#he does NOT want to be within these haunted walls and he is being SO brave about it!!

[retro-system]

the most important thing modern paper mario ever did was canonicalise mario's fear of ghosts. and also create olivia

[twentyfivemiceinatrenchcoat]

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

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

word count; 14.7k

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

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

[ once upon a time, there was a dear little girl... ]

the sun is stuck in vitro. 

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

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

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

you know this story.

(you should know this story.)

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

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

it’s nothing new.

(but he isn’t supposed to be here.)

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

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

like he knew you’d be here.

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

only a man, parting his lips.

”and where are you headed, little one?”

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

it’s only him, after all. 

(the ever reliable hunter.)

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

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

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

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

”mm… it’s alright. i don’t mind.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

and he parts his pretty lips.

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

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

so you speak before you think.

”sure.”

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

”… tea?”

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

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

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

your mother told you not to let anything distract you.

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

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

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

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

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

(… you shouldn’t, but…)

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

(… he shouldn’t be here at all.)

”i’d like to rectify that.”

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

(maybe two wrongs do make a right.)

you stop to think, for a moment.

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

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

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

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

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

two sparrows take off from a branch ahead of you. 

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

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

”let’s get you warmed up, hm?”

and you follow his lead.

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

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

his home is as warm as his smile.

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

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

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

”make yourself at home,” he smiles. 

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

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

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

you follow him. 

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

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

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

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

a cacophony of remedies pulsing in your ribs.

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

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

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

his eyes gleam under the dim lights. 

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

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

a sigh leaves your lips. laced with contentment.

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

a warm smile.

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

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

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

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

enamored.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

you aren’t sure what to say.

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

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

”i insist.”

…

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

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

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

it’s not safe out there. 

(he’s right, of course, but…)

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

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

he perks up, at that. 

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

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

just until tomorrow, you think.

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

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

he loves you.

(it’ll be fine.)

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

”… anything is fine.”

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

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

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

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

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

it starts out small. it always does. 

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

“it’s too early.”

“it’s too cold, you’ll get sick.”

“don’t you want to stay for dinner?”

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

but never like this. never, ever like this. 

never as suffocating.

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

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

(soon, he’s outright denying you.)

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

a sigh, and a shake of his head.

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

nails paint crescents on your inner palms.

“… she’s waited long enough.”

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

so much stronger than you. 

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

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

…

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

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

”believe me.”

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

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

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

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

the hunter is trustworthy.

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

(but hunters don’t smell like wolves.)

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

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

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

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

no noise. no creak.

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

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

your heart strings together a tale of worry.

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

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

eight steps. nine steps.

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

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

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

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

freedom. freedom. freedom.

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

and the door slams shut behind you.

(a betrayal of the wind.)

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

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

so you run.

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

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

your lungs feel on fire, the air gasoline.

and you hear the door slam shut behind you. 

(— the hunter begins his chase.)

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

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

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

he’s stares back at you. 

golden eyes, sharpened in the night.

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

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

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

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

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

resigned. surrender.

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

”what were you thinking, hm?”

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

”… you never change.”

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

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

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

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

but you don’t.

(you don’t know anything anymore.)

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

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

your skin itches from the burning cold. 

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

he apologizes for that, too.

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

maybe you did.

he can hurt you. he’s capable of it.

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

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

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

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

”… do you mean it?”

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

when he kills the wolf, you can leave.

if only it were that easy.

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

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

it’s a corpse.

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

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

always a wolf, never a man.

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

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

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

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

the more time passes, the worse he gets. 

the more comfortable. 

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

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

he’s sweet, about it. gentle.

”let me say hi, little one.”

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

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

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

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

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

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

but you’re sure you’d fail again. 

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

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

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

or a wolf for a stack of bones.

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

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

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

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

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

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

a comfortable cage is exactly right. 

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

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

you miss feeling alive. 

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

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

the only advantage you have is this:

suguru believes himself to love you. 

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

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

the pot boils over with the stench of rotten apricots.

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

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

and suddenly, you can’t take it anymore.

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

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

the air smells of chestnuts and incense.

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

”please let me leave.”

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

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

(it makes him look unsettling.)

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

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

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

how powerless you are against him.

but you push through.

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

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

(his lips curl into a scowl.)

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

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

tread it through and through and through. 

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

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

and then a grating sigh. 

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

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

and his eyes burn you to cinders. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

”i can.”

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

he can keep you here. 

(forever, and ever, and ever.)

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

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

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

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

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

…

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

(you never asked to be devoured.)

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

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

”do you understand?”

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

never again. 

no matter how much you beg. 

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

so there’s no point.

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

”… i understand.”

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

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

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

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

it doesn’t make you feel a thing. 

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

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

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

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

suguru pauses. 

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

you’re well aware of what he means.

(and that’s the end of that.)

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

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

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

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

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

you nod, and he smiles.

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

”… mhm.”

he seems content, with that response. 

the snow outside the window mocks you with its shimmer.

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

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

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

if only you didn’t know the truth.

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

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

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

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

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

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

(you miss the cold sting of the wind.)

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

a noise, echoing from the hallway.

rap, tap, tap. 

(knuckles against wood.)

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

when you come to, your heart is pulsing.

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

(it already has.)

another knock.

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

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

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

pitter, patter, pitter, patter. 

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

just behind the door.

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

freedom. freedom. freedom?

(hope.)

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

no one forgot about you. 

you move your leg, and — 

”keep still.”

… a breath brushes against your neck.

(ba-dump. ba-dump.)

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

he’s always there to catch you.

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

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

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

(you think he was trying to control himself.)

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

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

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

then, the sound of boots against gravel. 

moving farther, and farther away. 

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

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

you swallow down a sniffle.

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

(you can’t take this, anymore.)

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

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

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

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

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

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

it comes out pitiful. 

a broken, battered whisper.

”… i wanna go home…”

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

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

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

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

a weak, gurgling sob.

home. this is home.

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

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

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

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

if only you could bring yourself to believe it. if only you were capable of swallowing down hope without spitting it back out again. if only you knew better than to trust a wolf, or a hunter, or anyone at all. 

if only you weren’t you — 

maybe this wouldn’t have happened. 

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

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

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

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

but not to you.

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

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

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

someone.

(a man with a shotgun over his shoulder.)

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

rather not interrupt him in the middle of his meal. 

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

golden eyes violating the dark.

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

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

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

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

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

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

you stare at the ceiling until dusk turns to day.

a tentative sip.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

content to watch your captor playing house.

(soon, this’ll all be over.)

(soon.)

”… your arms are hairy, suguru.”

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

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

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

”and your hands are big…”

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

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

so he plays along.

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

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

a silent intake of breath.

”… and your teeth are sharp.”

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

and suguru looks conflicted.

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

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

a voice like no other rings in your ears.

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

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

(it’s nearly over. it’s nearly over.)

you feel as if you might throw up.

”… goodnight, sweet thing.”

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

the nightlight flickers off.

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

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

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

you’re well beyond accepting that.

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

but now you really are trapped.

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

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

the sun is stuck in vitro.

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

the axe glimmers by the fireplace. 

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

(everything’s already broken, anyway.)

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

”the tea is ready, honey.”

— and you stand up.

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

it’s time to choose an ending. 

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

you know which one you want.

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

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

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

(now. now. do it now.)

hunger. hunger. hunger.

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

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

his guts will spill out just the same.

[ … and ▇▇ ▇ne did ▇▇▇ing t▇ harm h▇▇, ▇ver again. ]

you creep up behind him, stealthy as a fox —

and swing.

[sleepingdiaryzzz]

hold on,hold on,Yandere!Conner Kent x reader🙏🏻

(sorry for bothering😭)

U ain't a bother and if anybody tells you that u do, then, they gonna face my pinky, my thumb and my fist they gonna run. 😼🐺🧏🏽‍♀️ nobody messes with my first ever anon 😠👊

Anyways

The night has fallen quietly over Metropolis, the cityscape softened under a blanket of stars. The world feels smaller somehow, contained within the walls of your apartment where Connor sits, angled slightly toward you, his gaze unwavering yet serene. He has that brooding, intense look—a mix of steel and tenderness—that you’ve come to recognize as uniquely his. It’s as though he’s carrying a burden, one he won’t let you see, and yet you feel its weight as if he’s drawn you into his orbit without permission.

“Connor,” you say softly, trying to break the quiet, “you’ve been… around a lot more lately.”

His eyes flicker, something shadowy dancing behind them, a vulnerability he usually keeps hidden. He doesn’t answer right away, just lets his gaze travel over your features as if memorizing every detail. The room feels charged, the air between you like the fine thread of a spider’s web—delicate and unbreakable all at once.

Finally, he speaks, his voice hushed but firm. “I just want to make sure you’re safe. Is that so wrong?”

There’s a faint, haunting cadence in his words, something raw and possessive yet laced with an almost tragic reverence. You feel the intensity radiating off him, a barely restrained storm beneath his calm exterior.

“Nothing could happen to you,” he continues, almost to himself. “Not on my watch. I’d make sure of that.”

You’ve always known Connor’s protectiveness runs deep, but tonight, it feels like there’s something else lurking beneath the surface. An edge, a quiet desperation that clings to the room, thick as fog.

“Connor…” you say his name with a gentle tone, hoping it might pull him out of whatever dark place he’s retreating into. He’s so close now, leaning forward, his hand reaching out as if compelled by some invisible force. When his fingers graze your cheek, his touch is featherlight, as though he fears you’ll vanish.

“If I could keep you here,” he whispers, his tone taking on a dreamy, almost poetic quality, “locked away from the world… I would. Not because I want to take anything from you, but because I… I couldn’t bear it if anything happened to you.”

It’s a confession wrapped in longing, and you see the truth of it in his eyes, where constellations seem to burn just for you. There’s something about his gaze that feels eternal, as if the universe itself has handed him the task of guarding you.

“You mean a lot to me,” he says finally, each word slow and deliberate, as though he’s trying to etch them into your soul. “More than you know.”

In that moment, his love feels like an uncharted ocean—beautiful and terrifying, with depths you’re not sure you’re ready to explore. But his sincerity anchors you, and, despite the intensity of his words, you can’t help feeling safe, cocooned in the quiet power of his devotion.

(A/n: is it just me or do you guys also feel suspicious of how I could post every day despite saying I'm too lazy to do so... Maybe my laziness hasn't kicked in yet which is weird and scary considering I'm writing dis rn in front of my 10 homework activities, and yes I am doing it last minute but so what...? I'm too lazy to do all of em and rn I'm don't know what I am talking about... I love yapping but I'm a introvert does it make me a extrovert when i talk too much but not as loud? Guys I'm turning crazy, I need someone to talk to and all my best friends are busy idk why they've been busy since last week....my gf is not replying for like 20 minutes now...im going crazy. Also sorry for spamming the Batfamily tag even though it's not the content I posted, I just feel like it's more famous than the others and also idk how to tag... Though mainly because I'm scared of being a flop hehe...)

[grapejuicestyless]

Haunted By The Look In My Eyes

JJ Maybank x fem!reader

Summery: After a near death experience while on an adventure Y/n and JJ were supposed to be sat on the bench for, tension builds between the Pogues until finally, JJ’s reckless attitude meets Y/n’s intense feelings that can only be compared to the hopelessness JJ once felt himself.

“Guess it’s just you and me.” I rolled my eyes, the coolness from the surface of the metal shipment container doing nothing to cool down the sweltering heat that danced through the air within the four walls. Boxes of random assortments of various items plastered in rotting wood and wrapped thickly in plastic wrap.

Water clung to everything, beading down my forehead in thick droplets of sweat, the salty liquid tasting on my tongue with each swipe of it over my cracking lips. I swore if I ever had the curse of being sent to hell, this was it. This was the fiery depths of heat people spoke about, I was sure of it.

JJ was glistening too, though, he seemed used to it. Growing up with no temperature regulations in the unforgiving summer heat seems to have made him less uncomfortable by the thickness in the air, I hadn’t been lucky enough to adapt over time.

I watched him slide down against the floor, trying to get as low as possible. Heat does rise, after all. I sat opposite of him. Climbing on the crates of junk and cringing at the insufferable squeaking sounds that I could only ever compare to nails on chalkboard. I sat as close to the small opening in the container as possible without making myself known to anyone walking outside. The risk was worth it for the cool breeze of the ocean, even for just a moment.

But just as I close my eyes, swaying and praying that the heat will die down, the blond speaks.

“You know, I’ve been thinking. When all this is over, and we’re just rolling in the dough…I’m gonna get a new board and I’m gonna deck it out. And I’m gonna go on a surf trip.” His head leaned back against the crate behind him, his hair sticking to the back of his neck and his once wildly untamed hair clumping together in a wet mess.

I gave him a look, leaning forward on my palms and smiling at him, I let my eyes wander around the container.

“I don’t know where, but like, the worlds callin’.” He smiled, dissociating for a second and letting his smile fade. Slipping away for only a moment. “I don’t…name a place.” He was back, the same toothy grin as before, the same glistening shine in his blue eyes.

I thought for a second, blowing air through my lips.

“Spain.” I nodded my head.

“Then, after Spain…South America or South Africa, you know-“

“You’re gonna go to South Africa?” I interrupted with a teasing smile, partially shocked that JJ ever wanted to go away so far.

“Or one of the south places.” He defended himself. “A-and then Micronesia maybe. And then, just ride…wherever the wave takes you.” He looked down at his ring clad hands, twisting them nervously like he might have doubts that his dreams were stupid, unachievable.

I smiled at him even when he wasn’t looking because I believed everything he said. I knew that one day, he would go out just like he said and catch the best swells around the globe.

“Y’know?” He looked up finally, catching my grin.

“So that’s the plan—if we were to get a ton of cash?” I asked, looking away from him again. “That’s the dream?” I said it like a question, though, really I was agreeing with everything he said. It sounded like a dream. “Surf trip.”

“Bamboo hut…cooking a fish on a fire and…after that you go back out and just hit the waves again.” He moved his hands wildly as he spoke, building his dream in his mind with just the wiggling of his fingers. I rolled my eyes playfully.

“That’s the dream.” He confirmed, his voice lowering slightly, and I knew he was serious.

“Sounds perfect.” I agreed softly.

“Yeah.”

“Got room for one more?” I shrugged, asking honestly despite the light smile on my face. JJ simply laughed, smiling and looking back up from his lap to meet my eyes. I watched how his smile dropped when he saw how serious I was.

“You got your passport?” He asked, and it made me laugh this time.

“You don’t got a passport.” I teased.

“Hell no I don’t got a passport! The Kookiest thing ever.” He smiled, and I felt myself laughing from my stomach. A real, happy laugh that I hadn’t felt bubbling up since I was a little girl. Since before all the guns and allegations, and prison sentences, and near death experiences.

Sometimes I wondered what I would think of JJ, if I didn’t know him. Sometimes, I feared that if I had been born on the other side of the island, if my parents could afford a nicer house, if I lived just nearly two neighborhoods over, would I be just like everyone else?

Would I have thought of him as just another Maybank? Surely, if told his dreams to Topper or Kelce, they’d laugh and call him nothing greater than his old man. I thought he was a great deal more than Luke ever was, but would I think that if I had more money in my pocket?

I decided that I would, because the look in his eyes told me I would have. They were blue, sure, but they were the most trusting, truest eyes I’d ever seen. Maybe that’s why he knew he was a good liar, because he had the doe eyes down, but he couldn’t fool me any more than he could fool John B, Kiara, or Pope.

JJ Maybank had been the center of my universe since he had dropped down right front and center of me, since he had wandered into my life and claimed that we were to be best friends forever without leaving any room for argument.

I knew that I would have found him in any life. Because I know JJ Maybank better than anyone ever has, and he knows me more than I know myself.

When he sighed and fought against the “B-Team” I faked my offense, because though I knew he was itching for action, we’d get to share a tender moment like this together, just locked up in a hot box with no room the breathe and no wind to cool us down.

I craved our conversations like he craved the chaos, and I clawed my way into his heart because since the moment I met him I understood how special he was to me. He’s so, undeniably special.

“The Kookiest.” I agreed softly, letting my head fall back and my eyes close again, content with the feeling of my beating heart racing for him.

Maybe being the B-Team wasn’t the worst, because then the only worry was trying to maintain a steady temperature and keep myself from swaying my way to the floor. Heat stroke seemed a lot less scary than this.

JJ quieted me down, though, I hadn’t said a word, and his pointer pressing against his lips reminded me that maybe he shouldn’t be leading us around the boat, completely exposed to danger, and so I snuck around him and squeeze through the thin passageway, ignoring his whisper-shouting protests.

Our bodied pressed flat against the side of the upper deck walls, my head stretched around the corner to view the empty deck ahead of us.

“Clear?” He asked softly, and I nodded my head quickly.

We ran on our toes, walking light on our feet to avoid the loud slapping of boots against metal. JJ fell behind me slightly as he spun around, paranoid of the potential of someone following behind.

“Jay, come on.” I mumbled desperately, feeling the stress falling down on me.

We turned the corner quickly, JJ turning to look over the railing for John B on a lifeboat, our getaway car, only to be met with open water. Our breathing echoed between our ears, neither of us heard the harsh slapping of extra feet plowing down the stairs ahead.

“I don’t see them.” He announced, all too loudly.

I froze in the presence of a taller man with untamed hair and scruffy facial hair.

“JJ…” I warned, squaring my shoulders off as he stepped in line with me. No one made any movement for a split moment.

“Jayj…” I said a little more desperately as the man unsheathed his machete, only drawing JJ’s in closer, a fein for danger, and a junkie for risk.

“Of course…” The man began to speak, his brows furrowing. “There’s more of you.”

JJ and I shared a look, our faced contorted in an unspoken agreement that we understood the numbers here. Two against one was a safe bet, though the factor of his blade made me squirm a little.

“Get down on your knees.” The man instructed, and I wanted to laugh.

“Yeah, thats not gonna happen!” JJ’s words became shorter as he took a step back, the man’s slow approach sending both of us in fight or flight. I knew from the first glance what JJ would choose.

The man swung violently, aiming down on JJ’s shoulders with a quick blow, but missing as he ducked and shifted to the left. The machete made a loud clanging sound as it hit the metal floor.

He swung again, this time at me, but he was already off balance, swinging aimlessly at someone who wasn’t there. My hands pushed down against his arm, keeping him and the weapon pinned to the wall of the boat, right against a closed compartment that looked like it was hiding electrical cables.

Grunting as he fought against my hands, JJ wound up and struck the man with his bare knuckles, hitting him square in the jaw. His hands braced the mans shoulders, our eyes meeting in the chaotic scene, another unspoken plan shared between our glances.

“Hit him, Y/n/n!” He instructed, and as JJ pulled the man back, I opened the compartment where his hand had been, smacking him dead center in his face so hard, it echoed through my ears. I couldn’t help but grimace to myself.

“Wheres John B?” JJ shouted, his voice rough with anger. He shifted from foot to foot, hands drawn in a position ready to swing, even with the man helplessly lying on the ground.

I ran to the edge of the boat, my palms bracing myself over the edge, the empty water making my stomach drop. I wondered helplessly what was holding the others up as JJ and I fought on borrowed time.

“John B!” I shouted, my voiced strained.

I heard the sound of hair moving quickly, the cut of a blade slicing above JJ’s head as he once again ducked, but this time, we weren’t as lucky. With a kick to the gut, JJ went flying back, his head bouncing off the side of the railing. He sat with his hand cradling the back of his head.

“Y/n/n!” He alerted me. Turning on my feet, the man was closer to me than before, his gaze deadly and set solely on me.

He swung once, twice, missing with each violent stroke of the blade. I ducked the best I could, growing more confident as the pain of connection never came, but I grew too overconfident. I spend too much time with JJ, I guess.

The sting came quickly, a burning pain that ripped through my skin and sunk deep past the tissue. I screamed out in a broken cry of desperation, my fingers gripping my shoulder in agony.

The man swung again, only to be pulled away by the blond boy once again, his arms swallowing him whole from the back. Their grunts were the only other thing I could hear past the beating of my heart, yet, seeing the man elbow JJ in his sternum hurt more than the wound that bled out between my red fingers.

He had JJ winded, and with one swift turn, he tried to take me one more time.

I ducked, and watched in horror as the blunt end sent JJ flying over the edge of the boat, nearly three stories until the splash sounded from the deck.

The man came at me again, the dance becoming all too repetitive as the sole of my shoe connected with his stomach. He stumbled into the ground, lying flat. I raced to the edge, the sight below me sickening.

There JJ was, floating on his stomach, his head below the surface, unmoving and sinking slowly. The waves look him in every direction, and all that filled my mind was the silent begging that he would flip.

“JJ!” I screamed, trying to wake him as if the water wasn’t filling his ears. The water around him bubbled, the deep blue a bright white from the impact, his old tank top lifting to reveal the shape of his back.

He didn’t move, he didn’t respond, and my feet met the top of the railing on the boat. I didn’t even think, I didn’t register all the danger below the surface, how stupid it was to jump into the open water with no guarantee that John B would ever show up, but it didn’t matter because I couldn’t stop it. I was hitting the water regardless of how fearful I was of the cold.

“JJ!” Water fell out of my mouth in heaving splatters of coughing fits, my hair glued flat against my skin and my clothes clinging to every inch of my body. I would be lying if I said the impact didn’t hurt, if the salt water didn’t burn the harsh aching in my shoulder.

“Jayj!” With my good arm, I pulled the blond boy into my body, laying his head back against my shoulder to keep him above the surface, to get some air into his lungs.

“Jayj?” My other hand came to grab his face, and my thighs burned with how viciously they cut through the water, treading painfully harsh to keep us afloat. His limp body drifted against mine, and the gentle tangle of our limbs made it harder to swim.

“Jayj, stay with me!” I dropped his cheek, needing the extra hand to keep us above the water. With no help around and only the unfamiliar waters to call home, I felt a bile rise in my throat, like I could vomit if my stomach wasn’t so empty, if hungry was a feeling I had grown to know.

“Please!” I gritted my teeth, feeling my head drip under the gentle waves for a moment, it stung when I opened my eyes again. “JJ, please!” I cried out, taking in every breath of air like it was a gift.

“Stay with me, stay with me!” I grunted, using all my strength. I debated letting the water take me, if only I could extend my arms to keep him a float, I would let myself drown.

My thighs burned, and my arms were too shaky to hold on for much longer. My brows furrowed and my nose burned, a familiar ache in my lungs. I knew crying would do me no good, but as my chest became hollow, I felt my tears mix with the oceans waves drowning out my face.

Everything hurt. Hurt in a way, I could never explain. It was like I could feel each edge of my heart giving out and the sharp cuts of every wheeze that huffed past my cracking lips.

The water was red. Redder than I’d ever seen the ocean because water isn’t red. Maybe it was the cut from his head staining the once vibrant seas a dark maroon, but I could see it swirling in delicate droplets down my arm, I could feel the stickiness even in the salty surroundings.

But there was also fear. Fear that my best wasn’t enough, fear that I would become inclined to give up, because giving up is much sweeter when you have the option. Dying never is. Not even when you want to. Having the urge doesn’t make the pain less scary, and so I kick restlessly to keep the both of us up.

