#anyway this is just a silly little take do with it what you will i am but one little mouse in a giant testing maze

[vividl3ss]

where do i even begin?! i feel like edgar allan poe would've been jealous of this writing, i think he would've wished he could've written something like this before he kicked the bucket. the suspense was so good throughout the entire fic, i swear i avoided sleep, going to the bathroom, pushed my outings back just so i could keep sitting in my bed reading this. i can't even put into words how perfect the little red riding hood references were; suguru's transformation progressing with his hair growing, his voice deepening, his body increasing in size, and when oc points this out...the play you did with that dialogue bit... it was such an epic moment i had to stop reading and cover my mouth so i wouldn't scream LOL. also the fact that they were aware that they were characters in an old tale, the mentions of them being stuck in a cycle which is the reason why sugu loses his mind, was so well done...some tv shows and movies have tried to do what you successfully did here and failed miserably, i don't know how to explain it in better terms but it didn't feel silly and it didn't take away from the atmosphere that surrounded the fic.

also, in my opinion, i love the fact that this doesn't have smut in it, i know you don't write smut anyways, but still, i feel like, since it's fanfiction and fanfiction is inherently horny sometimes, maybe some people could think that, since this is a dark themed fic, it would have been appropiate or expected that there would be a sex scene, but i'm grateful that there isn't because there wasn't any purpose to it, you built their characters so well that there wasn't any need for it in their dynamic, suguru didn't need sex to keep oc trapped in that house.

anyways, this is so long i'm so sorry, i took an entire day to gather my thoughts because i really wanted to praise you for this. i don't even have the words, i feel like amazing, astounding, bewildering, extraordinary are not enough to describe how highly i think of this fic. i wish i could print this into a tiny book and carry it with me everywhere LOL

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

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

word count; 14.7k

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

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

[ ONCE UPON A TIME, THERE WAS A DEAR LITTLE GIRL … ]

the sun is stuck in vitro. 

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

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

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

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

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

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

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

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

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

like he knew you’d be here.

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

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

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

it’s only him, after all. 

(the ever reliable hunter.)

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

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

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

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

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he parts his pretty lips.

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

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

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

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

”… tea?”

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

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

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

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

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

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

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

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

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

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

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

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

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

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 

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

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

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

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

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

his home is as warm as his smile.

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

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

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

”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 

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

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

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

you follow him. 

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

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

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

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

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

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

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

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

his eyes gleam under the dim lights. 

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

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

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

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

a warm smile.

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

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

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

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

enamored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you aren’t sure what to say.

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

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

”i insist.”

…

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

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

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

it’s not safe out there. 

(he’s right, of course, but…)

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

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

he perks up, at that. 

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

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

just until tomorrow, you think.

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

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

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

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

”… anything is fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

it starts out small. it always does. 

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

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

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

but never like this. never, ever like this. 

never as suffocating.

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

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

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

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

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

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

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

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

so much stronger than you. 

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

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

…

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

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

”believe me.”

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

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

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

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

the hunter is trustworthy.

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

(but hunters don’t smell like wolves.)

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

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

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

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

no noise. no creak.

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

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

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

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

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

eight steps. nine steps.

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

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

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

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

freedom. freedom. freedom.

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

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

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

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

so you run.

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

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

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

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

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

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

he’s stares back at you. 

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

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

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

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

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

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

resigned. surrender.

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

”what were you thinking, hm?”

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

”… you never change.”

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

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

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

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

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

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

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

your skin itches from the burning cold. 

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

he apologizes for that, too.

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

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

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

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

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

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

”… do you mean it?”

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

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

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

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

it’s a corpse.

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

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

always a wolf, never a man.

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

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

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

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

the more time passes, the worse he gets. 

the more comfortable. 

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

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

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you’re sure you’d fail again. 

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

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

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

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a comfortable cage is exactly right. 

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

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

you miss feeling alive. 

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

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

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you. 

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

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

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

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

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

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

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

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

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

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

”please let me leave.”

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

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

(it makes him look unsettling.)

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

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

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

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

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

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

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

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

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

tread it through and through and through. 

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

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

and then a grating sigh. 

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

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

and his eyes burn you to cinders. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”i can.”

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

he can keep you here. 

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

(you never asked to be devoured.)

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

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

”do you understand?”

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

never again. 

no matter how much you beg. 

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

so there’s no point.

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

”… i understand.”

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

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

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

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

it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 

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

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

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

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

suguru pauses. 

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

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, and he smiles.

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

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response. 

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

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

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

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

if only you didn’t know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

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

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap. 

(knuckles against wood.)

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

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

a moment of silence.

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

(how silly, when it already has.)

another knock.

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

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

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

pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

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

just behind the door.

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

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

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

no one forgot about you. 

you move your leg, and — 

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

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

he’s always there to catch you.

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

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

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

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

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

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

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

then, the sound of boots against gravel. 

moving farther, and farther away. 

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

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

you swallow down a sniffle.

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

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

it comes out pitiful. 

a broken, battered whisper:

”… i wanna go home…”

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

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

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

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

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

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

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

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

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

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again, if only that wasn’t your very nature. if only you had known better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 

if only you weren’t you — 

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

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

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

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

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

but not to you.

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

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

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

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

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

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

golden eyes violating the dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

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

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

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

”and your hands are big…”

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

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

so he plays along.

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

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

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

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

and suguru looks conflicted.

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

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

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

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

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

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

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

the nightlight flickers off.

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

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

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

you’re well beyond accepting that.

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

but now you really are trapped.

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

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

the sun is stuck in vitro.

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

the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 

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

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

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

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

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

it’s time to choose an ending. 

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

you know which one you want.

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

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

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

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

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

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

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … AND ▇▇ ▇NE DID ▇▇▇ING T▇ HARM H▇▇, ▇▇▇ AGAIN. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

[thereoncewasagirlnamedjane]

✩ masterlist ✩ library blog

JOAQUÍN TORRES x F!READER. Joaquín is fiercely protective of all the VA’s service dogs in training, so when Sam informs him that there’s a new volunteer arriving to help take care of the pups, Joaquín is prepared to use any excuse to veto anyone who comes in through those doors… until you’re the one who walks in, and he knows he’s lost. [2.0k]

“in the golden hour”

Sam sighs. It’s only ten in the morning and he’s already tired.

Joaquín sits on the floor in one of the VA’s designated meeting rooms, arms crossed over his chest, looking uncharacteristically grumpy even surrounded by six happy dogs poking and prodding at him with their noses.

“You know, you could… I don’t know, help?” Sam says, sidestepping a rogue tennis ball as he stacks up a few chairs and moves them to the back of the room. “What’s your problem anyway?”

“I wanna vet ‘em.”

“Too bad. I already told them they could start today.”

“Without consulting me?!” Joaquín sits up a little straighter now, indignant. Bailey, a curious little beagle, whines now that his face is out of reach and she can’t smother him in kisses.

“And since when did I need your approval, kid?”

“But I’m Mav’s handler,” the younger man insists, and a golden retriever who’s been lying sprawled across a sunlit patch just an arm’s reach away lifts his head, as though recognizing the sound of his name. “I should have a say on who comes in to take care of him when I’m not here.”

Mav, or Maverick, lets out a cheerful woof! His mouth then falls open in that silly golden grin that melts the hearts of everyone he meets, his tongue lolling to the side.

“See? He agrees with me,” Joaquín points at his latest pet project, no pun intended. He reaches over to give Mav some much deserved belly scratches. “Don’t you, buddy?”

“Don’t encourage him, Mav,” Sam half-heartedly scolds, and Maverick slumps back onto the floor with a high-pitched whine. “And you’ve already scared away plenty of volunteers. You think they’re easy to come by, or what?”

“I’m protective of the pups, okay? You can’t blame me for that,” Joaquín points out defensively, softening just a little when Daisy, a sweet and predictably excitable Labrador attacks his extended arm, wanting to play. “…And Mav’s special.”

It’s not that Joaquín doesn’t trust Sam’s judgment, and it is true that he’s protective of all the service dogs in training, but Mav is special.

Joaquín found him when he was still just a pup, a few weeks shy of a year old according to the vet, in some war-torn zone while overseas. It was instinct, he didn’t even think as he scooped up the trembling fur ball and brought him back to base.

While the Air Force weren’t strangers to welcoming golden retrievers among their ranks, Joaquín knew immediately that Mav could do the most good as a therapy dog. With Sam’s help, he got the smiley goldie a spot in the PAWS program and the rest was history.

And it was impossible not to get attached.

So while he’s not opposed to handing over Mav’s leash for a few hours a day, especially now that he’s the Falcon to Sam’s Captain America and he doesn’t always have the time to dedicate to the program, the last thing he wants is for some inexperienced volunteer to come in and mess up Mav’s progress.

“Wow, did you guys hear that?” Sam feigns shock, addressing the other dogs in the room. “Your lieutenant has a favourite.”

“Aw, come on. Don’t do that,” Joaquín winces, not daring to look over at the innocent stares of the VA’s latest round of recruits. “Don’t turn them against me.”

“Hey, you incriminated yourself,” Sam points at him before shaking his head, “I wouldn’t look at Jax if I were you. That look of betrayal—oof.”

“Listen, can’t you just—I don’t know, tell me more about this person?” Joaquín asks, hazarding a glance over at Jax the Doberman, who looks back at him with shining, watery eyes. He’s hit with a pang of guilt, one he tries to remedy by pulling Jax in for a cuddle.

“You’re being too protective,” Sam rolls his eyes. “The new volunteer is good with them, alright? She—”

“These guys would love a serial killer if he gave them treats,” Joaquín scoffs, ignoring the way Axel, a German Shepherd, seems to tilt his head with indignity. “Also… she?”

“Is that a problem? Damn, didn’t know you were like that, Torres,” Sam’s eyes widen, but there’s a telltale smirk on his face that says he’s just kidding around.

“You know that’s not what I mean,” the young Falcon rolls his eyes, although he softens a little when Bailey starts pawing at his knee for some attention. He scratches her affectionately under one floppy ear. “I just mean… well, she needs to be able to handle Beau, for one thing.”

Beau the Rottweiler then jumps up at attention when Joaquín points at him, barking once, twice, as though saying, “I’m here!”

He only looks intimidating, honest. In reality, Beau’s just another gentle giant. Still, if he decides to go running off chasing squirrels on his next walk, most people wouldn’t stand a chance against his speed and strength.

“Why do you think we call him ‘Beau’, huh?” Sam just grins even wider, bending over to pat the Rottweiler on the head. Beau laps up the attention, his bum wriggling excitedly with each wag of his tail. “He’s a total sucker for a pretty face. Aren’t ya, boy?”

