#and sometimes it just feels like twisting the knife for no damned good reason (they really didn't even get a day to try?? not one??)

[bejeweledmp3]

.

[dix0nspretty]

Knives, Bikes, and Stitches, Oh My!

Summary: Daryl is working on his motorcycle and you watch. Too bad you can't keep your focus.

Daryl Dixon x F!Reader, 1.3k words

Era: Prison (again) because he's just so yummy...

TW: Mention of blood and stitches. Maybe chronic horniness?

Y'all loved my first story and I hope this one whets your appetites just as well! I have no idea how motorcycles or vehicles of literally any kind work, so please feel free to educate me in the comments.

You put the fear of God in Daryl every time he sees you with a knife.

It’s not that you can’t use one. On the contrary, you’re a force to be reckoned with when you’re fighting. Sometimes all that can be seen of you in a fight is the shine of blood-tinged metal as you slash and stab at whatever is attacking with your twin blades. No, your knives are comfortable and at home in your grip. Maybe too comfortable.

“How many times I got to tell ya to stop eatin’ off yer damn knife?” Daryl’s rough accent sounds out in the empty courtyard. His head is bowed low as he works on his bike, not looking up as he speaks.

I’m perched on the tabletop of one of the prison’s picnic tables eating a can of peaches. Daryl, for some reason unknown to me, had elected to start taking his bike apart and putting it back together and I followed along to watch the process. I don’t know shit about vehicles, much less motorcycles, but I like spending time with the grumpy man.

“It’s fine, I’m not gonna cut myself.” I tell him as I tilt my head down to drag a slice of peach off the blade. Daryl’s eyes don’t move from the work in front of him, but I can feel him watching me. I pull the chunk into my mouth and lick the blade clean of the sticky juice.

“Told ya to cut it out.” I’m eating the canned fruit haphazardly, not paying any attention to how close I am to the edge. Daryl shakes his head. He knows it’s a matter of time before I cut my lip or tongue.

At his repeated command, I roll my eyes but pull away from the edge of my knife. I set the can of peaches down and watch him. His brown hair is getting longer now and it’s sliding down into his eyes, shielding most of his face from my watchful gaze.

“What are you doing, anyways?” I ask. I scoot myself closer to the edge of the table and peer down over his shoulder. He has one of his tools in his hand and some pieces of metal I can’t identify. It is roughly the size of my fist and cylindrical. Whatever it is, it looks important.

Daryl glances over his shoulder, feeling my curious eyes looking down. He huffs and continues his task. “Workin’.”

“No shit. Working on what?” I’m playing with my knife in my fingers, absentmindedly twisting and flipping it. Daryl looks up at me through his hair, squinting one eye against the sunlight. My breath catches in my throat, and I try to play it cool.

“Do ya really want to know or are ya jus’ bored?” He asks in his gruff voice. I don’t answer for a second. He looks so pretty. Get a grip, Y/N, I think to myself.

“Really want to know. Come on, I don’t know anything about bikes. Teach me something.” Daryl squints at me for several seconds longer and I’m convinced he’s going to send me inside to bother someone else, but he slowly starts talking.

“’M cleanin’ the carburetor.” He tilts his hand up to show me the same piece I was looking at earlier. “It’s startin’ to get clogged.”

“Oooookay. What’s that do?”

“It keeps the engine runnin’ smooth, basically. Don’t keep it clear and that can fuck up the bike, make it stall or overheat. Gotta take it apart and clean it every few months.”

Daryl lets me watch over his shoulder as he points out different parts of the carburetor and how to clean them. After a few minutes, his gruff voice starts to fade out and my mind begins to wander.

He just looks so good. His hands are greasy and dirty from all of his work today and his biceps are sweaty from the Georgia heat. He’s wearing one of his simple black shirts that already fit him so well and the sweat is only making him look more delicious. I’m watching his hands work over the small brass jets when I feel burning heat in my palm and look down.

I’d been messing with my knife the entire time and cut myself. I instinctively let go of the blade and it hits the concrete with a harsh clang. Daryl’s head lifts at the noise and he spins around right as I rush to tuck both hands behind my back. I look like a kid caught with their hand in the cookie jar and I’m trying to hide the chocolatey evidence. Except this time, it’s blood.

Daryl’s eyes run over me for a second, then flick down to my knife as it sits on the dirty floor. He slowly bends down and picks it up. “Y/N.” He starts, a low warning in his tone.

“It’s fine! I’m fine, I just dropped it.” My voice rambles out. There’s a high, nervous note to it and I’m hoping to God he doesn’t notice.

He raises an eyebrow. “If yer fine, why’s the knife got fresh blood on it?” Fuck.

“Uhhhhh.” I look around the courtyard, trying to find an excuse. I, naturally, see nothing. “Magic?”

Daryl huffs and crosses his arms. “Let me see your hands.”

I wince. I don’t want to get in trouble, but I can feel the blood dripping off my hand, and it stings. The longer I hold off showing him the angrier he’ll get.

“Y/N. Hand, now.” Daryl’s voice leaves no room for arguments.

“Jus’, don’t be mad?” I ask. He says nothing and I sigh, then slowly move my hands back in front of me. The blood is quickly evident on my skin.

“God damn it, girl. Why can’t ya ever listen to me?” Despite his rough tone, his hands are gentle as he takes my wrist and tilts my hand, inspecting the damage. I risk a glance at my hand. There’s a slash across my entire palm and more blood than there should be. It’s going to need stitches.

“Ya need stitches.” Told you.

 Daryl looks up from my hand but doesn’t let go of my wrist. His eyes lock with mine and he gives me a warm look. There’s exasperation and concern and I don’t know what to do with it. He takes a surprisingly clean rag from his pocket and ties it around my bleeding palm, firmly but not enough to hurt.

I can’t help but be surprised by just how gentle he’s being with me. I was expecting a pop in the side of the head and a banishment to Hershel’s cell. I look up at him through my lashes, waiting for my verbal lashing. After almost a minute, I realize there is none.

“Does this mean I gotta go in now?” I try to keep the potential disappointment from my voice and don’t entirely succeed.

“Yeah, yer going to go get those stitches. Ya weren’t listenin’ anyways.” He grumbles at me. “The hell were you doin’?”

I look away from him. I do not want to explain that I was too busy being horny over him to notice that I gouged my palm open. I risk a glance at him and I’m caught by those ocean-blue eyes.

“I was watching your hands…”

Daryl pauses, then snorts. “Maybe instead of watchin’ my hands ya should’ve been watching yours. Go get your damn stitches and I’ll show ya somethin’ else.”

[enbyonmandalore]

Test The Limits

Ghost & König x OC Heaven St. John

Rating: NSFW 18+

Word count: this is a long one (that's what she said, ha!)

Warnings: begging, *light* bondage/restraining, brat taming, choking, degradation/name calling (ex. "good boy"), dom/sub behavior, edging, gagging, humiliation, masks stay ON, masturbation, oral (M recieving), tiny bit of overstimulation, penetrative sex, potential hate-fucking, size difference, some brief violence typical for the CoD franchise, threesome, unprotected sex, characters act absolutely fucking feral, OC's genitalia is not described

Summary: Smut. Absolute filth without much plot. Ghost has enough of 141's new airstrike operator's attitude and decides to fuck it out of them; him and König end up taking turns.

A/N: You can find the reader insert version of this fic by searching "test the limits" on my blog! Certain parts of dialogue and phrases are inspired by u/badjhur on reddit. Sometimes the POV kinda switches, I hope you don't mind. Enjoy!

________________________________________________________

Test The Limits

"Argh fuck!", Heaven shouted in frustration as their face hit the floor. Lieutenant Simon "Ghost" Riley pinned them down with his entire body weight, twisting their dominant left hand onto their back, their right hand squashed underneath their own body. They'd fucked up. Again.

"Stop being so easy to pin.", Ghost said harshly. "If I were the enemy you'd be dead by now."

"Lasted longer than last time, though", they reminded him nonchalantly and coughed as he took some of his weight off of their back, letting them catch a proper breath.

"Still not good enough", he retaliated, adding something under his breath. "Fuckin' brat..."

"What did you just call me?", Heaven snapped and turned around as much as they could. The Lieutenant didn't move. With some more struggling they managed to free themselves from under him, staring daggers at him. Propping themselves up on an elbow, Heaven opened their mouth to complain, but the Lt. raised a finger in their direction as a warning.

"Behave."

"Oh for god's sake, Lt., I'm just as much a member of this damn task force as you are. Price called me in for a reason and you know it. You-"

Ghost didn't let Heaven finish their sentence. Instead he grabbed them by the ankles and yanked them towards him, scraping their elbows against the floor of the sparring ring. Now he towered over them, his arms caging them in on either side, a knee between their legs, restricting any further movement.

"I said behave.", he growled.

"Get. Off. Of. Me.", Heaven said slowly and clearly, their tone stone cold.

But Ghost didn't budge. His icy blue eyes still fixated on them, as if expecting an ambush. That's when they felt it. They felt him press up against them and with mere inches between their bodies, there was less than a little room for speculations. The air seemed to thicken with tension over the next few seconds as Heaven just stared in disbelief. Finally, as he hit a sensitive spot, they flinched.

"Stop that!", they hissed.

"You wanna tap out, Luv? Scared you're gonna lose?", Ghost replied, ignoring them and continuing to grind against their crotch.

"Ngh- No! Just stop moving like that!"

"Like what?", he paused and Heaven thought they saw him raise an eyebrow, "This?"

"F-fuck...!", they gasped as he full on rutted his hips against theirs. Heaven tugged at his shirt, but that changed nothing.

"This... This is hardly a fair fight, Lt. Let go!"

"Never said it was gonna be fair.", the Lieutenant clarified. "Besides, if you would just ask nicely I might let go, eh? You bloody brat."

Humiliating them even further, Ghost flipped them onto their stomach again with ease. "You're making this too easy." Between strained breaths and frustrated struggling, they managed to growl: "At least take the damn knife off my back."

Ghost's dry chuckle made their entire body stiffen at once. "That ain't no combat knife you're feeling there, Luv..."

Oh.

Oh.

Once it finally clicked in their head, his entire behavior made sense. Jesus H. Christ, he was doing it on purpose.

"Come on, operator, get up", Ghost taunted, pulling Heaven to their feet, "See what you've been rubbing up against all fucking night."

Heaven St. John bared their teeth at him out of pure instinct. The movement was so quick they felt their bottom lip split open and tasted blood.

"You're so goddamn full of yourself!"

"Quite the opposite.", the Lieutenant replied and took a step forward. Heaven refused to back down. Ghost's gaze locked onto theirs, analyzing them. He reached behind himself and revealed a ziptie, pulling it tight around their wrists within a split second, pushing them against the wall behind them. Heaven was speechless.

"W-what the fuck, Lt.?", they finally managed to sputter.

There was nothing they could do - exhausted from sparring, backed against a wall and their hands were quite literally tied. To say they were in a jam would be a tremendous understatement. A hand traveled to their throat, applying pressure and enforcing eye contact.

"Who do you think you are? Who gave you permission to act like a sour fucking tart, hm? What is your problem?" Ghost looked them up and down. "Look where that's gotten you."

"Could ask you the same bloody question!", they spat, seeking any sort of leverage on Ghost's wrist to prevent him from potentially choking them out. He just stared, condescendingly. "Eversince I got here, you've been looking at me like you're a starving dog and I'm some sort of fucking treat."

Ghost's eyes narrowed dangerously, maybe there was a sadistic smile under that mask, but they'd never know for sure. When he spoke, his voice was low and gravelly.

"Consider this punishment... or consider this me spoiling your bratty behavior. You can still tap you, Love, but once we get started, there's no turning back."

"Oh so you think it's that easy to get in my pants, then?", Heaven chuckled dryly, thankful for the dim light concealing the fact that they might be blushing. "Do your fucking worst, then."

"Very well."

Ghost didn't wait a second longer, he grabbed them by the neck and spun them around, slamming their chest into the wall. His hands slid down their sides, all the way to their belt. Heaven didn't need to look - the sound of the quick-release clasp coming undone was enough to prepare them for what would come next. Once again they were thankful he didn't see their face or the excited grin plastered across it. Ghost pulled down Heaven's uniform pants and undershorts in once go, helping them lift their feet to fully get rid of the pants.

"Well, well...", he muttered, his gloved hands back on their body, thumbs caressing the dips in their hips. "Bloody amazing figure you got, soldier."

They could almost feel his breath on their skin, that's how close he'd gotten. Their skin tingled where he touched it. When the Lt. pressed himself against their ass, they could barely contain an excited whimper. He turned them back around to face him, shoving a knee between their thighs and pinning them to the wall on their tiptoes, hands above their head. Fuck, that felt amazing. Never in a million years had they ever imagined to enjoy being overpowered by a man like this...to be turned on by it.

It caught them off guard when he suddenly dropped them, taking two steps back. Their ass hit the cold concrete floor, the bindings snapping as they scrambled to cover themselves. Reality check. Heaven could feel a new pair of eyes lingering on their skin and turned their head in that direction so fast it almost made them dizzy. A shadowy figure loomed in the doorway.

"König", Ghost's voice broke the silence, "What a bloody fuckin' surprise."

He closed the distance between himself and the other soldier in only a few steps, grabbing a fistful of König's shirt and yanking him all the way into the room. Heaven heard König stutter something unintelligible, Ghost not even bothering to respond to him.

"Just in time.", Ghost announced to neither of them in particular. "I was about to teach our new teammate a lesson and now you both and learn one at the same time."

He let go of König, glaring at Heaven still cowering on the floor. König instinctively raised his hands, attempting to appear non-threatening as he towered over both of them.

Heaven slowly regained their composure, still acutely aware that their lower half was exposed. What they also noticed, was that König had closed his eyes underneath the sniper hood - the eyeholes were completely black now, as if he wasn't even there. They shifted around untilthey were at least in a less awkward position. This did not go unnoticed by the Lieutenant.

"I didn't mean to disturb you, Sir", König spoke, "I only heard commotion..."

When Ghost did not answer, he continued rambling, obviously flustered. "I- I can walk back out and this never happened, okay? I didn't even see anything-"

"No.", Ghost interrupted, "You both have had problems staying focused lately and you've become liabilities to the entire team. So to help you get t together, you are going to practice following orders. Right fucking now."

They exchanged a nervous glance with König.

"Hey", Ghost barked in Heaven's direction. "Eyes on me. Don't look at him, he's not gonna help you."

As soon as their gaze had focused back on Ghost, the Lieutenant continued his angry speech: "You aren't very quiet going about your business, König, and you", he glared at Heaven, "Satan, you talk in your sleep."

In that moment the realization that Ghost had heard something definitely not meant for his ears hit both them and König. Satan hadn't known they talked in their sleep, much less that Ghost had apparently been within earshot while they slept. And if they weren't mistaken, they could see the awkward shift in König's posture as well. What on earth had Ghost heard him say - or do?

Ghost's hand shot forward and grabbed Satan by the collar, pulling them into a kneeling position, their hands on his wrist to steady themselves. Then Ghost nodded towards a chair against the back wall of the room.

"Operator, sit down. And don't move."

Wordlessly, König followed the Lt.'s order. As soon as he had sat down, Ghost returned his attention to Satan. They felt his cold stare basically penetrate their skin and set it on fire...

"You. Up.", he ordered and they complied. Ghost then moved the both of them closer to König, right in the middle of his field of vision. Satan's heart was racing by now. What was he doing?

"On your knees, soldier."

They watched as Ghost positioned himself in front of them, their back facing König. He stepped closer and they now made direct eye contact with the considerable bulge in the Lieutenant's pants. Instinctively they gulped. Shit, was he really about to make König watch as they gave him head?

Apparently the answer to that was Yes.

It could have been their imagination, but they swore they heard the faintest sigh of relief as Ghost undid his belt, unzipped the fly and pulled out his fully erect cock. The size of which both startled and excited them. With one hand he lifted Satan's chin while the other, slowly and almost carefully snaked around to the back of their head.

"Now, Love, you are gonna suck my cock and do it well, understood?"

Satan answered immediately, a grin tugging at their lips. "Don't be shy, I can take it, Lt."

Next thing they knew, Ghost forced open their mouth with his thumb and shoved his cock inside. Satan fought their gag reflex, his cock was really testing the limits of what they found themselves capable of. They carefully started bobbing their head, hands gripping Ghost's thighs for support, working their tongue around the fat tip, sucking on it before taking more of his cock down their throat. They'd never believe it if they weren't hearing it themselves, but Ghost -stone cold as he usually was- was a horny rambler.

"That's it...", he pulled his cock out of their mouth, allowing them to catch a breath; maintaining eye contact the entire time. "Oh, fuck- You see that? That perfect ring of spit on my cock..."

They swallowed thickly between breaths and gave the Lieutenant a crooked smile. Provocatively they licked their bottom lip and glanced up at him.

"You can do it, yeah, open wide", he said, his voice low and breath ragged, before guiding their head back down his cock. Satan could taste the precum now and each time he hit the back of their throat they felt the knot in their own stomach tighten.

"Ah God, f-fuck!", Ghost moaned and gripped their head with both hands, holding it in place. He momentarily tore his gaze away from Satan to look at König. "Enjoying the show?"

"Gott, Scheiße...", König panted and bucked his hips in a futile attempt to feel something, anything. Oh, he needed to be touched. He wanted to fuck both Satan and Ghost and it was pure torture to sit there, hands behind his back and not allowed to move as they took Ghost's dick so eagerly. God he wished that were him. He felt his own hard-on throb with every sound their mouth made and with every word of praise from Ghost. His eyes rolled back in his head as he imagined what it would feel like to pin the Lieutenant against a wall and kiss him, right before fucking him so hard the wall might crack. What it would feel like to have Satan on top of him, a spiteful smirk on their face as they ruthlessly rode him like there was no tomorrow, his fingers digging into the flesh of their hips...

"Bloody hell, love, you're taking me so well", Ghost sputtered as he thrust himself into their mouth. "Come on... promise I'll make this worth your while."

Satan held onto his thighs for dear life as tears and spit ran down their face, accompanied by messy, lewd gagging sounds.

"That's it, that's it- Ohh FUCK"

His breath caught in his lungs as his cock pulsed, emptying his load down their throat. Fighting the urge to gag, they swallowed, gripping Ghost's leg so hard it might bruise. With an exhausted, guttural moan Ghost finally let go and Satan fell backwards, gasping for air.

Ghost recovered from his high quickly, barely giving them the chance to wipe the drool off their face before dragging them to a large storage crate. He turned them around, his chest pressed against their back, and sat down, effectively pulling them onto him as he lay down on the crate. Satan watched as he removed his gloves. Their entire body was tingling with arousal by now and being thrown around like a rag-doll wasn't helping. They felt the blood rush between their legs and they were certain Ghost knew. He nudged their legs further apart with his own.

"You really can take me, love.", Ghost growled into their ear, grabbing their jaw from behind and turning their head towards König. "Now how 'bout him?"

"Haah- please-", Satan whimpered and squirmed in his iron grip. They were becoming more desperate by the second, they needed to be touched - or even better: railed into oblivion.

Ghost's icy eyes fixated on König and the other soldier froze in his chair.

"Your turn, operator", the Lieutenant said with a nod.

König stood up slowly, having to concentrate on every move as he approached Ghost and Satan. God, it was such a pretty sight to see them so sprawled out and desperate...so pretty.

