#and RIGHT BACK AT YOU!!! Because your writing is SO beautiful and evocative and emotional!!!! i die

[johaerys-writes]

Ho boy.

HO BOY.

okay, okay. Calm down. Okay.

So.

THEMES: Love beyond reason. Love that transcends BOUNDARIES. Love without shame. Just.. love. Often between two people who are not necessarily equally matched in power, but which happens anyway and lasts - and where doubt is squashed by it eventually.

I don't know if I can manage to distinguish between motifs and phrases properly, but what always completely catches my breath is the way you capture moments. Moments that encapsulate whole worlds. The perfect description of a lover's gaze, of how you see someone when you love them.

You have an incredibly way with metaphors, too.

The day was warm and humid, the air sliding down my throat like honey from the comb.

Perfect. CHEF'S KISS.

I can go to a random chapter of a random story of yours and find something like that.

in the moonlight that streamed in he was silver-bright and luminescent, a flame flickering in the dark

Your smut is incredibly sensual without being crass, like someone beckoning you.

You write lyrically and very poetically, reading your fics are always like slipping on a comfortable, warm coat. It's absolutely beautiful.

MY FRIEND MY FRIEND!!!!!! I don't know what to say other than THANK YOU for always being so kind and sweet ajsgshs how do I word 😭 It makes me so happy that you enjoy my writing, it really means so much. And I'm absolutely floored at all the themes and motifs that have stood out for you in my works because yes!! YES!!! Mad crazy stupid love is what we're here for ahaha 💙💙

[rinamars]

I always wondered what fics do my favorite authors read bc maybe if I start reading them too, I'll be able to write like them 😤 Kidding aside, can you recommend some Erwin x Reader fics that you really like/inspire you to write? I'm fine with on-going ones 🤩

little anon i could KISS you!! i've been looking for an excuse to make an erwin fic recs post so here we go *cracks knuckles* brace yourselves heheh (warning: most of these recs are 18+)

first of all: everything @riewritten has ever written. EVERYTHING. that goes without saying. her brain is so big. i wish i could take a trip inside her mind. rie ily

this is a story of the sea by shinzouing is a canonverse eruri x reader fic, where the three enter a relationship (or rather, erwin enters a relationship with both of them. levi and reader are idiots at first. the pining is so delicious though). where do i even begin to talk about this masterpiece? it broke me. it seriously broke me. i'm just going to say that the universe she has created in this story (as well as in the sequel which i'm going to talk about in a sec) feels so real and so right that when i finished it i needed a minute to remind myself what details that are ACTUALLY canon and what aren't. peak writing i swear. heartbreaking, but worth it.

after tiasots has broken your heart, go read beyond the sea by the same author and let it piece it back together!! it's currently being posted, and it's basically the continuation of tiasots BUT erwin survives at shiganshina (unlike in tiasots). again, same thing: peak writing, and a little universe it's sooo easy to get lost in. this story will end up living rent free in your mind, trust me.

aaand also set in the tiasots universe is certain obscure things!! it's three chapters, and in each of them they take turns between being dominant or submissive. this is smut that goes a lot harder than what you can find in tiasots but everything shinzouing writes is pure gold

to complete the eruri x reader category (aka the fics that made me go "i think i might be into the concept of throuples") there's two lovers by feelingthorny. it's also set in canonverse. erwin and levi are in an established relationship, one day they invite reader into their bed, and... Big Feelings ensue. i have another fic by feelingthorny by recommend, and oh man, she truly has a way of writing emotions that is so evocative and poetic, it truly drags you into the moment and you are able to feel exactly what they are feeling, they're so immersive. the smut parts literally drip with body worship, it's insane. beautiful.

the other fic by feelingthorny i HAVE to mention is close call. this one is pwp, but FUCK this erwin is SO DREAMY. and, as one might tell, the writing is just marvelous.

next, i recommend every! single! fic! that belongs to the to build a home series by nylondreams. the romance, the intimacy, the tenderness... ahh, they're so lovely to read. and *cough* the first fic in the series gave me a breeding kink *cough*

more recommendations in the "horny fics that also made me fall in love even more" category: e major, uncorked and treasured memories, all by whatsherquirk. delicious. that's all i'm going to say.

prying eyes by SecretsOfHarprocrates is in my opinion a depiction of erwin that's very close to how he'd behave in canon (if canon included sexy times)

four christmases by ghost_party was !!! ok i don't really know what to say about this one because it's been a while since i read it, but you have to trust me and check it out!!

i think that's all for now, i hope i haven't forgotten anything (if i have i'll just reblog this post and add more). happy reading <3

now PLEASE give me an excuse to make an eruri fic recs post (or even a levi one)

[a-rum-of-ones-own]

Hi!!!

I’m currently reading A Cosmology of Blacks, Malfoys, and Assorted Individuals and just wanted to express how much I love this fic!!! Your writing style is so profoundly passionate and evocative. The way you describe the emotions and inner workings of Draco, his observations and interactions with others, and blend sensory details with atmospheric elements is so poetically done—I seriously can’t deal.

What spurred me to write this was the opening of Chapter 19:

“With their ancient, bony hands, they’d passed her golden bowls filled with brew of black cohosh. Narcissa, panting in the heated darkness of the room she was confined in, had gulped them down, red-dark liquid dripping down her chin and staining the near-translucent smocking of her nightgown.

Winds had battered against the curtained windows. The approach of an early summer storm. The air had been sweltering, hot, over-heavy with lightning that had not yet discharged.”

LIKE UGH…MINDBOGGLINGLY BEAUTIFUL. SERIOUSLY. It’s so viscerally described that I feel like I’m transported right into the room.

I’m trying to consciously pace myself through the remaining chapters because I don’t want to catch up ;( but could you recommend some books that inspired you to write this fic, or even books that influenced your writing? I would be eternally grateful (high-key already am just for the existence of this fic).

I am so thankful to have stumbled upon this gem. You are sosososo talented; I am truly in awe and can’t wait to read more of your work! xxx

Heeey! Thank you so, SO much! I had so much fun writing that scene with the midwives - I cannot resist including scary old ladies and weird little arcane rituals of womanhood in everything I write, lol. I'm a total sucker for it. Give me a scary old woman who may or may not be a morally grey agent of The Dark And Mysterious Powers of the Great Beyond, and I'm sold.

YES, I do have book recs! Fic-writing is, for me, an opportunity for total stylistic self-indulgence, and there are absolutely influences! In general, Cosmology takes a LOT of influence from gothic writing. That entire theme of a house/manor/castle as a pseudo-living thing, the curses of our ancestors coming back to haunt us, ghosts of the past (both in literal and non-literal form), that's all just plain gothic, and I LOVE writing and reading that sort of stuff. Jane Austen's first novel, Northanger Abbey, is a fantastic gothic novel and/or gothic parody, and it's a shame it's not read more widely. It's definitely her first - it's not as absolutely refined as the big names like Pride and Prejudice etc - but it's the one I love the most. There's a proper mystery plot, a cursed house, a romance, a haunting - it's just great.

If you're not a Jane Austen girlie, a HUGE influence for me is Donna Tartt, especially The Secret History and The Goldfinch. If you're into that ornate, atmospheric, scene-setting writing, both will be right up your alley - The Secret History has a bit more of it (and is, imo, the better one to start out with), but they're both just amazing. One day, I want to be able to write like Donna Tartt does. She's the OG, she's the GOAT, she's perfect, she's probably my favourite contemporary author.

Also: Shirley Jackson's The Haunting of Hill House. It's one of my absolute favourite books, but (warning!) it's not literary fiction or romance, it's very much the story of a haunting. If you're absolutely not into horror, stay clear. Similarly, The Perfume by Patrick Süßkind is BEAUTIFUL, but absolutely not a romance. I've only read it in the original and can't vouch for any translations into English, but judging by the reviews, the sheer VibesTM seem to come across even in translation. The original is one of the best books I've ever read, and I wholeheartedly recommend it to anyone looking for something truly unique. I've also recently read V.C. Andrew's Flowers in the Attic for the first time, and found it really good in that gothic sense, but mind ALL the trigger warnings on that one. I don't deal well with graphic depictions of more realistic violence/abuse, especially if it involves kids (stylised/fantastical and implicit violence is fine, but anything that reads too 'real' and 'logically possible irl' doesn't agree with my stomach), and it's got some of that. I skipped a page or two, but still found it a prime example of Southern Gothic.

Thank you so so much again! I hope to get the next chapter of Cosmology out soon!

[feralbutfluffy]

33. Muriel

Chapter 33 of Too Wise to Woo Peaceably

*******************************************

For thousands and thousands of years, Muriel’s existence had been a very proper, quiet, brightly lit, lonely sort of reality. Every once in a century (if they were lucky) someone stopped by to drop more paperwork on their desk or ask for a report, but the rest of the time it was just Muriel. 

Muriel reading.

Muriel writing.

Muriel transcribing.

Muriel recording.

Muriel reading aloud (just to hear a voice, even if it was their own).

Muriel had found it - although they would obviously never be so impolite as to say it aloud - crushingly boring. The most exciting thing that had ever happened to Muriel before being lucky enough to be sent to Earth was finding an empty matchbox.

So the paradigm shift had been rather drastic.

Life on Earth was so changeable and exciting and strange and fun and frightening. Their experience of emotions, which for so long had pinged predictably between lonely and bored had expanded to catalogue dozens of feelings, some of which Muriel couldn’t even name. 

Also, it seemed that thousands of years of repetitive tasks had worn smooth Muriel’s capacity for anticipation. In Heaven, Muriel had learned to expect the expected, which was much less disappointing than hoping to see a friendly face and then having to wait decades and decades for a face to materialise (and when it did, it was hardly ever what Muriel would call friendly).

By contrast, life on Earth was so unpredictable! For example, the previous Wednesday Muriel had had a wonderful day. It had flown by! Muriel had enjoyed spending time with the demon Crowley and arrived back at the bookshop feeling happy and relaxed. 

By contrast, this day (also a Wednesday) had felt like it had been several weeks long and somehow it still wasn’t over.

Such a rollercoaster!

And far from the experience of being thrilled at the sight of a matchbox, now Muriel was closing out a day full of action and intrigue and violence and a daring rescue! And they held in their hand a notebook filled with experiences - real experiences - and not the experiences she had read about in non-fiction books, but closerwarmertighter experiences because these belonged to Aziraphale and Crowley, who Muriel knew better than she had ever known anybody.

Obviously that wasn’t saying much. 

But still!

These same two were now staring at Muriel. Crowley was looking up at their face. Aziraphale’s eyes were fixed on the notebook, and although the day had taken its toll and he had looked quite pale ever since they had found Crowley, he now looked positively ashen. 

“Where did you find that?”

“In a desk drawer?”

“And you read it? All of it?”

“No, of course not!”

“Ah. The first few entries?”

“Oh, no, I skipped to the bookmark!”

Aziraphale's eyes darted to Crowley and then back to the notebook. 

“Muriel, that is pri -” His eyes flicked to Crowley again and his voice cracked into a higher register, “...precautionary notetaking!” He cleared his throat and his voice returned to almost-normal. “Nothing to concern yourself with, my dear. Just notes for my own records, for documentation’s sake.”

The high points of his cheeks had turned quite, quite pink. 

Crowley’s expression - which had previously been one of detached interest - honed into one of sharp curiosity. Muriel fought the urge to smile. The two had seemed so serious before they had been interrupted, but now Aziraphale looked flustered, and Crowley had the ghost of a familiar expression on his wounded face; something sly and amused and considering.

Muriel turned to Aziraphale, wide-eyed and earnest. “Notetaking! Right! Of course! Well, you take really beautiful notes. And I would know, because I’m- well, I was a scrivener?” They smiled sweetly. “Your notes are extremely detailed and very… evocative!”

Aziraphale made a strangled sound.

Crowley stared.

Muriel grinned.

“Aziraphale,” Crowley spoke slowly. “Tell me you don’t keep a diary.”

“Look, I think we are getting rather off-topic. Let’s not get distracted with-”

“Muriel, read me some of these notes, would you?” 

Aziraphale snatched the notebook from Muriel’s hand. “Absolutely not. We have more important things to be discussing than irrelevant notes from decades ago!”

“Decades ago,” repeated Crowley. “What year did you say Muriel? 1940?” 

The gleam in his eye told Muriel he knew exactly what year, but they answered anyway.

“1941?”

Crowley’s tone was suspiciously casual. “Right, yes of course. The Blitz.”

“The… Blitz? I don’t think that was in it?” Muriel frowned. They were pretty sure they would have remembered such an interesting-sounding word?

An interesting redness was creeping up Aziraphale’s neck to join the pink in his cheeks.

“No mention of the Blitz.” The corner of Crowley’s lips curved upward. Muriel got the impression he was actually quite enjoying this. “That’s quite the omission.”

“I’m sure I mentioned it,” muttered Aziraphale, who suddenly seemed to realise he was nervously twisting the notebook in his hands. He flattened it out and placed it on a high shelf out of Muriel’s reach.

“Of course,” said Crowley soothingly. “Well Muriel, what was it you thought we should have told you about 1941 if not the Blitz?”

Aziraphale’s hands clamped down on Muriel’s shoulders and began to steer them away from Crowley with a muttered, “We absolutely do not have time for this!”

Muriel dug their heels into the floor and tried to crane around Aziraphale to look back at Crowley.

“It was about your- oh ow!”

Aziraphale’s fingertips were digging into their shoulders. “Muriel, I try to avoid violence where I can but today really has been extremely trying and if you say one more word, so help me-” Muriel felt a laugh bubble up-

They both caught sight of Saraqael at exactly the same time and fell instantly silent. Muriel’s laughter died in their throat. 

The archangel looked at Aziraphale and pursed their lips. 

“I feel I have been more than patient. Do you expect me to wait in the back room all night? You are supposed to be saying goodbye .”

The way they’d said saying goodbye gave Muriel a Very Bad Feeling. 

Aziraphale’s fingers relaxed until they were simply resting on their shoulders in a way that felt comforting. He squeezed their right shoulder lightly before letting go.

“Yes. Of course. We should go.”

A startled hiss from Crowley then, who had shifted to turn his body towards Aziraphale. “You’re not going. Don’t even think about it.”

Saraqael approached, their face grave but not entirely unsympathetic. “You're too intelligent to be so wilfully obtuse. You know as well as anyone there is a reckoning still to come.”

“Fucking wait then until I’m able to join you-!”

“Retribution will not wait for you to return to good health, demon. If we wait, they will come for us.”

“So let them come,” he growled. “At least if they come I can do something.”

Saraqael tilted their head. “The same way you were able to do something when angels went around to your flat?”

Crowley jerked as if struck, and Muriel spoke without thinking. “That’s not very nice!”

“I’m only pointing out the obvious; he can’t come, and we can’t wait. You needn’t defend the demon, he can fight his own battles, Muriel.” They turned to contemplate his injuries. “...Or at least, he usually can.”

Crowley let out a harsh hiss of pain. 

Sad.

Angry.

Sad.

Muriel frowned and moved in front of Crowley without really being aware of it.

“Obviously he doesn’t need me to defend him in a fair fight, I would probably be useless in a fight! But also nothing about today has been fair? And this whole day has been really, really horrible actually, and I definitely think now is not a good time to stick the boot in?”

There was a silence. Muriel turned to Aziraphale. “Did I say that properly?”

“Oh, ah, yes!” Aziraphale coughed lightly. “Yes, that’s very- that’s exactly right.”

Saraqael stared at Muriel for a long moment. “I suppose you have a point. Nothing about this has been fair. I have also not been fair,” they conceded, addressing Crowley. “Normally I’d consider you a formidable ally, but currently, as you well know, you’re nothing but a liability, and we can’t wait here any longer.” Then, their voice infinitesimally more gentle, “I know you know I'm right, Crowley.”

Some faint motion caught Muriel’s eye; Aziraphale’s fingers were playing with the hem of his jacket in small nervous movements. The way he was staring at Crowley was so full of yearning Muriel thought it must feel like a physical pull. 

Crowley turned away from them all as much as he was able.

Aziraphale looked between Crowley and Muriel, uncertainty written all over his face, and they felt for the kindhearted angel. Muriel was very familiar with that quiet worry. They gave him an encouraging smile. “Well. I suppose we should take our leave. Crowley…?” Aziraphale bent on one knee and a hand hovered over Crowley’s shoulder as if afraid to make contact.

Crowley, face turned away, did not respond.

Aziraphale’s hand pressed lightly, tentatively to Crowley’s shoulder, and when he stood and faced Muriel his eyes were shining. “Muriel, I know you will take good care of him. Thank you.” He took Muriel’s right hand in both of his own. “I will make things right.” It sounded like an oath. His voice was bright and brittle as glass.

Then he walked to stand next to Saraqael, and Muriel blinked, and they were gone.

The room felt very empty. The only sound was the ticking of the clock. Muriel sat down at Crowley’s side, and he shifted slightly so that he was on his back again. Neither of them said anything for a very long time.

And if Muriel noticed tears on the demon’s face, they said nothing about it.

[gothsuguru]

ari………. when i tell you my jaw fucking DROPPED i mean it like you’re ACTUALLY insane for this i’m feeling FERAL (^ also reader to suguru every single moment in this fic)

OKAY FIRST OF ALL………. i know i do this everytime i do a long rb but i can’t help it okay your writing is SO visually and emotionally evocative… besides the fact that i can envision it all clearly like a little horror movie playing in my head, the legitimate VISCERAL emotions you tore out of me needs to be studied……. my heart raced when suguru finally caught up to reader and pounced, my heart dropped when reader realized there was no way out, and the end my heart raced AGAIN when reader realized that there IS a way out… like you’re genuinely INSANE!!!!!!!!! this was so fucking captivating from start to finish i’m so happy you took the time to write & polish the story because WOW… & HAPPY HALLOWEEN 🤭🎃 MWAH!

ALSO I HAVE TO KNOW… where is the title from because it painted a fucking PICTURE in my brain i think has to be one of my favorite titles i’ve ever seen for a fic omfg :O OKAY ON TO THE RB ENOUGH RAMBLING AND TIME TO START *RAMBLING* :3

everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt — the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once. 

- firstly saying “the sun is stuck in vitro.” is the most craziest iconic fascinating way to start a story i have ever seen and i’ve said this before and i’ll say it again but you are the MASTER of hooking people in. and the descriptions right after were SO vivid it felt like i was LOOKING at a storybook — wine, and apricots, and slices of cake. (ari and their love for apricot mentions… the Signifier of Youth) AND THEN ONTO THE SENTENCE RIGHT BEFORE THE BREAK. you captured the scent and vibes of autumn PERFECTLY — it’s heavy with earth & petrichor and this is one of my favorite lines you’ve written -> “everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once.” JUST LIKE LITTLE RED’S EMOTIONS THROUGH THIS FIC……… RAHHHHHHH

“and where are you headed, little one?" his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he's speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

moaned loud as FAWK that’s my bad… i’m sorry but suguru calling me “little one” would cure me and make me purr in incomprehensible ways… need him to stroke my hair as i lay in his lap… N E WAYZ. deep, steady, and sturdy is 100% how i imagine him to be — he’s like an oaktree <3 but also disarmingly beautiful/enchanting so he wraps you up in pretty little silk… GOD. ALSO MOUSE MENTION MOUSE MENTION MOUSE MENTION ‼️

^ found this on twt & saved it bc it reminds me of you :3

".. how very well-behaved," // "a little thing like you.." // "i'd like to rectify that."

respectfully in a respectful way that’s not respectful at all i need your yandere wolf!suguru in ways that none of us can understand. god there’s something about his obsession with docility and infantilization makes me 😵‍💫 and it’s okay if you fight back because he knows how to whip you back into shape <3 you need him, you need to listen to him, & he knows best… mother knows best </3

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can't shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height. // "... i don't think that's a very good idea." // a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils.

you created such an imposing suguru… i’m not gonna lie I felt the tiniest twinge of fear when i read that he stands up to his full height… there’s just something off and intimidating about him and i LOVE this version of him. i love when he’s a little bit scary i think it’s a facet of his being that’s very enticing… to ME. also i LOOOOOVE the little twitch of his brow… putting up a façade by smiling, but you caught the distaste in his eyes… he’s like a disgruntled parent to me in a lot of ways </3 he’s crazy

(when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.) // a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful - yet you can't help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh.

- SHARP TEETH SHARP CANINES FANGS FANGS FANGS RAHHHHHHHH I LOVE TEETH <333 love when you realize that man is more animal than man <333 and i love the juxtaposition of physical warmth in the home compared to icy desolation/fear reader feels emotionally … little red almost being able to make out golden piercing eyes… i love unsettling/disturbing/off-putting vibes so i LOVED this line. love that it settles in their gut and GNAWS at their flesh. your buzzwords itch my brain SO GOOD omfg

*ALSO DURING THE TEA SCENE YOU MENTIONED CHAMOMILE & EARL GREY… REAL #ARITRUTHERS KNOW THOSE WERE MENTIONED IN “if i fell through the floor i would keep falling” <- kairo’s beloved <333 ALSO THE “MAW” MENTIONS IN THIS FIC 😵‍💫😵‍💫😵‍💫 the way they actually work perfect in this fic too nfnfnfnfnfn

also jesus christ this whole next section had me on the edge of my fucking seat you damn near made me bring out my inhaler like GUARDDDDDDDDDDS!!!!!!!! COLLECT THIS MAN!!!!!!!!!! (don’t worry reader i’ll take him off your hands… he’s not safe from me in the slightest 🤭🤭🤭)

"you're too small to know what's good for you." — there's that bite. it sneaks up on him and grows teeth. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. // "you aren't listening, little one."

- obsessed with the fact that he acts like an all-knowing maternal figure… it’s not even that red is young it’s also the fact that they’re SMALL. too small to act too small to think too small to know what’s good for them so suguru has to decide all of that for you — and he’s fine w that, in fact he PREFERS it. revels in it even — “little one” i love that he babies reader to hell and back… it sounds both endearing yet so unbelievably infantilizing. unfortunately it WOULD work on me :/

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile at the base of your throat, sour. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he's warm. squeezing you firmly, and you're sure it's meant as a comforting gesture, but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone. all you can think is that you're well and truly powerless.

- THE DICHOTOMY OF IT ALL… he smiles but there’s still something so off that it puts reader off-kilter. also i love the words you used in the story pertaining to rot, decay, & carcasses (my fav things currently bc i’m in a horror phase) and i love that him squeezing is supposed to be a form of comfort but it’s also a warning that at the end of the day — he’s a man and he’s a wolf. he’s strong and burly and can wield power in dangerous ways especially physically if he’s not doing emotionally. like i know he would never hurt reader physically like That but i think just having that baseline fear is more than enough

^^^ THIS ENTIRE SCENE WAS FUCKING CRAZY YOU WRITE TENSION SO WELL??? OH MY GOD??? he’s sick in the head i’m in love with him… he’s awful in the way that he desires you to surrender to him and he reprimands you like a parent would a child… KISSING YOUR NECK OH MY GODNDNDNDNDNNDN . he’s so GIDDY…… lock his ass up but throw me in there too… 👀

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass. it's a corpse. (and he's inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

- this line itched my brain so good god i love the idea also of dirt and earth being mentioned throughout the fic bc through there is where we see decomposition of life as well… decay and mold and carcasses and rot and corpses. i just love it so much it REALLY paints a vivid picture that’s almost gothic in nature

always a wolf. never a man. // you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you're all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants. // by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

- suguru geto is proof in this story that you gotta watch out for both wolf AND man. GOD HE IS SOOOOOOO OTHERWORLDLY IN THIS he’s suffocating beyond belief i’m loving how much of his infantilization/adoration of reader you make sure that we see! he holds them close and kisses and lingers… “honeycombed eyes” gorgeous by the way… “sinking sunset” he’s so sunset coded to me ari you have no idea… suguru is a man who will stop at NOTHING to get what he wants. AND THE LAST LINE STRUCK MY HEART: “by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.” THAT’S CRAZY!!!!!! likening their dread to a fire pit is FUCKING INSANE… YOUR MIND!!!!!

he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you're unsure as to who it's aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. // suddenly, he's standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. // and his eyes burn you to cinders.

- he’s actually so fucking terrifying now that i think about it… i think it’s one thing bc he loves and is obsessed with reader but to be on the receiving end of his ire must be devastating… like it’s one thing to be reprimanded but to anger him/disappoint him??? i feel like my heart would drop to my stomach omg… AND ALSO. i love “smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog.” you just have the best metaphors (??? baby idk the name for it </3 american public schools failed me or whatever) and WOW. him towering over reader like that’s one big bitch… i can’t even blame reader for flinching like he’s kinda scary omfg. HIS EYES BURN YOU TO CINDERS… ari i need a look inside your brain i need to put it in a jar… death painting style <333 like the way you concoct up visions needs to be fucking STUDIED

^^^ LIKE HE’S INTIMIDATING ASF I DON’T EVER WANNA BE ON HIS BAD SIDE… EVER. you write YANDERE SOOOOOO WELL!!!!!! esp bc reading your writing makes all the words come to life and you can feel the emotion that reader is feeling like why’s my heart racing with my heart in my stomach rn… WOW

a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you'd rather die.

