#another cliffhanger I'm afraid

[netherfeildren]

Pink : Part III : Two

Series Masterlist : Part I : Part II

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Reader

Content Warnings: Heavy angst; DD/lg dynamics; Dom/sub undertones; Daddy Kink; Jealousy; Unprotected Sex; Creampie; Inappropriate shaving; Squirting; Belly bulge; Dirty talk; Orgasm delay/denial; Overstimulation; Face slapping; Spanking; Light degradation; Rough sex; Breeding kink; Divorce; Not safe to read if triggered by pregnancy; Use of misogynistic language; Discussions of mental and emotional abuse; Cliffhanger

A/N: All tags have been updated.

Word Count: 12.7K

Rating: Explicit 18+

Read on AO3

Ko-fi

3. Two

“You know that feeling of… of realizing you’re a good person? It’s like– yes, I know objectively that I probably am. That I try to be kind, I try to do things that are good and right, but you know those strangely self perceptive moments where another person makes you – forces you – to realize you’re good? And it brings your whole life, your whole self into clarity, and it’s like – I am good, and I deserve good things. I am good.

But he treated me so badly, for so long. He took away pieces of me, he took away that awareness of goodness. And how could I not believe him, when he constantly told me and showed me that I deserved so little, when it was what I accepted for myself? Constantly waiting for him to turn into a man he never was, never had been and never would be. I accepted those things for myself, I let them happen. Maybe I was weak or stupid or naive or all of them combined. Maybe I was just a girl. But I thought it was hope at the time. I thought I was being hopeful and good, and now I realize that was no true form of goodness. It was only the version of good he needed me to be, a subservient and silent type of goodness.”

“And you know, I had a neighbor who– her husband died last year at Christmas, and it was so sad. They were older, always together, it was… it has nothing to do with this, but I don’t know. It was like when a tragedy is soft and quiet, and it just folds into the rest of life unheeded. Such a strange thing for someone on the outside looking in. I lived next door to them, and I’d see them all the time living their lives together, and I barely knew them, but suddenly he was gone, and I was conscious of the fact that she was over there alone all the time now. Without him. When before he’d always been there. I don’t know what I'm trying to say. It’s just that it didn't happen to me, it affected me in no way, and yet, I felt her loss keenly. Afterwards, I helped her with her cat, an old skinny thing, Jazz. She started going out of town a lot after her husband died, getting out and away, you know, that sort of thing. And I’d cat sit for her, and he was so sweet. But he was old too, and a few months later, he died also. And I remember the week he was going to pass she’d texted me and said he’d go soon, and I told her I was praying for him, thinking of the both of them. I don’t even pray, but I needed to tell her I was with her in some way. And it was nothing, a few nights going over there to feed the old boy, a few text messages. It was the absolute bare minimum I could do, but a few weeks after the cat died, she wrote me the loveliest note. She told me that she appreciated me, that she thought of how kind I’d been during those days, when I’d told her I was thinking of them. She told me that I was a good person, and that she hoped my kindness was returned to me many times over. 

And I’d forgotten, you see, I'd forgotten that I was good. That I had a capacity for goodness within me, and that I deserved to be reminded of it, like all soft creatures are. We all need reassurance and a kind word sometimes, and I’d forgotten that about myself.” You glance up at his eyes, the most tender look held in them. “Do you know what I mean, Joel?” You ask, voice very small, shy and afraid, for one moment, that he won’t understand you. 

But he pets your hair, cradles your cheek, “Yeah, honey. I think I do know.”

It’s a terrifying ordeal, the way the two of you fold into each other in the weeks after that first night. And yet, unstoppable. You do try, and you’re sure he does, as well. The first few days, trying to stay away, not answering his calls, no texts because he says his fingers are too big, and he can’t work those tiny fuckin’ buttons, forcing yourself not to run back over there into his arms and his bed. But then he’s calling and calling and calling, begging, making it his turn to show up at your doorstep in the middle of the night, saying all the right things like, I haven’t been sleeping, and I need to see you, and I’m suffering, I’m suffering without you, touching you in all the right ways that should be wrong but aren’t. All baby, I hurt when I’m not inside this sweet pussy. He says you make him weak, and you tell him that the only weak thing here is you, and you don’t make it much of a struggle for him when you let him in your home, in your cunt, when all you can say is I miss you, I miss you, your cock, your hands, I can’t stop thinking about you. The two of you are one and the same in all the ways it counts. And he’s not your father-in-law anymore, a chameleon now in the form of the only man who’s ever understood you, wanted you, seen you as more, as a complexity. 

He makes you wonder how you could have ever thought of yourself as anything like sexless when all he makes you is hungry and desperate and wet. Fucking everywhere you can, as often as you can, never being very careful, pulling out and counting your cycle and starting out with a condom but ripping it off halfway through because I just have to feel you – irresponsible bullshit. Not having your head screwed on tightly enough to even really care. He has you on his living room floor one afternoon, whole day gone away on his cock, and the two of you lay there for hours afterwards, bare limbs wrapped around each other, soft, wet cock tucked safely inside of you where he says it belongs. “How could you have not been angry?” You ask him because you can’t help yourself. Because you want him to teach you to be wise now that he’s shown you how to be good. “That he was kept from you? That you missed an entire lifetime of being a father? I never once saw you furious or resentful. How did you do it?”

“Don’t know,” he sighs. “Dunno… I– It was, kind of, the worst thing anyone’s ever done to me, truth be told, but I didn’t have a chance to compute, to sit in any sort of anger. He was right there all of a sudden, too full of anger to leave any left over for me, and he needed me so much. He needs me so much.” And you know he’s right, and there should be guilt now, gnawing at you, but there is really only jealousy. “And he– he…” A swallow, like you can read his mind, you know what he’ll say, already nodding. “And he hates me,” he whispers into the quiet of this lovely home he’s made for himself, his words mixing with the butter yellow ray of sunshine the two of you are lying in, slanting in through the big bay window. “He hates me, hates who I am. That it’s me he found when he came lookin’.” You have to cry for him then, maybe even for the both of them, maybe even for all three of you. 

“Yes,” you choke, so full of sadness for the tragedy of it all. You can’t comfort him with a denial for you’re not a liar here with him. Protection like that isn’t necessary. 

“Don’t cry, sweetheart.” He hugs you so tightly, “There’s no reason to cry.”

“I can’t help it,” And return the words he’d given you once when you’d so badly needed a kindness, “You deserve more.”

He’s quiet for a long time after that, and you know him well enough now that you can hear the gears of his mind working and turning, and that makes you even sadder, perhaps, the greatest tragedy of all, this knowing, and eventually he says: “And yet, he is the son I have.” And at the end of it all, you think you are all only yourselves, and nothing can really be done about that. 

And you say you want to be wise like him, that it’s your next lesson, so perhaps you should hold your tongue instead of saying: “He only just got you back, and I’m taking you away from him again. Because that’s what I want – I want to take you away and keep you only for myself. I want you to be only mine and that makes me bad. I’m bad.” Your first lesson quashed beneath the fist of your greed for a man who isn’t for you, and who you shouldn’t want, and it’s wrong and maybe even sinful or disgusting or any and all the things that are always bad. None of that matters. He’s turned you into a real person now, none of the rest of it matters. 

But he understands, because of course he does, because he always has. He grips your jaw in his hands, large, strong hands, hands made for taking care of things, and tells you, not so wise seeming anymore: “Sometimes I look at myself, and it’s like I'm two feet tall. Why didn’t I meet you sooner? First? How could I have been such a coward to not go out there and search for you? I should have known you were out there, I should have sensed it. How can a man be jealous of his own son?” He turns you over then, cock hard and thrusting again, kisses you full on the mouth, and it tastes like ownership, and says, “You could never be bad. No matter what you did. You’re only ever good. Haven’t I taught you that?” 

-

“Joel, there’s someone at the door,” peeking into the restroom where he’s just stepped out of the shower, wet and steaming, shaking his head out like a dog, towel covering all the fun bits. He’d just had you too many times already, and still, you want more. You’re made of nothing but greed now; he’s taught you how to be good, but he’s also taught you how to be greedy. You’d been strewn across his couch, eating chips and wearing his clothes and leaking his come and waiting for him to finish in the shower and come out to make dinner. He was doing steaks on the grill and baked potatoes with all the fixings and roasted vegetables, and he’d even gotten a pie and ice cream, but he said he wasn’t telling you what the flavor was, only that it was your favorite, and you can’t think how he’d know you love rhubarb, but if that’s what he’s gotten, you were going to let him do anything to you. Literally anything he wanted. Not that you didn’t already… but still, it’s the sentiment that counts, you think. He’d also said you weren’t allowed to shower, that the rule tonight was that you weren’t allowed to wash him off, and you really didn’t mind that so much. So there you were, after he’d put on Stepmom for you, and you were just thinking that Julia Roberts was surely the most beautiful woman who’d ever been born, when someone had knocked on the door, a rhythmic, friendly: tap, tap, tap, that had your heart dropping down into your stomach, and you scurrying into the master bath to frantically tell him that someone is here while you’re here wearing him all over and inside of you and what are you going to do now? He gives you a calm smile, running the towel over his wet head, giving you an eyeful of the fun bits now, and you try and not peek, you really do, but it’s really just the most exciting part on him, you can’t help yourself. His smile turns knowing, that look in his eye, “S’alright, sweetheart. Don’t fret, I’ll get it.”

“But–” you try and protest, maybe he should just pretend not to be home. What if it’s– you can’t even think of it. But then no, he’d not come here. He hates coming to this house, the proof of everything he wasn’t all in his face like this was humiliating for your ex-husband. 

His smile remains, but his eyes go a little stern, “No worryin’, I’ll take care of it.” He tugs on his jeans, the man literally never wears underwear, slut, and tugs on a shirt, pressing a kiss to your forehead as he passes you, hand dragging over your belly, smelling of soap and Joel and want, want, want. You follow him on tip toes down the hall, pausing at the mouth of the living room, chewing on your lip and your fingers, about to spit your heart out with nerves as he pulls the door open. 

“Hi, Joel, honey. How’s it goin’?” Pretty, bubbly, overly friendly voice you were definitely not expecting. You take a small step forward, the mouth of the hall slightly to the left of the front door so that you can see her without her seeing you, watch his profile as he talks to her. Edie, he says, and that dishwasher givin’ you trouble again, and laughs at her reply, the sound of their conversation going out of your ears as you watch him, head falling sideways on your neck a little bit, the way he laughs at whatever the woman that’s come knocking on the door of his home all friendly and comfortable to interrupt his time with you is saying, loud, bellyfull, one arm braced against the doorframe so that you can see her eyes flit every few seconds to the thick bulge of muscle there. Your face goes hot, your insides green and bitter, but he’s laughing just handsomely enough that you know it’s not real. You know his real laugh, and it isn’t this one. The woman leans forward, blonde hair and big boobs and batting lashes, but Joel shifts backwards subtly, keeping a respectful distance, and your pulse throbs at the backs of your knees and the pit of your stomach. She likes him, she’s here because she likes him, asking him to look at her dishwasher or something, yeah, sure, sure that’s the only thing she wants looked at. 

“I’ll come take a look at it tomorrow. How ‘bout that? I’m sure it’ll be another quick fix like last time, but you should probably think about just replacin’ the thing at this point,'' he tells her. 

“Oh, can’t you now, Joel?” She pouts, “It’s just that–”

“I’m tied up tonight, Edie,” he cuts her off, an indulgent, too charming smile on his face, and oh, it pisses you off, that smile. You turn on your heel, stomping down the hall back to his bedroom. Huffing, gnashing your teeth. The sight of him with another woman, a more appropriate woman because of course she is, it makes you sick, angry, something terrible, so, so jealous your bones itch beneath the surface of your skin. It makes you small and slanted again, wrong place, wrong time, wrong girl. Not for him, never for him, and it’s so unfair, and he is so– so… Smiling at her like that, using that tone of voice, propping up his stupid huge arm like that so that his muscle’s all defined and put on display, and you hate him and the way he makes you feel and how much you want and need him. On the verge of tears or screaming or vomiting you scramble around his room, trying to collect your clothes and your strewn panties and where the fuck is your bra and your other shoe? 

“What’re you doin’?” Comes his soft, steady voice a moment later. Entirely too even for the way you feel right now. You want to hiss at him or bite him or do something entirely uncivilized. 

“I have to go home.”

“Why?”

“I have something to do. I forgot.”

“Something, what? What do you have to do?” But you ignore him, rifling through the strewn clothes on the armchair in the corner – where the hell is your goddamn bra? “Look at me–” he barks, now having stepped further into the bedroom. 

“Oh, fuck off,” and there’s a part of you that knows that you’re being irrational, that he’s done nothing wrong, but you feel so provoked suddenly. In need of a fight or a thrashing or something, something to make this terrible feeling poisoning you on the inside go away. 

“Watch your mouth, little girl,” and his voice is so calm and so quiet and so scary. It makes you lock up one second, spin around the next to spit and hiss at him like an angry cat. You will not watch your mouth. “She wants you.” You almost stomp your foot like a child throwing a fit, but he’s entirely still and silent, taking you in with the most unfathomable of looks. “Do you know that?” And this time you do stomp your foot. “Do you want her back?”

He blinks once, and then like a lightbulb turning on, even though you’re obvious as daylight, “You’re jealous.”

“Do you want her back?” You ask again, real tears in your voice this time. 

And his gaze goes soft and tender and entirely understanding, “Never.” He shakes his head. 

“She looked like a fucking idiot.” You pout, childish – how will he ever want you when you act like this?

“I only want you.” But you don’t believe him. How could you? When there’s nowhere for this to go. When he deserves so much more than the options afforded to him here between the two of you. And you want to fight with him because there’s nothing to be done, no choices, no other recourse, and it’s not his fault and there’s no one to blame and no outlet for this terrible anger inside of you. You feel like you’re choking on it, being swallowed whole, that head breaking water feeling reversed so that now you’re deep at the bottom of the well of your own wanting. You turn back to the fruitless search for your bra. He’s hidden it from you, you’re sure, some evil old man ploy to keep you here trapped and braless with him. “Did you hear me? I only want you,” he says again, voice closer now.

And you think you’re mumbling or crying, something hysterical bubbling up inside of you, I have to go, I have to go, your movements manic and jerking. He grips your arm, jerking you around into his chest, face flushed with anger now, but voice still even, “You’re not fucking listening to me. I only want you,” and yanks your hand to feel the hard cock trapped beneath the confines of his jeans. This is only for you. But it’s not, not in any real way, not in a way that would let you keep him and that realization sets something off inside of you. You thrash in his hold, let me go, let me go, trying to kick him in the shins while he tries to wrap his arms around your struggling form, that rumbling chant constant in your ear, I only want you, I only want you, I am only for you. It feels like he’s burrowing beneath your skin, unzipping you, splaying your insides wide open for his gaze, taking hold of your bones, a puppet on his string. You manage to yank your arm out from beneath his grip and unthinking, a buzzing so high pitched it makes you dizzy and nauseous sounding in your ears, you slap him in the face. Not very hard, maybe, but enough that you hear the crack of your palm meeting the grizzled scruff of his cheek. The sound like a bone snapping, setting off something inside both of you even worse, more frenzied than before. He groans deep in his chest, big hand fisting in your hair and jerking it back so hard you yelp in pain. “Hit me again, do it again. I want you any way I can have you, even angry. Do it again,” he goads you on, but that mindless hand is fisted in his shirtfront now, pulling you closer to him, tear stained mouth seeking his, opening to receive his filthy kiss. 

“I’m sorry,” you cry, but all he says is that he only wants you, again and again, grips you harder, makes it hurt more, and you whine and whimper and scratch and bite, a wild thing, the two of you caught up in some strange struggle of push and pull and want and fight. You can feel the hard length of his cock grinding against your belly, searching for something hot and wet to fuck into, and you hitch your knee around his hip, open yourself to him, listen to his groan in your ear, throaty and full. 

“You just need a little remindin’? Don’t you, huh?” He tugs your head back, none too gentle, to look at your tear slicked face, his eyes on fire, almost a little manic. He spins you away from him, shoving you towards the bed, ignoring your whines and protests, shut up and bend over, pushing you over the edge of the bed and crouching down behind you. “You just need a little remindin’ of how to be a good girl. I know that’s all this fightin’ is. Right, baby?” No, you try and struggle, kicking your leg out uselessly to the side, but he pins you with your arms back behind you at the small of your waist, pushing his shirt up your back to expose the naked curve of your ass and the pussy you know he’ll find humiliatingly wet and hungry for him. “Just need remindin’ of how to be a good girl for me, right?” His fingers slide down to the apex of your thighs, finding you dripping and swollen from his earlier use and your current desire, all twisted up and compounded ten fold with your jealousy. 