"Fuck them. That's an order!"

"Y-Yessir!", König replied and quickly undid his pants with trembling hands.

Satan gasped upon seeing König's size. He was probably larger than the Lt. in every goddamn aspect. Would that thing even fit? There was a height difference of half a meter between them and König after all. Standing between their open legs, he almost hesitantly lay a bare hand on their thigh and lightly pressed his fingertips into their skin and Satan whimpered once again. Ghost still held their jaw tightly, watching König like a hawk.

As if to reassure himself that this was what they wanted, König sought eye contact. He stroked himself a couple of times first, before lining his hard cock up with their entrance. Satan gave him a meek nod and practically started begging as his tip nudged against their hole.

"Fucking hell, please! Please just fuck me, König, please please please!"

König felt his cock twitch in his hand at the sound of their voice - like music to his ears. "Don't...", he whispered, barely audible, "Don't stop begging."

"Please~ Please fuck me already, big boy", they pleaded and that did it for him. Without further hesitation he pushed his cock inside them and barely managed to contain the animalistic, desperate moan building in his throat as he bottomed out. Satan wanted to throw their head back, but Ghost's shoulder was in the way, so they turned their face to the side, teeth gritted and eyes squeezed shut. A cold shiver ran down their spine as Ghost whispered praise into their ear again. "Come on... Good boy. Take all of him."

And as König set a pace to his thrusts, small whines and moans spilled from their lips.

"Ah- Yes...fuck... König, fuck- ngh"

König was enormous. He spread them open like nothing ever had before. No doubt they'd feel him for days. They could feel König's dick in their guts, it was relentless, stretching them open and filling them so completely they couldn't think around it, couldn't do anything but cling to Ghost's hand and whine.

"Ah, sh-shit! More, please...", König demanded, underlining each word with a thrust so hard Satan almost cried out in pain.

"Yessir!", they groaned, slurring all the other words, "Ah- Yes, fuck me hard, I need this! Oh fuck-"

"Oh yeah, you like this, huh?", König answered their desperate cries. Ghost joined in on the taunting. "You like getting fucked by two big men, 's that it? That's why you've been acting like a fucking brat? Answer me!"

"Ahng- Yes!"

"You little tease...", König panted, his eyes cast downward, watching himself disappear inside Satan over and over and over.

Fucking hell... Ghost couldn't take his eyes off of the scene. König brutally slamming into Satan, their half-naked body on top of him. Grinding against him with each and every one of König's thrusts. And the sounds - God! Heaven's choked, breathy moans and cries and König's deep, desperate sighs caused Ghost's heart to race. He could feel his cock beginning to harden again. His eyes rolled back in his head as he let it happen. He felt Satan's hot breath on his hand and tightened his grip on their lower jaw, bringing his other hand up to their lips and pushing past them. He was relieved they understood the objective, as they swirled their tongue around his fingers, coating them in saliva just like they'd done with his cock moments before.

Satan arched their back as König repeatedly hit their sweet spot. They cried out in pleasure, begging him not to stop as they careened towards their high.

Under them, Ghost tensed up as their ass pressed against his cock. He felt like he was about to go insane from the stimulation so shortly after his last orgasm. König gripped their hips, holding on for dear life as he chased his own high. He'd given up on trying to suppress his moans, letting them hear every sweet sound spilling from his lips.

"I'm close, so close", König stammered through gritted teeth, "Can't- Can't hold it much longer, ngh!"

Satan was quick to answer, speech slurred and a fucked-out expression on their face. " 'S okay! Ah- Cum with me!"

A choked moan ripped from their throat as he thrust all of himself into them. His voice gave out and his head fell backwards. Heaven saw stars as they came undone on his cock, clenching around him. They felt him pulse, shooting his load and coating their insides with his cum.

For a moment everyone was quiet, their ragged, out-of-sync breaths the only thing disturbing the silence.

Heaven gasped in surprise when they suddenly had Ghost's hands on their waist, pushing them down onto both his and König's dick, drawing a startled mewl from the other man. Ghost felt himself spill his seed between their sweat-soaked bodies, a deep moan rattling in his chest.

It took a moment for Ghost to come to his senses again. When he did, König had already taken a few steps back and zipped up his pants. He lifted Heaven off of him and searched his pockets for a rag or tissue to clean them both up.

"That's all it took you to behave. A nice, fat cock.", he chuckled to himself.

"I think we made quite a lot of noise. We should leave before someone else comes investigating strange noises on base.", König suggested and glanced over his shoulder in the direction of the door. "If... If you want to go again, you know where to find me."

"Yeah", Satan agreed with a tired smile. "Better make ourselves scarce."

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This fanfiction is property of @enbyonmandalore (Tumblr). I do not own any of the characters associated with the Call Of Duty franchise. Do not repost/crosspost on other accounts or websites, edit, translate or otherwise change this piece of writing. Rebloging is fine, reposting is not.

[chaoslulled]

i'm not sure what i feel when i look at you. - armin reiner

a shifting of silverware  ––  the knife moved to the side, the spoon moved again, fingers grip the glass of water before they fidget again with the piece of bread on his plate.   he takes the time to butter the slice, feels the heaviness in the air that burns at the back of his neck.   reiner's never been particularly tall, he lands in the middle of bertolt and annie, but right now he wishes he could sink impossibly lower in his seat, could sink into the floor of the restaurant.    it would be easier than this, far less awkward  ––  especially in the sense that the other has cleared his throat at least three times now in an effort to get honey eyes to lift from where they've been glued to the butter for the last two minutes.   he's broken through his bread by this point, knife giving a scrape on the plate that makes him flinch.

why had he let annie talk him into this?   he knows he's been apathetic, laying around the apartment and cursing bertolt's name under his breath, frowning to himself as he flicks through the channels, hoping to find something, anything to keep his mind off of the other.   it's not that anything has really changed  ––  it's just that he's growing restless, has wound up tallied up on that damn fridge more times than not;   the xanax withdrawal gives him shaking hands, makes a cold sweat twist onto his skin and makes his stomach wrap itself into knots.   the first few days were spent over a toilet with his head spinning;   now he's just irritable and much like annie, bertolt has grown to be a point of ire.   for no real reason and none of them have learned to keep this as something that is serious;   reiner is making an effort to stop abusing, and he counts it as both a curse and a blessing that he's decided to not dissociate tonight, apparently.   he's very much inside of his body, and he is very much feeling every inch of the awkwardness that's fallen over the table.

he can't hold off much longer, and it's not fair to the shared history between them.   so he pulls in a careful breath and sits up a little straighter, brings honey eyes to watch unamused ones  ––  but even in that unamusement, there is some flash of delight.   " somehow, we keep meeting like this, and honestly it's a little weird. "

not his best opening and he can relinquish that to the journaling he's been made to do by his therapist, a list of cringe worthy things that he's done that day.   this one will be triple circled with the red pen, he thinks. 

armin, for what it's worth, laughs.   he laughs, and it reminds reiner of the way that he laughs when he's being kissed, when his cheeks are a little rosy from shared wine and shared trauma.   kind of like the way that his eyes squint and light up too when he had leaned in close and asked him if they wanted to get out of the bar that they had met up in, when they had gone home in a taxi and a hand had slid a little higher up his thigh and reiner had swallowed down any sense of anxiety that had brimmed up inside of him for the favor of a good night. 

meeting on a dating app hadn't been the most outrageous thing.   people made those kinds of connections every day  ––  that was the main way couples got together now.   so meeting up and ending up going home wasn't a big deal.   neither was finding his own taxi back when it was over, slipping quietly into the shower once he had toed his shoes off at the door and pushed another pill onto his tongue.   they had fun;   they hooked up sometimes when the need slipped up and that was in.   casual conversations at times.   it's just sort of funny that annie and whoever armin's friend was had had the same idea.   that they had thought that the two of them could somehow be compatible.   and he supposes in a way they were. 

but reiner's a little too broken for a relationship.   he's a little too cut up around his edges and tends to shred the palms that try to hold him close.   so they hadn't worked before, when his mind was foggy and he was pulling all nighters, jittery with pupils blown wide and substance abuse in his system.   they won't work now either, now that he's more sober and clear minded than he has been in a while;   not because armin isn't good, but because reiner still tends to shred everyone he dares get close to.   only a few people are equipped to handle him.   judging by that look in armin's eye and the way that he sips at his water, he's not the type that can hold those edges and ignore the blood seeping into the crevices of his hands.

" hopefully that we had a few good nights and that i wasn't completely awful. "   there's a slight smile on the edges of his own lips and he takes a polite bite of the bread in front of him, even though he feels his stomach roil in protest.   he hasn't eaten since breakfast and he's hoping that today's a day when things want to stay down.   eyes flick toward the blonde  ––   " you look good, for the record. "

last time he had seen him, they had done coke in the bathroom of the bar and it had mixed with the wine in a way that made his blood feel like it was on fire.   armin's nose doesn't look as red today  ––  he wonders if he's trying to walk the thin line of sobriety, too. 

" are you…seeing anyone? "   it's a lame question  ––  why would he agree to come to a blind date if he was?   another thing to circle with the red pen, he thinks.   another strike against him.   but he has to ask, because there's a fading mark on the edge of collar, one that would be easily hidden  ––  in the shape of teeth, in the shape of a lover that wants to be seen.   it could be complicated;   maybe armin knew about this.   maybe he's coming back for more and thinks that reiner could too.

but reiner plays with the glass of water, draws random shapes in the condensation on the edges.   it could be colder  ––  he never understood the appeal of warm water.   it's like people don't want things to be refreshing.

" if you're looking for a hook up, i'm not looking for one in return. "   it feels hollow in his chest;   he's made his peace with the fact that bertolt will always be oblivious, or that he just sincerely doesn't return the feelings and doesn't want to hurt his.   so why is he holding onto the space of wanting it to be him?   why is he holding onto this foolish notation that maybe some day he'll wind up in bertolt's bed and this time it won't be next to him, but under him?

part of him wants the xanax, the cloudy mind that comes with it, the free floating.   it was easier to not overanalyze everything when he was like that.   but now he's pushed into this feeling of dealing with things, and reiner honestly doesn't know how the hell people manage to do it.   it's irritating.

" unless you think it'll be good. "   it's a stupid thing to say;    he tries to be coy, tries to smile around it, but it doesn't reach his eyes.   instead, his eyes go once again to that faded bruise, to that darling mark of someone and the swirling whisper of jealousy that curls in his stomach.   was he better than him?   did he actually make armin happy?

and really, does he care?   or is he just looking for a place to put that irritating anger, that quiet qualm of rejection that keeps rising up when he least expects it?

he butters another piece of bread for something to do and tries to ignore the shaking of his hands or the way that the shapes on his glass look a little too close to a 'b' to be comfortable with.

[freddycartr]

review for heir by sabaa tahir. spoilers obviously.

i went into this book expecting the same kind of strength that i take from helene and elias to be present in at least quil. i expected quil to be every bit of deadly violence and strength that was honed into him by helene and elias. i expected him to be as ruthless and brutal like the mask he was trained to be, but he instead runs away from four men when helene would have taken them out easily. instead he’s a love sick puppy. who is afraid of his duty…and sabaa genuinely said that he loves his people? no, honey, leaving your aunt in a ruined castle while you run and go on a journey where you act like an idiot for the entirety of the book and not the leader you were fucking born to be is fucking ridiculous. the difference between him and helene is that helene did not want the throne, and yet she is the empress who did not abandon her people, who stayed in antium, who would have never fucking run away. she even tells him, “skies, knows i’ll fight.” she does not give up even when her city fell, (again) even when her family was murdered in front of her eyes. she. fucking. does. not. give. in. like this is the woman who got caught by aiz just to kill her, “the only reason you caught me is because i let you. the woman smiled, a knifes blade shinning in the dark.” (also that bitch does not have the right to be in the same room as helene acquilla). that is the kind of metal that i was expecting for quil. but instead what i get is a fucking child who spends his time being manipulated, doesn’t kill four men, didn’t know what to do when they sail a kergari boat, can barely come up with a plan, and a love sick puppy. he allows an ankanese man to drive a blade into his own throat because quil failed to check that his ropes were properly bound—as if helene or elias would ever do something so stupid. he said he was trained like a mask, by helene and elias no less, yet, he flickers—sometimes acting like the warrior he was born and raised to be, and others acting like a chicken with its head cut off—getting caught and walking right into traps.

i expected him love him immediately but i found myself drawn to sufiyan and tas rather than helene aquilla’s fucking nephew. why? because tas ran fucking circles around everyone in that brothel and is a damn good spy. because he’s actually clever. because sufiyan is just as wicked and deadly like his father. like the way he put a dagger to sirsha’s throat after meeting her for a second, yup, definitely elias’s kid. oh my god, i love keri and how in the span of two scenes, she is more metal and strength than quil showed the entire book. i would have preferred kari’s pov to aiz (the fucking little bitch).

oh, the romance was fucking awful. sabaa tried to be something she’s not with the romance aspect. like “ugh. his voice. deep and warm and sure,” like i think i just gagged. how the hell is this the same woman who wrote “his cloak falls away from me, and my body is against his. he pulls me to his chest, his hands running down my back, clasping my thigh, drawing me closer. closer. i arch into him. revealing in his strength, his fire. the alchemy between us, twisting and burning and melding, until it feels like gold.” or “don’t tell me you’ve not seen a naked solider before, captain. a long pause, then a chuckle, low and husky. it makes me feel strange. like he’s about to tell me a secret. like i would lean in closer to hear it. not one like you, blood shrike.” oh and not to mention, where the fuck is the consent? with both of the sex scenes. just because two characters want each other does not mean they should not have verbal consent. even avitas asks for helne’s consent, “tell me why you're here." “you know why." i try to turn away, but he will not let me. “but i need you to say it. please." oh my god, the controlling/possessive aspect of their relationship fucking made me so mad. for example, “the sure way that he held her, as if she belonged to him and always had.” and “she wanted to throw him to the ground and climb on top of him and claim him the way he was claiming her.” what. the. hell. sabaa. oh, and not to mention, “tell me, sirsha, how i am supposed to know when you want me if you never touch me? assume i always want you.” (359) or “i’m more interested in the punishments for breaking them,” (358) when sirsha says they need to set ground rules for their relationship, and quil immediately is, in sirsha’s own words “in direct defiance of her orders,” breaking the boundaries that she set isn’t hot, that isn’t sexy. that is just controlling, not healthy, and horrible writing. quil doesn’t get to decide what’s best for sirsha, or their relationship, and the way that helene aquila or lia of serra, if put in the same situation, would have put a dagger to the man’s throat for daring to think that a man knows what best for them. i don’t have the words—what makes tahir’s books so beautiful is love is a subplot, not the whole damn book. her characters are driven by grief, hope, rage, and vengeance—not some love sick puppy like quil who feels lost, and fearful—like he has the same blood as helene aquila, who survived everything being stripped from her, his mother survived the violence of marcus, and he was trained by elias and, yet, he feels like a child, out of his depth and with no bite or steel. moreover, as sabaa tahir is writing a YA novel where young girls read and learn, having multiple sex scenes without verbal consent is downright unforgivable.

[u-look-beautiful-today]

Just a short writing of Wednesday’s POV of the ‘roomie break-up’ cause I haven’t got that scene out of my mind and just every little facial feature Wednesday made had me thinking of what could possibly be running through her mind.

-

Her body groans with each step she takes to her room. The last few hours have proven to be valuable but also draining on her body, despite all of the combat training Uncle Fester has put her through. That house, the Gates house, there was someone in there and they had cleared that basement and made Wednesday look like an utter fool once more. Made her look like the village nutcase, blabbing about fictitious stories and delusions.

She grinds her teeth and seethes. Wednesday is a grandmaster at chess. She loves to evaluate each piece on the board, planning out multiple actions each piece can take, and what she can do if a Knight moves instead of the Bishop. Chess is one of the few games that can occupy her mind for any amount of time. She plans out not only every move she can make but also her opponent. She plans out the enemy's moves first and then builds up all of her moves after. Seeing how each scenario can play out and no matter what, she always ends up as the victor.

This monster, Xavier she's sure of it, is thwarting each calculated move she has. It's almost as if he's trying to play checkers instead.

He will be brought down in a fiery blaze and Wednesday will stand on his ashes.

But first, Wednesday needs to take a better look at the music box she swiped. She also should tell Enid that she doesn't need to expect any repercussions from Weems.

What Wednesday doesn't expect is the giant bags Enid has on her bed.

"Where are you going?" It slips out before she can assess the whole situation.

"Yoko's room." A distant thunder cracks. "Thornhill said I could crash there for a few nights."

There it is again, that gnawing in her stomach. It claws at her insides as Enid’s words sink in.

"There's no need. I spoke with Weems. You and Xavier won't be punished." That has to be the reason Enid is leaving. She's just too worried about punishment. Enid wouldn't actually abandon her–

Even if she did, why should Wednesday care?

"Am I supposed to thank you?" She bites out and Wednesday can tell by the tone that Enid is hurt. It's a bit irritating. Wednesday already did her groveling earlier, more of a short 'I apologize but, it was for the greater good’ which felt like groveling for Wednesday. But, the bottom line is she apologized, just as Enid has asked her to do so in past incidents. And every time Wednesday did, the issue was always dropped. Enid never held any grudges, why now? Why is this different?

The gnawing from her gut causes another feeling to stir within her chest. This one makes her heartbeat pick up the pace.

"I already apologized. It's over." A crack of thunder rumbles and it's the knife that slices through the suffocating air.

Finally, Enid turns to look at her. She hasn't bothered to change. Her nauseating patterns are now stained from the events that unfolded tonight.

Her stomach twists just the slightest seeing how Enid’s eyes darken over. Her gaze has never once intimidated Wednesday. Those soft blue eyes have always held an innocence that usually sickens Wednesday. Her eyes are always so wide and naive and just so full of wonder that Wednesday sometimes just can't pull her own away.

This look, however, reminds Wednesday that Enid Sinclair is in fact a Lycan.

"Over?" She repeats back, an underlying edge to her voice. It's noticeable enough that something hot starts in the center of Wednesday's chest and a small lump forms in her throat.

"Tonight was the icing on the birthday cake you couldn't even be bothered to cut." Enid’s tone is clear and each word is sharp as it exits from her mouth.

A spark of heat warms her face, a flush of embarrassment. Perhaps shame? She grinds her teeth. Why is Enid still upset about the damn cake?

Enid’s eyes start to water and Wednesday finally picks up that Enid is not actually talking about the cake.

"You'll use anyone to get what you want, even if it means putting them in danger." Enid's voice cracks and each word pokes into Wednesday’s chest. They don't pierce her, but it hits hard enough that she's sure bruises will be left.

The lump settles in her throat and begins to grow. Wednesday gave her a chance to leave at the gates, but Enid chose to stay and come along with her. Even then, Wednesday knew she could take care of them. She had no doubt that she would keep them safe from the monster. Enid was never in any real danger, at least not in Wednesday’s chess game.

"We could have died tonight because of your stupid obsession." Enid didn't trust her to keep her safe. She didn't think she was important to Wednesday. Her heart rattles painfully, and more and more emotions start to awaken and whisper to her.

Wait no–why is anyone's safety a priority to Wednesday? No, no, no. This case, the investigation is what is important and should be the only thing to discuss.

"But we didn't." Her voice isn't as biting as Enid’s, it struggles to slip past the blockage and she's pretty sure Enid notices. Because of course, Enid notices, she studies Wednesday as much as Wednesday studies her.

