#god bless the apartments being different colours

[chanoeys]

pssst if anyone wanna help me out on this Friends in Colours series cause 1. I want the colours to be authentic 2. not be group shots and 3.include as many different seasons as I can so boy is it time consuming to source them - that’d help me out a lot thanks

[externalmemorycomic]

Image description: a five page comic with messy writing and messy line drawings coloured with gouache. Each page has four panels and each panel has a caption and an image. Page one Caption: Mouse and Ruth go for drives a lot. Image: a red car drives down a country road. Caption: to stores and beaches and the dump where you can find cool things. Image: a white mouse looks up at a wall with doll’s heads nailed to it, labeled “wall of dolls”. Caption: I almost never join. Ruth asks, “isn’t My going stir crazy?” Image: a deer is driving a car, and the mouse sits on a pile of pillows on the passenger’s seat. Caption: but I’m so used to this I forget there’s anything to go crazy about Image: an orange cat lies in bed.

Page two Caption: When we lived in Malmö there were weeks I didn’t leave the apartment Image: the cat peeks out a window, looking at a pigeon that’s pooping on the window ledge. Caption: months I didn’t see anyone besides Mouse. I just couldn’t manage the stairs Image: the cat looks down an exaggerated, maze-like staircase. Caption: Mouse wasn’t much better off. I took up indoor “gardening” so we wouldn’t miss nature too much. Of course I often couldn’t water the plants. It felt bitter and symbolic when they died Image: the cat is in a different bed, looking at a house plant on a side table that’s beginning to wilt. Caption: here there’s no stairs and I have plants and bees right outside my window Image: the cat is in the first bed, drawing a comic. There’s a flower, a butterfly and a bee outside the window behind it.

Page three Caption: people tend to get frustrated with my acceptance Image: the cat takes down a half finished painting from an easel. Caption: even after we’ve talked a lot about my illness, they think I should plan ahead as if a cure is right around the corner Image: a rabbit is standing beside a table covered in unfinished canvases, looking at  one of them. The cat stands behind them, looking nervous. Caption: often it’s the same people who respond to tragedies you CAN fix by saying “life’s not fair” Image: the cat is rescuing bugs from drowning in a water barrel and the rabbit looks over its shoulder, looking annoyed. Caption: but when I let go of what I can’t have, they see it as defeat. Image: the cat is curled up and hiding in bed while the rabbit stands over them, frowning, holding the unfinished painting and waving two paintbrushes.

Page four Caption: I understand the impulse to say “maybe some day”. When it’s kindly meant, I value the intention. Image: The rabbit has its arm around the cat’s shoulder and waves towards a thought bubble. In the thought bubble the cat is floating and happy at the end of a rainbow with pink clouds, flowers and a smiling sky in the background. Caption: but few things are more dangerous to my soul than “maybe some day” Image: the cat huddles on the ground and hides its face. Right above the cat, as if pushing down, is a bigger thought bubble with images of the cat looking happy - dancing, being held, proudly painting, holding a baby. Caption: There is no greater wisdom in life than: fix what you can and accept what you can’t. Image: the thought bubble is breaking up and shrinking. The cat is sitting up, smiling at a dandelion beside it. Caption: some times, giving up isn’t just the only way to survive but to thrive, and leave room for joy. Image: The half finished canvases are burning on the ground and the cat walks away without looking back.

Page five Caption: today I’m sad because I’m in pain and I miss moving and doing Image: the cat is crying in bed. Caption: but when I thank God for giving me this life filled with blessings, it’s from the heart. Image: the cat wipes away some tears and looks a little happier. Caption: I am happy more often than not. I mostly cry from gratitude. There is no contradiction Image: the cat closes its eyes and is surrounded by a pink glow and red cartoon hearts. Caption: life will ask me to let go of much bigger things and maybe I can come with to the dump next time Image: the cat looks at the wall of dolls and says: “cool!” End ID. Here's some disability thoughts I had during my latest flare (hence the wobblier-than-usual lines and messy writing). I hope it makes sense even if I was pretty confused when I made it! I have POTS and ME/CFS, as well as ADHD and being autistic. Accepting the reality of being bed/housebound and hard-of-thinking often is going to be a life long effort but I'm getting there. Happy disability pride month!!! Reblogs are much appreciated! (if you wanna help me live and stuff and make more art and comics I have a Patreon. I post comic pages there on average once a day for the 3€ tier as well as other fun things! Link in my pinned post)

[theroseceleste]

Vampire Miguel - Part 4 - Lyla Renfield

You wake up in the shelter, but the plans you had made with Miguel the night before don't exactly go the way you expected...

Buy me a coffee! (And gain access to my discord)

Minors DNI - Eventual smut and descriptions of violence

Word count - 11,974

If you don't want spoilers, don't look at the 'contains' bit below.

Contains - Descriptions of violence (involving guns and stabbing)

If you enjoy this work, please consider liking, commenting and re-blogging. Many thanks xx

Enjoy! xx

Pt 1 Pt 2 Pt 3

Miguel had no idea what on earth convinced him to leave his safe and quiet home in the dense woods to brave the likes of Nueva York. He had access to wildlife at night to feed on in private, away from human prying eyes.

Perhaps it was after at least the first century of being a vampire, Miguel felt he had nothing to drive him. The persistent passage of time caught his now elderly daughter while he continued to live on. Her own children were strangers to him and he didn’t want to ruin their lives with them being associated with him.

He had finally reached a point that the risk of exposure just to do something in his life outweighed the need to be safe, away from the creatures he had mostly grown to despise: Humans…

There was also a… stirring, or inkling in the back of his mind. Whispers in the dark almost, telling him that he should be wary. Not of people, but of Morbius. For some while, he had a terrible feeling that perhaps the evil vampire did not perish in the river. He felt a lingering presence - a faint one, but he could still sense it. However, over time, it disappeared as if the being he could sense had wandered off - or died.

Times were changing, too. Technology and science had advanced quite considerably, and if he remained in hiding, he’d be forever lost in the 19th century. It was time to brave the new world; to learn, to adjust, and to fit in… somehow.

It was a struggle, but Miguel managed to survive the change after moving into the city. Over decades, he had acquired his own living space and found bar work - a job he could do at night. However, he often changed the bars he worked at after several years to avoid questions like "why do you look like you haven’t aged at all since you started working here?” People paid a lot of attention to his looks as many considered him to be extremely attractive, although his red eyes were slightly disconcerting. The invention of coloured contact lenses was a blessing for him indeed.

Present day, Miguel was a lot more carefree about his appearance. He was in an age that it was acceptable for one to stand out from the crowd and express oneself. His red spider tattoo added to the aesthetic that his similarly shaded eyes had set for him. Instead of weird looks, he received more expressions of admiration and appreciation.

Being a hit with the ladies while working at the bars felt alien to him. He hadn’t received any kind of attention or intimacy since before his wife passed away. Despite their very convincing advances, Miguel managed to wriggle himself out of their clutches and retreat home.

The whole time he was in Nueva York, no one had ever guessed he was different to everyone else. That was until he gained a new neighbour in the apartment building he lived in.

It was just by chance that Miguel was leaving his place when his new neighbour was returning home after work one evening. They hadn’t met before, but when she looked up to greet him, she double-took.

Miguel groaned internally, assuming the woman was going to be enamoured with him.

(illustration provided by @smileyrhi717)

“Oh my God, I’ve seen a picture of you!” the short, light-brown haired woman exclaimed.

Now it was Miguel’s turn to double-take. “What?” Out of all possible greetings he was expecting to receive, that wasn’t one of them.

“Yeah! Before I moved here, I was clearing out some old stuff in my loft and found some items belonging to my great, great, great, great, great grandmother,” she counted her fingers as she spoke. “I inherited a bunch of stuff from very sentimental family members. There’s a picture of a man looking exactly like you,” she paused as she moved closer while Miguel stepped back, pressing his back against his apartment door. “He even had that unusual shade of red eyes, like you.”

The man stood rigid, looking totally bewildered by this revelation. “That’s… That’s impossible…” he managed to splutter. Indeed it was impossible. Even if he did participate in having his photo taken at the same time this woman’s grandmother was alive, he wouldn’t have shown up in the image anyway.

“I know, right? Spooky. I found it in one of her old diaries. It’s a drawing she did when she was little, but she captured your likeness perfectly.”

Miguel blinked in a stunned silence, his eye twitching slightly as he stressed over how to navigate this conversation out of the danger zone.

The woman cleared her throat. “Anyway… unless you’re a vampire, you can’t be him, right?” she asked with a chuckle, waving a dismissive hand, blissfully unaware of the irony of her last sentence.

If Miguel’s heart was working, it’d be doing a thousand beats a minute. At this point, he started to wish she was enamoured with him - it would have been far easier to deal with.

His new neighbour extended her hand to introduce herself. “Lyla Renfield, nice to finally meet the guy next door.”

Red eyes flitted between her hand and her face before finally reaching out and taking it. “M-Miguel O’Hara-”

“You’re kidding!” Lyla exploded in surprise, her mouth agape and her eyes wide with utter shock. “That’s what that guy was called! My five-times great grandmother wrote about a Miguel O’Hara in her diary,” she continued as she let go of his hand.

The vampire’s bushy brown eyebrows furrowed in an astonished disbelief. “This has got to be some kind of joke, I-”

“No! I swear. She was friends with a girl called Gabriella O’Hara in Philadelphia who often spoke to my grandmother about her father. It was all written in her diary. Damn, I wish I hadn’t thrown it away now…”

At the mere mention of his beloved Gabriella, tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He thought there was no chance of someone other than himself speaking her name in this day and age. “Gabi…” he muttered softly, forgetting all about pretending that what Lyla was saying was impossible.

“My grandmother wrote in her diary that Gabriella’s father was shunned from her town for something that wasn’t his fault. No one gave him a chance to prove he wasn’t a threat, despite being so kind and pure of heart before his affliction. She was the only one who believed Gabriella…” Lyla’s voice trailed off as she watched Miguel’s expression dissolve from shock to melancholy.

He didn’t have to utter a single word, she knew there and then who and what he was.

“Oh God… you’re… you really are him, aren’t you?”

Miguel was speechless. Totally floored by Lyla’s revelation. And now, she knew the truth. The truth he had worked so hard to protect and keep hidden.

“You… you can’t tell anyone. I swear, I’m not a threat. I-”

Placating hands rose to stop the panicking man in his tracks. “Hey! Hey!” she began as Miguel stopped talking, his wide eyes had returned back to twitching again. “I love supernatural and paranormal stuff. If my five-times great grandmother believed you, I do too.”

The unsettled expression across Miguel’s face relaxed when Lyla surprisingly didn’t run for the hills screaming. Relief felt like a cold, wet blanket thrown over the fire of anxiety and Miguel let out a breath he didn’t know he was holding.

“Wow, an actual vampire… oh my God, do you have fangs?” she asked, her face full of wonder.

His body stiffened at her question. This was brand new territory for Miguel and he struggled to adjust to such a wild one-eighty from the reaction he was used to regarding his condition. He guessed that some people were more open to the idea of creatures of the night. Perhaps media like movies and books have helped shape people’s minds to be more accommodating, if such a truth was revealed to them, not like he intended on telling the entire city.

“I- um… Yes, I do have fangs, but they come out when I need them. And no, I’m not giving you a demonstration.”

“Aww…” Lyla sounded disappointed, but she seemed to come alive with excitement, her expressions becoming more animated. “Oh! Okay. What about if you’re chasing me and I threw rice at you. Do you have the compulsion to stop and count it?”

Miguel frowned mostly out of confusion at her question. “Compulsion to count? That has never been a thing. I’d simply step over the rice and catch you.”

Despite finding Lyla’s enthusiasm for vampires rather overwhelming, he did feel relieved that there was at least one person in the city who wasn’t afraid of who he really was. He could be transparent with her, if they developed a friendship. Perhaps not all humans are bad.

Unfortunately, he couldn’t stay long with Lyla that evening because he had to go to work. He bid his goodbyes and left the apartment block.

On his way to the bar he worked at, something in a small shop caught his eye. A simple stand for sunglasses of all different shapes and sizes stood before him. A cute pair of pink heart-shaped glasses just glistened perfectly in the light, as if they were calling out for him. They were quirky - a bit like the girl he had just met. Perhaps it could be a light-hearted ‘thank you for not freaking out about me’ gift.

“It’ll clash with your eyes…” a young, female cashier who was chewing some gum drawled as Miguel went to pay for the present. He thought she was rather rude, but shrugged it off. “Good job it’s not for me then,” he replied stiffly as he handed the correct change over.

The look on Lyla’s face was priceless when she opened her little gift bag, handed over by a slightly awkward Miguel the next evening.

“It’s nothing special, I just saw them and thought they’d be a funny novelty gift more than anything else…” but before Miguel had even finished his sentence, Lyla had already put the glasses on and gone to check her reflection in the mirror.

“I love them. Thank you,” she replied as she turned back to face her vampire friend.

The pink shades actually looked good on her - a little goofy, but she was able to wear them so well, he couldn’t resist breaking his usual stern expression to smile slightly.

“I could say, ‘fangs a lot’,” Lyla joked with a cheeky grin, causing the smile on Miguel’s face to drop. He groaned at the awful pun as he swore a part of him died and left his body.

The unlikely duo hung out together more and more. The vampire enthusiast spent time learning everything she could about her new friend, while the vampire could spend time being himself and not have to watch his words.

He found it refreshing to chat with a woman who wasn’t constantly trying to flirt with him. Their relationship was entirely platonic and felt completely natural.

On a rare night off, Miguel and Lyla enjoyed an evening out in Nueva York, watching the city in a new perspective on the rooftops. White and red lights snake through the busy roads, the usual din of honking horns and car engines rumbling away now a distant noise while the evening breeze caressed them both.

Above the traffic, above the bustling streets was serenity. That was until Miguel picked up on an old, familiar sense. A sense he had long forgotten.

Sitting on the edge of a rooftop, Lyla noticed Miguel’s attention shifting from enjoying the scenery to looking like he was listening to something intently, while his brows furrowed with concern. “What’s the matter, Miguel?” Lyla asked as her feet swung back and forth.

The vampire leans further forward, looking down to the streets far below, almost like he was defying the laws of gravity. “I sense something…” he answers simply as the wind disturbs his short, dark-brown hair.

She may not have known Miguel for long, but this behaviour was odd. Lyla could tell he was a pensive and brooding kind of character, but in that instance, he acted as though he was an eagle, spying on his prey. “What do you sense?” Lyla asked with growing interest.

An apprehensive sigh left his parted lips as he started to stand. “Someone I thought had died a long time ago,” he looked down at his friend. “This isn’t good,” he continued as he held out his hand towards Lyla - a gesture for her to come with him. “Hold onto me and I’ll fly us back down. I can’t ignore this.”

The duo landed in an alley so as to not gain unwanted attention before Miguel stormed ahead, his long strides eating the distance as though he was a man on a mission. Lyla, who was considerably shorter than him, had to jog to keep up.

Leaving the narrow passage, the vampire turned to the right sharply and continued down the road, his senses leading the way like a dog sniffing out a scent.

Miguel led Lyla to a park. Lamp posts flanked the path snaking through the large verdant patch of land nestled amongst highrise buildings. He paused as he listened intently, his hand held out behind him, telling his friend to stay back. “Keep your eyes peeled,” he uttered in a hushed tone.

“What am I looking for exactly?” Lyla asked as she looked left and right, eyes adjusting to the darkness away from the brightly illuminated pathway.

“Uhh… not sure…” Miguel murmured distractedly as a twig snapping in the distance caught his attention. There was a sudden spike in his senses, which raised an alarm in his head. “This way…”

Grass rustled under his footsteps as he strode off the path and followed the noise.

Deeper and deeper into the treeline of the park the duo stalked. Lyla stooped low to pick up a snapped-off branch from the ground which looked particularly jagged at one end.

“What are you doing?” Miguel whispered as he glanced back at his friend.

“Arming myself. Don’t worry about me; eyes in front, nosey.”

With a roll of his eyes, he looked back in front of him. Up ahead, there was a dark, writhing mound, the subtle movements caused him to stop dead in his tracks and gestured for Lyla to do the same.

Eventually, the mass before him moved. Red eyes gleamed in the dark ominously, locking directly onto the pair. The creature that stood before Miguel did not look at all like his memory of Morbius, but he knew it was him through sense alone. He raised the back of his hand to his mouth, wiping something away, which increased his air of suspiciousness.

“Oh my God, who’s that with him?” Lyla muttered quietly as she drew level with her friend.

Miguel’s eyes glanced down briefly to see a body laying deathly still at Morbius’ feet. The feeling of a heavy stone dropped to the pit of his stomach. Morbius wasn’t dead, and he is definitely back to his old tricks. What was worse, he had an entire city practically acting like an all-you-can-eat buffet.

“I suppose I look a little different to how you remember me, don’t I?” his old foe finally spoke out as he ambled closer. “No thanks to you,” there was a hint of venom in his words.

Gone was his beautiful, sleek black hair. His youthful complexion was now blotchy and ruined.

“I presume you’re disappointed to learn that your dirty trick which sent me splashing into the river didn’t quite finish the job... although it was damn close,” Morbius spat as he stepped closer, his eyes eventually landing on Lyla. “Who’s this?”

A protective arm spread across her chest, before she was pulled back behind her vampire friend. “No one who concerns you, Morbius,” Miguel answered stiffly before casting his eyes back over his victim. “Who was that?” he gestured with a slight nod of his head.

Morbius chuckled darkly as he looked back to the limp body lying on the grass before giving a nonchalant shrug. “No idea. I’m not picky these days. I just need something to rejuvenate my frail body. Another thing to thank you for…” there was a disdainful sneer growing across his face as he spoke, almost as if he rued having anything to do with Miguel in the first place. He certainly became a lot more trouble than he was worth. His blood didn’t benefit Morbius any more than any other person he fed upon, and now, the price was to have an irritating vampire who fancied himself the hero interfering in his business.

“The whole city will be full of vampires if you continue draining people completely!”

A clawed hand swiftly gripped Miguel’s throat, instantly silencing him. “You know, you’re starting to bore me with the same tune you keep singing,” Morbius growled with contempt, but his grip on his foe didn’t last long. His head jerked backward suddenly as Miguel threw a devastating punch to the face, freeing him the moment his knuckles collided with Morbius’ nose. Lyla nearly gagged at the unpleasant crunching sound that came with it.

The old vampire wasn’t lying when he said the river nearly killed him. The rushing water burned every part of him; to the point that his body was irreparably damaged. This however didn’t stop his regeneration abilities to keep trying, sapping him of his strength and power.

Striking while the iron was hot, Miguel dealt another crushing blow by grabbing the side of Morbius’ head and slamming it against a tree.

“Oh, shit!” Lyla exclaimed, surprised by two things: that vampires were incredibly strong and robust, and just how violent her very quiet vampire friend could get once angry. Before she even knew it, she had stepped back a few paces to make sure she was well out of the way.

“I should have made damn sure you were dead all those years ago!” Miguel roared as his eyes glowed intensely. Morbius’ head lolled as the collision made him see stars momentarily while Miguel grappled his clothing.

Lyla simply watched aghast as her friend pummelled and smashed Morbius in a fit of rage. Her friend had almost become a totally different person, although she considered his actions justified. Then, a perfect window of opportunity opened up for her.

Miguel had floored his vampiric foe before looking back at his friend, gesturing for her to come over quickly. “Give me the branch!” he shouted as he held Morbius flat on his back.

Lyla sprang forward, pushing off of a tree that she had been holding on to. Her booted feet thudded heavily with every purposeful stride, running to her friend, her hand carrying the short branch outstretched.

Just as the improvised wooden stake exchanged hands, Morbius’ wings unfurled and swept the pair away from him, knocking the branch out of Miguel’s hand. The duo tumbled over one another from the force of the bat-like appendage until Miguel landed on top, his gaze fixed on the snapped branch between them and Morbius.

It was as if time slowed in that moment. His powerful limbs burst with energy, to rush forward with vampiric speed. And yet, under sheer panic, he felt he was going at a snail’s pace. Protruding claws from his fingertips dug into the ground for extra traction.

Morbius lunged for the jagged branch too, joining the race for the only thing that could kill either of them. The scurrying vampires clashed together, neither of them able to grab the weapon. Fangs bared, claws slashed as the two beast-like creatures fought ferociously, while a dazed Lyla watched in shock.

To Miguel’s horror, he was knocked onto his back, exposed as Morbius wrapped his gnarled fingers around the makeshift weapon. His eyes widened as the rigid limb of wood was plunged downwards. He was in trouble, his broad chest a nice wide target. In the small window of time he had, he flinched to the right slightly before yelling in pain. The branch had plunged into his chest, narrowly missing his heart.

Morbius wrenched the wood back, raising his arms up high again. An ominous, hate-fuelled growl left his snarling mouth as he tried once more.

Panting heavily, Miguel lurched the other way so his foe would miss his target. Again, the woods filled with more agonising yells as he was stabbed a second time.

Miguel had gone through two hundred years since his last fight with Morbius, and even then he hadn’t been hurt like this. He gazed up at his enemy who was poised to plunge the wood into him again, thinking this would be his final moment.

This pitiful bit of wood clutched in Morbius’ hands may as well have been the Sword of Damocles. His body frozen in fear as he watched it begin to fall, about to seal his doom.

Suddenly, a feminine grunt filled the air as Lyla charged in and kicked Morbius off, sending the jagged branch way off course, narrowly missing Miguel’s head.

The evil vampire tumbled and rolled, but the moment he stopped, the human was already on top of him, her fingers wrapped around a different snapped branch, looking even sharper than the other, before plummeting it towards Morbius’ heart.

Black mist swirled around her as she suddenly noticed the lack of a body beneath her and her improvised weapon plunged into nothing but the cold ground.

Lyla’s heart pounded and adrenaline coursed through her veins while her frustration soared. She nearly had him. Then, her wide eyes landed on her friend, lying motionless on the ground. “Shit…” she muttered as she scrambled over to him.

Two holes about eight inches apart were visible on his shirt where the snapped branch struck his chest.

“Miguel!?” Lyla called as her hands rested on his shoulders and shook him. To her relief, a deep groan rose from his parted lips and he gradually opened his eyes, revealing his glowing red irises.

“Did you get him?” he grunted in pain as he tried to prop himself up on his elbows.

Lyla’s expression fell. “Nearly… the coward vanished just before I stabbed him,” she answered as she pulled away from him to give him room.

“Ay coño…” he groaned as he raised a large hand to his face and massaged the bridge of his nose.

“I’m sorry…” she said with disappointment as her shoulders slumped.

Weary eyes locked onto hers. “Hey. No. That wasn’t on you,” Miguel grunted. “Even if you didn’t kill him, you saved me. So, I thank you, Lyla. Don’t go beating yourself up over Morbius…” he had now properly sat upright and pulled at his shirt to look at the damage. “Damn it. I liked that shirt too…”

As Lyla watched, she noticed there weren’t any wounds underneath the material of his top. “How did you…” she asked, her voice full of wonder as she pointed a finger at his chest.

Long fingers splayed over his shirt, smoothing it over. “Vampires have fast regeneration or healing abilities,” he paused as hesitation and exhaustion etched across his face, “but in doing so, it consumes a lot of my energy.”

The pair looked at each other momentarily as silence poured over them, before Miguel eventually opened his mouth to speak.

“I regret having to ask you to go above and beyond… you’d be the first… but… if he comes back again, I need to be ready-“

Lyla could tell Miguel was worried about what he was about to ask. To help calm him, she rested her hand on his shoulder. “Miguel; just say it.”

He let out a shaky sigh before plucking the courage to ask. “I’m weak after the fight, Lyla. I need to regain some strength, and in order to do that, I must feed.”

Lyla’s hand slipped from his shoulder. She guessed that was what he was going to ask, but the confirmation still made her blood run cold. “Is it going to hurt?” she asked cautiously.

Her friend gave a shrug. “I… I don’t know. I’ve never drunk from a human before. But I’ll be as gentle as possible - if you let me.”

She knew Miguel would have taken an alternative option if there was one, but they were alone, amongst the trees in the park. The threat of Morbius returning meant Lyla had to choose quickly. Looking at her friend, who currently looked wiped out with fatigue, he was the most trustworthy person she had ever met. “Okay, but you owe me, big time,” she answered, failing to stop a smirk from tugging up the corners of her lips.

A look of relief flooded across Miguel’s face. “Thank you. You are a saint.”