“John B’s coming, John B’s coming, okay?” I assured the empty crowd, JJ completely unaware of the distress of the situation as he lay lifeless in my weakened arms.

His arms floated with the movement of the ocean, his hair covering his eyes. The blond hair that I adored, ran my hands through and ruffled was darker now that it was wet. Not in the way it was when he surfed, but drenched. Stuck to his skin and covering his forehead.

With one strong kick, I gained enough power to lift us up just a bit higher from the surface. My shaky hand brushed the hair from his face.

“John B!” I call out as I steal another glance at his paling face, a red stain spreading on his temple from the blow of the blade, leaking down and staining my own cheek from how close he is to me.

“Help!”

The motor of a boat catches my ear, but my lungs have given up and I’ve already sunk so far below the water, our heads are barely breaking surface.

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry.” I pant out, my eyes shutting like it would do us any good. I could have let him go, I could have carried my own weight a moment longer, but with every doubting thought, my hands only held onto him tighter, a silent refusal to give up on him, even if it meant letting the darkness consume me.

Kiara would have yelled at me, and been proud all at once. She would have called me stupid for risking my life for someone so reckless, but then she would have clapped me on the back and said it was what any of us would have done. Pogues for life and all that.

I really missed her now, I wished she was here to scold me, I wished I wasn’t so alone.

“Hey! JJ!” A chorus of cries for us rang throughout the distance, the motor boat approaching as the others all cried out for JJ, my head slipping below the waves.

“No, no, no, no!” John B’s voice broke, the weight on my shoulder lifting, I saw Pope and John B lift him from the water through the stinging of my blurry vision, I felt him leaving my grip, but my hands only grabbed onto him harder.

Subconsciously, I couldn’t let him go. It was only hurting the both of us, we were saved, the Pogues finally finding their way to us, but part of my brain couldn’t comprehend that it was all ending soon because it was all going black. My vision, my heart, my mind.

But just before the water could suck me down, Kiara pulled me on board, her hands grabbing onto me like I had grabbed onto JJ.

“Y/n, holy shit.” Her voice shook with concern. Where her knuckles had held onto me, where my shirt was wrinkled wetly between her fingers, came the slow oozing of deep maroon down my skin, staining everything it touched.

It smeared around with every rock of the boat, and I swore I felt myself swaying. Kiara said something about the depth of the wound, how she thought she saw bone. It blurred like my vision, my lips parting only to shut at the sound of Pope and John B’s distress.

JJ laid still with his head propped up against the edge of the boat, eyes shut just as they were in the water, his eyelashes laying curled against his wet cheek.

The sight gave me a second wind, my hands craved to feel the weight of his body in my arms, to feel the warmth of his skin against my finger tips tor remind me he was here.

“JJ, no, come on!” I begged through broken tears. “Please, get up!” My hands tapped on his chest, though I was ready to press my lips against his and give him all my air if I needed to.

I crawled to him like I needed him to breathe, my knuckles scraping across the bottom of the boat, bruises and cuts littering my pruning skin. I clung to him like a vice, my lips wobbling like a child.

“Get up!” I shouted, scolding him like a mother. Yet, the brokenness of my voice seemed to carry into his empty head as his drool spilled out of his lips, spitting up onto his chest as he gained his bearings.

It was gross, the salt water mixed with the slimy drool dripping from his mouth and wetting his soaked tank top beyond what it was, but I had never seen a more relieving sight. My best friend drooling all over himself, but god, he was alive and that’s all that mattered.

The boat seemed to fall quiet for a moment, all in awe of his return, all following the wavering gaze that swept over the small boat. He was out of it, for sure. His eyes carrying a sense of question beyond what he usually held, but as he registered the faces around him as his closest friends, his family, the panic seemed to fade into a mellow knowing.

“Yeah, yeah! Cough it out, cough it out baby!” John B encouraged, a sea of instructions following from the others in a desperate hurry, all reaching over to simply feel for a steady thumping of a pulse.

I sat back on my heels, looking down at him, and revoking my warm touch from his chest quickly. Retracting it with uncertainty that it would hurt him, like he was fragile.

“Welcome to the land of the living, dude.” Pope smiled, earning a side eye from JJ as he looked around to find his friends all looking down at him with concerned gazes.

My fingers shook, hovering over his chest like I didn’t know if it was right to touch him, if I had the right. I’d felt my own chest caving in just minuted ago, I wondered if I dared to rest my palms against his skin, would he feel the same?

I laid a hand on his shoulder, and watched his vision dance from where we touched to my face, taking a moment to breathe in my presence.

“Hi.” I breathed out in relief, but also something deeper that I didn’t have the words to describe.

“‘Sup.” JJ said, his usually cool demeanor meaning nothing to me at the moment. I pushed his head away gently, still all too aware of the wound leaking from his temple, the way the blood seemed to stain everything. His hair, his skin, his stupid shirt. It tainted everything good with the memories of the bad, the unforgettable, the hurt. But I couldn’t stay away for too long.

As soon as the smile cross his golden features, my arms wrapped around his face like a blanket, holding him to my chest to feel how fast he had my heart beating. He didn’t mention the drumming against his ear, but the warmth that spread across his face told me he felt it, he knew the feeling all too well. Maybe if I had the courage to rest my hands over his heart, I would have known.

I thought of the surf trip, of his dreams, of the gold, of everything that he ever wanted, and I sweat at the thought of it never happening. I crumbled at the idea of him not getting to be a forever given in my life, of him only being a fraction of time, when I wanted it all.

“Don’t ever do that again.” I mumbled against his wet hair, but I don’t think he heard it over the chatter between him and John B, the laughter from Sarah all too loud to hear my soft whisper, a confession that really wasn’t much, but carried the weight of all my emotions.

If he did, he didn’t mention it. He was good at not mentioning it, but he was bad at forgetting.

“You’re bleeding all over the sand, Y/n.” Sarah pointed out, stepping out of the boat, allowing JJ and her husband-to-be to drag the long dead motorboat onto the shore.

An island to call home and a tropical paradise to explore for however long the summer would last and the warmth would suffice.

I was the first to let the water reach my shins, practically jumping out of the boat in a rush, an overwhelming need to feel the ground between my toes, to rinse off the grime and hurt from the failed mission. One cross gone and another home taken.

My body lay starfish position on the soft surface, my shoulder still open and aching, but dulling over time. It didn’t feel that bad anymore, and I was sure the ringing in my ears was just from the adrenaline, though, I’d never heard it before.

“That’s nasty, shes right.” Kiara agreed, trying to tug me up by the arm, only to stretch out my collar bone and earn a lazy grunt from my lips. If I were as smart as I had been prior to the stress, prior to the fact of the pact of the B Team, prior to all the shared dreams and promises to make it out, I would have asked Cleo or Pope to help mend my wounds.

Now, I just felt ready to die. Let my life wash away into the open ocean and let the jellyfish drink me up. Let the sea turtles consume me and share the same bliss of a high that I did with my friends.

“Circle of life.” I grunted, my cheek covered in sand, I buried my face into the dirt. “It’s an early Thanksgiving for the seagulls.”

“You’re so dramatic.” Kiara kicked my hip lightly, trying to move the rock of a being I had become.

“Yeah, and not everyone celebrates Thanksgiving.” Cleo joked from a distance, already gathering wood and stone for a fire. It would be dark soon anyway.

“My joints hurt.” I complained drowsily.

“No shit, I can practically see your bone. Get up.” Kiara fought, turning her head to call for back up from someone with the power to move me from my dormant headspace.

“John B, Pope!” Kiara called out with an annoyed expression, and I found myself smiling at the way her face grew fuzzier and the sounds all became one loud booming ring in my ears.

It hurt so good, a warmth covering my body like a blanket, a reward after fighting so hard. If death found me, I found it peaceful. Ready to be consumed by the darkness to avoid the haunting memory of the limp body floating in my arms. To forget about the way my heart clenched beyond repair.

It wasn’t like, it was love. I’d always known it deep down, but now I knew I could put a name to the feeling, and it terrified me. Because it replayed every second of JJ’s life slipping away, and somehow, it left out the part where he came to.

I could barely make out the shape of the trees anymore. Everything became one big collage in the sky.

“John B! JJ!” Kiara looked back, stunned by the look in my eyes, the same look that had been in JJ’s before he was taken by the waves. A look that would have haunted me for a lifetime. It now tormented Kiara.

It was a look of slipping, of giving up, giving out. The end, even.

“Help!” She cried out desperately, watching the clumsy boys scramble to the ground and catch their bearings, hands digging through the dirt to get to me.

“What happened?” Pope called out, his concerned hands holding Kiara’s shoulders and his love sick gaze failing to focus on what really matters.

Isn’t that funny? I spent all my time focused on JJ, my own gaze stuck in the permanent focus of only him. I didn’t even care to feel the pain tearing away at my skin and my bones. I barely even noticed it after a while. It became nothing compared to the something I almost lost.

Now, as I lay in the sand, choking on my breath in agonizing pain that slowly seeps through in waves, I watch through blurred vision as Pope does the same.

It seemed that it just now snapped in everyone’s mind that the maroon pooling around my arm wasn’t normal. It wasn’t like the scrapes from sharp rocks in the surges, or the nasty head wounds from countless drunken dares to climb things that shouldn’t even be looked at while sober.

The bubbling, and the smell, the metaling smell, it was sickening, and it wasn’t normal. Adrenaline can only get you so far, and hell, I’d already spent it all up.

“Y/n/n!” I heard a familiar voice, rough with exhaustion but stronger now that the day was beginning to wash over and the pain was beginning to creep away.

His dirty hands pressed hard against my skin, his delayed nature only slipping his hand over the one place it shouldn’t have been. Touch me anywhere, make me feel okay, like this isn’t really the end, but please, don’t dig your fingers around in the wound I have just for you.

It only makes things harder to mend.

“JJ!” Sarah screamed, and I threw my head back, screaming.

It hurt worse than anything, the feeling of nail against flesh. It stung more than any jellyfish and it scratched sharper than any knife. Thousands of needles shot down my veins, my knuckles stuttering into a pitiful fist.

“Stop! Stop!” I cried, my whole body shaking—no, my whole body collapsing in on itself. Folding into the earth in order to run away from the pain.

“I’m trying to help, stop squirming like a fish!” He stressed, the creases by his brow showing the wear from the evening already, we all felt as though we’d aged a century in a minute.

“Get off of me!” I tried to reach over, I didn’t want his dead hands on my cold body. I didn’t want his limp fingers rubbing against my moving joints. I didn’t want to feel what I felt in the water, and I didn’t want to see it either.

“Please, get off!” I shouted, my voice breaking like a fragile thing. A thin layer, a brittle sheet of clay crumbling under the weight of the hands that once so tenderly shaped it.

Dying does a funny thing to the mind, especially in a panic. You spend all your time trying to remember to breathe, you forget reality. Even though he was kneeling down beside me, digging around under my skin and arguing back harshly words he meant as sentiment in his overwhelming stress, to me, I had convinced myself he was dead. I didn’t do it, I couldn’t save him, I let those thoughts of giving up consume us and I watched him die in my arms.

There is no boat ride, there is no island, there is no nothing. There is only before, and the end. There is no after. Forget the fact the blood is sticking to everything, and the fact that I’ve felt John B’s cold rings slapping hard across my cheekbones to keep me aware of myself, everything is all nothing and I hear nothing but the sound of my ragged breath wheezing and my horrible cries echoing, bouncing off the Pogues.

Pope took over, finally getting his brains back. The scarecrow held firm pressure over the wound, evenly spread along my arm in a way that stung, but never scratched, never matted the fur of my mane or cut off my skin. He spoke so quickly, and it was so muffled, I began to want to hear him, take the trip down the yellow brick road and find the courage to stay.

Then, there was the ripping of a shirt. It was dark, and rough, but worn in so it felt softer that way. Then, more pain, more pressure, and then, nothing.

But this wasn’t death, because I could still hear and feel and taste the spit on my tongue, the salt water that washed everything I bit down on away. I was still there, but now, I could feel myself calming down, drowning out the silence and coming back to the truth.

“Have you considered a career as a EMT?” I panted, my heavy eyes flickering up to Popes reforming face, the hay and the straw hat fading away into just the kind boy I loved. The yellow road becoming the soft, now wet, sand beneath my back.

He smiled like a dope, clicking his tongue and showing his toothy grin. Relief was the only word to describe the silence that fell over the group at that moment, silence that felt heavy to everyone but the victim. Silence that I felt on the boat.

“I hate you.” He laughed, punching me between the ribs with a force that only could be equated to the fact that he wasn’t a liar, and it was obvious he was on the math team, not an athlete.

“No you don’t.”

My body curled up in laughter, nose scrunched and aware of the extreme caution that was required to keep my arm from splitting apart. I tried to argue back, but my words fell short on choked laughter, letting Kiara hoist me up by the waist and feeling her wet bracelets press against my warm skin. JJ simply walked away, all too quiet for a boy who never knew silence in his life.

I didn’t press him.

“Can I sit?”

Days had passed, water lapped at the shore, quenching the insurmountable thirst of the dry land before it. The wind blew softly against the greenery, and the birds sung out, diving into the distant waters for their supper.

JJ sat with his knees pulled to his chest, arms thrown over the bend lazily, hands fiddling with a sharpened stick he had been working incessantly on since he’d finished his first project, a white waving flag that read, Pougelandia.

The wind blew up the end of his shirt, a cut off tank top that once fell to his mid thigh now rested loosely at his tanned hips, ripped unevenly across the dark stitching.

He breathed evenly, eyes not even flickering over to meet mine, not a word shared between us. A dream of surf expenditures and found family adventures. We talked of island paradise when all smoothed over. When the earth buried our blood and tears, and the sting began to slip away.

There was happiness, beyond the blood and bruise, past the curses and cries. Beyond the terror of the swift nightfall, the impending cold that would have brought any surviving energy away from our warm bodies. There was calm.

He promised to make boards with dried wood, to carve them by hand, break them with his knuckles. The wood was rotting, and it was cracking quickly.

Once again, dreams were altered to fit the shitty hand that was dealt. The rich became richer, and our frames became thinner.

The world spat in our face and said it was the wind.

I sat down beside him now, and it was unusually quiet between us. I guess, this was better than the forever silence, the six feet of separation that I wanted nothing more than to leave behind. He couldn’t even see me.

“Did I do something?” I asked quietly, voiced drowned out by the sound of the sea, the distant hollers of our friends echoing above the trees. I wished I could see everything for what it is, but I had not a clue, a fool sitting beside my uncharacteristically empty best friend.

“No.” He answered plainly.

“No?” I asked, begged practically for confirmation. He nodded his head, agreeing, but it was unclear if it was an agreement within a disagreement.

“Are you sure?”

“Yup.” He popped the ‘p’, bitter, I could see it more clearly now in my new found focus.

“I can’t make it go away if you don’t tell me, Jay.” I smiled, laughing like it was a pity for us to be so awkward. And it was, it was so fucking weird. Fake niceties are weird.

Leaning forward to mirror how he sat, I tried to get a forward perspective of the furrow between his brows. He brushed the space below his nose and sniffed like he was annoyed. It reminded me of the boy who held up the cross with his bare hands on the ship, the boy who had aimed a gun at the kids he grew up with, his own sister too. His anger reminded me a lot of a Camerons anger, and I figured he had enough reason to feel stressed, he had all the reason to show it.

“This isn’t Kildare.” I reminded him.

“I know.”

“It’s just us.” I added.

“I know.” He nearly snapped, fingers tingling with annoyance, anger, grief even. It was a dying fuse ready to explode, to burn it all down.

We sat in silence for a moment, and I hoped he would speak. Rarely, we had fights. Usually they were stupid, ending in us laughing and my hips thrown over his shoulder. He never hit and neither did I, neither of us even tempted the idea. If we needed space, we gave it, though, it never lasted long because we craved each other like a dog to its owner. Like a moth to a flame, we always came back.

Still, I hoped he would speak first. I felt like I was doing most of it, carrying the conversation for five people while only speaking to one. When he remained quiet, trying to reel it in, I broke the tension.

“You can tell me what’s wrong, Jay. I’ll be here. It’s not like I could leave even if I wanted to.”

If I hadn’t lost my life, I had lost my ability to read the room, because my weak joke fell so flat, it might as well have served as the boards we never got to make together, the memories we would never get to experience. It rotted into his mind and left something so disgusting to him, I could read it on his face.

“No, no but you could.” Sand kicked up behind his heels, hands pushing up off of his knees, knuckles bruised and palmed sandy. He was scruffier than usual, but the blues of his eyes were all the same, dappled with the flickers of light I had fallen in love with so long ago.

“What?” I laughed, standing up slowly, but then jerking forward once I saw how quickly he was creating distance between us.

If we weren’t alone then, I was sure he had led us into total solidarity.

The trees were thicker here, the shoreline rocky and short, even at low tide. It would be completely gone in a few minutes when the tide would start rolling in. I could feel the water trying to break free against the soles of my shoes every time a larger wave came crashing through, between the overhangs and vines that tried and failed to barricade the sacred land.

“Because you did leave, Y/n. You left.”

JJ turned around, his hand pointing to my heart and his eyes avoiding contact where the cloth was wound tightly around my skin and bone. The shirt he tore to let me wear and to let me feel put together again. He stepped closer, closing the distance between us.

I caught the way his eyes seemed to shine more delicately in the reflection of the ocean, the way the wind blew against his blonde locks, the same shining color as his heart of gold. A loyal, fiercely protective friend who was crumbling at the mere idea that abandonment could always win, even though the people he believed would never leave.

“You left.” He repeated more quietly, his lower lip wobbling with such an intensity, I felt the bile rising up in my throat.

“I didn’t leave.” I defended quietly between choked breaths. “How could you think I would leave? I would never leave you, I wouldn’t want to.”

“Then what was that then?”

His head turned to look out at the horizon, biting down harshly on his teeth and sucking in a sharp breath through his nose. His weight shifted from left to right, fists clenching and unclenching by his side, conflict evident in his face. His brows were drawn in so tightly, his face scrunched up almost like he was in pain, like he couldn’t even fight anymore, I watched the internal battle between strength and hurt argue over who got control over his brain. I could tell which had already won his heart.

“I watched you there, Y/n. I saw the…the blood and the tears. I saw all of it, you were dead. You died.”

I shook my head, feeling a familiar lump forming in the base of my throat. Everything seemed to burn. From my sweaty palms to the flare of my nostrils and the back of my skull. It all ached dully, inflamed by the accusation that I had truly given up, that I had been gone with no intention to come rescue him.

“I was there.” My voice broke, my eyebrows pulled down in a deep frown. My palm instinctively came to cup my wound, and my fingers cupped around the fabric, pulling down gently to let the pain breathe.

Never in our decade of friendship had I ever felt so alone from JJ. We were on other worlds and it was clear, and it was something I hated being accustomed to. We were so alike, but so different in this moment. Together but so far apart. Like January and December, one after the other, following like ducks but with the distance of a lifetime between.

“I was there, I saw you standing over me.”

“You pushed me away, you didn’t need me! You didn’t want me. I saw the look in your eyes. You wanted to leave. You were okay with leaving!” JJ shouted, his voice booming. I wondered if it had the power to carry over to the others and reveal our argument to everyone. We were too far away, and I was thankful for that because I knew whatever was coming wasn’t going to be kind. I could feel the bubbling pressure building in my chest like a hot rock sizzling my flesh from the inside out, and it wanted to sink through if I didn’t spit it out.

“Can you blame me?” I cried out, tears falling from my water line in a stream of pain that cut deeper than any blade had. “I was in pain, JJ! I was in so much fucking pain! I was bleeding out, in a place I don’t know, and I’ve never felt more alone! I couldn’t breathe, JJ. I couldn’t hear anything, I couldn’t see. Why is it selfish to not want to want to suffer, when I would wish you the same peace if it were to happen to you.”

JJ’s chin wrinkled in sadness, wetting his lips with his tongue and blinking back his own tears. I had so much to say and only so much air in my lungs. Only so much I could choke on before it all came out.

“The worst part is, I thought you were dead. If the damn blade didn’t kill me, you would have because I would rather die than have to live the next eternity without you by my side. I thought…I thought I failed you, and I couldn’t even look anyone in the eye because all I could see was your face in the water. Do you know how terrifying that was? To have your limp body weighing me down in the ocean? My best friend, my buddy, the only person I’d ever want to bother me like you do. Dead, all because of me? Do you know how guilty I’ve been? How guilty you’ve made me? I’m a god damn monster, and it’s a shame I turned out like I did because I had the potential to be something like you. But I can’t be because I’m a failure. Because even for even for a moment, I was thinking that maybe we would both be better off if I just gave up? If I let the ocean take us because god, if the light hasn’t been kind then the darkness can at least give me some damn peace!”

We both fell quiet now. My chest heaved with anxiety. My bones felt heavy, I felt heavy. I felt stupid, and I knew nothing I was saying made sense. It was all mindless rambling about everything I’d been mulling over for what felt like years.

“I love you. A-and I mean that in a way that I’ve never known before, and that fucking terrifies me. It terrifies me that theres always a chance that one day I won’t have the privilege to lay next to you, or-or to sit with you on the porch at John B’s and just talk about things that don’t matter like they do. Like, I love you, dude! And I can’t act like I don’t anymore. I thought…I thought that if I pushed it down, if I ignored it then maybe I could forget about it, but I can’t. Because the truth is I’ve always loved you. And I’m sorry if this means everything has been a lie, if I’m a fraud but I can’t pretend like I wouldn’t die for you, because I would and I tried.”

“I’m sorry, what?” JJ breathed, eyes wide and lips parted. He was shocked, and so was I. There was no going back, it was eat the words or let the words eat me. The truth was out, and I couldn’t deny it.

“I love you.”

Silence. Every moment led me here, to this island. Every time I grabbed onto the back of his jacket to steady myself, or the times I pawed at his chest to get him to stop trying to antagonize the Kooks. I followed him to the ends of the earth, literally. That was proof of my love, if not, it proved my devotion.

“I’m sorry.” JJ whispered back. His eyes shined with freckles of light from the waves and the stars and the sun. He couldn’t say it back, and I knew why because I know him, but we both knew what he meant to say with his apology.

“Me too.” I breathed out.

Often, our friends would poke fun that we couldn’t keep it under wraps around each other. That our lingering touches and fleeting glances were too romantic to be a friendly gesture. Maybe part of their teasing was right, but not completely.

Stepping forward in the sand, I felt the warmth of his arms pulling me into his chest, the strength and the kindness familiar, but the touches deeper and different. Where we once dappled with affection became a feeling that dominated now. We’d stood like this before, but with the confession hanging between our lips, everything was different.

His breathing, his gaze, the curve of his lips, the tucking of his nose against my cheek. We bumped noses blindly, his fingers dancing up my spine to the small of my back. I felt his eyelashes tickle my skin before I felt the rough-soft mixture of his lips pressing against mine.

It felt like something out of a movie, like fantasy. All those stupid stories I’d never believed where the lovers fit together perfectly made complete sense now as we molded together with a dance we knew all too well.

