#but can also destroy each other like no other can

[qoldenskies]

i think its so funny when people take the way donnie acts at face value even though its a horrible lie because he's a horrible liar, while understanding leo is bullshitting very well despite him actually being GOOD at bullshitting. many such cases

[kooyabooya]

FREUDIAN

m reader x rosé // 24k words

They always say: never make a deal with the devil. Even when all fronts of temptation have you where you’re most vulnerable - you can’t afford to give in, especially if it’s the howling calls of the past whispering out. 

So you take a bite of the forbidden fallen apple anyway. Give into the fabled rumor of Judas’s betrayal. Because that’s all you’ve ever known yourself to be: gullible, foolish, naive. 

None of that has changed. Even as you’re staring at her, taking the fall. 

A look over her shoulder, furry scarf encapsulating her neck. The flash with her eyes sends you reeling, pulling your heartstring to the thinnest strand, nearly tearing it. She’s playing her role so innocently: the heartbreaker, your antagonist, a divine sin. It’s a losing game; one where you know very well, the kind of game where it was deemed unwinnable from the start. 

But when you’re holding her close, feel her face buried into the space of your neck, all of the memories come flashing back - each one feeling more right than wrong. 

“Maybe in another life,” Rosé tells you, and you’re shushing her, because the break in her voice is already destroying you on the inside, whatever she says next doesn’t even register in your ears; since she’s said the same tale before, and you’re agreeing with her regardless. 

To you, Rosé is a lot of things. A scrapbook filled with endless memories. The person to sit at your doorstep late into the night just to have a meaningful conversation. A half that’s been ripped apart. You can go down the mental checklist time and time again, and end up in the same spot as before. 

In another life, or some universe for that matter: you and her get that fairytale ending together. 

–

The incident, quite literally, comes fast in the dead of the night. 

It doesn’t hit you on the nose all at once. What does hit you is your tossed phone right onto your face, squinting at nothing when you sit up before looking down to the bright flash of your phone screen along with the number resting at the top. 

“I thought I told you to put your phone on vibrate, you idiot,” your girlfriend huffs sleepily, clearly annoyed at the random call during these late hours when slumber is the only option. Your vision is still coming about, looking over to the window where it’s still dark outside, then over to the alarm clock on your nightstand, struggling to even get a glimpse of the time - no point in looking at your phone too since you would be seeing white well into the morning. 

Like anyone else in this particular situation (not really), you pick up: “It’s three in the morning, why would-” 

“Did you plan an anniversary trip for us?” The girl’s tone on the other end is a bit on edge, looking for answers. “When the fuck were you going to tell me and why the hell did it have to be now?” 

You’re still half asleep, half awake; but the timbre in the voice sounds all too familiar - she’s got the same drawl stemmed off from you, not to mention the flurry of questions in the opening five seconds. There’s also that sense of bubbliness you’re imagining, the way that you can easily picture her sitting with both knees up, her head tilted in a way where it shows that she’s very uninterested. Or, the other form where she’s leaning forward, leaning into her phone, constantly looking down at the ground and nowhere else. 

She hates the fact that she had to make this call, and you can easily tell. You, on the other end, are trying to put the bits and pieces of the story together to the best of your memory, scratching the back of your head, trying to rattle your slow-working brain. Hanging up would’ve been the best option to follow, save this conversation for later when you can think straight. Typically, you should’ve just ignored the call entirely. 

Tragically, that’s not your style, so you answer, “Hey Rosie, been a while since I’ve heard your voice.” 

A sigh sounds off from the speaker, “Don’t ‘Rosie’ me. I just need you to confirm my suspicions.” 

“On?” 

“Pfft, stop being stupid. I’m not gonna repeat myself here.” 

You breathe out a soft laugh, and hang your head into your chest for a second, collecting your thoughts. “Yes, I did plan that out as a trip for us. Right before we, uh-” 

Silence fills the call immediately after. Despite being on separate paths, the tension still stings like a tightening noose around your neck. Not even a simple grind of your teeth and a clenched fist can serve as the probable testament to the amount of pain you and her suffered together on the tail-end of your relationship, the hope of salvaging lost long before calling it quits. 

“Still there?” Rosé asks, snapping your attention back to her voice. 

“Yeah,” you reply, hiding a sniffle through a quick cough, “I just- yeah. Details can come later.” 

“Okay,” she says, carrying on. “I got that reminder email from the travel organizer.” And at this point you’re cursing yourself and mentally facepalming as many times as you possibly could (seriously, why would you think it was a good idea to set up a reminder through that stupid auto-email service to notify her too as well?), thinking of every contingency to weasel your way out of this conversation. Rosé, however, had no idea of your present thought process, “Went through reading the fine prints of the agreement and…well.” 

“And?” You practically prayed to God that she’d not been this quick to read into the lines and decode the information. 

“Says here that the trip is non-refundable.” That is what Rosé ends with. 

“That so?”

“We can’t cancel it.”

“Too late for us to do that, no?” 

The comforter ruffles behind you, a small hand tapping the lower back of your shirt. “Babe? Who’s that on the phone?” 

You press the switch near your nightstand to put the room into an ambient lighting setting, turning over to see the lovely ruffle of bed hair and one eye open. She then snuggles herself back into the bed, covering herself with the sheets as you’re palming the side of her face to put her back to sleep. “Sorry Jennie, it’s a-” and here is where you’re throwing caution to the wind, ensuring that you don’t trip up on your words at this moment, “late night work call.” So far it’s good, and Jennie nods with a soft hum, lazy smile at the touch of your palm. She’s a bit dazed, but one good measure for insurance, you tell her, “I’ll explain in the morning.” 

Jennie blinks once or twice, dropping her eyelids while you rub your thumb across her cheek, the soothing touch sending her away to dreamland. There’s a warmth here; one where you feel safe, at home. You’ve struck out in getting with a girl like her, and the timing of it couldn’t have been more impeccable: you and Jennie were both at low points in life when you found each other, building up until the feelings couldn’t be suppressed any longer. 

(That story’s for another time. Though, a very heartwarming memory to look back on.) 

Your name, rolling of Rosé’s tongue, drags you back down. “Hello? Oh- yeah, yeah. I’m still here. What were you asking?” 

“So we’re going? Is that what I’m getting at here?” 

The inquiry lances your heart and mind, filling it with an endless plethora of uncertainties. “Wait- what?” 

“Well for one: it’s my ticket. And two: I want to go. If you were going to morph this trip with someone else, I’d understand.” Rosé’s reason is plausible, and you’re seeing a way out of this less and less. “But considering that we had the plans under our names, we’d-” 

“Rosé-” 

“It’s my ticket.” Rosé doubles down and you wince at the fact. “I can imagine you scrunching your face right now, stop that.” 

“Okay, you win.” 

“Good.” 

“I’ll get everything arranged prior in the next few days and pick you up for the airport. Talk to you later.” 

–

At the airport, not to anyone’s surprise, there is an essential bomb rush of families on top of families arriving and checking in and boarding to their set destination. Pro tip: plan the flights ahead of time (especially if it’s during the holiday season), just to avoid any sort of commotion or potential setback on your end. If the flight gets delayed, rescheduled, or relocated to another gate, that’s not your fault. 

God forbid that any of those happen since it would only prolong the amount of time you’d have to spend with Rosé. 

Very small words were exchanged when you picked her up from her apartment, on the way to the airport, and even when you did most of the work getting all of the travel plans for this ‘anniversary gift’ finalized and confirmed. As expected, honestly. Sharing a car ride with your ex was not on your list of places to get stuck in no matter what the predetermined events or circumstances are, but all the more reason to keep your eyes on the road at the time, go figure. 

Rosé’s sitting on the opposite end of you at one of the benches near the boarding gate once everything’s been checked in and settled; along with the security wing gauntlet handled by the TSA, but you’re finally here - waiting for all of this to finally be done and over with. She’s bearing no ounce of attention towards you, mindlessly scrolling on her phone with earbuds in, hoping that you wouldn’t take notice, but you do. And when she does flash a quick look of her eyes in your direction, a millisecond is all you get to dart your eyes elsewhere that isn’t on her. 

Still, you can’t help yourself when you’re mentally rolling back the years. 

Her styling is strikingly the same as it was before. A leather jacket finely pointed at the edges and crooks where it looks like the wrinkles aren’t even supposed to be there in the first place, those flowy pants that make it look like it was ripped off of a parachute and sewed up by a designer as this one-of-one piece. Then, there are the rings, and her pair of shades resting above her forehead; she’s bundled up into the seat like a little kid, an arm holding her phone as it rests along her thigh, both of her shoes are off and she’s got these cute, pink fluffy socks leaving you genuinely confused since the choice practically contradicts the other choices of clothing entirely. Really? Out of all those socks, you chose to go with that pair?

That doesn’t stand out as much compared to the other thing: her hair. 

Maybe God’s rolling the dice on you for this one. Hell, you’re even wondering if God ever rolls dice in his free time upstairs. Purposeful or not, it isn’t doing you any good the more you look at those golden, heavenly locks; braided up and tied back into her head where it doesn’t give any issue for her neck whatsoever. Not to mention her side profile, the shape of her nose, and that jaw. 

The pout she purses with her lips. It’s anything less than innocent. 

On schedule, there’s about roughly an hour or so before your flight to Paris takes off, and you’re not willing to drive yourself insane with very few word phrases spoken. So you make conversation: 

“You dyed your hair again,” you say, clutching your hoodie when Rosé’s attention falls back to you, “Gotta say, I like the color.” 

“Huh? Oh, yeah. Thanks.” Rosé says, pulling an earbud out and sliding both feet off the seat. The phrasing alone is still good enough to pass as awkward, sighing as she turns her head to look out the window - nothing but cloudy skies for miles while a plane touches down on the tarmac. “Blonde’s been such a comforting color for me, so I thought why not roll with it again for fun?” 

“Does bring back memories.” You slide your palms under your thighs, and cross both feet on the floor. “You had this platinum shade back when we first met.” 

“Did I? You still remember that?” Rosé grins at the sudden recollection, folding her glasses and sliding them into her handbag. 

“What do you want to get out of this?” You suddenly ask again, quickly running a hand across your chest to rid of the sweat riddled along your palms. 

“By this, you mean-”

“Our trip,” you amend. Here you’re pulling yourself back a bit - the duo of your luggage and hers acting as this barrier, hoping that the bags can serve as this proximity limiter for the time being. “It’s supposed to be for a week, with an option to extend for another day or so.” 

Rosé tugs the tied bun, scratching her neck to where you notice she got her nails trimmed and done. “A week in Paris doesn’t seem that bad, but planning it during the week of-” 

“Christmas was a bit of a stretch,” you wince with a hand to the back of your head, “It’s still a nice setting to think about, though. Cold weather, snowing, the cups of cocoa we’d drink together at a cafe? What else did I not think about while planning this?” 

Rosé just blinks at you, flabbergasted. She takes a second or longer to get a better look at your face, studying the shapes and curves of your frame as if it were some long-lost art piece that she had a vague familiarity with. Her breathing also slows for a bit when she drops her shoulders a bit, the discarded earbud now hanging as her eyes finally make contact with the floor, diminishing the gaze entirely. 

“Sorry. I had everything thought out for our stay,” you say casually, defeated. “I honestly wish that-” 

“Does Jennie know?” Rosé asks, leaning back into her chair. A premonition bubbling when she shares the same raised eyebrow directly back at you. 

You nod, which you’re half-right about. 

(“A work order in Paris?” Jennie asks you the morning after the first contact via phone call. She’s well aware of your passion for artistry and architecture, so playing the white lie of being ‘assigned’ to study in an attempt to further the progress of the team’s project was an idea worth rolling with. “How long are you going to be there for?” 

“No more than a week,” you answer, confident for no good reason. “Maybe a day or two more.” 

And that’s that.) 

But you zone out for a second too long. “You’re not very convincing,” says Rosé.

“She does,” you spit out again, nodding at a faster pace. “Jennie knows the surface level of this whole thing, at least.” 

“Hah,” Rosé breathes, stretching her neck with another glance. God, even the slightest sound of her laugh sounds the same as it was before - licking the rim of her lips where it meets her teeth, treating herself to the pulled cup of yogurt she bought as a snack to kill the waiting time faster. “Should’ve been honest with her,” she tells you, “I think there wouldn’t be anything wrong if you said my name in the first place instead. Lessens the risk of the possible conjecture.” 

The audacity, it makes you scoff as Rosé carries on with her meal, fixing her lips along the plastic spoon, carelessly nodding and humming while you’re twisting your attention to the passing planes in the air and the trucks rolling along the taxiway. You’re trying extremely hard to not fall into the conscious habit of looking - when the eyes are zig-zagging their way from the ceiling and to the distance of the nearby gate. Somehow, it always falls on her. Always. She’s got her jacket off to compensate for the stuffiness, honey skin radiating, the sleeves of her shirt pooling over her arms, foot underneath her other knee, delicate and unbothered. She’s a time capsule - the kind where you bury deep into the ground and never even think of uncovering years later. 

You thought you could move on, but here she is: within arms reach.  

–

If you thought sitting across from her waiting to board was torture, being next to her was extremely worse. 

Luckily, the aisle seat opened up next to yours and hers, only for it to be taken at the last possible minute, destroying any chance of creating that space between you and Rosé. This part here gets juicy: Rosé opted for the window seat and considering that the aisle was already taken, this puts you right smack in the middle of the row. She also raised the armrest set between you and her, making your final line in terms of creating a temporary vicinity practically nonexistent. Nothing will happen in a fourteen-hour flight, right? Rosé gives you the quick rundown of what she wants for her in-flight meals when she can put her legs onto your seat while you go to the restroom (and wished to stay there for the rest of the flight, but you know damn well enough that you can’t), even when she’s saying to not freak out if her head falls on your shoulder while sleeping - also, don’t mind if I grab onto your arm if I’m watching some scary movie. Every excuse seems like a death sentence added on to prolong your suffering. 

The man sitting next to you weaves the discussion about the cold air from outside being brought into the cabin, some aerospace thing about the insulation and great air conditioning, but all you can give is a forced hearty smile and these nods of agreement as his wife says something embarrassing to butt herself into the talking bubble, rolling your eyes at the pair out of spite. 

You’re giving your two cents about how you liked cold weather (out of all things to discuss for God knows why), and the couple takes your opinion well with open arms and minds. The wife leans over to see Rosé, glancing over before turning her head back to the window, putting two and two together: 

“Are you two also going to Paris for your honeymoon?” She asks, the man also taking the hint with an ‘o’ shaped mouth. 

“Uhh, that’s a bit of a tough question to answer,” you chuckle nervously as the wife makes the quick inference, carrying on with the long conversation (which was very one-sided from this point on) about how she and the man sitting next to you are so in love, their plans for their honeymoon and anniversary. You can’t help but be intrigued and infatuated with how you’re able to see love bloom right in front of your eyes. They ask you if there are any recommendations and you being the goody-two-shoes that you are, it only gets them to keep talking still. In the midst of all of this Rosé peeks over your shoulder, hand to your elbow as a sign to shut you up, but you send the same elbow back to make her stop. 

Eventually, when the plane does move onto the runway and up in the air, the couple continue their monologue of how they met, their dreams, their occupations, what they like to do in their free time, the names of their cats, where they see themselves in the next five to ten years. Rosé then looks over again, lending her ears to listen to the lovely story candidly as you see her eyes filled with so much awe and wonder; she finds it funny too, and you’re seeing what she’s seeing: because that would’ve been the case if you and her had not split. 

All the infinite possibilities you’re thinking off, it’s spilled right in front of you, and it gets you thinking. 

–

(Midway through the long flight, you’re not even getting a wink of sleep when Rosé’s tossing and turning in the seat next to you. Some are watching assorted movies, you could hear a kid cry a few rows back, the usual experience. 

Her knee hits your thigh as you’re scooting your butt away from her, unwilling to make a shape with her body, pulling the complimentary blanket up to her neck. 

“Did you ever think of getting first class for the trip?” She asks, irritated. “My seat’s getting kicked from behind, and I can’t put my feet on the ground.” 

“I’d be paying an additional two hundred or more to get it reserved,” you tell her, making yourself as comfortable as you can, leaning the seat back. “The next best thing was econ, so deal with it.” 

She rests her head on the upper part of your arm, eye mask on and everything, falling asleep soon after.) 

–

Upon the arrival gate, you do manage to get a few hours of shut-eye, backpack in hand and a trailing Rosé behind when crossing over the inside of the airport, voice conveniently drowning out the same kid who was crying not long ago during the flight. 

“I can’t believe you let me sleep for six hours. Six hours.” you’re complaining, and rightfully so. “Look at you, who managed to sleep for pretty much the whole time. I had to take it on the chin, listening to their entire life story when I could’ve watched whatever you were watching while you were snoring away.” 

Rosé has her shades on, hiding a bit of her puffy face and eye bags. “So? What’s it to ya? I’m not the one who decided to lean over and eavesdrop on their lovely conversation.” 

“I was checking if our row was in the correct spot.” 

She chuckles. “Yeah yeah, keep coming up with the lame excuses buddy.” 

“You-” 

“Try every alibi you’ve got in the book, but I know you well,” says Rosé victoriously, sideswiping her way in front of you on the auto walk, rolling her small hand carry around to sit on, taking a breath. She rolls her neck around, stretching - an arm at a weird angle facing down, extending her leg between your feet. Personal space was going to be an issue, you’ve already drawn up that conclusion; considering that you sat with her for roughly about fourteen to sixteen hours with the occasional retreat to the bathroom and the awkward indulgence with one of the flight attendants, you dread how the living situation will be once you and her get to the hotel room. This might be hell for you, but only time will tell which circle you’re finding yourself in. 

“That should not have taken you that long to get our thing set up together,” Rosé lightly berates, handing over her luggage to you once you’ve hailed the provided ride accommodation from the travel company. “If I were the one handling this trip, I would’ve hit points x, y, and z in less time than you. Do you not know the basic cues to kill a conversation?” 

You don’t answer. Because arguing isn’t gonna get you anywhere with her. 

(Telling yourself lies was a strength, but also your curse as well. Somehow you keep getting away with it.) 

You roll your eyes at the rhetorical question, placing all the bags into the trunk of the cab. “C’mon, don’t play the bad cop here. You know damn well that I’ve always been terrible at getting myself out of situations like those. It also didn’t help that she and the couple on the plane sounded so upbeat and enthusiastic.” 

“It’s okay,” Rosé says, patting your shoulder as a form of truce. “Besides, that’s how you met me technically.” She gets into the cab soon after, settling into the backseat. 

And you take a second to internalize the said phrase, scanning the horizon of the cityscape in the backdrop. 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you’re muttering to yourself, getting into the cab with Rosé, with most of the ride pretty much quiet as you’re both looking out the opposite windows. 

–

For some added context, Rosé waltzed into your life on a random Tuesday morning in the first week of fifth grade. 

It’s something straight out of a coming-of-age movie or slow-burning romance novel: up until that point, you’ve had boys as your deskmates through the grades with one of them being your close friend going forward. 

She would change all of that - a bit pathetic now that you’re looking back at it: her being the first girl that you would ever talk to let alone sit next to you for the entire school year - but you didn’t mind though, since she was easy to get along with. 

As the days turned into months and into years, you and Rosé shared everything and in between with each other. From exchanging your favorite cartoon shows on a Saturday afternoon when there was no homework, which subject was the favorable one to learn, favorite colors, why she didn't like playing sports compared to you, the blown-out-of-proportion drama over who was the popular girl in school at the time, the score you got on the last math test, what were you going to do over the summer break. There was never a moment where you or she filled in on anything worth sharing. 

Rosé knows everything about you inside and out. The same could be said for your end of the table. 

You’ve created the progressive drawn-up schematic well into high school. Her occasional gossip debriefs, the endless rants about that one teacher who would always give her a hard time, whether or not she should go to the dances (dragging you as her plus one, where she came extremely close to back in junior year), worrying about her near-perfect grades to the point she would overcomplicate every single minute detail that pops up with every last check before turning in an assignment. Then, there’s the crushes. Her occasional flings - to which, she had multiples of them, telling all of the unnecessary details of what she did with the guys on every date, sharing with you all the pros and cons of what her ideal type is. 

But here’s the thing. 

She was giving you all the signals for you to not notice. All the boxes in her list where you checked off nearly every single one of them. The realization itself came to you on a late night when she was passed out on the coffee table, papers on top of papers of notes before college admissions being submitted, turning a blind eye away from the few bottles of soju she consumed to power through even when you said that it was a terrible idea. 

The small intake of alcohol helped you connect the dots right then and there: you were in love with her. 

Playing it safe was the name of the game. And on your part, it was justified to keep yourself at a distance from Rosé, not putting any sort of risk in ruining the long friendship you’ve built with her. Why lay everything on the line with someone who occupied half of your brain already? 

“You won’t know unless the leap of faith has been made,” Lisa says to you at the time, and that's probably the only source of assurance you ever needed to hear. 

So, you make that leap.

A simple line or two is all you said where Rosé’s eyes go wide when you see her off at the front of her house, nothing else to be said when her weight collapses on top of you for an overdue hug. Talk about romantic confessions, am I right? 

Once word went around various friend groups the both of you were in, it didn’t come off as much of a surprise. Most people had already made that conclusive pairing long before you started to read into the social cues and fast glances without you knowing. What mattered in the end was that you were finally with her after all this time. 

It could’ve been written in ink right there and then: she was your first crush, first girlfriend, first kiss, first relationship, first love. 

That should have been the end of the story. The greatest score you could ever pull off in your life. Job done. 

–

(Until it wasn’t. She would eventually be the first terrible heartbreak you would ever have to endure. 

First time for everything, remember?”)

–

“You’re kidding.” Rosé deadpans, walking into the open space of the hotel room, scanning. Her first reaction then shifts once she drops her bags right where they are, walking around the singular king-size bed, showered in rose petals formed into a heart with two towels folded up into quaint but cute swans resting with both of their beaks touching at the top. “You can’t be serious.” 

Your hands go straight into your pockets, the corners of your lips pulled flat, indifferent. “Isn’t it the thought that counts?” 

Rosé bears no mind to your bland answer. Granted, she’s partial to the fact of going through this whole trip with you, patting the head of the towel swan before turning her attention to the table at the corner of the room, a bottle of champagne kept cool in an ice bath. “I’ll give you points for the effort,” she sighs, “Care to tell me how much you paid for everything in this room?” 

