#day of drinking and festivities on saturday.....

[bastardbvby]

weather is going to be . so beautiful this week . and it'll be the BEST MONTH -> MAY . and friday is so close i swear......

[after-witch]

Death by Stereo [Yandere Chrollo x Reader] [Vampire AU]

Title: Death by Stereo [Yandere Vampire Chrollo x Reader]

Synopsis: You’re just a nobody living in a small town when a mysterious stranger with a leather jacket, good looks and a penchant for kissing your hand rolls in, just in time for the ever-popular summer carnival. Things are going great, until dead bodies start piling up. 

Word count: 17,510

Notes: yandere, vampire AU, descriptions of dead bodies, some violence, gore, abuse

Thursday

Is there anything more wearisome than a small town? Small towns grind you down so slowly that you don’t realize your feet have been eroded into useless nubs before it’s too late, and you have nowhere to run, even if you had the inkling to get away. 

A small town has its charms, as they say--but it has its burdens, too. You know all the faces, but all the faces know you; some of them have even known you since you were just an ultrasound picture carried dutifully in your mother’s purse, pulled out at coffee shops and book clubs. 

They know when you got your first period (age 13, in the middle of gym class--you were wearing white shorts); when your first boyfriend dumped you (at the school dance, right before he made out with the third most popular girl in school); what colleges you applied to, and later--why you dropped out (your dad got sick) and how he was doing (not so great but getting better) and where you worked, how you liked your coffee, and all these impersonal and personal details that made up the monotony of your life. 

It was a trap, this small town life. A faux bubble of intimacy that your parents embraced, but you’d never fully believed. Because despite knowing so much about you, no one here really knew you. They could tell you that you looked just like your mom at her age; they could sling down a mug with your coffee order without you opening your mouth (black, 1 sugar, 1 cream, no milk)--but they didn’t want to hear about how much you wanted to travel; how much you wanted to see.

Did it matter? You weren’t getting out anytime soon, anyway.

Like all small towns, yours had a claim to fame. While others might boast being the hometown of some B-list celebrity or the site of an all-you-get-eat seafood festival, your particular small town had one edge over the others: a summer carnival right on the beach, designed to appeal to nearby tourists who came to much larger, resort-friendly beaches for the summer season. 

The tourists loved to flock here on that singular summer weekend, pretending they were enjoying a quaint local carnival where they got drunk on cheap beer and sampled funnel cake until they puked. And if the locals hustled them as much as possible, overcharging for drinks and parking and sightseeing maps, was that so bad? Small towns needed to leech off new blood once in a while, after all.

The carnival was four days long--Thursday, Friday, Saturday, Sunday. Sunday was, of course, the grand finale. There was a massive fireworks show on the beach, a huge concert with local and sometimes vaguely familiar bands. A lot more booze traded hands on Saturdays, and the beach was lit up with more than just fireworks; the local volunteers always spent the next week picking up cigarette butts and discarded joints in the sand.

The carnival can be fun. Although like anything that happens every single year in a small town you’ve lived in your entire life (save the one year of college you managed before your dad’s test results came back) it gets wearisome.

Still--you go. What else is there to do? Besides, you’d be stupid to deny that it’s more fun to spend your summer weekend wandering the carnival, riding a few rides, speaking to people, than to sit at home or pick up an extra shift at the diner. 

That’s why you’ve wandered into the carnival today--Thursday. Thursday is your favorite day of the carnival, because it’s the most quiet, relatively speaking. There are tourists here, sure, but they’re not rowdy yet. Not as overcrowded. There aren’t gaggles of kids running around with lobster-red faces and arms because they’re parents didn’t understand the necessity of sunscreen; there aren’t groups of women traveling in packs with matching sunglasses and hats, enjoying a summer break away from their rich and distant husbands.

It’s mostly locals on Thursday. People like you, bored coffee shop workers with nothing better to do on a Thursday evening.

Or people like Jake Jenson over there, currently aiming a colorful dart at a row of balloons in one of many carnival games that would hustle drunk tourists out of their money this weekend.

Jake was the town drunk--a title he gave himself, and others were only too happy to oblige him. He stuck to himself most of the time. During the carnival, he won as many carnival prizes as possible, and traded them to tourists with shitty aim for beers or cigarettes. 

And over there--the early birds. They’ve come three years in a row, you think from somewhere in New  York. They’re attached at the hip, constantly rubbing their noses together like some twee movie couple, and you’ve heard them complain that the boardwalks in their part of the country are a lot more “authentic.’ 

Sure, there’s the familiar faces, but unfamiliar ones, too. An older gentleman and his wife, who walks next to him more slowly, with a cane. He’s balancing a plastic plate with a fresh funnel cake in his hand. They’ll find a bench to sit down and enjoy it, maybe people watch, like you.

It’s time for one of your favorite games: making up stories for the various tourists you probably won’t ever see again. This couple--this is the last trip they’ll take together, because the wife got an awful diagnosis, and they’re spending what would have been the rest of their retirement savings on the dream vacation she always wanted to take. They met during the war, decades ago… he was a soldier and she was a nurse, and he hurt his leg, maybe, and wound up in a field hospital.

It would have been terribly romantic. 

Your eyes shift away from the couple and onto a few other new faces. 

Maybe that’s why you liked the carnival. It was nice to look at new people and imagine where they came from, what they did. The kind of life they had, which was surely more interesting and worldly than yours.

With people watching in mind,  you abandon your bench in front of the games and head deeper into the carnival, weaving yourself in between snack and ticket booths, stepping over large black cables that kept the rides running. 

Dusk had already settled in, and the warm glow of the summer had been replaced with a deepening sense of evening. The carnival lights had already begun to play against the darkening sky, creating that magical atmosphere that couldn’t be replicated during the day.

You don’t notice the stranger at first. It’s dark, the lights are a bit dizzying, and there are plenty of people simply wandering around and taking in the sights. What’s one more stranger, when over the course of the next few hours and days, the summer will be increasingly filled with them?

But this particular stranger shows up in the corner of your vision and immediately strikes you as… odd. He’s just standing there.

Watching you. Staring--right at you. What the fuck?

He’s wearing all black, and there’s some sort of scarf or cowl over his face. His eyes look impassive but there’s something awful in them, even in the brief glances you get from catching him from the corner of your gaze.

What a creep. 

It sours the mood, and you decide to leave, or at least take a break and shake off whatever out-of-towner decided to pull off his best edgy horror movie impression to creep you out. It wouldn���t be the first time a tourist behaved like a jerk, or a weirdo, especially if they’d be drinking. 

Something about nighttime at the carnival made people go wild. 

So you head away from it all, from the couples trying to win stuffed animals, from the giggling shrieks of people on rides that spun them upside down until they wanted to puke. And maybe you should just head right home, but it’s not fair to waste a night of good weather.

Cool, but not too cool. Pleasant. The moon is out and the stars twinkle overhead.

Heading out on the dock might be nice. Tourists don’t bother with it, at least not on Thursday, when the beach isn’t lit-up and there’s no particular reason to head out this way. 

But you’d been to this beach in the evening before; you weren’t scared of the dark. By contrast, you liked the way the beach sounded at night. The water moving in and out, slow and sure. The occasional sound of wildlife splashing in the water. And the din of the carnival behind you, all rainbow lights and indiscernible human happiness.

Your joy is cut off by the sound of footsteps. Your heart leaps in your chest and your hands slam into your pocket instinctively, fumbling for your keys. Fuck, how were you supposed to use these in self-defense again? Put them between your fingers?

Your heart hammers and you slowly turn around, squinting as you make out a figure approaching you in the dark.

“I’m sorry,” a voice calls out, penitent. “Did I scare you? I’m trying to get reception.” The man wiggles a small silver object in the air, raising it above his head. A small LED screen lights up and your heart rate begins to calm, slowly but surely.

After a few beats, he sighs, and shoves the phone in his pocket. 

He turns, apparently to leave, but then looks back at you. “Are you all right? I really didn’t mean to startle you.”

You swallow, lick your lips. Feel stupid for the keys in your fingers. He seems nice enough. A typical tourist. “Um, yeah.” You laugh, an empty sound. “I guess I’m just a little jumpy tonight.”

The moonlight doesn’t give you a clear view of the man’s features, but you can see him tilt his head a little. “Jumpy?”

The keys in your pocket rattle when you let them go, and pull your hands out to point back towards the carnival. The man follows your finger with an almost studious interest.

“Someone was following me, maybe? Or he just seemed a bit creepy.” You laugh again, a habit ingrained after years of dealing with men in odd situations--defuse, tread lightly, always. “He was staring at me, but I couldn’t see his face. He had a scarf over it, I think.”

The man in front of you hums in acknowledgement after a moment. He almost seems a little amused, which is both irritating and relieving in its own way. You were just being silly, jumpy, overreacting, weren’t you? Maybe the guy wasn’t even looking at you in the first place.

“Can I walk you back to the carnival? It doesn’t feel right to leave you here alone.” 

Ah, no, you think. Sure, the man in front of you might just be a tourist in search of reception, but that doesn’t mean you’re stupid. This is how people get murdered. Or attacked. Or like, hoisted into white vans and never seen again.

“No, that’s okay. I was going to stay out here longer and look at the stars. I’m going home soon, anyway.” Not a complete lie, since you did really want to go home. Something like this is usually enough for most people to take the hint, right? 

The man doesn’t turn around. Instead, you see the shape of his smile, lit only by the moon in the sky above.

“You want me to walk you back to the carnival,” he says simply, and offers his arm out, like some kind of old-fashioned gentleman. 

Oh. Of course you do. What were you thinking, staying out here on the dock at night? Mosquitoes would eat you up, anyway. 

You smile in return and take his offered arm, stepping lightly as you make your way back to the carnival with a complete stranger.

Only by the time you make it back to the threshold of the carnival, which seems to be eaten up by the darkness surrounding all of the twinkling lights, he’s not really a stranger, is he? 

And as you get closer to the carnival, the natural darkness of the beach gives way to an abundance of artificial lights that allow you to see him better. He’s cute--no doubting that, with dark hair that frames his face, and a bandage around his forehead. Maybe an accident, or an unfortunate birthmark. 

Even if you weren’t familiar with most of the town’s residents in one way or another,  you’d know he was an outsider from the way he’s dressed. A slim motorcycle jacket and dark jeans… not the type of guy that hangs around here for long.

As you stop at the border of the carnival, he asks where you live, and you tell him--”around.” He admits that he’s only in town for the carnival week. 

“I figured,” you say lightly enough.

He raises his eyebrows. “Is it that easy to tell?”

You put your hands into your pockets and look around you. 

“I mean, it’s a small town, right? Everyone knows everyone, after a while. A new face stands out pretty easily.”

His smile is charming. Practiced, but charming. Or maybe being practiced is how it’s so charming in the first place.  “That makes sense.” He considers you for a moment. “You like to watch the tourists, then?”

You shrug and gesture with your chin towards a mom with a toddler clinging to her hand, pulling her along towards one of the games with enormous stuffed animals.

“I like people watching, I guess. Sometimes,” and as you’re saying it, you don’t know why you’re telling him this so openly. “Sometimes I like to make up stories about people I see. Like, where they’re from or what they do or a backstory like they’re from a movie or whatever.” 

Your cheeks feel suddenly, stupidly hot. Christ, you meet a handsome stranger on the beach and your first major conversation involves you admitting you make up stories about people? You’ve got to get out of this town more.

But he doesn’t seem like he’s judging you. If anything, he looks interested. 

“And what would you imagine for me?”

The question is unexpected. 

“I think…” You try to force your mind to wander like it does when you people watch organically. What would you imagine, if you came across him walking around the carnival in the evening? He’d be on his own, surely, maybe his hands in his pockets. Quiet. A soft smile on his face, maybe? 

“I think you’re some sort of… librarian. Or a curator. A collector?” You shake your head, unsure of exactly where you want to go with this one. “The point is, you’re traveling around the country, looking for things to add to a museum or library or something like that. And you came across an ad for a summer carnival and thought you’d take in some local culture.” You gesture towards the carnival--the lights, the crowd of people, the humanity on display. “But walking around here makes you feel lonely. So you walk down to the beach in the hopes of distracting yourself. Only,” you add, with a cheeky grin. “To come across the most amazing small town waitress in 100 miles standing on the dock like a weirdo.” 

He doesn’t smile at your story. Not exactly. Instead--and you look away when you notice, feeling too rude for staring--his eyes widen just a smidge and he purses his lips in a thoughtful way. 

“My name is Chrollo,” he says. “May I have yours?”

Chrollo is kind of old-fashioned, you decide. Perhaps you were more spot-on than you realized with your story. 

Maybe you shouldn’t give your name. But there’s a giddy feeling inside your chest. Something akin to what you used to feel when you were a teen and you snuck out in the middle of the night for bonfire drinking parties.

I mean… a handsome stranger in a motorcycle jacket who escorted you back from the beach wants your name? You’d be stupid to say no. 

So you give it. 

At that, he finally smiles again.

“Well, then,” he says softly, saying your name in such a way that makes you hope he’ll say it again in the future, “I hope I’ll see you tomorrow night.”

--

“Help! Someone help me! For God’s sake!”

Jake Jensen cried out these words as loudly as he could--as clearly as he could, with booze slurring his words and making his mouth all mumbly. But he wasn’t loud enough. No one heard him. Not over the music and delighted screams of the carnival.

He had been chased away from the beach, past the dock, into a little storage shed used for kayaks rented to tourists during the summer. His worn out body protested with every movement, his lungs hacking from years of cigarettes. 

His attackers, who blocked the door frame, said nothing. They only looked at one another, silent words passed between them, and the taller of the two grinned in the darkness. 

Jake Jensen died screaming.

--

Friday

You tell yourself that you’re only sitting here on this bench, munching on fresh hot popcorn, because you had a hankering for carnival food. Definitely didn’t come here in the hopes of seeing a certain someone. You tell yourself this even as your eyes dart here and there, looking for any sign of the not-quite-a-stranger from last night. 

The sun has just set, and it’s a bit hard making out faces in the glow of the early evening. There are a lot more people here tonight, a new wave of tourists drowning out the familiar faces. Not that the locals shy away from the carnival--you spot your former best friend from high school, your old math teacher, one of the regulars at the diner… Jake Jensen isn’t in his usual spot at the games, but maybe he’s sleeping off a hangover. He never misses a summer carnival.

“Hello again.”

Oh--you choke on your current handful of popcorn just as Chrollo appears suddenly in your line of sight, hands in the pockets of his motorcycle jacket, a casual smile on his face.

“Hey,” you say, coolly, like you didn’t just nearly spit chewed popcorn kernels in his face when he approached. The silence between you doesn’t last long, but you fill it anyway. “You um, want some popcorn?”

But when you hold out the now half-filled container, Chrollo only looks at it curiously. Like he’s never seen popcorn before or something? But then he takes a small handful and pops it in his mouth. Chews--but he might as well be chewing broccoli, for all he seems to enjoy it. Oddly, he watches you while he chews, seemingly studying your face. Did you have popcorn in your teeth?

Better to fill the silence again.

“Well, what do you think?” You ask, grinning, popping another handful in your mouth. “It’s my favorite because it’s fresh, and that booth actually uses real butter. Not the fake oil stuff.”

Chrollo hums in agreement. “I see. I thought that tasted like real butter. Thank you for sharing.” 

You decide on the spot that you’re going to make the most of this evening, popcorn-in-teeth or no. So you shrug and give your best smile. “No biggie. Buuut… you will owe me.”

He raises his eyebrows. “Oh? And what will I owe you?”

It’s your turn to hum as you look out towards the carnival, scanning past the numerous faces, the booths, children running with balloons and sticks of cotton candy. “A ride on the Ferris wheel once it’s properly dark would be nice.”

A snort, though his nose. “I think I can manage that.”

He offers his arm again, and you take it, not minding how old fashioned it was. Somehow, despite his jacket, his sleek hair, the hint of motorcycle oil mixed with cologne, old-fashioned seemed to suit him.

Lots of things seemed to suit him, actually. You learn this as the evening wears on. He’s great at carnival games, choosing only a select few that he claims to be an expert in. He wins you a few stuffed animals that you pass on to little kids, save a smaller teddy bear that you can shoved inside your purse. 

You learn other things, too. Like, he’s a great listener. He lets you talk--about yourself, about the town--and doesn’t interrupt or tell you that you talk too much or make it clear he’s not listening to a thing you say. He even asks you questions, which shows he’s actually listening, and not just thinking about other things and waiting to ask you to go somewhere “private” like some other guys.

It’s nice, surprisingly nice, to find someone from out of town who’s so thoughtful.

The line for the Ferris wheel is always long once the sun goes down, and you’re one of the last rides of the night. 

When the carnival worker locks the bar down over your waists, you kick your legs and wait for the strange rush of adrenaline and pleasure that comes with the Ferris wheel. It’s a beautiful sight--all colored lights contrasted against the night sky, whisking you high into the air and giving you a view of the entire carnival and the ocean beyond.

But your body always reacts to the imagined danger of being carried so far away from the safety of the ground, and when the Ferris wheel reaches the top and begins to circle over for the first time, your stomach lurches and you gasp.

“Are you scared?” Chrollo’s voice is low--you could swear he’s teasing, but there’s something else in there, too. 

“Yeah,” you say, breath catching as you're brought back closer to the ground, only to be whisked away again. “Of course. What if something goes wrong, and I fall off and break my neck?”

Chrollo tilts his head. “You’d be dead.” 

You can’t help but grin. He’s so to-the-point sometimes. It’s charming in its own way, although you can’t exactly describe what “its own way” means with Chrollo. It’s like he stepped out of some old fashioned film but also came out of a cooler city. A biker who carries around an embroidered handkerchief, or something like that.

“And I don’t want to die, hence--the stomach flipping.” 

Chrollo looks ahead, then, taking in the view as the Ferris wheel carries you over again. “No? How long do you want to live, then?”

The snort is involuntary. A philosophical question on the Ferris wheel--not exactly what you expected from tonight. But maybe it’s not so bad. He’s good company. And Chrollo looks earnest in his question, too, which makes you feel guilty for snorting in the first place. 

Maybe it’s the lights of the Ferris wheel that dazzle you; maybe it’s the way being on the Ferris wheel at night makes you feel like you’re in some wonderful haze of a dream. 

Whatever it is, you fling your hand into the air, towards the carnival, towards the stars.

“Long enough to achieve my dreams,” you breathe out, earnest, almost sing-song. “Whatever they might be. I haven’t figured them out yet.”

Chrollo turns his head to look at you. His eyes almost seem magnetic against the night sky, with the lights of the carnival playing in them. 

Then, as the Ferris wheel brings the two of you down towards the ground, you see him. The man from yesterday, with the cowl over his face. He’s looking right at you, and it’s no mistake or figment of your imagination.

Your head swivels to the side and you grip the bar of the Ferris wheel until your knuckles hurt. You jerk one hand out and point to the stranger on the ground with a trembling finger. 

“There--look! Look!” 

Chrollo takes a moment to respond, and follows the sight line of your finger.

But now--there’s no one there.

“What do you see?” He asks, clearly unknowing that the object of your terror has vanished into thin air.

“The man… the man from yesterday. He was right there. I swear.” Your chest hurts; fear hurts. 

Unbidden, Chrollo pulls you close to him, and you let him hold you tight.

“You’re all right. I’m here.” 

He holds your chin in his fingers. “You’re safe, do you understand?”

The fear in your chest seems fuzzy now, like it had almost never been there in the first place. How silly of you to be scared, when Chrollo was right here. It doesn’t even seem strange that he’s touching you so intimately, does it? So you nod--yes, yes, you understand. 

Chrollo smiles. 

“Let me kiss you,” he says simply.

And you will. Of course you will. What else would you want to do? 

But as you lean forward, eyes already closing, he pulls himself away.

“Wait.” You blink, head clearing, and he continues, words slow, careful. “Would you like to kiss me?”

Now, you think about it. Maybe it was too hasty. But the lights of the carnival are beautiful and Chrollo is beautiful, and he’s been so thoughtful all day, and now he’s here, holding you, promising to keep you safe from carnival creeps.

A summer carnival is the time for a flirty romance, after all. 

“Yes,” you answer, simply. “I would.”

Chrollo’s finger strokes your chin as you lean in and share your first kiss on the Ferris wheel, glittering lights and carnival music dancing in your mind. 

--

The wife died first. Too quickly, but perhaps it was all the alcohol in her system; $1 margaritas at a local watering hole on a Friday night did nothing to make her more agile when being chased by predators while running in black city heels that had no place in a small town carnival.

Well, to the dying woman’s credit: it was the heels and alcohol and the sliced tendons in her ankle. Taut wires cut through her flesh like butter and she was down for the count, crawling, sobbing, begging for her husband, for God, for anyone to help her.

No one did.

Those pitiful cries, too, were cut down by a wire pressed into her throat; silencing her vocal chords, yes, but spilling blood over her neck that was as pretty as a sight as anything to those watching her choke and scrabble her hands against the ground, eyes wide, gaping, wondering--how is this happening to me? 

The margaritas may have hindered her before her unfortunate ankle accident. But they did make her blood taste sweet and tangy. Metallic, rich, with a twist of lime. All that was missing was a miniature umbrella.

This joke was said aloud, once everyone had a taste of her. A few laughed, blood on their teeth. 

Her husband didn’t seem to find it funny, but perhaps he was more preoccupied with his own current slow death. An arc of his blood spurted into the air--”Don’t fucking waste it, Uvo”--before a greedy mouth latched onto the wound, beginning to suck him dry.

The husband, like the wife, would be shared.

Soon, though, there would be no need for sharing.

There would be enough for everyone to have their fill--and beyond that.

There would be enough to gorge.

--

Saturday:

Three people are dead. 

You didn’t know them know them, but the shock is still there, making your hands tremble a little as you pour morning coffees and deliver plates of steaming eggs and overcooked bacon to tables of locals and tourists in almost equal measure.

Jake Jensen is one of those people. The identities of the other two are unknown--”Due to the state of the bodies, no identification could be provided at this time,” said the sheriff, above a rolling news ticker that had been on the diner’s singular TV all morning--but they might be a couple. A man and a woman.

People die all the time. Sure. But…  dead bodies are not often found in your small town, where gossip typically revolves around couples breaking up or a local store not putting up enough holiday decorations to appease the older crowd. 

Yet now, in one morning, there are three. 

Jake Jensen, who was found near the beach.

And an unknown man and woman (John and Jane Doe) who were found in a wooded area near the carnival.

“Mighta been a bear,” says one of your regulars, gnawing on a piece of his burnt bacon. He liked it that way.

“I heard they were drained of blood!” Your head--and others’ too, you suspect--turns to the voice. It’s not a local. Someone who’s far too dressy for the diner, sipping on a coffee they brought from home while they sample your diner’s less than stellar fruit salad option. He’s oblivious to the stares, to the eye rolls, to the immediate dismissal that his outsiderness earns him. “Two puncture wounds on the neck. Heard it from a cop while I was walking in this morning.”

Someone murmurs a joke about vampires and the locals chuckle, then go back to their coffee, their eggs, their eyes now and then glancing up at the old TV screen.

Your eyes roll, too, but then you wonder.

If they were murdered--and it’s an if, of course, because it could have been animals and Jake Jensen could have gotten so plastered that he fell off the dock or something, murders just don’t happen in your town--then… could it have been that creepy guy from before? The one who’s been following you around the carnival?

Shit, maybe he was waiting for the chance to get you alone, so he could drag you off to the dock or the woods and slit your throat. The thought gives you goosebumps, and acrid coffee tries to climb its way up your throat, before you swallow it down.

It was a good thing you had Chrollo around for the past two days.

And you’d be seeing him again tonight.

They weren’t canceling the carnival--it brings in too much money. And while a part of you is all sore and soft for poor Jake Jensen (who was never mean, just drunk) you try to brush it away. It’s sad. But life is sad. 

You don’t want to be sad tonight. You want to look nice--for Chrollo? He wasn’t the first out-of-towner that had flirted with you, that you’d flirted with back. He was the first one that you’d ever genuinely looked forward to seeing again, though.

So.

You want to be wearing your best smile when you meet Chrollo again tonight. 

And you can’t do that if you’re thinking about Jake Jensen’s body washing up on the beach or if there’s a small, tickling question dancing through your mind--

What sort of animal leaves two pretty little puncture wounds on the neck?

--

You sit on the same bench as before; the bench, in your mind, where you and Chrollo have taken to meeting up these past few days. 

There’s no room in your stomach for popcorn tonight, though. Or rather, there’s room--your stomach growls--but you can’t imagine chewing anything rich, hot and buttery right now. Your thoughts flit between horror (poor Jake Jensen, one time, when you were younger, he helped you fix a flat bike tire) and romance (Chrollo’s lips on yours, warm, the breeze tickling your neck, the lights of the Ferris wheel twinkling around you).

You feel bad for wanting to enjoy tonight. But that’s not fair, is it? Another small town tragedy: caring too much about someone you didn’t really know as anything more than a passing familiar face that you can’t even focus on a hot date. 

Fuck. 

“Daydreaming again?” 

The evening sky above you is a wash of deepening colors, devoid of actual sunlight but clinging to the last vestiges of it like a child refusing to let go of his mother’s hand on the first day of school. 