“So wet already for me, baby,” he coos at you. 

And oh, he’s so annoying, and you’re so embarrassing and weak for him. “Shut up, old man,” you whine. A single finger enters you slowly, rubbing up against all the terribly sensitive and swollen places inside of you, then pulls his wet fingers from you to deliver a single stinging swat to the curve of your ass, sticky wet imprint of yourself left behind. 

“Yeah, and this old man fucks you better than anyone else,” he slips his fingers gently back inside of you, “Remember that you little whore,” he says even more gently. The words make you twist and writhe, a terrible flush of lust burning through you. He feels you tighten around his fingers, groans appreciatively. “Oh, you like that, don’t you?” He twists his fingers inside of you, pressing hard against something that makes you feel like you’re about to wet yourself. You cry out, squeezing your eyes shut and shaking your head, refusing to answer. “No lyin’. You daddy’s little whore?”

“Nuh uh,” you shake your head, your hips moving with the rhythm of his thrusting fingers. He brushes his thumb slowly over your pulsing clit, plays you like a game. 

“No?” His voice is so soft, so teasing. 

“I’m not your whore–”

“You’re not? Then what are you, baby? Tell me.”

You’re right there, so close, about to come on his fingers. “I'm your baby. I'm your baby. I’m yours– I belong to you, daddy.” He pulls his fingers from your cunt, hand coming to grip your ass cheek so hard it hurts, fingernails digging into your soft skin, dragging down the smooth surface. You can hear him panting behind you, shaking, trying to control himself. He makes a gruff, rough sound in his throat, gentles his grip on you. 

“You don’t think I don’t get fucking jealous?” he spits when he’s finally managed to control himself. “You think I don't think about you with my own son and want to die? That he got to have you in a way I never will, and even worse, wasted you? You don’t think it makes me sick with envy?” He brings his fingers back to play in your wet folds, feels the slick drip of you, thrums at your clit, opening you to him with a hand on your cheek and licking you from clit to asshole. Running the flat expanse of his tongue over the length of your sex and then sucking hard at the apex of nerves, hard enough that you can’t tell if it hurts or feels good or a little bit of both. He’s got you bent over the end of his bed facing the dresser so that you have a clear view of the two of you in the mirror above it. And the sight of him, massive frame crouched down behind you, huge and hulking, face buried in your cunt from behind, the curved slope of his nose, the long, thick lashes, eyes closed like he’s enjoying himself more than he’s ever enjoyed anything else in his entire life as he licks your ass and sucks on your clit. He pulls back, and you watch, almost in slow motion, as he shocks you by swatting your entire sex with his big hand, and then immediately brings his face back to lick and kiss your smarting skin. “But he didn’t fuck you the way you needed to be fucked,” he continues. “And I do. He didn’t understand you, but I do. At least I have that.” It sounds like he’s consoling himself, and you can’t help but find consolation in it as well. Your eyes move up to your own reflection, sweat slicked and tear stained, eyes glassy, wet fingers inside of your mouth because you need something to chew on to stand the terrible throbbing in your cunt on the verge of coming. He licks you again, presses his tongue to your asshole. “Did you ever get wet for him like this?” He pulls back, runs the pads of his fingers over your clit in fast, hard up and down motions, makes it feel so good it hurts, you’re right there, you’re right there, pulls away. “Were you ever desperate for him like this? Cunt all drippy and swollen and pathetic for him like you are for me, my sweet baby?”

Never, daddy. Never. Only you. You can’t lie to him when he’s got his tongue inside of you, it’s just not possible. Only me. Only mine. You press up on your tippy toes, roll back down onto the balls of your feet, “Yeah, rub that sweet pussy all over daddy’s face,” he mumbles into your skin, slurps at you. He wraps his lips around your clit once more, sucks and licks and sucks again, and your cunt goes so, so tight, I’m gonna come, I’m gonna come, daddy, and then just stops. Pulls away entirely, gets to his feet, leaves you to throb and shiver and beg, whole body flashing hot and cold on the precipice of orgasm. Still holding you pinned in place with your wrists at the small of your back, you watch his eyes roam along your draped form, he drags his hand down the wet length of his face, wiping the drippiness of your slick away. “Stay just like that for me,” and his eyes move to yours in the mirror, as if he’s known the entire time just how riveted on him you’d been. “What?” He asks with a crooked brow and a mean little smirk. “You think you get to come? After that little display?”

“Don’t be mean,” you whisper, staying exactly as he’d directed. Trying your best to be a good girl. 

“Shoulda thought of that before, sweet girl.” He bends over the length of you so you’re eye to eye now, gets his face right up close to yours and presses a kiss to the tip of your nose. “You wanna pretend to fight, stand there like an indignant little girl stomping your foot and yellin’ about bein’ jealous while my come runs down your thighs still. Obviously, I’m not doin’ a good enough job of remindin’ you you’re mine, how much I want you. Gonna fix that now.” Presses another soft kiss to your mouth now. 

“You’re trying to dominate me,” you whine, struggling to press against his mouth again even as he pulls back out of your reach, plants a big palm between your shoulders to keep you still. 

“You bet your fuckin’ ass I am. You’re gonna do what I tell you to when you’re letting me fill you with my come the way you are. And you’re gonna like it too. You get me?”

“Yes, daddy.”

But then he goes serious, that teasing glint in his eyes flickering away suddenly. “You have nothing to be jealous of. Ever. I don’t want anyone but you. I don’t care about anything else but this.” And even though you’re sure it must be a lie, it sounds so lovely, you choose to believe him for now. You nod up at him, sniffling and crying again a little bit. “And no one takes care of you like I do,” he finally says, as if it’s a reminder, a consolation to the both of you once again. 

And he’s right, as he tells you to stay put, be a good girl and not move, leaves you there bent over the bed, that chant sounds in your mind, no one takes care of you like he does, no one, no one, no one. 

-

He steps back into his bedroom to the sight of you still draped over the bed, big eyes wet and slightly vacant, pussy red and swollen and bared to him like a wound with his name on it. You’d brought your fingers up to your mouth, chewing on your fingernails the way you did sometimes when you were anxious or overwhelmed, and when your eyes flit to him, taking in the bowl of warm water, the washcloth and shaving cream in his hold, they go wide, shocked. He arranges his things, gripping you by the hips to turn you over, pulling his shirt from you, leaving you entirely naked, and settling between your spread thighs. “Wh– what are you doing?” Voice all breathy and hitched, the thrum of your excited pulse in your throat. 

“Gonna shave you bare. Then I’m gonna eat you ‘til you’re crying, ‘til you’re so swollen you can barely take my fingers. After that, I’m gonna wedge my cock inside you and fuck you ‘til you’re so full’a my come you’ll remember not to forget you ain’t got no reason to be jealous ever again.” He strokes your curls gently with the pad of his thumb, something like fondness in the gesture, clicks his tongue. “These’re so pretty. Gonna miss ‘em.”

“Oh my god,” you choke when he drapes the water warmed washcloth over your spread pussy.

“You wanna be a brat, you wanna fight and act like you don’t know I belong to you and you to me? That none of that other shit matters– I’m gonna remind you, don’t worry.”

You crane your neck, pushing up on your elbows to watch him remove the washcloth and cover the soft curls of your groin with shaving cream. When he opens the blade and brings it to your skin, the sight of the straight edged blade against you, the smooth cream as the steel reveals the bare, satin soft skin beneath, has your chest heaving, sweat pooling at the little notch of your throat –  fucking gorgeous and his.

“You’re going to be so sensitive, baby,” he murmurs as he bends your leg back and opened wide, splitting you for his gaze. Delicate with the movements of his wrist as he shaves you. “All bare and slick down here, just for me. You’re so swollen already.”

You mumble something, moaning and letting yourself flop back against the mattress, he’s quick to pull the blade from you, pausing his movements while you settle, gives you a second to press the balls of your palms into the sockets of your eyes, whining Joel and daddy and please. And the trust in this moment between the two of you, that you’re letting him wield a blade so close to your fragile center, letting him do this to you as a way to remind the both of you of the power you cede and wield over and to one another, something that gives him the opportunity to inflict his will in a way that recenters you, reminds you that you’re his, his to do with you as he will, and it’s just the two of you in this space and you trust each other implicitly, it has a sense of control swelling inside of Joel, making his cock rock hard in his jeans, leak down his thigh. Control in a way there is none of in everything else between the two of you. Control in a way there cannot exist in any other aspect of your relationship. When he’s finished, he cleans you slowly with a new warm, damp cloth, then goes to put away his supplies, and when he returns, he looms over you, taking in the sight of your little bald cunt now. 

Slowly, he starts to pull his clothes off, watching the quick panting of your breathing, the dip and swell of your belly, so aroused by the intimacy you’ve just shared that your pupils are blown wide and dark. “You’ve made such a mess, little girl,” he says, dragging a single finger through your overflowing slit, following the slick from your swollen clit to your asshole where it pools beneath. He fingers your folds gently, avoiding your swollen clit, your little hole winking at him wantonly. “Please–” you whisper so softly, almost gasping for breath you can barely get the words out. 

“Oh, I know, sweetheart. I know you need to come so bad, don’t you?” He drags his palms up and down your thighs, up to your waist and then tugs you down over the edge of the bed and onto your knees in front of him, wide eyes riveted hungry on his cock. “How does it feel? So sensitive, isn’t it?” He’s so hard his erection stands straight up towards his belly, balls hanging heavy and full and aching. He gently drags his fingers along your scalp, feels the heat emanating from your skull. “Lick it all over, get it nice and wet so I can put it inside you.” He knows he needs to be careful now. The two of you are wide open to each other in this moment, so on edge he could come just at the look in your eyes, and you, something more than just vulnerable. He’d worried briefly, in the past weeks, if he should stop, send you away, take himself away, tell you it was too much. You were getting too attached, and although he knew it was too late for himself, that he was beyond salvaging when it came to you, he could imagine nothing worse than seeing you come out hurt from this. Could also imagine no scenario in which you wouldn’t anymore. He feeds you his cock, fisted tightly at the root to stave off his impending orgasm, slides all the way to the back of your throat until he feels his tip hit resistance, enjoying the sight of you choking on it for just a second. Good girl. “Fuck– fuck, yes. See, see how good you can be for me?” He tells you as you suck on his tip, hollowing your cheeks and running your tongue all around the wide head, tonguing his foreskin, making him hiss and bear his teeth at you while you look up at him with falsely innocent eyes. He yanks you up and against him, gives you a filthy, wet kiss, all tongue and teeth and false control, swallowing down the taste of his own precum. He’s never felt less in control of himself, of a situation, than he does right now. He has, in these past weeks, entirely lost sight of himself, of what this should and should not have been, blindly led by his cock and his heart. He’s lost all control, and Joel is nothing but weakness and want now. 

Turning you in his arms, he sits at the edge of the bed, thighs spread wide and pulls you onto his lap, impaling you back onto his spit-slick cock so swiftly he doesn't even think you’re expecting it until he’s bumping against your womb, your knees hooked and spread wide over his own. Too desperate to lick your cunt again the way he’d planned. You let out a long, shocked keen, back arching, trying to escape the too big cock suddenly shoved inside of your tiny hole. Joel has to grit his teeth, take deep breaths through his nose and out through his mouth before he can speak at the feel of you fluttering and pulsing around him, “The more you whine, the harder I’ll fuck you, got it?” There’s nothing even close to a coherent response coming out of your mouth, and he was right, shaved bare like this, you’re so much more sensitive. He pulls the lips of your sex gently apart around where he’s impaling you, takes in the sight of your little hole stretched obscenely around his fat cock in the mirror’s reflection and slowly starts to seesaw his hips back and forth, watching his glossy length disappear in and out of you. “How does it feel, baby? You’re so pretty, look at yourself.” He whispers into the small shell of your ear, presses a soft kiss to the lobe, tugs on it with his teeth. He slides in all the way, pulling your hips down so that his balls press against the curve of your ass. “Look, see where daddy’s so deep inside you – can see it in your belly.” Your head lolls back on his shoulder, gaze hooded and delirious, but your hand moves down to the soft skin of your stomach, gently cupping the outline of his cock inside of you. “I’m so deep inside of your tiny cunt, baby. Look at how you’re all mine–” He starts to move again, flicking at your clit, interchanging between fast and hard and slow and so soft you can barely feel it, and your face looks like you want to say something, tell him something, scream, but can’t. And there’s so much he’d like to tell you too, all the things you deserve and probably need to hear from him, but can’t either. He feels you start to tighten up on him, the heat in your body suddenly seeming to flush higher and brighter, almost to boiling, your cunt going so, so tight it almost pushes him out. He presses inside harder, holds you in place with one hand, and thrums fast and hard at your clit with the other, focusing the tip of his cock at the front wall of your pussy, “You’re gonna come–” he grunts, holds you in place and hammers into that swollen place inside of you he’d kill to own for the rest of his life. “Fuck– fuck, you’re gonna squirt all over my cock, aren’t you? Can feel it–” Your face spasms, your belly clenching hard and tight, and you gush, letting out a pained, animal sound, voice broken and breathless, wetting both of your thighs with your come, the bed covers beneath soaked dark. Joel doesn’t stop. He wants more, again, all of you, thrums again at your clit with the pads of his fingers, changes the angle of your hips to roll you fast and hard onto his come-slicked length, pinches your clit hard, watches you squirt all over him again. Something like the sound of his name leaves your mouth in a broken cry, your chewed raw nails trying to claw at him ineffectively. “Dirty fucking girl – creamin’ all over your daddy’s cock,” his voice is gruff, not entirely his own. There’s something here – you’d told him once you’d always felt out of control. In your relationship with Sam, aware of what he was, always, of what you were and were not, and that there was something about control that was so necessary to you now. And there is something here like control, your control over him, taking hold of him entirely so he’s unsure of what it is he should and should not be, here and now, with you. He should not be delusional, he should be aware. He is not adhering to either very well. 

He goes to his feet with you still impaled on his throbbing length, erection so hard it hurts, can barely stand up straight, blood pounding on rhythm to the chant of your name. He pulls you from him, watches the slick slide of your cunt walls dragging along his length, the cream of your slick left as a reminder all over his skin. He presses you onto the bed, rolls you this way and that too look at you all over, bends to drag his tongue through that drippy cunt of yours that squirts and comes so prettily for him, then back up and kneeling above you, between your glossy thighs, and thrusting into that tight cunt, grunting as you clench around him. So hard he feels the screaming tip of his cock punch against your cervix, listens to you make a hurt, hiccupy sound when his balls slap against you.

He should be gentle. He should be careful. He should be aware, not delusional, himself. He should reach back and take hold of that man he always thought himself to be, hard and cold but never cruel. Maybe not good, but always aware and never weak. He’s none of those things now here with you. Joel is now only himself. You’ve made me into a real person, you’d whispered onto his tongue. What he’d not told you was that you’d done the same to him. 

You’re a gift, a gift, a gift, a gift. A gift in the way his son never was. A gift in the way that a whole lifetime lost and returned to him never was, and Joel is weak and two feet tall and made of paper, but for you. Anyways, or despite it all, still made only for you. 

“Fuck me like you’re in love with me,” you say, read his mind, take hold of the beating mass in his chest. Fuck me like you’re in love with me. And maybe you don’t mean it. Maybe you’re too far gone. It doesn’t matter.

He does it anyway. Pulls back, wedges back inside the too swollen, too sensitive, too tiny cunt that belongs to him. He bears his teeth at you, grabs hold of your face so hard you’ll bruise, and fucks you like he’s in love with you. It comes to him so easily, after all. 

Shoving his knees high up beneath your thighs, he brings your ankles to his shoulders, little feet knocking against his ears, he wishes for sense, he finds none, only a deeper, sharper angle. The sounds of your cries and the things you whisper in his ear he knows you should not say and he should not listen to that fill him full of things he should not feel like I was made for you and daddy, there’s no one like you and come inside me, please, please, I need it. He pulls his hips back, swings them forward, listens to the sound of his balls slap, and you beg for harder, savors the fire that pools in his belly and the base of his spine. And he thinks that he should pull out, he’s been so fucking careless with you and your future and your vulnerability, but he’s like a monster full of greed, intent on nothing but staking his claim, leaving a claim, desperate for a way to be remembered or never forgotten or never left behind. “We have to be careful,” he begs you, and feels scared and terrible for a moment, not to be trusted with a gift like this in his hands. “I’m going to get you fucking pregnant, God.”