"And now I'm one step closer to solving this case. That is what is important." She quickly adds, her tone gaining venom once more. Enid needs to understand that Wednesday values this case. That she should just let this go and see that the case should be the only thing to worry about.

But as she stares at Enid, notes the way her breathing labors and a dangerous wildfire sparks in her eyes, Wednesday isn't too confident of her words anymore. The lump scrapes up her esophagus, her body is practically burnt alive as emotions course through her. Each one feels like a derailed train cart, all attempting to go at once. There it is, that build-up behind her eyes. She has to clench her jaw to keep the last bit of her control, she won't slip like this in front of Enid.

Enid closes her eyes and Wednesday would almost praises her for collecting herself. Ironic; Enid Sinclair controlling herself as Wednesday Addams feels every single wall crumble.

Oh, how the world mocks her.

"I've tried," she starts, eye twitching, "really, really, really hard to be your friend."

Wednesday swallows hard just as Enid does. She knew she was difficult but she always assumed that Enid was never trying. She thought their…relationship was natural, almost easy.

Enid’s eyes shine with determination and Wednesday can sense that this will not end well for them.

"Always put myself out there. Thought of your feelings. Told people, 'I know she gives off serial killer vibes, but she's really just shy."

Has she done that? Has she just gone out of her way to defend Wednesday? Even without her being there? She's done all this and has never once told Wednesday. Never once told Wednesday that she owes her. That she just wanted to? She must have done it because she wants something from Wednesday. Everyone does.

Her head pounds as the train carts start to increase in speed. The tracks are starting to twist together and intersect at dangerous points. Her veins pump electricity and she feels the need to hide away, those tears are at a breaking point, they stab at her eyes and soon enough they will spill.

No, no, no–

"I never asked you to do that���"

"You didn't have to because that's what friends do!" Enid cuts her off, her voice the loudest it's ever been against Wednesday.

Those words pierce her chest, knife twisting as Enid says, friends.

"They don't have to be asked." She pauses for a moment, her own tears at bay. Wednesday's heartbeat hammers in her ears and realization dawn on her.

Enid never wanted anything from Wednesday, except friendship. Friendship. Something of no real value. Almost a sweet nothing.

"And the fact that you don't know that, says everything." Her words waver the slightest but it all sucker punches Wednesday just the same. A tear bubbles its way to Enid’s eyes and she spins away before Wednesday could see if it fell or not.

Wednesday can't blink. She's positive that if she does it'll unlock the gates. Each salty tear clings to her eyeballs, torturing each nerve and begging to be set free. Her gaze drifts down and she helplessly watches as Enid zips up her luggage.

A vile of emotions and words build inside her. Her mind tries to slow the trains just so she can formulate the perfect sentence that'll get Enid to stay. To just listen to Wednesday and at least see some reason. To not just leave Wednesday like these months didn't have some impact on them. To not leave Wednesday–

"You want to be alone, Wednesday?" It's not a question in the slightest, but Wednesday can feel the first syllable start to break free. But, Enid has already made her decision. "Be alone." She snaps out as she pushes by and out the door.

Just as the door slams, the train carts collide. Explosions go off of anger, remorse, sorrow, shame, guilt, desperation, and self-pity. Her body is being cooked alive as she stands frozen. Her hearing is nothing but a buzz as Enid’s words echo in her head. Each thought of them sets off mini explosions, igniting her body over and over. She almost fears her heart is actually caving in, each beat feels more like a chore than a natural occurrence.

She needs to expel some of these damned emotions. She needs to scream or stab something or even she just,

Needs to cry.

Her hands twitch and she squeezes her fists shut. She will not cry. How pathetic would that be?

Breathe in. Hold. Take back control. Release.

Numbness comes easily to Wednesday. She experiences it almost more than hatred. It's an old friend that has never disappointed her, it has kept her safe all these years. Why feel when she could just numb everything?

It has kept her heart safe and her tears locked away.

The train carts are suspended, not gone or set back in place, just on pause. Emotions that are stuck and never to be sorted out.

Her feet almost drag along the floor as she locks eyes with the glass window. She chokes down the lump as her eyes linger on Enid’s colorful side. She would rather be sliced open than admit that the colors have grown on her. At least, in the afternoon light how the colors decorate Enid’s face. Bouncing off her round face and painting her in a glow that entices Wednesday.

She slides down and pulls her knees to her chest. The numbness usually comforts her, but as she listens to the thunder roar and no giggles or pop music plagues her ears, it offers nothing to fill the void in her chest.

Goody warned she would end up alone. It has always been inevitable. But, for once in her life.

It doesn't feel good.

[chronic-boogara]

𝚂𝚕𝚊𝚜𝚑𝚎𝚛 𝙷𝚎𝚊𝚍𝚌𝚊𝚗𝚘𝚗𝚜: 𝚝𝚑𝚎 𝚠𝚘𝚛𝚜𝚝 𝚝𝚑𝚒𝚗𝚐𝚜 𝚊𝚋𝚘𝚞𝚝 𝚍𝚊𝚝𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚝𝚑𝚎𝚖 2

y’all LOVE these i’m a little shocked but hey i’m not complaining. i’m glad to see there are fellow degenerates out there. anyways here’s some more angst for y’all. find part one here. if you want to read the fluffier parts find them here and here

stu macher

•always has to get his way and will manipulate you if necessary. you will be his puppet if needed and he will feel no remorse. lying is a large part of his life as well. don’t be shocked when the truth comes out eventually.

•you’ll always forgive him. he will give you reason after reason and apologize endlessly. not meaning any of it. he never really feels like he’s in the wrong for his actions anyway. stu is always finding someone else to blame for his wrong doings

•pathological liar. your relationship will probably be built upon a think web full of lies and deception. don’t even try to get upset about it though, he’ll find a way to pin the blame all on you.

•he loves you but will stop at nothing to achieve his goals so please don’t stand in his way. it’s for your own good. he will kill you if it aids him in any way shape or form. he’d be sad but tell himself it was for the better.

•refuses help. medicine,therapists, institutions none of it is appealing to him.

billy loomis

•is an un medicated mess. as well as lacking a mother figure. damn double homicide.

•constantly he needs attention. 24/7 he has to be near you, touching you , watching you, keeping you safe in his own twisted way. lock your windows and doors at night or he will come in and watch you sleep. sometimes taking your clothes home with him.

•gets violently angry during his episodes. his room will be trashed and the walls will be full of slashes from his knife. every time you try to confront him about this issue he assures you it’ll never happen again. it was just a small burst of anger. nothing to worry about

•insanely jealous. don’t even LOOK at another person when you’re around billy or they will be found dead the best day. tells you how to dress and controls who you are friends with. if you don’t follow the rules he will detach himself entirely. for weeks he will not speak to you. he thinks he’s doing you a favor

lester sinclair

•has never been in a relationship and isn’t sure what to do. a bit naive to put it in simpler terms

•he’s pretty much a green flag overall ill be honest.

bo sinclair

•very much head strong. does not think before he acts and no he will NOT be taking comments or concerns.

•thinks he is always right. don’t ever try to correct him on anything because it will start a fight. every. single. time. very much a narcissist.

•does his best to understand your emotional needs but he is not very in tune with that kind of thing. he thinks it’s not a man’s place to deal with the emotions of his partner. he doesn’t understand and doesn’t make too much of an effort to.

•leaving the house to explore ? yeah no that’s not happening. locks the windows and doors from the outside so you aren’t able to get out. and if you sneak out ? be prepared for a lot of yelling and arguing

[after-witch]

Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Title: Act of Contrition [Yandere Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on

Word Count: 3646

notes: yandere, kidnapped reader

 A shimmering blue evening gown was not the last thing you expected to see draped over the sitting chair that was tucked into the corner. It would certainly not be the first time that Chrollo had brought back something ostentatious, something glittering and expensive; something that you (if you were to psychoanalyze him, which you did, out of anxiety first and boredom second) would guess he wanted you to admire before it disappeared into the ether like so many other things he’d pilfered over the past few months.

What you didn’t expect, however, was his suggestion for you to try it on. 

At first you thought you’d misheard, your brain still pulling itself out of a dull, listless sleep. You had argued with him the night before, and the space between you on the bed was thick and heavy with tension until you had finally slid headlong into sleep. Surely he wouldn’t try to give you a gift after you spend most of the evening reminding him that you’ll never love him, or even like him, much less feel one iota of happiness in his presence.

But then he repeated the suggestion.

“Why?” Your tone is borderline acidic, and you don’t feel the need to hide your suspicion of his intentions.

Your captor had no doubt become well-acquainted with your nastiness over the months, though he rarely reacted to it with more than a tight expression, if he even gave you that. Sometimes he simply ignored you, as if you were a child having a tantrum, not his kidnapped victim.

In some ways, it was a surprising relief. In some ways, you could consider yourself lucky. Considering his abilities, considering his past, considering what he did when he left you alone in the condo or hotel or wherever he had you situated--he might well be the type to slap the attitude off your face, gentlemanly facade be damned. He could do worse than a slap, too; far worse.

But the months had gone on with only pointed sighs and looks; and despite his rationally stated insistence that you would give in to his attentions in time, you held onto your bitterness as tightly as you could. You prized yourself on it, the way you figure that he prizes his most precious steals.

He sometimes comes back with glittering jewels worth calculable fortunes, laying them out to see the way they look when the moonlight filters in through the open curtains. He doesn’t keep them for long, doesn’t display them, just memorizes their magnificence and then whisks them off.

You can relate to the gloating. But you don’t give your greatest treasures away. You, on the other hand, wear your bitterness 24/7 like an old woman clinging to her last precious mink coat, a remnant of an era gone-by. Draped over your shoulder, haughty and visible, daring him to say something when you give him a sarcastic jab in response to perfectly-polite-inquiries about this and that. The worst (but best, you think, to you) is when you feign interest in a conversation, feign some sort of acceptance of your situation, willing your hands to get closer to his as you sit on the sofa and read; only to snap back at the last moment, baring your teeth.

You hope it hurts him, to think he’s getting an inch forward with you only to have it pulled away. He deserves it for keeping you here.

Sometimes, you almost hope he would say something, do something, only because it might be a sort of reprieve. If he gets mad or slaps you, even, maybe the solid, sticky bitterness surrounding your heart might abate just a bit.

Then again, you know this saying very well: be careful what you wish for.

“I need to see if it fits.” His expression and tone haven’t changed. Polite, cordial, matter-of-fact. You hate it.

You force yourself out of bed and give the gown a glance before heading into the bathroom. He follows, picking up his own morning routine as you wash and brush side-by-side. You think he does it to seem domestic, in his own fucked-up way. You pointed this out, once, and he’d merely given you a small smile and asked: “Do you want to this to be domestic?”

Chrollo had a habit of turning your impulsive snark around on you, so you tried to plan your barbs out more carefully in the future.

“Why do you need to see if it fits?” You finally ask, words a bit muffled by the toothbrush hanging out of your mouth. You force yourself to glance at him in the mirror. He’s finished, already drying off his face, pinning a wrap around his forehead.

He catches your gaze in the mirror, and you feel too caught to look away.

“For tonight. We’re going to the theater.”

The toothbrush drops from your mouth and lands next to the sink, splattering lathered toothpaste on the counter. You wipe your mouth with a washcloth, missing a bit and not caring, and physically turn away from the mirror so you’re face-to-face.

“Are you serious?”

For the moment, your bitterness slides off, forgotten on the floor. He’s never offered to do something like this before. Sure, he’s mentioned that you might go out--”it depends on  your behavior”--but the thought of “being good” for Chrollo made you sick to your stomach every time you were tempted. So you hadn’t been outside for months, not really--the brief gaps when he’d whisk you into a car, always by his side, then pull you into a new hotel or luxury condo didn’t really count.

He nods.

“Yes. Please do hurry and try it on, I’ll need time to find another if it isn’t suitable.”

You glance out of the bathroom door and back into the bedroom, where the gown sits, draped, shimmering softly in the morning light. It’s something you never would have been able to afford before--and the thought of wearing it now makes your skin tingle. What is his plan? Why is he doing this?

“But I haven’t been good,” you say, almost spitting out the last word. Last night, in fact, you’d been almost beastly--you recall the words “go fuck yourself” and “I hate you” being thrown out before you twisted in the knife by bringing up an ex-fling.

He laughs, quick and harsh. It seems like a real laugh, for once, and something in your chest twists. It’s been a long time since you’ve heard anything truly authentic from him. Or yourself.

“Maybe it’s a reward for me, to have you by my side.  You want to go, don’t you?”

The thought makes your stomach clench. But… you did want to go. Really. To get out of here, even for a night? To get sucked into some type of show, whatever it was? You didn’t entertain the idea of trying to escape or draw attention to yourself for help--you knew Chrollo would never suggest taking you if it was a viable option. He was just as likely to slaughter the entire theater if you whispered to an usher that you were being held captive.

No, no escape in the cards… at least not physically.

You shrug your shoulders and try to seem nonchalant about it, though you’re sure he can feel the way your skin is buzzing.

“Sure, whatever. Don’t expect me to hold your hand or anything.”

He laughs, again. It’s blatantly false this time.

***

It has been… a while since you’ve done your makeup. The pile of messy makeup wipes on the counter can attest to that--this is now your third try at a full face without messing something up. Thankfully, the third time has been the charm, and you’re satisfied with the reflection in the mirror. Chrollo had turned up your old makeup bag, and sliding on the eyeliner you used to wear to work, out with friends, in your old life felt surreal and comforting at the same time.

You’ve even done your hair, though it could be nicer. You haven’t bothered with anything but hasty brushing in the past few months, and sometimes you’re too lethargic and frustrated to even bother with that. But it’s styled, a bit elegant--if you do say so yourself.

You glance down at the trio of lipsticks he set on the counter earlier. They’re not a brand you ever wore--they’re expensive, something out of reach for anyone used to pulling cheap store lipsticks out of a bin. The center lipstick is a bold red, and your hand reaches for it. Brief memories of your mother gushing about red lipstick come to mind; she always associated red lipstick with elegance, the fanciest of events, and you’re inclined to agree. It feels smooth, impossibly so; praise be to expensive formulas.

After blotting it with toilet paper--old habits--you step back to stare at yourself in the mirror. The dress fits you beautifully. The fabric is soft, refined, showing you off in all the right places. You’ve taken your time with your hair, your makeup, and you really do look nice. You bring your wrist up to your nose and sniff--the perfume Chrollo had picked out for you was elegant, subtle. Rose petals and apples and white musk.

You feel a wave of nostalgia come over you that you push down. It’s too bad you’re going to the theater with your captor and not with your friends. Or your mom.

“Are you finished?” His voice calls from the bedroom.

The thought of Chrollo seeing you like this makes you feel uncomfortably anxious for reasons you can’t quite pinpoint. The gown is not exactly risque, but it’s designed to highlight your features--and while he has never crossed the hardest line in regards to your personal autonomy, he wasn’t beyond stealing kisses from your unwilling lips when the mood struck him. He said it was to help you adjust to the relationship, as if kissing you against your will would make you love him.

You don’t answer him and instead give your hair a final touch up before heading out the open bathroom door.

Chrollo is standing next to the vanity, wearing an elegant suit, primped and polished--and handsome. You can’t help but freeze in place when he gives you a once-over, slow and deliberate.

“You look beautiful,” he says, finally, a slight breathiness to his voice. There’s an authentic tone to his voice again, and it makes you feel queasy.

You try to ignore the way your skin feels heated and shrug, crossing your arms over your chest as you approach him.

“Are we going now?”

He gives a soft smile. “Almost. One more thing.”

You watch curiously as he pulls out a jewelry box from his pocket, then opens it to reveal two glittering sapphire earrings. You can’t hold back a little gasp, but when you reach for them, Chrollo holds the box out of reach.

“I’ll do the honors.”

You want to say no. But you’re so close to leaving, so you simply stare to the side as he steps behind you.  He touches your ear--and you flinch. He chuckles quietly and you ignore the blossoming heat across your cheeks, both from his closeness and your reaction, while he fixes the earrings into your ears.

When he’s finished, you look up. The visage in the mirror seems like a familiar stranger. The feeling you get at seeing yourself so dressed up is familiar in some way. You think back to going to shows with your friends, or going to the ballet with your mom; your little ring-clad hand gripping hers as she hurried you past alleys on the way to the theater, your sparkling white party dress shedding glitter onto the streets. You can practically feel the way the theater always hums with anticipation, the unusual heaviness of feeling alone in a crowded room as your friends left you with the tickets while they grabbed a drink or two.

The sight of Chrollo behind you in the mirror, watching you with clear intent, breaks you away.

“We’re leaving now.”

***

“I… actually really like The Sleeping Beauty ballet.”

You feel awkward. It’s certainly not the first time you’ve been in a car with Chrollo, whether your forcibly pressed against him in the back seat or in the front, blasting the radio in an attempt to prevent him from striking up a conversation as he drives you to some new destination.

But it’s the first time you’ve been in the car for reasons other than transporting you to a new ‘home.’ The first time that you’ve both been dressed up; Chrollo’s cologne wafts gently over to you, and you can’t deny that he knows how to pick a good scent.

It’s also the first time you’ve felt conversation to be a necessity, if only to find out where you were going (the opera house) and what you were seeing (a ballet).

In fact, the news of the performance makes you sit up straighter in your seat. You feel a ping of excitement, and without thinking you share it out loud.

“That’s actually the first ballet I ever saw with my mom. Do you know what company it is?”

He tells you, and you bite your lip anxiously, squaring your shoulders against the back of the seat as you start to imagine the night ahead. Then you remember the smooth red lipstick and force your mouth to relax.

You talk, instead, to keep yourself from ruining your lipstick with your nervous habit. “I’ve heard about this company’s version. Well,” you continue, “I wanted to see them perform this a few years ago, but tickets sold out so fast. I couldn’t afford the scalper prices.”

“How nice that I have tickets for this performance, then.”

“Right!” Your pitch is higher and you internally cringe. You shouldn’t sound so excited. You glance at him from the corner of your eye, but he seems focused on the road.

As the drive continues, you keep talking. Without realizing it, your voice becomes lighter, easier, and even you don’t know why you’re speaking so freely. You talk more to him on this stretch of road than you have within months, sarcastic replies and bitter responses notwithstanding. 

You talk about ballet. You talk about the history of the show. You talk about this company’s costumes--you saw them displayed in a store window and wow, were they gorgeous--and as the words come out, you feel lighter. Less bogged down by your protective anger, less heavy and hateful.

Happiness. 

It’s something that you haven’t felt in a long time. It’s a feeling that your stomach rebels against, not welcoming the sudden intrusion of lightness and lift while you’re sitting in a car next to your captor. But you push your stomach’s rebellious nature down and force yourself to remember that tonight,  you get to escape onto the stage; for a little while, you can be somewhere else.

Even being in the car tonight is doing wonders for you, you think. You must be getting close--the lights of the city are brighter and there’s throngs of nicely dressed people walking down the street towards what you realize is the theater. You see a little girl holding a woman’s hand and your stomach clenches in bitter nostalgia, but the thought is pushed aside quickly enough when Chrollo pulls into a valet circle.

You don’t have time to open the door before he opens it for you, extending his arm like a gentlemen.

“Ready?”