“Well, duh, that’s why he likes me so much,” Joaquín grins when Beau huffs as if in agreement, tickling him under his chin. And then, he can’t help asking: “Alright, how pretty we talkin’?”

“God, is that important?”

“Wha-? You just said—!”

“Yeah, but you need to keep the flirting to a minimum, alright? This is a professional environment.”

“Oh, come on, when have I ever—”

“Literally all the time, you incorrigible little…” Sam trails off, exasperated, not wanting to call Joaquín something incredibly rude. “I swear, you should come with a warning.”

Joaquín just smirks at that, picking up the tennis ball when Axel brings it to him, tossing it across the room and starting a flurry of movement and a chorus of joyful barks.

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“Eh, depends on how you look at it.”

“Okay,” Sam scoffs, “so you’re done giving me crap about the volunteer?”

“Nah, I’m not letting you, or her, off the hook that easily,” Joaquín then looks over at Maverick, who has moved to join the other dogs in the chase for the ball. He and Daisy are play fighting over it. “Alright, well, if I can’t vet her, then I at least wanna meet her first.”

“You’re only saying that because I said she’s pretty,” Sam grabs the dogs’ leashes that are hanging from a hook on the wall, letting out a sharp whistle that echoes off the walls. All of them obediently fall into line, plodding over when they see their leashes out.

“Please,” Joaquín rolls his eyes, “how pretty can she be?”

“Oh, you’re gonna regret that one,” Sam shakes his head, attaching the leashes to the dogs’ harnesses, camouflage-patterned with the words “ARMY” and their names stitched onto them.

Joaquín laughs now, catching the handles to the leashes that Sam tosses toward him. Daisy is connected to Beau and Maverick, while the others are grouped together, all somewhat evenly distributed.

“What, you gonna snitch or somethin—” he starts to fire back, but then movement in the hallway catches his eye. Joaquín glances out the door and almost chokes.

Because walking in through the doorway is easily the most beautiful woman he’s ever seen.

“Hi Sam—oh!”

Your eyes just light up when you see the dogs, like the moment just before a sparkler catches. Joaquín scrambles to his feet just as you fall to your knees to welcome Axel into your arms, who is the first one to run up to you.

The rest follow eagerly to say hello to their new friend, just swarming you. Beau pokes his head under your arm, Jax is so eager for kisses that he knocks you off your feet and onto your backside, and Bailey immediately jumps into your lap. Daisy is attacking your face, making you squeal when she licks a stripe up your cheek.

“Okay guys, okay!” You’re giggling, and Joaquín has to take a second to inhale, like he’s trying to breathe in that laugh. “Pets for everyone, but wait your turn!”

The dogs don’t listen, just continue giving you sloppy kisses and nose boops. Maverick goes bounding over, the only one of the bunch you haven’t met yet, and noses curiously at the soles of one of your shoes.

Joaquín doesn’t stop him. In fact, he barely registers the fact that he’s let go of the leashes.

“Why, hello there,” you coo, letting Mav sniff the back of your hand before you start petting him in earnest. You check his harness, smiling as you read his name out loud. “Well, aren’t you a handsome one, Maverick?”

The golden retriever looks to his handler, as though proud, like he’s saying, “Did you hear that? She said I’m handsome!”

Joaquín’s never been so jealous of a dog in his entire life.

Once the dogs have finished saying hello and have calmed down a little, you stand up, trying not to trip over them as they circle your legs.

“Ahem, sorry about that,” you clear your throat sheepishly. Sam smiles triumphantly, turning to give Joaquín the smuggest of looks, only to roll his eyes at what he finds. The kid’s earlier skepticism and indignation is nowhere to be seen, only the most idiotic smile tugging at the corner of his lips.

Along with the most obvious pair of heart eyes mankind has ever seen.

Joaquín grins. Your hair is slightly dishevelled now, and your nice jacket is covered in dog drool and dog hair but you don’t seem to care. Instead, you just catch his eye and smile.

“Oh, you must be Lieutenant Torres,” and then you step closer and hold out a hand. He can smell your perfume or your shampoo, whatever it is, and for a second he can’t seem to form any words. You glance uneasily over at Sam, who just shrugs.

“Um—yeah,” Joaquín blinks and shakes his head a little, taking your hand with maybe a bit too much enthusiasm. Maybe he even holds on a little longer than is necessary. “Please, just Joaquín is fine.”

“Sure, Joaquín,” your smile grows wider and he can’t help but watch, enraptured, as your lips form the sounds of his name.

“So… the dogs, uh, they really like you.”

“Oh, you think so?” You visibly melt, pressing a hand over your heart. “Thank god, it’s the best endorsement I’ve ever gotten.”

“Well, you know what they say: dogs are a good judge of character,” he offers. You laugh and he chuckles along, all breathless and smitten. To the side, Sam lets out a scoff but he can’t bring himself to care.

“I thought you said they’d love serial killers—” But Sam doesn’t get to finish, Joaquín stepping forward hurriedly to pick up the dogs’ leashes off the floor.

“Hey, I’ve got some time…” Joaquín says, not at all subtle or casual. He steps a little closer, offering you the leashes, letting out an almost imperceptible sigh when your fingers brush his. “Maybe I can show you their favourite route.”

You glance over at Sam, who rolls his eyes so hard you think they might get stuck. Still, you smile up at Joaquín.

“Lead the way, Lieutenant,” you gesture to the door, giggling when he dips his head shyly and slowly jogs toward the door.

You turn back to Sam, smirking as you whisper, “I thought you said he’d give me a hard time?”

“Yeah, well, he’s a pain in my ass, that’s for sure.”

“…He’s cute.”

“Ugh, I oughta throw up in your face.”

You can’t help but laugh.

“Ready?” Joaquín then pops his head back into the room to ask. You spin around, nonchalant, and nod, letting the dogs tug you excitedly towards the door.

Sam watches you all go, huffing a laugh when Joaquín bends dramatically at the waist as he opens the door for you. Shaking his head, Sam turns away to finish reorganizing the room and mutters to himself, “Guess Beau’s not the only sucker around here.”

Outside on the sidewalk, Beau sneezes.

FIN… maaaaybe part 2 one day…

© 2025 by thereoncewasagirlnamedjane. do not repost, translate, or copy to third party sites. no part of this work may be fed into any AI software or websites. minors are asked not to interact with my blog; you are responsible for your own media consumption. blank/ageless blogs will be blocked.

[katscki]

Hii!! what about reading RIDING (and I mean it) katsuki while wearing a cowboy hat?? 👀

I love your works, hope you can do this!! xx

Oh… my god…. I am at a loss for words. Whoever you are you better keep leaving your smarty pants ideas in my inbox😼

Pretty As A Peach

MDNI 18+

M-list

Bakugou x fem!foreign!reader she is a southern belle

When bakugou asked for you to show him some things about where you’re from, he didn’t think you’d go this hard… riding, squirting, sex stuff

WC: 1.3k

This is the outfit I had in mind for reader but the shirt is described as a little shorter

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

You had been planning this for months. The apartment was decked out, stupid gingham tablecloths on the counters and table and the whole place smelled of barbecue sauce. And as much as this had been a silly surprise for him, it felt like home to you.

Keys jingle in the door and you yell “wait! M not ready!” Now you’re scrambling around the kitchen like a mad woman trying to find the defining accessory to your outfit.

A grumble is heard from outside the door, “What ya trying to hide a guy real quick? Cmon baby let me in m starving.” But as much as katsuki whines, he still waits for your okay. “Yes got it!” Gently placing the hat on top of your head you stand in front of the door excited to present your night out West. “Kay come in!” The keys jingle once more and his eyes aren’t on you immediately, busy wrestling his key out of the hole. “Smells s’good in here baby what did ya- holy shit…”

You swing your arms out as a welcome, “Howdy! Welcome toooo… drumroll please? No? Okay. TEXASSSS. You had asked me before to show you what it was like back home and while this is a little overkill you get the idea.” You giggle out but it’s almost as if he isn’t listening, red eyes staring holes into your tits.

Bakugou makes his way over to you, already relieved he showered and changed at work. “Ya really wore this shit back home baby? You’re practically fucking naked…” His hand plays with the tie in your flannel that sits right on your sternum. “Oh gosh no! Well the hat yes but everything else not really! I didn’t really have any of my old clothes and this is just some silly costume I found online!” All he does is hum in response hardly even listening to you anymore.

“Well anyways I made you rib and pulled pork with some mac n cheese, Cole slaw, and some rolls- Oh! And sweet tea! But you probably won’t like that…” your head tips down a little in thought, curled hair falling over your shoulder perfectly. His hand starts to play with the rim of the hat as you continue to speak. “And we don’t have to eat now if you don’t want! We can warm it up-”

“Doesn’t it mean somethin when you take someone’s hat?” He’s looking at you lowly now and you’re still too excited to notice the shift in the air. “Hmm yes I think, I’m pretty sure it means you want to have sex.” Before the words are fully out of your mouth his callused hand is reaching for the garment and placing it on top of his head. A small “Oh.” Is all he can hear from you before he starts making work at your jaw.

“So fucking sweet baby, doin all this for me- smells so good, wearing this shit for me.” His hand goes down to smack your half out ass then grope all while he continues to suck on your neck. It was getting hard to pay attention to him though when the hat kept bumping into you. “K-kats… the hat s in the way.” As sexy as he looked in it, you just wanted a clear path for him. “So you wear it then.” He leans up and takes it off him to put it back on you before whispering in your ear. “Cmon show me how a real belle rides…” and you have to fight the moan that threatens to fall from your lips.

Quick hands try to make work at your outfit before his hands come to stop you, “Fuck no baby, yer keepin this shit on. Everythin but the shorts.” So you forgo working on your shirt and skip to the tiny daisy dukes, tossing them across the floor and running back to him.

Bakugou gently picks you up and takes you over to the table, good thing you hadn’t put the food out already cause he’s laying down and taking you with him, the table cloth bunches at your knees and the wood aches but you can’t find it in yourself to care. You’ve never been so wet in your life, something about the new location maybe? How he looks under you? Who knows but the slick is running down your thigh onto his crotch and he’s smirking wildly at you.

Bakugou lets his hands rest behind his head looking at you teasingly, “Need me to finger you baby or are ya ready?” You shake your head, pawing at the drawstring on his sweatpants and pushing them down only enough so his cock could spring out.

“No, want you in me now…” you position yourself over him and sink down rather fast, a choked moan leaving you. “F-fuck sweetness take your time.” Bakugous hands untangle from behind him and shoot to your hips. “Nooo need it now Suki. N-need it so bad…” The initial bounces were small but eventually only the tip is in and you slam back down on him, table legs crying at the motion. It’s unlike any other time you’ve been on top, it’s hungrier.

