#and cute little cheek vents i have the urge to pinch them

[lintufriikki]

i still can't get over how kitty shaped tfone soundwave looks 🥺🥺💙💙

[astxlphe-fics]

The world as Dazai knows it ends when he is 26 years old, taking everyone else's memories with it. Even Akutagawa's. 

However, Dazai isn't the kind of man who lets go.

For Dazaku Weekend on twitter. It’s kinda soft, actually

Word count: 2238

Content Warnings : none

There are only a handful of customers in the pub when he arrives. It’s well past one in the morning, but a group of three is laughing loudly at a table. The door doesn’t make a sound as it closes behind him, and Dazai stands in the entryway, rain dripping down the bottom of his coat, and he stares at the bartender filling up yet another round of beers. 

One of them picks up the drinks and the bartender looks away from them, scanning the room, until he spots Dazai. 

Immediately, Dazai grins, pretending he hadn’t been staring, and walks to the bar counter. 

When Dazai is 26 years old, the world dies. 

The memories of it are clear. Carefully combing through the floor plans of the facility Atsushi and Ryuunosuke needed to infiltrate. It took less than a second; enough time for him to look down, pointing at an entrance through the vent system, look up again, and finding himself alone. 

The office empty. The plate at the door now proclaiming it to belong to an accounting company. Phone numbers nonexistent, or belonging to people he doesn’t know. No Agency, no Port Mafia — at least not the way he knew it — no abilities, and yet this world still seemed the same and went on unbothered. 

It doesn’t go out with a bang. It comes with no burning pain and no infernal flames. There isn’t even a gust of wind. No, the world dies because of a handful of words written on the pages of a book. 

Dazai settles on a stool, leaning his elbows on the bar counter — it’s been almost two full years now, and he’s become something of a regular here. Now he knows exactly when to come to get the bartender alone, but took him months to even gather the will to walk in. “The usual!” he calls out, just as the group of friends starts moving, chair scraping on the floor. 

Soon enough they’re gone. Dazai always has perfect timing. 

The man — what a terribly familiar face this man has — considers him for a second and, without even pretending to be happy to see him, sets an empty glass in front of him and drops a large ice cube inside. “What kind?” 

“Whichever you feel like giving me.” 

The bartender’s lips pull down into a slight scowl and grabs a bottle from the shelf, seemingly at random. Dazai rests his chin on the palm of his hand, watching the man as he fills up the glass. “Here.” 

Taking a sip, Dazai’s empty grin fades into a sigh. “It’s a good one,” he says. “I’m growing on you, aren’t I? I knew you liked me, Akutagawa.” 

For weeks, he would slip up and call him “Ryuunosuke” by accident. 

He remembers, still, the embarrassed blush the first time it happened, the way they both looked away, avoiding his eyes, for days after — and, years ago, the way his Ryuunosuke’s fingers squeezed at his own as the habit settled in. 

Akutagawa pauses, momentarily forgetting about the cork he’s supposed to put back on the bottle, before he shakes his head. "I do not.”  

“You do~”  

“And you are delusional.”  As Akutagawa rolls his eyes, Dazai finishes the drink, and pushes the empty glass towards him.  

“Another!” 

The whiskey pours out of the bottle and Dazai’s eyes slide from Akutagawa’s hands, steady and unmarked save from the tattoo peeking from his sleeve, to his face, softer, much less guarded than his Ryuunosuke’s. His eyes catching the light, his scowl eases on its own as he can’t bring himself to pretend to be mad at Dazai for too long. 

But then again, without abilities, there is no Mafia, maybe less slums — or even no slums at all — and that must help.

On a whim, just as Akutagawa puts the bottle back down, Dazai reaches out and takes a hold of the other man’s wrist. He doesn’t flinch at his touch, only yanking his hand away when Dazai undoes the sleeve’s buttons. “What are you doing?” he hisses. 

“I’ve always been curious about your tattoo.” He goes to grab his wrist again, but Akutagawa avoids his hand, lips pinched, annoyance written all over his face. 

“Is that it? You know it’s considered polite to ask,” he scoffs, rolling back the sleeve himself, carefully folding it back over his elbow. “There.” 

Dazai whistles appreciatively, not expecting it to spread across his whole forearm. “Nice. And they let you be a bartender with those?” Bosses don’t really like tattooed employees, or so he’s heard. Especially big tattoos. 

“I have long sleeves.” Akutagawa shrugs. “And I take the night shifts.” He looks at his own arm, extending it so Dazai can see the tattoo better. “I had it inked two years ago.” He shifts on his feet awkwardly as Dazai traces a black line until it reaches a red spot with the tip of his finger. “Satisfied?” 

His forearm is decorated with black ink, from the inside of his elbow to his wrist, forming familiar patterns within them — harsh line and a dragon, or maybe a hound, with patches of red ink instead of eyes. Rashomon, or what is left of it. 

Two years ago . When the old world died and this one began. It’s hard imagining his Ryuunosuke with these, he’s never been one for frivolities like tattoos or jewelry, even if Dazai always thought it would suit him. He resists the urge of a “I told you so” that would only leave Akutagawa confused. 

He lets go, and grabs his full drink. “Very satisfied.”��

“Wonderful, I’m delighted.” Akutagawa answers dryly, and starts pulling his sleeve back down, not looking particularly delighted. 

“Come on, don’t hide it!”  

“I’m not supposed to show it. It’s unprofessional.” 

“It’s just the two of us here. Besides, what’s life without a bit of unprofessionalism?” 

“I’ve been unprofessional since I met you,” Akutagawa grumbles, but doesn’t try to hide his tattoo again. “I’m not supposed to speak this much with customers either. I have work, you know.” 

“Glad to know I’m a corrupting influence in your life. It’s not like your boss is ever going to know about that, anyway.” 

“Right.” 

“Any other tattoos I should know about?” 

“None.” Shaking his head in exasperation, Akutagawa turns away to wipe the counter. “Any reason why you are so nosy?” 

“I’m just curious about you.”  He turns his drink a little until the ice cube makes a tingling sound as it hits the glass. “I mean, we have known each other for what, two years? I’m allowed a little bit of curiosity.” 

“You already know more than all the other regulars put together.” 

Which amounts to almost nothing — his name and his sister‘s, both Dazai already knew, job, which is not exactly hidden, doctorate subject, and now his tattoo — but this is not what Dazai hears. “So, what you are saying is—” Dazai pauses, grin back in full force. “— that I’m a special customer ."  

There is a faint flush on Akutagawa’s cheeks, and Dazai is well aware of what that means. 

On the day he walked into this pub, he wasn’t too sure what he was hoping for . Maybe for him to be Ryuunosuke, to ask him what the hell is going on, what kind of world is that, why aren’t abilities working? Or any other question that Dazai could’ve answered, anything that would’ve made him feel like he knew what he was doing, that the situation was manageable, that he wasn’t alone .  

But it didn’t happen this way. 

That first day, Dazai sat at the bar counter, asked for a whiskey, and Akutagawa gave him his drink, not a hint of recognition in his eyes. 

This, maybe, hurts more than the loneliness. 

The whiskey burns his throat. He smiles all the way through it. 

A lifetime ago, Dazai fell in love with Ryuunosuke. He’d waited for years, unsure of what his feelings meant, or if they were even worth exploring.  After everything that happened between them, did he have the right to want this from him? Did he deserve it? Was it a good idea? 

The answers were, of course, no, no and no. He made his move anyway. 

On the other hand, today all they have is a blank slate, beyond Dazai’s late night drinking. Akutagawa is the same person, with a different set of memories, and he makes Dazai’s heart do summersaults in the same way as Ryunosuke did. So, what is the point of worrying over it now? And what does he have left to lose? His dignity? 

Akutagawa?  

No. That’s safe enough. He can read Akutagawa enough to know the risks are low and it doesn’t hurt to try. And if he’s wrong, which he highly doubts, he can back down anytime he wants. He is, after, a silly man, who wouldn’t be above making such a joke, right? 

He sets the glass, half finished, back on the counter and it makes a decisive thump as it hits the wood. "Kiss me.” 

+

Just a little over three years ago, in a universe that no longer exists, it goes like this: 

“Kiss me,” Dazai demands. 

In front of him Ryuunosuke stiffens, gaze briefly focusing on his lips, and Dazai can see all the fantasies playing in his mind. “Excuse me?” 

“Come on.” He knows he has feelings for Ryuunosuke, and knows that Ryuunosuke returns them. The only thing he doesn’t know is how to address them in any other way. “I know you want to.” 

“I—” His eyes go wide, and his voice catches in his throat. “Why?” 

Dazai shrugs, smiling, unperturbed. “I thought I made myself clear. I want you to kiss me.” 

“I—” he tries again. It’s not every day that Ryuunosuke is at loss of words. Despite his hesitation, Dazai already knows he won’t say no. There are things Ryuunosuke is ready to refuse him, especially since the vampire debacle and the cementing of his partnership with Atsushi, but not this. He won’t need to insist, because Ryuunosuke wants it as much as Dazai does. 

When you know someone as long as Dazai and Ryuunosuke have known each other, that kind of things becomes easy to tell. 

“Very well,” Ryuunosuke ends up saying, nodding to himself. “I’ll do it.” 

It’s cute how he steels himself, how his expression turns determined, like he has just been given an important mission. He brings himself on his tiptoe to, clumsily, press a kiss on the corner of his lips. 

He pulls back, the red of his face steadily spreading to the tip of his ears. “Was it what you wanted?” 

Was it? “No.” Dazai shakes his head, and Ryuunosuke’s nose wrinkles in disappointment. “I meant a real one. Like this.” And he pulls him forward, one arm snaking around his waist to hold him tighter, into a full, proper kiss. 

Ryuunosuke welcomes it, fingers grabbing onto his arms, he presses himself closer, until Dazai lets go of him and he takes a step back, breathing hard, starring at him, eyes like focused on Dazai and Dazai only . His phone vibrates in his pocket, but Ryuunosuke pays it no mind, having even forgotten why they were meeting in the first place, that they have work waiting for them, because all he can see and think about right now is Dazai . 

Dazai always loved having Ryuunosuke’s undivided attention. 

“So? Wasn’t it much better?” 

“Let me try again,” Ryuunosuke demands, ignoring his question, and Dazai grins, “so I can give you a proper one.” 

+

The world he knew is gone, no matter how Dazai will miss it and the people he used to know. Even finding the Book and writing in it won’t bring it back the way it was. 

But Akutagawa abandons his cleaning to stand in front of Dazai, answering questions about his week as prompted, with a hint of a smile, and right now Dazai can’t quite bring himself to feel lonely.  