The pair stood up and brushed themselves off, ridding their clothes of dirt and loose blades of grass.

“So, um… how does it work then?” the woman asked, struggling to mask her nervousness a little.

Miguel weakly shuffled closer to his friend as his eyes began to glow again. A trait that Lyla had noticed happened when Miguel used his vampiric abilities.

“Typically, blood is drunk from the human's neck. You need to tilt your head for me,” it didn’t feel right to touch her or manipulate her into position, he even hated the fact he’d have to nuzzle his face into an intimate place on his friend’s body in order to drink. But, it was necessary.

Lyla followed his instruction and moved her hair away from her face and neck, giving him full access.

“I’m sorry…” Miguel whispered after he leaned over her as his lips searched for the warmest point.

“Mhm…” his friend gave a little squeak at the sensation of his mouth on her skin. She felt his arms hold her close, one hand pressing against between her shoulder blades while the other cupped the back of her head.

The whole experience felt awkward and wrong, but he had to do this in order to be strong enough to keep them both safe if Morbius attacked again.

Sharp teeth sank into the best spot Miguel could find, making Lyla’s body stiffen momentarily, until she felt a numbness spreading through her. Then, there was warmth that followed, making her relax into his hold.

Their close proximity meant she could feel Miguel’s Adams apple bobbing as he gulped mouthfuls of her blood. She could tell he was being as careful and gentle as possible. His eagerness to prove his trustworthiness was overwhelmingly evident.

Every gulp provided him with a small burst of energy, rejuvenating his body with every passing second. He was restrained, and made sure not to bite too hard. Every mouthful was measured, keeping her health at the front of his mind at all times.

The moment he knew he had enough, he released her neck but kept Lyla in his arms in case she felt dizzy or faint. Red glowing eyes searched his friend’s face to check on her wellbeing. “Are you alright?” he asked as his tongue slipped over his lips, making sure they were clean.

Apart from looking a little subdued in comparison to her normal behaviour, she didn’t look unwell or uncomfortable. To answer his question she nodded with a smile when she could see that her vampire friend also looked better.

“Thank you, Lyla. I’ll never forget this,” he muttered to her as his arms around her body loosened. “I’m sorry it was so awkward,” he continued as rested his hands on her shoulders, giving her one final check that she wouldn’t collapse before letting go.

A faint, weak groan came from the man the pair discovered Morbius standing next to, making Miguel and Lyla turn to face him. The man’s hand rose to his head and rubbed it before trying to sit up.

“Shit, I forgot he was here…” Lyla mumbled before Miguel strode over to the stranger.

The newly turned vampire sat up, blinking several times as he tried to remember what had happened. He watched silently as Miguel approached and crouched down next to him.

“Take it easy. What’s your name?” At first glance, he had short brown tufty hair, his nose was slightly crooked and now incredibly pale.

“P-Peter Parker…” the dazed man answered as his hand slipped from his face into his hair. “What happened to me?” he asked as Lyla, too, joined Miguel and crouched down, a sympathetic expression etched across her face.

The vampire simply gazed down at Peter, his eyebrows knitted together, reliving his past as he watched someone else begin their cursed life just like he did all those years ago.

A firm hand rested on Peter’s shoulder to offer up some comfort and an attempt to soften the blow of her next words. “There’s no easy way to say this, Peter. You’ve been attacked by a vampire, and as a result, you’re…” her words trailed off as she struggled to summon the right ones to say.

Peter looked between the two strangers, both of their despondent faces explained the rest to him without another word being spoken. “I… see…” he began as his gaze lowered to his lap to think for a second before looking back up at Miguel. “What does that mean for me, exactly?” he asked, his voice just above a whisper.

Lyla’s hand squeezed his shoulder again slightly as her friend was still at a loss for words. “Don’t worry; we’ll help you through this.”

Little did Lyla know, her words started cogs turning in Miguel’s mind. Morbius was back. And he wasn’t going to stop draining people of their blood in his bid to rejuvenate and try to cure himself. Soon, others will follow Peter. Ultimately, Morbius needed to be stopped, but until then, Miguel would have to help as many newly turned vampires as possible.

The concept of Las Sombras was born. The finances gained from the nightclub would go towards the upkeep of the shelter.

Many months passed and the plan came to fruition. The refuge was ready for as many victims Miguel could locate, but he was certain he hadn’t found all of them.

When he noticed the victims were getting younger, his mood plummeted. He blamed himself. He was the reason why Morbius was still stalking the streets at night. He was the reason why teenagers and young adults’ lives were being ruined. He needed to put an end to Morbius once and for all.

You wake from your deep slumber. Blinking your sleep away, you think about the most vivid dream you have just had. Was it a dream? You’re not entirely certain… It seemed too real and flowed far better than any usual dream you have experienced.

Looking at your phone screen, you see that it’s nearly eight AM. It’s time you should message your boss to say that you are ��sick’. You can already imagine his reply, which you’ll read in his irritated and unnecessarily aggressive voice.

The shelter is now deathly silent, no murmurings in the social area heard as you amble out of your makeshift bedroom. You’re reminded that you’re most likely to be the only person awake.

Typically, subway stations are large and convoluted. Many twists and turns dividing off to different platforms. You begin to wonder just how much of this subway Miguel and Lyla have actually claimed and put into use. But first, you wonder if Lyla is about yet. She doesn’t seem to be down here with you. Maybe she’s up in the nightclub cleaning?

Las Sombras was just as silent and deserted.  There was no sign of Lyla. You presume she’s just on her way.

Nine AM ticks by and still nothing. You remember the morning before; Lyla was already in and working by that time, and you frown as you wonder where she could be.

Minutes turn into hours as you wait. You begin to wish that you had taken her number so you could text her. Concern grows exponentially as you watch the morning turn into afternoon.

With a rumbling stomach, you rummage through the cupboards in the kitchen back in the shelter. There has to be something for you to eat. A look of relief spreads across your face when you discover a bag of unopened potato chips.

As you crunch away, you argue with yourself over whether you should try to wake Miguel and tell him that Lyla hasn’t arrived, but you wonder just what he could do about it while the sun is still up. The moment you see him, you decide you will tell him.

The subway station is indeed vast, but you notice all the available bedrooms are taken. Hopefully there won’t be any other new vampires joining the ranks soon, but you wouldn’t put money on it.

Escalators stand silent and motionless as you explore the depths of the subway station. Each step makes a clunking sound against the ridged metal as you descend. At the bottom, a long platform and a line of rails stretches before you, stopping abruptly at a sealed tunnel. A stack of mattresses towered over you as you strolled further onto the platform to investigate. And down around your feet were countless bags full of blankets and cushions. It is clear that the vampire and human duo have been preparing for a while for the worst.

Sprawled out over one of the many couches, you scroll through social media on your phone when you finally hear movement, causing you to lock your screen and sit up to see who it is. You find yourself surprised to see more than just one person peering down at you. The six missing people quietly join you.

Before now, you didn’t have much chance to pay attention to what they really looked like, but now they’re up close, you take note of who they are. Of course, there’s Miles - you knew about him - but next to him is a tall, young girl of similar age. She has short blonde hair with a pink streak. Her face is rather cute and she has an adorable gap between her two front top teeth, visible when she gives you a warm smile.

“I’m Gwen; Miles told us last night what Morbius nearly did to you,” her eyes flit down to your neck which is still patched up, thanks to Lyla…

Brushing your concerns regarding Lyla aside, you give a weak smile at Gwen and nod. “Nice to meet you, Gwen. Yes, he fooled me well… I’m sorry that you and your friends weren’t so lucky…”

To Gwen’s left sits an older looking young adult. Dark skin, a handsome face adorned with several piercings: over his brow, on his nose and lip, his thick dreadlocked hair as wild as his personality, you wager. A black studded collar encircles his neck, matching with the rest of his punky attire.

“Man’s a scheming bastard. He got us all one way or another,” the punk’s voice is deep and speaks with a British accent. “Name’s Hobie; by the way.”

As the conversation continues, you go on to speak to Margo, Pavitr and Penni - Penni being the youngest. They all seem bright, promising individuals and you hope they can still manage to achieve greatness even after having such a life-changing challenge thrown at them.

During the whole conversation, the thought of Lyla persists. Something is not right at all. The fact that the youngsters are up means that it is getting dark. “Where does Miguel sleep? I need to talk to him. It’s kind of important.”

Gwen stands up from her spot on the couch and points towards a room mostly hidden away by crates - you suspect that was done on purpose.

“Thank you. Speak to you guys later,” you rise from your seat and amble over to Miguel’s room, weaving around stacks of boxes which you guess are filled with supplies for the shelter.

The door to his room is shut, prompting you to give it a gentle knock, but there is no response. Perhaps he is a heavy sleeper? You turn the door handle and quietly enter the room.

Taking a quick look around, you see his room is the most decorated in the entire subway station. You guess he’s probably a permanent resident - why shouldn’t he make his mark on his living quarters? Then, your eyes land on a large bed, presumably the other available mattresses were far too small for his gigantic frame. As your eyes wander up the bed, they rake over the rucked up sheets around his long legs and narrow hips, however his top half is totally bare. The slumbering vampire lays on his side, one arm tucked under his pillow while his other hand rests in front of him on the mattress.

Considering how neat he looks when he’s awake, you can’t help but chuckle quietly at how messy his hair looks while he’s asleep. His little flicks and curls stick to his face and splay out over his pillow. You watch momentarily as he sleeps on, blissfully unaware that you’re there, but Lyla must come first. Tentatively, your hand hovers over him, unsure exactly where to place it to try to wake him up gently. Everything is just hard muscle! You also fight against your urge to let your eyes wander to his exposed abs.

Swallowing hard, you step closer and gently rest your hand on his arm. He looks so peaceful and far less moody, it is almost a shame to wake him. Giving him a gentle squeeze and a little shake, you begin to whisper. “Miguel…” His body rocks slightly as you move your hand against his bicep more. “Mig-”

His eyes snap wide open as he moves instantly, grabbing your arm and wrenching you over him and onto the mattress. It happens so fast you can barely register what’s going on. He rolls over you and pins you down, hand raised with claws extended.

“H-holy shit, Miguel!” you exclaim in a breathy voice, stunned at the sheer speed in which he moved.

His fierce eyes squint at you until he realises he’s not under any threat. Claws sheath once more as he lowers his arm and gathers the loose sheet around his hips. His hand grips it tightly around him before sitting back against his feet. That is when you realise he is totally bare under the thin layer of fabric.

“What on earth are you doing in here, waking me up like that? You scared the hell out of me.” he growls, his mane of dark brown hair comically stuck out at different angles, although you don’t quite see the funny side just yet.

You sit up on his bed, pulling your feet out from under his straddling legs while your eyes remain locked on his. You strive not to let them travel any further south. “Lyla’s not shown up at all today. I figured you’d want to know… I still need to get my laptop, and it’s nearly nightfall.”

Concern grows across his face as his gaze moves from you to his phone beside his bed. While holding onto his bedsheet, he crawls across the mattress, his large thigh emerges between the drapes of the material as he moves. Fuck! Your eyes dart upwards, as you foolishly think they are safer further north on his body. Wrong… His prominent V-line is where they land next, making you feel the pink in your face rise higher and higher.

Miguel grabs his phone and checks his notifications, but there doesn’t appear to be anything from Lyla. The cellular device thuds back down on his bedside table. “We’re going to have to go to her apartment before we go to yours…” he says as he climbs off his bed, pulling his sheet with him. “Shit! This could be bad!” he exclaims as he paces the room, his free hand rising to the bridge of his nose. After a short while of panicking and attempting to gather peace and calm again, he looks back up to you. “Are you ready to go?” Miguel asks as he walks over to his wardrobe.

“Y-yes,” you stutter, trying to keep your eyes off him.

“Good, leave the room and I’ll be out in a minute,” he replies as he opens a drawer, and bends down to search inside it. Yep, definitely time to leave after you spy the bedsheet showing off quite possibly the peachiest ass you have ever laid eyes on. Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck…

You’re absolutely certain your face is now red and glowing due to the sight before you. Silently, you hop off his bed and leave quickly without giving a backwards glance and try to mentally flush the distracting images from your racing mind.

Hair whips around your face, pushed and pulled by the wild autumnal winds as you step out from Las Sombras. The lights inside are switched off and a handwritten sign is stuck against the glass saying that the nightclub will be closed this evening.

Miguel follows you out of the double-glass doors and locks them before directing you to the alley beside the establishment. “Have you ridden a motorbike before?” he asks as he effortlessly mounts it, his muscular thighs straddling the vehicle. You close your eyes momentarily, pushing that image from his bedroom out of your mind.

“No, I haven’t,” you answer as you walk up beside the bike and gawp at how high the seat is.

Miguel offers you his arm. “Jump on,” he instructs you - your five-foot-something ass is going to struggle getting up otherwise.

The leather of his jacket feels cold against your palm as you take hold of him and hoist yourself up, his arm giving you that extra boost you needed to get your leg over the other side and seated nicely right behind him. Oh dear God… you think to yourself as you now have to deal with the reality of him between your legs on the motorcycle saddle - you’re just thankful he has his back to you.

“Put your arms around me if you need to.” Now you’re really glad he can’t see you, your face is almost as red as a lobster due to your heavy blushing.

Tentatively, your arms encircle his narrow waist as your hands instinctively clutch onto the leather of his jacket.

After what Morbius did to you, you can’t help but feel a little annoyed at yourself for feeling this way. It was easier in that brief moment when you thought Miguel was doing the same thing as his enemy, suspecting he was just as beastly underneath his cunning perception charm.

The Harley’s engine suddenly roars into life, making you flinch at the intimidating sound. Your shock reflected in your grip tightening around him. You’re pretty sure you can feel him chuckling quietly at your reaction.

After shifting the bike into first gear, Miguel twists the right handle forward and the vehicle begins to move. The deep purr of the idle engine changes to a growl that grows louder the faster it rolls down the road.

Silence descends upon the street outside Lyla’s apartment building the moment Miguel switches the engine off. He lets you slip off the bike first before dismounting it himself.

“We need to make a pit-stop first before going to Lyla’s,” he begins as he stuffs the keys to his bike in his tight jeans pocket. “I don’t like the fact I’ve not heard from her to say she isn’t able to come to the nightclub. There could be trouble waiting for us in her apartment.”

You nod and swallow hard as you walk beside him before reaching the entrance to the building. He pushes the door open, but doesn’t let you in first. “Stay behind me,” he mutters to you in a low tone.

You do as he says and slot in behind him until you reach a lift. Miguel jabs the call button to summon it, and you both wait in silence. Disturbing thoughts rush through your mind, making you worry about what you might find when you enter Lyla’s home.

A bell rings to signify the lift has arrived, snapping you out of your downward spiral of horrific images. The metal doors slide open and the both of you step in.

After he presses the number of Lyla’s floor and the doors slide shut again, he opens his mouth to speak. “Do you know how to handle a gun?”

You go bug-eyed for a second at his question as the lift begins to ascend. Perhaps your disturbing thoughts might be more of a reality than you realised. “What? No - w-why?” you ask, but you’re now afraid to hear his answer.

Miguel frowns slightly. “I might have to give you a crash course,” he replies as the lift slows to a stop. The doors slide open revealing a corridor you swear you’ve seen before.

You’re led out of the lift to a door that looks strangely familiar. “How do I remember this place? I know I’ve never been in this building before,” you ask quietly as Miguel slips a key into the door and turns it as stealthily as possible.

“You saw this place in the dream you had last night,” he answers casually in a low tone as he opens the door wide before stepping in. His words make you pause and blink in surprise.

“What? How did you know about my dream?” you ask as you follow him into the apartment.

Miguel looks back at you as he turns the light on. “Because I injected the dream into your mind when I hypnotised you. It was a collection of memories of how I met Lyla, and how Las Sombras came to be.”

“Hmm…” you hum with intrigue. “Sounds oddly efficient…” your words trail off as you notice the state of the apartment. The living space is equipped with basic furniture along with an alarming collection of weapons and ammunition. “What the hell?” you gasp in surprise as you stare at the numerous cases full of handguns, pistols, shotguns and crossbows.

“This is my old apartment,” he begins as he strides over to a glass case and opens it. “I still own it and sometimes crash here if I need to, but it’s ultimately a storage for Lyla to use, should she need it.” Miguel plucks a pistol from a shelf before opening a drawer and taking out a long tube-like object. It seems he wasn’t kidding about you using a gun - you just hope it isn’t necessary.

The vampire also takes out several magazine clips for the weapon before he turns back to face you again. His expression is serious as he approaches you, gun held out in his hand, ready to pass it to you.

“Is it loaded?” you ask, almost stepping back nervously, your heart starting to pound as reality sets in.

“No, it’s not. I’m going to show you how to load it, prime it and reload. Listen carefully,” he takes your hand and places the weapon on your open palm. “Hold it properly,” Miguel instructs you in a demanding, no-nonsense tone.

Three of your fingers wrap around the magazine well, while your index finger hovers by the trigger. You look up at Miguel. “Do you seriously think we’ll end up needing this?”

Red eyes move from the gun, to your gaze. “Why else would Lyla not contact me? Something’s happened. I just hope we’re not too late,” he answers before taking your free hand and placing a magazine clip in it. “Now,” he begins as he points to the underside of the gun, into the hollow area your fingers wrap around. “You slide the clip into this bit here,” he watches you tentatively slip it in and you hear a click, signifying that it is locked into place. “Good. To prime it, - but don’t do it yet, - you pull the slide at the top of the gun back which will load the first bullet into the chamber. You’ll prime it before we step into Lyla’s apartment - I don’t want any misfirings beforehand, alright?”

You give a nod to show you understand.

“This button here,” he continues as he points to a button between the magazine well and the trigger. “Pressing this will release the magazine once all the bullets are spent. Ready for you to put in a new one.”

There is a gentle tug at your jeans pocket as he pulls it open and slides the other magazines into it.

Your hands begin to shake; you’ve never hurt anything intentionally in your life, and now you’re holding a gun, being taught how to use it.

Noticing you shaking, Miguel wraps both his large hands around yours to still them. “I’m sure you know what the tigger does. The rest is easy; point and shoot,” he leans in a little closer, making sure you look directly at him. “Bullets are made of silver so remember the next instruction: don’t hit me, alright?”

Producing a narrow tube from his pocket, he fixes it to the muzzle of your pistol, elongating the barrel. “This is a silencer, to help dampen the sound of your shots. I don’t want to attract any unwanted attention, if we can help it.”

Swallowing hard, you nod as you recap everything he has told you in your mind. Slide the thingy, pull the trigger, don’t hit Miguel, press the button and slide in another magazine… Doesn’t sound too difficult… No pressure…

“Come on…” he mutters to you, pressing a hand against your back to lead you to the door.

Having a gun in your hand feels like the most unnatural thing to you. How do people in movies carry them so casually? You feel as though you’re carrying a ticking time-bomb that could go off any minute.

Miguel leads you to Lyla’s apartment further along the corridor and gives you the nod to prime the gun. Grabbing the cold metal at the top, you pull it backwards ‘til you hear it click before releasing it back into its normal position.

After exchanging a nod between the both of you, the lock mechanism clicks as Miguel unlocks the door and opens it. Once again, the vampire enters first acting as your shield, despite you being the one holding the gun.

The apartment is eerily quiet and dark, no initial signs of life. You see Miguel raise his arm to turn on the light switch, but before he can flip it, the both of you are unexpectedly engulfed in an almost blinding purple light. People have been expecting you.

As you shield your eyes, you feel Miguel recoil violently, almost backing into you.

“Fuck! It’s UV light!” he yells out an anguished cry. “Shoot the lights out!” he continues, turning into you, shielding himself from the harmful UV rays.

Every part of your body buzzes with adrenaline. You have to be quick to protect the vampire now writhing in pain. The vampire, you notice, hasn’t left the room and remains by your side, despite being drenched in light that hurts him.

All you can see is a sharp purple, feeling like it’s piercing your retinas. You squint, desperately trying to see past the glare in front of you. Raising your arm, your finger wraps around the trigger, feeling thankful it’s just a light you’re trying to aim at, and not a person - although you suspect that will be a possibility before too long - given what you’re facing already. Your eyes burn as the offensive light overwhelms your vision, but you try to focus on where it is the most concentrated. A simple squeeze with your finger is all that it takes. The gun jolts in your hand, making you flinch and the bright light dies down, giving your eyes a much needed respite. It seems two more lights are left - you’ll freak out about your precision shot later.

Turning to your left, you aim and shoot again. Now one light is gone, seeing is a little easier, and Miguel doesn’t sound in quite so much pain. Darkness starts to overwhelm the harsh UV rays of the remaining light on your right.

Miguel reaches for the lightswitch again as you take out the last bulb. Your moment of pride doesn’t last long however.

Suddenly, you can see again, and you discover the lights had been operated by vampires who made sure to stand behind them while they were on. Each bulb had been surrounded by small mirrors to concentrate the UV rays, making sure it delivered an extra sting to your vampire partner.

A mad rush ensues as the enemy springs forward with supernatural speed. Before you even think about raising your gun, you find yourself wrapped in Miguel’s arms and wings as he spins you around, using his body as your shield. His hold on you is tight and reassuring while he grunts as the vampires slash and rip at him. Air swirls around your face as he unravels his wings, letting them spread wide, shunting the people there to hurt you both backwards, along with Lyla’s lamp and coat stand. You hear several crashes behind, telling you Miguel had managed to knock them over.

A hot breath caresses the side of your face as he leans down to whisper to you. “Are you ready?” to which you reply with a determined nod. He turns you back, your gun raised as you both spot the first vampire prone on the floor. Knowing that they’ll hurt you if you don’t hurt them first seems to make pulling the trigger easier.

“Aim for the chest,” Miguel growls in your ear to encourage you before another sudden rush catches his attention.

You fire a round at the vampire on the floor as he attempts to get up, hitting him squarely in the chest. The silver bullet ignites his insides and he burns from within until there is nothing left but a pile of ash.

As you watch with your mouth agape at the horror before you, Miguel’s wing sweeps another inbound vampire off his feet. He turns you to face the creature now in a heap on Lyla’s couch. Without any further prompting, you know exactly what to do. With a keen eye, you pull the trigger once more, dispatching them swiftly.

The following moments feel very much like a disturbing dance of death between you and Miguel. A well-oiled machine, alternating between knocking charging vampires over, shooting them and shielding you while you reload.

During this time, you can’t see any sign of Lyla.

One by one, each vampire is taken down and reduced to a pile of ash until the room falls silent. No more rushing feet or vicious vampiric hisses.

A familiar chill runs through your body as it stops producing adrenaline and the shaking begins. Did you just do all that? Not only did you just shoot a gun, you brought an end to several vampires. Speaking of which, the one remaining vampire in the room has his arms around you. He protected you and guided you through the terrifying moment.

“Are you alright?” he asks you as he remains holding you, making sure you can still stand. He can feel your body shake in his grip, giving him cause for concern.

“Yeah, I’m fine,” you answer as you finally lower your gun. Your thumb presses against the button on the gun, letting the magazine slide out and clatter on the floor. Then, you pluck the last clip out of your pocket, stash it into the weapon and prime it once more. “That’s my last magazine,” you warn him as his grip around you loosens, the comfort of having his arms around your body leaving you.

Miguel observes Lyla’s living area, head turning from left to right, scanning for anything that might offer any clues as to what happened here. Thanks to his wings, he knocked over her light and coat stand while defending the both of you. Apart from those and the vast piles of ash around the room, everything else seemed fairly tidy and normal. A frown spreads across his face as he considers stepping into Lyla’s bedroom. “Come with me…” he murmurs as he makes his way across the room.

The door to Lyla’s room is ajar, with nothing but a darkness beyond it. Faint groans of discomfort reach your ears the closer you both get to her bedroom, spurring Miguel to dash inside and turn the light on.

“Lyla!” he cries out in shock as you follow closely behind. His business partner is bound and gagged, arms tied behind her back as she lay on her bed. Her eyes wide, her head shaking frantically as her noises grow louder, almost as if she doesn’t want you and him to be there. You hear muffled noises sounding like she’s shouting “no!” through the material stuffed in her mouth. Dashing to the side of her bed, you place the gun on the pillow and pull the gag from her lips.

“B-Behind you!” she chokes out, the words almost coming out in one go.

Like a scene from a horror film, you watch Morbius rush forward into the room before Miguel has a chance to turn around fully. Miguel’s body lurches suddenly as you hear something like a blade slice into his side, followed by an agonised cry, his red eyes widening upon impact. Your jaw drops as Lyla writhes uncontrollably, screaming out for her friend.