The cork goes flying once you lay your bearings, approaching her as she pours the golden liquid into the arranged champagne flutes, handing it over before she spills some of it over the counter on her own.

“I put in a request, that’s all.” She nods in acknowledgment while you take a nice, quick swig of the beverage, hoping to let it sting in your throat as you try to ignore the insane price tag, gazing past the window and to the nearby buildings. “Some of the stuff was extra, well, perks and all.” 

“That so?” Rosé breathes, chuckling. You watch her down an impressive amount, humming at the taste. There’s an old film happening here, impossible to ignore. Her hair’s a little messed up, eyelids dropping low. You have to stand down here, don’t get any funny ideas, tilting your head slightly when the glow of the streetlights below hit her face, radiating, see her lip pulled back between her teeth-

Snapping your attention back to the city skyline was a good mental call. Clearing your throat was even better; anything worth grabbing to consolidate. 

You look over again to see a smile from the side, “It’s so beautiful at night.” 

A pretty sweet view to turn back on, and you agree with her. 

“I’ll go shower first,” Rosé says after clearing her throat, “We’ve had a long day anyway.” 

“Yeah, go on ahead.” 

She then puts her flute back on the table before walking back to her suitcase. You keep your body forward and your feet where they’re at, looking out into the city some more until you eventually hear the shower running. The thought crosses your head again, thinking about all of the things you did to get into this position - moments where you failed to think logically, it’s a mess in your head at this point. 

(Of all people, why did it have to be her? Being practically stranded in the city of love is one thing, but, maybe this is God or the universe trying to make good for your sake - who knows, only time will tell.)

–

This journey may be an ascent to a refined sense of closure or a descent back down into hell; how you look at it is entirely up to you. 

“Do you think I’m contagious or something?” Rosé huffs out in annoyance, tossing a nearby pillow in your direction, forcing you to look up at her sitting upright on the bed - you on the couch at the other end, hoping to create some distance in whatever way you can possible. “The bed’s big enough for the two of us.” 

“I find it better to not entertain that risk.” 

“You slept on the floor in my room multiple times.” 

“Okay I- you- well,” you stutter, words bouncing all over the place as your fingers grip tight into the book in your hands, “that’s different.” 

Rosé then folds her legs up, knees resting underneath her chin. You’re lucky that the reading light hanging over your spot is enough to hide the growing heat of red rising to your cheeks. Ever since she was the one to end things four years ago, contact with Rosé had been pretty much nonexistent, and for good reason. It was already hard to lose your best friend and past lover in one go, but here she is again acting like nothing had happened between you two. Maybe she’s doing what you did: engaging in conversation - though every dreadful second has been painstakingly difficult, looking back to see her head go sideways, an inquisitive gaze written all over her face, the small quirk at the corner of her lip every time she smiles - in your eyes, she’s still the same as before, there’s no difference. 

“It’s not a risk,” Rosé says, placing her head back up against the headboard, “I’m just saying that the couch over there looks uncomfortable.” 

“I’ll manage. Thanks.” 

Rosé then grabs another pillow within her reach, and places it beneath her forearms, straightening out her legs on the bed. “Idiot,” she hisses, the tone almost as a projection. 

That catches your attention: her attitude. She looks away when you twist your head towards her again. “What was that?” 

“Nothing,” she pouts, “I was just trying to get some talking going.” 

Look, playing defensive isn’t wrong by any means. Tactically, that’s the best way to approach things that you’re unfamiliar with. Rosé’s mannerisms, her habits, the quirks she does, you have every trick from her in your personal playbook. You can try to run and hide all you want, but sometimes taking things head-on is the only way to go. 

Rosé here is just- existing. You can tell that she’s far removed from creating any sort of effort into talking; aware of the lingering tension and awkwardness she left all those years ago. Above all that, she carries on with her one-sided conversation - which is sort of relieving to listen to, just hearing her voice, rambling about anything and literally everything that she could bring up. There’s that quick recollection of all the instances, all the times where she would tell you about the countless things where shutting up wasn’t an option. Her outlook on life hasn’t changed, and you admire that she’s bright and passionate about how things work in the world. 

“It’s a bit relieving,” you tell her innocently, “you here reminding me of those days.” 

Nostalgia was something worth decoding between the lines, and Rosé knows this. There’s nothing wrong with filling in what you’ve done in the past year or two, moving on after what you originally thought was the toughest period of your life. Protecting your peace, prioritizing your health - that kind of thing. 

“I know that I left you in a really bad place for so long,” she implies, coming to terms for her actions. Hoping to not open up the old wound, sugarcoating it. 

“We were at different points in our lives,” you console. You’re not so entirely sure of yourself if it’s the alcohol talking or the foundations of your inner walls crumbling. “I just thought that-” 

“Don’t.” Rosé commands, crossing her arms over the pillow. “Don’t.” 

“Okay, but still - I just wished that it didn’t have to end that way.” 

It goes and it goes. Rosé keeps her gaze fixed on you as you’re nodding, mindful of what the words are but not saying it. Instead, you keep it lighthearted and put it in a positive perspective and it may be worthy of a few snaps of her fingers.

The late-night convos are a little relaxing, so you’ll take that as a plus. 

–

The first ‘actual’ day of the trip is pretty uneventful. 

Nothing too substantial to report other than the fact it was a mix of cloudy skies and rain from time to time. 

Rosé insisted on following the itinerary, walking around the streets, and trying out various cafes handpicked by her. Then there’s the usual landmarks within walking distance too: the Arc de Triomphe, the Grand Palais, and no point in going to the Eiffel Tower since there was zero visibility at the top, so you divert to the Notre Dame Cathedral and try again a different day when the weather clears up. 

(Without a care in the world, she runs up the sidewalk and turns around, arms wide open: “We’re not in Kansas anymore are we?

You give her a face of genuine confusion, “What?” Her face falls flat and you’re left there saying: “What.”) 

Aside from the good food and everything around you picturesque and as ‘fresh inspiration’, Rosé takes this opportunity to capture whatever stood out to her: candid pictures of you on film, other city goers doing their everyday routine, in addition to the photos she took at the different landmarks. She has you taking pictures of her, not as a possible memento. No. But you can’t turn her down whatsoever - you just can’t. 

–

(All of that is about to change, and the rain starts to pick up well into the evening. In the figurative scheme of things, you could put this as the heart of the storm; the moment where lighting can strike twice in the same spot. It could happen.)

- 

Somehow the sim card in your phone keeps bugging out every few hours or so. The reception around the city hasn’t been that bad per se, but trying to get some calls back home has been a bit of a pain - so you had to work with what you got. Texting was the second best option for reaching Jennie, hoping that you can keep the act up by keeping her in the loop of this whole getaway. So far the messages have been casual, typical fill-ins of her day since you left, missing you. 

To compensate for the international phone rates, you managed to find a payphone. An odd surprise at best and you suppose that it shouldn’t take forever in the booth, but the pitter-patter of the droplets hitting along the glass gave a small indication that this might take longer than expected. 

The line continues to ring for a second or two longer, and then- 

Click. 

The silence becomes a slight worry, fingers gripping the phone, hoping that you could hear a hum - or that lovely violet voice that sends your heart thrumming right from the first letter. 

Instead, you hear her laugh, and a sigh soon after. It might’ve been a moan as well, you know that much. 

Another voice picks up at the end of the call, one that you’re very not familiar with: “Hel- Hello? Who’s this? Jennie, I think it’s your-” 

There’s no fucking way. 

Everything around the booth starts to fade in and out of focus. Rational thought was still in play, but barely - trying to put all of the little pieces together in a short amount of time. It’s not enough. Your jaw tightens, fighting the blood simmering through your veins. There’s too many questions to be asked, but only a few answers to take. You’re not entirely sure what these wave of emotions actually are - and it could be a lot of things: anger, fear, rage, sadness? 

“Shit. Give me the- hello?” Jennie’s voice tries to calm you, but it’s already too late for that. “Wait, it’s not what you think it is, I swear-” 

“I think I’ve heard enough from you.” 

“Babe, if you just let me explain-” 

You don’t think twice about hanging up. Your mind doesn’t even register the pain being imbued into your hands when you’re punching the glass furiously in quick succession. Hell, when you leave the booth, the realization has slowly started to set in, but the tears simply won’t come out. 

I thought you were different. 

The rain falls a lot harder now that you’ve finally stepped outside and look up to the dark sky, as if the universe is sharing its sorrowfulness as well. 

You were supposed to be different.

–

If you had the chance to put all of your thoughts and feelings from your past relationships into a bottle or glass, you’d drink it down until there’s absolutely nothing at the bottom; the pain might’ve been tolerable then. No matter how many shots it’s been, it’s still not enough. 

You don’t even remember when you first walked into the bar, but you order another shot anyway. The coat next to you still needs a few more minutes to dry up as it is. 

The alcohol stings when it travels down your throat, mind working way past overtime - thinking back of all the times when you’ve been duped, deceived, exploited - but to no avail. It's a bit pathetic that the worst kinds of people show up when you least expect it, even if it's those who you hold close dearly to your heart. Relationships and commitment to you have always been complicated; an unwritten cosmic law etched into the stars. 

In hindsight, it just really fucking sucks. 

It’s gotten so bad to the point where you’re being woken up after passing out for maybe five or ten or so minutes. You don’t remember. Your memory is in these black patches - rough blots of ink with no detail underneath as your vision slowly forms. A girl is next to you; a calm, soothing voice bringing you closer to the light. Everything’s still blurry, but you can barely make out the silhouette: dark hair, fine skin, smooth palm holding your face. It’s comforting, you start to question if this was the present reality, but you take a shot in the dark:

“Jennie?” you say, mind buzzed and speech slurred. 

“No. Dingus.” 

Ah, it was worth a shot. You can see things a lot more clearer now. Instead of the shaded dark hair, it’s the opposite: hot blonde. The texture of the jacket too is also familiar, her hand is surprisingly wet from the rain, and she sounds out of breath - like she ran here. 

Rosé. 

“What the hell happened to you?” She asks, distressed, holding your face before lightly shoving it away realizing what she was doing.

You try your best to explain the situation; but considering the plethora of drinks you had on the tab along with the alcohol in your system, you don’t actually explain anything at all. 

She could only hear the sniffles coming out of your nose. 

Rosé then takes a second look, and puts another piece of the damage together. It’s all over your face: the puffy eyes, bloodied knuckles, your irises once filled with light now an empty, deep void - like something sucked the life right out of you. 

“Something happened with Jennie, no?” The name pierces your heart at the guiltless inquiry.

“Kinda,” you answer with a hiccup at the end. “It’s all the same between me and love, honestly.” 

Rosé then draws back, your face still in her hands, internalizing the present state. You think she might’ve realized a thought right then and there, an instance where she's been before not long ago. It doesn’t take that much more for her to learn what you had done to get here; let alone who managed to hurt you in the first place. Because she’s been here before, and she now knows what her mistake was two years ago. 

So instead of running away, she pulls you in for a hug. You break down a little harder for a moment. No point in hiding. 

She doesn’t say anything after leaning back. The best form of comfort she could give were both palms to your cheeks, wiping the dried-up tears off as best as she could. Somehow you barely even manage to make eye contact with her again, afraid to even look away in the first place. 

You’re not sure if you leaned in or if she pulled you back to her, but your mind clears up instantly the second she kisses you. 

Her lips are the same way as you remember them: nice and soft and undeniably comforting. Both of her hands keep you in place, the wistful inhale of her nose matches yours, wanting more of this rising heat spreading across your faces. She kisses like she missed you and- in a partly true way, for all the wrong reasons. Gripping and clutching wherever she can, afraid to let go of you again like the last time. You or her could practically melt in this little pocket created and recall sometime later and try to decipher every little individual action leading up to this, whether or not to write this off as an act of grace or an admission of cruelty - one or the other will have you sinking at the end. 

Rosé stops herself, eyes half-lidded, pulling her swollen bottom lip like some sort of warning. 

“I uh-” Crap. You should’ve known better, but you can’t help or blame the drinks for making you like this. “I-I’m sorry. You didn’t have to-” 

“It’s okay.” 

“But-” 

“C’mon,” she persists, holding your hand and nodding her head sideways, “let’s get out of here.” 

–

You’re more aware of your actions now, in the late hours of the city - where anyone could get away with anything. With that taken into account, this is the perfect time to hide away; out of anybody’s sight and the risk of getting caught is the least of your worries. 

Rosé’s nose bumps yours when you’ve pressed her against the brick wall in some alley - calming every form of impulse as you could, but it’s futile. Her arms wrap around your neck and you’re cupping her face, tilting her head up to elicit a gasp between her lips. 

“Fuck,” she rasps, and it’s pretty when she curses. Her hands go everywhere, haywire. A last act of desperation she does is dig her fingers into the back of your head, only making your arms pull her in closer, hindering the purpose of what she’s trying to achieve. You’d let her, and that’s exactly what she’s going for here. 

“I’m a bit drunk still,” you admit, feeling the tips of her fingers graze along the nape of your neck. “So don’t beat me up if I can’t remember everything after tonight.” 

Rosé’s hand shifts to your jaw, kissing you again so easily; giving you little to no time to react. Like she’s coaxing you into thinking differently that’s better than your common sense. A few more smacks here and there happen, the cool air surrounding both of you trying to flush the heat out. 

The press of her face is anything out of the ordinary, humming into your mouth that deepens the sinking pit happening in your stomach. It isn’t anything new. 

Because that’s the impending phase of her slowly coming back to light. She was always vocal and forward with how she took on the world; leaving a mark of what she had done not far either. Her hands cup your face so tenderly, and each longing touch of her lips against yours sends a tidal wave of memories flooding back - this entity that’s all-consuming where you could only handle so much, a hand to the side of her throat where the kiss deepens, surrendering your mind to hers

Maybe it was the timing of everything, a thought to theorize with once it’s all said and done. 

“You’re broken again,” she whispers between your lips. 

“Among other things,” you darted back, sighing slowly and head lowered. But it’s the truth. “Yeah, won’t say any more.” Your eyes meet hers as you slowly retreat. 

“It’s okay.” Rosé concludes, eyes filled with so much care and empathy into them, thumb grazing along your cheek, cleaning another dry trail from the tears. “You have me.” 

My god, this woman- 

“I honestly convinced myself that you’d already moved on,” her gaze goes crestfallen, pulling her lips inward. “To think that I left you there by yourself, after everything we’ve been through. It ruined me too since - it wasn’t even your fault to begin with.” 

You swallow your pride and turn yourself over on the wall. 

Most of your mind is drawing blanks - bits and pieces of the picture caricatured through a warm mouth and fingertips. The draft in itself is a bit fucked up, sketched at the last possible minute; hands ghosting your jacket, tracing a line or two into the fabric of your shirt, trailing lower along the waistband of your pants. “You’re kidding, right?” 

Rosé snorts at the whisper, lowering her eyelids when she’s peppering your neck again with kisses. “We’re not having a problem here are we?” She says that as she’s descending to her knees, looking up so innocently like some angel incarnate - contradicting the current action she’s presenting right now.  

“Look. Rosé, we really shouldn't-” 

She pays no attention to the pleading when she’s palming your length through your underwear, thumb sliding up against the underside while your other hand settles with hers set at the side of your thigh. “Okay, I mean - like this is just wrong - you don’t- god, why are you even-” 

Rosé here, doesn’t give you any chance to breathe or recuperate the fast flow of thoughts. Her eyes remain unimpressed with a tilt of her head, closing in with the newly uncovered area at your waist, and the twist of her lips brings forth a sense that’s been lost to hidden waves of time. 

She inhales, coaxing you much to the point where you’re looking up to the sky above for some safe passage. 

“Mmmmm.” 

You might as well be fucked from this point on. At least you’ll play into the game Rosé’s putting up with her mouth all over you. 

“Oh, oh fuck-” 

It’s all in the simple movements and adjustments - the hair being pulled back to the cuff of her ear, the way she bottoms your cock down to the base and rests for a second, the graze of her teeth across the topside, sending your hips chasing for more of that addicting bite. She hollows out her cheeks to the right pressure of suction, bracing her hands on your thighs as she begins to pick up a steady rhythm. Down, side to side, then up. Down, side to side, then up. You could picture her lashes fluttering with every slide down your shaft, humming right along the skin as if she’s proffering a way of reflecting, praising with little to no words but with plump lips and a warm tongue. 

“Gotta say,” Rosé starts, after reeling back for a second, “I remembered why I loved this cock so much.” 

You’ve got her hair in the grips of your fingers, thrusting your cock back past those pretty lips, hoping to shove her words right back down her throat - which works so much better than you initially expected. The brain is working triple the amount of overtime to register and compensate for the endless rush of stimulation your body is getting; the buzz of the alcohol fading with every new layer of spit lathered across the length, watching Rosé’s head continue to bob at a faster pace between your legs. She doesn’t let you off that easily when her hand coils itself at the base, the other cradling your balls with the right amount of pressure - prompting you to use both of your hands to grip her head, making the motion as seamless as possible. You could feel her throat go slack, opening up the edges to where your cock can fill in the space - the gags alone break above the audible ambiance of rain hitting the ground beneath the both of you. 

“Fuck me.” And at this point, your level of thinking is so thrown under limbo. The sounds alone are music to your ears. A lost tune waiting to be heard again. Wanting. “Rosé, you-” 

“Ummphgh,” is all you manage to get out of her, the spit and slippery slick of her mouth the only point of contact. You look down and see it in her eyes: glassy and welled up; like was meant to be used like this, a vessel to provide and clean up the mess of every lap her tongue makes to your underside and the seam of your balls. An angel like her, her wings clipped after committing a damming act, hoping to earn them back in any way she can. When you slide your cock out of her slack mouth - slap the member across her swollen lips, eyes closed and jaw lowered as you’re leaving behind the sloppy and unmarked territory that you’ll come back to not long after.  

She nods and gags. You want to make her fucking choke.  

All of this should be drawn up as a one-off, never to be spoken of again. She didn’t have to go this far, being on her knees for you like this. Neither of you owe anything to each other. Some of this might have some meaning carried with the way that Rosé speaks with her eyes, mixed with a concoction of want and sorrowfulness, opening her mouth so wide for you to take with no remorse.

And when you cum deep into her throat, it’s all in her eyebrows - the way she accepts, poisoning your morality just like that. 

The pulses do die down eventually, and Rosé tilts her head to the side to give you a better look at her swallowing your release; wiping her lip in a slight relishment, damp hair falling in front and her fingers dancing along the line of her jaw - internalizing the rewarding ache. Her eyes shimmer in the low lighting, her skin covered in this spreading glow of pale and glistening. Most of her lip gloss is gone, now mixed with the layer of smeared spit all over your cock. You’re cradling her head delicately, thumb grazing the temple and some of the ends of her hair, giving you a list of things to fix. 

Rosé smacks her lips, and runs her tongue against the upper profile of her teeth. “Well then,” she starts, “hope that was enough to calm your nerves for the time being.” 

You’re trying extremely hard to slow your breathing, watching while she brings a wrist to her face, wiping up the damage. 

“We’re so fucked up,” you barely say, clearing your throat. 

“Between us?” Rosé implies, finally rising from her knees and patting your shoulders down as an out-of-touch way to comfort, “That’s old news, buddy.” 

You pull her in a bit again, placing the distance of her face to yours a little over the double digits. There’s no point in ignoring her gravity, the way that you find yourself a tad magnetized, bringing out a side where it was for her and only her. She could be an entity of a higher being, probably God’s given gift from himself which you once had lost. A blessing and curse that’s managed to find their way back into your arms again. 

“Now that I think about it,” you’re saying, combing some of her blonde locks before ghosting your hand just above her head, “You’ve always been the same as before.” 

Rosé’s eyelids dip, peculiar, curious. That sly grin at the corner of her lip laced with the dimple trailing not far after, it’ll do you numbers. It’s happened before. 

But she puts a hand to the side of your face, a soft smile to seal the whole act up as she starts to peel away. “Think you can walk to the hotel in a straight line without my help?” 

“You’re gonna leave me outside if you get there first.” You answer jokingly. 

She might as well if she wanted to, and you won’t be that far behind. 

—

Hangovers. They’re the worst. 

Normally in times like these: you’d lie in bed facing up to the ceiling, playing back all the events and instances in your mind to the best of your ability, and then get washed by the feeling of regret or questions of why you did actions a, b, and c. Fuck around and find out they say, that’s how the learning experience goes. 

Although this would be the exception- 

“That’s all it took for you? Just the voice by itself?” Rosé asks you the morning after, tending to the wounds on your hands, easily stacked at the wrists, and caring for them with a mother’s touch. “If it were me, I would’ve hung up by the first five seconds of silence.” 

“Here’s the thing: I’m not you.” 

Rosé rolls her eyes and puts the attention back to your knuckles. She grazes them with her fingertips once the dried-up blood has been washed away and sealed with a bandage. Her hands alone may look small, but the size has been apparent compared to yours. “You broke the glass from that payphone booth, didn’t you?” 

“If I kept retelling you what I did, would you believe me by then?” You ask flatly. 

“I’m just-” she stutters for a second when she zips up the first aid kit, “-surprised, honestly - and don’t get me wrong, I’ve seen you angry before. I didn’t expect it to be that serious.” 

“Wow. Way to beat around the bush I guess.” 

“I’m sorry?” 

“I know you are. Slightly.” 

Rosé leans back to get more of you in view, examining the new patches to cover the temporary pain left because of your actions. The repercussions don’t have to be said when it’s already shown. Good thing you brought gloves for a reason - a proper excuse to keep your hands warm when the weather gets colder. 

“Are you okay?” She asks after a brief period of silence. 

Your head twists back towards her. “Hm?” 

“I’m being genuine. Are you okay?” she says to you again, this time leaning to place her elbows on the table. “When I picked you up from the bar, you looked wrecked.” 

“Which I was. So, you’re not entirely wrong here.” 

Rosé then curls her fingers, resting her chin on top of them. Her eyes were full of concern. She doesn’t have to do all this - the nice, good girl willing to reconnect and rekindle even though you and her both know that things ended in a rough patch prior. She didn’t have to agree to go on the trip with you, but the intentions here are good - for the most part. 