So, today, in a universe which did not exist two years ago, it goes a little different: 

The bar is still empty. It’s why he comes so late, after all — Akutagawa takes all the night shift, at this hour they have the pub to themselves, and even in this world Dazai still has Akutagawa’s complete attention. 

“Kiss me,” he demands. 

Akutagawa pauses for a short second, eyes straying first to the unfinished drink, the ice cube slowly melting into what is left of it — wondering if Dazai is drunk, maybe, but he has seen Dazai finish at least one more glass of that whiskey before being buzzed — before settling on his lips and lingering there a little too long. 

Then, he slides the drink away, and before Dazai can protest he tucks one strand of hair behind his ear, leans over the bar counter, and kisses him. 

The kiss is short, but firm, Akutagawa’s lips on Dazai’s without a moment of hesitation. No overthinking, no second guessing his action — a little like Ryuunosuke’s once he got used to kissing, but this is their first time and there is confidence in it that Ryuunosuke did not always have. 

Not exactly like Ryuunosuke, but exactly like Akutagawa. 

It lasts both forever and no time at all. Akutagawa pulls back, leaving Dazai missing the sensation and struggling to remember how to breathe. 

“Bartender,” he manages to say, voice low, throat dry. “I would like another.” 

[skylarmoon71]

Raphael x Reader Fanfiction Oneshot. (TMNT 2014-2016)

Everyone who knew Raphael, was fully aware of his very short temper. The turtle could get mad at just about anything. Presently, he was beating the crap out of a punching bag because Splinter basically grounded him for being reckless on his last patrol. 

Leonardo was the leader, and although Raphael knew that, he was always going against his brother's orders. The butted heads so much that you were shocked the entire lair was still in one piece. So here you were, listening to Raphael rant about his disapproval of Splinter's decision to bench him for the night as punishment.

"And why the hell is Leo in charge. I can lead us better than him!" he scored another vicious punch to the bag, effectively knocking it off the rope. It flew through the air, crashing into the wall and you winced.

"He thinks he's so high and mighty, the oh gracious leader I'm sick of it!" He was now doing techniques in the air. Punching and kicking. You didn't need to be a genius to know he was imaging Leonardo's face where his foot was.

"Raph, maybe you just need to cool down. If Master Splinter thinks it's best you take a break you should listen. And I'm sure Leo isn't the only one responsible for what happened. " He turned to you, still fuming.

"So you're saying it's my fault!"

"That's not what I'm saying I just think that-"

"That what? Leo's better than me. Who's side are you on!"

"I'm not on anyone's side Raph, are you even listening to me?"

He left out an less than amused laugh. "I see what's happening. You have a thing for Leo don't you, no wonder you're always here. Why the hell am I even talking to you. Everyone's the same. Leo's so great he can never do no wrong well I'm sick of it." Raphael drew his sais, turning around and heading for his room.

"I don't need you, I don't need anyone."

Now you were pissed.

"DAMN IT RAPHAEL FOR ONCE IN YOUR LIFE WOULD YOU JUST LISTEN!!!" you exploded, and the raise in your voice made the red clad turtle turn to you.

"Why the hell would I come here and talk to you if I have a so-called thing for Leo! I respect you Raph, I respect all of you. Nobody's perfect. Not you and certainly not Leo. I just think that sometimes you get so blinded by your anger that you can't even see what's right in front of you." There was a double meaning behind those last words, but Raphael was so consumed by his alpha male ego that he probably didn't see it.

"(Y/N).." you just looked down, turning your back to him.

"Next time you need a friend to talk to maybe you should actually talk to them like a human being instead of tearing them down you jerk!" and just like that you were running out the lair. You passed Leonardo on the way out, not even looking up when he greeted you. When he stepped in he saw Raphael standing with a look of regret. Leonardo sighed, already putting the pieces together. He went into protective brother mode almost immediately.

"What did you say to her Raph." Somehow hearing Leo's tone just irritated him more.