My hands reached for the back of his neck desperately, pawing at whatever curves I could get a grip on. It was slow, a steady pour of the heart into each other and completely intoxicating up until the moment we split apart for air.

“I should die more often if you’ll kiss me like that.” I joked, laughing into the crook of his neck.

“Nah, you don’t gotta do all that anymore.” He promised.

Affection was never our thing, love was foreign and forgiveness came hard. We held grudges and fought secrets for each other, and in the end, it’s what made us make perfect sense.

I look at JJ now in the dimming light above the ocean, and I no longer see the reflection of his empty gaze and heavy body. I see adoration, a softness that I’d always failed to recognize before.

“Jay?” I mumbled, chasing his lips again. He hummed against my skin, warm air tickling my body.

“Save it for the surf trip, okay?” I teased.

He growled playfully, squeezing the curves of my hips and nipping at my shoulder.

“You’re gonna be the death of me.”

I laughed.

“I’d save you.”

“Maybe.” JJ smiled, beaming with love.

After a moment of silence in each others arms, I felt his chest expand with a calm breath, and the stutter in mine silenced whatever thought he was about to blurt out impulsively.

“We should probably really consider getting passports.” I suggested softly, still longing for the surf trip with my best friend.

“Hell no, thats some kook bullshit” He argued softly, his smile still stretched against my skin.

“The kookiest.” I agreed.

I felt JJ pull away to breathe in the salty air. His eyes remained trained on mine, and the look gave me deja vu to a time not so long ago. A look we shared in the sweltering confinements of the cargo ship container. Only, now that I wasn’t blinded by a mixture of excitement for the treasure and the fear of failure, I could see the real gold in front of me. I could understand the gravity of his gaze.

A look that would fluster me for a life time.

[logoleptic-since-06]

Every Corner of This House is Haunted

Pairing: Kento Nanami x Fem!Reader Content: Fem!Reader, Angst, Profanity, Suggestive, Reader and Nanami are in their 30s, Cheating (but also not really), Not Proofread

Chapter I ■ Chapter II ■ Chapter III ■ Chapter IV ■ Chapter V ■ Chapter VI ■ Chapter VII

A/N: Incredibly sorry for this one (I just lied, I'm not sorry at all).

Nanami POV:

The one month that flies by feels like an eternity to you. You have sent the divorce papers to your husband over two weeks ago, albeit there has been no response. Numbers have been blocked and as a result, you find emails from him on a daily basis, all of which end up in your spam folder. Your days are spent within the four walls of Shoko’s apartment, working online and looking for your own apartment. And buried deep inside your drawer remains the shining commitment that you wore around your finger with much pride and love for ten years.

“Do you wanna go out tonight?” Shoko asks out of nowhere, catching you off guard.

“Where?” your voice is barely audible as you hear yourself speak.

“Suguru is back in town, we’re meeting at a bar tonight.”

Oh? It’s been a while since you’ve heard from Suguru. He’s always been someone you could rely on. Perhaps meeting him could help. You don’t want to spend your life sulking over a man you had to beg for attention from. Hence, you agree to finally leave the house.

You and Shoko arrive at the place before anyone else does. The black satin dress uncomfortably hugs your body. Your left hand burns with the absence of your wedding ring, like being stripped bare of the item that meant the world to you.

“Hello Y/N,” rasps the voice that, if you’re being true to yourself, had enraptured you the first time you had heard it. Something about the seductive voice had always made you giddy. When you finally look at him, you find yourself in front of a better version of the man you had known years ago.

Suguru has aged beautifully.

His long hair grazes over his back, a sweet smile masking his perfectly structured face. You and Shoko stand up to greet him. When you reach out to hug him, you catch a whiff of his cologne– the kind that makes you want to bury your nose in the crook of his neck.

Snap out of it.

Everything about your thoughts is wrong. You aren’t even divorced yet, and here you are having unholy thoughts about another man. Shame digs an endless pit in your stomach, making you take a step back.

The ring of Shoko’s phone breaks you away from your thoughts. Her demeanour shifts when she picks it up. “There’s an emergency at the hospital, I’ll have to leave.”

Within minutes you find yourself drinking in a private cabin alone with Suguru.

“So,” he breaks the silence. “How are you holding up?”

You take a sip from your cocktail. “It’s hard,” the truth easily rolls out of your tongue. “I’ve lived with him for so long, you know?”

“Understandable,” he says as he sits up straight. Did he just get closer to you? “I’m glad you stood up for yourself. It was very brave of you.”

“Thanks, Suguru.” 

Your eyes meet his as you say that, your faces only inches away from one another. He tucks a strand of your hair behind your ears. “You deserve much better, Y/N.”

That little statement is all it takes for you to go against all your principles. You crash your lips into his and he responds with equal passion. The kiss is messy, hurried, like you’ve been starving for it– for anything that will validate you. He trails his kisses down to your jaw, making you arch your head backwards. Pleasure takes over you as a moan slips out of your mouth.

“Kento…”

If this moment was glass, you could hear it shatter from a million miles away. Suguru pulls away from you, his face still wearing a heartfelt smile and his eyes still holding an understanding glance. 

“Suguru, I–”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not, I–”

“You don’t have to explain yourself, Y/N,” he says as he stands up.

“I’m sorry…” you look up at him, your eyes glistening with regret.

“It was nice meeting you again, Y/N.”

He leaves you in the cabin as you feel a daunting feeling of guilt churning like acid in your stomach, drowning yourself in an ocean of shame and turmoil.

Tags: @itsafairytalekay  @qualitygiantshoepsychic  @uzuimirika  @coffeeandcrimeshows  @lov3vivian  @lady-of-blossoms  @lavenderdaydream97  @gigiiiiislife  @yeehawbrothers  @heartsforkento  @loveliest-ghostwriter  @darkstudentsaladbakery    @for-hearthand-home  @creative1writings  @corvid007  @realesttruther  @jades-bullshit  @patpatspatz  @yunho-leeknow  @layuhsblog  @luringfantasy

(Hope I didn't miss any)

[demonic0angel]

Haunted Paintings Sketches!

Part one

I hope you enjoy the sketches I made of the paintings!

Also! You’re free to use my ideas (please give credit ofc) if you’d like, bc I REALLY don’t think I’ll write this one, no matter how much I want to. It’s just too much and I’ve already got 3 unfinished fics and several other series to write for. If you have any questions, feel free to ask or send me a submission! You can also DM if you’d like!

TW: mentions of suicide, murder, depression, mental illness, just really dark, creepy stuff bc these are haunted paintings and they torment people :/ no scary drawings tho! I only described them (click for clarity)

Jazz:

Description: Jazz is sitting at a table in the middle of a flower garden with a book in one hand and a teacup in the other. She looks tranquil and is dressed formally. On the table are a few plates, a plate of cookies, a bookmark, an opened envelope and a bloody butter knife, and a teapot that is slightly out of view.

Use of mediums: gouache paint, watercolor, and pencils

Focus: Jazz amidst the flowers

Inspirations:

• The Queen of Hearts from “Alice in Wonderland”

• Galna from “Mairimashita! Iruma-kun”

Location: She used to be in the home of a random crime lord in Gotham for intimidation purposes. She was kept in the crime lord’s office before being relocated into Wayne Manor, where she sits in the hall across from the library.

Extra facts:

+ Her scary form would be one where her tea is filled with blood and the roses would be replaced with decapitated heads. The sky would turn dark red and the ground would be a pool of blood. Jazz would smile and look at the viewer with shark-like fangs and hollowed out eyes.

+ The tea she drinks is Darjeeling and the cookies are chocolate chip.

+ Although Jazz is the weakest painting, her effects are deadlier, more painful, and longer lasting than the others if her victims survive.

+ She causes paranoia and dizzy spells. Her effects are rather weak compared to the others, but when spending enough time with her, victims can also display symptoms of scurvy, which cannot be cured.

+ She was the first one I drew and also the easiest to plan. I just love her so much, she’s one of my comfort characters so it’s not hard for me to find ideas for her 😭

Valerie:

Description: Valerie stands in the middle of a dark, foggy forest, wearing a long dress and pressed close to a tree as if she is about to hide behind it. A branch covers her face and the trees around her curve into a circle with multiple holes within them. There is a Fenton thermos in the background on the floor and an axe in front of Valerie, sticking into the tree and oozing something.

Use of mediums: pencils and watercolor paint

Focus: Her hidden face

Inspirations:

• The Son of Man by René Magritte

• The Beast from “Over the Garden Wall”

Location: She was kept in the back of an art museum, but the director has been hoping for someone to buy her and get rid of her, since he cannot handle the strain of having her inside of the gallery. Now she stands near the door to the entrance of Wayne Manor, a silent and deadly sentry.

Extra facts:

+ Her scary form would have her surroundings to turned into the entrance to a mouth or an intestine, red, fleshy, and bloody. There would be bones littering the floor everywhere and Valerie herself would become bloody and stained, with her face still hidden. Tortured faces would be seen through the fog.

+ The holes on the trees sometimes leak a mysterious substance.

+ Valerie is not the weakest, but she is not that powerful. However, she does amplify the others’ effects to fatal degrees.

+ She causes paranoia and auditory hallucinations, often causing her victims to feel as though they are being watched relentlessly, which cannot go away. Eventually, her victims will shut themselves into their rooms and starve to death from the fear.

+ She and Tucker had switched ideas, but I had to trash them. I never got the opportunity to draw those ideas because I struggled so much with Tucker that when I eventually got inspiration for Valerie, I just went with it. I’m quite happy with Valerie’s portrait now.

Dani:

Description: Dani, dressed formally, sits at the head of a table with a large painting and curtains behind her. She holds a fork and a knife over a pig head. Her gaze is downward and she looks like she’s frowning softly. The dinner table is messy with three other dishes and a knocked over bottle of wine.

Use of mediums: oil paint and oil pastels

Focus: Dani holding the fork and knife

Inspirations:

• Rosie’s Tea Party by Mark Ryden

• “Spirited Away” (specifically that one scene where Chihiro’s parents eat the food)

Location: She was hidden by Vlad and kept safe with him. He keeps her in his office, where he can watch her. He only recently found her again, and he was determined to watch over her. Now she stays in the Wayne Manor's dining room, but often changes her position to be next to everyone else in the bedroom hallway.

Extra facts:

+ Her scary form would be one where all of her food dishes would be replaced by very obviously human parts, especially with the pig head becoming a human head. The curtains would turn to blood dripping down the wall and Dani would be smiling, taking a direct bite of the human head that was in front of her with her fork and knife.

+ The dishes she eats in the painting are: pig head, vulture thigh, lamprey eels, and sheep brain.

+ Her at the dining table is meant to signify greed and gluttony, 2 of the most simplest sins.

+ She causes great feelings of hunger and paranoia in others. When spending too much time with her, some victims turn to self-cannibalism to sate their never ending starvation.

+ Originally, both her and Dan’s ideas were switched, so Dan would’ve been the one feasting and Dani would’ve been the one looking at her reflection. However, I switched them around because I felt like it would’ve been spookier. I even finished the drawing with Dan and everything, but then I just erased him and drew in Dani 😓

Dan:

Description: Dan is standing in front of a mirror, glancing behind his shoulder, while his reflection shows something different: him looking at everyone else and the door behind him by looking at the mirror. The party guests are all wearing masks and there are chandeliers on the ceiling. The party looks vaguely fancy, but messy with secrets.

Use of mediums: Oil paints

Focus: His reflection

Inspirations:

• Jeff Lee Johnson and his art

Location: He was kept in a locked safe within a rich person’s house in Italy. He had to been wrecking havoc on the nerves of everyone around him, but he is now safe and happy in Wayne Manor, where he is kept in the office to the entrance of the Batcave.

Extra facts:

+ His scary form would have all of the party guests dead, but their eyes would face the viewer. Dan's reflection would also be dead, but his actual self would be the same, only with an eerie smile as his eyes follow the viewer. In the doorway would be the figure of Danny. Blood would cover the entire floor and walls, but nobody would react to it.

+ Dan keeps his own masquerade mask in his pocket.

+ The woman who is directly staring at him is supposed to look like Maddie.

+ He causes viewers intense mood swings and long, often violent mania episodes or mind-numbing depression episodes. Those who keep staring at him will gain the feeling of being watched and haunted, often with visual hallucinations, resulting in losing their mind from fear and then killing others in their terror and panic.

+ I tried so hard to make Dan as handsome as possible. I think I pulled it off bc I’m a little bit in love with him ong, but I also kinda have to be bc I draw him so often

Tucker:

Description: Tucker is in the back shot of a desert, with his back towards the viewer, staring at a large skeleton that is seemingly climbing over a large sand dune. The skeleton has flowers in its eyes, and its hand reaches over the horizon. There is a single sun in the sky and an arm holding a pocket watch sticks out of the sand close to the viewer.

Use of mediums: gouache paint, pens, and pencils

Focus: The large skull

Inspirations:

• JT Music (specifically their JT album covers)

• The Giant God Warrior from “Nausicaa of the Valley of the Wind”

• “Dune”

Location: He was originally kept in one of the rooms within the GIW headquarters. Now, he is kept within Wayne Manor, and stays in the theater room, where he whispers to the Wayne residents what movies he wants to watch. Sometimes, he moves to the garage.

Extra facts:

+ His scary form is one where the skull becomes covered in meat and flesh, oozing blood and tar while the sand turns red. The scene turns to darkness, and more limbs would sprout from the ground. Tucker would be nothing but a pile of flayed skin, crumpled into the sand.

+ GIW agents were unable to experiment on him, since he would purposefully cause machinery to misfire and slowly corrode his surroundings.

+ His painting is meant to be a little comic book-esque with one of his mediums being ink, but I felt like that wouldn’t be a PAINTing, so nvm

+ He causes visual hallucinations, hypovolemia, headaches, blindness, and osteoporosis :). Often, when his victims are autopsied, sand and salt can be found within all of their organs. He emits so much radiation that he can wear down the materials of the place he is stored in.

+ I DREW HIM THREE DIFFERENT TIMES OML, FIRST IT WAS HIM IN A WORKSHOP, THEN IT WAS HIM IN A MARSH, THIS IS THE FINAL PICTURE I CANNOTTTT IM DONE

Sam:

Description: Sam stands on top of a small, grassy hill with a path leading to a grave and an angel statue on top of it, close enough that she is blocking it. Around the hill are pomegranate trees and hanging corpses. There is no sun, but there are clouds as Sam stands with her back to the viewers in a long goth-styled dress.

Use of mediums: paper, glue, acrylic paint

Focus: Her standing on the hill

Inspirations:

• This Reddit picture of a liminal garden

• A mix of weirdcore and dreamcore aesthetics

Location: She was tossed into the ocean by her parents when they first saw her, but she later washed up on an island and now the animals and plants there act erratically and strangely. Finally, she was relocated to Wayne Manor, where she hangs on a wall within the greenhouse, happily watching over the plants there.

Extra facts:

+ Her scary form would be one where eyes would replace all of the pomegranates, staring at the viewer. The paper used to make her would become flesh textured and bloody, and Sam would appear abnormal, broken into pieces and cracked, turning around and smiling at the viewer with shark-like teeth. The grass would become hairy skin and the sky would become red, with swirls and more eyes.

+ Sam's "painting" is actually made of mostly paper, since it is a collage. It is a bit touched up by paint and all of the materials used are vegan and ethically sourced, though they do change.

+ The flora and fauna in the island she landed on have mutated so much that they’re basically mindless. They protect Sam relentlessly.

+ She causes general insanity and relentless symptoms in her victims, such as paranoia, intense episodes of mania and depression, itchiness that can result in self harm, and violent, unexplained behavior in animals and plants. She also emits so much radiation that she can cause sporadic DNA mutations, resulting in several forms of cancer and mental instability, often resulting in victims becoming inhuman and monstrous forms of themselves.

+ Originally, Sam’s portrait was supposed to be in a garden, but I wanted it more “liminal space” themed, and I think I got it right. I think it’s really simple, but I also feel like if I was able to create it in real life, it would be more interesting because it is a collage of paper and paint.

Danny:

Description: a picture of black blotches and scribbles with muddy and red stains. Any features besides the ornate frame is hidden underneath the stains.

Use of mediums: pencils, ink, charcoal, tar, blood

Focus: His crying

Inspirations:

• SCP-035 (“The Possessive Mask”)

• The Anguished Man by an unknown artist (it’s a haunted irl painting!)

• Bendy and the Ink Machine

Location: He was cloning himself in order to jump through universes to find his family. In the current universe, he was with the League of Shadows before he was found and brought back to the Wayne Manor. He is in the hallway with the bedrooms of the Wayne residents.

Extra facts:

+ His scary form is technically his normal form because he cannot turn it off. Once he is happy again, his normal form would be one with him and his family, smiling and happy. Until then, he haunts the minds of others and ravages their sanity.

+ He’s been traveling all over the multiverse in order to find his family. Coincidentally, they’ve all been in the same world for some time.

+ He screams all day and night for his family. It’s so bad that Danny has destroyed thousands of worlds in his grief.

+ He causes the worst of all symptoms, often causing the viewers who look at him to go insane and kill themselves or others, even if it is only a few seconds. Even those who stay in the same room next door to him are consumed with suicidal thoughts and intense moments of psychosis. Those who have survived encountering him and have some semblance of mind left say that he “cries” relentlessly. His paintings leak a black substance that corrodes the place around him.

+ Literally all I did for this picture was scribble in my notes app, take a screenshot, and then scribble some more on photos LMAO

Extra notes:

+ Jazz, Dani, and Dan showing their face while Sam, Tucker, and Valerie hiding theirs is intentional. Danny is a mix of both, because he actually IS showing his face, but you can’t see it past the black and red.

+ Every painting has a flower inside of it, specifically a carnation, which are often funeral flowers, and can mean gratitude, remembrance, love, and affection.

+ Every painting also has a mention or appearance of Danny in it.

+ I also tried to put hints of bad omens or signs of death within every painting. Some examples are Dani’s painting with the chopsticks sticking out of the bowl (a sign of bad luck and death), or Dan’s painting, where a woman is being strangled in the background and another is being killed.

+ All of the paintings generally have an ability to teleport to places nearby and can actually snatch up viewers to shove them into their domain. This can be a defensive mechanism (the paintings protect the Bats) or an offensive ability (they pull victims in and kill them). They also all have weapons on them that are hidden or not so hidden.

+ I struggled a lot with ideas and how to get started on some characters because I just had so many, and I wanted it to be creepy, but not noticeably creepy, like most paintings. I’m sad to say that I wasn’t able to use some of my planned ideas from inspirations of actual haunted paintings.

+ Discarded inspirations: The Rain Woman by Svetlana Telets (my favorite!! Please look it up if you can!!), this picture I saw on Reddit of a sheep being stuck under ice with its back exposed, a workshop idea with Tucker, and Dani and “Daughter of Evil” with mirrors and everything.

+ The world where Danny and co., come from is different from the world they’re currently in. It’s like a world where some people are the same, but others are not. Example: the GIW, Maddie, Jack, and Vlad exist, but Danny and Jazz never made it past their childhood. So basically a What-If world or something.

+ Their backstories are somewhat undecided, but basically, something dangerous happened to them in their home dimension and it was so bad that Danny captured all of their souls and put them into paintings so they would live (with the help of Clockwork). However, by doing this, he scattered their souls and paintings throughout the universes and he went crazy from it, and turned himself into a painting too so he could find them. Now his cloned paintings travel and sends itself to other worlds to find his family again, often leading to their destruction from his power.

Or something? Lol

[mythmash]

Something Taken, Freely Given

Pairing: Ryomen Sukuna x F!Reader Word Count: 1.5K Warnings: Modern!AU, Sickfic, Fluff, Sukuna being really bad at feelings A/N: This was written for the amazing @chaoskrakenuwu! JJK Masterlist

Sukuna had three major rules when it came to living with him.

Don’t interrupt his workouts.

Don’t eat the food specifically labeled For Sukuna - Don’t Fucking Touch in the fridge.

And the most important — do not touch his stuff without asking.

There were other rules too, little things that came with interacting the temperamental man. Things like don’t look him in the eyes for too long, don’t laugh too much around him, don’t stand too close to him. Rules upon rules, more akin to the guidelines you’d see at a zoo, warning you not to spook the animals. Blaring red signs, all telling you that any interaction with Ryomen Sukuna beyond simple pleasantries would be a fucking nightmare.

He had few acquaintances and fewer friends. The two unlucky roommates he’d had in college lasted only a semester, claiming they’d never recover from the trauma of surviving in the same space as him.

It was how he preferred things. People annoyed him, either too much or not enough for him to deal with. Always irritating. Always annoying. Always complaining.

If they didn’t like the way he was, they shouldn’t bother him. Or talk to him. Or look at him. Or breathe near him.

He was perfectly fine being alone.

Or so he thought until you’d crashed into his life and tangled yourself so deeply within his life, his mind, his heart that there was no separating the two of you.

He doesn’t know how it happened. One minute your friends were introducing you — him greeting you with a once-over and a firm fuck off — and the next he was carrying boxes of your stuff into his apartment. Somewhere in the middle, there’d been a few quickies, then a few dates, then the disgusting process of accepting that he did, in fact, care for you.

You’d been so smug, like a predator that’d been lying in wait for months, finally finding the perfect moment to trap their prey.

That’s exactly what you’ve done, Sukuna thinks.

You’ve trapped him.

You’re everywhere. Your stuff takes up half of his apartment, fitting so perfectly in all the empty spaces. Your pictures take up valuable space in his phone, photos upon photos all neatly organized in albums and categorized by date. Your perfume lingers on his pillows.

He couldn’t escape you even if he wanted.

You don’t even care that you’ve disrupted his once peaceful life. You invade his space to stick those slimy, colorful face masks on him, or grab his hands to test your infinite collection of nail polish or run your fingers through his hair so he won’t notice you change the channel to one of your annoying shows.

You help yourself to his leftovers even though he makes sure to keep the fridge stocked with your favorite snacks. You sit yourself at his feet when he’s doing sit-ups, gleefully meeting his every rise with a little kiss to his face. You poke through his books, his phone, his extensive record collection like you own them.

Sukuna watches as every rule, every wall, every defense he’s ever built for himself comes crumbling down.

Against his every instinct, he lets you do all of it.

You’re a witch. A cruel, devious witch who’s used her beauty and sexual charms to cast some kind of curse on him.

How else could he explain why your smile haunts him every minute he’s not by your side? What other explanation is there for the worry that seizes his heart when you collapse halfway to the kitchen at three in the morning with a fever that almost burns his hand?

He forces himself to keep calm. His voice does not shudder when he tells you you’ll be okay. His hands do not tremble as he helps you back into bed. His eyes do not well as he dabs your face with a damp cloth while you’re stuck in a fitful sleep.

You wake only minutes before he’s meant to leave for work, fever slightly calmed, and Sukuna does not acknowledge the immediate relief that floods his body.

“I’m fine,” you tiredly assure him. “It’s just a cold.”

There’s a brief argument of you trying to convince him to go to work — you think you’ll be alright on your own, and Sukuna thinks you’re full of shit.

You know him better than anyone, possibly even himself. How could you think he’d be okay leaving you like this? A million questions swirl in his mind. A million little worries he never thought he’d have to consider growing and growing until they’re a furious storm of anxiety and frustration.