- not he got a hard-on… GUARDS! I’M CALLING ANIMAL CONTROL AS WE SPEAK. (i need him 😞😞😞)

ALSO READER WATCHING SUGURU CANNIBALIZE THAT GUY WAS SOOOOOO SICKENING (POSITIVE) I LOOOOOOVE THAT TINGE OF HORROR SO MUCH <3

^^^ this passage specifically was also crazy it felt like i was reading a storybook… READER NAMING OFF ALL HIS WOLFISH QUALITIES AND SUGURU BEING CAUGHT OFF GUARD??? THE ANGER AND KILLING-INTENT THAT READER HAS. him kissing their palm in the grand scheme of things means nothing… they want to kill their captor & kidnapper at the end of the day. AND I SUPPORT IT!!!!!! KILL THAT BITCH!!!!!!!!! RAHHHHHHHH i support violence :3 hehe :3

ARI THE ENDING SCENES WERE FUCKING PHENOMENAL WHEN I TELL YOU I FELT MY HEART PHYSICALLY RACE??? THE CALL BACK TO THE SUN BEING IN VITRO… “TEA, HONEY?” HE DOESN’T KNOW WHAT’S COMING AND HE WON’T KNOW WHAT HIT HIM! THIS ENTIRE SCENE HAD ME GAGGED I WAS JAW-DROPPED LIKE WTF??? THE STARK DIFFERENCE IN READER AND THEIR CONVICTION??? HE BROUGHT THIS INTO HIS HOME AND NOW HE’LL REAP THE CONSEQUENCES. THE END. BRAVO BRAVO BRAVO (IMAGINE ME CLAPPING IN A MASSIVE THEATER)

this was such a FANTASTIC story from start to finish like it doesn’t even feel like a “fic” i can’t believe we are all so lucky to be able to read something like this & it be readily accessible to us like i need a movie made out of this STAT! THIS WAS INCREDIBLE you’re such an amazing writer and such an amazing STORYTELLER from the way you describe and set scenes to your stellar prose and imagery and the way you EVOKE emotions with visual storytelling in literature… i’m so thankful to be able to read something like this and i am KISSING your brain :3 i’m so proud of you headmouse please give yourself a pat on the back, you worked SO hard and you deserve a treat for this PLEASE know you’re my favorite writer ever and i love you so much and WAHHHHHHH . i just love you <3

AND GOOD RIDDANCE TO THAT HOT WOLFMAN… yes he’s dead but pleek tell him to call me FANK yew :3 kenjaku is wearing a cloak and rubbing his fingers together about how to continue the chaos hehe :> BUT SERIOUSLY YOU DID AMAZING AND PLEASE MAKE SURE TO REST YOUR FINGERS + STAY HYDRATED + EAT (MORE) SUSHI + BUY SUGUMERCH :3 ILYYYYYYY

^ me when wolfguru talks to me in his little cabin but change mansplains to momsplains <3 like rip to him and rip to meemaw and rip to grandmeemaw and rip to random guy but . i’m Different 🙏🏼🙏🏼🙏🏼

I’LL MAKE A HOUSE INSIDE OF YOU, I’LL GO IN THROUGH THE MOUTH ; SUGURU GETO

synopsis; what awaits you by the entrance to the woods is not a wolf, but a man. he thinks your grandmother can wait.

word count; 14.7k

contents; suguru geto/reader, gn!reader (’girl’ is used only in allusion to the actual fairy tale), fairy tale au, hunter/wolf!suguru x little red riding hood!reader, yan!sugu, captivity, forced caretaking, infantilization, excessive use of ’little one’, hints of stockholm syndrome, slightly suggestive in one part (suguru gets a hard-on, blink and you’ll miss it), noncon kissing but that’s the worst it gets, instances of gore (ie; descriptions of a corpse, horror-inspired imagery), depiction of cannibalism (not involving reader), violent undertones, suguru never physically harms you but it’s mentioned that he could. open ended + almost entirely from reader’s pov. meta narrative.

a/n; happy halloween <3 (i’m late)(it’s 2025) this au has been haunting me since last year so i’m happy to finally have it out …. i don’t dabble in yan!sugu v often but it’s . so so sooo easy to turn him into one just by tweaking him a little bit … if nothing else i hope he ended up awful & hot 🫡 + biggest shoutout in the world to my beloved mickey (@teddybeartoji) for all your help and encouragement w this fic :’< also my belovedest dilly for doing the same and supporting me always … i love u……

[ once upon a time, there was a dear little girl... ]

the sun is stuck in vitro. 

a glance up at the sky, in tune with your rapid steps. you’re threading through a meadow, red hood over your head, a basket hanging off your arm; wine and apricots and slices of cake, covered by a crocheted blanket your mother made. the sky you see when you tilt your head is painted gray, a bottomless pit, cotton clouds sticking together like the light layer of mist laying its legs across the landscape. dewdrops stick to your bare ankles as you wade through tall grass.

everything smells wet, fresh, the heavy scent of leaves and dirt — the end of autumn. everything bursting and blooming and decaying all at once. 

and you’re all alone. threading through the grass and flowers, nearing the edge of the familiar woods, on your way to see your sick grandmother. it’s a force of habit; from the basket hanging off your arm to the pep in your step, a feeling like that of a page being turned. all of it familiar. this story is your home, you live within its walls. you know your lines, you always have. you know how it begins, how it ends, what it feels like to be swallowed whole — you know your steps will lead you right into the belly of the beast.

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

only this time, it is not a wolf that awaits you by the entrance to the woods. it’s a hunter.

it’s a man, of tall stature, a shotgun slung over his broad shoulder and secured by a thin leather strap. poignant, a threat and a reassurance all at once, barrel pointing at the sky like a maw wanting to open wide. the first thing you notice. his hair is tied up into a bun, neat and tidy, charcoal strands tousled by the morning breeze, bangs swaying almost hypnotizingly under the hunter’s hat he’s wearing; your eyes drink him in, from head to toe. a dark-furred vest, engulfed by a coat that does nothing to hide the outline of his meaty biceps. his boots are stained with mud. 

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

before you can look around, make sure you didn’t take a wrong turn, leave your mother’s cabin on the wrong clock-tick — the hunter turns to look at you. eyes like the bark of a tree, smudged at the corners with flecks of rusted gold, their warmth beckoning you forward. the jingle of a bell chime. and only then do you spot a splotch of red in his calloused hands, cradled closely, a poppy. young crimson petals.

he’s caressing them, and he’s smiling.

like he knew you’d be here.

molten, rainy clouds stick together in the sky, allowing no flicker of sunshine to seep through the gaps. once you step inside the woods, the mist will only thicken. a ceiling made of tree-leaves to obscure the world around you. it’s straight ahead, the main road that leads into their depths — the one you’re meant to follow. from where you’re standing, you can spot bugs on the mossy rocks, shimmering beetles, hear the buzzing of a lonely little bee busying itself with a honeyed tree trunk. shadows upon shadows. you’re right at the edge of the second act, but there is no wolf to be seen. no monster to fall into. 

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

his voice is deep. steady, sturdy, seeps into your spine. but tailored with silk all the same; a pleasantly raspy undertone. he’s speaking softly, and your heartbeat slows down, grows quiet as a mouse.

it’s only him, after all. 

(the ever reliable hunter.)

”… to my grandmother,” you answer, hands gripping onto the handle of your basket, a smile gracing your features. still confused, but polite, even sweet. he’s weak to it, you’re well aware. ”she’s sick, you see…”

he nods along, smile never changing shape — hand only briefly reaching down to his waist, slipping the poppy into his pocket. you wonder why he doesn’t just throw it away, but there’s no time to ponder on the smaller things; he speaks before you can try.

”i see,” he hums, a low buzzing in the back of his throat. ”and on such a lovely morning…”

the irony in his tone is evident, ripe like a peach. smiling along, you let out what could almost be considered a chuckle — it’s a little out of breath, your lungs constricting in wake of the mist-ridden air. 

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

that makes him pause, for a moment. ”how kind of you.” it’s praise, sweetened by a roll of his tongue — the hunter tilts his head, honeyed eyes ripe for plucking. ”i’m sure your grandmother will be thrilled.”

”… i hope so,” you hum, blinking through the dew. ”it’s the least i could do, really…”

golden eyes seep through the gaps between his lower lashes, gazing down at you. a piercing stare. you wonder if he can tell you’re lying. a moment passes, and then he’s speaking again, with a click of his tongue— that same pleasing lull to his voice.

”and where does your grandmother live, hm? not too far off, i’d hope…”

”it’s… still a bit to walk,” you chuckle, adjusting your hood, picking at a piece of lint dangling off the fabric. ”her house is just under the three large oak-trees, with the nut-trees below… you surely must know it?”

”… that i do.” for a moment, his smiles laces itself with sticky nostalgia; something warm.

then, suddenly, he’s taking a step forward. boots crunching against the ground, clicking against the gravel underneath his feet. like he’s walking on a frosted lake. aside from the low buzzing of tired bugs, and solemn whooshing of the morning breeze, it’s all you can hear. when he gets close enough for you to see the mole just below his jaw, he’s towering above you — shielding you from the wind, broad shoulders obscuring your view of anything but him. his eyes, his smile, the shotgun over his shoulder.

and he parts his pretty lips.

”would you do me a favour, little dear?”

a tug at your heartstrings. your eyes gaze up at his, wide with curiosity, rising up like bubbling foam in the sea of your iris. a request, something to do; it’s hard for you to ignore its call. always has been. 

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

a pleased hum. ”… i’m on the hunt for wolves, you see.” his eyelids flutter, but you don’t think he misses the way your smile evens out, your grip on the basket growing tighter. ”i know your grandmother needs you… but would you let me treat you to a cup of tea?” 

”… tea?”

your baffled inquiry pulls a soft bout of laughter from the depths of his throat.

”tea,” he nods. ”any kind you’d like. i couldn’t sleep at night, knowing i’d left you all alone here with those beasts roaming around… and my home is close by.”

a pause. you inhale the earthy air, taste it on your tongue. a sense of delirious foreboding settles into your veins, a call from deep within your gut. 

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

(… then again, when have you ever been the type to do as you’re told?)

”i don’t know… i’m not really supposed to,” you try to convince yourself, fidgeting with the strings of your cape. you can feel the hunter’s gaze, heavy in a comforting sense; like a mother wolf gazing at her cub, making sure no harm befalls it. intimidating in the sense that you don’t know what he’s thinking.

”… how very well-behaved,” is all he says, adjusting the strap of his shotgun. he sounds like he wants to say something else, but he takes a moment too long to speak. then; ”you seem a little out of breath.”

and you are. your breathing is all out of sorts, your throat shivering under the force of your chilly inhales. it’s cold, and your legs feel sore. the fabric of your cape is too thin to shield you from the chilly autumn breeze, and your bones yearn for some respite. 

your mind, however, yearns for something different. something new. a different story, another chapter.

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

”it was awfully reckless of your mother to send you off alone,” he mutters, a low click of his tongue, voice slipping down an octave— something rough gnawing at his vocal chords. ”a little thing like you…”

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

there’s a stability to his words, something self-assured. he personifies a security you’ve never had, an absent smile that warms your numbed-out hands; there’s a warmth to it you couldn’t find in the woods, in the dark and gritty path carved out before you. it makes you think a cup of tea wouldn’t be so bad. 

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

you could walk into the woods, down the main road, like you supposed to. one step after the other, right until you reach your grandmother — or a hungry wolf. you could wait by the flower meadow, and pick poppies until your hands grow weary, until you have enough to bring home to your mother. alternatively, just until the beast remembers his curtain call.

… or, you could follow the hunter. follow him, like a pliant lamb, until you reach his cabin.

(ultimately, only one of the choices entices you.)

”… alright, then,” your breath turns into white smoke. ”i’d be glad to. sorry for the trouble, though…”

his eyes gleam, suddenly; a honeyed whisper on his tongue. a sense of contentment in the sigh that slips past his lips, the sway of his bangs when he shakes his head. ”believe me — it’s no trouble at all.”

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 

a breeze brushes past your cheek. he holds his arm out, ever the gentleman; waiting for your fingers to curl around his bicep, cling to it for stability. and you do, if only just to please him, because you know the hunter needs to be needed in the same way your grandmother needs pie and wine. the same way the wolf needs something soft to sink his teeth into.

his eyes crinkle, like autumn leaves on golden trees. pats your arm, once, then twice, and says;

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

you know this man. that’s why you aren’t afraid. why you can’t help but match his step, as he guides you away from the road you’re meant to take, slowing down his strides just so you can keep up. the sun is still obscured, a slob of amber in the middle of the sky, engulfed by sticky clouds. the woods sway in a solemn waltz, bugs scatter away like ravens from the moss-ridden rocks, and when you pass the bushes on your far left you swear you catch a whiff of iron. 

before you know it, he’s led you away from the woods — across a field of poppies, beyond the bridge of a river, down to a cabin with a freshly-painted fence.

his home is as warm as his smile.

the moment you step over the threshold, a scent of sandalwood invades your lungs — thick like you just fell into a bag of sawdust. it seeps into your nostrils and burrows itself deep inside your chest, curls up and sleeps there. rich, earthy, firewood and basil from the living room and kitchen, liquid comfort in your veins. warmth, peace; even with the butterflies pinned to the walls, gleaming behind glass. a deer mount watches you from across the hall, its antlers curled up proudly, eyes dumb and dead and animal. 

all you can think is respite. rubbing your chilly, frostbitten hands together, blowing hot air on the interior of your palms. the hunter leads you inside, hangs his coat and puts away his shotgun, takes off his hat and steps out of his heavy boots — waits for you to do the same. you leave your crimson coat as is. gently, he takes hold of your basket, gives your shoulder a break. it comes to him naturally, this sense of service; a perpetual motion machine.

you think him a dog, finely trained. it puts your heart at ease. 

”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 

an absent nod. you’re still busy glancing around, following just behind him as he moves towards the living room. it looks cozy. knitted blankets thrown over chairs, books gathering dust on the shelves, a lit candle by the windowsill. there are carnations in vases, all smelling of spring, the same colour as the eager fire crackling by the chimney — sparks of ember against freshly cut wood, fireworks for only you to see. an axe catches their angry flicker of light with its dull edge, where it lays against a pile of logs, leather sheath curled around it; serpentesque.

already, your eyes have strayed too long. he doesn’t seem to mind. when you raise your head he’s looking at you, standing by the threshold to the kitchen and waiting, lips curled into a soft, ikebana-like smile.

a flicker of amusement passes through his low-lidded eyes. and then he’s turning on his heel.

you follow him. 

”take a seat,” he hums, dragging out a wooden chair for you to sit on; and you do so without putting up a fuss, absently scanning the walls and shelves, jars of honey and jam and spices, cloves of garlic hanging in a happy row. a kettle rests idly on the stove, white little petals soaking in a bowl of sweetened water right next to it, reminds you of a bleeding bride. the kitchen table is small, just big enough for two. cozy.

”thank you, mister hunter,” you offer him a smile.

”— suguru.” he pushes the chair forward again, makes sure you’re all sorted, and then steps away. ”just suguru is fine. no need to be formal, little red…”

his voice comes out as something like a purr, interwoven with a morning residue of smoke, fatigue. you can hear it, though, the tender hint of happiness beneath it. he faces the stove, lifts his large hands to open the cupboards above him, and you spot a vast assortment of tea bags; dried yellow leaves, petals and stalks, silken bags and paper wrappings, an earthy scent that pervades the air. cuts into it, forces its way through the thin gap. you inhale, deeply, and feel it take root in your kidneys — no exhale makes the feeling go away. chamomile, rooibos, earl gray…

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

as he busies himself with boiled water and strainers, you gaze out through the window to your left. all you’re privy to seeing is a field, speckled with ghostly pale flowers — barely visible under the shadow of a sky yet to be broken through. in the distance is your destination, the murky woods, tall pinewood trees and willows and clusters of dried up leaves. you wonder if your grandmother will worry if you linger here for too long, if your mother will be disappointed. if they’ll even notice. the basket of goodies you brought rests on the kitchen counter, unassuming. 

”here you are,” suguru hums, setting down a mug for you. pure white ceramic. he slips in a teaspoon’s worth of honey, and fills it up with water from the kettle, piping hot, orange in colour, tiny calendula buds swimming like fish in the sea. ”drink up, little one,” he croons. ”we don’t want you catching a cold.”

when you reach out to touch the rim of the cup, you’re stung by the warmth — it sparks against the tips of your fingers, spreads throughout your veins. gives way to a soft smile. ”thank you, suguru.”

his eyes gleam under the dim lights. 

”have a sip,” he encourages. ”tell me how it is.”

and you do. you bring the mug to your lips, feel the warmth of the tea seep through the ceramic, steam rising from it and tickling your skin. when you drink it’s an assault on your senses, like the flowers snuck inside your throat and bloomed along your windpipe. hot enough to burn your tongue, rich and sweet. 

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

”it’s delicious,” you compliment, still feeling the sting on the tip of your tongue. putting the cup back on the table, just to hear the clink against wood.

a warm smile.

”i’m glad.” seamlessly, casually, he leans forward; curling his fingers around the handle, bringing it to his own lips. you watch, owlishly, as he blows on the tea — quick to slide it back towards you. ”… there.”

he must notice your bewilderment, at his familiarity. but he only exhales a soft breath; grazing the surface of a chuckle. resting his jaw on the heel of his palm.

”… go on. have as much as you’d like.”

he doesn’t pour himself a cup until you’ve finished your first. watching you, from across the table, eyes melted into something fond, glimmering faintly.

enamored.

(in every version of this story, the hunter is in love with you.)

that’s why you aren’t worried. that’s why you can’t help but tune out everything except the faint glow of his kitchen, the budding warmth of his home, the tea he keeps on pouring you, cup after cup. the feeling of something deliriously new. listening to the purr of his voice, allowing time to slip you by — sinking into a state of dizzying comfort, slick with safety.

before you know it, he’s shown you around the house, told you all about the lilac-coloured flowers growing in his backyard, coaxed you into warming yourself by the fireplace — he insists. it’s already well past the time you would have made it back home after your outing. your grandmother’s basket is still resting on the counter, untouched, wine and pie and peeled apricots that have probably begun to grow stale. she won’t tell the difference, but you will.

with decision, you rise from the armchair you’re seated on, closing the book he lent you. feeling the stir of a pep in your step, like the kick of a rabbit.

a shallow breath — ’duty calls,’ you muse.

(perhaps it’s for the best; you were beginning to bore of the silence, anyhow.)

suguru makes a low noise, in the back of his throat, seated on the armchair to your right. sleeves rolled up; a light patch of dark hair running from his wrist to his elbow, muscles embraced by the flame-slicked shadows of the fireplace. he gazes at you, silently.

”thank you for letting me stay,” you smile, picture perfect, easy and polite; curling your fingers together as if praying. ”but i really should get going, now.”

the wind whooshes, sharpens its claws against the windows behind you. the sky still dark, rain drizzling down, nothing a cluster of trees can’t shelter you from. the hunter stands up, to his full height.

”… i don’t think that’s a very good idea.”

a twitch of his brow. covered up by a smile. for the first time since meeting him this morning — you catch a flicker of distaste dance inside his pupils. 

you aren’t sure what to say.

it doesn’t matter, either way. he parts his lips to speak. ”it’s dangerous… and it’s already getting late. surely, your grandmother can wait until tomorrow?”

”i’m… not sure i should,” you try, fingers idly slipping into the pockets of your red coat. mustering a cheery voice. ”besides, i wouldn’t want to trouble you!”

”i insist.”

…

crackle, crackle, wood splintering into ash. the silence is deafening, thick like a slab of butter on bread. it makes a lump form in your throat, hard to swallow, though you aren’t sure why.

”… tomorrow,” he continues. smile a little stale. ”wolves roam around in the evening. it’s not safe.”

something in his tone tells you he’s already made up his mind. something staggeringly aware — like he’s stating a fact, something unquestionable. 

it’s not safe out there. 

(he’s right, of course, but…)

(when he opens his mouth, you swear his teeth look just a little sharper than they should.)

a kick to your heart makes you cough up a response, a string of jumbled words. it comes to you almost like an instinct, an unsteady voice. ”if it’s really okay…”

he perks up, at that. 

”of course,” he smiles, a little wider. ”of course it is.”

a warm voice, and a warm home, the crackling of a warm fire behind you. it should feel peaceful — yet you can’t help but gaze out the windows, nervously, watching the faraway trees sway. if you squint you could almost make out those golden, piercing eyes, the black fur of a beast in a bush; unease settles in the base of your gut and gnaws at your flesh. 

just until tomorrow, you think.

his cabin is a safe zone, of sorts. you’re well aware of that. nothing can get to you, as long as you’re here, with his shotgun close by. suguru is tall, reliable, the only one you can trust — at least he should be. even if he isn’t where he should be at the moment.

it’s in his nature. he looks out for you.

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

”it’s about time for dinner, isn’t it?” he breaks the shaky silence, stretching his arms out, craning his neck with a quiet crack. a clean break of bone. his gaze is kind, attentive. ”time flies… let me make something for you. what would you like?”

”… anything is fine.”

”anything…” a low chuckle. ”what would you say to some warm stew, then? is that alright?”

it is. after a nod, and a moment’s pause, you sit back down; just to feel the soft fabric sink beneath your weight. suguru hums, pleased, makes his way over to the kitchen. the axe gleams under the glow of the fire, and the deer on the wall watches your every move. the butterflies, too. wings for eyes.

(just for the night, you repeat to yourself.)

a hearty dinner, a warm bed to sleep in, and tea with honey in the morning — it doesn’t sound so bad at all. your mother probably won’t be worried, and your grandmother probably won’t die. no repercussions, the script already broke. staying one more day is fine.

… except he doesn’t let you leave, the morning after.

it starts out small. it always does. 

(creeps up on you like a bug in a carcass.)

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

a warm smile, a smooth voice, a face with sharp lines and soft skin; tailor-made to put you at ease. suguru is beautiful, familiar, eerie in a sense that only makes you feel at home. he’s always been stubborn, you recall. some part of your body remembers.

but never like this. never, ever like this. 

never as suffocating.

“you’re too small to know what’s good for you.”

— there’s that bite. it sneaks up on him and grows teeth. he pats your head, with a calloused hand, and you relent. only gnaw at your bottom lip, jutted out into a frown you hope won’t rouse his anger. you’re still not sure he can even get angry, but he’s scary enough when he makes these choices for you; makes you think you have control over your own actions, all the while stealing it from underneath your feet.

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

“i— i really need to leave,” you try, almost pleading, on the third night. your lungs are constricting, from the heavy scent of peppermint in the kitchen air, and he’s watching you like you’re nothing but a child demanding candy before bed. “please.”

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

“you aren’t listening, little one.” he turns around, clinks a teaspoon against the edge of a porcelain cup. “it’s safer here. your grandmother can wait.” 

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

frustration sneaks into your tone. bubbles up into your words like venomous pores. you think he must notice, because his smile is especially gentle when he turns to face you again, all lips and no teeth, still as composed as ever. he steps forward, curls an arm around your waist; he’s starting to lose all pretense of caring about your personal space, of not appearing too familiar. pulling you close. steady, steady, steady.

so much stronger than you. 

even when you stir, he doesn’t budge an inch. only lets out another mellow sigh, that fans against the side of your face. you think it sounds a bit amused.

“she’ll be okay,” is all he says. “she doesn’t need you.”

…

“she needs you to be safe.” he must have noticed the crestfallen look on your face. “as do i. you’re staying here, for the time being — it’s no trouble at all.”

he gives you a smile, to ease your nerves, honey-slicked and sweet; but something rotten settles in your gut. bile at the base of your throat, sour. it feels constricting, to be held so close, to be forced to inhale the scent of oakwood and musk on his skin. he’s warm. squeezing you firmly, and you’re sure it’s meant as a comforting gesture, but all you can think is burly arms, solid muscles, the crack of a bone. all you can think is that you’re well and truly powerless.

”believe me.”

when he lets you go, lets you scamper upstairs, you feel as though you can finally breathe again. leaning against the door to the guest room — gazing out through the window at the end of the hall, finding comfort in the swaying of the jade-dyed curtains.

something is very, very wrong. wrong with the hunter, the story, wrong with the home you’re in.

(you think you’re beginning to realize what.)

the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition. he hasn’t let you leave his home, despite his initial offer to shelter you for no more than a day. his voice is deep and smooth, gravelly in the mornings or late at night, like an axe dragged through rugged grounds; or the bark of a tree yet to be cut in half. rough. the pieces dig a grave inside your brain, start to reek of decay.

the hunter is trustworthy.

in the story you call home, this is code of law; a black-and-white truth.