"You don't need to tell me I screwed up. I already know. " He didn't say much more than that, heading for his room to deal with his problems the way he always did. Punch stuff.

~~~

"I shouldn't have said that, it was mean. He just wanted a friend to vent to. I should have been more supportive." You hadn't been to the lair since then. That was a couple days ago. You were more than a little embarrassed at your little outburst. "He did yell at me though. And I was just trying to help." your conflicting thoughts weren't really helping. What bothered you the most is the fact you'd almost confessed your feelings for him. Since meeting the turtles, the one that caught your attention immediately was Raphael.

His tough guy personality, resilient sense of justice. Not to mention his obvious love for his brothers. He tried to hide a lot of his feelings, but you saw through his little act. Underneath you had no doubt that he was a little softie. He was just too busy trying way too hard to prove himself when he was already amazing. In your eyes he was incredible. Mutant and all. You just wished he wasn't so blind.

"He's such an idiot sometimes." You were going to have to be the one to confront him, odds were he was pummeling another sandbag. One thing you knew about him was he didn't like admitting when he was wrong, and you were sure it would take a near miracle for him to apologize. So you would have to step up. "Maybe I should wait a few more days, just to make him sweat." you giggled under your breath. It would eat him alive if you stayed away for more than a week. You weren't that cruel though. It was already pretty late, you were free tomorrow, so you'd go first thing in the morning. You wouldn't fold either. If you didn't get an apology, then you would really give him an earful.

~The Next Day~

Grabbing three boxes of pizza as a peace offering, you made your way through the sewers, heading for the lair. Upon reaching your destination you pushed the door open. Mikey was sitting by the game console, as soon as his eyes caught sight of you, they lit up. Blue orbs brightened and a grin stretched on his lips. "Guys (Y/N) is back and she brought pizza!!" you weren't sure what he was more excited to see, you or the pizza. 

You handed him a box, and he smiled, giving you a quick hug before devouring the delicious pizza. As you walked in you saw Leonardo walking over. You handed him a box, and he brought a hand down on your shoulder, taking the pizza in his free hand. "It's good to have you back. Raph's been angrier than usual." you laughed, because you could imagine it. " I wanted to make him squirm a little. Sorry if it caused you guys trouble." he shook his head. "Nah, it's fine. He deserves it." you smiled, going in the direction of Raph's room with the last box of pizza.

When you were standing directly in front of his door, you could hear noises coming from behind. He was definitely working out, and from the sounds of it, pretty intensely. You knocked on the door. " Go away Mikey!" you opened the door anyway, and you could hear the grunt of disapproval at your sudden entrance.

"I thought I said go away!" he yelled. When he saw who it was he stopped cold, just staring.

"(Y/N)..."

"I brought pizza, you sure you want me to go away?" His green eyes stayed on you for a few seconds before he turned away. You placed the box on his desk, closing the door. He wouldn't meet your eyes, and you knew why. He must have felt horrible for yelling at you, even worse that you avoided the lair because of it.

"Raph, you're gonna have to talk to me sooner or later. " he huffed, his shoulders slumping in defeat. "What do you want me to say? I'm sorry. There I said it. Happy." you frowned, because his apology wasn't sincere, and he still wouldn't look at you. You walked over, stepping across so you were directly in his line of sight. "Say it again." you urged. Now he couldn't avoid your stare. You folded your arms, tapping your foot impatiently. "Any day now."

"I'M SORRY OKAY! I'm a screw up, I always piss people off or drive them away. I can't help it, it's just something about me that messes everything up." for once his anger wasn't directed at someone else, but himself. It hurt to know that's what he thought. That he wasn't good enough. That all he was good for was ruining things. You reached out, taking his hand. He tensed, not really sure what you were going to do.

"You're not a screw up Raph. You just need to work on your very very very short fuse." you finished that statement with a smile, and slowly, a small smile rose to Raphael's lips. He really did look cute when he smiled. He was now wearing a different look, and it puzzled you.

"What did you say?" he muttered.

"W-What?"

"Just now, you said I looked cute." your cheeks tinted immediately. Did you really say that out loud?

Cover time.

"I-I just meant  it's refreshing from your usual scowl. I-I didn't mean anything by it!" you defended weakly. His smile was replaced by a growing smirk. He stepped forward, and you backed up, trying to create a little distance so you could think of a way to get out of this situation. When you back hit the wall, you panicked. He had you cornered. His arms came down, boxing you in.

"What did you mean when you said I'm blind to what's right in front of me?" Shit, you really hoped he would forget about that. You sort of thought it would go right over his head. Now that he was standing before you with those magnificently beautiful emerald eyes, you couldn't bring yourself to lie to him. Your hands were shaking slightly. 

"Raph I..I'm in love with you.." it was said so quietly he almost didn't catch it. He was still, maybe too still for way too long. His expression was unreadable.

When you didn't get a response, you could practically hear your heart breaking. "I-I'm sorry I didn't mean to make things awkward. I-I shouldn't have said anything! I'm such an idiot!" every negative thought flooded into your mind, eyes getting a bit watery.

Said thoughts immediately stopped when you felt something soft touch your lips. You blinked, wondering if maybe your mind was playing tricks on you. Raphael couldn't have really been...kissing you could he?

It took you a full minute to fully register what was going on. When you finally did, Raphael pulled back. His eyes moved to the wall, a soft breath escaping his lips. Your hands reached up hesitantly, touching your lips in awe.

"I have a thing for you too." he mumbled.

"No way.." you pinched yourself, testing to make sure you weren't dreaming. Once you clarified it wasn't your imagination, you knew what you had to do. ��Your hands lifted, grabbing a hold of the strap across his chest. You pulled him down, standing on your tiptoes to meet his lips. He was clearly taken by surprise by the action, but slowly welcomed it. 

His hands reached down, wrapping around your waist and pulling you off the ground. He lifted you to his height, kissing you with merit. You were completely lost in the softness of his lips. Hands locking around his neck. You responded, just as eagerly, legs finding purchase at his waist. When your back touched the wall for the second time that day you moaned, unable to control yourself or your sounds. Raphael grunted, pulling away for air quite reluctantly. You were breathing heavier than you thought possible, chest pressed to his plastron.

"I guess I was dead wrong about you having a thing for Leo."

"So wrong." you corrected, still partially dazed from the kiss. He leaned in slightly, teasing you. You groaned, wishing he'd just close the distance instead of torture you.

"I found your weakness." he spoke, head tilting to press a kiss to your neck. Your hands gripped his shoulders, letting out shallow breaths. "Raph.." you shuddered when his lips touched your exposed skin.

"Damn, if you keep saying my name like that we're going to have a problem." he leaned back up, hopefully to reconnect your lips. You closed your eyes awaiting the feel of his plump lips. Just as he was about to close the distance the door to his room opened.

"Raph, (Y/N) I finally got to the final stage!" Mikey's excited yell made you both turn. You blushed, and Raph looked infuriated. When Mikey saw your position he blinked. "Oh, sorry for disturbing you lady and gentleman. Please, carry on. " he walked out backwards, as soon as he was gone you heard him yelling.

"Guys Raph and (Y/N) are making out!!" Raph growled and you were sure your face was every shade of red. "I'm gonna kill him." Raph moved to step away from the wall to release you, but you grabbed his head, turning his attention back to you.

"Later." you ordered, smashing your lips to his. You'd dreamed of this too long to let Mikey ruin your moment. Raphael certainly wasn't complaining.

[urlocalbunny]

.ruined orgasm - ethan.

hi, babes! My posting rate went DOWN, i’m aware, but lots of things happened and the national exams are nearing my asscheeks, so please understand that i’m overwhelmed so the requests are stopped in time lmao

1.675 words, enjoy!

Ethan was moody, and everybody knew that much. Always slamming doors, yelling, frowning, laughing at people evilly, sometimes, even... Hissing? But Eloise still put up with a lot to make their relationship work.

And in the end, it did make a difference. Ethan would tell her where he went and with who, how his day was, sometimes he'd even get her food instead of sending Beliath to learn more about her favorite things! Even if she told him that he didn't need to justify himself because they were dating, he tried to show her he could be more than just a moody young vampire. He wanted to show her he could be reliable when it counted.

That's why Eloise had the stupid idea of trying to be reliable too and got herself sitting on his bed, listening to him talking trash about everything possible with his head laying on her lap.

"And he's such a dumbass. Did you see his hair this morning? He looks like a mop. Aaron takes care of him, and he doesn't learn anything, probably burnt all his brain cells trying to find out how much is two plus two. Ah, speaking of Aaron, can you believe he ditched Leandra again? That tomato head is fucking crazy! I mean, there isn't any competition anymore because you're way hotter and you're my girlfriend, can't he do something?-"

"You're acting like a 72-year-old grandpa who likes a gossip." She deadpanned, watching his face contort into a disgusted frown.

"What the fuck? You're so mean! Pet my head." She sighed, patting his head.

"What's happening to you? You're talking too fast."

"I need to vent!" He exclaimed.

"Oh, god. Look, let's calm down. You have to sit down." She patted the bed near her. Ethan was very fast, but she never saw him using his powers inside his room like that. He sat down anyway, but then he fidgeted. "Sit down." She said softly and straddled him harmlessly. He blushed.

"What are you doing?" He asked suspiciously.

"I'm just chilling with you. I'm not going to hurt you."

Sometimes, talking to Ethan was like trying to aid a hurt animal. He was in pain, scared, angry. That made him have very wary reactions. She was the first girlfriend he took seriously, after all. He wasn't the type to stay too much in one place.

"You're... Um- close." He mumbled, a little uncomfortable.

"It's okay then. We can sit side by side again. I'm sorry for pushing. I didn't realize I was too quick." She smiled, beginning to scoot over, but he held her by the waist.

"N-no. Stay like this. You're warm." He hid his red face in the crook of her neck, smelling the perfume Beliath bought for her on her birthday. Fitting.

"You're cold." She said, squealing lightly. "It's not overwhelming, though. You're chilly. I like it." His head felt very heavy. Her treatment of him was too much to handle.

"Are you alright?" She asked, quirking one cute and now messy eyebrow. He huffed, looking at her hesitantly before cupping her face on his hands and kissing her softly.

Her tiny smile on the kiss pushed Ethan further. His heart hammered like crazy. He couldn't help but squeeze her waist, making her open her mouth to moan softly. His tongue slid in slowly, licking hers tentatively, tenderly. She returned the caress, scratching the hair on the nape of his neck as a treat for his boldness. His kisses got eager and full of little appreciation noises as his hands groped her thighs roughly. Her hands got rid of his coat. Eloise tried to spare him a glance to see if she needed to stop, but he urged her back with an annoying whine, tasting her tongue again. The feeling was as if they kissed for the first time again. He wished he could stop, but her lips were so good. He wanted her to keep going even if he didn't know where.

"Eloise, I want to fuck you so bad." He whispered, pulling her hips against him. She matched his movements, combining with wandering hands, to keep him calm until the situation escalated. Her eyes took in his glazed over stare, his panting, and his now swollen red lips. A small white hair stripe ran from his belly button and lower, hiding on his pants.