What if something happens, and he’s not there? What if you can’t get a hold of him? What if he misses your call? What if he doesn’t see your text? What if you’re so out of it that you can’t call or text? What if no one else can check on you?

What if? What if? What if?

“What if Uraume stays with me?”

If it were anyone else Sukuna would immediately refuse, but you know — because you know every in and out of his being — Uraume is the one person he would trust enough to put your well-being into their hands.

He begrudgingly agrees, compromising — another thing he never used to do before you came around — by staying at your side until Uraume arrives. It takes him another ten minutes to leave, too busy going over rules, emergency contacts, and the endless supply of his medicine cabinet. He spends another minute vaguely threatening Uraume about keeping you safe, finally leaving when you threaten to stay with one of your friends until you’re healthy if he doesn’t stop.

Sukuna doesn’t hear from you the rest of the morning. It sets him on edge, threatening to push him over with every passing minute.

He’s two seconds from just leaving when Uraume texts him. It’s simple and to the point — a picture of you on the sofa under a pile of blankets, bleary eyes focused on the TV, with a brief rundown of the food and medicine Uraume gave you. It does nothing to soothe his yearning to be there with you, but Sukuna takes what he can get.

He gets three more updates from Uraume. The first is a picture of you sitting up with a bowl of soup in your lap and your hands tightly holding a thick blanket around your shoulders. The second is a few sentences letting Sukuna know that you were given medicine, and your fever had gone down.

The third is a selfie that comes ten minutes before the end of Sukuna’s shift. Uraume stares blankly ahead, giving the camera thumbs up while you’re in the background, asleep in bed, and, more notably, cuddled around Sukuna’s pillow. After cropping Uraume out, Sukuna spends the last few minutes of his shift admiring the picture, itching to leave.

Not caring about possible tickets or road safety violations, he’s home in record time. His shoes are barely off before he’s telling Uraume thanks, now get the fuck out. Uraume nods, as used to Sukuna’s poor personality as you are, and leaves without a word.

Sukuna beelines for the bedroom, the stress from the day already melting away the moment he lays eyes on you. You look exhausted, bundled tightly under the blankets as you lay across the bed to spoon his pillow.

He checks your fever first, carefully pressing his forehead to yours. You’re still warm, but much better than you’d been that morning. He hums, satisfied with Uraume’s care, and leaves you to sleep. He doesn’t bother with dinner, deciding to get ready for bed early tonight.

He’s careful — because he’s always so careful now — crawling into bed with you. You have three blankets over you, and Sukuna takes his time peeling each one back without disturbing your rest. When the final blanket, a thin, ratty thing he’s had since childhood, is pulled back, Sukuna stills.

You’re not wearing much, dressed down to the thinnest pajamas you own, but you have one of his hoodies laid over you with your arms through the sleeves.

He’s having a heart attack. That’s the only explanation for the tight clenching of his chest at the sight of you in his clothes, under his blanket, wrapped around his pillow. It’s definitely a heart attack, and not at all the terrifying realization that he’s spent the whole day scared for you. It has to be a heart attack because the other option would be an admission of feeling that he’s certainly not ready to deal with right now.

He doesn’t dwell, instead wrapping his arms around you and pulling you against his chest. You settle against him instantly, relaxing under the weight of his arms. He holds you close, pushing any thoughts of fear and feelings out of his mind. There’s no need for that, not when you’re here in his arms.

Truthfully, he doesn’t need to wrestle with himself over it. He knows. Deep, deep, deep down, in a part of his heart that’s been long sealed away, he knows.

You’ve ruined him, and he’ll spend the rest of his life all the more thankful for it.

[peggyao3]

Relic - Pt. 4 "O God!"

PAIRING: Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen x Unnamed Ambiguous FMC

SUMMARY: ✧༺༻ Dreams are messages from the deep ༺༻✧ A woman from the unknown comes to Feyd in his dreams and his nights become his days as he flees to the dreamscape to escape the nightmares that haunt his waking hours.

TAGS: 18+, smut, she/her AFAB FMC, vaginal sex, vaginal fingering, oral sex, Porn with Plot, Feyd-Rautha's black cum, Feyd-Rautha's big cock, Praise Kink, Body Worship, angst/hurt and comfort, drama, fluff, Frank Herbert would frown, some politics, implied/referenced (child) abuse ❗, Trauma, mentions of suicidal thoughts ❗, Healing, Strangers to Lovers, falling in love, Vulnerable!Feyd, Emotional!Feyd, Possessive!Feyd, Feyd is a sweet baby who did nothing wrong and I WILL pamper him, nurture not nature, Stockholm Syndrome but in a consensual way, lucid dreaming, implied/referenced cannibalism ❗, implied/referenced murder

WORD COUNT: 2.5k

A/N: Fluff meets oh God help us 😩

Reposted from my Ao3 💕| Masterlist under construction ⚠️| Relic Masterlist

Divider by @saradika-graphics

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Night 100

"Do you know that tonight marks our hundredth night together?" Feyd purrs, blue eyes glittering like little seas, shoulders rolling as he sways her in his lap.

"Is that why I get to be on top tonight?" Mirth laces her tone, rocking herself up and down with the aid of his hands. This barely counts as being on top when he does all the heavy lifting for her.

"You get to be wherever you want, my sweet."

She lets out a sultry moan, holding herself at the lowest point of Feyd's lap, relishing how deep he reaches, how completely he fills her when she has fully sank down on him, feeling the smoothness of his thighs against her behind. Feyd moans with her, suckling on her neck which is so beautifully bared to him.

"Really, you've been keeping count?" She mewls when Feyd begins to rock her anew, only little thrusts that make her walls flutter with growing anticipation.

"I have. I've made a tally chart."

That is so endearing to her that she laughs brightly and asks: "With chalk on the walls of your prison cell? I'm so sorry for holding your dreams hostage." She doesn't know how right she is, though it’s not the dream that is the prison. On second thought, what would happen if left through that door over there? They've never tried, because the things to be discovered within each other are of much greater interest.

She adds: "I haven't made a tally chart, but I did write in my diary after our first night. I was so certain I'd never have a dream like that again, I never wanted to forget it."

"What did you write?" Feyd inquires with sparkling eyes, now suckling on her collarbones and then her breasts, rendering her breath shaky and thick with lust when she replies.

"I wrote that I encountered the most wondrous man in my dreams last night and that I could touch him and it felt so real. I wrote that you have pretty eyes and a silly name. I may have also written that I've never come so hard in my life."

That lights a fire in Feyd's eyes and chest and he clutches her body to his tightly, rutting up into her cunt with his feet propped up on the bed. She seeks purchase on his shoulders, clinging to him. Feyd seems intent on exceeding their first night, and with the way her core coils, she thinks he just might.

"And what do you write nowadays?" He inquires with husky voice.

"That's a, haahhh, secret. It's a diary for a reason."

That doesn't quite please Feyd, but he is very pleased by her tone of voice on the edge of despair, spine arching, teeth gritted. His balls feel taut and ready to burst and he keeps his composure only for her. "Well, I want you to write about this night when you wake up, can you do that for me?"

"Yes! Yeees, haaaahhh~ Feyd!" She falls into the mindless embrace of climax, mewling his name, riding him with stuttering hips. It is less the feeling of her fluttering walls that makes him spill himself with a guttural sound, more the sight of his woman so disheveled, features painted in bliss.

When they've both calmed down from their highs, she sinks limply into Feyd's embrace, hearts thundering against each other. Feyd peppers her shoulder with kisses and she does the same to his. She likes his shoulders. After a minute, when her breath is a little calmer, she kisses his neck and jaws.

"That tickles," Feyd complains, scrunching his nose.

"You have a birthmark right here, did you know that?"

"You think I don't know my own body?" In fact, Feyd wasn't fully aware of the birthmark there, just at the underside of his jaw. He avoids looking at himself all too much and all too close, especially outside of the dream.

"It's very pretty. You don't have many birthmarks at all. So smooth." She drags her nose across his neck, blowing softly on him and Feyd flinches, cursing her lightly. That fucking tickles! Eventually, she finds something of interest, touching a spot at his neck with tender fingertips.

"What have you got there, another birthmark?" His voice comes as a light, raspy chuckle.

"No… A scar," she tentatively admits, tracing the blemished skin at the side of his neck. A small sickle moon whose tip brushes against his collar bone. Immediately, she regrets pointing it out, because only one thing comes to mind.

"A scar?" A scar he would remember. Feyd's hand joins hers on his neck, feeling the slightly marred flesh, a scar that's barely an inch long. "I don't have that when I'm awake," he pensively admits. The Baron never hurts him so far up.

Night 168

If only she had the resources and the time, she would have spent every waking hour trying to solve the enigma of her and the man named Feyd, would have done more than writing fondly in her diary, would have wired her body and brain up in a sleep lab and studied how their connection works, but she might never get the chance. No, she will never get the chance. How could that not devastate her?

She hasn't told anyone in her waking life about him. He is her wondrous companion at night, her best friend from a dream with whom she can run away, into whose embrace she can crawl to hide from everything and everyone, with whom she doesn't need to think.

Feyd hasn't failed to notice how restless she has been for the past week, her shoulders always tight, her gaze faraway and a look of guilt and pain plastered into her eyes so deep, not even his touch could melt her anymore.

Presently, his hands curl around the nape of her neck, entangling his fingers in her hair, nose sliding against hers as he slots his lips against hers in a desperate attempt to stifle his own bubbling inquiry. But she cups his cheeks and merely presses their foreheads together, cradling him like he's the most precious thing she's ever held.

Good manners might dictate that he doesn't pressure her, like she had never pressured him to bare his heart to her, but by all the Gods and all the galaxies, he cannot take it any longer and he will pressure her, because the growing unease and the lump in his throat are unbearable.

Surprisingly, she breaks under just a whiff of pressure, like a dam breaking from the removal of a single log. Feys cups her cheeks like she cups his, exhaling a heavy breath against her mouth, blue eyes open and inquisitive. She knows that they're open, so she opens hers and immediately feels stinging wetness spill over her waterline. 

"Tell me?" Half a question, half a demand. Feyd's thumbs rub over the tears that dampen the soft skin beneath her eyes.

"It's gotten s-so so much worse," she removes one hand from his cheek, twists her head to cry into her palm, though Feyd's thumbs remain on her face.

"The… war?"

"Of course, the war! I'm scared that we won't make it out alive, Feyd." She gnaws her lip, closing her eyes. She's lying. She's lying and Feyd must never know her horrible lie.

"Are you still safe?"

"Relatively, yes." She shakes her head, swallowing. Feyd calms his own heart and breathing. That is the most important thing, but he doesn't feel all too well about that 'relatively'.

"Is that really true? You've been so tense. No, don't cry. Of course I noticed." Feyd releases her face, embraces her instead so she may sob into his shoulder.

"Yes, it is. I really am relatively safe. I mean… A few days ago, there was an airstrike a few kilometers to the north and a breach in, uh, in our bunker. But we found and fixed it quickly enough. I was only feeling sick for a day or two."

To describe the place as a mere bunker is such an offense, she feels her own heart shrivel. She needs to tell him, but she can't. Such a fucking coward, pathetic!

Meanwhile, Feyd soaks up every word. He so rarely gets to hear details about her waking life, details that he craves more and more but simultaneously loathes. A heavy frown forms on his forehead, mulling over her words until he only tastes bitter rot and fear on his tongue. If this is relatively safe, how could he accept that?

"I don't know if I can dream while I- while I-"

"While what?!" Feyd snaps when she stops before the crucial part. "Stop speaking in riddles, woman, tell me what's wrong!"

She cannot tell him, or he will despise her for her privilege. It is unfair. There is a reason why people like her are envied, despised and pitied. They are privileged cowards.

"I wish we were together," she swerves but confesses truthfully. But the rules are strict, so it can't be.

Feyd senses his woman slipping out of his fingers metaphorically, no matter how tightly he squeezes her dream-bound body.

"And if I came to save you?" Madly, his heart beats against his ribs and his palms grow clammy with anxiety. She laugh-sobs, like she thinks that's an endearing proposition. Obviously, she doesn't know the power Feyd holds in the same hands that are holding her right now.

"The air space is tight and the land routes are sealed. We, oh God, we… went to orbit yesterday. Even if you had a suitable craft, you would be blown to bits on the way."

Feyd's frown thickens and blue eyes flicker questioningly over his woman's back and shoulder, as her face remains hidden in his neck, clinging onto him with raw fear of judgment.

She adds: "But I c-can't deny, I wish I could have seen you with my own eyes and touched you with my own hands. Even if it's only once." She cries harder and wetness slips down Feyd's shoulder. He cannot bear to see her suffer for a second longer.

He is ready for the singularity to break out of the black hole. To know her personally, intimately and emotionally in the flesh, outside of their dreamland cocoon. He will find her. He will see her in real life and hold her in his real arms. She will love him, it won't matter to her who he is, not to his sweet woman who has learned so much about him, more than any human alive.

"Where are you from?" Softly and calmly he asks her and the lump in his throat dissolves at once. Liberation. He's finally made his decision and never felt better.

Sobbing softly, she names him a place followed by a second place he's never heard of. Maybe a country, maybe a city.

Feyd shakes his head. "No… My sweet, from which world are you? I will get you out of there. Believe me, I can." 

Her sniffling abates and she raises her head, tear-streaked face knitted with confusion. "What do you mean, which world?" 

"Are you toying with me?!" Feyd is not in the mood for jest, because every minute counts. As soon as he awakes, he will order her rescue, and if he has to pay House Harkonnen's entire fortune to the Guild to provide a heighliner to the most distant world. "What's the name of your planet, my darling, I'll come and get you, just tell me the name!"

"Earth?" The corners of her mouth quiver. "I think you're toying with me." And she can't blame him. Everything is already horrible enough.

"From which earth?" Feyd is growing annoyed with her. Does his woman not want to be found by him? What does she fear?! Has he not proven over and over how he craves her, how he loves her? Would she rather be reaped away by some planetal war than be with him?

"I don't understand you," she meekly admits with a tightness in her chest. "From which world are you?" She laughs a little, but her features are warped into horror, like something is knocking at her own house of cards.

"From Giedi Prime, of course! I am Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen, na-Baron of Giedi Prime!" Feyd slams his fist against the mattress. There, he's finally said it. He expects her to pull away from him with fear now and look at him the way every foreigner looks at him, envious and disdainful.

"I don't know what that means," she admits, voice warbled. Perhaps his darling is confused out of her mind, perhaps she didn't hear him correctly. So, Feyd cups her face firmly.

"That means I'll come and get you. Did you hear me? I am Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen." All those months he had feared her reaction if she ever found out his full name. Now he wants nothing more than what he had so feared, that spark of recognition, disdain or not.

"Feyd-Rautha Harkonnen," she whispers tearfully, trying to giggle like she did when she first heard his forename. "I like that silly name." Tenderly, she traces the shape of his jaw, smiling through the tears.

"You like…? No, listen to me closely. You said you're in orbit. Is there a heighliner near?" She squints her eyes, a flicker of a frown, and fresh tears well. She isn't listening to him!

"I-, I changed my mind, I'm not going. I'll go back down and find you. Tell me where you live!"

"No, no, no you won't go back down, you'll stay where you're safe and I'll come and get you." Feyd is repeating himself, frantic by now, clutching her face with his thumbs rubbing over her cheeks with increasing pace. "Just tell me where you are, please."

"Stop, stop!" She pleads. Feyd sounds out of his mind, confused. Bless his heart, but he can't come and get her. "Tell me, are you safe?" Aside from the obvious, his uncle… 

"Yes, I am-" Feyd doesn't get to finish his sentence because she sobs with relief, throwing her arms around his neck.

"I hope I can dream, I pray." How nice that would be. How comforting. She wants to believe it with her whole heart. "Will you be with me?" 

"I will always be with you."

How wrong he is.

"Can you hold me please? I am so sorry."

Feyd holds her, holds her so tight that he almost convinces himself her flesh, skin and bones are real, her beating heart is real, her soft voice is real. "Tell me where you are," he cries into her hair. "Tell me where you are, tell me where you are, tell me where you are."

Consciousness' meandering tendrils weave into the dream, dissolving it slowly like ink in water, gently, gently… Neither of them realizes as the other fades into mist among the stars.

After this night, Feyd-Rautha never dreams of his beloved again.

I stand amid the roar Of a surf-tormented shore, And I hold within my hand Grains of the golden sand – How few! yet how they creep Through my fingers to the deep, While I weep -- while I weep! O God! can I not grasp Them with a tighter clasp? O God! can I not save One from the pitiless wave? Is all that we see or seem But a dream within a dream? - A dream within a Dream by Edgar Allen Poe, 1850

Tag list: @nostalgichoya, @sebastianswallows, @forgedfromthestars

Do let me know if u want me to tag u 👉👈

A/N: All I can say is I'M SORRY 😩🤭 And - P.S. - There are at least 9 more chapters left to go, so be not afraid 🫂

[yvannile]

I wonder what Megumi is like after a rough mission...💭

⊹　 ︶︶　 𖹭᪲　 ︶︶　 ⊹

Megumi! Who watches you from a distance after the mission, his eyes filled with a storm of emotions he doesn’t understand himself. The images of his failure—of the people he couldn’t protect—haunt him, and when he looks at you, all he can feel is guilt. The fear of losing you, of becoming the very person who hurts you, keeps him away. He doesn’t know how to fix what’s broken, so he isolates himself, convincing himself that pushing you away is the only way to keep you safe.

Megumi! Who walks past you like you’re invisible, the weight of his failure heavy on his shoulders. He can’t look at you, not when every time he does, he’s reminded of how he couldn’t keep his promise to protect those he cares about. He tells himself it’s for the best, that he’s keeping you at a distance to shield you from the darkness within him, but all it does is make the silence between you grow unbearable. He watches as you begin to laugh with others, each smile a dagger to his heart, reminding him that he’s the one who pushed you away.

Megumi! Who can’t shake the image of your face when he snapped at you in anger and fear, the hurt in your eyes etched into his mind. In that moment, he was overwhelmed—by the guilt of his failure, the anger at himself for not doing more, and the fear of losing you. That fear consumed him, making him lash out, but now it’s suffocating him. He can’t bear the thought that he’s the one who caused the pain he’s seeing in your eyes, and it eats at him every second of every day.

Megumi! Who stands alone in the dark, remembering the screams of those who suffered because he wasn’t fast enough, wasn’t strong enough to protect them. He thinks of you, of your kindness and warmth, and the thought that he might have ruined that forever sends a chill down his spine. The more he tries to push you away, the more it feels like he’s losing you completely, but he doesn’t know how to stop. He’s terrified that if he lets you in again, he’ll only end up hurting you, just like the others.

Megumi! Who sees the distance growing between you, the way your once-friendly smiles have faded into something more reserved, more distant. He’s the reason for this coldness, and the guilt crushes him. He remembers your tears, the way you’d hide your pain, and he curses himself for not being able to shield you from his own self-doubt and turmoil. He wants to apologize, wants to beg for your forgiveness, but he’s too afraid that the damage is irreparable, that he’s already lost you.

Megumi! Who is haunted by the memory of your last conversation—the one where he pushed you away in a moment of panic and fear, certain that it was the only way to protect you. The words still echo in his mind, and each time he sees you, that same terror rises in his chest. He wants to fix things, to show you that he cares, but he’s too afraid that he’s too broken, that there’s no coming back from what he’s done.

Megumi! Who stays up at night, torn between his regret and his fear of losing you. The emotional weight is unbearable. He feels your absence like a hollow ache in his chest, knowing he’s the one who caused it. He watches as you pack up your things, and something inside him shatters. He realizes, too late, that he’s pushed you to the brink of leaving, and that the walls he’s built around himself might be the very thing that costs him your love. The thought that you might walk away for good is too much to bear, and it breaks him to know that, in his attempt to protect you, he might have destroyed everything that mattered.

≿————-　ִֶָ𓂃 ࣪˖ ִֶָ🌷་༘࿐　————-≾

[weirdmarioenemies]

Name: Peg

Debut: DK: King of Swing

This post is not about Donkey Kong himself. Sorry! It is about the peg he is currently swinging from. But Peg on its own is not very eye-catching, is it? We need a guy like DK here, for the brand recognition. With his help, Peg is gonna be a star admired like James Dean or Mr. Bean! Hopefully after this post, you'll all want to Get Pegged!

So, here's Peg. Sorry for the blurriness, this was cropped from the Japanese cover of the game. Believe it or not, no press kits seem to have included crisp, HD promo art of Peg! Imagine the world if they did that. They could have made sticker sheets, and you could have put them on your wall, and pretended Donkey Kong was awkwardly clambering on it. Now imagine doing that while a silverfish happened to be climbing on the same wall! It would be so exciting...

Peg is a very funny thing to me. Donkey Kong is a gorilla. He climbs. It's in his nature. So it makes sense to give him his own game focused on climbing rather than platforming. But the thing is, he climbs trees and grabs onto branches and vines. And this game is about Pegs! Like rock climbing hand/footholds! I like this game a lot, don't get me wrong. But I get such a kick out of it being about Pegs.

And there are so many Pegs. So many that they come in different colors, to make them more fun to look at! Which of these would you most want to Grasp? I like the blue one. You may note that none of these are red, like the artwork is, but maybe that's because of the GBA's initial lack of a backlight.

It does not stop at different colors of pegs, however! There are peg boards! Pegs with levers, at the ends of which are other pegs! Cracked pegs that crumble away into nothingness... and that brings us to my personal favorite peg!

GHOST pegs! These pegs have perished! They are only found in a haunted shipwreck stage, so that narrows down how they could have died. I'm sure a lot of them drowned, while others were cannibalized by other, desperate pegs. Maybe some were pried open by sea stars who then digested the delectable Pegmeat from within. Many possibilities! Wait, I haven't said what these pegs do! If one is grabbed, it will manifest a hexagon of pegs around itself, while any other ghostly pegs disappear. It is a fun but honestly extremely easy gimmick with no real catch, unless you are just oh so scared by these ghost pegs. I'm not. Not that it's anything to be ashamed of! But I'm not.

I am not entirely sure how I feel about the overall art direction of DK: Jungle Climber, since I really like the more unique spritework of King of Swing. One thing's for sure, though! Pegs and Peg Boards have never looked more natural! Now THESE are pegs that someone made and put there. Don't worry about it!

[gay-dorito-dust]

would you do basically reader's universe collapsed and she's in shock and horrified back at the spider society hq and miguel's basically grudgingly comforting this teenage spider version who says she failed?

I know I say this about pretty much everything I write but this might be a lil -or a lot- like ass. My brain took a holiday and left this behind 😂

‘Miguel, you’ve got to go to them.’ Lyla said, looking at you.

‘No.’

She huffed and looked at him. ‘Why not?! If anyone here can relate to how they’re feeling right now it’s you.’

‘That’s different.’ Miguel replied, keeping his back to her. The reason why he was being so hesitant to comfort you was because of that familiar look of primal fear in your eyes; You were painfully reminded him of the things and the people that he’s lost, their bodies were warped and distorted until they vanished into nothingness before his very eyes as he was then left unable to prevent it from consuming everything-including his daughter, Gabriella- in their entirety until nothing remained but the memories.