(but hunters don’t smell like wolves.)

hunters don’t watch your every move, or keep you locked against their chests, or make you sneak out in the middle of the night when everything is silent. hunters don’t will you to run away.

but on the fifth night, that’s exactly what you do.

once you’re almost certain he’s asleep in his own room, just two doors down from across the hall, you crack your eyes open and slip out from underneath the covers. shivering, shielded only by the flimsy nightgown suguru lent you to sleep in, sheltering you from the cold seeping in through the windowpane. it’s big on you. every step you take is slow and calculated, soft enough not to make any noise; you hold your breath as you crouch down to pick your coat up, lying in a pile on the floor, stretching your arms out through the gaps and pulling it over your head. then you walk to the door, the window behind you leaking in the faintest strings of moonlight. 

the sky is dark, the room you’re in cocooned by its shadow. you can barely even see your own hands when you reach for the doorknob and twist.

no noise. no creak.

a soft sigh slips from your lips, just under your breath. your fingers pull it open, and you step out into the hall— not bothering to close the door behind you. paintings line the walls on the second floor, all depicting landscapes, fields of poppies, sheep in circles, a house on top of a windy hill. watercolour on canvas. you wonder if he painted them by hand.

out of the corner of your eye, you gaze at his bedroom door — you can’t help it. under the light of the moon, it gleams like an omen. sealed tightly shut.

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

(it’ll be fine, you tell yourself. he’s asleep.)

and so you venture down the stairs. placing one foot in front of the other, gripping onto the handrail with all your might, trying not to put too much weight into your steps. heart stuck in your throat. one steps, two steps. you can see the fireplace from here, though the flames have long been stifled. pieces of coal gleam under the light streaming in through the windows, blue flickers that disappear when clouds devour the moon. red carnations painted indigo.

eight steps. nine steps.

when your foot meets the rug on the living room floor, soft under your bare soles, a pang of relief squeezes your veins; a moment where you allow yourself to simply breathe. inhale, exhale, because the hardest part is over. almost there, almost free.

your next couple steps are hungry. burning with delight, moving towards the front door, still careful not to stumble over or into anything — but really, all you can think is that the crispy midnight air is just beyond your grasp. it’s all you can think when you fumble for your shoes in the dark, glance up towards the top of the staircase every other second. anxious, despite your excitement. it all bleeds together.

it’s all you think when you pull up the rug by the front door, grab the key you knew would lie beneath it. all you think as you stick it into the keyhole and twist.

freedom. that’s what the air smells like, as it floods your starving veins — as you move your feet to cross the threshold. floods your lungs, as you gaze up at the moon, smiling in the sky like nothing’s wrong. welcoming you back to the narrative. the wind feels cold on your cheeks, streaming into his house when you push the door open, wild and untethered; swaying the field of flowers just beyond his fence. 

freedom. freedom. freedom.

you take a decisive step, leaving the boundary of his home — 

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

it rings in your ears. you stay frozen in place.

the light flickers on, behind the window right above you. casts a glow on the frosted landscape, on your figure — and you know he’s watching. you feel it.

so you run.

it’s sudden, the spike of pure adrenaline rushing through your veins, completely flooding your senses and numbing your legs — you do not feel the cold of the air, barely see the way your breaths turn into mist as you inhale and exhale. you only think to leap towards the fence, fumbling with the lock, your shaky fingers pushing and pulling until you finally decide to simply climb over — placing the sole of your shoe on the picket and tearing your nightgown on the way down, tripping over your own feet and landing on your palms, scrambling to get back up again. the bruising doesn’t ache, the drag of your skin against gravel — you don’t even hear the tear of fabric. you only hear the pounding of your own heartbeat, feel it crawling up your throat like a snake suffocating on the rabbit it just swallowed whole. 

it pitters and patters, against your windpipe, and you run. sprint. everything in front of you is dark, mist thick enough to drown in, clouds devouring the moon again — you don’t really know which way you’re going, only that it’s away from here. 

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

tall grass melts around your ankles, ice-cold drops of dew and frosted flowers whipping your bare skin, but you don’t feel it, only feel the fear in your heartbeat as it threatens to make your ribcage burst. fear, fear, the primal kind. everything ahead of you is dark but it doesn’t matter, you’re only focused on running as far as your legs can take you — you’ve never felt a rush like this before. never felt so much like an animal being pursued. the wind tugs your hood away.

distant woods beckon you closer, closer still, swaying and waltzing on a moonlit night. you think yourself mad, to follow that shimmer, but you’ve never been quite right in the head, never really. frost, mist, harsh nips at your skin. the sky above is wide and vast, and everything is silent. everything except for you — a litany of frightened whines tugging at your tongue. 

you don’t need to look to know he’s after you. yet you still cast a glance over your shoulder, shuddering suddenly, a gasp pushing past your lips —

he’s stares back at you. 

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

you’re knocked off your feet. thrown forward, with an almost brutal lunge, your body hitting the ground of the flowered field beneath you — it knocks the air from out your lungs, and for a moment you can’t breathe, can only feel the wet earth under your cheek and the sickening weight upon you. he’s pressing you down, with all his body weight, and he’s panting into your ear. holding your wrist so tightly you’re scared it’ll break. the fight doesn’t leave you. the rush is still there. but it has nowhere to go, with your legs stuck, it’s just wasted blood sugar. 

you can do nothing but wriggle like a worm. fruitlessly. feeling his hair tickle your neck, hot breath leaving goosebumps in its wake, you want to cry, the fear is coursing through every narrow of your bones and you’re completely out of breath. you trash and trash, a sparrow with broken wings, but it’s futile. 

(he caught you. he caught you. he caught you.)

”i caught you,” he finally pants, like a wounded dog, collapsed on top of you. but you hear his smile, that sickening sound of relief. ”silly, silly little thing.”

it hurts. he’s heavy. your knee is pressing into the soil, uncomfortably, you feel the moisture seeping through the fabric of your nightgown, his pulsing heartbeat against your spine. now the adrenaline is leaving you, sinking out of your body, leaving you boneless. like an animal about to be devoured. 

resigned. surrender.

suguru presses a kiss against the side of your neck, teeth just barely grazing your pulsepoint— and the fear inside you spikes like the snap of a mousetrap.

”what were you thinking, hm?”

he doesn’t sound upset, only a little reprimanding. fondly exasperated. somehow, that scares you even more — the shift, the dichotomy, his voice a soothing thunderstorm as he keeps you pinned against the flowerbed. his overwhelming strength, in contrast to how relaxed he sounds. like this is nothing but the natural consequence of your actions.

”… you never change.”

the vice grip on your wrist begins to loosen, as he lifts himself up, no longer crushing you. it’s easier to breathe, but you’re still too rattled to try. still playing dead at your instinct’s demand, eyes pried open as you stare into the eyes of bugs above your nose. you can’t do anything but go limp, as he scoops you up, holds you against his chest, stands up straight. one heavy hand on your head and the other on your back. 

he turns around, begins to walk back to his house, and your stomach fills with dread.

”n-no…” is all you can muster, too exhausted to make anything other than a quiet whimper, a weak weep of a protest. but he hears you, and he croons.

“shhh,” he soothes, as you whine into his neck, panting softly. rubbing your back. as if shushing a child that just had a temper tantrum. “you’re okay. i wouldn’t hurt you, little one, you know that.”

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

”you’re my baby,” he continues, another sickening coo, giddy, and it sounds like a death sentence. horror. he leans down to kiss your throat and you can only think of his teeth. ”only mine. my silly baby.”

a final glance at the sky, before he’s closing the door behind you. you see darkness, only darkness, a page being sewn shut. worms crawling out of the moon. 

your skin itches from the burning cold. 

suguru wastes no time in seating you by the fireplace, cocooning you with knitted blankets, murmuring something else about how you worried him sick, doing something so reckless. you barely hear him, there’s still blood on your palms and bruising static in your ears, everything stings and you’re still shaking from the rough fall.

he apologizes for that, too.

”i’m sorry i scared you,” he smiles, cupping your chilled skin, the slightest tufts of hair running down the tops of his fingers. ”but you needed the lesson.”

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

you’re sure of that, now, no matter how much he’d insists he wouldn’t — no matter what he says. he’s fractured any dream of a cohesive narrative.

the tea he brings you smells of cinnamon, hot and sweet, but you make no move to drink it. just kind of sit there, as he tries to comfort you, rub salve into your bruised skin, assure you that he isn’t mad. you vacantly stare at the butterflies pinned to the wall, until he says something that catches your attention.

“once i’ve found the wolf, you can leave.” he promises, rubbing your shoulders, your already aching muscles. as if it’ll soothe you, as if telling the truth. “it’ll be okay… just let me handle everything.”

you raise your head to look at him, to meet the river of gold inside his eyes, weaving webs of silk. holy grails are always hoaxes, that’s how the stories go.

”… do you mean it?”

his lips curl up, just a bit, at the sound of your raspy voice, at the sight of you taking shaky sips from the cup. and he nods, silky, only slightly tousled hair swaying tenderly with the lull of his voice. ”i do.”

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

this is what you know; the hunter’s name is suguru. he appeared right by the edge of the woods, seven pages too early — or four, depending on the edition, give or take. he won’t let you leave his home, never runs out of tea to pour you, his voice turns raspy when it’s late and his arms are hairier than they were yesterday. this past week, you haven’t heard a howl echo from the woods at night even once.

it always starts small. small, decaying pieces, molding together and creating something bigger, more rotten. more than just a carcass.

it’s a corpse.

(and he’s inside it. playing hide-and-seek.)

he’s still smiling at you, making his hands useful, throwing wood into the fireplace when the angry flicker begins to sputter out. you recall your mother’s words, her many warnings. wolves are dangerous. wolves only want to do you harm. wolves don’t know how to love, they only ever show it with their teeth. always the same old stories, the same monsters at the end of every book. wolves, wolves, wolves.

always a wolf, never a man.

when you glance up at the hunter, his ever so softly parted lips, his keen eyes — you think to yourself that you can scarcely tell the difference. that even if you could, it wouldn’t matter. rot is rot, it still decays. you’re still at the mercy of it, of him.

(you’re beginning to think that’s all there is to it.)

you make no move to protest, when suguru pulls you into his lap. holds you close and kisses your wounds until you’re all warmed up, his honeycombed eyes never leaving your face, lit like a slowly sinking sunset. like a man who finally has what he wants. 

by the end of the first week, a pit has opened up inside your gut. it smells of a freshly doused fire.

the more time passes, the worse he gets. 

the more comfortable. 

(he must have taken your resignation as an invitation.)

every morning, when you walk into the kitchen, he pulls you in for a kiss — always just his lips, no tongue, as if he’s afraid of what he’d do to you if he parted them. his big hands squeeze your hips and even if you struggle, try to push him away, he brings you back in, keeps your wrists locked in a steady grip if you’re really putting up a fuss. purse your lips and he’ll pry them open, as simple as peeling an orange.

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

all you can do is turn limp. just give in, let him take what he wants — which usually isn’t a lot. a kiss, and he’s satisfied, a kiss and he beams like nothing about this is wrong even in the slightest. a kiss, and then he’ll make you tea, and then he’ll watch you drink it.

it’s been just shy of a month since he lured you into his home. you know what he expects of you, by now, you’ve settled into some semblance of routine; one that mostly consists of you being doted on, coddled. suffocated by his presence. he makes you tea every morning, every night, homemade meals of chestnuts and berries and meat. right now, he’s making lemon tea; slicing them with the blade of his knife, dipping them in honey, coating them in sticky-sweet residue. it does nothing to get rid of the sour essence, bitter on your tongue — only makes it bearable.

there’s a gentle smile on his face when he fills a tiny cup and hands it to you, watches you gaze into it. watches as you put your lips against the porcelain and sip, sip, sip. he doesn’t look away until there’s nothing left, his stare like a dagger to your throat.

it’s rare that he lets you out of his sight.

during the day, you’re free to do as you please — anything that doesn’t involve leaving his home, which isn’t a lot. you spend most of your time reading through the books on his shelves, tracing their spines, writing stories on the walls with sharp marker, painting animals and forests on the canvases he lends you. there’s joy to be found in captivity; you think of the rabbits your mother used to own when you were little. anyone can find comfort in a cage.

and it’s not like he never lets you push the bars a little. you may not be allowed to step anywhere near the woods, or outside his field of vision, but he’s taken to letting you play in his garden when he deems the moment right. just to give you some fresh air, as much sunlight as this time of year offers. of course, even then, he has his eyes on you — watching from the window, cutting wood just beyond the fence, each swing of the axe ringing in your ears like the drop of a guillotine. steady hands, toned muscles and arms, broad shoulders and those sharp eyes, sharp like his teeth when he smiles too wide on accident. you can always feel his gaze, and it keeps you from running away, even though the animal inside your chest screams at you to do it already.

but you’re sure you’d fail again. 

and were he to catch you — you’re sure he’d no longer be able to resist. the temptation would be too much for him to bear. you were lucky, last time.

(lucky that he still hasn’t realized what he is.)

you’re stuck here, for now. forever. stuck with a man who seems convinced that what he feels for you is love, and not possession, something to hang up on his wall. love like hunters have for headless deer. 

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

anyone can find comfort in a cage. it’s true, it’s true, you repeat it to yourself every night, try to find the silver lining in the home he’s made you. he does make it comfortable for you — a soft bed and fluffy pillows, warm food that settles nicely in your stomach, arts and craft to keep you happy. silken bags that never seem to run out. there are always more dried petals to pour into boiling water, a flavour you haven’t yet tried. he always expects you to drink it all. then, when the moon hangs itself in the air, and you’ve tired yourself out — he tucks you into bed. gentle, doting, his voice like a lullaby when he drags the covers up and sits by your bedside, or curls up beside you and reads you bedtime stories until you’re fast asleep. like you’re his grandchild. it’s never easy to relax with his hands on you, but the stories help. 

that’s typically when it happens. when you’re lying in bed, when he’s unguarded, his own mind beginning to drift into slumber. he flips through the pages of a dusty fable, smooths your hair down with a steady hand, and his voice loses an octave; a noise that curls around the base of his throat, rumbles through his chest. deep, raspy, gravelly. just shy of a growl. it comes suddenly, reverberates through you, makes the hair on the back of your neck stand on end.

suguru clears his throat, and you pretend not to have noticed it. he rewards you with another page or two.

that’s how he is, you’re well aware. what he does best. he tells you things without opening his mouth, shows you his teeth without letting you see them. he knows you know they’re there, and he rewards you for pretending otherwise. keeping him content is in your best interest — he hasn’t hurt you, doesn’t seem like he wants to, but you know that he will. 

no one can fight against their nature, and he has one set of teeth too many.

for now, playing into the part he’s made for you is your safest bet. the fire inside your eyes has dwindled, he’s suffocated it, and the rabbit in your chest is pretending to be dead. every morning, you drink the tea he makes you, go pliant as he kisses you, and every night you let him lull you to sleep. 

a comfortable cage is exactly right. 

(but the temptation to rebel never truly leaves you.)

it’s already been a month. a whole moonspin. that thirst for freedom is lingering, festering, pushing up against the walls of your throat. makes you nauseous, makes the thin thread of your patience tear at the edges. you yearn for the woods, the flower meadows, the squirrels and bugs of the forest grounds. willows and chestnuts and silky splotches of sunshine, fumbling fawns. your grandmother’s sickly stench, your mother’s striking hand. anything but this stasis. 

you miss feeling alive. 

(you’d cut your skin open to feel it again.)

you know running blindly would prove futile, but that doesn’t halt the desire. you’re trapped, one foot in a bearclaw, and you want out. he’s stronger than you, faster— and he’s always, always watching. you can’t outrun him, he’s always making sure you’re near.

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you. 

maybe, if you just beg enough — beg again, when the moment is right… he’ll let you go. maybe he’ll take pity on the pitiful, defenseless baby he caught.

(maybe if you hide your contempt, but show your desperation— you can win.)

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

they’re still in the basket you brought with you, under the knitted tablecloth, discarded in a storage room linked to the kitchen. you just wanted a quiet place to read, but now you feel too sick. sick with the stench of rotting fruit-flesh. you can smell it even without removing the cloth, and you know what you’ll see if you do — a bottle of wine, molded slices of cake, and sticky, sickly-sweet decay. dirt-brown in colour.

you’re reminded of the day you came. reminded of how long it’s been, who these apricots were for.

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

(no one can fight against their nature. that includes you, too.)

with a start, you stand up straight, and leave the rotting basket behind you; opening the door of the storage and making your way to the living room. a wreath of bluebells is hung above the fireplace, crackling and sputtering, snowflakes falling softly from the skies beyond the windowpane. suguru is right where you knew he’d be, seated on an armchair and knitting a sweater, looping two needles through thick thread. his hair is down, and his eyes are closed in pure contentment; formed into thin crescents. 

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

you inhale it, walk up to him with a plea on your tongue — your voice a desperate push of air.

”please let me leave.”

his smile falls. before he even has a chance to open up his eyes, caramel spilling out through slits, before he can usher you into his lap and knead his hands into your body, ’warm you up’ the way he likes.

it’s rare, to see him without it. it makes him look naked.

(it makes him look unsettling.)

but he’s still gentle, when he breathes out a sigh, places the needles on the wooden table to his left. 

”… this, again?” he clicks his tongue, sounding disappointed in a way you don’t like, a quiet lull. ”and i here i thought you’d finally decided to behave.”

his tone makes you shiver. something about it feels final, like you’ve pushed too far, reached some kind of dead end he’d been keeping concealed until now. there’s a barely noticeable crease between his brows, and his jaw is tense, lips formed into a tight line. not rough enough to be truly reprimanding, but it’s close. you’re suddenly aware of how small you feel, like this.

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

”… i just —” you try, gnawing at your bottom lip even though he’s told you not to bruise it. ”i’m just tired. i don’t want this, i — i’m not happy.”

a slip of your tongue, and a twitch of his jaw.

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

”you are,” he exhales, strained, like you just struck a narrow nerve. ”you’re happy. i take care of you.”

a shuddering breath. you inhale, shallow, trying to stay your ground, trying not to falter after snapping on the twig of his patience. you know what sleeps inside him, and you’re afraid of it. terrified. the hunter is one thing, the wolf is another. but there’s a line between the two, and you can tread it through — 

tread it through and through and through. 

”… you take care of me,” you concede, watching as the muscle of his jaw slacks, softens, ever so slightly. ”but i’m still not… i’m not happy. i want to leave.”

the fire crackles behind you, logs of wood splintering and snapping, budding heat easing the tension in your bones. silence settles over the scene, stretches out and lays itself to rest there like a wounded animal. suguru just watches you, with smothering eyes, like he knows something you don’t; gaze focused, expression set in stone. knitting your features into his mind with a broken needle.

and then a grating sigh. 

”… how many times have we repeated this, little red?” he asks, his voice thick with anger, though you’re unsure as to who it’s aimed at. his eyes burn with something devastating, something that smells of a forest fire and wails like a bleeding dog. ”how many times will you make me go through this?”

suddenly, he’s standing up from his armchair. rising to his full height, towering over you, lifting a hand up to caress the apple of your cheek. it makes you flinch, and his lip twitches, and suddenly his fingers are trailing down to the very base of your throat. as gentle as if he were handling one of the butterflies on his wall. you’re worried he’s going to squeeze down, but he never does, just keeps a hand there like all he wants is to feel the rapid thumping of your pulse.

and his eyes burn you to cinders. 

”how many times have i had to watch you be swallowed down… by someone other than myself?”

the question hangs in the air like a noose. grates your ears, heavy with an anguish you couldn’t hope to understand. a skip of your heartbeat — except it feels more like a crash. his fingers never move and your body turns to ice, accepts the hand that feeds it, if only because he looks like he could swallow you whole and still not feel satisfied.

”… far too many,” he seethes. palm finally moving from your throat to cup your cheek, and you exhale a breath you didn’t know you were holding. ”you’re too frail, too — naive. i can’t trust you to be good.”

a gasp pushes past your lip, when his other arm curls around your waist and tugs you closer, keeps a possessive hold on your hip. his body heat is suffocating, it only makes your heartbeat sputter. 

”… you can’t keep me here forever,” you murmur, the words laced with fear. spoken carelessly.

(and this time, you can practically hear the snap.)

a dangerous flicker, through his earthen eyes. it’s there and then it’s gone, and it’s enough of a warning on its own, a spark of fury that has you biting your tongue, squirming where you’re held against his steady frame. his grip around your waist morphs into something almost painful, just a pinch away, not quite enough for you to get away with pulling back.

you hear the words before he says them. they rattle against the back of your teeth.

”i can.”

spoken in a whisper, through gritted teeth, an echo from deep within his stomach— he practically spits them out, eyes burning into yours, an overwhelming density in how he carries himself. the words are heavy like lead, and you can tell he believes them. 

he can keep you here. 

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

a shiver claws against your spine, drags its nails down your back, and you think he can tell, that he feels you shudder against him. like a frightened fawn in front of a headlight. it’s enough to have his pupils dilating, his fingers loosening their grip, a breath of shaky air escaping his lips— like he’s finding it hard to keep his composure. to be tender and merciful. 

once the silence has stretched on for a beat too long, and your breathing still hasn’t mellowed— he speaks. 

”don’t you think it hurts me?” he asks, just above a tender whisper, brushing a thumb against your cheekbone. just barely grazing your lower lashline, streaks of black hair framing his burdened eyes. ”watching you be deceived, again and again…”

suguru exhales a bated breath, chest moving in tandem, pressed flush against your own. for a moment, you think he looks rather sad.

”… i’m tired,” he admits. ”i’m tired of having to cut you out of his stomach. you did this to yourself.”

…

when you empty your thoughts, you can still feel it. the warm embrace of succulent flesh.

(you never asked to be devoured.)

”you can’t protect yourself,” he tells you, with the same tone that he always has, the tone that tells you he knows best. ”so i will do it for you.”

a twitch of his fingertips. you feel it, as his hand slides down the expanse of your face, tips your head up with a finger underneath your chin. you’ve gone pliant, again. he leans in, until you can’t tell who the breaths you’re exhaling are coming from.

”do you understand?”

every bone in your body wants to move, pull away, but you’re worried his nails will sink into your skin if you dare to try. he’s positively suffocating, like this. demanding a response. you want to flee, you want to fight, you want to grab the axe behind you and drive it into his skull. you’re terrified of him. you loved him, once. the hands that are keeping you locked away are the same that dug through blood and guts to drag you out of your grave. he’s never letting you go.

never again. 

no matter how much you beg. 

you can see it in his eyes, the trail of ash they leave behind when he blinks. the carnal desperation in his voice. there is no ’leaving’ him — the fire that burns in him is brighter than yours, far more damning. 

so there’s no point.

his lips are inches away from your own. golden eyes peeled open, palm covering the expanse of your jaw, arm like a bear trap around your waist — snapped shut. suguru awaits your response, and you give it to him with a voice that barely sounds like your own.

”… i understand.”

(obedience and ignorance, you echo inside your mind. obedience and ignorance is all he asks.)

a moment passes, and his muscles finally go lax, eyes softening like melted snow; a sigh slipping past his lips. closing in, claiming your own. you can taste what he’s feeling, but it’s too much to bear. 

”… good,” he smiles, against your lips. ”good baby.”

the praise does nothing to soothe the pit inside your stomach, but it doesn’t matter. he’s not angry, anymore, and that’s as good as anything. you let him kiss you and it doesn’t even make you want to vomit.

it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 

”if you just stay here, you’ll be fine,” he continues, breathing you in and out again. ”you’ll be safer.”

safer tucked between his ribs, or lodged inside his throat. so much safer playing dead all year.

(you think of rotten apricots, and bile rises in your throat.)

a moment’s hesitance. you find the will to speak. ”just… my grandma,” you murmur, pulling away from the kiss by a hair, not that he’d let you go if you tried. you look up into his eyes with a pleading gaze, voice a little broken. ”can you at least… give her the wine?”

suguru pauses. 

then sighs, a rock from out his heavy chest. pulling back and giving you space to breathe, cradling a lock of your hair with greedy fingers. ”you don’t have to worry about her, anymore,” is all he says. ”believe me.” he’s smiling, just barely, voice meant to soothe you out of making a fuss. but there’s really no need. 

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

”… okay,” you answer, the words pulled out of your throat by an invisible string. ”i won’t, then.”

the smile you muster is strained at best, but suguru glows in its light. looks proud, eyes crinkled at the edges, burning pages of paper on an open fire.

a coo on his tongue that he wants to let out.

”sweet thing,” he purrs, sweltering. ”you were just feeling a little cranky, hm…? must be hungry.”

his hand caresses your stomach, rubbing the skin just beneath your navel, and you feel the beginnings of nausea swell up in the very back of your throat. but you stifle it, lean into it, you have no choice.

you nod, and he smiles.

”i was meaning to use that wine for something, anyway…” he lets out a hum, thinking for a moment. ”coq a vin, perhaps? would you like that, little dear?”

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response. 