"Kick off your shoes," she panted, pulling his shirt off. He did as she asked, kicking them off and pulling his socks with his feet. The sight of his flushed neck made her suck in a breath and lean in, kissing his skin eagerly. His hands found themselves on her thighs again, this time creating little red marks under his fingertips.

"You don't have to be shy, love." She whispered, making him scoff.

"You think I'm some virgin you can control?" His hands slid to her ass, squeezing it. The friction his zipper gave made her clench around nothing, whimpering louder than usual. His composure fell, a shy yet pleading stare taking place. Her fingertips ran along with his nipples, eliciting a violent shudder. His back arched nicely against her hand. Her hands worked slowly, appreciating him while his own hands kneaded her ass slowly. His stare fell on her breasts, the way the dress strap hung down still engrained on his mind. He kissed her neck, daring.

"You're so lovely." His whisper woke her up from a deep daze, her hands squeezing his waist ever so slightly.

"You're beautiful." Her answer was almost immediate. He was taken aback by such warmth. No one-night stand ever did him like this. That was already intimate. He was told he's beautiful before. Not like this. Not by her.

Pushing him on the bed and standing up to allow him to raise his hips, Eloise pulled his pants and trousers down. He blushed.

"You look pent up." She sighed, running a hand through the tip. His cock twitched.

"Why am I naked, and you're fully dressed?!"

"That, honey, is called dominance." She gripped the hem of her dress, pulling it up and planting a knee between his own, revealing her thong. He had imagined, and he'd definitely seen and felt her before, but that laid beyond his expectations. The adoration he felt broke the last of the boundaries he had. His shoulders relaxed. Raising his arms above his head and laying them on the bed, he thought that maybe surrendering once wasn't so bad.

"Open your legs for me, honey." He obeyed. Placing herself between them, she kissed him intensely. He couldn't help but pinch one of her nipples, earning a high-pitched moan from her... And his nipple pinched in return. "My, my, you look so clever taking advantage of our positions, don't you?" His hand dropped by his sides, back arching against her hand. She began to slide her nail against his stomach, gripping his cock with her hand and jerking him carefully.

His eyes fluttered shut, a peaceful expression dancing on his face as he whined lowly and pushed his hips in sync with her hand. She gripped harder, coating him on his precum. Her hand worked up and down, sometimes he felt her other hand cup his balls, and she occasionally sucked on his nipple, appreciating his body, but Ethan wasn't going to last.

"Eloise, please. I'm close. So close, I'll be so good to you, so, so good, just p-please-"

"Oops!" Her hand shot up just as Ethan was about to cum. His hips jerked upwards as he moaned helplessly and loudly, sobs erupting from his throat as he thrashed around, orgasm now ruined. The pain mixed with the full pleasure that could've been something else. Betrayal danced behind his eyes, his back arched and his hips thrusting up against nothing, tears dripping from his cheeks.

"Eloise!" He sobbed pathetically, reaching for her hand. "Elo-" he coughed.

"Shhhh, it's okay, you're still so hard." She cooed, running a hand on his stomach to soothe him.

"You ruined it- why?" He was shocked, making her chuckle.

"I couldn't resist, honey. Here, let me fix it."

"How are you going to fix- ahn-" he shut up quickly when her entrance engulfed his tip, swallowing him and bringing him into her soaked heat.

"Like this." She struggled to say, holding herself against his shuddering form and waiting for him to adjust to her. Ethan kept panting, but soon enough, he came around, starting to grind up frantically until he was balls deep within her, earning some approving moans from her. She coaxed him into turning them around, making Ethan cradle her head on his arms and thrust desperately, looking for release no matter what. His cock twitched, the sensitive tip rubbing against the sweet spot that had Eloise seeing stars. The girl arched her back, nearing her end when Ethan lifted one of her legs and held it, bruising the skin and creating a new angle.

"That's it. You're doing amazing." He moaned at that compliment, snapping his hips in a low mantra of "Eloise, I wanna cum," and the groans when she pulled on his hair.

Ethan started growling incoherent stuff, tears streaming down his cheeks. His face and neck were red, and he held a breath. Eloise keened, gripping on his arm as her walls spasmed around him. Her back arched, legs trembled. His head was spinning, white dots all over the place.

"Eloise, I-" he didn't have time to explain, a long whine taking place followed by a gasp as he came inside, hips still snapping, then stilling comfortably.

"Are you okay?" She asked, caressing his back. He looked at her with his bloodshot eyes.

"That was amazing." He panted, resting his head against her chest. "Can I dom next time?"

"Of course, baby." She said softly. Ethan smirked when Eloise gasped, and the slap he gave on her leg made a loud sound in the room.

"Ah, ah. The baby is you. Get on all fours. Now. You're paying for not giving me what I wanted.

[randomfandomimagine]

Hey Trish! ♡ I’m back here requesting for headcanons for being best friends with Zack Fair. Idk why but the urge to just be friends with these characters has grown so much lol Thank you! Te amo!

Hi, sweetie! Thanks for requesting again, hope you’re liking my writing 😊 Omg, Zack would be such a cool friend! I just love him so much 🥰

BEING ZACK FAIR’S BEST FRIEND

Zack is such a good friend in so many ways

For starters, you have so much fun with him

Even if you’re just taking a walk together or something

He’s really funny and knows how to make you laugh

And he loves it, seeing you smile and laugh makes his day

You two can also talk for hours on end

About any subject at all, there’s always something to say

You just enjoy spending time together

As well as that, Zack is always there for you

He knows you very well, so he can tell when there’s something wrong

If you’re sad, angry, tired, upset... he knows how you’re feeling

And since he knows you so well, he knows what you need in each case

He’s always willing to crack a joke to make you laugh

Or give you a hug if you want and need it

Or distract you, or comfort you

He knows what to say and how to say it

He has learned what to do in each case and does it

Zack is also ready to listen to whatever you have to say

Be it venting about something that’s really bothering you

Or just hear how you ramble on about something you love

You’re also there for Zack, always, if he needs you

Granted, sometimes he might pretend like everything’s fine

But if you ask him about it he will probably tell you what’s wrong

Sometimes you have to remind him that it’s not his job to be okay

That he doesn’t always have to be bubbly and goofying around

He insists that he never wants to make you sad or worry

But he speaks to you when you say you just want to help him

There is a lot of platonic affection all the time

Cuddling, hugging, kisses in the cheek...

As well as lots of teasing and annoying the other

He loves pinching your cheek to wind you up

Even if when he laughs a little it stops you from getting annoyed

He uses his cuteness to his advantage, of course

Giving you the puppy eyes to get his way

Despite how much he teases you, he’s very protective of you

The moment there’s danger, he will do anything to ensure your safety

And he’s also ready to fight anyone that hurts you in any way

One time he wanted to talk with your boyfriend after you broke up

Because he hated to see how much he had hurt you

There are also so many inside jokes, too many to count

Some of which end with laugh attacks when you bring them up

Zack is the type of friend you can do absolutely anything with

Have a sleepover and talk about life and the universe at 3 am

Or just have a silly pillow fight and tickle each other

Or go to dinner and talk about trivial things

But also talk about deep things like emotions

You can also do a movie marathon with snuggles and popcorn

Or spend two hours cuddling in the couch

Whether it’s in complete silence or catching up with each other

Zack would just be the best best friend ever

Tag list: @call-me-harley-quinn / @wonderlandfandomkingdom / @anxiouslyreckless / @xionroxas / @dancewaterdance02 / @little-faerie-artist / @x-joie-x / @honeybunhanbin / @legallyblindgamer727 / @lotsoffandomstoimagine / @imaginealllthefandoms / @fandomatakeover18 / @trunks-kiwi / @andsoweshalldepart / @lostiintheocean // If you want to be added or taken off the tag list for these fandoms or characters, send me an ask!! // Reblogs and feedback are appreciated!

[xktheartx]

dear diary

pairing: seokjin x reader

genre: fluff

word count: 2k

summary: “You weren’t supposed to see that.”

a/n: Thank you for requesting, @britriestbr! I really hope you like it!!! >.< 

Feel free to partake in my drabble game by sending me a line (like th one from summary) and a BTS member HERE

   “Welcome, Seokjin!”, your mother greeted in a chirpy tone, managing to trap him in her loving arms. She hasn’t seen your boyfriend in such a long time and you always joke about the elderly woman loving Jin as much as you do—it is a given for her to be overjoyed by his visit. “Where’s my daughter though?”, she inquires with a smile still plastered on her thin lips, only a little confused by your absence. If your boyfriend is already here, than surely you are too, right?

   Seokjin’s smile falters a tiny bit. He takes a small step back, freeing himself from your mother’s embrace. His eyes dart behind her, inspecting the broad hall in hope of seeing your pretty figure emerge from somewhere. Aren’t you here? If not, where are you? Today is Sunday, you’re off work, and you always visit your parents on Sundays when you have the time. If you had the time to flee from home, Seokjin guesses you also had the time to visit your folks, right?

   “I thought she’d be here”, Seokjin explains when he meets the curious eyes of your mother.

   Truth be told, you and Seokjin had a little fall out a few days ago, nothing serious, but this time around it’s a matter of pride. Neither you nor Seokjin contacted each other for these past days, childish as it may seem, but enough is enough. You may have gotten mad because he’d insinuated that you’re unable to be on your own for longer than a couple of hours, clinging to him for dear life most of the time. Seokjin may as well have been quite bothered by your—“I’ll go back to living on my own just as fast as I started living with you, just say the word”—statement. Yes, he sincerely regrets he told you something that managed to ambition you into doing whatever you could to prove him wrong, and he was a little bit of an ass as well, but there was no need for you to be this mean! Admittedly, he was a bit hurt by your words—what kind of lover wouldn’t be? But he knows even you didn’t believe your words by the way you stuttered a bit more than usual and how high pitched your voice sounded. You wouldn’t be able to go back to your old life, the one without him, so fast. However, you can live without him and Seokjin is aware of that. He’s very scared of the possibility that one day you’ll choose to do just that.

   And the thought alone is why he is here, at your parents’ house, where he thought you would be, but apparently aren’t. Your petty ass hasn’t been answering his calls either, but he knows you’re fine. You’ve been active on social media, more so than other days, it’s just that you’ve been ignoring him.

   “It’s Sunday so she’ll probably come here”, Seokjin informs your mother, resting one of his large palms on her shoulder reassuringly. “Do you mind it if I wait in her room?”, he proceeds to smile sweetly at the elderly woman. Seokjin knows your mother too well, she’s always trying to help those around her, no matter the situation. The catch is that in order to help, she firstly needs to be aware of the situation that’s happened. In other words, she’s nosy—especially if it’s about her daughter.

   “Go ahead, darling!”, she coos, shooting him a beaming smile with a hint of anxiety that can barely be noticed. The little wrinkles that circle her eyes disappear together with her smile once she adopts a more serious attitude. “Seokjin.. My daughter is not the type to flee and come here when things get tough”, she begins, voice soft, but still with a little edge to it. “I hope everything is fine between you two. Though I’m sure you’ll fix things if they aren’t.”

   In that split moment, Seokjin wonders if the “you” she used is meant for him solely. Your mother has always been a true charmer, especially when she threatens the safety of whoever dares rub her daughter the wrong way. Even if it’s Seokjin, whom she likes very much.