“Do you want to talk about it?” The inquiries from her keep on coming. 

“I think we should come back to this topic when I’m in a better headspace,” you tell her, and she doesn’t bother asking anymore. “What about-” 

“Huh?” 

“I was gonna say something about, well-” you clear your throat before wiping the lower half of her face before finding the right words to deliver the next topic, “last night when we-” 

“Don’t expect you to remember much. Being drunk is a valid excuse,” she tells you, crossing her arms together with a little furrow in her brows. “One-time thing. No strings attached. Got it?” 

“Are you sure?” 

She nods convincingly. “Yeah, I’m sure.” 

“Okay,” you murmur, massaging your temple. 

“Okay,” Rosé echoes, knocking on wood twice for good luck. “I say we go out then.” 

“What? Where to?” You dart back while she stands up from the seat, shuffling away to her luggage. “Uh, hey-” 

Rosé snorts a bit, lets out a hearty laugh, one full of pure mischief. “I’m hungry. And we can put off room service for another time.” 

–

“How many cafes have we been to in the past hour?” you’re asking Rosé, jaw dropped at the abundance of people waiting for their coffee orders ahead of you two. “Jesus, with this amount of caffeine, you’re gonna give me a heart attack.” 

Rosé’s head turns, sipping the last bits of her beverage from the previous place you two were at, shaking the cup now full of ice. “Don’t give me that.” She laughs. “Jisoo was the one who recommended the places to me.” Her head leans back to get a few ice cubes in her mouth since the crunches are satisfying to her. “If anything, it’s your fault that you can’t keep up with-” 

“I’d rather prioritize my health than drain it all away with a lot of drinks and a heart condition.” you sigh, taking the hint of her waving the cup in front of you to throw out, looking back out to listen for the number of your order. (They’ve been alternating from counting into the high forties and low twenties. It’s all confusing how any of this is efficient.) “Though the pastries and drinks have been amazing to try, so I thank you.” 

She looks up at you again, flipping some of her back over her shoulder, flaunting a little shimmy of her shoulders. Like she’s aware of the praise, the compliments, the credit, and everything else lying underneath the verbal nuances. “Perks of having me as your foodie guide for the tour.” 

“You’re so stupid,” you say, gaze dropping down to your feet in disappointment. 

A nudge to your shoulder is all she gives before turning her body away. “Such a bitch.” 

“Preaching the truth,” you reply - a hum in the timbre, playing into the banter. “That’s why they paired both of us together: toothbrush and toothpaste. peas in a pod-” 

You flinch a bit when she raises a hand, but you can’t help yourself to laugh as she surrenders the idea of making a scene in public. It’s all good fun in the end, a breath of fresh air. 

Then the matcha order gets called up, perfect timing. 

–

You and Rosé do celebratory cheers with the clear plastic cups, swirl the tea inside before drinking a good third of it down, nod, and acknowledge the amount in addition to the taste. She then asks you to give it a rating - where you place it pretty high on the given scale. 

“That’s really good,” you say, wetting your lips for another sip. 

“What’d I tell you?” Rosé asks after, all comfy with her drink in both hands, watching you take in another swig because why not? “This place might be the best one on the list.” 

“You mean Jisoo’s list,” you tease. “But sure, you can claim this list as yours since she’s not here to protest against it.” 

“Right. I’ll do exactly that.” 

You take notice of the same gaze that she’s been holding for the past few minutes now. It’s probably too late to realize that it's a honey trap: the more that your curiosity gets the best of you, the more likely that you’ll forget about everything else. A good look at her rosy cheeks, the stray strands of blonde hair sticking out because of the fuzziness that her scarf is emitting, much to the point that you can’t even see her neck beneath all of that. 

“Sorry,” you’re saying, leaning your head sideways more to get a closer look. Nobody’s falling for it, especially not her. “There’s a stain right about-” 

Rosé keeps her hands right where they are in holding the drink, eyes glued to your hand ghosting her face, the slightest touch where you’re cupping her jaw to keep it in place. You do manage to get the small mess off but make no other move. 

She turns her head slightly towards your hand, parting her lips; and a part of your head starts to flip internally. 

“What are you thinking about right now?” Rosé proposes, you think it’s intentional like she wanted you to do that. You can see it in her alluring shade of whiskey, clouded with mystery, shrouding a burning sensation behind those irises, blinking prettily. 

“If I told you, it won’t happen later.” 

“Oh yeah?” Rosé tuts, capturing her bottom lip between her teeth, and dips her head a few inches. “I’m intrigued,” her voice is a witch’s spell. She scoots herself towards you, closing the bubble away from the world, the moment alone stretched longer than usual. 

“I shouldn’t kiss you,” you tell her, practicing caution. A last reminder thrown up in an imaginary white flag. 

“But you could, right?” Rosé says in the sheerest hint of innocence, but the message says all sorts of corruption, "Where's the harm in that?” 

Setting yourself up for the mind-meld was always a tall task, especially with a girl like Rosé. You could rationalize how the universe has managed to put you on this tightrope, with no hope of making it to the ends; the only choice would be to embrace this fall from grace, and feel every emotion. 

She inches closer, the intent clear as day. “Y’know,” the tension is already hanging low amongst the both of you, “I’d be okay with it.” 

–

(Look. Saving yourself the embarrassment was always going to be a lost cause. Consider it as a premonition, the tug of anticipation of playing things out the way they are, rewind the clip or recording to catch something new every take; a wish to alter the cause and effect. No matter how you look at it, what’s done is done.) 

–

The intimacy itself gets thrown out the window, and finding a proper hold would be a lesser worry to think about. Rosés frantically slithering out of her overcoat, biting your lip in what you assume is an accident, and pressing her into the wall catches her off guard and she bumps into your face. Your thumbs are at her cheeks, holding her face in place, and the hooded eyes get pulled away; you’re thinking, she’s thinking -  and all she can say is, “don’t start having second thoughts now.” It’s another green light from her to pick up where you left off, feel her arms have no sense of direction until they finally rest around the crooks of your neck and shoulders, quick draws of air passing through each other’s lips until you and her eventually fill in that space once more. 

Even if there’s no label between you two now, the knowledge is already present there in the low lights. 

“Let me remind you,” you’re telling her, smiling as her tongue clashes with yours, scrunching up your neck as her hands are working fast to slip you out of your top. “You started this.” 

Her chin tilts up, grazing the peak of your jaw, lips trained on yours and kissing like it’s second nature; since she exactly remembers how to wind you up, unraveling. The scrunch of your neck goes away once the top falls along the floor, making out with you for what feels like it’s been forever. 

“Maybe I did,” says Rosé, landing another kiss on the line of your chin, hand caressing the back of your head, unwilling to let go of you. “And can I be honest? I don’t hear you complaining about it.” 

“Now why would I?” 

She leans back against the drywall, arm up as if you were holding her by the wrist, but you aren’t - at least, not yet. Puffs her chest up with the help of the arch behind. “That’s the question,” she answers, hand palming the seat of your pants, fingers curling slightly, “That’s always the question.” 

A window of opportunity is here. You can see it. She could lay out all the hints in front of you and you wouldn’t need all of them to figure her out, because you know: she loves being so forward, only for her to be held down, give her little to no wiggle room where her hands can leave major damage, the teasing; you’ll shut her mouth up with a pillow to her face or your hand and watch her eyes crunch together until she breaks. There’ll be times when she wants to rush, and you’d go slow, then vice versa. The grip you have on her hip isn’t nice, and you’ll keep kissing her, be very meticulous in the approach, and make her go insane. 

Her muscles, let alone her body tense at the touch, shying a smile away as if she’s afraid to admit it herself. “But I gotta say,” Rosé whispers, her breath canvassing over your lips. “Doesn’t this feel nostalgic? Like old times?” 

And here is where you’re practicing plausible deniability: since she’s right. A brief flash of all the times; all the instances that occurred in the past. She’s got her shirt off, and it helps jog the memory a lot more too - how you’d hold her down and just revel in the whimpering noises that escape her mouth, embracing every acre of her body; it’d be so easy to mold into her, you know from experience. 

“Okay seriously,” Rosé’s saying, the rush of bliss spilling all over her face when your hands trail up and down the sides of her waist. The smile she’s bearing is a whole lot more apparent now the more your mouth is left slack open, eyes ogling without doing a single blink. “I forgot how you like to take your sweet ass time in adoring me - fuck, it’s even worse when you’re not even saying anything, like, at all, I swear to God, please, just-” 

You’re paying no attention as you’re scouting out the different pieces that need peeling away off her figure. The shirt’s already off from the start. You manage to stop your hands from dancing along the waistline of her pants, hold her leg up as you’re pulling from the cuff at the bottom, keep her second-guessing with a few kisses to her stomach, brush your nose along the lace of her panties and scrape a bit of your forehead into the line of her bra. There might be something wrong with you; but hey, she’s on the same boat as well. 

Once all of that’s off and disregarded, you’re claiming long lost territory - marking up everywhere to be examined at the scene of the crime when it’s all done and dusted: her chest, her neck, the collarbones, her nipples already primed to the point, the subtle hint of muscle in the abs, you’re finding a way back. 

Rosé’s breathing is heavy with heat over your ear now, palming her pussy folds now exposed to the open air. “Yes - okay. Okay. I get it- jesus,” she’s stuttering as the reaction starts to traverse throughout her body. Your fingers are dancing along the dangerous area, playing with fire. You can remember the nerves being so responsive, and electric, it’s beautiful to watch in real time. “Look- you win, I’ll help. Whatever you need. I’ll do it.” 

“That so?” you ask. She’s holding herself in place as best she can along with your hand, an acknowledgment, take account of the slick soaking the grooves of your fingers. You kiss her and smile against her lips - teetering on the edge of cruelty and excitement. “Jokes on you sweetheart, I knew you’d always be good for me.” 

The devil is already in the details: pinning her to the wall and burying your fingers into her cunt. She keens when you slip in one finger, then two. Her sighs, singing this harmony that urges this need for it to be silenced; so you get your lips to the line of her collarbone - or, her lips resting right above the cuff of your ear, leg curling to the backside of your thigh, rising to the end of your ass. You let it slide when she pulls you in deeper into her body with her arms, the weight of your front crushing her chest a bit, which she’s okay with. 

“There.” Rosé does a mix of a bob and a shake of her head, “yes, oh-” 

You’re building an idea. One that hasn’t seen the light in your mind ever since the preceding one was ripped apart from you so suddenly. She keeps on gasping as you find the spots - the familiar ones where you’ve killed her before, pressing deeper and deeper into the stretch of that satisfying warmth spreading into your hand. The trembling in her body is already a stark implication of your craft becoming true. A little of a wiggle here, the push of the stretch, opening her wide. Her eyes fixate on yours, and her mouth loosens with each parting breath. 

“Y-you-” 

“There she is,” you murmur, the lower half of your face twisting into a sinister smile. 

All she could do was nod, like she was admitting; almost as if she wanted this. 

“Hold still for me,” you’re instructing, and the tone in the phrase is so gentle that she agrees to the request easily. She’s surrendering herself to you. An unspoken truth in itself. You can see the twinkle behind the rings of her irises, her shoulders drop as a result of all the muscles and bones finally relaxing after being so pent up. Something shifts in you, maybe an act of desperation; a moment where your ego is fractured. It happens when you’re pressing your cheek against hers, whispering into her ear as you put your fingers back into her cunt: “You’ve missed this, so much, haven’t you?” 

Rosé winces. You can feel the clamp in her pussy and jaw. 

Her nose scrunches as well, doing everything she can to not unfold the stricken nerve, so she mouths instead. “Yes. God, yes.” She can’t focus at all when her head hits the back of the wall and you’re leaving your lips into her neck. “I regretted it - so much, so fucking much. Wanted you to forgive me, to come back and-” 

Shit. She got you there. The honesty alone might come as a shock to you. 

“I tried so hard to move on. To forget,” she barely breathes, her voice clearer than ever, like she’s ignoring the fact that you have two curling digits inside that unbelievable cunt of hers, gripping, thighs pressing together into your hand and keeping it there; a makeshift shackle. It didn't take much to push her buttons and rile her up, get her cursing and spilling out incoherent nonsense since she can’t think straight due to the rubbing from the bottom of your palm. “The apology was there, but you were already gone-” 

The more she speaks, the more she sends your common sense down into a spiraling cyclone. Your hand keeps working her leaking slit while the other hikes up her leg - let her carry the weight in holding your body as she’s mindlessly humming against your mouth; even though she’s still trying to speak, that’s fine as it is. Maybe you’re doing yourself a favor jumping face first into this hell, or Rosé herself is just helping you get there faster- 

She knows what she wants. It’s a bit pathetic, a contrast to her condescending attitude that’s been peeling away little by little. Her slick is so smooth around your fingers, twirling and sliding with no care for her responses at all. You could kind of hear her say ‘I'm sorry’. Almost, you’re not entirely sure, but the endless nods and welled-up tears prove that there’s a psychotic factor occurring in your mind. 

“Gonna cum for me?” you ask, and she puts on this faint smile before her head lolls up and back towards the wall. “Your hips are shuddering by the second.” 

Rosé doesn’t say anything except for the staggered breaths from your hand working her and giving no care to fucking with your fingers. She tries to grip onto something; a hand, shoulder, the back of your head - whatever she could try to get her mind to not focus on you. It’s pointless. The precipice and final peak of her high is there in her eyes; locked to your face, focusing and unfocusing. 

She cums. And she looks strikingly astonishing when she finally melts down. 

“Cat got your tongue?” You ask again, expression slightly satisfied as the arms around you hold her down, pinning her. “That’s too bad, ‘cause I was gonna say that you look good like this-” 

Her hips buck forward, pussy gushing a bit more on your fingers, wetting them. “God, y-you- fuck-” 

A pinch of her clit is all you give her and she’s practically not there anymore. 

The cries coming out of her reverberate around the room. Her mouth is still hung open when you relieve some of the pressure of your face on hers, eyes slowly trying to blink through the orgasm as much as possible. The front of her body falls forward, her cunt piping hot - or well, that’s just the final part of the warmth washing over with the need for another outlet to take it all in. 

“Maybe I should just let you have it, huh?” you tell her as you get your hands to her waist and thigh again. “Do you think you deserve my forgiveness after what you did?” 

“Yes, yes.” Rosé answers. You’re finding it hard to be convincing - as if she couldn’t say it any other way when you’re hovering her over to the bed and the nodding starts to become more frantic, desperate. 

When she finally lands back first on the bed, you don’t give her any room to breathe as her body naturally arches when you’re pressing your weight on top of her again. And that’s the venom working its magic through your mind and body; she’s managed to get you craving for more without doing much. 

This is her checkmate to you. She wants you so fucking bad that if you don’t get your dick inside her in the next few minutes, the damage to follow after would honestly be catastrophic. 

In all fairness, you want her. It’s that simple. You’re willing to hold her down and fuck her senselessly, give her no care until she’s a pure puddle of mush. The hand holding you is calculated, precise; palm to the side of her face as she sighs at the touch. Gentle, yes. Her head tracks yours as you admire the winding mess that’ll get worse eventually. 

“I want you to say it,” you tell her, accidentally leaning down to bump your nose with hers. “To be sure. Rosé, I-” 

“Need you-” Her body tenses while her mouth drops to a new low, the sudden shift in her body too much to bear. You manage to wrap yourself around her, sliding slowly; spreading her legs wider until that ache rests on your muscles and hers. The drag of her fingernails on your back keeps your attention on her, zeroing in on the tightness of her waist when you’re adjusting to the right angle and depth, suspending you not to think about anything else besides her. “Like this- oh, yes- right there, fuck it’s so big, holy shit-” 

“Christ,” you hiss; Rosé’s front rises to where your stomach is, squirming until you get a proper hold of her hips at the crease where the top of her legs are, putting her in place. You’re shaking your head here, trying to stay conscious; Rosé’s eyes fall to the back of her head, blinking lethargically. Her cunt’s smoothing out all the ridges and veins, clinging with a melting grip that you’d want to bury yourself in for as long as you’re with her. 

She bites down a cry, and the whines can only be covered so much when she’s eating away at your face, hips snapping up slowly. 

You use the adjustments wisely, watch as her expression carefully unravels right in front of your eyes, until you have a proper hold of her legs where it’ll hurt, pulling her into your cock. The first smack of skin and drive up her spine snaps - like a cable cut, a live wire - the thread of curses and the cauldron of praises fall out so nicely past her lips. She locks her arms around your back, get her pussy in a position where you can take it deep and wreck her like clockwork- 

“Okay, okay. I get it now- jesus girl,” you moan out, the sound partly broken, “You win. I, fuck-” 

So you manage to bury your dick inside her, saying her name and it freaking destroys her. Some of the slaps of skin match your heartbeat from time to time, the pace nice and consistent, kissing to comfort as she swallows down the first wave of sobs.

“Yeah, yeah. You know - you’ve always known,” Rosé groans. “Ugh-” 

“Talking too much,” you mutter right back at her, breath hot and all over the skin of her cheek, pressing, a slight grin forming between your lips. “You don’t sound sorry enough.” 

Her face then matches the same lazy smile, tugged at the corners. You’ve barely made a dent into her and it isn’t enough. The focus is clear; right in her eyes, lidded and glossy. But she flutters her lashes shut, nodding profusely again, when you’ve nudged your cockhead into the spot where you’ve killed her before, another move made. “Yes I- I am. I am, I am, I am.” 

There’s not much to follow up on. The pace is already set. The one-two; slide out and drop the pin right back where it belongs. Rosé pulls you in with her lips, ankles linking to the backside of your thighs, holding her by the middle of her waist. It’s a natural transaction of sorts, the opening of old terms - matching what one wants along the other. 

Maybe you’re returning the favor in a way with her - which you are. Your vision is already becoming hazy, the clamp of her cunt all over your cock the only point of focus and consciousness keeping you sane. Nothing else outside you two mattered at this moment, hidden away within these very walls of the room as Rosé’s hips started to stutter again when you bottomed her out. 

And when she whines, a high pitch rather than a lone note, the part has never been made clearer. 

You remember how you’ve fucked her in this fashion: burying your face into her chest, nails digging into the scalp of your head, holding you so close and tenderly - like she was afraid of losing you again, powering through the second time she cums all over your cock, the mixing of her sobbing and sniffles when you’ve pushed her over that edge once more, urging you to keep sinking into her willingly - even when the precision starts to lose its fine touch. 

Even when her body starts to go limp, you play the nice gesture of raising her legs a little higher, getting her ankles planted right to the small of your back, opening up the deep, melting hollow of heat underneath you. 

“Rosie. Oh, Rosie- my Rosie-” you mumble softly beneath the repeating hymn of your name on her tongue. “My god, you’re fucking crazy.” 

“I want it- want you,” she sighs, palm to your cheek as her eyes lock with yours again. Christ, she knows what the fuck she’s doing, you need to fuck her properly, get your cock embedded right in her cunt where the warmth is at the hottest, filling her up and sliding smoothly along her slick walls to the point where she’ll have to repeat in the request - will you? Please, you fuck me so well - I swear, right there, this pussy’s always been yours, nobody else’s- 

“How I’ve missed this,” you confess. The drag of her fuckhole is that lethal, and reverts you to old ways. The regret will cross your mind again soon, you’re sure of it. 

“Cum baby.” She tells you, basically letting you do so. The velvety walls are just too much for you to handle. You could feel the coil tighten in your abdomen, the grip of her legs in your hands now leaving their red marks across her pale skin, cock hitting the same spot of her cunt over and over, relentlessly pounding and grinding her lower half into a mere puddle. “I want you to cum.” 

The air within you gets sucked right out of your lungs, boiled over to a stream of strained groans and heavy exhales - two more strokes inside her creaming cunt before you grasp on the last bit of energy to tug yourself out, painting all over the fine plane of Rosé’s waist, pumping your load out. A hand gets planted to the side, holding you upright, her voice also in its high octave, begging and speaking in tongues as the ribbons of white find their place across the blush ambered skin. 

“Fuck- holy fuck,” she sighs again, eyelids lifting up as you hobble over from the sudden blood loss from your head, bumping into hers as you tap the numb of her clit with your tip once, twice, the loose sobs sounding heavenly, pulling you back to your senses. “Oh god - it feels so good all over me. Yes.Yes. It’s so good, keep teasing my pussy like that, I know you love it, shit-” 

Even after getting her brains properly fucked out, the slurs of her words spilling out are still coherent. You take a moment to breathe, calm down the irregular heart rate as best you can, and watch as Rosé takes a fingertip to her stomach and collects some of the mess left by you. She’s so shameless, tattered, reaping the reward in all of its glory. 

“Satisfied?” You ask, rubbing her lip. Her blush is amazing to look at, a slut like her owning the part as if she’s meant for it. It’s true. The afterglow makes her ten thousand times more alluring than how she was back at the cafe when she planted the idea of those dirty thoughts slowly formulating in the back of your mind. All you have to do is just look at her- 

It’s easy to read and take a step back; because giving her more would be a guarantee on the cards. Her palm lands on the left side of your chest, feeling your heartbeat. You indulge in pulling a wisp of her hair off from her forehead, those doe eyes looking up at you while she treats herself by licking up your load off her fingers. 

She hums. It’s only the two of you. Everything you or her ever needed is trapped in this space. 

Rosé teases with the tip of her tongue, showing the evidence being down into the space of her mouth - in her throat, seeing her neck bob up while her head tilts to this sultry gaze, a damming smile forming again, hinted with a small peek of her teeth. She then manages to get a hand around your length - fingers still soaked with your cum, languidly pumping without care - since the reaction could be substituted as a reflex. “I think you have more to offer for me.” 

“God, Rosé-” you say, and she just laughs; the sound alone is impossible to ignore, but her snark, the words and things she tells you from time to time - it alters your brain chemistry. She’s always been like this. 

“What? Am I wrong?” She asks, ghosting your upper profile to give you the hint that she needs some breathing room, rolling herself over where her back is now in view, and not to mention her fucking ass- 

“No, you’re not,” you answer, hovering over the nape of her neck, pressing a few kisses down the curve. “If anything, you’re doing a terrific job of keeping my mind off of certain things.” 

Her knees dig into the mattress, lifting her backside to the front of your hips, her slick still there, smothering the top of your length. You hold her down from the shoulders and slide your knees up to the proper placement. She’s giving an offer, alright - one that you simply cannot refuse. 