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

time continues to pass. the cycle repeats, the same as always.

you think you’re finally starting to get used to it.

suguru grows more wolfish by the day. there’s more hair on his arms and chest, his teeth are longer, when he kisses you he sometimes starts to drool. his voice is deep, his meals taste about the same, he still never runs out of lullabies or bags of tea. wolfsbane, lupine, ipomoea alba — he tastes them on your tongue, drinks them from out your mouth. you’re beginning to forget who you were before him. every day, he tells you that he loves you. you think you could believe it if you tried. maybe, you could even love him back.

if only you didn’t know the truth.

it’s more than a suspicion, now. no longer an if, but a when, a question you don’t dare ask — but there’s no need to. when the hunter falls asleep, the wolf makes tea in the kitchen. you live with them both. they’re a duo, a pair of lovers; never one without the other. 

(one of these days, you’re sure they’ll eat you.)

the book you’re reading feels weighty in your hands. you’ve already read it before; you’ve read nearly all of them, fingers far too familiar with the dusty shelves. suguru promised to go get more, though you have no idea from where. you’re not sure knowing would do you any good. he’s upstairs, in your room, scrubbing at the walls to get rid of all your scribbles. it’s bound to take a while — if you dashed out the door now, maybe he wouldn’t notice. but the key is in his pocket, and he’d hear the crack of window glass.

it’s nothing more than a temporary comfort— something to indulge in, roll around and around in your head until you realize how silly you’re being.

you’re broken down, plain and simple, and winter is gnawing itself into the world. ice-cold teeth sinking into the ground beneath your feet, and eating the baby hares buried there. suguru chops wood for the fireplace every single day, just to keep you warm, made a sweater for you that smells too much like him. you sneak a glance out the window, admiring the heavy blanket of pure-white snow draped around the woods; a red fox scurries across your vision, yipping joyeously, skeletal trees shimmering faintly in the distance. a whole world just without you.

it’s comforting. the air smells slightly toasted and your feet are warm, clad in fuzzy socks. you haven’t been outside in some time; suguru’s been reluctant since you sprained your ankle on a sheet of ice in the backyard. you wish you’d hit your head instead. 

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

each turn of a new page drags you deeper into your own subconscious, sinking into a fragile illusion of peace. paper-thin, falling upon your thumb, your eyes scanning the inked letters tiredly. stories aren’t worth reading more than once, you think, the magic fades away eventually. you can barely taste the citrus the protagonist eats, fingers dipping between the ridges, teeth sinking into the tender flesh. rinse and repeat. boring, boring, you want something new — a thriller, a romance, even something like —

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap. 

(knuckles against wood.)

it rings in your ears. rattles down your spine. two seconds, eight, ten — all thoughts disappear from your brain and leave only misty foam behind them. a blank slate. rap tap tap, curling inside your ear canal. 

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence. the house is quiet, so very quiet, you’re afraid suguru will hear your breathing from the second floor. everything feels frozen solid and suddenly you want to hurl, get the sickness out of your gut — watch it spill out all over the floor. but you remain planted in front of the fireplace, watching flames flicker and lick a stripe from coal to wood, waiting for something to happen. 

(it already has.)

another knock.

this time, you shoot up to your feet — like your mind just realized it wasn’t an auditory hallucination, another mass of hysteria seething in your frontal lobe — your hands clammy as they try to find solace in the fabric of your clothing. gripping onto the wool.

on shaky legs, you move forward. making your way towards the hall, slow and steady, soles against soft flooring. eyes blown wide, skittishly peeking around, out the windows and towards the stairs. suguru. you picture him on his knees, tail wagging behind him, dragging wet cloth against faded tapestry, salvaging his ruined walls so you can ruin them again. you picture him hearing the knock, rushing down, pinning you against the floor until your knees ache. 

you picture him none the wiser, and inhale the air like you haven’t in days — gathering courage, dragging your feet towards the source of the noise. 

pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

your heart throbs inside your chest, flexes its legs until it knocks against your ribs, makes you jolt — your lungs holding onto every breath you take with shaky fingers. the deer mount on the wall gazes at you, antlers pointing towards the front door, and when your eyes land on the handle you swear you can feel it. the presence of a living, breathing thing.

just behind the door.

and you can do nothing but stare. unblinking, heart still crammed at the base of your throat, scraping at the walls like a squirming bug. you feel like a deer trapped in headlights. your mind crackles, halts, comes to life again, the pages coming undone from their bindings and spilling out over the floor — smudged with ink, a seven-letter word.

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

a third knock, more curt. it sends a tingle down your spine, down your bones, makes your hand twitch, as if eager to twist the doorknob. finally, someone is here. someone came to get you. no one forgot. 

no one forgot about you. 

you move your leg, and — 

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

only stillness. only silence, strangling you. there’s someone behind you and you didn’t even notice, there’s a hand on your hip to keep you in place, another latching itself onto your mouth to keep you from making any noise. your heartbeat spikes, collapses in on itself, but he is there to catch you.

he’s always there to catch you.

suguru has you enveloped, his scent like a heavy pelt tossed over your shoulders, familiar tones of earth and musk polluting your senses. you’re wrapped up in it. you feel so small, small enough to disappear into the dip between his chest and stomach, right between his ribs. he’s keeping you so still you barely remember to breathe, can only pant shallowly against his big hand and pray he isn’t angry at you.

too frightened to do anything else, you gaze at him out of the corner of your eye.

and ah, there it is. black hair, golden eyes, a silent quiver of his jaw; like he’s trying not to snap it, trying not to bare his teeth. they’re sharp. when he kissed you this morning you felt them nip at your skin.

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

his pupils are sharpened, eyes blown open, staring straight ahead. he’s making no noise, no sound, only the most subtle of breathing patterns — like a hunter in waiting, like he’s got one finger on the trigger. 

yet another knock, impatient, and his grip around your waist grows tighter. a barely audible growl rumbles in his throat, you feel it against the back of your head, let out an involuntary whimper that has something growing hard behind you but you refuse to acknowledge it, refuse to think about it, you’d rather die. he’s immobile and you’re just as paralyzed, only able to watch the door, watch your salvation slip away. again. again and again and again.

one, two, six, nine. the seconds tick on in time with your mismatched heartbeats, and nothing happens. 

then, the sound of boots against gravel. 

moving farther, and farther away. 

(they’re leaving, they’re leaving, they’re leaving.)

”… there,” he rasps, finally, lethally deep, as if culling a calm to your nerves. it doesn’t work, only makes your heartbeat pick up in speed, another tiny whimper muffled against his hairy palm— 

you swallow down a sniffle.

and he loosens his grip, sharp eyes melting into liquored honey. a coo, as he spots the beginnings of tears at your lashline, glistening like morning dew. 

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

”… my poor baby,” comes a croon, a voice thick with fondness; shushing you softly, brushing a stray tear away with his thumb. ”poor little thing.”

you’re still pressed against him, chest to back, he’s warm and suffocating and you’re reliant on his thrumming heartbeat just to find your own breathing. he’s cradling you like a mother to her child, and it makes you feel anything but safe— makes you feel like a bird in the maw of a rottweiler, like your clothes are soggy and dragging you underwater. your chest is caving in, hot tears burning at your eyes, and god, you’re just so fucking tired.

you’re tired of this. tired of him, tired of the story you’re in. tired of having to hope again and again.

(no one’s coming to rescue you. no one at all.)

”must have been so scary,” he continues, rubbing his cheek against your head, leaning down to smear a kiss against the side of your neck, ”’m sorry. i’ll handle everything, you hear me? don’t be afraid.”

another sniffle, you can’t help it. you bite down on your lip to stop it but all it does is make you taste iron, hot and heavy, a burning sting. your voice feels wobbly, forcing it into shape feels like trying to turn water into ice with your bare fingers; yet you try.

it comes out pitiful. 

a broken, battered whisper.

”… i wanna go home…”

more of a whimper than a sentence, it pulls a sigh from out his lips. ”you are home,” he tells you, softly.

you struggle to withhold a bubbling sob, one you know will have you stuck in his arms for the rest of the night. your limbs feel limp but you still dig your teeth into your bottom lip and wipe at your eyes with frustrated humiliation, refusing to let him see you crumble. suguru stays still, just watching, waiting for the ripe moment to pluck your tears and comfort you, but he won’t get it. you won’t give it to him.

when he noses at your pulsepoint, something like an animal whine rips from your throat, scratchy and dry. you squirm, scratch at his forearms where they’re wrapped around you — panicked, feral — and he lets go. he lets you glare at him, through eyes wet with freshly spilled tears, only gives you a look you know means he’s feeling sorry for you. something like a silent oh, look how you’re trembling, look how much you need me, poor thing. it’s demeaning, but all you care about is pushing him away, storming up to your room. for once, he lets you. must think it’s best you deal with your little tantrum on your own for now.

you’re sure he’ll come knocking when it’s time for your bedtime story, but for now you’re alone. free to close the door behind you, collapse against it.

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

(if you accepted that — would it hurt any less?)

all you can muster is the strength to smush your snotty face against your elbows, knees against your chest, curling in on yourself. choking out hitched little breaths, all broken and bruised and wrecked into bits. a marble bashed against concrete, over and over and over again, there’s nothing there but glass-splatter. you’re glad he isn’t here to see it. glad he can’t force you to seek out his body warmth, his steadying heartbeat, that you won’t have to hear him coo out reminders that you aren’t needed out there. 

(nobody out there needs you. not your mother, or your grandmother, not the story you’re in.)

(you’re a lousy protagonist. better off in the ground.)

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again. if only you knew better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 

if only you weren’t you — 

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

broken, broken, a crack in the middle of your heart.

suguru comes knocking at your door, eventually. there is no lock, you have to let him in, but by then you’re fast asleep. faded into a dreamless slumber.

(you won’t feel it, won’t see it, won’t have to kiss him back. he’ll tuck you into bed without waking you.)

it happens, at last. a long overdue curtain call.

but not to you.

the smell of rot sticks to the walls, bleeds out against the carpet and wails like a dog. the stench of flesh, suffocating ever narrow of your cells, the marrow of your bones. he probably thought you’d be asleep. he probably doesn’t know how thin the walls are.

you stand by the threshold to the kitchen, and peek in through the gap left by the storage room’s open door.

pale moonlight spills in through the window, casts a dim-lit blue across the floorboards and shatters on suguru’s back. illuminates him, where he lays, hunched over like a dog. eating something.

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

you can barely make it out, seeing only shadows and shapes. hell on earth, hell permeating the world and forcing it down your throat. you can’t see his face, only his ears, his tail, beautiful blood pooled underneath his knees and glistening in the light. can only hear the noises of him chewing, the sickening crack of a bone being split, gnarls and growls like he’s having trouble fitting it all into his mouth, taking too-big bites all at once. they make you nauseous, make your stomach twist with panic and disgust. desperate to quell your terror-struck breaths, you keep a hand clasped over your mouth— willing your guts to stay unspilled. you’d rather not have him clean it up; rather not owe him any favours at all.

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 

the stench is excruciating. iron and molding meat, damp clothes and patches of wet fur. thick. it makes tears sting behind your eyelids, burn at your lashline, your entire body shaking, skeleton rattling under your skin— panic wailing in your shuddering veins.

it’s happening. it’s happening, but not to you.

(and isn’t that a blessing? to play the role he always has. always just watching everything go wrong.)

(maybe you’ve always hated him. maybe you just couldn’t tell.)

it takes effort to keep yourself upright, to force your knees not to buckle. you’re scared, you’re scared, whatever rabbit made a nest inside your heart is trying to gnaw its way out and it hurts. you’re cold and hot all at once. you think you might pass out, like this; clutching onto the wall with unsteady fingers. 

suguru seems to be enjoying himself, feasting on god knows who, tearing through veins and muscle tissue, carving a path that reeks of rotten fruit and guts. it’s horror incarnate. you pray it’s all a dream, a nightmare. you pray you’ll wake up soon. but you’re still frozen when you squeeze your eyes shut, and he’s still hunched over in the storage room when you open them. shallow breaths scrape against your throat, and you swallow down the bile building up at its base. taking a wobbly, wobbly step back.

you thank your lucky stars he does not peek over his shoulder. tip-toeing towards the stairs, leaving the blood and the grit behind before he spots you. you are gone by the time he’s finished, gone by the time he licks the entrails from between his teeth and cranes his head to look behind him.

golden eyes violating the dark.

when you crawl back into bed, fruitlessly trying to gain control over your trembling limbs, wipe the sight from your mind — you are sure of only one thing.

this is the tipping point. this is where the cup runs over. it has to, or it’ll break into pieces, bleed open. you’re never going to forget this; the buzzing of fleas, the smell of rotten apricots. the smell of death, hot and heavy, iron seeping into the back of your tongue and tearing out your teeth. warm, hot blood. gurgling up at the base of your throat with steady thumps.

(your story wasn’t supposed to be like this, a voice echoes in your head. not like this.)

terror. terror. desperation, a silent crack in the night. something in your gut settles, right when you feel so faint you’re sure you’ll pass out — a cold calm.

suddenly, you know what you have to do. you know exactly what the story is about to demand.

(keep that fire burning. even if you burst aflame.)

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

you hold onto the rim of the cup with steady fingers, warm skin against cold porcelain, and drink slowly; one gulp after another. it tastes good. mellow and vibrant, makes a home on the roof of your mouth, sticks to the back of your teeth. there’s a nutty aftertaste that you can’t help but savour.

he’s trying out something new, today; a bundle of golden leaves, simmering in the liquor-like water, a trail of sweet-smelling steam wafting up into the air. beautiful, if nothing else. flickering softly.

it’s a wonder you still haven’t grown tired of tea. a wonder he keeps finding new ones for you to try.

(he’s fond of flowers, you’re well aware. fond of plucking them by hand, while they’re young and pretty, robbing them from the ground, putting them in hot water and vases and paintings on the wall.)

(yesterday, he asked if he could do your portrait.)

it’s time for your bedtime story. you’re curled up in bed, on freshly washed silken sheets, buried under a fluffy blanket with suguru to your right, sitting on a wooden chair with a fable in his lap. paintings of rabbits and foxes, girls and goats. they’ve grown more childlike, over time, the books he reads to you aloud; the ones he keeps on his shelves. he doesn’t like it when you indulge in anything too graphic.

a nightlight keeps you company, shines a light on the pages in the dark of your room. a small comfort.

in tandem with his words, the curtains sway, tender as the lull of his tongue— window barricaded just behind them. he’s wearing a blouse, with puffy sleeves that barely reach down to his elbows anymore. he’s gotten bigger. there’s a rasp in his throat when he speaks but the softness is still present, the silent turning of another page, he holds them in between his fingers before letting them fall. looks at peace. it’s raining outside, a quiet drizzle, warming up the earth from the frost and snow — a gentle pitter patter against the windowpane. you can almost smell the damp earth, the moss and worms, content to imagine it as tea trickles down your throat, pumps its way into your heartbeat.

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

your words cut into the silence, shatters the illusion of peace and quiet, spill into the open air. the wolf by your bedside looks surprised, for a moment; a silent series of blinks, raven lashes taking flight. usually, you’d be nothing but silent during this routine. 

”do you not like it?” he asks, letting the page flutter shut, fall over his thumb. ”i can shave.”

you pay no mind to his response. only push yourself up on your elbows, sluggishly, reach your fingers out to curl around his roughed up knuckles.

”and your hands are big…”

a flicker, in his ashen eyes. he lets you trace along his hands, dip your fingertips down the valleys and across the bumps, the callouses and scars. 

(and oh, he knows what you’re doing now.)

so he plays along.

”… the better to hold you with,” he whispers, low and sweet — bringing your hand to his lips, smearing a kiss against the inside of your palm. you feel the curve of his smile cut into your skin.

a beat. your hand slips away from his touch, travels down to his jaw, tips it up with a thumb beneath his chin. suguru eyes you. hungrily, your instincts tell you. he’s pliant, though, a domesticated thing — doesn’t bat an eye when your fingers tug at his upper lip and expose a row of white teeth. pink gums.

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

silence. you can see your own reflection in the gleam of his canines, watch it waver like great tides in the sea. you look nothing like you remember.

and suguru looks conflicted.

”the better to…” he whispers, latches onto your wrist and cups your palm— keeps it in place as he nuzzles against it, closing his mouth. ”protect you with.”

something in your chest tightens and coils, at that. he smiles, almost sheepish, and you want to kill him, want to drag his own axe through his stomach, hear the clanking of metal against the bone of a rib.

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

(at least have the gall to say it out loud.)

the fwhip of a book being shut. his thumb slips out from between the pages, comes to rest against the spine, and you know it’s time for bed. you feel a tentative lick, against the skin of your palm, before he’s letting go of your wrist. it makes you shudder, and his eyes crinkle like you just did something cute. 

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

his voice curls into your mind, around your neck, wriggles like a worm inside your ear. you don’t say it back. you stay silent, as he pulls away. 

the nightlight flickers off.

once upon a time, you’re sure your story had an ending.

it’s a distant memory, at this point. a bundle of blurry memories, a sense of knowledge about what goes where. but you can still recall the catharsis.

at its core, little red riding hood is a tale about foolishness. a tale about girls who stay snug in the bellies of beasts, curl up close to their intestines and wait patiently to be rescued. this is no surprise to you. you’ve been devoured thousands of times, it’s in your nature, what you were born to do— there is no version of the story where you aren’t tangled up in meat thread or being swallowed whole. no version where you aren’t a victim, born to wait your turn.

you’re well beyond accepting that.

all children must exit the womb, and all little reds must escape the wolf’s stomach. neither cage was meant to keep you, even if he’d disagree.

but now you really are trapped.

(trapped in the cage he made you, a bookmark glued to paper-skin.)

you sit in his armchair, and gaze into the fireplace. waiting for a cue. suguru is in the kitchen, as always, the sound of a whistling kettle seeping through the air, chattering with steam. gusts of wind claw against the windows, wail and whine against the glass. the woods sway in the distance, mocking shades of green shimmering faintly; beckoning you closer, closer still, into their depths. winter is about to end. 

the sun is stuck in vitro.

the deer mount on the wall looks at you with dead, glazed-over eyes. dead like the pinned-up butterflies, dead like every single thing in his home. dead tea leaves, dead men in storage rooms, dead little reds.

the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 

an inhale, inflating your lungs. it has to end. the story hungers for it — there has to be some way to reach it.

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

crackling, splintering, wood on fire. ash gathers at the bottom of the hearth, tears itself into pieces and crumbles into a lifeless heap. your eyes watch the flames lick into each other’s mouths, make a home there. they’re consuming each other. getting their fill. you think of his tongue, his teeth, his voice— you think of the shotgun over his shoulder and the glint in his eye, his greedy hands squeezing at your midriff. you think of the axe, just resting there, leather sheath snug around the steel. waiting, waiting, waiting.

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

his voice carries across the living room, a jumbled growl of syllables — you scarcely hear them, eyes fixated on the gleaming steel in front of you. fingers hungry for contact, eager to rip the sheath right off. 

it’s time to choose an ending. 

you could live in his belly, if you wanted, just like this. forevermore. could tuck yourself between his teeth and grow comfortable there. that, or you could cut your way out — stain the last page red yourself, before he gets the chance to. lick the excess off your wrist and tear the binding in half. it’s all or nothing, this or that; an axe in his stomach, his teeth in your neck. your choice, yes, but it’s time to make it.

you know which one you want.

(”and little red riding hood reached for the axe.”)

— it feels right, in your hand. feels right to hold, have it weigh you down, become part of your skeletal structure. everything finally feels just right.

an inhale. your breathing turns more shallow, quiet breaths seeping from out your throat, lips parting silently. a flicker, your gaze darting in the direction of the kitchen, zeroing in on the shadow cast across the threshold. heart, liver, lungs. you can feel them all, count them all. they’re all clambering up your esophagus. worms in your throat, under rocks.

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

you don’t care what the consequences are, anymore.

a moment of silence. you hear not the whooshing of the wind, the whistling of the kettle, or the sound of tea being poured into cups. you hear neither his voice nor your own footsteps — only the steady beating of your own heart, a bunny about to break into sprint. one step forward. two. his back is visible, the hair at his nape, he’s pouring tea into porcelain cups. he’ll never know what hit him, what he brought into his home. ba-dump. ba-dump. the floorboards split apart, and the binding comes undone.

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … and ▇▇ ▇ne did ▇▇▇ing t▇ harm h▇▇, ▇ver again. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

[skepticbeliever-bookclub]

Weeeeeelcome back!

For the second installment of our Spooky Month, this week we read the incredibly eerie In the Woods Somewhere by sequence_fairy!

Only 3.6K words, this tightly packed fic takes you on a journey that feels like it's so much longer. If you're looking for spookiness, tension, and some good old fashioned ghoul hunting, this fic hits all the right buttons, right up to the very end.

Rating: M

Summary: “I’m Ryan,” Ryan says, into the quiet. “This is Shane. We’d like to make contact with anyone still here and able to speak.”

Across the table, Shane shifts. “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” he sing-songs. Ryan can’t help the way his mouth curves into a grin.

“I’m gonna open the floor,” Ryan says, after another moment of silence. “So, if anyone’s here who has something to say, now’s the time.”

“Yeah,” Shane agrees, “speak now or forever hold your peace.” Ryan kicks him under the table, but Shane chuckles, unrepentant.

Or: The house on Jackdaw Hill has a history, and Shane and Ryan get more than they bargained for.

Book Club Thoughts:

can i say that this fic is a fucking master class in evocative writing?? i could see it, i could feel it, i could very unfortunately get my ass metaphorically kicked by that ending.

[the author] did an incredible job at building the anticipation, lingering on faint details that set the tone and the broad reaches of the minutiae of a haunting story

These kinds of things make my chest hurt in a good way

No because psychological horror is so much more effective, and [the author's] writing absolutely portrayed that.

the great thing with fic is that it's always going to pack an additional emotional punch because you already care about the characters--but [the author] did an A+ job making me feel like...idk, protective?? like full-on "no, don't go in that room!" horror movie heckling

All the small silent ways that Shane shows his support for Ryan, that he's there and Ryan isn't alone, are beautiful.

it's all very very immersive stuff. Love the choices [the author] made for this one though

and the description of the server working one of those ancient credit card thingys. I like how lived-in stuff like that makes the story

reading it for the second time was really nice, because it still contained all of the tension that i had from the first time

YES. love the setting of the scene with some ominous weather

I was not expecting the ending to go the way it did and the way I GASPED

WOULD YOU LIKE TO JOIN US FOR OUR NEXT DISCUSSION? CHECK OUT THE FAQ, AND SEND US AN ASK! IF YOU’RE LOOKING FOR FIC RECS, PLEASE CHECK OUT OUR READS, NOMINEES AND BOOK CLUB REC LISTS!

[fictionissocialinquiry]

FISI’s Favourite Zutara Fics

A lil late for ZFAW’s Saturday prompt, sorry about that! Haven’t had any internet over the weekend. But better late than never!

I’m not gonna lie… a lot of these are angsty af. But I promise you they’re not gratuitous angst! They’re well written, beautiful stories that will make you feel like a better person for having read them. These are my favourite all time fics, ones I’ve read more than once and will continue to read (even though I’m taking a week break from fandom and fic).

 Multi-Chaptered Fics

The Sparrowkeet Series by audreyii_fic

To be honest, this story’s summary doesn’t do it justice so I ain’t including it. Originally a one shot, Sparrowkeet is headcanon for me now. Move over canon, this is where it’s at. Audreyii_fic’s characterisation, world building, and writing is exquisite. It’s incredible. She manages to channel the same fun and whimsical energy from the show while allowing the characters to grow and develop to places I wish they had actually been taken.

This one is a fandom Must Read and one I return to regularly.

 Clothe Me in Seasons, Dress Me in Snow by sadladybug

It is not the memorial she deserves, nor the one she would want. But it can't be helped. He owns no property in the other nations, and he needed to keep her close. Closer than she was in life, anyway.

Zuko's reflections on a life lived and a life that could have been.

This is one of the best written fics I’ve ever read. It’s tragic and deep and will hurt you in all the tender places but you would be doing yourself a favour if you read this. There’s a real bittersweet feeling to it and the love between them is just… urg, visceral.

 Lovable by LadyCharity

Zuko knew that he could not save Azula. He could only try to forgive her. Fittingly enough, those two were one in the same.

I love stories that make Zutara their centerpiece but every now but then a story like this comes along. A story where their relationship builds almost incidentally because the plot and character development straight up hijack your emotions. I got so invested in this story. Zuko is amazingly well characterised and his complicated thoughts and feelings around his father and Azula are incredibly well written!

 One Shots

Lunar Ephemerality by @formerlygoldilocks (goldilocks23)

After multiple failed attempts on his life and years of self-set expectations, Fire Lord Zuko is a shell of the man he used to be. But Katara won't turn her back on those who need her.

I really didn’t expect this to hit as hard as it did. This straight up snuck up on me, fly-kicked my feelings, and by the end I had written an 800 word comment that was too big for AO3 and I had to contact the author directly to send it to her. Awkward. I couldn’t help myself. The side to Katara we see here is so good, her empathy and love for her friends are one of the things I love seeing most in AtLA fanfic. I’m a sucker for Zuko having complete breakdowns and having to piece himself back together too. So sue me. I like it when they suffer a lil bit. The writing is absurdly good and I will be keeping an eye out for any new stories by goldilocks23!