‘How is it?’ Lyla asked, only understanding Miguel’s attitude towards your situation as heartless and unnecessary cruel, you had just been displaced from your home that starting as of now, quite literally does not exist, in what could be considered the worse way imaginable and were in dire need of a shoulder to lean; Lyla thought that due to shared experience, Miguel would be that comforting figure but to hear him downright refuse to check in on you made her put him under intense questioning.

‘Because it is.’ Miguel responded vaguely. Lyla huffs again but said under her breath, ‘what kind of leader are you if you’re not going to be there when it counts.’ Before disappearing, leaving Miguel to press his head into his hands, breathing in deeply and holding it for a couple of seconds before exhaling; On most occasions he hated to admit it but in this instances, Lyla was undeniably right in the fact that you were in need of support but for that support to come from him was where he hesitates. For Miguel was still very much hung up on what happened to Gabriella that he was trying to process what happened under a logistical viewpoint that he had yet to emotionally recover from his losses.

So when he looked back at you to see you staring off at a wall opposite, blankly, mentally having checked out the moment you were brought back to hq by the scruff of your neck. Your friends, Hobie, Miles, Pavitr and Gwen came to check on you regularly but even they couldn’t put your broken pieces together; so one of all of them would just keep you company by making sure you were that you weren’t neglecting your basic needs. While nice as that all was, it doesn’t get rid of the fact that you had no home anymore to return to, no family, no friends; and worst off you had nothing to remember them by but the memories that would forever haunt you to the point where even sleep felt like a method of torture.

‘Mr o’hara.’ Your voice reached out to him. ‘Did…did I fail?’ Miguel, forever a father at heart, felt pained by your words, he knew that he was partially to blame for putting it in everyone’s head that to have your home reality collapse was a fault upon the Spider charged with guarding it, but he thought by doing so everyone would work better at keeping their wits about them and keep their realities stable; unlike him who was more taken by the fact that he had a family elsewhere and wanted to indulge in a life that wasn’t his to experience.

‘No.’ Miguel finally said as he joined at your side. ‘You didn’t fail, you fought valiantly in protecting your reality.’ This didn’t seem to reassure you of anything as you responded with, ‘if I fought so valiantly as you say, then why does it feel like I single handedly destroyed everything I swore to defend as Spider-Man?’ Miguel thought the very same on a daily basis that he didn’t wake up or go to sleep without reminding himself as a way to keep him within that moment; and in doing so he had driven himself to the point where he didn’t recognise the person staring back at him in the mirror. He grew angry, he grew hateful, he grew spiteful and had grown to be condition himself into finding comfort in his isolation and solitude to the point he couldn’t remember who he was outside all of it.

He didn’t want you going down a similar route as he did, for it wasn’t a life he thought best suited you.

‘I was exactly where you are right now, to be honest I still am,’ Miguel admits, ‘I blamed and blamed myself to the point I lost sight of who I once was but you.’ He placed a hand on your shoulder awkwardly, it was obvious that he wasn’t use to having to comfort someone and you couldn’t help but appreciate his attempt. ‘Despite everything that has happened to you thus far, you are still you and that’s far more admirable then any feet of physical strength and you wanna know why?’ Miguel asked rhetorically as he moved to kneel in front of you so that you would be forced to look into his eyes. ‘It takes an extraordinary person to to come out of hell the same person they entered as.’ He tells you, smiling to himself when he saw a small flicker of light return to your eyes, even if it was minuscule and brief, it was a start.

‘You’re not alone, even if you may feel it more so then ever, you’re not and you never will be alone, especially with friends like yours.’ Miguel continues as his eyes lifted over your shoulder, causing you to look also as Gwen, Miles, Pavitr and Hobie could be seen poking their heads into the room; Upon realising that they’ve been caught, the quartet attempted to act as casual as they could with Hobie leaning cooly against the doorframe, tuning his guitar, whilst Pavitr began to talking to Miles and Gwen about something. You couldn’t help but smile a little wider upon seeing your friends, you were so lost amidst what you lost that you didn’t see what was right in front of you, and Miguel could tell that they mean more to you then anything and you wanted nothing more then to show them that you were on the mend of being okay again.

‘I just want to make them proud.’ You said but Miguel knew you weren’t talking about your friends in that moment as a melancholic look crossed over your face when you looked back at him. ‘I can’t speak on their behalf but I’d like to think you already have, they know you tried and they couldn’t be prouder of you. There’s no reason to hold unjustified resentment towards yourself over something that you couldn’t have possibly known was coming.’ He says softly. ‘The hardest part of healing is knowing when it isn’t your fault because we’ve conditioned ourselves to bear the brunt of the blame, to the point where it’s hard for us to understand that when something catastrophic happens, we have no real control nor dictation over it or how it happens. We can be doing our best and it’ll still come whether or not we spend our whole lives preparing for it.’

You reached over to hug Miguel, burying your face into his shoulder, clinging onto him for dear life as he goes stiff as a board at the contact. ‘Thank you.’ You said, voice muffled but it was still coherent enough for him to hear it. Miguel’s body relaxed once realising he wasn’t in any trouble and he brought his arms to cage you against him. ‘No problem kid, just don’t go thinking you have to be be responsible for everything in life because that’s not a healthy way to live and realise that you’re not alone in this for you will always have us to fall back on.’

[wystiix]

talk to me, please

❥ pairing: venti x gn!reader ❥ synopsis: Venti anxiously waits for a text from you to the point where he overthinks and nearly spirals into madness—will you please just fucking reply already? ❥ cw: crack, attempt at humour (kms), fluff maybe?? not proof-read so some stuff may not make sense lmao ❥ additional tags: lowkey kinda revolves around texting, venti's perspective, no pronouns for reader, modern setting, venti is a humanities major cuz i said so, does this count as socmed??? idk someone tell me i need to sleep it's 2am ❥ word count: 955 ❥ notes: bonjour hi hello kumusta. my foot is fucking asleep and my leg feels numb and my back hurts and i'm tired an it's 2am i have school i need to stop. okay so for context i was texting this girl and she wasn't replying so i went crazy, and then i thought "wait i could write a fic about this" and here we are. it was actually kinda fun writing this HAHAHAHAHA but i had to rush it cuz i have other stuff to do so uh it may be a bit quick. (see end notes after reading cuz i said so /j)

The clock ticked. It had been three hours. Venti stared at his phone, impatiently waiting for you just please, please, please reply.

Try to distract yourself, one may say, and mark these fucking words, he did.

He tried everything. From listening to music to doing the dishes, to cleaning his room. Oh, but that was not all.

For the past few hours, he reorganised his notes, desk and playlist, walked at least twenty laps around his dorm, ate all his snacks from the pantry like a fatass, cleaned up his closet and planned what he was going to wear a week from now, learned a new song on his guitar and even counted every single one of his ceiling and wall tiles.

There were exactly 146 tiles in his dorm. That number now forever haunts him.

Practically exhausted from being way too productive than he usually was, he slumped down on his bed and opened the app he used to text you. There was still no reply.

Venti buried his face into his pillow, letting out a groan of frustration.

It was incredibly frustrating and it nearly drove him crazy. Were you seriously that busy? Normally you would respond within a span of seconds, a few to thirty minutes at the latest. But fucking three hours?

He couldn’t let this opportunity slip away. You both had been talking for over a week—he couldn’t afford to mess this up. 

But what if you suddenly lost interest? Oh, it felt far too early for that. Was he finally going to have that Mitski experience? Was he going to be those depressed poets who poured their hearts out through their ink on the paper when a single minor inconvenience happened to them? 

You were killing him. And it was not softly. Venti felt as if his heart was shattering into a million pieces.

Was this his destiny, his punishment for choosing to pursue such a depressing major in humanities?

How cruel the universe is.

He sighed in defeat, opening his notes app to write and exude a poetic, Shakespearean ballad about this before his phone suddenly buzzed.

Ding! You have received a new message from [Name]!

Holy shit has his fingers never moved so quickly before in his entire life, clicking on the notification faster than he could blink. Your sudden message almost gave him a heart attack, for fuck’s sake.

So much for living and breathing Shakespeare.

Oh, how his heart fluttered. A simple message, yet it had him forget about his lament just a few seconds prior and he found himself swooning, practically glazing your message as if it was the most fascinating piece of literature he had ever laid eyes on.

Venti paused, rereading your message 25 million times, unsure how to reply. Should he respond right away, or would that be too eager? He didn’t want to come off as desperate, but three hours of waiting had been excruciating. Perhaps he should wait a minute or two… No, that would be too long!

God he wanted to punch himself in the face for clicking that notification too fast, now he has to think of a response on the spot or else he’d look like an asshole.

He started to type out a response.

k, i see.

He paused, immediately deleting the message with a shake of his head. Too dry, he has to sound interested. I understand! Would you like to shift the conversation to a less taxing topic? Delete. Too formal. LMAOOO dw dw, what was it about anyway? Delete. ahh hope the essay didn’t stress u out too much!! Delete. i’m madly in love with u Delete. Had he sent that he would find the nearest cliff and leap off.

Venti sighed, lying on his back and staring at the ceiling. Why was this so complicated? He wanted to sound interested, but not desperate; casual, but not indifferent. He ended up typing something simple and hitting send before he could second-guess himself again. Sometimes, being simple is the ultimate sophistication.

He fought the urge to chuck his phone across the room. Shit, was that too casual? How long were you going to reply this time?

There were immediate blinking dots.

The tension in his chest eased as he found himself giggling at your comment. He realised the way he was acting earlier was ridiculous, maybe this wasn’t so bad.

Venti felt the weight lift off his shoulders. The conversation was back on track, and he could breathe easy again. Just as he was about to put down his phone, the blinking dots appeared again, and he immediately reverted his attention back to it.

Another message.

What.

What the fuck. Was this real?

He put his phone face down, allowing everything to sink in.

What the fuck. Coffee? Tomorrow? With you? Did you just ask him out? Was this real? Was he real? Were you real?

The anxiety that lingered within slowly ebbed away as he stared at the ceiling tiles—the same tiles that haunted him earlier. However, they now seemed oddly comforting.

“Holy shit.”

Gods above, was this a blessing? Maybe his love life wasn’t so hopeless after all.

Venti’s gaze drifted to his closet, where he noticed that same outfit he intended to wear a week from now. A cozy, soft-beige sweater with a hint of cream peeked out from behind a row of neatly hung clothes, gently draping over a pair of charcoal chinos.

He grinned like an idiot, giggling and kicking his feet like a little child who just received their favourite toy. A string of “oh my god, oh my god” repeated endlessly in his head like a loop.

And for once, the silence didn’t feel so heavy.

❥ notes: hi so yes. yes i did what he did here. yes i counted my tiles, but it was my bathroom tiles instead. there are like 121 tiles in the bathroom, including the hidden ones. in this fic i just added the average number of tiles to that number which was like 25 tiles??? lowkey idk i just estimated. and yes i did plan my outfit a week from now, which is for church. yes i cleaned my room. yes i walked more than ten laps around my living room. i was restless. yes i was productive as hell. lmfao by the time i was done with the fic she replied to me so yay!! win!! also pls get the "you were killing him and it's not softly" reference i hope someone at least gets it or else i'm gonna cry myself to sleep. yeah anyways im gonna sleep gn <3

[matchadobo]

FIRST FOLLOWER EVENT LETSGOOOOOOOOO can i request the 2nd dialogue in hurt to comfort for kidd and reader? heavily inspired by the massive multiplayer online lores that love and deepspace gave birth to, it could be a reincarnation au too. like 1st life is them meeting, 2nd is them being tragic or the alternate fuck ass ending, 3rd is one of them not in the same timeline, and 4this them meeting in the grandline or smth. i want one of them to be the one who always remembers, so it felt like theyve been waiting for a long, long time. so like when they meet again in the most recent life, the one who always forgets finally remembers and say smth like sorry for making u wait and shit then the one who remembers is always took you long enough. the 2nd dialogue could be in a written letter in their 1st life or smth BUT it will always make its appearance all throughout their 4 lives or smth. (i know it says 3 u can alter this however u wantttt)

KIDD; three lives

🌷matchadobo's 500 followers event🌷

wc: 3496

warning/s: fem reader, no nsfw very fluff/angst, parallel universes, more on introspection, not much dialogues, hurt to comfort, happy ending!

dialogue: "if i had three lives, i'd marry you in two. the other life, i would be an artist trying to mold you into existence."

eustass kidd was a normal guy. has a stable job at his own mechanic shop, slept around a little too cool off some stress, has good people around him—but it was all mundane. he felt like it lacked. until he started dreaming about you. not just one, but consecutive and connected ones. it was like a whole fucking series in his head.

kidd keeps having dreams that are so incessant, it's almost haunting him. it creeps him out because it's always something about one person. it's not the repetitive dreams where the same thing happens all the time. it's always something new but it's always you who stands in the middle of it all.

at first it puzzled him, pissed him off why he always wakes up with his heart racing and feels disappointed because it ended. he's annoyed at himself because he wants more, it's what he always looked forward to for the day. he knows damn well he'd be dreaming about you.

it felt real, too damn real it's fucking him up to his very core. with every night and every dream, it's felt like he's always learning something about you. night by night, he experiences something special with you.

from the very first moment he met you when he first dreamed about you, on that field of tulips where your hair danced with the wind and drew his attention more to your face. and you donned that flowy red dress that matched the same red in his hair and cheeks. up until the moment he confessed under the stars.

he was delusional really. waking up everyday just to sculpt you into his metal works, welding all day and shaping up scraps of metal in the thought of you. how you look like, your favorite things, the jewelry you wear, how you feel under his fingertips, the shape of you, and even the littlest things he remembers about you. he does it just so he wouldn't forget.

and for a moment there, his life somewhat meant something. you felt so real and if he were to be branded as a freak, he wouldn't give a shit.

but deep within him, he felt like that's all there is to it. the life he has with you is confined within the walls of his mind. in the dreams he experiences each night, he'd be secure enough to think he'd see you again when the day ends.

he only realized that time was running when the dreams stopped. when he woke up with tears streaming down his eyes and the last thing you told him was goodbye as life slowly drew out of you in the hospital bed. and he realized it was the end of it all, the end of you.

it was too late to realize that kidd grew old and complacent with the thought of you keeping him happy. never had he thought of keeping someone with him in his life other than you.

so when he still felt that fire in him, still had the vitality in him that had been fueled with your memories with him. he made it his mission until his hands give out and let his fingers curse him out from the amount of scars, bruises, and grazes that metalmaking induced upon his body. kidd was determined to make you real, even if he was to be called crazy. you deserve a large scale statue as his most revered.

"if i had three lives, i'd marry you in two. the other life, i would be an artist trying to mold you into existence." he said in his last breath, glancing at the statue as the last thing he saw before dying.

eustass kidd made a name for himself as a renowned metal sculptor of his era. an artist so foul with his crude attitude yet his works symbolized a most delicate muse, a theme that revolved in his single most cherished treasure that is you. even keeping a ring with your initials in his finger until he got buried six feet under.

but he's damned enough to be the only one to remember. after all, you were just a figment of his dreams. as you stood above the damp soil with the rain dripping down your frames, a blade begging to cut his throat as it lie precarious below his chin.

you donned the coat in white stained with the massive letters of justice on its back, the red tulips brushing by your shins. kidd remained unfazed, a soft grin on his tinted lips as he fought the tears threatening to fall down when you finally stand in front of him. the fire in your eyes not losing its embers.

"found you." he mumbled in mischief, snatching the blade off of your grip with his devil fruit when he caught you off guard with his statement.

you were quick to evade his advances, kicking off your feet in the ground so you could increase the distance between you and him. but it seemed like he wasn't trying to land a hit on you, it seemed as if he wanted to just get his hand on you, restrain you or something.

"fine by me, i can subdue you perfectly well without my sword." you situated a fighting position, fists on your eye level as you try and predict his movements.

kidd chuckled, twisting your blade by his hands and using it instead as he pointed it at you. "i guess i'll indulge you for now, bonnie. i'll think about gettin' ya later."

there was a long while where you two fought, you held yourself well enough with him almost playing with you with your sword and his ability. it pissed you off so much that he somehow maneuvered a way for you to now be under him, overwhelmed by the other weapons he magneted which were precarious on your neck.

"now the tulips are all ruined." he looked around in the earlier vibrant yet now desolate place as some flowers were stepped on and sliced. "bummer, aye? ain't these your favorite, name?"

your eyes widened. why is he acting so coy and friendly?! how did he know tulips were your favorite?! he's been acting so relaxed even when you're in full intent of subduing him, killing him if worse comes to worst.

"have we met before?" you had to ask, you weren't familiar with him because he was a pirate from the emerging worst generation and you had just got your position as a captain.

kidd bursted into laughter yet he looked at you with pained eyes. "if i said yes, would you believe me?"

you shook your head, finding the leverage to flip your positions so you were now on top of him and you had finally yanked your blade back from him. you didn't hesitate to leave a scar on the side of his neck as you stabbed your blade by the ground next to his neck; and with one twist and slash, his head will be rolling. "i'm not playing around, pirate. you're done for."

kidd smiled, his eyes observing you and that passion in your eyes. "too soon to say that, bonnie. don't you wanna play around some more? see where this takes us?" he tilted his head mockingly, raising a brow as his yellows teased you. "although i already know where you'll end up." he propelled himself up with his agile body, using his devil fruit to replace his position with a big metal scrap that almost killed you.

and he slipped off your grasp just like that, such power and deviance; you hated it. you were this strong and he managed to overwhelm you. you see him back on his ship, standing tall and arrogant on the bow of his ship as he grinned at you before turning his back away as if to tell you to catch him if you can.

and you did. you had your eyes set on him as your prey. it was safe to say that he left an impression on you. he was your motivation to become stronger, training everyday so you don't become the same sorry marine who couldn't catch him.

it was around the same time that you see his name so frequently plastered on the bounty walls. as you rose up the ranks, you noticed how his bounty also grew gradually. until his bounty reached three billion and you were promoted as a vice admiral.

kidd deemed it the perfect time to finally tell you everything. he seemed to have orchestrated everything for you two to meet again on those once desolated tulip fields in the south blue, which were now in full bloom during spring.

the wind blowing through your hair with the sun illuminating your face clearly. you also saw him perfectly close that time. and this time, you weren't at each other's throats. you were crying before the damn pirate you had set your eyes on as your prey, to whom you vowed on to put behind bars and promised to grow stronger than.

but you still didn't know why you were crying. maybe it's because with the way he narrated everything from the beginning, it made sense. even though you couldn't remember. there was a faint familiarity that it did happen.

"why are you cryin'? come on now, vice admiral." he pulled you into his embrace, a hand on your head as he stroked your hair. "thought you got strong enough not to be sobbing on my chest, aye?"

"f-fuck off." you drummed in his chest, hicupping as you sobbed before his story. "i-i worked my ass off for what?! just to end up back with you?! fucking damn it."

but it was true. you felt like you've met before. just a little differently. it must be why you felt so damn close to him even at the first time you two met. like you've uttered his name before and you were meant to do so.

but you latched yourself off of him and held your blade against him once more, wiping off your tears and gripping the handle of your sword firmly. "if i lose, i'll let you go."

"aw shucks, gettin' soft on me, bonnie?"

and your blades clash once more. but this time, it was too hard for you for some reason. knowing the fact that you and kidd were somehow fated and that he knew how everything will end up. that kidd loved you and you loved him at some point in time. it wavered your conscience. what shakes you more is how kidd had maintained his front back then, going toe to toe with you despite being the same strength as you back then with the thought that you and him had gone through such a life back then. maybe that's why you lost and kidd gave you a parting kiss on the forehead before completely disappearing as you stayed true to your promise, kneeling down the floor in defeat with your blade broken. but it was not long before you completely lost it.

the kidd pirates was completely eradicated.

written in bold, capital letters in red as the main headliner of the newspaper. your heart sank and you started going lightheaded. your fellow navy checked up on you but you couldn't hear them. your chest was so tight you had to loosen your tie and take off your coat from feeling way too hot and cold at the same time. it can't fucking be! he's not fucking dead, is he?! not when you haven't told him how you feel yet.

so you set sail on your own, desperate to get to elbaf. a part of you speaks that you will never find him there. elbaf is a dangerous place and if akagami got him, well it's fucking over. but it was at that moment when you started believing in fate. when you saw victoria punk shipwrecked on the shore on a desolate island with a meager amount of trees near elbaf. you hurriedly hopped off your ship to search for him in the ship. it was starting to scare you, seeing how dilapidated the ship was and with how it's looking, there was no signs of life.

"think i died, bonnie?" a hoarse voice resounded from a far, emerging from the small spot of abutting trees. he looked fucked up, his only arm in a bandage sling as he suffered a few scars in his torso. you caught him when he lost balance of himself.

"what the fuck are you doing?!" you broke into tears, hitting his chest despite his protests of an injury there. but he honestly didn't mind, the joy he was feeling was unparalleled with the pain you're inflicting. it was numb at this point, because all that remained was the torrent of endorphins in his system with your touch and the sight of you all over him. "i thought you died, kidd! jesus christ!"

he leaned in your touch. "i'm plenty strong, bonnie. won't go down that easily, aye?"

you lost touch with the navy since then. you had a bounty almost on par with kidd, since you're a high ranking officer who possesses knowledge only the navy has and a pirate with a caliber and ferocity of a vice admiral. you both were a damn force of nature. it was unknown to the navy that your connection with kidd will turn into something so grand, let alone the manifestation of the connection itself. you two made a name for yourselves in the great pirate era, standing alongside the pirate king as his other half up until your very last breath.

and even after all that, you would still be clueless on how it will happen all over again. as the notorious eustass kidd made his way to detention languidly, his once weary self stopped on his tracks and almost tripped over himself when he caught glimpse of you introducing yourself to the class next to his as a new student.

you two locked eyes because his sudden movements got caught in your periphery. you stuttered in your words when you locked eyes. you were first to look away because you realized the silence you left in class upon fumbling.

kidd remembered once more and faintly smiled to himself, his fists in his pockets grew tighter as the birthday party in his heart rejoiced. so you really were meant to be even after two lifetimes.

the following days were the same. when either of you walks by the classroom of each other, there would be a time where the world will somewhat stop as you two stomach the fact that you were indeed making eye contact. and the flurry comes after when the one of you breaks tit and the butteflies goes crazy.

that went on for a while—a harmless little crush, a little something to look forward to everyday for school. until the annual school trip came where each year visits historical places for their finals.

"hey, hey! isn't it crazy how these statues look so much like name?"

"that's impossible! these were ancient, right?!"

some of your friends call out, nudging you to have a look. it was uncanny. it was almost as if it predicted how you'd look like when you grow older. but you just brushed it off from the mere fact of getting creeped out at how accurate it was.

you couldn't see it but kidd was closely watching your group, you especially who was engrossed in it. he was keen on observing how you were so curious by it—how you tried to look at it on different angles, peeking on the sides as if you'd find something hidden in it, or how you narrow your eyes at it to see some unveiled details. he chuckled to himself, shaking off his head at how adorable you look. if it weren't for him interfering you would've reached over to touch the statues and caused a goddamn alarm to blare across the whole museum.