You continue to pull him all the way out and fall back down, a moan leaving your lips every time he re-enters you, your legs are screaming in pain but you can’t find it in yourself to stop. His hand lays a small smack on your ass, “That’s it baby… yeah cmon fuckin ride me.” Your head falls down in pleasure and the hat tumbles onto his chest. He takes it and whips it across the room, a lamp or something shattering in the distance. “Damn thing.” Because he will be damned if anything is obstructing this view.

“Tell me how good it is baby, tell me you love my dick.” You’re still doing all the work, eyebrows pinched up and eyes shut in pleasure. “O-oh Suki~ mph! L-love it feels so good Suki…” At your words, his fingers are digging into your ass and fucking you onto him himself. It’s so much deeper than before you can’t help but scream his name.

“Shhh baby gonna make the neighbors mad.” He chuckles deeply. “W-wan, wan a…” the words can’t even escape your mouth, his dick hitting a spot that makes you numb. “Whatcha want sweet girl tell me what you want. Give anything to ya.” It’s getting hard for him to speak too, the sound your pussy makes when it talks to him is blinding, completely focused on the sloshing sounds in the room.

“Wanna kiss… please” you are barely able to mumble it into his chest but he hears it. “Good girl, ya wanna kiss? Cmere.” As soon as your lips connect his tongue slides into your mouth making you weak. One more thrust sends you over the edge, table cloth completely ruined with your cum. You try to keep kissing him but as he fucks you through it you have to break away to moan.

“M almost there baby, fuck, you’re so good to me, feel so fuckin good. Where baby where can I cum?” It’s desperate, begging you to say what he wants to hear. “I-in me please… wanna feel it…” at your words, warm cum shoots up into your womb making you even more weak than before. Bakugou continued to fuck you down onto him, albeit much slower than before and once again you’re cumming. Before you can even realize what you had done, his chest is covered in you, liquid dripping down onto the table.

“Holy fucking shit baby, you just- you’ve never- fuck.” He can’t even wrap his head around what he just saw already craving it again. But you’re tired and his dick is almost soft, so he picks you up and stands, dick slipping out and slopping your cum mixture into the floor.

“Fuck I’ll clean us and… that up baby cmon.” As if you could move anyways, fully melted into him. You can still manage to nag though, “my lamp, think you broke it Suki.”

“Couldn’t fuckin see. It had to go.”

────── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──────

AN: this was the fic that got deleted but I think it’s better and a little longer than the first one, hopefully you guys enjoy if I think about it too much I’ll think it’s shit.

[starhvney]

𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐋𝐀𝐔𝐑𝐀𝐍𝐂𝐄

𝐖𝐂: ~3.1k

𝐄𝐃𝐈𝐓𝐎𝐑: @arienic

𝐋𝐀𝐒𝐓 ☆ 𝐆𝐄𝐍𝐄'𝐒 𝐄𝐍𝐃𝐈𝐍𝐆 | 𝐅𝐈𝐂 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 | 𝐎𝐓𝐇𝐄𝐑 𝐖𝐎𝐑𝐊𝐒

You fill your lungs with a deep breath, before slowly releasing it as you stare at your wall. Your back hurts a bit from the slouched position you’ve been sitting in for about an hour now, but you can’t bring yourself to shift into something different.

The pictures on your wall showcase the memories you’ve made over the past few years, happy smiles and silly moments on display. For whatever reason, you decide to count how many pictures each of your friends appear in. You know it’s to distract yourself from the real issue that’s been plaguing your mind for the past few days. But still, you count, ignoring the nagging voice in the back of your head.

Aphmau, five times.

Nana, eight times.

Katelyn, seven times.

Garroth, six times.

Travis, four.

Laurance.

One… two… four… eight… twelve…

Fifteen times.

You stare at his face, copied and printed out a grand total of fifteen times on your wall.

Shit.

None of the others come close! He even rivals some of your family members!

Your hands meet your face in a harsh slap as you send yourself off of your chair and onto your floor, groaning and curling into a ball.

It’s him. It always has been.

How did you keep a straight face on Monday, when he was so close to you, practically begging at your knees to choose him? When he was on the verge of tears and… the way he whined your name? Pleading for you to forgive him? To like him back?

How did you resist when he almost kissed you?

The fabric of your sweater does little to muffle the drawn out scream you send into the crook of your elbow. You lay defeated on your floor, your limbs deflating into a limp, useless pile.

There’s a concerned call of your name after a moment and you roll into your back, forcing a weak response.

“I’m fine…”

You need to talk to him. Again.

It takes a ridiculous amount of effort for you to stand, your hands trembling as you pick your phone up. Before you can wimp out, the pad of your thumb clicks on Laurance’s name, and you stare in horror as the dial tone starts to ring through the speakers. It only rings three times before he picks up, the sound of air rushing in the speakers catching you off guard before it stops.

“Hey.” His voice comes through a bit breathless.

“Hi.” You pause. “Um, is this a bad time?”

“No! No. Did you want to talk about something?”

“Why did you sound out of breath, then?”

There’s an awkward few seconds before he responds.

“Uh… I ran to the back room.” He sounds sheepish.

“What—are you at work?” you ask incredulously.

“Yeah.”

“Laurance! I’ll just call you later—”

“No!” He’s quick to interrupt you. “No, it’s fine. It’s only a couple of minutes before my shift ends anyways. I was in the middle of getting ready to clock out.”

“Oh.” You bite your lip, nearly dropping your phone on your face as your hands tremble.

“Did you need something?”

You swallow. “I wanted to talk.”

“Yes!” There’s a pause, before you hear him clear his throat. “I mean, yeah. Um… did you want to talk in person? Or…”

“Yeah, that would be best, I think. Do you mind driving here?”

“No, of course not,” he says, as if it were obvious. “I’ll be there in like… twenty minutes.”

“Okay. See you then,” you mutter, nervousness officially settling in your bones as the call ends.

Twenty minutes. You have twenty minutes to prepare yourself for what would be a crucial turning point for your relationship with Laurance. Not only him, but also…

You sigh, clicking back onto your contacts and staring at Gene’s name. He said he would be understanding, but the thought of letting him down after what you both experienced in the last week is guilt inducing. He’s changed. A lot.

But it’s always been Laurance.

Still, he’s been sweet and understanding to you, so the least he deserves is for you to tell him. Your heart thuds when you press call, and you lay perfectly still as the phone rings. Would he be upset?

“Hey, doll,” he greets, that confident raspiness in his tone ringing in your ears. 

“…Hey.”

“You don’t sound too happy.” His voice is light, but there’s a slight edge to it.

“I…”

“Made up your mind, huh?”

You press your lips together, closing your eyes. “Um… yeah. Yeah, I think so.”

“Hm.” He pauses. “I’m guessing based on your tone, this isn’t good news for me.”

“…I’m really sorry, Gene.”

You want to say more, but words are lost on you, fleeing from your fingertips and just out of your grasp.

“I’m not mad at you for it. You know, you’re already a lot sweeter than most people I know for going out of your way to tell me.” 

“It’s the least you deserve.”

“Oh, the least I deserve is a lot less than this.” He laughs dryly.

“If it’s okay, I’d like to still be friends with you.” You bite the inside of your cheek. Will he even want to?

There’s a short pause, before: “Of course we can. That is, if he lets you.”

“You’ve changed. I’ll tell him.”

“That doesn’t mean he has to accept it. But I appreciate that you’re so willing to stand up for me, doll.” He sighs after a second. “Hey, don’t sound so upset. If things don’t work out, or you need someone to talk to, I’ll be here. You’ll still have my number, okay? And I won’t ignore you.”

“Okay…” you murmur. “I’m sorry again, Gene.”

“Don’t be sorry.”

“Sorr—okay… I’m glad I got to know you for myself.”

He chuckles and it’s fond, light. If you’d been told Gene Hyun would be laughing like that over you a couple weeks ago, you would’ve scoffed and rolled your eyes.

“And I’m glad I got to spend time with you, sweet thing. Anyways, don’t torture yourself on this too much, okay? The choice that makes you happy is the right one… I’ll let you go, now.”

“Thank you, Gene. Bye…”

“Bye bye.”

…

Love triangles fucking suck.

☆

The next ten minutes, you decided to freshen up before Laurance gets here, and after analyzing your appearance in the mirror for another five, you decided to run out the door and wait for him on the sidewalk to spare yourself any more self-criticizing torture.

It’s less than five minutes later when the familiar hum of Laurance’s Mustang approaches, and you stand when he parks along the curb. He’s quick to get out, nearly jogging to your side with a nervous look. His hair is tousled, and he’s still wearing his work uniform, spare for his apron.

“Have you just been sitting there?” he asks, leaning in to hug you.

The action's muscle memory for him, and it’s not until he pulls away that he seems to remember the premise of you both meeting up like this, his cheeks lightly flushing. You can’t complain, though. Not when he can barely contain his feelings for you anymore. Seeing him like this is like seeing a masterpiece in a new light, one you hadn’t thought was possible for you to view.

“Yeah,” you respond after a second, shifting on your feet. “Do you… want to go on a drive and talk?”

“Yeah,” he breathes.

He backpedals to his car, opening the passenger side for you and gesturing for you to get in. You take in a quiet, deep breath before situating yourself into the seat, patiently waiting as he rounds the car to get in himself.

It smells… floral in here, you note. But not like a girl’s perfume. It’s fresh.

Laurance gets in and starts up the engine, looking at you in question. “Anywhere you wanted to go?”

You shake your head.

“I’ll just drive, then…” he says softly, vaguely looking to the backseat and back at you. “I also…”

You send a questioning look when he hesitates and looks at you through his lashes, a shy expression flashing on his features. His bangs brush over his cheekbones before he pushes them back, straightening up and biting the inside of his cheek as he leans over to grab something from behind you.

Gently, he reveals a bouquet of white tulips and purple and blue hyacinths, wrapped carefully in simple, brown paper. The amount of flowers and the way they're arranged—it couldn’t have been a cheap buy.

“I’m sorry.”

He swallows when you continue to stare at him, a quiet sigh of relief leaving his lips when you take the bouquet in your hands, settling it into your lap.

“That’s not… to pressure you. It’s to say I’m sorry,” he repeats, voice quiet.

“When did you get these?”

He looks to the street, hand tightening on the wheel as he shifts into drive. “I actually got the floral shop to hold those for me until… well, I was going to give them to you on Friday if you were still upset at me. I picked them up on the way just now.”

“I’m not upset at you, Laurance.”

His eyebrows furrow, and he glances over at you. He says nothing, but it’s clear he’s confused.