But you’re like some siren, something taking him away from himself, and you tell him, “I don’t care, I don’t care,” voice gone so far away from yourself too, all hazy, full of bubbles and too cock drunk to be true or sane, but it lands like a gut punch anyway. And Joel tries to hold onto himself he does, he swears he does, tries to remain rational, and aware of what this was supposed to be and not supposed to be. Tells you to please, “Shut up, shut up. Please, don’t say those things to me, I’m begging you.” But eventually that siren song wins out, the feel of your cunt sucking him deeper, milking him dry, your small damp hands pulling at his hair, stubby nails dragging down the skin of his cheeks, over his back, and Joel’s weak now. Weak and full of want and greed and delusion so that all that’s left is capitulation and: “You want daddy to fuck his babies into you? You want me to fill you up and keep you forever?” But something of himself must remain because he covers your mouth, big hand wrapped around your sweaty little face before you can answer, forcing the words silent inside of your mouth, the truth you both know you’d spit out otherwise. Yes, yes, I do. And as if the idea of you carrying his child held a direct like to your orgasm, you start to come around him, overwhelmed cunt, split in two and carved in the shape of his name now, clenching around him, going so wet and hot and tight Joel’s sure he’ll never be able to leave it ever again. You reach down between the two of you, grasp the half of his cock outside of your wet clutch, shiny with your slick and jack him off with sharp little tugs, make sure he fills you with his spend full to the brim. He spills over and out, dribbles down the slope of your ass to leave you lying in a little puddle of his semen, and when he pulls out, careful to not ask you to hold all of his weight over you, he brings your fingers to your gaping cunt, “Feel where daddy’s been,” lets you play in the imprint of himself he’s left behind. 

He lays beside you, steaming hot little thing worming up against him, nuzzling beneath his chin, pressing tiny kisses that tell him all the things the both of you need to hear and say, and he feels himself go cool and dry inside and out. Something terrible suddenly swelling within him. Something that reeks of truth, and you must smell it in the air as well because you share a piece of your own painful honesty with him, force him to confront it. “Sometimes I think I’m impossible to love,” in the smallest voice he’s surely ever heard. 

“Haven’t I shown you how untrue that is?” Because if there’s one thing he’ll never do with you, it’s lie.

You tuck your hand beneath your cheek, and you glow, and he feels blinded by it for a moment, eyes wide and so vulnerably tender, something afraid that makes something equally vulnerable inside of him rage and beat its chest. “Is that what this is? Are we in love, Joel?”

He thinks you must see the fear in his eyes, because yours suddenly go calm, fathomless, something steady for him to hold on to, and that stench of honesty chokes him. “Yeah–” he nods, swallows, thinks of his son, hates himself. “I think so, baby.”

-

What can remain the same after honesty like that? After splitting yourself open and showing each other your insides in such a way? What could possibly remain the same? Nothing. The truth is laid bare, and all that’s left now. And instead of setting you free, the truth never really sets you free, it makes everything terribly fraught and frightened and fragile. 

When he moves to stand, the sound of your desperation for him to make you his in an irreversible way rings like exploding shrapnel in your ears, “Do you think we’re bad?” You ask because you’ve only ever wanted to be good, but his eyes are so haunted, large and round and fathomless. His face, taking on a sudden sort of gauntness as he thinks of what to say to you after the worst has already been said. You watch the line of his throat ripple as he swallows several times, reading the real truth in his eyes before he shakes his head slowly, incongruous like a lie, “Never you,” and he does not include himself, “Never you.” It’s devastating. Devastating that the only thing that’s ever mattered, the thing that has finally made you good, is bad in his eyes. 

You sit at the kitchen table, watching him while he makes dinner for you. Cold and shivery and wet between your legs in a way that’s not comfortable anymore. In a way that feels like an essential part of you is slowly dripping out, leaving you grossly empty inside. The beautiful dinner he’d bought and made for you tastes like ash wrapped in all the honesty surrounding the two of you, and you stare at each other and there's no need for more words because the truth is all right here in front of the two of you to see with your own two eyes. You want to go get dressed, but you don’t want to call attention to the seed of wrongness that’s been planted now. Are we in love? When the answer had so obviously been yes for so long already. Naive, silly girl. And you want to be angry with him. Ask him why he’d done this to you, made you fall in love with him when he’d said before that you couldn’t, when it was all so hopeless. You also want to hear him say it, say the words out loud with teeth and tongue and sound, you want to taste the words in your mouth because seeing them in his eyes wrapped in all that hopelessness isn’t nearly enough to satiate this hunger he’s stoked inside of you. You want to ask him to hold you, to crawl into his lap and have him cradle you like a child protected in the embrace of stronger, wiser arms. You want to have never been put on this path, to have never met his son, never have married him, never have met him. You want the whole terrible ordeal to be wiped from mind and mouth and memory. You want to have not had to accept it all, not have moved on, not be grateful in ways you can’t even understand for the lesson it’d all posed. You want it all to have never happened. To never have experienced the entire convoluted mess of feelings this ordeal of tearing down your entire life to make yourself anew had caused. To have never fallen in love with your ex-husbands father. 

He sits in his chair, hands cupping his chin for so long, silent and staring, probably wondering what to do with you, and when he finally stands, nothing but a long, pained sigh to interrupt the terrible silence, you finally muster the strength to go find that missing bra. Crawl home, once again a ghoul in the night in need of wound licking. And it must be that very same terrible silence, the even more terrible look in his eyes that has something pressurized, set to burst, bottled inside of you because when a knock on the door sounds once again, you don’t even stop for half a thought, exploding suddenly. In his clothes and come, ripping the door open, the words on your tongue ready to spit at her that he’s already got one desperate woman on his hands that needs taking care of, and no, he will not be fixing her dishwasher or her pussy or anything else she thinks she might need him for. 

But it’s not the neighbor. And you have nothing but fear lodged in your throat to spit out when you meet his eyes. 

Eyes like his father’s, colder, crueler, furious and humiliated, take you in. Just fucked hair and a flannel that’s not your own, mis-buttoned, come-dryed thighs. And worst of all, his voice, like he isn’t even that surprised, like he’d come here just to find this, “You fucking whore.”

“Sam–” you’re not sure if you actually say his name, but the intention is held there, on the tip of your tongue. A plea for mercy or a shout for help or protection or something. 

“You fucking whore,” and you flinch at the scream in his throat, scuffle back into the safety of the house of the man you love who is the father of the man you were married to, the man who broke you, the betrayed son. He’s shocked still for a single second, before he’s charging at you, fist not entirely raised but definitely held with consideration. And, “I knew it, I always fucking knew it,” before Joel is there, stepping between you and your ex-husuband, his son, blocking you with his body, big hand wrapping entirely around your forearm to hold you close to himself, to hold you in his protection. 

“You better put your fucking arm down before I break it, son.” That moment, Joel’s voice, the utter betrayal in his son’s eyes. The sound of you breaking something that you should have never ever gotten in between. It is worse than all the rest. You take him in, the sight of this man who you used to be married to, he’d always seemed so large in your eyes before, so unattainable. Something never to be fully touched, only gazed upon. Always apart, always cold. Sam’s eyes fall to the place where his father holds you, and his face spasms, something terrible. Broken and alone, a child cast out into the cold. And you want to say that he seems so different now, haggard and gaunt and whittled down to bare bones, but it isn’t the truth. You always knew what he was, your most terrible bit of honesty. You always knew, you’d just not cared before. There was never any separation, no space for you to take a breath and want better for yourself. To be under his scrutiny, something that at one time felt like admiration, but was never anything even close, it was like nothing else, like everything, a great lie. But he was too aware of it, of himself, of that power he held over you, and unlike his father, he was cruel with it. Your eyes move up to the back of Joel’s head, the hard edge of his jaw, the muscle that spasms furiously there. What would it do to you now to be under that same sort of attention, influence, admiration, but from a kinder, gentler, honest source? What had it done to you? Dangerous to risk yourself again, impossible to stop now. 

“I always knew it,” he says again, “I always knew you wanted him. What? You let him fuck you?” The words in his mouth are a terrible thing, Joel says something, tells him to hold his tongue, to get the fuck out, but your eyes are riveted on the sight of his face, this man you used to be married to who’d broken you so completely, who’d stolen your very memory of yourself. He seems wholly unrecognizable now, and in a way, it frightens you, that someone you’d known for what seemed like so long could be such a stranger now. Joel’s hand is an anchor, such a comfort wrapped around your arm. “You barely let me touch you for two years, but you’ll bend over like a whore for my fucking Dad?” His voice breaks and it makes you want to laugh a little bit. 

Joel shoves him backward, jerking you forward still in his hold. “Say that word one more time in my house, and I won’t be held responsible for what I do to you. And don’t fucking look at her,” he snaps, reaching up to give him a quick two tapped slap on the cheek to focus his gaze on himself. “Get out, Sam. I’ll call you later. We can–”

But unheeded or too far gone, like he needs to hear the sound of the words as a comfort to himself in this moment, Sam looks back at you, “You’re a fucking whore. I wish I’d never met you, I hate you.” Joel shoves him backwards again, harder this time so that his leg slams into the side table, overturning the lamp there into a crashing heap on the floor, so hard that when he pulls you with him it feels as if he’ll wrench your shoulder from its socket with the force of his anger. You yelp in pain, but cling to him anyways, refusing to let him go either, hiding behind the hill of his shoulder. Pushing his son away, not letting you go. It’s wrong, it’s wrong and you’d told him that you wanted to keep him, to take him away from his own son, that you were made of nothing but greed, but there’s something wrong here, inherently not right, bad. 

And even yet, you can’t help the look on your face that must surely be nothing short of humiliating to Sam for the way he reddens, the little muscles in his face jerking uncontrollably. You’re done here, Sam. Get the fuck out, Joel says again, taking a step forward to herd him out, pulling you along, keeping you close. You taunt him with your gaze, can’t help yourself, “I thought I was a prude?” You say from behind the protection of his father’s body. “Isn’t that what you called me for all those years? Thought I was frigid, unfuckable, unlovable? Am I not anymore?” You ask in a small, breathy voice, falsely guileless, entirely provoking. “Have you changed your mind now that I’ve taken your Daddy from you?” False pout and mocking eyebrow.

Joel’s head snaps over his shoulder, incredulous look on his face, and Sam flinches as if struck, splintered glass in the shape of his son’s gaze, it fractures, falls back to where Joel holds you.“I wanted to talk to you,” He says to his father, “I wanted to– You’re really choosing her over me?” It costs Sam something to say this, and you weren’t expecting it either because suddenly, the game changes. His voice is child-like in its hurt, that son who longed for his father for all those years. “After everything that was stolen from us, you’re not going to choose me?” You know in that moment, he’s won. 

“This isn’t about choice, son,” Joel tells him, but you hear it for the lie it is. “This isn’t about you versus her.”

“But it is,” and his eyes flash to yours, victory held in them. “She was my wife. And you’re my father, and you have to make a choice now. This is fucking sick.” There’d always been an intelligence to his cruelty, and he wields it now. The sound of his son’s name is a choked thing in Joel’s mouth. He goes rigid, a painful stillness, muscles vibrating with warring emotions. You hold your breath for it. He looks down at where he holds you, tightens his grip painfully, and then slowly, so that the three of you are sure to take in the whole procession of it, he lets go of your arm. One finger at a time, the heat of his palm leaving you, and you’re alone. 

“It isn’t about choice,” he says again, and yet, one has already been made. You stand still, head bent, gaze riveted on the place where he’d let you go. He takes a step away from you, towards his son, and his voice is low and gentle and soothing now, and you’re still staring at the barrenness of your arm.

I had such potential to be good, you think. He just never saw it. But you don’t know who you mean. And you don’t think it matters anymore. 

They say more to each other. Joel’s hand on his son’s arm now, pushing him towards the door, but still, still comforting for the thing it symbolizes, a benediction of choice, and you turn around to face the other side of the room. You can’t look – wrapping your arms around yourself. You don’t think you’ll run this time. Face it head on, let it be over now in full. Sam’s voice rings shrill, the sound of your name and curses and accusations, fighting a futile fight against his father’s even baritone, the sound of the slamming door, and then silence. When you turn back over your shoulder, they’ve stepped outside together, leaving you alone inside the house. 

He’d asked you once what you wanted, and you can’t fathom what the point of it had been. What does it matter what I want? That’s the least significant thing here. It always was. 

When he finally comes back inside, you’re dressed, lost bra retrieved, your bag packed and sitting at your feet. You’d gone into the kitchen just before, taken a peek at the pie, and you were right, and you don’t know how he could have possibly known, but he’d gotten you rhubarb. Your face is dry now, no tears and no will to cry. There’s nothing to speak of in his gaze when he leans back against the door to look at you, swallowing down words you’re sure will mean nothing in the face of all of this. And you look at him and you love him and you think, I was married to a man once and now I’m not and now I’m with his father and I love him in the way I never loved the son; and so now, I must ask myself, am I merely looking for the love of lesser man, who could have never given me what I needed, in the eyes of a man who seems to have all the answers? 

You don’t think so. And yet, there are still no answers to be had, and no questions left to ask. 

“I’m going this time,” In case he has designs to force you to stay, and even though there’s a light of acceptance in his eyes, he still shakes his head. Swallows and gathers his seams about himself before he says, “You aren’t leaving me,” gaze churning from warry to flinty to resolved. 

“I was never supposed to stay at all. I was never supposed to be for you. You said so yourself– you said we couldn’t fall in love. That I wasn't for you.” You get to your feet, pulling your purse over your shoulder, and he rushes towards you, pushing the bag back down to the floor, taking your face in his hands hard, something like panic in his eyes and in the air and in the vibration of his voice.

“It doesn’t matter, none of that matters– Whatever was before, whatever was in the past doesn’t mean shit when it’s just you and me here together–” And you’re crying now, real, great sobs of grief. 

“You were the one that said we couldn’t fall in love,” you cry again, try and pull away, but he holds you to himself, squeezes you against him, shivers like he too is crying, burying his face in your shoulder. 

“I was a fucking idiot, a damn liar. There was never any other option, baby.” Most terrible of terrible truths, you’d both known if for the lie it was the moment he’d said it, even before, probably. You stand limply in the circle of his embrace. He’d said once that he’d been a coward not to go out and look for you, but you know the opposite is true. No one is more of a coward than you were for not having waited for him. For having been so desperate for love, you’d been willing to settle for the wrong kind. You’ll never be able to settle for false comfort like that again, and it’s all his fault. “You’ve ruined me now. I’m ruined.”

He pulls back to take your face in his hands again, and you were right, he is crying. “I’m ruined! And I need you to give me another chance. I demand another chance– to… to fix this. To–”

But another chance for what? To change what? “He’s your son, and I only want you to be happy.” And you know he couldn’t ever be happy, truly happy, estranged from his only child. After all, like he’d said, the theft of him had been the worst thing ever done. You wouldn’t commit a crime like that against Joel also, never. 

“Baby, please, I think… I– I love–”

“Please–” You press the tips of your fingers to his mouth, silencing him. “Please, don’t do this to me now.” It makes you angry, this intent of his to trap you here with his love when there’s no room for you to stay. You turn away, picking up your bag again, but he snatches you back into himself, wrapping his big arms around your waist, crushing you against his chest. And you’d struggle if you could, but there’s so little fight left in you. “You’re the one that said – you said we couldn’t!”

“I know what I fucking said,” he spits, voice so angry it almost frightens you. “But there’s still– We have to talk, we have to–”

“What can you possibly imagine there’s left to say?”

“Everything.”

“Or nothing.”

“Look at me. Look at me–” He pulls your head back and to the side by your chin. There’s a bright flush sitting high on his cheekbones, and his eyes shift quickly back and forth between yours, searching for a way to fix this. To fix the good thing that’s now been broken. His thumb strokes the point of your chin softly, and he presses his mouth slowly to yours, eyes open to watch for your reaction. “This wasn’t a mistake,” he tells you, “We weren’t a mistake.” Weren’t. The final nail in the coffin. “I know, I know that there are so many things– that we can’t… but just– just stand here with me for one minute, please. Just give me one more second, and I’ll–”

He doesn’t finish the thought, and you let him kiss you one last time. And when he pulls back, because it doesn’t feel like it really matters, and because you just want to hear the sound of it coming out of your mouth, because you wish it was true and not the complete opposite, because you want to be as cruel and ugly outside as you feel on the inside, you whisper, “I hate you,” a full bodied lie. 