He’s holding up a stick of bright pink cotton candy in one hand, while the other arm is offered for you to take--the contrast between his leather jacket, the ball of fluffy sugar he’s holding, and the way he sometimes acts like an old timey gentleman out of the movies is enough to make you smile.

Perhaps there’s bitterness in it, because as soon as you’re standing, Chrollo regards you with a measured look.

“Are you all right?” 

Well. You don’t want to ruin your evening, but it would be stupid to pretend everything was all sweetness and sunshine, wouldn’t it? It’s better to get it out of the way. 

“Sorry, it’s… I don’t know if you saw the news?” He says nothing, and you continue. “Those people that they found dead this morning.” Your lips press together. “I mean, the guy--I knew him, sort of? Everyone did. He was drunk all the time, yeah, but he wasn’t a jerk about it.”

Chrollo hums.

“I can imagine that would be shocking for you to hear.” 

Your smile is shaky, and you nab a piece of cotton candy from the stick and shove it in your mouth. The sweetness contrasts awfully with the words that pass through your lips. “For you too though, right? I mean, it’s not every day three people turn up dead at some small town carnival.”

Chrollo raises an eyebrow in a way that seems to say that he is not particularly shocked by the news. 

“Shit, really? What are you in your non-touristy life, a mortician or something?” A sudden realization washes over you, that Chrollo has an entire life outside of you and these carnival evenings; he has a past, and family, and friends, and a job. Hopes, dreams, the whole nine yards.

“Something like that,” he says. When you move to apologize, he shakes his head. “It’s alright. I’m not terribly shocked by these things, I suppose, because of what I see in my day to day.” He looks at you a little curiously. “But I can see how it would rattle you.”

You open your mouth, but you don’t know what to say. Sugar sticks to your teeth.

“Come on.” Chrollo drops the cotton candy into a nearby trash can, and leads you towards a row of carnival games. “I know what might take your mind off things.”

For once, you’re glad to see the carnival games; the fast-paced spitting words of the barkers trying to hustle money from kids and couples, the sound of darts popping balloons, the triumphant music that plays before the obnoxiously difficult water shooting game. 

You’re even glad to see the tourists in all of their Saturday glory, which isn’t so much “glory” as it is a sort of restlessness. Saturdays were always a strange day at the carnival; the last middle day before the grand finale. An unusual mixture of sleepiness, anticipation, and a buzz that held everyone together until tomorrow.

Strange day, strange faces. Some stranger than others. Staring up at the bell at the top of the Test Your Strength game is an exceptionally tall man with wild dirty blonde hair. By the size of his muscles, he might just break the game, which hadn’t been replaced in the many years you’d been coming here in the summer.

You tug on Chrollo’s arm and point the man out. “What do you want to bet the carnie will try to get him not to play? He might just break the thing…”

“I don’t doubt it.” Beside you, Chrollo snorts, but doesn’t linger on the man as he leads you further into the carnival. 

The two of you walk, and talk. About nothing and everything. He asks you to come up with stories for a few tourists, and you do. Light ones. It really does take your mind off things. At some point, Chrollo buys you fries, which taste slightly sweet; probably cooked in the same oil as the funnel cakes. 

You dig in your heels in front of the fun house, but Chrollo shakes his head, and won’t go in.

“Are you scared?” You tease. At night, the fun house was all lit up, and the clowns painted on the front had a ridiculously sinister air to them.

But Chrollo doesn’t smile or laugh. “They make me dizzy,” he says, quietly. There’s something behind his words, but you don’t know what. A medical problem? A bad experience? You apologize and then he does smile, shaking his head, at himself, or you, you’re not sure. “Think nothing of it, dear.”

Dear.

You want to hold onto that bit of affection like the sky holds onto the sunset on summer evenings. At least as long as you can, which tonight, seems to be until Chrollo takes you on the Ferris wheel again. 

This time, he holds your hand as soon as the attendant locks the bar down. Your fingers interlock and squeeze and it sends butterflies rushing through your chest. What was there to worry about, to think about, when you were sitting next to him? 

It takes a few turns around the Ferris wheel to remember what you were supposed to worry about, because on the trip down, your stomach fluttering from romance and gravity alike, you see him: the strange man. The stalker. The maybe-serial-killer-on-the-loose. 

He’s standing still in the crowd walking here-and-there around the Ferris wheel, couples intent on getting in line, children running from tired parents as they beg for another carnival game.

And he’s staring straight up at you.

You don’t think this time. You grab Chrollo and point straight down and practically screech out the words: “There! He’s there! Look, look--look!” 

And the stars must be aligned, because Chrollo actually sees him. His grip on your other hand tightens and he pulls you closer to him as you make your way back around the Ferris wheel and the man goes out of sight. By the time the two of you are at the top again, the stranger is gone.

Your goosebumps remain.

“We should talk to the police,” you murmur, a quiet, scratchy whisper.

Chrollo turns towards you. You recognize the look. The “Do you really think the police will do anything about this?” sort of look. 

“I’ve been thinking…” You squeeze Chrollo’s hand and he squeezes back and that’s all you need to keep going. “That maybe he might have something to do with those people? The ones they found this morning?”

Chrollo’s eyes widen just a little. It’s both comforting and worrying to see him look taken aback, even if it’s only a bit. 

“I heard…” You feel stupid saying this. But you shouldn’t feel stupid, not with Chrollo. He hasn’t given you a reason to feel like you can’t tell him things. “Someone at the diner today said they were found with puncture wounds on them. I was thinking, maybe… like an ice pick? Or a screwdriver or--I don’t know. But maybe they were killed.”

“Perhaps he’s a vampire,” Chrollo offers, voice low, lips curled into a smile, and your face must reflect the flash of offended shame that rushes into your chest, because he immediately apologizes. His sigh flutters against your cheek. “Well. He wouldn’t be the first killer to prey on crowds or small towns, would he?”

At least he didn’t say you were crazy to connect the two things, vampire joke aside.

He keeps you close once the ride is over, and you wouldn’t have it any other way. 

“I’ll inform the police,” he insists, when the two of you finally stumble on a pair of deputies patrolling the carnival. He leaves you standing next to the Test Your Strength game, where the carnival barker has agreed to keep an eye on you. It made you feel like a child, but for once, maybe that wasn’t a bad thing--to be watched and protected.

You watch, biting your nails now and then, as Chrollo and the deputies talk. In the end, they shake his hand, and you feel cool relief in your stomach. The police will know what to do with the information. If this guy’s a killer, they’ll catch him. If he’s not, well. The carnival was almost over, and you wouldn’t have to worry about him much longer.

Things will be normal soon.

When Chrollo returns, you take his arm without hesitation, but this time he begins to lead you away from the carnival.

“I was thinking,” he says, “that we might go for a walk. Get away for a bit. If you don’t mind, that is.”

You don’t mind at all. 

“Do you like trails?” You ask, steering him towards a trail that leads from the beach to a popular hiking spot for locals. “It’d be a bit more private. As long as you’re not scared of the dark.”

Chrollo chuckles. It’s a warm, dark, rich sound, and it sends a delightful thrill right through you. 

“I’m not if you aren’t,” is all he says, and that’s enough for you to point out the way.

Thoughts of dead bodies and stalkers fade away with the carnival, whose sights and sounds fade bit by bit as you and Chrollo leave the beach and begin making your way into a wooded area with a paved hiking path lit on the other side by electric trail lights. 

“I’m surprised to see these,” Chrollo says, quietly. He pulled his phone out at the start of the trail to give the two of you more light, though the trail lights were decent enough, especially since you’d been up here more times than you could count.

“Mm,” you murmur. “Locals come up here all the time at night. Especially teens. Usually to make out and stuff.” Chrollo gives you a look and your cheeks hit up, but you don’t elaborate. He doesn’t need to know about your high school escapades. “They added them to avoid the inevitable lost-teen-in-the-woods-at-night rescue scenario, I think.”

“Clever,” he says. 

--

The waterfall is loud when you’re this close; so loud you can’t hear anything in the moment but your own thoughts, which have grown louder and louder somewhere between the hiking trail and this popular waterfall spot. So popular that it’s lit with a flood light near the top--supposedly a teenager slipped in one night and drowned in the shallow pool, though you’ve never been certain if it was a true story or not.

Regardless, you’re not sure you want to stay. No--you know you don’t want to stay. 

This is a bit much, is what your thoughts are starting to scream. Chrollo is nice, but you don’t really know him, do you? And you just walked somewhere alone with him in the dark after being surprised by a maybe-stalker, the day that three people were found dead around here.

Yeah. A bit much might be an understatement. You should really get back to where there’s more lights and people and civilization in general. If Chrollo is a nice person (and he is, you insist, you’re just being smart!) he won’t mind. 

“I think we should go back,” you say, but Chrollo can’t hear you. So you cup your hands around your mouth and lean closer to his ears. “I think we should go back!”

You expect him to nod and take your arm and lead you carefully down the lantern-lit trail, perhaps still using his phone to guide the way. Instead, he takes your chin in his hands--you move to jerk it out, you’d rather wait until you’re back at the carnival to kiss again--but his grip is impossibly strong.

“It’s all right,” he says, and it’s the strangest thing, you can hear him so clearly despite the roaring waterfall just a few feet in front of you. “You know that you’re safe with me. You don’t want to go back yet.”

How strange. How silly. Why did you want to leave, when you just got here? You didn’t even show him the best part yet.

“Come on!” It’s your turn to pull him along as you carefully walk the path leading to the front of the waterfall, which has already begun to soak water through your clothes. 

“Is there a cave?” Chrollo asks--and again, you’re struck by how easy it is to hear him, despite the water rushing down in front of you. 

“You sure know your way around local watering holes,” you jest. 

He merely smiles. “I travel a lot.”

With that, you grip his arm tighter and run through the waterfall, shrieking in delight. Both of you emerge on the other side soaked; you, grinning, and Chrollo, looking around with interest.

The inside of the cave was lined with endless rows of fairy lights, courtesy of a local high school group. They had also brought in the two couches--used leather, frayed and flecking, but good enough for a hang out. When you were younger, there were only folding chairs; which were great for sitting, not so much for much less. 

“Do you like it?” You ask, then feel stupid. Why do you care so much what he thinks of some local hang out spot, especially one you hadn’t been in for ages? The same reason why you’d spent all day telling him about your daydreams, about small town memories, bits and pieces of local lore that he didn’t brush aside but seemed to enjoy hearing.

Chrollo was so different from the others you’ve met at the summer carnival. 

Maybe that’s why your heart begins to beat fast the moment you catch his eye again. His skin looks almost dewy in the glow of the lights, thanks to the water; his eyes shine, reflecting a soft, warm twinkling glow.

It’s just the two of you. No tourists, no locals, no would-be stalkers. Even the carnival itself seems far away; the lights blocked from view by the rushing water and canopy of the forest, even the wafting smell of popcorn and stale beer was long gone out here.

It was just you and Chrollo in a cave at the end of the evening. 

But… it didn’t have to be the end of the evening, did it? 

You ask him, this time. 

“Do you want to kiss me?” 

“I do,” he says. “Very much so.”

This time, your kiss is tinged with the tang of river water.

--

Five bodies lay scattered in the grass. Young men, young women. Teens that had been giggling and stumbling through the forest, flasks of pilfered whiskey in their bags. 

Now some dead and going cold, their limbs twisted, their mouths open in silent screams.

Two were still alive, whimpering, weak hands beating against monsters’ chests as open mouths hungrily lapped up their life blood. They had screamed, all of them, but no one could hear them in the woods--over the water. 

“This is a lovely spot,” said a woman, brushing back her blonde hair. A bit of red gore had stuck to the strands and she tsked at the sight of it.  “The waterfall adds a nice touch.” 

The man hummed, and stuck his hands in his pockets. The slightest touch of red showed on his lips; like a woman pressing her lipstick-covered mouth onto a bit of tissue to get rid of the excess. 

The carnage made him indifferent; the whimpers of the dying, even more so. But as he looked around at the carefully placed lights on the trail, the way they flickered against the waterfall and its hidden cavern like delicate stars, he smiled. 

“It came highly recommended.” 

--

Sunday: The Final Day

Chrollo was in your bed last night, and you thought he’d be there in the morning. But when the sound of birds pulls you delightfully out of a restful sleep and you blink your eyes open to dappled sunlight through your blinds, you realize that the bed is half-empty.

Just you and the sheets and the leftover smell of Chrollo--cologne and, more faintly, sweat and sex. 

You freeze, listening for the sound of someone meandering about an unfamiliar kitchen. He could be up and about already--making coffee or breakfast. The image of him serving up a plate of bacon and eggs almost makes you laugh.

But the apartment is silent, save for your breathing, the sound of a clock ticking in the living room. 

Your heart lurches and shame pricks at the back of your eyelids. He fucked you and ran, didn’t he? Just like the others, just like--

But just when you’re about to give into the temptation to scrub yourself all over with hot water and erase every trace of Chrollo that ever existed in your presence, you see it: a piece of paper, torn from a notebook you keep on your dresser. Carefully folded over and placed on the side table next to the bed.

Your name is on it, written in a surprisingly beautiful, scrawling hand. 

Curiosity and leftover shame-tinged dread curl together in  your stomach as you sit up and slowly pick up the note. 

Dear--

Your heart lurches again, for a different reason this time.

I apologize that I did not give you a proper farewell. I had an urgent matter to attend to. Forgive me, won’t you? We will see each other tonight, I hope, for a memorable and unforgettable evening.

Of course he didn’t fuck and run. He wouldn’t do that. And tonight would be--well, memorable and unforgettable, just as he said.

The pitter-pattering inside your chest takes on a new delightful cadence as you get yourself ready for the day. No work--you had Sundays off, thank God, maybe literally, for that. It was a shame Chrollo didn’t tell you where he was staying; presumably, the only hotel in town. But maybe he was at one of the B&Bs or was shacking up at a room for rent.

It would be nice to see him in the daytime, too.

But he didn’t, so you’re left with nothing to do but flick on the TV and make yourself a cereal bowl. Well, that’s wrong.  That’s not the only thing you could do. You could go to your parent’s house and help out your mom; she could use a break with caring for your dad.

But… was it wrong to be selfish, just a little, for just one day? You didn’t want to see Chrollo tonight with something unpleasant sticking inside you, on the potential chance that your dad was having a not-so-great day.

It was better to approach your last evening together with a sunnier attitude.

Although you don’t really have a choice, because the first thing you see when the news returns from a commercial break is a giant banner scrolling across the screen: TWO MISSING TEENS FOUND DEAD AT LOCAL WATERFALL. POPULAR TRAIL CLOSED UNTIL FURTHER NOTICE.

In the background, the sheriff recites familiar lines about respecting the privacy of the dead, about putting the full energy of the police force into finding the investigation, about how there is no need to panic. He says that it may not have even been foul play.

Somehow, you don’t believe that.  You just know. 

Sugary cereal seems to lodge itself inside your throat. You were just there. You were just there, kissing Chrollo, holding his hand, and now two teenagers are dead and lifeless and, and--

And if it was that same man… the one who was staring at you, stalking you… how close did you and Chrollo come to dying last night?

Tears prick at your eyes and you grab your purse. Maybe you would spend the day with your parents, after all. 

--

You should be more excited to see Chrollo. And you are, truly. But between the news this morning and the dull realization that this would be your last evening together ever, it’s hard to feel too enthused. 

Chrollo would be going home after tonight. Tourist trap over, no need to stick around. Something childish in you thinks: maybe I can convince him to stay a little longer. And if he stays a little longer, he’ll see how nice it is here (it’s not) and maybe he’ll want to settle down (he won’t). 

Oh, how stupid. It’s like when you’d meet the endless stream of New Best Friends every summer weekend as a kid, and you’d beg their parents together to extend their vacation.

It wasn’t going to happen. You’ll never see him again after tonight, and you’ll go your separate ways, and that’s that. 

Reality sucks sometimes.

You’re still stuck in the dreary shit cloud that is reality when Chrollo’s now somewhat familiar footsteps approach you on the bench. The bench, your spot--your spot? As if you and Chrollo had anything that could be called an actual relationship that warranted the use of “your” plural. 

You shake your head, hoping it shakes those silly childish delusions, and force yourself to smile.

Chrollo, to your surprise, doesn’t smile back.

Instead, he leans down, and takes your hand. His eyes roam over your fingers like they’re something special and it makes your stomach flutter stupidly.

“You seem a bit sad,” he says, bringing your knuckles to his lips for a kiss. The way that makes you feel is something you love and hate in almost equal measure. It’s not fair, is it, that he makes you feel this way--when he has to leave, and you’ll never see him again.

Perhaps it’s the knowledge that you will part ways after tonight that makes you speak freely.

“I’m just sad that you’ll be leaving.” He blinks at you, and turns his head a little. “That we won’t see each other after tonight,” you clarify. 

You expect him to nod and agree, and perhaps say something trite but comforting, like, “We’ll just make the most of it.” 

Instead, he gives your hand a squeeze.

“We don’t have to part, you know.”

It’s your turn to blink. A silly, little-kid-in-you hope does a twirl. He could stay--and this could maybe, possibly, in some far off millimeter of a chance, turn into something more serious than a summer fling. “You could extend your vacation? Your job would do that?”

Chrollo finally smiles at you. 

“My life is flexible. But,” and now he pulls you up so that you’re standing. It’s a fluid, easy gesture for him, almost too easy--he’s stronger than he looks. “I was thinking that instead of staying here, you would come with me.”

The world around you is not silent. The carnival is always producing an eternal cacophony of sounds--screaming patrons hung upside down on the more thrilling of rides, cheery carousel music, laughter, popcorn endlessly beating like a fast paced drum, everything and anything all mixed together into a swirl of sound.

But it might as well be silent, because you feel like all you can hear is your heartbeat in your eyes for a few stretched moments. 

“What? You’re not serious.” You smile, too, but it feels fake. Like it’s plastered on and cracking underneath. There’s a brief thought--maybe he means, like, for a weekend?--but you instantly know that’s not what he’s talking about.

This is too much, too fast. Too out of the blue. 

Chrollo looks at you in a way that almost makes you uncomfortable. Like he wants to see something inside you that you’re keeping for yourself. Then that gaze is gone and he’s smiling softly, charming, a little bittersweet.

Bittersweet is familiar territory, and the ringing in your ears fades in favor of a carnival barker offering 2-for-1 prizes on the Test-Your-Strength game. 

Chrollo’s voice cuts through it all, jovial, unassuming. 

“We can talk about it later, if you’d like. Let’s go enjoy the carnival a bit more before the concert.” 

That would be nice.

“I’d like that.” 

And you mean it--you do. You shake your head and let Chrollo intertwine his fingers in yours, and it doesn’t take long for his question to fade away from your mind as you weave in and out of the crowds.

If you weren’t so distracted, so disarmed, you might have noticed an uncomfortably familiar figure clad in black watching the pair of you intently.

--

The Ferris Wheel worker should have kicked you off several spins ago, but Chrollo had slipped him a twenty as he buckled the safety bar down. It’s nice, this extra time with him--it’ll be the last time you ride the Ferris wheel together, after all. 

What did it say about the state of your love life--or your life in general, actually--that slipping a carnie 20 bucks made your heart soar (and twist, and ache) even a little bit?

The night is prettier from the Ferris wheel. The world, too. Up here, you can’t see the grit and grime. The fermenting candy apples littering the ground, dropped two days ago by careless kids; the too-drunk couples arguing about whether they should stay for the concert or not; the exhausted carnival workers smiling hard no matter how much they get yelled at for their rigged games.

All you can take in from up here is the broad vantage point. Crowds and happy sounds--squeals and music interplaying above crowds of people, including a growing crowd on the beach in front of the black stage, waiting for the concert to start.

Chrollo’s grip on your hand tightens and draws your attention back to him. Even he looks more beautiful from up here, with the rainbow lights of the Ferris wheel playing on his face. 

“I’ve enjoyed our time together,” he says softly.

Ah, you realize. The extra spins were for the inevitable “we’ll never see each other again but it was a blast” speech. You knew it was coming. Doesn’t make it any less bitter in your mouth. But what good is holding bitterness against your tongue?

“Me too,” you say, and it’s not a lie, even if you hate the way the conversation must end. You try to focus less on the sourness and more on the sweet that came before. After all, Chrollo was… well. Handsome, yes, magnetic, yes. But more than that. He seemed thoughtful. He listened to you prattle on about yourself and your small town, and he didn’t even make fun of you for knowing so many local stories.

He was good in bed, too, wasn’t he? You blink and realize you don’t actually remember all that much about last night, except that he wasn’t there in the morning. Vague snatches rush through your memory. You remember his mouth on your lips, his hand trailing against your skin, removing your clothes. You remember his mouth against your neck, then this teeth, nipping, and--

It’s all fuzzy. But you weren’t drunk. So why--

“Have you thought about what I said?” He asks, and once again you’re pulled away from your thoughts, although this time you’d like to focus on them. Why couldn’t you fully remember last night?

When you don’t answer, he raises his eyebrows.

“About coming with me,” he says, a bit louder, as if you can’t hear him over the carnival din.

You let out a soft puff of a breath, then, and force yourself to focus on the current conversation. For now.

“You’re serious?” You don’t mean to sound so flippant, but you do. Chrollo frowns, just a little, and you feel like a bitch for it. “Sorry. I just--I didn’t know if you really meant it.”

“I am,” is all he says.

You didn’t like the idea of the conversation headed towards Chrollo leaving, but you like the idea of him genuinely asking you to come with him even less. Partly because you know you never could, and partly because there’s some small, stupid, fantasy-of-your-hair-blowing-in-the-wind-wearing-a-leather-jacket-on-a-motorcycle part of you that wants to say yes.

“Chrollo, I can’t do that. I have a job here. A life.”

Chrollo doesn’t let go of your hand, but you can sense the way his muscles tense. 

“A job at a local diner slinging hash browns,” he says, voice dry and almost hurtful. You must look offended--are you? You can’t tell--because he turns a little in the seat, trapping you with his gaze. His voice is earnest now, drawing you in.

“Don’t you want more out of life? The ability to pursue your dreams--to figure out your dreams?” One hand goes to your cheek, and his knuckle brushes against your skin. “You could travel. See so much more than your little town. Imagine it.” 

An image starts to build in your mind. Unbidden by you, but there, somehow, nonetheless. Of you riding behind him on a motorcycle, holding onto his waist as he takes you wherever you want to go--wherever he wants to go, together. Life would be wild and unpredictable, but easy and fun and--

“My family,” you murmur, and Chrollo seems surprised that you’ve spoken. 

His lips press thinner. “You could write to them, call them. No matter at all.”

Whatever fantasy has built in your head gets swept away and the Ferris wheel finally comes to a stop. The seat rocks back and forth and the bored (but $20 richer) carnie lets you off. Chrollo helps you as he’s done every time.

You wait until he’s escorted you away from the Ferris wheel to turn and address him. 

“Chrollo, I can’t--” You try to find the right words, but there are no right words. “I don’t know you. Not… really. Not enough to give up my life here.”

Chrollo is quiet. He considers you, turning his head a little. You feel awful--maybe you should just end the night here, on this shitty, sour note, because you’ve probably ruined the rest of the evening anyway.  You wish he hadn’t asked again before the night was over, but there’s no way to fix it now.

You’re ready to leave, to bite your cheek so tears don’t come. You’re prepared for Chrollo to say something low and insulting, to dismiss you, because why should he waste another minute on someone who would rather stay here in this shitpot of a town than--

“Come along,” is what he says, finally, holding out his hand--to your utter confusion. He still wants to go to the concert? With you? Now?

But you take his hand anyway. 

“It would be wasteful to end our evening early and miss the concert.” 

His grip is harder than it has been, but maybe you’re imagining it as he pulls you along, weaving in and out as the crowds grow larger and a little more drunk the closer the pair of you get to the beach.

This doesn’t feel right, suddenly. He’s upset, that’s why he’s holding you so tightly. Or maybe you’re upset and imagining it. Either way, it doesn’t feel good. Your primal gut instincts are telling you that it’s better to cut your losses and leave now, then to spend the night with a flipping stomach. 

“Maybe I should just go home,” you yell over the crowd. 

Chrollo stops, and you stumble forward a little, but he catches you in both arms before you make an ungraceful acquaintance with the ground. The hand not gripping your own gently grasps your chin and he leans in, not quite kissing you. His breath smells off, like rust. 

“And miss the grand finale?”

You should insist on going home. Everything’s gone shitty. It’s too crowded and the music will be too loud, and Chrollo is clearly irritated with you--

“Come to the concert,” he whispers, and none of that seems to matter anymore. Of course, you’ll go to the concert. What else would you do? 

He keeps his grip on your hand as you walk onto the warm, crowded sands of the beach, even though you have no intention of leaving. 

--

Booze, sweat, and popcorn. That’s all you can really smell now, surrounded as you are by crowds of people jumping and swaying to some rock band you’ve never heard of before; but no one really cares what the music sounds like on a night like this, when alcohol has been flowing and summer is at its peak.

Even Chrollo seems to be enjoying himself, although he’s not dancing. Just holding you, his arm around your waist, pressing his lips now and then to your forehead.