Your mind takes over and you reach out to Lyla, undoing the ties around her wrists.

Morbius grins menacingly as he wrenches the knife out and shoves his foe down onto the bed, Lyla only just fortunate enough to roll out of the way in time.

An expression born from sheer agony is plastered all over Miguel’s face as he hits the mattress. He pants heavily as the afflicted area in his side burns and stings, his hand clutching the wound.

Adrenaline coursing through your body once again appears to slow time down. You reach for the gun and raise it directly at the evil beast, his arms already plunging the knife down towards Miguel. It’s now or never.

Your finger squeezes the trigger, firing a round into Morbius’ arm, his body flinching backwards as the searing pain of a silver bullet breaks through the fabric of his clothing and flesh.

Despite being in dire pain, Miguel lifts his right leg and boots his enemy in the chest, shunting him further back, striking the wall and collapsing on the floor. You take another shot, but frustratingly it lodges into his left shoulder. Your hands shake as you panic. With a well placed shot, you could end this; pressure now mounting on you by a tenfold.

In the corner of your eye, you see Miguel try (and fail) to sit up, while Lyla pulls her own gun from her bedside table and takes aim - you suspect that it’s also loaded with silver bullets.

You press forward, walking around the foot of the bed, flanking Miguel as Lyla does the same.

Annoyingly, Morbius keeps his chest well protected, making sure it’s not in direct line of fire. Regardless, you pull the trigger again, gritting your teeth, willing for the silver bullet to burn even more than the last.

As you hear a pain fuelled yell from Morbius, movement from Miguel gives you pause. Still clutching his side, he finally manages to rise from the bed and lunges for his foe, beginning the battle for the blade.

Using Miguel’s momentum, Morbius flips him backwards out of Lyla’s room, sending him crashing awkwardly and painfully onto his back.

Amidst the chaos unfolding in front of you, you hear bangs from the floor below. It makes you wince thinking just how much noise you’re all making. This needs to end quickly before you attract too much attention.

Morbius makes a move to follow Miguel out of Lyla’s room, while you both advance and continue to fire. The evil beast's true target is now abundantly clear, although, with every shot fired into him, each second becomes more agonising.

The very moment you get a clear shot, the gun clicks uselessly with every press of the trigger, all bullets spent, and the window of opportunity gone in a flash. You curse angrily as Morbius turns into mist before descending on Miguel once again.

Your heart is in your mouth as both you and Lyla watch helplessly while the two vampires wrestle on the floor. Grunts, yells and snarls fill the living room as the blade alternates between being pointed upwards and downwards in the power struggle. As desperation strikes, your mind rushes through anything you can do to help. You suspect the blade of the knife is silver, and the pair are fighting to lodge it into the other’s heart, in a bid to kill. Silver… Your hand pats your jeans pocket, remembering that you put your rings in there when you met Peter and his family.

In a moment of utter madness, you toss the gun aside and slip the silver bands onto your fingers and charge forward as Lyla shouts after you. You’re determined to give Miguel any chance to stab Morbius and end the threat to Nueva York. The sense of sound and your rational thinking are non-existent as you reach the evil vampire who still straddles Miguel.

Given that you know from experience how sharp his teeth are, you don’t dare put your hand near his face. The next best option for you is his neck. Your hand thrusts forward as your fingers grip the front and squeeze, making sure that the rings come into contact with his mottled skin.

Morbius’ pupils contract while his eyes widen as the silver pressed against his neck burns him. You see smoke rise as he howls in pain, his grip on the knife loosening.

“Yes!” Miguel grunts out with his final bit of effort as his fingers eventually wrench the weapon from his foe’s clutches.

You push harder, giving his neck and extra firm squeeze before Morbius begins to grab onto your wrist. Mild panic sets in when you spy his claws.

Gripping his enemy’s clothing, Miguel thrusts the knife upwards. But the black whirling mist returns as Morbius disappears and the knife pierces nothing but the air as you start the fall forward. You squeal as Morbius’ sudden absence means you nearly come into contact with the blade, but Miguel pulls it away before you land on it.

Hands from behind grip you, easing your descent to the floor. “Easy, easy,” you hear Lyla say with effort behind her voice, trying not to drop you.

Her business partner stands up, his incensed red eyes glaring down at the knife in his open palm. Rage, frustration and irritation has risen beyond boiling point, and is in danger of reaching Krakatoa proportions of monumental eruptions. “That… fucking COWARD!” Miguel screams, his fangs bared as he launches the knife across the room, lodging itself into a wall.

“Hey!” Lyla shouts, “I know you’re pissed but that is my wall you just put a hole in,” she stands up straight and looks around the place. Her lamp and coat stand strewn over the floor, remnants of dead vampire covering her furniture, the whole place is a mess. “Look at this place!”

You rest your gaze back on Miguel, who is clearly not giving a care in the world about the state of Lyla’s apartment for just a moment. His breathing is heavy, filtering through gritted teeth. Suddenly, his breath hitches as his hands rush to his side. “Fuck!” he hisses as his knees buckle.

Lyla returns to his side as you do too, helping him down to the floor again as he winces and clutches the stab wound. The both of you guide him to lean against a kitchen counter. “Just sit still and regenerate as much as you can,” his business partner instructs him like a bossy matron in a hospital as she gets up and goes looking for a dustpan and brush.

Soft panting fills the air as Miguel concentrates on healing himself, his eyes fluttering closed for a moment to relax and calm his frayed nerves.

Sitting beside the injured vampire, you observe him quietly, that is until he eventually places his free hand on your arm.

“You did well, Y/N. A natural, in fact,” he mumbles, a slither of red peeking out from under his heavy eyelids.

No matter how much you try to hold it back, his compliment brings a smile to your face. “I don’t know whether to be proud or scared of myself.”

Miguel laughs lazily, air huffing between his parted lips. His chuckle hurt his wound slightly, making him hiss momentarily. “Be proud for now, worry about it later…”

Now that you get a proper look at him, you can tell his clothes and the back of his neck had been scratched up. You guess that happened during the fight with the horde of vampires when you entered the apartment. “Are you going to be okay?” you ask, sounding more concerned than you originally intended.

Air rushes through his nostrils as he takes in a deep breath. “Yeah, I’ll be alright. I suppose a good part about being a vampire is I can recover from injuries faster,” he mumbles as he peels his hand away from his side. “Getting better already…”

As you two talk, Lyla makes several trips to and from the dustbin, pouring grey ash into it after every trip.

Miguel’s hand finally slips from your arm and thuds against the floor slightly. “He’s getting stronger,” he announces, which you assume is for Lyla’s benefit. His business partner stops what she’s doing and looks at him, concern etched across her face.

“We have to stop him before he does his usual disappearing act,” he grumbles slightly, still feeling angry over yet another opportunity to kill Morbius slipping through his fingers.

A question pops into your mind. “Can’t you do that too? You’ve said before that you inherit other traits from Morbius. So, surely you can do that too? Play him at his own game?”

Miguel exchanges a look with Lyla before locking eyes with you. “I- um…” he pauses with hesitation, “...never learned how,” he answers, almost looking ashamed before glancing left and right, thinking of something. “But, that’s not going to kill Morbius is it?” he asks as he prepares to stand up again, which you watch intently, making sure he won’t squish you if he falls.

“No, but it could have got you out of trouble, like Morbius sneaking up and attacking you,” you reply as you, too, stand. A very faint snort comes from Lyla as she dumps another load of ash into her bin, clearly finding your response amusing.

Large hands rest on his narrow hips as his eyes narrow slightly at your comment. “Well, until fairly recently, I haven’t had the need to try.” He folds his arms shortly after, the tiniest hint of a pout forming across his plump lips.

The metal lid of Lyla’s bin clangs shut as Lyla deposits the remaining pile of ash in it. “Y/N has a point. You’re not using everything you have at your disposal,” she begins as she puts the dustpan and brush away under her kitchen sink. “If you want Morbius gone, you’re going to have to pull out all of the stops.”

Miguel’s little pout turns into a frown as he tries to think about how he can teach himself to vanish like Morbius does, but he guesses that his foe must have learned to do it himself, too. After his brief moment of contemplation, he brushes his thoughts aside and looks at Lyla. “How are you holding up?”

His business partner leans against her kitchen counter as she folds her arms. “I’m okay. Tired and a little sore. I guess I was followed and captured when I got back here.”

Boots thud dully against the wooden flooring as Miguel goes to correct the coat stand and lamp. “It’s not safe for you here, Lyla. I want you to sleep at the shelter for the foreseeable future. Until we put an end to Morbius.”

As you hear the exchange between the two, you think Lyla will argue to remain here, but you’re surprised to see her agree. She really does trust him. So much so, she knows that when he tells her to leave her apartment to stay safe, she does it without question.

“Pack your essentials and drive to Las Sombras, okay?” he continues, “I have to run an errand with Y/N.”

Lyla nods as she moves back into her bedroom to grab her bag and pack.

Back on the road again, Miguel’s Harley Davidson roars as he makes it go as fast as he legally can. He swerves in and out of lanes, climbing through the evening traffic, hoping to reach your apartment building as soon as possible. Anxiousness is at an alltime high, knowing what could be lurking in the streets of Nueva York. He just wants to get you back to the shelter and out of the dark and dangerous shroud of night.

It has been twenty-four hours since you were last in your apartment. So much has happened since then that it makes your head spin. There has been a lot to unpack from everything you have learned and yet there is more drama developing. Who knew so much drama could come from a single tip-off from a civilian of Nueva York. You start off as an inquisitive journalist and now you’re in the midst of essentially a bloody and vicious war between two vampires.

After experiencing the horrors from earlier, you now expect to see your room full of vampires when you switch your main light on as you enter your apartment. But relief floods your mind when nothing of the sort appears.

The giant steps over the threshold, ducking under your door frame, but as you watch him you see that he looks tired and a little gloomier than normal.

“Pack a bag with a change of clothes. We have a washing machine at the shelter so you don’t need to pack too much,” Miguel instructs you as he takes in his surroundings. You have a nice collection of plants - the verdant colours adding the feel of life to your home. Overall, he thinks your apartment looks cosy and comfortable - certainly a lot more homely than a repurposed subway station.

Leaving Miguel in your open-plan living room area and kitchen, you enter your bedroom and find a bag. Grabbing a collection of tops, underwear, jeans and leggings you stuff them in a case along with toiletries and a hair brush.

With your bag slung over your shoulder, and your laptop case in hand, you approach Miguel who’s resting his weight on the back of your couch. His usually tanned skin looking paler than before. “Are you alright, Miguel?” you ask, as concern etches across your face.

His weary red eyes look up at you before straightening himself back up and clearing his throat, although he doesn’t look entirely steady. “I’m fine,” answers. “Are you ready?” His right hand, which looks like it’s shaking, reaches into his pocket for his keys as he takes a step toward your apartment door. However, he never makes it. To your surprise, his knees buckle from underneath him and the vampire collapses heavily on the floor. “Shit!” he growls in frustration, “not now!”

Thank you for reading part 4 of Vampire Miguel. I hope you're enjoying it so far.

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[eluminium]

Skizzleman and the number 3: Updated for the end of Secret Life

I have created multiple purgatories for myself and god damn if I'm not a woman of dedication. ANYWAYS, ALL THE CONNECTIONS SKIZZ HAS TO THE NUMBER 3 SINCE THE END OF SECRET LIFE! -Biggest of all, Skizz died third in both 3rd Life and Last Life. This was then broken in Limited Life when he died second instead of third, but the number came back in Secret Life when he got 13th place overall.

-Skizz missed Double Life, the third season of the Life Series

-He has only had 3 lives ever. Limited Life is an exception since lives worked differently but you could argue since there were only 3 colour tiers this still counts.

-In all his core teams, he's either been part of a trio or been teamed with three other people. In 3rd Life he was in a trio with Martyn and Ren, Last Life he had three other people with B.E.S.T, same with Limited Life, and in Secret Life he was part of a trio again with Tango and BigB.

-All of Skizz's Life series deaths, with the only exceptions being deaths in LimL outside of his final death and Ren's boogey kill on him in Last Life, has either had him be part of a trio or be surrounded by three people. Don't test me on this I HAVE THE PROOF!!!!!

-In 3rd Life, along with dying third, he also lost each of his lives three episodes apart and was the third person to become red.

-In Team B.E.S.T, S is the third letter.

-In Team T.I.E.S, S has three letters before it

-In episode 1 of Limited Life, he died three times in total. Two boogies and one creeper. He ALMOST died three times to the boogey but Martyn took pity on him at the last second.

-In Secret Life, three reds spent a big part of one of their episodes on hunting him specifically. Lizzie, Jimmy, and later Scar.

-In three out of four seasons he's been in, Skizz never made it past the 7th session in 3 of them, only recently breaking that curse in Secret Life.

-The Angels Blessing also ties into this but that will be its own post.

These are all I can remember for now, but there are probably more weird connections between Skizz and the number three that I've missed. Do feel free to suggest any if you find them because honestly, this is already beyond insanity so why not go a little longer?

[pencilpat]

also! i know you asked for headcanons on sanders sides, but!

i find your ocs nelson and wilson like, reaaaally interesting 👀✨ i saw some wips you did of them not so long ago and can't get them out of my head, if you'd like, care to share some info on them? :3 💛

Oh my gosh, thank you for asking me about them! These birdbrains for anyone who didn't see them (yes I lost the files I was colouring, yes I'm devastated):

Wilson (left) and Nelson (right) are twin brothers from a universe populated by bird people. They were raised in a monastery built into a cliffside. The monastery was run by mainly birds of prey, while the twins are falcons, and that led to some differences in needs of care that couldn't be met properly. The monks they live with tried to raise them both into their religion (which included not eating meat) and while it went well with Nelson, Wilson was a rebellious and somewhat aggressive child. He ended up running away eventually, and found himself in a much more fastpaced modern world that he didn't know how to cope with at first.

The timeline would be the equivalent of the 60s-70s in our world.

Wilson managed to get hired at a convenience store, where the manager took pity on him and let him rent an apartment he owned. Wilson slowly began to live a relatively normal life. He took up smoking and drinking just to rebel, to feel in control of himself. He eats entirely meat now, like he always was meant to. He feels happy. He feels free. And sure maybe sometimes he has to drop off the face of the earth for a few days to feels like an adult, or chain smoke and binge eat and fly higher than is healthy to in order to feel in control, but it's much better than being stuck with those monks. Wilson is generally very good-natured and loves to laugh and joke around, but he can sometimes be very angry and lash out at the people he cares about.

Nelson is a whole different story. His wing was damaged as a result of one of Wilson's outbursts, which was one of the inciting incidents of Wilson running away. Nelson, therefore, can't fly. The monks subtly, unintentionally convinced him that Wilson's outburst was a divine punishment of sorts. Falling off of the cliff was a sign from their God to do away with the wicked spirit of his brother, and it is a blessing. Nelson lives the lifestyle of the monastery and does it very well. He's mostly a bookkeeper and the one who keeps the library clean and tidy. He is also a record keeper who writes down the happenings of the services and the day in general. Nelson is very serious and cold most of the time, but occasionally, when he's genuinely happy, he can be very soft and childlike.

Wilson eventually missed his twin a lot, and they've been exchanging letter like penpals for years. Wilson is always trying to convince Nelson to leave and come at least visit him, to see how big and awesome the world can be. Nelson very much doesn't want to do this. But eventually he might, to make his brother happy.

[ya-boi-haru]

I lied, put your clothes back on,

I'm about to go on an essay ramble about one of the concepts for my OCs story ('Ingress')

'Ingress' contains characters from various different worlds with different beliefs, government structures, species and an almost endless possibilities of abnormal powers.

While there are hundreds, if not thousands of possible abilities people can have, you can always categorize it down to one of two things: Genetic and Gifted.

Simply, Genetic power is where is passed on through blood, something you were born with, where as Gifted is where you obtain the power via a 3rd party, (Gods, cursed, abnormal incidents etc)

Does this affect the strength and limit in which a person can use their power compared to the other type? No. One of - if not the main - arc of 'Ingress' is that blood and labels do not define your limit, your limits are what you set for yourself.

So then how does it compare?

Imagine you have a rose bush. Tend to this bush and the flowers will bloom full and beautifully. However, If you were to cut off all the roses, one would argue that's its not a rose bush anymore, cause it doesn't have any flowers. But, it *is* a rose bush, it's designed to grow more roses over time, so it never stopped being a rose bush.

This is a metaphor for Geneticly powered people.

Genetically powered have this power running in their viens, it *is apart of them*. There a concepts and a few moments I wish and hope to explore where you can actually see that it is them.

To strip a G.P person of that ability would be excruciating, literally tearing them apart at their core.

Buts that's not to say that would be the end of it. As people we are constantly growing and even growing new cells every single day and it's still us, *our* DNA, it never changes. So while you have have stripped a Genetic Powered person's powers away, it will actually grow back over time. It may take an entire life time, he'll, it may never be the same as it was, but ut will return eventually. You can cut off every rose on the bush, but the plant is designed to grow more.

Now instead of a rose bush, imagine just a regular, leafy bush. However, you really want this bush to have flowers, so you just add your own into the bush. Now over time, the branches may learn to form around and connect to the flower and it'd basically be a flowering bush. But if you take all those flowers off, It won't flower on its own. It's just a regular bush again.

This is a metaphor for Gifted Powered people.

When a person is gifted (or cursed, blessed etc) their body fuses with the gift and it becomes them. To strip them of that is also excruciating, but it will never come back to them naturally, they will have to repeat the events in which they git it to get it back.

Throughout my wip story, I also want to play with devices that can neutralise an ability. (Similar to the collars in X-Men). With these it would effect a Genetic person more than a Gifted.

The devices would be cancelling out something that wasn't "human", with a Gfited person you could seperate the two easily, as it would be like separating two coloured pens. For a Genetic person it would have a bit more effect, some causing to pass out and sometimes even staying out until the device has been turned off/removed, as this would be like separating colour from coloured water.

Another fun concept is one OC in particular who has both Gifted and Genetic abilities.

From the top of my head, this is the only oc I have so far in this world that has both. Not to say that having both is rare, but it's not that greatly common either.

His genetic ability is Energy manipulation and his gifted power is teleportation. Over time he learned to use one power to help the other. His teleportation allows for him to 'jump' anywhere he wants (he has to have a visual on where he's going) however the greater the distance the more energy/stamina it drains him of. He's also learned that he can siphon energy off another person or thing - though it has to be a specific kind, mainly the type that's of his original world - and he uses this to give himself more strength and fuel the teleportation. While off his world, he doesn't have access to the specific energy he needs and eventually learns over time that he can use himself.

Again, he *is* of his world and energy and is constantly growing and his body is unconsciously giving out more energy, so he siphons off himself, almost in a funny image plugging an extension cord into itself. He can't do it for great lengths and does still need to rest, but it does get him around.

Now, if a Gifted person were to have a child, it is possible they could also get the power and it then becomes genetic to the child. Whereas if abilities are a genetic thing a child is almost guaranteed to get an ability from a Genetic parent.

I have OCs in worlds where getting gifted abilities is extremely common. I have OCs in a world where being Geneticly powered is part of their religion. I have OCs in worlds where Gifted abilities are unique to each, but their limits are what the set for themselves!

-

I hope this made sense and thank you for reading my ramble

Will I do more? Idk I just love my blorbos and am still working out the world building, I just love this concept so much-

[mymoonagedaydream]

Part 2

Pairing: Bucky x y/n

Word Count: 1.5k

Warnings: Language

Author’s Note: This was intended to be a one-part story but the lovely response it got on AO3 has prompted me to make it a series. I now have a ten-page word document of plot in bullet points to get through so, enjoy!

Am I writing two series simultaneously? Yes. Has this ever worked out for me in the past? No.

Part 1

---

You stood in front of the mirror, squinting at the small, circular scar that sat a few inches left of your belly button. It had healed remarkably well in the few weeks you’d been home. You tilted your head slightly, musing that if it weren’t for the weird, lightning-esque burn marks that sprouted from it in every direction, you probably would’ve been able to pass it off as a birthmark. You just shrugged at your reflection, turned and hopped in the shower.

Readjusting to normal life had been difficult, the hardest part being figuring out exactly what ‘normal’ meant now. The city was still littered with various memorials and floral tributes, some fresh, some neglected; any noise louder than a car horn made every pedestrian in the street flinch and shake with terror; new charities for people who’d lost homes and businesses were canvassing on the streets constantly while tabloid journalists spent their days trying desperately to weed out and expose the numerous scammers amongst them. 

Thankfully, though, the biggest inconvenience you’d experienced so far was the messed up subway timetables due to various tunnels caving in. Despite your injury, you felt like you’d gotten away lightly- missing the immediate aftermath was a blessing that not many in the city were afforded.

Unfortunately, your good luck stopped there. You’d barely heard from Bucky at all and you hadn’t seen him in person since he dropped you off at your place all those weeks ago. It was understandable, the whole fucking world was now obsessed with “The Avengers” and he was caught up in the eye of that storm, but you couldn’t help feeling a bit like you’d been abandoned. After everything the two of you had been through, it was really hurtful that he’d stayed away for so long.

After making yourself presentable and pulling on your work uniform, you left your apartment, giving a wide berth to the bulldozer working on one of the many potholes in the sidewalk. You wandered onto the subway and managed to find a seat opposite two well-groomed guys in suits, both reading from the same newspaper. They definitely weren’t siblings, they looked nothing alike, but were they a couple? You stared for a few seconds. Their thighs were touching, but that was nothing remarkable on the cramped subway cars, especially now there were half as many services as usual. Both were wearing wedding bands, but they were different colours. This was a tough one.

You smiled to yourself, remembering how god-awful Bucky was at this game. Even after hours of playing it at the window he’d never guess right. One time you saw what was very clearly an elderly mother with her son, probably heading to some kind of special family function judging by their outfits, and he outright refused to accept that they weren’t a couple. None of your watertight evidence could sway him. You pulled a muscle in your stomach laughing, he just muttered something under his breath about how age wasn’t everything in a relationship.

You shook off the daydream and lazily wandered your gaze down to the front page of the newspaper. An audible gasp escaped your lips when you read the headline, drawing the attention of the few commuters in the car without headphones. It read:

Earth’s Mightiest Heroes?

“Avengers” injured in botched overseas operation

Without thinking you leant forward and snatched the paper, rapidly flicking through the pages to find the full article. There was no real information in there, which you should have anticipated- they’d obviously just received a leak comprised of a single sentence and milked it for every dime it was worth. One word did catch your attention, however. Stark. If he had any information on Bucky then, so help you god, you’d get it out of him.

---

Standing in front of Stark Tower, the righteous confidence you’d felt so strongly on that subway car was starting to waver a little. The confrontation had gone remarkably well in your head but now you were starting to realise how stupidly fucking naive it was to think you’d even get an audience with the guy who owns this place. He probably wasn't even in.

You took a deep breath and pushed open the door, doing your very best to look nonchalant in front of the armed security guards while hurrying over to the front desk. The receptionist was staring at his monitor and typing furiously. You cleared your throat, but he didn’t look up. Looking around, you noticed an old-fashioned call bell sitting on the counter- probably an ironic gift from a colleague, maybe for secret Santa. You hit it. He winced and threw out his hand to silence it.

‘How can I help?’

‘I need to talk to Tony Stark.’

He laughed. 'Do you have an appointment?'

'No, but it's urgent.' An unconvinced eyebrow was raised in your direction. ‘It’s about James Barnes.’

‘What about him?’

‘I know him.’

‘So does the rest of the world, sweetie.’

You rubbed your forehead, trying to collect your thoughts. ‘Look, I was with him after the attack, I got hurt and he helped. I’m his friend. Can you tell Stark that, please? I need to know if he’s alright.’

You could feel tears welling in your eyes as you spoke. The receptionist conceded, picking up the phone and waving you over to the seating area, probably figuring it’d be easier to get rid of you with a firm no from up high. He waited in silence for a minute or so before speaking into the receiver in a tone too hushed for you to hear. He frowned, gave you a very confused glance, and whispered again. Then he hung up.

‘Well, looks like it’s your lucky day,’ he gestured towards the elevator, ‘top floor.’

You had no idea how the hell you pulled that off. You strolled over, hit the button and turned to watch the display beside the doors tick slowly upwards. It was only two floors from the top when you suddenly realised that your whole planned confrontation had completely melted out of your head.