“Good.” Rosé chuckles, breathing low as you’re grazing the head of your cock over the pucker of her ass, teasing it around her folds. “I hope I can keep up the work for you. Make you not worry about any other thing besides me. God that would be amazing. Can you? For me?” 

“Make me fuck your brains out as my only worry,” you concur. “Doesn’t sound that bad to do again.” Her head dips down into the sheets when you’ve got your cock slowly working its way back into her creaming pussy, hips becoming flush with yours, relishing in the perfect fit - the gorgeous press of those walls, it does something to a man. 

You’re imagining the widest smile on her face, knowing that she’s won you back. It doesn’t make sense yet, the bits and pieces of your mind not lining up with the actions. Rosé’s yelp gets muffled, in response to the press of her lower half into the mattress, hands pressing both asscheeks together, tightening the noose around your length, letting the drag make your cock throb even harder. 

“I’ve fucking missed this,” she rasps, the last exhale shoved out of her once you’ve managed to nudge your cock back inside her. The latter of everything is this: the steady breaths, the audible slide of slick, and the slap of skin. 

A hand reaches out to her hair, holding her head down to the mattress along with the rest of her body, arm slithered to the underside where the waist is, a placeholder as your hips snap forward. The whimper she lets out is a clear implication that your bag of tricks is doing a number on her. 

“Taking me so well. God, Rosie. This pussy is amazing. Look at you,” you praise, growling as she continues to babble beneath your touch. 

And the innocent giggles can hide so much of the absolute pleasure she’s enjoying. She’s a real-life venus fly trap: pulling you in with her smile, her eyes, and her charisma; only for you to be wrapped around her little finger and quite literally, her leg. “How cute. You were full of shit not that long ago. For a second I figured you’d be having second thoughts.” 

You smack her ass and grab both sides of cheeks on her face. A statement. A warning. 

“Watch your mouth,” you grit, and you swear that you’ll stay true to your word. 

“Alright, just- ah, fuck me, like that. Your cock hit that same- hngh! Please, just fuck me like you mean it. Rail my ass until I’m on my knees apologizing. I promise, just dick me down-’ 

The pace picks up and you’ve lost all remorse. You’ll bounce her cunt on your cock regardless if she’s asking for it or not. In the present case that she is, giving it to her was an easy decision. Her pussy is the missing piece of a puzzle that you always wanted to complete anew, and it’s right in your hands and on your hips. 

Rosé’s face twists over her shoulder, eyes fluttering in unadulterated pleasure, tensing and unraveling each passing stroke you have on her. The secret’s already out: you missed her, and she missed you. You’ll have the desire to take this moment away and put it in a chest, only for it to be tossed to the bottom of the sea, where no one else will know of its existence. 

“Have me over and over,” she says, “if that’s all you ever wanted, I’d let you.” 

You weren’t sure what you were getting yourself into, and when you’ve made her cum the second time, and third soon after - she’s a sobbing mess, voice wrecked, you’re also there with her, she’s got you by that much. 

–

The first snowfall meets the cloudy skies when the light peeks through the drapery. Or at least when your vision is coming around while Rosé’s posture straightens when she sits up - clutching the comforter from the bed close to her body as she looks over her shoulder to you. Her friz of bed hair is apparent at the ends, not to mention her bare back, the first hint of red marks at the bottom of her neck - you’re drawing the assessment up as you go. 

“Cold?” you ask, leaning your head back into the pillow behind. “That’s a shame.” 

“Says the one who doesn’t have anything on along with me,” Rosé chuckles, swirling around facing you. You’ll be left there to just observe and stare more times than you can probably count on your own ten fingers. 

Then she lets the blanket fall; her version of a curtain raiser. 

It isn’t anything new really, but you catch yourself blinking a lot faster than usual; the blotches of red spread across her chest, mixed with the paleness of her skin. Her waist emulates this hourglass shape that almost looks unreal for one to have; there’s also neck and collarbones, and you’re looking everywhere from her face to her hips - lustful would be an understatement of her efforts. 

“You could give me one of your hoodies again,” she’s saying, sliding her hands into the crease beneath her shoulders, looking down to the crimson marks. 

“Tempting.” 

She tilts her head the other way, a soft hum reflected off her smile. The rosy blush is a highlight; the reruns of all the moments with her keep coming back, and you’re certainly here for all of them. “You can’t turn me down.” 

“And if I did, it would be a tragedy,” you say, pulling her into your embrace as she spins around again, her hand scratching the side of your head, nose buried into the curve of her neck, “thankfully, that won’t happen with you.” 

“Let’s go exploring the city today,” Rosé proposes, back arching to the adjustment of your hold. “I can put in a reservation for that one restaurant with the fancy snails and seafood.” 

“Isn’t that like-” you snort, “eighty percent of the restaurants around here anyway?” 

“Only if you’re not looking deep enough.” 

“Your call,” you agree, turning your head to put a proper kiss, tasting the sweetness of cherry or strawberries. Her fingers trail across your forearms while yours are grazing her waist, her breasts - you’re one for physical touch, a little too much for your liking but in this case is it justified? Absolutely. Who wouldn’t? “I can carry you to the shower if you’d like.” 

Rosé’s eyes close, fluttering. Lips pulled inward to a smirk. She’s enthralled with the notion - the affinity of how you treated her before. “Mmmmm. I think: yes please.” 

–

(So you do carry her. Frankly, your fingers digging into the plush skin of her ass, sinking her back onto your cock; palms holding the tile, then slipping - her back to the wall as her feet dangle past your backside. Rosé’s moaning into the shell of your ear one second, kissing you the next - like the world would end at any given moment, hands pressing your face deeper into hers in the wash of rain above, encouraging you to give in. 

She was doing whatever it took to creep herself back into the nook of your mind, and so far it’s working; rewriting your nerves and synapses, corralling with her tongue and lips in all the ways that swept off your feet before, her grin against your chin all the easier to bite down and swallow. “You swear not to tell anyone about this, promise me.” The only telltale point of accountability laid out on the table, in the space opened between your lips and hers - a brief pause, stalled negotiations, ending with an everlasting proposition that you’ll submit to when she finally says: 

“Not a soul. Promise.”)

–

You’re shrugging your shoulders up to your ears, hoping to keep in some of the heat trapped in your body. An instinct; and with the right amount of layers of fabrics, it makes the job a whole lot easier to do. Simple as that. 

Rosé eventually did manage to steal one of your hoodies from your luggage. Not that you were complaining about it. As much as you hate to admit it, the girl did have a knack for styling different articles effortlessly to the point where you can’t even tell if she’s wearing your clothes or her own. She’s got a red scarf for today’s outing, properly complimenting the other shades below while she’s fixing her appearance in the mirror of the restaurant, patting down her hair with you coming right behind to transfer some of the warmth onto her. 

You’re getting a few whiffs of her perfume. Cinnamon and something rustic, cozy, and she just gives you a beaming smile off the reflection in front of you. Her hand goes into the pocket of her overcoat: a small digicam, turns it on and points it to the mirror - telling you to act candid or cute, whichever one happens to come first. The pull of your arms brings her closer to you, a familiar movement and rhythm when you leaned over earlier while getting ready, talking all sly and prettily as she creams all over your cock. She’s thinking about it also, even while the camera clicks. 

“Would you look at that,” she exclaims, capturing the photo as a personal keepsake, and showing you the photo on the screen soon after. “We look good in this for once.” 

Rosé notices your whole body freeze, rolling your eyes, “Uh, was that supposed to be an insult?” 

Her face shifts to a quick scowl, taken aback by the question suddenly. “Why? Would you rather have me tell you that you’re fucking ugly instead?” 

“Not true. But, hah. That does sound a lot more like you.” 

Your gaze goes back to the glass, and Rosé takes another funny photo for the memories, looking over to the corner of your eyes as the snaps from the camera continue for a few seconds. “How’s my jacket?” 

She pulls the hood to her nostrils, eyelids snapped shut, and inhales. The grin she has all over her face proves to be a clear indicator that the signs are all pointing towards positive. Her figure is still in reach of you, her front opposite to yours. “Comfy, for one,” she then looks up to your chin, syrup eyes looking up with a gentle gaze. “It’s a distinct smell. A one-of-one.” 

“Corny.” 

“And?” 

“Pretty,” is what you end off with, petting her hair which earns you a nose scrunch. “Want me to add on?” 

“You could tell me that I’m special, your angel, or something. Maybe say that I look good, y’know - to boost my ego. You being my one and only, the dream guy I’ve wanted for as long as I liv-” 

“Don’t push your luck,” you’re grinning, because she’s planting the idea so well, the keywords and points of inference to decode and analyze. She’ll inflate your ego so much that you’d have to hold her down in your hands and fuck some proper sense into her - ‘cause it’ll happen again -  probably because she deserves it, which is true. 

–

Later, and by her arm linked to yours, Rosé pulls you into this music club. A jazz bar, or- just a place where they were having an open mic night, the songs having the earworm effect to the point where your feet are following hers. 

The place opens up inside where the seating arrangements are segregated in pairs in the middle from the stage and outwards with the usual booths set at the sides. Some people are sitting, others are dancing, and then there are a few who are just casually conversing and really having a great time. But the wave of nostalgia is hitting a little harder than usual as they’re all riding along with the music. 

“This place is nice,” she tells you, gently bobbing her head along to the cozy ambiance of the band playing on the stage, tugging the cuff of your sleeve towards some open seats to rest your legs and take a breather. 

When you do finally settle your bearings, the seat under you becomes a lot more comfier, taking in the sights and sounds of the live music being performed right in front of you. It wasn’t that long also for the drinks to come flowing in; only this time, you’re more in line with your inhibitions and common sense all because there isn’t any impending stress plaguing your mind. 

Once the setlist’s been played through, the main lead of the band calls out to the audience for anyone who would be interested in singing on the open floor. Pretty straightforward: just name the song for the band members to play and give them a few minutes to get adjusted to the demands of the piece; gotta say, they’re pretty good at what they do. 

“I’m gonna go up there.” Rosé snatches your attention with her spontaneous plan. “It’s been a while since I sang in front of anyone” 

You chuckle, because you remember how she was back in the high school choir years ago. “You’re serious?” The question comes off as rhetorical alone, but you sense that burning passion inside her that fuels everything in her enthusiasm. “By all means, go for it.” 

“Got a song in mind?” She asks, hand resting on your forearm. 

“Don’t have anything in particular,” you answer with a shake of your head. “Surprise me.” 

With that, Rosé shoots her hand up high into the air. The band leader spots her out instantly and calls her up to the stage. Everyone’s eyes are drawn towards her - a mix of applause and whistles to solidify the encouragement, and here you are stuck in your seat hoping that nothing goes wrong while she’s up on stage. You have faith, and it’s just enough to stick by. 

Her introduction is cute to watch; the way that she sounds sends your heart flipping for a millisecond: “Hi my name is Rosé. I’m not from here, but I’m super excited to perform for you guys tonight and I hope that you guys enjoy it. Thank you.” 

You’d have to admit, she does look good when the lights are all on her. 

She picks two oldies that you remember vividly because of your parent's music taste, and the final song catches you off guard, because of the way that she presented it- 

“I’d just like to dedicate this last song to the number one that I hold most dear to in my heart. So if you’re listening to this, wherever you are, I hope you know that I will always root for you - even from afar.” 

-being a classic Bruno Mars song since that’s been one of the few artists she’s been playing on repeat for the entirety of the trip. Her head moves and tilts in alternating directions, really just feeling out the music. 

Once the final chords of the song get played out, the club erupts with a mix of cheers and claps, congratulating her for providing a wonderful show. The gratitude comes out naturally and she gives her thanks, occasionally landing her gaze over to you before looking elsewhere. She realizes the yearning, like how she sensed it while examining the art pieces up close as you were a few steps away. 

It really gets you thinking, just how much you’ve fallen deeper back into the abyss with her. 

–

At some point, you realize that you aren’t getting enough sleep as you’d like. 

And no, it’s not because of the exhaustion of burying your cock deep into Rosé’s cunt, the slide of her folds becoming a relapse of an addiction long locked away. The lines become blurred between right and wrong, considering the incessant begging she keeps putting towards you where you give her exactly what she wants. 

She’s laid on top of you, skin touching skin. You make do by clinging onto her small body since she likes that. 

Rosé looks up, palm to your cheek, thumb canvasing the surface. She leans down for a peck - you lean up to meet her in the middle. Everything about this feels safe; your heart’s beating with a rise in tempo, every move of her hand and head an electric current across your body, the quick blitzes of craving for one another, pulling her close, wrapping her in your clothes, blowing air in the sensitive spots that get her going, whimpering. 

“Ladies and gentlemen, I present to you: the ex.” She says to you, both hands now to the sides of your face, holding you like an award - a trophy. 

“First of all, ouch.” 

“Don’t take it to heart since you dicked me down not too long ago.” Her face turns over, listening to your heartbeat, legs tangling underneath the sheets. “It sounded a whole lot better in my head, so I thought why not say it out loud,” her tone filled with relief. “I’ve always spoken from my mind anyway, so how is this any different?” 

“That’s-” 

“I’m kidding,” Rosé laughs, “well- partly. I didn’t mean to hurt you again if that’s what you wanted to hear,” in a way she’s right; what also doesn’t help is her hand slithering down your front, to your hips, fingers coiling your length in record time. 

You gasp, tensing up all the muscles in your body. “Fuc- Rosie-” 

“These thoughts that I have, they’re the worst,” she’s telling this like some gospel - a fabled story or prophecy from an oracle, twisting and jerking your hardening shaft while sharing the madness of her hippocampus. “Well? What are you gonna do about it?” 

When she slides you right back into her volcanic heat, your mouth drops. “I think we can figure that out together.” 

She sighs, pressing her lips against your cheek, grinning. Her lower half has a mind of its own: grinding down and settling, where she stays. 

–

You make love with her again. And she screams; it could be heard far and wide past the walls. A guarantee, you said. A promise. It's only you and her, after all.

–

There are multiple ways for one to sign off on their death sentence: a contract, a hearing, a proclamation; where one’s resolve is pushed to the brink where everything that transpires after has to be seen to the end until the lingering thoughts and repercussions are nothing more than just a distant memory. You knew what you signed up for when this trip had its inception, what’s to come when you’re put face first with someone who was supposed to be part of the last chapter in your story. Things like these can be rewritten on a new page for starters, but still keep all the details intact. 

Rosé could be your judge, jury, and executioner for all you know - and still be the one to lure you into the dangerous pits of temptation. 

“Holy shit,” you grit, voice tattered; Rosé’s head dips down as she plants both of her hands on your waist, and adjusts her legs until her heels are rooted into the mattress, testing the angle with an unprompted thrust by you. 

“Don’t move too much,” she commands, the slide of your cock in her pussy slow enough to make you want to rush into it. “I’ll ride you like this. You don’t even have to do a thing.”

“God-” and the giggle she lets out in tandem with her devilish grin serves to be too much for you to bear. A lift up in her squatting position, and her petite ass slams on top of your balls - the deadly pin drop. “Fuck- you’re so good at that.” 

A rise and fall. A one-two in stopping and gyrating. She’s riding you so delicately - in contrast to your style of holding her close to your chest and impaling her upwards. You feel the edge of her palm at your chin - to your bottom lip - and you bite down gently into her hand. 

“I wanna feel it - all inside me,” she’s telling you, a phrase projected into existence, a claim. “Want your cum,” her confidence brightens so much when she’s the one in control, “so fucking bad.” She slides her feet out from under her, grinding harder against your hips, laying her body flat against yours, raising her ass again and back down; the angle is much more deeper than you anticipated. “Using this pretty cunt all for you. I know you like it.” 

“For fuck’s sake,” you growl, and it’s a swear in itself, “can’t get enough of you - this pussy is a dream.” 

“Uh huh,” her face crinkles when she ups the pace. “Tell me all about it. I’ll be your good little girl for you, babe.” This role isn’t her forte, but if the opportunity presents itself, she’ll own the part with flying colors. You could hear and feel the slick spread up to your waist; every gush, smack, and dragged-out moan was all part of a symphony created by you two. She effortlessly bottoms your cock out, and she whines. 

Your arms slither around her back, keeping her in place. She whispers a ‘yes’ in your ears, and licks your temple. 

“Grab me, fuck me. Make me yours,” she murmurs, happily kissing along your cheek as you spread yourself wider, getting the proper measurements right to ruin her. 

The rest of the world fades out as Rosé’s breathing fills up your brain. “Rosé- I’m gonna- fuck-” 

“Oh god- Yes! Baby, I’m close- keep going-” 

When you inevitably cum inside her - filling her up, you’re coaxing through her sobs. Driving your shaft deep where each exhale is a staccato. Your lips find her neck, marking up skin, drinking in the sweat, fucking through her orgasm to the point where she’s pliant and quivering - tiredly nodding in approval and satisfied. 

–

You’re no diplomat, but the advisable action of keeping your phone on do not disturb, limiting contact with anyone other than Rosé was entirely justified. 

(By common sense, how could anyone keep in touch with their significant other after the heinous acts that they’ve committed? Our lives are not defined by any one action, but rather the sum of our choices. Everyone has their reasons - more or less - and sometimes, some don’t even need a reason at all.) 

The messages do pile on throughout the week. Various texts at different times, all on different days. Each one is more desensitizing than the last. 

jen: can you please call me? 

jen: i’ll explain everything 

jen: i’m worried sick 

jen: pls just come home

You’ll deal with clearing out the notification bubbles sometime later when the time is right. 

Rosé’s in the bathroom, door open to slip some of the excess steam out, towel to her bust. Most of the water is soaked into the cloth; her hair is half dry - half damp, combing a little at the ends with a brush, leaning on the door frame. “You think you can help me with something real quick?”

“Hm? And what would that be?” you ask, slipping on a shirt. 

She’s in the middle of the walkway now. 

“Just need some attention in a few spots,” Rosé says, very nonchalantly. Pulls apart the towel from the two folds, lets it pool at her feet. Her being naked isn’t enough to sway you into pushing her back into the shower and well- yeah. She knows it’s gonna take a lot more than just that. “Preferably the ones where you didn’t touch earlier, to be more specific.” 

“Could’ve said you wanted more,” you laugh. “Didn’t have to sugarcoat it.” 

“Where’s the fun in that?” Rosé asks, deadpanning. She sways her body where her bare ass is now in view, hips moving side to side on the balls of her feet, looking over her shoulder to solidify the image. “We got a little more time on our hands and besides, it’s Christmas Eve.” 

You’re back following her in a heartbeat. 

–

You may be sloppy and shameless, but you are also very intricate in how you approach things. It’s in how your mouth moves: precise, calculated - licking down her slutty little waist, to her clit, getting everything you’ve ever needed between those glorious thighs of hers. 

On your knees like you’re in reverence, you’re worshiping Rosé’s pussy; hoping that she could give you the blessing of eating her out like it’s your one-way ticket to heaven. The insides of her thighs press inward, her fingers in your hair pulling you exactly where she wants. 

Rosé almost slides off the bathroom counter when she finally cums. She’s yelling her heart out, hissing through her teeth. Neither of you are thinking about the possible noise complaint that you’ll get for the sixth time this week. 

“Fuck, yes,” she huffs, pressing your head harder with her legs. “Yes- yes, just that.” 

You raise yourself and give your fingers the fill, nipple between your teeth while the knuckle curls inside- 

She grasps at your neck - like you’re going off to war and she’s bagging on the chance she’ll never see you again, “Baby, I can’t say this enough,” she rasps, whining a high pitch when you hit her favorite spot, “I literally need you to ruin me,” and you nod, because you will. 

Doesn’t take that long for her to cum again soon after, figuratively off the cliff face first. Her body goes limp, eyes glossy, panting as if she’s dehydrated. She keeps her legs closed, your hand caught in the crossfire, hoping that you’ll stay once the sun shines after the storm. 

Once the clouds of lust finally pass the both of you: 

“Good use of our time actually, what do you think?” 

Rosé looks up to you, hand on her cheek, wiping the dry stream of tears. 

“We can still go,” she sighs. “I just need a few more minutes because, fuck, can’t think straight when you’re staring at me while I’m like this.” 

“Saying that I went too far?” 

“No- but,” her groan makes you chuckle, “that’s not it. It never is, I-” 

“I?” you carry on with the overhanging thought. 

“I know that you have different sides, but this- this one is just- I don’t know, to me, it just feels right.” 

She manages to get herself up from the edge of the bed, legs a bit wobbly but manageable. You’re patting down her overcoat and adjusting the scarf around her neck, cupping her face. Her hands find yours stacked on top. 

“Not letting me go, hm?” Rosé asks, humming. “That’s not very kind.”

“Want me to carry you? ‘Cause I can most definitely do that, if it makes it easier,” and it comes off so casually. You’ll stay true to your good intentions, worrying about the punishment for the crime later. 

Rosé nods, and looks down, kissing the crown of her head. She’s entrapped with this spell of desire, unsure of who got it first. It’s boundless, even when you’re hugging her. Boundless, and you’ve concluded that it’ll stay. 

–

(The muddled wet-suck of her cunt. The grip. Her listless sighs and whimpers of praise plague your brain. You're having your fill; filling her up with your cock like old times. Like it's meant to be.

You fuck her again, and all it takes is one look, and she knows. It's plastered in those rosy pink cheeks at that lip bite that makes you crave her more - it's maddening.

An untethered devotion: you could give her everything she ever wanted.

If it takes the space left open in her heart, you'd pledge yourself to get her back without a second thought.)

–

The time’s ticking; the sands in the hourglass are almost at the bottom. Part of you is torn between finally getting this trip over with and stirred that you and Rosé will probably never see each other again in the coming days. Aside from the rough, raw sex, you also realize that it’s been pretty refreshing to reconnect with the girl that you shared a good third of your life with and fall into old habits as if nothing had ever happened between you two. 

You’re starting to reminisce on how it had all gone wrong. 

Rosé, without a care in the world, stares up into the deep blue sky. The Eiffel Tower still has some guests visiting, sightseeing, and enjoying the present company that they have. You have your phone in your hands, taking pictures of everything within distance. Each click that’s pressed is a reminder of what little you will have to cling to once this fever dream is all done and dusted. 

