty at the hearts of everyone–to picture the worst case scenario, the worst intentions. But something inside of you revolted as you tried to apply it to Joshua.

How silly, you think. I don’t even know him.

And yet it remains, this tiny revolution inside of you. A hope for a kinder heart amidst the sea of troubles that you had been cast adrift on. Some lifeboat in the blue-black of it all. If you just reached out, maybe you could save yourself from drowning.

Foolish, you think, casting the thought aside. No one is coming to save you. Not from your misery, not from your life, not from yourself. You had gotten married under the guise that your life would forever be tied to another person–that you would carry each other through everything–and now that that has dissolved to nothing, you know. You are alone. You have always been alone.

The fog of winter rolls in shortly, blanketing the city in gray. For a few weeks in the beginning of December, your husband’s mistress disappears. He comes home on time, eats dinner with you, and you spend your days together like any married couple might. You’re lulled into a false sense of security and for a moment you think you could simply float back into the life you had expected to have and forget everything that has been. But only for a moment. Before long she reappears, her hair cropped shorter and a spring in her step as she bounds through the aisles of the market. Your temporary marital utopia dissolves into the mist and you resume your post as observer.

The weather starts to warm again, sunlight finding its way through cloud and smog to dapple the sides of buildings, and you take up a nightly ritual of walking through the streets in your neighbourhood. You never stay out too late, or stray too far, but you were starting to feel like a caged animal as you paced through your home and your thoughts night after night.

On the nights your husband stayed out–either still at work or somewhere with her–you would forgo cooking all together, instead heading to a nearby restaurant as the sun starts to set over the city skyline. You eat slowly, relishing in each flavour and texture, and watch the rest of the patrons as they would do the same. It makes you feel less alone–or at least, less alone in your loneliness–as you would sit and watch the strangers around you bury their own miseries in the warmth of the broth steamed over countless hours. Their minds filled with thoughts and worries of their own.

Tonight is much the same. You linger at home, straightening cushions and wiping down already clean surfaces to keep your hands occupied while you watch the clock tick down the time. Your phone lights up with a message–your husband informing you that he will be home late, telling you not to wait up. You slip on a light jacket and head out the door. Your feet know the way by now, they carry you almost mindlessly forward–down the elevator, out through the lobby, down the street, two left turns, one right turn, a few blocks ahead. You pass by some familiar faces–vendors and other denizens of the evening that you’ve become accustomed to during your walks–and you acknowledge them as a friend in your mind. Kindred spirits.

You enter the small restaurant, blinking away the temporary fluorescent lights induced blindness, and take up your usual seat in the corner. Time ceases to exist in this place. If it weren’t for the last vestiges of sunlight forcing their way through the small, foggy window at the front, you wouldn’t be able to tell if it was day or night.

Over the month or so you’ve started becoming a regular fixture of the place, you’ve grown familiar with a number of the other restaurant denizens. The cook and his wife–presumably the owners of the establishment–are ever silent unless yelling instructions about orders back and forth at each other. The wife, a small woman of indeterminate age, would move with efficiency between the five tables dotting the small space–taking orders, handing them to her husband in the kitchen, taking payments, refilling tea. She never appeared to be rushing, and no one was ever left for too long waiting for anything.

Occasionally a young man would take her place–likely their son or another relation roped in to help with the family business for a night. He was young–university aged maybe–and clearly disinterested in spending what little free time he had serving customers and bussing tables. The disinterest showed plain on his face even as he scribbled down your order (the usual, hot and sour soup and tea) and delivered it to his father in the kitchen.

Tonight it was the woman, she didn’t even bother to ask you what you wanted as you had ordered the same thing every night over the past week. After a few moments she walks over with a teapot and cup in hand, setting them down with a silent nod, before turning to greet the next customer as they enter through the front door.

You take a sip of tea, not too hot, before leaning back in the chair to settle in for another evening of people watching. The window in the front of the restaurant is clouded slightly with steam built up from the inside, and a light dusting of grime from the outside, but your eyes have adjusted to the distortion over the past month. You sit and watch as people pass by on the street outside, a few salarymen will stop in throughout for silent meals alone before returning to the streets, but often you’re the sole patron during the few hours you spend there each night.

You watch as the new patron takes a seat at the table nearest the entrance–you haven’t seen him here before, but he looks the same as the rest. The same white button down, creased with a long day's work; the same black trousers; the same black tie and blazer thrown haphazardly over his shoulder. They were a dime a dozen in the city, these salarymen. Your husband had been one of them, once upon a time. Even with his many promotions over the years he still dressed much the same. You wonder briefly what made him stand out from the crowd to his mistress.

The woman returns to your table a few minutes later, bearing your soup in her work worn hands. Steam billows from the top and you thank her before straightening in your seat and picking up your spoon.

The food is not remarkable–truly nothing about this place is. Much like the salarymen that dip in and out through its front door, it’s no different than any of the other random hole-in-the-wall establishments that populate this city. The menu varies little from the usual, and the dingy white tiled walls do little to visually differentiate it. Everything about the place appears to be almost designed to blend into its surroundings. To serve its purpose without disturbing the status quo. It was solid and reliable and it's this very reliability that keeps drawing you back.

It could be any restaurant. You could be any woman.

You sink into the anonymity, slowly savouring the warm comfort of your food, and watch the slightly obscured figures of people as they pass by outside under the darkening sky. The man at the table by the door finishes his food quickly–in all of 15 minutes he orders, eats, and pays–with the chiming of the front door you’re left alone again as the only customer inside and the wife returns to rifling through a stack of papers spread out across the small table next to the kitchen.

An hour passes as you sit in your chair, draining your soup and sitting silently as the scene repeats itself twice over. You glance at the clock on the wall, nearly 8:00pm, then down at your phone screen. No messages, no notifications. The light of the evening sun has all but disappeared by now, only a faint yellow clinging still to the corners of blue that construct the city at night. You push your bowl to the side and sigh–both ready and not ready to head back out into the street and begin your short walk home. As has become the routine, the woman sets her papers aside and presses a few buttons on the old till. You linger a moment longer at the table, watching a pair of women stroll by outside, before getting up and pulling out your wallet. No word is exchanged as you set down a few paper bills on the counter in front of her.

The night air still bites with the remnants of the winter air and you tug your jacket tighter around to your chest as you step onto the sidewalk. It’s a quieter part of your neighbourhood, but still the streets are abuzz with people even aa the sky deepens with the threat of twilight. You fall in line behind a trio of women, walking a few paces behind them and letting your mind focus in on their conversation as they talk and laugh with each other.

Their conversation is nothing interesting–daily gossip about people you know nothing about, feel nothing for–but it reminds you of when you would wander around at night with your friends in University. Aimless and carefree, talking about nothing and everything that came to mind. When was the last time you had seen any of them? Not for months, surely. Maybe you should reach out.

The women make a left turn a few blocks later, disappearing in the opposite direction that you’re headed and you let your thoughts drift off as their voices do. Would your husband be home already? Would he be upset with the lack of prepared dinner? He hasn’t mentioned anything about it up until now, but you do wonder how long that might last. You know you should summon up some excuse for why you’ve taken up these walks, why you’re sometimes not home when he gets back, but you can’t bring yourself to care enough to lie. What does it matter anyway?

You round the final corner towards home. The building looms ahead at the end of the street, lobby lights casting yellow highlights onto the pavement out front.

“Mrs. _____.” You don’t hear the voice at first. Your attention is far away, lurking in the recesses of your thoughts, and it takes a minute and a repeated call for you to register that acknowledgement. With a quizzical look, you turn towards the source of the voice and see Joshua Hong striding towards you from the opposite side of the street, pace quick to avoid an encroaching motorbike.

“Mr. Hong?” you ask, wavering with confusion. Still unsure if he’s a real person or a spectre come to warn you of some impending doom awaiting you as you approach your apartment.

“I thought that might be you,” he smiles, coming to a stop under a streetlight a few feet away. “How are you?”

You blink him into reality, righting your attention back to alertness after it’s time away. He’s sporting a cream coloured corduroy jacket over a plain white t-shirt. Blue jeans. He looks the same as the last time you met him in the elevator–the same dark brown hair carving waves over his forehead, the same easy smile. You return the smile, sense reasserting itself enough for you to remember your manners. “I'm well, thank you. How are you?”

“Also well,” he replies, gesturing for the pair of you to resume walking towards your shared building. “We were away for a while, my wife and I. Visiting my family in LA.”

You know this–the kiss of sun on her skin and your previous knowledge of Joshua was enough to clue you into where they had disappeared to those few months ago. Though you weren’t about to tell him this. “Ah, that sounds lovely. How long have you been back?” Polite conversation demands the question, though the answer to it is already blaring red in your mind.

“About two months ago or so,” he replies. “It was a nice trip, thank you.” You arrive at the entrance to the apartment complex, Joshua reaches for the door before you have the chance and you nod a thank you as he holds it open for you. “Have you ever been?”

“To LA?” you ask, though the question is rhetorical and serves mainly to fill the empty spaces in between. He nods, affirming. “No, I haven’t.” You fall into step beside him, low heels clacking across the well worn black and white tiles of the lobby floor. You think to leave your answer succinct but reconsider it as you approach the elevator for fear of the silence that might ensue if you do. “Though, I did once have a dream to move there and become an actress,” you laugh.

“Oh?” He looks surprised at the sudden confession and you worry you might have said too much about yourself. “Why didn’t you?”

No one had ever asked you that before. It’s your turn to be taken off guard now as you step up to the dual elevators. Joshua presses the ‘up’ button and you consider how to reply.

Why didn’t you?

“I–well,” you start, fumbling through your thoughts. “It wasn’t a very serious dream, and it wasn’t like anything would have come of it. My mother preferred that I stay here and do something more practical.”

He nods, thoughtful, appearing to seriously consider your response as you watch the numbers descend on the display above the right side elevator. “That’s understandable,” he says after a minute, “I think most parents just want security for their kids. Acting isn’t the most stable or assured career.”

The elevator arrives, its buffed stainless steel doors sliding open to grant you access to the lift. Joshua gestures for you to step in first, so you do, lighting up the button for your floor as he steps in behind you.

“Which floor?” you ask. Another question you know the answer to but he humours you anyway and you press the button for him as well.

Silence steps into the elevator with you just as the doors shut. You realise you’re twisting your fingers together in front of you–a nervous habit you thought you had gotten rid of years ago–and you shake them lightly before dropping your arms back to your sides.

“What about your father?” Joshua breaks the silence after a moment and again you take a second to register his question, too focused on the audible sound of your breathing.

“I’m sorry?” You glance at him, not trusting that you had heard him correctly.

“Your father,” he repeats, soft smile still lightly dusted over his lips. “What did he think of this acting dream of yours?”

“Oh, I don’t–” you pause, clearing your throat. Truthfully, you had never even told your mother about it, you just knew what she would have said if you had. “I’m not sure, he passed away when I was 14.”

“Oh, I’m sorry,” he apologizes, expression sombering.

You revert to silent passengers as the lift continues to rise towards your floor. A part of you aches to say something, to break the silence again and continue polite conversation. Something about his demeanour was easy–easy to talk to, easy to be with. But you flounder for questions, comments, topics to mention. The weight of your partner’s affair presses at the front of your mind and you wonder how long you’ll be able to keep it at bay before it spills free from behind the dam of your resolve.

“What were you doing?” he asks suddenly. Breaking the silence just as you think you might not be able to withstand it any longer. The question confuses you and it must show on your face because he clarifies, “when I ran into you outside. It was getting pretty late.”

“Oh, right of course,” you say, “I was just out for a walk.”

He nods, understanding. “I was as well. Do you walk often?”

“Most nights, these days,” you reply.

“Does your husband not mind?”

You want to laugh. “He’s not home often, these days,” you answer after a moment, casting your gaze to the floor. Dancing around the implications as the weight presses heavier in your mind. “Your wife?” you ask, flirting with the edges of truth unspoken nestled between you.

“She’s similarly occupied,” he responds, voice softening. You meet his gaze in the reflection of the doors. A spark of understanding reverberates through you and you wonder if he feels it as well. Swelling like a bloom of light bursting in your chest. He holds your gaze steady, unwavering but silent. He knows. He must.

The elevator dings, warning you of your arrival, and you clear your throat, tearing your eyes off his and smothering the warmth that had blossomed in your heart. “Thank you,” you say, unsure exactly what you felt compelled to thank him for but giving sound to the sentiment anyway. “For um, the chat. It was nice to see you.”

“You as well,” he smiles as the doors slide open to let you out. You nod and step into the hallway, torn between the eagerness to be alone once more and a strange resistance at departing from his company so soon. The doors begin to slide closed behind you but you hear him call your name once and spin to see his hand blocking their attempt. “Maybe we’ll see each other again soon, on one of our walks.”

You nod again and watch as he lets his hand fall, body swallowed back into the elevator as the doors shut and it continues its climb upwards. You stand for a minute, stock still in the hallway once more staring at the space where he was.

It's amazing how little time it takes for your whole world to shift. It’s a fact you’ve been presented with again and again throughout life–the deaths of your parents, accepting your husband's proposal all those years ago, the photo of him sent to you by an old friend with his arms around another woman. Mere seconds of time that seemed to move entire planets–rearranging your life without your consent at a subatomic level.

Standing in the hallway now, with the sound of Joshua’s voice lingering in your mind, you get the uncanny feeling that you’ve just lived through another of these moments. You turn away from the elevator and walk the final steps to your apartment accompanied with this knowledge, and the hope that his final statement proves true.

please consider reblogging, i would love to know your thoughts on the story so far !

#svthub #svthub.collab #joshua angst #joshua hong x reader #joshua x reader #svt x reader #svt angst #man idk #seventeen x reader #joshua scenarios

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mareastrorum · 4 months ago

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An incredible amount of the Downfall discourse comes off as people trying to game the trolley problem instead of recognizing that there simply isn’t a right answer.

Everyone fucked up. This was a horrible situation that might have been prevented with more time, communication, empathy, all sorts of corrections. But it’s the trolley problem: what we have is a bunch of gods on one set of tracks and a far larger number of mortals on the other, and ultimately, the gods switched the track to kill mortals.

It wasn’t right. Of course, we could justify it—I’m a lawyer, and I could justify anything. That doesn’t change that it isn’t moral, good, or right.

“But the gods couldn’t kill their family.” Did we not watch C2, filled with shitty genetic families and centered around a group of found family idiots? Family only means what you want it to. Of course the gods could have killed their family. Half of them even wanted to! But the PCs chose not to.

“But the gods are gods, of course they should win.” Maybe it’s the grew-up-a-poor-minority-and-climbed-the-social-ladder in me, but I don’t see the virtue in an argument that those born into power deserve to make decisions about those who weren’t. One of the gods was already replaced by a mortal. Aeorians came up with methods to repel, suppress, contain, and kill gods. Seats of power change, and power doesn’t make someone right. It’s been incredibly surreal to see how many people think this is an acceptable argument.

“But if the gods die, they really die, and mortal souls are immortal.” While we know souls are immortal, the actual experience of the afterlife is a mystery. Is what Deanna described how it always is, or just in the particular plane where her soul ended up? Is it really immortality if the sense of self is lost and that soul is separated from all they loved in life? Similarly, we don’t know what typically happens when gods die because there isn’t a normal way for it to happen. Why were some gods’ names forgotten but they are remembered by the silhouette left behind? Why are other gods remembered like Ethedok and Vordo? We don’t know. Why are we belittling the fact that mortal death is an end while also arguing that it’s horrible how divine death is an end? They’re both ends! That’s a terrible thing to force on someone. It’s wrong.

The point of Downfall is that it was wrong to destroy Aeor. The Prime Deities thought so themselves. Of all the wrong choices, that was what they chose in the moment. They didn’t succeed because they were right; they were simply more powerful and outsmarted their opponents.