You feel bad. That must be why there’s a pit in your stomach. You were being rude to him. Of course he’d ask you to come with him--if he’s the type to live so freely, he wouldn’t think twice about making the offer. He just doesn’t understand what it means to be rooted down, willingly or not, the way you are.

You can’t hold something like that against him, so you don’t. 

Instead, you sway to the music, hips bumping against Chrollo now and then. Maybe after this, he could come back to your apartment again, for one last…

All thoughts in your head are stomped into the stand when you spot the strange man with the cowl in the crowd. He’s standing stock still while everyone around him jumps and dances and flaps their drunken arms. 

And he’s looking right at you.

“Chrollo--” There’s no time to waste, and you grab his arm and jerk him towards the direction of the stranger.

But he’s gone. He’s just fucking gone. Cold terror seizes your chest.

“What is it, love?” 

The nickname doesn’t even register.

“That--the man--the guy from before--he was there.” Your voice begins to tremble, frightened tears welling in your eyes. “Can we leave? Please?” 

Chrollo pulls you closer to him and you feel dim comfort as he wraps his arms around you and presses his lips against your head. But he doesn’t tell you that of course, we’ll leave, of course, I’ll get you somewhere safe, of course, let’s talk to the police. 

“Hush.” One hand begins to pet your hair. “Not much longer now. It’ll be over soon.” 

“What do you…”

Behind Chrollo, you see another familiar face. Vaguely familiar. The tall man with wild blonde hair, the one who looked like he could snap the Test Your Strength Game in half if he really wanted to--he’s standing still, like the man from before, while everyone jostles happily around him. He’s not looking at you, but that doesn’t make it any less unnerving. 

Your eyes dart over the crowd.

There are others, standing still. Others who seem out of place immediately, either because of their appearance or something awful you can’t describe. A woman with pink hair looking impassively as she scans the crowded beach, keeping her body perfectly still. A man with long black hair and something shiny and thin strapped to his shoulder. A woman with blonde hair in a smart black tailored suit that no one in their right mind would wear to a summer night carnival concert. Others, too, all out of place and making you want to be anywhere but here.

And then in a few blinks, they’re all gone. Like they were never there.

Dizziness overtakes you, along with a strange sort of fuzzy fear. Is this what a heart attack feels like, maybe? No, it’s just panic. Understandable but undeniably awful panic. 

“Chrollo,” you manage, voice shaky. “Something’s wrong. There’s people, they seem--it’s---I don’t know how to explain, we should--I think we ought to--”

Chrollo doesn’t say anything. Instead, he turns you around, keeping you in his arms as he makes you face the stage.

“You’ll miss the concert,” he whispers in your ear.

Helpless irritation courses through you. Who cares about the concert right now? You have half a mind to ask him why he’s not listening to you, but that impulse is gone the moment you see the tall man with blonde hair and impossibly large muscles leap onto the stage.

The guitars and drums come to a confusing, stuttered halt. The lead singer, clad in an oversized black t-shirt with a skull on it, looks like he wants to throw his guitar at the intruder.

“Dude, what the fuck, we’re playing up here, you can’t just--”

Even from your vantage point, you can see the large grin the blonde man sports on his face as he raises his fist and knocks the lead singer’s head off with a single punch. 

The body remains standing for a moment before collapsing without grace onto the stage. Blood spurts from the wound, spritzing high enough that it sprinkles the faces of those closest to the stage. 

There’s a noise from the crowd that almost, for a moment, sounds like a burst of startled laughter.

And then the blonde man leaps onto the corpse, opens his mouth until it’s gaping far too wide to be human, and begins to suck on the headless neck like a crawfish.

It’s that moment when people finally begin to scream.

Your head jerks towards one of the screams, and she’s there--the woman with the pink hair. Latched onto someone’s neck while blood dribbles from her mouth and the person, eyes bugged out, cries out in wordless pain. His body is cross-crossed with strange cuts, like someone pressed him through a sieve. 

You spin around, looking away from horror, only to see it again: the man with the long hair swings something out--a sword?--and strikes someone’s arm clean off his body, then pins that person down and begins to suck at the spurting blood. 

That’s not all he hit.  The person in front of them, a woman holding two drinks, staggers to the ground. Half her face slides off, revealing bone and brain. Lukewarm beer and gore meet the ground together.

You’re not entirely sure if you said Chrollo’s name, or when he let you go, or what you should do. All you know is that when you finally pull yourself together enough to look at him, he’s simply watching the events around you like a boring television show.

Like people aren’t screaming and running and bumping into you. Like blood isn’t flying. Like you aren’t seeing things that you’ve only seen in shitty horror movies. 

He’s in shock. Fuck. So are you, maybe? But it will be up to you to get the pair of you to safety, so you grab his arm and shake him hard.

“Chrollo! We have to go! Now!” 

He doesn’t move. You shake him again, and he finally looks at you. 

He smiles, and holds out his hand, ignoring your jostling.

“You’ve had time to think about it, haven’t you? Will you stay with me?” 

Oh, he’s definitely in shock. That doesn’t stop the impulsive words that flee your mouth as quickly as the people around you are trying--some not successfully--to flee the beach. 

“You’ve lost your fucking mind. Let’s go!” 

You don’t register what’s happened until you’ve hit the ground. Someone finally ran smack into you, and something--their elbow, maybe--strikes your head, hard. Pain blossoms in your knees and the side of your head when you hit the ground, then explodes when someone steps right on your hand.

There’s a feeling of lost gravity when someone yanks you up--Chrollo--but when you’re on your own two feet, he’s not there anymore.

You call his name. Once. Twice. Three times, four. He might not be able to even hear you over the din, if he’s nearby. Maybe he got swept away by the panicked people. Maybe his shock wore off and he ran to get help. Or ran--and left you.

There are a few moments where you almost run deeper into the crowd to look for him. A stupid thought. But then the wild, shock of fear inside you turns to complete ice and you’re not sure of anything in the world because he’s there. 

Standing in front of you.

Close enough to touch. 

Your stalker. The man with the cowl. Only the cowl is down, now, and his mouth is covered in a smear of blood. He smiles at you, and it’s not a nice smile at all. His smile grows wider, and you have to blink several times to realize what you’re seeing.

He’s got fangs.

Two of them, red tinged. Sharp enough to puncture your neck. 

They’re vampires. Actual vampires. Actual, damn bloodsucking vampires. 

There’s a brief, panicked thought--where’s Chrollo?--before your flight kicks in, and you’re scrambling through the crowd like everyone else. You stumble, of course you do. Over bodies, some dead, and you almost fall flat on your face when you make it off the beach and your ankle rolls on the uneven grass-covered ground.

If you were thinking logically, you might have run to the car park, and hopped into your car. You might have run in the direction of the crowds thinking the same, and gotten lost in them.

But there was no logic. Only pure primal panic, the realization that you people were being murdered all around you like animals, and you were one of those animals because one of the monsters was chasing you.

You didn’t dare to look back to see how far away he was; you just knew, deep down, that he was following you now. Running wouldn’t work: you couldn’t run forever, not with the pain in your ankle, and he’d catch up with you even if you weren’t panicked and in pain.

You had to hide.  But where? The carnival was all lit up at night, and the beautiful lights that had been fun to see just a day before now made you want to scream. He could see you, just about clear as day, no matter where you ran.

Unless you can find somewhere to hide inside.

It’s this thought that pushes you to dash inside the fun house, sneakers pounding on the silver ramp leading into the entrance painted over like a mouth devouring any children who enter.

The stillness inside startles you more than anything else. The lights are on. The music is playing, quiet, delightful. It’s hard to hear it over the dulled screams coming from outside, and from the awful, pounding rush inside your ears.

You follow the short hallway until it leads to something which you’d forgotten about; but it wasn’t your fault. Panic made you stupid, and you hadn’t actually been inside a fun house in years. 

The glass maze. All-see through panels that you’d smash into on an ordinary day, much less this one, where your mind is fried from panic and adrenaline keeps your body from coordinating properly. You smash against the panels a few times before you see it… something, behind you. 

No. Not something. Someone behind you. Or near you. Or far away. 

You can’t tell exactly where this person is, because of the fucking glass maze, but the fact remains:

He’s there--he’s here--he’s going to get you and kill you and it will hurt so bad.

You scream, at some point, and it’s dumb because the sound simply bounces off your current glass predicament and hurts your ears.

Maybe panic pushes you through, or maybe you’re just good at completing mazes when you’re in fear for your life; whatever the reason,  you make it out. You stumble through a hallway made of rollers that nearly send you sprawling, until you’re at the end of the hallway. 

A small red spiral staircase, barely usable for adults, is your only hope. 

You don’t try to be quiet now and the metal stairs clang under your feet as you run up them, feeling dizzy, feeling like this might be the last thing you ever do in your short, stupid life.

The second floor isn’t entirely enclosed. It opens out onto the carnival in the front, and there’s a slide to take you down near the end. The wall behind you is covered in a series of mirrors--the kind that make you tall or short or wide or impossibly thin.

It’s not the mirrors that catch your eye, though. It’s what’s down below. 

They’re all down there. The monsters from the beach. All covered in various amounts of blood and gore. Splatters. Smears. Like they’ve all gotten into different scrapes--killed people different ways. 

All of them have blood around their mouths. 

Fear rings in your ears. You want to wake up, more than anything. This is a nightmare and you want to wake up. 

You don’t wake up.

Instead, you hear a metal clang.

Then another.

And another.

Someone is coming up the stairs.

Thoughts dart here and there, but there’s nowhere for them to go. If you go down the slide, well. There’s a gang of monsters waiting to kill you down below. If you stay up here, well. There’s still a monster waiting to kill you.

The metal clangs again, and again, and again.

He’s coming up the stairs and he’s going to kill you. You’re going to die. Today. Now. 

Warm urine runs down your leg and thoughts come, too quick to really process: Mom-dad-school-work-never-did-anything-my-childhood-dog-that-one-time-we-went-to-Canada-to-visit-my-aunt-I-kissed-a-boy-under-the-bleachers-I-forgot-to-tell-dad-I-loved-him-yesterday-I-I-I--

It’s not the monster with the cowl who comes walking up the landing of the stairs. 

It’s Chrollo.

It’s like you blink and you’re in his arms, clinging to his shirt and sobbing like a child. He presses a kiss to your hair and you realize, gratefully, that he doesn’t look hurt. No blood on him, no scrapes, no bruises. 

“Thank God you’re here. Thank God you’re okay,” you say, reflexively. “Thank God, thank God, thank God.”

Chrollo pulls you tighter against his chest, and murmurs, “God? An interesting choice, my dear, considering…”

You aren’t even really listening. You’re just happy. Delirious, even. Chrollo’s here. He’ll help you. You can make it out together. Somehow. 

There’s an almost giddy sort of hope in your chest--until you hear the metal stairs clang again. And again. And again.

You whimper stupidly and pull on Chrollo’s arm. 

“We have to get out of here. Somehow. I don’t--maybe we can distract them?” Your eyes glance down at the monsters below you, who only seem to be watching more intently. The man with the blonde hair, which is now caked in blood, has an awful grin on his face. You imagine you can see his fangs, even if he’s too far away for you to properly make them out.

Chrollo doesn’t move. Shock again? Or he sees them, too, and knows the two of you won’t make it a step off the slide before being attacked.

The footsteps on the stairs stop. You look behind you, and your bowels clench at the sight of the monster with the cowl, pulled down, that same small, mean smile on his face.

Your hand tightens on Chrollo’s arm. A sentimental, if selfish, thought: At least I won’t die alone.

Chrollo turns, too, and looks at the man who’s been haunting you for days. Looks at the monster who has already killed people and feasted on their blood; at the creature who will now undoubtedly kill the both of you. Lovers for only a few days, but forever in death.

Chrollo sighs, and inclines his head towards the man. 

“Wait a moment, will you, Feitan?”

There were many things you might have said in this moment.  Eloquent things. Meaningful things. Things borne from inner betrayal and horror and anger. But all that comes out of your mouth, which gapes ridiculously, is: 

“Huh?”

And then something clicks, and realization dawns like a morning you don’t think you’ll live to see. The idea comes naturally, somehow. Borne of a childhood reading books and watching movies about vampires. Bloodsuckers. 

Your head turns, and you look over towards the wall of mirrors. You’re stretched thin like taffy about to break, your features a jumble in the dirty, cheap material. 

In the mirror in front of Chrollo, which should make him ridiculously short, there is nothing at all. 

When you look back at him, your eyes wide and pupils blown, he’s no longer the person you met a few days ago; the person you took to your bed, the person you were lamenting leaving. The person who kissed you and made you feel good, inside and out, if only for a while. 

He’s a vampire. 

“I advise you not to run,” he says quietly, if not, perhaps, a bit sympathetically. 

You do, because you aren’t a fucking moron. Though you don’t make it far, as it doesn’t do you any good to run towards the staircase. You run right towards the other monster--Feitan--who grabs you with ease.

He’s faster and stronger than he looks. Maybe they all are. Your body and brain don’t care about that, though, so you struggle with all of your might.

In response, your arm is deftly twisted behind your back and you expect this monster to stop, you expect your arm to meet its natural resistance while you struggle.

He doesn’t. It doesn’t. Your arm snaps and the pain is so sharp, so sudden, that your vision goes blind for a few seconds. In those few seconds, you scream.

When you’re aware of the world again, there’s still the pain. Sharp and awful and renewed every time you jostle your body in any direction.

Chrollo, walking up to you, hums in sympathy. 

“I know it hurts, dear. But this is what happens when you don’t listen to my orders. Do you understand?” 

The strangest thing (and in a world where the man you fucked last night is currently standing in front of you with fangs, that is saying something) is that Chrollo’s expression is not wild or monstrous at all. If you thought about it, and you’re having a hard time thinking with the pain of your arm and fear of impending death, you might say he looks hopeful. That you will understand. That you have learned something.

And you have. You’ve learned that he’s a liar, that everything he ever said and did was just to keep you around long enough to literally eat you, that he has no morals, no empathy, that he’s not even a person.

“I understand,” you manage, voice tinged and weak with pain, “that you’re a fucking monster.” You spit at him. Or try to. Your mouth is too dry to manage more than a stringy dribble that sticks to your chin. 

At this, Chrollo sighs. He shoves his hands in his pockets and frowns.

“You didn’t speak so crudely to me earlier this week.” A little smile. “Last night notwithstanding.” 

Bitter tears well up in your eyes. It was all just a game to him. Cat and mouse. Every smile, every thoughtful word. Every kiss. Your bodies pressed together, his mouth on yours--

“I didn’t know you were a… a… fucking vampire earlier this week.” 

Chuckles, from down below. Feitan, behind you, snorts. 

Chrollo doesn’t look angry, but you can feel a flash of it ripple through the air. It quiets the chuckles. Feitan tightens his grip on you, and the flash of pain makes you groan and slump forward.

“Regardless,” Chrollo says, “respect must be maintained. I expect you to refrain from these little outbursts. Do you understand?” There’s still a tinge of cooing sympathy in his voice--it makes anger bubble up in your chest. 

“Fuck you.” This time, the spit flies, and hits his cheek.

The gestures are slow. Unassuming. He wipes the spit off with the back of his hand. He wipes the back of his hand on his pants. And then he nods at Feitan.

Feitan’s hand reaches around your throat and when you glance down, you see that his nails grow. And sharpen. Sharp enough to cut, sharp enough to--

He drags his hand down your collarbone, and you feel the awful, deep sting of it before you see the blood spill out from your flesh. It coats the bare skin between your collar and the top of your shirt like some sort of morbid camisole. 

You cry out, you shriek, but he doesn’t let you go until Chrollo gives him another nod. You’re shoved towards Chrollo, who doesn’t grip you, but merely lets you stand, swaying, in front of you.

When you finally get the courage to look up at him, his pupils are blown up like a shark’s. 

“I’d like you to stay put this time,” he tells you, voice deeper, richer, at the sight of your blood. “And not run away from me. I’d like you to listen, and refrain from being… impulsive.” 

He leans in, and the scent of rust hits you, but this time you know what it means. “I could make you do it, you know. I don’t have to ask.”

Realization hits you again, and it hurts even more this time. That night, on the dock. And on the Ferris wheel. And how many other times he’d told you to do something, feel something. What was really you, and what was him? 

And now, despite all this, despite the scent of blood in the air and the wails of horror coming from the beach, he wanted you to listen to him? The audacity of vampires--it might have been funny, if you were in the mood to laugh.

“Like hell,” you mutter.

Chrollo breathes out through his nose. Impatient.

“I don’t believe I heard you, dear.”

You look up at him, gaze sharper. Heart sharper. 

“Like. Hell.” 

The slap you give him is weak. You’re surprised your good arm even managed it, all things considered. 

But the shock of the act that ripples from Chrollo to Feitan and even down below is what gives you a few microseconds to escape, to run, ears ringing from the pain of your jostled broken arm, and throw yourself down the slide.

You don’t have a plan. How could you? As soon as you get to the bottom, you’ll just run. Run and maybe die but maybe you’ll get away, someway, somehow.

You don’t get more than a few steps before you fall. Not fall, exactly. Trip. You trip over something that shouldn’t be there, something taught and thin. A wire? 

You see, from the corner of your vision, the woman with pink hair yank her hand backwards and the wire that shouldn’t be there slices deeply into both your ankles. Blood seeps through your socks before you even hit the ground. 

Your ankles burn and bleed, and new sparks explode behind your eyes when your broken arm smacks the ground at the worst possible ankle. You think you scream, but it’s hard to tell, over the pain.

Chrollo and Feitan jump down from the second story of the fun house. It should break their ankles--it does not. 

Someone turns you over on your back with their boot and you’re left staring up at the sky, ink black and throbbing with stars. It was such a pretty night, before all this. 

Above you, Chrollo and Feitan look down with decidedly different expressions. Chrollo regards you coolly, with no real expression on his face; it’s like a porcelain mask, indifferent, never-changing. Feitan, on the other hand, is smiling--he’s looking not at you, exactly, but at your blood.

It’s Chrollo who speaks.

“I would like an apology for your behavior.”

If your eyes were not safely attached to their retinas, they might bug out of your face entirely. You are laying on your back with bleeding, mangled ankles; your arm is broken, flopping, useless; a collar of blood adorns your neck. Vampires are standing above you, fangs at the ready, having already spread carnage through an entire beach of concert-goers.

And he wants an apology?

You want him to go away. To not be real.

You want your mom, and your dad, and your childhood bed with covers big enough to hide you.

So you shake your head, helpless, like an infant lying on their back.

Above you, Chrollo says your name. Sternly. Just once. 

When you muster up the words, you taste copper. You must have bitten your tongue after tripping. 

“F…fuck you.” 

Stupid words, you know. But you’d rather your last words be this than pointless begging. Now that would be stupid, begging for your life in front of grotesque creatures who want nothing more than to devour your blood. 

Somewhere above you, a gruff voice says, with a hint of glee in his voice:

“Want me to do it, boss?”

Your eyes dart around, but you can’t see anyone else. Even Feitan seems to have stepped back, leaving you with no one but Chrollo in your line of sight.

Chrollo tilts his head a little, considering.

“No,” he says, finally. “Feitan will handle it. I appreciate your methods, but you might break something a little beyond repair.”

Whoever spoke chuckles, but doesn’t disagree.

The words reach you, but you don’t take them in for a slow moment. 

Break… break… what else can they break, what else can they possibly do--

There’s a weight above you. A dark one that smells of blood and metal. It’s Feitan. He blocks out everything else, just for a moment, staring into your eyes with their big pupils and blurring tears.

When he pulls back, you see him move, but don’t know what it means until you feel an explosion of red hot pain in your hand--the hand you slapped Chrollo with. Your fingers crunch and break and you try to pull your hand away, but Feitan’s boot keeps it pinned down, grinding his heel until you shriek so loud that you think the inside of your throat will blister.

Time itself is hot and painful. You’re not sure how long it goes. You’re only sure that when you try to move your mangled fingers, they don’t move. Hot, thick pain shoots down them and it makes you stop trying to get up. 

It’s not like you could run, anyway.

At some point, you hear a new sound. Sirens in the distance. Police? Ambulances? There’s no hope in your chest, no thought that they’ll save you. Even if they got here in time, the monsters would kill them. 

Somewhere above you, Chrollo talks, though his words sound like they’re being spoken through water. 

“Take care of them, will you? We’ll meet up near the waterfall before we head out.” A question from someone. A pause. “Yes, I’ll handle her.” 

The voices fade away. Either because they’ve walked away, or you’re finally going to die from the shock. That might be a mercy compared to whatever grisly end Chrollo has in store for you. Is this how he planned for you to die, after all? Or was it meant to be swifter? You might have screwed it all up with your running and spitting.

Before Feitan broke your hand, you might have been proud of the spitting. Now you just wish you’d let them kill you quick. 

Finally, Chrollo returns to your line of vision. He’s a bit blurry from your tears, from your pain. Probably a bit from your blood loss, too.

He kneels down next to you, and you tense. Even tensing hurts, and you whimper. 

“Are you going to kill me now?”

Beside you, Chrollo coos. A soft, sticky sound. He takes your broken hand and your voice wants to shriek, but all you can manage is a strangled cry. He kisses your broken fingers like a gentleman.

“Kill you? Of course not.” He presses a last kiss to your mangled hand. “I do want to see that sweet girl from before.. the one who daydreams about strangers and holds onto my hand so tightly on the Ferris wheel.” An indulgent look crosses his face and he gives your broken fingers a painful squeeze that has you groaning.

“She’s still in there, no doubt.” His thumb brushes against your cheek, pushing away the dried salt of your tears. “Buried under fear and pain and newfound knowledge, no doubt.” He smiles nostalgically. “But those can be remedied with time.”

He’s crazy. I mean, you know he’s a vampire, sure. But he’s also fucking crazy.

“I want to go home,” you croak. Even though you can’t reason with crazy.  “Please. Please.”

His eyes blink down at you. How old is he, anyway? Centuries? Longer? To him, you must be nothing. Insignificant. Ridiculous. 

He doesn’t mock you, though. He only continues stroking your cheek with his thumb. “I’ll be your home now, wherever we go. And we will go so many places.” There’s some sort of dulled excitement in his expression that turns your stomach. “And from now on, you’ll do what I say, won’t you?”

Tears spill over your eyes, trickling down over his thumb. You don’t have the energy or the lack of survival instinct to say no. But you won’t say yes, either. You can’t. 

“Well. I can make you obedient, if you’d rather be stubborn.”

You’re about to ask--”What?”--when he kisses you, shutting you up entirely. 

You’re afraid to move. Your lips tremble against his, thinking only of death--of his fangs. His lips move and brush against your neck, and a mocking forgotten memory of last night flashes through you. He kissed your neck last night, too, a wet, sucking kiss that had your toes curling. Your toes curl now, too, out of fear. The blood from your ankle makes your toes slick inside your shoes. 

And then his fangs sink into your neck and hot, searing pain shoots through your entire body, masking everything else. Your ankles. Your broken hand.  Your brutalized arm. The cut on your collar. None of them matter compared to this pain, which is not localized at the sight of the bite but spreads throughout your bloodstream, making it impossible to think of anything but how much it hurts.

You’re dimly aware of your screaming. A helpless sound you heard from countless others tonight. Your legs kick, and you realize, vaguely, that you can’t really feel them anymore. They hurt, yes, but there’s a numbness behind it. Are you really moving them at all?

There are more screams now--from the beach. You don’t know how you know, but you do. It’s like you can see it in your mind although you’re flat on your back in front of the fun house with a monster draining you of blood. 

The world spins as you imagine how the first responders must be dying right now, while you’re dying. Are they wishing they never responded to the emergency calls? Are they thinking about their families, their friends, and their little dogs, too? 

Chrollo’s mouth is against yours again, and you taste yourself on him. Bitter metal, still warm. He’s blurry as he pulls back and bites against his wrist. What should be vivid red blood is dark and ugly--dead. He hovers his wrist above your mouth and the substance drips onto your lips. It’s cold, vile.

A final insult before you die, making you drink this nasty stuff. Vampires have a sick sense of humor.

But what did you know about vampires, anyway? 

You black out as Chrollo murmurs something above you.

At least, you think, this is finally over. 

--

You do not wake up in heaven or in darkness, either.

You wake up in a man made clearing, sitting against a tree, with a blanket draped over you. In front of you there is a fire, not roaring but alive enough in the night; a pot with spilled chili lay on the ground. Behind the fire is a camper van with its door wide open. 

The corpse of a man is propped against the door of the van, keeping it open. His mouth is slack and ah, he’s not dead yet, is he? There are two glaring puncture wounds on his neck, but he’s still around. His fingers twitch  and seem to register you with tired eyes, that drift from your face over to the far end of the camp.

You follow the look, and oh. There are two dead teens piled next to the fire. Already drained, already dead. His children, you think. 

The world seems to come into more focus then.

You are, as far as you can tell, alive. You’re propped up against a tree. It’s night time. The people--the monsters, the vampires--are here, in this campsite. Some of them glance at you once they realize you’re awake, but no one says anything.

Strangely enough, you’re not in much pain. Soreness, yes. But you should be in agony. Your hand feels okay--sore fingers, but no longer blinding pain, and you can bend them almost normally. Your arm, too, feels sore but mended. Your hands reach up to your collar, your neck, but there’s no trace of the wounds except a thin scar on your collar and two small bumps on your neck.