**

You’re buzzing on the way home. Not just from the champagne--three glasses, Chrollo having subtly waved away the usher approaching your opera box with your requested fourth. Not just from the show, which was magical and lush and everything you hoped it would be. Not just from the fact that you had a night out, away from the stuffiness of whatever luxury suite you were trapped in.

But from the thrill of feeling something, anything, other than your own deep despair and bitterness. You laughed in delight at the sillier moments, the bright-yellow Canary fairy and her trills; you cried at Aurora’s pleading vision to be set free, the first time you’ve cried at something other than your own situation in ages; you clapped and even, in the end, let yourself shout out a cheery “Brava!”

Even Chrollo seemed different during the evening. No forcible hand-holding or other niceties that had given you anxiety earlier in the evening. No unbearable condescension, only the hint of a smirk during the intermission when you--instinctively, you insisted to yourself, not because you liked his company--began an excited conversation about the events of the first Act. Did he like this part? What about the orchestra? And oh, this variation, didn’t he think it was a bit too overdone on the part of the dancer, but she more than recovered by the end?

When Chrollo helps you out of the car into the private parking garage, the air is cool and crackling; everything still feels electric, the way it always does when you come home from an event. Though as the doorman opens the private elevator leading to the condominium above, you dimly remind yourself you’re not coming home, exactly.

The swift ride up the elevator leaves you feeling dizzy. Your mind feels like it’s crashing, suddenly. From the champagne, maybe--but something else, too.

The elevator doors open into the condo suite you share with Chrollo and it hits you as you take the first step inside: you’re back to where you started the night. Trapped. The transporting, glittering events of the evening fall off your shoulders like a worn coat; you’re left once again only with yourself, with your present situation--and with Chrollo.

Your cheeks feel hot and you know the tears are coming before you feel them prickle at your eyes. The urge to wipe them away is masked only by the remembrance that you’re wearing makeup, but that doesn’t stop it from running as they begin to flow down your cheeks.

It burns, and you start for the bathroom, intent on scrubbing your face and ripping off the dress--but your entire body jerks back as Chrollo grabs your arm and prevents you from taking another step.

“Let go,” you say, voice empty of anything but the desperate need to be in the bathroom, to clean your face, to be alone with your returning misery.

He doesn’t. Instead, he pulls you back, forcing you to stand up straight as you fruitlessly fight against his grip.

“You’re crying.”

“I don’t need you to tell me that,” you murmur, voice edged not with bitterness this time, but sorrow. You don’t want to look at him. He’s seen you cry countless times, but you hate the way he looks at you when you do.

“Tell me why.”

You finally force yourself to look up at him, eyes blinking away the stinging tears, and you’re not surprised by his intensive gaze. He’s studying you. Analyzing. Like you’re some sort of book he can read and discover.

Maybe the champagne has loosened your tongue; maybe the night itself has loosened the tight-lipped hold your bitterness has on you. Whatever it is, you confess.

“I was happy,” you say, voice wobbling with tears. “I was--happy on the way there. I was happy at the theater. I was happy on the way home. I--I haven’t…” you rub at your eyes, smearing eyeshadow onto your fingertips. “I haven’t felt that way in months. And now we’re back and I don’t feel it anymore.” Your voice finally cracks with your last words, and you cover your eyes with one hand as crushing feelings of sadness sweep over you.

He pulls you closer to him, and you can’t fight away from his physical strength.

“Let go,” you plead. “I just want to be alone.”

You jerk your face away when he strokes your cheek with his free hand.

“Alone? Whatever for? My hypothesis for tonight was correct.”

His words make you stop pulling. Hypothesis? You sniffle and try to get your bearings, try to brace yourself. But you’re tired, and sad, and your head is swimming.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

He places his free hand on the back of your head and leans in closer. The heat of his skin and the pressure of his grip makes a flushed warmth bloom across your skin.

“You see,” he whispers, his lips ghosting against the side of your ear. “You can be happy with me, after all.”

[emyluwinter]

I think you've probably noticed that I take "breaks" from time to time in writing a twist. Sometimes protracted, sometimes not so much. Although I have quite enough ideas, but it is not always possible to convey all the words that you want to write the way you want it yourself. And that's fine.

So…After the trip, I discovered that I had a wild emptiness and stupor? I'm sorry, honey, I'm not good at terminology. I think this can be attributed to a depressive episode. Deeper than I feared. But it's not so important, I wouldn't want to load you with my dark waters in my head.

Well, I would like to give you some tips / hints / cheat sheets, you can call it as you prefer what you can try to do. (It is to try, you do not need to aggravate your condition, my dear) When you are either in a depressive episode, or you are very hard and sad and you realize that you can no longer control yourself and your life. You've probably heard or read some of the tips. So don't take them seriously.

Take care of yourself. Yes, it sounds silly, said more than once. But rest is equal to your fuel without which you cannot function and act normally.

Rest and care do not need to be earned.

I'll say it again, my dear.

Rest. and. care. do. not. need .to. deserve.

Do something for yourself. To eat delicious food, if you have no appetite, try something light. Or turn on the channels where they cook beautifully. I swear to you, at least after a couple of videos with all the delicious and beautifully decorated dishes, you will have at least one more unit of appetite.

If you have problems with food like me……huh…I hug you tightly and realizing that this is the most disgusting thing that was imposed on us from the outside.

Determine the portion after which you will be "full". A little less than the usual portion?Okay, but remember you need to eat so that you were a) comfortable and b) not harmful to your health. A little extra because you're overly hungry? It's great if you have an appetite, I'm very happy. Just determine the portion after which you will say that the mission is wrapped up for this meal and you have eaten well. Praise yourself that you had an appetite.

If you have the same problem as me with feeling full, take small portions. I'm serious!! Do you want to try a lot of dishes? Take the smallest portions that you have. Thus, there will be no ill feeling after this due to "overeating", or you eating a little fruit between meals. And you can try anything you want. Oh! And be sure to try to enjoy your meal. Without gadgets and other things. Focus on the color of the food, which dishes, which device is more convenient to eat. Need a knife? Take. Do you want to try to be a "man of the world with royal manners"? Why not! You can just put the cutlery next to it and not use it. In order not to strain yourself with washing dishes afterwards. Put a napkin, light a candle, whatever you want. Damn it, your consciousness does not do it in the best way from time to time, treat yourself!

If, my dear, you forget to take your pills. (If for some reason you need them.) You can set alarms or a reminder. When I was undergoing medical treatment, although the keyword was "tried" and it only made it worse… and I needed to take pills. I set the alarm clocks. If you need to take them before or after a meal, and you know approximately what time you will eat, set an alarm clock or several reminders in this interval. Put the most neutral sound on the alert, which will not annoy and make you nervous. Even the quacking of a duck or the meowing of a cat! You can also leave memos in front of your eyes or do something with a calendar and cross out if you have done everything for that day.

Cleaning. The dumbest solution, but it will help a hell of a lot.

After the trip, I'm a week? maybe more, I couldn't do the cleaning in my room and sort out winter and summer things in my closet.

And also my room was excessively cluttered.

My number one advice is to clering the biggest and biggest things at the very beginning. They take up the most space and when there is one little thing left, you will see that you have done a lot.

To divide the cleaning into sections or into stages, this is normal. If the situation in the place where you are now allows you.

Be sure to ventilate the room, now comes a hot period in temperature and a little fresh air will be useful to you. In addition, there will be less dust from which the nose will scratch and sneezing will begin.

If for some reason you are terribly tired, but you need to do the cleaning, and one of your family members is free or not busy. Divide the cleaning. Explain that your energy battery is in a negative state and ask for help. Washing dishes one person washes the first half, the second one wipes and cleans it, and then on the contrary.

Or someone, for example, is engaged in wiping dust from the shelves, and another is vacuuming the floor.

The attitude towards yourself when it is simply unbearable.

I was watching some vlog and the girl told me about one reception from her therapist. That you can deceive your consciousness a little if you try to treat yourself as a small version of yourself (the sweetest, wonderful, charming child who is terribly tired and you can wrap your love and neediness in a cozy blanket)

Once I had a big fight with my mother and felt disgusting and I still had to go to work. And all the way while I was going to work, I was having a dialogue with that little me. Scared, anxious and with a strong thick sediment from all this on my heart. I comforted her, said the most tender, most loving words that I could find at that moment, mentally hugged this little one tightly, and you know? It worked.

If you want to give someone love, care and tenderness, first of all do it for yourself. Start small. This is not selfishness, this is how you take care of your inner garden. It's so hard for you, you are fighting a daily struggle that few people even know about. Don't blame yourself for that.

Sad, but productive.

Yes, I read in the comic book "Legends of Olympus" a very good moment from Persephone.

"You can be sad and lie in bed, or you can be sad but productive"

To put it bluntly, if you choose between going to "take a shower and be sad", a better option than "being dirty and sad"

Do at least the basic things. Take a bath, brush your teeth, use a comb. And don't forget to thank yourself. Yes, this is a small thing, but these little things are important in our case.

Do everything that gives you comfort and makes you feel better.

It's hard, I know. You can handle it, honey. I believe in you and am proud of everything you do and try to do.

If I remember something else, I will write, unless of course you are interested in, sunshine..

[formidxble]

summary: you and chan follow a routine every night. tonight’s different. 

pairing: bang chan x female reader 

word count: 3.1k

genre: angst, like Extreme Angst™️, college!au, established relationship

warnings: a lot of swearing, toxic relationship, mentions of sex ( oh and btw, this is not beta read. we die like men)

note: omg? finally? i got to write something and now i’m posting it on here? confidently??? who is she, we don’t know her! enough jokes though, this is my first fic ever that’s going to be posted on this platform, so i’m excited! constructive criticism and feedback are welcome 👉🏻👈🏻. 

tagged ❤️: @popisdead @hanflix

ˏˋ°•*⁀➷ masterlist

it’s become routine at this point. 

when chan sees your room’s light turn off, it’s a signal that your roommates are now headed to bed and that you’re ready to come out and meet him. it’s been a busy few months for the both of you and the nights were the only time you two could meet. he’s a business major working on his business proposals for the semester and you’re a performing arts student, preparing for this semester’s art production. saying it was hard to make time to see each other was an understatement. nevertheless, you two made sure you still met, may it be only for a few minutes. some nights you were lucky, being able to meet for an hour or so. nights were reserved for chan and for chan only. 

after putting on your coat, you reached out for the door knob as you felt your phone buzz in your pocket. “are you coming or not? i’m freezing” you sigh softly.

the first few nights were fun, you have to admit. impromptu grocery shopping for the both of your food supplies for rest of the week, a few make out sessions here and there, and sometimes, leading to even more if you both were lucky enough. it gave you a high you never thought you would ever come down from. whenever he kissed you after a long day, you felt as if the weight on your shoulders fell off, even for just a moment. whenever chan held you in his arms and told you it was going to be okay, your chest loosened, even for just a moment. chan was the calm in the chaos and when you were in his car, holding his hand and feeling his lips lingering on yours, he provided the needed break you longed for during the day.

but, as the days and weeks passed by, the nights became shorter and quieter. rides became quicker and the good conversations slowly turned into mere small talk. no longer would he give you soft touches, no longer would he ask how your day went, and no longer would chan look at you the way he did before. no more i love you’s, no more second glances when he dropped you off at your dorm during the early hours of the morning. you excused the change of behavior as the result of your fatigue in school. the change was expected, you always told yourself.

it’s become a mantra now, something you repeated to yourself as you lied in bed at night, a routine. a routine. 

you close your eyes for a moment as you twist the doorknob to open the door. you focus on your phone again as soon as you got out of your dorm. “coming."

you spotted chan’s car a mile away. before, he would put the window down to greet you, a soft smile spreading across his face. now, you were faced with the car’s tinted windows, your reflection staring back at you as you wrapped your fingers around the handle of the car door. you heard the lock click. 

“hey,” you mumbled. you heard a soft hum in response. you quietly put the seatbelt on, relaxing your back on the seat as you stared ahead. chan was on his phone, seatbelt off. light from his phone illuminated his features. the bags under his eyes were a little bit more prominent than the last time you noticed. you wonder if he’s been eating, getting enough sleep, but you weren’t in the position to ask now. not when frustration is starting to boil in your chest.  

you didn’t know if you should call him out. it was his way to unwind as well, but then again, he was there to pick you up for a short date. this was the only time you both had for yourselves, yet here he was, texting away on his phone. this shouldn’t annoy you as much as it does now because chan does this whenever he was waiting. 

“hey,” you repeat louder. chan looks up from his phone, an eyebrow raised. 

“yes?” he asks, turning his phone off. the two of you are surrounded in darkness, with only the light from the lamp posts outside lighting the interior of the car. 

“what do you mean, ‘yes?’ are you serious?” chan furrows his eyebrows at your words as he straps himself in. he turns to you, blinking. you suck in a breath. 

“this is the only time we get to spend together and you’re on your phone? are you ser—“

“i’m sorry. there,” he breathes,  “can we move past this? i’m not in the mood to fight.” he interrupts. you open your mouth to say something back, but you’re cut off by the movement of the car. 

the air inside the car was heavy, heavier than usual. sure, you and chan had a couple of unresolved fights the other nights and sure, you spent you early mornings crying over him, but it should have been resolved with the few kisses he gives you, right? then why are you so upset now? chan makes amends, tells you he’s sorry for raising his voice, for ignoring you the whole day. he was busy, right? of course he’ll end up not texting you. he kisses the pain away, even though he’s the reason for said pain. he talks his way out and if he avoids the topic of the fight, you wouldn’t mind. that was the routine. but not tonight, apparently. 

“you’re always not in the mood.” you whisper, crossing your arms in front of your chest. you watch the trees outside of the car starting to blur as chan’s driving sped up. this night will end as quick as it started, you thought. you hear a sigh beside you. 

“i just—“ chan starts, “i can’t fight anymore, y/n. i’m tired.”

“and you think i’m not?” you answer back, looking at the man beside you, “god, we never talk anymore, chan. all we ever do is fuck the pain away and—“

you’re cut off by the sight of chan’s knuckles slowly turning white on the steering wheel. you almost don’t see the way he clenches his jaw. he pulls the car over at the side of the road and for a second, you think you two will be able to finally talk about your issues, the problems that were never muttered, but still plagued your relationship. god knows you wanted to hear from him, anything— fuck, just anything to finally resolve it, fix it. to finally end the routine you both had. but that hope shatters as soon as his mouth opens. 

“what do you want me to say? we’ve been okay, we’ve been fin—“

you let out an exasperated sigh, eyes meeting his, “we aren’t fine, chan, we haven’t bee—“

“what do you mean?” chan questions. he removes his seatbelt to turn to you. a gentleman he still was, even though you knew he was avoiding the topic. again. “fuck, what do you want me to say? i was on the phone. how does that merit a full blown argu—“

“it’s not about the damn phone!” you exclaim, finally feeling the frustration in your chest blow over. 

were you going crazy? why didn’t he see the changes? doesn’t he feel the frustration? were you the only one feeling this way, then? does he feel that everything was okay or were you that good at acting that everything was okay, that nothing was wrong? you run a hand down your face as you try to collect yourself.  the car became quiet, as always. chan was never really vocal about things like this and let you do the talking. maybe this is why issues were never resolved. 

“then, what is it about?” chan mumbles, eyes never leaving your form. you let out a soft scoff.

"what is it abou—are you kidding me? are you fucking with me?”chan raises an eyebrow in response, furrowing it afterwards. he lets out a sarcastic laugh after a few beats of silence. he shook his head as he turned to face the road again. 

“is this fight going to last all night? if so, i’d rather just drop you off,” he starts to put his seatbelt on, "we can continue our date when you’re not this moody."

and at that moment, your world nearly stops. the silence in the car was loud and the tension, if you could see it, could be cut with a knife. his words echo in your mind as the car starts moving again, chan preparing to make a u-turn to go back in the direction of your dorm. 

“not...this...moody?” you repeat to yourself. chan nonchalantly hums in response. 

you couldn’t even look at this man anymore. it was as if you didn’t know him anymore. he carried the name of your boyfriend, but was he really the chan you knew? the chan you knew won’t be able to say these things to you, let alone treat you like this. you feel like a deer in headlights, shocked at how everything led up to this moment. and to think that the turning point of your relationship was something as simple as chan being on his phone. you closed your eyes as you tried to fight the lump forming in your throat. 

“so, what am i supposed to do?” you ask. "just go home and think about what i did? what i said?”

chan shrugs. he shrugs. you couldn’t believe how he didn’t take this conversation seriously. was it because you’ve been in this exact same situation before? sure, fights have been frequent, but were they frequent to the point that chan just straight up ignored them? to the point that he never brought the topics up again? no effort to try and fix it?

was he that tired that he was willing to let everything pass? let you suffer in silence? 

“stop the car,” you whisper shakily. chan doesn’t listen, though. he never does, he rarely does. he never listens anymore. 

“chan, please stop the car,” you feel stupid begging, but that does it. he stops the car again, your dorm building in sight. his knuckles start to turn white again, but he closes his eyes this time. you hear him take a sharp inhale through his nose. 

“i can’t fight anymore, y/n, please, just...we can fix it tomorrow, whatever it is.”

you let out a soft sob at his words. “chan, you always say that, god, you always say that.”

chan grips his steering wheel tighter. “yes, i do, but we always fix it. we always end up fixing it.”

“no, we fucking don’t!” you scream now, releasing the frustration that has been clawing to come out, “no, we don’t fix things, we fuck it away and we pray that things magically turn okay in the morning, but it never does! it never fucking does!”

chan stays quiet, eyes drifting to the car floor. you wish you could know what he was thinking. you wish he would talk to you, tell you what he really felt instead of just sitting there. god, were you tired. you were tired of pretending things were okay when they aren’t. you were tired of telling yourself it would be fixed, that the relationship would go back to normal, but it never does. and you just somehow have to live with it because that’s how it is with you and him. that’s the routine, right? and even though you hated it, you tolerated it because you loved him. but people will reach an end point, one way or the other. you can’t help but feel that this was yours. 

“loving you is so exhausting, chan, i—“ your voice cracks, “i’m supposed to be content with this treatment? you and i not talking the whole day and then meeting at night just to make up for lost time, have sex, and pretend that everything’s okay, that the fights have not gotten out of hand, that we’re going to be ok—“

“we are going to be okay, fuck, it’s not that easy,” chan mumbles, “i’m trying, y/n, but i can’t give you everything you need, not anymore.”

silence fills the car and it engulfs the two of you. 

"what changed?" you sob softly, tears now slowly flowing down your cheeks. it was okay, a few weeks ago. days became busier, tasks became heavier, but did that mean that your relationship had to deteriorate the way it has been? 

“nothing changed, please, y/n,”chan breathes, not turning to look at you, “we just got busier and—"

“we weren’t like this, chan, we used to talk about things. w-we used to...talk. we can’t even do that now? am i asking for too much? i shouldn’t be begging for your time, chan, please—“you cry out softly. “why am i always second to you, chan? i try to be the best for you, chan, please.”

chan lets out a shaky breath as he tries to find the words to respond with. “y/n, it’s not y—“

“spare me the bullshit. spare me the "it’s not you, it’s me”. at least, be honest with me.” you say firmly, wiping away the tears on your cheeks harshly. 