Downfall is a wonderful example of a story where the protagonists are not heroes. Bask in the mistakes and failures. Cry. Mourn. It’s a tragedy that every key character contributed to. It didn’t have to end this way. There’s blood on everyone’s hands. They’re all monsters. They’re all people. They were all trying to save something. No one realized they were in a corner until there was no way out but through.

The only correct argument about a moral high ground in this kind of story is that someone survived to stand over the corpses.

#critical role #critical role spoilers #downfall #Aeor #I also realize that it was silaha that made the choice in the moment #but several primes had voiced they would do the same #or took actions demonstrating that intent #and the betrayers wanted to kill the city and the primes #this is also just one more city out of an untold number that met a similar fate #and those other cities didn’t have god-killing machines #so I feel comfortable saying the gods collectively in this circumstance

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bunji-enthusiast · 6 months ago

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Short but ended up spicy, be warned

Gallagher is naturally warm, he is literally a walking heater. This officer doesn’t go wrong in wanting cuddles, which in turn you would receive so many of them if you’re in a relationship with this man. He feels lucky to find peace in you alone, away from the rustling and bustling noises that is Penacony. Bloodhound officer be damned, he’ll spend as much time with you as possible (Much to the disgruntled Sunday and other officers alike).

Gallagher loves to surprise you from behind with a hug, one large arm coming up to enrapture you in his hold and the other staying steady on your waist. Being quiet, especially when he has to deal with miscreants and criminals running amok is a force of habit to him, so he may as well use it to his advantage when it comes to you. Only he would be sweeter compared to his treatment of those bastards–Sunday too cough cough–Gallagher sometimes does question how’d he get so lucky with a fun-loving person as you.

Gallagher is unsure if you actually do love him, considering; his personality, line of work, and his scars. All at once, it feels rather unnerving to him at times. But he doesn’t doubt it, telling himself to not fuss over such a silly subject, it was you alone that had proven many times over that you had simply loved him. No more, no less – the subject had no need to be so complicated. But he felt himself dead, liar to your own face. That was the upending truth.

Gallagher could allow himself to play the fool a little longer, letting himself indulge in the sweet tastes that you had. Delving into your cunt, always lapping out at each and every last drop that spilled from your warmth, he simply couldn’t get enough. Even with your shaky legs, your hand pulling at his ruffled brown hair and begging him to stop. Gallagher had never stopped, ensuring to fully make a mess out of you just on his tongue alone. He takes a lot of pride in doing so, partially in part to taking priority on your pleasure over his own.

Gallagher can be one hell of a skillful man, even if he appears to not look that away to the eyes of the few. His hands are always moving and creating, mixing drinks to the voices of the poor souls finding heaven in the dreamscape of Penacony. An old dog wonders how he got here, how he left himself here and wondering how you stayed. However long you may stray, Gallagher will personally make sure you enjoyed every taste left in your mouth to the fullest.

#ミ★ ser’s thoughts #hsr gallagher #gallagher x reader #gallagher honkai star rail #gallagher hsr #headcanon #just headcanons #my thoughts turned so… agh #I’m coping shut up

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inferno-0 · 8 months ago

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Frame

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You just need the shots.

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Sorry for the English.

Titans have always defeated their enemies. For millennia, if not more, they have fought for balance and peace on this planet. They were all strong in their own way. Even those same pests had some potential, but decided to go the other way, with poor results in the process. Victory has always been on the side of good. It had to be. Any way. Especially for creatures like Kaiju, who are truly majestic.

They had their own zest, and maybe even several.

Some people liked them

And some preferred to run far away, the main thing was not to look at them and save their lives. But that's what life is for, to preserve it and make that remnant richer than being eaten or trampled by the Titan. But do the Titans really need to do anything to humans? Their work is done.

There was no enemy and there was no point in doing anything else.

It's just people who are like that. Their size was really poorly chosen by nature and therefore you have to somehow survive and turn on instincts for advancement.

It's no one's fault that half of humanity actively avoids all these Kaiju.

It's just a smart decision of nature, or maybe fate itself, that gave all these Titans the ability.

The ability that people liked, who are not afraid of them and consider them something beautiful and attractive.

Especially you. A simple girl, an ordinary resident in the city,

Just a creature with a destiny to follow.

But this fate was difficult and you didn't know what to do and how to decide.

For some reason, your ego can't get enough of all these shots from the news on TV. You've always wanted something more, and you didn't know what it was. Even photographs that were accidentally photographed by people were kept for themselves. Everything that had to do with the Titans, you put aside for yourself. All the information that kept you afloat was yours.

You were obsessed.

Especially from the moment He arrived.

You've seen this fight and watched it several times. The Lizard fought other Titans unknown to you. You couldn't find an animal that matched these looks, but they all looked mysterious and beautiful in their own way. But there was a bad intention behind this beauty. You have heard and understood that these two Titans were parasites. That is why the one who fell into your soul mercilessly destroyed them. The one you've always liked and the one that sticks in your head to this day.

It's been many years since you've seen it. You didn't know where he was going or what he was doing. But perhaps he, like all animals, slept somewhere and accumulated strength for the next fight.

You've always been following the information about this Titan. Especially when he came back a couple of years later.

You've seen this fierce battle once again. But it's more terrible with the enemy. Their struggle was serious and decided the future fate of the planet. Two alphas and two kings.

But you've always been in favor of the former, and for good reason.

He won again and left again. And you were left sitting in your room and looking at the photos, which were added a few years later. And again. Struggle.

No matter how many years pass, no matter how many times you learn everything in your life. Your brain couldn't get it out of your head. So much time has passed, and you're still into it. Any ordinary person would call you crazy and frivolous, a person with a childish imagination and inspiration in the next book with Dinosaurs.

Or maybe it was.

For these people.

For you, this was the first step to destiny. Yes, it all started with simple reptiles and dinosaurs, and then the Titans, which seductively torment your soul. But you don't mind. You just need to shorten the distance to them.

And to him.

The one that ate up your brain and all the unnecessary thoughts every day.

You couldn't help but think about him. For you, it has become something ordinary.

It's already familiar.

A habit that only gives you a step forward.

And off you went.

The next struggle that was in front of your eyes. The Four Titans. Two by two, and Odin died. You didn't understand how you managed to survive in such a deadly situation. Buildings collapsed step by step, you desperately ran where your feet led. Where my instinct led me. The loud screams of people, the growls coming from somewhere above, made you close your eyes and ears and squeeze into yourself like a child in a corner.

It wasn't like what you saw on TV.

It was scarier.

It was worse.

But for some reason, you didn't run where the rest of the people who were saving themselves were running. You ran to him.

To Godzilla.

Its spikes were visible between the buildings and you took advantage of this by speeding up your run. The closer you were, the scarier it became from the size you gradually notice in front of you. You knew you could die, but you went anyway.

You've been dreaming for so long and couldn't miss this moment.

You don't care if you're going to die.

It's like someone steps on you.

You want and move forward, crawling through broken roofs and structures. Yes, it was difficult, but you walked.

They were practically near you, but not yet completely. They won't see you. Much less will He see.

A couple of meters left. You've already noticed the big ape that was called Kong. You recalled the struggle that took place a few years ago. It was him. The only thing that distinguished him from that image was a large and yellow metal glove, which seemed to increase his strength.

But it doesn't matter, what matters is that the one you admired, or even loved, has also become different. You walked to the last tall building that could withstand such storms and looked up.

Your favorite.

A creature that has sunk into your little heart from the very beginning. That has become something mundane in your head. He was in front of you. The changes that touched him excited your mind even more. His breath was pink, and his spikes became sharper and more curved. The legs have clearly become longer.

So beautiful and so attractive.

You watched in amazement as the Titan shot its beam into the sky, pulling apart the cold clouds, letting the sun into the world. It was perfect. It was so beautiful that we didn't notice how we pulled out the phone for another photo. This picture will be truly sensational. The most beloved in my entire life.

A smile immediately enveloped your face, you slowly picked up your phone and looked across the screen at Godzilla, who was unaware of anything. But he's unlikely to notice.

The finger cautiously approached the mug through which your life would sing again for a few days.

Squinting your eyes, you gasped for air.

"Click"

"Oops" You pursed your lips into a thin line and carefully moved the lens away from you. Okay, that wasn't the plan. It was ridiculous. A failure and a mistake that will probably ruin your life right now.

Reaching for your pocket, you put your phone back in and took a step back.

I don't think the sound reached them because of the difference in size, you just need to quietly step back from this fuss.

Slowly turning your back on the Titans, you took another step away from them. The quieter the step, the stronger the crunch of stones under your feet, which was a problem.

"Everything is fine. All.. Good.." You could barely hold back a sigh.

"Everything is wonderful..."

A huge shadow immediately loomed over you, right over your pathetic body. Your shoulders stiffened. You remembered how you came here without fear, but with a suspicion of death.

And here she comes.

That is, He came.

Warm air enveloped your shoulders. A rhythmic growl followed you, as if interested. You didn't dare turn your head, but you can't run away either.

Two options and two different answers.

How could you not hear this colossus approaching you?

Absurdly.

You swallowed, praying you wouldn't be in any danger. Just like yard dogs, they will smell it and move on. But not everyone does that.

Making a different decision, you jerked away from the Titan, jumping off a collapsed chunk of the building until you stopped again with a furious scream at your back. Out of your fear, another one sounded, but this time another, more rude. And it didn't seem to be aimed at you.

With tension, you turned all the way.

The two Titans growled at each other as if to say something, but it was not yet known what it was. Very strange. But you silently thanked the monkey for not letting you offend, to put it mildly.

You looked at the two kaiju one more time before pulling out your phone again.

Turning on the camera and adjusting the lens, you pointed your gadget at one cute Titan on the left. You didn't notice it right away, but when you caught your eye, you decided to take a picture and capture it as a complement to your passions.

Squinting your eyes and adjusting for an angle, you finally clicked.

"Click"

"Damn" You banged your head on the screen, bumping your forehead right at that button, where there was another click in the direction of the Titan. "What's the matter... "

The three of them stared at you.

The three mighty Titans fell abruptly silent. The one in white was just looking at you curiously, bowing his head slightly while the other two looked at each other. Although Godzilla still had a quiet growl in the direction of Kong, who just turned away with a frown, not wanting to start a fight again.

Now you're in their sight.

Here it is, embarrassment in front of an idol.

You raised your eyebrows, looking back. If you say something, they are unlikely to understand.

Lifting the camera again, you brought your finger closer to the button once more.

"Click"

With a shake in your hands, you brought the screen closer to you, staring at the photo in the hope that the second attempt would not come. You breathed a sigh of relief. All three of them looked at you peacefully, without screaming and without anything that could ruin the shot. Even Godzilla silently stared at you, even though it was scary. But you didn't mind.

All that's left to do is reach out, poke your hand on that muzzle, and feel the texture of the scales.

But it will only be in dreams.

So far.

And now.. Enjoy a bunch of beautiful Titans that flaunt in your lens. After all, it's not for nothing that you stepped on that very step as a child.

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#godzilla #godzilla x kong: the new empire #godzillaxreader #godzilla monsterverse #x reader #king kong #King kong x reader #Shimo #Shimo x reader #Titans x reader #Kaiju #I'm a walking delirium #I just love the Titans

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oceandolores · 2 months ago

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𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐩𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐜𝐡𝐞𝐫'𝐬 𝐝𝐚𝐮𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐞𝐫 | chapter 17

dbf!joel miller x female reader

"If he's a serial killer, then what's the worst That could happen to a girl who's already hurt?"

summary: joel went back to town for help

warnings: 18+ only, Minors DNI, AU, No outbreak. (TW) mentions of substance abuse/alcohol use disorder, adult content, religion abuse, violence, blood gore, mentions of death, sexual abuse, sexual content, domestic violences, pedophilia, cannibalism, human trafficking, dad's best friend!Joel, HUGE age gap (i will not specify her exact age, but she's legal and Joel is 49), daddy issues, mentions of toxic family dynamic, Joel is widowed, Ellie is 16, angst, smut A LOT, forbidden relationship, soft and protective Joel, innocent and pure reader. your last name is Gibson. any other details will be explain throughout the story. inspired by the album Preacher's daughter by Ethel Cain and also mix with lana del rey vibes.

CHAPTER 17

masterlist!

previous | chapter 16

next | chapter 18

Joel sat in the dimly lit truck, gripping the steering wheel as his mind raced. Every passing motel sign felt like a twisted beacon of hope, and yet, nothing—just more dead ends.

He couldn’t stop.

The thought of you out there, taken, in some nightmare he couldn't quite piece together, was enough to drive him insane. He didn't know who this man was, didn't know his name, but Joel remembered the handwriting—he'd seen it in guest books at motels, on receipts left behind, under fake names, always a step ahead.

He slammed his fist into the dashboard, frustration bubbling inside him, pulling him under like a riptide.

The FBI was after him, every second ticking down like a clock he couldn't stop. Joel had become the face of a crime he didn't commit, and now the world believed he was the monster. His brother Tommy had no idea about the depth of this nightmare, and Joel wasn’t sure how much longer he could keep that secret.

Ellie kept calling, desperate to find him, but he couldn’t answer her. He couldn’t risk it—not when the only thing that mattered now was finding you. The guilt gnawed at him like a relentless beast. He couldn’t protect you. He had failed. But he wouldn't let it end here.

Hotel after hotel, state after state—the same fluorescent vacancy signs blinking back at him, taunting him like the glow of distant stars that could never be reached.

He had been here with you, in these places, laughing in the safety of their anonymity. But now, those memories had turned to ash in his hands. Every room felt hollow, stripped of meaning, just like the heart inside his chest.

The guest books were all the same—fake names, neat handwriting, the kind that made Joel’s skin crawl with recognition. The bastard was mocking him, leaving a breadcrumb trail that twisted and turned like a sick game of cat and mouse.

And Joel, in his desperation, was losing—losing time, losing you.

Two weeks had passed since you were taken, and each second since felt like it carved another piece from his soul. His temper flared now—small arguments turning into wild eruptions with motel clerks who wouldn’t let him see the guest books.

More than once, his hand found itself tangled in the collar of some poor receptionist’s shirt, his voice hoarse, demanding, begging for information. Every time, he had to stop himself, had to remember that he was a fugitive. That the world had turned against him.

Disguises, fake hats, beards—he did what he could to move undetected. But he couldn’t hide from himself. The nightmares came every night, slithering into his dreams like poison, filling him with scenes of you screaming, of blood, of hands he couldn’t reach.

He drowned it out the only way he knew how—pills, whiskey, whatever he could find. His body was exhausted, his mind unraveling thread by thread, as the days bled into each other.

And then the questions started, sharp and relentless, piercing his already fraying sanity. What if you weren’t taken? What if you had seen the news about him? What if you knew everything—Ben, Jamie, the blood on his hands—and you ran? Fled from him, from the monster he had become.

His heart clenched at the thought, a black hole opening in his chest. No. He couldn’t believe that. You wouldn’t. But the thought twisted inside him, planting seeds of doubt he couldn’t shake.

Was it safe to go back? Could he risk returning to town, even in secret, just to see Tommy? To beg for help? But would you be there? What if you were hiding from him? The questions swarmed like locusts in his mind, buzzing louder and louder until he couldn’t think. He had to go back.

***

Ellie slammed her fists on the table, her voice cutting through the tension like a knife. “Tell me where the fuck he is, Tommy. I need to see him.”

Tommy leaned back in his chair, the weight of the world pressing down on his shoulders. His hands rubbed his temples as he tried to keep his composure. “Ellie, I don’t know where he is.”

“You lied!” Ellie snapped, her eyes wide with disbelief. “He’s out there, hunted, I need to find him!”