There was a loud ding as the doors slid open and you shuffled forwards, finding yourself in an incredibly extravagant penthouse with a view of the whole city. A stern-looking man with an angular beard and dark glasses approached you, not lifting his gaze from the phone he was tapping at hurriedly. As he got closer you noticed a few small cuts and bruises littered across his face.

‘Tell me what you told the guy behind the desk.’

He still wasn’t looking up, his abrupt questioning catching you off guard. You scrambled for a second and he clicked his fingers impatiently.

‘I’m a friend of James, I want to know if he’s alright.’

‘Wrong. Tell me what you said.’

‘I dont-’ you could feel your face starting to heat up, ‘I just- I’m confused.’

‘It’s a simple question.’

‘I don’t remember.’

He was obviously irritated, sighing as he dropped his hands and met your gaze for the first time. ‘You’re the one who got shot, right?’

You nodded, too intimidated to do much else.

‘Show me.’ He gestured towards your stomach, noting your trepidation as he did so. ‘Look, I need proof that you are who you say you are if we're going to continue this conversation.’

You nodded again, grabbing a fistful of your shirt and hesitantly lifting it to reveal the eerie-looking scar.

‘Gross,’ he gestured for you to cover up, ‘alright.’

Turning on his heels, he stormed across the floor towards a circular seating area. You guessed that you were supposed to follow him. The shiny floor squeaked under your cheap shoes, your cheeks flushing when you caught a glimpse of yourself in the huge windows and remembered that you were still wearing your barista uniform. Stark waved you into a seat.

‘Alright, so your boyfriend is in Siberia, he-’

‘Siberia?’

‘Yes. He was doing some recon when we lost him, we thought-’

‘Lost him?’

‘Can you not talk unless you have something useful to add, please?’ You smiled apologetically. ‘Thank you. Basically, what we thought was a small, residual Hydra cell turned out to be a big operation and we were outnumbered. Some of us were injured, but there was a party we lost track of. Bucky’s party. He’s probably fine, we just don’t know-’

Stark clocked the confusion on your scrunched-up face. He sighed loudly, using one hand to brace himself against the table while the other moved to lift up his glasses and aggressively rub his eyes.

‘Go on.’

‘...Hydra?’

‘Jesus Christ.’ He collapsed into the seat behind him. ‘Y’know what, it doesn’t even matter. All you need to know is that he’s probably fine but, if he's been captured, it could be very bad. We think it would be a good idea for someone he’s close with to be nearby, just in case.’

‘In case what?’

He shot you a warning look but this time you didn’t back down. Your heart was in your throat, you were getting desperate for answers.

‘Look, I don’t have much time, I just came back here to scramble some more manpower and tech. I’m leaving in a few hours, are you coming or not?’

‘To Siberia?’

‘No, to Disney World. Are you sure you didn’t get shot in the brain?’

---

Part 3

---

[lightningandfireinmybones]

And also if we're looking to make it extra horny and delectable let's light this fucking candle and bring Alys into the mix.

Let's say for the sake of the argument that while Val is married to Aemond and they're busy rulling their kingdom/empire (we will decide in due time) and it's decided that the little ones Aegon and Viserys be sent to them both to prepare her for motherhood (yikes!) But mostly because rich royal families do that. They send and receive wards to educate, train and look after.

Now.. one of those boys is sickly. Quite a bit. And Valaemond are worried about his health especially Val bc she knows how much being away from home hurts the little boy and CANNOT comprehend anything happening to him (Rhaenyra would be devastated. Her failed pregnancy of Visenya already took a toll on her and with the political situation between their kingdoms being so delicate she as a monarch needs to look strong)

So they invite over at court a woman from the deep deserts of their kingdom. She has been said to live in isolation,in a small village in the woods far far away from the capitol. Many say she is a bloodwitch, a satan worshiper. Others who have seen her save countless lives of mothers and children sag she has been blessed by God. She has the holy touch, she is a saint, blessed by the mother of God and that's why all children and the ill under her care recover. They owe her their lives.

When Aemond sends word to every corner of his kingsom for a healer, any kind! as long as they can save the life of his nephew word quickly reaches him of this woman in this fuck off village.

All it takes is one look at tired, underfed and frightened Valaena to make him decide to have that woman brought to court.

Alys Rivers has indeed a healing touch, a soft and kind touch. Aemond is away in war councils all day but he can tell that her arrival has helped Val and her peace of mind. Where before she starved heraelf sick due to her worry now he hears that she takes two bites for every bite her brother takes. The little boy has regained his colour.

She can sleep now. At first at the boy's bed (too soon to leave him) but as Alys steps up Valaena returns to their bed.

She becomes heraelf again.

Gossip starts going around. Of the witch seducing the Queen, of them doing more than caring for the children. They say they hear moans coming from the queen's chambers. Others say the woman is a saint. That all she does is help the Queen pray and find faith even if they have different religions. others worry that she may indoctrinate the Queen in the Faith and the Quern has A LOT of hold on the King and what if that wretched whore uses her womanly skills to use the Queen to bewitch the King and lose them their war.

The King has his own opinion. He sees the way Alys looks at Val. He knows how Val used to look at women in her younger years as a girl in Dragonstone. What she liked to do with them. What she still confesses to him in their kate night soft talks -they hide nothing from each other-.

He also knows the reality of the situation. He is grateful to Alys for saving the boy's life and to an extent Valaenas.

And perhaps.... The King has different plans for the "vile seductress" and his good little Queen.....

TL DR yes this is about Rasputin

Again bestie you SLAY and I cannot possibly add anything else, I just want to take this all in

It being well known Valaena is so family oriented (part of the reason she appealed to aemond ,, that’s mother), so when her brother gets sick, the whole kingdom holds its breath

Aemond tears the world apart to make Valaena happy, to heal her brother , to keep her from wasting away in her grief

Enter alys, too loud and too opinionated and too sultry for alicent’s court, one that Valaena is determined to change but has been a bit busy making sure her beloved brother doesn’t die

But she saves Valaena’s brother,,, and still stays at court, the bosom companion of the queen

Then the rumors start,,, and it’s hard not to believe them, seeing the queen and her sly advisor giggling in a corner, far too close for etiquette sake, the king staring at them like they’re prey,,, seeing all 3 retreat to the royal chambers,,,

EVERYBODY KNOWS

pls bestie I love this so much, Rasputin has been playing in my head for 2 days

[abyssalpriest]

Horses, back to the basics.

Horses represent the body, the movement, the expression when the consciousness is knitted so tightly into the body that it forgets there's a difference. It's part of why, I think, horses represent the Wind to him as the Sky, and the Ocean to him as Poseidon, tangled in this intricate web of body - expression - vehicle - speech - machinery. Of course it's complex, because that's what expression and existence together is: the nearly-synchronised bird flock of ragtag functions and anatomy and symbols and endless eras of history woven together into something that works, but you don't need to know how it works. Why do you laugh at your friend's stupid jokes? Why does the horse buck and bounce and run?

I spent time with him in the Astral the other night, running as a horse again. Specifically: Running as one of his horses, or even more specifically: Running, with his blessing, tied into his energy, where I became the meaning in the words he spoke, the consciousness in the machine. He followed me, invisible ropes tied into invisible tack, lines of causation and sight watching me. I was harmonious with his resonance, the only word I can give the watery waves of existence like quiet radio signals in the rooms of sleeping infants the world over, abstract, but not, that were him as the Lord of all waters of birth and death, the universe we live in. The movement, the buzzing, it didn't call me to do anything but exist with him. Everything - he as the waters, and all the other factors in reality - moved around us, all there was to do was be.

I was running like we used to across Astral plains and unfinished places, my flesh and muscles more real than they've ever been over there, splitting myself into herds and moving as one in many forms like a mass of organs forming a body. The world was a blur, like a psychedelic early AI video, machine dreaming that couldn't capture a reality other than its own. I saw my flesh meld into machine parts of complex technology this world hasn't seen yet, and saw that meld into muscles, and that meld into paintings, and that into machines again, all like risings and fallings of the understandings early AI had of shapes and relative beinghood. Metal, wires, divisions and mergences, symbiotic flesh-metal - symbiotic in the way that these visions fed into each other and supported and wouldn't exist without each other. Strings of the Universe itself raced overhead like telephone wires and played like sitar strings, I could see them vibrate over expanses bigger than this planet itself inside the air around me, outside this planet, through all. Reds, purples, all shadowed into muted tones by the hushed blanket of a silent operating room dimly lit, intimately safe, where the Universe itself would be both split open and loved.

Horses. They are embodiment enjoyed. There is simplicity in them that, if I look at it close enough, mirrors exactly the purpose I gave: They're embodiment and expression not dissected but lived. I'm looking at a book in one of his libraries, or more so in one of his internal libraries in his consciousness, and it shows me memories of horses racing across steppes - which are actually grand oceans - and when I keep poking for symbolism the answer is simplicity, is constant literal messages of where he has been, what he has done, when he has spoken freely. In fact, I'm confronted by a vision of him standing in front of me as a horse, aura glowing in a colour I can't place but leans towards the yellow gold of a sunrise. He is - that is a full sentence, "he is", - and he invites to play. This, the horse, is hands reached to the audience, simplicity of blood and flesh, like creatures, like beings, even worlds apart. Is he father? Is he lover? Is he patriarch, incarnated as child, nature spirit, resident god...? Whatever he is to all those who answer he will play with them as horse in the fields, that is the horse.

There's something I'm missing though, a reason I wanted to get involved in this symbol and write on it. There's so much to say about his role: The Blue, the god who runs and crashes through things destabilising Towers, or who leads change and progression, or ploughs the fields, or who carries the children and the civilisation, or who pulls chariots for war, or so on, and who eventually spears himself and gives his meat to the people. That's always a thing with him, always prescient of and reverent to the coming end both of others and his own, always focused on cycles and his role of taking until he is set to give back as nature dictates. Washing fish up on the shore, swallowing men into the depths... But this isn't it. No, there's something specific I'm after in here.

I think the relationship he has with mankind is found in the horse, and maybe that is something encompassed by all of this that I've just said. To run with, to work for, to die for, those who are underneath his Blue Ocean like the cycles of rain themselves singing to his string-played songs... Machine and flesh, giving and taking, existing physically and mentally as yourself, with your herd, with your lands, playing, fighting, living to your heart's content.

[onlinesikhstore]

Sikh Brass Kara Collar Edged Lines Singh Kada 22ct Gold Look Hindu Bangle OK1

Sikh Brass Kara Collar Edged Lines Singh Kada 22ct Gold Look Hindu Bangle OK1

Design No. OK1

Weight of kara is approx. 25-50g (Variable due to different sizes)

Thickness and width is 8mm x 4mm.

Life Guarantee for Shine. These will stay stunning for their Life and will not rust at all. Non-allergic to skin.

Apart from religious values Kara are the best to be given as a remembrance/memorable gift. Hence, a brilliant gift idea for loved ones.

These Kara are one of the Sikh Kakars.

These Karas are from the Holy and blessed City of Amritsar (The City of Golden Temple/Darbar Sahib/Shiri Harmandir Sahib Ji).

Please choose variation size while buying or mention it to us in your note:

Please measure diameter of your old kara or 3 and half knuckles of your fist then choose size from the variations.

Please read below more Information about Sikh Kara:

A kara (Punjabi: ਕੜਾ (Gurmukhi), کڑا (Shahmukhi) कड़ा (Devanagari)), is a steel or iron (sarb loh) bracelet, worn by all initiated Sikhs. It is one of the five kakars or 5Ks — external articles of faith — that identify a Sikh as dedicated to their religious order. The kara was instituted by the tenth Sikh guru Gobind Singh at the BaisakhiAmrit Sanskar in 1699. Guru Gobind Singh Ji explained:

> He does not recognise anyone else except me, not even the bestowal of charities, performance of merciful acts, austerities and restraint on pilgrim-stations; the perfect light of the Lord illuminates his heart, then consider him as the immaculate Khalsa.

The kara is to constantly remind the Sikh disciple to do God's work, a constant reminder of the Sikh's mission on this earth and that he or she must carry out righteous and true deeds and actions, keeping with the advice given by the Guru. The Kara is a symbol of unbreakable attachment and commitment to God. It is in the shape of a circle which has no beginning and no end, like the eternal nature of God. It is also a symbol of the Sikh brotherhood. As the Sikhs' holy text theGuru Granth Sahib says "In the tenth month, you were made into a human being, O my merchant friend, and you were given your allotted time to perform good deeds." Similarly, Bhagat Kabir reminds the Sikh to always keep one's consciousness with God: "With your hands and feet, do all your work, but let your consciousness remain with the Immaculate Lord."

The basic kara is a simple unadorned steel bracelet, but other forms exist. It was historically used like a knuckle-duster for hand-to-hand combat. Battlefield variations include kara with spikes or sharp edges. Sikh soldiers of the British Indian army would settle disputes by competing in a form of boxing known as loh-musti (lit. iron fist) with a kara on one hand.

Brilliant finish and very decorative. Ideal gift item for loved ones.

Buyers may also consider to arrange their own postage and can send us the link or pre paid postage label.

Postage discounts for multi-buys.

Any questions please do not hesitate to contact us.

P.S. Colour of item may slightly vary due to camera flash and light condition. Some kara may have negligible small black grinding mark on the kara joint. This is always seen on all kara as most of the Kara making/shaping work is done by hands. However, this do not affect the quality/look of kara.

Please note size may vary plus minus 1mm due to measurement variability.

Please note there will be an additional postage charges payable by buyer incase of swap or exchange due to size. Therefore, we request buyer to measure their old kara diameter before choosing size from variations. Return postage will be paid by the buyer. Any P&p charges paid will be non-refundable.

Please note there may be a grinding/minor scruff marks on kara joints that happens due to grinding the stainless steel joint. As someone who has ever visited Kara stores in Amritsar must have witnessed that these Kara come in jumbles and mostly made manually by hand. However, We follow proper grading/selection procedures before getting these kara but still sometimes it is hard to get the perfection and I hope it is understandable. Incase, you are not happy with quality, please do let us know and we will issue you the full refund after verification. Stay blessed and please buy with confidence!

[spiritsoffrance]

Everything you Need to Know About Cognac

What is Cognac? Find out from the Experts!

Cognac, the French spirit as we all know was produced in the Cognac region in France, in the districts of Charante and Charante-Maritime. 

The distillation and manufacturing of Cognac, require special skills, following AOC rules, and equipment hence it is impossible to make it anywhere else in the world.

The knowledge of the makers, and their skills in culmination with the weather and soil of the region is perhaps what makes Cognac, the drink of the Gods! 

The lustrous colour and the smell of a bottle of aged Cognac are sure to give a whirl to your senses. The world will forever be indebted to France for producing such extraordinary liquor. 

The first production of Cognac can be traced back to the 16th Century. Previously considered to be the nightcap for most, Cognac now is one of the most expensive drinks in the world. 

All products of Cognac is supervised by the Appellation d'origine contrôlée or the AOC, the French governing body.

What is Cognac made from?

God bless the creator of Alcohol! It is absolutely miraculous to know that a simple grapefruit when smashed, distilled, and aged in big oak barrels can create something so unique and at the same time make you a tipsy-toe.

Cognac is made from a group of range of Grapes. 

Today, a dedicated group of 6000 growers is maintaining the grape vines in the Charante region to create this fascinating liquor. 

And the history of Cognac is as entrancing as the liquor itself!

The Dutch were technically the creator of Cognac. When the Dutch arrived in France, they were unable to keep their wine drinkable. And since wine makes daily life easier with less tension, the tolerance level of the Dutch people was sky high and they started making their own liquor. 

In the initial days, they named the liquor Brandwijn, or burnt wine. This name primarily originated from its dark brown colour. 

Cognac was shipped to the ports of Eastern Europe in the 17th Century. Having a glass of Cognac, during the old days set a standard for being a class apart! Such was the calibre of Cognac.

Cognac vs. Armagnac

Both Armagnac and Cognac are produced in France, still, there are quite a few differences when it comes to the taste, colour, flavour, and alcohol content of both drinks. 

Cognac is distilled in copper pot stills and aged in big Troncias or Limousine Oak Barrels, whereas Armagnac is distilled in alembic stills and aged in Limousine Oak Barrels. 

The flavours of Cognac are different from that of Armagnac as Armagnac is distilled for a long period of time, giving it a more viscous and darker texture. 

Cognac was produced 200 years later to the production of Armagnac and hence it was quite a popular one.

A premium bottle of Cognac can make you the center of attention. But never forget that it can cost you quite a couple of dollars too!

Armagnac is distilled once in a copper still, whilst Cognac is double distilled in a pot still.

How to serve Cognac?

Veterans usually enjoy Cognac by gulping it straight from the glass. However, that is going to be quite a thing for the newbies. Hence the best way for them is to have Cognac cocktails. 

The French Connection cocktail is known for its exquisite taste. Pour some Cognac into a glass and mix with some Amaretto Liquor. Let it sit for a while and then enjoy! 

The best way to drink cognac is where you take a glass, pour some Cognac, and warm it with your hands. Light a cigar that is similar to the flavour of Cognac to balance the taste. Take one sip and one puff of the cigar and enjoy your drink. Cogan is also considered to be one of the best after-dinner beverages. 

There are innumerable benefits of drinking Cognac as it is considered to be one of the best heart supporters. At the same time, Cognac is known to reduce the risks of blood clots which in turn lowers the risk of heart disease. Another great aspect of Cognac is that is perfect for the ones who try to maintain their weight. Since Cognac contains less than 100 calories, some say it is even healthier than whisky. 

Characteristic of Cognac 

By now, we all know that Cognac is made from grapes. It is double distilled and aged in wooden barrels before being ready for sale in the markets. Some consider Cognac to be mellow and quite affordable. Sophisticated for most, the scale of Cognac seems to be pretty high compared to most liquors available in the market. 

Now to understand the best Cognac, you must be acquainted with the taste, colour, and smell of this particular drink.

Colour - The colour of Cognac is drastically different from others as it has a typical reddish-brown shade.

Taste - The taste depends on how long it is aged, the barrel, the grapes, year of grape products and much more. Cognac usually has a sweet fruity taste. At times it can have a spicy bitter taste as well.

Smell - Cognac has a fruity smell. From peaches to plums and prunes, a vintage bottle of Cognac can make you smell figs, dried apricots and much more.

Shop Premium Cognac from Spirits of France

To all the veterans out there, how would you feel to have an age-old vintage bottle of Cognac? Won’t you like to have God’s own drink in your collection?  

Now the question is where would you get the authentic and vintage Cognac? 

Your quest to find that treasure trove comes to an end! At Spirits of France, we bring you a variety of premium and exotic Cognac, that are sure to make you head over heels. 

Choose the best one for you by looking at our premium collection of Cognac and surprise everyone!

Visit our website at https://spiritsoffrance.com.au/  to get your own bottle of Cognac today! 

[seabysiren]

more streamer au! 141 task force.

part I

when he's not streaming, simon works as a day labourer in contruction. simon likes it because he can just. work. it helps him keep in shape without having to be a desk job or a cashier somewhere.

it's physically tolling but rewarding. he used to work every single day without rest, but with his new channel he takes sunday off to record and check in on his mum.

when simon turned 18 was when everything turned into gear. he had enough money saved up to rent an apartment his mum and brother could move into. away from his drunk, abusive father.

that's why he worked his ass off every day to support his recovering mother and his drug addict of a brother.

but despite being a streamer, his family and friends take first priority. doesn't matter how much or how little he makes. what matters is that his mum is in a better place and that his brother can get help.

he had moved in with you a few months ago because it was an easier commute to work that way. closer to the city, but an easy drive over to his mum's apartment in case of emergency.

he still uses the pc setup in your room, but it was starting to feel a bit inconvenient. simon didn't care as long as he got the job done, but you knew this setup was going to get worse with the limited amount of space and random recording equipment.

so while he was off at his job, you had one goal in mind. renovate the empty basement into a proper streaming room. that included running around and buying those funny styrofoam pannels that's supposed to go on the wall.

it took a few hours to buy what you wanted. you got this really nice desk, LED lights, and a high quality microphone from ikea. bless ikea, because really this little project wouldn't have been possible without it.

you painted the room before you set anything else in it. you knew that simon liked monochrome colours, so you had a different variations of light grey, dark grey, grey and black around the room.

you set up three pcs in the room. all decked out with nice microphones and double monitors to make it easier to see the recording and chat. you really don't know why you bought three setups, but you just had a feeling.

with two pcs you could play together with simon.

with three pcs you could do... something.

you'd figure that out later.

-

turns out simon had figured that out without even having to talk to you.

there's this new fella on the construction sight. strange scottish man without a filter and a loud, loud voice.

he says call him john.

simon calls him johnny.

and he's an absolute muppet.

simon scowls everytime he gets paired up with johnny, but johnny only breaks out into a big grin while he talks.

"looks like i'm with you boss!"

cue simon's famous death glare.

"don't call me that."

despite the fact that simon barely talked, johnny talks for the both of them. he likes to ramble about his home town in scotland.

"scotland foreva!" simon just hit him over the head the first time he did that.

"we're in manchester you bloody muppet."

johnny loves to ramble. talking about his old neighbor who seemed a little like a drug dealer. or his theory on mattress buildings being fronts to laundering money.

"cause come on! have you 'ever seen someone in there? selling mattresses?? and they never go out of business. there's this one store in my hometown that has been open for over thirty years despite no one ever being parked in the lot."

he's gotta point though.

simon's gone from calling him johnny to soap. because he only has shower thoughts twenty four seven. it never stops.

never.

despite acting like he's a nuisance, simon likes johnny. its nice to finally talk to someone other than yer mum or yer flatmate.

but by god. soap for the love of god cannot stop with his scottish slang. something that sounds less and less like english and more like he's having a stroke.

"yer off yeir heid!"

"do you need to go to the hospital? ya' sound like yer havin' a stroke."

johnny did not have to go to the hospital. but from the amounts of times he's hit his head has simon wondering if he has a permanent concussion. or that his brain is really small and rattling around like a plinko game.

-

the joke is a scot and a brit walked into a bar.

there's no punch line.

because there's no bar.

because your house is not a damn bar.

lets do that again.

ahem

a bloody scot and a brit stomped into the front door.

you are estatic that simon's made a friend. cooing over him embarrassingly as you look the scot up and down.

"omg simon you did it. you made a friend."

"that's enough." johnny snickers in the background, earning a glare from simon.

you and johnny click instantly. the bro code or something, he claims.

the both of you thrive off the chaotic energy. simon just looks at you exasperated.

johnny also likes snooping around. instead of asking for a house tour he's shot off like a rocket. trying to find simon's room so he can steal something.

simon's running after him.

they both look like maniacs.

johnny thought simon slept in the basement. because he has that vibe. the monochrome palette. his sarcasm. the way he constantly squints when the sun gets past noon. because damn it has no reason to be that bright.

instead the two are met with the sight of your newly finished project. leds light the ceiling in a soft purple, illuminating softly pulsing lamps sitting on nice, dark wood desks. the monitors are all off, but the sheer amount of technology in this room makes his jaw hit the floor.

"ya got a stream room??"

simon looks at you in confusion too.

you smile sheepishly while you rub the back of your neck.

"yeah. had to do somethin' with the basement. and since simon needed more space."

johnny's eyes grow bigger than his damn brain.

"you??? stream????"

shocked pikachu face.

because johnny would've pegged you as a streamer with your light and teasing personality. not silent, brooding moody simon.

plot twist. simon's famous.

johnny's immediately begging for his channel name. cause come on, he has to have proof.

"ther' no way yer a streamer."

he is, in fact, a streamer. one that's rapidly growing with his feral fanbase.

johnny is still gawking by the morning.

-

one thing led to another, and it turns out johnny loves to record too. you had this dumb little idea to see if johnny could be a little guest on the channel. because don't get me wrong, simon's popular. but he needs a bit more. like company.

its ghost. and soap. and you, their little editor.

the chaos of these two when their recording together. simon let him onto the server once and suddenly half his house is blown up and soap's got an army of dogs.

he enslaves all the villagers and kills off half the farm.

or when ghost just wanted to relax and answer some Q&A questions that were long overdue.

he talked a bit about what he likes, favorite food, his opinion of communism.

and soap turned it from a question stream to a shower thought stream.

"ya know the ocean's a soup rite?"

simon sighs into the microphone.