“i...i just don’t feel like i’m ready for this yet, okay? i want to fo—"

your feel something in your chest. a pain you’ve never felt before. chan’s words become a blur as you feel your back hit the seat. 

you’re taken back to a time in your childhood when you were trying out the jump rope your friends had. being the idiot you were, you jumped in time with the rope and it tangled on your feet. you ended up falling on your chin, scraping it in the process. the pain rang through your skull and for a while, you couldn’t move, tears merely streaming down your cheeks. and to that that one time during one of the art productions in university, you ended up falling off of the stage. of course, it wasn’t anyone’s fault, but maybe if they turned on the lights before lowering the stage, you wouldn’t have broken your ankle. you remember how worried chan was, but most importantly, you remember how much it hurt. you couldn’t walk and if you tried, it would shoot pain up your leg. 

adding all the pain you’ve felt in all those moments, it wouldn’t amount to the pain you feel now. 

not ready? not ready after 3 years? how could he say that? this was the man you saw your future with, someone who was supposed to be your soulmate. that was him, that was chan. the nights you shared, the words you uttered, were all those fake? were all those just to make everything feel okay? 

not ready? 

not ready.

the words echo in your mind like a broken record. were you supposed to beg him to stay? beg him to be ready when he just admitted that he wasn’t? as you turned to look at him, you didn’t see the chan who loved you. instead, it was the shell of the man who used to love you, care for you. fuck, was love supposed to hurt this bad? you feel your heart starting to crack even more.

if this was love, you didn’t want it. not anymore.

“drop me off,”you mumble after a deafening silence, voice shaking as a sob threatens to come out of your mouth. chan turns to look at you, finally. you don’t meet his eyes anymore. you, instead, just look straight ahead. if he wasn’t ready for a commitment, even after 3 long years, then you were not about to beg him to stay. chan opens his mouth to say something, but you notice that he just swallows his words. he turns to look in front of him as he pushes on the gas again to drive back to your dorm. if he wasn’t ready, then he wasn’t ready. there’s no point in trying to convince him he is. the next best thing is to leave and let him figure out what he needed to figure out. if he needed space, he could have told you. what bothered you the most is the fact that chan’s always been about communication, but somehow and somewhere along the journey, he changed. maybe that’s just how it goes. 

when he pulls up in front of your dorm building, chan turns to look at you again, eyes scanning your features. “i’ll see you tomorrow, then?”

you shake your head, eyes closing as you tried to fight the urge to cry again. the question he asked has always confused you. it was always like this, that even after a fight, he expects to see you again, the same time, the same place. you were tired and it didn’t help that you now knew why he wasn’t acting the same— he wasn’t ready to commit to you, even after all this time. 

“i’m ending it here, chan."

“ending what?”

ending the routine, ending the cycle, ending us. these words rang through your head and you didn’t know which to answer. was he acting aloof so that he could get off easily? that maybe you’ll let him off again because he somehow can’t understand what was happening? you swallowed. 

“us, chan, i—i can’t go on like this anymore,” you pause. was this what you really wanted or were you doing this to prove a point? you weren’t sure, but one thing’s clear, you had to do this, not only for him, but for you. you can’t subject yourself to this cycle anymore. you had to break it sooner or later. “when i get out of this car, we’re over."

chan’s car became a place of love and security in a world full of uncertainty and chaos. it was where you both spent time together when you needed a break, when you needed to be together. now, it was a place of loneliness and despair. it became a place full of resentment and unresolved issues and you can’t help but wonder how chan will be able to sit in his car again without thinking of this moment. before he could respond, you were out of the car. 

in the back of your mind, you hoped that he would call you, run after you. beg you to stay, tell you that everything will be fixed if you just gave him time. you prayed in your head desperately. if he did so, you know you’ll come crawling back to him. if he showed some sort of care, some sort of longing, some sort of initiative that he wanted things to work out, that he wanted this as much as you do, then maybe you’ll come back to him again. that’s how it always was, right?

right?

behind you, you hear the car drive away.

[calpalirwin]

Phantom Pain

Summary: Trauma bonding turns into a full blown crush with Bucky

Word Count: 2.9k

And away, and away we go!

__

You heard the startled gasps behind you as you lowered your body before pulling yourself up on the pull up bar again. “Yes?” you questioned, repeating another rep.

“I-I-I-” a teenage boy's voice stuttered. “Mr. Stark!” he yelled in slight panic.

You sighed, letting go of the bar and landing on your feet. “Yes?” you repeated, turning to face the lanky teenager with his mop of brown hair, and his companion, a girl a few years older, stifling giggles into her hands, both of their cheeks flushed. “Oh,” you said in realization. “You must be Peter. Uh, Tony’s in the lab, I think.”

Peter nodded mutely, before quickly dashing out of the training room, leaving you face to face with the young woman. “Gay,” you said simply. “And I think Vision’s with Tony.”

Her blush deepened, as she too, hightailed it out of the room with a muttered “Tony has a brother?”

You chuckled quietly to yourself. Of course your brother wouldn’t have told his newest members about you. Something about it not being vital information, and liking the shock value of it.

“And this is the training room,” a voice you did recognize said as Steve came into your line of sight, a man matching his stature trailing behind him silently. “Oh, hey, Stark.”

“Capsicle,” you greeted with a salute.

“Stark?” the other man asked in confusion. “I thought-”

“Fortunately there’s two of us,” you corrected. “Or unfortunately, depending on your opinion of Starks in general. Y/N,” you introduced yourself, offering out your hand.

“Bucky,” the man said, shaking your hand.

“Nightmares, again?” Steve asked you, his eyes glancing about the room.

“Sometimes you frighten me with how observant you are, Rogers,” you said grimly.

“Nightmares?” Bucky questioned, intrigue painting the features of his perfectly sculpted face.

“An unfortunate lingering side effect of my time in the Army, yeah,” you explained. “Something I’m sure you can relate to,” you added with a pointed glance at Bucky’s left arm which was completely metal, your mind already curious to how it worked, and how to make it better. “Working out helps. Something about physical exertion canceling out mental exertion.”

“Well, I might have to join you some time. See if your theory holds up.”

You held out your arms, gesturing about the giant training room. “Feel free. Everything here is open 24/7 to accommodate the mad geniuses and PTSD freaks.”

“And which one are you?” Bucky asked. And you knew it was a stupid question given what little information you had already provided him with. But you could also recognize a flirting edge when you heard one.

“I feel like the answer’s obvious. But, in the event that it’s not, I’m both. Pleasure to meet you, Bucky. And welcome to Avengers headquarters.”

~~~

A couple nights later, you were in the lab tinkering about, when you saw Bucky walk by in gym shorts and a tank top, his hair pulled back in a small bun. “Can’t sleep, huh?” you called out.

His body tensed as he whirled around, relaxing when he saw it was you. “Yeah. Thought I’d try out your theory.”

“It’s a good theory,” you assured, before refocusing on what you’d been working on.

“You have a lot of faith in a theory I’ve yet to test for myself,” Bucky said, stepping into the lab with you.

“I don’t do faith. I do facts,” you replied bluntly.

“Mmm, then how do you know it’s a good theory?”

“A good theory isn't whether it’s proven to be correct or not. A good theory is about being able to be repeated and replicated. Tested multiple times over and over. My theory just also happens to be correct.”

“Wow, you are a Stark.”

“I’m not an idiot, is what you mean. But rest assured I don’t have the same level of arrogance my brother inherited from our father. Or at least, I like to believe I don’t. But, results don’t lie. The physical exertion that comes from working out is enough to distract the brain from the mental exertion that comes from unwanted memories. Is it perfect? No, because it’s not a cure. But it does well enough anyway. And you can take my word for it. Or Rhodey’s, or Sam’s, or Steve’s. And that’s just the military crew. Or, you can test it for yourself. As I said, it’s a good theory. Very testable.”

Bucky’s tongue clicked in his cheek. “Mmm, and if it’s such a good theory, why are you here in the lab instead of in the training room?”

“A distraction, is a distraction, is a distraction. And I have work to do.”

“And what is it that you’re working on?” he asked, stepping closer to peer over your shoulder.

“Prosthetic limbs for amputees. Ones that aren’t hunks of metal. No offense.”

“None taken. I didn’t exactly get a say in the matter.”

“Right… Sorry…”

“No, don’t apologize. Something more… realistic looking would be nice. But the metal’s worked so far. Enhances already enhanced abilities.”

A shudder went down your spine. “Right. Super soldier strength mixed in with whatever tech is loaded up in that thing. I’ve taken a lot of hits in my day that I’d hate to experience again, but I’d do it if it meant a guarantee of never being on the receiving end of being hit by that. Like… the damage you were able to inflict on Tony, even in his suit…” you let out a low whistle. “Damn… no thanks.”

“Sorry? I think?”

You laughed, waving a hand dismissively. “Please. It’s not that he didn’t deserve it. The amount of times I wish I could clock him myself… My only regret was having not been there to actually see it.”

“Why do I get the feeling you and Tony don’t actually get along?”

“Oh, we do. It’s just… typical sibling shit, I suppose. We had different ways of coping with our parents dying. He went the standard billionaire spoiled brat route. I went to the Army. He took over the company. I stayed in the Army. He realized the damage the company was actually doing and became Iron Man. I was part of that damage.”

“Shit…”

Again, you waved a hand dismissively. “Don’t get me wrong. He’s my older brother. I love him. He’s rectified a lot of his past by helping turn Stark Industries into the Avengers. He's, dare I say, gained a conscience. But he’s also far from perfect. Still too arrogant for his own good. But I like him a lot better these days than I used to. I mean, I’m here.”

“So… you work for him? Doing what exactly?”

“Yes, and no. I live and work here, yes. But I don’t necessarily work for my brother. I help him and Bruce out a lot. Perks of not being an Avenger myself means I’m here to keep working when they’re gone. But, for the most part I keep to myself doing my own project.”

“Right, the prosthetic limbs. Personal reasons?”

“Yeah, you could say that. Seen my fair share of wounded vets. And seen my fair share of their struggle with shitty prosthetics. And even if they are complete shit, they’re also expensive. But I’m in a position where I can make non-shitty ones and, pun not intended, not have them cost people an arm and a leg. So, that’s what I do. Each prototype gets me closer and closer to making them as realistic as possible. Restoring range of motion you won’t get with cheap plastic wrapped around steel. It’s like… a complete limb transplant. Or that’s the ultimate goal anyway. Make prosthetics so real it’s like you never lost a limb in the first place.”

“That’s… noble of you.”

You shrugged. “Let’s just say I have a soft spot for broken things.”

Bucky smiled at that.

~~~

For the next handful of months, it wasn’t uncommon for Bucky to find you awake in the lab, or for you to find him awake in the training room.

Some nights, the two of you would work out your frustrations of the memories that haunted you both, and you’d tease him about how it wasn’t fair you always drenched through your shirt while he barely broke a sweat, smiling at the way he’d laugh.

Other nights, the two of you would swap war stories while he watched you work in the lab, and when you gathered up the courage to ask to run tests on how the tech in his arm worked to further your own research, he willingly obliged.

“So… were you just an enlisted soldier, or an officer?” he asked one night while you tinkered away.

“An officer. Made First Lieutenant.”

“That’s just below Steve. Which…”

“Is still lower than Sergeant, yes,” you laughed. “Technically anyway. But as an officer, I would still outrank you.”

“What happened?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean… no offense, but First Lieutenant isn’t exactly brag worthy. I imagine you meant to go further. What happened? Was it the damage you mentioned with Tony?”

You nodded. “Yeah. The same accident that started his whole Iron Man gimmick was the same accident that ended my career.”

Bucky nodded, and you knew he wanted to ask more, but didn’t want to pry or overstep. And you were grateful for that. It was one thing to own up that your PTSD stemmed from an incident that ended your military career. It was also one thing to own up to how your experience in the military drove you towards creating prosthetic limbs. But to admit that there was a deep personal connection between the two? That wasn’t something you liked to fess up to. “I’m sorry,” Bucky finally said, feeling the need to say something about your half confession. To acknowledge it without asking more.

You smiled wryly at him. “It’s f-” Your face twisted, and your fingers white-knuckled the table as pain flashed through your leg.

Bucky’s eyes went wide. “You okay?” he asked, moving around the table towards you, his hands hovering nearby in case you fell.

“Knife!” you gasped out, gritting your teeth and humming loudly to keep from screaming out in the pain you knew wasn’t real. “Get me a knife!”

Bucky stood there, frozen, staring at you in horror.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake!” you barked at him. “I know you have a knife on you! Give it to me! That’s an order, Sergeant!”

That snapped Bucky into action. “Yeah, yeah,” he said, rummaging in his pockets. “Here!”

The sharp steel glinted in the lights as you took it from him and promptly shoved it deep into your right shin.

“What the fuck?!” Bucky yelped, jumping back. “WHAT THE FUCK?!” he repeated when no blood came pouring out of the wound as you yanked the knife back out.

“Aaaahhhh,” you sighed in relief, the pain ebbing away. You relaxed the tension in your body, breathing slowly. “Fuck… hate when that happens.”

“What… the… actual… fuck?” Bucky asked for a third time in a low whisper.

“Relax, it’s fake,” you said, flashing the knife. “See? No blood.”

“I- I-” he stammered.

“It’s called phantom limb pain. Happens in amputees all the time.” You took a seat, pushing up your pant leg to your knee, detaching the prosthetic and tossing it uselessly onto the work table. “Piece of shit,” you muttered, before pulling a tape-recorder out of your pocket. “Prototype 27. Failure, as of,” you spared a glance down at the date on your watch, speaking that into the tape recorder as well. “What?” you asked Bucky who was staring at you with his mouth hanging open.

“That explains… so much. But… why didn’t you just tell me?”

You shrugged. “It’s not something I tell people. Lost my leg in an explosion caused by weapons my family made? Yeah, not exactly a conversation starter.”

“I get that, but… c’mon. It’s me.” He gestured at his left arm.

“Yes, you who- and please don’t take offense to this- doesn’t remember the trauma of losing his arm, and has never experienced the pain that is phantom limb pain.”

“I don’t remember the trauma thanks to years of more trauma that is being brain-washed, and having my mind controlled,” he replied in a clipped tone.

“Yes, the entire world is aware of your trauma, Barnes. Must be nice to have people be aware of what you’ve gone through.”

“People would be aware of what you’ve gone through too, if you’d tell us instead of hiding in jeans and sweatpants!”

“Why would I tell people?! For sympathy?! Or to hear them tell me that I deserved it?! Because news flash, both of those outcomes fucking suck!”

His face crumpled. “Why would anyone think you deserved this?”

You scoffed at his naivety. “It’s poetic justice, Bucky. My own family took my leg. They took Tony’s heart, too, but hey! Look what he made as a result! Isn’t it fuckin’ marvelous?! Tony Stark loses his heart, but gains a soul. Y/N Stark. Loses his leg, and nobody cares.” The words were bitter on your tongue.

“You don’t strike me as the pity party type.”

“I’m not. That’s why I don’t tell people. And yes, maybe there’s a selfish part of me that does what I do strictly for me. Maybe I never would have thought to do all this if I wasn’t an amputee myself. But I’m here, and I’m doing it. And I’m not going to use my story to gain attention and credit that I don’t even want in the first place. Tony thrives in the spotlight. Me? Never been my thing.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think your project’s pretty great. And I don’t see your personal attachment to it as a hindrance. If anything, I bet it pushes you further. To keep trying, even when what you have is already worlds better than what’s available already. But I also get wanting to keep parts of you to yourself. The sympathy vote isn’t the best feeling.”

“Thank you,” you mumbled. “And I’m sorry for what I said about how it must be nice to have people aware of your trauma. Well… I’m sorry for how I said it. There’s quite a laundry list of things that will turn me into an asshole, and phantom limb pain ranks pretty high on that list. But I didn’t mean it as an attack, and if it came across that way, I do apologize.”

“Don’t worry about it. To an extent you’re right. The whole world knowing what happened to me… it dulls the shock value of a lot of things. Justifies a lot of my actions. So, for the most part, it’s incredibly beneficial. But sometimes I wish I could just… I dunno. Be Bucky without people making their assumptions about what that means.”

“Well, for what it’s worth, I try to make it a habit of drawing my own conclusions about people rather than listening to the assumptions others have made about them. So, at least with me, you can be Bucky, and that can be however you want it to look.”

“Thanks. I’d uh… I’d like that.” He smiled softly at you, and you smiled back, watching as a blush crept over his face. “Um… Are you going to need help back to your room? Cuz I can help, if you need me to.” The blush grew darker as he shifted his eyes about the room.

“Uh…” you stammered, a blush coming to your own face. Normally when you tossed aside a rejected prosthetic, you either stayed in the lab until you made a new one, reattached the useless one and begrudgingly dealt with it until you felt up to making a new one, or, in super rare cases when you were sure you were alone, wheeled yourself about the headquarters in a chair. But, here was Bucky, offering to help hobble you off to your room. And the thought of him helping support your weight, or God forbid carry you was enough to make your heart sped up. “Even without the weight of a leg, I’m still not exactly light, or small,” you told him. You weren’t as tall as Bucky, that was true, and you certainly didn’t have super soldier serum running through your veins. But you were still very much the standard rugged American soldier type with broad shoulders and well-defined muscles of your own.

Bucky just scoffed at the notion before picking you up in his arms.

“Jesus, fuck!” you exclaimed, throwing an arm around his neck to help support your weight as he headed for the door of the lab. “I swear if you drop me…”

Bucky chuckled, his chest rumbling into your side. “Relax. I’m not gonna drop you. Now, tell me where I’m going.”

You rattled off the quickest route to your room, both hating the vulnerability of being carried in his arms, and loving the security of it.

“See?” he beamed proudly, as he set you on your bed. “Told ya I wouldn’t drop you.”

“Thanks…”

“Anytime.”

“Bucky, wait,” you called out when he turned to leave. “Um… Would you mind maybe staying?”

“Here? With you? In your room?”

You rolled your eyes. “Yeah, yeah, the 1940s gentleman thing is real charming.”

“No, it’s not that. It’s um… You know I’m gay, right?”

“Well… That makes the, uh… oh, I can’t believe I’m gonna say this, but that makes having a crush on you a lot easier. Or a lot worse, depending on how things go.”

He blinked at you in confusion, not sure if he was hearing you correctly.

“I like you, Bucky. So are you gonna stay?”

He grinned, happily walking back over to you. “I like you too. And yeah, I’ll stay.”

__

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[fiftyfiftyinla]

HARDIN. I scan through the pages of the small notebook, my eyes move across the words quickly as I decide where to start. It's a journal from her religion class, it took me a minute to figure out what the hell it was because each entry is labeled with a word and a date, most of them having nothing to do with religion.

Pain. The word catches my eye and I begin to read.

Does pain turn people away from their God? If so, how? Pain can turn anyone away from just about anything. Pain is capable of causing you to do things you would never consider doing, such as blaming God for your pain. Pain.. such a simple word that holds so much inside. I have come to learn that pain is the strongest emotion one can feel. Unlike every other emotion, there is no upside to pain, no positive notion that can make you look at the pain from a different perspective, there is only pain. Lately I have become very well acquainted with pain, the ache has nearly become unbearable. Sometimes when l'm alone, which is more often than not as of recently, I find myself trying to decide which type of pain is worse. The answer isn't as simple as I thought it would be. The slow and steady aching pain, the type of pain that comes when you've been hurt repeatedly by the same person yet here you are, here I am, allowing the pain to continue, it never ends. Only in those rare moments when he pulls me to his chest and makes promises that he never seems able to keep, does the pain disappear. Just as I get used to the freedom, my freedom my self inflicted pain, it returns with another blow.