His eyes shutter and flicker for a moment, a wash of hurt suffusing them. But because he’s never been a weak man and because he’s always been honest, and he’s always, always above everything else, been good, he says, “And I love you,” and there it is. You’d thought you wanted to hear the sound of that too, but now that you have, it’s more terrible than you could have ever possibly imagined. And after that, there really is nothing left to say. 

-

Joel goes to see his brother afterwards because it’s what he always does and who he always goes to when he’s lost. When a son in the shape of a man made of nothing but childish fear and anger and hurt, had appeared one day, dropped out of the blue sky, onto his front porch, when he realized he wanted his daughter-in-law in a way no good man should. And now, that he’s admitted, because the realization had already been there, swift and uncompromising, the admittance had been all that was left, the hard going part, that he was in love with you – in love with the woman who had been married to his son, here he finds himself again. Lost and weak and two feet tall, made of nothing but hollow bones. “I’m not myself,” he tells Tommy, and then amends the lie because he’s not come here to tell lies. “She’s made me into someone I don’t recognize and wish I could be forever.” How would he get his old self back now? Impossible. You’d taken him away with you, he was only half made now, half man, half strength. And Tommy is understanding because it has always only been the two of them, and he’s always seen Joel for exactly who he is without judgement. The most honest eyes in the whole world, his brother. “I'm afraid that she’s the love of my life. I’m afraid that I’m not really so afraid at all. And she won’t even talk to me.” You’d left his house a week and a day ago, and Joel was going out of his mind, losing pieces of himself along the way, his sanity, his sense of right and wrong, his self restraint, self possession. He was about to do something crazy, he felt it gnawing and itching at his bones. He could barely remember the look of betrayal in his own son’s eyes amidst the madness of the memory of the hurt in yours, the sight of you walking away from him. “And my son. My son, my child, Tommy, he hates me. And I’m in love with the woman he used to be married to, who he hurt. And he’s a cruel and small man, and he needs me. He needs my help, and I have a responsibility to him. But Tommy– Tommy, I love her. She’s mine. And what am I going to do? What am I going to say to him? How will I ever face him again? She’s mine, and I– I can’t explain it, I can’t excuse it. But she’s mine– she’s my woman. She belongs to me. I know this as well as I know my own name, my own face.”

And his brother, his brother, his brother who always understands him, who always stands beside him, he claps him on the shoulder and says, “If anyone can find a way, Joel, it’s you. I know you can. You’re stronger and smarter than anyone I’ve ever known. And you don’t abandon yours.” And so Joel must believe him because Tommy is his brother, and he knows him, and he knows that even though he’s weak now, even if he must let himself be weak now, in the face of all of this, Joel is not truly a weak man where it counts. 

-

You and Sam had only ever spoken once on the topic of children. It was, from the first moment broached, a non possibility, not even half of an option. Devastating, but now, all this time later, almost like a grace from God. You’d wanted a baby so badly, more than anything in the whole world, and he would not give you one. He’d said your desire for a child was incongruous with your cold nature, how frigid you were. 

And you’d been so long, caught in the who am I, in the what am I doing. You never stopped to ask why. Molded into a bad shape, but mute and deaf to the intricacies of what had carved you so. You’d needed to destroy yourself entirely, tear down everything around yourself, and then recreate yourself and everything else in your life in a new image. Perhaps, then, you’d finally have the chance to be good.

Your husband’s father had given you this. Joel had given you this. 

And Joel, Joel, Joel, Joel. How to tell him that you’re sorry? That you’re vile and cruel and yes, even cold sometimes, but for him, for him you can find it in yourself to be soft, something to be forgiven, you hope. His son had called you a prude, and then, his father’s whore. Did it matter what the truth was? You weren’t so sure. Did you want Joel because you were a whore? Because your own father had never loved you, and you were thus desperate to fill that void left by lesser, crueler men? Did it matter? You hated the idea that this desire for him had to have been born by consequence of another man. What about what you wanted? What about the fact that it felt good when he was inside of you? When he gave it to you rough and hard and when he told you that you belonged to him because you did, because it was the truth. What about the fact that you were in love with him? That should have counted more because you said it counted more. And then that was it, nothing more to the thing of it. So what if he was the father of the man who’d been your husband? The man who’d stolen all of your surety, your passion, yourself. Sometimes, retribution feels fucking good. So what about it? And then, and after all, you were in love with him. So what did it all matter after that? 

People liked to say that sometimes a bad thing is worth it if it feels good enough. But what if you didn't think it was bad at all, and what if it didn’t just feel good enough? What if it’s actually everything, the best thing you’d ever had in your whole life? And what if it is simply and solely, or maybe even also, who cares, who cares, what if it is simply because it’s Joel? Joel who is beautiful and strong and good. Maybe even perfect in a way that you need. 

He’d told you once that he’d never had the chance to be angry, that it had been stolen from him, the worst thing ever done to me, he’d said. You know that you could never do that to him. Never hurt him in that way. And there might be so many options. Choices. Truths. Yourself. Finally, you are only yourself. Good in the way he’d shown you to be. In a way that did not bow to anything but the sort of goodness you needed. But Joel; above all else, Joel. He is the first choice, and everything else seems inconsequential after that. What is goodness worth in the face of all he’s given you? 

So, you sit now, within the basin of your empty bathtub, no more leaky kitchen sink echoing through your empty apartment, he’d fixed it weeks ago, and peer over the lip of the tub. And there, blinking up at you from the face of the skinny pink and white stick, is your answer to goodness. It had always been within yourself. And you think, if it must be just the two of us now, then let it. After all, your father has finally taught me how to be good. 

End.

Netherfeildren's Masterlist

Updates Blog!

[raghaziel]

Scott Barringer x victim/harassed Summary : No one, not even Shelby, had anticipated that her new toy would attract the attention of Scott Barringer himself. Warning : Warning, may offend some souls. Physical violence, drownings, harassment Serie : part 1 / part 2

Evening was slowly settling over Mount Horizon, the deep blue sky melting into a velvety darkness. The air was thick with the scent of pine and damp earth, and the last glimmers of sunlight clung stubbornly to the treetops.

Exhausted and beaten down by your humiliation at the lake, you dragged yourself up the narrow staircase to the Cliffhanger girls' dormitory. All you longed for was a moment of peace: a hot shower to wash away the slimy water, the laughter, the shame. You'd skipped dinner in the dining hall, your stomach in knots with fear.

But the second you opened the door to your shared room, you gasped. A strangled scream escaped you. Your heart thundered.

The room was a disaster, trashed. Your neatly folded clothes were in tatters, your books torn, your photos ripped in half and scattered like confetti. Lipstick was smeared across the walls in cruel strokes.

This wasn't just vandalism. It was a message. From outside, a laugh rose - high-pitched, childlike, merciless. You didn't have to wonder who it was. Shelby.

His voice echoed in the distance like a poisonous melody. You staggered out, your pulse screaming in your ears, and followed the echo down to the lake. And there she was: Shelby Merrick, surrounded by her band of daughters, as proud as a queen at her coronation.

At their feet, your clothes floated beside them on the surface of the black lake, twisted and soaked.

“That's what you're going to get, you little bitch,” Shelby sneered, smiling and nudging you with her elbow, nearly knocking you over. You gasped but didn't struggle. Nobody ever did. Especially not against Shelby.

“Dogs like you shouldn't be in the dorms with us,” she hissed, her eyes shining with pleasure. "Why aren't you sleeping outside tonight? It might be the first time you've ever belonged anywhere."

They all laughed. With that burning laughter.

Then, like a passing storm, they turned and disappeared down the path to another dormitory, probably sneaking off to some party you'd never be invited to. You trembled, shoulders hunched, trying to melt into yourself. You could barely breathe, let alone speak.

Silence fell over the lake. Heavy. Bathed in shame.

And then... a sound.

A violent splash tore the silence. You jumped and lifted your head.

A figure emerged from the shadows and plunged into the frozen lake, splitting the water with a force that took your breath away.

Your heart pounded.

Scott Barringer.

You recognized him instantly. The golden curls plastered to his forehead, the powerful shoulders splitting the water, that pure presence that weighed down the air around him. This was the boy who didn't care. The one everyone talked about in hushed tones. The one everyone feared.

You'd never seen him move so fast, never seen him act like he cared.

And yet, there he was, submerged in the dark water, pulling something from the depths.

Your stuff.

You froze as he rose to the surface, soaked to the bone, panting. The lake stuck to his skin like oil, glistening under the last light of dusk. He waded towards you, clutching a bundle of soaked clothes. Without a word, he grabbed a black hoodie left on the damp grass - his own - and threw it against your chest.

“Fucking take it,” he growled in a voice hoarse with cold and irritation. “I'm not going to freeze my ass off all night for you, bitch.”

The hoodie hit you and you instinctively clutched it. Your lips parted, but nothing came out. You didn't know what to say. Your head was spinning.

Scott stood there, imposing and soaking wet, his gaze fiery.

“I said, do you want your stuff, or don't you?” he tossed, jaw clenched.

You still didn't answer. Part of you was afraid. Another was simply confused. Why was he doing this? Scott exhaled sharply, frustration clouding his eyes. He stepped closer, narrowing the space between you, air crackling.

“That's an order, damn it,” he whispered in a low, dangerous voice. "You don't just walk away. You don't give me silence. Not you."

He suddenly reached out, clamping his hand around your jaw, not hard enough to hurt, but hard enough to trap you there.

You stopped breathing.

“You're going to open your mouth, you stupid bitch,” he said in a hoarse, whispered voice, his face inches from yours. "Just this once. For me. I can't stand the silence anymore."

You stared at him, lips trembling, pulse racing. Between fear and something else - curiosity, defiance, ardor - you hesitated, unsure which would engulf you first.

Scott released his embrace, his thumb brushing your cheek with surprising gentleness, as if the anger in him was only half the story.

[batmanisagatewaydrug]

reading update: december 2024

it's here, baby! the final reading roundup of 2024, and the last nine books I read!

what I read:

The Daughters of Izdihar (Hadeer Elsbai, 2023) - I really want to get back into my big chunky fantasy novel kick, and this was a fun one! I will fully admit I almost got turned off by the first chapter or two when the worldbuilding exposition and the fantasy feminism didn't quite sell me right away, but I stuck around and ultimately had a really good time. Daughters of Izdihar follows two young women from very different social classes, Nehal and Giorgina, who are navigating their lives amidst a burgeoning suffrage moment in an Egypt-inspired country. on top of the class and gender of it all, we have the extra element of "weaving," with weavers having the ability to exert influence over different classical elements - think bending, but legally distinct. Elsbai's weavers are a nice change of pace re: fantasy discrimination, being neither universally adored nor reviled but rather occupying a unique, often precarious niche in society that is most fraught for poor women like Giorgina. I found myself increasingly pulled in to the story and delighted to have found such a fun standalone, only to reach the wiiiiild cliffhanger ending and realize it was the first book of a duology this whole time. and apparently the sequel has been out since March of 2024? cool cool cool cool cool cool cool. add another one to the TBR!

Rejection (Tony Tulathimutte, 2024) - I read Tulathimutte's short story "The Feminist" YEARS AGO and have been a little haunted by it ever since, so I was stoked to hear that it had been incorporated into this collection of loosely interconnected short stories. "The Feminist" was striking in its ability to so viscerally capture the inner workings of a deeply unpleasant person whose brain has been absolutely scorched by the nastiest workings of the internet, but I hadn't seen ANYTHING yet. I posted about "Ahegao" here and still can't rave about it enough; it's a slow burn into utter absurdity that ends with a swift kick to the head. to say nothing of Tulathimutte weaving himself into the narrative of the book and, ultimately, rejecting himself, including as the final piece of the book a fictional rejection letter offering scathing criticism of the previous works. reading it made me feel lightheaded; this book is so nastily brilliant.

Delicious in Dungeon Vol. 13-14 (Ryoko Kui 2023-2024, trans. Taylor Engel) - god, what a great story. Kui builds such a rich and (god, pardon the pun) flavorful world, with so much nuance and texture given to every layer. you won't find any unquestioned reliance on old high fantasy tropes here; it feels as if Kui has truly turned over every stone in the genre to poke at and play with what lays underneath to make something original. the exploration of desire and hunger and the ways in which food itself fundamentally inextricable from life got me so so good, and I'm going to be so emo about Laois and Marcille's freak asses forever.

Allow Me to Introduce Myself (Onyi Nwabineli, 2024) - one of the only strikeouts of December, to me. the premise is compelling, following a British Nigerian woman in her 20s who is struggling to crawl out from beneath the shadow of being raised in the public eye by a white stepmother who turned her interracial family into fodder for a highly successful mommy blog, but ultimately it falls flat for me. the book feels unfocused and unsure, meandering around until it comes to an ending that is, frankly, far too tidy.

Funny Story (Emily Henry, 2024) - this romance novel has been topping a LOT of lists of 2024's best romances and even making appearances on lists of 2024's best books overall, so needless to say I was afraid of the hype. to my absolute shock and delight, Funny Story actually managed to live up to the praise and then some, turning the seemingly outlandish premise (a man and a woman become roommates after they're each unceremoniously dumped so their exes can elope, lie about dating each other, romance ensues) and make it sincerely charming. our protagonists, Daphne and Miles, are shockingly grounded for the leads of such an unlikely story, and navigate their grief and subsequent half-assed fake relationship in ways that feel winningly believable. Daphne shines as she learns to stand on her own outside of the certainty her former fiancee provided, and Miles would be the singular most fuckable man in any romance novel I've ever read if not for his unfortunate dedication to wearing crocs all the time.

The Uclaimed: Abandonment and Hope in the City of Angels (Pamela Prickett and Stefan Timmermans, 2024) - a surprisingly tender work of narrative nonfiction that explores the lives and deaths of four individuals whose bodies weren't claimed by any next of kin, and what ultimately became of them after. Prickett and Timmermans treat their subjects with incredible care, going to great pains to speak with those who cared for their subjects and depict them as full people with worthwhile lives, examining the families they lost and the systems that failed them as they found themselves alone at the ends of their lives. a great read if you want to get really emo OR really mad about how the United States' exceedingly narrow legal definition of family leaves so many people unprotected in times of need!

Him (Geoff Ryman, 2023) - yeah this is the trans!Jesus book I read on Christmas that isn't even really about Jesus being trans but is about Jesus being sort of a softcore eldritch nightmare man living the most confusing and inscrutable life that anyone had ever lived. I don't know if this book is particularly accurate to either the Bible or the Torah and I truly don't think it matters; Ryman is doing his own thing and I love his little freak Jesus. genuinely I'm obsessed with that guy, nothing has ever made me like Jesus as much as watching him have the most terrible time.

Someone You Can Build a Nest In (John Wiswell, 2024) - god this book is so charming and so fun and it's a romp in so many places. I do really truly adore our protagonist, Shesheshen, who's an curmudgeonly shapeshifting goo monster with a penchant for building herself new body parts out of the spare bits of people that she's killed and eaten. she is, against all logic, crushing hard on a kind woman who recently saved her life while believing Shesheshen to be a human, and that woman has naturally turned out to be a monster hunter (evidently, perhaps, not the most astute one). there's so much gory whimsy here, and so much to like. and yet. and YET. it goes just a little too long for me (the novel is a strong candidate for a work that would have fared better as a pared down novella) and it is, in times, gratingly on the nose with spelling out "x behavior is abuse and abuse is Bad." still very fun though, solid B from me.

that's it!!! that's a wrap for 2024, I'll see you again at the end of January to check in and see how those book bingo sheets are coming along!

[rosereleasestheart]

[Image description: snapshot of a word document. It reads: “Why is Chris calling me?” Yuuri asks out loud. Next to him, Phichit visibly tenses, but he says nothing as he stares at the TV. Whatever it is, it has to be important, so Yuuri wastes no time picking up. “Hello?” He doesn't receive an answer right away. There's muffled noise in the background of wherever the caller is, two voices arguing vehemently against each other, but Yuuri can't really make out the words. Which is why he's surprised when the voice that answers sounds deceptively calm and collected. “Hello, my dear,” Chris finally says on the other end. Yuuri would recognize that flirting lilt anywhere. “I'm sorry to call you at this hour, but I'm afraid your boyfriend is in another crisis and he refuses to listen to me.” The laid back way he's informed of this has Yuuri all at once gripping his phone all while letting out an unprepared, “Huh?” Chris is back to talking to someone – Viktor, of course – in the background. This time, Yuuri does hear what he says. “Take the phone, or so help me.”]