“You’ve… been avoiding me the past few days. I thought…”

“I’m just scared.”

“...Scared?” he repeats, fingers tapping on the middle console as he leans on it with his elbow. He smells faintly of coffee. “Of me?”

“Sort of.” His face winces, and you’re quick to continue. “I’m scared of how much I like you.”

He sucks in a sharp breath. “Yeah?”

There’s a deep huskiness to the response that sends blood rushing to your face, and you have to resist the urge to thrash around in your seat.

“Yeah.”

He leans back against his headrest, his chin lifting as he stares at the road. It was like the car was filling with water and he was trying his best to breathe. To focus.

He flexes his hand against the steering wheel, the other one reaching over to yours that lay in your lap. His fingers intertwine with yours, and in one smooth motion he pulls your hands up to his face, leaning in to press a searing kiss against the back of your hand. His eyes were still on the road, but his attention was fully on you.

“So, what do you want to do next?” The question is simple, but he’s leaving it up to you.

“I think… we can take it slow.” You swallow when he drags your hand across his cheek. “Because I want to date you.”

He sighs, the sound euphoric, like you’d just granted every wish he’d ever asked for. “Okay. Slow. I can do that. I want to earn your trust. Especially after the month I just put you through.”

“I put you through it, too.”

He glances at you from the corner of his eye at that.

“I… hung out with Gene despite knowing your history. I felt like I was betraying you, in a way. But I think a part of me wanted to make you… jealous.” His jaw tightens, but he squeezes your hand reassuringly. “He’s not that bad. Not like when you two were ‘friends’. He never pressured me to do anything against my will. I’m still sorry, though. Because I know it upset you more than you let on.”

The car slows, and Laurance pulls into a parking lot of a cute mom and pop diner your friend group frequents. The sky is beautiful. There's no other word for it. With the way that the sun's setting behind the building, casting a pink glow over the whole area—well, who could blame you for admiring the way it lights up the boy sitting in the driver's seat?

“Well, I made you jealous with Michi. And upset you more than you let on, too. So we’re even,” he says quietly. Once the car is safely parked, he turns to look at you and leans in closer. “And I don’t want us to start off this relationship with either of us holding that against each other. So don’t feel guilty or think that you’ve messed up anymore than I did. Because you didn’t. You didn’t owe me anything.”

His eyes are dilated, pupils swallowing the green of his eyes as they dart along your face. He's still holding your hand tightly, and now that he doesn't have to drive, the other comes up to your face, brushing a strand of hair from your face before falling to your cheek. Your heart flutters when he leans in a little closer, pressing his lips together in hesitation.

“Okay. We’re even,” you muster in response, your own eyes drifting along his face. 

The length of his eyelashes, the arch of his thick brows, the perfect shape of his nose, and the curve of his lips as he lets out a shaky breath. He swallows, leaning a little closer with a whisper of your name, his eyes desperate and pleading.

“Is this too much…?” His eyes drop to your lips, hand moving to hold the back of your head. “Do you want me to stop?”

You nearly scream, “GOD, NO!” but settle on quickly shaking your head for the sake of preserving the moment.

He takes your reaction as a green light, and there’s not a moment of hesitation before he’s closing the distance, his lips frantically on yours. Warmth spreads in your chest as he holds the back of your neck, tilting your head with an urgency to feel you close. The hand that has been tightly clasped with yours lets go, only to move to your waist and tug you closer. He huffs at the separation caused by the middle console, though seems to settle for lapping his tongue along your lips, a desperate attempt to deepen the kiss.

Woah.

You’re nothing but putty in his hold, letting him turn and tilt your head the way he likes until he takes up all your senses. 

Until you can’t breathe.

Your hand reaches up to push him away, gasping for a proper breath through your shaky lungs and heart. Regrettably, he lets you do so… But the way he pushes his head forward, eyes still hungrily set on your lips with nothing but the mind-numbing intent of feeling you close to him—you almost cave in to his wishes.

You fear that may send you into the afterlife, however, and you’re sure one more kiss from him like that would have your heart locking up straight into cardiac arrest.

“Sorry.” He pants for air, leaning in to press his forehead against yours, his hand that was clasping the back of your neck returning to gently caress your cheek. “Once I started, I couldn’t stop. I've wanted to do that for so long…”

“It’s okay. Me too…”

He smiles, leaning back with a borderline smug expression. “You look so flustered. It’s cute.”

You lean back, unable to go far with his hand still on your waist. His thumb rubs gently, reassuringly, despite the teasing twinkle returning to his eyes. The grey-green has shifted from that pained, nervous energy back to his normal mischief and bravado, causing your heart to knock against your chest in anticipation.

“Don’t run…” he whispers. “I’ve finally got you and you’re going to run away again?”

“What happened to you being nervous like you were earlier?!” you squeak, breath hitching when he leans in to press a doting kiss on your cheek.

“Who says I’m not?” he laughs, his hand on your waist returning to your hand and bringing it up to his chest. His veins are thrumming with a rapid beat underneath your fingers, and he stares at you with what you can only describe as a lovesick smile. “I’m just so happy now, I can’t help myself.”

He hesitates before pulling away from you, fixing your hair and running his finger along your jaw. 

“Alright, alright, lovely,” he whispers. “I said we would take it slow, so I’ll cut it out with the teasing.”

“Thank you…” you breathe in relief.

“For now.” He smirks.

“Laurance!”

“Do you want to go into the diner? Are you hungry?” he asks casually, gesturing to the neon light glowing against the now darkening sky.

“I could eat, I guess…” you say quietly. “I just want to spend more time with you.”

“Well, if you spend more time with me in here, you’ll be subject to making out with me more…” he trails off.

“Okay, okay! Let’s go!” You spin around, tugging the handle of the passenger door and stumbling out. You hear fond laughter behind you before Laurance gets out of the car himself, shaking his head at you. 

“First of all, don’t get out of the car without letting me open it for you. Second of all, ouch?” He pouts. “You don’t want to kiss me more?”

“It’s more like if I do kiss you anymore, I’ll faint and die, probably.”

“Well, we can’t have that…” He chuckles, strolling to meet you in front of his car. “If my girlfriend died as soon as we got together, that would be quite devastating.”

“Girlfriend?”

He softens on his teasing again, nodding slowly and watching your expression, gauging your reaction. “Yeah… is that too much?”

“No. I don’t mind it. We already have had a ‘talking stage’, right…?” You nod, rocking on your feet. “I mean, we’re best friends.”

“Then why do you look so nervous all of a sudden?” he asks quietly. “You can tell me anything…”

“Well, we’ve just never been together like this before. I’m not sure how to talk on a date…” you murmur, suddenly feeling a bit silly at your hesitation and leaning into him. “If that’s what this is.”

He shakes his head, leaning down to hook his arms around your waist and pull you into him for a tight hug. He sucks in a deep breath before sighing, as if breathing you in, and then pulls back just enough to look at you.

“Who says it has to be any different from when we normally talked before?” He gives a lopsided grin. “It’s just me, silly girl. Now I just get to kiss you and give you compliments whenever I want. Which will be all the time.”

“Oh, yeah.”

Of course. You already know each other. This didn’t have to be awkward. Because you know his favorite color is green. You know he aspires to go to culinary school and open a restaurant someday. You were there for his terrible dye job his freshman year, and you've caught him a million times in school, twirling his pencil between his fingers when he’s deep in thought. Not to mention how you've been victim to physical touch as his love language for years, now.

“Oh,” he whispers, “and I’ll be taking you out on much better dates than this.”

You melt into his arms, sighing softly. It’s just Laurance. And it always will be him.

©starhvney 2024. do not plagiarize, feed to any AI, or repost my works to any sites.

taglist: @wasting-away-on-the-internet @angelhyperfixates @valentique @arienic @dazedbydeath @theaquaticplant @starsbrightly @kalegrinch @izzybella1807 @marst4rz @vyladsgirl @allieyaaa @luvsymai @yoom-ss @garrothswiferealnotfake @fartmonster98

[ysrjune]

Can reader and Scott do the couples painting challenge. Where you and him sit across from eachother , and he show you his and it looks like he drew Freddy Kruger from memory instead of you 💔 . Then yours looks accurate , and Leo tells Scott that he can’t draw 😭

a/n: im giggling so hard at this drawing man. Leo is 8 in this because I want him to talk cause he's funny.

Leo was monitoring over you two, making sure that nobody was peeking. Tunes were in the back, and he was singing along.

“Leo, shut up! Daddy's trying to focus.” Scott says while drawing on his paper. “Your drawing is gonna suck anyway, Daddy.” Leo rolls his eyes. “You suck.” Scott rolls his eyes back. “Son, I dont think you realize that you're talking to the reincarnation of Pablo Picasso.”

“Picasso's fans liked his ugly drawings. You dont have fans to like yours. OOOOO BURRNNN!!!” Leo praises himself. You giggle and play along. “He has a point, babe. Your drawings are usually.. bad.” Scott scrunches his nose. “My other family would never treat me like this, by the way. I have another son and wife who LOVE everything about me.” He says with some sass.

“Mamas boyfriend from work doesn't call me ugly.” Leo crosses his arms. “Mamas boyfriend is lying.” Scott sticks his tongue out and goes back to his drawing.

“Mommy, yours looks so good!” Leo says with excitement and his cute smile - dimples making an appearance. “Thank you, baby.” You smile and bring him on your lap.

Scott was jealous of you. He wanted to hold his baby. He loves his son. But the pair are always bickering about something. Yes, it was never serious, but Leo likes to hold a silly grudge most times to make Scott upset. “Stop glazing your mom, that's like, nasty.” Scott says, and you chuckle. “Calm down, blondie.”

“Its okay, ugly. I love you still.” Leo smiles at Scott.

“You won't when you hit puberty. You're gonna hate me and your mother.”

“Whats puberty-”

“You dont need to know about that, sweetheart.” You say quickly and give Scott a look to which he smiles and now starts to paint over his "master piece."

Leo, again, was walking around the table for a little bit until he got distracted by a rabbit in the bushes of your backyard. Of course, you were on the porch of your backyard! It's summer and it's so hot inside. Nice and breezy outside. “bun, bun, bun. hop hop hop.” You hear Leo saying. He always says that when he sees a rabbit or bunny. Honestly, because he doesn't know the difference. (#neitherdoI)

“We should get him a bunny.” Scott suggests. “Scott, he has a cat.” You say, now painting as well. “So? We have space for a bunny..” Scott spoiled Leo all the time. It was a miracle that the little boy wasn't a brat by now. “No, Scott.” Scott gave in.. for now.

“Are you guys done, yeeeettt!!!” Leo complains, tugging at Scott's shirt. “Yeah, squirt, hold on. I need to add a few finishing touches.”