This doesn't have a damn thing to do with religion, this is about me.

I have decided that the hot, burning, inescapable pain is the worst. This pain comes when you finally begin to relax, you finally breathe, thinking that the pain is yesterday's problem when in fact it's today's problem, tomorrow's, and every day after that. This pain comes when you pour everything into something, into someone, and they betray you so suddenly that the pain crushes you and you feel as if you are barely breathing, barely holding on to that small fraction of whatever is left inside of you begging you to go on, not to give up.

Fuck.

Sometimes it's faith that people hold onto, sometimes, if you're lucky enough you can confide in someone else and trust them to pull you out of the pain before you dwell in it for too long. Pain is one of those hideous places that once visited you have to fight your way out and even when you think you have escaped you are permanently branded. If you're like me, you don't have anyone to depend on, no one to take your hand and assure you that you will make it through this hell. Instead, you have to lace up your boots, grab your own hand, and pull yourself out.

My eyes move to the date at the top of the page, this was written while I was in England. I shouldn't read any more, I should just put the damn book down and never open it again but I can't. I have to know what else was written in this book of secrets. This is the closest to her I fear that I will ever fucking get. I turn to another page labeled "Faith".

What does faith mean to you? Do you have faith in something higher? Do you believe that faith can bring good things into people's lives?

This should be better, this entry should knife the ache in my chest. This one couldn't be related to me.

To me, faith means believing in something other than yourself. I don't believe that any two people can possibly hold the same view on faith whether their only faith is religion based or not. I do believe in something higher, I was raised that way. My mother and I went to church every single Sunday and most Wednesday's. I don't go to church now, which I probably should but l'm still deciding howI feel about my religious faith as an adult without my mother's influence. When I think about faith my mind doesn't automatically go to religion, it probably should but it just doesn't. It goes to him, everything does. He is my every thought, I'm not entirely sure if that's a good thing but that's the way it is and I have faith that it will work out for us in the end. Yes, he's difficult and overprotective, sometimes even controlling. okay, he's often controlling but I have faith in him that he means well with each frustrating action. My relationship with him tests me in ways thatI never thought imaginable but every second is worth it. I have faith that one day the deep fear of losing me will dissolve and he will embrace our future together, that's all I want./ know he wants it too, though he would never say it. Thave so much faith in that man that I will take every single tear, every single pointless argument, I'll take it all just to be around for the day when he has faith in himself. I have faith that one day Hardin will say what he feels openly and honestly, finally putting an end to his self-imposed exile. I have faith that one day he will finally see that he isn't a villain. He tries so hard to be one but deep down he's really a hero. He's been my hero, my tormenter at times, but mostly my hero. He saved me from myself, / spent my life pretending to be someone I wasn't and Hardin has shown me that it's okay to be myself. I don't have to conform to the person my mother wanted me to be and I thank him dearly for it. I have faith that he will see how truly incredible he is, he's so incredibly perfectly imperfect and I love him so much for that. He may not show it the conventional way but he tries and that's all I can ask for from him. I have faith that if he continues to try, he will finally allow himself to be happy. I will continue to have faith in him until he stops trying.

I close the book and pinch the bridge of my nose in an attempt to control my emotions. She had all of this faith in me for no damn reason. I'll never understand why she wasted her time on me in the first place but reading her unguarded thoughts this way twists the knife, removes it, and impales it into my chest once more.

I really am a fucking drunk. I'm hovered over the kitchen counter with a fucking bottle of vodka in my hands. I twist the top off and bring the bottle to my lips. Just one drink will cause the guilt to go away. If I have one drink I can force myself to pretend Tessa will be home soon. It has worked before to numb the pain, it will work this time. One drink.

Just as I close my eyes and tilt my head back, Tessa's teary eyes flash behind mine. I open my eyes, turn the sink faucet on, and pour the vodka down the drain.

[roach-works]

here’s a story about changelings

reposted from my old blog, which got deleted:   Mary was a beautiful baby, sweet and affectionate, but by the time she’s three she’s turned difficult and strange, with fey moods and a stubborn mouth that screams and bites but never says mama. But her mother’s well-used to hard work with little thanks, and when the village gossips wag their tongues she just shrugs, and pulls her difficult child away from their precious, perfect blossoms, before the bites draw blood. Mary’s mother doesn’t drown her in a bucket of saltwater, and she doesn’t take up the silver knife the wife of the village priest leaves out for her one Sunday brunch. She gives her daughter yarn, instead, and instead of a rowan stake through her inhuman heart she gives her a child’s first loom, oak and ash. She lets her vicious, uncooperative fairy daughter entertain herself with games of her own devising, in as much peace and comfort as either of them can manage. Mary grows up strangely, as a strange child would, learning everything in all the wrong order, and biting a great deal more than she should. But she also learns to weave, and takes to it with a grand passion. Soon enough she knows more than her mother–which isn’t all that much–and is striking out into unknown territory, turning out odd new knots and weaves, patterns as complex as spiderwebs and spellrings. “Aren’t you clever,” her mother says, of her work, and leaves her to her wool and flax and whatnot. Mary’s not biting anymore, and she smiles more than she frowns, and that’s about as much, her mother figures, as anyone should hope for from their child. Mary still cries sometimes, when the other girls reject her for her strange graces, her odd slow way of talking, her restless reaching fluttering hands that have learned to spin but never to settle. The other girls call her freak, witchblood, hobgoblin. “I don’t remember girls being quite so stupid when I was that age,” her mother says, brushing Mary’s hair smooth and steady like they’ve both learned to enjoy, smooth as a skein of silk. “Time was, you knew not to insult anyone you might need to flatter later. ‘Specially when you don’t know if they’re going to grow wings or horns or whatnot. Serve ‘em all right if you ever figure out curses.” “I want to go back,” Mary says. “I want to go home, to where I came from, where there’s people like me. If I’m a fairy’s child I should be in fairyland, and no one would call me a freak.” “Aye, well, I’d miss you though,” her mother says. “And I expect there’s stupid folk everywhere, even in fairyland. Cruel folk, too. You just have to make the best of things where you are, being my child instead.” Mary learns to read well enough, in between the weaving, especially when her mother tracks down the traveling booktraders and comes home with slim, precious manuals on dyes and stains and mordants, on pigments and patterns, diagrams too arcane for her own eyes but which make her daughter’s eyes shine. “We need an herb garden,” her daughter says, hands busy, flipping from page to page, pulling on her hair, twisting in her skirt, itching for a project. “Yarrow, and madder, and woad and weld…” “Well, start digging,” her mother says. “Won’t do you a harm to get out of the house now’n then.” Mary doesn’t like dirt but she’s learned determination well enough from her mother. She digs and digs, and plants what she’s given, and the first year doesn’t turn out so well but the second’s better, and by the third a cauldron’s always simmering something over the fire, and Mary’s taking in orders from girls five years older or more, turning out vivid bolts and spools and skeins of red and gold and blue, restless fingers dancing like they’ve summoned down the rainbow. Her mother figures she probably has. “Just as well you never got the hang of curses,” she says, admiring her bright new skirts. “I like this sort of trick a lot better.” Mary smiles, rocking back and forth on her heels, fingers already fluttering to find the next project. She finally grows up tall and fair, if a bit stooped and squinty, and time and age seem to calm her unhappy mouth about as well as it does for human children. Word gets around she never lies or breaks a bargain, and if the first seems odd for a fairy’s child then the second one seems fit enough. The undyed stacks of taken orders grow taller, the dyed lots of filled orders grow brighter, the loom in the corner for Mary’s own creations grows stranger and more complex. Mary’s hands callus just like her mother’s, become as strong and tough and smooth as the oak and ash of her needles and frames, though they never fall still. “Do you ever wonder what your real daughter would be like?” the priest’s wife asks, once. Mary’s mother snorts. “She wouldn’t be worth a damn at weaving,” she says. “Lord knows I never was. No, I’ll keep what I’ve been given and thank the givers kindly. It was a fair enough trade for me. Good day, ma’am.” Mary brings her mother sweet chamomile tea, that night, and a warm shawl in all the colors of a garden, and a hairbrush. In the morning, the priest’s son comes round, with payment for his mother’s pretty new dress and a shy smile just for Mary. He thinks her hair is nice, and her hands are even nicer, vibrant in their strength and skill and endless motion.   They all live happily ever after. * Here’s another story: Gregor grew fast, even for a boy, grew tall and big and healthy and began shoving his older siblings around early. He was blunt and strange and flew into rages over odd things, over the taste of his porridge or the scratch of his shirt, over the sound of rain hammering on the roof, over being touched when he didn’t expect it and sometimes even when he did. He never wore shoes if he could help it and he could tell you the number of nails in the floorboards without looking, and his favorite thing was to sit in the pantry and run his hands through the bags of dry barley and corn and oat. Considering as how he had fists like a young ox by the time he was five, his family left him to it. “He’s a changeling,” his father said to his wife, expecting an argument, but men are often the last to know anything about their children, and his wife only shrugged and nodded, like the matter was already settled, and that was that. They didn’t bind Gregor in iron and leave him in the woods for his own kind to take back. They didn’t dig him a grave and load him into it early. They worked out what made Gregor angry, in much the same way they figured out the personal constellations of emotion for each of their other sons, and when spring came, Gregor’s father taught him about sprouts, and when autumn came, Gregor’s father taught him about sheaves. Meanwhile his mother didn’t mind his quiet company around the house, the way he always knew where she’d left the kettle, or the mending, because she was forgetful and he never missed a detail. “Pity you’re not a girl, you’d never drop a stitch of knitting,” she tells Gregor, in the winter, watching him shell peas. His brothers wrestle and yell before the hearth fire, but her fairy child just works quietly, turning peas by their threes and fours into the bowl. “You know exactly how many you’ve got there, don’t you?” she says. “Six hundred and thirteen,” he says, in his quiet, precise way. His mother says “Very good,” and never says Pity you’re not human. He smiles just like one, if not for quite the same reasons. The next autumn he’s seven, a lucky number that pleases him immensely, and his father takes him along to the mill with the grain. “What you got there?” The miller asks them. “Sixty measures of Prince barley, thirty two measures of Hare’s Ear corn, and eighteen of Abernathy Blue Slate oats,” Gregor says. “Total weight is three hundred fifty pounds, or near enough. Our horse is named Madam. The wagon doesn’t have a name. I’m Gregor.” “My son,” his father says. “The changeling one.” “Bit sharper’n your others, ain’t he?” the miller says, and his father laughs. Gregor feels proud and excited and shy, and it dries up all his words, sticks them in his throat. The mill is overwhelming, but the miller is kind, and tells him the name of each and every part when he points at it, and the names of all the grain in all the bags waiting for him to get to them. “Didn’t know the fair folk were much for machinery,” the miller says. Gregor shrugs. “I like seeds,” he says, each word shelled out with careful concentration. “And names. And numbers.” “Aye, well. Suppose that’d do it. Want t’help me load up the grist?” They leave the grain with the miller, who tells Gregor’s father to bring him back ‘round when he comes to pick up the cornflour and cracked barley and rolled oats. Gregor falls asleep in the nameless wagon on the way back, and when he wakes up he goes right back to the pantry, where the rest of the seeds are left, and he runs his hands through the shifting, soothing textures and thinks about turning wheels, about windspeed and counterweights. When he’s twelve–another lucky number–he goes to live in the mill with the miller, and he never leaves, and he lives happily ever after. * Here’s another: James is a small boy who likes animals much more than people, which doesn’t bother his parents overmuch, as someone needs to watch the sheep and make the sheepdogs mind. James learns the whistles and calls along with the lambs and puppies, and by the time he’s six he’s out all day, tending to the flock. His dad gives him a knife and his mom gives him a knapsack, and the sheepdogs give him doggy kisses and the sheep don’t give him too much trouble, considering. “It’s not right for a boy to have so few complaints,” his mother says, once, when he’s about eight. “Probably ain’t right for his parents to have so few complaints about their boy, neither,” his dad says. That’s about the end of it. James’ parents aren’t very talkative, either. They live the routines of a farm, up at dawn and down by dusk, clucking softly to the chickens and calling harshly to the goats, and James grows up slow but happy. When James is eleven, he’s sent to school, because he’s going to be a man and a man should know his numbers. He gets in fights for the first time in his life, unused to peers with two legs and loud mouths and quick fists. He doesn’t like the feel of slate and chalk against his fingers, or the harsh bite of a wooden bench against his legs. He doesn’t like the rules: rules for math, rules for meals, rules for sitting down and speaking when you’re spoken to and wearing shoes all day and sitting under a low ceiling in a crowded room with no sheep or sheepdogs. Not even a puppy. But his teacher is a good woman, patient and experienced, and James isn’t the first miserable, rocking, kicking, crying lost lamb ever handed into her care. She herds the other boys away from him, when she can, and lets him sit in the corner by the door, and have a soft rag to hold his slate and chalk with, so they don’t gnaw so dryly at his fingers. James learns his numbers well enough, eventually, but he also learns with the abruptness of any lamb taking their first few steps–tottering straight into a gallop–to read. Familiar with the sort of things a strange boy needs to know, his teacher gives him myths and legends and fairytales, and steps back. James reads about Arthur and Morgana, about Hercules and Odysseus, about djinni and banshee and brownies and bargains and quests and how sometimes, something that looks human is left to try and stumble along in the humans’ world, step by uncertain step, as best they can. James never comes to enjoy writing. He learns to talk, instead, full tilt, a leaping joyous gambol, and after a time no one wants to hit him anymore. The other boys sit next to him, instead, with their mouths closed, and their hands quiet on their knees.   “Let’s hear from James,” the men at the alehouse say, years later, when he’s become a man who still spends more time with sheep than anyone else, but who always comes back into town with something grand waiting for his friends on his tongue. “What’ve you got for us tonight, eh?” James finishes his pint, and stands up, and says, “Here’s a story about changelings.”

[stardancerluv]

A Bad Day

Summary: You’re having a bad, Roman is having a bad day.

Warning: Knife!play, Dommy!Roman

You were sketching at your easel working on a new desk for Two-Face. It was truly labor of art. It had to make both sides of him happy. This was your seventh draft. You had not liked anything you had come up with yet.

The buzzer bounced off the wall of your studio. That alone is one reason why you were really considering Roman’s offer. Your studio would be nice and quiet, well except when he’d be angry. The idea made you smirk. Damn, he really could be hot when he was angry.

Walking over to the door, you straightened your ponytail. Opening the door you were greeted by a pleasant enough guy. “Yes?”

“Delivery, for a Miss Y/L/N?”

“Oh! Yes! I almost forgot. Let me open the big door.”

“Certainly.”

Finally, your new fabrics had arrived. You were so excited. Pushing the button the door began to clank and squeak as it rolled back, then it stopped.

“Seriously?” you muttered.

You pushed the other button. It screeched closed. Pacing for a moment, you took a breath. Going back over you pushed the button again. It didn’t budge.

“Oh my god.” You muttered.

You opened the side door again, leaving it open you went over to where the guy waited.

“It’s not budging, I’m sorry.”

“No worries.”

Together with some heaving and a few grunts, you managed to get all your bolts of fabric into your studio.

You leaned against the wall to catch your breath.

He took his hat off and wiped his brow. “If you’re gonna date someone like Roman Sionis you should at least have him pay for the upkeep of your hobbies.”

You stopped leaning. “What did you say?” You plastered a smile and took a step closer to where he stood.

“He should be supporting his girls’ hobbies more. The other one at least he showcases by letting her perform on Friday nights. You haven’t redone the look of his club, have you?”

Your heart stilled and the anger began to burn. “First of, Dinah is a girl he rescued from the streets. She loves to sing so he lets her.” You stepped closer. “I am his only girl. And this,” You gestured to your studio. “This is mine, I did it for years before I even knew who he was. So it’s not a fucking hobby.”

“Well damn. Looks like his mouth is rubbing off on you. Not such a sweet little artist, are you?” He took a step closer and easily cast a shadow over you.

“You know, I was grateful that we got that done so fast and was going to give you a tip for your troubles. But you just lost that. And I will make sure you can never step foot into Roman’s club.”

The man chuckled. “I don’t need your damn charity. And we’ll see about that, he probably wouldn’t take kindly knowing you now decide who goes in and out of his club.” And then he left.

You were so angry, you could taste it. You practically ran to where you kept your phone.

You opened a text to Roman... But then thought better of it. You still needed to make peace with Zsasz.

To Knifeboy: Can you send a driver to pick me up at my studio, please?

You should change his tag, but at the moment you found it still really funny so it was going to stay.

Knifeboy: Are you ok???

To Knifeboy: Yes! Just in no mood to try and get a taxi to the penthouse.

Knifeboy: Roman’s busy

To Knifeboy: I am coming to unwind in the hot tub.

Knifeboy: All right. See you shortly.

To Knifeboy: You’re coming?”

Knifeboy: Yes.

You swallowed.

To Knifeboy: All right.

******

You grabbed your purse. You stuffed your bathing suit into your bag. You already had a few things there. That was all you needed.

Knifeboy: Here.

To Knifeboy: All right.

He was already leaning against the car smoking a cigarette, when you came out. You knew Roman would only let him do that in the alleyway so you took a little longer locking up.

Seeing you, he took a long drag and flicked it away.

“Oh, you didn’t have to.”

He exhaled towards the sky. “It’s all right.” He went and held the door to the back of the rolls open for you.

“Zsasz, it’s ok. I can ride in front with you.”

His eyes narrowed. “Boss won’t like that.”

You shrugged. “Listen, it’s ok. I really don’t want to be chauffeured by you.”

His eyes really narrowed then and his mouth became a grim line.

“Not like that.” You sighed, trying to not rain your anger on him. You swallowed. “You may be Roman’s right-hand man but you don’t have or well, I don’t know. Right now, I’d rather you not.”

He shrugged. “All right, just don’t tell Roman. He’s already in a mood.”

So he wasn’t having a good day either. You knew to try and avoid. Both of you annoyed at the least probably wasn’t good.

“Seriously?”

“He wants his princess- I mean, girl treated right.”

You finally slid into the front seat. You looked at Zsasz, as he settled behind the wheel. “He calls me princess?”

Zsasz looked like he got caught for a moment. He pressed his lips together. “Sometimes.”

It warmed your heart, you were going to have to talk to Roman about that.

“Well no worries, I won’t say anything.” You just remembered then, you wanted to turn on your voicemail and not be bothered for the rest of the day.

“Knifeboy?” Zsasz then started the car and began heading back.

You instantly flushed and looked over. “Umm, yes.” You looked away and then back at him. “I’m sorry.”

A short laugh came from him. It was followed by a smile you only saw when him and Roman toasted to a good acquisition. “It’s not a lie, well I’m a man but I do like my knives.” He smirked and eased into the traffic.

“True.” Well, you didn’t know how much he did. You knew he always had one. So you changed it.

“I changed it.” You held up your screen.

He chuckled again, still something you were not used to. “Better.”

“Yeah.” You smiled.

*****

He pulled into the alley. “Damn, wait I probably should have gone into the garage.”

“Wait a sec.” You unbuckled and threw your bag into the back seat. Easily you moved and managed to climb into the back.

“Did you really just do that?”

“Yup.” You shrugged. “I know how much he likes to look down from that one window.”

“He does.” Zsasz got out then and went around and opened the door.

“Thank you.” You smiled brightly.

“Nah, thank you.”