   He gives her one last smile before heading to your room. He hasn’t been here in.. two years, perhaps? Ever since you moved for college in Seoul and he didn’t need to come here every two or three weeks to see you. It was hard, that year. Seokjin went to college first, since he’s one year older than you, and the year he spent in Seoul, away from you who still lived here, was a very tough time. You were especially anxious—obviously girls lined up to just look at him, given how much of an eye candy he is. You trusted Jin, that wasn’t a problem. It was more like you didn’t trust yourself anymore. Not seeing him every day was also really hard for you, because despite getting mad at him for saying you can’t live without him, you grew too accustomed to him being right by your side. You’ve been together for four years now, there’s no way you would easily go back to the life before him.

   So when your mother calls and tells you that Seokjin is waiting for you in your room home, you don’t hesitate to hop in your car and drive straight to where he is. Yes, you are petty and feisty. You are also ambitious—some would say stubborn—but above all else, you are very much in love and willing to admit that no, you probably can’t live without him. Not now at least.

   Back home, you speed up the stairs to meet him. You love him and all that, but he has to be the first one to apologise cause he started the whole thing, ain’t that the way it should be?

   Okay, no, you’re still being petty.

   You stop for a little bit to pat your hair back into place and smooth out your blouse, wanting to look as composed as possible in spite of being absolutely not. You’ll probably feel the urge to jump in his arms the moment you see him. Scratch that, you already feel it.

   You open the white wooden door that hides your childhood’s getaway and you see Seokjin standing on your bed, a book in his hands, looking at you. His lips are stretched in a thin line, legs widely parted with his elbows propped on them. Although his entire aura screams “serious”, his eyes are glinting playfully.

   “Long time no see”, he greets, standing up lazily, the book in his hand hanging by his side. It’s only then that you notice the book. Before your brain even has time to process what’s happening, Jin is already speaking: “I didn’t know you liked reading classics. Or just reading in general.”

   You can feel your heart drop in your stomach the moment he looks at you with a questioning look, but at the same time with a glint that says he knows something you don’t. You were in a serious pinch: did he or did he not read your diary? In your mind, wrapping it with a plain novel’s cover was the best way to hide your diary, definitely more efficient than tug it under your pillows or something as childish as that. But again, having a diary can be considered childish to begin with—it’s just that growing up with only one friend, with whom you ended up being in love, determined you to at least write down all of your frustrations and worries. It helped a lot. Venting on paper seemed to always work like magic, calming you down and clearing your head. Unfortunately, the said diary ended up full of curse words and all sorts of damnations, sometimes even for your actual boyfriend. You remember this particular period of time when he would sometimes hook up with someone constantly—you knew that for sure, but he was keeping it a secret. For one, the fact that he would keep secrets from you was frustrating enough. But most importantly, he was hooking up with a girl! While you were madly in love with him as well! The nerve!

   “Cat’s got your tongue?”, he asks, his lips stretching in an amused smile. “Don’t worry, I didn’t read it”, Seokjin adds, probably guessing that that’s what made you temporarily mute.

   You immediately let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding, but then a surge of anger and realization goes straight out your pretty mouth.

   “How would you know what it is if you hadn’t read it? I didn’t write any stupid things like ‘Keep away, diary ahead!’, you know?”, you snap, one of your hands coming to rest on your hip. You can’t believe he dared to even take a peek! A diary may be childish, but it’s something personal that people can’t just read at their own leisure.

   “That’s exactly why I didn’t know it was one!”, he sputters with astonishment written all over his face. “I only saw the ‘Kim Seokjin you big idiot! I fucking hate you!’ part.”

   Seokjin looks pretty amused by the whole situation and it’s not like you can be too mad at him. You’re sure he wouldn’t have even opened the diary if he had known what it actually was, and it’s not like it contains things he doesn’t already know. Not to mention that the last time you wrote in it was back in high school, before the two of you became an item. This topic, your jealousy of that girl, has already been discussed between you two a long time ago, but you can’t help the embarrassment reddening your cheeks.

   “You weren’t supposed to see that..”, you whisper, your voice barely audible, but he still picks up on your words and comments immediately. “I’d think so.”

   The two of you lock eyes for a few moments before bursting in a fit of laughter. Seokjin has a really authentic laugh, but most people say you make a great pair since your own laugh is one of a kind too. “I can even imagine you saying it in that adorable, high pitched voice of yours”, he says in between laughter. You can too, and the fact that he finds it remotely cute—whereas you would normally cringe at the high school you should count for something, right?

   The pair of you finally talk about your idiotic fight and easily make up before changing the topic and discussing what you’ve been up to. It’s oddly nostalgic having him in your room, stretched out on the bed with you in with arms. You reminisce about your glorious  school days here and from one crazy adventure to another funny date the two of you had, there’s nothing to do but to love him a little more. For giving you all of these beautiful memories, and for sticking with you through all the drama, the fights, the cries, but the excitement, happiness and love too.

   “By the way,” Seokjin begins after a few beats of silence pass and you raise your head a little as to make eye contact with him. “Where did you live these past few days?”

   You look at him, probably with the look of a trapped baby deer. He raises one of his eyebrows when you don’t answer and you hurriedly look away, gulping. “So?”, he pressures.

   You put your head back down on his chest only to hear him gasp when you quietly tell him the name of the one who let you stay over at his place.

   “Jungkook?!”, Seokjin practically yells, making you immediately lift yourself off him and the bed. Knowing whatever your boyfriend is about to spurt, you tiptoe your way towards the door when his eyes dart out the window in an attempt of seeming hurt. His words though, take you by surprise, making you immediately stop dead in your tracks. The hint of mischief in his voice speaks volumes about his intentions.

   “Oh no, baby. You’re not going anywhere until you make it up to me.”

[sibillascribbles08]

Visual Sound

Sorry this is a day late, storm hit and my power went out oops.

Day 4 of Gencio Week - Alternate Universe

Have my blind!Lúcio AU that I’ve like only shown to two people oops.

Don’t think I’ll ever do a long fic of it but I might write up some more oneshots there’s some nice stuff in it.

It’s super Gencio tho, and also features big brother Hanzo it’s nice

Read it on AO3

Left. Left. Right. Step back. Deep breath. Twist. Duck.

Lúcio paused, fingers hovering over the floor of the training room as he kept listening. Something triggered on his right. He spun around on his skates, feeling the rubber bullet rush in front of his neck. It left a ripple of red behind it.

“Pause, Athena.” He called out.

“Understood,” Her voice was always strange to him, hard to visualize. There was no point to it anyway, since she was an AI system, but it was weird to see the faint shades of purple hovering in every direction.

He took a deep breath, heading over to where his water bottle was. A short break, then back to training. He had to get the hang of avoiding projectiles. Right now they were the biggest risk to him since some enemies had an easier time sneaking up on him. At least, when his amplifier was pointed in the wrong direction.

“You’re getting better.”

Genji’s voice almost made him scream as his deep green cut into his vision. He was standing next to the bench.

“Shit, Genji,” Lúcio struggled to slow down his breathing. “I told you not to do your ninja shit on me.”

“I apologize. I do not intend to sneak up on you.”

Lúcio felt the water bottle press into his palm. He popped it open and took a few sips, glancing back at where he assumed Genji’s eyes were. “Just here to enjoy the show huh?”

Genji’s laughter always made his colors light up. “Somewhat. I just wanted to see how you’ve progressed.”

“That music tip helped.” Lúcio put the bottle back on the bench.

When he first started this training it was due to a close call during one mission. While Lúcio’s sound tech allowed him to map out the space around him and the objects in it, it was still hard to see everything. If he didn’t activate it often enough some objects slipped under the radar.

Such as enemies.

Genji had taken a bullet for him that day. Thankfully hitting his armor and not causing a lot of damage, but it was enough to drive Lúcio to improve his combat.

The first few days had been frustrating. He could hear the weapons in the training room firing but still couldn’t predict their direction. His improvement was minor at best, and came with a lot of bruises.

Until Genji suggested he started with the weapons being synced to music. It gave him a rhythm to follow while he got used to predicting where the attacks were coming from.

It worked.

“Keep this up,” Genji nudged him. “And perhaps you’ll end up as fast as me.”

“Hm,” He considered that idea. Not that he had visually seen how fast Genji could move. The ninja ran as quietly as he did anything else. He’d tried to calculate it, based on the distance he covered between talking, but he wasn’t sure it was the same. McCree always described it as a blur, a flash of green that was similar to Lúcio’s skates.

That flustered him a bit. He tried to picture it, him and Genji running into battle at night with shades of green trailing behind.

It was too bad he didn’t actually know what Genji looked like.

He had a decent guess, and other people’s descriptions helped, but it was a blurry image at best. The shape of his visor was sharp, and Lúcio giggled the first time he noticed Genji’s ears. At least, that’s what he called them. Like little cat ears, or horns, he’d never really asked what their purpose was.

His armor was smooth, more than once Lúcio had trailed his fingers around the vents on his shoulders. His artificial muscles were strangely soft.

“Lúcio?”

He jerked out of his trance. “Sorry, did you say something?”

“Ah, you must be worn out. Have you gotten any lunch?”

“Uh, no, what time is it?”

“About three.”

“Whoops.”

“Would you like me to bring you something?”

“Nah, I’ll head up after one more round.”

He thought he heard Genji scoff. “Very well, do you mind if I join you?”

“What, so you can show me up?” Lúcio headed back out onto the training floor. “You’re welcome to try.”

“Actually,” Genji had moved silently again, making Lúcio jump when the ninja grabbed his wrist. “I was thinking we could dance.”

The musician ignored the heat rushing to his cheeks. “Oh? What brought this on?”

He felt Genji shrug. “Consider it a trust exercise. I lead, you follow.”

Knowing Genji that might be the actual reason, but Lúcio refused to toss his hopes out the window. “That so? I think there’d be more... professional ways of doing that.”

Something whirred under Genji’s armor. “Perhaps, but I think this would be more fun.”

“Sure,” He tugged Genji closer, taking both of his hands. “Let’s give it a shot. Hey Athena, do track five.”

“Coming up,” that light purple rattled around him before the music faded in.

He always like this track. Starting out slow and picking up as it went, it was perfect for this kind of training.

And dancing.

He didn’t focus much on the bullets. He focused more on Genji’s hands resting on his hips, urging him left and right during the slow notes. As it got faster their palms pressed together and he spun him around once, pulled him closer, and even dipped him away from another attack.

Lúcio laughed as it got even faster. It was strange, being able to read his partners that much easier since that fight with Vishkar. He could feel Genji step back, forward, urging him to slide to the left.

He felt a few bullets whizz by. He even felt one flick at one of his dreads, but not a single one landed.

He’d have to ask Genji where he learned to dance because it quickly went from training to something else. Lúcio wasn’t unaware that the hand on his back didn’t need to be there, nor the chin on his shoulder. As if the cyborg was about to kiss him on the neck.

Hah, he wished. If only he was brave enough to ask.

The final note released three bullets. Genji twirled him to the side with little effort, catching him before he hit the ground. Lúcio laughed, reaching up to hold Genji’s face.

Shock hit him for a moment when he didn’t feel the usual pointed metal under his fingers. Instead it was soft.

Skin.