“You've been saying that for the last five minutes.” You sigh. “I didn't ask for your opinion, y/n.” You looked at him like he was stupid.. because that wasn't an opinion. It was a fact.

Scott finally finished, and Leo chose to look at yours first. "Mommy, this is sooo cool! It looks just like Papa!" He holds the painting up and compares it to Scott. Very accurate. He shows Scott and the older blond nods. "Good job, babe."

"Lemme see yours, Scotterson!" Leo says and takes the painting. “Boy, this shit is ugly as hell..” WHERE DID HE LEARN THIS LANGUAGE? You gasp and give Scott a look that he knows all too well. Scott laughed out loud and almost fell out of his chair.

Leo shows you, and you can't help but laugh out loud right away. The drawing was so ugly. Long skinny arms, big cross-eyed eyes, AND one was longer and larger than the other—the hair was so??... it looks bad. He made your nose really small and.. look, it was just SO ugly, and he knew it.

“Its okay, Daddy. I still think you're funny..” Leo says awkwardly and lowkey side eyes Scott, placing the painting down slowly on the table. “Can we go somewhere to eat? Im hungry.” Scott said no but immediately checked his wallet if he had cash on him, and hallelujah, he did. So now you were all gonna go out to eat.

A day later, you and Scott wake up and go to your child's room to wake him up. Scott saw that his son had placed both paintings on his desk. Because it was so early in the morning, and he felt vulnerable—he cried a little bit.

“The little fuck loves me 🥹🥹”

@bxbyysstuff @anakinstwinklebunny @lovethestarrs @valloos @anisangeldust @xo-yaaaaaasxo @anakinca @dollfilmz @alexlovesysrjune @sockiess @sythethecarrot @speaknow-sw @loveamira @alealuvshayden @mvst4far @prettiestmini @amiratheangel @blckberrie @literally-izzyy @litt1e-misssunsh1ne

[softshuji]

'Ouch.'

'You're being dramatic,' you say, half-heartedly, as Hanma leans against your shoulder, a cigarette held between his lips with his other hand, and taking a long drag as you both walk through the quiet city streets.

It's late, the occasional car horn and shop window awash with yellow are the only companions you have as you both walk back home. Him leaning against you, and you, idly supporting him with the other hand shoved into your coat pocket. His jackets torn on the end, the seam split to reveal the soft lining underneath, the White of his shirt smudged through with red drying to brown.

'Heyyy! Come on now, and after all the hard work I just put in? I'm wounded Doll.' His voice tilts with a laugh, a lopsided smile around the cigarette, a playful glint in his eye as he looks down at you, curls falling over his forehead.

'Well no one told you to go beat up 4 guys at once did they?' You huff with mock annoyance, blowing a puff of air that curls against his sleeve as his arm falls over your shoulder.

'I had to! He swore at you,' he says. 'It's not as if I didn't give him a chance to apologise.'

'I don't think clocking him is really a chance to apologise baby.'

He laughs again, and it's big and beautiful and full, hearty from his chest, as he lifts a hand to massage his jaw where a stray punch caught him, glancing off his skin. 'Well, he's lucky I let him keep his life after what he said to you.'

Your chest fizzles with warmth all the same, and you risk a glance at him as he leans down to nuzzle his cheek against your hair, needy and playful. How you love him, so infinitely, so much and so big, a kind of love that you could slip and fall right into , when he is so proud and arrogant and cocky and beautiful and all yours.

'Mhm, such a hero aren't you? My hero,' you say, lips pursed and then wet in anticipation of the kiss you know Is coming, heart thumping against your ribs, your nose twitching with the familiar scent of him that's so close and so known, so woven into the two of you.

'Mhm, I always like the sound of that yknow.'

'Oh I know you do, silly man. Not happy about this bruise though, you're going to need some ice.' Your fingers dance over the blooming blue on the cut of his cheekbone, following the sharp slope of his nose.'

'I still can't believe he got me there.'

'Maybe you were a little distracted Pretty boy.' You nudge him, your head tilting against his shoulder, cheek rubbing catlike against his jacket.

'Yeah?' he says, a hand slipping down to your hip, thumb finding the crease of skin above the waist of your jeans. 'I mean, I was trying to impress a pretty girl back there.'

The night is so young, and the air tastes like promise. It's one of those. Where he's dreamlike and not quite real, and the moon glints off the gold watch and the gold chain just right and you could give him your life right here and now as a gift, could lay down and let him take it for himself if he ever wanted. You know you would. He knows you would too.

'A pretty girl?' He senses the smile in your voice, the way it thins at the end, the way your eyes crinkle at the corners when you're trying not to, when you're pretending to be aloof and unamused and failing at it. 'I'm sure she's very grateful, and Lucky too.'

And then. 'But thank you,' you say, though you don't think he should be doing it at all- putting himself out for you, doing anything at all for you actually- and you flush with desire at it, at the nature of him, so wolf-like, so wrapped around your dainty fingers. 'For all of that. I'm not happy that you got punched because of me, but I'm grateful you were there anyway. And-' you lift a finger pointedly- 'Watching you beat guys up is real sexy.'

He lifts an eyebrow, a thumb roving over the apple of your cheek, the curve of your jaw. 'Oh yeah? You liked it?' his voice drops, rough and gravelly, and inlaid with tender affection.

'mhm-mhm I did, and all of this blood all over you too, your hair all messy like this, and all for me, how can I not?' And boldly, you take his chin between your thumb and forefinger, trace the line of his bottom lip as he parts them for you, his teeth biting down gently before the pink of his tongue peeks out to lick softly at the skin.

It's a conversation without words. A push and pull, a subtle give and take, the two of you working each other up as his pants get tighter by the second and your thighs twitch with need and warmth and he grins as your eyes glaze over and drop to his full pink lips now wet in anticipation.

'You gonna reward me for it then Sweetheart?' Low, and whispered against your lips, curls brushing your forehead and your cheek, a hand coming up to grasp your jaw, and a flicker of heat spreading across your skin as his lips meet yours.

There is blood on his lips from where they've split, metallic, iron and saliva, nicotine and menthol and Mint, and the promise of forever pressed to yours as you kiss.

[smilingfr3ak]

Pilot literally has one of my most favorite character designs in a while. I love myself a nervous lookin fella. Can you do a silly little tldr lore drop (if you have one 😔‼️)

GRAAAAAH HES SO COOL 😩

SDFHKJSDHF thank you for finding him cool!! teehee. I can drop a bit of lore about how I created him, and his current story I have for him. Buckle up because this is gonna get a tad bit long. No TLDR at the end here, you oughta be committed!

HIS CHARACTER

His concept as a character came from ‘Fight or Flight’ and he is the embodiment of the latter choice, being an extreme coward in the face of danger, and working as a pilot! The 'smoking weed' trait was a joke that became canon because... hehe he's flying high.

Pilot is so overly paranoid he believes everything is out to get him, making it slightly difficult for him to feel comfortable in his surroundings and when putting his trust on other people (LIZARDS- ALIENS- THE GOVERNMENT!!). He would do everything to avoid or get rid of potential threats and danger as fast as he could to ensure his survival.

Along with his paranoia, it is paired with stubborn determination. Once he's locked into a certain idea or belief, HE'S STICKING BY IT.

CURRENT STORY

Pilot is the eldest son of his family. His father was a former aviator, which inspired Pilot to become one as well, despite not liking heights that much- (he flies while high on weed, it's fine--). After their father's passing, Pilot became the main breadwinner of the family and they moved from Canada to New Mexico.

He has a sister who is younger than him by 3 years, and she works as a waitress at a diner in Teufort. Their mother fell ill after a couple of years, and they both work hard to take care of her and pay for her treatment.

Pilot initially worked in Icarus Airliners, but at some point he crashed his plane in one of Mann Co's territories, and Saxton Hale happened to be there when he crashed.

On that specific day, Saxton needed someone to fly him to one of his absurd projects (Like Yeti Park or something) but Jerry was absent because he couldn't take Saxton's bullshit of ripping out the plane's engine as an excuse to jump out of it Saxton Hale style. So Pilot was hired on the spot by Hale (without the supervision of Bidwell). Because he was in the air for a while at least!

At first, Pilot said he couldn't stay and was about to decline the job, until Saxton just gave him a butt load of money as his 'first day' pay to convince him. Obviously, Pilot took it. He needed the money. Without realizing, he became part of a mercenary business.

He would eventually be shoved with the mercenaries because Jerry came back the next day after his much needed break, and despite Bidwell's pleas to make Pilot leave (he couldn't stop asking questions and it annoyed Bidwell to a degree), Saxton decided to keep him in the company anyways because... y'know, he's kinda pathetic- He makes Saxton want to say: "My god, you call yourself a man? We need to get you out there in the battlefield, boy!"

Which made Pilot become part of Team Fortress instead as their aviator when flying the mercs in for new missions.

----

There may be things I might change about him or his story in the future, but as of now this is what I have for him.

I hope you enjoyed reading all of that and learning more about Pilot!! :)))

[cozmixxiez]

𐔌 . ⋮ GUESS .ᐟ ֹ ₊ ꒱

“Is it showing off my brand new lower back tattoo?”

Synopsis…! Lynn gets herself a new tattoo, but is scared of how the gang will react — but it’s the way Dally reacts that catches her off guard.

─────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰ ─────

She’d meant to tell them — honest — she just forgot.

A week prior, Lynn went out and decided to treat herself, inevitably having the bright idea to get a tattoo on her lower back. She’d wanted one for years anyway, and now that she’s eighteen, she can do whatever the hell she wants.

Somehow, though, she managed to forget to tell the gang. Despite the fact they’re some of her best friends, it just didn't feel like something to speak about with them –Angela Shepard, however, is. She was the first and only person she’s told, and because she’s Angela, she loved the design.

“Oh my god, it’s so hot! I might get one too, now! We should match-!” She then blabbered on for an hour about nonsense.

For a while after she got it, she’d simply forgotten to tell them. The design was often covered by pants, anyways. One day, though, her silly little secret gets revealed in a rather odd manner…

───── ─────

It was blazing hot out, normal for a May morning in Tulsa, and Lynn decided to wear a pair of low rise jeans and a cropped tank top, paired with her leather jacket. It’s nearly 80 degrees out, she’s not going to be caught dead in anything else.

“Hey, ya’ll! She calls out, as she and Johnny enter the Curtis house, her typical grin on her face.

A mantra of “hey”s and “hello”s echo throughout the house, all voices familiar and comforting.

“Darry, is the A.C. still broke?” She asks, sitting down on the couch.