******

Your anger was still churning in your stomach but today perhaps things would be the beginning of things being better between the two of you.

******

The elevator dinged and distantly, you heard Roman bellowing into the phone. Sometimes you wished you could do that too. Well, actually you had a little and that felt good. But it wasn’t good enough.

“Hobby.” You muttered, rolling your eyes. Stretching, reaching as high as you could, a content sigh came from you as you walked into the bedroom. Quickly you shed your shorts and t-shirt, you left them on your side of the bed. You slipped on your bathing suit. You smiled when you caught sight of how cute the ruffles and polka dots looked.

You went over to the bar and poured yourself a drink. You drank it. You poured yourself another one.

“What are you doing here?”

Your heart lifted, but the edge made you pause. You closed your eyes and then opened them.

Turning, you smiled. It felt so fake so you dropped it. You never wanted to be fake to Roman. “Hi.” You said softly. “I was having a bad day.” You drew closer, despite seeing the strain in his face.

“Oh.” The rasp remained but it had turned flat. Inwardly, that made you wince.

His eyes were dark, there was barely any blue. A shadow kissed his face, you honestly wished your lips were. His inky black hair was immaculate and so were his shirt and slacks. Glancing down, you noticed his gloves matched. He must have been out and came back already. You looked back up at him.

“So I came over to soak in the hot tub.” You shrugged. “Maybe drag you away from the assholes of Gotham.” You finally smiled as you added that bit a little more brightly. “Want me to make you a drink?”

“Yes.”

You smiled and nodded. You went around the bar and sizing up how he looked and acted, you knew what he needed. at least you hoped you did.

You grabbed a few ice cubes and let them clink into the glass. Grabbing his favorite scotch you poured two drinks worth. Standing up, you turned and gasped. He was right there.

“Oop!” You made a soft sound as you saw him right there. You held the drink out to him. “Here you go.” His gloved fingers grazed yours as he took the glass.

He took a sip. “Those assholes is what gives us, me all this.”

You swallowed, correcting himself felt like a slap across the face. Not something you needed at the moment, especially after the delivery man. Though you knew it was true. His family didn’t give him shit. He was the one who created and maintained his slice of Gotham.

He gestured to you. “Gave me you.” His lips curled as he finished his scotch.

That made you feel cheap.

He had promised that being his girl, could be rough, even unpleasant at times, but he would never make you feel cheap. He had managed to finally do that. Your anger finally erupted.

“That’s not fucking true and you know it.” You looked him right in the eye. But then you looked away. This is not what you wanted, you brushed past him and went back to the bedroom.

Gloved fingers wrapped around your arm and turned you around. “Where are you going?”

“I’m leaving.” You wiggle free, and sat down on the edge of the bed. Twisting, you reached for your shirt.

“No, you’re not.”

You turned back. “I’m not?”

He nodded.

“Well, for the first time since we’ve known each other, you managed to make me feel cheap. And Roman, today was not a good day to do that.” You swallowed, actually saying it made it hurt more.

“You’re not cheap.”

Sometimes you were surprised by his strength. Moments later, you found yourself in the middle of the bed and you were under him. You wiggled, unsuccessfully.

“Stop.”

You did. In your anger and hurt that churned, arousal began to blossom. Which made your anger stronger but it also made your need for him grow.

He grabbed your wrists and held them above your head. You could not bite back the moan that came from deep within you.

His lips twitched. “What I meant was," His voice was tight. It was as if he could cough at any moment. You knew he was not one to ever want to explain himself. "It’s because I deal with those assholes, I can supply a place where you can come to hide and I can take care of you.”

“Oh.”

You moaned for real then, when his lips met yours. His crisp aftershave and the taste of the scotch on his lips made you shake. You felt him smirk and pull back.

“There’s my baby.” His other hand took ahold of your wrist.

You wiggled. “Roman.” You whimpered. You flexed your fingers, they tingled. You wanted to touch him.

“Don’t move…”

The sound of metal scraping metal filled the room. You watched as he had brought a knife from his slacks pocket and opened it. The blade was bared.

“Now if you move I might nick you, and that is something I don’t want to do.”

You nodded. “Ok.”

The look in his eyes, the way he straddled you, the gloves and now the knife. Desperately, you wanted to rub up against him. The taste and feel of the kiss was still fresh. You wanted to do much more.

He cut the middle of your bikini top, your arousal for him was already evident there. Your nipples were erect and dying to feel his lips, the shadow on his cheeks. Honestly anything at this point but they wanted attention. Finally he let go of your wrists and he cut each side of the bottom. Moving and tugging he freed you of it. He gestured to the top. “Get rid of that.”

You did. Now you were completely naked under him. You watched as he closed the knife and tossed it away.

He grabbed your wrists, sliding them above you again. It pulled a whimper from you. His lips once again consumed anything else you could have thought of. He moved against you, it almost immediately made you open your legs to him. His hard-on was right up against his slacks.

“That’s my good girl.” He said against your lips.

“Please.” You could taste how much you wanted him.

He cocked his head to the side. “Please what?”

You gave him a look. “Daddy.” You squirmed under him, as he then pulled off his t-shirt.

“What? I know what I need, but you? I need you to tell me.”

Daddy,” You finally said breathless. “Fuck me.”

“That’s what I needed to hear.”

He moved and as he braced himself above you, he easily freed himself. He slid very easily into you, a moan that sounded like him calling you baby, finally poured from his lips.

You wrapped yourself around him with ease. You gave yourself up to the sensations, you surrendered yourself to him. You melted under him as you both moved together, as you wrapped your arms around him. His lips, his scruff, how he felt sliding in and out made sounds just pour out of you in pure abandon. It wasn’t long before your body tightened, you were already so close.

You kissed him and arched against him, as you felt yourself on the cusp of cumming.

“Daddy, please.” You met his now stormy blue eyes.

“Cum for me, baby. Daddy wants to feel it, daddy wants to hear it.”

You did. You shook, your grasp tightened. You clung onto him. “Daddy...” You moaned.

His kiss was hungry, wanton. “Baby.” He rasped in the most wonderful way. And then you felt as he came hard in you. Feeling it made you actually cum again. It shook you and brought you even closer to him.

“That’s my baby.” He was out of breath.

You loved feeling that hot breath of his on your body.

******

“Perhaps, we should fuck more often when we’re angry.” He chuckled when you nudged him. Just his words alone made your desire for him blossom all over again.

You smiled though. “Not a bad idea.” And you shared a kiss. As you looked at him, the edge his anger gave him was not there. It was the Roman you only ever saw when it was just the two of you. It made your heart swell. “Though as your princess...” you met his eyes playfully. “Yeah, Zsasz let that slip.” You explained.

“Well, you are. You are my princess. I love protecting you and taking care of you.”

“I wouldn’t have it any other way.” You nestled close. As you felt and heard his heart beat, you closed your eyes.

******

“That’s him.”

Hours later sitting beside him in the club, you were dressed in a sweet dress he had decided to surprise you with. You felt so good. You felt as bubbly as your drink.

Roman gestured and Zsasz came over. “Grab that guy. Scare him but keep him for me. I want to talk to him later.”

You grabbed Roman’s arm. “Roman?”

He looked down at you. One side of his mouth twitched up. “What? No one talks to my princess like that.” And he looked at Zsasz.

Who then had a touch of unease hit his face. “It’s all right. It’s not a lie.” He told him.

“He’ll know never to treat you or anyone else like that again.”

“Whatever you think is best. I had told him he wouldn’t be welcome here.”

He rose an eyebrow. “Did you?”

You nodded.

“Good, he isn’t. Zsasz, get him out right now. No waiting. I want him to know I back up what she said. I’ll be there in a few hours.”

You smiled, as you watched Zsasz grab him.

You looked up at Roman. “I will always take care of you.”

“Oh, Roman.” You reached up loving the feel of his scruffy cheek and you gave him a soft kiss. Which you were happy he reciprocated. He usually wasn’t one to do big shows of affection, but at that moment it was just the two of you.

@spn-obsessed-dean @vintagemichelle91 @xxxeatyourh3artoutxxx @ewamode @zodiyack @angel98624 @frenchgirlinlondon @emyliabernstein @thepeachreads @nebulastarr @itsknife2meetu @omghappilyuniquebouquetlove @poe-kadot26 @babydoll97-blog1 @hazel-nuss @vcat55 @feelthemadnessinside @johallzy @foreverhockeytrash @frostypenguinoz @starwarsslytherin @professionalclown @chogisss @shantellorraine @xxinvisiblexx @blondekel77 @saphic-stories @drarrylov3r @i-cant-hear-you16 @deadlymistress24 @yesqueenofthelight @generallj @thebeckyjolene @blackmasque @mrskenobi19

[birdship]

Leave It In The Sun: Chapter One (a Disco Elysium fanfic)

Warnings: Full game spoilers, eventual spicy scenes, basically the level of adult content in the game itself.

General summary: A slow(ish) burn exploration of life at Precinct 41 after Harry and Kim wrap up the case and Kim makes the move to Jamrock. Mainly just about how Harry and Kim's relationship might develop, and a sort of character study of some of the employees of Precinct 41 in general.

------------

Chapter one summary: Two difficult weeks after leaving Martinaise, Harry finally reaches out to Kim. Chapter length: Approx. 4.3k words

The sun is only just setting over the streets of Jamrock, drenched in rain and neon. The city stops to catch its breath in the intermission between day and night.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: And so do you. You could’ve sworn the nearest payphone was, y’know, nearer than this. Maybe that bone-shattering gunshot wound also isn’t quite as far along in the healing process as you thought either.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Brilliant claws of pain rake down your thigh as you lean against the payphone and try to center yourself.

You glance at the phone resting in its cradle, with some trepidation. Phone calls are always a bit… difficult for you. Especially these days.

SUGGESTION: You can still change your mind.

VOLITION: No. You came here for a reason.

SUGGESTION: Or… you could always just call her instead.

VOLITION: *Focus.*

You take a deep breath. The late spring air is turning chilly in the slowly setting sun. The rain drizzles lazily as it has all day, showing no sign of stopping. A handful of people are still--or already--out wandering downtown Jamrock, laughing and talking and hurrying home and running errands and entirely focused on just about anything in the world *besides* a washed up middle-aged man having a minor anxiety attack and moderate-to-severe hip pain next to a public phone at 6:04pm in the rain.

INLAND EMPIRE: The loneliness knocks the wind out of you. You thought you were used to it by now. It’s worse outside, around people.

DRAMA: The threadbare costume you created for yourself in the privacy of your dark, trash-strewn apartment doesn’t seem quite as convincing with an audience.

VOLITION: Stop the goddamn pity party and pick up the phone already.

The receiver is light in your hand as you fumble for change and the crumpled slip of paper you’ve had in your jeans pocket for the last two weeks or so. You slowly, deliberately dial the phone number written on it, as if some part of you is afraid that your fingers might just automatically fall into the patterns of *her* number instead.

VOLITION: They might. But you’re done hurting yourself.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Well, maybe not entirely. Yet. But you’re done hurting yourself *with her* for sure.

INLAND EMPIRE: You still feel like you deserve that pain. But it’s wrong to keep using her as the knife you gut yourself with. She deserves better, even if you might not.

LOGIC: In any case, this isn’t about her. It’s about you, and it’s about--

“Hello?” Kim’s voice is muffled and tinny through the old, worn copper wiring. He sounds tired, but you guess that’s not particularly surprising. You’ve been pretty damn tired too.

“Kim, hey, it’s uh, it’s me,” you reply awkwardly.

“Harry? Do you need something?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is the first time you’ve called him since leaving Martinaise, despite carrying that little piece of paper around for the last two weeks. He’s thinking, why now?

“Yeah, no, I just happened to be downtown this evening,” you ramble, “and I thought--”

“You’re drunk,” he says. It is completely without judgment. A stated fact. The sky is blue, the grass is green, and Harry Du Bois is drunk. “Where are you exactly? I’ll--”

“Wait, no!” you exclaim, a little too loudly. A nearby pigeon makes a mad dash in the opposite direction at the sound. “That’s not it! I swear I’m basically sober right now. Mostly.”

A long pause on the other end. “Alright,” he says plainly. “So what can I do for you?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Make no mistake, he’s picking his battles here and gingerly stepping *around* that “mostly.”

EMPATHY: He’s just relieved it’s even that much.

COMPOSURE: How embarrassing.

VOLITION: Just start over. Your first sentence was garbage, but you know you’re under no obligation to continue it, right?

You take a deep breath, then try again.

“Well, it’s really more about what *I* can do for *you*,” you say as smoothly as possible. “You know that big motor carriage exhibition in town? It just so happens I’ve got *two tickets* to it.”

Another long pause. “You mean the one that ends today?”

“Yes,” you confirm.

“And are you aware that it is currently around six o’clock in the evening?”

“Is it? I mean, yes. Yes it is,” you say confidently. “I am aware of the passage of time.”

“And you waited until now to do this?” he asks.

EMPATHY: He sounds more amused than annoyed, though you definitely detect a bit of both.

“Uh,” you falter. “Look, it’s open until 8:00, so do you want to fucking go or not?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: About half a kilometer away, Lieutenant Kim Kitsuragi is sitting in the kitchen of his new apartment, already in his pajamas and winding down for the evening. It’s a bit early for that, but he figures he should take the opportunity to rest before he tackles that mountain of backlogged cases he was promised upon making the move to precinct 41.

Two weeks ago, he said goodbye to the strangest man he’d ever met. A man he found himself inexplicably drawn to in the week they spent together, and whom he thought about every day since. Wondering if he would take the lifeline Kim tried to throw to him, or if that little slip of paper would just end up forgotten at the bottom of a vomit-soaked trash can in some shitty bar. Wondering if the dawning trauma of everything that happened in Martinaise and the restlessness from sitting at home recovering from its aftermath would combine to pull him down into a dark place beyond Kim’s reach for good. Wondering and wondering to fill the silence. And now finally the silence is broken, but whatever this cry for help is, it is not the one Kim ever expected to receive.

But he knows one thing for sure: it *is* a cry for help.

“Alright,” Kim says finally. He takes a sharp breath. “Sounds good.”

The walk to his apartment takes a bit longer than you expected. It’s not that far from the downtown payphone, but you still wasted a good 20 minutes on the journey.

ENDURANCE: You are expecting too much of yourself too soon.

INLAND EMPIRE: It’s always one or the other with you, isn’t it? Too much or not enough.

PHYSICAL INSTRUMENT: Twenty minutes to walk a few blocks? Fucking pathetic. What kind of cop are you? Hell, what kind of *gym teacher* are you? Man up.

ENDURANCE: No. It’s a miracle that you’re still standing at all.

PERCEPTION: Beyond the apartment door, you can hear footsteps and soft humming.

You knock, and the door opens almost immediately.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit. You were hoping you’d have a few spare seconds to think of something really cool to say.

REACTION SPEED: C’mon, say something fun and upbeat to prove you’re not a depressed sack of shit who’s been spending the past two weeks drinking alone in the dark.

DRAMA: Showtime!

“Howdy, pardner,” you hear yourself say.

SAVOIR FAIRE: Finger guns! For god’s sake, don’t forget the finger guns. Without them, you just look like a goddamn lunatic.

You do the finger guns.

Kim does not seem particularly impressed as he slowly looks from your outstretched gun fingers to the twisted grimace that now wracks your face.

“Please, holster those things before coming inside,” he says humorlessly.

You blow the pretend, metaphorical smoke from each of your hot weapons before stuffing your hands in your pockets. As you do this, he watches with an appraising look.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s wondering if this is *regular* weird or *drunken breakdown* weird. However, he is intimately familiar with your brand of stupid bullshit at this point and it doesn’t take long for him to place it in the former category.

“We should hit the road soon,” you comment as you peek curiously into his apartment.

“Hit the road,” Kim repeats with mild amusement, “in what?”

LOGIC: Oh. Right. The Kineema is property of Precinct 57. Not Kim Kitsuragi personally.

“Shit, yeah,” you concede. “But hey, if we call a taxi now--”

LOGIC: You’ll arrive just in time to immediately turn around and go home.

HALF LIGHT: You fucked up. You’re a fuck-up. Great job, idiot.

VOLITION: Try not drinking and blacking out all day next time.

LOGIC: Yes, but then…

“Fuck,” you inhale. “Fuckady-fuck-fuck. Shit. Goddammit.”

Kim waits patiently for you to catch up. You’re almost there.

“I should’ve called earlier, sorry,” you apologize. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me.”

LOGIC: What is wrong with you is that you drank all last night, slept off a hangover most of the day today, and woke up in a daze about 45 minutes ago. But what’s done is done. No point in bringing that up now, right?

“Nor do I,” says the lieutenant with a small smile. “But whatever it is, I am no longer surprised by it, I assure you.”

“Sorry. I’m sorry,” you repeat, leaning on the door frame pathetically, a congealed ooze of mental illness and embarrassment. “Sorry for bothering you in the first place. You’re always so nice to me, even when I’m a pain in the ass.”

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Which is to say *constantly.*

Kim says nothing. Just sighs almost imperceptibly.

EMPATHY: Your self deprecation is frustrating for him, and he does not know how to respond to it constructively and compassionately.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He *does* think you’re a pain in the ass sometimes, but a pain worth dealing with.

INLAND EMPIRE: For reasons beyond your understanding.

“Why did you agree to go in the first place?” you sigh. “You’ve got a brain that actually works, you knew it wasn’t gonna happen. If you’re trying to make fun of me, then, well…”

You pause.

“That’s just fine, I guess. Good job, carry on.”

He adjusts his glasses and looks away. “I appreciated the intention,” he says finally, in a measured voice. “And since I hadn’t heard from you the past couple weeks…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...He was afraid you wouldn’t bother trying again.

“Sorry,” you mumble. “I’ve been kind of busy. You know how it goes after cases like that.”

“I do,” he says. He hesitates for a moment, then adds, “you’re welcome to come in if you like.”

You hobble into Kim’s sparse kitchen and collapse on a dining room chair. It creaks ominously under the velocity of the assault.

“I’m glad we have an opportunity to catch up,” he says politely, pulling up the other chair and gazing at your pained expression from across the table. “Your injury is healing well, I assume?”

EMPATHY: It is obvious that he does not in fact assume this at all.

You shrug, still trying to get a hold of yourself and push back the ache swirling at the edges of your mind.

He watches you struggle for a moment, then gently says, “it will take time to heal, but it *will* heal.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: *So please be patient and kind to yourself,* is the silent plea left unsaid. It hangs in the air pitifully. You both know it’s there.

“Time hasn’t exactly been a good salve for me in general,” you mumble.

He’s silent for a while. Opens his mouth to speak, then closes it again.

“Harry,” he says finally. “What happened in Martinaise is not your burden to carry alone.”

“I thought you didn’t like *personal issues*, lieutenant,” you say.

“I don’t,” he says with a frown, “but this…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: This is about me too, he thinks. As much as he hates to admit it. He doesn’t particularly like his *own* personal issues either. But the past two weeks were hard for him, and you didn’t make them any easier.

EMPATHY: He was worried about you, and--although he will never admit it to himself, let alone you--there’s a part of him that selfishly hoped you were worried about him too. At least a little.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He’s used to this line of work, and so are you despite the holes in your memory, but it never gets any easier to deal with some things.

EMPATHY: There was so much death that day. It haunts you. And now as you sit in Kim’s kitchen, the alcohol slowly filtering from your blood and leaving behind the dregs of a headache, you realize it still haunts him too. You both added perforations you never wanted to make.