"got the base of the soup. like the seaweed. got a bit of meat and fish. vegetables. sea cucumbers."

you had to write a warning that you cannot, in fact, just drink salt water out of the ocean. because it doesn't work that way. dont drink the forbidden soup.

chaos trio.

ghost, the chronically tired parent. and his two leash children mr soap "omg i just got a thought!" and you, who likes to edit the captions so that ghost is called babygirl.

he's not amused.

you and johnny now call him babygurl.

and half his fanbase too.

it's never gonna go away.

the ghost force had evolved from just this brit to + scot + editor + chaos.

you just put a warning in the beginning of any video that soap's in. because the scot himself needs a warning label.

:)

blurb I

[4dtk]

Hi hi congrats on this huge milestone!!! Have loved your writing for a super long time. Can I request a jeno / best friends to lovers & rich kids au / 🤍 / it’s just you and me, it’s always been you and me

thank youuu, hope i did this justice!! edit: was wondering why this was so empty and i forgot to add the fucking colour bars lmao

smiling politely, you send off another suitor with a hand as you sip, bored, from your glass of champagne. the lot of people coming forth to ask for a dance was never-ending, since they liked to suck up to the richest and wealthiest — while people saw it as a blessing, you just thought it hindered you immensely — in order to win the heart of the (l/n) family. faintly, you can make out another disappointed sigh from your mother, but while she’s not one to force you, she finds herself becoming impatient.

“you look like you could use saving.” jeno. oh, thank god. jeno waltzes right up to you, comically adjusting his shoulders where the suit jacket ran a bit tight. stifling a giggle, you skilfully pull on the sleeve, working out a fold that acted as the uncomfortable sensation. “never mind.”

“how did you not even check your sleeve?” rolling your eyes with a smile, you look around the vast ballroom, frankly disinterested with the whole thing despite the array of food and attractive people waiting for your hand. it wasn’t like you were ungrateful or anything, but you didn’t exactly like people, like mingling. apart from lee jeno, he was different.

part of your life since he was young, the lee family was a frequent patron of yours, always bringing their son along to view the countless amount of paintings and sculptures and artwork your big house possessed. you didn’t even know why you owned them, but the questions faded away when you played with jeno for the first time. it felt like a fresh breath of air, seeing such a new face and yet feeling like you’ve met before in past lives.

jeno’s nudge to your side snaps you out of the memory, a hand outstretched in front of you, “so, what do ya say?”

your laughter is prominent once jeno starts to pull you through the corridors of the mansion, escaping the party set for you for the moment you’ve reached your twenties. with a shaking hand and frantic hands, all you could voice out to your parents was that you’d rather just hang out with jeno, but they were adamant on a celebration, since “it’s been a long time since you’ve seen your other friends!”

the star of the birthday party winds up in the many confusing passageways of the house, far far away from the ballroom where shoes clack against the marble floor and there’s the occasional swish of your dress in the midst of running. jeno’s hold on your hand is tight as he brings you to the one place only he knows about in your mansion, looking prim and proper in his suit and yet he craved for anything but.

he craved for you, not your fancy gold-rimmed Monet pieces or the replica of the Veiled Lady in the living room. he’s happy to have known the real you, away from the hard-to-breathe outfits and the customs put on your shoulders. when your feet ached from walking in a straight line, jeno had the luxury of seeing you stumble drunk after a late night of drinking. when your smile remained tight-lipped to other families and company, jeno couldn’t get your shrill, yet beatific laugh out of his mind, held back from no boundaries as you consume yet another episode of BuzzFeed Unsolved.

here, you were broken off from the chains of being an heir. it was tiring — jeno understood, and yet there was much pressure for you than it was for him. he could see it in the way you looked over the estate longingly, eyes empty as if the world’s riches couldn’t satisfy you.

“what’s on your mind?” you asked quietly, sipping from your champagne flute as you let the breeze card through your hair.

“would it be weird if i said you?”

you laugh, a beautiful sound that jeno wants to reply over and over. to his relief, you shake your head.

“i’m me, why wouldn’t you think of me?” and even if you don’t know jeno’s real intentions, you didn’t protest against your best friend harbouring some thoughts of you. “what about me are you thinking about?”

“oh, i don’t know. maybe of how you cried not even five minutes into the fourth Toy Story, or… thinking of the time that you tripped over the clothes on the floor when you had your fitting appointment. i have a lot fo other stories from where that came from—” you’ve already cut him off in the middle of his recall of your mishaps, shoving him to the side on the narrow balcony of the mansion. below you was endless seas of foliage and greenery, eyes sometimes meeting with the flowers and fruits of the family garden

“you’re so annoyi—”

“i’m also thinking of the time you looked at the sky for the first time,” jeno turns to you suddenly, hand tightening on the parapet of the balcony that he felt like Juliet in her frustration of not being able to be with Romeo, “the way your mouth opened in awe and your eyes held a thousand, no, million galaxies.”

“jeno…” he holds up a hand with this eyes, something you’ve always found yourself drawn to, along with the little mole under his right eye. “b-but your parents…”

“i’m also thinking of the way you guide the horses out of the stable so gently, but look so confident the moment you’re on the saddle, taunting me from the front as you ride ahead into the forest of your house. the way your hands travel over their mane while they drink from the pond while your look like a nymph that got lost on its way. it was a mere figment of my imagination that there was for sure, translucent wings fluttering at your back.”

the corners of your lips turn up in a soft smile, “you’ve been taking poetry classes very seriously, huh?”

jeno only groans, embarrassed and red from his declaration that you’re soon untangling him from his heap of shame, placing a hand on his either biceps. the champagne flute balanced on the parapet nicely, waiting to drop. gently, you brush the stray strand of hair away from his face, giving him a hesitant touch to his cheek. swallowing, you go back to your first point, not exactly ready to confront your feelings just yet.

“don’t you already have a fiancé set out for you?” you whisper, sighing shakily as jeno’s arms wraps around your waist.

“well, i don’t care. my family’s going to listen to me whether they like it or not.”

“what if they don’t?”

“they will. they will because it’s you,” jeno explains plainly, hypnotising you with strokes of his thumb against your torso. it works so well that you don’t even hear your parents looking for you, calling out your name so you could cut your cake. “it’s just you and me, it’s always been you and me, and i’d be damned if i bear the weight of another’s ring on my finger before yours.”

“so does that mean you’ll go back to your fiancé after i pass?”

jeno groans again, this time earning a loud laugh from you that the other can’t help but smile either, taking in you and your flawlessness under the chilly moonlight as he rests his forehead on yours. easily, he already gains energy from being so close to you, admiring the very same star-filled eyes he described and the surreality that comes with your presence.

“i’m just kidding, also, can i kiss my best friend now?”

“you aren’t kidding with that one, right?”

you roll your eyes for the second time that night, tugging him by his tie to crash your lips onto his, tasting just like how you’ve always imagined it. lee jeno was different, different from you despite having the riches like you do — he was poised, rarely tripping, he was composed and contained, and just like how the stars find home in your irises, the sunlight bouncing off of his was enough to give you whiplash.

when you went out for horseback riding, all you could see was the golden hues from afar, sparkling with the reflection of the water, of the slight drizzle that falls on you. jeno looks like actuality in a world that felt like a fairytale. he felt raw and real and ardent in his love, whether it be his family or friends or you.

jeno’s lips move against you like a daydream, tilting his head to deepen the kiss just as his elbow knocks down the glass. none of you pay attention, though, the impact softened by the grass below as you continued the kiss, melting in his embrace just like ice over fire, cold over heat, willing yourself and giving all of you to him on the balcony similar to Romeo & Juliet’s, except your story ended in anything but tragedy.

EVENT CLOSED (thank you!)

[little-coffins4]

Dinner

(Heavy content ahead! Implications of rape/non-con and such other themes.)

Finney was different. 

At least, that’s what he said. To be frank, Finney wouldn’t usually be inclined to believe Albert– or Al, as he had begun to insist upon– about anything. But as far as he’s aware, he is right. After all, he’s still alive. Albert had killed the others shortly after their captures. A few days, a week at most between the day he’d grabbed them and the day he’d gutted them. But here Finney was, nearly six months later, still trapped in that shithole.

God really must hate him. Perhaps it was his retribution for not believing in Him. If it is, he's not really making a convincing argument for Himself.

In this time, Albert had made some… improvements, if you could consider them such. He’d gifted Finney with all sorts of items to decorate the dingy basement he now called home. The phone still remained hung on the wall; Albert had tried taking it down once and for all, but Finney had put up enough of a fight that he just let it be. He finally had bedding, which was quite the blessing. It was still painfully cold down there, enough to numb his fingers and toes at night if not covered up, but the blanket helped mitigate it. 

He’d also given him a TV. It had no colour, a simple small, black and white television box, but it was his first glimpse into the outside world in so long, that he just found himself so… transfixed by it. He could watch what he pleased, Saturday morning cartoons, cheesy action movies, those horror flicks that his father would’ve beaten him for watching… He was free to view whatever. None of those, however, were the first thing he watched when he got the television. No, the first thing he watched was the news. Were they still looking for him? Plastering his face everywhere? Would he see teary-eyed interviews with his father and sister, neighbours or, hell, schoolmates?

Instead, he saw none of the above. Each day Finney turned the TV on to the news, he was met with varying different topics, but rarely was he and his abduction among them. Recent car accidents, a few natural disasters outside of town, but never anything on the progress of the search for him.

A few weeks into having this new luxury, Finney found out exactly why he hadn’t seen anything about himself. They had declared him dead. He was just another victim– a sixth boy, taken and assumed dead. No body to speak of just like the others, and with the length of time he’d been gone without a trace… They had assumed the worst.

They weren’t looking for him, alive at least. They were more concerned about possible future victims than anything. They didn't know that Finney was a current and perhaps future victim. That he hadn't yet ended up buried or burned or dumped wherever that freak put the others.

He was still in danger every single day, and nobody even knew it. They had moved on.

His odds were worsened at the arrest of John Wayne Gacy. The nation all had their eyes on him and him alone, locating the bodies of the thirty-three missing boys and young men. Suddenly, six missing boys were not as interesting, as captivating to the ever wandering public eye. That case took precedent, and Finney… Finney knew that he wasn’t going to be found. 

Finney was stuck, whether he liked it or not. He wasn’t getting out. Away from Albert.

That is besides the point. It’s a topic better not dwelled on.

Later on in his stay, Finney learned that the person in the house was Albert’s brother. He’d lost his job and home to a nasty habit of his, and Albert had no choice but to let him into his home. He’d managed to get him out eventually when he was stable enough to keep a shitty little apartment, but until then Albert rarely visited him. 

Finney preferred that. Less Albert, he means.

When his brother had gone, however, at very select times of the evening and night he would let him upstairs. He could finally bath regularly, though Albert always insisted upon being present to keep an eye on him. He didn’t like it. But he needed to bathe, even just every once in a while, so eventually he gave in and just bathed with him in the room. Thankfully his dignity was preserved just a tad, as he allowed Finney to pull the shower curtain in place, but he wasn’t so lucky when it came to drying off and dressing.

The fork Finney held clicked against his teeth as he cautiously took another bite of the dinner Albert had made. He’d cooked spaghetti, using a sauce that came from a can topped with grated marble cheese, but after mostly eating bland scrambled eggs for so long… It was one of the best things he’d ever tasted. As much as he wanted to scarf it all down, Finney refrained. After all, there Albert was, sat across from him at the table, staring at him intently.

Tonight he wore the mask that only covered his lower face, watching him with eyes that drank in his every movement, no matter how bland or uninteresting it may be.

He’d never get used to it. The staring.

He woke up semi-regularly to Albert in the basement, watching him in silence. He wasn’t exactly sure what the look on his face meant at the beginning, but since then he’d realised.

It was admiration, affection, love, whatever you may call it.

It was disturbing in the truest sense of the word. It felt so… wrong. He shouldn’t love him, care for him, admire him! He’d abducted him, taken him off the street and away from his family, away from his sister! He’d torn his life to shreds, and yet there he was, watching him from across the small dinner table with eyes far too soft then they had any right to be.

It was disgusting. Albert was disgusting. He made Finney feel gross every time he looked at him, made his skin crawl with unease and disdain.

“How is it?” Albert finally spoke. He ran his hand through the back of his hair, maintaining his attention on Finney.

For a moment, Finney debated whether or not he should answer. He could ignore him, pretend he hadn’t heard a word he’d said. Or he could insult him, say it was the worst thing he’d ever eaten. But Albert was too unpredictable. He could simply give him a hurt look and go quiet, or he could yell, scream and perhaps even get violent.

He decided to go with the far more palatable response of, “It’s… fine.”

Albert nods and smiles. At least, he thinks he’s smiling. The way his eyes crinkle at the edges give it away.

“Good, that’s good! I’m glad you like it!” His voice was light, floaty, even. His tone of voice so often varies, and Finney never knows how he’ll sound next. Will his voice be a low, agitated rumble? Or will he be cheery, childish, almost? The masks are a bit of an indicator, he’s found. Still, he can’t say that he knows for sure.

Finney hadn’t said he’d liked it. He doesn’t bother to correct him on that, however. That nutcase can think whatever he pleases.

“Well, I’ll keep that in mind. You know, now that the idiot is gone, you and I have this whole house to ourselves, you know? I can cook some nicer meals for you. No more scrambled eggs!” 

That, at least, was a good sign. Finney hadn’t particularly minded scrambled eggs before his abduction, but now… he’d prefer to never eat it again for the rest of his life.

“... Does that mean I won’t have to be in the basement as much?”

It was the smallest, barest hint of hope. He’d thought he’d had it sucked dry, but the idea that he could be upstairs more often, closer to the front door and windows… An escape could potentially be possible.

“Well…” Albert began thoughtfully, twirling a strand of long hair in front of his face. “I think it could be possible. I’ll have to keep an eye on you, of course. You may be a good boy, Finney, but good boys still act naughty sometimes.”

Finney couldn’t help the way his face twitched at that.

Albert giggled.

What a fucking lunatic.

Finney took in a long, deep breath before sighing. “Okay.”

“Okay?” Albert echoed, voice carrying a questioning lilt.

“I said okay. To you keeping an… eye on me, or whatever.”

Albert reached across the table. Instinctually, Finney wanted to duck away from his hand, to shy away from his touch. Still, he fought back the instinct and sat rigid. Albert ran his fingers through his curls, in a way not too dissimilar to what he'd done on the first day he’d been here. Once he’d been content with playing with his hair, Albert’s hand slid down from the top of his head to rest on his cheek, touching him with such gentleness it was off-putting. His thumb rubbed just beneath his eye and along the cheekbone, touch feather light.

There he was, looking at him again with that filthy look again. The adoration, admiration, love, whatever. Whichever word you chose to describe it with, was a disservice to the word itself. The expression was a derogatory perversion of love. A sullied version conjured by a man with a mind which didn’t quite work right. Neural pathways that didn’t connect the way they should, forming a skewed worldview and understanding of physical and emotional connection.

It made him feel dirty. Albert made Finney feel dirty.

“You really are different from those other boys, Finney Shaw.”

[wincore]

atlas | kim dongyoung

pairing: doyoung x reader

words: 15.4k

summary: kim doyoung has a lot of titles. student body president, music club president, favourite student of every professor who’s blessed enough to have him. in other words, he’s not your type and never will be. at least he’s a good kisser.

or, you feel the weight of the world on your shoulders and you do not know how to hold things as delicate as glass.

genre: college au, fwb au, hurt/comfort, angst, some fluff 

warnings: very suggestive content, making out, language, smoking, alcohol, mentions of sex under influence, me being pretentious,,

prompt: anonymous said: slippery + doyoung + "you can rely on me, you know." from the first dialogue link! LOVE YOU ❤️

song rec(s): playlist here !

a/n: yes it’s me experimenting out of my comfort zone again. yes you are required by law to listen to keshi while reading this hahahaha anyway writing this was painful. <3 (aka today i tried writing very complex human emotions and failed again. classic.)

In the beginning, there was no beginning. Ergo, this isn’t really a thing.

You shouldn’t be thinking of summer in Introduction to Latin. You are a good (perhaps great, if your ego allows) student after all. Here you are, though, listening to the ticking of the clock and wondering if you sigh loud enough, you won’t have to construct another sentence with the word for ‘death’. You pause to tell yourself that you shouldn’t be thinking of summer out of class either. Unremarkable; that's what it was and you don’t like unremarkable things.

When two people end up alone together, there’s not much to make of. 

“You know,” he had said, locking eyes. “We should get out of here.”

“And then what?”

“Fuck.”

So here’s the thing: this isn’t and won’t be a thing.

Doyoung has never been subtle when drunk, you found out, and he’s not as gentle as he looks. You flip the page of your notebook absentmindedly. You don’t like where your thoughts are going; the clinking of ice against glass rings in your ears again. It’s been far too long (one whole month) and you’re craving a bit of fun. You may forget yourself but you’re reaching your fingertips a little too far to call him again. More excuses pop up. See, in your world of perfection, there’s a hierarchy of things; men rank rather low. 

(Fun doesn’t.)

Here’s another thing: you forget yourself quite often. You know very well that you’re the one who continued this not-thing and now you’re daydreaming of Kim Doyoung in class hours. 

And under grey bed sheets with a tired smile, Doyoung is hard to forget. 

It was a party, it always is. That time, however, was the first party of the year Doyoung and you happened to be attending at the same time. You can’t remember who hosted it—the frat probably—but it was at a bar called the ‘The Meeting Place’ which had too many people you didn’t care about. Doyoung was there, in his laid-back glory, and you were drawn in far too easily. Being single did not help your case—and the alcohol certainly didn’t. You’re not sure if it was the gentle touches against your wrist or quick words that left his mouth or the attractive all-black get-up. All you know is that it was your mouth against his by the end of the night in a small booth, hot and impatient. Once, twice, thrice and you didn’t even need parties anymore. 

It’s not like you weren’t aware of what you were doing; it’s just that you were quick to give in—like you didn’t want to resist in the first place. And now, summer smells like Doyoung’s perfume. 

The first night had given Mr. Student Body President a near-stroke. You weren’t the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men at parties either so the morning had been full of awkward explanations to each other till you’d kissed him to shut him up (much like in a disgusting romantic comedy, minus the feelings) and somehow, it worked. He didn’t refuse and if you recall, he’d eventually pulled you closer by the waist.

You huff, twirling your pen. He’d never admit it.

You didn’t kiss so sloppily after that, unless it was to make out against a wall or while fumbling with the keys to your apartment. The lack of alcohol can bring wonders. You were a little surprised that he’d agreed—he is the Doyoung you’ve known since freshman year after all; blunt, rude, cares more for his grades than he’d ever for you. How laughable. He’s almost the same as you.

Here’s one last thing: Kim Doyoung is not and cannot be your type. 

You had the same part-time job in your second semester at a local fast food joint, and to summarize, your interactions were less than friendly. You can’t possibly count the number of times he yelled at you for trivial mistakes, and the number of times you sent angry, clipped sentences his way. So, yes, neither of you have told anyone—just acting friendly got you enough eyebrow raises.  If there’s anything worse than contradicting yourself almost directly, it’s having to explain that to your friends. So, you kept it a secret and so did he, for his own reasons.

You massage your forehead. If you think any more of this during class hours, you’re going to have to classify this as a terrible, terrible problem; like you don’t have enough already. You tune in to the lecture again, hoping it drowns out the rest of your thoughts. 

You tap your pen against the desk till you’re asked to stop by the professor. There goes your last resort. It isn’t the first time, but you breathe a sigh of relief at the hands of the clock. Casual means casual—you know it better than anyone. Maybe it would be easier if you could be more open about it. But you can’t. Your own problems aside, Doyoung would kill you if his reputation went down, even a nick. Men like that are so difficult, you curse to yourself. 

You run into Ten in the hallways, brightening at his absurdly wide grin. In fact, you haven’t seen him remotely upset since freshman year, when he couldn’t join the dance club, not because he failed the audition but because he mixed up the dates and missed it entirely. (It’s okay; he got in the next year.)

“Guess what!” he yells before you’re even in conversation range.

“What?” you yell back.

“No, guess,” he says, when you’re close enough.

You roll your eyes. “You scored a date?”

Ten deadpans. “No. I don’t even want one.”

“Loser.”

“No, you.”

“How clever.”

Ten flicks your forehead with no provocation whatsoever, making you yelp in pain. After a minute of cursing on your part, he squishes your cheeks to bring you back to reality—like he wasn’t the cause. You bite your lip to keep yourself from scowling. His hair is still light brown from the bleach, and you fix his bangs out of habit; your dumb friends are all you have at the end of the day. You sigh. They all lean on you unwittingly.

“Anyway, the news? I’m not guessing anything else,” you warn, taking a sip of your coffee.

“Well,” he draws out the syllable. “I heard- know you’re into the smart type. You know, student council kinda guys? So…”

You choke, the coffee leaving your mouth just as quick as it entered.

“Who told you that?” The laugh that leaves your mouth is forced and certainly fake but it’s the best you can do.

Ten rolls her eyes, still smiling. “I was thinking if you would be interested in a certain Park Hyungmin.”

Oh. Student body vice-president. He’s most definitely your type, with a gifted body and equally strong academic prowess—not to mention perfectly maintained tan skin and the most radiant smile you’ve ever seen in your life. 

“Oh, yeah, he’s hot,” you nod in agreement. “What do you want me to do with him?”

“He likes you. Like, totally has the hots for you. And I owe him so please help me out here.”

You furrow your brows, heaving a deep sigh.

“You...want me to go on a date with him?” you ask. 

You can oblige. Park Hyungmin is the hottest dude on campus (probably). It’s a win-win situation—in fact, it’s even better. A certain bitter taste finds itself in your mouth. It must be the coffee. You swallow it. 

“Yeah.”

And the deal’s done.

It was casual commitment, like most things you do for fun. You don’t think much of it, and the thought takes its final bow when you run into Doyoung himself.

Well, sort of.

You turn heel when he appears in your line of sight, pretending to fix your hair against a damn wall. You aren’t quite ready to face him yet, considering the coffee hasn’t kicked in—it’s not healthy how much you depend on it. Dependence is different, however, from consciously drowning yourself in it. 

See, Doyoung is anything but tolerable without a few shots of vodka. Or after sex. Or when he’s mumbling in his sleep. And you can’t erase any of those scenes. This is you trying to save yourself (and Doyoung) from embarrassment and a whole lot of explanation.

His coat looks expensive and you’d rather he had it on instead of on his arm. The tucked-in sweater and pants combo accentuates the line of his waist and the colour—you wonder where he found a teal so fitting—looks serene in the crowd. He’s wearing his glasses though, looking a little less put together than usual. Still, no one seems to notice and he continues to explain something to his group of friends.

God forbid you find Doyoung attractive during daytime.

His lips are chapped but pink as ever, the hair messed up by either the wind or his friends—you should stop staring by now. You give in. You’ll text him to book a hotel room tonight.

Sometimes you wonder how he has that large a friend circle, and always, the question answers itself. Eloquence, wit and regrettably, good looks—what does he lack? Maybe if he lost the habit to nag people around fifty-six times a day, he’d be the perfect man.  

An arm slings over your shoulder, punting the soul right out of your body.

“Fuck, Johnny, don’t do that,” you hiss, placing your hand over your chest involuntarily. 

The head of the photography club apparently spends his time terrorizing everyone he remotely knows. You make a foul expression but iIt’s not like he ever minds your scowling. He says he’s had enough practice from teasing Doyoung (and you’ll admit, it’s the only time you feel sorry for him). You were certain Doyoung would have filed him for harassment sometime in sophomore year. 

“What are you even looking at?” Johnny asks, raising an eyebrow at the plain offwhite expanse of the wall in front of you.

You feel hot at the neck. “I was fixing my hair.”

“In front of a wall?”

You click your tongue. “Do you not have class?”

“Oh, don’t be so quick to send me off.” He places a hand over his chest in mock hurt, fingers stretched delicately. 

To your dismay, the rest of his friends gather around giving you happy greetings—greetings only carefree college boys are capable of delivering. To your further dismay, Kim Doyoung arches an eyebrow at you, the same way he does on nights you’re doing things less than appropriate to think of in broad daylight.

“Hey, Doyoung, don’t you have anything to say? Or were you too drunk to remember?”

You bite down on your lip a little too hard. Doyoung, on the other hand, looks like he’s just seen God, stammering out a “what?” nevertheless.

“Weren’t you supposed to buy (name) a drink for driving you home that night?”

“Right,” he says, clearing his throat.