“‘Course it is, Lynn. I ain’t a plumber, I’m a roofer.” His response is what she expected, so with a small huff, she takes off her jacket, tossing it away.

Her lower back is inevitably exposed, and guess who’s the first to see the tattoo? Dallas.

He rubs a hand over his face at the sight, mumbling curses under his breath. For several seconds, he does nothing but sit there, staring. His gaze locked on her back with pupils blown wide.

He’s the only one to notice, apparently, based on the fact nobody else has said a word — because we all know they would.

But the moment she’s bending over to grab a soda off the coffee table? He’s a goner.

“Fuck, man…” He murmurs softly, glancing away and adjusting his jeans ever so subtly. His hands find her hips the moment she’s near, tugging her between his legs without a second thought.

“Doll… what the hell is this?” He asks, smoothing a hand over the tattoo, fingers tracing the ridges.

“Oh, uhm, just a tattoo?” Lynn replies, feigning nonchalance with every bone in her body.

At the sound of her words, unfortunately, everyone in the room turns to her. Steve and Two-Bit quit wrestling, Soda stops being their referee, Pony looks up from his book and Johnny tears his gaze away from looking over his shoulder.

Lynn stares at them, her expression blank, as if such a predicament is normal.

“IS THAT A TATTOO??” A shocked Pony gasps, breaking the silence that had been hanging in the air like a taught string. That makes everyone run over, their voices overlapping as they all ask frantically about the new addition to her body.

“When did you get it?”

“Did it hurt?”

“Why the hell did you want it?”

“Not gonna lie, it’s kinda hot….”

At that comment from Two-Bit, Dally stomps on his foot, the hand around Lynn’s waist tightening as the other man yelps.

The whole situation is… interesting, to say the least. She can’t help basking in the attention, showing the thing off with a wide grin.

“Yeah, it didn't hurt much. Which was kinda surprising, since the skin there’s supposed to be sensitive or somethin’. I wanna get more soon, but they’re damn expensive.”

All the while, Dally is watching from the couch, icy eyes locked onto her back.

Eventually, the commotion dies down, and Lynn takes her spot beside Dally, gaze stuck on the TV before her playing Mickey Mouse. But Dallas – of course – is still thinking of that goddamn tattoo. The way it looked on her skin, the design she’d chosen, the image of her laying on the table.

He can't quit thinking about it, and it’s driving him nuts. Why can’t his mind just let it go?

───── ─────

From that point on, whenever he gets the chance, he lets his hands brush her lower back. Lynn doesn’t notice – at least, not until Johnny points it out.

─────⊱༺ ♰ ༻⊰ ─────

a/n: kinda hate this one ngl, but it’s whatever :P

[slightly-gay-pogohammer]

okay deltarune ch3 and 4 comments. went through the game completely blind and i still dont know if theres any secret boss ( likely yes ) or no mercy runs ( ill check em out. when a gameplay comes out LMAO ) but. general thoughts

CH 3

ah, yes. the divorce episode

sorry tenna you cant beat queen but you got REAL close

genuinely the funniest chapter so far. until the horrors

fully understood why it took so much specifically in this chapter. the different art styles. the dialogues clipart. the different gameplays. ooooh my god

i got genuinely unsettled by the bonus round. AND by the knight.

toby you shouldnt have put a rhythm minigame in deltarune <- spent a good hour trying to S rank it

by the way my personal thought for the secret boss here is that ill have to S rank so. *cries*

CH 4

this is my personal message to anyone screaming that ralsei is evil and shouldnt be trusted: (i blow you a raspberry while in tears)

i'm. not sure if this is my favorite chapter so far but it might as well be. like ch2 is iconic but ch4 has SO MUCH going on all at once and every single emotional moment hits even if i understood both the gerson and the prophecy ending twists

also again the power toby fox has to make me feel genuinely unsettled during the. out of body experience. in noelle's house. haha.

personal message to carrol holiday STAY AWAY FROM HER!! STAY AWAY FROM HER!!!!!!!! and toby i love you but STOP DOING ASGORE DIRTYYYYYY

also WHAT DOES THAT MEAN!!!!!!!!! KRIS WHOS AT THE PHONEEEEEEE

i adore you. toby really put ytp AND a berzerker reference in fucking deltarune. and i adore them.

the final battle the final battle THE FINAL BATTLE FUUUUCK!!!!!!!!!! WHAT THE FUUUUCK!!!! OH MY GOD?????? wow. toby what

and yea this has been silly here and there but for the most part i like to see toby taking things way more seriously. like the mood shift between the first half of ch3, the second half and now all of ch4 is so powerful his writing peaks every time a little bit more

also HEY SUSIE WHAT THE FUCK WAS THAT! WHY DID YOU DO THAAAAAT

also this is a good moment like any other to say. i do Not like sans deltarune actually i think he's rude and kind of a cunt in fact. i do not like him. where is undertale sans i miss him so badly

FUN THEORIES

roulxs nor lancer are relevant in ch4 which means theyre the kni[EXPLODES]

no okay uhhh

the person at the phone is carol, or has smth to do with carol anyway. or asgore. i think it would be really interesting if asgore turned out to be some twist antagonist

gastern't. i decided he's not relevant anymore. i think pushing the whole darker than darker thing just for gaster to not be relevant at all would be very funny

ive seen people theorize that the knight's plan is to undertale everyone but i dont. think so? iirc toby clearly said that its an AU, but i think more of the knight being like. something related to kris. less of an item and more something that they decided to push aside??? does that make sense????? idk its 2am

[white-btterfly]

Profuse amounts of happy tears emojis under the cut.

The way Jayce thought Viktor would be better after they ALMOST KISSED?!?! Clueless man!! Get a grip! It's continuously ironic how Jayce tries harder and harder to make Viktor feel better, and it only succeeds in making Viktor love him hopelessly more and more.

Well, Jayce is 100% convinced he was the only one to initiate, AND that Viktor doesn't love him anyway. He became convinced that he's the cure... and in a way he is... except that for now he definitely isn't, since Viktor is convinced Jayce doesn't love him... Even now as I'm writing this I am still in awe at how silly they both are.

I'm desperately hoping for the confession chapter even though I know there's so much more of the story left. I'm going to snap my phone in two out of frustration before Jayce connects the dots.

The confession chapter will arrive... eventually... I would rather not give you an ETA to keep you on your toes, but for the sake of your phone, let's just say that there will be some room after the confession chapter to describe Viktor and Jayce's happily ever after.

I do love seeing Jayce nervous about things. I find him so relatable in that way. He's kind of a people-pleaser and wants to do a good job. And damn if I don't behave the same way before giving a speech, running through the script andtrying to get the wording just right. And Jayce's distraction by the shared moment when they almost kissed, it cracks me up. He's like, "Viktor? Kissable? Well..no..wait, unless? NO STOP THINKING ABOUT IT." Oh Jayce, you are so in love with him.

I like to imagine Jayce is the kind of person to have his thoughts circle back again and again. The poor man is spiraling.

"I can't believe I wanted to kiss Viktor -> why would I want to kiss him anyway, he isn't that attractive right? Better check -> Oh my God, maybe he is -> no he definitely isn't -> I can't believe I wanted to kiss Viktor"

And on and on!

AAAA the trope where one person realizes their attraction and thinks only "oh." I'm obsessed with it. I've used it in my own writing before too, because it's just so perfect. Such a simple word to describe a shift in perception so large, it's rewriting every thought in Jayce's brain. And he tries to deny it to himself later! A trick of the light? His lips aren't that enticing in the daylight pshhh I was offended on Viktor's behalf. Jayce, how dare you? Viktor is totally kissable at all hours of the day (glad he realizes that later lol, what a goofball).

The famous italicized 'oh' moment... And Jayce got his off-screen... Ahah. There is no other word that could have explained what happened in Jayce's head at that moment. One moment, he was seeing his best friend, feeling like he finally managed to bury his jealousy for good, and the next... He was seeing his whole reason to live, smiling at him. Everything changed. He felt the Pull™ at full power, the one that has always been there although he never really questioned it, and from that moment onward, it never left him.

Also I personally love it when Jayce tries to deny how attractive he finds Viktor. Sure, it's a little unfair toward Viktor, but my God, how I love when a character claims someone is unattractive, and yet can't help but feel the sharp stab of desire and longing whenever they see them. Awww wonderful.

"He's my partner," Jayce hissed, baring his teeth and taking a threatening step toward the man. "Careful how you talk about him." I'm screeching. I'm dead on the floor. Protective angry Jayce, my beloved. I'm so glad he did shit like this in the show because I can imagine exactly how he'd look while saying this. Bless the people at Fortiche for animating Jayce and for you @white-btterfly for creating this story. My brain will never be the same after consuming these chapters.

Neither will my brain after reading your comment! 😭❤️

Smirking at Caitlyn giving Jayce shit about being a convicted felon. Smacking and flicking each other like brother and sister. I love their dynamic so much. I love Caitlyn showing up in stories. She always adds this break in the tension, a peaceful comfortable friendship with Jayce despite whatever else is going on.

I too love Caitlyn and Jayce's sibling relationship! We'll see her again.

Someone please draw Viktor in his gala outfit, I'm dying.

I had the idea to commission some artists to draw fanarts for BYSS. I desperately want to see Jayce and Viktor nearly kissing while floating!

And Jayce can't even hold himself back. He did miss him all day. He thinks Viktor is charming and handsome aaaaaaAAAAAAA!!!!! If only Viktor could hear Jayce's thoughts. He would be astonished.

Viktor would have a hard time believing it indeed.

I decided to give Sky what she deserves, which is a happy life. When I first watched the show, I was revolted by the way her character got used to further Viktor's story. For a show that usually respects its female characters, the way Sky got fridged was horrible. I was indignant! Furious on her behalf! Anyway, in my story, she's happy, working on projects she loves, she's getting over her feelings for Viktor and staying friends with him, she's befriending Jayce and she danced with him and got a flock of admirers like she deserves!

Some readers couldn't understand why Jayce asked Sky instead of Viktor, but Jayce wasn't ready to ask Viktor yet. And asking Viktor in front of everyone would have been a sure way to make Viktor die of embarrassment. He hates being the center of attention.

About Jayce, there's nothing more charming than a man who has no idea how attractive he is. Jayce could easily have anything and anyone he wants, and yet all he wants is do science and love Viktor. When you said Jayce's whole world revolves around Viktor, nothing has ever been more true.

There's so much anticipation every time Jayce switches partners for dancing. I was waiting with bated breath like "who will he ask next? Will he ask Viktor yet? Next time, maybe? What about now? Ask Viktor, he clearly wants to dance, Jayce. Jayce, please!! Please ask Viktor you idiot!"