 31 Minutes by @ifyouwereamelodymeg

It's quite astounding, really, how quickly she's learned to translate him. They've spent a grand total of zero time together outside of training, and he's hardly big on chat so she knows next to nothing about his life.

But she knows him, probably better than she knows anyone at the moment – with every tap of his fingers, every crook of his lips, every turn in his voice, he just...

He makes sense to her. It's weird.

I’m a sucker for fic writers playing with style to make the story pop and boyo does this fic deliver. This is one of the rare times that I’ve been dumbstruck at the end of a story— I just couldn’t accept the ending. Because I’m a sucker for pain, (and this story will bring The Pain) I loved it. The ease of Zuko and Katara’s growing relationship in this bowls you over, it’s absolutely beautiful and you find yourself nodding along emphatically when Zuko calls himself an idiot for waiting… “Life’s short, kids, live each moment as though it could be your last,” says this fic as it pulls my heart out and dropkicks it off a cliff.

 i count to five (and life passes by) by @markedmage

Five heartbeats.

I still haven’t forgiven Mage for this one. I think it’s the best thing she’s written to date! I mean, tragic and painful and heart-rending but holy shit is it powerful <3

 The Lake of the Dismal Swamp by @thewhiitelotus

Spook af. Spook (horror) is real hard to do well but thewhiitelotus is coming for your goosebumps and those shivers down your spine. She has a way of balancing beautiful, evocative imagery with action (in this and other stories of her) that just keeps you reading!

 Calloused by @rideboldlyride

Iroh hadn’t been able to watch. The pure horror of a man - a father- burning their child for a slight infraction... He couldn’t do anything to stop it, but he will stop his brother from destroying entirely the kind boy he knew Zuko could be.

This is a painfully underappreciated fic for how great the characterisation is. I know we in the zutara fandom tend to not read stories that aren’t Zuko/Katara centric as often but do yourself the favour of reading this (or listening to it: RideBoldlyRide has done us the gift of recording a podfic for this and it’s stupidly *good*). This story is Iroh confronting Ozai just after he burns Zuko’s face and it kicks.

 four days and three nights by @hinaoyamas (lettersfromnowhere)

Zuko discovers firsthand that nothing is more fleeting than happiness, or more enduring than memory.

Do you like reading stories with a distant, omniscient narrator? The kind that read like a myth from the ancient world? Welp, hit the hyperlink, friend, cause this one’s for you. Not only is the writing exquisite but the characterisation and painful inevitability of the plot is grade A.

 For the Fire Nation by tullyblue12

He falls in love with her for his country before he falls in love with her for himself. A Zuko/Katara AU that explores how love and duty aren’t always mutually exclusive.

There are about 40,000 exquisite lines in this story but here is just one of my favourites: “He falls in love with her for his country first. That’s what his people never understand.” This fic says a lot with so few words, which is something I really look up to! In 2,800 words, tullyblue12 does what some 100,000k fics cant: They make you feel.

 Guide Me Home by Rashaka

To sleep, perchance to dream. Katara and Zuko find a friendship they never expected in a place that seemed impossible.

This is a one shot I will forever wish for a continuation of. The setup is just… so juicy. There’s a real sorrowful innocence to this story that the unique short, dialogue only scenes really punch home. I know some people don’t like dialogue only fics but when done well like in this one, it leaves you with the impression of something deeper than a 1,185 word fic has any right to! 

 Other Favourites!

Hopeless by tullyblue12 — Kids grow up fast when a cruel world awaits them. In times of hopelessness, Katara and Zuko grow together. In times of separation, they hope to see each other again.

Speechless by goldilocks23 — Zuko has a medical condition. Or: Zuko speaks in haiku at inappropriate times.

Don’t Follow Me Down by eleventy7 — Katara is the dread queen of the underworld, ruler of the dead, destined to reign her cold kingdom alone. Until a sun god catches her eye. A Hades/Persephone retelling with incredible writing.

I Don't Speak Meow Language by @botherkupo (Boogum) — In which Zuko adopts a cat and Katara just wonders what spirits she pissed off to deserve this fate.

I have the privilege of being friends with some of these authors (they know who they are) and am in near daily awe and gratitude for the works of free fiction they provide us, the fandom. And not just any old stories: Guys... Really good ones!! Can I ask that if you go check out these fics, can you just drop a kudos or a comment their way? If you’re feeling shy just copy and paste this into the comments box anonymously: “WOW! Loved this! Thank you so much for writing it!”

I know it would mean the world to this talented bunch <3

[ladyartemesia]

Fic recs for taehyung? I love your stuff btw I’ve read them all uwu

As a beacon of extra-ness in an already extra world, I am entirely incapable of just recommending fics like a normal blog. No. I’ve got to wax on like a bloomin connoisseur. I have compiled some (but not all) of my favorite works in several different categories and sorted them accordingly. This crazy list is so long I had to add a “keep reading”... but I simply couldn’t bear to leave any of these off the list. They are all so good!

Fics have been divided into 8 categories. Some are under the cut. 

 ▨ FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS and FRIENDS TO LOVERS ▨  ▨ ARRANGED MARRIAGE ▨ ▨ FANTASY ▨ ▨ ANGST WITH A HAPPY ENDING ▨ ▨ HYBRID and ABO (alpha/omega) ▨ ▨ MULTIPLE PARTNERS ▨ ▨ NEIGHBORS AND ROOMMATES ▨ ▨ TABOO THEMES and DARK FIC (Sex Work/Power Imbalance/Very Unsafe Sex) ▨ ▨

▨ FRIENDS WITH BENEFITS and FRIENDS TO LOVERS ▨

Insomnia by @hobiwonder

This is one of those fics I read and literally could not stop thinking about. It is wildly hot and honestly hilarious. Poor reader cannot sleep and the beautiful bro she’s tutoring offers a rather unconventional solution.

(Ego) Hoe Chronicles: KTH by @suga-kookiemonster

Listen. If you find a niche fan blog devoted entirely to Ego Tae... I’m not gonna say it’s mine. But it’s probably mine. I once told suga-kookiemonster that I would literally read a story about Ego Tae going grocery shopping on a Wednesday night and I stand by that. In this lurid romp, the reader falls into the clutches of everyone’s favorite bohemian sex lord and he rails her into another dimension.

Falling, Falling, Gone by @johobi

Pining (mutual or otherwise) is not really my thing, but I would straight up read Jo’s laundry list if she posted it. As usual I was blown away by how everything she does seems somehow better than any other version of it. This reader is really unique as well, and her relationship with the wildly popular soccer star Tae comes to a sexy and hilarious head at a sort of bachelor auction. With sharp dialogue, delightful subtext, and fantastic side characters, you really shouldn’t miss it. It’s pretty much perfect.

A Friendly Favor by @baeseoul

This is the classic “teach me some sex for another woman” trope and it is done so well. Sweet best friend Tae is looking to benefit from your experience, but his is not the only world about to be thouroughly rocked.

Officer Kim and the Criminal Crush by @ddaengyoonmin

This is one of the best twists on childhood friends to lovers I have ever seen. Tae grows up to become a cop and reader grows up to be a societal menace. I won’t spoil it, but it’s the perfect blend of nostalgia, tenderness, and smut. This fic technically doesn’t have a name so I had to give it one to link it. It’s part of an AMAZING series Zoe did that I also highly recommend.

Out of the Blue by @jimlingss

This is one of those stories that blooms throughout the narrative until you are left with this gorgeous flower at the end. I loved the journey of these two characters. It was real and it perfectly captures the experience of finding your soulmate in the person you least expect.

Sin Pijama by @brilliantlybasicb

This fic is a switch culture fic. It is wild wicked hot and this Tae is unreal. I love the way he lets the reader think she is in control just long enough. It is a wild romp with an adorable sequel and honestly you should read it.

Girls Like You by @jjiminah

I was in jjiminah’s asks IMMEDIATELY about this fic because I had FEELINGS. The reader begins wordlessly teasing and tempting Tae on their morning bus ride every day until he is literally losing his mind. Everything that follows is fire. Jjiminah has hinted she will wrote more for these two and I NEED IT.

Sighs and Sonnets by @btsaudge

This fic is beautiful. Like it’s basically art. This is a bad boy who is bad for you. But he has the soul of a poet and the stroke game of a renaissance master. Bittersweet and seductive, this fic is a full experience.

The Text by @taetaesbaebaepsae

Tae is your friend with benefits but it looks like feeling may have been caught by one or more parties. When you attempt to soothe your aching heart with another pretty boy, Tae decides to stake his claim. This was very sexy. The whole fic was sexy.

▨ ARRANGED MARRIAGE ▨

Monster by @neonlights92

Monster and all of its companion series about each of the boys is one of those fics that I reread constantly and also just think about constantly. This is one of the best mafia AUs out there and it’s characters are vivid and unforgettable. Tae’s stubborn resistance to his lovely new wife in contrast with her quiet, clever strength really brings this story to life. A word of warning. The masterlist links are a bit messed up. To read part two you must click on part three. And to read part three must click on part four. The link to part four is at the bottom of part three (or you can just search it on her site. It is definitely all there though).

Dichotomy by @kpopfanfictrash

There is a reason the incomparable Shanna is on this list three times. She is truly incomparable. This is childhood friends-to enemies-to spouses and it is wonderful. I adore this Tae. He is sharp and vulnerable and occasionally heavy handed, but truly a gem. This fic also features one of the best angry sex scenes I’ve ever run my eyeballs across.

▨ FANTASY ▨

Chism by @kpopfanfictrash

The world-building in this story is genuinely awe inspiring. You could write series upon series within this vivid universe. The god of Winter is missing and Summer’s heat burns unchecked for many years. The reader is a warrior with a unique ability tasked with guarding a very interesting prisoner. This story is so good. I mean it is really bloomin incredible. It’s hard to say what I liked best about it, because it was stellar across the board.

Obsidian by @kpopfanfictrash

In the pantheon of delicious Tae incarnations, Obsidian Taehyung is essentially unrivaled as a grey witch who moonlights as a sexy rock star. His extremely erotic clash with a white witch detective plays out as the two of them track down a sinister killer (with the help of some truly memorable side characters).

Out of this World by @ddaengyoonmin

This one is really unique. Tae is a merman scientist on the water planet of Neptune and when the reader and her misguided crew crash into his sea, he takes it upon himself to improve inter-species relations. This fic features excellent world building alongside several twists and surprises. Clever scientist Tae is downright irresistible.

▨ ANGST WITH A HAPPY ENDING ▨

Picking Flowers by @jamaisjoons

So this story is a journey - truly a beautiful one and it’s a gorgeous addition to the hanahaki genre. There is real pain and I cried real tears, but gosh it was so sexy and so worth it. I was surprised by how truly immersed I ended up in this piece. I lost track of everything else. The end is insanely satisfying, but the journey is really what makes this fic unmissable.

Until Yesterday by @jimlingss

This fic destroyed me slowly then slowly put me together again piece by piece. When I say I went through it - I WENT THROUGH IT. The story is loosely based on the movie “The Vow” and it is just fantastic. Beautiful and tender till the last word.

The Foolish Muse by @bibbykins

This is the story of someone who is deeply in love, but knows they deserve better. It is a sexy and evocative work with allusions to mythology that fit seamlessly into the narrative. I think my favorite part is Tae discovering how much the reader meant to him and what choices ultimately lead them to a really delicious conclusion.

Back to You by @ladyartemesia

The last time I did a fic rec list, it got like 700 notes. Ya girl is not makin the same mistake again. I spent hours on this list. My work is comin along for the ride. Kim Taehyung is the love of your life, until one day he disappears without a trace.

Vacancy by @ppersonna

This one is the only idol AU on the list and I normally don’t read those, but Lindy’s work is too good to miss in any setting. I am thrilled I took a look because what I found was a glimpse into a beautiful relationship that weathers and eventually overcomes the challenges of loving in the limelight. There is a LOT of emotional depth and symbolism which really elevates everything about this lovely story. The reader’s internal struggles in the face of her lover’s fame are extremely well done.

▨ HYBRID and ABO ▨ (alpha/omega)

Eye of the Tiger by @opaljm

I am beyond hype about this story which is (very) loosely inspired by Zootopia and features a cocky tiger Taehyung and a fiesty prey hybrid he needs to fake date in order to keep panther Jimin from murdering him. (Tiger Tae got a tad too frisky around Jimin’s mate and now things are dangerously awkward.) This story is already so freakin good. I cannot wait for the rest.

Silver and Blue by @taetaewonderland

What happens when you get on the wrong side of the right werewolf? Very sexy - very crazy times. Chronologically this is the first of the Silver and Blue series which follows barely civilized were-Tae through his courtship and eventually his relationship with the spunky reader. Holla to all my impreg kink homies. This is the fic for you.

Heat Run by @ladyartemesia

As I said before, the last time I did a fic rec list, it got like 700 notes. Ya girl is not makin the same mistake twice. I spent hours on this list. My work is comin along for the ride. Alpha lawyer V is a man of many secrets, but his well ordered reality spirals wildly out of control when he crosses paths with a fiery omega set on saving the world from his wicked ways.

Beautiful Stranger by @interludemoonchild

This was a wild ride from start to finish. Taehyung is a tiger hybrid shifter who escapes from the circus to be close to a veterinary student he bonded with. There is a lot of interesting twists and surprises in this one. I was definitely screaming at the end.

Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell by @jingabitch

A very young wolf hybrid Taehyung adopts you as his pet human when you are just a kid. After Tae leaves to serve in the military he returns to an adult version of his sweet little princess and chaos ensues. Mind the tags for this one folks. It’s excellent, but there are very triggering themes throughout.

▨ MULTIPLE PARTNERS ▨

Level of Restraint by @lemonjoonah

This is not strictly a Tae fic in that he is only one of three major players in this twisted masterpiece. Lemon is the undisputed queen of the surprise twist and this one is truly brilliant. People dropped this fic in the discord calling it the best fan fiction they had ever read and I am not here to argue with them at all. Fair warning, every word - every inch of this fic is sexy and it’s delicious brand of titillation is wrapped around your psyche good and tight by the end.

Four by @luxekook

The quadruplets next door are fueling your very lurid fantasies. It turns out they have some fantasies of their own... You will need water if you read this fic. This is the original patented Kim Taehyung Horny Hive Mind 4D Experience™

▨ NEIGHBORS AND ROOMMATES ▨

The Heat Wave Series by @curly-bangtan

The original story (chapter 1) in this series is definitely famous, but I don’t know how many people have read all 9 chapters and if you haven’t, you are really missing the incredible journey of two very horny idiots stumbling recklessly towards real and amazing love. Everything is set off when the air conditioner breaks and a pair of wild roommates shed their inhibitions along with their clothes.

Flicker by @chimoona

So this fic started out with adorable neighbor dynamics and ended with erotic rope tying. Baby I was ABOUT IT. This was so bloomin hot and also like sweet and tender. Really a sexy and sentimental treasure.

Not Your Typical Flower Shop Story by @jungtaeyoongles

This story goes from “aww” to “WHAT THE-” real quick. Fast paced plot and twist after twist turn the whole flower shop au upside down and then inside out. I can’t say more because spoilers but like - WOW.

▨ TABOO THEMES and DARK FIC ▨ (Sex Work/Power Imbalance/Very Unsafe Sex)

Extracurricular by @ppersonna

One of my favorite professor-student AUs. The reader writes her gorgeous professor a borderline erotic analysis of several major works of art and he feels compelled to discuss it with her privately. Lindy really outdid herself on this one. It is scorchin. Professor Tae is actually really sweet and somehow that just makes the whole thing hotter.

Akrasia by @nitaescence

This is insanely hot. Emphasis on the insane because it’s basically a super erotic romp where you have sex with a man you don’t know (Taehyung) on a crowded public bus. I literally felt my blood pressure going up the longer I read. Whew.

The Client by @jungkookiebus

This one hit me right in the feels. Taehyung is a sweet and lonely man who has a standing Wednesday appointment with an upscale sex worker. As the story progresses, feelings become involved on both sides. When I say I am checking her page thrice daily for part three... This is so engrossing. And this Tae. I just want to hold him.

Daffodil Dreams by @sombreboy

Tread carefully ladies and gents. This story is excellent, but it is easily the darkest fic on the list and, if you choose to read it, please read the trigger warnings carefully. The reader is a psychologist called in to analyze a very dangerous criminal. As their sessions progress, however, several boundaries are crossed.

Obey by @jjkfire

Taehyung is the most feared and ruthless member of the local mafia and you are the world’s most inept escort. You needed a job, but had no real interest in sex work and you’ve managed to fly under the radar as a glorified waitress until Kim Taehyung himself walks into your agency and decides that you’re the only girl he wants. Oh my gosh I loved this story so much. It was downright amazing and there is a surprise at the end that makes everything even sweeter.

[quickspinner]

Month of Miracles Day 5 - Decoration

Find the prompt list here!

I have meddled with powers I did not fully understand and now the Hallmark AU has gripped me. I think you can expect to see more of this sprinkled throughout the month. Oh, well. Multiparters in prompt months are like a tradition for me now, right? 

Hallmark Movie AU

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4 | Part 5 | Part 6 | Part 7 | Part 8 | Part 9  | Part 10 | Part 11 | Part 12 | Part 13 | Part 14 (end) | Read Month of Miracles on AO3

Imagine, Marinette thought as she helped Rose unpack the decorations and ornaments to go on the tree, Luke Stone in a town like this. 

Now that she thought about it, she hadn’t heard of him releasing anything new recently. So he was from this town, then? He must be on vacation, visiting his family and helping out at the farm. Taking a break, maybe writing some new songs. Funny, to think of the glammed up, heavily bedazzled rock star wearing flannel and working on a Christmas tree farm.

Marinette had winced the day before, watching him tear up his palms hauling the tree she’d picked out yesterday and tie it down deftly with fingers that had to be worth millions of dollars. It pained her to think of the hands that had created such beautiful music being abused in such a way. Surely he should have been wearing gloves, at least. He’d been so cold to her, though, that Marinette hadn’t dared suggest it or question him.

She’d been skeptical when Jagged Stone’s son had made his debut on tour alongside his father. She’d been a longtime fan of the older Stone and didn’t think even his own flesh and blood would be able to match him—but the younger Stone hadn’t tried. Luke’s music was clearly influenced by his father, but was also entirely his own, but so evocative, so emotional, she had been pulled in despite her reservations. She owned every one of Luke Stone’s albums, including the special edition greatest hits album, which she had bought even as she complained to Alya that he was too young in his career to be releasing a greatest hits album.

Marinette hadn’t said much to Rose about the encounter, not sure whether it was common knowledge amongst the town that he was here, and not wanting to infringe on his privacy if it wasn’t. Rose had given her a funny (disappointed?) look when she mentioned the grumpy young man that had helped her, but hadn’t said anything about it, just asked Marinette to come back today and give her a hand decorating the tree after the maintenance staff got it set up.

It wasn’t as if Marinette had much else to do, and Gina’s house felt huge and empty with just her in it, so she’d agreed, and here she was unpacking dusty boxes that had been hauled out of storage. She sighed as she surveyed the contents. The boxes looked like they’d been packed up by unsupervised five-year-olds last year. 

She was sorting the decorations into piles, still absently pondering the mystery of Luke Stone, when the library doors slid open, and the man himself walked in. He was dressed much the same as he had been yesterday, in layers that hid the muscular shoulders and arms he displayed on stage. Before Marinette could react, Rose flitted past her. 

“Luka!” Rose squealed, throwing herself at him. “You’re here!” Luka staggered slightly but wrapped one arm around her waist to catch her, holding her with her feet dangling off the ground as she kissed both his cheeks, her arms wrapped around his neck. Marinette stared, mouth hanging open slightly.

“That was enthusiastic,” Luka laughed, looking down at the petite blond hanging off of his tall frame. 

“I’m happy to see you!” Rose smiled brightly. 

“You just saw me at dinner last night.” Luka bent his knees and set her on the ground. Rose took the hint and let him go, but bounced on the balls of her feet. “And I told you I’d come, he added.”

“And now you’re here!” Rose threw out her arms. “I’m so glad! I have so much to do to get the childrens’ program ready and the decorations are so much for poor Marinette to manage by herself! Have you met Marinette?” she inquired, turning and holding out her arms to present her friend. Marinette closed her mouth and tried to smile as she gave a little wave. “I think you did,” Rose continued, turning to give him a warning look. “I think she said she ran into you at the farm.” 

Luka felt embarrassment creeping up his neck at Rose’s clearly scolding look. He nodded at Marinette. “Briefly, yeah. Nice to see you, Marinette.” He pronounced her name carefully, feeling bad about teasing her yesterday. She smiled a little more, and then looked down, her hands fluttering around the decorations she’d been separating. 

“You can get the lights on the tree while Marinette finishes working out that stuff,” Rose suggested, pointing to a pile of lights sitting near Marinette. “You’re nice and tall, so that should make things easy. There’s step stools in the kids’ area if you need them. Come here and I’ll show you what I want.” She hooked his arm and pulled him around to the far side of the tree. “The plug’s over here, so you’ll need to start on this side.” 

As soon as they were out of sight, Rose slapped his arm. “Dummy!” she scolded in a whisper. “I didn’t send her to the farm so you could be mean.”

“I wasn’t mean,” Luka protested weakly, and then frowned. “What do you mean, you sent her?” He gave his not-quite-sister a suspicious look, and then leaned slightly to look around the tree and make sure they were out of earshot. 

He paused. Marinette had been cute yesterday in her puffy pink coat and earmuffs, but he hadn’t really had time to notice her. Now she looked trendy but comfortable in pigtails and a soft pink sweater over skinny jeans, her profile turned to him. She was an authentic kind of pretty, he reflected, but then Luka had found himself thinking that about a lot of people since he’d left the rock star world, where everybody wore layers of stage makeup, styled and coiffed and dressed so that every detail about them enhanced the image they wanted to project. 

Still, her full lips made a pretty bow, especially when she pouted them slightly in concentration, and her hair had a shine that came from health rather than product, and her eyes were—

Rose’s elbow in his ribs jolted him out of what must have been a pretty intense stare, and he flushed, leaning back slightly so he couldn’t see Marinette on the other side of the tree.

“She already thinks you’re mean,” Rose hissed. “Don’t be a creep on top of it.”

Luka winced. He didn’t need Rose’s reminder to feel guilty for behaving so abruptly yesterday. Already prickly from a morning of needling by his mother, he hadn’t been prepared for anyone to recognize him. No one had up until this point, and he’d thought he was safe. It was an unpleasant shock to have a stranger recognize him, especially someone from the city who might carry word of his presence here back to the press. His mother’s call had sounded like his guardian angel’s trumpet in that moment. When Juleka had called him to help tie her chosen tree on top of her car, he’d done the work quickly and silently, and avoided her gaze as much as possible. 

He’d felt bad about it later, when he’d had time to relax and reflect, but he hadn’t expected to see her again—certainly hadn’t expected to have Rose practically throwing her at him. He gave her a warning look. 

Rose opened her mouth but before she could say anything, Marinette popped around the side of the tree. “Rose, do you have some scissors anywhere?”

“Yes, in the cabinet behind the desk,” Rose said, pointing. “Probably on the top three shelves, there’s a box of craft supplies there. You might as well bring over the whole thing in case you need anything else. Let me know if it’s too high up and I’ll send Luka to grab them instead.”

“Got it,” Marinette smiled, and turned to follow Rose’s directions. 

Luka shot Rose a glare. “Quit it,” he warned. 

“Quit what?” Rose inquired, with a blink and head tilt that made her look like she didn’t have two brain cells to rub together. 

Luka knew better. 

“I don’t need any help, Rose,” Luka muttered, folding his arms. “I could find a relationship on my own if I wanted to.” 

“Mmhm,” Rose hummed in a disbelieving tone. “Because there’s so many to choose from here in this little town.” 

Luka rolled his eyes and didn’t reply. 

“I do like Marinette though,” Rose said, and smiled innocently when Luka gave her a look. “She’s really sweet. We only met a couple of days ago and here she is, bending over backward to get me a real tree and spending her time decorating it.”

“You set her up,” Luka accused, peeking around the tree briefly to make sure she wasn’t coming back yet.  “You’re trying to set me up.”

“She’s so creative,” Rose sighed. “She showed me some of her portfolio the other day, and it’s fantastic. She’s a fashion designer, you see.” 

Luka snorted. “Oh, yeah, she’ll totally fall for me. Without my stylist I’m a fashion disaster and you know it Rose.” 

“That just makes you a challenge,” Rose chirped, and then softened a little as she looked at him. “Look, I know you’re not looking right now, but that’s a stupid attitude to have when an amazing person just drops into your lap.” She tossed her head in a move he was sure she’d picked up from Juleka, though it was less effective without Juleka’s mane to accent it. “I should know. Anyway, do what you want, I just think she’s neat and I wanted you to meet her. I’ve got a good feeling about her. If I’d met her two years ago I’d totally steal her from you. If you’re smart, you’ll keep an open mind.” 