I missed WIP Wednesday again but here's a sneak peak anyway. This is from the draft of chapter 5 of I might need some more healing, but it's worth it for the feeling. Chapter 4 miiiiight end with an explosive cliffhanger :3c

[taevbears]

To Be Loved - 04

There may be something there that wasn't there before.

⤑ pairing: namjoon x reader (a bit of reader x ot7) ⤑ genre: hybrid au, romance, hurt/comfort ⤑ rating: 18+ ⤑ word count: 6.7k ⤑ warnings: the boys are still kinda mean and very guarded around the reader, slow burn, very brief mentions of toxic relationships and bullying, mentions of physical abuse, implied violence, Epik High name drop lol, cliffhanger ending ⤑ note: first post of 2024! hope you guys had a great start to the new year. this story is just about wrapping up now, but i'm also ready to move onto new projects that i want to release this year. hope you guys enjoy, and comments/reblogs are greatly appreciated! :)

Chapters 01 | 02 | 03 | 04 | 05 (End)

When it rains, your life is at a standstill. Time moves so slowly, so seamlessly, the days start to blur together. The grey skies, the endless rain, the muddy roads, and the thick fog that surrounds the gloomy forest. They are a constant that you can’t escape from.

The old manor, tucked away in the deep forest – far from any traveling paths and roads – appears to be stuck in time. And you feel like you’re stuck with it.

How long has it been since you arrived at the manor? A few days? A week? Two weeks?

With a sigh, you look away from the water gently knocking against your window and muster the courage to get out of bed. Cold air strikes you once you’ve come out of your blanket cocoon, and you try not to shudder as you walk barefoot around your bedroom.

By now, you’ve memorized what parts of the floor creak loudly, and you’re careful to avoid those areas, only crossing them slowly and quietly if necessary. Still, even if you’ve successfully finished your morning routine without a sound, he waits by your door.

“Little human, are you sure you’re not afraid of us?”

You catch your breath, but only for a second. Every morning, the bear hybrid waits in front of your bedroom as you’re waking up with a grumpy but determined look on his face. As if he absolutely refuses to go to bed until you answer his question.

“Good morning,” you start, blinking at him as you calm yourself down. He arches an eyebrow at you. “No, I’m not afraid of you.”

Taehyung holds your gaze, reading your face, looking for any subtle tell that you’re not being honest with him. You steel yourself as best as you can under the intensity of his stare, focusing on one of the moles on his pretty face.

Then, when satisfied, he nods his head. His mouth forms into a straight line, making his cheeks rise a bit in what you think might be a smile. Then, he saunters off down the hallway without another word.

You release the breath you’ve been holding.

The first time Taehyung did this was the morning after Namjoon showed you his private garden in the greenhouse. He scared the shit out of you, leaning against the doorframe as soon as you opened the door, just like when you had first met him. And he seemed to doubt you when you had stuttered out that you, in fact, don’t find him to be terrifying.

“I should get used to this,” you mumble to yourself, closing the door behind you.

Breakfast seems to depend on who is awake to make it. Sometimes, Seokjin is up in the early morning and has already started cooking by the time you and the other hybrids come down the stairs. Sometimes, Yoongi already has it prepared before his nocturnal instincts kick in and makes him want to sleep all day. Sometimes, it’s Hoseok and Jimin in the kitchen together, but one of them dances and entertains the other, riling up contagious giggles and distractions from the task at hand.

“Can I help with anything?” you offer when you see the two together.

Hoseok visibly flinches when he hears your voice, still a bit nervous when you’re around. But at least he doesn’t avoid you anymore. It’s as if he’s accepted that you’re inevitably stuck with each other. At least, until the storm passes.

“No, no, you’re a guest,” Jimin reminds you, flapping his black wing to shoo you away. “Just pull up a chair and relax. We’ll have this ready shortly.”

With that said, the two turn back to their tasks. Jimin tends to the fish he’s frying over a pan and Hoseok diligently cuts some vegetables. No resumed laughter or conversations while you awkwardly linger with uncertainty.

You know they mean well. You know that Namjoon had talked to them about treating you nicely while you’re staying with them. But you’re starting to feel like a burden. Restless. Useless. They don’t let you lift a finger with any of the house chores, even if you want to help out to show your consideration and appreciation.

“Are you sure? I don’t mind,” you try again.

Jimin’s shoulders tense a bit. You think he’s starting to get irritated. He doesn’t look at you as he repeats, “It’s fine. You’re a guest.”

It’s not until after you leave the kitchen when you hear their voices chatting again.

If anyone were to look for you, they’d find you in the old manor’s library.

There, they’d see you uncovering the written secrets and adventures within its vast collections of stories. You spend most of your day there, wrestling with a blanket as you switch from one comfortable position to another on the large sofa, so engulfed with your book that you don’t pay attention to anything else.

Not the way that time fleetingly drifts from morning to the late afternoon.

Not the way the sound of rain and the rumble of thunder begin to lull you to sleep.

Not the pair of glowing eyes that catches you napping mid-story, blanket slipping off you and onto the floor.

The next thing you know, you wake up to find that the book you’ve been reading has been placed on the table, the corner of the page turned to hold your place. The blanket that was partially covering you is now completely pulled over you, snuggly tucking you in beneath its warmth.

Someone was taking care of you while you were asleep. But as you look around, you see no one else in the room.

Sometimes, Jungkook drags you out of the library and brings you into the gaming room instead. There are a variety of board games, puzzles, and video games to play together, and all of them are addictively fun. No doubt, this is easily one of Jungkook’s favorite parts of the manor.

It also happens to be Seokjin’s favorite spot as well.

You see the wolf hybrid sitting straight on the couch, face stoic as he mutters under his breath, thick eyebrows drawn together in concentration as his fingers rapidly fidgets with the buttons and joysticks of the controller. His pointy ears twitch slightly when he hears you and Jungkook come in, but he doesn’t look away from the screen, too focused on what his character is doing.

Jungkook pulls out a puzzle for you two to do together, dumping all the tiny pieces onto the table. The two of you work in relative silence to put it together, but a question keeps lingering in your mind.

“Hey Jungkook, have you been tucking me in when I nap?”

From your peripheral vision, Seokjin’s ear swivels toward you. The movement of his hands still as a red flush starts to color the back of his neck.

“No,” he replies, a bit surprised. “Why?”

You frown a little. If not Jungkook, then who?

“No reason.”

On the rare occasion you’re not in the library or with Jungkook, you find yourself wanting to stretch out your legs and wander around the old manor.

There’s a timeless charm about it all. You imagine the previous owners lived like kings and queens here, throwing extravagant and lavish parties and banquets. An orchestra of music lively plays from the grand ballroom, and an incredible feast is on display with the finest plates and utensils. You imagine the guests dressed in their best suits and ball gowns, a variety of rich colors filling into the manor to dance the night away.

As you explore bits of the manor, you feel a pair of eyes watch you from the shadows. The same pair of resentful, glowing eyes that have been quietly observing you ever since you found yourself here.

You can always tell when he’s nearby. The room gets quieter. You become self-aware of each breath you take, the way your body tenses under the penetrating gaze, of the nervous flutter in your heart as every fiber of your being tells you to run.

And usually, you would. The moment you feel the discomfort crawling beneath your skin, you listen to your instincts and walk right back out of the room you entered.

But today, you face the shadows of the room. The panther hybrid that silently eyes you in the darkness.

You told Taehyung this morning that you weren’t afraid of them, right? And cutting through this room is the fastest way to get to where you want to go.

With a brave face, you lower your gaze from the panther and bow slightly in greeting. “Hello, Yoongi. I’m just passing through.”

In the darkness, the pair of eyes widens a bit. It’s the first time you’ve talked to him since you arrived at the manor. The first time you even acknowledged him.

Had your gaze lingered a little longer, perhaps you would’ve seen it. But you briskly walk across the room to exit, muttering an apology beneath your breath for disturbing him.

By evening, after leisure activities and daily housework around the manor are done, everyone is gathered for dinner. Each night is something a little different: hot stews and soups, rice bowls and stir-fry with vegetables and protein, marinated meat and seafood. There’s always plenty of side dishes as well, and always something to satiate each of the hybrid's cravings for certain food.

For the first few nights, there’s still an awkward tension in the air as you and Jungkook sit with the pack. Everyone's a little quieter, shifting glances with each other in wordless conversations. You feel like the elephant in the room, hard to be unnoticed and yet something no one really wants to address.

Except Namjoon.

Across the table, Namjoon would ask you how your day was, looking at you as if you’re the only person in the room with him. He’d ask about the books you read that day, what your favorite parts are, if you’ve seen the movie adaptation. And one of the hybrids – namely Jimin, Taehyung, or Jungkook – would comment how they didn’t realize there was a book version and ask about the differences from the original.

If you mentioned a game with Jungkook that you played that day, Namjoon would proudly state that he’s quite good at puzzles and riddles, and challenges you to a round next time. And the other hybrids – Seokjin, Yoongi, and Hoseok this time – would roll their eyes and grumble about how he is undefeated.

Even if you tell him that you slept most of the day and did absolutely nothing productive, Namjoon would still smile and tell you that rest is important. That he’s happy you feel comfortable sleeping well in the manor. He’d ask you if you had any good dreams, and listen to them even if it’s just the most mundane thing you could barely remember.

And you can’t help but think about how Kangdae never asks you questions like this.

Kangdae never bothered to ask about your day, how you’ve been, what you’re up to. So much of your relationship with him revolved around what he wants, what his plans are. It didn’t matter how you felt about them, as long as he got his way.

Yet, Namjoon seems to want to know everything about you. Your hobbies, your interests, what you like to do throughout the day, what you dream of.

It’s… different from what you’re used to. But it’s not entirely unwelcome either.

Like Taehyung, Namjoon has a question to ask you. Every night after dinner, as the other hybrids begin to clear away their plates and put their leftovers away, Namjoon comes up to you and inquires, “Would you like to spend the evening with me?”

Shyly, as your heart seems to flutter each time he does, you answer, “Of course.”

Stuck in the manor, and with the ongoing storm still strong, your options are rather limited. 

Sometimes, he takes you to his greenhouse again where you can see the slow progress of his little garden. Sometimes, you’d take him up on his challenge and try to beat him in a puzzle or game. Sometimes, it’s a quiet evening where the two of you are reading books side by side, or watching a movie until you end up falling asleep, and you’d wake to find his arm protectively around you, holding you close. Sometimes, the night is full of laughter and chatter as the two of you share a bottle of wine by the fireplace and talk for hours about life, music, art, and whatever comes to mind, and realizing that he’s such an easy person to talk to.

Despite the circumstances, you enjoy hanging out with him. A lot more than you ever thought you would.

There’s something sweet and kind about Namjoon. He’s incredibly smart and humble, his down-to-earth personality helps him see the beauty of life, art, and passion in ways that are almost philosophical. He has very admirable traits that unveils the more you get to know him, yet he still keeps his certain secrets close to his heart about what creature he is and where he goes when he isn’t in the manor. Admittedly, he has many physical traits that you find attractive as well, from the deep dimples on his cheeks whenever he smiles to the bulge of muscles in his arms and chest.

It feels strange and new, a feeling you’ve never felt with anyone before. A feeling that you can’t quite place whenever you feel Namjoon’s pretty eyes on you or when he’d accidentally brush his hand against yours.

While the days seem to move slowly, almost in a standstill, time flies quickly when you’re with Namjoon. Before you know it, hours passed, and he is already escorting you to your room in the east wing.

“Good night, Namjoon,” you tell him once you’re inside the room, leaning against the doorway as you face him.

“Sweet dreams,” he replies, smiling at you in a way that makes his eyes form crescents and the dimples stretch along his cheek with his grin.

There’s a moment that lingers. One that feels like the night has ended too soon, and this is a chance for either of you to say something more. To not let the moment pass.

Just as he’s beginning to walk away, you call out to him. “Namjoon?”

“Yes?”

Would you like to spend the evening with me?

The bold question nearly comes out of your mouth, and you feel your face heat up when you realize what you’re about to ask him. Instead, you merely say, “Thank you. I had a nice time with you.”

His face softens a bit as he tells you, “Me too. I’ll see you tomorrow.”

Another day rises, gloomy as always. But for once, you don’t let the constant rain damper your spirits.

Perhaps it’s because you’ve been here a little while now. Perhaps it’s also because you have no idea when the rain will let you go. Perhaps it’s because you simply want to change things up from the dark and dreary. But if you’re going to be stuck in a manor with a bunch of hybrids, you might as well make the most of it. Right?

“Good morning, Taehyung,” you greet him the moment you open your bedroom door. He looks taken aback, as if you wouldn’t suspect he’d come to your door like he does every morning. “How’ve you been?”

“Fine.” He blinks at you, still confused. Maybe even a bit suspicious. The sleepiness that’s usually on his face isn’t present this time. “Are you all right?”

“I am,” you reply easily, giving him a polite, friendly smile. You’re about to head down for breakfast when you turn to face the bear hybrid again. “Thanks for always checking on me, by the way.”

Taehyung smiles a little to himself. He’s still a bit guarded around you, just as all the other hybrids. But to both of you, it’s a small start to change. “Sure. No problem.”

In the kitchen, you hear Hoseok and Jimin before you even see them. The two of them are in charge of breakfast again, singing a song they both know and shaking their hips as they stir and cut.

“Need any help?” you offer again, still in a good mood after talking to Taehyung.

Jimin barely glances at you. “We got it. Don’t worry.”

“Are you sure?” you try again. “I can make a decent kimchi fried rice.”

“It’s true,” your number one supporter – Jungkook – pipes up, seemingly summoned by the chance to readily defend your honor and your cooking. “I tried it. It’s so good.”

You smile fondly at the bunny hybrid, and without thinking, you begin to pet his back affectionately. A mistake you instantly regret.

At your touch, Jungkook immediately tenses. His eyes are scared wide as he stares back at you, and you quickly draw your hand back.

Stupid, you scold yourself. His owner was physically abusive. Of course he wouldn’t feel comfortable with you just touching him. “I-I’m so sorry, Jungkook. I didn’t— I should’ve realized—”

“No, no, it’s okay,” he insists, his voice soft. “It feels nice. I’m just… not used to it.”

Hoseok and Jimin are quiet as they watch the exchange between you two. All three hybrids note the guilt and distress on your face, and sense that you genuinely feel bad. Even as Jungkook takes your hands and brings them to his face and chest, trying to cheer you up, claiming that he knows that you won’t ever hurt him.

You’d never hurt any of them.

In fact, in the days that you and Jungkook have been in the manor, it’s clear that the two of you at least care about each other. From the little things like when you ask him how he slept the night before, or when Jungkook shares some of his food with you. To the obvious things like when Jungkook’s eyes would sparkle with fondness whenever he talks about you, or how you’re always looking out for him even when you seem busy reading a book.

Perhaps there’s some truth in Jungkook’s story from the first dinner together. Perhaps you aren’t like the other humans after all.

It makes you rather odd, peculiar to the rest of the hybrids. A beauty, but a funny girl.

Jimin ruffles his feathers a bit, as if he seems a bit confused about something. Then, after a bit of hesitation, he asks, “You said you can cook kimchi fried rice? What else can you make?”

It isn’t long until the kitchen fills with the aromas of your meal. You’ve been here long enough to know what each of them prefer as well, and with the three hybrids helping you finish making breakfast, you can’t help but feel proud of the abundance set on the table before you.

“Enjoy the meal, guys. I’ll see if the others want to join us,” you decide as the three hybrids already take their seats around the table. They nod their heads and express their appreciation, but the hunger in their eyes makes them impatient as they start to fill their plates with food.

By that time, Taehyung is probably fast asleep and you don’t want to bother him. You’re trusting that Jimin or Hoseok would save some food for him later. You also don’t have any idea where Namjoon would be, but you suspect that Seokjin would be in the gaming room like he usually is.

Just as you’re crossing the threshold leading to the gaming room, you feel him.

Eyes watching you from the shadows.

Normally, this is when you run. When your fight-or-flight instincts kick in and you turn back from the room as quickly as you entered. When you’d flee to another room as if he’d chase you out.

This time, you try to address the guarded presence in the room.

“Yoongi?”

There’s no answer. But if you were to see him, you’d see his ear twitch at the sound of his name. The gaze feels more intense, making your skin crawl, but you don’t let it scare you.

“I helped Hoseok and Jimin with breakfast today,” you continue and wait to see if he’d respond back. He doesn’t. Still, you meekly add on, “I wasn’t sure what you like. We saved some for you and the others. If you try it, I hope you like it.”