"it does look like you, ain't it?"

"n-nah, that's just a coincidence." you got embarrassed, realizing how much you've been gawking at it and how the guy you've been eyeing is now talking to you.

"mm-mm, says the artist had a muse." he turned to you, as if implying it was you, waiting for you to face him.

"what are you... talking about? i'm the artist's muse or something?" you said after laughing dryly, sarcastic even as you look at him in disbelief. "are you for fucking real?"

but he only had an amused smile, hands in his pockets as he turned to look at the statue once more, eyeing every detail then back at you.

"seems real enough to me."

kidd shrugged and walked away as he let you internalize the mystery before you. he headed to the outside portion of the museum where several installations await, leaving you dumbfounded as you looked at the mirror-image of the statue. it can't be, right?

but it seems kidd was the only one initiating a damn conversation about this, so you followed him. plus, he smells good and is definitely your type.

"hey! have we met before?" you called out, panting as you tried catching up to him from the flights of cobble stairs that lead to a garden of tulips.

in the span of time where you two met, had your eye out for each other, branding the other as your "crush"—you two are well aware of each other's names, classes, and demeanor. but never had you thought that that familiarity would be so powerful for you to be feeling this mad when you saw him under the sunset like it's fucking deja vu. he only donned his school uniform but he looked so special in your eyes, you might be the only one seeing this troublemaker that way.

"beats me." he replied, gazing out the field and bending down to grasp a flower, picking it up afterward.

"kidd! you're not allowed to do that!" you ran up to him, his name somehow rolling off your tongue so naturally. he ignored you and continued with his heinous act, he glanced at it a little before giving it to you. "we finally met again, bonnie."

time had stopped and the wind blew a little too hard, even your tears got swept away which had unknowingly started falling.

"e-eh? why am i crying?" you felt your eyes stung and your cheeks damp. you laughed, feeling silly as you wipe them off with your hands clutching the flower he gave you.

"so you remember some of it. it just ain't so obvious, aye?" he ruffled your hair and it felt nice, his touch felt warm and it felt right.

when the trip was over and you guys were taken home, kidd took you out for yakiniku and you aren't stupid to not agree.

"you're kidding."

"i'm not, brat."

"don't call me a brat."

"then fuckin' believe me, why else would i kid around? to sound goddamn insane?"

he does have a point. why else would he be spouting off nonsense? that you two always met in the three lives he lived. like a sappy plot out of a romance novel, you two are fated by destiny.

"only three lives though?"

"aye. what? still not enough for you?" kidd chuckled, reaching over to wipe off residual food on the corner of your mouth. you seem to have been so invested in eating.

"so all the other universes perished and only these three universes are the only ones that survived?"

for a moment, kidd got lost in you. your words resonated with him the most despite the fact of you being in the dark. you tilted your head, growing conscious at the fact that he was just staring at you or maybe if it was something you said.

"now i'm saying silly things, forget what i said-" you nervously laughed, stuffing yourself with more yakiniku.

"nae, nae. hold it." he held your wrist, preventing you from choking. "so you think this whole shit is silly, huh?" his grip on you tightened, but he was just teasing you, a pretend front that you got him a little angry. yet you were too flustered with his touch and gaze to realize that he was just fucking with you.

"n-no! of course not! i-i like it, it's romantic! k-kinda magical, you know?" you waved your hands as a convincing way to tell him that you don't think it's all a sham. "it's a nice way to say we're meant to be." you looked away to avoid his gaze because you can't look at him with the embarrassing red in your cheeks as you squeezed onto the hem of your school skirt.

"got your heart racing, aye? leaves me wonderin' how i'll meet you again in the next one."

HOOOOOOOOOO 🥺☹️🥰 this was so good for my heart omg please thank you so much @tokwatbababooey for requesting 😍

this is such an amazing concept! i had so much fun conceptualizing reallyyyy 😙 finally done with my exams! so i hope i could finally make time for my backlogs here 😝 i'm not very good with angst so i hope this is ok ><

if you guys are interested in requesting a fic for my 500 followers event, my askbox is open! click here for the main event post for more info :DD i have slots for forced proximity, hurt to comfort, fantasy, he puts you in your place (smut), and modern aus!

[kolyasangel]

A FLAME WITHIN ME

synopsis: nikolai can't seem to understand why he can't be apart from you when you stir familiar feelings, as well as not-so-familiar ones in him.

content: ch. 6 of icarus falls - main navi / wc: 9.4k

Consciousness is truly nature's greatest nightmare.

Nothing will ever compare to the sheer horror of being aware of yourself being your own prison.

The coldness of the counter beneath his hands is uncomfortable, the surface biting into his palms. His eyes are tightly closed in frustration while drops of water drip down his face, clinging to damp bangs that stick tackily to his skin.

Nikolai thought he'd changed years ago, that he had shed his former weak self. He hadn't changed at all this whole time. He remained stagnant—a lost and helpless boy driven by one wish, who dared to defy divine beings and went above and beyond extremes all to chase after his dream. Yet, when he looks in the mirror, he doesn't recognize the reflection that stares back. He couldn't stand the sight that was warped by self-loathing, an urge to heave swirling in the pit of his gut every time he caught a glimpse of himself.

He doesn't know who he is anymore. But this is what he wanted, didn't he? To lose himself entirely and irrevocably.

Freedom was the one word that constantly clung to Nikolai's mind like a stubborn shadow. His goal wasn't just a goal, it was his whole existence—the very thing that shaped his foundations as a person, the very thing that defined his essence.

It’s been a week since that night, yet the memories haunt him like restless spirits.

You always find a way to creep into his mind late at night when the world fell silent and the darkness deepened, your presence a ghostly echo in the stillness of his room. There were times when he would stir in bed, wondering if you were in his room, only to pull the covers back and sit up to realize he was alone.

Alone.

Confinement was a torture of its own kind. He couldn't remain cooped up within four walls, suffocating in the stifling air of his own despair. He felt as if the walls were closing in on him, and he feared he might lose his grip on sanity completely if he didn't step outside at least once in a while, even just once to breathe. However, he isn't sure if it helps anymore because he knows who is going to be there outside most of the time, waiting to accompany him.

His cherished daily routine of watching the sunset alone was interrupted, now shared with you, each smear of orange and pink that paints the sky every day now intertwined with the remembrance of you.

And he hates it. He hates the confusion, hates the memories, hates what he's become.

He hates everything.

But he doesn't.

But he does.

He feels like this is almost another punishment for him as if the anguish of having taken the life of his first friend hadn't been enough. This—whatever is happening between you both—is a mockery of his resolve, a cruel trial designed to see if he would truly be able to withstand the pull of desire once more.

The burning sensation in the back of his throat is unbearable as his fingers slip into the depths of his pockets to grasp the deadly item—an object that whispered insidious promises of relief to him when incredible, mind-eating guilt almost pushed him to the edge multiple times. The cold metal grazing against his fingertips is enough to make shivers run down his spine—though it is nothing compared to the thought of you lying in a pool of your own blood.

Would he be content if you were gone? Would he finally have his freedom?

The solution seemed deceptively simple enough, and the answer should be even more so. A near escape wrapped in the finality of a single bullet was all it would take to dissipate his problems, to dissolve the solidifying agony you're putting him through.

Things would go back to the way they were.

But there was one issue.

He doesn't think he'll be able to withstand the heat again. Because then again, there is something about you that simultaneously puts his soul at a strange sense of peace. It infuriates him how your very existence seems to flicker like a soothing flame amidst his tempestuous thoughts, as if you were disguising as light and purposefully luring him into the very fire he feared.

Not to mention, he'd become so unbelievably weak that it made him nauseous to even think about ever in any way hurting you, or anyone for that matter.

He has the blood of hundreds, including innocents, on his hands from his actions. No matter how many times he washed them, he still felt unclean, unable to remove the permanent sense of visceral remorse left on his tainted body and soul, a residue of his blood-stained past from his objections against morality. Those same transgressions against the very morals he sought to oppose were undoubtedly ineffective, still inhabiting and plaguing his mind to this day. He would do anything to escape feeling it—this unbearable guilt that had no place in his mind, yet infiltrating every corner of his mind, claiming far too much space for comfort. Every fiber of his being screamed for release, a clamor of need that churned within him—a lion thrashing against the confines of its cage, desperate for liberation.

But he isn't quite sure why he wanted to change in the first place or why he had pursued the actions that had led him to this state. To prove his free will, of course. Then why does he still feel trapped when he should be free? Ironically, each attempt to assert his proof of free will seemed to tighten the chains around him.

How could he feel this way? Why was he allowing himself to be entangled by these emotions when it brought nothing but delirium?

He wasn't confident that the tolerance was conscience. There was no way it could've been when he was unknowingly digging deeper into his own grave.

Freedom hangs above him, daunting and overwhelming. Each step toward that ethereal light is fraught with risk, that he already knows. Yet, he longed to touch that radiant horizon, to wrap his fingers around its glow. It shimmers just beyond his grasp, but he already feels the burning heat. Perhaps it's the indelible scars of shame that marred his skin and lined his wings, a reminder of the flames of past endeavors that had never truly been extinguished after all this time.

He can't help but be worried this time, hovering in uncertainty when the menacing specter of downfall threatens too large. It feels natural to be after last time, an unsettling reality he still cannot shake off—having soared so close before, only to get sent plummeting down from such dizzying heights so incredibly far up. Somehow, against all odds, he'd managed to pick himself back up after his initial fall, but the ghost of fear still haunts him. What if he fell again—this time, perhaps, into a sea of despair from which there was no return?

Was the light an utter illusion? It seemed frustratingly unattainable.

How come you don't see it like he does?

If he didn't know any better, he'd assume you were also searching for freedom, judging by the way you seemed to agree with his views in some regard. He would've thought there was an understanding between you both, that you both wanted the same thing. But you believe in fate, you believe in purpose, you believe in all these things that he can't begin to grasp the concept of. You are so incredibly brainwashed that it's laughable, bearing more differences than alike to him. Still, a small part of him couldn't help but anticipate the opposite for some reason.

"I find that whenever you have a purpose, life is more bearable."

Purpose. What is his purpose? No, he doesn't need a purpose. The thought of it made him recoil in disgust. That would go against and undermine everything he stands and fights for—a stark contradiction to the threads of independence he had tightly woven together around his existence.

There is no meaning to life, after all.

There is no meaning to this life he has no choice but to live. He deems your need for purpose in existence as nonsensical and would go as far as to say you're delusional for believing in it. He wants to laugh at your utter foolishness and your naivety—so caught up in your own silly beliefs, so thoroughly yet unknowingly trapped in the cage of your own mind. Yet, amid that laughter lay an envious ache for insensibility, a craving for the simplicity of it all. And, amidst this envy, he felt a pang of anger.

How dare you find solace when he felt so frantic to find his?

You must laugh at him in secret when he's not around you—laugh at him for how socially inept he is, at how ridiculous you think he sounds whenever he speaks to you. You must think he's weird and feel pity for him. You make fun of him, don't you? The thought of it fuels him with rage and makes him clench his fists in infuriation.

No, he's the one who's laughing at you! You're the one who's trapped after all. You're the fool!

He wants to laugh, but his throat feels tight, stifling any noise from coming out. He can't even smile at the thought that should be humorous.

Because he knows his suspicions aren't true—your kindness was transparently evident, too potent and telling to hold any ill intent. He can try to convince himself against it all he wants, but pure is the first thing that comes to his mind.

His cheeks feel warm despite the icy water he splashes on his face and his eyes close as a deep sigh escapes his lips.

Why did the mere thought of you make him feel feverish?

You must be lying when you compliment his biggest insecurities—you have to be. It feels impossible that you could mean what you say. But he isn't sure why you would lie to him, nor could he understand why it would matter in the first place.

A fresh wave of frustration washes over him, emotions layering upon emotions. Hatred for himself mixed with these feelings for you, creating a toxic blend that was poisoning his mind. How could he be so weak as to feel like this? Why did the tenderness you elicited make him feel oddly comforted yet utterly enraged?

He feels so much. You make him feel so much. Too much—so intense and so overwhelming to that of a fire that burns too vividly, far beyond what he can contain.

It's your fault. It's all your fault.

These feelings of resentment never leave him, instead, they entwine with these strange new emotions toward you, altogether only seeming to grow more and more and wrap around his heart like wild, invasive vines.

But were you truly the only one to blame?

He himself should be resilient and unshakeable—a bastion of strength that refused to be swayed by the trivialities of emotional entanglements, not permitting such frivolous things to distract him from his goal. Yet, here he was, flinching and breaking beneath the weight of feelings he despised regardless. His refusals to surrender to distractions had become vain, for they never lasted, always returning to bite him in the end. Rage blinded and held him in a fiery grip, and old fear devoured him over and over again.

What was his life before you?

Now that he thinks about it, he doesn't seem to remember at all. All he knows is that, with you, he felt a little lighter, which frustrated him to no end. It's a momentary lightness, an escape from the heaviness he carried, the need for closeness clashing with the want to break free from all attachments.

No, wait. He's felt this way before. And it didn't end well for him.

Sinking to the floor, he grasps his hair tighter while his eyes feel heavy with unshed tears, feeling that stifling blend of desire and dread.

Freedom isn't real. Free will isn't real. None of it is real.— is what a voice whispered in the back of his mind whenever despair settled in, twisting his thoughts until they spiraled into chaos.

What even is freedom? Will he ever experience it?

His head pounded from overthinking, each thought hammering all at once against his skull, amplifying his fear of failure.

Loud.

It was all so loud.

— ✦

The sound of loud knocking makes your head jerk up as you're walking up the stairs. You had just made your weekly trip to the dim laundry room downstairs and were returning with a small basket full of fresh laundry in your arms, but your heart rate picks up slightly at the disturbance that echoes in the hall. The noise is sharp and insistent, though it doesn't sound like it's coming from your door.

Your feet quicken, hurried and anxious, and by the time you reach the second floor, you spot your landlord poised outside Nikolai's door.

"Is something wrong?" you ask as you approach your door slowly, concerned to know what's happening while keeping your eyes on him.

He turns to look at you when he hears your voice. "Fool hasn't paid rent yet," he replies with a peeved expression, his voice low and grim before knocking on the door again.

Oh, right—today is the first of the month. You had already taken care of your own rent and paid it beforehand right before it was due at the end of last month, but it seems Nikolai wasn't as punctual.

Nikolai's occupation is still a mystery to you. You remember prodding him about it before, but he remained tight-lipped, making his reluctance to answer your question apparent. The thought of bothering him about it didn't seem too hopeful either and felt sort of daunting in a way, so you didn't after the initial refusal, knowing that it'll most likely provoke an uncomfortable silence more than anything.

"Maybe he forgot?" you suggest, hoping to lend a bit of optimism to the situation.

Your landlord only scoffs, a harsh laugh escaping his lips. "He does this almost every month. I'm this close to evicting him," he responds, his hand gesturing in a cutting motion as if to emphasize his point.

You frown, both empathy and confusion washing over you.

"I'm sure he'll pay it soon enough, he's nice.." you offer tentatively, trying to subtly defend him even though you're hit with the weight of your landlord's skepticism almost immediately.

"Nice?" He laughs again, this time tinged with a hint of scorn at your words. "This guy is anything but nice. He's a fuckin' cocky jackass is what he is, plain and simple," he retorts, his eyes glinting with contempt while he speaks about him.

A heat rises in your chest at his upsetting words, an unexpected surge of protectiveness for Nikolai swelling within you. Is he talking about the same person? You aren't sure. And you aren't sure what sparked an intense reaction, but it twisted uncomfortably in your stomach. You felt the need to say something knowing that Nikolai was likely inside, able to hear everything that was being said about him, every demeaning word being tossed around at the expense of his character.

The idea of someone having such a harsh view of Nikolai seems unheard of, especially when he ever does is keep to himself and mind his own business. Sure, you can understand the frustration that comes from tenants who don't pay their rent on time, but beyond that, Nikolai seems far from deserving of such vitriol. Now that you recall, Nikolai didn't have such high regard for him either. You remember all too well the way he grabbed your wrist and made you lead the stairs, the flash of hurt and frustration that crossed his face when you asked him what his deal was between him and his landlord, who, setting aside money matters, only seemed to belittle him at any given opportunity just because he could.

You didn't know any better at the time, but you still feel regret for evoking a reaction like that from him—for asking about something you knew nothing about. It was the most emotion you've ever seen come out of Nikolai, and you weren't sure if that was a good or bad thing.

You had to wonder why Nikolai didn't file a report or take any action against him either. It was like he'd accepted being treated this way.

The thought of it makes you deeply upset.

And he questions Nikolai's kindness? Maybe he would be if people were kinder to him.

"Don't talk about him like that, please," you interject, your voice rising just above a whisper.

He snorts, still doubtful of your previous statement. "I'm surprised he even talks to you," he tells you, raising an eyebrow.

"Why?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"I've never seen him talk to anyone else ever since he's moved here."

Your eyes widen. You know that Nikolai isn't exactly the best at socializing or just talking—it's painfully clear from your interactions with him on a regular basis. Despite this, it never bothered you at all and actually drew you closer, so to hear it articulated so bluntly leaves you momentarily speechless, grappling with a swirl of emotions you didn't know how to process. It leaves an awkward silence to settle in for a bit, with neither of you saying anything else.

After several moments with no response from the closed door, you hear your landlord click his tongue in irritation before he storms down the stairs, the thud of his footsteps resonating heavily against the walls.

Your body turns with the intent to return to your apartment, you try to, but your eyes can't leave Nikolai's door for some reason.

Just then, the silence is broken. You watch carefully when you hear the sound of a creaking door, and there he is—mismatched, guarded eyes peering cautiously through the narrow crack.

A soft smile spreads across your face. "Nikolai.."

He only responds with a nod, his lips pressed tightly together in a half-hearted smile that barely touches his eyes. His gaze drifts momentarily, landing on the laundry basket you're holding in your arms before they slowly move up to your eyes which are already fixated on him.

What the hell are you looking at?

You're probably silently judging him, thinking about how stupid and disheveled he looks right now, but his thoughts dim down, softening when his eyes trail further down and notice something different about you. Your lips are adorned with a delicate pink tint today, a soft sheen that catches the light with every subtle movement, complementing the sweetness in your eyes—an alluring combination that he thinks is too dangerous and hard for anyone to resist, even for him.

"Nikolai?" you say his name gently again, sensing his mind and attention wandering away elsewhere.

He blinks to snap out of it, abruptly reorienting himself as if shaking free from a web of distracting thoughts. "Yeah?"

"Did you get any sleep last night?" you ask him kindly, studying the obvious tiredness in his eyes and demeanor.

There it is—the question that has slipped from your lips every morning since last week. It annoyed him greatly, yet he never said anything to express his detest for it.

He sweeps his fingers across his messy braid, brushing back the rebellious strands from his forehead. "Yeah.." his reply came quietly, accompanied by a lazy stretch while he raised an arm to rub the back of his neck "What about you?" he asked before opening the door a little wider.

"I did, and I'm glad because otherwise I would've slept right through work," you giggle trying to lighten the mood before you change the topic, your voice lowering into a whisper. "But you didn't pay rent yet? You'll get in tr—"

He immediately moves to shut the door in your face before you can finish, which startles you and makes you take a step back. Your smile falls and you cradle the basket in your arms tighter.

But, just as suddenly, you hear the faint creak of the door opening again, this time with notable heedfulness.

"Listen, you don't need to worry about me, okay? I can take care of myself," he tells you. "He'll get his money soon enough." Irritation threads through his voice as he sneers, eyebrows knitted in frustration, mixed with an unexpected sense of embarrassment presumably due to the fact that you heard everything about his financial troubles and now knew about his inability to pay his rent on time.

"How haven't you gotten evicted yet though?" you ask him with surprise at his ability to dodge your landlord's scrutiny.

"Magic," he replies flatly, stressed by a dramatic roll of his eyes, which makes you laugh.

"You can do magic?" you ask with a sweet smile, taking his seemingly playful response seriously, eager to see how he'll respond to you. "Can you show me?"

The look on his face morphed into one of confusion at your response, like he didn't expect it. Well, by now, he isn't entirely sure what he expects from you anymore anyway.

"No. Go to work," he says and dismisses you with a wave of his hand as if to swat away your curiosity, the corner of his mouth quirking up slightly like he's suppressing a small smile before he finally shuts the door, leaving you standing alone to face the wooden barrier between you again.

— ✦

You can't focus at all.

Rich red hues dominate your vision as you deal with the task of arranging the flowers in front of you, absentmindedly doing so more than anything, you have to admit. The delicate petals are soft beneath your fingertips, exuding a fragrant sweetness that mingles in the air—a blend of floral notes that lulls you into a sense of calm.

But calmness never lasts.

Suddenly, you wince from feeling something sharp poke your hand, a sudden sharp sting jolting you from your preoccupied state. You instinctively pull away and drop the flowers somewhere aside in disarray, instead inspecting for what could've hurt you, your eyes landing on one of the roses that bore a thorn someone must've missed removing.

"Are you okay, sweetheart?" calls your coworker who was helping you replenish the flowers, an older lady with a warm smile and a gentle demeanor. She moves closer, her concern evident as she observes your discomfort.

"Yeah, it's just a cut. I'll be fine," you reassure with a small forced smile, appreciative of her nurturing nature, though you can feel the sting pulsing slightly.

You turn to head to the employee's room in the back, hoping to find a band-aid. The door creaks open as you push it open, stepping inside and flicking the light switch on before your eyes start scanning the shelves, cluttered with miscellaneous supplies. Reaching up for the first-aid kit and bringing it down to a table, you rummage through it, feeling various items against your fingers until you find a box of band-aids, opening it and pulling one out. The sight of crimson that starts trickling down your finger indicates that this isn't just a cut. Still, you're sure a thorn didn't get stuck beneath your skin, so you figure a bandaid will suffice for now—a temporary solution until you can apply ointment and allow time for healing.

How could you be so careless? You've always been so careful about handling flowers, but you guess your mind isn't in the right place today.

With shaky fingers, you peel the band-aid's adhesive from its glossy wrapper and gently wrap it around your pointer finger, wincing in the process from the slight sting that accompanies the pressure. Confliction washes over you when the thought of leaving early pops into your head alongside the persistent throb in your hand. The idea is undeniably appealing, but you're hesitant, thinking it would be disrespectful to leave early and abandon your coworker to finish the evening alone. So, despite circumstances, it only seems right to push through your discomfort and wait it out until the end of your shift.

Returning to the front, you glance over at the clock and notice its hands inching closer to the closing hour anyway. The shop feels quiet, the gentle hum of the day fading into the evening, though it feels like the day has slipped away quicker than usual, like a blur. You untie your apron, the fabric rustling softly as you take it off when you realize that no more customers are likely to come in, especially with close to only twenty minutes left before closing. Resolute, you decide to count and close the cash drawer, keen to finish the task up beforehand before heading home.