I have sprinkled the previous chapters with so many talks about dancing, that scene was bound to happen. Piltover, especially on Progress Day, seemed like the perfect setting to have a gala. I've seen so many fanarts of Jayce and Viktor with matching outfits, so many fanarts of them dancing... Plus, dancing can feel so intimate when the right conditions are met... I just had to write it!

Hilarious that Jayce was talking over Viktor and sacrificing his good time to dance with potential investors, all because he's trying to earn Viktor's praise and help their Hextech dream. Viktor tried so hard to let him know that he didn't have to dance and Jayce just trampled all over it like the dumbass he is. "I'm ready to dance with every woman in this room to make it happen." Jayce, stop it, please. Viktor might crush his champagne flute from the jealously running through his veins.

Ahahah oh my God. I love that line. I giggled when I wrote it. Jayce is just so oblivious.

My blood and Viktor's blood ran cold when Mel came into the equation. She's just so charismatic and beautiful. Nobody can hold a candle to her. It was heartbreaking to watch Jayce realize that he made a big mistake. Viktor rarely looks that hurt by anything. Annoyed? Yes. Betrayed? Sure, occasionally. Angry? Definitely. But genuinely hurt? Oh that's reserved for only the most important person in Viktor's life, Jayce Talis, the bumbling fool.

I think Mel, being an empath and the perceptive woman we know, sensed the yearning vibes as soon as she entered the ballroom, coming as much from Viktor as from Jayce. They were so strong she felt compelled to do something.

The whole exchange when Jayce says he's married to science and Mel refers to Viktor as "science," now that was genius. The whole exchange between the two of them was literal gold.

Thank you!!! 😭😭😭😭😭

Viktor is so not subtle at this gala. The yearning and jealousy are at 10/10 levels. I'm eating it up. 10 course meal of the finest words ever put to a page.

😭😭😭😭😭

Also yes, Viktor was 100% jealous. To think seeing Viktor dance with Mel during the Distinguished Innovators competition was exactly what triggered his first coughing fit of nightblooms... And to think Viktor has to watch them dance again... It was heartbreaking for him.

I hope that list comes back to bite Jayce in the ass later. Literally. I hope the paper comes loose and smacks him in the face, forcing him to see his own signature on the page and have the whole world come crashing down around him. I can't believe how many times he has thought back to that list as the reason Viktor can't possibly have feelings for him. Jayce, you fool! Take another look! Fresh eyes! See the truth!

We haven't seen the last of the List™. We will see it again. And it will plague Jayce again. And again. The list will be crucial in the grand finale.

Oh, the glorious moment when Jayce asked Viktor to dance. I'm so glad it happened. The fact that Viktor was jealous so long ago and believed Jayce loved dancing the whole time, only to find out he doesn't really like it. And to have Jayce finally see him and ask him to dance. It's coming full circle. Viktor is getting what he wanted all this time. He just can't see how genuine it all is.

This was the scene I struggled on the most in this chapter—Jayce asking Viktor to dance. Because it was such a delicate balance of longing and hope and bitter disappointment and denial followed by intense joy and I had to temper it all. So many feelings in such a short amount of time. I revised this part so many times! I think I am quite satisfied now.

Jayce Talis, the man that you are. I love how he blurts out the truth like it'll burn him from the inside if he doesn't share it. I love how honest he's being in this chapter. Such growth compared to the beginning! He'll get there eventually. I believe in him! Slowly letting himself act on these feelings he has. He's scared of rejection, but does it anyway.

That's the thing with Jayce, he's so honest he can sometime act on impulse. Although he tried a lot to repress his feelings for Viktor, they guide all his actions, so sometimes he can't help but say or do what's on his mind. In an earlier chapter, Jayce thought to himself that he "couldn't imagine himself being in love with someone and keeping it to himself for more than three seconds". Viktor kept his feelings for Jayce locked away in his heart for four years. How long do you think Jayce is going to last?

I've read the scene of them dancing like five times. What's in this story? God damn, the sentences are laced with some kind of illicit magic that keeps my eyes glued to the screen.

Lots of love and care!

Plus a little bit of Shimmer sprinkled on top to keep you addicted.

(Oh my God, thank you 😭❤️)

They are so soft?!?!?! So gentle with each other. And Jayce's apology? I'm crying. There's an ocean full of tears and it's from me, laying face down on the floor sobbing about how cute they are. Viktor's forehead on Jayce's chest? Oh my god. Just when I think they can't get any more in love without realizing it, it just gets WORSE.

Jayce's apology... I love it... I love that he's talking using the third person because it makes it easier for them to talk about their feelings. Urgh, they're so in love it makes me sick.

Okay, hear me out. The moonblossoms lighting up. The dancing out in their own little world in nature. It's giving...that scene from Little Mermaid where they're in the boat together and about to kiss. (God I haven't seen that movie in forever, somehow it was summoned from the depths of my childhood memories) Anyway, I'm giggling and kicking my feet.

Awww, honestly, you humble me. 😭 I can't say for sure that I had this particular scene in mind when writing my own scene, but I put so many tropes I love into this fanfiction, that statistically I must have drawn inspiration from some Disney stories, even if subconsciously.

Also fucking RUDE of you to suggest The Scientist as the song for Jayce and Viktor, I'll never be able to listen to that song again without melting into a puddle and thinking about jayvik. Even if you picked it just for the vibes, it actually fits them so well. I'll be adding all three suggested songs to a playlist and then daydreaming about them dancing together.

While writing BYSS, I actually created a playlist lovingly called "Cringe is dead", to which I added all the musics I shared with you for this chapter, plus a few other instrumental covers of popular songs. I used to listen to it a lot to motivate myself to write, and to daydream about our favorite idiots dancing while stuck in public transports. It means a lot to me that you like these songs!

Before Your Sun Sets - Chapter 7 is available!

Viktor is sick with Hanahaki. Jayce would do anything to save him—whether it be by developing an impossible cure or trying to find out who Viktor is in love with to smack some sense into them. Little does he know, he’s chasing his own shadow.

Read chapter 7 now

Read from the beginning

[trauma-bot]

sin eater

[lyxchen]

Genuienly I can't get behind all the Squid Game promotion stuff Netflix does. It's kinda gross to me. All the Squid Game events in different cities where you get to play the games and people go around taking pictures with the pink guards and idk posing sexually or calling them 'daddy' and don't even get me started on Squid Game The Challenge. Like no hate to the people taking part in this, they're just having fun but I just don't think this is cool. I don't think seeing kids costumes of players and pink guards is cool. I don't think recreating a show in real live and taking out the bad parts, the parts that are there to send a message is cool and fun. I know a lot of shows have serious themes and I'm not against fandom for Squid Game at all and I also think having fun with the show in fandom without always bringing up its serious messages is totally okay (I do that too) and I also think that Netflix can of course promote a very popular show. But I think once it gets to a point where Netflix makes it silly and cutesy is when it has to stop. Netflix going around different citys and putting up the Red Light, Green Light doll and having random people on the street play the game is just... For what? For promotion? For money?? Of course it's for money but I think it's kind of so gross. Nothing else is irl promoted as much as Squid Game is. I don't see nearly as many events for Bridgerton or Stranger Things. But Netflix RECREATED this show about Horrible Things happening to people, who don't know how to help themselves anymore stuck in a system that is actively working Against them, with real live people stuck in similar situations. For Entertainment. And you know who gets the most money out of it?? Netflix!! A show about poor people taking huge risks to get a better and livable life and in the end Netflix is still the one making all of this money off of it. And they're squeezing every last bit they can out of this show. And it's so disgusting to me. Again I'm not blaming people who take part in this, who go to those events. I just think Netflix shouldn't be making these events in the first place

[ninja-knox-ur-sox-off]

I’m the anon who sent you that ask about Sonic and Shadow’s relationship in the Chronic Sonic au. If your post saying you ignore long asks was directed at me, can you please just… post the latest version without answering? I would prefer to save it to my likes and maybe have other fans read my thoughts.

thank you

Well no, it wasn’t just directed at you, there are a couple long asks in my inbox (some of which are positive and very beloved and i cherish, Dopambles I’m looking at you <3). But you’ve sent your ask twice now and this one too so I’ll answer this one. I don’t really want to make this a big long thing, but I also don’t really wanna leave ya hanging when this seems so important to you so lets do this (everyone else can ignore this if ya want I’m going long-winded through everything.)

So, reasons i don’t like to respond to or even post long asks sometimes lets do this [cracks knuckles]

1. I don’t like posting things onto my blog that I haven’t checked over first. I struggle a lot in reading and comprehending long asks. I don’t know why, it’s weird, okay. Let’s leave it at that. I’m not gonna blindly post walls of texts to my blog without checking them over first, because I want to make sure I’m filtering asks so nothing harmful gets posted to my blog. You’d be surprised at how whack a lot of anons can get. Not to say your ask was whack, but I also am struggling to read it so it’s hard to say for sure! It’s not due to the nature of your ask, it is simply because my brain be like dat.

2. Sometimes, I just don’t like having to scroll through walls of texts that aren’t my own to get to my latest posts. I get a lot of asks as it is. I do love answering them, but when they get long, the amount of time it takes to scroll through em makes it hard to refer back to my previous posts and is just is not intuitive or fun when interacting with my own blog, which leads me to my next point

3. This is my space. My blog is by me for me. I choose to post and share to interact and have fun with other people but at the end of the day this blog is my space. I did not create it for anyone other than me. I welcome the people who find joy in my stories here, but this remains my space. If i was being paid for this it’d be different, I’d absolutely curate and change things to make it a better and easier experience for those that i charged to be here, but like… I’m not being paid for this? And to ask me to do what you want in my space so that you can have the experience you want is… i dunno it sounds a little entitled. (I’m not saying that you ARE entitled, only that it sounds like it to me personally.) Contacting me even after I expressed my difficulty in answering asks to try and convince me to post it for your sake is a little rude. I’m not a professional creator, I’m not a person with fans, I’m just a random dude trying to have a good time with other people on a dumpster-fire website. I’m not a creator trying to make sure everyone else is having a good time. This is what i do in my free time to relax and—

4. —being a moderator for other peoples hc’s and conversations is not personally relaxing to me. My blog is not a public confessions blog and I am not a public message board. I am honoured when people share their personal stories and how what I doodle has helped them feel seen and that things will be okay, but I’m not a place for other people to come say what they want to each other, I’m a person, not a message board. How other people use Tumblr is up to them, however, I am not going to change how I use tumblr so that you can have a better experience when it will make the experience worse for me.