Luka sighed, but he saw a flicker of pink and when he glanced around the tree again, Marinette was back, the box of supplies at her side. She was lifting a large tinsel garland from the box she’d just opened, only to find it was all a tangled mass. There was a sort of mournful look on her face, a little droop of sadness, maybe even loneliness, to her shoulders. He remembered the tightness in her eyes and around her mouth yesterday, and the way she’d spilled out her reason for being here at the slightest nudge. A fashion designer—that was a cutthroat business, especially in the city. Poor thing was probably as tired and strung out as he’d been when he came home.  

He wasn’t even aware he’d sighed until Rose giggled at his elbow. “I think you can figure the lights out on your own,” she said with a little pat to his arm. “I’m going to get back to getting ready for the children’s program. You two just...have fun, okay? Make it festive!” She fluttered her hands at the tree, then waved at Marinette and abandoned him to the awkwardness. 

It didn’t take long to get the lights on the tree—Luka had plenty of practice after getting the farm set up for the season. He stood there for a moment, hesitating. He glanced at Marinette. She had finished the sorting and was back to struggling with the tangled garland, and the look of utter defeat on her face...hurt, somehow.  

“Can I give you a hand?” Luka found himself offering. 

Marinette started slightly, and in an instant her shoulders went back and her smile flashed back into being. Luka was surprised to realize that it didn’t feel fake, despite the fact that he had seen her feelings on her face just a moment before. She was hiding those feelings now, but the smile she offered him was as sincere as the sadness. 

“Um, sure, if you want to,” she said, holding up the garland in two hands. “It’s pretty twisted up. We could just leave it, but...might as well give it a shot, right?” 

Luka took a handful of garland, and Marinette took another one farther down. They moved apart, spreading it out as far as it could go between them to try and see where it twisted back on itself. 

“This looks like the end,” Marinette muttered, plucking at a piece. “Can you just hold it up for a minute?”

Luka did, watching Marinette as she looped the end she’d found back over and under and through the glittering mass. The silence was awkward, and the more Luka tried to think of something to say, the more he felt like there was only one thing he could say. 

“Listen, I wanted to apologize—” he began as Marinette said, “Luka, I’m really sorry—” 

They both stopped, and laughed, and Luka gestured for her to go ahead. 

“I just,” Marinette pushed her hair back and glanced at him, then looked away. “I wanted to apologize for blurting that out about—you know—I should have thought, I should have realized you wouldn’t want to be approached like that, while you’re clearly not working—well, you were working, but not, not like that and I should have—well. I’m really sorry. You’re at home and you probably don’t want people gushing all over you while you’re trying to spend time with your family.”

Luka took a breath, looking at the floor for a moment. “I wanted to apologize too, for being so abrupt with you. I...hadn’t had the best morning, and you did startle me. I’m...well, I guess you could maybe say I’m retired, and I’d rather not be...known, here. I guess I kind of panicked.”

“Retired?” Marinette looked up at him in surprise. “But your music was so good! I mean—” She flushed, and grabbed the garland, moving to start draping it around the tree. “I really liked it, anyway. Sorry, I know it’s not my business...Anyway, I understand, and I won’t tell anyone I met you here.” The garland she was trying to place slipped off, and she sighed in frustration. “I swear Christmas hates me,” she muttered to herself.

Luka picked up the trailing end and held it so that the weight was no longer dragging. “Thank you. I really appreciate that.” 

“Of course,” Marinette smiled, and then she said, “How long have you and Rose been together?” This time the garland stayed where she placed it, with Luka feeding her more as she circled around the tree. 

“Together?” Luka repeated, startled. “We’re not together. She’s dating my sister, actually. In fact if they’re not engaged by New Years I’ll be shocked.” 

Marinette’s head whipped around to look at him. “O-oh. Oh! Oh, I understand now.” She flushed. “Just, before—”

“Yeah, I get it,” Luka grinned. “I can see how that would look if you didn’t know.”  

“Wow, how off base was I, though,” Marinette giggled. “So your family’s from around here? I—oh, that sounded nosy didn’t it, I’m sorry, I swear I’m just trying to make small talk.”

“I’m not offended,” Luka chuckled. “Actually my family just moved here a few years ago. When my mom bought the tree farm I thought it was just another one of her crazy whims and she’d move on to something else before long, but she seems really happy here. What about your grandma? Gina doesn’t seem like the small town type, either.”

The conversation flowed comfortably from there, as they finished the garland and moved on to the other decorations. Marinette didn’t ask him any more questions about his music, and he carefully steered clear of asking her any questions about why she’d come—or been sent—down to their little town, and faster than Luka could have expected, they were closing up the empty boxes and stacking them to the side to be returned to storage. Marinette had a good eye, Luka had to admit as he looked at the tree. Not surprising, he supposed, but it did look a lot nicer than the previous year’s tree. Not only that, Marinette had arranged the extra decorations on the library desk in a pretty little display, and with his help, had even trimmed the windows with some icicle lights they found at the bottom of one of the boxes. Luka knelt to plug in the last set of lights, and when they were on, the whole library screamed holiday cheer to an almost obnoxious degree.

As if his thoughts had summoned her, Rose appeared behind him. 

“Wow, look at this place, it’s awesome! Everything looks great! You two make a fantastic team!” She grinned at Luka, and he raised his eyebrows at her in warning. “Everything is so festive,” Rose went on, clearly ignoring him, as she laid a thoughtful finger to her lips and examined them, “except for you two. You’re ruining the mood.” 

Faster than Luka could track she whipped something out and stuck it to his forehead, then turned and did the same to Marinette. Only when he saw the bright blue gift bow stuck to Marinette’s forehead did he realize what Rose had just done to them, and he rolled his eyes as he reached up to touch the bow on his own forehead. Rose swatted his hand away and then grabbed his arm, hauling at him until he had no choice but to stand up or fall over.

“There, now you’re properly decorated too,” Rose beamed. “All right, you two have spent all morning helping me, so get out of here and go do something fun! It’s such a pretty day!”

“Rose, it’s freezing,” Luka tried to say, but Rose was already pushing them towards the door, and he gave into the inevitability of it all with a sigh. 

“Go down to the café, have lunch on my tab, both of you,” she ordered, dumping their coats in Luka’s arms before shoving them out of the door. “Thanks for all your help!” she called, waving at them as the doors slid closed.

“Real subtle,” Luka grumbled, reaching up to peel the bow off his forehead as he turned to face Marinette. That was a mistake, because the way her mouth was pursed in a little moue as she worked to remove her own bow was kind of adorable.

Damnit, Rose.

Fiction Master Post | Month of Miracles

[pikapeppa]

Fenris/f!Hawke smut: Mouth

Some plotless feelsy smut, because sometimes a girl just has to write Fenris going down on Hawke. Or is that just me? Okay [goes to sit in the smut corner like a smut goblin]

~1800 words; read here on AO3 instead.

************************

Rynne Hawke spent a lot of time thinking about Fenris’s mouth. 

He had the perfect mouth, in her opinion. His lips weren’t so plump as to be the first feature of his face to draw the eye, but her eye was drawn to them all the same. She lovingly studied the delicate bow of his lips, and she admired the way that bow became more exaggerated when he was sneering at a slaver or scowling at something Anders had said. She contemplated the perfect dusky-rose colour of his lips, and when she leaned away from him after a kiss, she silently cursed the smudges of her raspberry-red lip stain that dared to spoil the natural hue of his lips. Sure, there might be other mouths in Thedas that were more lush or more rosy or more attractively shaped, but to Rynne, no one else’s mouth held nearly the same appeal. 

It wasn’t just the shape of Fenris’s lips that was so thoroughly preoccupying, though. It was the way they moved. It was the way they twisted in disgust when Fenris smelled fish down at the docks. It was the way they parted on a weary sigh when Rynne stumbled haplessly into the next late-night Lowtown fight. It was the way his lips pressed into a thin line when she said something foolish, and the way they stretched and curled into a smile when she said something foolish that he thought was funny. His lips were expressive, moving and shifting in time with his emotions and pulling at her heart like a puppet on strings. Rynne watched the evocative movements of his lips, and she thought to herself that she could spend a lifetime watching his perfect mouth and never get bored.

And then, of course, there was the way Fenris used that lovely mouth of his. 

He used it for all the normal stuff, of course — talking and breathing and eating and all. But even those mundane acts were enough to drive her to distraction. When Fenris talked, Rynne watched the way his lips shifted around the baritone sound of his bone-melting voice, and she admired the way he slowly wet his lips when he was thinking about what to say next. When Fenris breathed, panting heavily after a fight or drawing a gasp of air when she dragged her tongue across his lyrium-lined abs, Rynne thought about the air that passed through those perfect lips, feeding into his lungs only to come back out shaped into a dryly humorous remark or a low-pitched chuckle or a pleasured groan. When Fenris ate, he hid his mouth sometimes behind one hand while he chewed, and Rynne treasured the moments when she glimpsed the tip of his tongue flicking out across his lip to catch a stray crumb or a precious drop of juice. 

Fenris talking, Fenris breathing, Fenris eating and sipping elegantly from a glass of wine: Rynne watched with unabashed appreciation as his mouth did all of that fine and necessary work. But all of that was nothing compared to the way he used his gorgeous mouth to kiss.

His lips parted slightly as he drew her close, and Rynne happily gave herself to the perfect slightly-parted pressure of his lips. His kisses always started this way, a firm press as though he was anchoring himself to her before deciding whether to deepen the kiss or to draw away, and she was always delighted to let him be the one to decide which direction their kisses would go. In a life where Rynne Hawke was the one in charge, the one who led their merry little band of misfits from one madcap adventure to the next, she was more than happy to let Fenris lead the way in this slow and tantalizing dance of pleasure: this dance where his perfect mouth slid carefully and smoothly over hers, his lips coaxing hers apart and his sleek tongue stroking her own, his teeth pressing delicately into her lower lip until she gasped, his lips brushing over the corner of her parted lips with the delicacy of a butterfly’s wing…

Fenris leaned away from her, leaving her panting for air, and still she couldn’t look away from his mouth. His lips were plumper than usual from the firm pressure of their kiss and their colour had deepened to a tempting rosy hue, and she just couldn’t stop fucking staring at how beautiful they were.   

“Hawke,” he said.

She forced herself to stop staring at his mouth. “Yes?”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Are you all right?”

“Of course,” she said. “Why do you ask?”

“You are staring at me,” he said.

“I’m always staring at you,” she replied. “You are gorgeous, in case you’ve forgotten.”

He gave her a chiding little smile. “You’re staring more than usual, then.”

She tilted her head. “Did you know that you have the nicest mouth in all of Thedas?”

He scoffed and rubbed the lovely mouth in question. “Kaffas, Hawke. You will make me blush.”

“I certainly hope so,” she said cheerfully. “Your ears turn such a charming shade of red.”

He huffed a laugh, then lifted her chin with his thumb. “A nice mouth, you say,” he mused. “Is there something you want me to do with my mouth?”

His voice was a low and playful purr, and it triggered a pulse of lust between her legs. She let out a throaty laugh. “Why Fenris, what a naughty suggestion.”

“It isn’t naughty,” he said. “Not unless you make it so.”

She coyly nibbled her lip. “Well, if you’re offering…”

“I could offer,” he said. “But perhaps you should ask if there is something specific that you want.”

He was smiling faintly, and she nearly swooned at the treasured sight. She curled her fingers in the fabric of his tunic. “I’ll tell you what I want,” she said. “I want you to put that gorgeous mouth between my legs and do something useful with it.”

He chuckled. “I suppose I could do that,” he said, and he abruptly picked her up. The next thing she knew, she was sitting on the desk in the study while Fenris slid her silky skirt up her thighs.

She panted eagerly and leaned her weight back on her palms. Fenris sat in the desk chair and traced his thumb over her cleft through the barrier of her smalls, and Rynne jolted and lifted her hips. 

He shook his head and smiled — Maker’s balls, that smile, the curl of mirth on that perfectly sculpted mouth! — then brushed his knuckle between her legs. “Your smallclothes are soaked through. How long have you been thinking about this?”

“All day,” she said promptly. 

He paused in his petting and looked up at her with wide eyes. “All day? Hawke, it is past midnight.”

“It’s been a long day, believe me,” she said wryly. “Will you lick me now with your lovely tongue?”

He tsked. “You and your endless compliments,” he drawled. He pushed her skirt a little higher and carefully pulled the crotch of her smalls to the side, and when his tongue flicked out to wet his lower lip, Rynne stared at his mouth with rising desperation. 

She wiggled her hips on the desk. “Fenris, please…”

He didn’t reply; instead, he lowered his mouth between her legs. His lips sealed over her pussy and the flat of his tongue pressed against her clit, and Rynne dragged in a tremulous gasp of air.

Maker’s balls, fuck, his mouth on her pussy… This was what made her come undone. This was the thing that distracted her the most during the day and kept her mind thrumming at night. The feeling of his lips caressing the slick folds of her flesh, giving her a gentle sort of bliss that complemented the more intense pulse of pleasure that his tongue was fostering in the swollen little bud of her clit: this was something that Fenris’s mouth did exceedingly well. 

He pushed her legs further apart and kissed her sex, and Rynne stared shamelessly at his handsome white-haired head as he smoothed his tongue along the length of her cleft up to her clit. He graced her with an open-mouthed kiss and swirled his tongue slowly over her clit, and she clenched her nails on the desk with a gasp. 

“Fenris…” she mewled. 

He hummed into her flesh, a growly sound of affirmation that thrummed through her body and straight into her blood, and Rynne curled her hips toward him with rising desperation. She was spiralling toward her rapture, spiralling higher and closer in time with the gentle motion of Fenris’s tongue as it teased its way around her swollen little bud, and despite her playful jokes from a moment ago, she truly couldn’t stop staring. Fenris’s elegant fingers were holding her legs apart, and his hair half-obscured his eyes without hiding the tantalizing sight of his mouth moving at the juncture of her thighs, and the sight of him — Maker, the look of him, the sound of his hungry breaths ghosting across her sex, the sheer tangible reality of this incredible man gracing her humble body with the perfection of his mouth: it was almost more than she could bear. 

He caressed her thighs with his palms and lapped carefully at her clit and kissed her with his beautiful mouth, and a heart-pounding moment later, Rynne found her bliss. It fanned out through her body and rippled all the way down to her calves and her toes, and she gasped and bucked her hips and cried out his name. He gripped her hips and continued to kiss her, his tongue sliding over her sex in perfect time with the frantic pulsing in her core, and when the ecstatic crescendo of her pleasure began to wane, she slid her fingers through his snowy hair in a gentle caress.

He wiped his mouth on her thigh, then lifted his head to look at her, and another exquisite half-smile pulled at his lips. “Hawke, you’re staring again.”

She let out a breathless little laugh. “You can’t blame me. You just have such a talented mouth.”

He huffed in amusement, then stood up and cradled her neck in his palm. “As it turns out, I am not the only one here with a talented mouth.”

She grinned and reached for his belt. “Is that so?

“It is,” he said. He pressed his forehead gently to hers. “And you are not the only one who has been thinking about this all day.”

His voice was husky and tender, and her heart flipped happily in her chest. “You smooth talker,” she whispered, and she tilted her chin up to lure him into a kiss – yet another perfect kiss from the most gorgeous mouth in Thedas. 

Rynne spent a lot of time thinking about Fenris’s mouth. She thought about its shape and the way it moved, the curve of his smile and the way it curled around his Tevene-accented speech. But there was one reason and one reason alone that Fenris’s mouth was so thoroughly preoccupying to Rynne Hawke: it was the mouth of the man she loved.

Fenris was the man she loved, and his mouth was the only one she would ever want to kiss again for the rest of her life.

[giorgiastastes]

버닝 / Burning (2018)

"It's too close, you might not see it"

What to say about this movie...

The film itself is quite simple, even too easy at first sighting I'd dare to say, but the meaning behind, the interpretations and smart details is what makes it unique and pretty much a masterpiece.

I'm sure that most people, or at least those who usually watch unchallenging to elaborate movies, won't like it. If you're looking for something what will be "explained to you", for the director to give you that big plot twist or long monologue, you won't find it here. But if you want to watch a work of art that'll make you think, reflect and crash your minds, you have a good journey in front of you.

I remember that as soon as I've finished watching it I went online to look for theories, to see if someone else had the same idea as me, if I got it right and what I've missed, and then I planned to write here my thoughts on the real explaination, but after rewatching and searching I've figured it out BURNING doesn't really have a "true" explaination in my idea, or better, the director definitely knows what he believes is the so called truth, but the strength of it is how free of interpretations it is. I've read hundreds theories and honestly all of them could fit just right, so for once I've decided to do something different.

In here I will summarize all the theories, under layers and explaination that I've read, figured out or found, and I will leave to you, the reader, to believe your own "truth"

This will be full of spoilers, it's actually a summarization of the after watch, so read at your own risk, and since I'm taking for granted that you've watched the movie and remember it quite well too, I won't always repeat the plot when not necessary.

• Ben sells organs on the black market. That's how he gets his money and Haemi is aware of this, and decided to sell her own organs to pay off her debt. She even says I'D SELL MY ORGANS IF I WERE YOUNGER. She could also be unaware of this and that's why she dissapears.

• Ben is a serial killer. He seduces fragile women who are very easy preys to such an handsome and carismactic young man, and then gets rid of them after he gets tired. This happens about every couple of months, which corresponds to his journey in Africa timeline. They are the greenhouses he burns, because he knows nobody will look for them, and in fact the police does not care about the greenhouses, just like they don't care about missing women nobody knows about.

Ben also owns all the qualities of a maniac sociopath who's keen on control and feels no emotion or empathy. He never cries for example. He also feels pride in his crime and he's almost tempted to confess them to show how good he is. That's why he says to Jongsu that he will burn a greenhouse close to him, but he didn't mean it in a special terminology, but more like in an emotional sense. He will kill the the closest thing the other has, which is Haemi. He also states that she dissapeared like "smoke".

This would also be justified by the creepy call the protagonist receives by Haemi before she dissapears. The biggest evidence placed by the director to prove that this theory is the most correct one is in the last scene, where Ben is putting makeup on a new girl. For a non Korean speaker it's quite hard to get the reference but Makeup and corpses' cremation are spelled in the same way in the hangul language, therefore the movie showing us Ben doing the girl's makeup is the alternative way to say he's killed her and is now cremating the body, hence his obsession with fires.

He's the one who cleaned Haemi's room and took her cat. He also keeps his victims personal objects as a throphy of some sort.

• Ben is a pimp. He's the trainer for these beautiful, young but poor women who are ready to sell themselves when he convinces them to do so. This is shown as Haemi also become less and less shy as the movie goes on, as seen in the undressing scene, while being more bold and provocative too. He changed her drastically, or maybe only let her discover a different, more free, part of herself. He also applies makeup on them how he would do to a doll, playing dress up for a woman who's now becoming just an object of desire that can be bought.

• Ben is a human trafficker. He sends women into slavery while promising them a life of luxury and happiness. That's why he shows off his idyllic lifestyle, and then sells them in Africa (where he goes frequently), where they'll never be found.

• Ben is a life guru. He teaches unsecure and frustrated women to feel liberated and less oppressed, to leave it all behind and start from scratch. They pay him, that's why he's rich. He also keeps a "souvenir" of every woman he has turned. This could explain why he shows up to the meeting with Jongsu in the finale. If he actually killed or sold these women he wouldn't fall into the other man's trick.

• Ben doesn't exist. He's just the symbol of everything Jongsu is not but aspires to be. He's rich, confident, cultured and attractive. Every flaw and layer of insecurity Jongsu seems to have, Ben lacks. And in the end, when the protagonist finally becomes brave enough to mature, to actually chase the woman he loves, he's able to kill the shadow of himself that only reminded him of how miserable he was.

• Ben and Jongsu are the same person. Much Fight Club like, they're the same human being, just different, extreme sides of one. Jongsu could have a personality disorder or maybe we're just shown two sides of him that prove his mental health issues. That's also why Haemi seems to be involved with both of them without choosing a side, because one is the gentle but insecure fraction, the other the bold but arrogant one. And then, in the end, when such division is making him go insane, he decides to kill his alter ego.

• It's just a love triangle. One of my favorite songs of all time had a similar topic. There's the main character, a shy and quiet boy, who falls in love with a girl who feels foreign and unreachable to him. But he's not the only one in her life. She also has another lover who's much more attractive and manly in a way, and all three start to share this peculiar poliamorous love story, mostly platonic. She's very pretty and feels as free as Venus, torn between two men. Then one day she leaves, and she'll never come back. But while the second boy easily moves on with his life, figuring out it was just a näive fling, the singer remains stuck, obsessing over her day and night, trying to find answers and solutions just not to deal with the realization of her not loving him enough to stay.

• Every character represents a social stereotypes and criticism of modern South Korean classes. I think this is very straightforward, especially Jongsu's jealousy of Ben's wealth, and Haemi's attempt to RISE in the social pyramid, surrounding herself with high class people like Ben or his friends, even letting them make joke of her, to mock her, all of it just to feel part of their group and reality.

• It's all in Jongsu's head.

• The disappearance of Haemi, whether it happened or not or HOW it happened are not the main focus on the movie, which instead is the characters dealing with such loss and lack of knowledge on what happened. Much like the Russian movie Loveless (2017), where the event is only used as an artistical device to let the story progress and the characters' grief culminate. Maybe we really don't need to know what happened to her, maybe she's dead, maybe she's alive and better than ever, but to the movie's intent such information is superficial, it's just the human need to fill our curiosity when were too afraid to deal with the pain of remaining unaware of it. Jongsu is sure she's been killed and that brings him to his next move, but the viewer, he doesn't need to know, because he doesn't need to act, to keep the story going.

• Haemi might have killed herself. Ben is the only one who knows about this and that's why she gives him her cat. She also shows multiple signs of advanced depression, for more than half of the movie is almost like she's not there, like she's already just the memory, the ghost of a girl who once was there.

• The movie itself is just a metaphor. The metaphor is many times used by the characters and maybe not only as a word, part of a dialogue, but the overall film might be A BIG, CRIPTIC METAPHOR.

• Everything is hereditary. From family's fortunes and richness to behavior and inner rage. Jongsu was born poor and will die as such just like his father, and even though he seems like the most innocuous being, he's able to take out his rage on other just like this father. I guess it's in the genes.

• Jongsu is the calf. The calf represents Jongsu's pureness and naivety. And when he sells it, he's also selling his soul in a way.

• Haemi represents South Korea, Jongsu North Korea, Ben is the new Korea, the one always more and more Westernized.

• We're just reading the plot of Jongsu's book. When Haemi leaves for Africa he has plenty of time to write the story he's planning to put into words, and that's what he does. Everything we see after she comes back from her journey is just the plot of the book, and the creation of Jongsu's imagination.

• A modern reinterpretation of the Great Gatsby. Yes, obviously a VERY liberate view of the novel, but many details seem to be quite evocative.

• A criticism to how South Korea treats women. Even the movie itself does this, probably on purpose. The one who disappears is a woman, but the ones who are the main centre of attention are men. She's only a story device, never the real protagonist.

• Ben wanted Jongsu to discover his crimes so he could reach fame if the other ever made a book out of it. He's so full of himself he'd rather be punished for his crimes than never showing off how good he was at covering every proof. That's why he dies almost peacefully, and shed a tear, which he claimed to have never done before.

• The well Haemi reference to, symbolizes falling into prostitution. That's why Jongsu's mother knows about it too, since it's quite obvious she's now an escort. But she states the well is dry, as a way of saying that it's not how easy and fun it might seem.

• This is just the tragic story of a boy who's lost every possible source of love. From his father in jail, his mother who abandoned him, to the only girl that ever showed him affection disappearing, and a new friend who he decides to kill.

• Ben is Death or maybe the devil personified. He helps Haemi get the courage to end it one for all, and even pushes Jongsu to kill, cursing his soul.

[iscribble]

the love we held on to (m)

pairing: lee seokmin x fem!reader synopsis: being in love with the man who makes his words sound like a romantic and intricate piece of poetry means cherishing the golden days you get to listen to his voice, until all that’s left of him is a simple yet evocative song you promise to treasure with all your heart. genre(s): vocalist!seokmin, strangers to lovers, romance, angst, smut (warning: unprotected sex, profanties, character death) word count: 6,870 a/n: i wished this was longer, wouldve had much more impact i guess:( anyways almost cried writing this ;-; brace yourselves people!!

Bleak and bitter nights were not your favourite. They were ridiculously cold, as if a dark entity was overlooking the whole town with its raw breath gusting through jouissance from the homes of the people and replacing it with unwanted melancholy. The clubs would not be as crowded, shopping centres would close hours earlier from the lack of customers, and the streets, oh the streets, would always look a little too lonely.

Bleak and bitter nights were not your favourite, but it was during an evening of such that you had fallen in love with the man that had proven again and again that he was your world. Your safe haven. However, fate wasn’t on your side, for now you can only see him through the one song the two of you used to hold so dearly, or so you thought.

“I promise you’ll love it there!” Seungkwan was a man of persuasion and everyone would’ve known that by the way his words swirled as sweet invitations into your head that made your body involuntarily acquiesce. “Please? I’ll even introduce you to the handsome vocalist!”