“I said I don’t know, Ellie!” Tommy barked back, his voice strained with frustration. “We were supposed to meet in Miami, before all this shit happened. But now? I don’t know where the hell he is.”

“Don’t lie to me,” Ellie’s voice trembled with anger and fear, her fists clenched tight at her sides. “You know something. You have to.”

“Ellie, stop!” Tommy’s voice cracked, the weight of the argument pressing hard against him. His eyes were bloodshot, tired, and filled with a desperation he hadn’t shown before. He looked away, unable to meet her gaze.

Maria stepped in between them, her voice a soft but firm plea for calm. “Both of you, stop. This isn’t helping. We need to think straight about this.”

Silence hung in the air, thick with unspoken fears. Ellie turned away, frustrated, pacing the living room like a caged animal. She had been staying with Tommy and Maria since Joel had vanished, their home feeling more like a prison with each passing day.

That night, the house was quiet. Tommy and Maria were asleep, their babyboy, Luke, stirring occasionally in his crib. But Maria heard something.

A noise—a creak in the floorboards that didn’t belong. She slipped out of bed, moving with the cautious grace of a mother on high alert. She headed to the kitchen to prepare formula for Luke, but then… she heard it again.

Her heart raced, fear crawling up her spine. Was it a burglar? An intruder? She called out for Tommy, but no answer. Grabbing Tommy’s golf club, Maria moved carefully down the hallway, her knuckles white around the handle.

And then a hand clamped over her mouth, stifling her scream.

“Shh.”

She froze.

The hand let go, and she spun around, her heart pounding in her chest. “Joel?!”

Joel’s face was gaunt, shadowed by exhaustion, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. He held his hands up, trying to calm her, but Maria’s body shook with shock and fear.

“What the fuck are you doing here?” she hissed, backing away slowly, the club still in her grip. The news reports about Joel raced through her mind—murder, fugitives, everything. She had seen him as family once, but now… she wasn’t sure.

“Maria, please,” Joel whispered, desperation seeping into his voice. “I need to talk to Tommy.”

“You shouldn’t be here,” Maria’s voice was small now, shaking. “I—" she looked down the hall toward the bedrooms, fear clutching her chest.

“I didn’t do it,” Joel said, stepping closer, his voice low, almost pleading. “I didn’t kill the Gibsons. I swear it.”

Maria swallowed hard, her eyes wide with disbelief. “But you killed the pastor. And the boy.”

Joel’s jaw tightened, his eyes flickering with a storm of emotions. “I had to. I had to get rid of them to protect her.”

Maria took another step back, her body trembling. Joel could see the fear in her eyes—she was afraid of him now, the weight of his actions hanging between them like a noose.

“Please, Maria,” Joel whispered. “I need to talk to Tommy.”

Tommy awoke to the sound of Maria’s voice, low and strained. He stumbled out of bed, heading toward the kitchen, his heart sinking when he saw who was there.

“Joel? What the fuck are you doing here?”

Joel’s head snapped up, his face a mask of desperation and grief. “Tommy… I need your help. She’s gone.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed. “What do you mean, gone?”

Joel’s voice broke as he stepped forward, his hands trembling. “She’s been taken. I—I don’t know what to do.”

Tommy stared at his brother, his eyes wide with disbelief. Joel stood before him like a ghost—hollow, ragged, a shadow of the man he once knew. His face was drawn, eyes sunken with sleepless nights and too much whiskey.

His clothes hung off him, sweat-stained and worn, like they had been clinging to him for days. Tommy could hardly recognize the man in front of him. His brother was now a broken mess, standing on the edge of a cliff with nowhere to go but down.

“Come on,” Tommy muttered, glancing back at Maria, who was still clutching Luke protectively. “Let’s talk somewhere else.”

Maria nodded nervously, holding Luke tighter against her chest, and Tommy led Joel into the living room, the air thick with tension. Once they were alone, Tommy turned to face his brother, his voice barely above a whisper, but filled with restrained fury.

“What the fuck, Joel? What have you done?”

Joel’s hands shook as he rubbed his face, his mind racing, searching for words that made sense. But nothing about this made sense anymore. “I didn’t… I didn’t kill the Gibsons. Tommy, I swear to God—someone’s trying to trap me.”

Tommy’s heart raced, every fiber of him wanting to believe his brother, but the weight of everything he’d heard pressed against his chest like a stone. “Trap you? You expect me to believe that? You fucking killed the pastor, Joel! You killed the boy!”

Joel flinched as if Tommy’s words were a physical blow, his shoulders slumping under the guilt he carried like a cross. He looked down at the floor, his voice cracking. “I didn’t have a choice, Tommy. I had to protect her.”

Tommy's stomach churned as he stared at Joel, disgust twisting in his gut. “You had to? Had to what? What the fuck does that mean?” He felt betrayed, a deep wound splitting his chest open. “You lied to me, Joel. You lied to me.”

Joel’s breath hitched, and he lifted his gaze, his eyes bloodshot and full of desperation. “I did it for her. I had to get rid of them to keep her safe.”

Tommy’s head pounded, his world spinning. “Keep her safe? You think killing people is keeping her safe?” His voice rose, barely contained, anger flooding his veins like wildfire.

“The fucking FBI is after you, Joel! Do you understand that? The FBI!” He was yelling now, his words slamming into the walls of the room, reverberating like a storm.

Joel clenched his fists, his knuckles white. "I know that! You think I don’t know how bad it is? I didn’t want this, Tommy, but I’m trying—”

“Trying?!” Tommy cut him off, his voice laced with venom. “You fucking murdered people! And you’re telling me you’re trying?” His hands trembled as he stepped closer, his eyes burning with a mix of rage and sorrow.

Joel’s eyes were hollow, filled with an ocean of guilt he could no longer drown. He took a breath, but it came out ragged, as if the very act of breathing was becoming too much to bear.

“I know… I know I fucked up, Tommy.” His voice wavered, soft, broken. “But I need your help. I need to find her.”

Tommy’s heart twisted painfully. He could see the desperation in Joel’s eyes—the same eyes that had always watched out for him, always protected him.

But now, those eyes were clouded with something darker, something Tommy couldn’t reach. “You lost her?” Tommy’s voice was quiet now, raw with disbelief. “What do you mean you lost her?”

Joel’s hand pressed against his forehead as if he could somehow hold his mind together through sheer willpower. “She was taken. Two weeks ago. I don’t know where she is, and I’ve searched everywhere. I’m losing my mind, Tommy, and I need you to help me find her.”

Tommy stepped back, his hand running through his hair as the gravity of Joel’s words hit him. He had never seen his brother like this—not since Sarah, not since Jane. Back then, Joel had crumbled, but this... this was something worse.

The cracks were deeper now, like his soul was unraveling before Tommy's eyes, and every piece that fell apart took something vital with it. Tommy’s anger began to ebb, replaced by a gnawing worry.

“Joel…” Tommy’s voice softened, heavy with concern. “Tell me everything. What happened?"

Joel sat down heavily, his hands trembling as he reached into his jacket, pulling out a crumpled letter. His fingers, stiff and rough with callouses, were unsteady as he handed it to Tommy.

“This man… he’s been followin’ us. Watchin’ her. I didn’t notice at first, didn’t see it until it was too late.” His voice broke, thick with guilt. "I should’ve seen it coming. Should’ve protected her better."

Tommy took the letter, unfolding it carefully, the paper soft with wear, the ink smudged from being handled so many times. As he read, the air in the room seemed to thicken, pressing in around him as the words sank into his chest like stones. The man’s words were obsessive, possessive. A predator circling his prey, waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

“How the hell did you not notice you were bein’ followed?” Tommy’s voice was a low hiss, disbelief and frustration swirling in his mind. “How could you let this happen?”

Joel’s head dropped into his hands, his fingers gripping his hair tightly as if trying to hold himself together by sheer force. “I don’t know, Tommy. I don’t fucking know. I was tryin’—God, I was tryin’ to protect her, but I didn’t see him… didn’t know.” His voice cracked, and the weight of his own failure bore down on him, suffocating him.

“I can’t get them outta my head. The pastor, the boy… I see their faces every time I close my eyes. I did what I had to, but it’s like their ghosts are hauntin’ me. And now she’s gone, and I—"

Tommy's jaw tightened. Joel wasn’t just running from the law. He was running from himself, from the blood on his hands. The guilt was eating him alive, and now, with you gone, it was suffocating him. Tommy didn’t know if his brother could survive this one.

“We can’t go to the cops, Joel,” Tommy muttered, shaking his head. “They’re after you. You step one foot outside, and they’ll hunt you down. You’re a fugitive.”

Joel's eyes, red-rimmed and hollow, locked onto Tommy’s. "I don't care about me," he rasped. “I just need to find her. I can't lose her, Tommy. Not her too. If I lose her…” His voice faltered, and for a moment, he looked utterly broken.

“I can’t go through that pain again. I can't. It’ll kill me.” His voice cracked, raw with desperation. “Please, Tommy. Please help me.”

Tommy’s heart twisted. Joel had been strong his entire life, but this—this wasn’t strength. This was a man drowning, clutching at anything to keep himself from slipping under.

Before Tommy could say a word, the sound of footsteps echoed softly behind them. They both turned, and there she was.

“Joel?” Ellie stood in the doorway, her voice quiet but full of confusion. Her eyes were wide, full of questions she didn’t even know how to ask yet.

Ellie stood in the doorway, her small frame tense with confusion and concern, her eyes wide and full of unspoken questions that seemed to hang heavy in the air.

For a moment, neither Tommy nor Joel moved—until Ellie broke the silence, rushing forward and wrapping her arms around Joel. The reunion was wordless, raw, and desperate.

She was mad—furious, even—but beneath the anger was relief, deep and overwhelming. She clung to him like a lifeline, her face buried against his chest, and Joel felt the knot in his heart loosen, the guilt he had been carrying since the day he left her finally beginning to lift.

“Ellie…” His voice was rough, laden with everything he couldn’t say. His arms came around her, pulling her close as he let out a breath he didn’t realize he was holding. She was here. Safe. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm so fuckin' sorry."

Ellie pulled back just enough to look at him, her eyes searching his face. “What the fuck, Joel?" Her voice cracked, caught between anger and the ache of missing him. "I thought something happened to you. I thought you were dead."

Joel closed his eyes for a moment, fighting back the wave of guilt that surged through him. He swallowed hard, the weight of what he had done pressing against his chest.

"I miss you every day. But I—" His voice faltered, thick with regret. "I'm sorry, kid. I'm sorry I left you.

Ellie’s gaze softened, and the anger seemed to drain out of her. “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice quieter now, softer.

She hesitated, looking around the room as if searching for something. "Where is she?"

Joel’s heart sank, and he looked away, his jaw tightening. “She’s gone,” he whispered, the words like knives in his throat. “Someone took her.”

“What?” Ellie blinked in shock, her brows furrowing. "But… who? Her parents are dead. Joel—" She paused, her voice lowering. "Did you… did you kill them? Did you kill her parents?"

“No!" Joel's voice was sharp, defensive. "I didn’t kill her parents, Ellie. But I—" He hesitated, his throat tightening.

"You killed Ben and Jamie." Ellie said bluntly. There was a brief, Ellie stared at him, her expression unreadable for a moment, before she exhaled sharply.

“You had to,” she said, her tone flat but understanding. "You did what you had to do." Her words were blunt, as if she'd already accepted the brutal reality they lived in.

“They fucking deserved it.”

Joel nodded, the relief almost too much to bear. He’d been so afraid of losing her too, afraid she would look at him differently. But Ellie, somehow, understood. She always had.

Tommy finally spoke, stepping forward. "You can’t stay here, Joel. The cops are lookin’ for you. The FBI is breathin' down our necks. You stay here, and they’ll catch you. Worse than that, they’ll lock you up for life—if they don’t kill you first.”

“I know,” Joel muttered, his voice low, thick with frustration and dread. “I gotta find her. I have to.”

Tommy’s eyes narrowed, his mind working through the possibilities. “But we gotta be smart about it. No cops. I’ll handle the heat here, keep 'em off your trail, but you—” He pointed at Joel. “You need to figure out who the fuck took her. Any clues? Anythin’ at all?”

Joel’s head spun, trying to piece together the broken fragments of memory. Then, like a flash, it came to him—Chicago. The man, the one who had been following them.

He had seen him, once, back when you had met the man. "Chicago,"

"She tole me about him, I--I don't remember his name, I was too mad at her for talking to people," Joel murmured, his brow furrowing as the memory sharpened. "I gotta go back there."

Ellie, who had been standing quietly, suddenly cut in, her voice determined. “I’m coming with you.”

“No," Joel shook his head, his voice firm. “It’s too dangerous, Ellie. I can’t drag you into this.”

Tommy backed him up immediately. “He’s right, kid. You’re stayin’ here, with me and Maria. We’ll keep you safe.”

Ellie’s eyes flared with frustration, her voice sharp as she threw back Joel’s words. “Like hell I’m staying here, Joel! She’s my friend too! You think I’m just gonna sit around while you go off, risking your life? No fucking way. I’m coming with you. I don’t care what you say!”

Joel’s heart clenched at the fire in her, the same fierce, stubborn defiance that once belonged to Sarah. For a moment, the air between them crackled with tension, like the calm before a storm.

“You stay here, Ellie,” Joel said again, his tone cold, trying to distance himself from the heat of the moment. "You can’t come with me."

Ellie shook her head, her jaw tightening. “No, Joel! I’m not letting you—"

“Ellie!” Joel interrupted, his voice growing sharper. “Ellie, stay here! You need to listen to me.”

She was relentless, her words flying out faster than he could rein her in, her emotions flooding over her like a wave. "I’m not a kid anymore that you can just leave behind! I come with you!”

“Ellie. Ellie!” Joel’s voice started to crack under the weight of it, but she wouldn’t stop.

"Ellie! ELLIE, LISTEN TO ME!"

His shout echoed through the room like a gunshot, halting everything in its tracks. Even Tommy flinched. Ellie froze, her wide eyes finally settling on Joel’s face, the sheer force of his voice cutting through her resolve.

The silence that followed was thick, heavy, and suffocating, like the air had been knocked from the room. Ellie’s breath hitched, her defiance faltering as she saw the raw fear in Joel’s eyes—the kind of fear she hadn’t seen since the days they fought to survive together.

Joel exhaled, his voice softer now but broken, each word trembling on the edge of his guilt and his need to protect her.

“I can’t risk you, Ellie. Not you. You stay here, with Tommy and Maria. I need you to be safe, I need you to be somewhere I know you won’t get hurt. If anything happens to you, I... I can't forgive myself. I can't lose you too, not after everything.” His words faltered, but they were laced with the kind of agony that made Ellie’s heart twist.

He took a step forward, his rough hand reaching out, but Ellie pulled back slightly, her face hardening again, though there was now a flicker of something else—something like fear.

"Tommy," Joel turned to his brother, his voice quieter now, as if every word was scraping at his throat, "keep her safe. If I... if I don’t make it back—”

“The fuck are you talking about?” Ellie’s voice was sharp again, her hands curling into fists. “You are coming back, Joel. Don’t give me this bullshit! You always come back to me!”

Joel looked at her, his expression full of something heavy and unspeakable. He took another step closer, and this time, when he reached for her, Ellie didn’t pull away.

“Listen to me, kiddo.” His voice was rough but tender, the words thick with a sorrow that Ellie had never heard before.

“I’m sorry. I’m sorry for leavin’ you, for not bein’ the dad you needed. I know I’ve failed you in a lot of ways. But if something happens to me… if I don’t come back, you need to promise me somethin'. Don’t... don’t blame yourself. Don’t blame anyone. You need to keep going."

Ellie’s throat tightened, her breath coming out shaky. She shook her head. “No. No. You don’t get to say that. You don’t get to leave me.”