Oh, he’s bought you a drink enough times. Summer has waned but whatever thread you tied around your wrists hasn’t. Right now, your guess is that Doyoung has been ensnared in the common ritual for college boys to walk around campus and declare their friend is single just to embarrass him (or by some miracle, score him a date).

Everything, apart from the way you look at Doyoung, feels like a charade. You shake your head with a quick laugh, smacking Johnny in the arm and pay your condolences to Doyoung—keep it light. You’re good at it, or pretending you’re good at it, at the very least.

Doyoung’s gaze on you lingers for a moment and then you breathe. You’re going to be late for class—you offer the classic excuse and you’re out of there. In a way, it’s exciting. You’ve always wanted to have a secret relationship, even if this isn’t a real one. 

Doyoung is like the summer breeze, and you’d like for him to stay that way.

The next time you grace each other’s presence is when Doyoung’s tongue is in your mouth and his hands are running up under your shirt. 

He’s quite a pretty sight—messy hair, red lips and rosy cheeks. He moans into the kiss as he has quite a few times now and there’s the lovers’ high running through either of your minds. When he presses his lips to your neck, a soft restrained sound escapes you, not quite prepared for the sting of electricity through your skin. He moves to your collarbone and shoulders and then even lower, hands gripping your waist tight. The walls do not have ears here; these hotels are cheap but they’re built for privacy and maybe you’ll let yourself believe for once that you can belong to someone.

“Why did you text me in the middle of the goddamn night?” he mutters against the base of your neck.

“You want reasons now?” you whisper, hands running through his hair.

Doyoung has pretty fingers, pressing at the right places and prettier eyes that look at you with something akin to, dare you say it, love. He kisses you like he hasn’t had enough; and it makes you feel important.

He’s even better when he’s annoyed.

You wake up at around five in the morning. Propping yourself up on one arm, you take a moment to look at your partner. It’s easy to make out the line of his nose against the pillow, and if you focus, you can see his lashes against his cheek and his dark mop of hair clinging to his forehead. However gentle the moonlight is, it is kindest on a lover. 

Funny.

Too tired to sneak out, you go back to sleep.

“All I’m saying is that you have too much coffee,” Doyoung complains, slipping on his loose black sweatshirt. “It can’t be good for your health.”

You shake your head, scrolling through your phone as you lay on your belly. You’ve seen this view enough times—his back to you and sitting at the opposite edge of the bed, his incessant complaints and opinions about something that happened recently, running his hand through his hair when he sighs. You press on the calendar app and type in a note labeled ‘x’. Keeping tabs isn’t a bad thing; especially if you like order. Spending too many nights with someone is going to land you in trouble. That said, if you could trap love in a bottle, you would.

“You taste like coffee,” Doyoung adds with reddening ears.

Sometimes, it’s easy to ignore what he says if you listen to the sound of his voice instead. You sit up, scooting closer as Doyoung shoots you an alarmed look. He’s so cute like this; something about all the painted fences he puts up around him makes you want to lean in closer.

“So,” you poke his side. “How many relationships have you been in? Proper ones.”

“Three,” he answers, to your surprise.

Your eyebrows shoot up. “That’s more than I’ve been in!”

Doyoung furrows his. “How many have you been in?”

“One.”

He seems equally surprised but doesn’t probe further. After all, the price sticker that spells ‘youth’ clings to his forehead just as it clings to yours. 

“How many people have you fucked?” you ask suddenly, enjoying the visible flush across his neck.

“You’re doing this on purpose,” he notes, flicking your forehead.

“Ow!” You place your palm against your forehead. “Okay, I get it, you have nothing to brag about.”

He shakes his head, an exasperated sigh leaving him. “I just don’t think you have to know. I like privacy.”

“Wait.” You gasp. “Don’t tell me- That night- don’t tell me you were a virgin—”

Doyoung squishes your cheeks between his thumb and forefinger, a laugh erupting from your mouth. 

“Who’s a virgin?”

Nothing about this, you find yourself realizing, is complicated. It’s easy, gentle, natural, like a breath of fresh air—everything but complicated. Even under dim lights and within the depths of night, Doyoung is warm and uncomplicated. His chest, his hands, his lips—they are warm, as are his words. 

But Doyoung is a fucking fairytale.  

Even after these few months, all you know about him, in the definitive format, is that he plays the keys for more hours than he sleeps. What he does for fun, what his classes are, how he became student body president—you could play guessing games all night.

“Do your friends know where you spend your nights?” you ask, leaning back against the pillows.

“They know what I’m doing, not who I’m with,” he responds, running his fingers through his hair.

You purse your lips. It’s nothing hurtful but you don’t like the hush-hush in his tone.

“Why not?”

“Because this is a secret,” he responds as if it’s the most natural thing in the world. “Do you want them to know?”

He’s right.

“Ah, whatever,” you mutter, a stream of curses following when your elbow collides hard with the edge of the bedside table. 

“Your mouth is filthy.” He looks away to his phone. “I don’t swear as much.”

“Well, of course it is. I had your—”

Doyoung presses his palm against your lips with a tired sigh. “Please. Don’t speak. For the sake of my sanity.”

You smile under his hand and he returns it; and the November morning warms up.

“Where were you last night?”

You were expecting the question. Areum is the worst possible candidate for a roommate if you want some privacy. You don’t think she ever sleeps; sometimes, you wonder if she even showers because all she does is stare at her laptop screen and adjust her designs. Her lips are always chapped and her hair is always in a simple low ponytail but somehow still messy. You’ve never met someone so exhausted yet so full of life at the same time.

“Who were you with last night?” Eunji yells from the bathroom, before the two of them laugh.

You knew you shouldn’t have stayed the morning. You have the nosiest roommates anyone could (not) ask for. But they’re still your friends, you tell yourself begrudgingly. You would tell them about Doyoung if it weren’t for Eunji’s big mouth and Areum’s lack of common sense. And if it weren’t for the inherent comfort of privacy.

(Some part of you wants to keep him to yourself. You don’t care about student council president Doyoung or his friend group’s everything-regulator Doyoung or always-has-his-shit-together Doyoung. The one in your bed is the most loving.)

Areum adjusts her glasses, narrowing her eyes at you. “So? Any answer?”

You break out of your daydream at her voice, feeling a flush creep up your neck.

“I don’t have to explain anything,” you retort, snatching the coffee she brewed from the tabletop. “It was a Friday night and the two of you like Netflix more than me.”

“That’s mine,” Areum mumbles out a weak complaint.

“But don’t go out alone,” Eunji whines. “It can’t be safe.”

You laugh. “You know me. I don’t do anything too dangerous. Besides, you guys have that tracker app.”

They shrug, offering you a thin smile. A part of you is happy that they trust you but another part wonders what it would be like to be worried over. Maybe getting nagged isn’t so bad. 

You take a sip of Areum’s coffee and almost spit it out right back. 

“Did you add salt?” you ask, wiping at your mouth and hoping the taste disappears.

“Uh.” A reply so intelligent, you wonder if she ever pays attention to anything she's doing. 

You take a moment (a few), sigh (several times) and make your way to the shelves. Grumbling, you make her a proper cup of coffee before you leave.

Classes don’t wait for you (even if you think they should) and the world doesn’t wait for you (again, you think it should wait for people) so you’ve made it a point to understand the whole deal about rules. If everyone followed the rules, it would be quite a pretty scene; messing up is only valid if it’s done prettily. You laugh at the thought. That’s near impossible. The bus ride to the campus consists of music and thoughts of bleak tomorrows—an average commute for college kids, you think. You sure hope you aren’t alone in this.

Doyoung smiles at you in the hallway today, and despite your best efforts, it makes your day smell a little fresher.

Your day: classes, coffee break, classes, complaining with Ten, assignments, ‘me’ time. For someone who pretends to be laid back, you use your planner as though for survival. There’s no sticky notes or colourful sketches (except on occasion); just good old fashioned to-do lists and a calendar marked with time you’ve spent on productivity. Every day is a list to be completed. If people call routine a man-made cage, instinct is the biological cage. You’d rather be in control of the cage you’re in. You’d rather be in control of yourself. It’s scary otherwise.

So you know how to get the job done—it’s ingrained into you the same way you would place your hands over your ears at loud sounds, or the way you would run to your bed in the dark after switching off the lights.

It never occurs to you that the reason your world is so perfect is a sad one.

Sometime next month, it’s going to snow. Not yet though, and it’s still too cold.

The inside of the cafe helps the slightest, the heaters situated far back from where you sit. Christmas decorations are up already and the combination of red and green meshes delightfully into the form of an aching headache. The wood paneling on the walls are worn at the corners, the garlands hardly covering them, and the barista behind the counter seems as gloomy as the decorations are bright. You wouldn’t be noticing all of this if you weren’t stuck in one position.

You lean your cheek further into your palm and sigh, only this time Ten asks you to, quote, ‘shut the fuck up’.

He pulls up his sleeve and reaches for another pencil. His cryptic process continues, as it has been for the past half an hour and you feel yourself getting impatient, trying to not bounce your leg and get another bout of quibbling from your half-mad artist friend. You don’t usually run low on patience; but Ten has a special pass to test drive it.

“How much lon—”

“Shh!” He hushes you quickly. You can’t remember why you agreed to being his portrait study subject but you sure as hell regret it.

Around fifteen minutes later, you take a (permitted) breath. You have neither the energy nor the neck strength to glare at Ten but you make sure to show your displeasure by snatching the cookies from the table with a particularly sour look. He gets up and pushes you to the side of the small worn-out couch offered by the equally small booth.

“God, that chair was uncomfortable. My butt is frozen solid,” he lets you know, and you roll your eyes.

“You know, if we weren’t friends in high school, I would never be friends with you,” you state.

Ten tilts his head to the side, a mocking pout over his lips. “I would die without you, (name). Really.”

You smack his arm and he yelps, smacking your arm right back. The sound attracts some attention and giggles, and you make a gagging gesture to let them know you are in way or form in a relationship. The low-volume music changes to something with a more distinguishable beat, the sound of doors opening and closing almost every two minutes accompanying. Arriving on time is an accomplishment, especially arriving before rush hour on Fridays at the only decent cafe on campus, but both of your classes end early and there is no way you aren’t taking advantage of that. Leaving, however, is mostly done when you’re being glared at by the waiters and waitresses.

“Doyoung asked about you,” Ten says, all of a sudden. “Kim Doyoung.”

You try to not show concern, but raise an eyebrow. “What? So? He’s not my type or anything.”

You bite your tongue. That was too quick a response, too obvious. Your cheeks grow hot. Ten doesn't say anything, however, and for a moment, you think you’re in safe waters. 

“Are you guys… into each other or not?”

You cough, trying to show your surprise at something so outrageous. “Why would you think that? Does he look like someone who dates around?”

“Actually, he’s been on quite a few dates.”

“No way.”

You know that. He’s told you about it before, in vague references, but you know about them nonetheless.

“Isn’t one student council guy enough?” you mumble. “Why are we talking about Doyoung?”

He shrugs, a familiar feline smile on his face. “Just asking. He talks about you sometimes. Actually, we forced it out of him but whatever.”

You shake your head. “You’re all terrible.”

“You seem to like him though.”

“Who said that?”

Ten sighs, ignoring your question. “If you guys are dating—”

“We’re not.”

“—or fucking—”

“Ten.”

“—you should learn a thing or two about him. The guy’s not as annoying as he looks. Or stuck-up. He’s really nice but don’t tell him I said that.”

“I know that,” you snap, feeling warm at the neck all of a sudden. “I know him.”

“Oh, you do? Tell me what his hobbies are then. Or his major. Or the clubs he’s in, apart from the student council.”

“He- He likes to sing and he’s- he’s—god, what is this? An interrogation? I’m not going to meet his mom for dinner.”

Ten gives you an ‘I knew it’ look before leaning his elbow onto the table. “You’re sleeping with a guy you don’t know anything about. Serial killers would love you.”

You massage your forehead. “Look, I know he’s a good guy, okay? And he’s sweet- and- and—wait a minute. Oh my god, you tricked me.”

Ten lets out a snort. “Hey. Okay, look, the other guys might be dumb as shit but I have, you know, a working set of eyes. I can tell. It’s not that hard.”

You grumble but the cat’s out of the bag anyway. You should’ve known Ten would figure it out—he’s a nosy little shit, and he’s been that way since high school.

“Whatever. As long as Doyoung doesn’t start panicking about his tarnished reputation or whatever.”

“Oh, I think he’s desperate to let everyone know.”

“To you, Ten, everything seems obvious. It’s annoying.” You mess up his hair.

“No, I mean, I thought you were dating.”

“Well, we’re not.”

Ten shrugs. 

“And I don’t like him,” you add. “I like the- the thing that’s going on because there’s no feelings attached.”

He looks somewhat pained, eyebrows furrowed and lips pursed, but doesn’t respond to your explanation. “Can I ask for a favour?”

“No.”

Ten sighs. “Come on. You didn’t even hear me out.”

“You’re going to say something stupid. Or insulting.”

“It’s neither, promise.”

You run your hand through your hair, breathing shallow. “Fine. I don’t have to agree though.”

Ten purses his lips. “It’d be better if you did.”

You hum in response, biting into the cookie and trying to ignore the glare from the nearby waitress. It’s about time you left anyway.

“Get to know him, dude. Don’t break his heart.”

“What?”

“Just kidding. There’s a party tonight. Hosted by yours truly. Finally moved out of that stinky dorm room. Bring over some friends but not more than three. And lend me some money for a juicebox.”

“That’s a lot,” you mutter. “You ask for a lot of favours.”

“Oh, speaking of which, Hyungmin—”

“He already asked me out on a date. Am I supposed to say no? You never mentioned he has such an attractive voice.”

“Oh, I’m not telling you to not go on that date. You have to, actually. I’m going to be in a lot of trouble otherwise.”

“That sounds good to me.”

“Shut up. I’m not done speaking.”

You roll your eyes.

“But if you didn’t, I could draw some conclusions.”

“What am I, your chemistry experiment now?”

“Well, you and Doyoung seem to be—”

“Don’t complete that sentence.”

“I was going to say something funny.” 

Ten flashes you a blinding smile and you sigh. By now, you’re about to get kicked out of here so you stand up discreetly while he packs up his stuff. You hug your jacket close to you as soon as you leave, shivering at the evening breeze. The sky is inky, but with a faint sort of ink—deep blue and light, all at once. From the crowd, you can tell classes just got over for quite a few people, eclectic chatter filling up the street.

“Fine. I’ll bring Eunji,” you tell Ten after some contemplation. “And whoever else responds to my text first. Areum never leaves the room. You know that.”

“Thanks, (name)!” he messes up your hair. “I would give you a kiss but someone will end up punching my pretty face.”

You furrow your brows. “Well, you’re not my type anyway.”

“I’m too good for you,” he responds in a sing-song manner, waving at you before running off and disappearing into the university crowd.

There’s always a sort of buzz in the air you can’t quite describe at college parties.

Even if this is a relatively small one, you feel an oncoming headache the moment you enter Ten’s new apartment, which you’re sure had a ‘no parties’ rule in the rental contract. You spot Kun, Ten’s roommate from the dorms and he flashes you a quick smile in greeting before he’s swept up by a doting crowd. Apparently, a cute guy in animal sciences is rare and it makes him rather popular.

Eunji disappears from your side the moment she spots Johnny, and the number of eye rolls you’ve given her haven’t warned her off him yet. You suppose it takes heartbreak to change a person. Sighing, you make your way to the kitchen only to be greeted with the strange sight of Yuta trying to balance Jaehyun on his back so they can imitate some anime formation and back out immediately. Living room, it is, despite its populous space. (You don’t really want to think of bedrooms right now.)

The apartment is quite big for what Ten told you the rent was. The hallway to the two bedrooms is narrow but you suppose something has to be sacrificed for space. You furrow your eyebrows at the two bedroom doors. Ten never said he was getting a roommate. You shrug it off, sitting down on the rather stiff couch. The lack of furniture, apart from the couch and a coffee table, makes the place look even larger and people sparse. You like the beige walls; Ten’s always loved warmer colours but something makes you think he’s going to be ruining them in a few days with garish green paint before he comes crying about that to you.

“Hey.”

You look up to the familiar voice, heart rising to your throat.

“You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” Doyoung remarks before sitting down beside you and offering you a cup of god-knows-what.

“I don’t take drinks from strange men,” you say, biting down your smile and crossing your arms.

“If you didn’t take drinks from strange men, we wouldn’t be fu—”

“Doyoung!” you hiss before looking at him with careful suspicion. “Are you drunk?”

“No. A little bit. Not enough.”

You sigh. “How will you get home now?”

“I live here, idiot.”

“You’re- You’re Ten’s roommate?” you sputter.

“Yeah. New one,” he responds. “He used to live across our room in the dorms, I can’t believe I actually agreed to this.”

“I can’t believe it either. I’ve seen cats and dogs friendlier with each other than the two of you.”

Doyoung laughs. “He’s surprisingly one of the better people to room with. I’d rather eat my own blanket than room with Yuta again.”

You laugh at his irked expression, eyebrows furrowed so cutely. The line of his brow bone to nose to lips, it seems a little too perfect to belong to someone. He relaxes his shoulders a little, leaning back on the couch as he looks somewhat lost in thought. (“You think too much,” you’d told him once. “And you think too little.”) If only that were true, you smile to yourself.

“Are you sure you can hold parties here?” you as when the music suddenly rises in volume.

“Well, it said student-friendly,” Doyoung responds, looking visibly disturbed. “Not sure if I want to test the limits of that so early.”

There’s a pause, filled in with loud pop music. You don’t think Ten, your dear introvert, would have agreed to such a party but there’s a chance Johnny or Jaehyun had something to do with this. You don’t know who to suspect when it comes to their group of friends.

“I still can’t believe you’re rooming with Ten.” You look at Doyoung.

“Well, that makes, what, eleven of us, I guess?”

You laugh, feeling conscious all of sudden. Maybe you should listen to Ten’s advice.

“Doyoung,” you call, looking at the cup in your hands a little too passionately. “What’s your major?”

He looks at you with eyes widened ever so slightly, and a pause over his lips.

“Linguistics,” he answers.

“Oh. You said something about it once,” you mumble, recalling something vague about an assignment of his. “You know mine?”

“Yeah,” he answers, eyes cast on his watch.

“Well, that makes me feel a little guilty,” you mumble as softly as you can.

“You should be,” he says. “You never listen to anything I say.”

You scoff. “You just complain most of the time.”

“Really now?”

“Yes,” you snap, looking away.

You look back again when you hear the sound of Doyoung’s laugh, a distinct brightness in it. Sometimes, you wonder if you really are as awful as you’ve made yourself be.

“You’re cute,” he says. “No wonder everyone is so in love with you.”

For a moment, you think he’s going to kiss you.

“Everyone?” you laugh. You don’t care about everyone. It’s burdensome.

“Everyone. They hate you too, by the way.” He smiles to himself. “Heard you’re going on a date with that dimwit. Hyungmin.”

You feel a sudden discomfort in your being. Taking a sip of the drink, you try to shake it off as best as you can. 

“Yeah, I- I don’t think I’ll go,” you say, waving it off. 

Why are you lying? You left it hanging on a maybe. Part of you wants to tell Doyoung; he is your friend after all and you tell friends stuff like this. The other part tells you this is cheating; lying and pretending everything is okay—it feels like cheating. 

“Oh.” He looks lost before he focuses on you. “Why not?”

“Why do you care?” you ask, trying desperately to calm the uprising in your chest.

He stays quiet for a few seconds and then shrugs, looking away from you. It makes you feel a little guilty to dismiss the situation so quickly, another item to add to your troubles. You sigh.

“Sorry,” you say. “I didn’t mean it like that.”

“No, it’s okay. You’re right.” You can see his Adam's apple bob up and down.

“I’m not,” you say. “I’m wrong. I really didn’t mean it.”

He looks at you all at once, his gaze so gentle that it makes you think he wants to kiss you, or do something equally affectionate. Instead he sighs, downing whatever’s left of his drink before a wash of sudden looseness does away with the tension in his body.

“You have any more questions for me?” he asks, smiling. “What's it like to be student body president—or, or what instruments can I play? My favourite animal? Colour?”

You smile back. “What is your favourite animal?”

“I don’t have one. Don’t like them. Unless it’s a soft toy.”

“No way. You’re lying.”

“Now, I answer your questions and you call me a liar? Makes me a little hesitant to answer the next.”

You roll your eyes. “Okay, next then. Why didn’t you join the frat? All your friends are in it.”

“Hurts my ego.”

You laugh. He’s still probably an honorary member. There is no way he’s apart from friends for too long with all those feelings of fraternity he has, no matter what he says. It’s the same as you. Affection leads nowhere though; just to short-lived moments of comfort.

You realize, through the course of the night, that you never asked. How he got into the student council, what his classes are, what he does for fun—you never asked. It’s almost like you didn’t want to know. 

How sad, you muse to yourself, to be this way. To be so wrapped up in your own problems that you fail to see people around you. Pity, however, isn’t something to feel at a party. You talk with Doyoung for the rest of the night till the sound of his voice makes you feel certain ghosts of butterflies, and till you have to take Eunji home before she does something she regrets. This is what it really means to have the price tag of ‘youth’ strung across you perhaps—when you feel old and immature all at once, and in between, when you feel nothing at all.

Doyoung is too old to mistake love. Or too young. 

Labels don’t define anything, especially when it comes to relationships—so even if he calls it love, whispers it to himself at midnight when he’s sitting alone on his bed while his friends are passed out drunk on the floor, it is empty. And then there’s you. The heat of your skin, the curse of your smile and that cheeky laugh you do to get on his nerves. He wants all of it and he’s not ashamed—but he’d be a liar to say he can shout it to the whole world. He’s not that kind of man, and what is his can remain his without the rest of the world prying its damn fingers in. The first night, no, the second—third? He can’t remember which night it was but something pent up in him exploded and he didn’t try to control it for once.

“Ow,” he mutters.

His throat burns from the whiskey. He hates drinking alone but you’re either asleep or with friends and he can’t think of anyone else but you. He tugs at the turtleneck collar, getting uncomfortable by the minute, and then proceeds to take off his coat.

For a moment, he considers getting back to the living room. There were more than enough people with lingering touches against his shoulder and longing gazes—they’re not you. He leans back onto his bed. Another hour and everyone will be gone; why did he even let them hold a party in the first place? Parties just remind him of you—he takes a whiff and smells summer and lemon vodka all of a sudden. A deep sigh leaves his lips.

You might not seem to find yourself especially sad, but Doyoung finds something oddly touching about you. Maybe it’s the way you say his name, he muses, like you’re desperately trying to fill the gaps. But it can’t be him in particular, of course—it’s a lover, any lover.

He hates long nights, just as he hates winter but lately, they haven’t been feeling too cold. Isn’t it ridiculous the way he’s running after you? Doyoung was never meant for this. It’s fucking pathetic and it makes him want to tear all his hair out but there he is, still and quiet in the same place. A certain agony makes its way through him. His hands are freezing and yet his insides are burning—nothing makes sense and right now, he doesn’t want it to. He presses his cold hands to the warmth of his cheeks and a laugh erupts from his mouth.

He must be going crazy to laugh like this in an empty room. The car lights from the window travel slowly from wall to ceiling, the only thing moving in the stagnant of his room.

Inevitably, he thinks of the end. It should come quick; in fact, he’s never been one to do this. He’s always been someone to get attached to people. He doesn’t know how the end will come because this shouldn’t have begun in the first place.

Doyoung’s out of breath.

“Crazy bastard,” he mumbles to himself, followed by a groan when he lifts his head up. As if on cue, the door opens and shuts with a bang. Ten walks in looking drowsy, running his hand through his hair with a disgruntled face.

“I hate to say this,” he slurs. “But you’re right. We can’t have extra furniture and parties. Gotta choose one.”

Ten lays down flat on the bed. “I vote out that ugly ass clock you bought. Why do we need it? We have phones and laptops.”

“It was a gift,” Doyoung mutters.

“Oh. Uh. Actually, someone already, uh—”

“Leave it. We’ll talk about that in the morning.” 

Doyoung massages his forehead, groaning at the pain when Ten suddenly decides he’s all up for cuddling. 

“Ew,” he says, scooting away from Ten. “Get away from me.”

“You don’t mean that,” Ten whines, trying very hard to pull Doyoung into a hug. Of course, his attempts are blocked by Doyoung’s palm against his forehead.

After a few more seconds of trying, Ten huffs and turns away, crossing his arms. “I don’t like you anyway.”

“I know,” Doyoung mutters.