“Whoa,” He almost slipped out of the ninja’s grip as he struggled to stand up. “Whoa, whoa, you... you’re mask isn’t on.” He didn’t mean to let his mouth hang open.

“Ah, no,” Genji almost sounded shy, his green vibrating. “Athena only records this room when asked and... well. I figured you would not mind.”

“Of course not, I always- er... I mean if you’re comfortable with it.”

His laughter was genuine and his steps still silent, but he must have moved forward as he took both of Lúcio’s wrists.

“I am.”

His heart thudded in his chest and he reached out, slow, just in case Genji changed his mind. His breath caught on contact. It was so strange, being so used to the sensation of smooth metal and finding this instead. Now that he had time to linger he could feel the changes in texture under his finger tips. Grooves of scars that he followed. He tried to count them but quickly found himself overwhelmed.

Hanzo did this.

He quickly shoved that thought away. There was no point in dwelling on that. Instead he moved his thumbs down, feeling skin give way to metal once again. Was his lower jaw robotic? His answer came when he reached Genji’s lips, skin on top, metal on bottom.

He tried not to focus on the sensation of it under his thumb and wonder what it would be like to kiss him as he moved his hands up again.

Genji’s cheeks were surprisingly round, strange, since he was so used to the angles of his armor. He couldn’t help but pinch at one of them, making the ninja smile and laugh. They got rounder.

Cute.

One hand ran over his nose, taking in the shape.

“I like your nose.” He said.

“Oh?”

“Yeah,” He insisted, even though his finger just reached one nasty scar that rested on the bridge of it.

Genji’s eyebrows weren’t all there, he could tell, fingers running from patches of hair to smooth skin again. Going any farther he ran into the rest of his helmet.

“What color are your eyes?” Lúcio asked.

“Brown, dark brown.”

He hummed. He’d always been picturing green. His hands moved to the side, outlining the opening of the helmet. His pinky bumped into those ears again.

“What are these anyway?” He pinched them. “Feel like bunny ears.”

Genji laughed. “You are not entirely wrong. They are my ears.”

“What? Seriously?”

“My actual ears were ah... well, this part picks up vibrations in the air. I can heighten it’s sensitivity if I wish.”

“So,” Lúcio stopped rubbing them. “Should I not do that?”

“It is no louder than when you run your hand over your own ears.”

“Good to know,” He let go anyway. “Hey, maybe I’ll get a pair for my headphones. We can match.”

“Hm, I think they would suit you.”

“Hey, thanks for the vote of confidence.” He wound up letting his hands wander again, down the side of Genji’s face, over the ridges on the back of his neck. The ninja didn’t move away or say a word. Lúcio’s hand kept going, over his shoulder and down to his chest. Leaving his hand there he could feel the faint pulse of a heart beat.

“Um,” He glanced up. “Could I listen?”

“Go ahead.”

At this point he decided to think Genji was just a lot more chill with contact than he first assumed. Lúcio was slow as he stepped forward, apparently too slow. He felt a hand slide behind his head and tug him forward. His ear pressed against warm metal and he shut his eyes.

It was a beat, very similar to a heart, but he could pick up the faint pulses of electricity, the clicks of a few gears. Like Genji it was still green, but a few tendrils of blue and yellow swirled into the sounds. He watched them pulse in and out.

Genji didn’t say anything, but his fingers trailed over Lúcio’s scalp. The musician sighed from the sensation, his hands finding their way up to press again Genji’s sides.

“Lúcio?”

His voice sounded so loud now, green lighting up Lúcio’s vision as he leaned back. “Yeah?”

“I apologize I... had other motivations for taking my visor off.”

“Yeah? Need some fresh air or something.”

When he chuckled Lúcio was suddenly aware of how close his face was. “Do you realize how lovely you look when you dance?”

He tried to keep his cool but his voice cracked anyway. “I mean, sort of? Part of being a performer. Why, see something you like?”

“I have for a while...” Suddenly he let go and Lúcio could tell he was stepping back. “I am sorry, this is probably making you uncomfortable.”

“No,” He reached out for the ninja’s wrist, missing it and stumbling forward. Genji caught him. “It doesn’t bother me. At all. I uh...”

It was rare he was lost for words, but where did he start? You’re so cool? I’ve never met anyone like you?

What does it feel like to kiss you?

No, no, too fast. Slow down a bit there.

“Do you uh, wanna do this again sometime? Dancing I mean.”

“I always love spending time with you, Lúcio.”

“I mean as a date.”

“I know.”

“Oh, cool,” He almost squeaked. “Then I’ll-”

His ideas were cut off when his stomach finally protested, crying out for something to eat.

Genji laughed and patted Lúcio’s shoulder. “Let us go get some lunch.”

“Yeah, okay,” He hung his head, only to have Genji lift it back up, finger under his chin.

“Do not pout.” A kiss was pressed onto his cheek. “There will be time to plan later.”

“Honestly, I’m barely registering that you want to date me.”

“Is it that strange?”

“Look at you Genji, you’re way out of my league.”

“You are a revolutionary leader and a very famous musician. I believe I am the one who should be saying that.”

“Yeah but I’m not a freaking cyborg ninja.”

Genji kissed him again before pulling him toward the exit. “As much as I would love to argue about which one of us is cooler, you need to eat.”

“It’s you.”

He couldn’t tell if Genji was shaking his head or not, but his laughter left a trail of green sparks in the air.

Sometimes Lúcio wondered what they felt like.

[lashofer]

Damselfly

April

The black vinyl smells like Windex and rubbing alcohol. Through the thin sterile paper, my hollow stomach is cold. The doctor sets down his clipboard and retrieves a pair of latex gloves from a nearby cupboard. They’re not a trendy black like at the shop, but white, turned peach with the skin underneath. Snap. Powder in the air.

He sits down on a stool and hovers over my back. I haven’t eaten in two days. Ever since Alex, I haven’t been able keep much down. Ten months ago – that’s when I met him. Almost six months since I’ve had this thing etched on my back.

“Quite the work you've got, here,” the doctor says. I knew his name when he introduced himself, but it’s gone now.

“Can you get rid of it?” I ask.

“Black pigment is the easiest to remove. In four to six sessions, it should be gone; this looks like amateur work.”

Alex wasn’t an amateur. He was rushed. Distracted.

This clinic isn’t anything like Alex’s shop. There aren’t any sugar skulls and pin-ups, graffiti art or display cases full of gauges and tapers for stretching. It’s more sterile, cold. White, blue and fluorescent.

It’s not soon enough. If it wouldn’t leave behind a terrible scar, I would have cut it out of my skin months ago.

The doctor presses an ice pack over my side and readies the laser like a paintbrush. He glides it over the dips between my ribs. It blinks in sporadic jolts. Every blink is a hot rubber band against my skin. Every blink fades the black into moldy green.

My father was an artist. An insect taxidermist before the osteoporosis became debilitating. He arranged butterflies in patterns on white backgrounds, shiny blue and green beetles in pinwheels, and framed them as gifts. He worked at the town hall’s insect gallery. As a kid, I used to go out with him into uncultivated fields, searching for Tumbling Flower Beetles and Snakeflies. We’d store them in Tupperware and mason jars until we got home, and then would throw them in the freezer to avoid damaging their fragile bodies. Sometimes we fumigated them using sawdust soaked in ethanol. Nail polish remover worked in a pinch.

I visited the gallery a couple of months ago. Gazed at the Melissa Blue butterflies suspended with thin wire, Carpenter Ants pinned down through their thoraxes into white foam. I tried to remember which ones I collected with Dad, but all I could see were the pins. Drawers and drawers of display cases, clear glass meant for gazing. Flower Flies and Milkweed Bugs. Paper wasps, dragonflies and Arctic Skippers. Wings spread out and stabbed.

I resist the urge to rub my wrists in concentric circles. They feel tight, squeezed, held down. The bruises are still there, even if my wrists are healed.

The blinking stops, and so does the pain. “Alright,” the doctor says. The tattoo is faded, but still there. I can still see the angry word, with its rough edges and incomplete blocks. He puts a bandage over the wound, and I bring my t-shirt back down over my stomach.

I walk up to the receptionist and pay. Two hundred dollars. Sixteen hours outfitting mannequins, cleaning out change rooms and cashing out.

I zip up my hoodie and walk into the 7-Eleven next door. I don’t have any Ativan with me, and I’ve heard that smoking helps. Maybe the shaking will stop. I walk up to the counter and buy a plastic Bic lighter and a pack of strawberry-flavoured cigars that Montana used to smoke in our high school smoke pit.

Outside, I fumble with the lighter’s metal wheel, careful to not pull in too much smoke. It goes straight to my head, and my stomach flips. The smoke burns in my nostrils, and I push it out like a fidgeting dragon. It’s still cold outside, and my kneecaps rattle.

My phone buzzes.

“Sam?” The text is from a number not listed in my contacts. It doesn’t matter; I’ve memorized it anyway. I thought he would have given up by now.

Last June

I stood outside of K-Town Liquor, sweating in my sneakers. It was warm, and I felt stupid holding the multicolored horse piñata we had just bought from the dollar store.

Montana was inside, flirting with the guy doing retail. I could see her through the window, foot cocked behind her as she leaned on the counter. She tossed her blonde hair to the side. Three bottles of tequila and a pile of miniatures were on the counter – little bottles of Jäger, Triple Sec and Baileys. Maybe for the piñata, I thought. Montana didn’t tell me what it was for. She just told me to hold it until the party.

Montana had just gotten back from visiting her sister in Vancouver. She stole her sister’s driver’s license off her desk. Spent an entire afternoon alongside her and her husband, looking behind couch cushions and air vents in the floor. Montana said that a workable fake I.D. was worth an afternoon of labour.

We were both sixteen when she moved out last year. Her dad was ex-military. Once he found out that she was sneaking her boyfriend, Chris, into her room every night, she had to choose whether to move out or move to Calgary with her aunt. She convinced a landlord that she was eighteen – that was easy, almost everyone else assumed she was – and she got a job at Earl’s wearing black minis.

I met her on the first day of honours math. She wasn’t good at it, but she wanted to impress Chris. I let her copy down all my answers during quizzes – she wouldn’t have ever talked to me otherwise. I was shy, fifty pounds overweight, and couldn’t hold a conversation. Being the Bug-Man’s daughter didn’t help. But she needed a math tutor to pass, so I started to come over on weeknights. She got a kick out of getting me to identify the species of spiders that were in her apartment. Thought it was cool that I could pick them up with my bare hands to take them outside.

I squinted through the window. She gave the cashier a wad of twenties, took the change and stuffed it into her mini-shorts, and carried the white bag outside, bottles clanging.

She smiled and held up the bag.

“I can’t believe you just did that.”

Her smile widened. “I know.”

A black pickup pulled up in front of the store, Chris in the passenger seat. Montana ran over to his side and yanked the door open. Kissed him on the mouth.

I stood on the sidewalk, held onto the piñata, and since I was staring anyway, waved to the guy driving.

Chris had his tongue in Montana’s ear. The driver barked something to them, and they got in the backseat. He rolled his window down.

“If you’re not too grossed out to sit in the passenger seat, it’s free now.”

“Thanks.” I sat down and shoved the horse between my feet. The driver had dark wavy hair that came to the nape of his neck, and was wearing a grey collared shirt rolled up his forearms. He had a sleeve of traditional tattoos. Sparrows, bannered hearts and nautical stars. Pin-ups.

He put the truck in reverse and turned onto the highway. Turned on the radio to drown out the smacking sounds from the backseat. “What’s your name?” he asked.

“Sam.”

“She’s my math tutor,” Montana yelled. I heard a seal break from behind me. The smell of tequila wafted forward.

“I prefer Sam,” I said.

He laughed. It was warm. Comforting. “That has a nicer ring to it.”

“Who’re you?” I asked. Felt my cheeks go hot.

“I’m Alex. Chris’ older brother.” He pulled up the turning signal.

I nodded and fiddled with the vent on the dashboard.

He followed my gesture. “I like your bracelet.”

Surprised, I took my hand away from the vent. It was hemp, interwoven with beads, feathers, and a jackalope charm. “Thanks. It was my mom’s. She used to have a shop downtown.”