How did it heal so fast? Did they bring you here to hurt you again? Keep you like some sort of blood bag?

Your eyes travel down to the blanket draped around you. It’s heavy, comfortable, and stained with blood. 

You jerk like you’ve been electrocuted and throw the soiled blanket from your body.

Someone nearby laughs. “Picky princess, huh?” You vaguely recognize the voice--the tall man with wild hair. The one who knocked a man’s head off at the beach.

Just as renewed panic begins to awaken inside you, Chrollo appears from seemingly nowhere.

“You’re finally awake, I see.”

You shrink against the tree, and look around. Could you run into the woods? Were you still in the trail by the beach? How far could you run? 

Chrollo smiles, and sits down next to you like this isn’t horrifying or unusual at all. “Don’t be ridiculous, dear. There’s nowhere to go.”

Your throat is dry and your words stick to your mouth several times before you can speak.

“Where… are we?”

If you’re close enough to home, you might still get out of this. Somehow. Find a gas station or a rest stop and beg for help. 

“Far away from that little town, I assure you.” Chrollo jerks his head back and you finally see the row of motorcycles parked near the campsite. “We won’t stay here for long. We rarely do. Just long enough for you to get healed up, this time.”

Which means he plans to take you with him--with them. For how long? And where? And why? Why take you? Why not kill you, why not drain you dry in front of the fun house and leave your corpse for survivors to find? 

You could ask all of these things, but you’re not sure you want the answer. Instead, you give the only answer your mind can manage, which is to curl up against yourself and cry. 

“I want to go home.” You whisper, out of practicality more than anything. Your mouth is so damn dry. 

“None of that,” he says, a little sternly. His expression softens when you flinch, and he brushes the hair from your face. “Don’t waste your breath on such a silly sentiment. You’re not going anywhere I don’t want you to go.”

“You said you didn’t know me well enough to leave with me,” he continues, pressing a chaste kiss to your cheek, then a warmer one to your unwilling lips. “You said you hadn’t had time to figure out your dreams. Now, you can take all the time you need for both of those things. We’ll have eternity, after all.” 

Dull, cold horror pools in your gut.

Eternity.

“Did you… am I… did you make me--” 

Your hands shoot to your mouth, to your teeth, feeling for fangs. But there’s nothing new inside your mouth, unless you count the awful cotton dryness that blankets your tongue and teeth like film. 

He smiles indulgently, and you hear someone nearby snort. 

“No.” A pause. “Not yet, not quite.” He smiles at your ignorance and takes your hand away from your teeth, giving it a kiss that feels like mockery even if you get the sense that he isn’t trying to make fun. “That may come later, if you behave. For now, I’ve made you…” Another kiss, this time with a smile on his lips, as he seems to debate on what to say. “… let’s say, mine.”

You shiver. From fear, and from cold.

Chrollo presses another kiss to your lips, until he can shove his tongue in between your teeth and run it against your own. You taste yourself on him, still, that rusty taste. It makes you gag, and he pulls away.

“You must be cold. I don’t want you catching a chill so soon. Why don’t you go sit in front of the fire and warm up?” 

You shake your head, wanting to spit out the taste in your mouth, but not having the courage to do so.

He watches you for a moment. Calculating, cold. He makes you think of an animal, in this moment. An animal thinking on what to do when his prey does something odd in the wilderness. 

“Go sit in front of the fire,” he tells you. 

And without wanting to, without meaning to, you do. Your body jerks up and you walk over to the fire, with its spilled chili and corpses left in its wake, and sit down. 

It’s like before, at the carnival, but different now. There’s no warm suggestion, no soothing manipulation. Only an order that you obey, and that’s that. When you try to push yourself up,  you find that you simply can’t make your body do it.  You can flex your fingers, your toes. You can move your arms up and down. But you cannot, in any way, stop sitting in front of that fire.

“I’d prefer you to do things willingly,” Chrollo says from his spot near the tree. “But I don’t mind giving orders either, love.”

Love.

You’re not sure he knows the meaning of the word.

But neither do you.

Despite the fact that there are two dead kids and their dying father just feet away from you, you find the fire comforting. It’s warm. It’s bright. It’s everything that the monsters around you aren’t; and you aren’t one of them, not exactly (not yet, your brain screams, he said not yet) and maybe you can cling to that. Cling to your humanity, to get you through this. 

The fire crackles in front of you. At some point, Chrollo sits down, and offers you a bowl of chili that they must have set aside for you before knocking the pot down. 

It’s lukewarm, and a bit bland. The dying man wasn’t a great cook. But you eat it, slowly, carefully, while Chrollo watches with an almost serene expression on his face. Like watching you eat was the most endearing thing in the world. 

Above you, the night sky watches the scene with indifference. 

[joelalorian]

Fall Into Me - Chapter Nine: I'd Fall for You Twice if That's What You Wanted

dbf!Joel x f!reader

Summary: Joel is hanging on by a thread as a single father to a tenacious 10-year-old Sarah. Feeling like he's drowning, like the world is about to spit him out, he needs some help before he breaks in half. At your dad's insistence, you show up in his life and change everything.

Story is inspired by the song Fall Into Me by Forest Blakk. Chapter titles will be lyrics from the song.

Word Count: 3.2k

Chapter Warnings: Explicit, under 18 take a hike. No outbreak AU. Lots of feelings. Sarah, Tommy, Emily, and JB unknowingly banding together for the win. Joel is his own warning. Inappropriate (or entirely appropriate?) use of a massager. Age gap of about 9 years (Reader 24/25, Joel 33/34). No use of y/n. Reader has a nickname used only by her dad and Joel uses various terms of endearment (darlin', sweetheart, etc.).

Thank you so much to everyone who reads this self-indulgent story and extra thanks to those who comment and/or reblog - you all make me feel like a rock star!

Dividers by the wonderful @saradika-graphics

Chapter Eight | Main Masterlist

“Girl, you’ve got it baaad,” Emily teased, watching you eye your phone every five seconds. The pair of you were getting drinks at your favorite watering hole the Saturday before your first full week of officially teaching.

“I can’t help it, Em. He’s got this, like, hold over me or something,” you replied sheepishly, one hand tucking your phone away in your back pocket. You were starting to annoy yourself with how often you checked for texts from Joel.

“You’re in love, that’s what happens.” Emily shrugged and sipped at her fruity mixed drink. “How’d the holidays go?”

Your expression lit up as you told Emily about your first major holidays with the Millers. Having spent some holidays with them while you were still away at school, your dad already fit into their family dynamic seamlessly. You were a happy and much-loved addition to the festivities and there was plenty of laughter among the adults at how badly Tommy botched dinner for both Thanksgiving and Christmas. Why Joel and your dad ever let him try again after the wreck that was Thanksgiving dinner was beyond you. Thankfully, your dad saved the day both times with his unparalleled grilling skills.

“So, it’s safe to say that JB’s still happy about you and Joel being together?” Emily asked after your own laughter at recounting the mess died down.

“Is he ever,” you replied with a shake of your head. “He loves to rib Joel on making an honest woman out of me. Joel takes it in stride, but I’m kinda afraid that it’ll scare him off if my dad keeps it up.”

“Oh, please! That man is clearly head over fuckin’ heels for you. Hell, he’s already told you and JB that he loves you, he’s not goin’ anywhere!” After taking another sip of her drink, Emily shot you a pointed look. “When the hell am I gonna meet Joel, anyway? I feel like you’re actively hiding him from me.”

You stilled.

Were you doing that? You didn’t think so, not at first, but… If you were honest with yourself, there was an element of truth to Emily’s accusation.

“Shit, Em. I’m not doing it purposefully, I swear,” you replied beseechingly, pausing to figure out how to properly explain things. Finding a scratch in the tabletop suddenly fascinating, you stared at it while continuing. “I just have to share him so much already, between Sarah and my dad, even his brother – not that I begrudge him spending time with any of them, especially Sarah! It’s just… when I have time with him, I want to keep him to myself. You know what I mean?”

God, that made you sound so selfish. You looked up to find Emily grinning at you.

“What?” you asked, confused.

“I’ve never seen you so in love. It looks good on you.” Emily clinked her now empty glass against your half-full one. “Just promise me that I’ll get to meet him soon. We could do a double date or something, so it doesn’t take away too much of your precious alone time.”

Over another round of drinks, you made plans for a few Fridays from now, quietly hoping Joel wouldn’t mind.

Heading home, you longed to see Joel, but it was late, and he was spending time with Sarah. He went to great lengths to make sure his daughter did not feel left out or neglected while the two of you explored your relationship, setting aside time for just the two of them to hang out. You loved that about him and knew how important that quality time was for Sarah. Besides, you planned to head over there tomorrow to get a little quality time of your own ahead of the busy week ahead.

In the morning, you slept in and lazed around the house for a while, taking the opportunity to relax and ease into your day while your dad puttered around until mid-day. You hadn’t heard from Joel, but that didn’t bother you – he knew you planned to come over. Around one o’clock, you headed over to the Millers, picking up some pizza and beer on the way.  

Pulling up in front of the house, you found your usual spot in the driveway taken by your dad’s truck while Tommy’s truck blocked the remaining space. With a huff you parked along the curb. You would have ordered more pizza if you knew everyone would be here.

“Howdy boys,” you greeted as you walked in. “I come bearing pizza and beer, though I fear we’ll need lots more with this crew.”

Only one set of eyes turned away from the football game playing on TV as they all greet you in return. Getting up from his beloved corner spot on the couch, Joel took the pizza and beer from your hands and placed them on the coffee table before pulling you into the kitchen for a proper greeting.

“Hi darlin’, I’ve missed you,” Joel murmured, his voice already raspy from yelling at the TV. He pulled you close until your bodies were flush together and kissed you deeply. Like a magnet, your fingers threaded through his messy curls, tugging gently as he nibbled your bottom lip.

“Mmm, I missed you, too, handsome. Didn’t know you were having company.”

Joel flashed his big cow eyes at you, eyebrows pinched together regretfully. “’M sorry, baby. I didn’t know they were coming by to watch the game ‘til they got here. Apparently, my TV is the best, so here they are. Hope that’s ok. I’ll kick ‘em right the hell out if you want me to.”

The thought did cross your mind.

“Nah, enjoy the game with the boys. I’ll sit with you guys for a bit then hang with Sarah until they leave.” Still wrapped in each other’s arms, you nuzzled the tanned skin of Joel’s neck and he hummed.

“You gonna stay over?”

You shouldn’t, not on a school night – your first as a bona fide teacher – but you had so little time together. “Sure. Just don’t keep me up too late, Mister. Those kids are exhausting, and I need my energy for the first day.”

“Miller! Stop neckin’ with my daughter and get your ass out here!” your dad’s voice bellowed through the house, causing the two of you to spring apart.

“Jesus, Dad,” you sighed, pecking Joel on the lips one last time before following him out to the living room. When would the game be over?

Surprisingly, you enjoyed the time watching the game with everyone. Even Sarah came down to join you all at half-time, book in hand, and sat between you and Joel reading. It was a lovely afternoon and a lovelier night as Joel held you in his arms, whispering words of praise into your hair until you fell into a deep slumber.

Your first week of teaching passed in a blur. After a month of assisting the prior teacher before his official retirement, the students knew you and respected your authority, setting the stage for an overall lovely experience. You started off with earth science lessons and most of the kids were engaged and eager to learn. Of course, you had a few little challenges with difficult students testing their boundaries, but you felt good about the way you handled each situation.

You stayed later after the students were dismissed, using the time to organize the room to your liking and get the lesson plans in order. Sarah perched at one of the long wooden tables working on her homework while you completed your tasks. The pattern offered you and Sarah some quality time together and the young girl found great enjoyment in putting you on the spot, especially when her dad was the topic at hand.

“JB keeps telling dad he needs to marry you,” Sarah blurted randomly Friday afternoon. “Do you want to?”

Staring at her wide-eyed, unsure what to say, you merely shrugged. Why was everyone so focused on the two of you getting married? You only started dating a few months ago!

Tilting her head to the side with a little smirk, Sarah replied, “That’s not a ‘no’.”

She was getting to be as bad as your dad and Tommy.

“You could be my stepmom! I always wanted one since I didn’t get to have a regular mom.”

Despite Sarah’s cheerfulness at the idea, your heart ached for all the real mom-related experiences she didn’t get to have. You knew exactly how that felt. If marrying Joel wasn’t already something you hoped for in the future, it would be after hearing Sarah expressing her desire for a stepmom, for you as a stepmom.

Sarah kept talking, while you lost yourself in thought.

Would you be a good stepmom?

God, you hoped so.

You never had one, JB chose to never get too serious with anyone after your mom, but you heard enough horror stories from your friends about their own stepmoms through the years. It sounded like a thankless job. But all the people you knew with stepparents had both birth parents still in their lives, so maybe your experience would be different.

The late bell chimed, drawing you out of your ever-spiraling thoughts.

“Come on, nugget. Let’s get you home,” you said, pushing thoughts of marriage and step parenthood to the farthest recesses of your mind.

“If you’re not gonna marry my dad, could you at least move in with us? It would be so great if you lived with us!”

Jesus fucking Christ in a handbasket. This kid sure knew how to keep you on your toes.

Leaning over the bar top with hunched shoulders and an aching back, Joel picked at the label on the beer bottle. He didn’t often visit the bar after work, not since Sarah came into his life, but he finally had some extra money and felt like treating himself. You stopped letting him pay you months ago, when the two of you became more to each other than just babysitter and boss, and he stashed that money away each week, saving it for what he didn’t know.

At his side, Tommy carried on about some chick he met a few weeks ago. A pretty attorney who was way out of his league and already turned him down twice. Like a dog with a bone, Tommy showed no signs of giving up yet.

“You better be careful, brother. She may get a restraining order against you if you don’t take it easy,” Joel said, voice a rich rumble.

Tommy waved him off with a chortle. “Oh please. She’s loving it. Chicks like that like being pursued.”

“If you say so.” Joel didn’t know this woman or what she liked, but he knew for a fact that you would hate it if a guy relentlessly pursued you after turning him down, not once, but twice. He smiled at the thought of you kicking a guy like that in the fucking balls to prove that you were very much not interested.

He full on laughed at the thought of you kicking his little brother in the balls, causing Tommy to glance sideways at him.

“What’s so funny, huh?”

“Nothin’,” Joel grumbled, clearing his throat. Thoughts of you continued to invade his mind, just like they always did. You were always on his mind, and he loved it. If only you were always in his bed… Joel cleared his throat. “Hey, uh. How do you know if it’s too early to ask a girl to move in?”

Tommy groaned. “Why you always askin’ me this shit? How am I supposed to know? I have less actual relationship experience than you do.”

“Who else am I supposed to ask, huh? JB? Don’t imagine that’d go over too well,” Joel replied with a defeated shrug, but Tommy conceded the point.

“You need more friends, man.” Clearing his throat, Tommy gave it a moment’s thought. “Well, the way I see it, you love her, and she loves you, everyone knows it, and JB and Sarah are both happy for the two of you. Moving in together seems like the logical next step, right?”

Joel nodded, still uncertain.

“Only the two of you can know if the pace is right. Seems to me like you both waited long enough for the right one to come along. You’ve both been through some shit, why waste any more time?”

Damn, when did his little brother become so insightful?

“Alright, I get your point. Do you think she’ll say yes if I ask?” As secure as he was in your love for each other, Joel still floundered a bit at each new step in the relationship department.

“I dunno, brother. You’re just gonna have to grow a pair and find out.”

“Fuckin’ grow a pair,” Joel grumbled, punching Tommy in the arm, hard.

The pair bickered through another round, like brothers do, before calling it an evening. Eager to see you and Sarah, Joel didn’t want to waste away the evening in the bar with Tommy. As they walked out to their trucks, Tommy stopped Joel with a hand on his shoulder.

“Listen, brother. In all seriousness, I think she’ll say yes, so just ask, ok?”

Joel nodded his thanks and confirmed plans for watching the game at his place on Sunday, before climbing into his truck. The trip home didn’t take long, and for that Joel was grateful. His back ached after a busy week of hard labor followed by an hour sitting hunched over the bar. He’d kill for a massage.

The house was quiet when he walked in, no sign of you or Sarah on the ground floor. Kicking off his work boots and dropping the truck keys onto the hook near the door, Joel slowly climbed the stairs to the second floor.

Light flooded into the hall from Sarah’s bedroom, the sound of giggles and low voices echoing in the air. He moved slowly, quietly, until he could just peek around the door jamb. You sat on Sarah’s bed, the little girl perched in front of you, as you braided her wiry curls.

The sight melted Joel’s insides into a gooey puddle.

This. This was exactly what he wanted to come home to everyday.

He had to ask you to move in.

Just as he straightened up with a silent groan, ready to enter the room, Sarah’s sweet little voice left him frozen in place.

“I think you’d make the best stepmom.”

“This again,” you griped playfully. “You do, huh? Why?”

Was this something Sarah brought up before? Joel held his breath, waiting for Sarah’s response.

“Because you love my dad and you love me, you’re always kind even when things go wrong, you’re smart, and you like spending time with me. But most of all, because you do the things a mom does even though you’re not my mom and you don’t have to.”

He caught your gasp even though you tried to hide it from Sarah. You were as affected by Sarah’s heartfelt, innocent confession as he was. His adorable, sweet little girl knew you’d make a great stepmom and he agreed with all her reasons. If possible, he fell further in love with you in that moment after seeing you through his daughter’s eyes.

“Well, you’re right, nugget. I do love you and your dad, and I hope that one day, when the time is right, I can be your stepmom. Until then, we’ll just keep doing what we’re doing, ok? I’ll still love you to pieces even without the official title.”

You choked out the words, on the verge of tears, and Joel felt his own eyes begin to water. Unable to bear it any longer, he swept through the doorway and pulled you both against his chest in a big bear hug. His precious girls. He loved you both more than words could express.

“Daddy! You’re squeezing too tight! Imma burst!” Sarah shrieked with laughter as he tossed her onto the bed and began tickling her with one hand, his other still holding your close.

“Did you…” Your eyes searched his, a hint of worry hiding in their depths, and Joel grinned, pressing a tender kiss to your forehead.

“I heard it all,” Joel confirmed, confidence bolstered knowing you wanted to marry him at some point. Conveying every feeling held in his heart through his eyes, he added, “Move in with us. Please.”

Your eyes flicked back and forth between his, searching for confirmation. “Are you sure?”

“I’ve never been surer of anything in my life, darlin’.”

The three of you celebrated with ice cream after you agreed to move in with them before putting Sarah to bed. By then, Joel’s back ached something fierce and you offered to use the message gun he forgot he had.

“Lay face down on the bed, my love,” you directed, watching with adoration as he tugged the shirt over his head, jeans hanging low on his hips. The muscles rippled in his arms and back as he settled on the soft mattress. “Ready?”

“Yes,” Joel murmured, huffing when you climbed over him to straddle his ass.

Turning on the massage gun, you put it on the middle setting and pressed the ball against the flesh of his traps. Even through the device, you could feel how tight those muscles were. It must be where he held his tension. Over the next half hour, you worked the massager over his back, soaking in the grunts that bordered on pain and relief. Somewhere along the way, the groans turned pleasurable, and Joel rolled onto his back, leaving you to straddle his thighs as the bulge in his jeans grew.

Joel’s hands moved to undo the button on his jeans, but you batted his hand away with a mischievous grin. With wide, wondrous eyes, he watched you adjust the setting on the massager and run it along the seam of his pants.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, cock twitching with interest at the vibration. “Don’t stop.”

Hands gripping your hips, he bucked up into the delightful buzz of the massager, a steady stream of moans falling from his lips as the vibrations spread from his balls upwards to the head of his cock. Fuck, if it felt that good through his jeans, how good would it feel directly on his cock?

“Do you want me to increase the speed setting?” you purred, pressing the massager harder against him.

“Oh God, fuck. Yes… ungh. Please.” The words fell from his lips in a series of whimpers as you adjusted the settings. Within moments, he moaned a bit too loudly and came in his pants. You didn’t let up on the pressure though, the vibration drawing out his orgasm until every last drop of his load was blown and his body nearly convulsed with the overstimulation.

Chest heaving, he watched you switch off the massager and run your fingers along the large wet spot on his jeans, his cock twitching tiredly in response.

“That was fucking sexy,” you murmured, enthralled with the mess you just made of him.

“Yeah? Lemme see that thing. Think it’s my turn now, pretty girl.”

Tbc

Taglist: @mellymbee @untamedheart81 @anoverwhelmingdin @runningmom94 @leilanixx

@pedropascalfan221 @lovelyjess69 @sarahhxx03 @sofiparallel @tammythr

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@deninoe @casssiopeia @caitlynsixxx @skysmiller @missladym1981

@marirxse @lizzie-cakes @tynakub

[missathlete31]

Random Hangman Story Idea of the Day-

hopefully an actual writer takes over this story and writes it. Please someone- take it!

Jake giving up his Christmas leave to Bob because he finds out Bob’s sister just welcomed a new baby and he knows how much the WSO wants to be home for the holidays. So Hangman goes to Admiral Simpson and requests to give his leave away anonymously. When Cyclone calls Floyd in to tell him, Bob is so happy to get to see his family, he doesn’t think about who could have given him this gift and just heads out to pack.

The Friday before Christmas, as everyone who has the time off leaves, those stuck in Miramar start making their own plans. Bradley and Phoenix are about to head out for some last minute shopping before they begin their holidays at Mav and Ice's home, when they see a light on in Jake’s apartment. They head up to investigate, shocked when the cocky pilot answers the door, expecting him to be halfway to Texas at this point.

Natasha realizes pretty quickly how Bob was able to make it home and asks Jake about it. The blond explains how he didn't need to go home, his parents wouldn't want him there, and soon he is being invited by the two other aviators to join their festivities. Hangman declines, convinced it was a pity invite and that no one actually wants him there. Bradley and Nat beg him to reconsider but head out when it's clear their teammate isn't going to change his mind.

On Saturday, December 23rd, Jake runs around the mostly deserted Top Gun base with his air pods in. He’s about to start his fourth lap when someone grabs his shoulder- it’s Maverick, looking just as surprised as Jake is to see him there. The two chat amicably for a bit when Pete brings up Christmas. Assuming this is his Captains way of trying to see if Hangman is going to crash their family dinner, Jake explains that while he appreciates the offer he doesn't want to impose, especially after such an emotional few months for Mav and his family (reconnecting with Bradley, Ice's cancer battles). Maverick tells Jake that there is nothing they wouldn't love more than if the blond would join them, even joking about how low key the whole event will be since Ice used to do the seven fishes on Christmas Eve and the big Christmas Ham and both Pete and Bradley are hopeless in the kitchen. Jake still seems unsure, to which Mav asks him to think about it and leaves him be.

All this leads to Jake Hangman Seresin arriving at Pete and Tom's house with a handful of groceries and presents on Christmas Eve morning, insisting on cooking to earn his place at the table. Of course his captain informs him he is meant to be a guest, but everybody stops fighting it as seven courses of delicious seafood find it's way to the dinner table. The group spends the night eating, drinking, watching Christmas movies and just spending fun time together, Jake having the best holiday he can ever remember. And as they all bid each other goodnight and head off to their different guest rooms, Hangman can't help but thank his hosts for having him. Tom and Pete just smile at the young man they are ready to adopt and tell him it's their pleasure, ushering the pilot off to bed so they can place the numerous wrapped presents they purchased for Jake under their tree, excited to see his reaction the next morning.

When that reaction ends up being tears for finally finding the family he always dreamed of Jake will find himself subjected to a lot of hugs on Christmas morning.

And yes, Brisket might be one of the presents waiting for Jake under the tree 🥰

[unreliablesnake]

His new little pet (Kyle Garrick x f!reader)

Summary: Kyle becomes obsessed with you and comes up with a plan to get you.

Note: dark!Gaz. I wanted to write something like this after reading the first few pages of You. // If you want to know when I post new stuff, follow @unreliablesnakefics.

Warning: kidnapping, drugs, sexual themes, stalking, etc.

A friend of his took a bunch of photos at a big festival, one he couldn’t attend because he was on another continent at the time, taking out bad guys to keep the balance in the world. But as he swiped through the photos in her Instagram post late at night in an empty briefing room, Kyle’s thumb stopped above the screen as he took a closer look at one of the pictures. 

His friend was posing with a friend of hers, one he had seen in photos before. You were tagged which made it easy to find out who you were, and based on your profile and previous content, you didn’t even live that far from him. How irresponsible of you to post about your favorite places to visit in the morning, and sharing pictures with a view outside your window that makes it easy to pinpoint where exactly you live. 

The obsession over you came as a surprise as he couldn’t recall the last time he got so hooked on the idea of being with someone. You were on his mind all day long, sometimes during times he was supposed to focus on something entirely different with a weapon in his hand, waiting for the commands coming from Price. 

But how could he focus when you were so irresistible? He memorized every detail, the shape of your kissable pink lips, the color of your eyes, the way you usually styled your hair, and that bikini which left little to his imagination. Oh, if he ever got the chance to be with you, he sure as hell wouldn’t let you post such pictures. The last thing he needed was knowing other men were drooling over the curves of your body. 