“The what now?” You almost spat out the earthy savour of white tea that has yet to hit your throat, already questioning Seungkwan’s exaggerated coaxing. “Look I don’t need no handsome vocalist, I’ll go if you pay.”

The obvious shine in his eyes dimmed into a light glare as you reached the end of your sentence. The long-drawn-out roll of his eyes ultimately concluded with him agreeing, although quiet mumbles of how this would be the last time he paid for the both of you were still plainly ricocheting off the walls.

Like the swift gesture of lighting a match, the mean whirl of air outside became devoted to mantling your figure that donned a navy a-line dress, matching Seungkwan’s dress shirt the colour of an emperor butterfly. 

Ever since the surfacing of a notice informing that a casual dining restaurant had just opened up for business not too far from your place, he had been unceasingly imploring you to dine with him in the comforts of the serene eatery. The place was accentuated with a blue glow, incandescing across the orderly arrangements of tables. It emanated the pleasant amity within the confines of your apartment, the kind of warmth that granted snugness to the people busy savouring their meals.

Seungkwan's adamant desire grew stronger when he learned that one of his best friends had placed a job as the vocalist of the band responsible for adding to the solace of the restaurant.

“Isn’t this lovely?” His eyes skimmed across the sapphire grandeur of the place, never landing on anything even though his figure was rooted to the sofa. The stage that grandly stood at the front bore a couple of performers who played different instruments with their undivided attention. You let the intoxicating resonance travel to your ears and influence your body, feeling it slowly swaying to the gentle melody. 

“Are my eyes playing tricks on me or there really isn’t a handsome vocalist onstage?” You brought up, suddenly remembering that Seungkwan had wanted to introduce you to a friend of his. 

“You’re blind,” Seungkwan retorted, subtly pointing at a taller male standing next to the stage, “he’s right there.”

The male was evidently lost in the effortless flow of the violin, seemingly immersed in the gig. As the song neared its end, he bounced on his toes, shaking off the nervous tension inundating his body. 

“That’s him, that’s him!” Seungkwan shouted in a whisper as the man made his way to the stage. “Damn, told ya he looked fine.”

Seungkwan wasn’t wrong. The stellar glow that flooded the place now centred on the handsome man, spotlighting details of his stunning features. His hair was brushed up, as if showing off his fetching ebony eyes and the attractive smile that appeared behind the microphone. He stood there practically glowing like an angel. For a fleeting moment you wondered what his voice sounded like. It couldn’t be more perfect than this, could it? 

As profound emotions started to well up inside him, a beautiful tune withdrew from his mouth, pervading the place and making you shiver. His voice sounded like an angel singing with euphony, filling a void you didn’t even know existed within you. 

“Seokmin really is something else.” Seungkwan dreamily muttered, eyes still glued on the man. The restaurant had become the quietest since you arrived, everyone seemingly drunk with his vocals filling their ears. 

His name was Seokmin. 

From the look in his eyes, you could tell that the romantic ballad he delivered was imbued with sincerity, stemming from the depths of his heart. The words that gracefully circled about the place were not as clear as you hoped, but the lyrics were merely a cosmetic quality to the voice that touched your heart. A simple hum drawn from his mouth would’ve had you falling for him anyway. 

The cold evening elapsed rather quickly as Seokmin serenaded the diners. You leaned against the chair, still trying to make sense of how someone could so immaculately be the shining example of perfection. 

You finished your dinner just in time to catch Seokmin blending in with the rest of the performers after he finished his repertoire. Seungkwan looked at you and nodded toward the handsome man, extending his hand and zooming past the array of tables once you held on. 

“Hyung!” He waved vigorously at the male, plucking his attention. The dark glint of ebony in his eyes came to life as he spotted Seungkwan inching closer with a huge grin. You watched in an awkward stance as they shared a brotherly hug, quite unsure of your place. You endured the sticky silence as your best friend threw out compliments with dramatic gestures of his hands, before Seokmin finally noticed you.

“Oh, are you his girlfriend?” Seokmin turned to you. Perhaps your perception was distorted, or your eyes were fooling you, when you caught his lingering stare on you just a few seconds before he finally spoke. Seungkwan did not notice this, though. Maybe you were mistaken. You tightened your interlocking fingers as a rosy tinge coloured his cheekbones.

Seungkwan snorted at his silly guess. You hit his arm lightly, although admitting that the idea was too obnoxious.  “No, I’m a friend of his.” Your fingers were now free. Your right hand came up to hold the strap of your purse.

“Oh!” Seokmin's lips that were already broad enough extended even further, as if discreetly telling you he was delighted at the revelation. “Nice to meet you, I’m Seokmin!”

You knew your mind wasn’t making things up before before when you also felt the prolonged touch of his hand on yours. It was only supposed to be a handshake. Your body jolted with electricity when his thumb ran over your dorsal side.

You introduced yourself, throwing Seungkwan a mocking look knowing that he was the one who promised to do it. 

But this way you’d only have yourself to blame when the unspeakable pang of heartache comes tumbling down to you in the course of your love story.

The second time you saw Seokmin was due to your own will power. Your last encounter with him left you with nothing but the growing wish to meet again, not even his phone number. You had nothing that could possibly connect yourself to Seokmin other than your hell of a friend Boo Seungkwan, who would chaff you with all his might if he knew about the problem.

You weren’t sure of when he’d perform at the restaurant, so you had absolutely no pointers of the right time to go there. It would, however, be a sensible plan to go there the same day Seungkwan had asked you to last week. So you did that, but this time, you were going alone.

You arrived a little behind time. The man you wanted to meet was already halfway through his first song. You took a seat at the back and watched as he sang a couple more songs, all the while ingesting your food. You had doubts on going alone at first, picturing all the judgmental stares that would be thrown in your way. You forgot that as soon as a word leaves his lips, everyone else would be immersed in his performance.

Before the final song ended you called for the waiter and paid your bill. You wanted to talk to Seokmin. 

He slipped off the stage and ordered a drink at the bar. You came up to him, gently tapping his shoulder.

“Seokmin,” you sounded more enthusiastic than you had wanted to, it was almost demeaning. A soft hue wormed its way to your cheeks. You were wordless after that. When you went with a simple “hello,” you hoped Seokmin remembered you.

When his back slowly faced the other side and he confirmed that it was really you, you swore your heart banged against the cage that harboured it harder than it already did before. Not only because he remembered your name, but the way it sounded coming from him was like nothing you’ve ever heard.

And you knew you had to get used to that when he told you he would treat you to dinner.

“I just had dinner!” You announced rather quickly, although not wanting to skip an opportunity with Seokmin.

“Are you just going to let me eat alone then?” He asked you rhetorically, not expecting an answer from you anyway. “Come, there's an empty seat.”

Seokmin pulled out a chair for you. You shyly smiled at him, taking your seat. Of all the farcical scenarios you had rewound in your head, none of those involved Seokmin treating you to dinner. 

“Why did you come here alone?” He asked after placing his order.

You were too shy to admit that the principal reason was sitting in front of you. You weren’t going to say that. So you had to make up a reason.

“Oh, Seungkwan was busy.” You awkwardly grinned. “I was too hungry to wait for him so I came here alone.”

“If I was in your place I would’ve ordered takeout or something,” he laughed, those teeth, that handsome smile. “Not come all this way and let it rob my wallet.”

He had a point. The things you do for Seokmin.

He had his ways of making the night go on as nice as it did for two people who barely knew each other. The little cloud of awkwardness floating above you seemed to have effaced as you conversed over dinner.

You zoned out staring at him once in a while, as if his face was this huge canvas of the dimly lit sky, and you were trying to count how many stars adorned it. Unlike the previous week, his hair was now let loose, the almond strands stopping just before his eyebrows. He still looked handsome. 

Now that you get to reap the benefits of sitting this close to him and revel in his angelic presence a little longer, you successfully discerned the vanilla scent he had on him. You admired the wrinkle that would show every time he smiled, the cute little mole on his cheek, and the corner of his lips that would reach for the skies every time he laughed. He was breathtaking from afar and ethereal up close.

“Did you curl your hair?” Were the words that pulled you back to your senses. You thought you heard wrongly.

“I’m sorry?” You leaned in closer. 

The hairs on your skin stood up at Seokmin’s breath tickling your ear. “Did you curl your hair?”

If Seokmin was aware that you did, that could only mean he remembered how you styled your hair or took in enough of your appearance to remember that you didn't do the same the first time you met. The thought made you a little dizzy, in a good way.

“I did actually!” You broke into a toothy smile. “How'd you notice?”

Now that it was his turn to confess, his ears painted themselves a lighter red. “I thought you were beautiful last week, you're even cuter like this.”

You tried to assure yourself that it was the great deal of food you consumed that made you slightly tipsy. It couldn't be his words, could it? No one could ever have such an effect on you.

After Seokmin had paid for the both of you, you reached for your purse and slung it over your shoulder. Seokmin had offered to walk you home, which you, almost too fast, accepted. Your place was not too far from the restaurant and you wanted more of this novel but exhilarating feeling. With one quick wave at his bandmates, Seokmin guided you outside with his hand on your back.

“Hey, you wanna step inside for a bit?” You find yourself asking Seokmin as both of you arrived at your door.

“Sure!” he answered with the same smile that hung on his lips a while ago, “I'm sure this is where Seungkwan’s been hanging out a lot right?”

“That's right,” you let a giggle slip past the narrow opening of your lips. You opened the door for him and fumbled for the light switch.

Having Seokmin in your apartment made you ten times more conscious of how its form would strike someone that wasn't a close friend. You realised that you never turned off the kitchen lights that were visibly broken (you could see it blinking). The cabinet over your sink was still open, and your bevy of footwear wasn't even in your shoe rack from all those days you didn't bother to put them back.

You were forced to jettison those thoughts after Seokmin assured you it was okay. You told him to make himself at home as you barrelled across the kitchen.

You were unconsciously singing a line from an indie track you had just added to your playlist of diverse genres as you prepared a glass of water for Seokmin. You were used to being alone, belting out quivery high notes when the place was too lonely to your taste. It had become a habit which you never intended on sloughing off.

The fragile tune that rippled from the kitchen only made him smile even more.

“You have a nice voice.” Your eyes enlarged at the sound of his voice. The jewel of a professional vocalist was sitting on your sofa and you just went all around the place hitting notes you weren't even sure you got right.

“Oh my gosh did I just sing out loud?” You shouted from the kitchen. A soft chuckle tiptoed to your ears.

“Let’s sing together!”

“I’d rather not, really.” You handed him the red mug with the scatty-looking pattern of uneven pink hearts.

Seokmin wasn't even giving you a choice. Your answer to his question really didn't matter because as soon as he brought up the idea, he started singing anyway. He looked at you, eyes adjuring you to join him while his voice coaxed yours to leave your lips, his smile that glows like the sun never fading. You didn't have a choice when his hand lifted to squeeze yours, another victorious way of persuading you.

Your voice was a cipher compared to his, like a tiny crumb beside a scrumptious blueberry pie. You struggled to even maintain the right tune as he harmonised with you. But Seokmin’s outstretched smile taped to his face like old gum that sticks to the underside of a chair. He looked at you as if you had the most beautiful voice, or as if your voice was even beautiful to start with. You wanted to be reserved but he didn’t comply. He made you feel easy. He kept on nodding at the words coming out of your mouth, smiling even wider when your voices blended just the way he wanted to.

“You have such a sweet voice.” He complimented you as your spontaneous singing came to an end. Your throat felt dry. 

“You think so?” You asked, not even bothering to hear his reply. No matter how many times he waxed lyrical about you, you knew your voice was never that good. Seokmin just made it seem so believable.

He tightened his grip on your hand that had already begun to sweat. “How come Seungkwan never tells me he has a friend like you?”

“What do you mean?” You said in a fit of giggles. “I’m nothing special! Seungkwan only told me about you last week and I wished I had known you since forever!”

Light-hearted laughters fused within the walls of your living room as you talked about each other. It was almost ten when you realised Seokmin had been staying in your apartment longer than you had planned. He seemed to have realised that too when he suddenly stood up and searched the sofa for his things, preparing to leave.

You opened the door for him, stepping aside to give him space. Seokmin’s oscillating stare between your eyes and the curve of your lips imploded when he finally placed a light kiss on your cheek. You blushed at the contact.

The night could not go on forever and Seokmin finally disappeared from the borders of your vision.

You could not wait to see him again.

Seokmin was like a dream. Oh he was one. A dream that afflicts your mind with the best kind of inebriation and thick fog that unceasingly dances inside your head. A dream that leaves you in the lurch almost frustratingly, urging you to beg for more. An unrivalled dream that portrays all the emotions you've kept under wraps from Seokmin, unleashing all at once.

He was a dream you could never get enough of.

The moment his tongue slipped past your folds and pushed inside you, you felt as if the world began to erase everyone but the both of you, keeping you still in his built arms, rooting you in place as his tongue danced on your core.

Your fingers treated his hair like a pillar, finding support in the soft strands and pulling them every time he hit the right spot, making him hungrier.

This was only meant to be a game. A stupid 7 minutes in heaven that your friends had asked you to play, in an attempt to add colour to the scene at Seungkwan’s party that had started to degrade into boring leisure.

You had agreed to play only because Seokmin was in it. It would be a perfect disguise to be more intimate with him. Your heart almost leaped out of your chest when the bottle pointed at Seokmin when it was your turn.

He had started with a simple “I’ll kiss you for the sake of the game, alright?” without knowing that none of you would be able to resist the other as soon as his lips landed on yours. Neither of you wanted to pull away, and neither of you thought seven minutes would be enough. You had granted access for his tongue to traverse your mouth, his hands promptly raising to hold your neck when he felt the addictive tingle. He started planting kisses on your jaw, adding a little suck for every time he went farther down.

“S-seok,” you groaned as he sucked on your nipple. Seokmin paused and asked you if you wanted him to continue. You nodded eagerly, not wanting to be free from his touch. He continued placing kisses down your torso while his right hand massaged your breast. You leaned against the sink, letting out quiet whimpers here and there as he neared the place you wanted him the most.

He was quick to discard your shorts along with your underwear. You could no longer see Seokmin’s sugary smile and hear the ringing of his melodic voice. All you could see was the hunger growing in his eyes as he asked for permission to devour you. But beneath all that you could also see the faint twinkle of love.

Seokmin’s nimble tongue made you cum in no time, your legs wobbling like you had just run a marathon. Your fingers tugged harder at his hair, earning a groan from him. You were having a hard time holding yourself steady so you gripped his shoulders and leaned forward, gasping for air.

He tasted the sweet trail of juice that glossed your thighs, enjoying each part that relayed a distinctive tang but still bore its honeyed consistency. He was careful as he grabbed both of your hands that rested on his shoulder, stood up and kissed them lovingly.

You were breathless, but you were far from satisfied.

“F-fuck me, Seokmin.” You shakily whispered in his ear with the last of your voice.

“If you say so love,” Seokmin gave in to you by turning you around so that you would be facing the mirror while he fucked you. He placed a kiss on your shoulder before aligning his cock with your entrance, slowly pushing into you when your breathing has stabilised. You started your series of unrestrained moans as he stretched your walls, smirking behind you.

“I am so in love with your voice.” He cooed, starting at a steady pace. He pulled out and pushed inside you gently for a couple of times, with you latching onto the sink for support.

Your moans did not go unheard, and you knew that when your friends on the other side of the door started whistling and throwing a "you go Seokmin!" every once in a while, but also reminding that you had less than a minute left.

This had only fuelled the fire in Seokmin. He began fucking you faster and rougher, like he was desperate to release. You screamed at the amalgam of pain and pleasure. His hand ran to your clit, rubbing circles over it to make you cum for the second time. "Moan for me love, let me hear you again."

Alas, seven minutes was over before the both of you even managed to come undone.

“I’m opening the door!” Seungkwan shouted over the thick layers of your groans. Even then Seokmin wasn't pulling out of you yet. You could see the door slowly open from the corner of your eyes, your bottom half still naked and Seokmin was still inside you, fucking you like there was no tomorrow.

The both of you came as Seungkwan turned the lights on, the profuse mixture of cum instantly leaking out of you and staining the tiles.

“What the hell?” Seungkwan said in shock as he shut the door. You could hear the rest of the boys bewailing and gagging at the sight. They may be scarred for life.

Despite all the ruckus outside, Seokmin's sweet smile addressed you through the mirror as you looked at him with the obvious hint of drowsiness hanging off your eyes. He kissed your cheek and cleaned you up.

“I think we traumatised them.” There it was, his ravishing voice overflowing the place once more. He leaned down to kiss the crimson allure that is your lips. “How about we continue this at your place?”

You smiled, still intoxicated at the mere sight of him.

Ever since your heated session with Seokmin, the two of you started seeing each other a lot more. He had asked you out on dates, which would almost always end up with your body being absolutely sore the next day, mulberry streaks scattered all over the expanse of your shoulders.

The third time you went to that restaurant with Seungkwan and more of your friends, you were practically avoiding Seokmin.

Hell, every time you set foot in that redolent setting, you’d often have to conceal the scarlet patch that graced your cheeks and act like nothing was going on between you and Seokmin, all the while withstanding the teasing that came from the guys. Every time they decided to approach him after dinner and shower him with accolades, you’d stay quiet. When they finally started to leave the place you’d always look back and find Seokmin smiling at you, sometimes even risking to smirk. But that was it, that would be the only interaction you had with him. 

However, when you came alone, Seokmin's public facade would dissipate into a sea of trifling dust. He would always make sure you’d leave the place limping and breathing for air. 

You would advance toward him with a little verve to your step, always intrigued for what’s to come. He would guide you toward the bathroom when everyone else was engrossed in the enticing ballad that flowed throughout the place. The second you were alone he would spare you no time to ease up, immediately pushing you against the wall, lifting both of your legs and locking them around him. He would clutch your hands above your head and let his tongue wander inside your mouth. It would still have the taste of whatever you were eating that night. You’d stay like that for a few minutes and then Seokmin would bring you down, casting aside his trousers and setting aside your underwear before pushing himself inside you with no warning. This would always end up with you incoherently moaning his name. He’d fuck you against the wall with your legs fixed around his hips. He needed to be quick so sex in the restaurant was always quicker and messier than the slow nights in your bedroom. 

This routine would drag out for quite some time until the night of a bleak and bitter Friday in your bedroom when the evening wind was especially foul.

You were hypnotised by Seokmin’s lustful gaze, his cock still buried deep inside you even as he finished his messy release. When he didn’t move you lifted your hand and grazed the golden expanse below his eye. “What are you doing Seok?” 

Seokmin didn’t answer. Words didn’t come out of his mouth. Rather a poem. A melody. A song. He started a lullaby that coursed along with the evening wind that had seeped through the open window. It was a love song. 

His voice was supposed to soothe you, to calm the nimble surge of blood flowing through your veins, to hold you like a mother’s warm embrace. And although it did, it forged the jitters more than alleviate them. 

“Seokmin,” you whispered, still looking into his eyes. He hummed in response.

“Why is it a love song you’re singing when you’re not even in love with me?” 

He paused.

“I never got to confess, love.” He stroked your swollen lips. “I love you. I know I do.”

Before you could speak again your lips were connected with his, this time moving slow and sensually in genuine intimacy, a contrast to the previously hungry and rushed kisses. You continued just like that, a heart-to-heart link between your lips shedding sheer exhaustion from sex. 

Until you had to break the kiss to answer him.

“I love you too Seokmin.” 

He smiled, the love song that halted beginning to pour out from his heart again. Your eyes were getting heavier and heavier and before you knew it, you were asleep. The last thing you saw was his eyes, setting forth a colossal amount of warmth.

“Sweet dreams, my love.” 

No matter how much you told him you hated your voice, Seokmin just couldn’t get enough of it. He loved the sweetness to it. He said it gave him strength. He said it was always the first thing that came to his mind every morning and the last sound he'd imagine before closing his eyes. He was in love with the lamblike tune that came from your lips even when they came out breathy, croaky, or slightly going wide of the right notes. 

So you weren’t surprised when he brought you to Jihoon’s studio, claiming that he wanted to hear your voice every second of his day. Of course, you did everything you could to resist.

“Love, please?” He begged you again and again. “We’ll sing together, it’s gonna be alright.” 

The only reason you eventually agreed was because you couldn't risk living without his voice holding you together.

Jihoon’s studio was Jihoon’s home. You could tell by the recording tools tending to his need every time he pressed a button, the outcome seeming to be just what he wanted. The oyster pail and a pair of chopsticks sloppily abandoned on his coffee table. The tall stack of wrinkled pillows sitting on the edge of the couch. The subtle beat coming from his headphones. Just the way he seemed to blend in with everything there.

Seokmin gave your hand a reassuring squeeze when it was your turn to sing. He tapped on your hand, tallying with the rhythm so you would stay in beat. His smile stayed apparent for as long as you sang. When it came to the harmonising part, he manoeuvred in the poky room to sing behind you while still keeping your fingers locked together. Jihoon, the man with no tolerance for physical affection whatsoever, blushed at the sight.

The thing about Seokmin was that although he had a voice that sounded like it came from the heavens, he would make you forget that you were singing with someone as good as him. He would obliterate the invisible weight on your shoulders and make you feel that you had the voice of an angel too.

“That’s a wrap!” Jihoon said from the other side of the glass. He had a bottle of coke in his hand.

“Thanks hyung!” Seokmin shouted. He kissed your brow. “Told you it wasn’t that bad.”

That evening you had a thought:

Every relationship has its own clear-cut tribulations. So when yours didn’t have one, you were starting to wonder if something should’ve happened by now.

And then it did. 

Amidst the unbroken stridulating of crickets in the howling wind, there was a subtle knock on your door. It was Seokmin. A huge box of pizza wasn’t the only thing he brought. There was news. News that would eventually augment his world but demolish yours to rack and ruin. You felt nauseous, mostly.

“I’m leaving the country in a month.” He spoke while holding your hand. “An overseas agency saw a video someone uploaded of me and they wanted to cast me. It apparently went viral.”

“Seokmin..” you said in a hushed tone, restraining your tears. “I mean that’s great news! But that only means-”

“That we won’t see each other again for quite some time love.” He squeezed your hand, not wanting to look at you for his eyes were already brimming with crystal tears.

“How long?” You said quietly.

Seokmin paused for too long, you thought. “I don't know love, but we’ll work it out right?”

The tears that adorned your eyes finally went coursing down your cheeks. Seokmin witnessed this and everything in him broke.

He rubbed your back, calming you as he kissed your neck. He started to hum an all too familiar melody. Starting it slow and gentle while placing soft kisses on your cheek. He pulled away and continued singing even as the colour in his eyes grew feeble.

You couldn’t find it in you to join him. You were too weak. You couldn’t even look him in the eyes. But you wanted to listen to him, to the voice that used to battle waves in the ocean and void the air of gloom over the clouds. Especially because the song was yours and his. An all too familiar song with all too familiar memories, and with him leaving in a month, the song would be the only piece of him you’d have near.

So you let him sing to you. You let him sing for you. You let the lyrics imprint in your head. Let them stick to you like glue. Seokmin kissed the wet tail of tears that ran down your cheeks. You cherished the kiss.

He started kissing your jaw while his fingers played with the hem of your shirt, slowly making its way underneath it. You held him, still sobbing. His fingers started moving toward your chest, as if he was searching for something.

“S-seokmin, what are you doing?” You stuttered from the remnants of teardrops that still threatened to fall. 

“Shh,” he hushed you, still buried in your neck. “Just let me make love to you darling.”

You didn’t resist him. You weren’t in your right frame of mind, but even then you wanted him. Your thoughts were everywhere, but every time, he proved to be bigger than them. He had proven again and again that he was your world and you couldn’t escape a world as beautiful as him.

So you laid in bed that night with your hands holding onto his shoulder for support as he thrusted himself inside you. It wasn’t rough, wasn’t messy. He wasn’t selfish, chasing his own high, rather, he let you feel the stream of love gushing through every inch of your body. With every thrust he produced beautiful sounds, with every thrust he conveyed the immense ache in his chest from the thought of living without you by his side. That night, and like every other night he would say, Seokmin made love to you. 

And that night, like every other night, he sang for you.

Departure is a bitter subject. It is wounding, even when someone or something of worth waits at the end of the road. It is painful, even when it’s for the best. Though you prepared yourself for this day, you knew you would never be ready enough. 

“Listen to our song when you miss me.” Seokmin said while holding your cheek in his hand. “I’ll be there. I’m just one song away.” 

“I’m gonna call you when I miss you Seok,” you laughed weakly, voice still hoarse from the long hours you’ve been crying. “but of course, I’ll listen to our song.”

“I will too love, I love you.” Were his final words before bidding farewell to the boys that had also joined in on the heartbreaking little moment. You watched as his figure gradually dissolved into the crowd. He turned to you for the last time and waved, the smile that caught your attention from day one still ever so present on his face. With one last gesture of farewell, he was gone.