She’s a bit out of arm's reach from you, enjoying the brisk weather and the overall ambiance that’s happening with the people around her. Her digicam in one hand, phone in the other. At some point she’s recording a guy that’s playing with his accordion, going down his list of Christmas carols, happily nodding along to the joyous tunes. She keeps on snapping photos wherever she happens to see or notice first. Canvassing the area, like a lighthouse with her phone in hand- 

Until her camera finally lands on you. She’s snapping a photo of you. You’re snapping a photo of her. 

(It’s a gunshot without the smoke. Yours and her version of Halley's comet flying over you. The realization settles in: you both fucked up.) 

You stand there motionless - phone lowered and you just look at Rosé. She does the same. Time halts to a standstill as the both of you just admire one another. Your expression is stoic while her’s is filled with an expression that’s told by her glossy eyes and uneven breathing. 

She moves without fail, running towards you; before you know it, she’s jumping in your arms, clinging onto you so hard that it’s nearly suffocating. Her sniffles are a lot louder now, and you start rubbing the back of her head in the same motion that you know brings her comfort. 

“Hey-” Rosé stutters, burying her face into your collarbone. “I- I just, God, I’m such an idiot-” 

“There’s no need for that,” you whisper, “I know. I know.” 

Like always, Rosé’s face is in your hands yet again; wiping away the tears and cradling her as if nothing else had mattered. You chuckle at the sobs she lets out, and she hits your arm. “Can we-” you’re rubbing her head still to help gather her thoughts, “can we go back to the hotel now? I think we’re good for today.” 

“Yeah. Yeah, we’ll do that. Okay. Let’s go back.” 

–

(Midway on the walk back, you decide to bet it all on the line. If it doesn’t happen now, the chances of it happening later become less likely.

“I need to stop by somewhere for a sec,” you’re telling Rosé with a sudden clutch of her hand to stop her. “Wanted to surprise you with a gift.” 

Rosé furrows her brows together, but shakes her head, smiling. “Promise you’ll meet me back at the hotel?” 

“Won’t be long, I promise.” You reassure, kissing her and her hand soon after.) 

–

You’ve never been so fast to come back to someone in your life, bouquet of roses in hand like those tv melodramas that always milks the simple moment for absolutely no reason. This might feel like one of those moments, all honesty considered, but who’s really to judge when you’re preparing for the inevitable. 

The keycard slots itself in, followed by the click of the lock once closed. You notice that the lights were already dimmed - the actual preference you and Rosé agreed on after the first night, the only difference was the trail of undergarments leading to the open area of the room. 

And that’s when you see her. 

She’s knelt on the bed, a singular rose in her hands. Her outfit is uncovered by the layers of pants, hoodie, and scarf - revealing a lingerie set on her that you’ve never seen before, painted in scarlet red. It highlights her natural complexion, not to mention her hair - she’s the literal image of your long-lost wet dreams come to life. 

“Like what you see?” Rosé asks, staring while you remain motionless. 

You drop the bouquet in your hand, not for dramatic effect of course, but in utter shock at how well the fabrics meld onto her clad body. 

She takes the hint, moving herself closer to you, on the edge of the bed while your hands ghost her figure - unsure of where to even begin. 

“I’ve said this countless times before,” you say, heart rate spiking when her palms land on your chest, “but you look amazingly good in that.” 

Her hand pulls you by the neck, and gives you a quick kiss after that. “Why thank you,” says Rosé, lip caught to her teeth when your hands slide across the lower plane of her back, resting above her ass. “I had a few other options in mind, but I always knew that your favorite color was red.” 

“Aw. So thoughtful.” 

“Fuck you.” 

“I will.” 

Rosé laughs at that. Aside from the figurative meaning, she’s aware that you can back that up. 

“Do you know why? Why I broke up with you then?” Rosé asks, face shifting to a wistful gaze. Your body freezes at the sudden question, wide eyes locked with hers as open as they can be. She twirls the rose in her fingers for a few seconds, places it at your middle, finding her words. 

“Still can’t put all of that together, you know.” You’re telling her. 

“We were young back then. We still are.” She confesses, palm to your chin as you’re doing the same. “I thought that you didn’t care how we were - like you didn’t love me anymore. Even at first now, you were such a fucking dick-” 

“Ros-” 

“Shut up, let me finish. It made me realize at that moment where I- I tho-” her words are becoming more and more shaky, you can tell in the irregular breathing, “I thought you fell out of love with me.” 

The harsh sting of truth still hurts when you’re thinking back on it for a second. It wasn’t a one person show, however, but you contributed to most of the downfall of the relationship in the past. You’ll own up to the mistakes somehow, someway; if you had the chance, you’d do it without a second thought. 

“It made me realize, this whole trip, I saw the old you,” Rosé confesses, keeping her emotions at bay as best she can, “Like how did you know that I’ve wanted a dream trip to Paris for the longest time? How long did you work on this before we- oh, right.” 

You’re laughing a bit here. Could be the psyche of trying to not come to terms with the feelings. “Use your words, it’s okay.” 

“You treated me so well this past week, putting up with my shenanigans and such, forcing you to walk wherever I go but I’m just- fuck. It fucking sucks with how we are now.” 

“I’m still hurt too,” you admit, wiping a tear off of Rosé’s cheek. “I hoped that us being here would give us some closure - which is working, but I also hope that we can still be happy as friends once all of this is over.” 

Rosé nods, sniffling. “Won’t be easy, but we can try.” 

You seal your lips with hers, finally breaking the dam of longing that you’ve been holding back until now. Her mouth burns a hum down her throat, hands weaving across your shoulders, the passion instantly infectious. 

She pulls away with a heavy sigh, “Prove it.” The words match her eyes of determination and urging. “Make love to me.” 

You’re not far from her, and you’ll follow no matter what. 

Her face is hot: scorching and engulfing at the same time. She’s quick to slip you off of your jacket - your hands fiddling with the lace decorated all over her body, pulling on your bottom lip, giving you no chance to regroup and re-hit the areas that you want to take; she’s prioritizing in keeping you close, unwilling to loosen her arms once the grips have been set. 

The fingers find the small latch of her bra, feeling her chest rise in your other hand. 

She’s peeled you off of your shirt, claiming scratches on your skin. 

You’ve got an angel within your reach - from the echelons of heaven and earth above. She’s gracing her presence onto you to the point where you will do anything to prove your devotion to her, hoping that she’ll grant you your deepest wishes - and make you forget about your darkest regrets. 

Rosé’s so responsive and you love it. Her octave goes up a key when you’re fondling along lone breast; dividing and conquering in two places at once with your other hand palming the dampness of her panties. She pulls you onto the bed, a lasso of truth that you’ll always submit to. Whispering sweet nothings, begging you to keep going; telling you more, more, and more. 

Your eyes, no matter how many times you’ve dozed off into the distance, have always landed back on Rosé in some way or form. Amidst everything, you’re magnetized to the way her eyes looked now: dangerous, wanting, hooded - as if the shades of lust have completely taken over her thoughts and with her as the vessel to carry all of those bad deeds out, as if you were the only one who could control this growing feeling. 

When she finally settles on the pillows, the heat’s already become too infectious, her face flushed and lips generally parted, waiting for your return. You go for her neck, and her body tenses, back arching and heels sliding up the sheets, unsure of where to rest as you’re catering to her lovely neck. 

“How bad do we want this?” you start, fingertip to your lip before wetting it. “You up for it?” 

Rosé bites her lips as always and nods. “Fuck,” she gasps, taken off guard by your lips to her collarbone again. “I want it.” 

A press deep into the slick center of her panties only solidifies what she’s implying. 

Her hands work with yours, sliding her out of the last piece like clockwork, her tongue clashing against yours as she shuffles herself up against the headboard, but you lean down to keep her in place. The sooner you pin her down to reach her soft spots, the more likely she’ll break within minutes - it’s all part of the plan. 

Giving her a heads up wasn’t an option, and that’s proven so when your fingers slide up against her slick folds, getting a feel for what’s to come when you eventually push inside and spread her open, teasing by dipping no more than your fingernail into her cunt, rubbing her clit to up the sensitivity. 

“You fucking tease, I know- ah-” she spits, squirming at your touch, the friction becoming a necessity. Her inner thighs press together, holding your hand hostage. That only prompts you to traverse your fingers deeper into her pussy, and she moans. “R-right there.” 

She doesn’t know what to do with her hands, or her legs, let alone her entire body in this state. The pleasure is too much to bear, and the snowball effect keeps on building. You kiss her again to keep her mind off the finger fucking you’re doing to her; she digs her nails into your forearm, pulling you by the neck to deepen the lip lock. As much as you’d love to eat her out into the night, the way that she is right now is just enough for your satisfaction. 

“God, yes- fuck-” 

You know that she’s almost there; all it takes is a little push. She’s grinding her hips against your hand, the three digits inside her too much to handle. Each whimper and moan and sigh she lets out is nearly bittersweet to hear and witness - pitiful that she got herself like this for you, and there’s nothing that she can do about it. 

“Gonna make you cum so much,” you say huskily, pressing your forehead against hers as you feel her eyebrows mesh and rise, unsure of what to focus on. But you know exactly what it is, and it’s that euphoric rush that she won’t admit to having a craving for. “Can you do that for me? Be my good little girl and do as I say?” 

Her bobbing goes frantic; she doesn’t care either way, it’s happening regardless. 

“These fucking fingers,” Rosé grits, her first words that aren’t an ‘mmm’ or ‘ah’ or ‘hah’ in a while. “Baby, baby, holy shit, you’re fucking me so well with your hand, I’m so close- shit, I’m so fucking close.” 

“Yeah? Let go, Rosie. I want to see you cum for me.” She pulls you in to keep her mind off of your hand, hips bucking at an insane rate. You could feel the shake in her thighs, sliding in and out of her cunt - the press of your thumb on her clit an additional point of pressure. Her eyes open and close, lazily matching the pace of your fingers and steadying. 

All it takes is one more slide; one more press, and she’s fucking gone. 

The sight is the holy land you’ve managed to see time and time again: watching her cum on your fingers. It’s in the rosy blush spread on her face, and you’re pretty sure that she’s squirted a bit onto your arm, but you bear no mind to that. 

“There we go, would you just- look?” You’re enamored, amazed. Your Rosé is so pliant and willing to let you have control so easily that it shouldn’t be this straightforward to do. 

“God, the fucking mess. Rosé-” 

And the sigh is just heavenly. 

She’s shaking her head in disbelief. Your fingers are still inside her, hauling past the edge of her orgasm that she can’t do anything about it. 

You eventually give her a minute or two to breathe. Because she deserves it. 

Unfortunately: one thing was never going to be enough for someone like Rosé. 

Because she’s the kind of person who will always want to see things to the end. Usually, there’s a pause, a breather, probably the overhanging thought of what you’ve done to her again for the thousandth possible time on this trip - in these four walls - a glass of water would also suffice, or a bathroom break, but not tonight. 

Rosé’s fingers are fast around the button of your pants, and you get the hint right away. You can easily tell from the glint in her eyes that if you don’t take her cunt and fuck her apart the way that she wants, there’s certainly going to be irreversible damage. This is all you are doing. It’s the match of madness that you don’t want to admit but accept wholeheartedly. 

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re insane?” You ask, hand coiling her waist, pulling her close, thumb at the edge of her belly button. 

“Hmm, I think someone has, but I might need a refresher of sorts,” Rosé replies, a sultry smile as she watches you lick up her mess spread across your digits. “Add that to the number of things you’re willing to fix.” 

“Who said anything about fixing?” You dart back, reining her in by the waist, listen close to the stack of laughs, break down with every rumple and fold you do to her arms and legs. 

She glances at your throbbing cock waiting at her entrance, slipping the tip right in as a test, the rest to follow along until the noises coming out of her are broken, relieved. 

“Okay,” she’s saying, shimmying down your length, and raising her hips. “Impress me.” 

So, you get one thrust in for good measure, her hands braced around your back and legs finding a foothold around your hips. “How’s that so far?” 

Rosé’s fucking arch. Her pussy grips around you like a fist - hot and tight. She looks up and then at you, softer, prettier, and you’re beginning to wonder if it was ever worth getting stranded with her for a week and not ending up like this. It’s in the sound, the feeling; fucking her in this fashion: sliding yourself in and out of her so nicely. Clinging. Dragging. Every night after the first has always been like this. And the things she says: 

“Bet that feels good, right?” Pulling you from the back of your head, leaning down. “Just keep- keep, fuck, baby, like that. Holy shit, I fucking can’t-” 

Here she goes again: the praising. She’s scratching your scalp, patting your back. Nails down your spine. The tempo has her gasping in a sweet tone. “Have you like this and fuck, goddamit,” you sigh, and she looks at you like she knows what the fuck you’re talking about. 

You snap into her hips a little harder the next stroke. Pounding deep in her cunt was the eventual endgame. Her stomach dips with her next breath. Sucks her lips in. 

Oh, and that whimper; that bubbling whimper mixed into a wail of some sort. She’s looking at you; deep into your eyes where she wishes to see that part of that universe she knows she should’ve never left in the first place. Her smile is lazy. She’s got that fucked-out gaze written all over her. 

“Too much?” you say, diving into the curve of her jaw to where she moans at the contact. 

“Never,” she mumbles, cock drunk at the continuous pressing you’re doing inside of her. 

“Good,” you rasp. 

“Baby, baby, baby,” Rosé purrs, nails clawing away the skin and sweat off your back, clutching, “Please keep fucking me.” 

You bite a patch of skin away from the underside of her chin. You would rather be on the back foot here - dialing it down, but she won’t utter a complaint; she wants to feel this, how hard you can be with her. She’s taken you plenty of times before, getting her so wet at the thought of fucking her raw and dumping your load until it’s dripping down her inner thigh, watch her gasp and beg for the taste when you pull yourself out and she’s almost at the edge too. 

“Not leaving you until I’ve had enough,” you’re panting, carving your dick down to the base, thumbing her clit, a twisted evil smile painted across your lips when she’s wailing out of her mind - the mere image and sound of it is obscene. 

The pace is unrelenting, it wasn’t long until she’s cumming over your cock again, and again, and again - cutting off all the tension that’s building up in her spine as you’re holding the shivers spread across her body, unable to fight back but let you take her pussy so fucking well that the noises are bouncing off the walls, mix the heat into the open air, slide yourself out and slap the head of your cock on her swollen folds before letting her walls clench around your shaft. She might be fucked out, but you know that she still wants it. 

“Please-’ she’s pleading, and you know. You can tell from her face and body alone that she’s not done yet. 

You’re leaning down on top of her again, hooking your arms underneath her shoulders that makes the upper profile of her back fold at a ridiculous curve, and fuck her down that you’re hitting all the right places-

Her chest is heaving, nothing more than just sputtering pants - something that Rosé doesn’t register in her head right away; the air gets trapped at the bottom of her throat, swallowing, her eyes crinkle as there’s no sound coming out. 

You land your lips on hers to ease her mind. “In your nose, Rosie. Like so. There we go. Leave your pussy to me. You’re so good, you’re so so good.” 

Rosé’s head knocks into yours; a fierce wail pierces your ears. You can feel the clench a little tighter when you bottom yourself out; her stomach is moving in a concerning motion. Her gaze on you is almost a mix of shock, tears welling up in her eyes. 

You’re kissing her again, swallowing her cry. “Shhhh.” you comfort her. “It’s okay. It’s okay,” you hush, wrapping your arm to her lower back so she can stay close. “You can cum again baby, I won’t hold you back.” 

Her head goes sideways, the first domino to fall. You can see her mouth shape into something coherent - probably a dragged-out wheeze, okay, fuck, just, yes. 

“More, please, give me more,” she says. “Your cock, its- fuck, baby- I-” 

“I know sweetheart,” you croon, impaling your cock deep in her cunt. “I’m working with you here. You’ll let me use your pretty little pussy whatever way you like, huh?” 

It’ll be seconds before Rosé cums again, the wear and tear your minds and bodies are having are reaching its peak. The other times of fucking were just a competition of who can get off the other first. This time it was different; now it was getting someone over the edge first over the other - no telling how far this has gone on the scales of fucked up. 

She mouths a ‘yeah’, and the situation has never been more clear. You have to fuck her. You can’t help yourself. The nodding is only prompting you to keep going, her voice completely shattered. “Just- use me.” 

Right in the clamp of her melting cunt. In the tightening of her legs. 

“Fucking-” she’s sobbing at this point; you’ve got yourself in the prime position to where your cockhead hits the deepest spot of her cunt. “s-so good. That’s so fucking good, you’re pounding me so well-” 

She shrieks when you’ve pushed her past that brink. You’re entirely certain that it was your doing. 

This was the swan song you’ve sought out to hear. A hymn played in a time of reflection - collecting your thoughts and offering them to Rosé, hoping that she can accept your blessings and absolve you of your crimes, ordaining yourself to all good actions from this point moving forward. You’ll take this liturgy for as long as you’d like; worshiping her body and listening to all the psalms that are coming out of her mouth, holding her close as she rides out the lasting remnants of her orgasm - your name as a saint’s prayer and one that she’ll keep on speaking in tongues with over and over and over until she believes it to be true. You confess, through these harsh thrusts into her cunt with your cock, choking on the vice with a vicious finesse at the angle. 

(You’d wish you stayed at the cathedral a little longer than you did that day; confessing your sins was always going to be easier than pouring a heart out for someone who ripped it right out of you.) 

“Amazing,” you praise, and Rosé does this mix of a smile and a wince when you’re wiping a tear from the corner of her eye. Her hands guide yours down to the crease of her hips, enabling you to rock her cunt down like the lovely woman that she is. 

Her voice is rattled, helpless. Like she’s been chopped up, the cracks clear as day where the faults formed. “Want- want it- I want your cum, so fucking bad, please-” 

You grin when she grins, finally reaping the reward when you tug yourself up and splatter your cum all over her body. Her chest does this circular motion, arms digging deep into the mattress beneath her, wanting her skin to be soaked so well with your release. She can’t stop moaning. She doesn’t want to stop moaning. 

“Finally,” she sighs, whimpering, mouth twisting to a satisfied smile at the corners. “God, it’s so fucking much.” 

Her hand picks up the mess spread across her waist, wraps it around your cock in no time flat. The laugh she lets out when you groan is just sinister. 

Two can play that game.

She freezes when you slide your cum-soaked cock back into her dripping cunt; listen closely at the mere gush as you slide in once more. 

“Babe-” 

You push. 

“Think I can give more, just for good measure,” reassuring, and you hold her down so hard that the next load you give is caught deep inside her cunt. 

Pushing it all back in, where it stays. 

Her eyes pinch - and there’s no voice to be heard. All that’s shown is her slacked jaw, the air in her lungs passing through, soon filled with the shape of your lips pressed against hers. 

"It's so- it's so fucking warm inside me, baby-"

"Yeah?"

Rosé sniffles again as her body tries to shudder out the cum leaking from her slit. You don't let it happen though.

You keep breathing her in; she brackets your hips with what little strength she has left. It doesn’t take much, and you know. 

Because Rosé’s got you right where she wants, to the point where your bodies are so well molded into one where each heartbeat and thought are the same, feeling the suction of her pussy wrapped around your cock like it’s the missing piece. Half of ones together make a whole. Your cock fits so well. Above the soreness and debauchery. Once the mess is finally made. Where you’ll want to keep your cock warm and settled until you or her have finally had enough. She’s speaking nonsense still; and you just- keep- fucking going. Fucking into her cunt like it's the only thing you know how to do. Even when the throbbing subsides. 

Until you decide to fully embrace her. 

The heat’s still present where it stays; you don’t even make a move to clean yourself up - it’s too early for that. Instead, the sheets are pulled over you and her, take her fingers in your hands, and hold them right as they are. 

You look at the clock on the nightstand; a little before midnight. “We’re showering together, right?” Rosé pouts her lips, burrowing her head into the space of your collarbone, hand held up and over scratching your hair. 

“Yeah,” she says, nestling her head further up against your chest. “A few minutes here, please. With me. Stay with me.” The disarm is already in effect, and you wonder if you’re at the right place and at the right time; where your heart should be, it’s a brief period of pensiveness. 

–

You blacked out. When your vision comes to, there’s nothing much for your eyes to see except the endless void of darkness that stretches over the room until the glow from the streetlights below breaks through the window. Each blink you do makes you wonder how much time has passed - along with the countless questions of what’s to come next. The thrum of your heart pounds heavy against your ears, but you’re breathing, and alive. You also notice that the space on your right side is a lot lighter compared to earlier, the quick rush of anxiety plaguing your mind. 

That all changes when you look out the window again, specks of white floating down gracefully. 

It’s snowing again. 

“Oh, you’re up,” Rosé’s voice instantly reels you, towel wrapped around her neck and in some comfortable clothes. “I was just about to wake you.” She crawls back on the bed to your side and kisses your cheek. The moment alone holding your heart in limbo. “Sorry, I thought I’d get ahead and use the shower first. You looked so peaceful sleeping.” 

Only she would be the one to blame for that. 

“Why are you dressed up?” You ask, fixing your posture and leaning into Rosé’s face for another quick kiss. She draws away playfully, wagging her head a ‘no’ that makes you lean back as a result. “We would’ve saved water if we went together.” 

“It’s fine,” Rosé tuts, ruffling your hair. “Go shower and get dressed. I wanna go for a walk.” 

“Really? Why? Right now? It’s late.” 

“But it’s also Christmas,” Rosé adds, walking away while you’re finally sitting on the edge of the bed. “We won’t be out for long. And besides, what’s wrong with a little more cardio?” 

You give her a smirk at the end in agreement. Her feet are cemented in place until you reach forward with an arm, pulling her in. Once reeled she tilts her head in surrendering because she knows that you'd be clingy without explicitly saying it.

She's back on your lap. She's yours. She can be yours again. A wish that you want to make true.

"Gonna let me go?" Rosé asks, giggling, and you kiss her.

"Maybe," you answer, leaning up for another peck since it's not hurting anybody. "Just wanted to tell you Merry Christmas."

–

When the snowflakes hit your skin, part of you on the inside is jumping for joy. It’s even better as your ears are filled with Rosé’s contagious laughter, running up the sidewalk and picking up clumps of snow in her hand. 

You make sure to be right behind her, for as much as you can.