You look out the window and notice the sky start to darken a bit as the sun sinks lower, always serving as a reminder you'll get to go home soon and possibly see Nikolai. Your lips curl into a smile thinking about it—the typical routine that had formed between you and him. In the morning, you'd see him already on the balcony, his figure outlined against the soft glow of dawn, and the two of you would exchange the familiar words of 'good morning' to each other before your day began. By evening, you'd come back after work to see Nikolai perched in the same spot watching the sunset, and you would join him and chat with him, watching as the colors shifted in the sky, sometimes until they melded into deep indigo.

Granted, you did most of the talking, whether it was chattering about your day or sharing mundane random details of your life with him, and at times childhood stories and whatnot while he listened to you. His face always expressed a solemn look, with the exception of a few smiles and laughs here and there caused by you.

You never bothered to ask what he was thinking about. You think that would be a bad idea. Not everything is your business—that you know, but you couldn't help but want to know if he's doing alright. But he always seems reluctant to tell you anything. And that's okay too, you thought. He's not obligated to talk about life if he doesn't want to, though a part of you still wants to pry into those thoughts behind his melancholic eyes.

Nikolai wants to be free from his emotions—you know that now. With how he articulated himself, you found it difficult to not agree with him to some extent when you, yourself did wish that your emotions didn't have so much control over you. But now you find yourself asking what that really means, and what could've pushed him so far to want to rid all of them.

That night, when he opened up to you like he'd never done it before, left you both shocked and touched. Something must've been in the air, something shared, yet something that remained unspoken. You still didn't know what was responsible for making his irises glisten the way they did, but you were thankful for it nonetheless. The way he looked at you, a gaze filled with sincerity that mirrored your own and made you feel like you were floating on the fluffiest of clouds.

Even though he didn't share much of himself with you, you came to terms with it and had even grown comfortable since you could tell he listened to your rambling intently, and putting everything else aside, were just grateful that someone was even there to listen. That's how your days and nights have been for the past week. And ever since you and Nikolai went to the park last week, you've been wanting to ask to spend time like that with him again, but something stopped you every time. You can't fathom why you're so hesitant to ask him when you haven't been so nervous to approach him before.

It felt like all you could think about was Nikolai or relating to him in some way. The images of him laughing and his face reddening had been etched inside your eyelids, uneraseable, that whenever you closed your eyes, it was all you could see. There was no denying how his gaze would soften, how his voice would lose its callousness when caught up in conversations with you.

You didn't realize you were zoning out until your coworker gently interrupted your little reverie, taking the flowers you'd left on the counter, causing you to look up at her in surprise.

"Don't worry, I'll take care of them," she offers, clearly encouraging you to take an early leave so you can tend to your finger. "Go ahead, I'll close up."

"Are you sure? I can wait.." you ask, feeling unsure and guilty about your careless mistake.

"It's alright, go ahead and leave if you want. I'm almost done anyway," she smiles brightly at you, easing your concerns and assuring you that it's okay with her.

So kind. It wasn't often that someone showed you such thoughtfulness, a small gesture that soothed your frazzled nerves.

You exchange a kind smile and reach for your bag before walking away from the counter to the shop's entrance. "Have a good night," you say, glancing over your shoulder just as your hand reaches the door handle.

"You too, honey. I hope your finger feels better soon," she chuckles, her laughter ringing in the air like the door's bell chimes.

On the spur of the moment, as you're leaving the shop, an idea comes to your mind. You thought you would get something for Nikolai to surprise him and maybe brighten his day a little, even if the sun was about to set. The thought makes your heart pound with anticipation, already thinking about the smile that might light up his face when he receives your little gift.

— ✦

A sting of pain courses through your hand as you close your car door.

You notice that Nikolai isn't on the balcony watching the sunset today, and something in you compels you to check on him. Hasty movements make up your walk to the apartment complex, ascending the stairs to reach your door. As you reach the second level, you take a moment to admire the breathtaking hues painting the sky, wishing that someone was here with you to watch the fiery oranges and mild pinks melting into one another. But soon, your eyes avert, and your attention shifts to Nikolai's door.

You take a few steps closer. A hand reaches out to knock but then retracts in nervousness.

What if he's busy? What if you're bothering him? Your anxiety whips these thoughts into your head, nearly immobilizing you. Nonetheless, your hand reaches once again along with a deep breath, and this time, it knocks lightly against the wood.

Silence.

You purse your lips and pull your hand away before looking down at your feet. "Nikolai?" you call out to make yourself known, to let him know that it's you if he's inside.

A few seconds and heartbeats pass before the door creaks open with a slow deliberation, revealing Nikolai. Your face immediately floods with heat as you take in his appearance. He's wearing glasses. You've never seen him wear glasses before, but wow, did he look good in them. It has you wondering if he only reserved this kind of look for indoors, especially when you also notice his pearly hair is pulled back into a neat ponytail instead of the usual braid he wore.

"Hey," he greets you, his voice low. He doesn't say anything else but looks at the steaming cup in your hand, then back to you, his expression curious.

"This is for you!" you exclaim while handing him the cup of tea, your excitement bubbling.

For a fleeting second, you swear you catch a glimmer in his eyes before they turn back to their original state just as quickly.

"Why did you get this for me?" he asks, reaching his hand out. You feel your heart skip a beat when his fingers brush against yours as he grabs the cup, able to feel a heat that isn't coming from the cup of tea. He's warm.

Nikolai feels a strange texture brush against his and that's when he notices your finger is wrapped with a band-aid. His eyebrows knit together at the foreign sight.

"Because I wanted to! It's your favorite, right? Honey lemon tea with ginger?"

Your voice rings with sincerity, a melody that echoes in his mind as the lovely scent of honey-laced lemon permeates the air between you.

"It's your favorite, right?"

Why do you remember that? Why do you take the time and go out of your way to do this for him?

He can try to brush aside the words you just said to him all he wants, but the truth of the matter resonates in the hollow chambers of his heart, reverberating with every pulse of his heartbeat at the fact that you remembered such a small, insignificant detail about him.

"Y-Yeah, it is.." he replies, his voice slightly strained as he tries to tamp down his nervousness with a gentle cough, though he's sure he's failing miserably. "You didn't have to do that."

"Well I already did, so no need to say that," you reply playfully, noting the calmness that settles over his expression. "What are you doing?" you ask with brimming curiousness.

He wants to ignore it. He wants to ignore the way you're standing outside of his door, looking up at him with your doe-like eyes that are so incredibly hard to ignore, drawing him in despite his hesitance when they're practically begging him to ask you to come inside. He wishes he could so badly ignore the warm feeling in his stomach. But he just can't.

"Uh- I was just.." he trails off. Instead, he looks down for a moment before moving aside, creating space for you to enter. "Do you wanna come in?"

He's inviting you inside? You thought that'd never happen.

"Sure!" you happily accept his invitation and step inside his apartment. It doesn't look much different than yours, as the layout of each apartment is identical to one another. You glance around and your eyes first land on the table in his living room, where you notice that there's a whole array of thread and a miscellany of sewing supplies.

The place is clean and orderly, but the air feels thick as if silence itself is holding its breath.

"Did you eat dinner yet?" you ask, your voice sweetly breaking the quiet ambiance as you step further inside. You set your belongings down next to his door before turning to face him.

He nods, his eyes softening as he meets yours. "Yeah, I did," he responds in a voice so faint, you couldn't tell if it was genuine or not.

You pout. "Aw, I could've made you another egg if you hadn't."

"Never again." He laughs when he sees your expression.

With a quiet click, Nikolai closes the door behind you before walking toward the table. He sets his tea down and sits down in the chair where you think he was seated previously, assumably to resume his work. Naturally, you follow suit and pull up a chair next to him.

Nikolai doesn't seem to mind you closely watching him and his hands as he deftly attaches buttons to a soft, cotton shirt. Although if he does, you're not sure you would be able to tell due to how difficult it is not to be captivated by each precise stitch he does and how effortless he makes it look as if he were born for this craft. The cuffs of the sleeves have soft pencil sketches on them that were most likely going to be filled in later with colorful thread, but you couldn’t tell what the abstract drawings were of due to the lines being so faint.

"You like to sew?" you ask, a smile playing on your lips at the idea of someone as intimidating as him having such an innocent hobby.

"Yeah.." he replies, casually tearing off some excess thread with his teeth.

Your heart.

It feels almost wrong to be staring at him like this, but you can't resist doing so, especially when he's so immersed in his task as he is now, the focused look on his face paired with the slight furrow of his brow drawing you in deeper. It feels almost indulgent to be able to look at him. His soft tufts of hair sticking out remind you of dandelion fuzz swaying in a summer breeze. His long eyelashes meticulously framing his eyes looked like they were picked individually and carefully placed on his lids one by one like perfectly arranged petals, noticeable even behind the thin frames of his glasses and enhancing his delicate features.

"Nikolai," you speak his name, each syllable falling from your lips almost unconsciously, the intent behind your words slipping your mind.

He glances at you, curiosity in his gaze. "Hm?"

You're not even doing anything right now, but you feel so incredibly distracted. There are so many words sitting atop your tongue, an amalgamation of things you want to say, yet they don't dare to come out. You shake your head and cast your eyes downward to your hands in your lap, silently conveying to him it was nothing of importance. "When did you learn how to sew?" you ask him instead, tilting your head back up before scooting a little bit closer to him, so subtle that you think he either doesn't notice it or he simply doesn't mind.

"I don't know exactly," he shares with you, a faint smile warming his features like the gentle glow of sunset. "My mom taught me when I was younger."

You smile at his sweet answer. "I've always wanted to learn hand embroidery," you muse to him as you lean your elbow on the table to rest your chin in your hand, eyes sparkling with interest.

He looks at you surprised, taking a moment to pause his actions, needle still clasped between his fingers in one hand, grasping the fabric in the other. "Embroidery?" he repeats, intrigue in his tone discernible as he registers your words.

"Yeah! It looks so cool but seems so hard.." you say, attention riveted toward him. "But maybe I could try it one day."

"Well, you're in luck because I might know how to do a bit of that," he replies with a teasing edge, a sly smile creeping onto his lips.

"Really?" Your excitement ignites anew as your eyes widen. "Do you think you could teach me sometime?" you ask him impulsively, not expecting anything from it.

His laugh echoes in the room, clearly amused as he nods while he's grabbing another button to sew on.

Your admiration brims over as you observe him, unable to contain your amazement. "I didn't know you could do so many things!" you chirped in awe of his talents. "You're so talented."

Nikolai's eyes light up at your sudden compliment, his cheeks taking on a faint pink hue despite his futile attempt to hide it, clearly stunned by the unfiltered praise and astonished by the fact that you're genuinely interested in his hobbies. It feels like ever since he was little, he'd always get picked on for doing things he enjoyed. But now, you're showing him a different kind of attention that he isn't used to.

"Oh.. N-No, I'm not," he stammers with a nervous laugh. He takes a break to sip his tea, not knowing how to respond to your praise without showing too much excitement or sounding like a dork. The tea tastes different today—the sour flavor of the drink overpowers the sweet and leaves a slightly sharper-than-usual bitter taste in his mouth. "You're flattering me too much," he mumbles before setting the cup down.

You smile at how comfortable he looks right now. You think it suits him, so much so that you would do anything to see him like this more often. It feels like you’re being allowed to see a side of him that no one else sees, one that he doesn’t allow anyone else to see. "I'm serious! You said you can do magic tricks too, right?"

He laughs at your enthusiasm. "Who told you that?"

"I don't know, who did?" you respond, your eyebrows raising in response to his playfulness. "Can you juggle?"

"I think you'd be surprised," he smirks, confidence seemingly budding when he hears your interest. "I can do a lot more than that."

"Oh? You have to show me one day," you express earnestly, placing your hand on his arm and squeezing it gently, able to feel his firm muscles that cause your heart to jump a little.

He feels the rough texture of the bandage against his skin again, stirring him from a thoughtful silence. "What happened to your finger?" he asks.

"I accidentally cut it at work.." you explain to him in a murmur, your voice twined with a hint of embarrassment from your confession.

He turns to face you almost immediately when he hears that, almost instinctive. "You hurt yourself?" a tinge of concern laces his voice, and you hardly notice how he inches a bit closer.

Before you can open your mouth to respond, you're caught off guard, slightly startled by a subtle wince and how Nikolai's expression shifts at the sight of his own bleeding finger.

"Shit," Nikolai curses under his breath and clicks his tongue, carefully setting the needle aside using his other hand.

"Now you're the one who hurt yourself," you utter softly, reaching out to gently grab hold of his wrist without a second thought, making Nikolai look at you with widened eyes as if he'd just seen a ghost. For a second, you both are locked in a gaze when your thumb lightly brushes across his wrist. His hand trembles beneath yours before he quickly pulls away, retreating from your touch.

In a rush of motion, he removes the glasses perched on his nose, folding them swiftly before placing them carefully on the table. He leaves his seat after, his movements hurried, but still somehow agile while he strides toward a cabinet in his kitchen. You watch intently as he reaches for something, retrieving a band-aid, the small packaging crinkling quietly in his grasp. He returns to the table and deliberately applies the band-aid to his finger, forming a fist before relaxing his hand again to ease the tension.

"We're matching," you say, giggling at your own comment. Leaning in forward from your chair to get closer to him, you playfully hold your bandaged finger next to his to compare them. "Look, it's even the same finger."

Nikolai's heart is racing. You're so impossibly close to him—he can catch the scent of your shampoo, your perfume, you.

His other hand was right there, hovering nearby indecisively in hesitant temptation. If he possessed the bravery, he could easily place it on the back of your head right now, the impulse that flutters through his mind stirring want and fear in equal measure. However, he tries to deter from that thought and glances back at your hand, still beside his. In comparison, your hand is significantly smaller and more delicate, fingers slim and dainty, looking so soft that he feels almost embarrassed about the texture of his own skin.

So fragile. So cute.

"And to answer your question, it was an accident. I didn't notice that one of the roses I was handling had a thorn, and you can probably guess what came after that," you sigh, a faint frown pulling at your lips as you look down at your bandaged finger, recalling the moment. "It does hurt a little still, but it should go away soon," your voice trails off. "I guess this is what I get for not paying enough attention, though.. I felt so out of it today."

Nikolai doesn't know what compels him to make the next move—but it's a little too late to ponder on that thought now or do anything about it, his hand already on yours. His fingers gently wrap around yours in a tender grip, his thumb providing your bandaged finger extra attention while he lightly rubs it, a complex mix of excitement and fear coursing through his veins as he does so. How he allowed himself to get this close to you is something he isn't sure he wanted to know the answer to, the thrum in his chest drowning out any semblance of restraint or rational reasoning.

Pull away—that should be the obvious move, a natural response, he thinks. But he feels paralyzed, unable to possess control when the shiver of thrill is all he can feel.

You think you could die happy right now.

It feels like you've been waiting your whole life for something like this, and now that you're experiencing it, you can hardly believe it—like a long-suppressed hunger finally being satiated.

You've never been more grateful for a chair in your life, the chair that holds you in place when Nikolai's touch is enough to make your knees buckle. The way your heart is thumping feels almost surreal as if it might burst out of your chest at any moment amidst the dizzying sensation of his skin against yours. You can't bring yourself to look up at him—a timidity numbing you, along with the uncertainty of what he might be looking back at. His grip is strong yet gentle, applying light pressure with each soft stroke of his thumb against your finger that sends electric-like jolts of exhilaration to surge through you, making you want to reach for him, to pull him closer. Your fingers seem to move on their own, inching forward with a haste fueled by ripening desire. You can't help but want to touch him more—and that you do when your finger instinctively curls around his thumb while listening to the soft hitch in his breath, a sound that accelerates your heart rate even more.

You hadn't realized that you'd closed your eyes at some point to savor this heat being shared between the both of you and it's only when you open them again to meet his gaze that the reality of the moment becomes apparent and far too overwhelming—the distance that once separated you has all but evaporated. Your breaths are uneven, trembling on the cusp of anticipation as your lips quiver.

You see it in his eyes—a yearning so delicately veiled that it was hardly noticeable if you weren't looking close enough.

But with all good things, they come to an end. It's a reminder that moments like these are precarious, charged, and so fragile.

"Nikolai?" You tilt your head, confusion clouding your thoughts as you notice how he freezes like he's suddenly caught in a moment of clarity.

Your velvety voice pulls his attention and pulls him back into reality, causing him to realize the situation you both are in. "I'm sorry— I shouldn't have done that." He backs away and withdraws his hand in an instant as if burnt, the sudden absence of contact creating a chill where warmth once lingered.

Don't.

A pout forms on your lips from the release, your hand hopeless for touch as you try to reach for his hand again. "Don't be.. I- I liked it," your voice quavering, betraying your intent to avoid revealing your hidden desperation. But when he pulls his away, it feels like your heart plunges deep into your stomach. You always notice the subtle shifts in his behavior whenever you two have moments when you get close to or look at each other for a second too long as if he doesn't want the moment to prolong, fears it, lest it invite something bad to happen.

Don't leave.

"Nikolai.." you murmur and gently tug on the sleeve of his shirt, causing him to look at you again. The distress on his face is clear as day like he's teetering on the edge of something. You aren't sure what it is, but it startles you. Something bothers him, something doesn't allow him to enjoy these moments, and you fear that if you lose your hold on him now, he will disappear into nothing and only leave you with fading memories.

Don't leave me alone.

His eyes avert quickly. He gets up from his seat and starts cleaning up the table, putting everything away as if restoring order could dispel whatever tension lies between you.

"Nikolai, wait—"

"I'm going to bed soon," he curtly replies before you can finish, warning laced in his voice.

The air turns cold. Yet, you're still determined.

"If you're hurting, I want to make you feel better," you plead, heart aching to reach him someway, somehow, even though he's right beside you. But a dry knot instantly forms in your throat, a tight, anguished grip that makes each breath feel laborious when cold, mean eyes make a return—those same ones you encountered with your first meeting, ones that you haven’t seen since and had hoped were gone forever.

"You make me feel worse."

What?

You aren't sure if you heard him correctly, but with every ragged breath, it becomes clear to you that those words indeed came out of his mouth.

Each second that passed felt like an hour, agonizing and unforgiving.

You can't suppress the small gasp that escapes your lungs, struggling to stabilize your breath when his harsh words wound so deeply, pricking right where you didn't want them to—the tranquility of the moment quickly replaced by a painful reality. You feel unnaturally small and powerless with how you sink into the chair, the weight of his accusation settling over you like a suffocating blanket. It was like the air had been sucked from the room, and you wanted nothing more than the ground to open up and swallow you whole right now in its depths, sparing you from this unbearable heaviness.

The man in front of you feels like a stranger once again.

You knew that Nikolai wasn't exactly the warmest person or anything, but this felt direfully different, like nothing you would ever expect from him—his forwardness felt almost malicious. In an instant, his demeanor shifted, reverting into one as cold as ice. It feels like his warmth diminished in the snap of a finger, any softness replaced with sharp edges as if a mask slipped away to reveal a darker, deeper bitterness that's been hidden from you for who knows how long. The resentment in his voice sounded long-repressed and thick like he’d been waiting to say those words to you for a while.

Does he really think of you that way?

The thought was too tormenting for you to think about. You didn’t think he was capable of such sheer ruthlessness—you don't want to believe it.

Your chest tightens, and you're unable to speak or look at him anymore when a shameful yet painful sting prospers in your eyes. You can feel your heartbeat pounding in your ears, fear gripping you tighter than any physical embrace ever could at the thought of him holding you in such low regard until you're left with nothing but the sickening feeling of worthlessness. It feels like everything good, every joy gets torn away from you, leaving you only with this mortifying realization you've become disturbingly conditioned with, one that overwhelms you with nausea.

Your presence is not wanted.

Never before have you ever felt like more of a burden in your life.

But...

Nothing could hurt more.

I thought...

You don't say anything else, you don't find the words to respond with, because you can't.

What do you even respond to that with?

I thought we were friends.

Your lips part slightly, but nothing spills from your tongue, and your hand drops back down to your side, heavy and defeated, fingers trembling as they brush against the fabric of your jeans. Some strands of your hair fall over the side of your face, thankfully blocking your peripheral vision of the man you're not sure you knew as well as you thought you did. It feels shameful beyond belief—for someone to witness you like this. You don't want him to look at you, as much as you don't want to look at him.

How do you keep finding yourself here? Why is everything your fault?

Silence stretches between you, taut and unyielding, filled with everything you can't even begin to articulate—hurt, humiliation, confusion, a debilitating sense of loneliness that creeps in too quickly for comfort.

Oh, who are you kidding? How irrational to think that, for once, things might turn out differently. The fragile hope you'd built up always collapses inward. You should've expected no different from this. You don't know how many more times it'll take for you to finally realize.

Everyone eventually leaves anyway.

You're never good enough for anyone to stay, and you never will be.

Maybe you were wrong about Nikolai all along. Maybe you should've listened when you were warned not to speak to him the first time. Maybe you were naive to believe that he would even want to be your friend in the first place.

Maybe you should stop trusting everyone so blindly like the idiot you are.

It takes everything, with every ounce of strength fading away, to steady and gather yourself to rise from the chair and make your way toward the door. The distraught thoughts in your mind are too deafening, drowning out any background noise.

Nikolai thinks fear is an understatement.

He wishes he hadn't taken a fleeting glance when he watched you go, so he didn't have to see how you were purposefully hanging your head down to avoid his gaze, so he didn't have to see the hurt in your eyes that weirdly pierces him as well, more than he would ever admit. One look at your face was all he needed to realize he made a huge mistake. The words that had slipped from his lips unbidden were all but partially true, muttered under his breath without warning in a moment of raw frustration—a defensive reaction and a desperate attempt to rebel against these strange, blooming feelings in his chest, to reach light.

Everything falls silent for a moment.

Weak. He's so weak.

As soon as you leave his apartment, he hurriedly closes and locks the door so he won't catch a second glance at you—shutting out the sight of you that makes his heart flutter and hurt all at once. He already feels a familiar heat crawling up his spine with every breath he takes, sweat forming at the nape of his neck, the burn spreading through his skin as if his body was on fire. He wants to crawl out of the flesh that would soon, surely be melted under this unbearable hotness. He wants to scream at the top of his lungs, but nothing escapes him. His hands grip his hair and his eyes squeeze shut in frustration, the quivering of his lip becoming hard to ignore as he bites down hard on it, desperately trying to stifle a sob that was clawing its way up his throat to escape.

He can't begin to comprehend how you managed to pry your way into his life and touch his soul in ways he couldn't understand in such a short duration of time. It deeply terrifies him. Yet, it's not you that he fears. He's scared of how vulnerable and weak he's become, no, how he's always been. He's scared of how vulnerability naturally blossoms around you and the way he crumbles so easily from his own defenselessness. He's scared that your affection will ruin him, and worst of all, he's scared that, deep down, it doesn't bother him if it ends up doing so.

He's scared to fall again.

The scars from his past fall still ache, a painful reminder of everything he's been through. But everything about you is radiant—he can't help but find himself inching closer and closer to the mesmerizing flame that is your presence. He's tasted fire and hesitantly finds himself craving it more and more with each passing minute, no matter how badly the searing heat burns his tongue or until he gets burnt alive.

He's in real trouble.

© kolyasangel 2024 - no reposts. do not copy, steal, or translate. reblogs are appreciated.