You take the following silence as your cue to leave, scurrying across to get into the game room. You feel uncertain if engaging in small talk with the leopard hybrid will change his impression of you at all.

Until later on, when you return to the kitchen, you see that his share is missing from their refrigerator. And Taehyung and Seokjin are sitting together eating their shares.

“Jimin told me that you made this,” the bear hybrid says when he sees you. “It’s good, right Seokjin-hyung?”

The wolf hybrid chokes a little in surprise, as if he’s just finding out now that the food he’s eating was made by you. It’s nearly devoured, but Seokjin coolly replies, “It’s not bad.”

You smile a little at this, feeling a bit proud of yourself. “Then, I’ll make something more delicious for you guys next time.”

“It’s nice what you did for everyone,” Namjoon tells you later that day, after dinner and during another evening date with him. He pours you a glass of whiskey, and you smile and take it from him. Congratulations are in order for finally getting the other hybrids to warm up to you.

“It’s the least I could do,” you tell him honestly, taking a sip and letting the liquor burn your throat a little. You grimace a bit, swirling the golden liquid in your glass. “You’ve all been nothing but kind to me.”

Your eyes are fixed on the alcohol, but you can see Namjoon staring at you from your peripheral vision. It’s such a softened look, almost endeared. You try to tell yourself the warmth on your face is from the whiskey and nothing else.

“I hope this means you’ll consider staying after the rain,” he nearly whispers. He doesn’t hide that you’re more than welcomed to. That, for whatever reason, he wants you to stay with him for a long time.

Perhaps a few days ago, you’d easily decline. You didn’t want to burden any of them for overstaying. You didn’t think it was even possible to be amicable with them.

But today proved you wrong. Today felt like a change to something new. Something that just wasn’t there before.

You take another sip of the whiskey and state, “I’ll think about it.”

Staying in the manor has been on your mind lately.

Day by day, it feels like time continues to move too slowly. The rain seems to come and go now, but it’s still too dangerous for you to leave the old manor on the chance that the storm will pick up again soon. Or that you might end up getting lost in the dense woods. Or any other excuse that seems like a bad idea to leave.

So, you stay.

You stay until Taehyung no longer questions if you’re afraid of them every morning.

It’s become a routine at this point.

Every day, the sleepy, handsome face of the bear hybrid is the first thing you see when you open the door to your bedroom. “Good morning, little human. How did you sleep?”

And you smile back at him, genuinely happy to see him. “Morning, Taehyung. I slept fine, thanks for asking.”

“That’s good,” he responds, nodding a bit to himself before he starts to head to his room. You’re not sure how long he waits for you to wake up, or why he still insists on checking on you before he turns in for bed, but you appreciate the gesture nonetheless.

“I hope you sleep well,” you tell him before he goes. And Taehyung just looks back at you and smiles.

You stay until Jimin no longer sees you as a guest in his home.

To your insistence, Jimin starts to see you helping around the manor more. Without anyone asking, he sees that you’d fix snacks for everyone in the afternoon, cutting up fruits or spreading tuna mix on crackers. He sees you dusting around the east corridor on days when it rains, tending to Namjoon’s flowers as they begin to bloom and grow, and folding laundry with Jungkook.

You’re really starting to make yourself at home here.

Jimin preens his black feathers, neatly fixing his wing as you’re sweeping around with a broom and dustpan. He doesn’t think you’re even paying attention to him until he hears you murmur, “They’re so pretty.”

“What is?”

“Your feathers,” you tell him with a shy smile. “They’re a really unique color.”

“Oh.” He feels his chest puff up a bit, swelling with happiness. In the shelter he ran away from, and even the lake where he was born, he was always the odd one out – the ugly duckling of the group. Hearing you compliment him makes his heart stir as he quietly mutters, “Thank you.”

You stay as Hoseok begins to realize you’re not a threat to them.

It takes a while, but slowly, eventually, Hoseok no longer flinches or looks at you with terror when you’re near him. Where he even tries to make small talk with you at the dinner table, or when he’s with another hybrid. Seeing how gentle you are with Jungkook – and these days, to the others – seems to assure him that you’re not an enemy to him or his pack.

At the library, Hoseok sees you and Jungkook together. It isn’t unusual to find you here, but Jungkook must’ve wanted to spend time with you.

In his bunny form, Jungkook falls asleep on your lap. His little body is comfortably stretched out as you absently scratch his head and behind his ears, and then massage his back. He’s practically melting at your touch, whiskers twitching with content.

Jungkook is completely safe with you. Despite his past with his previous owner and the horrors he had to face before he met you, he’s let his guard down with you.

Perhaps that’s why Hoseok finally musters up the courage to approach you. “I saw the movie for this, but I think I like the book better so far.”

You look up at him and smile. “Oh, that’s a good one! I like the book better too.”

He returns your smile, still a bit nervous, but eventually, he sits next to you. Neither of you say a word as you quietly read your books together. But the implication of it all, the wordless comfort of being around each other’s presence, is more than enough.

You stay as Yoongi starts to respond back to you.

Shortly after you and Hoseok spend the afternoon reading together, the leopard hybrid jumps down and reveals himself before you. He regards you with cautious eyes still, and you’re frozen in your spot, not sure what to expect.

Then, as if he’s the nervous one, he breaks eye contact with you. “I didn’t know you listened to Epik High.”

You blink at him, but then remember you’re wearing their merch shirt. “Oh, I do! I went to their concert a couple years ago!”

He looks surprised. “I didn’t take you as the type to listen to hip-hop.”

You smirk a little at his reaction. “Namjoon didn’t tell you? I met him when he was still an underground rapper.”

You stay as Seokjin shows you a different side to him.

On the day when it was so cold that the rain turned into snow, you and Jungkook decided to have a snowball fight in the courtyard. The other hybrids could hear you screaming and laughing from inside the manor as the bunny hybrid chases you around, cackling like a madman as he carries mounds of snow in his hand. 

When you see Jimin and Taehyung, you run to them for help, trying to hide behind them. The two look a little unsure of what to do until you peek out from behind Taehyung and hurl a snowball at Jungkook’s shoulder.

Hoseok laughs at the three of you split up with Jimin and Taehyung catching on quick. Yoongi and Namjoon watch by the doorway with amusement as you play with the youngest hybrids.

But as Seokjin watches, his tail is wagging and his pointed ears are perked with interest. His big eyes follow the snowballs being thrown, and his body lunges a bit, as if ready to catch them before he forcibly stops himself.

Hoseok notices and bends down to gather the snow on the ground, forming them into a ball. “Hyung, let’s show these kids how it’s done.”

You’re a bit startled when you come face to face with the wolf hybrid, not expecting him to join the fight. He’s in his wolf form, bigger than any dog you’ve encountered, and much more intimidating had it not been for the playful way Seokjin stretches out his front paws and raises his butt, wagging his tail as he eyes the ball of snow in your hands. When you throw it, Seokjin immediately takes off and bites the snow in midair, ruining your surprise attack.

Jungkook laughs when he sees this. “Wow, Jin-hyung, you’re so mean!”

And then gets hit in the face with a snowball by Hoseok.

You stay because Namjoon asks you to.

An awful flu has you bedridden for a couple weeks after the big snowball fight. Despite how many extra blankets are over your body, you’re still shivering beneath them. You’re coughing and sneezing until your chest and throat aches and you can’t breathe properly through your nose. All you can eat are liquids because solid food makes you nauseous.

Jungkook is so worried about you, he’s standing by your bedside with tears in his eyes, telling you not to die on him.

And you, a blob beneath several blankets – voice hoarse and completely congested, feeling like this illness has you fighting through hell and back – try to assure him as best as you can that you’ll be fine.

Surprisingly, all the hybrids step up to take care of you.

Seokjin cooks you chicken noodle soup, Yoongi brews you ginger tea with honey and lemon, Taehyung leaves plenty of water by your nightstand to keep you hydrated, Hoseok often places a cool, damp washcloth on your burning forehead to reduce your fever, Jungkook makes sure your bed is comfortable by adding on more blankets and pillows from his bed to yours, and Jimin shoos away the other hybrids when they want to check on you so you could rest properly.

At some point, Namjoon must have gone into your room as well.

After dozing off, you open your eyes to see a smerlado flower on your nightstand, resting on top of a book and a note. In Namjoon’s handwriting, he writes that he just finished reading the book and thought you’d like it. And as you flip open the pages, you see sticky notes and tabs of Namjoon’s thoughts and comments as he was reading through it.

Your mood instantly lifts as you read through them, smiling and laughing at some, itching to add your own thoughts into others. You keep hoping to turn the page and see another comment from him, even if it’s just a note that says to remind him about a particular paragraph later since he has more to say than what he could write. And only part-way through the story, you ask Jimin to get you a pen and some paper so you could write Namjoon back.

For a little while, it goes on like this. Little handwritten letters shared between you and Namjoon, especially when it still hurts to talk and you keep sleeping on and off all day. It becomes one of the things you look forward to the most, receiving a letter from him, even more so than the book he pairs with it to keep you entertained while you’re in bed.

The rain has stopped. The snow has stopped. And honestly, once you recover from this flu, you could technically leave the manor and the hybrids behind. Night falls and the moon is so bright. The stars look beautiful without the clouds masking their lights.

“What are you thinking about?” Namjoon quietly asks, visiting you for the evening as he always does. Even when you’re sick in bed, he’s adamant about courting you. He reads your notes, and you watch the dimples on his cheeks form when he comes across something funny or endearing. He brings you tea, flowers, more books, and puzzles, but spends most of his evenings just talking to you. Even as you doze off, he watches over you, comfortable with your presence as you feel his fingers linger by your face and lips.

Tonight, as you look at him, you think he looks handsome under the moonlight. Tall, strong, and the indigo colors of his eyes look magical as his gaze falls on you.

“The storm stopped, but…” you trail off, a wave of emotion hitting you so suddenly. You think about how the hybrids are just starting to warm up to you, how Jungkook is right at home here, how this was your goal from the very start and you can’t imagine parting ways from any of them now.

Namjoon doesn’t need you to finish your sentence. His hand finds yours, warm and big, yet it holds yours so gently. “Then stay. This is your home now, too.”

You decide to stay because you want to.

Six months have passed since you and Jungkook first arrived at the old manor. Dinners have been livelier after the snowball fight. The hybrids have gotten used to you being around, regarding you with warm smiles whenever they see you. 

And you feel safe when you’re with them. You feel at home.

On a clear and starry night, after Yoongi casually mentions that the old owners of the manor seemed to have hosted balls and parties long ago, you and the hybrids decide to dress up and throw your own party for fun. Remnants of this are found in the attic, the servant quarters, and even the grand ballroom itself.

It’s in a closet where you find a beautiful ball gown. It feels like it’s been made for you the way it perfectly fits your body, the shade of yellow complimenting your skin tone, and the exquisite details that make the dress sparkle. There’s a giddiness in you as you go all out, fixing your hair and makeup for the first time in ages.

When Jungkook first sees you, his mouth falls open in surprise.

You start to feel a bit self-conscious when he doesn’t say anything. “I look silly, don’t I?”

“No! Not at all!” he quickly assures you with a laugh. “You look beautiful.”

As you wait in the east wing, Jungkook hops off ahead to inform the others that you’re ready. Music begins to play from the ballroom, and you take a deep breath in.

Tonight, you feel nervous, and you’re not entirely sure why. Every night, for the past six months, you’ve spent your evenings after dinner with Namjoon.

This time, it shouldn’t feel any different, except it does.

Careful of the steps, you slowly make your descent down the stairs. Once you’re at the middle landing, that’s when you see him.

Namjoon is also dressed up tonight, but he looks like a prince straight out of a fairytale story. As he steps down the stairs from the west wing to meet you, he stares at you in awe. Then, with a charming smile, he extends his arm toward you and asks, “Shall we?”

You smile back shyly and wrap your arm around his. Then, together, the two of you walk down the rest of the steps that lead to the ballroom.

It’s enchanting, the way the chandeliers glow and sparkle above you. Yoongi is on the piano and Taehyung on the violin. Seokjin and Jungkook are dancing together, giggling and goofing around, and Hoseok and Jimin are sitting together with an open bottle of champagne shared between them. 

You feel their gazes on you and Namjoon the moment you two enter. Even Yoongi and Taehyung momentarily stop playing as they look at you.

“Don’t mind them,” Namjoon whispers when he sees that you’re getting a little anxious from the attention. He takes one of your hands in his as his other hand holds your waist. “Just keep your eyes on me.”

Hoseok waves for the music to start again, and a romantic tune fills the ballroom. You and Namjoon start to dance together. It’s a bit clumsy at first. Namjoon winces every time he nearly steps on your feet and mumbles embarrassed apologies. But you smile and assure him that it’s okay, almost feeling like no one else is in the room except you and him.

After a while, Yoongi changes it from live music to songs from his playlist, still keeping the romantic atmosphere as Taehyung and Jimin dance together, and Hoseok stares at the leopard hybrid with eyes begging for a dance as well. You’d think Jungkook would want to cut in to dance with you at one point, but he still seems to be having fun with Seokjin and they copy each other’s silly dance moves.

“I’m going to step out for some fresh air,” you tell Namjoon, and he nods his head, saying he’ll go with you.

While the party continues inside, the two of you enter the balcony where the cold, night air hits your skin and makes you shiver. You feel his hand on the small of your back, rubbing you gently to keep you warm. And it works. You feel the heat on your face as the peaceful, beautiful night surrounds you two.

There’s a serious look in his eyes, as if he’s contemplating something, before he asks you, “Are you happy here? With me?”

“I am,” you reply honestly. You can’t thank Namjoon enough for taking you and Jungkook in that night of the storm, despite almost hurting one of his packmates. You can imagine a life without him and the other hybrids now either.

“Do you ever think about going back?”

“Sometimes,” you admit. You miss your family, and every now and then, you wonder how they’re doing. How much has changed in that small, provincial town since you left. You even think about Kangdae sometimes, though you’re certain he must be with another girl. They must all think you’re long gone by now. “I don’t think I will, though. I like being with you. And the others, of course.”

Namjoon smiles gently. “Then, I’m glad you stayed.”

“Me too.” You mean it, too. Your eyes meet Namjoon’s, and you can’t help but think of how pretty they are. How attractive he is. How you’re so tempted to just move a little closer and just—

“I have a confession to make.”

You feel your heart race. “What is it?”

“I think – I knew – from the moment I met you,” Namjoon begins, his voice soft. The strokes of his thumb on your back feel more intimate as his gaze falls on your lips. “You’re the one. You’re my—”

A commotion interrupts from below.

You hear Seokjin barking and snarling angrily, followed by the deep, rumbling growls from Taehyung and Yoongi. Voices are shouting. People you don’t recognize.

Everything seems to move in slow motion as you and Namjoon look over the balcony to see flashlights waving in the premise of the manor. Some of the hybrids are out there in their animal forms, warning the group of intruders to back away.

“Namjoon,” Hoseok interrupts, coming to the balcony with urgency in his eyes. “It’s the humans. They’re—”

A gunshot fires.

Your blood runs cold as the deadly sound rings in your ear.

And, to your horror, you hear a voice that you do recognize, shouting your name.

“Babe, I know you’re there!” Kangdae yells, looking up at you from where he stands. “Come down here and say hello! Or I’ll shoot your darling pets one by one.”

Thank you for reading ♡ Comments & reviews are greatly appreciated!

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[mikuni14]

The On1y One - Ep 12

I have mixed feelings about the finale of this beautiful series.

First, I'll write what I particularly liked, which is something that relatively rarely appears in BL series, which is the correct portrayal of teenage boys in terms of sex 😊 Usually, it is shown that they are either very experienced, like adult porn actors, or the seme is very experienced and the uke blushes and shies away from the slightest touch, or neither of them is interested in sex.

In The On1y One, horny teenage boys are horny, they're aroused by even the smallest things, they fantasize about sex, whose thoughts about sex come at the most inconvenient moments, who panic, who at the same time want to be close, but who are also terrified by closeness (like Tian, ​​who was afraid to even lie in the same bed with Wang). And who randomly get erections.

It was so real in its naturalness, panic and awkwardness.