When he wasn’t deployed, he began to hang out around your apartment, patiently waiting for you so he could learn more about your daily routine. You usually came down to a nearby bakery in the morning to get something for breakfast, then you left for work where you stayed until late in the afternoon. From there the program you chose varied all the time; sometimes you spent time with your friends, sometimes you stayed at home. 

From his brief conversations with your mutual friend, he learned even more about you. Wednesday is reserved for emergency venting meetings with your closest friends, a little three-people group whose members had known each other since their teenage years. Every Friday you meet with your friends to have a drink in a pub, watch a movie together, or sometimes you go to a restaurant to talk over some fancy dinner. Saturday is usually reserved for dates or going to a party with the core group. Sunday was the day you always spent with your family. 

A creature of habit, that’s what you were. To him it was good news, this way he could make an accidental meeting happen at a place he knew you would visit. Kyle decided to make his move after the next mission, during which he carefully crafted a plan to make it seem like it wasn’t planned beforehand and as if he had only vaguely remembered you from a picture from your mutual friend’s profile. 

The bakery near your apartment seemed to be the best option on a Friday morning. If things went well, you might invite him to hang out with you and your friends, or you could even offer to see him one-on-one the next day. He wouldn’t force this. Sure, he would ask for your number–you know, just in case something happens to that mutual friend of yours–but there’s no way he would ask you out. Not yet. 

He would eventually send you a text that simply says, “Jennie’s birthday is coming up, we should throw a party for her.” And you would probably reply, “Good idea, let’s meet to discuss the plan.” It would be easy. You were too kind and loyal to say no to an idea like that. From this point on, it would be way too easy. He gossips about friends you don’t want to attend, he cracks jokes to lighten the mood, and he would gently touch your shoulder every now and then, just a little not to make you uncomfortable, but still get your attention as he passes by. 

He waited a little further away from the bakery, keeping enough distance to be out of sight, but staying close enough to enter a few seconds after you. And just as expected, you arrived at the usual time, at seven o’clock to have enough time to eat at home and get to work by nine. Kyle walked in with his phone in hand, his eyes focused somewhere between the screen and you so he knew exactly when he would accidentally bump into you.

“Sorry, I wasn’t looking where I was going,” he apologized as he looked up and locked the phone. 

You flashed a charming little smile at him as you pulled on the strap of your bag. “No problem, it happens to the best of us.” 

He couldn’t believe how nice you were and how your voice was as sweet as honey. Just as he was thinking about how to keep up the conversation, his lips almost forming the first word of the next sentence, you narrowed your eyes and clearly took a better look at him. The expression on your face slowly changed, showing that you were thinking hard about something. 

“Don’t we know each other?” 

It took Kyle by surprise. He couldn’t recall meeting you in person before, but you seemed so sure that you knew each other that he didn’t dare to speak up at first. He then told you he couldn’t remember ever meeting you, but–because there was a but, why wouldn’t there be one–he mentioned that you looked familiar too. You wondered if he lived nearby, and he was quick to confirm he did indeed and maybe that was the key. 

But then a look of realization appeared on your face. “Jennie’s Instagram,” you exclaimed happily. “I knew I saw you before. You’re friends with her, right?”

His brain short-circuited for a moment as you grabbed his elbow and pulled him out of the line so you could talk without interruptions. Clearing his throat, he flashed a kind smile at you and nodded. “Yeah, I knew you looked familiar too. You went to that festival together a few months back.”

“As we do every year,” you said with a laugh that sounded like music to his ears. He couldn’t wait to hear you laugh at his jokes while the two of you were sitting on his couch with his arm around your shoulder. “How long have you known her?”

“For about four years, I guess,” he replied slowly as he thought about the answer. Not because he cared that much about his friendship with Jennie at this moment, but because he wanted to make sure you got the answer you were looking for. “Yes, four, she came to my 30th birthday party as the girlfriend of one of my old friends.”

The last part of his sentence caught your interest. “Old friend?”

Kyle nodded. “They broke up and our little group was already mad at him, so I guess we kinda inherited Jennie after the breakup,” he explained with a laugh. “How did you meet her?”

Some asshole bumped into you as he walked in, as if the shop wasn't big enough for everyone. But the line was away from you and he seemingly wasn't coming in to meet someone, which meant the little incident was probably more than just an accident. Kyle had to keep himself under control so he wouldn't go after him and force him to apologize.

He shouldn't do that. He definitely shouldn't scare you. In his eyes you were like a delicate flower, a wild animal that could easily be scared away with a loud noise.

“We went to college together,” you replied after you returned your attention to him.

At first he didn't even remember his question that you answered. But soon his mind wandered to dangerous waters knowing Jennie and her rebellious past, but he tried to keep a straight face. He definitely shouldn't think about whether or not she had made a move on you, if the two of you lived together as roommates, or if she had some juicy story about you.

“Sounds like fun,” he said with a forced smile.

In reality, he didn't want to think about you being in college. Were you one of those girls who tasted freedom for the first time and went wild for those few years? The more he was looking at you, the more he could imagine your wild side. Maybe you had a long string of one-night stands, guys you brought home after those big parties you attended.

Kyle knew you were past that wild phase. Sure, this side of yours came out to play when you went to festivals or visited a club with your friends on a Saturday evening, but in your everyday life you were a completely different person. Chill yet disciplined, and practical. Spontaneity wasn't in your dictionary from Sunday to Friday. 

“I should get going or else I'll be late from work,” you suddenly spoke up with your eyes on the screen of your phone. This sentence got his attention and maybe the hint of disappointment crossed his face when he looked at you. You didn’t seem to notice because it was gone by the time you put your phone in your pocket and looked up at him with a beaming smile. “See you around.”

Nodding, he watched as you left the shop without standing back in the line to get your breakfast. Poor you, now you will probably have to get something else to eat. Hopefully you won’t starve yourself. He shoved his hands into the pocket of his jacket and left as well, going home to spend the rest of the day stalking you on social media. 

It always surprised him how much you shared on different platforms. Photos, locations, thoughts, moodboards, sometimes your interests, and you were always ready to engage in conversations with others. This made tracking you a lot easier for him, but at the same time it also reminded him of how much you craved attention. Why else would you post so much? 

If he had you all for himself, he would definitely talk to you about this. He huffed at the word if. It wasn’t an if, it was a when. Because it was only a matter of time until he got what he wanted so badly, he just had to be patient for now. Until that day he would keep an eye on you, make sure you were safe, and learn even more about you. He could ask Jennie about you after casually mentioning that he met you by accident. Knowing her, she would be quick to start telling him stories. 

But what happened in reality surely surprised him. He told Jennie about the meeting the next day when she called, and two days later she called him again, this time asking him if he was interested in you. “You have no idea,” he wanted to say but eventually he kept this to himself. So instead of properly answering, all he said was a nonchalant “she’s cute,” as if he hadn’t been thinking about you for weeks. His friend sounded excited but refused to elaborate on why. 

Later that day he received a notification on Instagram that told him you were now following him. Kyle knew better than to instantly follow you back, he wanted to make it look like he wasn’t in a hurry to let you know he remembered you. He wasn’t surprised to see you slip into his DMs the next day, although he expected you to keep your distance just a little longer. 

Hey, do you remember me? We met in that bakery last week. Jennie’s friend?

A smile appeared on his lips upon reading the message. Oh, you were so desperate. You spent the day when you followed him liking all of his recent photos, sometimes even leaving a cute comment with emojis. And now it was you coming to him, basically begging for his attention. 

I remember.

What are you doing on Saturday?

Date night. Based on the way you had let that asshole fuck you last Saturday, he didn’t expect you to move on so fast. That guy was one of the worst, some moron who treated you as if you were nothing more but a cheap whore. Yet you enjoyed yourself apparently because otherwise you wouldn’t have let him stay the night. And he saw the messages. He visited your apartment one day while you were at work and snooped around your laptop for your passwords. 

How naive of you to save every password in the browser. Anyone could take a look at them. What made his little search even more joyful was the fact you seemingly had a software on your phone to have remote access to it, this way he could check your phone too. So he logged into your accounts and deleted every message that was related to a new login. He spent an entire night going through every single one of your conversations in hope to find out what you liked. 

You looked like an angel, even talked like one, but deep down you were a really dirty girl, having several spicy conversations with different men. Roleplay, detailed chats about nights spent together, or sharing fantasies; it was hard to choose a favorite. He could still hear your moans as he read them, the sound of the video feed from your apartment last Saturday still a vivid memory in his mind. 

He only responded to your question the next day, keeping the casual tone as if he hadn’t known what you wanted from him. You want to grab a beer? Sure. Let's invite Jennie too. You sent your reply in five minutes, stating that you were thinking more of going alone, just the two of you.

“Slut,” he thought with a laugh. But he didn't mind as long as he was getting what he needed badly, the chance for his fingers to trace your body, his lips traveling from the shell of your ear down to your wet, tight cunt. He wanted to see you fall apart over and over again so he could build you up from scratch just the way he wanted.

Late in the afternoon on Friday he stood across the street in your neighborhood, watching you get ready through the window. You didn’t seem to care that there were no curtains and anyone could see you walk out of the shower to get dressed in your bedroom. A free show, one that made him be painfully aware of how tight his jeans were.

Then his phone beeped. Then it beeped again. With a groan he took a look at it, only to find a message you received. He had never heard of the man who wrote to you, but the things he sent you made it clear he wasn’t just a friend. He wondered how you could do this to him, why you decided to chat with a guy when you were about to go on a date with him the next day.

Let’s skip dinner. I’m waiting for you in the Ritz. Room 312. Bring some clothes, you’re only going home on Sunday. Until then you’re mine.

I’m visiting my parents on Sunday.

Cancel it. I’m not asking.

Yes, Sir.

A luxury hotel for the weekend just to fuck you in peace? Who the hell was this guy? Without much thinking he checked his profile and there he found a bunch of photos of him and his family. He was married which meant he was a lying piece of shit, but you didn’t seem to mind playing the role of the other woman in his life.

When Kyle looked up, he saw you folding clothes, probably putting them in a suitcase as this guy told you. You were so obedient, such a nice little pet, it would be a shame to hide you. If he had you, he would surely put you on display, letting everybody know you were his.

It was only the next day when a new message popped up on his phone. It took you more than half a day to cancel your meeting, telling him a family emergency came in the way. You didn’t mention a raincheck, it looked like you weren’t as interested as he had assumed. What a shame.

But it was okay. He could wait.

Price called him a few days later to inform him about a new mission. Kyle didn’t feel like going, but there was nothing he could do about it. Maybe distance would help. Maybe he could come up with a plan to get you. So he went there, spending every free second reading the messages you exchanged with others. 

This man you had spent the weekend with was bombarding you with messages. Apparently he sent you flowers, an expensive necklace you were very grateful for, and hell, he even offered to buy you a car because he didn’t like the idea of you using public transportation like the rest of the city. “Any guy could get touchy in the crowd and I don’t like the idea of others touching what’s mine,” he reasoned.

By the time he returned home, Kyle had a plan. He rented an apartment in an almost empty building and spent a lot of money on making it soundproof. You would like it. Well, you would learn to like it. It would be your new home, one you shared with him. The next days were spent near the building you lived in to see if your habits had changed while he was gone but lucky for him you were doing things the way as always.

So on a Friday evening when you went to a bar with your friends, he carefully spiked your drink then left to wait for it to start affecting you. He even left for half an hour, just to arrive as if he hadn't been there before. Who would be suspicious of someone who arrived when you were already a bit strange?

“Hey, Jennie’s friend,” he said when he stopped by your table, acting like he didn't remember your name. Your friends gave him a strange look, but when they saw the cheerful smile on your face, they visibly relaxed. “It's been a while.”

“Kyle! I'm so so sorry for ghosting you,” you slurred as you jumped up and wrapped your arms around his neck. “Why don't we hang out tonight?”

“And your friends?” Screw them, of course, but still, Mr. Nice Guy had to ask. 

You rolled your eyes at him. “I spend every Friday with them. But you! You're a rare sight.” He gently pushed you away to make it seem like he wasn't all that happy to have you all over him, like his mind wasn't already in overdrive from the scent of your perfume. “Let me make it up to you. I canceled the meeting and I'm so sad about it,” you said with a pout.

With a laugh he gave a questioning look to your friends, his eyes falling on the one who seemed the most protective from the group. She carefully considered the possibility of letting your drunk self leave with someone they didn't know, but you then began to beg her and she gave in with the condition of you calling him once you were at home.

A little detour was okay, he could manage that. You spend some time together, he walks you home, he waits for you to talk to your friend, then he returns to your home to get you. He knew you would love your new home because he took care of everything. From the few visits in your apartment when you weren’t home along with the video feed from your place, he learned which products you liked, what size your clothes were, what you liked to wear at home. He bought everything, “a shopping spree to surprise my girlfriend who stays over a lot lately,” he had said in a store with a loving smile, making everyone believe that this was all. 

The two of you decided to go grab something to eat, but you weren’t feeling well–thanks to the drugs he had given you, how smart of him–so he took you home instead. “Call your friend, then go to sleep. I’ll call you tomorrow to see if you’re feeling better. But if you need anything in the meantime,” he began quietly as he stepped closer to you, his hand reaching out to touch your cheek, “call me.”

He checked the feed from a nearby bar and listened to your conversation with that friend. 

“Lucy, I’m home in one piece,” you said as you leaned against the headboard of your bed. 

“Good. And that guy?”

“He left. I hoped he would stay to entertain me, but he wanted me to get some rest.”

Kyle couldn’t help but chuckle at your disappointment. You would get what you wanted in no time. You would be begging him to stop after he pulled out oh-so-many orgasms out of you, but he still wasn’t sure if he would give you the freedom to decide. Once you finally ended the call, he went back to your apartment and quietly walked into your bedroom, careful not to startle you. 

You were half-asleep already, but when he sat on the edge of your bed, your eyes opened and you looked at him. “Kyle?” He nodded as he swept a strand of hair behind your ear. “You came back?” you mumbled. 

“Get dressed, I want to show you something,” he told you before standing up to get you some clothes. 

By now the alcohol and the drug turned you into this obedient little thing, so you got dressed and followed him without questions. The car ride felt like an eternity, but he knew in less than twenty minutes you would officially become his. He rested his hand on your thigh the whole time, his thumb drawing circles into your skin through your jeans. You were sleeping peacefully so he could look over at you any time he wanted. 

When you reached your destination, he helped you out of the car and guided you to the third floor where his secret apartment was. You didn’t ask questions, you just crawled under the covers in bed and asked him to join you. Kyle didn’t have to be told twice, so he took off his shoes and occupied the empty side of the bed. “Get some sleep, pet. We will have the rest of our lives to have fun, trust me,” he whispered to you before leaning over to kiss you. 

[thatsexcpisces]

Random things I associate with each rising sign 💌

Aries rising:

Confidence, sharp eyebrows, being outspoken, lots of tattoos, prominent forehead, going to the gym, frat parties, short temper, courage, impulsive decisions, taking control of a room, finishing in first place, blasting loud music, trusting yourself, traveling

Taurus rising:

Sophisticated taste in restaurants, natural beauty, good food lovers, jewelry, small but full lips, taking good care of plants, healthy hair, clear skin, comfy blankets, offering things to others, bakeries, peace, round faces, soft voices, singing, sleeping in all day

Gemini risings:

Working on a podcast, expressive eyes, funny facial expressions, talking a-mile-a-minute, being the most charming person in the room, thin yet long eyebrows, glasses, being able to talk to anyone, finding the positives in a negative situation, youthful appearance, gossip, Saturday brunch, fairies, pats on the back

Cancer risings:

Pastel-colored clothing, being the support system of the family, gentle hugs, sensitivity, big round faces, glossy eyes, calm voices, hot cocoa, bringing sweet energy to every gathering, empathy, loving animals, silver jewelry, mothers, bright smiles, spring, nice boobs, being kind to outcasts, the ocean, comfort

Leo risings

Self-love, theatre & acting, creativity, baby lions, siren eyes, good taste in fashion, vibrant personalities, gorgeous hair, taking you out for drinks, open to being with anyone, orange & white, cherry-flavored drinks, the beach, karaoke, fancy mirrors, feathered boas, sharp nails that are always done

Virgo risings:

Routines, to-do lists, cleaning the house every Sunday, massages, spa days, ��clean’ makeup look, soft eyes, face masks, stomach problems, good cooking skills, maturity, color-coded clothes, sunset shades of orange, plants, lavender smells, fresh laundry, delicate jewelry, animal lovers, smooth hair

Libra risings:

Solving conflicts, flirting with everyone, the color pink, smelling good, tulips, easygoing characters, cinnamon rolls, flashy clothes, designer bags, hidden anger issues, carrying snacks everywhere, luscious hair, Regina George, chic flicks, angelic eyes, pearls, long legs, white cats

Scorpio risings:

Living a secret double life, intense stares, red-bottom heels, black eyeliner, purple flowers, heightened intuition, seeing messages in dreams, cigarettes after sex, long hugs, watching movies before going to sleep, headphones on all day, strong perfumes, powerful voices, Halloween, quick comebacks, dirty minded jokes, lace clothes

Sagittarius risings:

Being the funniest person in the room, bright smiles, loud laughs, liked by everyone, elephants, pop-out colors, wisdom, studying at night, traveling the world, defined teeth, strong bodies, dark sense of humor, stylish accessories, not caring what others think, bold lipstick, skiing, reading books to children

Capricorn risings:

Classy & elegant style, hardworking, black sweaters, the newest computer, coffee, nice teeth, tied hair, gold rings, playing golf, money in an envelope, marble tables, hard life, strict parents, gardening, setting rules in every environment, writing down goals, post-it notes, the color green and brown, beautiful houses, poodles

Aquarius risings:

Technology, good social skills, Star Wars, electric blue, individuality, protesting all day, new gadgets, defined jaws, being bored of everyone, writing a blog, music festivals, holographic-themed outfits, reading books, ranting about your favorite show, know-it-alls, hiding how you really feel, Twitter, healthy diets, car dates

Pisces risings:

Painting, sad yet sweet eyes, rewatching the same movie over and over again, sleeping for a long time, reading minds, trauma, taking a walk in the woods, doodling in your notebook, taboo topics, picnics, astral projection, baking on a rainy day, kissing your loved ones, skirts, pretty hair clips, piled up journals, wind, comfy living rooms

[bbanghiitomi]

| lukewarm.

synopsis: you're neither cold nor warm, neither mad nor happy. you don't hate minji, and no — don't get the wrong idea, you definitely love minji even if you tell yourself you don't anymore.

— nonidol!kminji × nonidol!vballplayer!fem!reader

ʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠ ⁠º⁠ʔʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠ ⁠º⁠ʔʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠ ⁠º⁠ʔʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠ ⁠º⁠ʔʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ⁠ ⁠º⁠ʔʕ⁠ ⁠º⁠ ⁠ᴥ

"nice shirt, i noticed you have a lot of those." yeeun pointed out to minji as the tall girl pulled the hem of her shirt to fix the creases on the fabric. minji laughed and took a seat on the couch inside their friend's living room. "yeah, i do have a lot of these but i can't wear them for now." minji replied, looking down then scratching her nape with a sheepish expression.

"why not?" yeeun asked, leaning on the couch, hanni entered the living room with three cans of soda and placed it on the table. minji looked at hanni then to their classmate. "some of my clothes are still inside y/n's room." hanni laughed, covering her mouth. minji sighed as hanni tapped their classmate's shoulder. "hey, go on drink!" she said, pushing a can on the girl's hands.

"oh, i didn't know you two broke up." yeeun stated, opening the can as the sound of fiz rang inside minji's head, reminding her of the sound y/n's favorite drink makes.

"they did quite a long time ago." hanni piped in, looking at yeeun with the signature look on her face that said "can you believe that?" yeeun nodded but minji rolled her eyes and sighed. "not quite, it's only been two weeks and a half, remember when we presented our research? we've already broken up at that time." minji corrected.

"so it hasn't been that long huh?" yeeun muttered and chugged the drink. hanni shook her head and waved her hand. "well, that has to be at least the longest, because i remember when they broke up and it only lasted for like 2 days." hanni received a chuckle from yeeun and a groan from minji.

"you're so weird hanni." minji scoffed.

"but it's true, right? you act like you're not hoping to make up with her — but she's been ignoring you for days, on repeat." hanni nudged her friend, yeeun shrugged and spoke. "i did hear hiyyih mention that you once broke up with her and then got back up after a few days." yeeun remembered during one recess where hiyyih was talking with friends and mentioned your argument with minji.

minji nodded. "technically, that's true. but it's different now, it's not just a burst of negative emotions, she's serious this time. and i'm starting to think this isn't gonna get better anytime." hanni sighed. "well friend, guess what? it's not gonna be just her being moody, you can't just fix it with a date on a saturday morning."

"i never said i can. i literally saw her shitting on me on her twitter account — she even blocked me on her instagram." minji pushed her hair back and rolled her eyes. "that's probably what being sick of each other's faces gets you." she added.

yeeun looked at hanni then to minji. "well what happened? is that why you were moody after we got scolded during our presentation?" yeeun asked, placing the cold can on the table. minji nodded. "it's not really just that but mostly yeah, remember during the festival at our school?" minji asked yeeun.

it was the day after she lied to you about staying out at a classmate's house late at night for their class' stall. in reality, she was indeed helping out but most of the time was spent on drinking. she told you she was going home at 11pm and asked you to sleep — you were convinced because hell! she had you on a video call, showed you the surroundings, table and there was no fucking alcohol to be found, you even asked her classmates, specially the closest mutual; kim jiwon.

jiwon's answer was: "honestly, i don't really know — but they did go there to continue building our stall, i was informed by yeeun that they were there for a couple of hours."

so you were convinced, but it only took you two days to realize — you had a conversation with jiwon's friend during your volleyball training; naoi rei, she mentioned that she was tired from that night, that she had to come home at between 1am and 2am, they stayed over late because they weren't able to finish the stall up until 1am due to the fact they got drunk.

you were fucking pissed, you realized that was the reason minji came to school late that festival, was literally sitting behind their stall asleep, drunk 3 cups of coffee to stay awake.

and she even had the nerve to come to your class' stall and "support" you.

during the night before the research presentations, you had a conversation with her. that's where you poured out all the hidden anger you've been bottling up lately, you don't care how much she spent time watching you play volleyball — you know damn well she's doing that because she's done something stupid.

then, you started ignoring her — heck, even your homeroom teacher and hers had to get in between for the tea.

everyone, including her classmates and your classmates were surprised, you were the IT couple of the batch and it was all poured down the drain because of one stupid night.

"well, yeah. you got drunk the night before right?" minji slapped a hand on her face when yeeun mentioned it. "yes, and fuck she got so mad." yeeun scratched her head. "i thought everything was good, you even ate lunch with her the day after the festival."

"she found out i lied, and i seriously thought it was not that serious but she just bursted out mad at me." minji added, rubbing her face. hanni scoffed and hit her friend on her shoulder.

"you're lucky she just screamed at you, i would've punched you in the face, scumbag!"

yeeun laughed. "wow, no wonder she went out with wonyoung instead after they won the volleyball match."

"yeah and that's why i didn't ask you to watch, because imagine if she just spiked the ball at my face." yeeun couldn't help but laugh harder, hanni scoffed. "so what now, loser? her parents are still attached to you and the school ceremony for top student's next week, wouldn't that be awkward?" minji stared at her friend with a stone cold expression.

"i haven't even gotten my clothes yet."

hanni threw her head back and frowned. "but minji! you can have all the time to get those things back, we know y/n would return it but… dude does your parents even know what happened?"

yeeun winced. "ugh, that'll be hard."

minji nodded. "yeah, i don't think she's ever mentioned anything about it. her parents are pretty strict and care more about her education, i'm even shocked they let her be with me. i feel like she's only told them about our break up, nothing more than that."

"well good luck then." hanni stated.

minji sat by one of the chairs surrounding a round table, her eyes are on the people mingling around people, wearing smart casuals. it's the ceremony and her mom isn't somewhere to be seen, she said she'll be talking with the other guests and left minji. minji sighed.

you on the other hand preferred being with your friends, wonyoung and yoona. you really never expected anything surprising other than seeing the face of your stupid ex, you spot minji sitting beside yeeun and hanni, the two talked but minji sat there with a frown.

you snickered.

everything is supposed to be okay, until you saw your mother with minji's mom, they both approached minji and you couldn't help but wince, turning your back against the view, refusing to even get yourself involved on your mother prying over your relationship.

"minji! i haven't seen you in a long time." minji looked in front of her and saw your mother and her mom. she stood up quickly and greeted the older woman. "good evening,"

minji's mom laughed. "ah, minji's been busy doing her own stuff. by the way how's y/n doing?"

"she's joining the varsity for volleyball, i signed her up and she's getting more training than before. it's a shame really, minji would've been there to watch over my daughter."

minji laughed sheepishly. "y/n's a big girl already, don't worry i'm sure she can handle herself."

"i'm so proud of her! she's been excellent lately, i wish minji would join extra curricular activities, just to boost her qualifications for the future!" you have always been excellent, even before you had minji, even after you lost her — in the end, minji had to say it was her loss, never yours.

she had been distracted a lot after you broke up with her, meanwhile you used that as a motivation to be better than minji — you are just very petty.

she hated and loved that part of you.

so competitive.