“I don’t want to leave you, Ellie,” Joel said, his voice cracking like a dam under too much pressure. “But this man—he’s dangerous. And I... I have to protect her. I have to protect you. And if I don’t—if I can’t, I need you to live. I need you to keep going.”

Ellie’s hands clenched tighter, and she felt the weight of his words pressing down on her chest. Her vision blurred, her heart hammering against her ribs. "You don’t get to do this," she whispered, her voice breaking. "You come back. You have to come back."

Joel cupped her face in his calloused hands, his thumbs gently brushing away the tears she didn’t realize had fallen. “I’ll try, kiddo. I swear. But if I don’t…” His voice broke completely, filled with the raw pain of a man who had lost too much. "If I don’t make it... I need you to be okay.”

The room felt suffocating, the gravity of the moment pulling them both into an abyss of uncertainty, where words like “promise” and “safe” were fragile, almost meaningless.

Ellie pressed her forehead against his chest, her fists clenching his shirt as if holding him tighter could stop the inevitable. “Don’t go,” she whispered. “Please don’t go.”

"Don't leave me, Joel."

Joel’s heart shattered into pieces in that moment, but he couldn’t show it. He couldn’t let her see just how terrified he was, how the thought of leaving her again felt like a death sentence. “I'm sorry,”

Her tears soaked into his shirt, silent but heavy, each drop a reminder of how much he had already failed her—and how much more he stood to lose.

Joel swallowed thickly, his grip on her tightening for a moment longer before he finally let go, stepping back. “I love you, kiddo. More than you’ll ever know.”

Ellie’s breath hitched, and she looked up at him, her eyes full of the kind of fear Joel wished he could take away. But he couldn’t. He could only hope that this wasn’t goodbye.

***

You don’t know where you are anymore. The days and nights blur together in the darkness, the air thick with the stench of rot and decay. It’s been weeks—maybe more, maybe less. Time doesn’t exist here. All you know is the basement—the cold, damp stone pressing into your skin, the stinging scent of mold in your nose, and the unbearable silence, only broken by the occasional scrape of his footsteps above. Negan.

He’s the one who took you.

You barely knew him, barely interacted with him. So why you? Why now? What had you ever done to catch his attention? The questions buzz around in your head like a swarm of wasps, painful and without answers.

The walls seem to close in on you, the darkness thickening with every second. And then you remember—Negan had come to your house once, a visitor to your father. He was "Mr. Smith," you remember his last name.

But you didn’t think anything of it then. Just another face, another stranger. But since that moment, he had been watching you.

Negan had stalked your every move, following you through the shadows like a predator sizing up its prey.

When he visits, he talks. Always talks. As if the sound of his own voice fills the silence. "You and that ol' man of yours... too busy wrapped up in your own little world, huh?" He chuckles, the sound rough and mocking. “Joel’s a damn fool. Thinkin’ he could protect you, thinkin’ he could keep you safe. Hell, he’s worse than I thought, fallin’ for a broken little thing like you.”

His words cut like shards of glass, and each time you hear them, they reopen wounds you’ve tried to keep hidden deep inside.

Negan paces the room, his boots echoing in the small space. “Joel thinks he’s clever, doesn’t he? Killin’ Ben and Jamie to keep you all for himself.” He laughs, dark and low, his eyes glinting in the dim light of the basement. “He’s too damn stupid to see what’s right in front of him. Me.”

The way he says it, the way his eyes linger on you, makes your skin crawl.

“He let his guard down,” Negan continues, crouching beside you. “And when he finally let you out of his sight? Well, sweetheart, that just made things a hell of a lot easier for me.”

You want to scream, to lash out, but you’ve barely eaten in days, and your body feels too weak to even stand. The cold stone beneath you feels like a cage, holding you captive as much as Negan’s gaze does.

“What do you want from me?” you whisper, your voice barely more than a breath.

Negan tilts his head, a cruel smile pulling at his lips. “Want? Sweetheart, I don’t want anything from you.” He leans in, close enough that you can smell the stale scent of smoke and leather clinging to him. “I just want you. That’s it. You’re mine now.”

The bile rises in your throat at the possessiveness in his voice, the certainty in his eyes.

For the past few weeks, he’s tried to feed you, bringing down food that you refused to touch. You’d rather starve than accept anything from him. Negan would sigh and shake his head, annoyed but patient. "You need to eat, darling. Can’t have you wastin’ away on me."

His words feel wrong, as if there's something hidden beneath them, something dark that you can’t quite put your finger on. There's always a certain gleam in his eyes when he brings the food—like he’s savoring a secret that only he knows.

And then there’s the smell.

That unbearable, suffocating stench that lingers in the corners of the basement. It smells like death. Like something rotting. But when you ask him about it, Negan just laughs. "Basements get like that," he says with a shrug, but the way he says it, so casual, so dismissive—it only makes you more certain that something is wrong. Terribly wrong.

Sometimes, when the hunger gnaws at your insides, you almost consider taking a bite, but something deep inside you tells you not to trust it. Not to trust him. You’d rather die here, in the dark, than give him what he wants.

Negan crouches in front of you now, holding out a plate of food, his voice deceptively gentle. “You need to eat, darling. Can’t have you all weak and broken. I like my girls strong. Healthy.”

His words send a chill down your spine, and though you don’t know why yet, you can feel it—the creeping horror hiding just beneath the surface. There’s something wrong with the food, with him. Something monstrous, lurking in the shadows of his every word.

But what?

You swallow hard, shaking your head again, refusing the meal he offers. Negan’s smile tightens, but he doesn’t push. He never pushes. Not yet, anyway. Instead, he rises to his feet, looking down at you with that same dark amusement, like he’s playing a game only he knows the rules to.

“You’ll come around, sweetheart. One way or another.”

As he leaves, you’re left in the dark, your mind spinning, haunted by the rotting smell and the quiet, nagging fear that whatever is happening here is far worse than you could ever imagine.

The cold seeps into your bones, chilling you from the inside out, but it’s not just the temperature. It’s the gnawing fear, the isolation, the uncertainty of what lies ahead.

You can’t stop thinking about Joel. Where is he? Is he safe? Are the cops after him like Negan hinted? The thought tightens in your chest, like a vice slowly crushing your heart. You can barely believe that Joel—your Joel—killed Ben and Jamie. But as much as it shocks you, a part of you understands. He did it to protect you, didn’t he? The idea brings a strange comfort, a warmth amid the cold. Joel, with his strong hands and quiet resolve, would do anything to keep you safe. You liked that. You needed that.

But then, guilt slithers in, twisting and coiling itself around your thoughts. He did it because of you. Because you’re the one who caused all this. Joel shouldn’t have to bear the weight of it all. He can’t be the one to carry the consequences of what’s happened. You wonder if you’ve become a burden, dragging him into this nightmare where death and destruction seem to follow you both like shadows.

You think about the way he used to look at you, the way his rough exterior would soften just for you. His voice, gravelly but so full of warmth, whispers in your memory. You miss him, desperately. His touch, his scent, the quiet strength of his presence. It’s like a piece of you has been torn away, leaving you raw and bleeding, open to every cruel word Negan speaks, every cold gust of air in this filthy basement.

At night, when the world is silent and the shadows stretch long, you imagine Joel’s arms around you, holding you close like he did so many times before. You imagine his breath against your ear, telling you everything would be alright. You wish it were true. You wish Joel were here, with his fierce protectiveness and the way he could shield you from the world, even when it seemed like everything was falling apart.

But you are alone. Alone in the dark with nothing but the echo of your thoughts and the suffocating weight of fear. You’re terrified—terrified to death, even. And it feels like no one will ever find you, like no one will ever know the hell you’re living in. The walls around you seem to close in, and the only thing that keeps you from falling apart is the image of Joel’s face in your mind, his voice a faint whisper in the endless night.

Still, the fear gnaws at you, a ravenous beast. It claws at your insides, making it hard to breathe. You are alone, helpless, and trapped. And yet, in the deepest part of you, there's still a small flicker of hope. It burns for Joel. For the possibility that he’s out there, somewhere, fighting to find you. Because if anyone could save you, it would be him.

Days blurred together in a hazy fog of fear and despair. You knew it was days because each morning, Negan would rouse you from the dark depths of sleep with a cold, menacing presence. He brought food—always meat, always raw and dripping with something that made your stomach churn. You could tell he could cook; the way he handled the food had a practiced ease, but you wanted nothing to do with it. Your heart raced as you shrank away, clutching your knees to your chest, desperate to be invisible.

Today, something shifted in him. His patience seemed to fray like an old rope, unraveling under the weight of his anger. “You can’t keep like this! You need to fucking eat!” he shouted, his voice reverberating in the tight confines of the basement like a thunderclap. The plate of meat he hurled at you missed, clattering harmlessly to the floor as you recoiled, your hands shaking, your body trembling with fear.

Negan had always been rough but strangely composed, treating you with a twisted kind of care. But now, his anger was a raging storm, and you were caught in its eye. He lunged forward, grabbing your face with a grip that felt like iron, forcing you to meet his gaze. “Why don’t you fucking eat, huh?” The fury in his eyes burned, igniting a primal terror deep within you.

“Please, don’t hurt me! Don’t please!” You cried, the words spilling from your lips like a desperate prayer. But his grip only tightened, his fingers digging into your skin as he leaned closer, his breath hot and heavy. “I need you to fucking eat!” The implication hung in the air, a dark cloud cloaked in menace, hinting at the horror that lay beneath his twisted motivations.

Then, with a sudden violent yank, he lifted you effortlessly and tossed you onto the lone mattress in the corner of the basement—the only semblance of comfort in this hellish nightmare. It was stained and worn, a grim reminder of all the other girls who had suffered here, and the air was thick with the stench of decay and desperation. “You need to be taught a lesson, huh?” he snarled, looming over you. “You want me to teach you to be obedient? Why don’t you fucking listen to me?”

Your heart raced as dread enveloped you like a suffocating shroud. You could feel the cold, hard reality of your situation settle over you, a weight that threatened to crush your spirit. “Please, don’t hurt me!” you whimpered, the words spilling out like blood from an open wound.

But Negan’s rage boiled over. He pinned you down, his strength overpowering you, leaving you helpless beneath him. A flash of pain erupted as his fist connected with your side, the blow landing like a hammer against glass, shattering the last remnants of your hope. “You should be grateful you’re still alive for weeks!” he growled, his voice a low, menacing growl. “Usually, the other girls only last a few days!”

Each word was a dagger, slicing into you, twisting deeper until you felt like you were drowning in despair. The room spun, and for a moment, you were lost in the chaos—a captive in a horror movie where the monster was all too real. You could see the flickering shadows dancing across the walls, and for a moment, you imagined they were the spirits of all the girls who had come before you, trapped in this wretched place, their cries echoing in your ears.

Every punch, every insult, was a cruel reminder of your fragility, a stark contrast to the flicker of resilience still fighting within you. You thought of Joel, of the warmth of his embrace and the strength of his spirit. You were more than this dark, stinking basement; you were more than Negan’s plaything. But as the blows rained down, you couldn’t help but wonder if you’d ever see the light again, or if you were destined to fade into the shadows like the countless others before you.

In the depths of your despair, you turned inward, seeking solace in the silent echoes of your own heart. You prayed to God, your words tumbling forth like leaves in a tempest, pleading for this torment to cease. “Please,” you whispered, your voice trembling, “make it stop.”

But even as you cried out, questions fluttered in your mind like lost sparrows seeking refuge in a storm. Why did this always happen to you? Why were you cursed to walk the valley of shadows, where joy seemed as elusive as a wisp of smoke? It felt as if you were trapped in a parable, a cautionary tale whispered through the ages, where the faithful suffered and the wicked thrived.

You thought of the heavens above, imagined them as vast and endless, a tapestry of stars woven with threads of hope. Yet here you were, a solitary figure lost in the darkness, drowning in a sea of sorrow, with the light of those distant stars barely flickering in your heart. Was this your cross to bear? A burden too heavy for a soul so young?

As Negan’s fists rained down, each blow felt like the hammer of judgment, and your spirit ached under the weight of your own unworthiness. You longed to rise like a phoenix from the ashes, to break free from the chains of misery that bound you, but the flames of suffering held you fast. The biblical tales of resilience echoed in your mind, but you struggled to see yourself as part of those stories—would you ever find your own promised land?

“Am I not worthy of grace?” you questioned the heavens, your heart breaking under the pressure of your own doubts. The walls of the basement closed in around you, suffocating you with their cold embrace, and you felt as if you were wandering in the wilderness, lost and alone, with only the faint whispers of angels to guide you. Would there be a miracle that pulled you from this abyss? Would there be a shepherd to lead you back to the light?

But with each passing moment, the weight of your prayers felt heavier, like a stone cast into a bottomless well. You wondered if your cries reached the throne of heaven, or if they were swallowed by the darkness that surrounded you. “Why, Lord?” you pleaded, your voice cracking under the strain of your emotion. “When will my soul find peace? Why must I suffer while others walk free?”

In that moment, as the pain throbbed through you like a pulsing heartbeat, you realized that perhaps your suffering was not in vain. Maybe the storm would pass, and in its wake, you would emerge transformed, a testament to resilience and strength. Perhaps you were not merely a victim, but a warrior cloaked in shadows, fighting for your own light.

And so, with every ragged breath, you held onto that flicker of hope, whispering your prayers into the void, trusting that somewhere beyond this darkness, there lay a promise of redemption—a divine plan waiting to be unveiled, just beyond the horizon of your pain.

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hanibalistic · 23 days ago

Text

ALIEN OUTREACH PROGRAM | KIM JONGSEOB. HAKU SHOTA.

genre | fluff / found family au, slice of life au

synopsis | when a planet exploded, the government sent two of its surviving residents to live with you .

word count | 11.5k+

warning | mention of violence / unwanted sexual advances (brief; side character)

note | wrote most of this early 2024 and stopped. decided to rush finish it.

The government sent you two aliens from the alien outreach program you were referred to join by a close friend.

The program was recently created when a nameless planet that was initially suspected to be on its way to collide with the Earth ended up exploding instead. The news of the explosion was broadcast worldwide, but the fact that the surviving residents of the planet landed on Earth as a result of the explosion was kept secret to avoid social panic, hence why the outreach program operated on a 'referral only’ basis.

Each applicant underwent a relatively easy screening process and three rounds of interviews before they were notified through an encrypted text message that they’d been cleared to foster.

You underwent the same process, and in retrospect, you figured the interviews were held for the faculty to access all aspects of your life, beginning from your social circle to the depths of your mental state.

At the end of your onboarding process, you were told that you would be fostering a pair of aliens—a pair of brothers, they suspected. Either way, you were told they were bonded.

You hadn’t minded the responsibility. If anything, you figured the monthly financial compensation could significantly help your appalling rent situation. The cog in the wheel was that they were initially tested to be high-risk-level aliens.

The only reason you could think was behind that outrageous decision was not their trust in your ability to monitor them but rather their disinterest in your livelihood as a struggling new graduate.

You could always leave it to the government to treat poor people like guinea pigs. But, the more you looked at it, Soul and Jongseob didn't seem as dangerous as their profiles stated.

Soul and Jongseob—they didn't come with those names, which hadn’t been a problem during the first few weeks of their stay when the three of you spent most of your time getting acquainted with each other.

You weren’t sure how shaken up they were about their home being destroyed, so besides being cautious of their undisclosed alien abilities, you walked on eggshells around them in consideration for their emotional state.

The two were docile, for the most part, and quiet. When they weren’t whispering among themselves, they were communicating telepathically. Figuratively or literally, you were uncertain. You only knew they were difficult to read without human features. You never knew what they wanted or how they felt about anything outside of observable behaviors, such as their obsession with the television, their likeness for sweets, and their unwillingness to shower.