–

“This whole thing has been a blast,” she says, slowing her pace when you and she are on the edge of a bridge. In the late hours in the city, where anyone could get away with anything, it’s just you and her - five feet apart from each other, walking along, wandering wherever your feet go. “An absolute dream come true for me. For us.”

The snow starts to land on your head along with your shoulders. 

“Part of me makes me wonder,” Rosé continues, hands wrapped around her long scarf, keeping her neck warm, nodding her head side to side when her eyes eventually land on the sea of locks put on the fencing of the bridge. She knows exactly where she is. You know exactly where she took you. “Would any of this be different if we didn’t go our separate ways?” 

“It’s a pretty good thought,” you tell her. Your exhale shows your warm breath dissipating into the cold air, causing you to bunch up your shoulders to your ears to make the heat stay. “Makes me wonder if you’d put it in your old diary back in middle school.” 

“Hey. Fuck you.” 

You shrug your shoulders with a smirk and walk closer to her. “I know you. You would.” 

Her feet stop at a random padlock just underneath the railing. She slides it into her palm, examining it. It’s not anybody she knows in particular - just the fact that what stood out to her was the neat handwriting of the initials drawn up in a Sharpie. You feel her gaze on you when you approach her side, taking a closer look at what’s in her hand, slotting your palm underneath. 

She keeps staring at the lock, leaning your face into your chest. You bury your nose in her hair, thoughts trailing to someplace where you don’t want to think about anything else. 

You point at another fancy lock decorated with gems. She points out an old-fashioned one next to you. 

‘Hey,” she says once more, looking up. The lift in your eyebrows serves as the appropriate response. Silence starts to grow between you two, the gust of wind blowing through your bodies. 

Rosé tries to read into your expression: stoic and mysterious. She knows that you’re not one to vocalize your thoughts out loud - instead, you stay quiet and listen obediently, waiting for your turn to speak when it’s the right time. A soft smirk spreads across her lips, knowing exactly what’s going on in that brain or yours. 

You wrap your arms around her and rest your chin on top of her forehead. “I think you have a general idea of what I’m thinking about right now.” 

She’s laughing into your chest, unable to look up. You look down to see what was taking her so long, only to realize that she’s hiding her tears away from the world. 

Somehow, like before, you know exactly how to comfort her when the emotions are starting to boil within her. “Rosie.” You’re saying her name softly, clutching her tighter now, the grasp of your fingers reaching to where you wish for them to stay. 

“I just wished that maybe-” and her voice breaks. Composure is starting to weigh down on your shoulders; heart rate rising in uncertainty. “Maybe if weren’t such idiots back then, we-” and the sentence doesn’t even get finished there. She’s trying so hard to put her thoughts into words, “like maybe in another life we weren’t like- well, this.” 

Her face is back in your hands, the tears building and spilling all at once. You give her a look of sorrowfulness - hopelessly, desperately, longing to make her realization a reality. 

“Memories, Rosé,” you’re telling her, “they’re all just memories. We don’t need the memories. Depreciating yourself isn’t gonna make anything better because we both grew.”

The tears well up in your eyes, too. You may be broken, but she’s also the same.

"I hope you can forgive me for a lot of things; for cutting you off and leaving you in the dark," she tells you, jaw twitching - unable to make eye contact, linking her fingers with yours, "but if there's one thing you choose to never forgive me on, my dear, is the fact that I wasted all your precious years."

(I know, you’re saying to her, in tandem with a verse that you’ll recite as penance once you and her part ways. I don't care. I don't care. I don't care about any of that. I just want the both of us to be there for each other, no matter what happens in between.) 

–

As of now, you’re mentally checked out from all the logistics once everything’s been checked in at the airport, waiting to board. Rosé’s dozed off on your arm. She thought that it was a good idea to get less than the usual six hours of sleep and her current state serves to be the consequence. The scarf draped around her shoulders was yours, adamant in wanting to save another keepsake from you; she claims that it looked better on her. (Which is a bit of an insult, you think. Though it’ll do the job of covering up the bruises along her neck just fine.) 

But, things are played out differently in the final act of the return trip. 

You hear her flight announce the boarding phase and tap her shoulder to wake her up. She shoots up instantly, blinking. Everything else falls into place: gathering her belongings, rolling up her luggage to where she can grab and go, fixing up her appearance with that one pair of sunglasses that she likes so much, but doesn’t wear just yet. You walk with her to the main walkway of the gates, getting all of the last looks you’ll possibly have in these last few moments. 

The familiarity with distance affects the healthy human mind to think of it as some sort of curse rather than a luxury - depending on the situation, you’ll take it with a grain of salt. 

Her arms are folded with her handbag and jacket, staring at you so eagerly. “So, you just gonna stay quiet this whole time or-” 

You scoff, because it’s the truth - and so like you. “Uh- well, I was just wondering,” you say, scratching your head shamelessly. “Are you sure you want go forward with this?” 

Rosé bobs her head for yes. The decision’s already been made; no point in changing it. “Unless you want to create a shit storm with our friends when we get back, then by all means go for it.” 

“Right.” you deadpan. “Just for accountability.” 

“If things do go south, you know where my flight’s headed. And given the present situation that you’re in, I’m in no position to make that choice for you,” she says, looking over to the tv board to see where her boarding gate was at. “Guess this is it, " she declares, sighing, "any last things or words you want to do or say?” 

You say something. And you do something. You pull her in for a hug, get the last whiffs of her coconut scented shampoo in her hair; she kisses you. You kiss her forehead as her eyes flutter shut; you hold her a bit too long for your liking, but tells you that she doesn’t mind. Don’t be far away, okay? At least let me catch up for once. 

She tells you: never. It’s a running inside joke. The classic game of cat and mouse, an old fabled goose chase; you’ll keep going after her even when you don’t expect it to happen. She’ll lure you back in so easily that all it doesn’t sound terrible as it seems. 

–

When you do settle on the plane, you have your moment of getting the window seat. Your eyes are getting familiar with the arraignment, how cramped the leg room is, the assortment of movies you know that you’ll sleep through. There’s a lot of things circilng around your head; either one at a time or all at once. This fever dream is coming to and end, and you’re left torn to not tell the tale. 

You check your phone and turn off do not disturb, taking in all the notifications that you missed the past few days. The work messages, fill-ins with coworkers and friends; then there’s Jennie’s messages. 

“I’m so fucked.” You manage, muttering under your breath. Tongue tip to your teeth to mentally prepare youself for what’s to come. 

–

(You keep thinking about that night on the bridge, holding Rosé in your arms - in midst of the cold weather hitting you. She tells you that this getaway was everything to her, and it’s the simplicity in the delivery that makes you want to share those snap-shot moments with her even more. Nothing else mattered to you: managing to fall in love with her all over again. 

We can try, you’re saying, we can always try again, and she smiles through the tears. You and me. Together. Properly.

“I’ve always loved the idea of starting over. It’s exciting. All of these things. All of these moments we spent together, it just felt right,” and her gaze goes crestfallen. “Never really thought that I’d come back to you, and I couldn’t be more proud.” 

And once you’re way up in the sky, it does feel like some sort of whirlpool back into the reality of life, the final fade to black shot - you look out the window and ponder: a choice can be made still. All of the stars have to align at just the right time for it to happen. It can happen. You could alter the course of the story if you just made the right calls. Maybe you will. 

Your gaze falls down to the ocean below - and maybe it’s a long shot, winding into a pipe dream. 

You’ll never realize what you can do unless you take the chance.) 

[kendrysaneela]

Genuinely. I really need people to stop saying “It’s only canon if they kiss” because 1. That means we will never get a slowburn queer relationship because no one will ever believe it without a kiss 2. That destroys queercoding. Which is a very important part of queer representation. And queercoding is not queerbaiting please learn the difference. 3. Not to mention how much queer representation we’d lose from history if kissing is a necessity for the representation to exist.

And then here’s a more modern example. So on the Kevin Can Fuck Himself there’s these two women Allison and Patty. This show was made by a queer woman. Allison and Patty are both stuck under the control of these abusive men. Patty stuck under the control her little brother who keeps her under his control out of guilt from their childhood. And Allison who’s stuck with her abusive husband mentally and financially. And also possibly even physically though that’s never explicitly stated the threat of that just lies in the air. And the show is basically Allison and Patty working together to escape the abusive men in their lives. And throughout this process they start to fall in love with each other. This is made so incredibly clear by the show. And Patty eventually becomes a canon lesbian. (She never says the word lesbian but they make that clear) Patty is more obviously in love with Allison most likely because she’s a canon lesbian whereas Allison’s sexuality is more still up in the air and she’s sleeping with a different guy. But it’s there you can see it. And we had it confirmed offscreen by the showrunner that Patty was in love with Allison and we know that because Patty said “Maybe can die alone together” and that was confirmed as an “I love you” by the showrunner. They’re leaning their heads together with their eyes closed when this scene happens. Very romantically coded. Then the show got prematurely cancelled halfway through the second season so they had to rush to wrap everything up in the second half of season 2. So Allison and Patty escape the abusive men in their lives much quicker than originally planned and in a different way than originally planned. Also lots of the original storyline between Allison and Patty had to be cut out because of it leading to a loss of development we otherwise would’ve gotten. But in the end they meet up again and they sit on the steps of Allison’s house and Patty says “Let’s die alone together” and Allison repeats “Let’s die alone together” now it’s already been established by the showrunner that this means “I love you” so you can take from that that they are in love with each other and somewhere down the line they will become a real couple. And that they will be together forever. The showrunner said about that scene “They are romantically alone but always together” or something like that. And SO MANY PEOPLE decided that because they didn’t kiss or say I love you that the entire show was a waste and all their romantic scenes were for naught just because they didn’t kiss or say “I love you” at the end and the QUEER showrunner didn’t explicitly say “That scene means they’re in love” and a big reason I saw people give for being angry at that was that “Straight people won’t know they’re queer they can just deny it if it’s not explicit!” And here’s the thing. Not only should we not be defining queer representation by how straight people view it but also straight people will deny canon queer representation even if they DO kiss!

Like for example on the show Doctor Odyssey there’s a canon slowburn mmf throuple. It’s been confirmed by the actors and showrunners that them being a throuple is going to be being explored this season on the show. All three of the characters Max,Avery and Tristan have all slept together once and they’ve all stated they liked it and the next episode they discussed the idea of polyamory and they showed us a polyamorous couple that was together and happy had all the characters discuss what polyamory is how it works and how it’s valid. The female character Avery very much wants them to be a throuple after their threesome and discusses it with the boys using the words “Throuple” and “Polyamorous” onscreen. the boys are still reluctant at the moment but they’ll get there they just need a second to get used to the idea. It’s basically as canon as canon can get before they actually become fully canon. And lemme repeat. Avery is the character who’s the most onboard for them being a throuple this is canon. They make this very explicit. She initiates the threesome and she spends an entire episode trying to convince the boys to be in a throuple with her. Yet yesterday? I saw an article talking about “Who should Avery choose?” Between the two boys. When the whole storyline of theirs is she isn’t going to choose nor does she want to. But yet there was an article STILL not getting it. Even with the words POLYAMOROUS AND THROUPLE being used in an episode MULTIPLE times and them all having slept together AND CANONICALLY ENJOYING IT. (They say so in words onscreen) And yet there the article was still denying it because it wasn’t fully canon yet. That’s what I’m talking about. Even when it is explicit as explicit as explicit can be straight people are going to deny it. So why are we defining our own queer rep by how straight people view it? It’s ours not theirs. They can come along and enjoy it if they choose they’re completely welcome! The more the merrier! But we shouldn’t define rep for us by how theyll view it. Because some straight people will never accept queer rep as real no matter how explicit it is. So their opinion doesn’t matter.

Discussions of what "counts" as "canon" queer representation fall apart the second you start talking about media older than about five years or so. If your only metric for "canon queerness" is a character looking directly into the camera and explaining their identity in specific, modern, US-American-English terminology, you're not going to get a good picture of what queer media looks like. If your barometer for what counts as "canon" requires two characters of the same gender to kiss on-screen, you're not going to get a good picture of what queer media looks like.

Dr. Septimus Pretorius (portrayed by Ernest Thesiger in 1935's Bride of Frankenstein) was never going to look directly into the camera and explain his sexuality in 2024 terms, but he remains an icon in queer media history. You cannot look at that character (blatantly queer-coded in the manner of the time, played by a queer man in a film directed by another queer man) and tell me that he isn't a part of queer media history.

To be honest, even when discussing modern queer media, I would argue that the popular idea of what "counts" as "canon" is very narrow and flawed. I've seen multiple posts in the past few days that say the Nimona movie is "implied" trans representation, and I just...no, y'all, it's not "implied," it's an allegory. The entire damn movie is about transgender struggle, and the original comic is deeply tied into N.D. Stevenson's own queer journey. It isn't subtle. You cannot look at that movie and pretend that it isn't about trans struggle. It's blatant, and to say that Nimona "isn't canonically trans" is a take that misses the story's entire message, and the blatant queerphobia that almost kept the movie from happening. (I wrote a five thousand word essay about the topic.)

Queer themes, queer coding, queer exploration, and queer representation can all exist in a piece of media that doesn't seem to have "canon queer characters" on the surface. Most queer characters are never going to be able to explicitly state their specific identity labels, be it due to censorship or just due to the fact that scenes like that don't fit in some narratives. Some stories aren't conducive to a big "so what's your identity?" scene.

Explicit, undeniable, "this is my identity in no uncertain terms" scenes are very important and radical, and I'm not saying they shouldn't ever exist. I am saying that you can't consider those scenes the only way for queerness in a piece of media to be "canon."

[lilac-sweet]

I’ve seen a lot of posts discussing whether Solas and Mythal’s relationship was romantic in nature, or it was some kind of mother/son deal, but I think the answer is a lot simpler and staring us all in the face: Solas was Mythal’s dog.

So a lot has been said about how toxic Mythal and Solas’ relationship was, and I’m not gonna get into all that. What I will say, is that I believe the relationship’s power imbalance may have become gradually bigger after Solas took physical form at Mythal’s behest.

When Solas said: “I will always follow where you go”, we should take note of the word “follow”. Solas did not lead with the other Evanuris; he followed Mythal and had her markings on his face. Much like how Ghilan’nain followed Andruil, yet their relationship was romantic, and Ghilan’nain quickly agreed to take on a leadership role when offered. Solas did not. We don’t know whether he was never offered one or that he simply had no desire to lead (both might be true), but the disparity between Mythal and Solas’ positions were noted by those around them, and was interpreted (we hear it from Elgar’nan) as Solas being Mythal’s “lapdog”. This interpretation seemed to be the general consensus- proven by the many dog-like statues in Mythal’s temple, and Solas symbolically becoming known as a canine.

We don’t know how Solas felt being compared to a dog - perhaps the comparison seemed flattering/ less condescending in the beginning: we know that there are strong bonds between people and their animals in dragon age: Davrin and Assan, Kell and Hafter, and the general lore about Marbari dogs. “Turlum” is a powerful thing (as we see with Davrin and Assan) and may have been exactly how they felt about each other.

When we explore the lighthouse we come across a piano and a codex entry called “memories of a duet”:

the relief of private achievement, away from well-meant misunderstanding and mindless worship; an unspoken joy in the center of rising, perfect echoes.

Finally, a beloved memory surfaces. A smiling glance, meeting at a crescendo; a shared moment of understanding; seeing completely, and being wholly seen.

This entry seems to sum up their relationship quite well: “away from well-meant misunderstanding” (could refer to a romantic interpretation of their relationship), and “seeing completely, and being wholly seen.” (Turlum)

Whatever the relationship had started as, the power imbalance seems to have reached a peak around the time the Evanuris decided they wanted to lead their people as gods. We don’t know whether there actually was a power difference between the Evanuris and the rest of the elves when they were all spirits: my guess is there was one, but not a huge one: perhaps the difference between a normal person and a mage. When the Evanuris decided they were gods, they made a hard line in the sand: separating themselves from their people, and separating Mythal from Solas. This is also where the “lapdog” comment from Elgar’nan seems incredibly condescending.

The markings on his face no longer symbolize devotion, but ownership. He burns them off and instead of a dog becomes a wolf (using the allegory of Elgar’nan). An obvious metaphor here is that the markings symbolize a dog collar.

He frees the elves but becomes an unwilling symbol himself, thus separating him from his people after already having been separated from the Evanuris. The man literally becomes a lone wolf.

However, Mythal and Solas’ love for each other continues, and is obviously still strong when Solas asks Mythal to run away with him (at this point he must feel desperately lonely). What happens to Solas when Mythal dies can only be imagined: there’s a reason why Assan follows Davrin in death.

For the first time in his physical life he is truly alone and has to figure out who he is without Mythal. The only role he has ever known away from her, is the rebel leader. He doubles down on his efforts to stop the Evanuris and destroys the world of the elves in the process. His grief and regret over Mythal and the home of the elves chart his course from when he wakes up until inquisition.

With a friendly inquisitor and especially a romanced Lavellan he finds a new role, or rather, he rediscovers himself before Mythal: a spirit of wisdom. For the first time in a long time he also finds a companion: someone he can rely on. Someone who eases that lonely ache he must have felt for millennia.

There are many cool aspects of the Crestwood scene (romanced Lavellan), but the one I want to highlight is Solas’ reaction to the vallaslin: when he decides to tell her the truth of who he was/is, but chickens out the last second. He panics and the fact that he immediately jumps to the vallaslin says something about how tied it is to him psychologically. He doesn’t force Lavellan to get rid of it, but he certainly does his very best to convince her. It is the moment Solas truly sees Lavellan as his mirror image and his equal. She is another lone wolf, mindlessly worshipped and ostracized, but she still wears that damn collar.

I am convinced Solas knows rationally that the vallaslin no longer means what it once meant - Lavellan can even insist the Dalish have reclaimed it, and he still tries to convince her to get rid of it, because to HIM it symbolizes enslavement and it is a painful reminder of his own ties to Mythal (it is an even stronger parallel if the inquisitor drinks from the well and has Mythal’s markings).

This is also the difference between Mythal and Lavellan: one is the master (with every connotation) the other another wolf.

In conclusion: Mythal and Solas had the relationship of a master and their dog: a relationship that many with pets themselves can relate to, both in the aspect of devotion, companionship, and in the power imbalance. In a way the “mother” interpretation isn’t far off - it just so happens that Solas is a fur baby.

[bonebabbles]

TEQ: 7

The Clans have each sent a rep to go see what the humans are doing to poison SkyClan's river; Leafstar, Tawnypelt, Crowfeather, Bayshine, and owlnose

Tawny and Crow are reminded of the destruction of the old Forest. The others on the patrol, cats who did not experience that traumatic event, are dismissive. Crowfeather ends up snapping at Leafstar for coming up with a hollow speech about cooperation and "Making Things Work" in the face of having their home destroyed a second time.

...It's also where the TawnyCrow bait begins in earnest.

I'm actually going to share this moment because it's a really good example, to me, of how WC's emphasis on romance can massively cheapen fantastically complicated feelings and drama.

Like... girl idk I don't think this is about Feathertail. Maybe it's about how, like, he lost his fucking home? Y'know?? A bunch of elders got left behind and probably starved to death? He watched friends and family die from being poisoned by rabbits??

The stress of the journey caused his leader to die and set off a succession crisis which ended with Crowfeather's mentor getting crushed by a tree, man. I think Feathertail is like, concern 8 or 9 here. Like, she didn't even die as a result of the destruction, she died as a result of sudden Oh Fuck A Gougar event.

Even in an alternate universe where I didn't have any other issues with how the writers use Crowfeather, or how they're shoving Tawnypelt specifically into romantic desires, I would be dissatisfied with the way the narrative pivots off the interesting conflict to gesture at romance.

ALSO; Tawnypelt has a moment where she thinks about clawing a human's face off and then is like, "no... this would only make things worse..." and like. Why do you think that. You are a battle cat. You've never even tried it. do it, tawny. kill a man. be reborn as a lotus flower

[spiderb00]

WHITE XMAS, FAM OUT W FRUITCAKE

Jeong Yoonchae X Reader (platonic)  Sophia Laforteza x reader 

“Snow covered all the parts of the place, prebenting Yoonchae from returning home for Christmas. With that in mind, you decided to make sure the youngest girl had an unforgettable Christmas.” 

Genre – fluff    Warnings – none  fruitcake masterlist fam out masterlist

Now playing – White xmas, by Sabrina Carpenter 

Yoonchae was crying, sobbing in the back seat of the car, the younger girl's head on top of Sophia's legs, as your girlfriend tried to calm her down. You were heartbroken, driving back to the Kats' house, listening to the murmurs of Sophia who tried to calm Yoonchae down.   

The sky darkened and the Christmas lights seemed to get stronger at night, you and Sophia had driven a few minutes to drop off the younger girl at the airport, Yoonchae was excited to visit her parents, taking advantage of the Christmas and New Year holidays to spend some nice time with her family. However, when you arrived at the airport, you were told that the flight from Yoonchae had been canceled ‘cause of the weather, destroying the plans and the heart of little maknae.   

You can see Yoonchae's lip quiver as soon as she heard the news from the airport employee, and it wasn't long before the Korean buried her head in Sophia's shoulder and started crying.   

"Yn, can we please not go to the Kats' house?" Yoonchae asked, lifting her head slightly from Sophia's lap to look at you in the car's rearview mirror.  

"Of course Yoonchip, whatever you want." You said, giving an understanding smile to the younger girl, who just laid her head on your girlfriend's thighs, sniffling and muttering a "Thank you".  

Looking in the rearview mirror again, you have Sophia's vision, the Filipina offers a sad smile to you, who just winks and waves, giving her the confidence that everything will be fine. 

Upon arriving home, Yoonchae goes upstairs to the bedroom, which was designed especially for her, leaving you and Sophia standing in the living room, not knowing what to do to improve the situation. You and the Filipina knew that Yoonchae wanted to see her family more than anything, and now that she couldn't spend the holidays with them, she probably wouldn't have the mood for anything else.   

"Poor girl, she was so anxious to go visit her family." Sophia said, going towards the kitchen and grabbing a bottle of wine, handing it to you then.  

"I know, I feel bad for her. She'll probably be upset until Christmas is over." You say as you open the wine bottle and pour the liquid into the glasses that Sophia took. 

"She really wanted to see her family, baby. It's normal for her to be frustrated." Sophia said, taking a sip of the wine and rubbing her temples.   