“Oh yeah? Which one?”

“It had lots of artisanal stuff. Jewelry, paintings from local artists. Wolves with hooves, geese with Pomeranian tails, that kind of thing.”

My dad was a weird mixture between an artist and a scientist. Maybe that’s why she liked him.

“Was it on Leon?”

I looked up sharply. He had dark eyes; his pupils were almost the same colour as his irises. “Did you know it?” I asked. “It was called Gilligan’s.”

“Like the island, right?”

“Yeah.”

“I remember it. The walls were painted with fish and bubbles.”

“Yeah, she had a thing for the ocean.”

He looked at my bracelet again. “And jackalopes.”

I smiled. “Right, jackalopes.”

“My shop is right next to it,” he continued, eyes back on the road. “It’s a sushi place now.”

I went down Leon sometimes, even though Dad didn’t like it. There were a lot of shopping carts, sleeping mats, and panhandlers. But I felt closer to her, even if the sign wasn’t there anymore. There was still a shadow of a large capital “G” underneath the logo of a maki roll. I ate there, sometimes. Pretended that she was still there, wearing a full-length skirt and hair extensions. She would take my hand and tell me about Kelowna’s emerging artistic talent. Show me which pieces weren’t for profit. Try to convince me to work the register while she beaded glass onto hemp string.

Then I’d finish my veggie tempura, pay, and leave. Remember the clumps of hair on the bathroom sink, the lingering smell of bile.

“Your shop. It just says ‘Tattoo’ above the door, right?” I asked. It was nondescript. Black lettering stencilled straight onto the stucco.

“Yeah. Hey!” he yelled at the Jeep in front of us. Jammed his fist onto the horn.

I pressed into the back of the seat.

“Yeah, that’s the one,” he continued. “I thought about calling it ‘No Ragrets,’ but it felt too cliché.”

“You could always add a subtitle.”

He laughed.

Montana stuck her head through the partition. “I forgot to show you.” She shoved her wrist in front of my face. It was inflamed, but a new tattoo was there. A tiny pink heart, outlined in black. “Isn’t it cute? Alex did it for me yesterday. It only took like ten minutes.”

“Cute,” I echoed, not knowing what else to say. I imagined it stretched, wrinkled and old.

Alex looked at me again. “If you ever want to get any work done, I’ll give you a great discount.”

I looked at his tattooed arm again. Felt like a child.

Montana’s apartment was terracotta and brick, with seventies wood panelling. She had a lumpy brown couch and a TV with only half of its screen working. An old Friends rerun was on, but only half of Chandler’s face was showing. Uncomfortable with the number of people who had shown up already in her small apartment, I went to the kitchen on the pretense of getting some water.

“Sam,” Montana called through the bar window. “Can you start the margaritas?” She was filling the piñata with Lindor chocolate truffles and the booze miniatures.

“Sure,” I said. I had no idea what was in a margarita, except that they were pink, and sometimes green. I plugged in the blender.

Alex came in behind me as I inspected the bottle of margarita mix. “Need any help?”

“Uh, sure.” I wasn’t sure why he would want to. There were prettier, shorter, drunker girls in the next room.

He went to the freezer and brought out a bag of ice. I hadn’t noticed before, but his fists were lacerated and bruised.

“What happened to your –”

Through the bar window, Montana screamed, “I forgot! We have nothing to whack this thing with!”

“Don’t worry,” Alex said, and left to get a baseball bat from the trunk of his car.

May

I’m at the gallery again, looking at a half-moulted damselfly that Dad and I caught seven years ago. It was clutched to a cattail stalk, and just starting to uncurl its abdomen from its old exoskeleton. Now it’s brown and shrivelled, but when it first emerged, the new form was green as a plant shoot.

My ribs ache from my last tattoo-removal session. There’s still a faint outline of a “W,” but the doctor said that my white blood cells will do the rest. They’ll carry the smaller ink particles to my liver.

“Sam?”

I look up from the display case. It’s Marianne, one of the gallery’s curators. She and Dad dated for a while – she used to come over for Sunday brunch and late-night Scrabble. I fiddle with my bracelet’s charm.

“God, I didn’t even recognize you.” Her face is wrinkled now, curly brown hair streaked with grey. She looks concerned, excited.

“Oh,” I laugh. “Pilates.” I leave out the hours I’ve spent leaning over porcelain.

“That would do it!” she exclaims. Her hair bounces, and her horn-rimmed glasses slide down her nose. “Which studio do you go to?”

I laugh again. “It was really nice to see you, Marianne, but I’ve got to get going.” I squeeze her arm. “I’ll come by sometime soon. Maybe we can do coffee.” The words are involuntary. I have no intention of following through; I’ve already bought my plane ticket, and my bags are almost packed. I found a decent apartment in downtown Vancouver, and there’s a coffee shop nearby that has agreed to do an interview whenever I arrive.

“Sure, honey. Tell your dad that the gallery isn’t the same without him.”

I straighten the strap of my purse over my shoulder and walk out the big glass doors. Dodge the hornets’ nest and the suspended black and yellow insects. The old angry words.

Last July

Alex was tattooing a wasp on someone when I first visited him at the shop. He hovered over the man’s neck, pushing the tattoo machine back and forth in short lines. His dark wavy hair hovered over the work. He wiped ink and blood away once every few strokes. His black gloves looked painted on.

The walls were covered in holographic images, spray-painted canvases and penciled portraits. I turned around to go back outside the moment I heard the buzz of tattoo machines. Montana needed help studying trig more than I needed to talk to a guy I had a crush on.

The receptionist called me before I made it to the doors. “Do you have an appointment?”

Alex looked up. Wiped his hair away from his forehead with a tattooed forearm. “Oh hey, Sam! Give me a minute – I’m almost done.” Push, push, wipe.

The receptionist gave me an anxious look.

I browsed the different display cases filled with metal bars and colourful plastic tapers, spiral wooden earrings and navel barbells. I pictured my unpierced earlobes stretched and droopy, pinned to the foam underneath the glass.

“Hey.” Alex was next to me, eyes on the Hello Kitty-stamped barbell I was looking at. He smelled like metallic ink and cologne. “What are you doing here?” His dark eyes were playful.

“I’m not really sure,” I admitted.

He laughed. “That was my last client.” He looked me up and down. “Hungry?”

“Sure.”

He opened the door for me and grabbed my hand.

Last September

Alex’s apartment was white. Sterile, purposeful, full of angles and sharp edges. His charcoal sketches were hung on the walls in neat rows behind identical black frames and museum-grade glass. Three inches apart on each side. He had a leather couch, hardwood floors, chrome appliances, and a large television. A queen-sized bed, bedside table, shaded lamp, and dresser in the other room.

I had been there for two weeks, and hadn’t been home in four. Dad was frustrated that he couldn’t be out in the field; he could hardly get out of bed and make it to the gallery with his bones grinding. Stacks of used clothing, mounting paper, embalming fluid and medication towered over him from every side. Half-empty bottles of bourbon and calcium. He hardly noticed when I left or came back anymore, and the food in the fridge was rotten. I was sick for three days after I ate a ham and cheese sandwich. I lost five pounds and figured I was onto something.

I stayed with Montana for the first two weeks until I couldn’t handle the loud sex or the smell of old vomit and beer anymore. She gave up trying to graduate on time, and she and Chris wanted the place to themselves.

I came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around my head, wearing jeans and a t-shirt. The leftover water droplets on my face were cold in the air conditioning. Alex liked the chill.

He was on the couch, sketching a pinup with long wavy hair and face painted to look like a sugar skull. She was wearing a tight corset with Frangipani flowers decorating her hips and hair.

“She’s pretty.”

He smirked. “I’ve been inspired lately.”

“Cute, but she looks nothing like me.” Add another forty pounds and a face of freckles. Then we could start comparing.

He put the sketchbook down. Grabbed me around my hips and lowered me onto the couch. The towel came undone, damp strands of hair unravelling onto the leather.

“Does too.” His chest was reassuring against mine. His fingers entwined through my hair. He bit my lower lip, pulled away and let go. “Staying home?”

I was already going to be late for English. Wasn’t planning on going for History. “I was thinking that I might go see my dad.” I doubted he had eaten anything all day; I could stop at McDonalds.

He sat up and looked at me. “Don’t you want to spend time with me?” His eyebrows were creased.

“Of course I do.”

“No, you don’t. You just said you want to leave.”

I sat up, brushed the damp strands out of my face. “Why are you getting so upset?”

“I thought you only needed me.”

“I –I do. But he needs me. He's all alone in that crowded townhouse, surrounded by dead insects and broken picture frames.”

“There must be something you need that I'm not giving you. Tell me what you want, Sam. I can't read your mind.”

I didn’t know what to say. Alex still had that pained look on his face. I didn't want to abandon him.

June

The gallery isn’t the same without him. Marianne’s voice rings in my head to the tune of the bus’s high-pitched whine. The skyscrapers of downtown Vancouver flicker past in muted colours, metal and glass. I haven’t seen anyone since I moved. Didn’t even speak to Alex before I left. Freed from isolation, I have new skin, lasered and thin. Moulted.

A small, strange green insect steps across the window in front of my vision. At first, it seems like an apparition. It’s too bright. No native vegetation would be able to disguise it.

I reach for my phone and dial.

“Hello?”

“Dad, it’s Sam.”

“Sam?” he asks. “Where are you?” He sounds slurred, but not incoherent.

“I’m on the bus. I’m looking at a really weird insect. It kind of looks like a stink bug, with a shielded body. But it’s green. Bright green, like an apple. And it has pink petal designs around its abdomen. And small. Almost like a ladybug.”

“Hmm.”

“Dad?”

“Mm?”

“Do you know what it is?”

“It sounds like a nymph. Maybe a southern green stink bug. But that can’t be right.”

“Southern as in South American?”

“Mm. I don’t know what it’s doing way out there.”

I pause. “Me either.”

“Come home, Sam.”

The stink bug continues to walk across the glass. A middle-aged man spots it, and his thumb starts to move toward the glass.

“Stop!” I yell, and reach in my bag for my leftover Tupperware container. It still smells like thousand island dressing. I nearly feel the lettuce coming up again. I wipe it out with the bottom of my blouse.

The man looks at me like I’m out of my mind. I don’t care. I tap the insect into the container, close the lid, and place it at the bottom of my bag. I hope it will be okay until I get home.

I lift the phone back up to my ear, but nobody is there.

The bus stops, kneels, and a woman with a stroller gets on. It’s Montana, blonde hair dyed greasy brown. She’s in a faded pull-over hoodie, face covered in acne. I didn’t even know she lived here. Maybe she moved out here to be with her sister.

“Transfer, please.” Her baby shrieks.

Before she notices me, I collect my bag and stand up. She probably wouldn’t recognize me, but I don’t want to take the chance. I blend into the crowd by the door, and get off the bus.

I’m on Robson. Tall buildings filled with boutiques and cafes are on either side of the street. The sun is bright, and reflects off the windows like mirrors. I decide to catch the next bus at a stop a few blocks down. I wish I wasn’t wearing heels.

As I pass a Starbucks, a woman in jeans and a white leather jacket approaches. Her large sunglasses make her look like a praying mantis.

“Hi there,” she says through a tight, bleached smile. “Can I talk to you for a second?”

I hesitate a second too long.

“Have you ever considered modelling?”

I can’t help but laugh. “No.”

“You’re really beautiful, you know that?” She rifles through her bag.

“Oh. Thank you.”

“Here. Take my card.” She hands it to me, simple text on a white background: Margot Sheffield. Prima Model Management.

“Call me if you’re interested.” Margot walks away, stilettos clicking on the pavement.

Last October

Alex had been in bed for fifteen hours. He and Chris were at the shop last night tattooing drunken messages on each other. Chris dropped him off this morning and shoved him onto the bed. Showed me a new rabbit tattoo on the sole of Alex’s foot. It was warbled, with broken lines and incomplete shading.

I shook my head. “At least nobody will see it.”

“It was for practice,” he said, adjusting his baseball cap. “If I get good enough, he said I’ve got a job.”