The program coordinator hasn't given them the green light to go out and explore Earth on their own yet, so before you could figure out how to ideally talk them up in the mandatory monthly progress reports, they've got no choice but to stay home and discover entertainment through unconventional means.

It was the furniture at first. Charred spots on the couch left behind by the apartment’s last tenant, the hinges of the balcony curtain rod torn off, and the worst of it all: shattered pieces of a set of utensils that your deceased mom gave you as a congratulatory gift for moving out, thus taking a big step into adulthood.

That was the first time they’d seen you sob, your body curled up on the floor and your palm stained with blood slit out by the broken glass. They had been unfamiliar with human emotions at that point in their stay. Still, taking a frame out of television shows, they could understand, at the very least, that what you showed was sorrow and heartbreak.

They didn't understand the concept of a mother. After all, they were born through natural phenomena, such as the trickling of water or the imploding of ancient rocks. Your response to their playful mistake was illogical. However, still, it made them fidget and waver wildly to watch tears roll callously into your mouth.

People call it empathy, they thought. Empathy, or love—the inability to see another in pain, the desire to never hurt another. Most humans have it for everyone, but more strongly for those they prioritize.

A few days later, a plate clumsily glued together by gray-colored blobs that looked suspiciously like alien skin greeted you on your nightstand. You never said anything about it, but you put it in your mother’s shrine in the apartment.

Little did you know that sometimes, in an attempt to model your actions, Jongseob and Soul would put pieces of candy next to the plate for her.

After the furniture, they tuned down their drive for curiosity. They played with less significant things, such as your freshly cleaned laundry.

At last, it came down to electronics—the television, the radio, and sometimes your laptop and gaming console. Jongseob geared more toward the console and television, and Soul liked anything that made funny noises.

As they got comfortable around the apartment and started clashing with your lifestyle, it gradually became more annoying to address them with words like 'hey!' and ‘you!' when you needed to scold them about something they've done, so you decided individual names were necessary.

Mercifully abandoning a random name generator online, you told the two aliens to choose how they wanted to be addressed.

Soul had been very excited about picking a name for himself. His outrageous choices reflected his enthusiasm, ranging from food ingredients to fictional character names to literal home appliances.

You've had to—patiently and gently—explain to him for a month the reason why you wouldn't call him Megamind or the literal stove was because they weren't real names (and you didn't want to).

Eventually, you two made a compromise. The initial choice was to have everyone call him by the famous RPG he never played—Dark Souls. He settled on being called Soul.

Jongseob was more direct but still indecisive. He mixed a few celebrity names he heard on TV into different pairs. He handed you a written list—surprisingly!—of names for you to choose.

You didn’t want the responsibility of selecting something as important as a name, so you told him you could put out a pointer finger, and whichever name you ended up pointing at after he moved the paper around would be his name.

After hearing how mundane Jongseob's name sounded, Soul came to you one night and asked that you help him think of a name of a similar caliber. He had requested that you keep this between you both, as he didn't go to Jongseob about it out of embarrassment that his other half would accuse him of being a copycat.

You attempted to deter Soul from such outrageous thoughts. Jongseob was the last person to make unnecessary accusations, after all. But Soul was determined to keep this a secret between you two, so you agreed.

It was proven difficult for him to make up something normal, as he tossed and turned for several nights only to end up knocking on your bedroom door, asking for a second opinion.

You had stayed up with him for a few nights, often laying half-asleep on the couch while he remained silent on the opposite end with pursed lips and intense eyes.

One particular night, though, you decided to turn on the television to keep yourself awake, and the channel was airing a rerun of an old, beloved cartoon.

“Oh gosh, I haven’t watched this in so long,” you exclaimed under your breath as you leaned back, the controller rolling off your thigh. “This was my childhood afterschool show.”

“Woah,” he scooted closer to you, “that’s cool.”

"It is," you muttered, wholly focused on the screen. When a particular ice-powered character appeared, you let out a soft swoon. "Ah, look at him! He's still as cool as ever."

“Who's that?” he whispered.

“His name is Shota. He was my favorite character in the show,” you said, heaving a sigh as rather embarrassing memories flooded before your eyes. “I loved him so much.”

Soul turned to you. The lights flickered in your eyes, not telling him much of what was happening in the episode but enough to let him know that you were paying a lot of attention whenever the character was present.

He noticed now that you've leaned your head on his shoulder, and your eyelids were lowering by the second. The previous attention you spent on the TV screen was replaced quickly by sleepiness under the comfort of Soul's presence.

“You did?”

"Yeah?" you hummed, his sudden question confusing your own emotions for a second. "I mean, yeah. He is really cool and–okay, technically, everyone in animation is good-looking, but he was my type."

"Oh." His voice trailed off into deep thought, but it didn't take him too long to perk up again and say, "I want to be called Shota."

You raised your brows and sat up, leaning back to watch him with amusement. “You like the name, huh?”

“No.” He shook his head. “You like Shota.”

There it was, then. Soul gained a new name that night—Shota.

Being able to call them by name gave them a sense of identity, and you had a drastic development in your connection with them. You thought you’d always received them without judgment, and you did.

Still, once it registered in your normalcy that they’ve got a name, it was as if their existence became more tangible. However, as important as that, the first milestone of your relationship was when they finally took a human form.

Before realizing they could shapeshift, they’ve been stuck in their alien form, which you thought was similar to how movies and video games have always portrayed outer-space species.

You wouldn’t have minded if they stayed in that form until it was time for them to be recalled to the facility they came from, but it seemed they were the ones who got curious about the human body.

You’ve noticed for a while how they would shift parts of their figure according to what they see, sometimes after people on the TV and other times after you.

What you thought would be a slow process turned out to be done and over between you leaving the apartment in the early morning and returning from work in the late afternoon.

Surprisingly, seeing two poorly shaped human boys loitering around in your apartment instead of the usual irregularly shaped creatures was less bewildering than seeing your old sketchbooks scattered everywhere on the floor.

Those were your fallen dreams, a career not pursued in exchange for securing a stable future, which wasn’t all that stable now that you're going through it.

You knew they were bored at home. Still, it was a surprise to see that they'd found the boxes of old things dusted away at the back of your closet—what were they doing rummaging through your clothes, anyway? You’ve got to have a strict talk about boundaries after this.

At least their attention was away from the fabrics in your closet as they pulled out your sketchbooks and decided to change themselves according to the most appealing visual. However, since your old character sketches were amateur and poorly drawn, their shifted bodies looked sloppy and humorously eerie.

Soul wasn't entirely sure what was wrong about it, especially since you couldn’t stop laughing when you saw them, and Jongseob taught him that laughing meant joy.

When you picked up one of the books to flip through them, your smile dimmed, and your eyes focused in a way he had never seen before. Jongseob later told him it may be bitterness, but not the angered kind because your eyes were soft.

Soul didn’t quite understand the distinction; your eyes were almost always soft.

That night was the first time in a long time you picked up a pen and drew something again so you could help them polish their appearances. Through that experience, you learned two things: your drawing skills have massively deteriorated, and aliens were indistinguishable from humans once they took a hyperspecific form, to a point where they bleed the same color.

Both settled on having blond hair, one frizzier than the other. Looking from far away would force you to mistake them as twins, but this was leagues better than communicating with two gooey creatures without solid features or forms.

You stared at the pencil sketches on the pages and back up at them, finding it uncanny how accurate their shapeshifting abilities were. Then you turned to them with furrowed brows.

“Both your hair is a little long,” you muttered.

Tapping the pencil at your chin, you thought about making modifications to what you’ve drawn for them, but when you told yourself to flip the pencil around for the eraser, your hand was unwilling to move.

You have sat on the floor for hours, drawing and erasing, making changes and corrections that suit their liking and help them look natural. You weren’t sure if they got tired from using their powers, but you certainly became exhausted from gripping a pen for so long. You’ve been too used to typing on a keyboard.

“Wait here,” you said, putting the papers and pen on the side.

You returned with a few trinkets in your hand, which you dropped on the floor after you knelt down across from them.

Scooting in front of Jongseob first, you hummed with disregard to his skeptical gaze as you played with the hair clips in your hand by smushing them together.

When you reached a hand out to push his bangs back, he caught a glimpse of the darkened slit still healing on your palm. He ignored it. You pushed at the tips of his locks ghostly with your nails before pressing a palm to his forehead and swiping his bangs up, exposing his forehead.

The boy closed his eyes at the sudden impact, and when the chilly afternoon air hit his skin, he widened his eyes and pursed his lips into a grimace.

Before they took a solid shape, your touch would go through their gooey form and feel indistinguishable from any objects that would poke through them.

This was the first time he’d felt the touch of your hand, and he thought it was as gentle as Soul must have thought your eyes were. Unlike Soul, though, he would never admit that he inwardly shivered in contentment when your palm subconsciously dragged over his head into a stroke.

“This should keep the hair out of your eyes,” you said after clipping his bangs to each side of his face. You leaned back to take a better look at him and nodded in approval despite him looking as if he just snapped out of a trance. “You look great.”

“You drew me well,” he said. “Thank you.”

"You're so formal, Jongseob," you mused, placing your hand against his cheek before pinching it playfully. "But being polite is good. You are most welcome."

Your injured palm touched his skin, the calloused surface dragging a regrettable line over his conscience. He hoped it would heal faster; it was a marker of his mistake, a symbol of your pain.

But, still, you used the same hand to tread over him with kind steps, so most importantly, it was all a sign of your forgiveness. He turned his head away from your pinch, but he didn't let himself swat you away for embarrassing him.

You laughed at his reaction. The sound took root inside him and made a permanent space.

“Now, Soul!” you exclaimed once you pulled away.

The boy remained still when you stood up and got behind him. After bouncing the hair tie against your wrist, you sat on the couch, and then you laid your hands over his head and carefully brushed his hair with your fingers.

You gathered just enough to fill your curled fist, your nails gingerly dragged over the side of his head to separate parts of his bangs, and then you tied it into a short ponytail.

Once you were done, you attempted to stand up to move across him for a review of your handiwork, but Soul suddenly leaned back against your legs, the back of his head hitting your knees when he faced up to look at you.

His hair brushed against your skin like a choppy broom, and then you forgot about the sensation as you met his eyes with a raised brow.

The corner of his lips quivered, and his eyes were round and wide with expectancy. When he realized you let him lay on your knees, his lips pursed into a grin, his knees pulling themselves closer to his chest as his shoulders shrunk with a barely audible laugh.

“What did you do to my hair?” he asked curiously.

“I tied it into a ponytail,” you replied as you angled your torso to look at his face straight, “so they’re not in your face all the time.”

He closed his eyes when you fixed his bangs with your fingertips. Once they were perfectly angled to each side of his temple, you ran your palm flatly down the side of his face, soothing his new hairstyle with a taste of approval.

Soul pressed his lips into a grin; his eyes opened but were barely visible, hidden behind crescent shapes. You bit back a smile; you just now noticed how his features turned out so dainty like a flower learning how to bloom in Spring.

"Hey, look at you," you said in an airy whisper. "How pretty you are.”

He laughed, his voice a weirdly pitched wave released into the air, almost like he was yodeling. Jongseob huffed in disbelief at the unexpected sound; questions, and brotherly mockery trailing out of his mouth, one worse than the last. You turned to bicker with him about saying nicer things, and Soul couldn't sense anything other than your warm hands left sitting by his jaw.

He watched you from your knees. Your chin moved with every word you said, your nails gently scratched his skin between sentences, your legs frozen on the spot to avoid discomforting him.

It was human nature. Everything.

The way your skin flopped, the way you subconsciously reached to touch, the way you put him first. Those traits were possessed by most human beings, but Soul reckoned he admired them more when they were yours.

What was that called? Jongseob taught him so many things; he was always smarter. But Soul couldn't properly receive too much information at once, not at the pace Jongseob could retain them. Was this joy? No. His fingers were itching for you, which was not a criterion for joy.

You looked down at him when you felt his hands grab your shoulders. "What's up, Soul?"

He made unclear noises as he flipped his body over, his chest pressing against your knees. He got on his feet into a crouch and leaned up, his arms circling around your neck into a hug.

You fell back against the couch and froze to register what he did. Before you could figure out he tackled you in a hug, your arms had already gone around his shoulders to press him against you.

“Hey,” you whispered. “What’s going on?”

Soul bit the inside of his cheek when he realized you allowed it. He could feel you so much more properly now, and he responded to the revelation by holding you tighter and burying his chin in his overlapped forearms.

His eyes squeezed to relish in—what was this feeling, again? Joy? He wasn't exactly smiling, though. The way his brows were pulled into a swirly furrow, and his lips were downturned would show that he was sad. But he wasn't. He was happy and tackled you because he wanted to hug you.

"I really like you."

You blinked, your lips gradually pulling into a downward smile. "Where did you learn that from?"

"Hmm." His voice was muffled. He didn't want you to know he learned it from you.

The two got the authorization to leave the apartment after you wrote in the monthly report that they've changed shapes and, more frequently than before, began to express their feelings.

However, they rarely took advantage of the newfound freedom, and you understood why.

They have yet to learn how to get around the area using public transportation. If the metro lines were less complicated than what was currently set in place, they may have an easier time navigating it.

Alas, the metro system remained both a local and a tourist's nightmare. However, even if they knew how to take the bus or the train, they've yet to learn where to go because they've never been outside.

And, last but not least, they didn't have the money to make going out enjoyable.

You have taken them out to different places after determining all the necessary expenses, such as the increased bills and grocery items. You would use whatever was left over from the program funds to take them to weekend hangouts.

There was the outlet where you bought them new clothes and their designated utensil set because they apparently needed their own.

There was the arcade, where you had sworn they used alien means to get all the prizes they did, but you also wouldn't put it past Jongseob to be weirdly good at gauging the space of a claw machine.

Oh, and a science museum, which you didn't think Jongseob was too interested in, but he hadn't complained because Soul was having the time of his life at the exhibitions.

You let them try alcohol by the river at night once. Turned out their bodies automatically eliminated all the intoxicating substances, so they were only tasting the bitterness without getting drunk.

That could be a blessing or a curse; without intoxication, you weren't sure what alcohol is good for.

You ended up dousing yourself with all leftover bottles of beer and entirely blanked out that night. You couldn't remember what happened, so the two made sure they told you the following day about how you were sobbing and throwing up. You cried for your mother, and you told them they were the closest people you've got.

You had woken up with the two on your bed. Jongseob slept with a box of tissue near his hand, always prepared to jolt awake to catch your puke and wipe your mouth of snot. Soul was curled up next to you with puffy and swollen eyes.

Apparently, he wept alongside you because he thought you were in too much pain to even move from the floor, and he didn't know how to help. He had cried so much that he tired himself to sleep, but he kept close to you to make sure your heart was constantly beating.

You haven't drunk much since, knowing how much they hated your drunken state. If you were getting drunk, it was out of obligation, like when you were invited to a business meeting.

You remembered that night well. It was the night you discovered why Jongseob and Soul were considered high-risk.

It wasn't uncommon for interns or someone of a lower rank in the company to be taken advantage of during business meetings.

When a topic could be adequately discussed and solved by presenting a supervisor with ample knowledge, yet the department chose to bring an extra, much younger employer as a companion, it was almost always a perverted decision.

You were no stranger to the problem. You have seen your colleagues be invited to join business meetings like those before, but this was the first time you were called to be in one.

The social hierarchy and the risk of unemployment made it impossible for you to turn down shots pushed your way by the department head from the negotiating company, who your supervisor was trying to rope into a grand business deal.

After a few drinks, you have entirely given up on expecting decency from anyone at the table. At least your supervisor was having a great time. Your words slurring through your unstable body jolts made the negotiation easier, and you unknowingly helped your company seal a deal when you clumsily agreed to have the department head drive you home.