My mixed feelings mainly come down to the fact that I lacked closure. I don't like it when I feel like the story is unfinished (I'm not talking about cliffhangers or ambiguous endings) , when in a series a particular season doesn't end with some kind of clasp that ties together what happened throughout the season . I expected that this season (not even knowing if there would be a second one) probably wouldn't end with them starting a romantic relationship, but I expected some kind of conclusion between them. I would even accept their separation, the "break-up" of their relationship, if I knew that they knew where they stood together and, most importantly, TOGETHER MADE THIS DECISION, however heartbreaking it was. I miss their communication here at the end, and after all, they talked to each other the entire series, talking about their own feelings. I keep repeating that I have to feel equality in a relationship to be involved in it, and unfortunately I can't help but feel that Tian is the one who is the most wronged and hurt in this relationship. It was Wang who made the decision that hurt Tian so much, it was Tian who was abandoned again, even though he thought that THIS TIME, it would be different, when, for the first time in his life, he trusted, believed, had hope, had home. It was Wang who had nerves of steel and an analytical mind, who assessed the situation and made the best decision, while Tian only watched from the sidelines with a broken heart, being faced with a situation that had already happened, having no influence on the unfolding events. Of course Wang suffers, I do not deny it to him at all, I know he's hurt too. His first love, first fascination, first infatuation is so unfortunate, and it is not his fault, nor his beloved's. And I perfectly understand his decision, his choice. Wang actually has a very analytical mind, who assesses what he sees, he's also completely devoid of any illusions about reality. He immediately deciphered Jia Hao, his realistic view of the world can also be seen in his contacts with Tian, ​​his family, the rest of the class, the teachers. Similarly, we see him analyzing his relationship with Tian, ​​when he recalls the scenes with him and calmly comes to the conclusion that what he feels is love and - in my opinion - he also knows that Tian has feelings for him. And he immediately comes to another conclusion that this feeling has no future - at least not now. His internal monologue is very telling, when he states that he knows what he feels, but they are brothers.

The contrast between him and Tian is very interesting, although Tian is also very analytical, smart and in tune with his feelings. Only that when Tian knows his feelings, he is able to simply live with them and love Sheng from afar, while Wang cannot live in hiding and it's hard for him not to act on these feelings, which is visible in how much he wants to be close to Tian, how he finds excuses to be with him and how he knows that he cannot and how he knows that he has to give them space, because he will not control it in the end.

And all of this is ok and logical and consistent with their characters, and they both suffer, but Tian suffers much more and only follows Sheng's decisions. And there is no closure to their shared story, there is nothing that the viewer would judge as yes, they know about each other and they make this difficult decision to "break up" together.

The teachers' storyline was cut off just as abruptly, the series also dropped a bombshell about where Tian's scar came from… and leave it at that.

Looking at this ending objectively, I understand everything. The finale was beautiful, heartbreaking, moving, I had tears in my eyes, especially watching Tian, ​​my abandoned, beloved boy. I also feel sorry for Wang, for how much he sacrificed, knowing his capabilities and ambitions. He did it for himself and for Tian, ​​because personally I can't imagine them keeping their romantic and sexual relationship a secret, which in 2012 between boys who are considered by everyone to be BROTHERS, would be devastating for them. Wang already has to come up with excuses to explain their closeness to the outside world, and if they were in a relationship it would be even worse and ultimately impossible. The series is wonderful and I love it. I love the characters, I love the actors. That being said, I was unpleasantly mentally transported to the times of Eternal Summer, Bangkok Love Story, Love of Siam and a whole bunch of Asian productions from that era, the endings of which broke my heart 💔 It was, I admit, very weird and um, kind of hurt me, I honestly thought I'd never have to experience something like this again, hence my unpreparedness for the pain...

That's why I'll mentally stay on my happy pink cloud, like this one: 🥰

[acc-de-lulu]

my thoughts on the finale and the season in general

so! I was a little afraid, but the final episode is really incredible. I really like the pacing, the idea of communication between two Marks (I expected it and wanted it), a lot of fighting (it is very satisfying that another one of them was killed, Mark is the killer of security managers). like that they finally made everyone think about the question of how innies and outies must live from now on. visuals and music solutions are just great, especially this ending, taste!

personally, I was very pleased to see the impact Irving left on everyone. although of course I would have liked to see him in this series with everyone, but he probably really did not have a place here. as I said, Helly R - thank you for always remembering your friend Irving. but god forbid you authors if you don't bring him back next season!!!

Mark's final decision seems very logical to me. of course he did what he was asked to do - saved Gemma. now with her Devon, Harmony and the others can try to go against Lumon. Mark himself can be completely understood, he wants to use any last opportunity to be with the person he loves, even if he understands that it is a doomed situation. he does not have any normal alternatives and just literally does the same thing he did before with Gemma. they are one person.

and in general, if at the end of this season Mark and Gemma stayed together, it would be a very strange story with wrong conclusions. Mark buried Gemma, he mourned for her, he created his inny to take away the pain of loss. and then he really takes the first opportunity to return her, without assessing any risks, forgetting about the consequences of his actions. as it seems to me, he has to go through this path of loss like all of us do every day, not to burn the pain somewhere in the middle of himself, to live it and then live on. this is what I expect to see in the new season. and I'm still not sure if reintegration is really possible, but it really seems like the only way, unless one part of Mark doesn't agree to end his life on his own (although we know that's impossible, and any part of you will stay inside you anyway, because it was and is you).

what I don't understand is how easy it all actually was for all of them. although if you look at all the past episodes, you can see that Lumon constantly makes mistakes in assessing the level of danger to its existence, so okay.

and also, speaking of the season as a whole, I like it, a lot.....except for what they did with Irving's story in episode 9. all the characters as a whole developed logically, we now have more context for both the story in general and some individual characters that we didn't know anything about before. the only main character, about whom we did not learn anything new - outie Irving. and okay, Innie Irving's arc was great, I would understand that you have to wait for outie for the next season, if it wasn't for episode 9. why did they show it like it was the end of him? they left everyone else in a state where things keep happening to them in the middle of the story, except for Irving. if they are really going to bring him back, it would make more sense to stop the story at the cliffhanger "Irving gets in the Burt's car and we don't know where he's going to take him". in short, it scares me that he is the only one who looks like he was thrown out of the story. (and also Reghabi but I really hope they will return together because they work together). but the season itself gave us a lot of really cool episodes and scenes, and episode 4 is definitely my favorite of the entire show right now.

thank you, it was a pleasure watching it with you! let's sit here together and wait for the next season! I'm waiting for your art ❤️

[hidden-nowhere]

okay it's almost 1 am i fucked up my sleeping schedule and won't go to sleep at least until 4 am it's yapping time

I understand that Rogue came out after AC3 and obviously AC3 writers didn't know that Rogue's will write in Shay in canon and that's why he's not along the Connor's targets, but some in lore explanation would be cool. like idk Achilles trying to hide his mistake out of shame or smth like that.

my friend suggested that maybe considering the fact that Shay went after the artifact after the events of the game he wasn't consider Colonial Rite Templar, but like in the "Well, there's a cliffhanger for Unity" scenes he considered himself one. so... idk, sounds a bit strange.

also I would really want a (good written) in canon interaction between Shay and Connor, considering they both had Achilles as a mentor but with completely different outcomes of it with one being the destroyer of Colonial Brotherhood and other pulling it out from non-existence. (p.s. I would be also interested in their different or maybe not so views on Haytham)

another suggestion for it - Achilles POV on these events (maybe in book. I know not everyone likes them, but I'm not really interested in Achilles as main character in the game...). And by these events I mean both AC3 and Rogue, maybe with with a little bit of his years as a pupil of Ah Tabai. this man lost his family, lost brotherhood and was fucking shot in the leg, I want to know what was going on in his head. like, after all these events he was alone for 9 years, what was going on in his thoughts when young Connor showed up at Homestead with "Yes, you are going to train me. I won't take no as answer.". Had he on some level to the end was afraid that the history will repeat? That he will fuck up again? That Haytham in the end will change Connor's view of these things? As unfinished Rogue is and feels (don't get me wrong i like this game but the fact is the fact and gods knows how i wish that development of this game hadn't been rushed), it gives Achilles as a failed mentor really interesting background.

anyway, i would want to hear someone else thoughts on this so....

(i only used this gif cause i like how his face change as he accepts "the challenge" sue me)

[luflowerstuffs]

I watched Jentry Chau vs the underworld it is an animation for older kids/tweens/teens (but of course if you are older it you can totally like it too give it a chance ;)) and i really recommend it

Great soundtrack with kpop/pop, cool designs, girl hero with amazing fights and not being afraid to be girly but not in a stereotypical way in a more realistic way in general( i love how we have one more option), comedy and serious, complex and charismatic characters, interessing mythology, amazing visuals, protagonist has a great sense of style.

It was one of the best cartoon series i have seen in the last 10 years and IS A ORIGINAL

With the current state of the animation industry( especially as someone who wants to work with animation and doesnt have a strong industry of it around myself seeing places with a strong industry struggling is a special kinda of agonizing for an anxious person), the streamings and honestly life in general i wasn't sure i was gonna get a cartoon series like that again( i love movies but i grew up on series and the format holds a special place in my heart) unfortunally streamings dont help animated series heck the format of series in general is suffering... Honestly it gave me hope for projects in the future

Also I'M SO HAPPY IT DOESN'T END ON A CLIFFHANGER!(streamings please take notes another hope)

My only criticisms are michael and his girlfriend especially when together were not that explored. Especially michael i feel like i missed some episodes about him? also Ed sometimes is TOO much in a not good way especially when using social media( and his character isnt estabilished as stupid to justify it in my opinion) but the rest let me get through these moments

[lathalea]

Here’s an odd one that popped into my head for a quirky, possibly crack ish one. Feel free to ignore if you like I’m just over here pretending I haven’t written myself into another cliffhanger in my own story. :)

“In the history of the world there have been an abundance of bad days, today was yours, the day the Dwarves in earnest used the journey of cucumbers into pickles as an argument on what might become of pickling grapes for a new alternative to raisins.”

Thank you for your ask! Oh my, what a sentence this is! I'lll try my best...

In the history of the world there have been an abundance of bad days, today was yours, the day the Dwarves in earnest used the journey of cucumbers into pickles as an argument on what might become of pickling grapes for a new alternative to raisins.

You burst out laughing, failing to control yourself, and said, "Are you telling me that you have never tasted pickled grapes?" Dwalin blinked at you in surprise, Gloin hummed and Bombur stopped munching for a moment. "I'm afraid not, lass, are you telling me you have?" Bofur perked up. "My grandma used to make the best pickled grapes ever, with vinegar and sugar, they were yummy... and I still have the recipe somewhere," you grinned. "Well then, as soon as the whole Lonely Mountain business is over, you have to make them so we can see for ourselves," offered Bilbo. "Sure thing, but where will we find grapes?" wondered Nori. "You should know that my cousin trades with one of the Dorwinion vineyards..." began Ori and soon the matter was settled. That was when you realized that you lost your precious recipe book during the last Orc attack...

Good luck with your writing!

[leoneliterary]

Oh gods, I love and adore the new update! My new grey horse Dust (bc it will leave them in the dust, is grey and unassuming at first glance, but also pure diamond) is already a favorite, even if my MC is slightly afraid of horses and not very good at riding. Aretas offering PRIVATE RIDING LESSONS and MC making not even one dirty joke to Merikh about it shows how serious the tension is, though. The cliffhanger is just mean, bc we don't get to sass big bad brother back. Not even a "you smell better, don't worry about me leaving you for him, wow he looks like a paler imitation of you".... I just imagined letting Desma loose on miserable big bro Labadon, but somehow that feels like bullying. ... Is that on purpose? He feels so arrogant and desperate to put down the bastard child, that it feels a little pitiful and insecure instead of evil, though I of course dislike and disdain him a normal and healthy amount, for his crime of a personality. But back to the important bits, Aretas is being smooth right back and I wasn't sure he'd have it in him. But so worth it, bc I already got a shovel talk from his mom! (a pretty mild one for now, thanks Teacher Alim) Aretas looking pained at Daddy Labadon's grand speech about his father's supposed greatness and aspirations and unsubtle attempt at baiting his king was greatly appreciated and the option that simply says "Blame Merikh" when asked why we couldn't ride? It was so .. tempting, I don't know how anyone can choose another. It's just such an impulse control defying little red button that all imp MCs just HAVE to press. And the reaction did not disappoint in the slightest! I laughed so hard! And then it got better, bc Merikh is just as clueless as you and my MC is learning that omg, he's actually just a grumpy little good boy. You just gotta adopt him. Sorry Sutek, sullen grumpy warrior slots are filling up really fast... I also loved cheering for Sefu and Sefu being so friggin POLITE and well behaved. I love when they show that they can be mature and competent at the same time as being total loving idiots. Desma feeling insecure was really hurting my kokoro, but then it got funny again when she asked "but are they REALLY brothers, how can we ever know?" Never change, best sister girl, my MC will steal horses with you and bury bodies. Their own horse, but probably other people's bodies. I do feel a tiny bit worried about Tamu being alone and trying to find the guild traitor preparing a take over without backup, though. Please let him be ok or at least let Gally have his back a little! This whole update had so much comedy potential with the right choices, it was a delight to read and totally worth staying up till after midnight! I love your writing style, it really hits me in all the best feels! Thank you for persevering, even through difficulties and I will honestly forever love your story! May all the cake, coffee and cookies be with you! As well as muses, time and motivation! I would offer a shoulder massage, but I can't reach through my screen anymore! All my love and adoration!

I always love your in-depth reviews, charcoal!! And thank you for such high praise!

Yeah, Merikh's big brother isn't the most well-adjusted, but whether he's just a pathetic weasel or a real threat, you can be the judge.

I wonder how many of y'all picked the 'blame Merikh' button. I had to give y'all the chance for some petty revenge, lol!

Judging by my asks, most of you chose the grey horse that you got to name.

Sefu really was on his best behavior, but good catch about Tamu. Wonder what he's up to while you're away. Desma is going through it, but she's being so mature and putting it aside to come on this hunting trip...

Anyway, I'm glad you enjoyed it and had a laugh or two at some of the choices!

[thewickedbohemian]

Thoughts on an Elsbeth that just made me feel everything

is this trying to do a prestige TV spoof

okay so he's an ass

but I like how the intros keep the formatting different

cross-promo with how Wendell Pierce was announcing the Tony noms??

that was unexpected and almost thought that'd be the death

did that just put an idea in his head?

waiting for the right person isn't very random

dude, count your bullets

yay the girlies are back together and Elsbeth looks like a duck and Kaya's got a Badass Longcoat

and nice to see Reynolds back again

Lichtenburg, isn't that the place from Call Me Madam

Elsbeth getting some sort of PTSD flashback

please don't let even a fling happen between them

dude could you not be any more suspicious

both Elsbeth and Kaya looking cute and I want Elsbeth's blazer

get fucked sexist agent dude

what, they can't investigate together

dude, stop trying to make a play

of course that's what gets Elsbeth all hyper, the Wicked shit

nice exit

so we're coming back to this

and I'm again reminded of Karadec's situation at the end of High Potential

Reynolds found a clue and Kaya's got some Strong Opinions

again with AI being a recurring villain

how can she even stand this guy

up to some more shenanigans

Elsbeth looks like a freaking royal with that blazer and shirt combo

go ahead, keep sticking to your narrative

how rich are these fucking guys

well there's your motive

potential trouble in paradise for Kaya/Cameron?

and another cliffhanger dulled by me knowing the show's renewed

and interrupting Elsbeth right on cue

okay so how's the finale gonna pull her back (and she brings back the fro-yo stuff in the same episode she talks about issues with Cameron)

Elsbeth feeling very like she's about to pull some Leverage shit

what is that coat

well there goes the idea of them having a fling some people were thinking about

I'm not sure if I'd call it a betrayal from Reynolds

and yet another Broadway reference

more unpacking of baggage in episodes where Kayabeth's threatened

now I'm thinking about Doctor Who parallels with the Belinda thing

and things just went from bad to worse and I was half afraid she was going to be accused of somehow conspiring with Delia to murder the judge

please tell me Kaya's pulled back by saving Elsbeth

stuff having ripple effects

trying to tell myself things are going to be okay and feeling like Elsbeth's feeling regarding the whole Kaya situation

is the finale going to be a whole-ass musical episode or are we just doing Cell Block Tango

[666writingcafe]

An Interview With Satan

Part Five of A (Not-So) New Series

Question One: Do you believe in one soulmate or having several great relationships?

My beliefs fall closer to the latter. One can have different soulmates for different aspects of their life, not just romantically.

Question Two: Looking back, what advice do you wish you could have given yourself as a young demon?

Don't shut people out of your life because you're afraid of hurting them.

Question Three: Do you have a certain place you’ve always wanted to explore but haven’t yet got the chance to do so?