"hey minji, visit our place anytime you can alright? we really miss you." your mom smiled at minji and patted her shoulder. "but what about y/n? it's awkward." minji spoke, scratching her nape with an airy laugh.

"don't worry about her! she's just playing hard to get, try harder maybe you can have her back." your mom winked at minji and laughed.

okay, maybe she should?

kim "idiot" minji

hey

hope you don't mind if i visit your place

i'm gonna go get my clothes and things i left

:(((

seen.

you rolled your eyes as soon as you spotted the familiar pair of shoes on the doorway, you entered and saw minji sitting on the sofa with your brother. you ignored them and walked your way to a corridor, then inside your room. minji saw you and stood up.

"hey, i'm just gonna fetch my clothes in your sister's room." minji smiled at your brother, and the younger boy shrugged. "good luck then."

it felt like throwing oneself inside a lion's den, as minji stood in front of your door, she didn't have any idea what she should say — she knows it isn't a great idea, but there are no ideas left, if she'll only be able to claim her things back, or if she'll have your heart — it would be better if comes home with both.

chances are slim of course, her image has been tainted, even with that one mistake — still, you didn't really know if your decision of breaking up with her is for the best; a part of you screamed for her to leave you alone — and the other part wished you could've had more time to get your shit back together.

you don't know whether it's too late, but you had her things already packed in case she comes back looking for them.

you heard a knock and you took deep breaths before stomping your way to the door. you found yourself shaking as you held the cold door knob, not knowing whether it's you or the air inside your room. why is it freezing cold? why are you nervous? you chose this path.

twisting the knob, your eyes met minji's round ones, her thick eyebrows that stood so prominent, catching your attention as it furrowed. minji cleared her throat. "hey, y/n… i'm sorry for barging in. i was just — i'm here to get my things that i left." you nodded at her and opened the door wider for her.

"go on, i already packed them for you." minji nodded and made her way inside. goddamnit, the smell, it hit her that she might not be coming back to this room anymore, the room she had been even before you became her girlfriend, and after everything. it's sad, she spotted her clothes, hoodies, even the notes she left packed in a box.

minji wished you hadn't done that, because first, even if you hated her, you're just way too nice — second because she wished she had more time in your room to get her shit together and think of something, just something to convince you to come back to her.

"what are you waiting for? are you just gonna stand there?" you asked. minji took deep breaths and closed her eyes before turning around to face you. "hey, y/n can we please talk about this more? i know i only came here for my clothes but — bro…" you wanted to laugh, but that'll be too mean.

you rolled your eyes and shrugged. "is there anything else left for us to discuss? i thought you said you're tired of explaining."

minji rubbed her face with her hands and groaned. "i know i did, i'm sorry that's so fucking stupid of me. but please, we were both mad and upset that time, if we were both calm, you know we can discuss it better, right?" minji pleaded, walking towards you, you scoffed — looking away from her.

"you're the only one who thinks that way, minji. and i don't have time in this world to accommodate your stupidity." now you're getting mad again. minji took deep breaths, you looked at her and frowned. "calm down—"

"shut up." you cut her off.

it was silent for at least 5 minutes, you were thinking, twice — if you would listen to her ramblings, give her a chance to redeem herself, you wanted to you just can't accept that you actually want to give her a chance because if you didn't want to, you could've kicked her out already.

you regained your posture. "say what you want to say then, before i get pissed and kick you out, throw your things on the road."

minji nodded. "thanks! i know i lied, i'm sorry, i know it hurt you, sorry for not trusting you because you really did trust me a lot and i broke it. i lied because i know that it was wrong, i was scared you might get mad at me now i learned my lesson! was there another time where i lied to you? if yes — i'm so sorry y/n please forgive me! i'll do anything just to have you back, even if i tell myself that i'm fine without you. i know i'm not! and i admit that it's my loss, that you can live a life the same way, even better without me — but it's the opposite for me."

no, minji has never lied to you other than that time — because you're a very petty person okay? you hold grudges for over a long time, minji knows that, you remember when someone did you wrong; you'll take that to your grave, swearing to never forget. maybe that's why it's serious for you, because she built your trust over the time, you loved her because you know she would never, and she had never lied to you; that time you found out, it didn't make sense because why would she lie?

"i know, you never lied to me other than that time — but that's why i felt that way right? i don't understand why you lied, because you never did before and there is no reason why you should! i can't explain it, because i never imagined you to be that type of a lover, so when reality hit me that if you got the chance again, you'd make me an idiot again. and i wouldn't want that to be my cycle." you had a lot of pride, because in all honesty, you can proudly say you have never lied to her.

minji knows your schedule, you always tell her what you are up to, your plans — when you stay out late, you exactly tell her what for! and when she demands that she takes you home, you allow her.

there's no reason for you to be scared of what clapback minji has; because she has none.

"i can still be your honest lover, i swear! and no promises, but you can always remember what i'm saying right now. i would never lie to you ever again. mark my words, kill me if i do again, i'll let you." you laughed, minji was serious — but you laughed, because you know you will seriously kill her if she does lie again.

"don't worry i will." you scoffed. minji smiled. "i'm sorry, babe?" minji didn't hesitate, you gave her a blank stare as she gave you those puppy eyes. you huffed and turned around, you had your bacm facing her you let her be as she embraced you in a hug, resting her chin your shoulder while gently rocking you.

"i'll get back at you okay? we can study together here for the whole month." minji pouted, you looked at her and shrugged, a blush creeping up on your cheeks. "whatever." minji chuckled and kissed your cheek. "i love you."

you sighed. "hmmm… yeah me too."

at the end of the day, you still love minji, even if she's a huge idiot, sometimes an asshole — you have to admit that you had a burst of emotion that night you broke up with her, you still think it's valid though. but yeah, minji is a good lover, you just hope she doesn't do something stupid ever again.

minji snuggled close to you, holding you with her big hands. you're still putting up a wall though, she's not gonna get the satisfaction of seeing you all over her again for a week or two.

you have to show her who's the boss.

and it's you.

[late-to-the-party-81]

To wait for you is all I can do

AN: It’s another Tower fic, yay!!! 

Doesn’t have to be read as related to my other tower fic, but could be seen as a prequel if you wanted. And yes, the title is taken from Against All Odds.

Beta’d by the lovey @drabbles-mc

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Dividers by @firefly-graphics and moodboard by me

Bingo fills: @buckybarnesbingo  U4 - Tower

@stuckybingo  I1 - Drinking Games

@steverogersbingo E5 - Suck and Blow Game

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Relationships: Steve x Bucky

Word Count: 2.5k

CW: Alcohol consumption, Asgardian Mead, Teasing, Flirting, Avengers as Family, Drinking games, Pining, Angst, Second First Kiss, Getting back together.

“Ho, my brothers…and sister… I am here and the festivities can begin!” 

Saturday night in the Avengers Tower, and Thor had just arrived for one of his sporadic visits. 

Tony met him, arms wide and a grin plastered to his face, and the Asgardian Prince caught him in a bear hug, lifting off the floor.

“You’re here, Point Break. I thought you were going to disappoint us.”

“Never, my friend. I was just delayed trying to find some of this.”

With a flourish he pulled a bottle from his shoulder bag, eliciting a cheer from everyone except Steve, who groaned, and Bucky who looked confused.

“What is that?” Bucky asked. Thor walked over and clapped him on the shoulder before passing him the bottle.

“This, James, is a bottle of the finest Asgardian Mead. It is stronger than your Midgardian drinks and with it, we’ve previously managed to get the good Captain to 'cut loose'.”

Bucky snorted. “Stevie, drunk? I haven’t seen that since 1943. You think it will work on me too?”

“Assuredly,” Thor confirmed. “I have no doubt that you will feel the effects as much as the good Captain.”

Steve walked over, a serious look to his face. “You don’t have to if you don’t want to, Buck. No-one has to drink.”

Bucky pulled the stopper from the top of the bottle with a pop and gave the amber liquid a sniff. “Woah! And I know that, Steve. But I do want to. It’ll be fun.” With that, Bucky took a swig, shuddering as the alcohol heated him from the inside. He turned to Thor. “That is good shit. Let’s round up the others. We should play some games.”

Steve watched him walk off across the room with Thor and couldn’t help the small twinge of jealousy at how close the two were standing together. Bucky’s recovery was going well. Excellent in fact. But he still had some gaps in his memory and they’d been told they could come back at any time or never. A brain injury such as what Bucky had sustained was unprecedented and the doctors and specialists were uncertain about what could happen. All they knew was that they couldn’t push it. All of which meant that Steve felt as though he was in purgatory.

Because it appeared that Bucky had no memories of them. Together. Of them curled up in bed during a Brooklyn winter finding ways to keep warm. Of the furtive moments together in the forests of Europe. Steve remembered every stolen moment, every quiet intimacy and held them protected in his heart, hoping every day that Bucky would remember them too. He was happy that Bucky was free. Happy that he was recovering and making friends and adapting to life in a new century - and, he thought, doing that much better than he had - but he was sad too. Sad that their relationship was more like that of brothers. Like the best friends the history books painted them as. But there was nothing he could do to change that. Either Bucky would remember and they’d have the chance to pick up where they left off, or he wouldn’t and Steve would just have to live with being the best friend he could be.

“Steve!” Bucky shouted across the room, pulling Steve out of his head. “Get your ass over here. Sam’s got a game for us to play.”

Steve squashed the urge to roll his eyes. This was no doubt going to descend into complete chaos, and he didn’t know if he was in quite the right mood for it. But he felt he owed it to Bucky to at least try. Joining the circle of his friends, some sitting on sofas and some on beanbags, Steve found himself a place next to Bucky. Bucky gave him a warm smile and Steve was struck with the bittersweet urge to kiss him knowing that he couldn’t.

“So, as our fossils and our out of towner here,” said Sam, gesticulating to Bucky, Steve and Thor, “never got to have the college experience, or play pretend at the college experience,” he nodded at Nat, “we’re gonna have some good old drinking games. First up is ‘Never have I ever. The rules are simple. We all take it in turns to say something that we’ve never done, but if someone else has done that thing, they have to take a drink. I’ll start. Never have I ever destroyed three city blocks.”

Tony and Bruce groaned and both took a swig of the beers they were holding. Nat was next. 

“Never have I ever purposefully trolled someone by shouting ‘On my left.’” She smiled slyly.

“Hey, that was one time,” grumbled Sam before taking a mouthful of his drink. “And someone pass Steve the mead.”

Thor obliged, passing the bottle and Steve took it warily, putting it to his lips and having the smallest sip he thought he could get away with. 

“Okay,” Tony announced. “My turn. Never have I ever stolen something.” He took a big drink of his beer and Bucky furrowed his brows. 

“I thought we were supposed to say something we hadn’t done.”

“Only if you don’t want to drink, Buckaroo,” Tony replied with a wink. “And now I think everyone here needs to drink, because not one of you, not even Cap, is as pure as the driven snow.”

“It’s called borrowing Tony,” Steve snarked back.

“Only if you actually return it. Drink. You too, Legolas. I don’t think there’s enough booze in this place to account for you and Romanoff.” Everyone took their drinks, Steve, Thor and Bucky passing the Asgardian liquor and Clint and Nat clinking their bottles together before they did so.

The game continued around the circle with some general statements - Never have I ever failed a maths test, Clint, Sam and Thor drinking - and some more pointed statements - Never have I ever almost ended the world by creating a robotic child, which Steve was very proud of - and the mood was mellow. Steve was even starting to relax and enjoy himself. And then Thor happened.

“Never have I ever had a crush on a comrade in arms.” Tony, Bruce and Sam knocked back their drinks straight away, and Steve… Well, Steve could have lied. He could have sat there innocently, except he faltered. He started to reach for the mead but then stopped, drawing everyone’s attention to him. Bucky looked at him, head cocked and Nat just raised one defined eyebrow. With nothing else for it, Steve resumed his move towards the only alcohol that could affect him and poured himself a healthy measure.

“Aaawww, Capsicle,” Tony drawled, “I didn’t know you cared.” Steve just glared at him and the billionaire just chuckled. “But really, who hasn’t had a little crush on Nat at some point or another. You’re only human.”

Steve could feel the blood rushing to his face, but there was also no way he was going to correct Tony’s assumption. Nat continued to observe him for a heartbeat more and he gave her a wan smile.

“Okay guys,” she said. “Time for a new game. I need a pack of cards, or rather just one from a pack. It’s time to Suck and Blow.”

Tony started to laugh raucously before standing up and going over to one of the many sideboards and rifling through the drawers. “This is going to be so good.”

Steve was confused, and a glance at Bucky showed he was the same, but luckily it was Thor or voiced the question. 

“Pray tell, Lady Widow. What is this game of sucking and blowing? I do not believe it can possibly be what it sounds like.”

At the moment, Tony returned to the group and passed a card - the Joker, or course - to Nat. 

“So,” she explained, “I will put the card to my lips and suck it to hold it in place. I then move towards the person next to me and when the card touches their lips they suck and I blow to transfer it. They then pass it along to the next person. If you let it drop you both drink. Easy. Like this…”

Nat put the Joker to her lips and held it there with suction, leaning towards Clint and passing it over as if it were nothing. Clint passed it to Sam, who giggled a bit before managing to take it and Clint high-fived Nat.

“Do I have to?” Bruce questioned and the card fell from Sam’s mouth as he ran out of breath.

“Dude!” Sam exclaimed. “What the hell?” and he took a drink. Bruce followed, looking chagrined, and then Sam put the card to his lips again and passed it over. Bruce turned and that’s when he realised he was facing Tony, who had a mischievous glint in his eye. Bruce tried to pass him the card, but it was obvious that Tony ‘forgot’ to suck. The card fell down between them and Tony cupped Bruce’s face, planting an over the top kiss on the scientist’s lips. Clint spat out his drink, Thor laughed out loud and even Bucky’s lips twitched in amusement. 

Tony drew back, peering at Bruce as if he were an experiment gone awry. “Hhmm, no Hulk. I’d thought for sure he’d have wanted a piece of that action. Oh well.” He shrugged and took a drink. 

Bruce glared as he tipped back his bottle, but he then put the card to his lips and effortlessly passed it to Thor, who passed it onto Bucky with an amused glint in his eye. The Bucky turned towards Steve and Steve? Steve couldn’t breathe. All he could see was Bucky’s blue-grey eyes getting closer and closer. The card touched his lips, Bucky blew and Steve forgot to suck.

The card fell away and their lips brushed together.

Steve felt as though he was in one of those cheesy romance movies Tony had made him watch, where the main couple kiss and there’s fireworks and bird singing, because Bucky’s lips felt the same as they always had, and his heart was thudding in his chest, and - oh shit! - he should pull away, he’s not supposed to keep kissing Bucky who doesn’t remember them, and…

Suddenly Bucky was gone. He ripped his lips from Steve’s, stood and bolted from the communal room. Steve knew the others were staring, wondering what on earth had just happened, but he didn’t care about them, Bucky was his priority. 

He scrambled to his feet. “Buck! Wait!” he called and then followed Bucky out of the room.

“Well,” said Tony. “That was unexpected.”

Nat turned and cocked her head. “Was it?”

“Buck, please can I come in? I’m sorry.”

Steve rested his head against the door to Bucky’s room, feeling like the worst friend in the world. He’d violated Bucky’s trust at best, and disgusted and scared him at worst.

He hadn’t been surprised to find the door to Bucky’s room, inside their shared apartment, shut. Steve didn’t know if it was locked or not, but he wasn’t going to step in uninvited. However, he couldn’t walk away either, so with his heart beating harshly in his chest and his breath ragged in his lungs, Steve turned and slid down the closed door, head in his hands as he tried to work out what to do - how to make this right.

Steve had no idea how long he sat there, mumbling to himself as he tried to work through the answer in his head. But he was so caught up in his thoughts he was oblivious to movement from within Bucky’s room, until he was falling backwards, staring up at Bucky’s upside down face. He blushed.

“Umm, hey there, Buck.”

Bucky rolled his eyes, which Steve took as a good sign. “Get up, punk.” 

“Uh, yeah.” Steve pushed himself up, with far less elegance than he was capable of, and faced Bucky properly. Without a word Bucky walked back into his room, but he left the door open, so Steve followed him in. 

Bucky was standing with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall and Steve stopped a few paces away, feeling awkward and full of anxiety. Bucky stared at him.

“Bucky, I…”

“Shh.”

Steve’s mouth snapped shut as Bucky’s command, and he began to twist his hands together. Bucky continued to observe him and when he pushed away from the wall and started to walk around him, Steve started to feel like a bug pinned to a board. He felt as though there was an electrical current running through him, making him vibrate with fear. Or was it need? Bucky was so close to him right now, his eyes hooded and dark as he just looked at Steve.

“We used to do that all the time, didn’t we?”

“Huh?” Bucky’s question caught him off-guard.

“Kiss. We used to kiss all the time. Back, before. When you were small. But also when you were big, like this.”  Bucky stopped in front of Steve, close, but still guarded.

“Uh, yeah,” Steve croaked. “We did.”

“And more than kissing too.” A statement, not a question.

Steve coughed, nervously. “Yeah, that too.”

“But we haven’t done since I came here. Since you found me. Why?”

Steve shuffled and shook his arms out, unsure what to do with his hands.

“Well, because you couldn’t remember it. It wouldn’t have been right. And I thought you might not want to, you know. You’re different now. I’m different now. We’ve both been through a lot and it would be understandable if feelings changed. And I didn’t want to put you under any pressure, because you mean a lot to me…”

“Steve…” Bucky interrupted his rambling. “Shut up.”

In the next second Bucky closed the distance between them, his mismatched hands coming up to cup Steve’s face, and then pressed their lips together. Instinctively, Steve’s hands came up to grip the front of Bucky’s shirt, leaning into a kiss that was altogether more purposeful than their accidental brushing of lips earlier. When Bucky ended it, all too soon for Steve’s liking, his smokey eyes were alight with amusement.

“I don’t remember it all, but I do remember the face you’re making now. It’s like you’re drunk, and I have to say, it’s still pretty cute.”

Heat flooded Steve’s face once more. “Jerk,” he muttered under his breath.

“I still wanna take things slow,” Bucky added, “but I think I might still like kissing you, Stevie.”

Steve nodded vigorously. “Absolutely, Buck. Happy to be led by you. And it’s okay if you wanna change your mind…”

Bucky interrupted him once again. “Shut up and kiss me again, punk.”

With a request like that, how could Steve refuse?

Tag list: @christywrites, @alexakeyloveloki, @doasyoudesireandlive, @galactusdevourerofworlds, @crayongirl-linz, @mrs-illyrian-baby, @km-ffluv, @wheezy-stucky

[princessdimondheart]

Rave | Gaz x Reader

Pairing: Gaz x f! Reader

Summary: How Kyle met the love of his life while covered in holo glitter.

WC: 2,930

Warnings: 🔥- NSFW 18+ MDI, PnV, unsafe sex, creampie, oral f! receiving; 😭- slight angst

Edited: No; added Sarah’s outfit bc I forgot 🤦‍♀️

A/N 1: Sorry for the long wait as I healed my cut finger. It still hurts btw. I said Christmas didn’t I? It’s still Christmas here lol 😅😅 Reader is nicknamed Angel. My first smut 😳 If I messed up anywhere please tell me. I’m not 100% satisfied so I might add or change things later on.

A/N 2: I could not pick which outfit reader should wear. 😖 It’s between these two= Outfit 1 and Outfit 2: Top, Bottom ; the makeup is the same for both= Eyes, Lips ; Shoes for both but matte instead of velvet ; Nails are a bit more simple ; Kyle’s outfit will be linked in the fic. I’m not a fashion expert so I’m not sure if these fit well but I like them. I hope you enjoy! Leave a comment or note if you do. 😊

Masterlist

Character banner ©️ Me

Kyle was happy when Price decided to send him on a special training mission across the pond to the states, at least he was for a while. But then FOMO hit him when he realized that he would be missing out on a few missions. The training would last for a few months. Two months too long in his opinion, but here he was those months later and he had finally completed his training. Kyle was certain that his Captain would be proud to learn that he had made it to the top of the class. 

Now, he only had a few days left before he had to ship back out to the UK. He’d planned to chill in the barracks and maybe go to a bar for a couple of drinks. However, that was not the case when he received a random text from his cousin. 

Sarah had moved out to California from their hometown after she got accepted into UCLA. She was very excited when she heard about her acceptance. Kyle believed it was because she could now party it up without the scary eyes of their very religious grandmother baring down their necks. At least that’s how he felt when he first left home to join the military. 

Sarah had invited him to go out to a festival or perhaps it was a rave? He wasn’t sure because he had never been to one before so this was sure to be a new experience. He’d never been one to party, even less given that he’s living a military and not a typical college life style. However, he can say that he can handle his own with a couple of pints. 

He glanced back to her text to make sure that he had input the address correctly. He was lucky that her new home wasn’t too far from the base he was staying at so he could take the bus that ran through the base. Sarah had decided that the gloomy skies of England were no match to the sunny skies of Los Angeles, so after graduating she found a job in engineering and found a place to call her own. He was honestly happy for her and was genuinely surprised that she had messaged him since they had not talked in several years. He had a suspicion that their grandmother called her about him being there. 

The bus stop was only a few blocks away from Sarah’s house so he had to walk the rest of the way. It was early, almost 8 am on a Saturday, so Kyle was certain that his cousin was likely still sleeping in. He made sure that his walk took longer by taking in his environment. It must have been because of his military mindset that had him checking the area for security risks. He knows that L.A. has a bad rep but his cousin living in a decent neighborhood didn’t mean that there were no risks. Kyle didn’t see that many people out that early. Only a few dogs walkers and a mother pushing a stroller with a baby that seemed not too happy to have been woken from their sleep based on theirs incessant crying. Kyle winced when they walked by. 

Kyle made it to his cousin’s door in 15 minutes. She opened the door after two knocks with a few minutes in between. 

“Kyle! You’re here!” She engulfed him in a tight hug, her arms squeezing against his torso with enough strength to pop his back. “Ahhh!! It’s been forever!”

“Gah!” He wheezed as his arms were crushed to his sides. “You have gotten a lot stronger, Sarah. Please let me go.”

“Oh! Sorry. Sorry. I get a bit excited about this stuff. You know me!” Sarah let him go and cover her mouth with her hand to try to hide her laughter. Then, she flexes an arm. “I just did arm day so I’m pretty pumped.”

Kyle laughs, “Your noodle arms are nothing compared to mine.” He teased her while flexing his larger arm muscles. It was like they were back to being kids and laughing and making fun of each other. 

“Har. Har. Kyle!” She rolled her eyes and gestured into her home. “Get your ass inside, Popeye.”

“Who?” His brow rose. She stared at him blankly. 

“Just get in, you uncultured swine!” Sarah started pushing his back to get him in. He resisted of course, but after a few seconds he let her have her way and stepped through the threshold. 

They settled on the couch and began to catch up. He learned about her job and that although it wasn’t her dream job, she was still happy about working there. Kyle didn’t tell her that much about his work being that almost all of it was classified but he shared that he too enjoyed working with his team. Overall, they were happy that the other was happy. 

“Now, what’s this about a rave? Festival?” Kyle felt like he didn’t know what he was saying. “You wanted to go out later tonight?”

“Yeah! It’s a rave with festival vibes.” Sarah explained and he nodded along. “We have to dress up a bit so we can look cool I guess. That’s why I wanted you to come a bit early, though not this early!” 

“Sorry.” She chuckled at him. 

“Don’t worry about it. I should have known that with you military types that I should have specified the exact time. That’s on me. But! Now we have more time to go over what you’re going to wear!”

If Sarah could be more excited she’d be bouncing off the walls and out the door. Her face bright like the huge grin pulling at her lips. 

“Oh… I was just gonna go like this.” He gestured at himself but apparently that did not go over so well with Sarah. She had a grossed out face. 

“A button up with kakis? What are you Jake from State Farm?” Another cultural reference that he lacked an understanding of. Sarah’s accent had become more Americanized but her British voice would shine through on the occasion. “No, no, no! I will not be seen with you dressed like that, love!”

She stood up. “I think I know what to do.”

Kyle almost panicked. “Please, no cheeks handing out and nothing too girly.” His brows furrowed together. “Damn… what would my team say if they saw me like this??”

“They’d say nothing because they would see that you had girls hanging off of you. You know some girls like men who are in touch with their feminine side?”

“I don’t have a feminine side.” He pouted. 

“Well, now you do!” Kyle cursed himself at being more open about what she could dress him in. He just hoped no pictures made it back to the Task Force. 

~~~~~

Kyle and Sarah walked amongst the crowd heading into the music festival grounds. There were so many people there, and from what he could see, not so many security guards or police. His training had him looking around and eyeing any suspicious looking people. Although that was kinda hard when every other person had their ass and titties hanging out, with even more glitter on their bodies than he had. 

They made it through security which was just a metal detector and the guards checking their bags. Then their passes were scanned and off into the throng of people they went. 

“My friends texted that they were near the food stalls.” Sarah glanced up from her phone. “I told them we’d meet up with them. Come on, let’s go!”

She took off and Kyle followed after her. He felt like a protective older brother as he glared at anyone who gave her weird looks of lust. Sarah was pretty and everywhere she went she always garnered looks of appreciation from strangers. She was currently wearing a yellow outfit that complimented her skin tone rather well. Her hair was long and styled back in curls. Large hoops adorned her ears. She was also wearing a large yellow coat which he thought she was crazy for because of the heat, but she assured him that it would get colder as the night went on. He was certain that her new white shoes wouldn’t stay that way afterwards. 