"It's not fair that she doesn't have a good Christmas, I want to make it special to her. I mean, I don't want to let her be sad on a date like Christmas." You say, standing behind Sophia, and massaging the woman's shoulders.   

"That's really nice of you, baby. But how would we do that?" Sophia asks, grabbing your hands and turning to face you.   

"I don't know yet, but we'll find our way." You say, making the Filipina smile and kiss your lips calmly.  

"Then let's start planning!" 

You were home alone, it was only two days before Christmas, and you were freaking out. As a chef, you've had many challenges in the kitchen, but none of them compare to learning each of the Kats' favorite dish in less than a week. You obviously already knew how to make Sophia and Yoonchae's favorite dish, but learning how to make typical foods from other countries is always a huge challenge, each dish has a unique peculiarity, and as much as all that enchanted you, it also scared you.  

"I just dropped Yoonchae off at the Kats' house, we have the whole house to ourselves..." Sophia's speech died as soon as she saw you in the kitchen, apron over your blue sweatshirt and hands dirty with food.   

"Wow, you really know how to cheer me up." Sophia continued. 

"Ha ha ha, very funny, Laforteza, but I'm working on something serious here." You say, before turning your gaze to the timer that marked the time of the food in the oven.  

"Wow! Refusing me? This must be serious." Sophia said, while laughing lightly and wrapped her arms around your waist, giving a kiss on your shoulder blade.   

"I'm testing the dishes for Christmas, I decided to make a dish based on the culture of each of the Kats." You say, stirring into another pan.

Hearing this, Sophia let go of her arms from your waist. Missing your girlfriend's warmth, you turned to face the Filipina, seeing the woman's face with a look you couldn't decipher. 

"My love, that's such a beautiful attitude." Sophia said, grabbing the sides of your face and pulling you into a quick kiss.   

"I thought and thought it was cool that all of you felt at home, even if for a simple dish." You say with a shrug.  

 "That's pretty cool, Yn. Come on, I'll help you, you can boss me around, chef!" The Filipina says, saluting while making a funny face.  

"All right, you can put on your apron and wash your hands first." You said, making Sophia do exactly what you said without hesitation.  

"It's hot here, you can cook only in an apron if you want, that would help my field of vision 100%." You said, with a provocative tone.  

"Don't abuse it." Sophia says, turning her head towards you and narrowing her eyes at you.  

"Sorry." Turning around immediately, you think it's best to keep quiet before you have to go back to doing everything yourself.   

Christmas was only one day away, the Kats would soon arrive for dinner, and stay for the sleepover, and on Christmas morning they would open the presents. You had planned everything with Sophia's help, everything was perfect, the decoration of the house was very beautiful, the table was full of food and the house seemed so cozy that you could remember the Christmases you spent with your mother and father when you were a child.  

"Alright, how am I?" Sophia asked.  

The Filipina wore black pants and a Christmas sweater matching yours. Sophia had the brilliant idea of buying matching sweaters for the couples, since the Kats were going to bring their girlfriends for dinner. 

"You look great, baby." You said, running your arms around the waist of the lower woman and pulling her in for a kiss.  

Hearing the doorbell ring, you and Sophia walked away with smiles on their faces, taking quick steps toward the door. When you opened it, you saw Yoonchae in front, a small smile on the Korean's face. Taking a step forward, she hugged you, tightly.  

"Will I get a sweater like yours?" The younger girl asked, raising her head to see you nodding positively, before passing you and going to talk to Sophia, who was behind you. Your gaze followed the younger girl, turning to the door again only when you heard a laugh. 

"What are you wearing, bro?" Manon's girlfriend asked, laughing at you, making Manon roll her eyes.  

"Don't mind her Yn, you and Sophia are super cute." Manon said, hugging you.  

"I'm glad you think that. It was Sophia's idea to buy sweaters for all the couples, so that we could match." You said, raising your eyebrows and looking in the direction of Manon's girlfriend, who had now stopped laughing. "You can take yours with Sophia." You said, giving a sarcastic smile.  

Manon entered the house to greet Sophia and talk about the sweaters, while her girlfriend walked past you, staring at you and raising her middle finger, making you laugh at the girl's childish behavior.  

"Couple sweaters? That's so cool!" Megan said, hugging you quickly before pulling her girlfriend by the wrist into the house.  

"Thank you for inviting us Yn!" It was the only thing the girl had time to say before being dragged by the redhead. 

Laughing lightly at the couple's dynamic, you turned forward again, coming face to face with Daniela and her girlfriend.   

"Cool sweater, Rudolph!" Daniela's girlfriend says, pointing to the reindeer's nose embroidered on the warm fabric. "How much do you get paid to use this?"  

"What, just ‘cause you work saving lives, do you think you don't need to use that?" You answer, messed up with the girl.

"No, I don't need to."   

"But you will!" Daniela says, approaching you and her girlfriend at the right time. "You're cute, Yn." The Latina says, before clinging to her girlfriend's arm.   

"Come on puppy, let's put you in a Christmas sweater." Daniela says, making fun of her girlfriend's face.   

You tried your best to contain your laughter, making Daniela's girlfriend look at you ugly, before giving you the middle finger behind Daniela's back, with this one is two.  

Laughing lightly, you welcomed the last couple.  

"Matching sweaters, huh?!" Lara's girlfriend said, the Indian girl's grip her girlfriend's arm.   

"Sophia's idea, you know I do everything to see you happy." You said, rolling up the sleeves of your sweater and leaving your tattoos on display.  

"You know it's not a bad idea! Matching clothes would definitely let people know we're together." Lara spoke for the first time, you nodding and agreeing with the "genius idea" of the red-haired girl. 

"That would certainly get the message across." You say, pouring more gasoline on the fire.  

"Please don't encourage her." Lara's girlfriend says, making you laugh as she watches them pass you, definitely hearing Lara say something about shopping.   

Denying it with your head, you finally closed the door. This would be a long Christmas. 

It was time to show your work of art to everyone, the food was all on the table and you finally invited everyone to the dining room.   

"Okay, I may have exaggerated, but I thought it would be cool." You say, watching the Kats' reaction to the food on the dinner table.   

The girls quickly recognized the dishes that were on the table, the smell took over the place and the girls began to be very moved by the tribute. All of them were away from home this Christmas, and seeing all that made them feel warm.  

"All right, so here we have a RÖSTI, named after Manon. Sinigang in honor of my future wife. Arroz con pollo in honor of Dani. We also have Butter Chicken for Lara, Poke for Megan and finally Kimchi and Kimbap for Yoonchae." 

When you finally finished explaining, the girls' jaws dropped, you had done all that for them, and that was extremely cute.   

"Yn, that's the cutest thing in the world!" Daniela is the first to speak.  

Without having a chance to answer, you felt a body bumping into yours, looking at a Yoonchae glued to you, you hugged the younger girl tight, smiling at her.   

"Thank you, Yn. I love you!" Yoonchae said, hugging you tighter and making you melt into the hug. The girls looked at you two fondly, happy to have a second family.  

"I love you too, child." You said, hugging Yoonchae tighter.  

"Don't cry, Yn. Nobody wants to see that." Manon's girlfriend said, moaning as she was slapped by her girlfriend.   

SURPRISE!!! Yes, I joined fruitcake with fam out, now I really don't know when I'll have another chapter of Fam out for you guys.

But Fruitcake is officially closed, I had a lot of fun writing this.

oh, before I forget, my special thanks to 6'3 anon, who gave me the idea of reader cooking the foods to honor each of the Kats

xoxo, spider.

[worrywrite]

Actually no. I'm gonna complain about a few of these.

Gun wall: gross yes. Interesting as an attraction? No. However, it is buried in the midst of Pike Place. And pike place is delightful. The gum wall is approximately 30 feet from one of the best smelling tiny tea shops I've ever been in. Also you can watch grown men throw dead fish at each other at pike place. Fun times. Nice cheese shop over there too.

Voodoo doughnuts: overrated, sure. But yummy all the same.

Route 66: look. If you've got time, and you don't mind the possibility of being stranded, yeah actually route 66 could be pretty fun. It's like one giant ghost town attraction. And the scenery is beautiful (not in your typical meaning of beautiful, but beautiful all the same). I have loved almost all of every time I've driven through Nevada. The real tourist trap in Nevada is Las Vegas. Don't go to Las Vegas, not only is it a horrible attraction, it is literally funded and run by organized crime and designed to take advantage of addicts. Spending any money there supports these.

Grand canyon is gorgeous. It's bigger than you think and the whole national park area is stunning to drive through. If the government ever lets anyone drill for oil or frack there, I will be buying a gun. And you know what isn't great in AZ? The billion gentrified suburban areas with their massive parking lot shopping centers that generate tons of tourist money and consume a billion gallons of water annually. If you're in AZ, go to the Grand canyon. If you're in southern AZ, go gem hunting with someone that knows the area.

Mormon Temple: Look. I'm. It commenting on the religious atmosphere of UT. They have some of the highest rates of body dysmorphia, suicide, homicide, depression, etc. in the country. Bug they did build a pretty cool castle. Gothic architecture. Chefs kiss. But you know what sucks? Pretty much everything in the two square blocks around that castle, it's just a big shopping and tourist trap. But the real hellhole attraction of UT is the salt lake. On its own, the lake is really cool, a fascinating ecosystem. Bug the residents of UT have practically destroyed it (along with pretty much every other single interesting natural attraction in the entire state). UT residents have, perhaps, the single worst track record of caring for their environment of any state in the country.

Texas: as a rule of thumb, there is nothing worth doing in Texas. There is no point to go there. Maybe you should visit the cards against humanity property, possibly the only interesting place there. Even still, it's private land. Just like 90% of the rest of the state. I'll be honest, I've driven from west to east across Texas and everything looked awful. At least the Alamo probably has a museum with a crazy old person giving tours.

Bourbon Street: okay. Look. The architecture is gorgeous. The food in the area is sublime. Is it overcrowded most of the time? Yes. Is there not much else to do? Yes. But the entire rest of the state outside of New Orleans sucks, let them have their one street with nice architecture and cool history.

The Bean: yeah, cloud gateway or whatever the things actual name is is weird. Yes the artist that made it is one of the crankier artists around. But it's actually pretty cool I've you're just visiting. And it's in Chicago, which is a cool city to visit. Walk around some, there's like twenty restaurants right across the street from the bean. Eat some pizza, maybe. I'll be honest, I don't know much about Illinois overall, but I'd say we as a country are sleeping on this state. There's actually a ton of recreation and historical spots, so maybe the bean is the worst but that doesn't mean it's bad. It's just low tier among the rear. (Addendum: I remembered that Great Wolf Lodge is in Illinois, and that wins. The bean is better than great wolf.)

Graceland: I wanna say there are worse places, but that just sounds like the rest of Tennessee. Dollywood, maybe. Don't go to Dollywood. It's not bad, per se, but it is absolutely in the middle of nowhere.

Myrtle Beach: look. Look. Are there beautiful beaches there? Yes. The SC coast has some actual beautiful beaches. Gorgeous and secluded with plenty of actually unhampered tall grass and such. But most of Myrtle is privately owned, the rest is being used for the lamest parties imaginable. That being said, there are significantly worse tourist destinations. Any of the plantation museums, for instance. The Bubba Gump shrimp in Charleston, which should not be as much of a tourist destination as it is. The riverbanks zoo, which isn't bad so much as it is too small to be a real tourist destination. If you're in SC (why tho?) maybe go camping in the Congaree National Park, is beautiful and there's a nice boardwalk trail--it feels like a scaled down redwood forest with all the old growth cypress and ancient pine.

Charlotte Speedway: this is another one of those weird ones. There's interesting history for NASCAR, because it's one of those things people consider way more conservative than it's roots are. As far as the speedway museum itself (maybe I'm confusing this with the hall of fame)? Eh. But it's also in a decent area to walk around and Charlotte as a city is pretty nice aesthetically. You know what sucks in NC, though? Literally every single beach. They aren't cared for, they get hit with hurricane winds constantly, and it's all privately owned. Not to mention they're losing feet of coastline almost every year. You know what else sucks? Carowinds. Very mid tier amusement park with inflated prices and rides they rename every few years so people forget there have been deaths and serious injuries associated with them.

[rootspiral]

Agatha All Along deep dive: episode 9 part 4

(Wandavision entries: [1][2][3])

(AAA entries: ep1 [1][2][3][4] ep2 [1][2][3][4] ep3 [1][2][3] ep4 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][+1] ep5 [1][2][3][4][5] ep6 [1][2][3] ep7 [1][2][3][4][5][6] ep8 [1][2][3][4][5][6][7][8][9] ep9 [1][2][3][4])

it's still agatha and her river

mama, I'm sorry I got upset. mama I'm sorry we're both starving tonight. I promise I'll do better tomorrow.

a six year old taking responsibility and apologizing for his mother's shortcomings.

agatha looks down at her precious little boy's pleading face

and she smiles at him, and nicky gives her a big relieved grin.

evanora is not stealing this moment. she did her worst to fuck with agatha's brain chemistry, but in one fundamental thing she failed: agatha is capable of loving her kid. despite all her other shortcomings, she will never blame nicky for her own faults.

she does a cute little dance for him, and this is what they do, isn't it? he's too small to explain his big feelings and she is too scared, and so they sing to each other and hope the love is understood anyway.

see how he touches the brooch? if only she could have loved nicky in vacuum, without any of the emotional baggage. but he is only the last link in a long chain of witches, pain and and tears and blood that made him what he is. agatha cannot escape her identity and legacy no matter how much she tries, and she couldn't protect nicky from it either.

the last time she sees nicky alive he's smiling adoringly at her. this is the boy she can't face in the afterlife, because her own guilt is so strong she's convinced he will hate her.

nicky dies peacefully in his mother's arms. his soul wakes up and sees rio waiting for him.

that some good cinema dear lord

rio waves at nicky. he doesn't know her (when who will return?) but he still trusts her implicity - she's been around him his whole short life, in the woods, in the water, in his lungs.

and - the bit that destroyed us all - she makes nicky go to agatha one last time. go kiss your mama goodbye.

light and dark, growth and decay, here and beyond.

remember when alice died and the camera turned upside down? ot stops halfway here. agatha has been affected so profoundly by nicky's death that she can never let herself go back to the land of the living, but she's also too scared to follow rio to the other side. she's stuck in the middle, consumed by the impossible dream of bringing nicky back, never allowing herself to find peace and companionship again. in love with death, but running away from it.

(people never seem to make crack and humor vids for episode 9, isn't that curious? when it's soooo fun and lighthearted!)

well ain't that just brutal

I have always known

This Road is cruel and wild

I bury my own heart

Here with you, my child

(I think those are lavender flowers? I'm not 100% sure)

coolcoolcoolcoolcool. that's fine. I'm absolutely fine.

BARRIERS UP right away. even if she looks like a mess. especially because she looks like a mess. she's not showing weakness in front of anyone, she's protecting her grief like a jealous goblin, and since she cannot run, she straightens her dress and gets ready to fight. the option to ask for help and comfort doesn't even cross her mind.

her eyes still full of tears / agatha gets another wonderful, awful idea.

we've seen this so many times, haven't we? the real agatha disappears behind the character she plays. the agatha we've seen from the very start, since the moment she walked into wanda's living room, has been a lie. very few people have ever seen a hint of the poor bruised heart she hides inside, and only to rio and (to some extent) nicky she has ever opened up.

how can someone go from total heartbreak to planning murder in the span of two minutes? well, you can if you are agatha harkness and have never learned one healthy coping mechanism in your life. and I'm sure she's already rationalizing it as something like "if I get powerful enough I can bring nicky back." but the truth is, she just wants to get drunk on magic and murder and stop feeling so horrible. she's running away, like usual. she's planning to kill witches in front of the grave of the very kid who begged her not to, and she's using his song to do it. as if that's not gonna haunt her or anything.

(it really gets me how agatha's smiles are so different from kathryn's. agatha never smiles with her eyes, except when she's with nicky.)

agatha's diabolical scam is so stupid if you think about, definitely worthy of the clown she has become. just pretend the Road didn't open and then annoy people into attacking you! better than using a literal child as bait, I guess.

here she absorbs a yellow coven, and yep, it does look like covens are all supposed to be the same color?

the bodies from the agnes of westview opening.

orange coven in the late 1800s. I really like that dress and hat on her

blue coven in the 1920s, and another cunty outfit

I know you guys like the 90s look, but it makes me laugh how hard she was trying for that Craft vibe. and we don't see the beams color here.

and finally, our girls. (I miss you all so muchhhhh)

what do you know! looks like a door has appeared! (sharonnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnn!!!!!)

from fuck has my karma caught up with me to well well well, looks like we have another little maximoff on our hands

and speaking of little maximoffs and giant assholes...

[disarmonia]

Oh look, I'm finally posting something. Merry Crisis, everyone!🎉 I'm just exhausted, working on completing several charity projects and commissions before New Years. Also russia has recently heavily bombed my home city, Kyiv, damaging a lot of the city center including the St. Nicholas Cathedral, which holds a very special place in the hearts of many locals, but won't make the news like the Notre-Dame, so maybe you can at least learn about it from me. Ukraine got heavily bombed on Christmas too. So I'm just remind you that this horror was made possible because of literal millions of people doing everything in their power to destroy my country - from those who fly the planes and press buttons, to those who cook and clean their clothes, to those who pay taxes to fund the war machine, and to those who stay silent because they aren't the ones affected. Please don't invest any money into russian products, your governments gives them enough money to keep going and sanctions barely work, at least don't support it on a personal level, it's all we can ask for. I wish everyone happy holidays and hopefully I will still be here in a year, hopefully I will still be able to draw and hopefully we will know some peace at some point. Anyway, this is a World of Warcraft character commission I finished right before Christmas, a night elf named Kaernin Windweaver, hope you like it. I am really happy with how the colours ended up complimenting each other, also can't get enough of this brush I now use for hair. Happy 2025, guys. Stay safe. Keep Ukraine in mind. If you like my art, consider tipping! MY TIP JARS HERE ❤️‍🩹

[my-rose-tinted-glasses]

Rose Recaps 2024 - Korea

Starting my list of favourite shows with Korea. They gave us so much angst, and some of them I still haven't fully been able to shake. Let's go.

The one with the existential dread

Love For Love's Sake

I was not ready. Not that I think there was a way I would be, but still. I was floored. It was an ambitious concept but executed pretty much flawlessly. If they had a bit more time, I think the world building could've benefited a little, cause there were parts that felt a bit rushed but overall the themes were well conveyed throughout. This show can be interpreted in a variety of ways, and one can take from it different things. For so much of this show I was filled with anxiety and sadness, but by the end the overall message of self love healed a small part of me. The visuals were strong and the actors did a wonderful job.

Favourite Moment:

Obvious perhaps, but no one can deny the beauty of this moment. Just the pure relief and joy I felt, made it one of my favourites of the year.

The one with all the yearning

The Time of Fever

I was so normal about this show. First let me just say, that I don't think of this show as a prequel. I know it is one, but I prefer to think of it as its own thing. This show drove me crazy. I suffered through it twice, and I kept finding new things that drove me insane. The yearning, the pining, the love these two have for each other that can only be rivalled by the fear they both share. Hotae is afraid of his feelings, because he can't understand them or can't accept them, but he also can't resist the pull. Donghee is afraid because he does understand, but he also knows what it means, so he needs to protect his friend from all the ugliness he himself has endured. And the actors just portrait these emotions so well. Truly some of the best acting I've seen this year. The camera work is outstanding, the framing always intentional and the lighting is good enough to break your heart.

Favourite Moment:

The heater between them??? Incredible. I'm still in awe of this whole scene. From the feeding of the orange slice to the kiss itself and their body language right to their expressions at the end. It was a flawless scene.

The one with all the trauma

Let Free the Curse of Taekwondo

Every week I was filled with excitement and dread waiting for new episodes. It was a painful journey for them and for me. Such a raw depiction of how trauma follows you long after you left the place where you endured it behind you. Closure is such an overused word, because it always sounds like there's a switch you can flip, and you're fine. Like it's that simple. The way Dohoe carried all of the abuse with him, how he shaped his life around it unconsciously, all along believing he was healing himself, it was heartbreaking to watch. And JuYeong. The boy who waited. The boy who understood and gave him the space to heal. Time stopped for 12 years for both of them. But they have a lifetime left to heal together and find happiness in the simple act of loving and being loved by each other.

Favourite Moment:

The symbolism destroyed me. The cross, the wall, the confession. Masterful.

The one that wasn't like the others

Love In The Big City

I don't even know what to say any more. It was an amazing adaption. Stellar acting, great script, gorgeous visuals. It's messy and it all feels so real. Young is one of my favourite characters of all time, both the one from the book and the one from the series. I wanted to hug him and hit him over the head at several points. I did appreciate the bigger presence of the T-aras, it left me more hopeful than the novel. I'm still not over the break up though.

Favourite Moment:

The honesty, the unconditional acceptance. To watch Young experience it for the first time was overwhelming.

Honourable mention to Boys Be Brave that I adored. And the only reason is not in this list is because of the second couple. They needed more time, and even with the time they had I thought the writing of that storyline was a bit messy. But I loved the mains.

See you soon with Taiwan, maybe. 💜

[kanhotep]

I think the problem is that it's not an inherently right or wrong situation.

Stolas:

Yes, he made a lot of mistakes. But he was also in an abusive marriage and never had much agency over his own life. He is allowed to want something for himself. He is allowed to love Blitz. And he never chose Blitz over Via.

From Via's perspective it looks like that and I absolutely understand where she's coming from. But I think from Stola's perspective it was never either Blitz or Via.

He saw Blitz in danger and he knew that he could not live without him. He would have tried for Via. But in the end it would be exactly how Andrealphus prophesied: Blitz's death would have broken Stolas.

If it had been Via's life in danger, he wouldn't have come in there and sang a song trying to take the blame.

He would have gone in there in blazing fury, full demonic form and killed anyone who tried to come between him and his daughter.

Because if Blitz's death would have broken him, Via's death would destroy him.

So yes, Via is angry and it comes from an understable place. But Stolas isn't the villain in that story.

He is flawed and imperfect but he loves her and he never saw Via as an obligation but as a gift. But the seventeen year old doesn't understand that there is a difference between doing things because of someone and for someone.