Ten erupts into laughter, sounding more like a psychopath than a close friend of his.

“You do that every time you like someone?” he asks in between fits.

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “I just said—okay, yeah. Whatever.”

There’s a much needed silence and Doyoung wonders if he can just fall asleep without kicking Ten out.

“You should tell (name),” Ten says all of a sudden, Doyoung’s heart stopping at your name.

“What?” he whispers.

Ten looks at him as though he’s talking to a particularly stupid child. It makes Doyoung scowl but there’s too much alcohol in his system to know if he really means it.

“You don’t- you’re- everyone in this goddamn building knows,” Ten explains, exasperated. “Jaehyun knows, and he’s the densest kid I’ve ever met. God, if you like (name), go for it.”

Doyoung blushes so deep, he considers pressing his palms to his cheeks again. He thinks for the next few moments. Ah well, if they had to find out, he’s glad he didn’t have to declare it himself.

“Whatever, just ask (name) out. It can’t be that complicated.”

Except it is. You don’t have to spell it out for him—he knows the way you feel. The two of you only ever wanted one thing out of this. But if there’s something Doyoung isn’t good at, it’s keeping his mouth shut. He wonders how many times he let it slip, wonders if you even care enough to notice. God, it’s starting to sound pitiful for him.

“Ten. How much did you drink?” Doyoung asks, raising his head.

“Nothing. None. I’m not drunk.” Ten shrugs. “Just sleepy.”

A ‘wow’ is all Doyoung can respond with. He still isn’t quite finished figuring out what sort of horrific planet Ten stumbled from. A notification ding distracts him from kicking Ten off his bed and he has half a mind to toss it onto the bedside table but it’s still half. He softens almost immediately.

It’s a text from you: a ‘u’ followed by a smiley face and then a meme he can’t quite read through hazy eyes. He finds himself smiling anyway and sends a barrage of emojis, whatever he finds because he likes the way you get annoyed at them. Sighing, he decides that’s enough. He’s not in the right state of mind for conversation.

Doyoung shuts his phone off, attempts to push Ten off the bed one last time before closing his eyes and dozing off.

Not every day is meant to be fun—you know that in your twenties—but it’s still somewhat disappointing to have bad days. Like youth is meant to give you some sort of happiness daily. That’s what they make it sound like.

You groan, rubbing at your back. Sitting at your study desk for so long does not have good long term effects. At least, your temporary, meaningless assignments are done. You scowl at the text on your laptop screen; the more you look at it, the more you hate it and so, you shut it off. It’s not like your pissy professor is going to be impressed by anything you do. However, you like the orderly certainty of schoolwork.

Break time consists of guilt and sugary snacks. You’re done with most everything and you suppose leaving the final review of things to a later date can’t hurt. In fact, it sounds rather appeasing. A few more moments pass in making a decision.

You get dressed. The apartment feels eerie all alone, and you’re sure as hell not going to spend the rest of your evening here. You shiver, quickly striding out the front door and locking it before taking out your phone.

People misunderstand winter. Winter is only the end of things; and sometimes, the beginning. It isn’t cruel or crushing, it’s just taking its course. However, you have a tendency to blame seasons for all that happen in it. For instance, you shouldn’t be missing summer when you really miss the first night with Doyoung. 

He picks up after calling thrice. You wonder what he’s even up to, if Saturday evenings are also booked full for such a guy.

“Why do you take so long to pick up?” you complain. “Do you not get days off?”

“I’m busy,” he hisses. 

Something’s wrong.

You pause, unsure what to do. It’s not his voice but the one in the background that catches your attention. 

Inviting him somewhere. 

Rather sensually.

Your ears feel hot and you drop the call. Of course. Of fucking course. You’re the idiot thinking it was a thing. This whole thing is casual—feeling sorry wasn’t in the contract. Fucking around was.

It’s not like you’ll be heartbroken by something like this. Of course not. Of course. Doyoung and you never had a beginning so there isn’t an end, really. It’s fine. It’s fine. You take a deep breath and browse through your phone. With the onset of Christmas holidays, you have around three options left. Ten (yikes), Jaehyun (no way) or the latest addition, Hyungmin.

Well, you’re dressed. You have to go somewhere. And your statement about Hyungmin being the hottest guy on campus still stands.

You send two texts to the boy before deciding that’s apparently enough time waiting. He picks up after a few rings, voice groggy from what you assume to be a late afternoon nap.

“You up for a drink?” You cut to the point.

“Uh? Oh, uh, now? I am, of course- I just need—”

“Twenty minutes. I’ll text you the address.”

Nothing cheers you up like your favourite bar. Or friends. Or people who respond to calls.

Hongdae is as busy as ever. You knew the bar would be packed but not this packed. Still, you managed to grab a seat at the bar table. With the oncoming night, the smell is just going to get worse—so there’s nothing wrong with treating yourself to some lemon vodka (and its refreshing scent).

Hyungmin arrives exactly four minutes early, and the mussed up hair makes you think he must have been in a hurry. For what, you can’t be sure. 

You can still see the inklings of Hongdae nightlights on his hair right before he enters, and in the fallacy of that moment, you think it’s going to be Doyoung. You sigh. This isn’t the time for that.

“Sorry,” you say, gesturing to the bar table. “All the tables were booked.”

“No, no,” he responds quickly. “I actually prefer it here.”

He’s tall, not that it’s the first time you’re noticing, but even when he’s sitting, he’s at least two heads taller than you are. His shoulders are accentuated by the mocha coat, no doubt part of the latest trend this winter. As a fashion student, he hits the mark and more. 

For a moment, you feel bad for knowing his major. Ten let it slip about him and yet still, you feel guilty for remembering it. You’re not supposed to go into unnecessary detail about people that don’t matter. Does he matter? 

“Surprised you could make it,” you joke half-heartedly. “Aren’t you lot always busy with something?”

He laughs. “The student council? Oh, we’re busy alright.”

Busy. Right.

“What about you? Aren’t you part of like three different clubs?”

“So what kind of busy?” you ask, ignoring his question. You’re part of two, now that you left the music club last semester. It’s not like small talk matters though.

“Uh,” he hesitates. “You know- attend meetings and events, coordinate committee work, supervise stuff, etcetera etcetera. So busy, yeah.”

“Busy on Saturdays too?” you ask, before thanking the bartender for the drinks.

“Yeah, I guess. Doyoung has it worse than me honestly. Even now, he has to take care of stuff because of me. Hah…”

You gulp down your drink making Hyungmin raise an eyebrow in concern. “Stuff? Because of you?”

“Yeah.” Hyungmin scratches the back of his head. “He’s with the girls.”

“Girls?” you ask, playing with the glass. You’re starting to feel annoyed, red lining your vision.

“Yeah.” He makes no notion of clarifying his statement.  

“Must be quite the president,” you say, resting your cheek against your palm.

“Oh, he’s a nightmare.” Hyungmin laughs. “He has to control everything.”

You try to mask your scoff. You know what he can be like when you’re working beside him. 

“Oh, and the guy has no sense of humour,” Hyungmin laughs, the sound easy on the ears.

You blink.

“I think he’s funny,” you say quickly. You swear you have no idea why you sound so defensive.

He hums in response and you consider biting your tongue, telling him you’re only here for one thing and forgetting the uncomfortable churning of feelings inside your chest.

“Forget I- I’m a little confused today.” 

Is that an acceptable explanation? You can’t think straight enough to decide. The silence on Hyungmin’s part, however, worries you. The crowd around you fills in for the next few moments as your companion seems to debate something with himself.

“Look, I know you and Doyoung are… I don’t know, something.”

You huff in irked amusement. “God, does everyone seem to know?”

“Not until late actually.” Hyungmin takes a gulp. “He’s been acting weird. Doyoung.” 

You look away, breathing shallow. You don’t like it, the way things seem to be getting out of hand. All this time, the world seemed to be in the palm of your hand and now, it’s spilling everywhere; the sand in the hourglass is already up to your knees and you don’t know what happens when it fills.

“Do you actually like him?” he asks, leaning back just a little. You know where this is going. “Are you guys dating?”

“No,” you respond, checking your watch.

“Oh.”

There’s a moment’s hesitation in him but you’ve seen that look before. You know that look.

“Then we can- uh- we can—”

“Fuck?” you ask.

He gulps. “I mean, you can say no any time—”

You pull him by the collar and kiss him, hard enough to melt away your hovering thoughts. He kisses like you expect him to, not how you want him to. You know this sort, and somehow, that makes you feel comfortable. Knowing what you’re getting into is easing but it doesn’t lessen the weight of it.

It’s sickening. The way you’re pretending it’s Doyoung.

Hyungmin pulls apart, panting heavily. “Oh, okay.”

“Tell me you drove here.” 

He holds up his car keys in response.

You’re not the type to sleep with strange (semi-acquainted) men, but it’s better than falling in love with them.

So you follow a lover to a hotel room and try to feel something. Some time, when he’s kissing you against the hotel room walls, he pulls apart and asks, “You’re thinking of someone else, aren’t you?”

You know the answer; it just won’t leave your lips.

“It’s okay,” he says with a weak smile, “Let’s just have fun.”

And every time his mouth was on yours, every time you saw stars, you felt the ghost of Doyoung and his haunting touches. It was strange and unfair and unlike you—or at least, unlike the you that you built over the past few years. You feel as though you’ve misplaced something—like something was supposed to be there when you reached out but instead, it was empty space.

The night ends as it should and you leave right before dawn with an apology text you couldn’t put half your heart into.

Most winter nights, you wake up with pain so profound, it’s seeping into your bones.

It never made sense. You never tried to make sense of it. So you let the aches push you down by the shoulders, lodge itself into your neck and back; and you tell yourself, it must be what you deserve. It’s cold and you’re walking barefoot on frozen ground.

You gasp. The weight of who you are and who you have to be—it has its knee on the back of your neck, shoving you into the damp earth. There’s no particular reason to it; it makes it seem as though it’s insignificant. Unimportant. Irrelevant. But that’s the problem—the weight of the world on your shoulders makes no sense. Whose world are you even carrying? Whose approval are you trying to win? You scramble to get up, messing up your bedsheets in the process, and pull your blanket around you. Your own warmth surrounds you and it makes no difference. You frown.

You remember your phone call with your mom, and your lips tremble. You shouldn’t have told her about how crappy your finals went but it slipped. You tried to explain that you did work for them, that you gave it your best but sometimes things don’t work out. She didn’t have to say it out loud for you to hear her thoughts. 

You’re disappointing. 

You wipe at your eyes, feeling annoyed at the emotion. If you could let the ground swallow you whole, you would. In a heartbeat. You don’t even know what you’re doing most of the days despite that pretty planner of yours.

You get out of bed, pull on your cardigan beside the bed and grab your lighter and pack. The tiny balcony makes for a great smoking spot and while you would scold any of your friends for committing to this, you do it yourself. Hypocrite.

For all you try to shove into yourself—hobbies, student clubs, actual clubbing, friends—the more you feel less than enough, as if everything just vanishes into thin air inside you. As if you aren’t enough and never will be. You play by the rules and you lose, you break the rules and you lose. 

Maybe it’s because you let yourself be filled by the intricacies of other people that they like you. And thus, you cannot stop for fear of loneliness.

Just as you’re feeling crushed again, you picture Doyoung against your back, placing his nose in the crook of your neck—something he has never done—and you wonder why it helps. 

Sucking in air too fast, you cough. You shouldn’t have let it go on for so long.

It was fun—harmless fun. You shouldn’t even be thinking of taking a step in some other direction. You’re friends, barely, but you like where you are. If Doyoung was that important, you wouldn’t be going about this all backwards. You sigh, though it comes out jagged. The room is quiet and that’s the way it should be at four a.m, of course, but you crave music all of a sudden. Doyoung and you are just a temporary fix; and you let that thought relax you.

When you think of his chin on your shoulder, however, it feels feather light.

“Why are we doing this?” you ask. 

The atmosphere is warm and toasty, just like you expect it to be in a bakery with light pink doors and a collection of plastic potted plants on display. The decorations aren’t an eyesore here and somehow, it makes you feel better. It’s a little far but you decide it’s worth it.

Doyoung shrugs, sipping his hot chocolate. “It’s Christmas, and we’re both here.”

Your eyes follow the hanging lights over the counter, wrapped in pine tree stickers and eventually to the neat display of a ‘Season’s Greetings’ menu, the contents of which are currently at your table. A Christmas song by some singer who’s been popular lately plays, tunes light and dancing. You hate the end of the year solely because of the extra pressure January brings. Nothing you can’t handle, of course. Nothing you can’t handle.

You sigh. It’s been a little difficult lately.

“Doyoung, really, why are we doing this?” you ask, genuinely curious.

“Are you- uh- are you not enjoying this? I could—”

“No! No, it’s not that. I feel better, actually.” You bite your tongue almost immediately after. It’s not like he’s supposed to know the sort of hell week you’re having. A poorly received term paper, finals that weren’t up to your expectations, crippling loneliness without friends and, oh, the self-doubt—you are at the lowest you can be in college. The only sweetener right now is in the hot chocolate and the way Doyoung’s looking at you. 

You feel something close to guilt.

“Good.” He smiles. “You seemed… You seemed a little down.”

The sliver of warmth between your ribs makes you think this is unreal. It feels uneasy to be so affected by someone but you let it slide, turning back to your hot chocolate.

“Why didn’t you go home this time?” you ask, sipping your drink.

“Oh, I didn't really want to face my parents,” he says before leaning. “Didn’t do too well this semester. And my brother’s going to be there with all his achievements.”

You chuckle in disbelief. “You don’t like your brother?”

“I love him to bits. Just can’t stand my mom’s nagging when he’s around.”

“That’s rich coming from you.” You cross your arms, smiling triumphantly. You feel like children squabbling but it’s so lighthearted, you want to laugh.

Doyoung raises a pointed finger, about to retort but nothing comes out. He puts his hand down.

“I guess you’re right.”

You shake your head. “I’m sure she’s proud of you too.”

“I know that,” he says, laughing. “Of course she is. I don’t keep myself busy for nothing.”

You gulp, a sudden sourness rising at the base of your tongue. 

“Busy, huh? Didn’t know spending saturday evenings with girls also counted as busy,” you mutter against the cup, half-hoping he doesn’t hear you.

“What?” There’s a perplexed look across his face.

You wave your hand in dismissal. “Oh don’t mind me.”

“Are you talking about me giving a tour to the fresher girls?” Doyoung leans forward, resting his elbows on his thighs. “Hyungmin does that usually but Mr Man was sore from soccer practice and Friday fucking.” 

You blink. “Fresher… girls?”

“What, did you think I was at a brothel?” Doyoung laughs in amusement.

You feel your cheeks heat up in embarrassment. “No! No, of course not.”

You wave your hands about for a few more seconds, trying to come up with an explanation. This makes things rather embarrassing.

“Sorry,” you say finally. “I jumped to conclusions.”

Doyoung laughs, rather deep and heartily, and you wonder if your apology really did sound as stupid to him as it did to you. 

“You do that a lot,” he notes.

“Thanks,” you quip, cutting the pastry with your fork a little too forcefully. His laugh follows. (You hate it so much. It sounds like pure adoration.)

The next few moments consist of scrolling through your phones (because Doyoung says his ‘mouth hurts from talking to you’) and you would’ve been in a better state of mind if everyone wasn’t posting pre-Christmas photos with their families. 

“You know they’re opening that park. What’s it called- Winter Wonderland or something. You said you wanted to visit.”

You look up at Doyoung amused.

“Let’s be honest. You want to be in bed, Doyoung,” you say. “Why are you doing this?”

“Because I care,” he answers, looking at you with his doe eyes. “About you. You sulk when you’re upset.”

“I don’t sulk,” you reply but your smile is obvious when you exit the cafe. 

It’s like a date. The more you think of it that way, the more it makes you smile.

The evening is perfect—orange and pink and loving and happy. Doyoung trails behind you as you tread over the sidewalk with cheeky remarks about his speed.

“I’m in the track club, you know?” he huffs, finally tired of your jabs.

“As what, the start point?”

A fake, sarcastic laugh leaves him. “I wouldn’t get to see you if I walked ahead.”

You feel warmth creep up your face. You mumble, “that’s cheesy.” It’s too weak though, and it goes unheard. 

For the first time, you notice his eyes are a little like yours in what they reflect. You love them. 

So this is where the crowd went. The amusement park, or whatever you call it, is buzzing with a faint sort of excitement, mostly in the children that didn’t get to go on a vacation elsewhere. It’s quite the wonderland though so you can’t see them complaining.

“Do you think they’ll kick us out if we make out on the Ferris wheel?” you ask, smiling at Doyoung.

“I’m not making out with you on the Ferris wheel,” he replies, making a face.

You do end up making out on the Ferris wheel, and you get butterflies from it. It’s like a teenage dream but Doyoung looks even better. You pass on the cotton candy because frankly, you’ve had enough of sweet things. You sit at the frozen wooden seat, hoping it warms up while Doyoung brings the two of you some fries.

Your phone buzzes with a notification. Your eyes light up at the mail from your professor. You had turned in the term paper three days ago, weeks ahead of schedule and were particularly proud of the way it turned out. 

You look at the email and zero in on the word ‘redo’.

Your shoulders sag immediately. You spent four weeks on that—and it’s not good enough? You search frantically for how it could have gone wrong and come up with none. That’s not supposed to happen. Something’s wrong. Something’s very wrong. The week’s exhaustion swallows you up again.

When Doyoung returns, he looks at you concerned before quickly setting the fries on the table.

“(name). Is something wrong?”

“Huh?” Your voice sounds so weak and squeaky, you feel embarrassed. It’s embarrassing that after all these years, you still don’t know how to handle failure. 

Because it’s not supposed to happen. You tell yourself that over and over and it makes things worse.

You feel dirty, underneath all that dust and crumbled rock dangling in your hair. Whatever rests on your shoulders is cracking and collapsing, and you’re pushing in the wrong direction to make sure it all stays up. 

He reaches out his hand but you avoid it.

“No,” you mutter, weakly shaking your head.

You rub at your nose and eyes, hoping you can hide behind your forearms. Doyoung shouldn’t be seeing you like this, he doesn’t deserve to see you like this. You turn away from him, your palm gently pushing against the soft material of his shirt. 

Doyoung doesn’t move. Instead, he gently tugs on your wrist so you have no choice but to face him with your red-rimmed eyes. You’re not sure if it’s embarrassment or pity, but the concern in his eyes makes you cry harder. 

“You don’t have to do that,” he whispers. “You don’t have to find a place to cry.”

For the first time in adulthood, you learn what it’s like to lean your forehead against someone’s chest this way. Doyoung wraps his arms around you and the sound of his breathing soothes your near-erratic heart. 

“I worked really hard on it, you know?” you mumble against his chest. “My term paper.”

“I know,” he whispers.

Doyoung strokes your head delicately, fingers running through your hair with airy touches. Eventually, you let go of a final sigh and look up to his lips.

He seems surprised at the kiss but it’s all you can think of now. It’s gentler than usual and Doyoung moves cautiously though he seems to like it all the same. His arms feel comfortable around you. When he pulls apart, he looks at you yet still with careful concern.

“We can- we should stop if you want,” he says, and he means it. 

You shake your head. Night is creeping in overhead, deep and quiet and slow.

“I like you, Doyoung,” you say finally. “I really, really like you.”

Doyoung’s eyes widen, as though a rabbit wary of the traps it might set foot on but he eases into your touch almost immediately.

“I like… I like you too.” His lips waver but he looks away and takes a deep breath. “I like you so much.”

You smile and think that maybe everything is set right now, with his chin against your shoulder and your arms around him. 

Doyoung discards the jacket once you’re in your apartment, kissing you fuller now. Every other thought leaves you; you beg him to make you forget the rest of the world. The walls are comforting now that he’s here, and it’s warmer, hotter.

“Can we- Can we go a little slower?” you mumble, his arms still gentle when they wrap around your waist. He parts his lips from your neck to look at you momentarily before nodding.

You suddenly understand why he always makes you feel so good. There’s a certain fondness to his touch and warmth to his kisses. There’s no one quite like him, really.

“I love digging graves, especially if it’s my own,” you mutter against the pillow.

Doyoung laughs. “What did you do this time?”

“This time? Excuse me? Do you think I’m some sort of trouble child?”

“Hm. Let’s see. Yes.”

You pause. Why do you hesitate to tell him you slept with Hyungmin? It’s not like you were cheating—you weren’t dating Doyoung. Besides, that night with Hyungmin didn’t mean anything. A horrid feeling snakes around your throat, heavy and piercing. You resort to changing the topic.

“I’m… I took another course beyond my understanding.”

“That’s it?” he asks.

You nod.

No, no, no; it’s all backwards now and you don’t know how to reverse it.

Doyoung takes your hand in his, delicately and yet firm. His chest is against your back, bare and warm. When he presses his lips against your knuckles, the warmth that flushes through you makes you want to believe in something else entirely. You feel weak. 

A part of you argues that you feel honest—in a moment of clarity you don’t think you deserve. Neither vodka nor whiskey can make you this clear in the head; you struggle to breathe straight. How awful it is to feel warmth and not believe in it at the same time.  

“You can rely on me, you know?” he whispers.

The knot in your chest makes you want to cry.

You feel lonely and the opposite of it all at once. Doyoung is too much for you—too kind, too pretty and too true. He makes you realize too many things at once.

There are a few things in the world that can stifle loneliness. Like the notes Doyoung plays on the piano, like the songs he hums in the morning till you place open-mouthed kisses against his neck.

You realize, all of a sudden, that Doyoung really is your dearest friend.

And yet, you don’t think you deserve it. You’ve never loved, you believe, but you have. You don’t remember it well enough. The lovers’ touches you kept searching for led to this. Hypocrite. You wanted a lover’s touch and you rejected the love that came with it. What a complicated bundle of emotions. You weren’t always this way.

You loved your first cat when you were six, all the way till it died a warm death in your bed. You loved your mother even when she yelled at you for skipping your chores. You loved your middle school friends when you talked about comics and movies you saw for the first time. 

It’s hard to love the same way now.

You suppose sympathy needs a little backstory. Nothing is unconditional. 

It had all started when your heart had broken into two clean pieces. You put a bandaid on it and called it a day. No one taught you to ask for help.

Your friends know someone broke your heart; you tell them everything. Friends, friends—you wanted them so bad and yet, you keep them as far from you as you can. You pretend to be paper-thin and so shallow, sometimes you wonder if that’s all there is to you. But for all they know, they know next to nothing. It wasn’t just the aftermath of reckless puppy love. 

The first time your heart broke, it was watching your mother cry in the living room for a reason you didn’t understand. You wondered who committed the crime, who should be charged—and you found no one. A loveless marriage is cruel, yes, but you cannot point fingers. It isn’t just cruel; it’s infuriating.

The second time, the two pieces of your heart broke into a few more. It was a boy with an inviting smile and flags whose colour you couldn’t quite discern. They must have been red, but everything else was too—hearts, cheeks, lips, and the threads around your wrists. And eventually, he guided you to the conclusion that you are undeserving, unworthy, unloved. 

You were strong, however. It was easy to collapse on the bed and feel the weight of the world settling in, but you stood up again on shaking knees and you told yourself to have fun; you can have fun without feelings. You know better than to attach meaning to fun—you might hate insignificant things but it’s only fun if it’s pointless. You’re not letting go of this place you’ve worked so hard to arrive at, with all the shattered pieces in your hands.

It’s better to offer nothing at all than offer broken pieces.

“Can we stay like this?” Doyoung’s arms tighten around your waist, his breath shallow against your shoulder. “Just for a little bit.”

His voice is beautiful as always, but for a moment, it strikes you as sad.

Everything’s twisting up into knots and you are frantically running your fingers over them to straighten it all out. You know what it’s like to let things rot; and you are tired of it. Why can’t everything disappear for one moment? Why can’t you just let it be the two of you?

You sigh in response, nodding. 

“I might not know what’s happening in there,” he starts, drawing circles on your chest with his finger, touch comfortably light. “But…”

I’m here and I get it.

Is that what he wants to say? You don’t think you’ll get to know. You’re not exactly voicing yourself either. 

Stay the night. You want to say it but your lips are frozen.

Instead, you rub your thumb over the back of his hand, fitting into each other as perfect as a lie. You would tell him, you try to convince yourself, if you could say it with enough conviction. There’s no point to saying things that are half-meant, that are true but only just enough. You’re a coward.

And now, this has gotten complicated.