~~~

His own outfit wasn’t too bad if he was honest, although the sheer crop top was new for him. He liked the baggy pants that Sarah picked out and he paired it with his black combat boots. Sarah had given him two thumbs up and started messing around with her makeup bag. He was checking his outfit out in front of the mirror when he saw a hand with a makeup brush making its way to his face. 

“Woah! What’ya doin’!?” He pushed her hand away. Sarah huffed. 

“Just adding to the vibes. Come on it’s just some glitter, you’ll look so hot that girls will be falling all over you.” She grinned. 

“You say that but I’m not so sure…” He squinted at her. 

“Ugh! Just let go!” She shook her arm around. 

“Okay, Elsa.”

“Bitch-!”

~~~~~

Sarah found her friends in the crowd by the food stalls. She squealed and yanked on his arm in their direction. Introductions were made and the group went together where the concerts were happening. The crowd wasn’t as pushed together as Kyle thought but he never took his eyes off the group for too long, not wanting to lose sight of his cousin. Call him overprotective if you want. 

They found a spot near the middle of the crowd. The girls danced around him and he bobbed his head to the music despite it not being to his taste. Maybe he tapped his foot but he won’t admit it. Although, he’ll admit that the live band was rather good. 

From the corner of his eye he saw arms shoot up and wave around. He followed the movement down and saw the form of a girl dancing and singing along to the song. Her wrists had multiple beaded bracelets, fingernails perfectly manicured. Her lips were in a smile, sparkling with her lipgloss, and her eyes reflected the bright colors of the strobe lights. Her makeup was pretty but he had no real knowledge about that. The more he looked the wider his eyes dilated. 

The girl wore a black three-piece bra, high-waisted bikini bottoms and skirt-wrap combo with flowers and tuffs of faux feathers. Her arms had long sleeves and she wore a matching choker necklace. Chains dangled from her form and bounced as she jumped and danced. His eyes lowers down her legs and to her feet in very tall heels that he was amazed she was jumping around in. He thought she’d break an ankle. 

When his eyes went back to her face, she was already looking at him. Brow raised in question and lips slightly pouted. Damn those lips. He flinched back a bit when their eyes connected. His cheeks burned at realizing she caught him eyeing her up. 

“Hi!” She said rather shyly, or really, she yelled over the music. 

It took him a moment to respond. “Hello, Miss?”

She yelled her name but said that everyone called her Angel, and he gave his own in return. The music changed to a faster beat and the people around him were dancing closer to each other. 

“Wanna dance?” Her hand reached for his, fingertips sliding softly up on his forearm. He could feel the slight scratch of her nails. It sent shivers up his back. 

He felt like a teenager with the slight nod to her question he gave. His damn voice was caught in his throat. He was better than this. Smoother at flirting with pretty ladies but right now all of his experience was failing him. 

She giggled at him, not that he could hear it but felt it as she drew herself closer to his chest. Her breasts pressed to his shear shirt. Her hips swayed with the music and his hands automatically rested themselves there. Angel raised her hands, gliding them on his chest. Her fingers teased the sides of his throat before curling behind his neck. 

As her nails scratched the short hairs there, he brought her hips closer to his. She was definitely aware that she was affecting him physically. He ground his hardness against her. They both moaned at the feeling. His eyes were droopy with lust, they glanced at her pouty lips. Someone from behind bumped him closer and he let his lips lock with hers. 

Kyle’s hand tangled in her hair pulling her closer. She moaned and his tongue slipped past and tangled with hers. He tasted her lipgloss and the sweetness of the alcohol she drunk earlier that night. Both reveled in each other’s touch. 

The moment was cut short by whoops and whistles to their left. When they separated, Kyle looked over and saw his cousin and her friends cheering him on. Sarah must have noticed that he wasn’t as close to them as before. His cousin gave him a thumbs up and a fist pump. The girl in his arms hid herself in his chest, her cheeks warming. As if she wasn’t just grinding up on him as they were making out. 

“Ah… sorry, that’s my cousin and her friends.” He chuckled, abashed. 

“It’s okay.” Angel smiled at him, taking in his pretty eyes. 

~~~~~

They spent the next few hours dancing, kissing, and occasionally touching more than what would be socially acceptable. During one of the set changes, Kyle introduced her to his cousin and her friends. They hit it off rather quickly. At the end of their night, Sarah decided to stay overnight with her friends and Kyle chose to go home with Angel after she invited him. Her apartment wasn’t too far from where they were at anyways. 

“I’m sorry… I don’t usually do this. Bringing home a stranger.” She glanced down. Her cheeks burned in embarrassment. 

“Don’t worry. I don’t do that either.” His lips tugged into a small grin. 

She looked up at him and smiled softly. Her eyes drifted to his lips. Kyle noticed and began to inch forward until their lips met. It was soft. Her lips and the motions were slow and sweet. Very different to the one in the heat of the festival. Her hands rubbed up his mesh shirt, nails scratching softly through the thin fabric before clasping tightly behind his neck. His own hands rubbed on her waist in slow circular motions. 

Their kisses and touches ached and Kyle began to quickly lead her back into the room. Not that he knew where he was going. His first mistake as the beautiful woman he was currently in a delicious lip lock fell from his arms. 

She yelped when her body hit the back of her couch. The suddenness of it causing her to tip backwards. She landed on the plush cushions with a soft ‘oof.’ Kyle looked down at her in shock, mouth open but no words came out. Part of her legs and feet dangled over the top. She looked up at him, eyes glancing back and forth between his own, dumbfounded before her the corners of her lips turned up and a giggle started. Then it turned into full blown laughter. Kyle grinned at her cute reaction and joined with a chuckle. 

She lifted her hands up to him and as he began to pull her up, she yanked him down over the couch with her. Giggling all the while. His arms stretched out to catch himself on the cushions. He could barely think before her lips were on him once again. This time there was more heat to it. More passion. 

Her hands were cupping his face. Fingers rubbing softly against his freshly shaven face. He shifted their bodies into a more comfortable position and put his weight onto one arm before bringing the other hand up. He let it glance lightly against her body until it rested softly against the crook of her neck and shoulder. His thumb rubbing her neck with an equal softness. 

He felt more than he heard the soft groan that left her lips, muffled by his own. Her legs shifted and he felt her knees up against his hips. Kyle gave into the temptation and lowered his lower body until he was flush against her. This time he heard her moan. He shivered in delight. 

Her tongue flicked out to lick his lips and he let her in. Their tongues danced against one another. Damn he loved the taste of her. 

Angel pushed him back so that she could reach behind her to unclip her top. His mouth immediately latched on her nipple. Her back arched, a pleasured sigh escaping her lips. She felt herself getting wet, her slick soaking her black bottoms and she bucked her hips into Kyle’s. His moan vibrated through her chest. 

Kyle kissed her chest some more before sliding back and removing his shirt and unbuttoning his pants. Her hands helped him pull them down, leaving him in his boxers. 

“Where’s your bed?” He held her hands and helped her up off the couch. Angel led him to her room, she removed the rest of her clothes and heels and laid her bare self on the soft bed. Kyle stood by the doorway and just stared at her beauty. Her legs were slightly open and he could see the glimmer of her slick weeping from her pussy. 

Angel’s face burned at his intense gaze. “Kyle?”

That broke him out of his lustful haze, swiftly removing his boxers. He hung heavily, his arousal twitching against his navel. The tip flushed and his veins throbbing. Angel licked her lips as he grew closer. 

Her hand reached for his cock but was quickly intercepted by Kyle’s larger hand. “Let me…”

Angel let herself fall back as Kyle took his place between her legs. Instantly sucking and licking at her soaked pussy. His hands held firmly on her thighs, not letting her rub against his head. Kyle’s tongue flicked on her clit and she moaned rather loudly that she was sure she’d get a complaint about it later. 

“Oh, fuck! Kyle!” Her nails scratched at his short hair. 

The wet, juicy sounds of her slick and Kyle’s sucking turned her own, making her even more wet. He licked stripes up and down her pussy, then slipped a finger in rather easily. She was panting now, little moans interdicted with louder ones. 

He added a second and then a third, really stretching her out for him. The bed sheets had her juices pooled beneath her. His fingers pumped faster and his mouth sucked harder on her clit. She moaned loudly as her walls clamped down on his fingers as she orgasmed around them. The sounds coming from her nearly made Kyle cum but he held the base of his cock with his free hand to stop his load from blowing too early. 

His fingers slipped from her pussy and he watched as her slick lips clenched around nothing. 

“Kyle, please…” Her eyes were pleading, flicking between his eyes and his straining dick. 

“Angel…” He moaned as he tapped his tip against her clit. She wiggled her lower half in an attempt to get him inside her. She whined when he pulled away but groaned as Kyle pushed his tip just barely inside. 

He huffed and then pushed all the way in, earning himself beautiful, pleasure-filled noises. He was halfway in when she half sat up and pulled him closer, locking their mouths in a heated kiss. His hips jerked forward the final few inches until their hips were touching. His arms and thighs shook from the pleasure he was feeling. Her plush pussy was sucking him in, clenching against his thick cock. Desperately trying to milk him for what he’s got. And he had a lot to give. 

The first few thrusts were overstimulating, so Kyle went torturously slow. It didn’t last too long before he was pounding into her sweet pussy faster. Their bodies coming together created wet lewd sounds. His cum filled balls slapped against her ass with each hard connection. Kyle could feel her wetness dripping down his balls. The viscous fluid becoming creamier with each thrust. 

“There ya go, love.” Kyle panted. “Look at those tits bouncing every, every time I fuck my cock into ya.”

He looked down at her boobs bouncing with his thrusts. A hand reached out to pinch at her nipple. Her hips bucked in sync with his. 

“Ah! Ah! Kyle!” He pinched and twisted her nipple harder. “Fuck! Fuck!”

He thrusted his cock into her faster than before. His balls beginning to tighten while her walls clenched harder onto him. 

“Kyle~!” Her voice going a higher pitch. The bed creaked with their thrusts. 

“Shit! Ah! That’s it, love!” Kyle’s eyes began to roll back as his creamy cum left his body and streamed into hers. “Yes, ah! Fuck! Fuck!”

The feeling of Kyle’s hot cum squirting into her made Angel cum harder than she’s ever cummed before. Her legs shook violently and her back arched off the bed. Kyle’s pace slowed but her didn’t slip out as he came to a stop. Both panted hard and Kyle wrapped his arms around her, flipping them over still connected. 

A surprised squeak slipped her lips and he chuckled. Then she groaned softly at the new position. He didn’t move, however, instead tightening his hold on her. 

“Cuddler?” She teased, palms splayed over his chest. She could feel how fast his heart was beating as he took deep breaths. 

“Can’t blame me for hugging an Angel.” The laugh that shook her body was making Kyle giddy. The movement made him groan as her pussy clenched on his softening cock. 

“S-sorry.” She bit her lip. She took the moment to push against him and he let her go. Kicking a leg over, his cock slipped out along with a gush of his cum. “Ah!”

Kyle hissed as his cock slapped against him covered in both their fluids. He felt his dick hardening watching his cum drip from her twitching pussy lips. 

Angel then laid next to him, her head resting against his chest. Her hand reached over his stomach to his hand. She held it as she slipped one of her bracelets she made for the festival over onto his wrist. 

“To remember me…” She said it so softly, he almost missed it if he wasn’t staring at her in awe. His cheeks burned as feelings he’s rarely ever felt before churned in his chest. Her dilated eyes looking back just as fervently. 

On its own, Kyle’s hand reached for her chin pulling her into a deep kiss. She moved over him again, one of his hands on her ass cheek to help not that she needed it. He gave it a tight squeeze making her moan into his mouth. 

They continued their moment together past sunrise. Kyle made sure to bring her pleasure as many times as Angel could take. He hoped he’d spend more time with her in the future but knew it was unlikely since he lived on another continent. Silently, she hoped the same thing. 

Masterlist

🔖 Taglist:

@sae1kie

[zaynjmsource]

Zayn Malik’s arrival at Paris Fashion Week was not without incident. At about 8:30pm on Friday evening, a slow-moving car ran over his toes. Malik was exiting Kenzo’s autumn/winter 2024 show at the Bibliothèque Nationale, where a small army of Directioners had mobilised, precipitating a minor roadblock. That would have been enough to send anyone – particularly those of an introverted disposition – back into relative isolation. But there he was: on Saturday’s front rows, seemingly content with being perceived in public for the first time in five years. “My foot is fine!! Thanks to my incredibly well-made shoes,” Malik later explained on Instagram, captioning a photo of his tyre-marked Kenzo sneakers. It is the most deft use of the Paid Partnership tag I have ever seen.

Paris Fashion Week (which is perhaps the most accurate barometer of who and what is considered to be culturally relevant), fulfils a secondary purpose: to launch and relaunch the careers of its attendees. It is a place to see and be seen, and perhaps even, make a cameo in a brand’s TikTok video. It tracks, then, that Malik should choose the white heat of the men’s shows to re-emerge from a period of seclusion. Just as his new film – in which he voices a pair of animated bumblebees – debuts at the Sundance Film Festival, and less than a week after he released a single in Urdu with the Pakistani pop trio Aur. “It’s a busy time so you have to take care of yourself,” the musician, who has sometimes chafed against the demands of fame, says, sitting in a luxe suite at the Bulgari Hotel. “So I brought my mum with me. It’s always nice to have things that remind you of home when you’re away.” A moment, please, for product placement: “And, of course, I’m always drinking Mixoloshe,” he adds. “It keeps me young!”

Malik’s comeback reached its apotheosis when he arrived at Valentino’s Le Ciel autumn/winter 2024 show in a suit bearing the words, “We’re So Old, We Have Become Young Again”, which is a phrase that first appeared in Hanya Yanagihara’s 736-page invocation of human suffering A Little Life, but could just as feasibly have been plucked from One Direction’s teenybopper songbook. (Specific enough to inspire yearning, broad enough for anyone to insert themselves into.) “Funnily enough, the first fashion show I ever attended was Valentino nine years ago,” Malik says. “But I think, over the years, my knowledge of fashion has expanded. I have a lot more appreciation for it. Pierpaolo is incredible and Valentino never misses in my opinion.” At some point between our conversation and his arrival at the brand’s Monnaie de Paris step and repeat, Malik’s quiff was razed into a handsome short back and sides – a bit like when a bride gets a haircut midway through her wedding day.

And judging from Malik’s hastily-taken photos from the front row – squint and you might be able to distinguish a series of crystalline worker jackets from Pierpaolo Piccioli’s laser-cut Acanthus leaf coats – it was a collection that stirred due levels of anticipation. “There were so many great looks, but at the top of my wishlist were the long, cut-out coats,” Malik says. “Valentino always has class, it executes that edginess and luxury combination the best. When I was younger, I used to save up all my wages from the pizza shop I worked at so that I could afford to buy a new pair of trainers or a tracksuit. I was only able to get one piece every couple of weeks and it probably would have taken me a lifetime to buy a Valentino outfit! So I feel blessed and lucky that I get to wear the brand.” But there might have been another explanation for Malik’s spontaneous, erm, runway shots. “I was excited to see Lamar Johnson, who I was sitting next to. I didn’t want to bother him, but I’m a fan of his work! He’s such a great actor.”

All of this is to say: Zayn Malik is back. The sensitive and brooding boy band-survivor restored and ready to reclaim his title as a global heartthrob. Among the photos he shared with Vogue – which continue to point towards a certain camera shyness despite his fame – one image in particular paints a timeless portrait. In it, Malik is sitting in the backseat of a chauffeur-driven car as a blur of bystanders scrape their iPhones against the windows. He looks a little apprehensive. And so, I wonder how Malik manages to step outside of all this toe-crushing furore, now 14 years in the game. “The museums in Paris are full of beautiful art and talented artists,” he says, with all the earnestness that first saw him two-step into the hearts of millions of Directioners around the world. “I would highly recommend going to a few and viewing different works of art. It’s very inspiring!”

[kaddyssammlung]

My brother today at work today : “Oh....so....Friday and Saturday will be great and then on Sunday I can leave early and....or maybe get totally wasted instead.”

Me: ?????????? He continued:” Sleep Token are going to be playing on Saturday, too.”

And then I finally understood what he was talking about.

Rock im Park already have a schedule for their festival. That's new?! They used to announce the days on which the bands are going to play much later.

Hearing him talk about drinking and stuff like that just reminded me what festivals are about. And also....he really wants to got?! Does this mean that he really wants to go?! Seems like it.

So yes...Sleep Token on Saturday with Lorna Shore XD. That's funny. All of this is all still so damn far away. I mean next year June. Whatever.....

I'm not thinking about going but I'm also not thinking about not going. If that makes sense.

[alwritey-aphrodite]

Could you do hot chocolate with (SHOCK) Roy Kent? ❤️

2023 Fall Blurbs

Throughout all your years of getting up early for school and work, you just couldn’t seem to make yourself like coffee. Something about the bitter taste that lingered even after you’d finished your cup made you reluctant to even take a sip, achieving the opposite of your goal to make yourself more energized. Still, especially in the colder months, you needed a warm drink in the morning to get yourself out of bed.

While you enjoyed teas, and liked the added benefit of caffeine, your personal favorite would always be hot chocolate. Sure, it was a more childish drink, but it was comforting and warm and you loved all the varieties of flavors and toppings you could add, making each morning a little different and a little more exciting.

Roy was a black coffee enthusiast, and sometimes you’d catch him shaking his head at you as you doctored up your hot chocolate in your festive mug, but you didn’t mind at all. He could keep his bland, bitter beverage, and you’ll continue to find joy and nostalgia each morning as you choose your flavor of the day and the seasonal mug you’d use.

“I didn’t know there were that many options,” Roy muttered as he sifted through the cupboard where you kept the mugs and your packets of hot chocolate. Somehow, you’d managed to keep Roy in bed with you well after the sun was up, and now you get to start your Saturday morning together with something warm to fight off the chill creeping in through the window panes.

“Do you wanna try one?” You ask, reaching past him to grab your favorite flavor and turning your attention to the mugs, “You can always make a coffee later if you hate it.” He just grumbles, and you take that for the positive answer you know it is, reaching out to grab just a basic packet of hot chocolate and taking down the mug you know he likes.

He’s quiet, watching as you dump out the powdered chocolate and wait for the milk to get warm, stepping away from the stove to grab marshmallows and whipped cream. He goes to make a noise of protest, but then you’re pouring the milk into each of the mugs and he’s more worried about you burning yourself than anything.

Knowing that he’ll enjoy it more if you make it, because he never allows himself to indulge in the little things no matter how long it’s been since he’s played a match, so you add heaps of marshmallows and a generous serving of whipped cream before sliding him his mug, taking up your own identical mountain of sweetness with a grin.

You don’t show it, but you’re beyond nervous for Roy to take a sip, for Roy to enjoy it the way you know he will. Heart caught in your throat, you watch as he tilts the mug slightly, attempting to get a drink that isn’t all toppings.

“It’s good, right?” You ask, taking a sip of your own drink and reveling in the way it warms you from the inside out. Roy sets down his mug, a small dot of whipped cream on the tip of his nose, and you can’t help but grin. Try as he might, he can’t hide his either, and goes to take another sip.

[odetolithium]

Haunt - Snapetober Day 3

Young Severus visits his usual haunt on his free evening, unexpectedly bumping into an old neighbour.

Prompts by @superfallingstars

The night has a thousand eyes, plunging Severus into loneliness with every blink. The insignificance of life weighs down on him like the cruel stares from the dark sky. The local Cokeworth pub was Severus’s usual haunt on difficult nights. The sign that once read The Blackened Hearth now hangs battered and beaten, weathered by the northern storms. Letters hanging like fragile lives, Severus watches them swing in the autumn wind.

Friday was his night off from the responsibilities of teaching. This year, Halloween landed on a Saturday, so Severus had the night to himself for some respite before he’d be expected to indulge in the festivities of the feast. It was relentless.

The landlord nods curtly at Severus as he approaches the bar, his “usual” is poured from a pump and Severus exchanges muggle coins for the pleasure of a pint. He sips the head as he shuffles to the end of the bar and finds a small table for a solitary patron. Despite the roaring fire, the vast room remains frigidly cold. Severus pulls his overcoat tighter around his small frame and drinks with a thirst, addressing the cold night with words found at the end of a pint glass. Words, wishes, confessions. Dumbledore had set fire to them, leaving Severus with the ashes of his regrets. He was an instrument in the man’s cruel orchestra and there was no interval to breathe. A necessary evil, he thought to himself. There was no escape.  

“Snape?” 

Severus cast his eyes from the bottom of his glass to the voice. A stooped man was standing by the juke box, mouth agape. He slowly approached with a limp, his body was as tall as it was wide and there was a distinct smell of stale ale about him. The smile was a giveaway. Cigarette-stained teeth with a shining silver canine. A friend of his father’s. The name slipped from his mind.  

“Snape?” he asked again, getting a closer look at Severus’s face. His own name lost too. “Christ, you’re the spits of your mum,” he exclaimed, laughing with a chesty cackle. “Let me get you a drink, lad,” he offered, turning to hobble to the bar before Severus could protest. This man had spent many nights with his father, getting obliterated at the pub. Severus never liked him. Those nights turned Tobias Snape into a monster.  

“Cheers,” the man called, clinking his glass to Severus’s pint of bitter. 

“Are you livin’ back here then?” he asked before gulping down half of his lager.  

“No,” he muttered, “I moved away.” 

“Got a fancy job then, eh?” 

“I teach,” Severus took a mouthful of his pint. “I teach at a boarding school.” 

“Fancy that!” The man slapped a hand to the table, it shook on its flimsy legs. “Y’dad would be proud, lad. He would be proud.” Severus doubted that. “I can’t believe the old sod popped before I did, and your mum? Irene, sweet Irene.” Severus refrained from correcting him, tipping more beer back. “She was a good wife to Toby,” Severus wanted to leave. Immediately.  

“Anyway, what are y’doing back here?” 

“Visiting.” 

“I don’t usually come in ‘ere,” the man confessed but Severus already knew that. The sole reason Severus drinks here is because none of the people from his past do. Until now. “The Bull’s got rats, no good for business apparently. What they gonna do, eh? Sup the ale?” he threw his head back in a harsh laugh, Severus tightened his lips into a slight smile, reluctantly.  

“Lad, you can’t be much older than...” his rheumy eyes shifted upwards as if they might catch a number from the air.  

“Twenty-one,” said Severus, stonily. 

“Still a kid y’self really, you know, to be teaching,” the man muttered, inhaling large gulps. “Bloody hell...”  

Severus hummed to himself. Hell was Hogwarts, an endless torment that punished Severus for his choices. The choices that sickened him would plague him forever. He would rot in the castle, under the neglectful eyes of the professors who despised him. Severus was devoid of redemption and disturbed by the idea that he may never hear forgiveness in the voice of his only friend.  

“What happened to that red head you always kicked about with?” 

Was this bastard a wizard? 

Severus downed his glass, watching the foam head settle at the bottom. He needed to find a new Friday haunt. The nameless man irritated him.  

“Her name is Lily. And she is well.” 

Silently, Severus left the table. He returned his pint glasses to the bar and stepped out into the street. He wondered if Lily remembered the man’s name, he was often stumbling around the streets when they were children. He wondered if Lily would reply if he wrote to her and asked. He wondered if she was planning anything for Halloween tomorrow. Severus wondered a lot about Lily. He wondered if they could ever be friends again. Pacing down the road to a deserted corner, Severus disapparated swiftly, landing smoothly at the gates of the castle. Down the winding path to the entrance, Severus worded the letter in his head; knowing his thoughts would never translate to parchment. They were just words found at the bottom of a pint glass. 

[respectthepetty]

*I'm going to be completely normal about Moonlight Chicken. I'm just going to watch and enjoy it. I'm not going to look deeper. I'm not going to think about..*

Moonlight Chicken's Symbolism and Background Noise

The series has several Chinese influences and begins on September 10, 2022, which an actual full moon fell on that day. It is the Moon Festival also known as Harvest Moon, Mid-Autumn Moon, or Mooncake. It is meant to be spent with others. In the lunar calendar, it's the mid-point of the year. We know this date from Jim's beer.

The brand of the beer is Full Moon, and he and Wen drink it throughout the first episode.

Jim and Wen discuss what is normally seen in the moon. Jim sees a woman (which there is legend about a woman and the moon, but it's too much for this space), but Wen states it's a rabbit. A rabbit normally represents the full moon because both symbolize longevity, peace, and prosperity.

That's why mooncakes are given during this time. They represent well wishes to the receiver and those shared with a long peaceful and prosperous life.

Ginger, which Wen shared with Jim, also symbolizes longevity as well as passion and strength.

Jim's green truck's license plate states frog in Thai. Frogs are a symbol of prosperity and good luck.

Li Ming, whose name means (bright) dawn, wears an Ohio State Buckeyes Football Shirt. Buckeyes are a type of nut and symbolize good luck (thanks college football for that nugget of info!).