ENDURANCE: It’s too much. Your head swims and your entire body aches in the throes of repressed grief fighting its way to the surface of a sea of quickly evaporating Commodore Red.

INLAND EMPIRE: Warning! Trauma containment center has been breached! Evacuate the area immediately!

HALF LIGHT: You’re going to cry, aren’t you? You’re going to fucking cry. Right here in his kitchen. Why can’t you keep your shit together for more than five minutes straight?

You are entirely unable to keep the tears from rolling silently down your cheeks, unbidden.

INLAND EMPIRE: You don’t have it in you to really cry properly, like a normal fucking person. Not anymore. Something has disconnected the wire from your “press here to begin sobbing during your emotional breakdown” button, and you’re not sure what or when.

ENDURANCE: But human beings *cry.* And despite everything inside you that’s broken and rotting, you *are* a human being. You can’t not be.

Kim’s standing next to you now, his hand resting comfortingly on your shoulder. He doesn’t say anything.

EMPATHY: That’s the point of this whole shoulder-touching business in the first place--your disconcertingly unhinged behavior has left him at a loss for words, yet compelled to offer *something.*

This goes on for the longest five minutes or so the world has ever seen. But finally, you’ve wrung it all out of yourself and the tears stop almost as abruptly as they began. His hand gives your shoulder a squeeze, then he sits back down in the chair opposite you, avoiding your eyes. He rummages in his pocket for something, then hands you a blue handkerchief.

“Where the hell do you keep all these?” you mumble as you reach for it. “Fuckin’... infinite handkerchiefs around here.”

“What can I say? I like to be prepared,” he says.

“For drunk idiots who throw up all over crime scenes and have mental breakdowns in your home?”

“Usually to clean my glasses,” he says flatly. “But at this point, I suppose it *is* fair to say that it’s also for your various crises as well.”

“Well, thank God one of us is prepared,” you say. “What would I do without you, Kim?”

He hesitates, a strange wistful expression tugging at the corners of his mouth. “I don’t know. What *did* you do the past two weeks?”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: As soon as the words leave his mouth, he regrets them.

“Sorry, I shouldn’t… That’s none of my concern,” he says quickly.

AUTHORITY: Who the hell does he think he is? You’re not a child who needs to be minded. You’re a grown-ass man who can sit alone in his apartment and get wasted if he fucking wants to. Assert yourself!

“Honestly? Drink, mostly,” you say with a self-conscious chuckle.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He just stares at you with the bleakest expression you’ve ever seen cross his face.

EMPATHY: He’s so tired. So frustrated. So disappointed.

INLAND EMPIRE: Oh God! He’s *disappointed* in you? This is terrible. Anything but that, please!

“I thought I was doing better,” you say quietly. “Guess not.”

“You were,” Kim says kindly.

INLAND EMPIRE: Tequila Sunset hasn’t happened yet. Maybe it still will. Maybe it’s inevitable. Maybe when you took up that mantle, it was like some sort of alcoholic event horizon. Tequila Sunset is the only way it was ever going to end. What other force in the universe could begin to exert as much gravitational pull over you?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: From the void we came, to the void we must return.

“Listen,” Kim tells you, “this is not surprising. It’s got to be harder now that you’re back in Jamrock.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: It’s *easy,* baby. All your old favorite haunts are here. You know all the cheapest bars, the sketchiest parts of town with the purest amphetamines… You can’t remember the names of half of them anymore, but the muscles in your legs can trace the steps there perfectly. That shit’s burned into your body forever.

“Yeah.” You swallow hard. “Anyway, what about you? How’s Jamrock treating you?”

EMPATHY: The darkness clouding his expression lightens a bit.

“Good so far,” he says. “I’ve actually only been here for a few days. G.R.I.H. wrap-up took longer than I expected.” He pauses and looks out the window. “But I’m glad to be here now.”

“Really,” you say with a laugh. “In this shithole?”

“It has its perks,” he says. “I’m looking forward to beginning work at Precinct 41.”

“You’re not working solo, are you?”

“For right now, yes I am,” he replies. “I’m fine with that. I’ve done it before.”

INLAND EMPIRE: The idea of sharing a workplace with him and yet not being at his side when he needs you… it makes you feel cold, lonely, somehow.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You have a duty to Jean. Jean is your partner.

SUGGESTION: Fuck it, just say it. You know what you want to say. Say it and get it over with.

“You should work with me,” you blurt out. “We were such a good team in Martinaise. We could keep those good times rolling!”

“I’m flattered, but,” he says, turning his head. “Satellite-Officer Vicquemare…”

“Doesn’t give a shit about me,” you say. “Fuck him.”

EMPATHY: That’s not exactly true. You know it’s not.

INLAND EMPIRE: But the truth is complicated. It’s easier to just boil it down to *fuck that guy.*

LOGIC: Jean is bad for you, and you’re bad for him. Or, you used to be. And has anything really changed? Are you really any different? Maybe it was just the change of scenery that fooled you into thinking otherwise.

INLAND EMPIRE: Same old Jamrock. Same old coworkers. Same old bad habits. Same old *you.*

“I’m not so sure about that,” Kim says delicately.

“Forget about him,” you push, suddenly more serious about this than you intended to be. “I can arrange this shit with Captain Pryce, and I can deal with Jean.”

“I… uh,” he coughs. “I don’t know what to say.”

DRAMA: You’re in control of this show now. Pull an honest answer out of him.

You point at him and narrow your eyes. “I know what you should say: what you *feel* in your *heart*!” You pound one fist against your chest over your heart to drive home the point, then wince.

PAIN THRESHOLD: Please don’t do that.

You break the dramatic pose and lean back in your chair again with a shrug. “Or just tell me to fuck off. None of this wishy-washy noncommittal shit, though.”

He’s silent for a long time, watching and listening to the rain as it picks up outside. Then finally he gives you an apologetic smile and speaks.

“Harry,” he says kindly. “Fuck off.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Translation: maybe. But not now.

EMPATHY: He’s not angry, he’s deflecting. This is by far the nicest way you’ve ever been told to fuck off. Don’t take it too hard.

“Alright, alright,” you say. “Forget I said anything.”

You spend a while just making smalltalk at Kim’s kitchen table. None of it means anything, but it’s nice. It’s a nice, good, human thing to do, sitting and chatting with him. Makes your “regular well-adjusted person” costume fit a little better. The rain begins to let up a little in the fading sunset.

“You know, we could do something else if you like,” he says brightly. “Here in Jamrock, I mean.”

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Yeah. Lots of stuff to do in Jamrock. Like speed and hard liquor. Or crying in the bathroom of a dive bar because you’re too fucked up on speed and liquor.

SUGGESTION: He probably wouldn’t go for that.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: There’s got to be somewhere else to go. Something else to do with him. Think. What do you want to do with him?

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: Oh buddy, are you sure you’re ready to open that can of worms?

The lieutenant watches you as you rub your temples in an effort to massage the awkward thoughts out of your terrible brain. Then he says, “you know what, don’t worry about it. It’s fine, we can just stay here.”

“Yeah, okay,” you say. “Sounds good.”

“I’m going out on the balcony for a cigarette,” he informs you. “You can--”

“I’ll come with you,” you interrupt.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: He pauses, wondering how many you might’ve had already. Then again cigarettes are, shockingly, by far the *least* detrimental of your *many* vices.

The two of you step out onto the lieutenant’s rather small balcony. It’s still raining very lightly, but this is probably as good as the weather is going to get tonight. Good enough. There’s really not quite enough space for two adult men to comfortably lounge around out here, though. You try to make yourself as small as possible as you fumble in your pockets for a cigarette and lighter.

PERCEPTION: You hear the soft click of a lighter and smell smoke on the gentle evening breeze drifting over from your left.

“Fuck,” you grumble. “I forgot my light--”

You realize Kim is holding out his own lighter wordlessly, still gazing out at the city sprawling out below.

“Thanks,” you say.

He nods. He pockets the lighter again once you’re done with it, then leans on the railing and exhales smoke with a sigh.

ESPRIT DE CORPS: Outwardly, he is silent and pensive. He almost seems anxious in a way. But in truth, he likes this. He’s enjoying standing out here in the rain and the dark and smoking his nightly cigarette by your side once more, just like that first night in Martinaise.

You rest your arms on the railing as well and try to map his sightline. Your arm presses against his in the cramped space, but he does not react.

“Pretty bitchin’ view here,” you comment. “Comparatively.”

“Mhm,” hums the lieutenant. “By Jamrock standards, quite bitchin’.”

PERCEPTION: His hand dangles loosely over the edge of the railing. It’s a bit smaller than yours and much thinner, bonier. Sharp and angled like a marble sculpture.

ELECTROCHEMISTRY: A work of art. Just like the rest of him.

SUGGESTION: Wonder what that hand would feel like in yours…?

“Everything alright, detective?” Kim asks, smoke escaping from his lips as he speaks. You realize that you’ve been staring at his hand for longer than is generally considered acceptable by polite society.

“Just spacing out a little I guess,” you mumble, averting your gaze.

“Par for the course with you,” the lieutenant chuckles.

VOLITION: Don’t make this too weird. Don’t think about that cigarette dangling loosely from his beautiful hands, or how soft his lips must be, or how nice it would be to just give up all pretense and embarrass yourself and hug him tightly right here on the balcony. Whatever you do, don’t think of any of those things.

CONCEPTUALIZATION: Shit.

“Well, it’s getting late,” you say, stubbing out your half-finished cigarette in the nearby ashtray. “I should probably go.”

“Yes, I suppose you’re right. We’ve got work in the morning after all.”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: You do?

VOLITION: Just play it cool.

“Yes,” you say, nodding stoically. “Tomorrow is Monday. I am aware of this, and that is why I said that in the first place, and not for any other reason.”

SAVOIR FAIRE: Nailed it.

“Tomorrow is Tuesday,” Kim says flatly, his face expressionless.

“I know that!” you say defensively. “I was just testing you. Come on, Kim, you don’t think I’m really that stupid, do you?”

He starts to say something, then thinks better of it and instead takes a long drag of his cigarette before trying again. “No, detective. I don’t think that.” Then he puts it out on the bottom of his boot and drops it in the ashtray.

The two of you head back into the apartment as the rain starts up again. You pull on your tarpaulin cloak in preparation for the long walk back home. But as you reach the front door, the lieutenant stops you.

“You know, you could just stay here if that would be easier,” he says abruptly, looking tense. “It’s late, and it’s raining, and…”

ESPRIT DE CORPS: ...And the route from here to your home features at least a dozen bars along the way.

EMPATHY: He’s worried you might not be able to resist the siren song of their garish neon signs and blaring dance music spilling out onto the streets like a red carpet unfurling.

“And your injury,” he adds quickly. “It was causing you some pain earlier, wasn’t it?”

HALF LIGHT: You don’t need his *pity.*

INLAND EMPIRE: Maybe you *do.* He knows you too well already.

EMPATHY: And, for whatever reason, cares about you a little too much. A terrible decision on his part, really.

“Yeah, good point. Plus your place is closer anyway,” you reply. “Thanks. Sorry to impose.”

He gives you a little nod. “It’s no trouble at all.”

Soon, you’re settled in on Kim’s couch under a small pile of blankets that still smell like artificial flowers, cloying and too sweet, freshly laundered.

He says good night and disappears into his bedroom, shutting the door behind him. It’s strange somehow, lying here in his living room alone in the dark. Like you’re somewhere you shouldn’t be. Like sneaking into a museum after it closes.

PERCEPTION: In the hazy twilight of impending sleep, you notice a calendar on the wall across from you. You can just barely make it out in the dim light, and you realize something.

“Son of a bitch,” you shout, “tomorrow *is* Monday!”

Just before you retreat into the blanket nest you could swear you hear a muffled apology from the next room.

[thistle-01]

Just another CHCH idea // TW: passive death wish, aka suicidal ideation

Modern day AU where it wasn’t Harris village that was razed to the ground it was Choi Han’s entire family and because the fire was a freak accident, no one’s fault, CH falls deeper and deeper into himself, no outlet. He becomes severely depressed but can’t picture himself actively offing himself so he just trudges through each day, unable to die, unable to live.

He doesn’t care when the guy next door to his new place moves out.

Doesn't care when someone else moves in.

He does care when the muffled wails of a baby keep him from sleep for three nights in a row, and he bangs on the wall, sleep deprived and pissy.

After a moment the person on the other side of the wall bangs back, making Choi Han glare incredulously at the wall, but he decides to let it go.

New kid, new parent. He used to take care of his little cousins so he knows how difficult it can be. He remembers the colic, he remembers the spit ups and giggles and laughing as they sat around for dinne—

He realizes that the new guy moving in may affect him more than he initially realized.

Morning comes and goes and CH gets ready for work.

Before the fire he’d been planning to take up bodyguarding as an occupation, it seemed like it suited him, it felt right. Without the training which he couldn’t afford due to obvious reasons though no one would hire him, so he turned to gym training. He’s a personal trainer.

He fetches his bag and fetches his towels and he’s about to leave his apartment when there’s a ding on his intercom.

When he looks through the screen there’s a person who’s unfamiliar but he was gonna leave anyway so he just meets them at the door.

”What is it?”

The person looks surprised when he sees Choi Han standing there and CH knows it’s because he’s kind of tall and imposing.

He doesn’t do anything to make them more comfortable though, he’s on a timer, and the guy just stammers, makes him sign to receive a package which CH does bc again no time to argue that he hasn’t ordered anything.

It’s only at the gym that he finds a break to open the package, it’s addressed to him with his apartment number, no name. Inside he finds a fucking fruit basket and a note:

Should have written this earlier but I have a newborn. It may get loud. Apologies for the inconvenience.

TBC

- CH resigned to suffer through baby

- CH reliving his most painful memories again bc baby

- guy next door’s little gifts being about the only thing that keeps him from just upping and moving but some of the stuff he gets are damn nice and maybe sort of worth it? Maybe

- guy next door always attaching little notes to his gifts

- guy next door‘s notes sometimes being sarcastic and witty, and sometimes kind of rude but also funny

- CH replying to one and attaching it to guy next door’s door on a whim

- guy next door attaching a phone number to his next gift

- CH texting guy next door bc why not if he’s some kind of serial killer maybe he’ll—

- CH and guy next door exchanging texts

- texts starting off irregular, stilted, but eventually they increase without them even recognizing that they do because apparently they’re both lonely fucks who have no real friends but a lot on their chests

- guy next door still being guy next door, literally that’s the name attached to the contact in CH’s phone bc out of some silent agreement they still haven’t exchanged names

- CH telling guy next door about the fire

- guy next door telling CH about his family (they’re dead too, only his son left and even then he’s apparently adopted)

- CH having a bad day at work and seriously considering suicide. there had been multiple factors, but the worst was probably it being 5/5, children’s day and a bunch of families gathering in the park right in front of the gym. They looked happy. CH remembered being that happy.

- CH holding a knife in his hand and surrounded by alcohol but on a whim - he seems to have a lot of those - texting guy next door

- CH telling himself if guy next door doesn’t reply within the next twenty minutes it will be a sign but guy next door replying instantly

- CH calling guy

- “How’s your son?” “He’s fine?” “…remember to love him as much as possible.” “Is something wrong? You sound off,”

- CH gripping the knife in his hand

- CH letting go

- CH sobbing wetly into the phone with a call to the guy whose name he doesn’t even fucking know but somehow relying on him anyway. He doesn’t know how this happened. How did this happen?

- CH telling guy everything and after a loaded silence guy asking CH like he’s about to break, like he’s fragile, whether he wants to come over, in fact just do it I’ll be home soon

- CH numbly collecting himself and somehow dressing himself with minimal effort and opening the door to walk over to his place

- CH finding a man standing in front of the door next to his, who’s stunning through the tears in his eyes but he doesn’t care too much about that - does he? - because he feels so shitty

- guy, who’s apparently a slightly scarred but handsome enough to be a model type of guy, and despite CH expecting the same subtle pity and concern he’d heard over the phone, greeting him blandly and ordering CH to come in like he’s discussing a fucking history book

- guy being named KRS

- CH being named, well, CH

- CH marinating in his own depression after the shock of guy - no, KRS’s physical form has worn out

- KRS looking at him with an unidentifiable expression

- KRS appearing to think for a minute and then leaving the room and CH dimly hears him opening a door but he’s too spent to hear much more than that

- KRS returning and CH meaning to look up but before he can something warm and squirming and kind of squishy is plopped into his lap

- “this is the terror I told you about. Say hello Raon.”

- Raon being the cutest fucking baby CH has ever seen aside from his cousins and baby sibling

- Raon giggling and squealing with laughter and clutching CH like there isn’t a single good reason he shouldn’t trust CH when in about a second CH can list at least five

- CH being unable to do anything but curl his hands reflexively around warm baby because of said giggling and squealing and clutching

- CH mumbling his concern that baby is too open to strangers despite knowing that at this age it’s perfectly natural

- KRS replying that Raon is a better judge of character than him and wrapping something around CH’s shoulders before turning on a giant ass TV

- KRS and CH and a drooling happy Raon watching Disney movies

- CH unintentionally spending the night bc he fell asleep to Alice in wonderland songs and woke up smelling traditional Korean food and the tunes of soft jazz on a radio

- ”are you hungry?” and CH unable to pull away bc he’s still kind of fragile and tender feeling and the baby is thankfully gone now but nope he’s sitting in his high chair and there’s good food on a table and KRS is looking blandly at him with his good looks and invisible kindness and CH is only human

- CH leaving the next morning before KRS is awake but KRS pretending to sleep so he doesn‘t pressure him

- KRS thinking he’s really dodged a bullet, humans are so much work, he just wants to slack-

- CH going home and putting the knife still on the floor back into its shelf and cleaning his place top to bottom on a sudden urge to be productive

- KRS and CH going back to texts and an occasional phone call like before

- KRS and CH’s interactions being different from before though in that when Raon cries through the wall CH plays baby shark or soft jazz and baby’s cries turns to coos and KRS sends him another basket in the morning

- KRS and CH somehow seeing each other more often

- KRS and CH greeting each other on the elevator

- CH deciding to see a psychiatrist

- KRS driving him to his first appointment

- “have fun.” “this is supposed to be fun?” “For me it is, I finally get a break from you and your drama,” and CH seeing right through KRS and taking a chance and reaching over to squeeze KRS’s hand on the gear

- “thanks,” and KRS looking bland but with a twist of a smile as CH heads in and watching him go

- CH making progress

- CH taking antidepressants and settling down after a month and he doesn’t have relapses for a year and decides to finally put an end to the fragile push and pull he and KRS have been dancing around all this time

- CH inviting him over for dinner

- CH making all the preparations, smiling to himself at providing for KRS this time, excited kind of at the thought that he’s going to put That Smile on KRS’ face and the doorbell ringing

- CH saying hi and KRS looking at him with an unreadable expression for a second before there’s a warmth at his lips and then it’s gone

- “took you long enough,” and CH knows KRS doesn’t mean it bc he’s looking at him quietly and like he’s quietly proud and there’s a soft, reserved sort of affection lining his smile and CH just wants to hold him forever, never let go

- so he does

- over the years they have their ups and downs, with KRS’s own emotional baggage, and CH‘s depression, and Raon grows up and demands more siblings and they decide, yeah look it’s time to get hitched here’s the ring

- they live happily ever after

the end