“That’s great.” I’d never known him to have a steady job. Nor did he have artistic promise.

“Yeah. Well, see ya.” He gave me a sour, stubbly kiss on the cheek and left.

I spent the day watching TLC and going through one of Alex’s sketchbooks. A row on the bookshelf was full of them, identical with black covers.

Bored, I got a glass out of the cupboard and filled it with cold tap water. Drank half, filled it again, and walked into the bedroom. Alex grunted. I put the glass on the bedside table and snuggled up behind him. Breathed in his hair and tucked my nose behind his earlobe. His shirt was damp despite the chill.

“Alex,” I whispered.

Nothing.

“Alex. Wake up.”

“Mm.” He grunted and rolled over.

I left the bedroom and went to the kitchen again. Grabbed a leftover box of pizza from the fridge and ate three cold slices at the kitchen table. Still empty, I went to the cupboard and grabbed a box of double-stuffed Oreos. Went back to the kitchen table and ate two rows. Peeled each one apart, grated the icing away with my teeth, and crunched through the rest.

I went into the bathroom and stared at myself in the mirror. Adjusted my top and pinched my sides. I lifted the toilet seat and kneeled. I didn’t even need to use my fingers anymore.

Something in the garbage can caught my attention. A dark-coloured cotton ball, and underneath, the black numbers of a syringe.

Last November

Alex was sketching on the couch again. I slipped out of my heels and manoeuvered behind him, wedging myself between him and the black leather. I put my arms around his neck and peered over his shoulder to get a better view.

He stiffened and shrugged me off, taking the charcoal sketch to a different cushion. The white paper was indented with harsh, black lines.

He didn’t look up. “It took you a while to get back.”

“Yeah,” I said, trying to keep my tone even. “I was at my dad’s.”

His fingers were black, and the charcoal crumbled under the force of his strokes.

“Look, Alex. I don’t need to justify seeing my dad. If I didn’t go over there once in a while, he would survive on potato chips and booze.” I was frustrated. Feeling bold.

He looked up, eyes blazing. They were dilated. A layer of sweat covered his skin. “I don’t think you went over there today.”

The accusation took me off guard. “But I was.”

His eyes glazed over, and stared too hard at a spot on the couch.

I leaned over to look into his face. “Are you okay?”

“Why would you lie to me? Don’t you care about me?”

“Of course I do.”

“Do you think I don’t know where you go? I’ve seen the way you look at other guys, wearing your new slutty clothes.”

“Excuse me?” I had to buy new clothes; the old ones were too big for me now.

“I think I feel more alone now than I ever did.”

I should have left right then, but I thought I could talk him down.

“I’m here with you,” I insisted. “I don’t want anybody else.”

He whipped around, and I felt his hand slam into my jaw.

Face first on the opposite end of the couch, I was too stunned to say anything.

“I thought you were different,” he was saying. “You’re the same.”

He had been explosive before, but never violent. I had never felt like I was in danger.

I stood up and started for the door.

He jumped in front of it. “They should know how much of a whore you are.”

“Who? What are you talking about?” I wiped one of my cheeks. My hand came away black with mascara.

He grabbed my wrist. Dragged me into the bedroom. I tried to grab onto the doorframe. Slipped. “They should know,” he repeated, voice broken. Over and over again. He threw me on the bed and ruffled through a nearby duffel bag. Came out with a pot of ink and his tattoo machine.

He forced my face into a pillow. I couldn’t breathe. I screamed and thrashed, tried to get a hold of the bed frame, but he was strong. Heavy.

I was dizzy. The cotton pillowcase was wet and salty. My lungs screamed for oxygen. Blackness was closing in on my vision. I tried to pry his hands away. And then nothing.

*

When I woke up, my ribs felt like they had been ripped into by a dull box cutter. The back of my head ached like I had been hit again. Maybe I had been. The tangy smell of him was all over the bed sheets. The shower was running, and the tattoo machine was still plugged in, thrown to the floor.

I felt my breath coming in short gasps, and put a hand over my mouth to stop. I needed to get out without him noticing.

My shirt was on the floor in a heap, torn at the neckline. I slipped it on, winced as I stretched. My pants were still on.

I tiptoed past the bathroom. The steam underneath the bathroom door met my bare feet. I grabbed my heels and purse in one hand, and glided the door latch open with the other. Pulled on the knob. The door creaked, and the shower curtain skirted open.

“Sam?”

I ran down the hallway, gasping before I was out of breath. Took the staircase, the concrete cold on my pounding feet.

I reached the bus stop just as the bus pulled in. Dropped some coins in the slot and sat in a seat next to the window. Curled into a ball and buried my face in my hands.

Fifteen minutes later, I looked up and pulled on the yellow cord. Got out at the next stop.

I was in front of Dad’s townhouse. The grass was un-mowed, and metal legs of the pink flamingo lawn ornaments were bent, their beaks hidden in the foliage. His rundown SUV was parked in the driveway.

As I walked in, I smelled booze and something rotten. I heard the Gilligan’s Island theme song in the next room, Dad humming along. Picture frames filled with mounted butterflies and moths were crooked on the walls, piled with weeks of dust. An insect graveyard. Piles of boxes were everywhere. Broken lamps, books and clothing.

My wrist throbbed where Alex had dragged me.

I snuck past the room and went upstairs to my old bathroom. My shirt was stuck to the wound, plasma and blood staining the yellow fabric brown. In the mirror, bruises on my jaw and neck were forming, pink circular splotches. There were ten of them, but I could only see the thumbs.

I took my clothes off, wincing as the fabric separated from my skin. The word was encrusted with blood and unwiped ink.

After showering, I padded down the carpeted hallway to my bedroom. My bed was covered in newly acquired thrift store items. I found a set of pajamas, locked the door, cleared a space to lie down, and slept for two days.

*

Dad didn’t know I was there. I stepped out for groceries once I woke up, using a twenty I found on my dresser. Milk, eggs, cereal, antibacterial liquid soap, gauze and medical tape. I’d seen Alex do aftercare on new tattoos before. It wouldn’t be hard to replicate. I made sure to wear a long sleeved shirt and a scarf.

Dad walked into the kitchen, confused at the smell of fried eggs and buttered toast. “Morning,” he said. It was four in the afternoon.

“Hi. I cleared out the fridge. Half of it was expired.”

“Oh. Thanks, kiddo.” His blue eyes crinkled through his round spectacles.

“And I figured out why it smells weird in here. When was the last time you took out the trash?”

“I thought I just did it.” He laughed. “Your mother used to do it, you know.”

“Yeah.”

We sat at the kitchen table in silence. Crunched toast and scraped metal on porcelain.

I knew that I should do this more often. Make meals, dump out booze. But I couldn’t stay here for long, nor did I want to. His E.I. would only cover so much, and the thought of being in the same town as Alex was stifling.

August

Prima Modelling Management is in an office that looks over Robson square. I stand against a cold, white wall, shoulder to shoulder with twenty other bikini-clad models. We’re all about the same age, eighteen, nineteen. Two scouts pace in front of us, pointing now and again. They jot notes on a clipboard like scientists.

“Uh,” Margot, the scout who gave me her card, gestures to me. “Samantha Cowen?”

I straighten and nod.

“Turn for me?”

I turn to the side.

Margot looks to the other scout. “Isn’t she editorial?”

He agrees. “Very distinctive. Kate Moss, almost.”

I feel the other girls stiffen beside me.

“Not quite as waifish, though.”

“I’m sure she can work on that. Can’t you, Samantha?”

November

I’m at Dad’s, sweeping rat feces into a dustbin.

“How you doin’ in there, Sam?” Marianne calls from outside.

“Fine,” I answer, but it’s muffled through my mask.

We’ve been hauling boxes and bags out of the house for two days. Dad is outside on a lawn chair, Marianne beside him, sorting through bins and trying to figure out what is most valuable to him. He can’t keep it all, but he wants to. He keeps finding Mom’s old stuff. Clothes, photos, old medication. Marianne is on edge, but doesn’t say anything. She keeps sorting, every few minutes taking off her mitts and wiping her hands with Wet Ones. There’s no snow yet, but everyone is in parkas.

I pour the contents of the dustbin into a full garbage bag. Haul it over my shoulder and set it by the entrance. The kitchen is cleared out, and no longer smells like rotten food. That’s good, because my weak stomach has already been put to the limit today. Above the table, my green stink bug nymph hangs in a tiny picture frame. It only lasted a couple of weeks before I had to mail it. I thought it would make Dad happy, but it’s hard to look at.

My throat constricts, and I make a beeline for the door. Zip up my sweater and tear off my mask. I grab the garbage bag and throw it all into the dump truck. Stare over the side until my stomach settles.

Dad and Marianne wave me over.

“Hey, kiddo,” Dad says.

“I’ve been meaning to talk to you all day!” chimes Marianne, glad for the distraction. “I was looking through Vogue this morning, and guess what I found?”

“Oh,” I say. Try to muster up some laughter. “Did you see it?”

“You bet I did!” She leans over and retrieves the magazine. Kate Winslet is on the cover. “Go to twenty-four.”

I take the magazine and flip to the page. It’s a Givenchy ad, three models posed with their mouths parted and delicate hands splayed. I’m the one on the left, head back and body turned to the side. I’m in a white dress, backless with slits going up my bare ribs.

“Now this,” Dad says, “is a good scarf. I have to have this.”

“No you don’t, Ron. We already have a box of them over there.”

“Where’s my drink?” He stands up and hobbles back inside.

“This is one for the scrapbook,” Marianne says, pointing to the magazine.

Or maybe it’ll be one for the wall, next to the stinkbug nymph and damselflies. I’m tired. Tired of being someone’s voodoo doll, stuck with needles and pins. I wish I could break the glass and free all the insects in the hall. That they’d flutter out, tap away on their hairy legs and skinny feet.

There’s a chunk of broken concrete at my feet. I pick it up. It’s heavy. The edges leave chalk smears on my hands.

I hold on to it, grab the magazine, and follow Dad into the kitchen. Take his keys from the kitchen table. Dad’s SUV is reversed into the driveway. I’m in the driver’s seat before anyone notices. The magazine and chunk of concrete are on the passenger seat.

The engine rumbles as I turn the key. I’ve never been behind the wheel, but it can’t be that hard. I rev the engine. Try both pedals. Nothing happens. I look over to the shifter handle. It’s resting in the “P” position.

“Where’re you going?” Marianne calls.

“Stupid.” I ram it back into drive and press a pedal at random. My chest hits the steering wheel, and the horn blares.

I try the other one, and the car takes off out of the driveway and onto the street. I know the rules of the road, sort of. I stop and look both ways. Try not to speed.

My heart pounds, and adrenaline pulses in my ears. The jackalope charm on my bracelet twinkles in the sun. If she were still here, she’d be in the passenger seat.

Dad and Marianne are waving from the driveway. They didn’t make it very far trying to stop me.

I take the back roads, get accustomed to the sensitivity of the pedals. Look over my shoulder every few minutes for cops.

Downtown, I stop the car in the middle of Leon. I’m next to the sushi place, can still see mom’s faded “G.” All the shops on the street are closed, lights out.

There’s a permanent marker in the back seat. One of the thick, wedge-tipped ones. “24,” I squeak on the magazine’s cover. Try to think of a simple phrase to go with it, but put the cap back on. There aren’t enough words.

I wish I had some kind of scandalous note with allegations, offensive photos of some kind. All I have is the magazine. Proof that I’m here, almost thriving. Maybe he’ll relive it, even for a moment, like I have been for the last twelve months.

After ruffling through the glove box, I find one of Mom’s old hair elastics. I curl the magazine around the chunk of concrete and fit the elastic around both.

I get out of the car and hear a cacophony of beeps and horns. I slam the door shut and plant my feet like I’m in middle school track, wielding a discus. With all my weight behind me, I fling the package through Alex’s shop window. The glass shatters, and the concrete block skids over the hardwood floor, bringing November air in with it.

A pedestrian screams, and I hear a siren in the distance. I wipe the leftover chalk on my jeans and get in the car.