He remarked about your tense knuckles on the drive home, acknowledging your skepticism but not challenging it. You watched the road like a hawk, or as much as you could, with your vision slightly blurred anyway because you wanted to ensure he wouldn't drive you elsewhere. He didn't.

After what felt like years, you arrived at the apartment building and inwardly breathed a sigh of relief.

"Thank you for driving me home," you said with a curt bow after you gathered your things from the floor.

"You're welcome," he mused, watching you clumsily loop your forearm over the straps of your bag. He leaned over the passenger seat then, whiffs of alcohol unmistakable in the air. "Hey, I should walk you upstairs. I wanna make sure you get back safely."

"That's not necessary," you said after a low, thoughtful hum. You didn't look at him when you spoke, partly because you were having difficulty focusing on anything other than the acidic taste at the back of your mouth.

"I… I have someone at home. He's going to–um… he's going meet me by the elevator. He'll walk me up."

"Oh? I didn't know you had a boyfriend."

"I don't–" you squeezed your eyes tightly and shook yourself awake–"I mean, yes. I do have a boyfriend. He's coming down to get me.”

The man stared at you silently for an uncomfortable, calculative second. Your head was heavy from his stare, mixed in with the alcohol trying to take over.

You unconsciously licked the corner of your lips when you tried to find something to fill the unease, only to realize that the only way to feel better was to leave his car. You reached for the door handle behind you blindly. Unfortunately, the search for it has given him the time to press the master lock button on his side of the door.

“I should get going," you said after heaving a defeated sigh.

"You don't actually have a boyfriend, do you?" he muttered.

You didn't know how to answer. You didn't, but it was true that there were people at home waiting for your return, both harboring the potential to be mistaken as your boyfriend if seen by an unassuming person.

You were forbidden from coming clean about Soul and Jongseob's identity, but what other reason could there be for you to have two boys sitting in your apartment? You three were orphans, and they're your brothers! Or were you just letting two friends crash at yours? You weren't thinking fast enough to pull a story out of thin air.

"Look, I don't know what made you so scared. I'm not going to ask to go inside your apartment. Trust me. I'm just going to walk you upstairs and make sure you get inside."

"No." You shook your head. Even in mild drunkenness, you could sense that the man had no good intentions. "I can do that myself. Thank you."

You pressed the lock button and pulled the door handle. You hastily flung the car door open, finding it difficult to push it all the way.

Turning around, fully prepared to dash out the second your feet touched the floor, an impending doom dropped on your head when you heard a haphazard opening of a car door behind you.

You clutched your bag to your chest and slid off the passenger seat, borderline hopping out of the car. Your ankle bent, but you recovered reasonably quickly. The next step in your emergency plan was to run for it; you've got your keycard attached to your worker's badge. All you needed to do was open the door and slam it shut behind you.

Spinning away from the car door blocking your path, as you hastily pushed it all the way open, you were immediately met with a playful scream and a pair of hands gripping your shoulders. You inhaled sharply and accidentally swallowed the knot of air.

"You didn't have to make things so difficult,” he said as he shoved you back onto the passenger seat. "Why did you have to go and force me to act so violently? All you had to do was let me walk you home.”

Gurgle of saliva rushed up your throat to drown out your cries for help. The back of your mouth soured with an acidic taste that smelt of the beer you were forced to drink; if only they could burn human skin, you would have spat them out.

The knot of air you just swallowed squeezed through your chest with difficulty, almost as if it wanted to make a home for itself in the middle of your body. It made you choked up. Breathing with your chest became a stagnant process.

There was no security at your building, and you figured the other residents would ignore any noise, given this was no high-class estate and the walls were thin.

Screaming would only make the man angrier and possibly more excited. Instead of your voice, you should use your legs instead. There may not be any final blows, but at least there's a chance to delay what felt like the inevitable.

You kicked your feet blindly, feeling them land on solid ground several times, but not enough to release yourself from his grasp. Eventually, he groaned out loud and dug his nails into your arm, bringing your torso up quickly just to slam you down.

Your back hit the center console, the bottom of your neck scratched past the gear stick, and your head hit a solid surface.

Zaps of painful numbness ran through your body; a consistent ringing traveled to your ears, but you couldn't express it. Tears dripped from your eyes when you started to desperately claw at the hand undoing your belt, but you still couldn't say anything.

You only stared at the lights above you. They were blinding, like the eyes of a God. He was observing your struggle to be free of being violated.

The sound of a zipper reverberated in your head. You've never noticed how loud they were and wondered if you would always hear it after tonight.

Fingers hooked themselves at the waist of your pants, and the next second they were gone. A pained groan traveled through the air with a gentle swoosh of wind. You needed to find out which one came first.

Jongseob hasn't used his powers for a while and has been diligent about controlling them in emergencies where they were prone to slip through his grasp. It had been challenging to learn to live in a world where his powers were destructive only because of how delicate everything else was, but he have managed well so far.

Still, his body was not used to its sudden usage, evidently shown in the way his fingers twitched uncontrollably after he pulled the man off you. A sneer found its way to his lips; how sickening to think that his undoing could be at the hands of a predator.

Rushing over to the car door, he leaned over your body to carefully pull you up. You instinctively flinched at his touch and then calmed down the next second when you realized he was not aggressive.

He reached a hand behind your head, fingers moving about to look for any apparent injuries. When he concluded that there was none, he turned his attention to you.

“Hey,” he said. “It’s me. Jongseob."

You forced your stomach to stop shivering in more oxygen and turned your eyes to stare at his familiar face. Jongseob, with his blond hair curly as ever, stared back at you with soft concern.

You calmed down; it was an instinct learned from caring for them (or your apartment) when they first arrived to live with you.

Reaching up to grasp his wrist, you stopped his hand and hoarsely asked, "Why are you down here?"

"I heard your tears fall," he said, his fingers leaning out to wipe the tears from your cheek despite your soft protest.

"From all the way up?"

"The air shifts when that happens. I'm sensitive to you–" he looked away sheepishly and quickly shrugged–"these things. I'm sensitive to these things in general."

Jongseob was vigilant. His home planet blew up, and he has a brother much clumsier than himself. His vigilance and maturity were set in place for both of them, especially as they were thrown into an unfamiliar place.

You understood. You’ve never spoken about it in great detail, only ever making small spaces to praise him for his emotional intelligence.

There had been an irk in his intuition before he rushed downstairs. The television sounded of static, the uncomfortable stick of your couch, his inability to progress in the game he was playing—everything gradually added to the unknown irritation he felt beneath his skin until, finally, a shatter of glass.

It was a hallucination, but when he turned toward the kitchen, he realized the air was painted the same color as the first time you broke down in front of him.

Something was wrong. He knew he would figure it out because he was sensitive to you. The sound of your emotions has long taken root and bloomed in Jongseob's consciousness, a garden of his own making, and now he could pinpoint you from a mere drop in the air.

You couldn't find flaws in his response. There never was any; the caliber of aliens remained unknown to you the past months. But he's here, and you felt safer than ever, so you let your guard down and breathed out a whimper when speaking his name.

It rolled off your tongue like a snowboarder outrunning an avalanche—suffocating, afraid, and desperate. Incoherent explanations followed after, an attempt to clear your name, to prove to someone that you didn’t cause this.

Jongseob's heart squirmed in discomfort at the sight.

He looked at his hand, fingers that learned dexterity, connected to his hands and arms that could do many things. He could press buttons on a gaming console, use chopsticks for food, and hold multiple recycle bags for groceries.

He remembered the day they changed into human beings, how the first thing Soul did after growing himself a pair of arms and a body that could feel was to hug you both.

You offered to hug him that night after Soul pulled away. He had refused it, and you joked about how he was too cool for a little hug. Perhaps he thought so subconsciously, but he always knew he wasn't big on physical affection. Its notion gave him goosebumps. The unapologetic, unconcealed display of affection freaked him out.

He liked to be subtle and unnoticed, like tending to the garden in his mind where the most delicate and beautiful things bloomed in your stead, like keeping you constant in his mind, like remembering that there's love there.

"Come here," he whispered, extending his arms to your back and bringing you to him. "It's okay. I believe you.”

You thought he smelled like jasmine or whatever petal scent there was. Jongseob shivered ticklishly when you buried your nose in his shoulder to sniff it. He didn't put together that no matter how much he hid it, the garden seeps out because the truth cannot be concealed nor omitted.

He wished he could hug you for the first time under better circumstances, but you and he knew he wouldn't have agreed to it if it wasn't an emergency. It was brief but much needed.

When you voluntarily removed yourself, he glanced down at your pants to find that your belt was undone, your button was gone from its spot, and your underwear peeked from the zipper forced open. His jaw locked, and his eyes hallowed out.

It checked out with your rambles. Everything you said makes sense.

A sudden feeling penetrated his insides after the conclusion was made. He found it hard to breathe at the terrifying presence of a particular, bloodthirsty desperation. He suppressed an exhausted exhale and ignored the thirst for harm.

“Let’s go home,” he muttered as he slowly helped you to your feet. “Let’s get cleaned up.”

You listened to him, pushing yourself off the passenger's seat while he reached to the floor for your thrown bag. He wore it on one shoulder, fixing the strap before reaching for your hand.

After slamming the car door shut, he brought you with him over the front of the car. His footsteps were quiet, borderline silent, leaving only your shoes' clumsy scratches on the floor. You only felt faint traces of heat from the car's headlights as he covered most of it by standing on your side.

You arched your neck up to look at his downturned lips, his hair covering his eyes even though you've repeatedly told him to keep them out. You would scold him again when you had time, knowing he'd wear the same indifference on his face.

It felt like nagging a child sometimes; you've heard adult men generally tend to behave the same way.

“I was using the hair clips you got me. I took them off to come down here,” Jongseob said, not sparing you a glance. “You could have gotten me normal ones.”

“The Powerpuff Girls are cute,” you said. “You’re exactly like Blossom.”

“Please don’t speak nonsense.”

He squeezed your hand, making you chuckle. When you bumped your head to your side, you hit his shoulder. He didn't used to be so tall, and he didn't used to be so big. You suddenly felt small beside him, in a way that rained disaster, in an unexpectedly romantic way, and you were thinking about him as if he were human again.

"Shit, no way. You do have a boyfriend, then?”

Jongseob turned around, stepping forward to keep you behind him on the way. You peeked over his arm, a distasteful sneer twitching on your face.

You both faced the man just now getting on his feet. Jongseob inwardly hummed, acknowledging that his throw had likely done a number on the man's body. He hadn't meant to react so harshly, but he also didn't care that it ended up hurting someone a great deal.

“He looks a bit young, intern.”

“I’m twenty.”

"Good grief, he can't even drink yet!" The man laughed like he was choking on the air. "Does he know what he's doing?"

Jongseob rolled his eyes.

He knew this type of person: the kind who’s all bark and no bite. At least in front of nonchalance, they have no bite in them. Their only perk was that they knew how to pick their battles.

The man clearly noticed early on that he was not superior in physical strength. Therefore, choosing a fistfight would be a solution out of his league. That left him with one thing: trash talk. A lot of it, from your taste in men to his made-up flaws.

It was fine, though. Jongseob was a sensible person, and violence is never sensible.

"Hey, you could have tried me out if he hadn't come here. I would have changed your stubborn mind."

Violence is almost never sensible.

“Wait here," he muttered monotonously as he turned to you. He brought your hands up to your cheek and pressed his palm over them so you looked at him. “It'll look scary, but I promise nothing will happen to you."

“What?” you breathed out, your eyes trailing after his back. “Jongseob?”

It took a moment, but it was all you could see once you noticed it.

The green from the leaves, the brown from the tree trunks, the orange and white of apartment and street lights, the silver of the man’s car, the gray of concrete walls, the burgundy of the brick floor, the pink and yellow of flowers, the black of tires, the blue of the sky, the light of the stars and moon, the white of the man’s shirt, the milk of his skin—the colors were being drained from everything, making it look like a frame out of a film noir.

Your hands trembled as your eyes pinned themselves at the approaching sky. It couldn’t be the alcohol forcing an illusion before your eyes as you felt yourself remarkably awake and clear-minded from the adrenaline. The sky was approaching! It felt closer. You couldn’t be mistaken. After all, it wasn’t everything you got to see a colorless world, and you’ve barely recovered from panic.

Lowering your head, you turned to the trees surrounding the apartment buildings and furrowed your brows. The leaves were falling one by one gradually, and scrapes of tree trunks were being peeled off its body. The tires of cars were deflating, the flowers were lowering, and the sound of once-stable structures cracking became more audible. Everything was falling apart; everything was dying.

Everything but you, your bag, and your clothes. Nothing happened to you, just as Jongseob promised you.

“Jongseob–“

You were abruptly cut off by the sound of a horrible coughing fit that bordered on a choke. Eyes widened, and your feet quickly brought you to stand behind the alien. He stared silently at the man who left nail marks on your shoulders, who was currently doubled over on the floor, heaving for oxygen.

The colors were drained from him entirely, and his skin began to melt from his head. Clumps and clumps of fat liquid dripped down his eyes in a honey-like texture and then down his mouth, filling it up to stop him from gasping for air.

A buzzing noise sounded from his completely enclosed body, like a train screeching to an emergency stop. No air went in or left his body. He was a box sealed shut and thrown in fire to be melted into its original form—a clump of cells. He was going to die.

Jongseob was going to kill him. As much as you felt the action was justified, a bigger picture was already painted that you must carefully analyze before prioritizing your vengeance.

It would be easier to explain the death of one man rather than the death of a plot of land. The desiccating of your surroundings cannot be explained by anything other than the doing of a supernatural. In this case, it would be Jongseob, and the program coordinator would jump through no hurdles to figure that out.

Suppose it got out that he killed someone. In that case, separation becomes inevitable, and you’ve gotten so used to having those two around that you couldn’t fathom living in a soundless apartment ever again.

The consequences of killing the man outweigh the disappointment of not.

“Hey–no. Jongseob, no. Stop it. Stop it now,” you demanded as you rushed to stand before you. You grabbed his hand and pushed it down, squeezing it with all the strength you could muster. “You will not kill anyone tonight.”

He peered down at you, no light flooding his eyes despite recognizing your face. “He was disrespectful to you.”

“He was, and that’s terrible,” you admitted. “But there are other ways to handle this. If everyone killed each other for being horrible, we’d not have the world we do today.”

He blinked, seemingly thinking through the points you presented. But then he shrugged. “I’m not everyone, am I?”

“You–“

You poked your tongue to the inside of your cheek, not surprised by his defiance but very much annoyed. Between him and Soul, he was always the one who talked back more.

For a time, you chalked it up to him being innocently curious about the human world, but after a while, you realized he was just bratty. If you kept that personality trait in every monthly report, you were sure he would have been called back for a mental evaluation or something along those lines.

But being a tattle-tale was not necessary. You knew how to snap him out of it.

“I said–“ your words flew through gritted teeth, and you shot a hand up to pinch his ear so you could pull him to your face level–“we are not killing anyone tonight!”

He stumbled at the harsh yank, redness flaring up at the spot you were squeezing. His hand let go of the tension building up through using his power, immediately returning the colors back to their original place.

Helpless whines sounded from his mouth as he bent his waist to accommodate your halfhearted corporal punishment. Still, he did not attempt to push you away.

“Okay! Okay! Calm down!” he yelled.

“Calm down?”

“No–I mean, yes! Yes, calm down, but not like that!” he exclaimed. “Stop pulling my ear!”

You squeezed your eyes in contemplation before letting go. Your short bicker gave the release of Jongseob’s power enough time to gather itself on the fallen man’s face and patch him together. He stood up and tripped on air but caught himself before his face could kiss the ground and bolted for his car.