[st4rbwrry]

𝑝𝑎𝑟𝑡 𝑜𝑛𝑒: 𝑡ℎ𝑒 𝑒𝑛𝑐𝑜𝑢𝑛𝑡𝑒𝑟

masterlist. next chapter.

SEMBLANCE WAS THE WORD TO DESCRIBE GETOU. his provision of love came in a various of ways—some of his feelings true, others a grey area. but the relationship he had with vice had been somewhat twisted, and it wasn't considered love.

at least that's what he thought towards the end of everything.

usually, starting off new came with perfect qualities. but ending up in the interestingly  haunting city of new orleans, that came with a surge of consequences. it all started off with a simple smoke, an inhale of toxins evaporating within the lungs of his body, only half of the gas being exhaled into thin air from the pen he holds. the tall man leaned against the wall of the school’s hallway, phone pressed against his ear as his long fingers toyed with the object in his hand. many people gazed at him—notes of curiosity or attraction, some hadn’t recognized him on this campus, nor had they ever seen a man with such a stringent face structure.

his eyes were scarily dark, lids drooping over the pupils he dangerously lowered. his face sent off a variety of emotions. whether it be the fact that he was mad, or he was just completely inattentive to his surroundings. he appeared unfazed by movement of people around him. they glanced as his lips moved, a fairly light pink, almost mimicking his olive skin tone. his mouth moved with a quickness; a seduction. 

once he ended the call, there had been no indication of what the conversation had been about. whether he had been talking to a lover, or ending someone's life just by muttering a few passive words. he had been standing in the same spot for almost ten minutes now. he wanted to bring himself to move,  but a sudden flurry of two bodies flown in front of him—almost right on time. as if it were all supposed to happen.

“you know i still want your fine ass brother on my roster.”

a feminine, somewhat deep voice whispered in the distance from what he could hear, making the man watch as two beautiful women emerge from the entrance of the girls bathroom. both bodies halted as one leans against the wall with books held to their chest, the other shifting in their spot to adjust their tight jeans.

"the hell, i thought you were texting that boy on the football team?" 

the voice of this woman nearly makes his blood warm. it's soft and sultry, and now he's engaging himself into their conversation. 

"i'm texting several on the football team. yet the quarterback is the finest." 

"and he's probably the worst one," the other girl replies. 

from where he stood, he could spot alluring long dark hair that grazed the middle of her back. as desperate as it sounded, he craved to see her face—for her to make eye contact with him and feel the attraction he does. 

"jealous, vice?" the girl teases with a smile. 

vice. 

"girl, you wish," vice laughs softly, the two now  strutting away opposite from him towards their class. 

from this angle, getou catches a glimpse of her side profile. a face so beautifully pure but could be so shamelessly damaged. milky brown skin, his lips tremble from the urge to sink his teeth into it. it was almost preposterous. his eyes went wide when he observed the way she walked, the salacious switch of this woman's hips in her vintage dereon jeans making him twitch in more ways than one. curvy body adorned with a gold belly chain around her waist and a cropped black baby tee. colorful bangles decorated her wrists along with rings and two rows of necklaces, complimenting the infinite amount of colorful ink along her body—from the top of her neck, all the way to where his eyes wished he could see more. he wanted to see all of her. 

his head begins to spin with erotic possibilities, illicit and passionate thoughts running through his mind about what he could do to her. it was ridiculous. he didn't even know the girls name, and yet here he was, fantasizing about fucking her like the demon he knew he was. he takes this moment to follow behind the two women after standing in his position for too long, surprised his feet didn't drag behind like a lost puppy. 

the classroom where they sat happened to be the same one he's enrolled in, coughing briefly to focus his conscious on what's important, and that was finding his seat. 

"i still think this tattoo would look better on the side of my ass," alani pouts, sliding her phone for vice to look at a sketch of a cherry blossom thorn as she suggests, "or maybe the back of my thigh?" 

"either way you're gonna scream like last time. and that was only angel numbers, on your wrist. no shading.” vice replies, wanting to focus on this idea she had for her own thousandth tattoo, pencil moving swiftly. 

alani sighs, knowing she was right. clicking off her phone, she grabs her pink cup filled with ice water to sip as she scans the class, watching it slowly clutter with students for the upcoming lecture. her eyes abruptly lock onto the man who made his presence known from afar. 

"ooh, girl. what the fuck," alani suddenly begins to choke, her hand covering her mouth as she coughs aggressively. vice shoots up in a panic, confused and patting her back with worry.

"bitch, are you okay?" vice's eyes widen, alani nodding her head and breathing heavily. 

"do you see that man?" she emphasized, finally catching her breath after she drinks her water, discreetly motioning towards a man sitting on the other side of the class near the front. vice wants to smack her for being so dramatic, eyeing her like she's a hardheaded child before adverting her eyes in the same direction. 

this man she spoke of finally caught her eye. an immediate attraction rushed through her as quickly as it left, and her stomach did a little flip. compulsive eyes that dwindled a fragile obsidian tone. flawless long black hair that nearly past his elbows, drifting along his brawny jaw and rested on the back of his black crewneck tee that accentuated his muscles. his mane was partially tied up in a manbun on the back of his head, nearly covering the gauges within his ears. lips distinctive, yet captivating, duplicity hiding within them. and now, they were arrogantly raised in an amused smirk, towards her, feeling her glance. 

"i wanna do bad things to that man," alani speaks in an almost feral manner, both women staring with somewhat opposite emotions. vice is disinterested, immediately going back to doodling artwork in her notebook. 

“yea, he’s cool. i'd sit on his face." 

"i second this quote! adding that to my roster!"

as vice laughs at her response, class begins. she wasn't necessarily looking forward to the debate they were going to have today. the previous day before was pretty heated on the topic of genocide and ethnic cleansing. she catches a mere glance at what the professor writes with chalk on the viridescent board. her pencil sat absentmindedly between her plump lips, eyes drawling back to the man once again, shoulders broad as he relaxed himself against the seat. when the teacher ended up calling her name, she hadn’t even realized. he really was . . . nice to look at. 

"miss persephome," the teacher repeated encouragingly, eyes now posted upon her skin as her slumped position peaked up, "yes?"

"the discussion, need i remind you since you seem so interested. is love a realism or is it underlined with sexual desires?" she began, causing the noiseless class to gently snicker as she continues, “i'd like for you to elucidate your debate on it."

she raised her eyebrows. allowing her pen to fall from her lips and in between her fingers, she replied, "elucidate? uh . . . sure.”

she begins, “it's simple, love. we fall in love by personality, physicality. the flutter of their eyelashes, to the smile upon their cheeks. i would say that it's possible to love someone without physical contact, because if you really love someone, sex is only a desire, rather than a necessity. you fall in love by their soul, not by the forefront distraction of their body.” 

a low and sarcastic chuckle was what caught vice's attention. her eyes turn directly towards where the sound echoed from, and oh, it was that fine ass of a stranger. the teacher was now captivated by the circumlocutory silence sitting on the right hand side of the room, seeing as he now teetered a ring in his slender fingers so casually. 

"getou, you seem amused. is there anything you'd like to add?" the professor asked. 

getou. that’s his name, she thinks. why does she care? 

vice softly frowns at him, watching as he says nothing. he looked at the teacher, lightly shook his head, and made no effort to verbally disagree. this bothered her.

"you laughed for a reason. this is a seminar. say what you gotta say," vice stares at him with impatience. his eyes lock into her's, intently boring into her cranium. the little flip in her stomach returned without her permission.

"i just think it's bullshit," he shrugs. 

"uh, alright. i understand y'all are adults. but let's exclude the profanity—"

"bullshit how?" vice interrupts, raising her brow in a threatening manner. 

"do you really think that love overshadows sexual desires? are you a child?" getou charges back. 

"um, no. i never said that. do you think that love is not a realistic thing? are you in high school?" 

"i don't have to fuck you to be in love with you. granted, any person could overshadow being in love with me by the way i fuck them." 

"oh, for real?” alani instigated, shifting her eyes back and forth. she's intrigued by their banter. 

"just based on that observation, i wouldn't fuck you,” vice snarls. 

"i doubt that." 

the professor cuts them off. "okay! that's enough, and wildly inappropriate. we'll pick this up another time. everyone may write their opinions on paper,” she concludes. 

"oooh, i love him already," alani bites the tip of her nail, a wide grin as she twinkles her fingers in his direction. 

"i can’t stand his ass already,” vice disagrees.

she stands from her seat along with everyone else in the classroom preparing to exit out the door, feeling slightly embarrassed for causing class to dismiss early, but not embarrassed enough to apologize. 

“girl, you’ll be alright. let’s go before i miss my opportunity to get them digits!” alani schemes, pulling vice by her backpack who still glares at him. the way he now politely stands to the professor and begins talking to her, it’s as if they didn’t just have that back and forth. it pissed her off even more. 

“ugh, he a scholar or something?” alani speaks impatiently, seeing as he continues to talk to the professor, both her and vice now standing outside of the classroom. 

vice pulls her phone from her pocket as it buzzes, glancing back up to her friend as she speaks, “the promo team for homecoming is looking for me. do i have to stay with you while you shoot your shot?” 

“you don’t wanna see me win? maybe you really are jealous,” alani never knows when to stop playing as she teases, vice becoming visibly more irritated. 

she starts, “girl—"

her voice goes into a stifled shout as she feels a bump within her shoulder. her eyes meet with those same dark eyes that glance back at her, that same shit-eating-fucker smirk appearing along his face as he continues walking. that sets her off. she flies forward, winding up her fist as she then feels alani quickly pull her back, sighing dreamily as she speaks, “yeah, that’s my baby daddy. cheer up, would you?”

yeah, okay. 

୨♡୧

vice stands back as she tilts her head, staring over the various amount of colors that spread along the brick wall, trying to figure out which of them compliment each other more. brent faiyaz soothes into her mind from her earbuds, the lazy pony tail she created swinging as she turns her head from the end of the wall to the beginning. 

the art department had requested for her to help decorate their seasonal wall, her artistic skills one fortunate fact about her that surpassed around the campus. it made her feel confident, but that confidence immensely disheveled if that relevancy pertained to her as a person. 

this was her safe haven, a place for her to crawl into her fantasies and never have to come out. the tips of her fingers were similar to a rainbow, sprouting in different splotches of paint. but she didn’t care. this made her happy. 

as she raised herself on her toes and added another swirl to the burgundy brick, her fantasies poofed into thin air as she felt her earbud be snatched from her head, eyes shooting daggers as her best friend now stood in front of her as she grinned, “busy?”

“expeditiously.”

“spell it, dummy.”

“A-L-A-N-I, dummy?” she refers to her as.

“whatever, you done being mad? i got tea to spill.”

“i was never mad at you,” vice clarifies, “what’s up?” 

“i got the tea on my new little project,” alani smiles, shaking the pom-pom’s in her hand, vice taking full notice of the cheer uniform she wears, figuring she’ll be going to practice soon.

“your dumbass lil’ project? yeah, not interested. can i go back to listening to brent now?” she reaches for her her earbuds, alani shaking her finger as she pulls back farther, “you’re gonna listen to me!”

vice replies, “yes, alani. i’m listening?” chuckling slightly.

“word on the street, he’s a hoe,” she starts.

vice raises her eyebrows, “a hoe ass hoe?”

“a dog ass hoe,” she clarifies, “scratching and barking, girl. been going to school here but did his classes online before coming on campus. the bitches knew him before he even stepped foot on the grass! well, not the grass, disrespectful to the ancestors. but you get my point,” she speaks. 

“i'm becoming bored,” vice sarcastically smiles.

alani’s smile drops, “you’re so fucking annoying sometimes. anyways, he’s an only child, doesn’t do relationships—commitment issues, perhaps?— probably has mommy issues, too.”

“hmm, great. so every other man on this damn campus. this is the only information you gathered in less than four hours? i thought better of you,” vice shakes her head. 

“since when are you so interested in him?” alani raises her eyebrow.

“you wish i actually was. i’m just saying, you’ was acting like you had piping hot tea. that was sugar water. and he seems pretty…on-paper to me,” she shrugs.

alani sighs, twirling her hair in her finger as she says, “you can at least admit . . .the bitch is bad!” 

vice laughs, “he in fact is. but i don’t care.”

“oh god. get over yourself, persephome. we get it. you got your heartbroken and you haven’t been the same since, you like older men, you wanna find true love and all that. is that why you got so mad in class?” alani prods. 

vice’s amusement drops. alani knows her best friend all too well, even if that meant pushing her buttons to get the truth out. vice rubs her hand over her face as she sits it under her chin, holding her arm by the other as she mutters, “alani, get the fuck away from me unless you want two broken legs before practice.”

“ooh! i hit a nerve,” she points out, “whatever. you so damn pissy! you need to do some prayer or something, have a dick shoved so far in you that it wipes away all that attitude,” she raises her middle finger, swinging her body around as she makes her way back down the hallway as she calls, “deuces! i’m heading to practice.”

vice watches as her best friend playfully sways her hips, shaking her pom-pom’s as she sings down the hall in a cheer-chant, “vice needs some dick! vice needs some dick!” 

she shakes her head, unable to help but chuckle at alani’s chaos, knowing that she loved her deeply anyways. 

it was now near six in the afternoon and vice’s fingers were stained with paint as she carried her supplies towards her car, stomach growling from the lack of food she’d eaten today. she forgot her grandmother had expected her company by now, also preparing to cook up a good meal. she always kept vice fed no matter how big she’d get. the thought of stuffing her mouth with curry goat and white rice nearly made her trip. removing her keys from her black telfar, she unlocks the passenger door to her all white 370z nismo to settle her supplies in. it was the love of her life after her art—customized to her preference with silver hearts carved into the rims, matching exhaust pipes and a black carbon fiber wing spoiler. 

vice took advantage of her family’s inheritance and splurged on her dream vehicle before she entered college, a gift to herself. maintaining a 4.0 gpa on top of balancing her title as class president for three years straight should be honored with a present, wanting her first couple of years in college to be more lax than anything. exhausted from the long day she’s had, she buckled herself into the drivers seat and inserts the key into the ignition, hand gripping the cherry blossom stick shift before hearing the one thing she dreaded to hear right now out of all times. her car wouldn’t start, that god awful scratching with dying wind sound ruining her day further. 

“fucking hell. why?” vice whines, wanting to bang her fists on the steering wheel in anger. knocking her head back, she blows a raspberry before aggressively swinging the door open, reaching underneath the wheel to pop the hood of the car.  

irritatedly climbing out, she circled to the front of her current tragedy, lifting the hood and hooking open the lever to inspect the issue. she’s not exactly sure why it’s acting up right now. she just had it looked at a few weeks ago. 

“damn, that’s all yours?” 

a voice had spoken nearby, vice wanting to crawl into a fetal position and scream once she recognized it. barely having a full conversation with this man, yet she memorized his voice. she slumps her head before darting her eyes towards getou. she has no chance to reply as he then says, “lemme see.” 

then, he’s standing next to her, tall and brooding as he leans over the engine to catch a quick glance. vice feels the way her heart raced at the close proximity. relax. 

“holy fuck, you have a z06 engine! that shits like fifteen grand.” 

“you’re a little too close,” vice deadpans, almost hurting her back from how hard she tried to lean away from him while still, in a dumb way, protecting her car with her hand holding it. as if he could steal it. 

“relax, i’m trying to help,” getou scoffs, ignoring her burning stare. irregardless, the combination of smaller frame, soft eyes and full lips are hard to ignore. 

“your battery died from running it too long,” he states. 

“i knew that. i have a brother that knows about cars,” she tries to brush him off, rolling her eyes as she wants to shove him out the way. 

“you gotta lot of attitude stored in that pretty face of yours, huh?” 

"do you not remember what happened in the seminar earlier?" 

getou thinks back, kind of forgetting. oh, yeah. that.

 “do you really think it was deep enough to have this underlying hatred towards me? you don't even know me." 

again, he’s bothering her further. 

“oh, i do know you. all i have to do is open my ear to the girls bathroom and i'll hear everything i need to know about you." 

"you shouldn't believe everything you hear,” he finalizes sternly, licking his lips before he’s motioning his hand to shoo her away. if he was actually willing to help, she’d accept it if that meant he’d get out of her face. 

“do me a favor, rev the engine while i tweak this shit,” he keeps his focus downward. 

“it's wrong?" she steps aside to allow him full access, doing as he says and sitting halfway inside so she could still hear him over the noise. her foot applying on and off pressure to the brake as she turns the key. 

getou’s jaw clenches as he chews on his gum, lowering his head to inspect deeper. he then slightly tilts around the hood as he replies, “no. you just shouldn't believe everything you hear."  

“your reputation sums up your opinion in class earlier a lot better now. you know, how you think sex overshadows love. that’s all you’re used to.” 

after moments of him solely focusing on her car rather than her, he then raised an eyebrow, almost amused at the girl's probing. 

“so that’s how you feel, huh? that you can confide in a person without the conceptualization of sex?” 

“call me a romantic, poetic even. if you think that's lame, i don't care,” she shrugs. 

“nah, it's cute. i just disagree with you,” getou inquired, trying to keep the conversation unceremonious as possible.

now vice is getting fed up, releasing the break altogether. “so what’s your fucking take then?”

“you chose love because you believe in fairy tales and happy endings. you said that sex is more of a desire than a necessity. but, how can love be established without the need for sex? sex is raw, pure . . .a bond that creates when people in love interlace, its a string that’s hard to ignore. the infatuation for that person you love ignites your soul. you can love a person for their personality, for the way that they laugh or make a funny noise when upset. that’s whatever. but you can’t fall in love with someone without fucking them. no matter what you say, sex is a staple necessity in a relationship. in my case, i’m too fucking hypersexual to be with someone who isn’t as sexual as i am. who doesn’t crave for that burn of desire. that need to feel you drag your nails down my back, my lips against your skin, your voice in my ear . . .small, broken and begging. you know how much a person loves their significant other based off of that continuous desire.” 

and like the introvert he was, he simply went back to his calm yet vexed expression, awaiting for her response. in the midst of it all, getou had managed to start her car, vice unaware of what magic stunt he used to activate the battery. apparently, rubbing his palms together to create heat and electrifying her battery did the trick. still stunned by his answer, as he can tell, she swallows, watching as he wipes his dirty palms on the denim of his jeans. 

“thank you,” she clears her throat, managing to be gracious of his help. the least she can do. getou nods, unhooking the latch for the hood before slamming it shut. 

“i’m just confused,” getou starts up again, jaw still shifting from the now old gum lodged between his pretty teeth. 

vice stares at him with curiosity, wondering what monstrosity is going to come out of his mouth now. “about?” 

he bites his cheek to kill the smile wanting to breach against his face. “so sitting on my face, does that go with your little bullshit morality?” 

like clockwork, vice finds herself in that same puddle of irritation she felt from the first interaction with him. frowning, she fully sits inside of her car, slamming the door shut, ignoring the sudden smirk arising on his face. her car is running without a problem, catching a look at him through the window to see him pull his pen from his front pocket to take a few puffs, the eye contact from the two of them intense. hidden with a smidge of unexpected attraction, even. vice rolls her eyes, shifting her stick and purposely swerving her vehicle around him in a swift donut, nearly hitting his ass, getou still so enamored by the girl named vice. 

© 𝑠𝑡4𝑟𝑏𝑤𝑟𝑟𝑦 + @thecoochiefairy all rights reserved. please do not repost, steal, or modify our work simply because it is ours. stealing isn't cute. we'll ruin your life <3

[bittersweetcrusades]

Hi hello! do you have any alien stage fic recs??

i most definitely do!!!

I've only read ivantill until now (cus the brainrot is real) so that's what I'll share here but once I'm done scouring the mizisua tag, I'll definitely return!

links below the cut <3

from ashes by petitfives

vampire till and vampire ivan. ivan is deranged and till suffers per usual. rating: explicit

"This is the face of the dog who has killed so many of my fledglings,” Urak says, snapping Till out of his reverie. “Remember it. It might be the last thing you see.” Till has never liked Ivan more than he does right now. Good, he thinks, as viciously as he can. He doesn’t think his prayers carry any weight, but he stares hard at the saint wearing Ivan’s face and hopes Ivan puts a stake through Urak’s unbeating heart. Or, Till gets turned by a vampire, and Ivan is a vampire hunter.

the silhouette in my peripherals by Anonymous

till in the aftermath of r6. rating: explicit

Ivan is gone, but he is still there. Or: how to haunt a person.

till death do us part (so why are you before me again?) by Aminori

ivan and till reuniting in the afterlife. <3 rating: teen

When Ivan had held his beloved’s throat, felt the pulse of life as his own ended, he had expected to not see Till again. … He had expected Till to live on. Had selfishly wanted it, in fact. But here his beloved was, in his arms, in a place that they were never meant to be reunited in.

And he wasn’t quite sure what to feel, anymore.

(or: Ivan dies. He didn’t expect to see Till again, but he did.)

break a heart, stitch it right back by yamscooper

till being jealous. rating: teen

If Ivan wants to laugh and giggle and twirl his hair at some girl Till has never met before, that’s none of Till’s fucking business. “I don’t think Ivan’s hair is long enough to twirl,” Mizi says. “It’s a figure of speech,” Till bites out.

a certain ivantill fan's origin story by gustavo

somehow luka becomes the #1 ivantill fan. rating: teen

Over the course of his preparation for the much-anticipated Final Round of the hit dystopian drama, Alien Stage, Luka discovers that he might be a lot more invested in his best friend’s love life than he’d expected himself to be. or: the fic where luka somehow becomes an ivantill truther.

breathe again in the world anew by aerivel

more ivantill reunions after r7. rating: teen

Till and Ivan reunite one more time. - “I can’t say I’m not disappointed.” The sound of a deep, gentle voice cutting through the air startles Till enough to bang his head against the tree behind him. Wincing slightly, he sits up and jerks his head to the slowly approaching man in white. “I thought you would win after all,” the man continues, slowing until he stood a few feet away. The man’s attention is stolen by the fluttering of a crimson flower inches away from his foot. Absently, he shifts his shoe and crushes the petals beneath him. It’s enough to spark something within Till. Ivan. It’s Ivan.

your shadow on the wall of my room by ephemeroptera_insecta

ghost ivan haunts till. rating: teen

Till won Round 6. He had his first kiss. He’s one step closer to winning. He’s also, notably, now being haunted. Or : Ivan comes back as a ghost. Till realizes what Ivan has done for him, and the feelings he buried for him out of fear. They navigate life (and death) as a man and his ghost.

what we’re allowed to do to each other’s faces by fakekniferealketchup

ivan lives and till escapes. rating: teen

When Ivan had died, the lens through which Till saw the world had fractured, rearranged, and stuck that way, like a broken bone that wasn’t set. A bleeding kaleidoscope of the past. A dozen years of memories clamored for fresh attention, to be reexamined, to be cut open so they could show off all the terrible wriggling things that had wormed around inside them and eaten them hollow. He couldn’t think of the garden, anymore; only of how stupid he had been. — - — Ivan lives; Till escapes the arena. There's no elegance in their reunion, but there is spit, and blood, and something close to forgiveness.