However, this show is doing well with subtle foreshadowing, so Li Ming might run into some bad luck with driving (Heart around) without a license.

We get some foreshadowing with the DVD Wen picks up at Jim's. This movie is about two lovers who meet in Hong Kong after relocating there from other parts of China. Their lives take them on separate paths, only for them to reunite ten years later in America. The ending shows that they actually sat back-to-back on the train ride into Hong Kong over a decade ago. Aka, they were fated lovers.

Jim has an Idiot's Guide to Starting a Home-Based Business and Reader's Digest collection of books - Dick Francis' Comeback (about a man who gets entangled with a stranger on his route to his new job), Frederick Forsyth's The Deceiver (about a British agent who is set to retire, but one of the main plots is an affair), and Alexandria Ripley's Scarlett (which continues the story of Scarlett and Rhett from Gone with the Wind, who are estranged, but at the end, reunite). *Also, the condom package is amazing. The C of "condom" is actually the condom. I just think it's neat!

Wen has Eric Hall's Monster (which is about famous sport agent Eric Hall who was known for being a money monster). This is likely to be Alan's book because the apartment is filled with art, which is due to Wen being an art director. He was also drinking because of his job but didn't state anything specific about the reason.

Wen and Alan's apartment is more modern, while Jim's is more traditional.

When Jim and Wen met at the restaurant, it is Saturday going into Sunday. In Thailand, Sunday's color is red, and its unlucky color is blue. However, In China, red represents good luck, and blue represents longevity. We see these colors often around Jim and Wen (scroll back up).

Jim was shown mostly in or highlighted by red the first episode with Wen in or highlighted by blue.

Even Jim's aprons are red. They say Hungry? with a little chicken peaking out of the pockets.

We also see the blues and reds around Heart and Li Ming. *peep the elephant tusks which are encasing the family and symbolize power*

The bottle Heart drops is Snake Bite Whiskey, and a snakebite shot simply consists of whiskey and lime juice aka it hurts like an actual snakebite.

Modern Thai Sign Language was influenced by American Sign Language (which was greatly influenced by French Sign Language). It seems as if Heart is telling Li Ming his face scared him, but I'm unsure of the last sign since that is not the ASL sign for surprise, scared, or angry. The second portion seems to consist of Heart saying YOUR MISTAKE, but once again, the second sign is different than ASL's mistake because of the breadth of the movement. *I love that this wasn't captioned because it allows the audience to feel Li Ming's confusion and Heart's frustration.

We end the episode back at night with another shot of the moon. As others have pointed out, the colors at night are more crisp and vibrant compared to the day.

But based on Li Ming's name, and the symbols, I think Moonlight Chicken is attempting a similar theme as Big Dragon - The Moon and the Sun have to meet at Dawn. These lovers won't work in their current situations. They have to compromise and find balance, which is why they met in the middle of the year. They have to meet in the in-between.

[the-hinky-panda]

The Gin Blossom: Part III

Warning: Mention of PTSD, survivor guilt, and suicide.

The night had been going so well. 

You had stuck around Santo Padre for the last week. There were no festivals during that week that you had signed up for and the idea of catching up with Songbird and Riz sounded like a nice break. However, you found your time spent helping Jo and Songbird decorate the outside bar space for a wedding reception that was happening Saturday. Coco and Stitches had apparently eloped and this was their punishment: an evening of elegance and celebration with their closest friends. 

If this was how their esteemed friends were treated, well…it was a good sign of a healthy community. You have to admit, meeting the variety of people in the MC and their significant others, you understand why Songbird has settled here, has made friends with these people. And they seem to have fully accepted you into their ranks. No one stands on ceremony. If you’re going to be part of the group, you’ll stick around. If not, you’re free to go. The honest and direct acceptance is something you only ever came across in the Marines. 

This is a true brotherhood. 

Your days are spent stringing lights, arranging flowers and candles for centerpieces and the evenings are spent with Gilly. He comes to Jo’s bar since you’re staying in your airstream that’s still parked behind the venue. You have a few beers, swap war stories, and subtly flirt. You like him, much more than you thought you would. He’s resilient, funny, and kind. You like his sarcastic sense of humor, and the ease of conversation. You could fall for him, seriously fall for him, and you haven’t felt that way since Dylan. It gives you hope for a second chance of happiness, for finding a true home.

When he asked you to accompany him to the reception on Saturday, you didn’t even have to think about it. You had enlisted Songbird’s help in choosing a dress for the occasion. Normally you wouldn’t care. Fashion was never something important to you. But you felt like this mattered, this was important. And you didn’t want to throw away a chance at finding your second chance. 

The dress was a simple, over the head shift that was a blend of greens, blues, and golds, that brushes right above your knees. Songbird dug out a pair of gold sandals that lace up your calves. She must get the same feeling that you do, that this is some kind of turning point. She fixes your hair, a mix of twists and braids. On the short walk from your trailer to the bar, Songbird picks one of the papery-thin cactus blossoms, a vivid magenta bloom, and tucks it into one of the twists by your ear. 

You can’t help but feel a twinge of guilt as you greet Gilly by the entrance of the reception area. It feels selfish, wanting this second chance. You were adopted by a power couple when you were three. Pulled out of a meth house in Chicago, hiding under a kitchen table clutching a bag of McDonald’s fries and chicken nuggets and handed to a four star Army general and a corporate lawyer. You went right into the Marines after high school graduation, married a Gunnery Sergeant, and thought you had your happily ever after. 

That is until everything went completely off the rails. 

And brings you back to your current situation. 

You had a lovely time at the wedding reception. Eating, drinking, and dancing with Gilly. You enjoyed being close to him, held by him, and when he leaned in close during the slow dance and asked if you wanted to get out of here, you didn’t hesitate to answer yes. But now he’s holding the passenger door of his truck open for you and terror roots you to the spot. 

Shit. 

This is not how you saw this situation going. 

***

Gilly knows a PTSD episode when he sees one, and the look on your face tells him something terrible has happened in a vehicle’s passenger seat. He automatically switches into rescue mode and shuts the truck door. The sound is enough to snap you back from whatever traumatic experience you were reliving. 

“I’m sorry-” 

“No,” he interrupts you. “Don’t be sorry.” 

He can see you’re trembling so he takes your elbow and guides you towards the back of the truck, dropping the tailgate. Your eyes land on all the things that he and Riz had collected for this evening: blankets, pillows, a cooler. So much for it being a surprise now. He grabs a blanket and spreads it out on the tailgate before helping you up on the makeshift seat. A few deep breaths later, you give him a shaky smile. 

“Were you trying to seduce me this evening, Mr. Lopez?” Your voice is still trembling but you’re regaining your footing. 

“Who says I’m giving up on the seduction?” 

You laugh shortly and your shoulders start to relax. It’s a good start. But he sees you’re still struggling to find your words. You’re brave. You’re a marine. And you do end up capturing those elusive words. 

“Remember I told you about my husband, Dylan?” 

Gilly nods. “Yeah. You said he died a couple years ago.” But you never said how and pieces are starting to fall into place. “Car accident?” 

You nod your head. 

He’s heard a lot of stories, far too many of them, of vets coming home and within six months, slamming their cars into trees or motorcycles into ditches. The thought had crossed his mind a time or two if he was being honest. But something always stopped him. The hope that something was going to come along and make it all worth it. “He did it on purpose?” 

“Yeah.” You rub a thumb over your Marine tattoo. “Except I was in the car with him.” 

“Fuck.” The word is out of his mouth before he can stop it. “God, I’m so sorry.” 

“There were warning signs. Events that lead up to that night but…” you trail off, a whole other story behind that revelation. “I tried to pull the wheel so the car would stay on the road but…he punched me in the face. Knocked me out. The doctors say that’s what saved my life.” 

“Being limp at impact.” 

“I was in a coma for a month. They weren’t sure I was going to come out of it. But I did. And then found out Dylan didn’t make it. By the time I was released from the hospital, and could face getting back into a car, grass had already grown over his grave.” 

PTSD. Survivor’s guilt. Grief at not being able to do enough. Gilly knows these feelings all too well. He rests his hand over yours and you immediately slide your fingers between his. “You know, even if you did recognize all the signs, that wouldn’t have stopped him.” 

“I know.” You squeeze his hand. “I know that now.” 

They sit in silence together, hands entwined, and listening to the music from the reception drift over to them. It’s soothing and after a few moments of sitting together like this, he decides on how to move forward. Gilly takes out the keys to his truck and holds them out to you. 

“Whatever you want to do this evening, you’re in the driver’s seat. You’ll always have the driver’s seat when you’re with me.” 

You look at the keys with wide-eyed surprise and then your gaze shifts to the supplies in the back of the truck. “Well, it seems a shame to let such a lovely seduction go to waste. And it has been a while for me. But,” you sigh dramatically. “I’m afraid I don’t know where a good location for such an event would be.” 

“Lucky for you, I happen to know how to get there and will be more than happy to provide directions.” 

You take the keys from him, leaning forward and kissing him briefly. “Well then, let’s not waste any more time.”

[rosewaterandivy]

Can I request a Steve and rockstar reader where they go to the grammys and she’s there when she wins her first Grammy for like new artist or something

Ooh, you're good. I had one of these planned in the OG series, but... it would fuck with the timeline too much to include it here. 👀 SO! Enjoy actor!steve's first trip to the Grammy's & rockstar!gf's second. W.C.: 3.3K Warnings! My blog is 18+, MDNI. Prosaic devotion, probably. General lack of knowledge of behind-the-scenes/Hollywood et al.

carving through the dark

🎶 Darling, we sacrificed we gave our time to something undefined / This phantom life sharpens like an image but it sharpens like a knife 🎶

Awards shows always felt awkward. Fancy gowns, famous faces, free alcohol, press line, and professional competition. Sure, it was nice to be recognized by your peers or the committee or whatever, but that didn’t mean the entire thing ceased to radiate mean girl energy.

At least it was the Grammy’s, something firmly in your wheelhouse where you wouldn’t be expected to make small-talk with a cinematographer and pretend like you actually knew what that entailed. That being said, there was the added pressure of performing and being nominated for a few awards that evening.

No biggie.

The last few shows had been a breeze, all you had to do was show up and look good: the film festival circuit beginning with Venice, the Emmys, the Kennedy Center Honors, the Golden Globes, etc. None of that had anything to do with you— it was all Steve Harrington.

So when your alarm rang on Saturday morning, you screwed your eyes shut and retreated beneath the covers. Despite knowing that Vickie was already awake and would be gently rapping at the bedroom door soon enough.

You heard Steve clear his throat, shifting the sheets as he turned to face you— all stupidly gorgeous bedhead and eyes squinting in the bright morning sun. His right hand flopped over and landed on your thigh, giving it a soft squeeze.

“Good morning,” Vickie coos, once you’ve managed to swipe your phone off the night stand and onto the floor. She picked it up quietly, pausing the blaring alarm and set it back on the table.

Reluctantly, you sit up as the covers are peeled away from you, open your eyes and blink slowly. Game day.

Steve had long accepted now that Vickie would show up at the ass crack of dawn on days like these, coffee and breakfast in hand, before you were relegated to the makeup chair where you’d spend hours being poked and prodded to near perfection.

He had plenty to do today as well and Robin was expected shortly. You wouldn’t be surprised to find her puttering around downstairs finalizing his schedule.

Speaking of which—

“Want me to run through the day?”

You nod and reach for your matcha latte, taking a sip while Steve wraps an arm around to pull you back down to the pillows with him. He’s managed to find his glasses and get them on, so at least there’s some progress in the Harrington camp. There was a noise from the hallway, the bedroom door opened and Robin appeared.

“‘Sup nerds?” She greeted and deposited Steve’s protein shake on his nightstand. 

“Ugh, still?” He grimaced, eyeing the green concoction warily.

“Yes, dingus, still.” Robin falls into a club chair by the windows and sips loudly from her frappucino. “Now, drink up, buttercup. Nolan wants you in tip-top shape.”

Steve rolls his eyes and begrudgingly takes a sip of the drink. Robin smiles, delighted, before turning back to Vickie with a wink.

“Right, as I was about to say,” she begins, a blush steadily creeping up her cheeks under Robin’s gaze. “Carpet starts at 3pm— you’re expected right at the end.”

You suppress the urge to roll your eyes. Your helpful suggestion of skipping the press line and carpet was quickly vetoed by pretty much everyone on the team due to the fact that you were a nominee.

“Your hair is 10am, make up at noon when you finish lunch. Drinks and everything in Bar Marmont with management and crew at 2pm–everyone has different departure times so time on the carpet is staggered. You and Steve are last.”

You nodded. It had been a stressful few weeks— Steve filming on location and you in rehearsals for tour. Not to mention the tabloids and rumor mill running rampant with ‘America’s Sweethearts on the Rocks?’ and ‘Cherry Spotted Solo - Is This the End for the Hollywood Power Couple?’

Steve would walk after the last call, a warning voice would come through speakers and that’s when he’d take his seat. Better to skip the carpet than get drug into the spotlight and inadvertently fuel a fire that neither of you started.

Robin sipped from her own coffee, sensing the hestiancy that hung in the room like the smog around LA. “It’ll be fine guys, piece of cake,” she tried to reassure. “Just focus on celebrating the banger of an album you’ve made!”

You nodded as Steve threw off the sheets to take a shower. He drops a kiss to your forehead and says, “Yeah, honey, the rest is just confetti,” before disappearing into the ensuite. 

Knowing that no matter what happened or what the interviewers threw your way, you’d make it out alive and wake up to the same sky and the same guy beside you was a good reminder. 

Which was what you repeated in your head when you followed behind him after your last interview, a security detail by your side, all the way by the lingering reporters, inside, past the bars, into the arena, and to the table.

The opening sequence was smooth and energizing, someone delivered drinks and you clinked your glass against his, a quick wink at you in the dark before he leaned and cracked a joke to Eddie at the table nearby.

The night unfolded like that, relatively peaceful and uneventful. That was until one of your categories was called. Steve’s hand gripped yours when your name echoed in the arena with the other nominees. Your eyes went a little wide when he stole a glance at you, the whole table laughed in an effort to ease the tension.

“And the Grammy goes to…” Jennifer Lopez deftly opens the red sealed envelope before glancing back up to the cameras with a smile. “Being Unknown, Cherry McGowan!”

Your head falls into your hands at the shock of it all, the entire table erupted in a cheer and toppling over chairs in their haste. Steve’s arm wraps around you, head tucked close to yours, lips grazing the crown of your head.

“You did it, baby!”

You nod, hands still covering your face so he has to pry them from you and dry your tears. Steve pulls you up, his smile beatific and eyes misty. Fisting your the full of your skirt, you nod to Hop and make your way up to the stage. 

But not before a clumsy kiss that has Steve pulling you back for more. You hide your face in his shirt, laughing before you yank him back down, smothering his growing excitement with something better—enough to make him and you forget that everyone is watching.

“Later, hot stuff,” you promise with a wink and follow your producers and collaborators to the podium.

The rest of the night went by in a blur, including your performance of “Who We Are.” Despite Steve’s needling and unique methods of persuasion, you’d managed to remain tight-lipped about the song in question, knowing it was his favorite and with good reason.

You’d written it for him, after all.

Slipping backstage to change into your performance gear, getting micced up and fitted with your in-ears, you allowed yourself a moment to exhale. You weren’t expecting to win, too much of a fan of the other artists and albums to think you’d beat them out.

But here you were, two Grammy’s under your belt and being ushered on-stage to perform. A tech hands you the cherry-red Stratocaster Steve had gotten for your birthday last year, the same one you’d recorded the song with. The stage manager counts you down and cues your entrance. 

The crowd cheers as the lights go up, drowning out the announcer echoing through the arena, and the opening piano chords earn a dull roar in anticipation as you approach the mic. You find Steve in the crowd easily, Eddie at his side— both proud and nursing celebratory bourbons. 

And it’s the easiest thing in the world for your hands to cradle the mic and sing the first verse, directly to the man who’d inspired it and had been by your side through it all.

“What I had left here I just held it tight / So someone with your eyes might come in time / To hold me like water / Or Christ, hold me like a knife.”

To say he’s shocked is an understatement. Steve all but drops his drink when he realizes the significance of the song you’d selected to sing. When the drums and bass kick in, you maintain eye contact with him, throwing in a knowing smile.

The final single from your now Grammy award-winning album premiering on the biggest night in the music industry, not too shabby. Catching sight of Steve trying not to shed a tear was just a bonus, really.

Back at the table, comfortably buzzed after your performance, the night was coming to a close. Steve had somehow wrangled your legs into his lap under the table and was working on the sore muscles of your calves. Eddie had pulled up a chair on the opposite side, under the pretense of “toasting the belle of the ball.”

Trevor Noah appeared on-stage to present the final award of the evening. The announcer listed the nominees, cameras veering toward tables for the live broadcast. You subtly extricated yourself from Steve’s grasp, lamenting the loss of his warmth and touch. He slung an arm around your shoulder and pulled you close, “You okay?”

“Yeah,” you lied, nerves fluttering in your stomach. The cameraman swung by for a close-up as your name was announced, you smiled politely before turning your attention back to the stage. A number of people had gathered behind Trevor on-stage, and you spotted a familiar face immediately. 

“And the Grammy goes to,” Trevor intoned, pausing to open the envelope and glance behind him. He beelines for the older woman immediately, the realization crashing on you like a lightning bolt. “You can read it,” he says to your mother, her eyes scanning the envelope before her.

“C-Cherry McGowan,” she breathes out, followed by a roar from the audience. 

The entire table is up on their feet, fists pumping, jumping for joy, high-fives all around. You’re barely able to process it all when Steve lifts you into his arms, coaxing your legs to settle around his hips and kisses you stupid. 

Eddie’s wolf-whistle pierces through the spit slick haze you’ve found yourself in. Steve’s hand cradling the full of your thigh as he reluctantly sets you back to rights. He’s got lipstick smeared on his mouth, just like the Emmy’s, but won’t let you wipe it off. 

“Don’t keep ‘em waiting,” he says, hustling you off to the stage. Your co-writers and Hopper meet you there, all wide smiles and murmured congratulations. Your mother is bouncing on the balls of her feet holding the Grammy, like she can’t believe it’s real. She tugs you close in a warm embrace as you kiss her cheek. Wiping at the corner of your mouth her thumb comes away tinged pink with lipstick. She murmurs her praises and hands you the award, shooing you to the mic at the center of the stage. 

Walked up with no plan, head empty, so all you can say is, “Shit. Well, shit.” Your eyes flit to Steve batting Eddie away while the frontman of Corroded Coffin attempts to get the remnants of lipstick off your boyfriend’s face, with little to no success. You sigh, “I wouldn’t be here without my wonderful collaborators and team,” you say and rattle off their names. “I’ve been so inspired by the artists here this evening and I’m grateful for their friendship. And I think it’s important to remember, especially on nights like tonight, that there is no such thing as ‘best.’” 

Eddie whoops and toasts you with a glass from the table. Steve is all smiles and eyes on you— you try not to lose it seeing him mouth ‘I love you.’

“I’d also like to thank my family and the fans for supporting me and loving me unconditionally as an artist and human being. I wouldn’t be here without you, and I love you very much.” You pause to clear your throat, coming to the end of your speech. “I’m so incredibly thankful and will share this award with the inspiration for this album,” you say, a little breathless when your eyes fall on him.

And Steve is shaking his head while Eddie claps him on the shoulder, his hands coming up to hide his face as a cameraman makes his way to the table. 

“The entire experience of doing this with you has completely pierced my heart and pried me open.” The room falls to a hush around you, and it’s as if there’s no one there— just you and Steve. “Y’know, sometimes I look at you and can’t believe my luck; that you’re actually real and I get to call you mine,” you laugh, a choked wet thing and will yourself not to fall apart. “You are a stunning, gracious person, and all the rest is just confetti.”

The music swelled and you were ushered off-stage into the press room backstage, along with Hopper and your collaborators. A tech shoves a mic into your hand and kicks it off.

“First question we have is from the Associated Press, take it away.”

“Hi Cherry, and first of all congratulations. How’re you feeling?”

You squint against the bright lights, “Sorry, where are you?”

“To your right.”

You spy a slight woman standing in the press pool. “Gotcha, thanks. I’m, uh, a little overwhelmed to be honest.”

“Understandable, this is the cherry on top of a really successful year for you— a world tour, headlining Coachella, residencies in LA and New York. So, what’s next?”

You sputter a laugh, “That’s the million dollar question, isn’t it?” Hop scoffs behind you. “I think the real win for something like this,” you shake the heavy award in your hand, “Is being acknowledged and nominated amongst your peers.”

“Okay, our next question is from The Rolling Stone.”

A man takes the mic and stands somewhere in the center of the crowd. “Let me begin by saying, from all of us at Rolling Stone, a massive congratulations to you Cherry - what an accomplishment!”

Hop claps you on the back with a nod to the reporter, Rob Sheffield. 

“Thanks Rob,” you say, ducking at the praise. “Always a pleasure to see you.”

He laughs, “Same to you.” A brief glance down to his notes before he begins, “So much of your music and process ends up pushing other artists and your audience into new places or things they may not have otherwise sought out on their own— Dante’s Inferno, for example, or the use of Irish, Gaeilge, in the lyrics for this album. How do you get to a place like that?”

You let out a low whistle, “Never one to pull punches, are you Rob?” The man in question simply shrugs and winks. “Right. Okay.” You take a deep breath and attempt to gather your thoughts. “I was fortunate to come of age when artists were consistently pushing the envelope— people like Sinead O’Connor, Bowie, Prince— they were the blueprint.” You foist the Grammy off to Hop, the weight of it finally getting to you. “And as far as incorporating a medieval poem and various piece of literature for this album, what can I say? It’s not reinventing the wheel to call upon some of the greatest storytelling in world— Dante literally shaped the modern perception of Hell, Purgatory, and Heaven. He shifted from writing horny love poetry about a woman he’d seen only twice, to creating a whole new type of poetic verse, celestial love, and elevating her to an impossible echelon. If that’s not devotion, I don’t know what is.”

The mic is passed around the room, a few questions dodged for the sake of privacy— can’t confirm what you don’t acknowledge, as your publicist always says. Steve and Eddie sneak their way in eventually, side-stage and a little more than sloshed, Steve’s tie is askew and Eddie’s blazer is nowhere to be found.

“Our final question comes from The New York Times.”

“Hey Cherry, congratulations my friend, truly well-deserved.” 

The voice is familiar, feminine and matter of fact.

“Thanks Nance, you’re too kind.”

“Not at all.” She smiles from her spot in the crowd. “In your acceptance speech, you mentioned the inspiration for the album, and I don’t mean to pry, but you’re a notoriously private person. Why did you feel the need to address that?”

Not a softball question, but definitely something you could handle. Bless Nancy and her carefully strung together words.

“I, uh,” you clear your throat, suddenly nervous. “While I am a private person, which I think is an important facet of interpersonal relationships, regardless of status, I think it’s also crucial to acknowledge that something like this—” you gesture vaguely to your team and those around you, “Can’t be done alone. This is the first album I’ve had cowriters on, that I’ve had other people helping to compose and create the sound. I was an island for so long that I was blind to the fact that I was drowning.”

You hear a faint gasp from somewhere behind you.

“Look, the pandemic took so much from all of us, as a collective, and I wrote most of the songs during that time of isolation and loneliness. But there are songs that speak to the beauty of life and love, even if it ends up not working out in the end. There’s a sadness and a serenity in that.”

Nancy nods for you to continue, pen scribbling furiously.

“So my decision to acknowledge the community of artists and musicians who helped me along the way, as well as the inspiration for this album was my half-assed attempt as a love letter. Love,” you conclude, “Is the only thing that can make life not just bearable, but beautiful.” You take a breath, coming back to yourself, “I think that was an answer to your question? It was words,” you laugh, “A lot of words.”

“Wonderfully said,” Nancy says with a smile on her face. “Thanks for allowing us a peek of that journey.”

You smile and shoot her a wink, exiting stage left where Steve greets you away from the prying eyes of reporters and telephoto lenses. He pulls you close, hands anchoring at your hips, fingers scrambling for a slice of skin.

“You’re driving me crazy,” he breathes, “Who do you think you are, wearing something like this?” He fists the full of the silk skirt, just where it hangs above your crystal-encrusted knees. The Paolo Sebastian team has been more than generous in dressing you for the evening. Black mesh dotted with crystals against your skin, a luscious black silk gown with a high-low bubble hem and tights to match.

Steve was kind of easy like that; the illusion of barely there fabrics, a flash of skin where it mattered most. His hand snakes its way to dig into the plush of your thighs, tender with the promise of something more. 

“Oh, this old thing?” You drawl, “If you like this, just wait until you see what I’m wearing for the after-party.”

Eddie scoffs, “Please spare me,” he says, “Well, me and the rest of the press corps who can definitely see you if they lean a little to the left.”

Steve’s hand falls from your leg as he pulls you further down the corridor. “Car is outside, think you can do a quick change en route?” He pushes open one of the stage doors with his free hand, the other firmly grasped in yours.

You arch forward again, the cool night air a relief for your fevered skin, strain yourself to kiss his chin, grazing his throat on the way back down, needing him more urgently each passing minute. “I think I can manage,” you rasp, as the car comes into view, “But the question is, can you?”