Some of the museums in the human world, like the Smithsonian collection in Washington DC or the Met in New York City.

Question Four: Which art form would you like to excel in if you could learn it quickly?

Drawing. I can usually get a halfway decent base, but it always ends up looking like a bad cartoon in the end.

Question Five: What hobby have you been interested in but haven’t yet tried?

Sewing, oddly enough. I see some of the things Asmo and Levi create, and they look really cool.

Question Six: What kind of entertainment is your guilty pleasure?

Watching really cheesy and/or melodramatic soap operas. You know, the ones where a season is over a hundred episodes long and each episode ends on a cliffhanger.

Question Seven: What is a subject that you could discuss for hours on end without growing tired of?

The history of just about anything. That's why I've declared it as one of my majors at RAD.

Question Eight: What is the bravest act you have ever seen someone else carry out?

Can I tell you who I think the bravest person I've ever met is? (Sure.) MC. Each time I see them taking a risk, I think it's the bravest act they've ever carried out.

Question Nine: Do you enjoy collecting things or experiences?

Oh, experiences for sure.

Question Ten: Are you more intrigued by outer space or the depths of the human mind?

The depths of the human mind, particularly MC's.

Question Eleven: What’s a small act of kindness you think everyone should practice daily?

Not saying the first thing that comes to their head. For me, that is the angry, rude response, and I've come to learn that it's not the best way to handle most day-to-day situations.

The next set of questions require you to choose between two things. (I've done this sort of thing before. As long as your questions are not too silly, I'll be good.)

Question Twelve: Would you rather spend an evening watching the sunset or at a theater?

Why not both? (That defeats the purpose of "Would You Rather.") Hear me out: you go on a date with someone. It starts during the afternoon. After grabbing a bite to eat, you watch a movie or show at a theater, making sure you choose one that ends at around dusk. Then, you sit on a bench and watch the sunset as you talk about whatever you just watched. One thing leads to another, and you end up kissing your date as the sun finishes setting. (How romantic.) I've done that a few times. Always sweeps them off their feet. (So you've done this intentionally, then.) Of course. It makes it easier for them to do what you want. *pauses* Would it surprise you to know that Asmo taught me that? I try not to do it these days, because I know it's quite manipulative.

Question Thirteen: Would you rather lose an argument to make someone happy or make someone sad by winning it?

It truly depends on the person. If I don't like them, then I'm going to do everything in my power to win the argument and revel in their sadness. But if I care deeply about them, then more times than not I'll end up dropping the argument altogether, because it's not worth losing that person over something petty like that.

Question Fourteen: Would you rather wait for someone or keep them waiting?

I hate waiting for people, but I also know it's rude to keep others waiting, so I guess neither? (Can I speak freely?) Of course. You're the one conducting the interview. (You suck at "Would You Rather.") That's because I tend to overthink things. I'm kinda like Levi in that regard.

Question Fifteen: Would you rather be dumped by someone or be the one to dump them?

I'm often the one that dumps people, so I suppose that would be what I'd prefer out of the two options. (I should have kept my mouth shut.) It's fine. You wanted more direct answers, and I'm more than happy to comply. *pauses* You think I'm a heartbreaker, don't you? (A little, yeah.) Like I said, I don't really engage in that behavior anymore. Before, I didn't care about anyone I was seeing, so it was easy for me to detach myself from them. I couldn't do that now. I'm a lot tamer now than I was back then.

Question Sixteen: Would you rather have a partner with money but no sense of humor or a poor but witty one?

Money can't buy personality. Besides, I have enough connections that I can pretty much get whatever I want, so I don't need someone to provide for me.

Question Seventeen: Would you rather be a scientist or a painter?

Ideally, a painter, but as I stated earlier, I can't really draw, so that would leave the scientist.

Question Eighteen: Would you rather live forever in a peaceful village or a bustling city?

The village. Or, better yet, a barn on the outskirts of the village. The less people I have to deal with, the better for everyone involved.

Question Nineteen: Would you rather speak all the languages in the world or speak to animals?

Language is always evolving, so it's nearly impossible to learn and speak every single one. Plus, if I had the ability to talk to animals and have them understand what I was saying, I'd be able to take care of them better.

Question Twenty: Would you rather send a sexy text message or a romantic love note?

I'm a hopeless romantic, so a good, long letter written with quill and ink and closed with a wax seal is my preferred method of telling someone how I feel about them.

Question Twenty-One: Would you rather have the power to read your partner’s mind or to influence their thoughts?

If I had to choose, I'd merely read their thoughts. Not a big fan of entering someone's mind, because it's rare that they consent to that sort of thing. I'll never forget Belphie for what he did to MC while he was inside their head.

Question Twenty-Two: Would you rather jump on a trampoline or in a bouncy house?

This is going to sound incredibly silly, but I'm lowkey afraid of both. Those things can do some serious damage to one's body if they land wrong. Just thinking about it is making me anxious.

Question Twenty-Three: Would you rather have the ability to know every answer to a question or be able to ask tough questions and confuse others?

If I knew all the answers, then part of my life loses meaning. I like researching things. It brings me joy. Plus, I feel like I already confuse others with questions that I ask, so...

Question Twenty-Four: Would you rather kiss a pig or a donkey?

A pig. Unless it's a cat, I don't like getting fur in my mouth.

Question Twenty-Five: Would you rather live amongst the trees in the jungle or in an island cave?

The cave. It's better shelter than the trees would be.

Taglist: @lost-in-time-wanderer, @fuzztacular, @dianedancer18, @sweetbrier2908, @flare-love, @completelyshatteredbrokenmschf, @thunderlightning351, @l3v1chan, @anxious-chick, @5mary5, @expressionless-fr, @tenkobitch

[mysticat-collecting-hats]

Alright, more Absolute Trinity!!

Soooo, all the chapter 3's are out...time for another review ig

Absolute Superman 3: Cool to get more backstory, but I was a little surprised that was kind of the only thing shown. I guess it's mostly setup, but I'm a bit more invested in the present day stuff, even if Krypton does have a fun color palette

Absolute Wonder Woman 3: Again, a bit hard to talk about as this feels like a setup chapter. Nice to see more characters popping up as well, and honestly, I'm just digging Diana's whole vibe. Again, her design is killer

Absolute Batman 3: Uhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh yeahstillpeak. Cliffhanger was a bit sus tho, especially considering all of that buildup. Then again surely he, Batman, has a plan. The flashbacks with Selina were fun as well, and I'm curious how Eddie's new contraption is going to fit in to all of this. Also shout-out to the Bat-Dump Truck. The writers are not afraid of getting weird and we need more of that in comics. Can't wait for next month!

[strayflowersstarsandlove]

Horror nights (hanjisung)

DISCLAIMER: these longer writings can be read as both standalones or part 2's/prequels etc if you will.

IF you wish to imagine the characters following a chronological narration of events, this one can definitely be read before "I'm not leaving you". as it could serve as a moment in time that happens before the events in the blurb mentioned above.

WARNING : *mentions of blood and graphic fake movie depictions of brutality

PART 1

You really were so surprised at how unphased Han had been throughout the whole first movie. And how he still looked almost amused if not even bored at the horrific scenes currently displaying on the screen. For someone who's usually so sensitive and jumpy and easily overwhelmed, he looked completely at ease while watching literal bodies being sawn apart. Well, not literally, it was just prosthetics and cgi but the oozing blood and inhuman heart wrenching screams felt pretty fucking real and terrifying in your humble opinion.

Horror movie nights were both your favourite and your least favourite hang outs with your friends. You loved the activity in the fall for it was cozy and chill and required minimal effort and preparation. The most proactive thing you had to do was usually just pick some snacks and drive to one of your friends' houses with your duffel bag ready for the sleepover. Admittedly your favourite part was that it gave you the chance to shamelessly cuddle with the boys and enjoy how warm and protective they felt, Han being the more readily available one seeing that he had been your closest friend for longer.

But to counterbalance all that, your least favourite thing about it all was having to stomach up to 4 and a half hours of usually gory splatter horror movie marathons, either that or some fucked up rather mentally violent psychological thriller that Seugmin would choose and subject to you all even though everyone protested. Even trying to set him up with one of your girlfriends didn't persuade him enough to stop picking such awful films, and actually your girlfriend started enjoying them too so it only brought them closer which to Seugmin meant he was even more validated and encouraged to being a menace.

The real worse thing about this scary movies night tradition of sorts though was that it set the perfect storm for your budding feelings for Han: you weren't really sure when it all started but at one point down the many years of your friendship you started looking at him differently, noticing all those little lovable things about him and seeing him grow and become a young handsome man, the man with the biggest golden heart you knew. You slowly but surely started falling for him and you were now stuck in this uncomfortable limbo where you really wanted to confess but you couldn't bring yourself to cause you were sure he only saw you as a friend, even as a sister maybe.

Him being a naturally physically affectionate person didn't help either. You and the boys were all pretty comfortable in each other presence, had no problem being openly cuddly and close so you being all over Felix or Chan and Han being all over you on a typical movie night never raised any eyebrows except you couldn't help but get all warm and fuzzy and jittery inside whenever Han cuddled you and you were always so fucking afraid it would clearly show on your face. You didn't necessarily want any of the guys to notice too much cause you knew damn well they functioned like one body one mind and that none of them were able to keep their mouths shut.

As another blood coiling scream pierces through the TV speakers you flinch visibly and blink manier manier times, trying to collect yourself when the scene doesn't develop in any actual jumpscares but a mere cliffhanger that seems to be lasting forever and Han must've noticed how on edge you look cause he quietly scoots closer to you on the couch, putting an arm around your shoulder and giving it a little squeeze as you low key shift closer to him, Jeongin sitting on the other side, almost half asleep and definitely not noticing you drifting away from him. You swallow inaudibly and pull the blanket up your knees, absentmindedly making sure to cover Han's legs as well and he grins at you at the gesture, pulling you even closer to him.

And that's when you breathe him in and almost pass out cause why does he have to smell so fucking nice? You could already smell the faint scent of his shampoo from your former spot on the couch but now you can clearly inhale the fresh, sweet fragrance along with the muskier and powdery scent of his clothes and skin, the slightest hint of popcorn on his breath. Also why does his hair have to look so shiny and healthy and soft? And why does his side profile has to look so handsome? With the chiseled jawline but chubbier cheeks and his small straight nose and and pretty eyes so intent on the movie and those damn lips, barely parted, the bottom one sticking out so plump and rosy even in the semi darkness of the room - you are officially spiraling.

One of the characters in the movie suddenly gets possessed by some kind of demon and he tears himself apart, blood and guts spilling all over the scene and you just cannot. If one moment ago you were almost too overwhelmed by Han's mere scent you now literally bury your face in the crook of his neck, trying to cover your face with the curtain of your hair which earns you a soft snicker from him, "you're okay there?", he whispers in your hair, unaware of the shiver he just sent down your spine, you nod and mumble something unintelligible and slowly, ever so slowly lift your head up, quickly checking the screen to see if it's safe again, mainly focusing on the shadowed heads of your friends sitting and cuddling all around on the floor.

Han slips his other arm out from beneath the blanket and gently places his hand on top of yours, "squeeze if you need to", he instructs, his left arm tightening around your shoulder now that you straightened out again. You thank him quietly, your voice barely a whisper, and in a tiny leap of faith you interlock your fingers with his, hoping he won't be too bothered by that which doesn't seem to be the case since he just keeps on watching the movie, completely desensitized to the gore.

A few more relatively calm scenes roll by and you start to reassure yourself into believing maybe now there's a little amount of time where the plot just needs to develop without the obsessive amount of splatter. But just as you're about to almost quiet down completely and possibly fall asleep on your friend's shoulder a fucking ghost face thing jumps into full vision and attacks some other characters by slinging an axe down their backs and the sound of bones breaking and blood erupting everywhere makes you literally jump on the couch and whimper in pain as if you're the one being massacred, a few of the boys either mutter profanities themselves or straight up gasp, "oh my god oh my god ohmygod" you whisper/shout squeezing Han's hand so tight he frowns deeply at you and then he is pulling you into his arms in just a matter of mere seconds.

His embrace his warm and welcoming, you shut your almost teary eyes and focus on his fast heartbeat, "it's gone, baby. It's gone, I promise it's all over now", he repeats over and over again, his voice a very low, soft whisper as he pats your back, "gosh... you're shaking", he adds then, first vigorously holding and caressing your back and then cupping your face and stroking your cheeks repeatedly when he realises you're still so shaken, "it's okay, y/n it's okay, it's all over now, see? They killed him. They're walking away in a field now", he narrates softly, guiding you back on the couch, still keeping an arm protectively around your back.

You gradually calm down but still snuggle close to him, your heartbeat going a hundred miles per hour either from the violence you just witnessed or Han's immediate reaction and strong embrace. You kind of enjoy it, this sort of roller coaster of emotions, the edge keeping you very much alert and sensitive to every little touch and shift in vibration coming off of both you and Han who on the other hand seems to now be fully aware and responsive towards your every move, to every hitch on your breath as you reluctantly try to keep on watching the movie.

PART 2

[nana-mizu-shiki]

Kk. So. This isn't so much art but more a poem that I'm going to put into a fic I'm gonna make. Y'know song fics? Like that but with a poem. One I made and am going to give you the context of, I just wanna know if you guys would think a poem song fic would be cool.

The fic promt I thought of was:

What if Tim was dipped into the Lazarus Pit, but twice?????

And then I started coming up with a bunch of stuff listening to music, and I was like:

Thought Process? : Tim died in that desert. The Spleen incident didn't just leave him with a surprise surgery. It left him with glowing green eyes and half-white bangs. But of course, none of the Bats can know that, so, hair dye. Suprise, Suprise, the Pits don't bring Rage, they bring out the worst of a person. Jason? Anger. Ra's? Cruelty. Tim? Apathy. Tim's triggers? Betrayal, Abandonment, Reliance, Expectations Set For Perfection. Because. He. Has. To. Be. Perfect. Inherits Drake I. and Wayne E., slowly trying to cut ties with Gotham and The Bats, fades into the background until The Bats are too late to realize and too late to try to even stop him as he and Ra's make a deal. The deal? Cliffhanger. Up to the reader. And Worse? The Bats don't even realize as he left, taken back with The Demon Head to become his heir, and after months, training under Ra's himself, Returning to Gotham Under the alias of Shadow Shrike, civilian Tim D. W. A. G., although legally Timothy Drake-Wayne. Forever 17, hair shoulders length and bangs white, eyes permanently and mix of ice blue and mint green, flecks of Lazarus neon green passing even at simple glances of those he once called family. Dying his bangs temporarily in public, his vigilante-ism the thing that alerts the others of his return, his change. His Revival. His Death. Blah Blah Blah, Angst Confrontation Shenanigans, Details and Description of how the Pits affect Tim, how the Batfam try to reconnect and makeup, Yadda Yadda, Ends on a sorta cliffhanger thing where the reader chooses which Tim goes to as a Confrontation happens on a roof and Tim chooses between Jason, the Other Bats, Ra's, And Young-Just-Us.

Damn that was a word vomit.

Anyway, the poem is below,

Edit: I kinda realized the poem I'd really long and I'm considering putting this on Ao3 itself lol (*＞∇＜)ﾉ

👇

Green.

Abandoned and left; unthanked for,

Unthanked for?

They're ungrateful.

Green.

Lied and unapologetized to,

Left on Their own, and never recognized too.

Green.

Complete it all,

Raised to be Perfect,

Can never fall,

Always quiet and obedient,

Now Forever Indifferent.

Green.

To bring back the Bat,

Is to travel and turn,

Be ostracized and taken from,

Wings given to another,

Betrayed by those meant to be Their Brothers.

Green.

Betrayed and afraid,

Kicked out and replaced and stolen from a child,

To make a deal with The Demon Head

And to sell Their soul,

All Their worth,

All They've done,

What other choice?

What else is left?

Mentality;

Already on the brink,

Morality;

Like liquid and searching for who it obeys,

Green.

Left to die,

All alone

No longer were they meant to fly;

Sacrificing all their lives,

To help others and then left to die?

Green.

Green.

Green.

Green.

Green.

Alive.

Alive.

Alive with no care. No care at all.

Apathy pulls the teen.

Eyes and vision glowing green all because of a spleen.

Okay so I'm not done but I really want to save this, so pls let me know if you want to read more of this poem or the ideas of the fic it will go to. Thanks for reading (*^▽^)/★*☆♪*.ﾟ+ヽ(○･▽･○)ﾉﾞ +.ﾟ*