An end.

Tapping his pen against the desk, Doyoung grows increasingly annoyed. The council's next  meeting agenda isn’t going to finish writing itself but he can’t bring himself to either. Besides, Ten’s pacing outside his room is starting to get on his nerves.

“Ten!” he yells. “Can you quit it? You’re making too much noise.”

His disapproval is met with silence. For a moment, he spaces out and reflexively thinks of you, only to feel a confusing sort of emotion. It’s normal, he tells himself, and that it’ll sort itself out.

Doyoung feels like a glass box more often than not. If he breaks, who picks up the pieces? Who gets cuts all over their fingers?

‘Whoever breaks him’ should be the answer. But that’s wishful thinking. It’s not that simple. 

He’s so see-through that it’s painful. He used to tell Taeyong he’s wrong but he’s never been able to prove it. He is easy. It’s embarrassing.

But then again, part of him likes it when it comes to you. He likes it when you kiss him after a particularly heated disagreement, he likes when you get on his nerves just so he’d fuck you and most of all, he loves the push and pull. Fun is just that. He doesn’t know what he’d do if that heart of his he placed so gingerly into your palms falls and shatters.

The line between hate and love is thin; and he’s enjoying walking it too much.

He has nothing to offer but himself. He laughs at the thought and shakes his head. It’s somewhat dirty, and not just in the sexual sense.

“Ten!” he yells again. “Stop pacing!”

Getting up from his seat, he strides over to his door, swings it open and finds Ten scratching his head and glancing at his phone in repeated action. 

“Ten?”

He’s so in a trance that he hasn’t noticed Doyoung. He is the lovable sort of idiot if he ever chooses to be so. Most of the time though, he’s just a smartass.

“Oh, oh no, I’m a bad friend,” Ten mutters to himself, his pacing growing more restless. He scratches the back of his head, eyebrows furrowed and too inside his head to notice Doyoung. He wants to ask but something tells him he shouldn’t. 

Turns out, his apprehension isn’t strong enough these days. 

“Whose date did you crash?” Doyoung asks, more than annoyed already.

When Ten looks at him, Doyoung feels rather shriveled and freezes on the spot. Call it instinct but Doyoung respects fear and pain. Ten has a mixture of the two, amplified when he looks at Doyoung.

“Doyoung. Hey,” he says, trying to tone down the distress in his voice.

Doyoung still hasn’t recovered from the initial surprise of Ten looking that way.

“Did you fuck up? Did someone fuck up? Why do you look like that?”

Ten sits down on the small couch. “Long story… I guess. Too many details, you- you know? Just—”

“What the fuck happened?”

Ten still can’t look him in the eye. “The group chat’s a little…”

“Ten,” Doyoung snaps. “Cut the crap.”

“No, that’s- that’s what I’m- You’re going to be upset.”

Doyoung straightens, furrowing his brows. “I think I can fucking handle it.”

“You know that date I set up for (name) and Hyungmin?”

“You set that up?”

“(name) slept with Hyungmin.” 

Doyoung quietens. The silence seems to make Ten uncomfortable as he shifts in his seat, getting up when Doyoung speaks.

“So?”

Ten blinks. “You’re not upset?”

“Just what kind of loser do you think I am?” Doyoung mutters.

Glass shatters just that easily. Maybe he wanted you to shatter him. Maybe he was already cracking at the edges.

“Doyoung, you don’t have to—”

“Stop,” he exclaims a little louder than he intended. “Stop looking at me like that. I’m a grown man, I can handle shit like this.”

It still hurts though. You lied to him and he let you in. You lied to him. Doyoung sighs, returning to his room with a realization he should have had long ago. His night ends with more deleted drafts than he’s supposed to have and eventually, with increased discomfort, he delegates the job to Park Hyungmin himself with the excuse of sickness.

Doyoung does feel sick. He felt this way once, in highschool, but it had turned to red, hot anger ready to lash at anyone and everyone, spilling from his lips as easy as it was to breathe. And Doyoung can never feel that way towards you. He was different back then too, of course, but you—you’re unlike anyone he’s ever met. He loves the comfort of you, and something like that is hard to come by. 

He feels like laughing again but instead he finds tears on his cheeks. Silly boy, he can hear his mother tell him. You don’t give your heart to heartbreakers. 

So Doyoung falls asleep to the sound of upbeat music in his earphones, music he hates even just to pass the night. Morning will come and he will have to become stronger. Comfort is fleeting, after all.

With everything said and done, you know very well that if you were to tell someone you love them—genuinely, truly, from the heart—it would be Doyoung. It’s not a sudden realization, like the sky falling apart or a tidal wave crashing against the shore and sweeping away the city. It is like the gentle lapping of water, though, or the way the clouds change shape—natural and anything but alarming. You want to stare at it forever, and you want to believe that’s how it will be forever. 

“You told everyone we had sex?” Your voice is boiled to a shout. 

Hyungmin looks torn, lips moving but no explanation making its way out. “I- I told my friends, not everyone.”

“And you forgot that your friends talk? Everybody talks, Hyungmin, what were you thinking?”

He sighs before taking a step towards you. “Why are you so angry about it? As far as I remember, you had no trouble talking about whose pants you got into.”

You scoff. “With friends, not the whole campus.”

“That’s exactly what I did!” 

You cross your arms, feeling so upset you might cry and unsure as to why. You’re usually good at dealing with stuff like this, keeping things in the right place.

“It’s because of Doyoung, isn’t it?” 

You snap your head to Hyungmin. There’s a serene sort of look to him despite his unkempt appearance, and a look of understanding.

“I’m sorry. Really. But if you were so into him, you shouldn’t have called me that evening. It might not matter to me but…”

You broke his heart. All that devotion he had towards you led to this. 

“You’re right.” You choke on your words, leaning against the wall. “Fuck… Fucking…”

You turn around, making your way out of the hallway and hope the tears on your cheeks dry faster if you run.

You can’t remember the last time you ran. Your world didn’t need running from, it was right in the palm of your hands. Now that you look back, the world was always on your shoulders and heavy as it can be. Maybe you liked it—the weight. You could’ve shrugged it off any time; you didn’t need all those caging schedules or careful, elegant steps.

No. Atlas couldn’t shrug because his punishment was his existence. To have weight is to have meaning; and that is how you intended to live out your life.

Doyoung makes you see it differently. To love so fully even if it seems cautious—you, who has never loved at all, couldn’t comprehend it. And because he makes you see it differently, the box is now open and all hell is loose. 

For once, you don’t want to live in the world you crafted. You want more love, more hurt and you want to open the doors. You don’t mind hell if it’s for him.

You ring the bell to Doyoung and Ten’s apartment and pray the news hasn’t reached him yet. He said he was busy this weekend; maybe he was detached enough from his phone for once. You just want to be the person to tell him. It’s not a perfect apology otherwise.

Doyoung opens the door with pursed lips and cold eyes. There’s a sense of ease over his shoulders and arms but he won’t look at you and panic rises to your throat.

“We’re not fucking tonight, (name),” he says.

“That’s not- That’s not why I’m here.” Your voice is so meek, you wonder what happened.

Doyoung steps back, crossing his arms. He’s still looking at his feet and you feel the urge to reach for his face.

“I wanted to tell you- I… I just—”

“That you’re fucking other people?”

“God, Doyoung, stop with the fucking. I don’t care about that right now.”

“Really?” His voice is so sharp, it digs into your skin. “You were just in it for that. That’s the fun part in your stupid life, isn’t it?”

You feel a sharp pain in your nose and forehead. “You’re- Now that’s- Doyoung. I’m sorry. That’s what I wanted to say.”

“After—” His voice chokes up. “After everything is done? Stop with the excuses and face it for fuck’s sake. You aren’t made to fall in love. That’s why you dance around it all the time.”

Although he says that, he doesn’t sound angry. He sounds defeated.

“It’s not like you aren’t cautious,” you retort, throat feeling heavy. “You said it yourself- you don’t want to care too much.”

“I was wrong,” he says, voice hoarse. “I care about everything more than I’d like to admit. I care about you more than I’d like to admit.”

“The Hyungmin thing didn’t mean anything, okay? You were busy and—”

“So why did you lie?” He strains to not raise his voice. “Of course I knew our little thing didn’t mean shit to you. Why did you pretend it did? Last week, you said- you said—”

“Doyoung, last week- last week I- I wasn’t pretending, I swear.”

“You could’ve just saved yourself the trouble and the dignity.” A short, humorless laugh leaves him.

You feel your lips tremble, the explanation not quite made its way out yet. He looks so innocent like this, rabbit-like eyes watery and full of pain, pure the way they have always been. This is your mistake, isn’t it?

“Doyoung, please,” you manage to say. “That was wrong. I couldn’t clear up my head. Please don’t—”

“No. I was an idiot. Or you see me as one.” He frowns deeper, lips trembling. “I shouldn’t- I shouldn’t have. We shouldn’t have been at the same fucking party and I shouldn’t have drank so much. You’re- I’m not that kind of person.”

You bite down your lip. “What kind?”

Doyoung laughs, the sound raspy and empty. “The kind to not fall in love with you.”

It damn near breaks your heart to look at him. You have to say something, it shouldn’t end like this. You’re desperate and all you think is that you don’t want it to end at all.

“Please, I thought of you as a friend, that’s why—”

“And this is what you call being a friend?” he cuts you off.

You feel the sting in your eyes and nose, making you turn sharply to the side. You wish he’d just make you cry. It makes you feel the rancid guilt all the more.

“Make Hyungmin your friend for all I care. Let’s stop this.”

You stare at your feet, unable to respond. 

“You can have every boy in the world, (name). Don’t come to me.”

“Can you just stop talking about everyone else?” you yell, desperate. “Do I talk about your exes? Seungjae or- or what’s-her-name—” 

“That’s different!” He looks distraught, breathing heavily and with a painful red flush over his nose and cheeks. He runs his hand through his hair, tousling it further. “You lied to me, (name). You lied.”

Your cheeks are wet and the look that flashes over Doyoung makes you think he wants to step right out to you. He stays frozen in place, however, looking away to the side.

“Did you notice?” he asks softly. “Even once? How much I cared?”

You can’t answer, letting the tears drip down your face. It’s getting colder and colder. 

Doyoung bites down his lip before parting them. “All we did was have sex anyway. So please just- just leave.”

You take a long few moments but nod, hugging your coat closer and stepping out of his apartment. You think you hear Ten’s footsteps but it’s followed by the bang of a door—this is how it ends then.

The line between hate and love is thin; and you are deserving of neither.

You perfect your next semester’s academics, and the next. It still feels empty. You go out to drink with friends and return to a messy bed you sleep in alone. You smile as always and you laugh as always. No one asks you how you are as always. You never needed anyone to ask you how you are.

Ten tries but you push him away. You don’t need to drag in other people into a mess you made. He feels sorry for the whole thing but you tell him it was you that spilled the paint, Ten just handed a dash of it to you.

You were right. You don’t deserve Doyoung. At least, you made it so that you don’t deserve him. 

‘It’s better to have loved and lost than to not have loved at all’—it still hurts.

Every day is part of a list again. You doodled in some of the pages, when you thought you were starting to fall in love. There’s only a skeleton of it left now. Soon, you’ll let it crumble to dust too. 

You tear apart the planner sometime after graduation and cry and curse at yourself for doing that. No one’s good at parting with things they care about. You’re no exception.

It’s December again. 

This place is a little strange to visit right after graduating, especially with the memories flashing you by. Johnny said he booked one of the private booths (“A senior’s treat!”) but you feel your steps growing hesitant when you reach the neon signs by the stairs. It spells ‘The Meeting Place’ and smells of cigarettes just like it did the first time.

You stop midway up the stairs. For a moment, you think of Doyoung sitting there and wonder if you’ll ever be able to talk to him again. If you had the chance now, would you take it?

Of course, you wouldn’t. There’s too much to be set right and you can’t do it.

There’s supposed to be the six of you. Johnny mentioned Ten and you know Eunji’s invited too. You saw Jaehyun on the way here, still a student. You sigh. It must be him, the one they failed to mention to you. Kim Doyoung. There’s no one quite like him.

You spot him first. Looking a little forlorn as he gazes absentmindedly to the side, he faces away from you and you get the inevitable urge to run away. It’s a funny feeling. 

Your stomach is churning. You don’t want him to see you. Ten babbles on about something to Johnny, smiling like he found candy while clearing his drawers. Eunji looks tired, leaning against Johnny’s shoulder and you wonder if she already drank more than enough shots.

“(name).”

You jump at Jaehyun’s voice from behind you. 

“Hey,” you respond, giving him a wide smile.

He hesitates. “Are you okay? Not that you don’t look okay- you look really good actually. I mean, are you and… you know okay?”

“I don’t think so, Jaehyun,” you say and make your way to the booth.

It’s a little cramped for the six of you and Doyoung gets up before you can even greet him. It’s not like you deserve it anyway but it tugs at the wound.

“I’m going to go take a drag,” he mutters.

“You don’t smoke,” you say, looking up.

He stares at you momentarily and you look away. You think Ten and Johnny glance at you with pity but you don’t really care. 

 “Can I come with you?” you ask, barely a whisper.

“Sure,” he says, to your surprise.

The smoking area is so small, you’re surprised it’s even there. A glass structure overlooking the neighbourhood, there’s barely any light within. The only thing nice is how warm it’s in there. 

Doyoung lights his cigarette and then offers to light yours. It’s quiet, the music from inside numbed to the cold doors. You really can’t take it. You stub the barely consumed cigarette and throw it into the bin.

You’d rather just stay quietly in his presence.

“You’re not smoking,” he notes.

“It’s a bad habit.” You look out through the glass.

Doyoung chuckles. “You were a collection of bad habits.”

“And good ones too,” you quip. “I was a perfect student. I was perfect in most everything actually.”

Doyoung’s smile widens. “You were. You certainly were.”

A few more moments pass in silence, your eyes traveling over the outside scenery which seems to be growing duller by the second. City lights have never felt fainter.

“It was an accident, right?” You say suddenly. “The whole thing? Us?”

Doyoung hums. “Yeah. I fell in love by accident.”

You smile weakly. “Right. I never got to apologize.”

“I loved you on purpose.”

You look up at him. There’s not a lot of people who say what they mean. He looks the same as he used to under your grey blankets, with a warm blush over his cheeks and kind, wide eyes. 

“You’re so damn pretty,” he murmurs, “even now.”

You scan his face for signs of lying.

“You’re drunk, aren’t you?” you ask finally. 

Doyoung blinks before easing into laughter. “You- You’re- You’re the same as ever.”

You let yourself crack a smile.

“Doyoung I- I really am sorry,” you say quietly. “And I did- do care for you.”

Doyoung stubs out his cigarette and discards it before looking you in the eye. You notice he’s wearing his favourite black turtleneck in the proximity, the grey plaid coat covering most of it. You really liked that look on him.

“I’m sorry,” you say once again. “I want you to know that. I didn’t want to hurt you and I promise I won’t ever do it again.”

You mean it. You’re never going to hold glass again. He doesn’t deserve it.

“That’s a problem,” he responds, breath mingling with yours. “I want you… I want you to hurt me. If you really do love me, I’ll take it.”

“Doyoung,” you whisper, turning away despite your whole body screaming at you to give in. “I meant it. I can’t hurt you.”

Doyoung cups your cheek with one hand, glancing at your lips for a moment.

“You’re warm,” he says.

He’s warmer.

“I want to kiss you,” he says.

You want to kiss him too.

“We went about this all wrong, didn’t we?” he asks.

“We did,” you answer, voice barely above a whisper. “I did.”

Doyoung pulls back. “Then let’s start again. I’m Kim Doyoung, I majored in linguistics. I was student council president and I made a mistake.”

You smile. “We don’t have to do that.”

Doyoung raises an eyebrow. “After all the trouble I went through to make a good introduction?”

The two of you laugh, and it gets warmer. 

“I’m (name),” you say. “I was a top student and I made a bigger mistake, Kim Doyoung.”

“Oh? I wonder what it was.”

“Kind of a long story.”

“I’ve got all the time for you.”

You smile and start. He responds with gentle kisses. You’re piecing your world back together again; but this time it’s feather-light and fits right in the palm of your hand. 

[cazzyvintage]

Dancing the night away

Synopsis: You accomply Zemo to a ball yet you feel like you don’t truly belong there and you still compare yourself to Zemo’s ex wife but Zemo comforts you and assures you he loves you

Warnings/Tags: Fluff, all the fluff, plus very spicy end scene not 18+ but hella close

Word count: 2k

Authors note: As I promised a fluff one shot after the last one. We all need more loving Zemo in our lives. Also I just wanted to say that I love and appreciate every single one of you who likes and comments on my one shots. I used to write fanfiction on sites like Quotev and Wattpad and they never really got any attention which was quite down heartening to someone who wants to carry on writing for their career so all the love you have been showing to my Zemo one shots mean the world to me. Thank you all so much.

Once again Zemo had outdone himself. Buying you the most expensive dress in the shop, lavishing you with jewelry and make-up. Looking into the mirror even you could admit how stunning you appeared. You were wearing a tight-fitting emerald green dress that flurried out at the bottom in a swirl. The front of it cut down into a low v shape showing off the sides of your breasts.

You looked like how every little girl had always wanted to look like yet you couldn’t help but wonder...was this you?

You had never imagined you would be someone who would have a lot of money or meet someone who owned money. Let alone a Baron. It had happened so suddenly and you were swept up in a daze. It felt unreal, like every time you fall asleep you expect to wake back up in your old bed in your apartment. The truth was, deep down you felt like you didn’t deserve this.

You jumped as you felt hands wrap around your waist. Resting upon your stomach and pulling you in towards their chest.

“You look like the goddess Venus” Zemo whispers as he leans his head on your neck drinking in the scent of your perfume.

“If I hadn’t already promised the president I’d be there I would say screw this dance and take you right here”

“Zemo!” you gasp, your face instantly truing bright red at such a bold remark. You two had never gone that far in your relationship yet. You needed time to be ready before you ever went that far. Zemo respected that choice though he loved to tease you like that.

He chuckles, kissing your neck briefly then pulling back to admire himself in the mirror. “We will be the best looking couple there darling”

“You think so?”

Though his mouth was still turned into a smile he turned to you serious, “I know so y/n”

You break out into a big smile making Zemo smile flashing his teeth as well. He pulls you into a soft kiss, his hands gently holding onto you.

Following Zemo, he leads you to his car and a little while later you arrive at the ball. It felt like there were thousands of people there and they were all staring at you.

Zemo loved the attention. He politely smiled at everyone and greeted his friends there, introducing you to them.

You tried to make polite conversation but you had always been rather awkward. You didn’t know what you could say to people like them but Zemo made up for it by talking for you.

It felt like hours of you walking arm in arm with Zemo till he finally led you to the dance floor.

One hand on your waist and one holding yours, you two started to waltz to the music. Zemo started intently at you. His eyes sparkling in joy just to be in your presence while your face seemed to be in a permanent state of blushing.

“Have I told you just how much I adore your blush?” Zemo asks

You slightly chuckle still looking away, “Everyday” you breathed

“And I will continue telling you every day till you believe it”

“...Zemo”

“Darling, look at me” he whispers

Slowly you manage to drag your eyes off the floor and up into his warm chocolate ones. His grip on your hand tightens as he smiles warmly at you. “Words can not describe how stunning you are y/n. Poets would weep with joy just to be in your presence, even the stars would blow down to your light”

“I love you so much Zemo” you whisper

“I love you too”

You two continue to dance for the rest of the song till the music stops. You excuse yourself to step outside for a few moments.

Though Zemo loved to tell you how much he loved you, there was always a part of you that seemed to always doubt him. You were someone so common compared to him. Compared to his ex. He hardly spoke about her. You knew they were married with a child but they were both killed and it hurt him deeply. One day you snuck into his office and found a picture of her. She was so beautiful, so different to you.

“I hate seeing you looking so down darling” you hear Zemo say as he follows you outside. He stands behind you wrapping his arms around your waist and kissing your shoulder.

“I’m fine” you try to reply but Zemo shakes his head, “I know you y/n, I know you are upset by something. I want to help you with whatever is lying heavily on your soul but I can’t unless you tell me”

You don’t say anything for a moment, you just breathe in and out trying to calm your nerves. Zemo pulls back from you. He turns you around and picks up your hands in his. He brings them up and kisses them gently.

Finally, you gather up the courage to just let it all go, to just say everything that had been bothering you.

“I don’t feel like I fit in here Zemo! Before I met you I was just an average person. Someone everyone here would look down on. Part of me still finds it hard to believe you even like me. Why would someone like you, a Baron, who could have any supermodel settle for someone like me. It doesn’t make sense. I feel so outcast here and I can’t help but think about your ex-wife. She was so beautiful, I saw that picture in your office of her. I know she is prettier than me and I just can’t understand why you would choose me after being with someone like her. I just don’t understand why you choose me Zemo!” you cried, letting the tears freshly leave your eyes.

Zemo looked shocked as you spoke but his facial expression soon turned to one of sadness. He raised his hands to your face, placing it on your side, and with his thumb, he brushed the tears away.

“Oh, y/n…” he whimpered as he struggled for a moment to find the right words.

With his other arm, he wraps it around your side and pulls you close to him till you could feel his breath on yours. His eyes stare intently into yours as he speaks,

“When I saw you in that restaurant a year ago, I was awestruck. My life had turned to shit. I’d lost everything and it felt like I was drowning in the waves of pain but when I saw you it was like the angels had blessed me. What drew me to you most though was your eyes. In the sun they shone, darling, tantalizing, drawing me in deep and under. I just had to talk to you. Other women may be pretty. Perhaps. But you darling. You look like the gods came down and painted you with the best colours in existence. Everything I say to you I mean and I want you to believe it. I would do anything just so you could see yourself the way I see you. I understand how you feel about my wife. It was my fault, not talking about her to you but the way I love you isn’t the same way I loved her. I always felt like I was forced to be in love with her like it was the right thing to do. Everyone told me I would be an idiot not to pursue her so I did. Yes, I liked her but I never felt connected to her. But you darling, I would throw everything away for you. I don’t care what anyone else says because I love you. I treasure you. Just looking at you makes my heart race still and my body feel warm. I want to hold you, touch you, taste you but at the same time, I’m scared I would taint you. That you were too beautiful, too innocent for the likes of me.” Zemo declares, never taking eyes off you.

Through his words you feel yourself melting. A warmness takes over you as your heart too nervously flutters. You place your hand over his chest and you can feel his heart quickly beating, almost in time to yours. He looks at you, his eyes wide, lips slightly parted as he desperately waits for your words.

“You mean the world to me Zemo, I’ve never loved someone as much as I love you and never will. I could never come close to your way with words but...thank you. For saying that. It...it means so much to me to hear that. I’m still going to occasionally have doubts. I’m afraid that’s the way I am and I don’t think that will ever change but I’m not leaving you Zemo. Never”

Zemo wraps his arms around you bringing you into a hug as you rest on his chest, encompassed in his warmth. “I will be there every moment of every day to help you through your doubts”

Eventually, you pull back to look at him, at his lips. You were so drawn to him at that moment. You two were so close it was intoxicating. Pushing forward, you closed your eyes to kiss him. Zemo’s eyes fluttered shut as well and he raised his hands to wrap in your hair. They got tangled in them and he slightly tugged making you moan.

You both freeze as your blush comes back but you pushed past your embarrassment, kissing Zemo harder. Your core started to warm and this time you weren’t going to run away from your desire. You part your lips slightly and Zemo takes that invitation to explore your mouth with his tongue. You push into his further, wanting to feel his body against yours. This caused him to take a few steps back till he hit a wall. You moved your body slightly up and down his as you two kissed. He pulled back, out of breath as he gazed in wonder at you.

“Am I okay to go further?”

“Yes” you gasp, “Zemo I…” you knew it now, you knew you were ready, “Zemo I want you”

His teeth flash as he smiled at you before he lowered his face to your neck, sucking on a section. His hands also lowered down your back till they grabbed your ass. It elicits more moans out of you as his teeth graze your skin. His mouth wanders all over you like he was attempting to kiss every inch of you. As he moved his head lower you tangled your hands in his soft hair, tugging it slightly which made him groan.

When he reaches your chest area he grabs the back of your legs lifting you. You wrap both your arms and legs around him as he walks you over to a table and lays you down on it. You continue to hold onto him so that his body was between your tights and his chest was pressed against yours.

While everyone danced inside you and Zemo lost yourself to the pleasure outside.