Jongseob reflectively grabbed your arm and stepped closer to you, staring as the car engine started and the man drove away without another word.

His chest heaved up through a large inhale. He noticed the way his arm had been trembling since you forced him to stop using his power. He wasn’t afraid, only unfamiliar with something he used to hold so dear to himself.

His power has always been offensive, but not to the degree it showed on Earth. It wasn’t used to kill his peers, and it definitely was not used to pull the cosmos to him.

That discrepancy shook him as much as when he thoughtlessly maxed out his strength after not using it for so long. The muscle strain reminded him of how careless he was and caught him off guard.

He didn't like it. He was supposed to be good at controlling his given ability. He was supposed to be good at controlling his actions. He was supposed to be sensible.

“Are you okay?

He slowly turned to you. Your face came into view under the flicking street light like the moon inched closer to Earth when he pulled it down to protect you. He couldn't tell if his eyes or heart saw you more because they both jolted in your presence.

Curling his fingers around the strap of your bag, he stepped forward to close the unnecessary gap between you both. He tried to peek over his frizzy bangs to no avail, so he ducked and lightly swayed his head to move them out of the way. He tilted his head lower to your level and looked through his lashes, his brows raised.

“Are you?” he asked.

You closed your parted lips and averted your eyes. The invisible outline of the man’s car remained vivid when you glanced at the empty spot. Once you turned back to Jongseob, knowing what he could do to people and how willing he was to do it, the illusion released its tight grasp on you.

You didn’t forget—you couldn’t forget, that even in such an ordinary world, even if all you’d ever do in life was work and play, even when it came to the least threatening harm, Jongseob would never have you anywhere near it.

“You saved me,” you said. “Thank you.”

“But are you okay?”

You smiled as you reached up to rub his ear softly between your fingers. “I’m sorry for pinching your ear.”

“[Name],” he started, but when you began to frantically squeeze his earlobe, he groaned and pulled your hand away. “Okay! Okay! I won’t ask anymore!”

He brushed his hands on his shirt when you finally let him go, a permanent scoff hanging on his cutely puckered lips. Rolling his eyes when he saw your smile, he huffed a sigh before adding, "When we go back, and Soul asks you about the marks on your shoulders, tell him something happened at work. I don't want him to freak out."

Soul and his power were interlinked. They come hand in hand, particularly his own greatly conveniences Soul's. While he absorbs colors, Soul absorbs monochrome.

Once Jongseob finishes sucking up all the colors around him, he leaves behind a grayscale perfect for Soul to use. That's how they're linked with each other, like two halves of a whole.

The one difference was that Soul had a problem being in control when his power was utilized, while Jongseob knew what he was doing. When Jongseob hurts someone, it is always because he wants to, and he could be easily stopped with persuasion. Soul was different.

Given that nature is that he turns into something that isn't himself, he would also not think and act like himself. Jongseob didn't want anything more to happen tonight.

“Oh,” you nodded, “I was going to lie anyway.”

“Thank you,” he muttered, then a beat later, almost inaudibly, “for everything, actually.”

He wanted to say everything he did was for you, to let you know that he will continue to do everything for you. But, despite all his talent in thought articulation, he was too timid and shy to express sentiment, so he kept his mouth shut.

Crossing his arms, he recalled the moment he noticed you in the passenger seat, with trembling limbs and an unopened mouth. He fixed his jaw and hid his hands from the colorful world, as he felt rather afraid of the truth—the existence of his devotion to you and the responsibility it spawns.

That kind of devotion causes a strain on both parties and cannot be undone. That kind of devotion, in his willingness to drag a carcass to your feet, is a self-inflicted curse. That kind of devotion, a synonym for love, an antonym of honor, is a burden. Jongseob trapped it behind his lips and prayed to God that he relearned how to restrain it in his hands by a mere cross of his arms.

Pray to God—he licked his lower lip as the lines of your face redraw themselves in his replaying memory—look at them and pray.

You taught them to get groceries when you were away at work.

They always did well with helping out around the house; you never knew or asked whether any alien abilities were included.

Jongseob was excellent at ensuring every surface was wiped clean. Soul always knew where everything was after he put them somewhere.

Grocery shopping was included among household responsibilities. Besides the constant sneaking of junk food, they ensured they got everything you requested.

They have frequented the market so much that the elders who ran most stores could recognize their faces and orders. After giving it a few more weeks, Jongseob and Soul were, unfortunately and hilariously, roped into the pile of gossip that never ceases to circulate the shops.

Apparently, they both live with you! But which one of them is your boyfriend?

"What's a boyfriend?" Soul asked in response to the question.

The shopping bag in his hand crinkled when he squeezed the handle. His round eyes followed the fruit stand owner as she moved around to get him what he needed: apples, oranges, bananas, and whatnot.

As she brushed past Soul to get to the box of apples, she spared him a glance and rolled her eyes, mistaking his genuine ignorance as him dodging the question. She picked up a few apples, examining each one with ease before reaching an empty hand out to Soul, beckoning for his shopping bag.

"You know what a boyfriend is,” she said. “Why are you acting coy? Are you the boyfriend?”

Soul pursed his lips together into a helpless frown. He didn't know what 'coy' meant either.

The grandma dumped the apples she chose in the bag and briefly looked up as she prepared to march toward the oranges. When she noticed the clueless expression on Soul's face, she paused with squinted eyes, and then an enthusiastic gasp jumped out of her mouth.

"Oh my! The other blond boy is the boyfriend, then? But you're in love with them?" she assumed, her fingers waving and pointing accusingly at Soul. "Or is it Jongseob you're in love with? I always thought you two were brothers, but I guess I was wrong!"

"We're very close, so we're basically brothers," he clarified. "But we don't have–um. Our mom and dad don't exist."

She looked away from the box of orange, one of them still ripe in her hand. “For how long?”

“Since we’re born.”

"Oh, poor dear." She walked away from the box of oranges to give Soul a pat on the shoulder. She stopped at the front of the display and began sifting through the boxes and randomly grabbing more than he had asked for. "Dead parents and a failed romance. Living with the couple, no less!"

Soul has not a lick of an idea what she was talking about. He would repeat his question about what a boyfriend was, but the old lady's eager rambles made it impossible for him to fit his voice in the air, so he focused on listening.

Beginning with her stories about her old romance and her detailed recollection of her past loves, he realized she, surprisingly, has a lot of wisdom to offer.

Here was what Soul gathered from the nosy grandma about a boyfriend: a boyfriend is and does many things.

A boyfriend waits for you to get off school or work, wants to spend a lot of time with you, never keeps secrets from you, thinks about you all the time, hangs out with you when he has free time, takes care of you when you are sick, loves to hug and touch you, never yells at you, and puts you above himself.

Usually, he lets Jongseob do the listening and summarizing, so he was very proud of himself when he independently came to this grand conclusion: "[Name], I am your boyfriend."

"Oh my god–" Jongseob looked away from the TV at Soul, who randomly announced the statement by the kitchen door as you cut up some apples. He slapped a hand to his forehead. "Soul, I already told you we're not their boyfriend!"

After pushing all the apple slices onto a plate, you dropped the knife in the sink. Swiftly opening a drawer to pick out a small plastic tube, you slammed it shut with a swing of your hips and turned around to lean against the cabinet.

You shook the tube, the toothpicks inside making a sandy noise with each shake, and you looked out the kitchen door behind Soul's shoulder at Jongseob, who still had his head in his hands. But the peek of his snaggletooth told you he was failing to suppress a smile.

"Who told you that, Soul?” you asked.

"The grandma at the fruit stall told me about her old boyfriends," Soul answered.

“Really? All of a sudden?” you mused. “What started that conversation?”

Soul followed you out of the kitchen after you stuck three toothpicks on three random apple slices and slammed the tube on the countertop. He blindly turned the lights off and closed the door on the way, hurrying up to sit on the floor by your feet as you placed the plate of apples on the coffee table.

Jongseob scooted closer to the edge of the couch and reached over for a slice, popping it in his mouth and starting to answer before he finished chewing.

"They were asking which of us is your boyfriend at the market today," Jongseob said.

“Which one? Not even if one of you were?” you snorted.

“They’re very determined that one of us is dating you.”

“Oh, I know what dating means!” Soul perked up. “I learned it in a drama.”

You looked down in disbelief and nudged him with your feet. “You learned dating but not what boyfriend means?”

Jongseob let out a giggle. He slid off his seat and brought his knees to his chest to fit in the space between the couch and the table. You brought your legs up when he moved closer to the middle to be next to Soul.

Out of habitual playfulness, you reached down to do a series of aggressive actions, from ruffling his hair to squeezing his cheeks. Jongseob protested, leaning away from your attacking hands as his arms flew up to swat you away like a fly.

“You never do this to Soul!” he exclaimed.

“Well, yeah,” you responded mindlessly as you let him go. “He’s nice. He just lets me.”

Soul grinned from ear to ear when you touched his face. Your touch was soft, like it always was, shifting from his jaw to his cheeks to his hair. He never got enough of the sensation of human touch, no matter how trivial.

Looping an arm around an old man at a crosswalk, picking up a kindergartener after they tripped from running around, Jongseob’s hands going through his hair to tie a ponytail for him, your fingers dabbing gently on his face with skincare products—it’s warm, fleetingly so, and human, which lasts.

Jongseob feigned a puking noise after watching you mess around with Soul’s facial features for a few seconds. He got up from the floor and headed to the kitchen to find a drink.

You ignored his distaste, drowning Soul with your immediate attention. He grinned at you, his side bang falling to the back of his ears. What a sight of sore eyes, with his eyes so round and wide, his smile so genuine and willing. He looked at you like you were the only person he wanted to see and spoke like it was his first time using his voice. You cooed to yourself, to the void: look how pretty he is!

“Hello,” you whispered with your palms on his face, gently pushing his cheeks together to bring him to you, “Shota.”

“Hello,” he returned in a volume that mirrored yours, “I bought the fruit myself today.”

“Yeah, I know,” you beamed.

“[Name],” he reached up for your face to urge you close so nobody else would hear, “am I really not your boyfriend?”

You laughed from your throat, but the noise huffed out through your nose rather than your pursed lips. Shota squinted his eyes at the warm air and frowned. You kept laughing at the topic, both you and Jongseob, but he was hung up about it.

The old lady at the fruit store mentioned a list of criteria for being a boyfriend, and he believed he checked off everything on the list!

He spends his entire day waiting for you to come home from work, and after you do, he’d spend the rest of the day with you. Jongseob does the same, but Shota has never kept any secrets from you, mainly because he’s got none, but that still counts toward a check off the box!

He cared for you when you got drunk, even though Jongseob did most of the cleaning and handled your personal hygiene. However, Shota lets you hug him, so he has the upper hand that round!

“It’s complicated,” you said. “You’ve watched dramas, right? Have you noticed that although two characters love each other, they’re not considered together?”

“No,” he shook his head, “they’re together to me.”

“Well–“ you rolled your eyes up–“yeah, okay. I suppose that’s fair.”

Looking back down at him, you rubbed his cheeks with your thumb and shook your head in disagreement. “It’s still more complicated than you think.”

Shota’s bottom lip couldn’t help but jut out when he gradually pulled the corner of his lips into an upsetting frown.

The idea plagued his mind since he was first introduced to it at the market, and too much time and effort was put into giddying himself over this. The disappointment of his fantasy—you agreeing that he is your boyfriend—falling off was immeasurable.

“What are you two whispering about?” Jongseob interrupted once he returned. He looked between you and Soul, and then he frowned. “Are you still on the boyfriend thing?”

“Yeah,” Soul dragged out with a brief wave of his hand. “You won’t let me be your boyfriend because we’re supposed to be like brothers, and now [Name] won’t let me be their boyfriend because it’s too complicated!”

“You told him it’s too complicated?” Jongseob questioned, putting his elbow on the edge of the couch when he turned around to raise a brow at you.

Your eye twitched at his judgemental tone, and you almost lunged to tackle him to the floor. “It is complicated!”

Jongseob pulled a face.

One of the things that inconvenienced his technical way of processing information was relationship problems, particularly the fact that everyone around him loved to create issues that shouldn’t be there.

He understood that certain situations reveal emotions that could be difficult to ignore, but he didn’t see a reason for ignorance when one could face them straightforwardly.

People tip-toe across the winded roads too much for the sake of empathy despite it not being due, and then responses like ‘it’s too complicated’ spawn when it’s fundamentally incorrect to say so.

“How?” he questioned. “Do you like Soul?”

“I like the both of you,” you said.

“I know.” He nodded. “But do you like him?”

You smirked awkwardly. “No.”

“Then it’s not complicated,” Jongseob said with a clap. He turned to Soul, whose eyes had been darting between you two during your brief conversation, and he shrugged. “You can’t be [Name]’s boyfriend because they’re not in love with you. That’s it.”

“Woah! Why did you suddenly switch the wording?”

“Why not? It doesn’t make a difference,” he said. “Are you in love with Soul?”

“No.”

“I’m in love with you, though.”

You shook your head and patted Soul’s shoulder. “No, you’re not.”

“Ahm, we don’t–haha, we don’t know about that,” Jongseob mused between forced chuckles as he nodded at the floor.

His eyes widened briefly as a calculated thought about Soul’s untainted feelings for you flickered through his mind. When he looked up and saw your deadpan, he pulled his lips into a thin line, stretching it into an ugly smile that made his upcoming words sound flat and borderline incoherent.

“Do you remember what happened a few months ago because of the evaluation?”

It was a month after Jongseob saved you at the bottom of the apartment estate. You had decided to omit that detail from the monthly report; you told yourself it wasn’t necessary because it wasn’t an extraordinary development about Jongseob but rather an incident that happened to you.

However, deep down, you knew you kept it a secret because you were afraid the program coordinator would find issues with what happened and separate you two.

A few weeks after you turned in the monthly evaluation, a detailed post about a freak accident where a boy who choked a man through telekinesis was posted on one of the most popular social media forums.

Nobody believed in the post; most comments redirected the author to a sub-forum where people post fantasy stories they’ve written, but it was how your program coordinator found out what happened. Within five days of that post, you received an email about a temporary separation.

They gave you a week to pack their things and prepare them for leaving your care.

Jongseob hadn’t said anything when you sat them down to tell them that they would be relocated to another home indefinitely. You didn’t think Soul really understood what happened until the time of departure. Either that, or he hadn’t felt the effect of separation until the moment it was happening, as it took multiple staff members to successfully release his grip from your arm.

But what you hadn’t shown them were the scars on your forearm, all of them scratched into a bloody storm by the unassuming Shota, who, in a state of panic, had unknowingly sucked up the monochromes around him and begun the initial phase of transformation.

His sharp, blade-like nails dug into your forearm through your sweater, forcefully grounding himself by your side when he was asked to get inside the van. But you didn’t say anything other than words of reassurance. With a hand on the side of his head, all you had told him was that you’d see him again soon.

His nails dragged several lines down your skin when he was pulled off of you. You didn’t react to it, only pressing a palm to the wounds and shoving the pain to the back of your head.

If you let it be known that he hurt you, there’s no way they’d be allowed back in your house. You thought he knew, though. You believed Shota knew what he did because he stopped struggling and went to sit next to Jongseob in the van after making eye contact with you.

You three weren’t kept apart for too long, surprisingly. The worst they did was give you a slap on the wrist and a warning to not hide information from them again.

“It’s a normal reaction to being taken from his home,” you said. “I think he missed the normalcy more than he missed me.”

“You’re wrong.” Jongseob crawled over to Soul and beckoned for his attention with a finger snap. “Do you remember when we left home for a few weeks? Why did you throw a tantrum when they came to get us?”