Had you known he’d be gone for good, you’d use up more days to admire the surfacing colours of twilight as you leaned on his shoulder. You’d use up more days to share a fervid kiss in the graceful moonlight gleam that danced with your shadows. You wouldn’t have complained when he asked you to sing for him, wouldn’t have resisted when he asked you to sing with him. You’d make love to him every night, every time of the day he wanted to. You’d give him everything he wanted. You’d give him the world. Had you known he’d be gone for good, you never would’ve let him go. 

Never.

You decided to treat the boys to dinner. You knew for a fact that they’ve known Seokmin longer than you have, they must’ve felt the same pang of sentiment. Although they didn’t love him the way you did, they were his brothers. 

Three hours have passed since Seokmin’s plane departed. 

You brought the boys to the restaurant he used to sing at. Their riotous nature and unrestrained laughs that’d appear in between conversations were enough to entirely pretermit the ongoing thoughts you had of Seokmin. Once the group fell silent though, you too fell into a deep yearning for his presence. Seungkwan seemed to notice the subdued change in your expression. He kneaded your back.

“It’s gonna be alright, it’s gonna be alright.” He repeated. You needed those words. You smiled at him, grateful that he knew when to exchange his perky nature for a comforting one.

You turned your phone on. You smiled at the screen. It was a picture of you and Seokmin taken by Jihoon at his studio. It was after you had completed recording your song. 

You remembered it was Seokmin that had come up with the outline of the lyrics. You had proposed a few romantic lines, which he instantly integrated to the song. You also thought he would be singing it alone. You laughed at how naive you’d been.

You already missed him. You took your earphones out of your purse and plugged it into your phone. You leaned against the chair, admiring the view you had of the boys, Seokmin’s honey voice immediately filling your ears. 

But something wasn’t right. Not all of them were conversing in their jovial manner. Jeonghan’s gaze was hooked to his phone, his forehead seemingly wrinkled a little too much. Just as you were about to call his name, he silenced the group first.

“Hey, I don’t mean to freak you guys out or anything, but,” he continued, bringing his phone to face you and the boys. It was a trending news, something about a plane. “Isn’t that Seokmin’s flight number?” 

“It is..” you struggled to breathe. “Why is it on the news?”

Jeonghan avoided eye contact as soon as he realised the horror.

“There was an accident. A plane crash. I think Seokmin’s in it.” 

You had found yourself more often praying that all of this had been a dream, or wishing that you had been able to foretell the future that waited, more than you were trying to accept the work of fate. 

You had found yourself begging countless times for the heavens to bring him back, and you were sick of it. You were sick of yourself acting like this, knowing that it wouldn’t happen no matter how many times you cried and begged. Knowing that you couldn’t escape it. You just had to accept it. 

And it sure was hard.

But with all the things Seokmin had taught you while he lived, he had also taught you to be strong. He had taught you to erase whatever tears were beseeching to leave an ugly colour on your golden features, and get back up. He had promised you that no matter what happened, he’d always be there for you. And he wanted you to be strong, for him.

So there you were, standing tall at the podium before everyone else on the day of the wake. You dressed as Seokmin would’ve loved it. You swallowed all the humdrum tears before they could shape in your eyes and started your speech, which was really, just a proclamation of love.

“Lee Seokmin was like the sole streak of light that seeped through a hole in the clouds on a gloomy day. He was always there to lighten up the mood, to put a smile on everyone’s face.” 

“and his voice. His voice was heavenly. There aren’t even enough words to describe it, and you would know if you’ve heard him sing.” 

You looked up at the boys smiling at you, some nodding their head in agreement and some attempting to hide the tears forming in their eyes. You continued.

“He was like a dream. He was too perfect, I sometimes wonder if he’s even real.” The audience followed you as you smiled. 

“But he is,” you nodded, “he is real, and to receive such an immense amount of love from him, every single day of my life, the feeling is just surreal.”

At this point most of the boys weren’t even trying to deny their tears. 

You knew Seokmin was watching. Somewhere up there. You knew that although you couldn’t feel his love the same way anymore, it’s still there. And as long as you lived, it would still be there.

“Seokmin gifted me a song before he left,” you glanced at Jihoon, sweetly smiling back at you, “it’s our love story that I will treasure with all my heart.  At first, I thought this song would be the only piece of memory I’d have of him,”

“but he has also gifted me this love that’s growing inside me.”

You looked down toward your stomach, to the little bump that was quietly sticking out. You gave it a delicate and gentle caress, the kind that Seokmin would give you after he made love to you. You beamed at the breathtaking sight, your hand still resting on the loving curve as you faced the audience for the last time and finished off your speech. 

Seokmin was an angel. He didn’t deserve the evil within this world. But he was finally free, and although you could never deny the prick of grief that dwelled inside you ever since his passing, you were now relieved more than anything else. He was home. He was where angels should be.

You looked up into the sky with a flicker of hope in the eyes he used to adore so dearly.

“Until we meet again my love.”

[hearts-hunger]

happy appreciate queen creators day, my lovelies!! thanks to the wonderful @two-lovers-together, the queen fandom’s cup runneth over with love and appreciation for content creators today ♡ i wanted to join in on the celebrations by showcasing some of my favorite queen creators and thanking them for their hard work in keeping the fandom full of beauty and fun and everything wonderful. we wouldn’t be here without you, and we love you so much!!

so, in no particular order, here are my favorite queen creators and some of my favorite works of theirs! ♡

fic authors:

@sohoneyspreadyourwings - first off, sabrina is a darling and i smile every time she pops up on my dash. second off, her writing is so cute! i love all of her stuff, but her pat murray oneshots and headcanons are the fics i go back to when i’m having a hard day, because i they’re adorable and funny and wonderful. check out her masterlist!

@jessahmewren - ok, as far as really delicious steamy smut goes, the queen fandom absolutely does NOT deserve this author. each fic (which can be found on ao3 here) drive me absolutely crazy with how well they’re written, and in the case of smut, with how hot they are. every fic is the perfect blend of sexy sexy smut and tender fluff!

@word-babble - what can i say about babbs that hasn’t been said by me to her in the strictest confidence of our tender love letters to each other? besides being a perfect darling and dear friend, her writing is tender, tender, tender. her masterlist holds some of my very favorite fics in the queen fandom, particularly her maylor works. she writes angst so well and it always ends up in such sweet (and sometimes ~sexy~) resolutions that leave you soft and wanting more.

@brian-maybe-not - the queen fandom is utterly undeserving of the cute, funny, really sexy fics by this beauty. winter’s roger and ben fics are my favorite, because i’m a sucker for the way they’re written with such sassy, teasing, incredibly hot personalities. fics that get you right into the story and create a believable setting while also delivering in the fluff and smut departments? we stan this whole masterlist!

@supersonicfreddie - the range of cat’s fics in her masterlist leave me dizzy with how much good smut and soft tender fluff they include. her professor!gwil fics were the first thing that made me realize that maybe i have a thing for the professor au, and her series “a new place to begin” is absolutely perfect.

@punkgeekchic​ - sammy’s fics all have one thing in common: they’re sweeter than apple pie and twice as nice! she writes angst with the sweetest fluffy resolutions, and it’s like the boys themselves are giving you bear hugs. her dad!joe fics are so cute and fluffy, and her penchant for including puppies in her fics for the boys to cuddle is an absolute delight. go read through her masterlist!

artists:

@cherries-n-rocknroll - the absolute queen of that unique aesthetic quality of summer, cherries, red lipstick, and sundresses with straps falling off of tan shoulders. her eye for color blows me away, and all of her art is so sexy. send tweet.

@moustachefreddie - lacey is a sweetheart who makes gorgeous purple (and not purple) gifs, and her devotion to freddie’s mustache is an inspiration to us all. her single cover artwork dazzles me, and freddie would be proud to know how beautifully he’s depicted by her art.

@stoneqoldcrazy - i have NEVER EVER in my life EVER been so jealous of someone’s moodboard making ability. oh my god. from the temes to the color to the vibes in every one of her moodboards, gabby is the goddess of moodboards.

@ogrebattles - perfection. just sheer perfection. the creativity and artistry that goes into every edit and graphic floors me every time i see a new one.

@eileen-crys​ - rachel’s art is the most precious in the whole fandom. her deaky and johnica art makes me emotional with how darling it is, and her au’s are always so fantastic and creative and wonderful!

@john-deacon-fucks​ - the chibi queen art!!! need i say more!!! her john and veronica art is so tender and sweet and makes me all warm and fuzzy.

@drbriangay​ - simply put, i have never seen more ethereal, spacey, angelic, mysterious, evocative artwork in my whole life. she makes each member of queen look like an eldritch god in the best kind of way.

there are so many more queen artists and authors that i haven’t mentioned, and they do such beautiful work for us! show your love for them by reblogging, writing in the tags, commenting, and sending sweet messages to their inboxes. fandom isn’t anything without content creators, so treat them like the treasures they are! ♡

[noahmanskar]

The Best Albums of 2020 (and from the Before Times)

I read a lot of year-end music roundups, and several this year have come with a resonant caveat: It’s been harder to discover new music this year, both because of physical limitations (no shows, no record-store browsing, no chats with friends about your latest finds), and because the way we used music fundamentally changed. It certainly did for me. Rather than serving as the backdrop for a commute or a night out, it created moments of solace from cabin fever while doing dishes, or showering, or running semi-weekly errands. So I often turned to what was comfortable and familiar, songs that conjured memories and feelings to get me through the day. Even on the rare occasions of social listening, the groups I was with drifted into nostalgia — middle school dance tracks, mid-2000s emo, inherited dad rock, even songs from just a year or two ago, when everything was simpler, relatively speaking.

That’s not to say nothing new moved me. There was a handful of albums and songs that were crucial to getting through the doldrums. They soundtracked bike rides, long walks, longer drives and lots of small moments mentioned above. But I don’t think I can think about my favorite music of this year without thinking about the albums of the past that got me through it. Besides, one of the many lessons 2020 taught is that time is a bizarre illusion anyway. (This exercise also lets me write about some recent albums that I didn’t get to write about when they were actually released.

So here are the albums, past and present, that made 2020 bearable. I hope you found yours, too.

Tame Impala, “The Slow Rush”

Tame Impala’s fourth LP came out on Valentine’s Day. That afternoon, Claire and I had a lunch date to mark the occasion before we got on a plane to visit my parents. The night before, we had gone out to dinner with friends visiting from San Francisco and then to a bar, where we huddled next to strangers on a water bed. Roughly a month later, all of this would be unimaginable, and Kevin Parker’s lyrics to “One More Year” would be eerily prescient as we settled into this new normal:

But now I worry our horizon's been nothing new 'Cause I get this feeling and maybe you get it too We're on a rollercoaster stuck on its loop-de-loop 'Cause what we did one day on a whim Has slowly become all we do

The song is really about surrendering to time, and not worrying about it passing in spite of your ambivalence. The opening chants of Parker’s “Gregorian Robot Choir” make it easy to surrender. They carry you into a world where, as the cover art suggests, all that time you were worrying about has already passed, so you might as well dance. At the same time, the songs that follow, like “Borderline,” “Breathe Deeper” and “Lost In Yesterday” make it easy to remember what it was like to dance in a sweaty room with people you love, and to look forward to doing it again, after a little more time passes.

Fleet Foxes, “Shore”

There’s something comforting about the fact that Fleet Foxes released this record on the exact moment of the autumnal equinox. It’s a reminder that nature has its own rhythms that carry on regardless of what occurs in our human lives. They give us a measure of certainty in uncertain times. One of these rhythms — death — looms large in “Sunblind,” an ode to Robin Pecknold’s departed musical forebears: David Berman, Bill Withers, John Prine and others. This song exuding calm acceptance shifts into “Can I Believe You,” which wrestles frankly with doubt and fear.

These tracks contain profound contradictions, but sonically, they're both bright, hopeful and sure. That’s what made this album such a balm in the sixth month of this pandemic, a time of both growing darkness and hope for what might be on the other side. It reminds us that there’s power and beauty in feeling all these things at once.

Lil Uzi Vert, “Eternal Atake”

This one spent two years in label purgatory, but it finally arrived in March to prove Lil Uzi Vert can do it all. He’s at his most versatile here, spitting and crooning, boasting and balladeering. “You Better Move” is an early standout packed with playful nostalgia, including a beat that samples that classic PC pinball game and delightful jabs like these:

Yeah, step on competition, changin' my shoes Green shirt, bitch, I'm Steve, where is Blue? Every chain on, I pity a fool I'm an iPod, man, you more like a Zune Made her eat on my dick with a spoon, ew Versace drawers, bitch, you Fruit of the Loom

Then there are the melodic tracks like “Urgency,” which compel you to hum along even on the first listen. The excellent diversity made it worth the wait for this hourlong journey to another planet.

Sturgill Simpson, “Cuttin’ Grass Vol. 1: The Butcher Shoppe Sessions”

I haven’t spent much time with Sturgill Simpson outside of 2014′s “Metamodern Sounds in Country Music,” and I can’t say I’ve ever listened to another bluegrass album all the way through. But these new cuts of songs picked from Simpson’s catalog are wonderfully enticing. Simpson puts the talents of his backing band front and center, and their harmonies and rhythms illuminate his vivd songwriting in new ways. It was a great introduction to the genre for me.

Fiona Apple, “Fetch The Bolt Cutters”

I got here after the hype, after the perfect 10, after all the year-end number-ones. Fiona Apple lives up to all of it. Her compositions are complex and evocative, the lyrics tender and biting at once. Her artistry is unsparing. The chorus to the title track is already getting stuck in my head, and I can’t wait to spend more time with this one.

Bea Troxel, “The Way That It Feels” (2017)

Almost a decade has passed since I first saw Bea Troxel play. She was in an incredibly talented trio with two of my high school classmates: Maeve Thorne (who has an entrancing solo EP of her own), and Rita Pfeiffer (the violinist on this record). They ended up winning my school’s battle of the bands, and I got to interview them for the student newspaper. Shortly after our senior year, they recorded an album that still outshines most of today’s indie folk. So I jumped at the chance to all three of them again in Brooklyn. 

Troxel’s performance in particular was a revelation. I won’t ever forget how I fell into a trance as she picked away at “Talc,” which exemplifies her gift for natural metaphor. I haven’t stopped playing her record since, and it’s been a constant comfort throughout this year. Her voice is one of a kind, her songwriting is rich, and the compositions flow together beautifully. I can’t wait for more; in the meantime, “The Way That It Feels” will be on repeat.

Travis Scott, “Birds In The Trap Sing McKnight” (2016)

There’s been much ado about the brilliance of “Astroworld,” Travis Scott’s magnum opus, but I have a soft spot for his sophomore LP, where he reached the peak of the spare and heavy sound that started to take shape on “Owl Pharaoh.” There are plenty of sonic layers here, and the ordering of the tracks is a craft in itself — a series of peaks and valleys that glides from the haze of “beibs in the trap” to the climax of “goosebumps” and then into the cool waters of “pick up the phone.” It feels like Scott is guiding you to and from these destinations. The journey is, as The Weeknd might put it, “wonderful.”

Harmonium, “Harmonium” (1974)

One of my pandemic binges was “Letterkenny,” the sharp Ontario-set sitcom with top-notch banter and a great soundtrack full of indie hits and Canadian deep cuts. The fight scenes are elegantly choreographed, but so are the handful of sequences at the end of key episodes that reveal the show’s emotional bedrock. One such scene is set to Harmonium’s “Un musicien parmi tant d'autres” — the main characters are reveling in a bar with their Québécois pals, whom they’ve just helped beat up a rival group. As the song builds to its climactic chorus, leading man Wayne, surrounded by couples, realizes his longing for companionship. Another fight breaks out, but instead of joining in, Wayne makes his way through the slow-motion fray toward the woman he’ll propose to in the next season. (Their relationship later falls apart, but that doesn’t undercut this scene’s beauty.)

This is probably the first foreign-language album I’ve listened to in full, but all of it evokes that feeling for me — the joy of walking through the chaos to reach what’s really important. Not a bad sentiment for these times.

Bon Iver, “22, A Million”

To talk about this weird, dark and brilliant album, I need to talk about “715 - CR∑∑KS.” Everyone I’ve talked to about the third track on “22, A Million” either loves it or can’t stand it. I’m devoted to it to the extent that it was my most-played song on Spotify this year. It oscillates between tenderness and fear, between silence and explosions of sound. The lyrics are an epitome of Justin Vernon’s cryptic poetry. It’s isolated and spare and enthralling and beautiful in its own bizarre way — just like the rest of the album, which is rich with themes of persevering through the darkness in spite of the uncertainty about when the light will appear. Vernon is alone on “CR∑∑KS,” but he’s accompanied by a cacophony of his own voice. As alone as we might feel right now, there’s always someone else shouting through the darkness with us, even if we can’t see them.

[bananafishin]

banana fish fanfic recs

Hello bnnf fandom! I’ve been obsessively rereading my fav fics and really want to yell about them. If any of these strike your fancy, man oh MAN would I share in your joy.

And if you have any recs or have written fics, please add on! Or make your post and let me know!! I’m dying on a desert, man, I’ve gone through pages of fics in AO3 (ranked by kudos and bookmarks and various combinations of tags) and I can’t believe bnnf doesn’t have a fic recs page on TV Tropes, jeez.

I’ve kept this to M and below, and I’ve chosen stories that don’t seem as well-known. If you want E or dark fics, I can rec a few too, just let me know! All complete unless otherwise stated.

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Love Letters by labingi, and its sequel, Love in a Finite Place (both rated T)

Love Letters is told in an exchange of letters between Ash and Eiji after canon’s events, if Ash had lived. It’s 11 chapters long, but it spans their entire lifetime- and by entire lifetime, I mean, literally, all the way til the two have reached their 80s and 90s.

It’s listed as a crossover with Death Note, and that’s only used to drive the Asheiji relationship development. You don’t need to know what goes on in the other show to understand how this fic speaks to you in a way that’s so utterly human. This is one of those stories that stick with you for a long time. (And please leave comments on this!! I think people get turned off by the crossover, but really, DN is very ‘in the background’. It’s a fic for bnnf fans.)

The sequel, Love in a Finite Place, occurs after the final letter is sent. I can’t spoil too much, but it’s a realistic and beautiful take on what being soulmates can mean in our lives.

From now on, save you. by seiauton (rated T)

A one-shot on ‘what if Eiji also had nightmares?’ Canon focuses a lot on Ash’s trauma, but he’s not the only one who needs comforting. I’ve read this so many times - it’s short, but super effective, super satisfying.

Solstice by Wicked_Seraph (rated M)

Ongoing drabble series, exploring the complicated relationship between Eiji and Sing in between Banana Fish and Garden of Light. The author’s got a real evocative writing style, one unique to the bnnf fandom, because I can tell when I’ve stumbled upon one of their fics 💞 Each drabble so far has sucked me right in. Check out their other works too! There’s a variety. 

One-Thousand Cranes by mad_like_a_lynx and its ongoing sequel, Interzone (both rated M)

5 chaptered, AU retelling of how Ash and Eiji meet in the 80s... if there were less world-threatening drama and more grounded conflicts with a sprinkle of magical realism- and a lot of magical writing.

This is one of the top fics, but I love it so much. Sometimes I write my own fics and I’m like, oh man, how should I make it better? Then I take a look at how this author does it and I’m like: oh, now I’ve got it. This fic’s taken me down memory trips of my own life, and the way it’s written the beautiful connection between Ash and Eiji is as captivating as it was in canon.

The sequel is fascinating as well, delving into the relationship between Ash and Shorter, a fellow hitch-hiker Ash meets after One Thousand Cranes. Author tries out different styles of writing; very different from other fics I’ve seen!

Selfless Self-Sacrifice by KARUIame (rated T)

What if, during Eiji and gang’s infiltration of the party, Eiji had killed Golzine? Canon didn’t explore that potential - that part of Eiji who embraces both the light and the dark - but this fic sure did! The writing is a little heavy at parts, but the emotions and consequences are real. 100% recommend this delicious one-shot.

Triptych by Angela (rated T)

A 3 chaptered story of how an Ash/Shorter/Eiji relationship might work with the events of anime. I wasn’t interested in this ship until this fic, and it’s impressive because not only is it believable, it’s also tight. Super tightly written. Every scene is 500 words long according to the author, and if you write, you’ll know that’s fucking hard. That said, I think most people know the author for their other more famous fics in the fandom, but this one deserves more attention still.

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Remember to leave reviews! A number of these really sweet authors reply back and they’re super deserving of love.

[impalementation]

i think one of the reasons that spike is so compelling to me, and one of the reasons that i’m really glad he’s part of the show, is that he’s pretty much the only character that has a consistently poetic command of language. and by that i don’t mean that he speaks in a pretty or heightened way, exactly. he speaks frankly and irreverently as much as he speaks evocatively. i’m not talking about his insight either, given that i think we’re supposed to see his insight as unreliable or flawed or accurate-but-malicious about half of the time.

what i mean is that he phrases things interestingly, in a way that links unexpected concepts together. things like:

XANDER: Why blood? Why Dawn's blood? I mean, why couldn't it be like a, a lymph ritual?

SPIKE: 'Cause it's always got to be blood.

XANDER: We're not actually discussing dinner right now.

SPIKE: Blood is life, lackbrain. Why do you think we eat it? It's what keeps you going. Makes you warm. Makes you hard. Makes you other than dead. (quietly) Course it's her blood.

that repetition of “makes you…” is a poetic sort of conceit. it’s got rhythm. it links “warm” which can mean either physical warmth or emotional warmth,  and “hard” which suggests sexuality and more animal parts of living, and “other than dead.” it makes you intuit this more abstract notion of what it means to be “alive” and even: why the show is a vampire show in the first place. (there’s a whole other post to write about buffy’s obsession with the concepts of “dead” and “alive” and the way it uses spike in particular to express and explore that obsession).

he does this sort of parallelism again in the gift: “i know you’ll never love me. i know that i’m a monster. but you treat me like a man, and that’s…” that’s some cool overlapping repetition, where the “i know” parallel intersects with the “man/monster” parallel.

or go back to lovers walk. where he talks about “beautiful dresses with beautiful girls in them.” the show loves using demons to play on expected words and idioms like that. angelus talking about finding a heart “in a quaint little shopgirl” or dru saying “i didn’t like him. he got stuck in my teeth.” but spike is one of the few characters where it would make sense to use a repetition of “beautiful” as part of a “demons live in moral and linguistic opposite land” joke.

(actually one of the reasons i always thought spike and dru made perfect sense as a character combination is because drusilla also phrases things poetically. she says things that don’t make sense but actually do, and what’s more poetic than that? “you taste like ashes” etc. of course spike would be in love with her.)

or take his death wish speech in fool for love. that speech could never come out of any other buffyverse character’s mouth, and i love that he gives the show an excuse to use language in that way. “death is your art” is some intense phrasing. and like in his other speeches, the way he links death as art, death as a dance, and death as “on your heels” makes you intuit something complicated. the repetition paints death as this simultaneously constructive and destructive thing. something both kind of sexy and kind of terrible. it’s not an authoritative outlook on death by any means, but it is a poetic one. and i love that it exists in the show because it can stand in contrast to the stark, awful version of death in “the body” or the loving, sacrificial version of death in “the gift.”

because spike talks this way, he has this ability to bring things out in characters and scenes that wouldn’t be there otherwise. the beneath you church scene would probably have been unbearably overwrought if it had featured anyone other than spike. but because it does feature him, it allows the show to use unusual words and dramatic symbolism. or in episodes like smashed, as the tension mounts between buffy and spike, buffy starts speaking with an interestingly spike-like sense of repetition:

SPIKE: Oh, poor little lost girl. She doesn't fit in anywhere. She's got no one to love.

BUFFY: Me? I'm lost? Look at you, you idiot! Poor Spikey. Can't be a human, can't be a vampire. Where the hell do you fit in?

She throws him across the room.

BUFFY: Your job is to kill the slayer. But all you can do is follow me around making moon eyes.

SPIKE: I'm in love with you.

BUFFY: You're in love with pain.

he also gives the show an ability to talk about the poetic instinct itself. that is, the way that putting things poetically can allow you to say unusually true stuff, but also can allow you to say false stuff in a dangerously seductive manner. it’s awfully pretty for spike to tell buffy “i don’t hurt you”...but we see not an episode later that that isn’t true. it makes sense to me that in season six, a season that is obsessed with the foolish and harmful parts of fantasy, spike starts out seeming gentle and attractive, but becomes an increasingly toxic figure. and basically finishes the season with all of his romantic images of himself destroyed.

(there’s something to probably say about his speech in touched and how it’s him speaking poetically in a way that is not about him, and not about finding a chink in someone’s armor, and this being a resolution of his season six role)

fiction is full of bad-boy foils. characters who can speak freely because they aren’t bound by kindness or propriety. but what i like about spike is the way that the show is basically aware that he is that kind of character and complicates him accordingly. not always elegantly or anything. but fool for love for example works hard to reframe him as a Poet and a Lover (and also importantly...a fraud), to the extent of ret-conning his past, and that colors how we see the way he speaks going forward. i never feel like spike is just “saying cool stuff.” instead, i feel like his character captures both the yearning to say things that sound good, to pursue to grand notions, and also the need to deflate that instinct. and that tension is compelling.