5. If i answer asks, I don’t draw. And I like drawing. If I’m posting asks (even without answering them) and stressing about being the middle man in conversations that I will have to regulate to make sure conversations stay kind, that takes a lot of time and energy and I got so incredibly burnt out when i tried to do that. So i stopped. And I will not be starting up again simply so you can have a good time, because I will have a bad one. And this is my space to not have a bad time. If something stresses me out, I will not do it here, it is as simple as that. I have my whole irl to be stressed about.

These are some of the reasons I don’t like to post long asks. I have notified you that I struggle to read, I don’t understand why you continue pushing. I have amazing anon’s who send wonderful long asks who have been kind and considerate with me about my struggles reading and processing. They continue to send their wonderful asks and have assured me it’s okay if I never post them. I am confused as to why you cannot seem to respect my decision as well.

The final reason regarding my hesitance in posting your ask in particular is simply that your hc was not accurate to how I was aiming to portray the characters in the current timeline. You are more than welcome to hc and speculate, there’s absolutely nothing wrong with that, but I cannot simply post it without answering it like you suggest because I would need to clarify that it’s not true. When I used to do that, people would start to misinterpret my au’s and it stressed me out. It takes hours for me to write up responses to things sometimes because I want to make sure I’m being kind and thoughtful and accurate. I am honoured that you shared something personal but what you wrote is simply not where the characters are at right now. It could be them in the future, but it is still early in the au so that kind of resentment hasn’t set in yet. Shadow is hurting because he’s taking the brunt of Sonic’s negativity but he is resigned to it because for him nothing else matters as long as Sonic stays alive, even if he has to be the person Sonic hates in all this and that is heavy. He’s angry at him when he does not take care of himself, but he is not resentful. Sonic struggles with being a burden on all of his friends, not just Shadow. The way you described the relationship was closer to how Tails and Sonic interact than Shadow and Sonic and even then, there’s more going on that I just don’t have the time or energy to really walk through. And besides, I want to save that energy to draw out things later.

As i shared with another commenter who asked something similar, I can absolutely DM you your ask back if you want to save it. However I don’t understand why you need me to post it to save it your likes if you simply want to save it. You have your own blog you can post it to. Why does it need to be on my blog? Why do I have to do extra work so you can have an easier time to do what you want? I am very grateful for your interaction and love of my comic, and I understand it’s frustrating when people make things harder for you to have a good time, but that’s exactly what you’re doing to me by asking me to change how I use tumblr to suit your wants instead of what is easiest for me. I am not a public service you pay for. I am a person, a full time student with family issues, struggling siblings that I’m trying to help, a person who is struggling myself. I have a limited amount of energy in a day, I get tired quickly. If i want to continue to find joy in drawing I have to set boundaries. You may not always know why someone does something, I guarantee there is more here that I will not share because it is personal. Sometimes you just have to be okay with not knowing, you have to be okay not understanding, and you have to be okay without an explanation that makes sense to you. All you need to do is understand that often times there is a reason people behave the way they do. It’s not a reflection on you or their opinion of you, it is simply many other factors at play that lead to such an outcome.

I sincerely hope this did not offend you, I am not angry with you, nor do I wish for any of this to be taken as scolding or upset you. If it has come across that way, I apologize. I am sorry I am not in a state to give you what you want, and I’m thankful for your patience with me in reading through this and I hope it is enough to at least paint a little bit of a picture as to why I will not be posting your ask. It’s unfortunate that I ended up spending hours addressing this anyway both to you and to another commenter—the very thing I wanted to avoid—but I value you as a person and did not want to leave you feeling negatively if I could change that. I hope this does not affect your enjoyment or experience with how you were having fun with my au, and if it does I am deeply regretful. However, I do have to set boundaries and make sure I’m doing okay or there would be no AU at all. Thanks for your understanding and I hope you have a day as kind as you are.

[britneyshakespeare]

you know something i don't like about modern culture (and i wonder to what extent the prevalence of dating apps has to do with it) is that you're, seemingly, not supposed to ask people you just meet in real life on a date anymore? you're supposed to ask them to see you individually to hang out, and you're not supposed to call it anything...? people act like declaring intent is impolite or something.

this absolutely sucks if you're a woman on the receiving end of this kind of thing all the time, from men you don't wanna see privately that way. i've felt so much guilt about it in my life. whether i say no or yes. i know i'm giving that man hope that it's a date, that i wanna go on a date with him if i agree to see him for coffee or whatever. but if i don't wanna go on this undeclared date, i have to reject the very concept of spending time with him at all, which feels SOOO much meaner and more personal, doesn't it? it feels like that to me. and if i do go, and i don't wanna go on another one (because i never enjoyed the it-pretty-much-being-a-date element of the time), it feels like i'm crushing his hopes after puffing them up just a little bit.

and it's like. "date" is not a dirty word. we have so many expectations nowadays around things. women used to sit around and wait for a man to propose to them, and it would be basically the only decision they could make in their life. not even really the choice to marry, but to whom they get married. and obviously marriage was very serious.

as courtship continued to develop into modern dating and boyfriend/girlfriend culture, it sort of decentralized the importance or marriage and valued getting to know someone you like romantically, with the implicit assumption that you're doing it with the attempt to better choose the 'right one' by spending quality time with them. decent enough. although even the words boyfriend and girlfriend are much more serious than they used to be. they did not always imply a serious commitment like they do today, especially if you're... basically, just not a kid anymore.

people have a certain amount of expectation of what anyone over 18 should do or want to do with a "partner"—like, if this were the 1940s, i would've had several "boyfriends" in my adult life, but i never called them that, and the modern sense of that word would not be accurate. if i went on a date or two and flirted with them, that'd be enough to say "yeah i went out with a boyfriend." i'm mostly indifferent to this change of vocabulary, but the point is i have no word to describe any of those guys that i just gave a chance, never felt much for, and didn't wanna keep seeing. not bad things; it's just experience.

and if we aren't bold enough to call things dates for the sake of the atmosphere not losing the low-stakes nature... it's like, no, it doesn't do that. it's just two people spending time with the elephant in the room. perhaps that makes it feel more relaxed if both people really are doing it with the same intent, let's-just-see-if-we-get-along, figuring out if you like someone you don't really know very well yet. testing it. but like. that can be a date. that's what a lot of dates are. when you meet the person on a dating app and just grab coffee without setting higher expectations, you wouldn't hesitate to call it a date. if it's that person from your college class, that's ruder or more presumptuous, somehow?

a date doesn't have to be a candlelit dinner with the violinist standing by. a date doesn't have to be high romance. a date doesn't have to end with a kiss or lead to a commitment, if things go decently. a date certainly doesn't have to result in two people having sex. a date can be nonchalant and friendly and just trying to discover if you have any chemistry with this person who piqued your interest. why is that NOT the initial expectation anymore? why is "date" a dirty word? why?

[thegreatyin]

How did you manage to handle not one, but FOUR separate accounts in fl? I recently made the account for my HD little guy but having to do the tutorial again just seems miserable

there's... weirdly several answers to that question, actually??

a HUGE part of it is due to the way FL is structured. the 10-minute action timer is a core part of the game on a fundamental level, and the fact that i can very easily run out of stuff to do on one character and thus have an excuse to quickly and easily swap to another is just... convenient? satisfying? i'm not entirely sure how to explain it. the fact that i can make progress even while i am fundamentally simultaneously Not Making Progress is like pure dopamine for my freak insane awful little brain. there's just something really pleasing about spending all of my actions pursuing The Goal Of The Day™ on one account before casually swapping to another and doing the same without feeling like i'm wasting time or acting to the first account's explicit detriment. the downtime helps! the recharge time helps! the structure really really works!!

i'm technically only actively playing three, maybe two accounts minimum. the only reason the fourth (the one that'll be my future BaL playthrough) currently exists at all is so i can get his earlygame completely out of the way now and not have to waste time running through it all later, when what i actually want to do is play the ambition i've made myself wait a full year to play. and also getting free goodies as seasonal stuff happens,, something something surprise tools to help us later. the only two accounts i'd say i'm really "actively playing" at the moment are caeru and lark- and of the two, lark takes the most priority, since his ambition is the one i'm currently pursuing in earnest. for a couple months now- despite being My Main FL Character- the scoundrel has actually been pretty inactive on a gameplay front outside of the occasional progression in TLC and discordance content. purely by virtue of having Very little left to do outside of Very long-term grinds and vanities. they're in their "now what?" "now you can start playing the game" era. they've graduated to previous protagonist background cameo in a sequel anime series. they're like the yin FLPC equivalent of red at the top of mount silver. they're Literally just vibing rn. i only keep posting about them regardless because i'm insane and i will never ever ever ever ever let that bat go. but yeah, big TLDR, outside of doing the bare minimum to keep making waves/notability up every week, i'm not actually spending that much time on accounts i'm not currently actively interested in playing. and that accounts for way more gaming spoons than you might think.

i have a virtually lifelong history of playing MMOs, especially and specifically world of warcraft. i was born in the endless grind for useless video game pixel vanities and/or bragging rights. molded by it. you all have merely adapted to doing the same piece of content a pointlessly excessive amount of times for literally no reason besides whimsy and folly. me? i've done my time. i've served my sentence. i've spent weeks doing the original burning crusade netherwing dailies. i've devoted days to running praetorium over and over and over again, back-to-back, nonstop, long before square enix cut it in half and made it NOT take at minimum an hour and a half per run. i've perfected my silverwastes + auric basin goldfarming strategies. i've (almost) crafted dragonwrath tarecgosa's rest. i've killed the sha of anger so many times its dying scream of agony is embedded into the very fabric of my being. ""only"" doing making your name content four times over? that is nothing to me. it means nothing to me. it is so infinitesimal i can do the persuasive seduction quests in my sleep. it's not a matter of handling misery, or having the capacity, or even sighing as i remember the brass embassy raid segment of the watchful questline seriously i don't know why i keep forgetting that exists or what even is my problem with it i just am so consistently mildly inconvenienced by it and its highly specific resource requirements and it is the worst thing ever. maybe i'm just so used to the scoundrel's near-infinite money and troves of disposable items that i've completely forgotten what being poor is like. despite having done that step 3 fucking times now. ahem. anyway. i have transcended the feeble mortal bindings of my resistant-to-grinding flesh and ascended to a higher plane of enlightenment, they may call me insane but they will be the ones left laughing when they see what that "insanity" has wrought, i've usurped them, i've usurped them all-

hacks and coughs and awkwardly clears my throat. i mean. uh. um. Ahem.

the empress' court artistry + tales of the university nerfs helped too.

[mayo-productions]

good evening tumblr (it's literally midnight..)

I'm back in the Miguel trenches and I just saw this and I just about fell to the floor in tears because this is literally what's gonna happen to Mateo..

(incoming nonsense rant in tags, sighh)