“Huh?” Soul faintly puckered his lips in thought. Once recognition hit, he opened his mouth in realization and nodded. “Ah! That time! I–“ he tilted his head with soft inhales–“did I throw a tantrum?”

“You did,” Jongseob reached up to grab your arm and gestured to the scars, “there’s literally proof.”

“I didn’t do that on purpose,” Soul argued. “I was distraught, I didn’t want to leave [Name].”

“Case in point. See?” Jongseob dropped your arm on the couch with a triumphant shrug. “I told you.”

“That doesn’t prove anything,” you said. “Families do that with each other, too.”

“Is that what we are?” Jongseob asked, raising his brows. “We’re a family now?”

“Not legally. I would have to adopt you two,” you said. “But then you would be my son, which is weird.”

“We could be your brothers.”

“I want to be your boyfriend,” Soul chimed in. When you chuckled through a tight-lipped frown, he sighed. “Okay, brother is fine.”

“Good,” Jongseob hummed dismissively before returning his attention to you. “Is there a way for us to legally become siblings, though?”

It wasn’t something you thought about. The significant details of the outreach program were not known to its participants. They let you know before you signed the contract that it was a program to help assimilate aliens to the human world, and you didn’t doubt that to be the case.

However, calculating the money the government was spending on the participants just for them to foster aliens—it didn’t make sense.

The foster system for human children was severely underfunded, yet the one for space creatures wasn’t. If you had to guess, it was because there’s a catch to alien assimilation, especially when they’re bonded with a person from Earth.

At the end of the day, you’ve no idea if Jongseob and Soul would be allowed to stay with you for a long time.

“I don’t think we can,” you replied, leaning forward and rolling your eyes. “But who knows? Maybe they’re secretly writing a new constitution for alien residents on Earth, but we definitely won’t legally become a family anytime soon. It’s okay, though. We can do it in theory!”

“What does that even mean?” Jongseob snickered. “In theory?”

“I’ll show you at some point,” you said sheepishly. “I just have to give someone a heads-up first.”

The mausoleum was quiet. You didn’t think you’d ever seen it crowded before.

Carefully putting the flower into the compartment, your eyes brushed past your mother’s picture, and you relaxed.

“Hey, Mom. It’s been a while.”

You didn’t make a habit of visiting frequently, so whenever you did, you’ve got a lot of say. Your busy work life, social life, and almost nonexistent love life. The good and the bad. The embarrassing and the ugly. The fact that there were few people around made it easier to ramble to a picture, and sometimes, you wondered if the ones in her neighbor compartments were listening too.

You didn’t speak in detail about the alien outreach program you joined, partly because it was still confidential to the general public, but you told her about the ‘twins.’

“I’ll bring them over when I get the chance,” you said. “I’ll see you later then.”

Reaching out for the compartment door, you prepared to close it when you suddenly jumped in realization.

“I almost forgot,” you laughed. “This is for you.”

Letting go of the door handle, you reached for your bag and pulled something out. You waved it about and gently blew on it before stacking it neatly next to the flower you bought.

It was a polaroid of you three.

#jongseob x reader #jongseob imagines #jongseob fluff #soul x reader #soul imagines #p1harmony scenarios #p1harmony fluff #piwon imagines #piwon x reader #piwon fluff #piwon fanfic

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cannibalisation · 18 days ago

Text

i. lady grinning soul

sirius black/reader (no gendered pronouns, mentions of reader having 🍒)

shocking your friends, you bite the bullet and book a tattoo appointment with a new artist, turns out you have a lot more in common than thought before. or, you and tattooist!sirius bond over your shared love for David Bowie. (2.6k)

caution. modern au, tattoo needles, blood, slight nudity(?), i’ve never been tattooed before so the procedure might be inaccurate, reader is down bad for a man they just meet, pretty unprofessional work environment, crack ending.

i’m new to the marauders fandom and have limited knowledge, sorry for any character inaccuracies.

IT’S exceedingly rare for you to shoot from the hip.

More often than not, the bullets stay lodged in the barrel of your metaphorical gun (in other words, your prefrontal cortex), where it’s safe and close to you.

Most of your close companions would consider you to be a level-headed individual, not the kind of person to go to when it comes to profound decisions.

Lily Evans knew this well, so it’s safe to assume that she was dumbfounded when you shared thoughts with her about your pivotal choice to get new ink.

“You’re cheating on McKinnon? She’s never going to forgive you.” She verbalised with an airy voice.

It was a joke; you weren’t cheating on Marlene—she’s done most of your tattoos, and she would forgive you. At least you think she would.

You snort at Lily’s statement, trying to focus on the tweezer in your hand and her russet-coloured eyebrows.

She sits on the small stool of her vanity, and you lean over her. It’s a position too close for comfort, but over the years you’ve known Lily, its no dilemma for either of you.

“If she hadn’t gone on that so-called platonic girls trip with that Meadowes girl, I wouldn’t have to cheat on her, and it’s not even cheating!”

The corner of Lily’s mouth had curled up at your comment on the topic, and you mirrored it. She eyes you playfully in silent agreement.

Marlene did try and write off this weekend getaway as a friendly affair between her and Dorcas, but you could see past her act effortlessly. She hadn’t been subtle, not when her eyes had lit up so brightly when she heard the doorbell ring.

Leaning back from where you were hunched over the red-headed girl, you try to assess your work done on her eyebrows.

As usual, they’re plucked to perfection. You smile and throw the tweezer aside; it clatters against the other beauty products situated on the surface of your vanity. Lily flinches at the noise and lightly punches your arm in retaliation with a shallow laugh.

“Where have you booked it? Is it local?” Lily questions, trailing after you as you walk away.

“A parlour in the city; wonder if Marl knows them.” You reply as you stride into the kitchen. Flicking on the kettle, you begin to prepare a cup of tea. Turning back to where Lily stands behind you, you shake the box of teabags in offering. She nods and moves to sit on the edge of the kitchen counter.

“Is it not like, sacrilege? What if they’re tattooist arch-enemies or something?”

“Then perhaps I’ll be the tattooed Judas.” It was a poor attempt at a joke on your part, but fortunately it lands and Lily lets out a snicker.

You ponder the thought for a moment while waiting on the kettle to boil. Is a fresh set of ink a symbol for the thirty pieces of silver? Is Marlene saintlike, and is it even worth betraying her? She’s always been a good friend, and you’d feel terrible if she actually was heartbroken over your actions.

As if she had a second sense for sniffing out negative reasoning, Lily sounds out a low whistle to gain your attention. It works, and you turn to look at her.

Her head is tilted to the left slightly, curls brushing against the countertop. She always had an unnatural ability for reading your body language like a book, now even more so. A small smile graces her features, one of tenderness she only sets aside for those closest to her—and probably stray cats.

“It’ll be fine; you can always hide it from her.” She murmurs, as if it were a secret.

“I’m getting it done on my ribs.”

Lily grimaces, and you don’t know if it’s out of the idea of the pain or how quickly her secretive plan was soiled.

A bell chime makes a racket when you open the front door of the tattoo parlour.

You wince at the noise and slowly close the door behind you. Inside the shop is an interior similar to what you had already imagined.

Tawny-coloured bricks line the back wall; it reminds you of Lily’s hair.

Framed pictures of artworks and musicians decorate the brickwork; you take note of the recurring portraits of your favourite classic rock stars, maybe this place won’t be too bad; maybe you were stressing for nothing.

There are five sets of tattoo stations, with one of them being occupied. A burly man lies against the leather of the chair as another, much slimmer man has a tattoo gun to his bicep. The man has deeply contorted facial features, most likely due to the pain.

It’s laughable, almost, seeing such a stout individual in such a situation.

You are broken out of your stupor by a figure that appears before you. Another man, with wide brown eyes hidden behind crimson-coloured glasses, stands in front of you. He has a bright-eyed look, one you recognise as the typical customer-service guise. Taking a brief moment, you admire the dark ink that lines his brown skin.

“Afternoon love, Did you have an appointment for today, or are you a walk-in?” He questioned, voice orotund to ensure you had heard him over the buzz of the tattoo gun in the corner of the room. He presses his upper body against the front desk to lean over it and grab a spiralled notebook.

You assume it’s a booking schedule, as Marlene has something similar in her flat, so you offer your name. He flips through the book before he lands on one page. He nods to himself and lets out a small noise of recognition.

“Well, it looks like you’re with Sirius today; I’ll go fetch him for you. Please make yourself comfortable.” He gestures to the small shag settee behind you before walking into a back room hidden behind a beaded curtain. You do as he says and perch yourself down on the crimson-coloured couch.

Toying at the textured fabric you sit upon, you return to admiring the decor of the shop. One poster in particular catches your eye.

A grayscale portrait of David Bowie sits behind a sky blue frame and sea foam glass. The blackened scratching of an autograph leaves you feeling a slight sense of jealousy.

A loud brush of the beaded curtains interrupts the fresh grudge you had formed on whoever it is that got a signed picture of the Goblin King.

Graced with the presence of yet another man, you can’t help but roll your eyes at the matter. Maybe you should’ve stuck with Marlene. This one’s just as pretty as the original guy you spoke to— alabaster skin and cropped jet black hair. He smiles softly when you stand to meet him halfway.

“Hi. You’re my canvas today?”

You nod, and he motions for you to follow him to a tattoo station. This man, Sirius, you recall, dons a frayed shirt with imagery of a black metal band you hardly recognise and navy blue wide leg jeans. He has two different coloured Converse shoes on; is it a fashion statement, or did he seem to displace the other half to both pairs? From what you can see when you walk behind him, his forearms are patterned with cluttered designs of tattoos.

You settle onto the tattoo bench as Sirius prepares his equipment.

He’s practically hovering over you now, eyeing the length of your body. Your face grows warm, and you pray that he can’t feel the heat. It’s clear he does though; a hint of a smile crawls up on his features. He really was quite pretty.

“Alright,” he says, “what are we doing today?”

“Well, I wasn’t exactly set on a particular subject; I was hoping you might have some designs you’ve been wanting to try out.”

Sirius smiles much more softly now. He looks alluring like this. The sterile lighting would do nothing to help the beauty of others, but for some reason he looks otherworldly.

“Stunning, I can work with that.” You could too if he asked for it. “Is there a position in particular you were leaning towards?” He asks while pulling a beige Manila sleeve. You nod and gesture in the general direction of your upper rib cage. His face contorts as if he were experiencing the soon-to-come pain.

You spend the next few minutes with your head leaning awfully close to Sirius’ shoulder. Finally, you land on a particular design that you like the concept of and ask him to tweak some parts of the composition.

Having already been subjected to being a canvas for Marlene, you are already familiar with the spouts of pain experienced when being tattooed.

There are enough sweets and sugary drinks stuffed into the pocket of your bag to last you days; you can only hope that Sirius has the peace of mind to go easy on you. Spending the next several hours whining into his ear in pain seems less than charming.

“Cool. You can take your shirt off now.”

Just as you expected, he did not go easy on you. Fortunately, it had taken less than half an hour to finalise the exact location and composition of the piece. Normally, it would take yourself and Marlene several days to even figure out a basic idea. Perhaps it was the air of succour that Sirius gave off, or maybe you had just wanted to make an impression on him.

Either way, you find yourself with your back flat against the chair as Sirius holds the tattoo gun to your flesh. The pain is strong on the surface of your rib cage, and the buzz of the tattoo gun makes it feel like your ribs are rattling against one another.

Sirius has been heartwarmingly kind throughout this exchange, taking the time often to ask if you had wanted any other snacks to eat at or if you needed to take a break when he notices the contort of pain in your face. But obviously these are just standard business qualities; it’s best not to assume otherwise. The faint brush of his hand against your shin or the hushed praises under his breath are just common practices, right?

Bravely, you choose to ignore these thoughts that occupy your mind and instead focus on studying the dark lines embellished on Sirius’ forearms.

A mixture of bright and monochrome ink circulates his veins and stretch marks. It evokes an image of a summer’s breath of wind. Flower petals and leaves curling in the breeze.

A series of gentle pats against your shoulder rids you of your state of languor. He has terribly soft hands, yet callouses run deep all the same. You wonder what it would be like to hold his in your own.

“I think I’ll turn you over now. Just to make the tattooing a bit easier for you.” He began, urging you with a gentle tug on your bicep. “Is that alright, love?” You nod and string out a grumble of agreements.

He has you embraced a lot closely now that your on your side. His unoccupied hand grabs a flurry of paper towels from the dispenser behind you. He rests them and his hand between the juncture of hip and upper thigh. If you didn’t know any better, you’d assume the new blush of red that he dawns on his face was derived from such proximity.

The insistent buzz of the tattoo gun continues, and you try to centre your mind on the noise. With your eyes closed, you cannot see the serpentine path formed by coffee brown eyes. As Sirius watches you, a lump forms in his throat.

It’s laughably notable that this is unprofessional, the way he’s been acting for the last several hours. Sirius is surprised that Remus hasn’t said anything to him as he types away on the front desk computer; has he even noticed? The all but necessary intimacy between the two of you was stark. If James was still clocked in, he’d be having a field day.

Your body language isn’t telling him that you’re uncomfortable, and he most definitely hasn’t pushed at any clear boundaries. He sees the way your chest rises and falls. You look content almost, which is odd given the fact that he is currently holding several needles in your skin.

Something catches Sirius’ eye, something he recognises all too well. He draws a sharp breath, and you flinch.

“Hey, we have matching tats!” He marvelled. With a flutter of blinks, you hum in question, clearly shocked by the sudden volume of his voice.

Sirius turns the tattoo gun off and moves it to the small side table to the right of you. He pulls up the fabric of his weathered shirt and points at a specific work on his lower stomach. It’s then that you make the connection and try not to redden at the reveal of his lean form, like a Victorian gentleman would at the slip of an ankle.

Nestled upon his waist is a red lightning bolt with blue shadowing. Aladdin Sane, 1973, David Bowie.

You have a matching David Bowie tattoo with one of the most attractive people you’ve ever seen.

You’re spiralling now; is the autographed photo his? Was he truly blessed with the presence of a musical genius before he passed on? You don’t know if you should break down in tears or kiss him.

The tattoo you have is much smaller and located on the side of your left breast. Normally it’s quite hard to see, hidden beneath your underclothes or your arm. It was one of your first, a drunken decision but you don’t regret it. Lily had cringed when you first showed it to her, criticising the rash, permanent commitment.

The following weekend, she did the same thing in an almost blackout haze. A set of lily flower petals rests on her shoulder.

“You a Bowie fan? What’s your top song?” The presence of Sirius once again breaks you out of your thoughts; he’s really good at that.

“Uh, probably The Prettiest Star.”

“Yeah. That’s a good one.”

The smile on his face is a coy one; you can’t help but feel left out of an untold joke. Sirius says nothing and returns to working on your skin. In your mind, you pray to whoever’s listening (hopefully Bowie) that this tattoo won’t take much longer. You are unsure of how much more you can take of this determined teasing.

Another hour passes before you’re finally done. Plastic wrapped like leftovers and a decent sum drained from your bank account. Safe to assume that leftovers are all you’ll be eating for the time being.

Sirius hands you a receipt and bids you a flirty goodbye. Breathless, you exit the parlour, though not before becoming flustered at the wink he gives you as you walk out the door.

You turn the crumpled invoice in your hand and stifle a shout of elation. A phone number, his personal one, you hope. Beside it is a scribbled sentence that reads: Text me and i’ll tell you all about my favourite songs. - S.

When you finally limp your way up the stairs to your flat, you are faced with the one thing you feared. Lily sits tense on the living room couch, with Marlene right beside her.

The red-headed girl turns to look at you with a frightened expression, she knows. You mentally brace yourself and tiptoe over to the two. Gazing meekly at the subject of your fears, her face is unreadable. Your breath turns heavy.

“So..” she starts, “You’re having an affair?”

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