Lucifer:

Much more complicated matter which is not at all helped by the fact that Charlie is a grown woman and therefore more responsible for her relationship with her father than a teenager is.

All in all, the biggest problem with their relationship is that we're missing a lot of facts.

We don't know when Lucifer and Lilith split up, we don't know what the custody arrangement between them was, we don't know if Lilith had grown resentful of her husband, heck we don't even know if Lilith was Lilith all the time or if Eve dropped in from time to time (necklace theory).

What we do know is this:

Lucifer called Charlie more or less regularly (when he wants something from her)

Charlie never invited Lucifer over [maybe more of a presumption than a fact, but heavily implied]

Lucifer desperately wants to be in Charlie's life

Charlie believes there is something inherently good in every sinner, Lucifer believed the opposite

And following that Charlie sees the Sinners as her people while Lucifer hates them for wasting his gift

The last two points seem to be the greatest point of conflict between them and again, there is no wrong in this.

Lucifer gave mankind free will because he thought he would free them and give them the chance to create, to hope, to live.

But all he ever saw was destruction, despair and death.

He saw the invention of more and more weapons that killed more people in more brutal ways. He saw the invention of biological warfare.

He probably met the hitlist of history's greatest monsters.

And he never saw the opposite. Never saw the architectural wonders we've constructed, never saw how we helped each other, didn't hear of the stories of goodness and hope and joy that is in the world.

After all, who would have told them to the devil?

Still he tried to make it better (or so he says) but nothing stuck. It all just kept getting worse and worse.

And now his little girl is trying what he had already failed to do. Tries to help those souls that he believed to be only capable of hatred and destruction. Asks him to go to heaven.

Heaven. The place that once was his home. The place where the people live he once called family. The people that ripped of his wings and threw away his halo before tossing him, the Morningstar, the lightbringer, into the endless dark. Banishing him and never looking back.

Lucifer saw his child, the most important thing in his life, probably the only good thing he has left, trying to step into his footsteps. Footsteps he knows lead right down a cliff.

Charlie accuses him of not believing in her and to an extent she is right of course. Lucifer does not believe she can achieve her goal.

But it's not because he doesn't believe in Charlie. It's because he doesn't believe in her goal.

Which is an important difference.

And honestly? I don't think he believes in that goal right up until the Finale.

The only thing the song reminds him of, is that Charlie is a strong and wonderful person and she needs to make her own experiences. She needs to at least try. Not only for the Sinners but also for herself.

And he didn't want her to try because he was to afraid for her to fail. For her to be hurt like he was. But Charlie's not him and maybe she's stronger than he ever was.

So he let's her.

Only when she goes and does the impossible, gets a bunch of Sinners to make a stand for a common goal - to work together, fight together, die together - only then does he see that he was wrong. That her goal is not impossible, that his little girl was right and now that he knows that there is good in Sinners left, he supports her wholeheartedly.

Which is why I am absolutely expecting their relationship to drastically improve.

Of course there is a lot more to their relationship than that, a lot more to unpack, but I'm not going to dive into it now because it's mostly guesswork.

Anyways, long story short: The reason why some people hate on Via and Charlie is the same reason why some people absolutely despise Stolas and Lucifer and consider them the worst dads ever: Because their relationships are incredibly complicated and not black and white.

And honestly, isn't that what Hazbin Hotel is all about?

Remind me again why this fandom is so pissy that these two are reasonably upset about their dads’ negligence?

[witsserviceablesubstitute]

If The Magicians taught me anything it's that two of their same sex leads could have sex, spend a lifetime together raising a child, have one actively ask out the other, and it all still be largely interpreted as a bromance. I suppose it could be, but only with an admittance that the boundaries around love and sexuality are not as solidly defined as they're perceived to be. Which is not something you're typically going to get from either the text itself or those that deny the very possibility of two male friends being in sincere romantic love with each other.

In all honesty, a tv production playing around with homoeroticism is likely doing so without malice. It can be a writers room being intentionally flexible with gender and sexuality and coming up against industry standards and practices. Or, and more often, a developing conversation between a queer fandom that finds meaning within the text (and easier access to the writers and actors), and a production encountering queer theory through that fandom for the first time.

That is to say I've been watching Supernatural again because I don't have a good relationship with the series and maybe this is something I need to get over. Supernatural means a lot to people here and I dislike the trend I see of treating a popular queer interpretation with dismissal and disdain.

If Supernatural has taught me anything in the past few years it's that one part of the biggest ship in the last decade can say he's in love with the other part of that big ship (to his face), and it still be interpreted as a confession of platonic love. To me the confession is clear in intent. Castiel is canonically in love with Dean Winchester, and through falling in love with Dean falls in love with humanity. Castiel's confession is actually a rather inevitable and lovely realisation of his character trajectory, even if I don't believe Dean knew what he was asking when he asked a creature made for unconditional devotion to have faith in him instead of heaven and God. What's more, a character being in love with their friend is not a failing, nor rare, it happens all the time in fiction, but I do think Castiel could have passionately kissed Dean goodbye in that scene and it still be considered the culmination of a bromance. So stubborn is the denial, dismissal, and disdain.

I like Eric Kripke. There's something modernist about his themes— a deliberate breaking of the romance of the past. A reflection of dysfunction, of things falling apart. In Supernatural it's in his building the family unit only to destroy the family unit using Christian mythology. In The Boys it's in his satirizing of the American myth using an American power fantasy (superheroes). There's also a bit of Jack Kerouac and the Beat Generation about what he creates and how he creates it, a hectic homoerotic masculinity that both indulges in and is critical of the darker sides of human nature. It's therefore unsurprising that there's such a strong queer reading of his work and of Dean Winchester in particular. So while it's absolutely fine to say, 'i don't interpret the text or character this way', it's less fine to try and erase every possible queer interpretation of the text and characters.

US TV networks are concerned with alienating their conservative audience with overtly queer main characters, especially when it subverts hegemonic forms of masculinity. But it has always been something queer fandom is fixated on— that subversion of both toxic masculinity and heteronormativity. It's why I think Supernatural has, not only the most fanworks written for it on AO3, but a large body of academic articles about its relationship with gender, religion, and sexuality. A queer reading is definitely there and it doesn't deserve the disdain or dismissal.

[sonkitty]

Acting Supreme Archangel Crowley

Alright, yes, I do think Crowley is the Acting Supreme Archangel during S2. I've generally hinted as such in past posts and with this small GIF set: There is always a Supreme Archangel....

I have long speculated Crowley's longer sideburns mark rank in the bookshop and that character behavior implies he is at least in charge up until he delegates responsibility over to Aziraphale when Crowley leaves to escort Maggie and Nina out in episode 6.

Even though I generally say and believe his red streak is a result of a possible Big Miracle involving the matchbox and the Book of Life, it can also be another mark of this rank in the present day storyline.

Many times, I have referenced the particular shot to Crowley when Gabriel proclaims himself the only First-Order Archangel in the Universe (with a capital "U" in the subtitles).

I have finally convinced myself through more dialogue factors that yes, Crowley is in that position. He was a First-Order Archangel at some point, and circumstances being what they are in S2, he becomes the Acting Supreme Archangel.

Here is how it theoretically goes...

After Crowley has encountered Gabriel for the first time in the story, he and Aziraphale go to a private room. Crowley himself states to Aziraphale, "Angel, this is the Supreme Archangel of all Heaven, your former boss, who tried very hard to cast you into hellfire and destroy you. He is not our friend."

So, at this point in the story, Gabriel still holds that title or Crowley at least thinks he does. The trial we see later will show that Michael intended to have Gabriel removed from office with the Metatron deciding on a memory wipe. Gabriel himself had other ideas and managed to escape.

We are told Heaven does not have a Supreme Archangel by Uriel later in S2E1. But then, no, wait, Michael declares with confidence that there is always a Supreme Archangel.

While these two disagree on matters, the Good Omens story in general is mindful of word usage and gives words power. As such, the power in the story itself decides that the Acting Supreme Archangel is Crowley on Earth. Michael and Uriel might have forced it to happen just with their own words between each other without realizing that's what they were doing. And if it takes more than their words, we do have an extensive touching sequence involving a matchbox after Crowley has touched the heavens with his own red lightning. The matchbox itself is declared as an earthly object, giving the name of the story's hidden Earthly Objects game.

How can we tell Crowley is the Acting Supreme Archangel now?

Beelzebub tells Crowley the Archangel Gabriel has vanished. Notably, Beelzebub does not say the Supreme Archangel Gabriel has vanished.

Hence forth, Gabriel might be referred to as Jim, James, Gabriel, an assistant, an assistant bookseller, an angel, or an archangel but references to him as the Supreme Archangel are in the past or, in the case of Aziraphale relaying his conversation with the Metatron in S2E6, a rank that Gabriel himself no longer holds because it hadn't worked out.

Crowley himself addresses Gabriel as Archangel Gabriel and not Supreme Archangel Gabriel in S2E5.

...

A metaphorical torch is passed from Gabriel to Crowley during the miracle to hide Gabriel, symbolized by the Overhead Light shaped like a flame held by an angel. I've remarked on this Overhead Light a few times.

Here it is by Gabriel:

Then here it is ensured to be at least partly shown during the miracle itself:

It is shown more fully when Crowley himself goes up to touch the fabric of reality, or whatever that is up there. Crowley's Overhead Lights tend to go above and to the left of his left ear (or involve some reflection manipulation). His ear ends up going over this special torch instead.

During this scene, Crowley's sideburns are at their longest length for the episode. His red hair is charged up with more red from recalling the lightning power. As red as his hair is, his more saturated red streak is visible.

...

Shax and Crowley drop us a few hints about Crowley being a former archangel but not necessarily being the current Acting Supreme Archangel.

Shax says a miracle happened "last night" in S2E2, referencing SE2E1. She says it was a miracle that only the mightiest of archangels could have performed. When Crowley asks, "How'd you know I didn't do it?" she doesn't deny his ability or show any suspicion that he did.

In S2E3, Crowley teases her as he says, "Maybe you'll spot on archangel." The camera work shifts focus to Gabriel, but given how many other clues are given about Crowley, this one ends up looking like another possible clue.

She later calls Crowley an "arch traitor" instead of just a traitor, as Beelzebub does.

...

Another clue that Crowley is the Acting Supreme Archangel is his general visit to Heaven.

Crowley disguises himself as an angel, but his disguise includes sunglasses that actually make his snake eyes more obvious. He chooses a gray that matches what other archangels use. That's him "acting" out the role as the Acting Supreme Archangel. His red streak is maintained and visible with his disguise as well.

Michael and Uriel leave him unchallenged when he passes by them, whether they recognize him or not. He shows Muriel he can access clearance beyond what Muriel can do with the reasoning he hasn't always been a demon, and they (presumably Heaven in general) never change their passwords. When Saraqael eventually confronts both Crowley and Muriel, Muriel is not punished, and Saraqael even goes so far as to say, "Show him the trial."

When the alarms go off, Saraqael answers Crowley's question about what just happened and follows his orders on the three of them getting back to Earth.

Then Michael and Uriel even go with the group in the elevator.

We don't see how that transpired, just that it did. I think it's plausible they couldn't actually leave or take the elevator without Crowley. Admittedly, that could be related to Crowley tricking the threshold on his way in, instead of the rank matter.

Now, aside from perhaps Saraqael, the angels aren't shown to consciously know that Crowley's rank is Acting Supreme Archangel. They mainly just act like it by letting him do what he wants, lead them to the bookshop, and generally take charge of the situation after they and other demons have arrived in the bookshop.

I do think it's significant that the story does guide the clue based on the words "First-Order Archangel" instead of "Supreme Archangel", for that one particular shot over to Crowley during Gabriel's dialogue.

I've long remarked that I think it's important that Crowley wanted to be first when using the Heaven elevator. I finally have an answer for why I think that is though I'm not really satisfied with the answer I've come up with. I might go over said answer in another post at another time.

There is another metaphorical torch passed from Crowley to Aziraphale at the end of episode 6 due to the flames with the coffee on the coffee shop where Crowley has positioned himself with his car. The flames are to Crowley's visual right. The lady with the black hat assists with this pass given that she is the "dash of nutmeg" in this scene.

The right side is often associated with angels, and Aziraphale receives a special right-side Overhead Light for his Ground Zero cut.

...

That's it for this particular post. There is a little something more I hope to post soon and wanted to make this post as a reference point.

[beomgyubestie]

Do you guys think often how dramatic Will and Mike are with each other sometimes?

“You’re destroying everything for a stupid girl”

He’s blaming Mike a little too much, and for El, who is also supposed to be his friend(?)

“Seriously, did you think we’re gonna be in our basement playing D&D for the rest of our lives?” “I guess I really did”

God this is also very dramatic. Like, are you guys getting a divorce or something?

Although Will destroying castle Byers was really sad, he decided to let go of the past and what he felt he lost;-;

“I’m sorry man, I was a totally as*** can we please talk?”

Ofc he had to go there and ask for forgiveness in the most dramatic way. “She dumped your a** it didn’t sound like a break”

He even quoted her, he was totally an anti mileven at that point.

You were rolling your eyes, you sabotaged the whole day”

That line was dramatic overall and talked enough, but Will rolled his eyes once. And how tf Mike noticed that.

“You knew she was having troubles for like a year and you didn’t tell me”

“It’s been a year, Mike”

It was literally 6 months.

[lostinthe-void-666]

WIP’s, in date of last posting:

#1 - The Lost and Found (is where I found you)

Desc: Identical twins, trans Xisuma and Ex, completely unaware that it’s the other when Ex signs up for a new job, but really, how long can they actually be in denial?

5 +1

MY CHILDREN.

#2 - Role Reversal AU (no proper name yet)

Desc: Ex gets X banned to the Void in season one by lying to the Hermits and essentially taking his place. That’s it, that’s the fic.

Joking about the above I am overflowing with ideas

Onto the second chapter ^-^

#3 - Home? (No proper title for it)

Desc: Voidwalker Xisuma escapes to season one after his home is destroyed. Unfortunately, he doesn’t know what these creatures are, and he doesn’t know that they’re saying.

#4 - The sillies with Xisuma and Wels

Desc: Series of agere X and Wels fics, essentially

#5 - “They placed that microphone into your hands and said ‘The world is listening to you, my friend’” (no official title, I just think Rule #35 - Microhone fits the fic, just a bit.)

Desc: Xisuma was born the Chosen One of their god, the one that would solve everything, once he came of age. Ex resents X for being the golden child, but many secrets lurk within that family.

#6 - Home is so far away (no proper title.)

Desc: Xisuma is kidnapped by these… things, he doesn’t know what they’re saying, and they’ve been playing with him, almost. X just really misses his home.

#7 - Creaking!Hels??? (No official title)

Evil Xisuma/Helsknight

Desc: Hels spirals when Ex leaves for season 8, though he doesn’t mean to, he gets into a bad situation.

Drafts:

#1 - The People in the Glass

Desc: “While cleaning your attic, you find a box of glass balls with names on them. You accidentally drop one, and as soon as it shatters, a person appears.”

A prompt that was gonna be for a oneshot but got out of hand quickly

A strange group as our MC’s for this one (GIGS + BOATEM - Mumbo) don’t ask. I don’t know.

#2 - You’re making a wreck of broken glass

Desc: The Hermits are unknowingly awful to Xisuma, traumatizing him

I don’t see enough of this trope so I needed to write some myself

#3 - Tales from the Void (Writren and Orchestrated by the Boatem Crew)

Desc: Stories from the Boatem crew in the Void, one chapter from each of their perspectives

#4 - Surviving (not the proper title.)

Desc: Little nightmares as hermitcraft.

I came up with this recently and I’m already so ready to write. I love it.

#5 - I forget what it’s like to be normal (not offical title)

Desc: Aftermath of season 8, Xisuma is sort of suffering. The fact that the Hermits don’t know he’s trans is making it worse, and he wish it didn’t have to.

I made Jeff even worse if that was possible.

Suggested by and also brainstormed by my friends

#6 - Platonic Soulmates (no proper title)

Desc: Everyone has a soulmate, maybe two, although it doesn’t mean that they’re destined for a relationship that’s what it’s mostly taken as. Hermits and their platonic soulmates <3

#7 - Oh No! (No proper title)

Desc: Rise, peak, fall and demise of the Evil Emporium

A rewrite of the one I posted a while ago and was not at all satisfied by

#8 - “I wonder when it’s caving in” (no title yet)

Evil Xisuma/Helsknight

Desc: Ex and Hels are in a long distance relationship, but when Ex moves to America, it starts tearing them up inside.

Songfic of Black Hole Fantasy (The Crabe Wives)

#9 - Knight school (no proper title)

Desc: Based on this oneshot and expanding on it because it got the ideas flowing

#10 - Digging up the past (not a proper title)

Desc: Xisuma and Doc have a complicated history. What happens when they return to the scene of it all, make discoveries, and even have their friends with them this time…

#11 - Experiment AU (not the proper title)

Desc: What it sounds like. Work #1 is about the hermits themselves and the main experiments done on them, the second will be their own story…

#12 - Tango’s at the bottom of the ocean (not official title)

Desc: Mer au, at least everyone except for Tango - who, as a blaze hybrid should burn out in water. Which is what he expects when he falls in the middle of the ocean one day and passes out, but he wakes up? With hybrids surrounding him he’s never seen before?

#13 - Meddling gods (not official title)

Desc: Xisuma keeps losing his memory periodically, and every time he regains it, more and more of it slips away, so he finally makes a journal. One day, a few Hermits find that journal and realize what their admin is going through

#14 - Bee boy (not official title)

Desc: S7 X turned to the size of a bee

Unintentionally inspired by this, I FINALLY FOUND IT AGAIN. I HOPE.

#15 - “I love you but what in the world…” (not official title)

Evil Xisuma/Helsknight

Desc: Ex comes home, more than a little intoxicated. Hels is concerned, especially because they won’t tell him why, but he takes care of them.

Oneshot

#16 - Ghost AU! (not proper title)

Slow burn Hels/Evil Xisuma

Desc: Xisuma is dead, and you know what, the afterlife is really, really boring. All he can do is follow his brother around (because he’s tied to them, thanks timing,) and to be honest, college isn’t the most entertaining thing. What’s interesting, though, is when they receive an invitation from someone they met in class, and accept.

#17 - Possession au (not proper title)

Directly inspired by exsaltedd’s “good in me” animation ^-^

#18 - Wasted potential (not proper title)

Songfic of Wasted Potential by Lindsey Liebro

Desc: Xisuma’s dream of playing guitar aren’t working out well, at all. To be entirely fair, it wasn’t his first option, but college didn’t work out, and now, might as well dive headfirst into it, anyway. It made extra money. Sometimes. He really didn’t want to admit he was struggling.

"kick-in-the-pants" writer's game!

Rules:

Reblog this post and put the names/working titles of your wips in either the tags or your reblog. (You may add a brief bio/ship name/any other info if desired)

Your followers can send you the name of one of the wips in an ask, and are welcomed and encouraged to send multiple.

For each wip title you recieve, work for a five minute sprint on writing that wip!

Respond to their ask with one of your favorite lines you wrote during that sprint!

(to encourage community spirit, it is suggested to send an ask to the person you reblogged it from, and whoever reblogs it from you)

[deesseshesca]

PAC:LETTER FROM PREGNANT SELF (HIS POV) 18+

PILE 1  

It would not surprise me if your baby father was in an extremely abusive relationship with his ex. May have other kids before he meets you (only for 50% of people reading this). You  may be an sex worker. If you are a stripper, you meet that person at work and actually become each other's safe place. Only for them, the rest of y’all, there was a natural development of the relationship and unfolding of each other's life. 

My (flower name (if you have a fav flower he might call u that in his language OR  is your stage name) 

I could spend a lifetime showing my devotion to you. To say we found love in a hopeless place is such a short statement of reality. I want to apologize for all the rough ways I dealt with you. You know I became so passive with life that pouring any kind of emotion was an expensive action. I spent years trying to make it work with my ex and honestly I would rather not talk about it but since this damm (watch your words…) girl keeps trying to pull on my energy here I am. I hate talking about her, you think it is because it hurts. Sure it does, I should have never been treated that way, should have never been ridiculed and humiliated. I should have never been yelled at because of my opinions or even beat on just because I was not providing something tailor to miss extremely complicated taste. Let’s fucking face it, what have I not gave. What can a 7 figure salary can’t fucking give you ! Nothing was never good enough. I should have understood the mind game she played but before I knew it I was hooked on the devil with no prenup and the idea of puppy love we had since high school. Every time it became too much, I would come see you dance. The way you move your body to the music is so enticing, I know it’s y’all job but you felt like it was your calling. I am not saying that you are nothing but a damm stripper, no please don’t take it like that. See that’s exactly why I did not want to talk to this (watch your mouth …) tarot reader because I am not good with my words. I hate the fact that I dedicate more time to STEM classes and work meetings. I dedicate more time to academic excellence and make sure to always more than admirable professional performance thinking I would never need to use art classes a day in my life. Here I am … Words failed me because I never took the time to appreciate the things surrendering me. Always so eager to gain new things and more knowledge. You were the first in my life, I truly allow myself to be appreciated. On the stage you own it, not like you are dancing for a couple dolla bills. Almost as if you don’t give a fuck weather men are there to spend or nah. You came to bask in your power. The first time you approached me, I could not help being rude. Now I can assure it is because I was mad, I knew you were approaching me to secure your bag. I wanted more, I wanted to matter to you as much as you matter to me. You left the first meeting with a stink face and you would have probably never dealt with me, if I never ordered that VIP room. Always came with more money each time. Taking more money from my wife's allowance to let it rain on you. It was my sweet revenge. Each time you never let go, like you use on stage. Guess you were not fond of me which confirms to me that it was not for the money. That also shows the amount of self respect you had for yourself in an industry that prides itself on destroying mental health in the name of a couple Benjamin. Then one day I ask you to sit down, apologize for the way I was treating you. Instead of making it rain, I put the money in your hands and ask you for a chat. Your face shows no judgment but instead mercy. You did not pride yourself on a broken man and I stop seeing you as only my distraction. The VIP with no dancing, bringing you back home after spending long hours at work, then finally following you at your apartment finishing the night with some intense love making. It was fun not being objectified for once in the bedroom. My wife likes to find pride in my beautiful big dick … I guess I only matter that way.

There's more ....